Published quarterly on the last day of January, March, June and September
Theme: The Future
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 500 – 750 words, excluding title
Deadline: MARCH 15, 2016
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Opal Palmer Adisa Continue reading “SPRINGTIME FICTION WRITING CONTEST!”
We received 423 international entries in this contest, and their creativity was exceptional. Contest judge Dr. Erin Macdonald gives her reasons for awarding the top three prizes:
First Prize: First Man by Mjke Wood
Second Prize: Mall by Else Fitzgerald
Third Prize: Domesticity Complex by Sasha de Buyl-Pisco
Judge: Dr. Erin Macdonald
Astrophysicist & Sci-Fi Lecturer
FIRST PRIZE: First Man by Mjke Wood
Judge’s comments: I thought this story was a great example of using science and the suspension of disbelief we often have to do in sci-fi set close-to-home to actually create tension for the reader. You know something is a little off, because the science is explained just enough to keep you questioning what is really going on. The imagery and setting was vivid enough that I continued to think about this story and picture it long after reading.
FIRST MAN
By Mjke Wood
The landing is gentle, a kiss and a roll. No wind. No drama. I step down off the lander, place a foot on the yellow surface, and pause.
Venus.
“Astarte, this is Ishtar Base. Looking good. A balmy day here at the beach.”
“Good to hear, Ishtar Base. I have clear video feed. Go to it.”
Will anyone recall those words in years to come? No. It can never be the same; each ‘first’ diluted by the firsts that went before. The Moon, Phobos, Mars … Neil Armstrong had no idea how great a giant leap was his.
There’s a ticking clock. This mission to hell will be brief. Surface temperature 460C, hot enough to boil lead. Atmospheric pressure: ninety times Earth normal. Survival time measured in minutes: each one, precious. Continue reading “SCIENCE FICTION – CONTEST RESULTS”
The Sea in Her Ear
By Opal Palmer Adisa
She was drowning, and doing everything she knew she shouldn’t.
She opened her mouth and tried to swallow the sea.
Its ceaseless motion rocked her body; its voice whistled and echoed all around her. Splashing and crashing, its wetness clung to her like weighted cement that attempted to pull her down. The sea had gotten hold of her and was not ready to let her loose.
She opened her mouth to shout for help and gulped more water, then thrashed about frantically, her hands flailing like slender branches forced to dance under heavy winds. She was drowning and knew her survival depended on her relaxing and allowing the buoyance and heavy saltiness of the sea to keep her afloat.
Something about the neediness of the ocean scared her, the possessive way the water draped her legs, the intimate fishy smell that engulfed her nostrils, the roar of the waves locked in the chamber of her ears, the vast emptiness of the sea, slick like oil yet colorless, invisible. God’s Child knew only a fool would try to save someone bent on drowning herself, and she was both fool and self. She knew she needed to conserve her energy, but her heart was another current in the ocean gravitating towards other channels of currents so Yemaja, the great goddess of the ocean, dragged her down and rolled her like a barrel plummeting down a steep hill. Continue reading “ISSUE 7: SEPTEMBER 2015”
Science Fiction Writing Contest
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 750
Deadline: JANUARY 15, 2016
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Dr. Erin Macdonald
Astrophysicist & Sci-Fi Lecturer Continue reading “SCIENCE FICTION WRITING COMPETITION!”
Congratulations to Ann-Marie Lindstrom, who won a Write Well Award for Becky’s Song, originally published in the September 2014 issue of Brilliant Flash Fiction. For details, check out Write Well Award and be sure to read Ann-Marie’s award winning story below.
Becky’s Song
By Ann-Marie Lindstrom
When I was a little girl, Mama always called me light-headed. I never did know what that meant. Look at my hair. It’s always been the color of mud. Never was light.
Now light-fingered I knowed. Cousin Billy Frank was light-fingered. Couldn’t take him into Mr. Hobbs’ store without his taking something weren’t his. Billy Frank had a sweet tooth. And them light fingers.
And light-hearted I know. Granny was light-hearted. She could sing songs that would make you feel like things was going to be better. They might not be good right then, but you knew they was going to be better. Continue reading “BFF Writer Wins Write Well Award”
Many thanks to the 253 writers from Australia, Canada, England, Guyana, India, Ireland, Japan, Kenya, New Zealand, Ukraine, United States (and other undisclosed locations) who entered this writing contest!
First Prize: Diane Donovan
Second Prize: Kirby Wright
Third Prize: Corinna Underwood
Honorable Mention: Helen Picard
Judge: Glenn A. Bruce
Scriptwriter, Novelist, Political Writer
FIRST PRIZE: The Strange Voyage of A Scarecrow, A Garden and Mr Crawfield by Diane Donovan
Judge’s comments:
I tend towards humor as, at the minimum, a device for relief. In this case, however, I found The Strange Voyage of A Scarecrow, A Garden and Mr Crawfield to be the cleverest writing of the lot. The premise is fresh and original, the execution fun and fairly precise, the use of language specific, and the tone whimsical. A good use of flash. Fun stuff.
The Strange Voyage of A Scarecrow, A Garden and Mr Crawfield
By Diane Donovan
Dear Mrs Crawfield,
I am writing this letter in my position as the Constable in Charge of Stapleton Police Station, and hope to set your mind at rest regarding the whereabouts of your husband, Harold.
