FLASH CHALLENGE: December '08

[kailhofer]

The "Unhappy Holidays" Challenge:


I'm "throwing it down" on this one, challenging all the writers out there to do something that many of them may have never done: write a sad story.

Don't panic.

It's not as hard as you might think, and there's a good reason for doing it.

Put simply, a sad story is one where a character (that you build sympathy for) fails to finish a situation or problem it in the way the audience would want, evoking a sad, emotional response. There's a famous, old flash piece many of you might know by Hans Christian Andersen, "The Little Match Seller", that is a great example. Or perhaps a longer piece by Oscar Wilde, "The Happy Prince", can get you in the right frame of mind.

These pieces are sad. They're also beautiful moments. Beautiful moments may get your story out of the slush pile.

But why write a sad story? Failure is the other half of the human experience, and if we want to write stories with whole beings instead of monochromatic imitations, we need to know how to show the tragic side. If nothing else, maybe that unhappy ending will help make your short story stand out against the 400 others that came in to the magazine that month.

To aid you in your efforts, we'll all base our stories in the holiday season, because even though there may be signs everywhere wishing you HAPPY HOLIDAYS, we all know that not everyone actually has one. That so many around your character do will help provide contrast.

Who knows, maybe you'll write something beautiful, too.


I challenge you to write your best sad, holiday story. In fact, I double-dog dare you to write one. Yes. Double-dog. See the story at the end of this post for an example.

Come on, give it a try.


REQUIREMENTS: (1) Your piece must be a holiday tale with a sad ending. This holiday may be real or invented, religious or not. The religion may be invented as well; (2) Include a wooden, hand-made item; (3) 1,000 words or less; (4) This is a Rated 'PG' challenge, meaning things don't have to be all cute and cuddly, but also shouldn't be as serious as a 'PG-13' or 'R'; and (5) The characters and setting must be fictional, original, and not previously published in Aphelion (but a nonliterary fictional character such as Santa Claus, Jack Frost, or the Easter Bunny is ok); (6) No fan fiction or derivative works; (7) Give your story a title and include a byline for when I post the list of authors. Do not bother sending me a bio. I won't use it.

If, in my judgment, any requirement is missed, I won't post the story for voting. Sorry, but rules are for everyone.

HOW TO ENTER: Stories should be submitted to me by PRIVATE MESSAGE, and NOT posted into the thread. If you've never sent a PM, all you have to do is log into this forum and click the 'PM' button at the bottom of this post. That will take you to a special message board, a kind of Aphelion-only email, where you paste your story into the body of the message and then send it to me. You are responsible for doing your own formatting, and for the sake of uniformity, leave an extra line between paragraphs, just like when you see them in the 'zine. I'm allowing different colors for now, but I'm not going to allow changed fonts or sizes, artwork, or any other embedded or external links. I want all the stories to display the same on everyone's computer. DO NOT send a regular email to me--I don't want to risk a spam filter blocking someone's hard work.

NOTE: ONLY REGISTERED MEMBERS who have posted at least one message may submit a story. Without that one post, the system will not let you send a PM. So if you wish to join the challenge, post a hello or introduction, or just put your two cents worth in on any of the discussions going on anywhere in the Forum. We'll be glad to meet you.

DEADLINE: Stories should be in by 10 p.m. Central Standard Time (GMT-5), Thursday, December 18, 2008. The stories will then be posted for voting. Voting will close automatically on December 24th, Christmas Eve.

VOTING: Stories will be posted "blind"--without the author's name on them, and the vote results will stay hidden until the poll is closed. This is to make things as fair as they can be, without favorites to be played, and allows for anyone to enter, from newbies to editors. Names won't be on the poll for voting, and all the story titles are literally tossed into a hat and chosen at in random order. When I close the poll after the voting week, I'll post a list of the stories and who wrote them.

If more than two stories are tied at the end of voting, there will be a succession of one-day runoff votes until a single winner is chosen or the number of winners is reduced to two.

WHAT YOU WIN: Pride and the knowledge that your story was voted by your peers the best against strong competition--there are some outstanding stories each time. Writers get improved short fiction skills, increasing their chances in the marketplace, without the lengthy investment in time a longer story would take. When the challenge is completed, all entries will be reposted in the Flash Archive with the author's byline.

If the challenge can stay in good graces, winners will once again be published in the annual "Best Of" issue in February. Many thanks to the Editors for that.

GUEST ACCESS: No guest votes are allowed. You must register to vote.

An example of what may be done follows.


Example story, not eligible for entry:



Bum's Rush

By:
N.J. Kailhofer



Caroline watched the man with the pocketknife from the car window. He sat on the bench under the lights to the right of the entrance, twisting his knife into a stick. His clothes were dirty and had holes. The gloves on his hands didn't have fingers on them.

Caroline's mom didn't seem to notice the man as she helped her daughter out of the booster seat and put her mittens on. Her mom paid no attention to him as they walked past where he sat, muttering to himself, but Caroline watched him.

She watched his crooked smile, and the way he stuck out his tongue just a little when he looked at her with his almond-shaped eyes. She watched the clouds of steam that billowed in the frosty air in front of his face. She saw the way his feet bounced up and down in the snow beneath the bench, eager.

She saw how his fingers gripped the handle of the knife.

