Podcastle Semifinalist, NYC Midnight Flash Fiction

Fun news! A story I submitted to Podcastle’s flash fiction contest (500 words or less) is now a semifinalist! The competition has gone from about 215 stories down to 51.

I finished a decent draft of this piece in March-ish at ~900 words, but it needed some tightening. So the challenge to drop down to 500 was the perfect boost to get cutting. The competition is strictly anonymous, so I won’t talk more about the piece itself, but I may post later, after names have been revealed.

If you are a SFF reader who loves very short fic, you’re welcome to read and participate in the voting. The forum where they hold the contest is currently down, unfortunately. They had some tech bugs at a very good-and-bad time. Good because they’d just finished up the first round of voting. Bad because those of us in the semifinals are now holding our breath. All my sympathies to their “tech barbarians” for having to get this sorted. When the forum is up again, I’ll share a link to show you how you can get involved.

As I mentioned, the competition is very anonymous, so please, if you are among the few who know which piece is mine, don’t vote in my semifinalist group! And obviously don’t say, “Oh, hey! This is Jeanna’s story!” Or do anything else nefarious, like creating multiple accounts at a single household, etc.—I really don’t want to succeed by cheating. (And I am up against some really fantastic stories, as well as a few I don’t particularly care for—but there are enough wonderful ones that it’s going to be hard.)

In other news, I’ll be doing NYC Midnight’s flash fiction contest again this year. It’s going to be weird doing it from an Australia time zone rather than New York’s. I’ll write for half a day on Saturday, take a break for Sunday, and finish my piece on Monday morning, so that’s a bit different.

In honor of preparing for this contest, and to dust off my rusty writing skills, I’m requesting some prompts! So if you’re still reading this post, I’d love to have you comment with the following: a genre, a location, and an object. Be as random as you want. Then I’ll pick a couple of these and write some flash fiction! If I choose your prompts, I’ll also send you my story to read (it may be great or it may be trash—it’s like a grab bag from the dollar store, where you have no idea what you’re going to get!).

That’s it for now! Thanks for reading.

"Forty Years" Wins, and Some Serious Backstory

It's been a couple weeks now, but I knew I needed to update you all on the outcome of the Mormon Lit Blitz this year. It was such a surreal experience for me, skimming through the post that shared the winners. Fourth place ... not me. Third, then second ... not me. I almost missed first place entirely, and then I saw my name. That was me!


It was such a thrill! And yet, I feel like there is more to the story that I should share.

I had been sitting on this story for years. I knew in my mind how it was supposed to feel, how it was supposed to end, but the several times I'd tried to put the structure together with the actual story were flat failures. So I'd set it aside again until it niggled at me and I picked it up.

Finally, one night, in one of those miraculous bursts of clarity that sometimes come, the words came out. I don't use the word "miraculous" lightly here. For me it was exactly that. I had prayed that if I was ever to write this story, I needed some help. There's a weird, fine line when it comes to talking about "inspiration" in writing, and I don't know where exactly that line is sometimes. I certainly don't want to blame God for having written this tale, but I will honestly say that the clarity of that brief time spent at the computer was a gift.

I still had to edit and polish the words now, but I had them on the screen. It was such a relief. I worked furiously and eventually had it where I wanted it to be (or at least as much as I could bring it to--I've already discovered things I would rewrite if I could, but such is life).

As I sat and stared at it on my screen, I realized I could not bring myself to let even my husband read it. I always let him read my stuff, even the horrible junk, but I just couldn't. It terrified me. It was somehow far more personal than a lot of the actually autobiographical pieces I had written.

To address a question that arose when I accidentally called it "loosely autobiographical," here are some of the actual facts:

It's more like "inspired by true events." Which is to say that a couple of the specific moments discussed in the story did actually happen to me, I did have a complicated relationship with my mom (who died four months before I married, not a year), and I have felt many of the sentiments involved. I did once overhear someone say that Mom had too many kids and it threw her hormones out of whack (as the seventh child of seven, I took that to mean it was my fault that she was a little broken). I do have fond, sweet, cherished memories of Mom helping me study for a spelling bee, as well as memories of her teaching me every craft under the sun and being a woman who loved to create beauty. I called my brother, whom she was living with at that point, the morning that she died--but I didn't think to talk to her.

