Bursting Box Publishing

Not too long ago, I went to book club where I had the following summary of a conversation with a fellow author:

“I’m going to Anacortes, Washington, for a writer’s retreat. Do you want to come with me?”
“I love that area! When is it?”
“Next week.”
. . . “I just got back from a week in Utah for FanX, then had another conference last weekend, so…let me ask my husband and see if I can get work off.”

Guys, my loving husband said, “Alright,” and I managed to get work off. It was so spontaneous and fun! I’d happily go again. It was a little stressful leading up to leaving since I volunteered last minute to present at the retreat, and I left the day of hitting “Publish” for Little Red and the Lumpy Bed: Dreaming Princesses #3. However, publication days are hard for me, and I needed the time away from my computer and the stats.

The reason I’m sharing all this is because they hosted a writing contest during the retreat. The rules were simple:

• Write a flash-fiction story no longer than 300 words.
• It must include the words:
  • Cart
  • Frozen
  • Weigh
  • Scan
  • Store.

My initial thought was to take the first chapter of Alerton (my unpublished post-apocalyptic YA that’s set in a grocery store). However, after cutting that 3,000 word chapter down to 700 words, I lost interest in the story and decided to start over, instead taking inspiration from my steampunk work-in-progress.

I won third place for the following story . . .

Crank it Up

The back-alley arena was crowded with more tattoos than people wearing sideways or backwards bowler caps with political symbols.
Host pushed into the center with the first two fighters, and immediately the crowd widened around them. Like the world’s simplest chorister, Host bounced his hands up for everyone to cheer. Using a cone to amplify his voice, he bellowed over the shouts,
 
“Everybody, let’s make a rattle!
We’re about to start a rap battle!
Roar some more for a better encore,
‘Cause a war’s in store that we can’t ignore!”

The eager audience shouted as he punched the sky.
“Our first contestants are the Instra-Mentalist and Hecca Wright!”

A gangly factory worker and a rough young woman stepped into position, taking aim with their stares.
The crowd weighed their bets and muttered their expectations until Host lowered his arms for silence. The nearby mechanical parts factory groaned with metal gears as a distant steam pipe whistled.

With the flip of a copper penny, Hecca Wright was given the first attack.

“Yeah, you heard right, I’m Hecca Wright!” she shouted to the crowd, then turned to her opponent.

“You stand there all cold, as if you’re the chosen,
But you’re not cold enough, ’cause I’ll leave you frozen
Like a fish, all dead-eyed and stacked on the cart,
With my other opponents who weren’t all that smart.
Take a look, scan the crowd, and read the room.
You’ll see this battle will seal your doom.
You think that girls can’t stand the rap circle?
But–oh! What’s this? I just rhymed with purple!”

The audience erupted into hoots and hollers. Host smirked, wondering how the reactions might have differed if any else recognized Hecca Wright as the wife of the factory manager, the always prim and proper Lady Rebecca White.