You will recall that six days hence an earthquake of alarming severity occurred. This earthquake, while causing damage to many institutions, fortunately resulted in no loss of life.
Your husband was in his garden when the earthquake struck. He, along with his vegetable garden, various tools and a scarecrow, were shaken down a bank into the river that flows, very prettily, I’m sure, alongside your home. By some miracle the garden bed remained intact, conveying Harold rather as a raft would, rapidly downstream. The river being deep and wide took Harold and his garden through the countryside at a reasonable rate of knots (his words, dear Mrs Crawfield, and I hope they convey his excellent and undimmed sense of humour), resulting in many miles being covered over a period of four days. Continue reading “FREESTYLE WRITING – CONTEST RESULTS”
Old Jimmy
By Young Lee
Old Jimmy approaches the street corner, paper grocery bags weighing in each hand, and pushes the yellow walk button with his elbow. He has on cotton yoga pants, cut off at mid-calf, partially revealing a pair of great bass swimming upshore. The old black ink faded to a watery grey against his own scaly skin. At his sleeves, his lanky, fleshy arms have long been inked with mystical birds and masks like weathered totem poles. Inspired by past winters, hunting moose, in the South East Alaskan terrain. Ancient hieroglyphics decorate his forearms to commemorate his late wife. And the markings of Buddha, the All-Seeing Eye, the Hindu Ganesha, along with Christ seated on Jimmy’s torso, front and back. Tombstones of his past.
Old Jimmy pushes up his prescription glasses with the tip of his thumb, wiggles the blood back into his fingers. He feels faint from Bikram Yoga and hunger as the amber sun presses down on him. Through the asphalt mirage across the street, Old Jimmy discerns a young man in a vintage Jim Morrison tee shirt approaching the opposite corner. He had that shirt once, a long time ago. Remembers going to their concert. As Jimmy observes him, there is something else familiar about this young man. The manner of his walk. The way he jerks his head to throw back his long wavy bangs. Sweat runs down Jimmy’s back and he rests the bags down beside him as he rubs his tired eyes and scratches an old scar on his right cheek. Despite the heat, his fingers are cold and moist. He readjusts his glasses and studies the young man’s face as he’s retrieving something from his pocket. He regards the boy’s compulsive blinking. The exact habit he had before he got cataracts in both eyes. That arched nose reminds him of his father. And the same thin lips that purse when he sniffles. Then suddenly he notices the payphone that he entered nearly forty years ago. Continue reading “ISSUE 6: JUNE 2015”
September Freestyle Writing Contest
No Entry Fee!
Word limit: 600
Deadline: SEPTEMBER 15, 2015
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize Continue reading “FREESTYLE WRITING CONTEST!”
First prize: Helen McMahon
Second prize: Toni Minoza
Third prize: Tim Roberts
Contest Judge:
Liz Nugent, author of Unravelling Oliver
FIRST PRIZE: Only Water by Helen McMahon
Judge’s comments: This beautifully written piece illustrates how every day, we have the opportunity to make a more equal society, but we allow our prejudices to get in the way. The narrator gives the homeless character a nobility and grace which make his/her avoidance of him all the more poignant.
Only Water
By Helen McMahon
You, crying, your mouth wide open, a silent howl. Like a child, in shock, the moment after a fall, before the hurt comes.
You sit in a shuttered doorway on the busy side street, the lower half of your body swaddled in a sleeping bag, filthy and ripped. Then the sound comes, the wail—a high, thin sound, unmanly. It catches me off-guard. I look at you. I hesitate. Then, though fearful, I cross the street to you. I kneel down in front of you. You do not see me. I say: are you okay? You do not answer. I reach across and put my palm on your cheek. I say: you poor man.
Slowly, you come from that place of grief, focus on my face. I take your hand. I say: come with me. I lead you down the street, taking you by the arm. You shuffle like an old man though you are young. In defiance of the manager’s hard looks, I sit you at a table in a coffee shop. I buy a pot of tea. You are surprisingly fussy about it. You insist, though your hands shake, on pouring your own milk. Continue reading “EQUALITY- WRITING CONTEST RESULTS”
FIRST ANNIVERSARY EDITION
DESERTER
By John S. Lewis
In Guiana, a little known country north of the equator, there lived a family of five, in a recently established housing scheme for the low–income bracket. The head of the family, David Anderson, was pacing the living room; as usual, searching for a means to keep the family fed, when he heard someone calling at the gate. Before David could get to one of the front windows he heard his son, Kwame, speaking to the person. As he’d been meandering in that direction, his mind recorded that his wife, Holly, was close to a window; yet she did not look out and answer.
“Good morning to you, sir. How may I help you?” he heard Kwame say.
The visitor looked about, confused. He was a graying, official type carrying a briefcase and obviously thinking himself much more important than he was. The man eventually glanced up, and saw Kwame sitting on a branch of the mango tree growing next to the gate. He also saw, by the look of alarm on his face, three or four wasp nests in the tree.
“Good morning, my boy. Aren’t you afraid those wasps will sting you?”
“No, I learned to share the tree with them. They help keep the tree in fruit throughout the year, so we let them stay. My name is Kwame Anderson. What is your name, and why are you here?”
Again, a fleeting look of confusion. “Is your father in?” Continue reading “ISSUE 5: MARCH 2015”
BRILLIANT FLASH FICTION 