 

And I do have moments where I worry that I am somehow irreparably broken, that I will pass on too much of my mother's soul's DNA.

 

On the other hand, my oldest child is only nine. There is time for us both to grow up, and I hope that when the day comes, I have a snappier, peppier sort of a pep talk. Also, Mom didn't miss my graduation or other important events. She was there. She was both, in some ways, a better mom and a worse mom than the one I imagined in "Forty Years."

 

That's fiction--it takes the real and bends it. The mother in my story is not at all my mother, even though in some ways she is. So for some inexplicable reason, the blend of fiction and autobiography was too tender--like prodding at a wound--for me to show my husband, Brice. 

And yet I submitted it to the contest. Because life is weird that way, and sometimes it's easier to share with complete strangers than with those closest to you. Plus, I didn't really think it would make it.

Then when it became a finalist, I was so excited! Until I realized that people I knew would be reading it. Worst of all, my siblings and my husband would read it! (It didn't occur to me until much later that actually the very worst of all would be that my nine-year-old would want to read it, as she wants to read everything.)

Still, I overcame that fear, and I advertised it among family and friends, and I tried not to think about how it would feel to have them read it, and I tried to pretend it was totally fine. I even encouraged them to vote--virtuously (and honestly!) asking them to vote how they really felt, even if it wasn't for me.

Which brings us to the moment that I discovered I took first place. Hooray! Callooh callay even! And then, with a sinking feeling, what if I didn't really deserve to win? What if I just got so many people to vote for me that I tipped the scales? I spent the rest of the morning feeling sick, wanting to celebrate but thinking I shouldn't. Because I probably didn't really earn it fair and square.

 

 And the thing is, I'll never know. No matter how many of my friends and family come out of the woodwork and tell me it was great, yada yada, I'll just never know. And even if I did know for sure, it wouldn't change that feeling. That's part of the story. It can't be changed by external adulation (which is still fun and nice, of course). It can only be changed on the inside. 

 

And there, I think, I will fall back to "Forty Years." I do think that sometimes we are just wandering in the wilderness, trying to figure things out, but I hope that idea is not bleak. The wilderness can be pretty gorgeous and amazing and full of wonder. But it's not the destination.

In the meantime, I'll keep writing and hopefully getting better and hopefully even occasionally feeling like I wrote something pretty wonderful. 

 

Plus, I'll spend my prize money on books. Which always helps.

"Forty Years" on the Mormon Lit Blitz

So, today’s the day that my story is posted on the Mormon Lit Blitz. You can read the story here, and if you would like to participate in a discussion about it, go here. While the contest is obviously Mormon, I think many of the pieces (including mine) speak to an audience beyond Mormons (although some do not translate out very well). So if you like flash fiction, you might give these a try anyway.

I’ve loved reading the pieces this year. As always, not every story speaks to me, but so many of them do that it’s always worth reading and thinking. Plus, they’re really short, so what have you got to lose?

Voting will take place next week, June 12–14, and if you’re so inclined, it would be lovely of you to go read and vote. I don’t even care (mostly) if you don’t vote for me, just as long as you vote for what you loved the most.

In case you’re wondering, my favorites were (in chronological order):

“Celestial Accounting” by Katherine Cowley. I just loved this idea so much. Important truth contained in a funny story.

“Sonata in Three Movements” by Jeanine Bee. Beautiful imagery, sweet and musical. Intergenerational too, like mine.

“There Wrestled a Man in Parowan” by Wm Morris. Ha! A funny piece that made me smile.

“Daughters of Ishmael” by Annaliese Lemmon. This one definitely doesn’t translate out of Mormondom at all, but I loved imagining these sisters and their family ties.

 (Of course) “Forty Years” by me. It’s only very vaguely, very semi-semi-autobiographical, in case you were wondering. (Especially since, you know, I’m only thirty-six and don’t have any grown children.)

