Tuesday, March 15, 2011

5 Minute Fiction Blog Tour: Week 2!

So the day is FINALLY here!

Welcome to 5Minute Fiction, guys!  Ready?

Again, thanks so much to Leah Petersen, the founder of this INCREDIBLE contest, for letting me steal her idea do this on my blog. 

And we call it 5 Minute Fiction because you write a nice little piece of fiction in five minutes. Crazy people that we are. Are you new? Get in there and start scrapping!

The Rules

* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: Lazy
(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for decoration/inspiration.)

* Post your entry as a comment to this post.

I’ll close the contest at 1:45 p.m. EST. That gives you 5 minutes to write and 10 to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.

At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Shelley Watters (@Shelley_Watters) will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in a poll at the bottom of the next entry, and at 9:00 a.m. EST tomorrow, I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.

For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS feed, subscribe to my blog via email, or follow me on Twitter!!
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.

A Few Notes:

* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internet decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me. Sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.

* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.

* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

All right, that’s about it! Have fun, y’all, happy writing, and good luck! :)

Oh! And don’t forget to participate in the next three weeks of the blog tour, hosted by the following wonderful writerly folks: (In Claire Legrand wordsyeah I totally copy-pasted from her blog, lol!)

March 22: Richard Wood, @rbwood (<<host of the awesomesaucian The Word Count podcast!)

March 29: JM Frey, @scifrey (<<she's a science fiction writer and fanthropologist living in Toronto. Her freakingfablulous book TRIPTYCH is available from Dragon Moon Press: !)

April 5: Sam Adamson, @FutureNostalgic (<<one of the authors involved in the holycrapamazing The Splintered Lands collaborative writing project!)


  1. It was a lazy summer day when Megan threw a bikini, a change of clothes, and a pack of cigarettes in the knapsack and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

    She though, with satisfaction, only just tinged with regret, the pictures left behind, of Steve and warm winter nights by the fire. The clothes in the drawer that still smelled like him. Left behind the broken dreams and broken promises.

    She threw the knapsack into the car and stopped to light a cigarette as she took in one last, long look at the house. The beautiful lighter had been a present from Steven. So after she lit the cig, she tossed the shiny, still-lit gift onto the porch.

    The gas-soaked wood burst into flames.

    She got in the car, put the top down, and drove away.

  2. Virgil looked around, and decided that holding the world at arms’ length was't anywhere near far enough. So he pushed the psychic barrier around him out to about 15 feet, and watched as all the normal people moved their beach chairs and blankets out away from him, without ever realizing why. A psychic of his caliber didn’t have to put up with anything or anyone, if they didn’t feel like it. Hell, he could have had the whole beach to himself, but he was feeling lazy. 15 feet would do. He lay back on his own chair, closed his eyes and let the sun turn his tan even darker as the noise of their thoughts faded to a dull murmur.

    -Angie C.

  3. “Are you really going to just sit there and do nothing?” Gail screamed.

    “I don’t see why not,” John replied. “I’m comfortable.”

    “Do you know what is going on out there?” Gail asked.

    John propped himself up on the couch with one elbow and peered out the window.

    “Looks like a giant robot is rampaging around the city. Again.”

    “Exactly,” Gail said. “And don’t you think you ought to be doing something about it?”

    John took a deep breath and sighed. “You know, it’s at times like these that I really hate my dad. Imagine leaving this kind of responsibility to me.”

    He clicked off the TV and stared at Gail, who was putting her hands on her fists and grinding her teeth. He smiled slightly. She was sexy when she did that.

    “Okay, okay,” he said, pushing up self off the couch and stretching as he stood. “Let’s get to the secret lair and change into costume. Hopefully, this robot will be as easy to beat as those aliens were last week. I can get back in time for Robot Chicken.”

    “I swear,” Gail said, pushing the button on the bookshelf that opened the secret tunnel. “You are the LAZIEST super-hero in the world!”


