Today is the The Truth is Stranger than Fiction Blogfest hosted by the lovely Dangerous With A Pen (Lindsey Brooks) and aspiring_x (Vic Caswell) . They hosted a flash fiction contest/blogfest!
You could send in a flash fiction piece for a chance at some choice prizes and then, because it's also a blogfest, post your piece today to celebrate!
The theme was The Truth is Stranger than Fiction, which meant:
a fiction piece that originates from strange true happenings. It could be based on something that happened to you or a friend or a stranger. Something you saw on the news or heard from a coworker. Anything that originates from reality (the plot) but then you turn it into fiction
And I won one of two second places!
Here was my entry:
It used to be, when she was young, beautiful, desirable, she danced all night long. And there were men, and they would cheer, laugh, drink, want. They wanted her. Her limbs. Her hair. Her body. She craved the want. Craved the very need she fed.
Sometimes, though, she hoped they wanted the dance. Like the cigarette reflections in their drinks, she mimicked the fire, hoped they would feel the movement, feel the way she felt it, burning through her limbs.
So she supplied, fed their need, and in turn fed her own. The sway of her hips and the grace of her legs as she spun, turned, flew, were all to give rise to movement. She did it for the dance, for their desire.
Until her dance began to end, as all things do. Some things end suddenly, in a flash of flame and glory. Others smother, as the skin sags, the muscles weaken, the legs falter.
Still, she danced, and danced in the light.
The men no longer laughed, loved, desired, but jeered, mocked, loathed. She tried to return to them what she’d once received, but she was unseen, unloved. Broken, except for the dance.
Later, tired, alone, she remembered the men. Flames flashing in their seats, desire burning through her limbs. She climbed the stage and brought the fire once more; those red and orange flames flickering in nature’s first dance. She spun, turned, flew as the flames grew closer and she again felt the caress of want.
And there were men, once more, with sirens and lights. They wanted her, pulled her from the stage, the dance. Her hair blackened, shedding, ash.
The men spoke, but she paid them no heed. Instead, she remembered her dance.
As she watched her stage feed the need of the fire, she smiled.
Here, had always been her best audience.
So there you have it! I'll be jumping around to hit up the other entries today