"C'mon." Her mom pulled her toward the entrance. "Daddy wants more Christmas lights for the yard. We're going to have the best house on the block."

[align=center]***[/align]

Caroline rode in the front of the shopping cart while her mother pushed. The man was still there when they came out, rolling the stick under the edge of his knife, against the bench.

"Betty?" It was Caroline's aunt, going into the same store. "Loading up on lights again? Larry's never going to stop with that, you know. He's obsessed with Christmas." They carried on, talking about things like all mothers do when they meet. Caroline quickly grew bored with their conversation.

The man said quietly, "It was more than lights."

Only Caroline seemed to hear him.

"It was a gift, a symbol, to man. Do they remember?"

Caroline saw that the man cut the stick into a short length, and was making something out of it, but she couldn't tell what.

He looked right at her. "Every soul gets one chance to touch the whole world, to show them the way."

Caroline pulled on her mother's sleeve. "Mommy, why does that man look like that?"

Her mother noticed him for the first time. "I think he has Downs, honey. He's got the eyes. Never mind him."

He held up the stick and Caroline saw it was hollow. The holes he had poked in the sides made it look like a flute.

Caroline's aunt ruffled her hair. "Anyhow, we'll see you at Mom's next week. Bye."

"Bye."

Her aunt walked into the store.

The man stood up. He held out the flute to Caroline, the pocketknife still in his other hand. "Does any of His love still exist in this world?"

"What?" her mom demanded. "Get away from us."

Her mom steered the cart away, but waved to a man in a blue vest pushing carts back into the store. They spoke so quietly Caroline couldn't hear what was said, but her mom pointed at the man on the bench. The cart man nodded and spoke into his radio.

The man by the bench put his knife in a pocket and put the flute to his lips. Music like Caroline had never heard before filled the air. The notes were so pure, so crisp, that from one end of the parking lot to the other, every soul listened, and watched the man play. It was as if the whole world paused, stopped still except for a few snowflakes falling through the air.

Caroline loved it. Warmth spread throughout her body. She felt in touch with everyone, everything.

Until the squad car screeched to a halt in front of him.

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The policeman sounded mad. "Yes, I heard the music. You are done playing it, now."

The man stared at him with sad eyes. "They don't understand."

The policeman put his hands on his hips. "I don't think you understand. You've got to move on. You're scaring the kids."

"They should know Heaven."

"You gotta go."

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Caroline and her mom stood on the opposite side of the squad car, Caroline in her arms.

Caroline asked, "Why won't they let that man play, Mommy? I really liked that music."

"You wouldn't understand, honey. Sometimes people like that aren't right in their heads. Sometimes they can want to hurt kids."

"Because of the Downs?"

"No." Her mother frowned. "There's something else wrong with him. He's different. A religious wacko, or something."

Caroline's little brow scrunched. "But he made pretty music. It made everybody stop and listen. And he wanted me to have that flute. Maybe I could make pretty music with it, and make them all listen and feel good, too."

Her mom sighed. "No, honey. We don't want to take anything from him."

"But Mom, I think I could. I know I could." The notes from the man's tune rang in her head. She could remember them all. She knew she could move her fingers just as the man had. Every part of her was sure she could, like it would be easy for her, if she just had that flute.

"No."

"Mom!"

"I said no, and that's final!"

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The man said, "I would give her something wonderful, something only she can receive."

"I don't care, buddy. I don't think you were trying to hurt the little girl, but whatever you are trying to do, you can't do it here." The policeman stabbed a finger towards the street. "Git, or you're going downtown!"

The man looked up to the sky. "Father, no one will listen. They would not hold love for a stranger." He turned to Caroline. "They will not know your music."

Tears rolled down his face, and the man faded away until there was nothing left of him in this dimension. Caroline knew there was nothing else the angel could do.

The grownups had lost His love, and she wouldn't get to play His music.

Ever.


[align=center]The End[/align]

[kailhofer]

My stories are all sadly written, but I think that is a comment on my sad skill, rather than my sad intent.

I think you write rather well, actually.

Does that mean you won't be trying it?

These challenges have never been skunked so far, but that doesn't mean that it can't happen. I knew many authors would be uneasy about stepping outside their zone of comfort and trying something new as well as tragic. Still, pushing others to try new things is part of my role as Challenger. That's why I resorted to the double dog dare (childish, I realize, but it tends to be effective).

So... unless you wish to be branded a coward...


(Just kidding, in case anybody didn't catch that.)

[kailhofer]

And I triple-dog dare you to stick your tongue to a frozen flag-pole Nate. (say that three times fast)

Hero

K. No ow m I gonah ge uf a here? Hep!

[kailhofer]

Three brave souls have stepped up to face the challenge so far.

The rest of these cowardly dogs haven't been heard from.


Nate

PS, Tao, the St. Lick thing really made me laugh.

[kailhofer]

So far, six of you have earned my respect by entering stories in this challenge. You've earned the right to look me in the eye, and get like in return.

I'm very sorry, but everyone was double dog dared. As a former child myself, I am well aware of the protocols and consequences for this. I am now duty bound in this matter, lest my nine year old self come back and kick my ass.

Anyone not wanting to be called a chicken needs to enter by 10:00 p.m. Thursday night, my time (GMT-5). Anyone from a culture that claims to have never even heard of such a thing, of course, will be exempted from the scorn and the shunning.

Last call.