  4. “Forget about it, Kristen,” Riley says and runs his fingers through his jet black hair. He always does that when he’s frustrated about something.
    “Forget about it? You can’t tell me to meet you here to talk to me about something, then just say forget about it. Aren’t best friends supposed to be able to tell each other things?” I punch his arm and grin, trying to lighten the mood. And more importantly, try to get him to open up. “I walked all the way here from my house. That’s big coming from someone as lazy as I am.”
    “Can you keep a secret?” His speckled green and gold eyes move across my face, and I know what he’s searching for. He’s looking for a sign that I can’t keep a secret. Unfortunately for him, I’m horrible at keeping secrets. Luckily for me, I’m a great liar.
    “Of course,” I say, placing my hand on his broad shoulder. I hope he gets to the point soon because the park benches here always hurt my butt. I shift from side to side, trying to get comfortable.
    “I’m going to ask Sarah to the prom.”
    “What?” My hand drops from his shoulder back to my lap.I feel it shake slightly.
    How could he?

  5. I never got to say goodbye. I'll never get over that. My brother would certainly never forgive me. I could see in his eyes that he didn't want to hear my excuses, not today. Never again.

    I woke up five minutes late, just five. But that translated into two hours late when I missed the express train and had to take the local. I imagine they tried to delay for me. But time waits for no one.

    Five minutes late. I knew they all thought I was just lazy. I knew my hair was still a mess. I grabbed a glance in the side-view mirror in one of the parked cars and saw mascara caked under my eyes from sleeping on my face. I licked my fingers and tried to wipe my eyes clean. Maybe they would see my eyes and assume it was from tears.

    I walked up to the grave site through a sea of the mourners as they were filing out past me. Nobody met my gaze. Each person shook hands with my brother and whispered small words as they stepped on to the the emotional safety of the freshly cut lawn.

    My mother always joked that I'd be late for my own funeral. I don't think any of us could have imagined that I'd ever miss hers.

  6. I fell up the stairs. I mean, really, who does that? Oh yeah, me after a few glasses of Tennessee Tea. No one told me Tennesseeans put alcohol in their tea. So much for southern hospitality. So I fell. Going up. But when your mom is spitting her conservative communist manifesto (i.e. grounding me for throwing up in the fish tank), what’s a girl to do except, well, run away?

    I slammed the door to my room and blasted extra emo, emo music and wrote in my journal about the struggle of life. That is, until the smell of dinner wafted up the stairs, underneath my door, snuggling its delicious aroma inside my nostrils. I was too lazy to peel myself off the bed. My stomach snarled in defiance. Grudgingly, I sauntered down the stairs, into the dining room.

    “You have to pay for those fish,” Mom said for the gazillionth time, “although your father found it hilarious, I did not. You’re paying for the cleanup, too, and the money is coming out of your allowance.”

    See what I mean? I had to climb on a chair to get my head in that fish tank. I should be highly praised for my lack of laziness, but nooooo. SO unfair!

    “Mo-ooommmm,” I replied with a mouthful of meatloaf, “it’s not my fault! It was the tank or your Persian rug!”

    So maybe I came in the house wearing one shoe and mismatched socks. Okay and maybe, just MAYBE, I might have, er, accidentally urinatedintheplasticplant in the foyer. But it’s plastic. It’s not like I killed it or anything. The fish, however, I did kind of bump off. See, I was thirsty and decided to pull a chair over to the fish tank. I mean, have you seen all the water in a fish tank? There’s like, gallons!

    So I dunked my head in the tank and drank a little water. NOT a good idea, as the water immediately came back up and into the fish tank. Bye-bye little fish.

    “Sweetie,” the momster said cautiously, as if I were a tad bit slow, "you’re twenty-five. You will begin taking responsibility for your actions starting now.”


    **Sorry if there are grammar uh-ohs** I will not edit. I will NOT edit.

  7. I looked at the prompt.



    What kind of prompt is that?

    I stared at the screen.

    Well, I thought, the prompt is just a prompt. It has no real identity or meaning beyond that. It's not good or bad. It just is. It's a tool.

