Microcosms 83 Results

The results came in earlier today. Stephanie Ellis had the challenging and amazing job of judging this weekend’s offering.

 

Firstly, I love this site. It has been incredibly supportive, and when trying something new, that’s really what you’re after: a place to spread your wings and someone to help you up if you hit the ground hard. I am grateful for the advice and guidance the other writers have offered since I joined the community. It is the best site, run with warmth and generosity.

 

So…the results.

 

Special Mention went to Jeff Messick with Circle of Murder. I really liked the nature of this, as the scene unfolded and reset. With each reading of it, you saw this cycle with a different mindset. At first, it was funny, then jarring, then frustrating, and then horrifying to be caught in this loop forever. Great read.

 

Honourable Mentions went to Nancy Beach with The Toys and Stephen Shirres with Meet the Parents. 

The former was cleverly presented as a text message conversation between a man and his wife, outlining his trip to Earth and some toys he’d found in the form of opium pipes. I enjoyed how this turned the observation back on me, making me see this object through another’s eyes. Having the visitor think of them as toys was just a nice touch, adding a more sinister undertone, and combined with the flow and meaning of the messages, this was a stunning piece.

 

The latter was just fantastic and written well to disguise the plot progression. I particularly enjoyed how smoothly he wrote the scene and the dialogue, making the scene seem so…normal.

 

We had two Runners-Up (‘cos the stories were just that good).

Second Runner-up was Bill Bibo with Family Reunion. This was just wonderful on so many levels. The writing was smooth and elegant, the way it get kept you guessing as to what was happening, and the ending was just so full of emotion and potential outcomes.

 

First Runner-up was Caleb Echterling with There’s Nothing That Can’t Be Improved by Frying It and Putting It on a Stick. And he’s right! This was a really tasty piece of writing. I love the mix of Knights and King Arthur invading an opium den, then pinching the stuff to make their own irresistable snack food/opium on a stick nibble things. Lovely read.

 

The winner and Community Pick was me. I am gobsmacked. A big thank you to Steph for judging and to Geoff for the wonderful prompt, and for the readers for voting for my story and the comments. The entry was Shelf-Life. It was on a previous post…should I redo it here? Is that just being a bit pushy? Hmm…I’ll repost.

 

298 words
Corpse; Tea Party; Steampunk

Shelf Life

I loved his hands.

I never had eyes so could never see them, but I felt them, holding me just so, pressing there, fingertips tracing the outlines of my body. I learnt my shape and form through his fingers; each touch became a landmark, a set of gradients, a legend… cartography through feel, rendering the ridges and valleys of my body in my mind.

His hands fascinated me with their fluidity, their confidence, their grace as they remodelled and refined me with exquisite care. Those beautiful hands worked on my face, my chest, my thighs and down to toes. He created my hands, testing the flexibility of the rubber sinew between porcelain phalanges, curling my fingers about his own as though we held hands, and last, he fashioned my mouth from rubber, silk and ivory, assessing the fullness of the lower lip… the softness of my mouth and smoothness of my teeth. The fabric pulled taut over my metal and china frame was his last gift.

But that was long ago, and I’ve been shown my own shape too many times. So, I sit at this table, wound-up and instructed through holes punched in cards to move my stiffening copper and brass joints and creaking porcelain knuckles in a pleasing manner. I pour tea, hand out plates of treats and play mother to those who join my table, resetting and repeating the tasks on their whim. It’s an empty, untouched land: a grave, of sorts. I host the tea parties and can forget the feel of those places where the fabric is worn through… where stained china, riddled with cracks like spider’s webs and verdigris, is exposed. I can forget all the maps I’ve learnt, and while waiting for this corpse to realise it’s dead, remember once I loved his hands.