53 Words

Trumpeter swans, Leslie Street Spit, December 27 2020

I subscribe on Facebook to a group called "Canada Writes," where other writers share first drafts, writing tips, and terrible puns among other things.

It was there I found out about the 53 Word Story contest. The contest organizers provide a theme on the first of every month and anyone who sends in a 53 word story between then and the 15th is considered a qualifying entrant.

I've sent in three so far. No nod from the judges' panel yet, but I'm getting the hang of it. One of these days.

October

The theme was "brewing" in honour of Oktoberfest

My entry:

We read the news at breakfast, each from our own glowing tablet. We consume buttered toast and hot takes. He skims Reddit. I skip from CBC to The Washington Post to whatever. Our tastes were eclectic; any topic really. Now it’s just one thing. The trouble brewing south of our long, undefended border.

Here's the entry the judges picked. 

Bouganville Tsukimi, 1944, by David Meyer

Balanced cross-legged at the intersection of adze-shaped ridges between makeshift rice paddies, the last three soldiers raise coconut cups with reed-thin arms—“Kanpai!”—then slurp the dregs of rice and taro, fermented quickly, with neither hope nor filtration.  Canisters of industrially brewed diesel and palm oil explode around them, outshining the full moon.

November 

The theme was "thanks" (it's a US contest).

My entry:

He swung in front of me, smelling of harsh sun and alcohol. Torn vest, tattooed chest and arms, sweat-stained bandana, grimy blue jeans. Three silver rings. And a distinguished service medal. “Don’t walk away, man. I want to thank you.” “That’s OK,” I said. That twenty was the very least I could do.

Here's the entry the judges picked:

Buy a Donkey, by Jean-Luke Swanepoel

The last thing the self-help presenter had said was buy a donkey. So Irma bought a donkey. The presenter, being South African, had in fact said baie dankie, Afrikaans for “thank you very much,” but Irma found the donkey to be an excellent listener, and urged her friends to buy donkeys as well.

December 

The theme was "giving."

My entry: 

The setting sun flashed a coruscating rose, coral, vermillion, trillion candlepower glow on the undersides of curling, undulating, massively expanding high-flying clouds. A warm powerful wind whipped our faces, took our breath away, made us gasp at the magnificence of God’s creation. “Oh, this gives me an idea,’ said my friend Bob Oppenheimer.

Here's the entry the judges picked.

The Signs, by Jo Mularczyk 

A woman’s scream rent the air.

“The lake is boiling!”

“Father these portents warn me not to marry,” Helena entreated. Her betrothed was old and cruel.

“Nonsense daughter.”

A bird fell beside them, dead. 

“By the Gods, Father, read the signs!”

“Enough! Today I give you to the richest man in all Pompeii.”

***

Thanks for reading!

Have a great 2020 hindsight week!

Karen