Fiction Contest

The writers guild local has a need to inform interested Texas writers that they are currently accepting submissions for their yearly Fiction Contest. They are a small venue so odds are in the writers favor that they will win one of the three cash awards as well as the figurative feather in the cap that comes with the laurel of victory.
Submissions are due by May. They have limited it to works under 5000 words in any fiction genre. There is a ten dollar entry fee.
Here’s the link for your perusal:

0 thoughts on “Fiction Contest

  1. A poem in the form of contest blurb…imaginative!
    I rarely appreciate the block style, but here it works rather well like a tapered curmudgeon one might play chess with on cold rainy days at Starbucks while visiting with Misener. The first stanza almost yanks me off my lazy chair drafting me into World War Literature. The words/combos used are inviting and comfortable evoking sembiotic laocodaisies rather than UFC pheromes…”guild”; “venue”; “cash”; “figurative feather”; and “laurel of victory”.
    I like the 2nd stanza with its debonaire suare’ of declarations…”There is a ten dollar entry fee.” YES! The 3rd stanza clinches with a twist…a conclusion which is essentially an interactive beginning harkening back to man’s Vedic tradition in druidic woods. Can’t we all stomp grapes together and drink of the fruit…? uh huh, i think we can.

  2. I envision trampled keys everywhere splotching out acrid inky mash; distilled in yon radiant editors coil for topping a cheaper tawdry vintage stored in old casks near where the grapes of wrath had been stored. Happy stomping!

  3. “He emerged from the winery like an incarcerated ascetic whose frillish demeanor had fallen prey to nectar-loving tigresses. The times were an ennui to be eschewed, and yet it was a last ditch affair that carried the fascination of an inebriated bugbear cooking Tillapi on a suribashi. The odor of feast wafted through nostrils of the damned. They wailed and hollared at whatever God might listen, but heard only the sinister giggling of whatever Devil was stoking the fires.
    Unbeknownst to mankind, there existed a prime vintage in the deep dark black forests of France that was guarded by metrosexual vampires…it was time to carve stakes out of maypoles!”

  4. High above Nearburg Burgandy, the blood rose up in the vampire. “Mockery!” he cried in Slavic to his manservant Beldo. Stooping for effect, Beldo happily obliged by monkeying his teeth to suppose as fangs. Carl, the dred French vampire, whipped his kid skin glove at him and smiled savagely. Beldo couldn’t endure the intent of slap and collapsed on the ground sobbing. Those gloves were sewn of his own kid’s skin.

  5. Meanwhile in the decrepit refurbished hamlet of gothic Nova Scotia, a former vintner dined on frog legs and Riunite Lambrusca. “Shitzilla!” she cried in lonely Canadian anguish. Her life had been a ‘101’ in cause and effects gone fatefully awry, and it was only going to get more ass-fucked. Her name was Johoney Van Halen Van Helsing, the awkward love-child of Valerie Bertenelli and a honey-farm magnate who specialized in honey from bumblebees. She felt soft and vulnerable like Febreze fabric softener, but dwelling within her was a master of ceremonious death, a berserker of such pent-up PMS that for it to be unleashed in one fell ass whoopin’ would mean red-light special on mince-meat at the Butchery. Little did she know that the vampires she had castrated lurking in Burgandy had manipulated nature and science and had found an ‘octo-mom’ to en-vitro impregnate. Damn those friggin’ French! Were they really the most sensitive lovers in the world?

  6. Ms. Johoney met Carl Van Halen Van Helsberg Van Helsing on a mission trip for the local Church of the St. Comhghal. They had fallen verbidly in love as all 7th century hold overs of French castle politics who meet horse-faced college interns do. The two inferably did it together all season in a most raunchy way, like two senile trains colliding flaccid and passive parts into mashed oyster. This was a Devil’s stoked fire. Damn the grill marks sizzled left-reminders too. For these tender spots all French are sensitive. Carl no less so.
    The Tillapi cooking brought back that night for both of them. Beldo awoke but feigned he was still swoon to appraise what passion might his master favor that night. Burgandy may burn again tonight. So to may Halifax at Novas Scotia. Though thousands of miles apart their consumption of each moment they shared perhaps would set all those between them to spontaneously erupt in mutually assured fiery lavenous orgasm. It was with this wine Beldo the Octo-mom would prepare the meal tonight, he decided in a broken bottle smile. “Let the forrest burn”, he fumed then thought on,” We’ll have peppered chickpeas for starch”.