    Much like Ernie. Man, what a tool. I could smack that guy right in the...

    Okay, my mind's wandering, gotta get back to the task. Write about being lazy.

    Damn it. Can't think of anything. Just Ernie. What a jerk. To have grabbed my pencil, my favorite pencil, and snapped the tip off JUST LIKE THAT. Then tossed it like so much trash into the--

    If only Wanda hadn't laughed. She probably thought I was the tool, not Ernie. Just because I was too lazy to go back and retrieve my pencil. Or was it because I was too scared?

    Damn it. Whatever. I need to write something.

    Or maybe I should call Wanda. Show her I can be fun and spontaneous and take a risk and stand up to--

    Aw, never mind.

    Where'd I put my CHiPs dvd...?

  8. I’m not lazy. Look I’m working. I may not be working on my novel but I’m networking, blogging. It’s all part of the writers life. I’m not lazy and I’m not procrastinating. I pulled my mind back from the argument with my husband to focus on the screen in front of me. Almost time for the prompt. Why Eastern Time I wondered, then shrugged. It didn’t matter. I was determined to enter. Better yet I would win. Then he would see what a great writer I was. One twenty-five. I grabbed a pencil and tapped it against my desk the eraser making soft thumps against the wood. My eyes went to the clock. One twenty-six. Might as well refresh. See how not lazy I am? Nothing yet. I sorted the windows on my computer trying to get maximum exposure on each one. Once again I went over the list of possible word prompts and ideas to write about. I was so prepared, just watch me win. A final refresh and the updated page was before me. I held my breath then let it out in a long woosh as I saw the word. Lazy. What kind of word was that? I didn’t prepare for that one. How did they expect me to come up with something out of the air? Whatever. I’d do it next week. I didn’t feel like working.

  9. It was a lazy, sunny afternoon. I had the windows open to let the summer breeze blow through the house. The dogs were laid out on the deck, their tails flicking occasionally as they dreamed. Everything was peaceful. Everything, that is, until I turned on my laptop. It sputtered to life and chimed as I logged in. My inbox gave an undignified squawk, announcing that I had no less that six hundred and ninety seven emails.
    "What in the world..." I stammered, as I clicked view the list of subject lines. Each line held a single word. Looking down the list I thought it was spam, a virus or something. But as I scrolled up to select them I saw it, the pattern. I went all the way back to the beginning and read from there. It was the most poetic, unique letter in my life. Charlie must miss me I thought.
    The computer chimed again, signaling the arrival of another message.
    "Love, Vincent"
    "Who the hell is Vincent?"


  10. TWitter: eriktiger

    I yawned and stretched my arms above my head under I felt the course bark of the pine tree my hammock was tied to. I gave the trunk a slap then curled my arms back into my blankets and shifted on the hammock. It swayed slightly. I opened one eye and stared at the black fragments of logs and the surrounding pile of light gray ash. Seeing the ashes reminded me of the afternoon I scattered my own fathers ashes in the foot hills of our property. I heard a bird sing high above me somewhere. There was a cool but comforting breeze gently moving through the forest. I closed my single eye and grinned to myself. It was going to be a lazy day and I was just fine with that.

  11. ''Why are we here again?'', his voice exasperated, tired, I could hear the frustration and impatience, but yet the ever enduring love in his voice. At times like this that love smothered me.

    Tears were pouring down my face now, sobs annoyingly punctuating my speech, ''look'', I yelled,''it's just who I am, it's just how I am. Put up with it, deal with it for leave me, the choice is yours, I'm not making you stay, I'm not holding a gun to your fucking head''. I threw my arms out in uncontrolled flailing, ''I don't know why you stay anyway.....''. I collapsed on the ottoman, head in hands, sobbing, crying, snotting all over myself.