What were your favorites? (Better yet, don’t answer me here, but go and discuss them on the blog posts about them. You can get there through the second link above. Writers love to hear that something they wrote made you think or that you connected with it in some way.)

Secret Cave

Well... I totally slacked off on posting (ahem, and also writing) the other assignments that I've been giving my teens in their writing class. In my defense, I've been working on a romance short story and grading papers and a piece for the class that just isn't right yet (blech). So I haven't been a complete slacker.

Moving on! The assignment this past week was to take a photo that I gave them and write an ultra-short story about it--only 5-10 sentences allowed. This assignment was inspired by Erin Morgenstern's Flax-Golden Tales, which are told in 10 sentences. 

And now, without further ado, here is my own response to this assignment. Enjoy!

Yes, I am aware this cave is on water and my story doesn't mention water at all. Too bad. :)

I am not expecting it when I round the outcropping of stone, but there it is, sharp and sudden and stark. It gapes before me, this sudden cave, and beckons me enter.

But I do not know what I will find within.

Perhaps it is filled with treasure, rubies and sapphires rising in mounds to the ceiling, wealth beyond imagination. But it might instead hold a dragon, slumbering, waiting to destroy the one who dares disturb it.

I think, perhaps, it might hold both.

And I stand at the entrance, squinting, hoping for a glimpse of my unknown future.

And I think I won’t go in just yet.  

A Mermaid's Tale

Image from morguefile.com

Note: For the teen writing class I’m teaching this year, the first assignment was a piece of flash fiction based on an assigned fairy tale. Since I’m trying to do the assignments along with the kids, I thought I’d share mine. This one is certainly shorter than usual, but I figured I could bend the rules for me. :) Enjoy!
 
I have been a daughter of the sea, my tail fin flashing as I slide through the water.

I have been a child of earth, dancing upon two feet though the steps felt like knives.

I have been, for mere moments out of eternity, almost nothing, just a bit of brine and sea foam.

And now I am a spirit of air, lithe upon the wind, tossed about on invisible currents. No body but a puff of air, no tail, no feet, no brine.

In the sea, I was innocent, naive, but free. On the earth I suffered, but oh the exquisite joy of that pain. In the wind I am witness to all the world at once, its beauty and its misery. I change lives, right wrongs, nudge people. It is amazing what a gust of wind can do. But for all that, I am only an observer, I experience nothing for myself.

Where do I belong, I wonder. It is the question that passes through me, rustling through my thoughts like the breeze through the grass. Where is my soul meant to be? For I have, I am told, finally earned that soul.

It is a question I cannot answer, though I have asked it often in my three hundred years of wind.

My time in the air is over. I can feel the change in me, but I do not know where it will lead. Perhaps I finally will disappear, from air to brine forever despite that promise of immortality. Perhaps I will return to earth or sea. Or perhaps, I think to myself, I will rise up from the wind into fire, one final element. Perhaps I will rage into storm, a bolt of lightning crashing down through the air, over the sea, striking at a ship made by men of the earth. Perhaps I will set the ship afire in a great burst of power, and the cycle will be complete.

Will there be, far below me, in the water, another child of the sea to rescue the human flotsam of my destruction? Would she look to me for wisdom if she knew my tale? And what would I tell her?

The Promise of Snow, the short version

Hey, so a while ago there was a contest through ANWA (American Night Writers Association) for short pieces based on the theme “Warm the Winter.” I immediately thought that my story “The Promise of Snow” would fit well, but it was just a teensy weensy bit too long (i.e., it was 5500 words for a contest that only allowed up to 1500 words). So I put it through about a thousand revisions, and when it was done, I barely managed to get under the word limit.

But the exciting part is yet to come. I won the fiction category of the contest! Yay!

So, if you wanted to see how the story got drastically slimmed down, here’s the link. Enjoy!

Small Things

This is a rough draft of a longer piece I started working on a while ago, which may or may not go anywhere. One way or another, I thought I'd share. I think it's nice to sometimes think about the less shiny moments that people have as well as their perfect ones.

