Congratulations to this year’s winners of our flash fiction contest! The writers had 200 words to incorporate five words – icicle, sleigh, batter, regift and pine, or variations thereof – into a delightful little murder mystery. Our esteemed panel then narrowed down the field, and the winners were Alicia Anthony (first prize) and Eileen Curley Hammond. Congratulations! Here are their stories:
The Elf’s Revenge, by Alicia Anthony
The scent of pine assaulted my nose. Why these idiots kept moving me around, forcing me into embarrassing positions – sometimes involving a Barbie doll – I’ll never understand. Tonight I sat immobile in the center of the wreath, a prickly spike of evergreen stabbing me in the ass. Humans were ridiculously brutal, battering my arms and legs this way and that, turning and twisting them into whatever position they deemed worthy of Facebook.
Mr. C couldn’t have had this in mind when he assigned this mission. The Elf Workers Union had filed complaints, but so far, the big guy just, “Ho, ho, hoed,” his way out of the conversation. The world would regret ignoring us, manipulating us, regifting us when kids got too old. Tonight, I’d end the abuse.
I swung from the wreath and onto the mantle, sliding in my red onesie down the fancy woodwork to the floor below. The thump of sleigh runners against the roof launched me into a sprint. I yanked an ornament from the Christmas tree before tucking myself among the logs in the darkened fireplace. I braced the ornament between my hands. Exhilaration mounted. The metallic icicle speared straight up, waiting for its target.
(Untitled), by Eileen Curley Hammond
The twelve-inch icicle glistened in the sun. Fat water droplets slid down its length, falling to the bluestone patio far below. I shivered as I shut the window. There was so much left to be done. Michael was in the living room, feet up, watching a rerun of the World Series win. I squinted at the TV. Derek Jeter was the batter.
I picked up the wooden sleigh and some ribbon. With a quick bow, hot glue gun, and several pine cones, a passable centerpiece stood complete. The punch bowl landed on the table, surrounded by small cut crystal glasses. I glared at Michael. “Some help would be nice.”
He grunted, “Where’s my sister?”
“Probably puffing away outside. Would you please find her? It’s not like you don’t know the ending.” He hit pause and ran down the stairs.
I lifted the bright yellow scarf from Aunt Margaret. Definitely not my color. I slid it back into the box and wrapped it. Nothing wrong with a quick regift. Sort of like the thirty second rule.
Michael yelled from downstairs. “Come quick. It’s my sister. She’s outside. I’m not sure what happened, but she’s dead.”