    He leaned against the doorway, brow furrowed, arms folded, eyes dark & his voice deep, low, reassuring, as if speaking to a feral dog. ''I love you, I'll never let go, I need you, but, this cycle, these cycles, I need you to share with me what's going on in you, OK? I need you to talk to me, with me, I can't know unless you tell me how you're feeling''. His voice deepening & quietening further as he approached, ''I need you to not be so lazy with telling me this is coming, don't you know by now that I won't leave? do you not trust that yet?''.

    He held me in his tight embrace for at least an hour, we were silent. Eventually I said, ''No, I don't trust it, I'm sorry''.


  12. Two drops of blood chased each other down the iron in slow motion – a lazy dance – the second catching up the first and then speeding along to reach the fabric of my pants, pressed tightly against the beam. Drip drip drip. The piece of metal glowed green and bronze in the path of sunlight peeking through a hole in the . . . whatever you called the mess: pile, destruction, clusterfuck.

    How long I lay here, well, I didn’t know. I’d been sitting on the subway, the sound of the rails below thwuping rhythmically, the screech of the rails cutting through the car. A woman had sat down next to me at the station prior; she had smelled spicy, as though she dipped her body in cinnamon. I’d thought about saying hello, and I was about to when the howling metal twist rose to eardrum-piercing levels. The floor seemed to rise inexplicably, and my body hurtled forward, nothing more than a meat puppet without strings.

    The cute cinnamon girl, the car, the sound – it was gone now. Something sharp dug into my back, and I continued to watch the blood drip drip drip down the beam, wondering whose it belonged to. And then I needed to imagine it was only red paint to keep the screams inside my body. The light shifted with each passing moment, highlighting another section of the beam.

    And then the face of the cinnamon girl. The shriek in my ears sounded vaguely familiar – it was me. Blood-soaked and gagging at the drip drip drip.

  13. When I was eighteen, I got myself a tattoo. Back then tribals were pretty new – at least to my crowd. Hell, being whitebread as I was, tattoos themselves were still not yet fashionable rebellion. But I liked it, and got myself an armband after Maori design, chosen in part because of my distant heritage.

    Symbolic as it should have been, I wasn’t brave enough to show my parents first. I showed my grandfather. Grands, never wore anything but grey pressed slacks, white Oxford, and a jacket, even in the heat of summer, even inside unless he was eating. I’d earned enough looks and shaken heads from him growing up, that I thought by him I could gauge, and at least brace for, Mom and Dad’s reaction.

    “Grands, I want to show you something.” I began.

    “I hope it’s not another of those heavy metal groups you like to call music. My hearing aid never recovered.”

    “No. Here.”

    I pushed up my shirt sleeve and gave him a look. Grands’ brow furrowed and he took my arm in his cool, dry hands. Spotted and withered by age, I could feel old strength in them as he turned my arm to see the pattern.

    “Why’d you go do this to yourself, son?” He asked. No mocking or disapproval in his voice – yet.

    I’d thought of my answer before hand. It was true, but I needed to see how it would play.

    “It’s a statement of who I am.”

    He looked up at me. “And you know who you are. At 18?”

    “Yes! Partly, at least. This part.” Leave it to Grands to shake my self confidence. But it’s why I came to him first.

    Grands leaned back in his chair, regarding me. Then slowly, carefully took off his jacket. And unbuttoned his Oxford. He didn’t say a word. Neither did I, though I thought I might be witnessing the onset of dementia.

    But no, as he pulled of his undershirt, I realized I’d never seen Grands even semi-naked before. Otherwise I’d have noticed the battleship tattooed across his chest. Bold, still strong even blued and faded with decades. Across the hull in script letters, clearly part of the design. Nanna’s name.

    “I was 18 too, once. And I knew also,” he said.

  14. Hey guys!
    Thanks for participating :D
    The contest is now CLOSED.

    I'll post who the finalists are at 4:00 EST!

  15. Crud. I'm disqualified. I had a sentence about laziness in the heavy metal comment that I _edited out_ at the last minute. *snicker*

  16. Oops, I meant at 3:00 EST... it's at 4:00 my time, LOL.