Ankita watched the little boy as he sat on the ground, staring intently at something she couldn’t see. His hands were dusty and his feet caked with the dirt beneath him. She thought she could see smudges on his nose and forehead as well.

She looked up at her father, a question on her face.

He shrugged and smiled. “What exactly did you expect? He’s not yet two.”

Her gaze went back to the little boy, who was now crawling on his hands and knees, apparently following the course of some small creature as it swerved back and forth.

Something a little more majestic, she thought. Something that proclaimed him special. Something like the star they had seen in the sky, the one that had brought them here in the first place. Not grubby little fingers and dirty cheeks.

But they were here, and they would deliver her father’s gift no matter what she thought. So after their pause to watch the boy for a moment, Ankita and her father approached the little house in the middle of town. The rest of the men followed behind.

“Hello,” her father called.

The child looked up and smiled, a toothy grin. He waved a chubby hand then ran from the yard into his house. A moment later, a woman emerged, wiping her hands on a rag. She looked up. “Yes?”

Ankita’s father stepped forward, the designated spokesman for the group, and Ankita trailed behind. The woman smiled at them both politely and waited.

Her father held up his package. The others did the same. “We come bearing gifts for a king.”

Ankita stood back, suddenly uncertain of her role in all this. It had seemed so vast and important when she begged him to take her with him; he would be going to see the king of the Jews! How could she not go too? Now, though, she felt foolish. She had not brought any gifts; her father was rich but she just a child, just some more baggage.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the woman’s response to the riches they brought. But Ankita couldn’t help but notice how unsuited their gifts were for such a life as she saw before her. What would a carpenter and his wife have to do with rich spices and scents and gold? They probably didn’t even know where to sell such things.

Still, the woman accepted the vessels graciously. They were more than she could carry, so she invited the men inside. Ankita had been temporarily forgotten, and she moved back even farther, beside their pack animals, waiting to be remembered and invited in.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned to look. Around the side of the house, the little boy peeked out at her. He pulled back quickly when she looked toward him, so she barely caught a glimpse of dark hair before it disappeared. A tiny giggle sounded from around the corner.

Oh, she knew this game. She could play too. So she deliberately turned around, her back to the house, but she kept the corner just within her sight. When the dark head peeped out again, she zipped around to catch him with her gaze. But he was gone again, too quick for her. The giggle was louder now.

She turned again, and the game proceeded for several minutes until finally she pounced forward and went rushing around the house. The boy shrieked delightedly and ran from her. But his pudgy toddler legs were no match for hers, and she caught up with him in only a few steps, pulling him to the ground and tickling him. He retaliated by tugging on her long braid. Soon they were both rolling on the sandy ground, laughter bursting out of them.

“Ankita?” her father called. She whooshed to sitting, looking down at herself. Oh, she had spoiled the lovely clothes he’d let her wear especially for this day.

He came around the corner of the house then stopped short when he saw her. “All is well?” He raised his brow, a glint of humor in his eyes.

She nodded, feeling sheepish and far too young. Standing, she brushed off her dress as best she could, avoiding looking again at the little boy who had made her forget that she was supposed to be too old for such games.

For the rest of the visit, she pretended not to see him. She sat still and silent as the adults broke bread. She listened intently as they spoke of prophecies and warnings. She followed her father out to the animals again, their stay already over, their journey stretching out far before them.

But just as she turned to mount, there was the little boy, standing behind her, tugging on her dress.

“Present,” he said in a voice that still couldn’t pronounce all the consonants. He held out an object, which he dropped into her hand. “Thank you.”

It was a rock, small and round and cool in her hand. A small thing, she thought, looking down at it. Like the manna from the story they’d told her or like the words of the prophet Zechariah.

She looked then at the small boy before her. For a moment, she imagined him grown, strong, powerful. In his grin, she caught a hint of who he might be ten, twenty, thirty years from now.

In his eyes, she saw reflected who she might be as well. 

She smiled back, her fingers wrapping around this treasure.