  7. “Carl ran frantically naked thru the rabid woods searching for a suitable place to relieve himself, but he could not see the forest for the pee-trees. He had drank a case of Oberon beer while seducing his Merle Oberon sex-doll, and was feeling quite sorry for himself. He had never been the same after they named those gloomy southwest desert caverns after him. He felt suffocated as if the metric density of quantum physics was imploding all around him unraveling his sense of epistemological being. That’s when he took off like a Negro Polar Bear was after him. “Run Carl! Run!” cried his neighbors at the trailer park. He sprinted like the fast fleeting son of Mercury when all a sudden– Ka-bamm!!! Carl fell to the piney mulch with a taunting moon overhead. Then, out from a hallucinagenic mushroom grove, materialized Oberon, King of the Woodland Fairies. “Ah fuck me, man! Another drunken asshole tromping thru my sacred domain looking for the porta potties! Someone call a taxi! Hey wait a minute, don’t I know you?” Yes, it had been a long long time ago, when Carl had gone by another name: Vercingetorix, king of the Gauls, and he and Oberon had played grasscourt tennis together. When Caesar’s Roman legions had driven the proud Gaulish peoples into submission, Vercingetorix had been made to suffer the ultimate insult and shame…he was made to eat Fettucini Alfredo with Bacardi peach wine coolers. That was when he became an Immortal Nosferatu and changed his name to Carl…destined to tread the despicable earth under foot for an eternity forever and ever and ever. But he was lucky. Caesar was going to kill him only he found out that Carl was friend #3 from FaceBook and a fellow Classmate from the class of 95 B.C. Miss Portia’s homeroom. “Hey Carl”, snarled Oberon vehemently, “you owe me royalties for co-writing the screenplay for ‘Twilight’!””

  8. “Will you take a check?” was Carl’s loaded response. In his hand he held up his ledger to Oberon and offered him his six-shot revolver fountain pen. Each round was brimming with dry-aged smegma pressed from the memeber of a thousand castrated vampires. “Who shall I make it out to?”

  9. “Make the hot check out to ‘The Center for Research of Political Correctness and Recycling in the Medieval Ages'” muttered Oberon, grinning in that oh-so Rupert Everitt way. “But that’s not enough, i have a mission impossibler for you. Go to gothic Nova Scotia and seek out your old hands-on sex education instructor, Johoney Van Halen Van Helsing…be careful not to get impaled. After you hook up, you will receive a coded message on an online poetry e-zine called ‘Haggard and Halloo’ which will have a rather erotic poem posted about a girl taking a shower. Make a comment on the poem, about how it gets you hot and bothered and wishing you were a woman, and if it’s good enough, you will find the secret location of the holy pail, which was used to make the secret wine, which upon drinking this wine, will unlock mystic secrets foretold by the ancients and some really good psychics in downtown Chicago. Now go! And find some clothes, will ya?”

  10. Oh, uh, i was just kidding about making a comment on the shower poem, about being hot and bothered and wishing you were a woman…i ran out of material and was grasping..sorry. There’s no secret pail. I lied about that. I do like that pottery and stuff on your link, though…impressive. You do all that?

  11. Yes. I only recently started writing (since joinging this site). My first love is painting and ceramics.
    Words were exchanged, assurances made. So where’s my pail? Or was all that just pillow talk?

  12. Chapter 11: ‘Underwear: Rise of the Mimes’
    Beldo grabbed the end of the pillow tightly, forcing all the downy feathers to one end, and with one burly centrifugal swing decapitated the bling-laden head smashing it to the ground. “Take that you cheap balsa wood mannican!” he imagined saying. Yes, he had been training for hours with his mime masters, tatooist Kat Von D., puppeteer Gerard Depardieu, and the one & only Mort Drucker.
    “You must become one with the Egyptian Cotton.” said Mort. ‘Fuck you Mort Drucker!’ screamed Beldo. ‘You killed my barbequed Iguana in Tiajuana!’ Actual sound pierced the air, and it was forbidden. That was all the parodyist could take. He grabbed Beldo and cut out his tongue with a wooden spoon, then filled his mouth with Pop rocks and bubbly coca-cola.
    But Beldo hadn’t always been such a wildly expressive extreme X-games acting-out catharsissey. At one time, he had been named ‘Lotion’, being a mime in service to the Lord of the Vampires, Matt Miller. Beldo, or Lotion, was in romantic Hallmark puppy-rottweiler love with Matt Miller’s beautiful daughter, Sonar. Yeah, she had this uncanny ability to know when you were coming. The price of their love was high…she was sentenced to disentegrate in a microwave, and he was to ever be slapped down by ‘the kid glove’. As she crisped away on high cook before his eyes, Lotion broke his velcro shackles and let out a tremendous mime howl. Even though there was no sound, mimes from around the kasbah could sense his anguish and came galloping forth on imaginary chargers storming the vampire pizzaria. Pans were thrown, heads were dented. The mimes reached the dough-tossing area and began to fling pepperoni at the outnumbered vampires until they fled with their supreme combos tucked firmly behind their legs. It was an end that was only a beginning.

Leave a Reply