2023 Half-Price Books and the Fremont Cultural Arts Council Flash Fiction Contest Winners

The 2023 Flash Fiction Contest, co-sponsored by the Fremont Cultural Arts Council and Half–Price Books, was held on Saturday, April 29, 2023 at Half-Price Books, 39152 Fremont Hub, Fremont, CA. Cash and Half-Price Books gift cards were awarded to the 1st – 5th place winners. Congratulations to all the winners, and thank you to all who entered.

• 1st – “A Day in the Life of a Jar of Peanut Butter During COVID-19 Lockdown” by Jill M. Buono
• 2nd – “The Riddle Of A Writer” by Nitika Sathiya
• 3rd – “Michelangelo #1” by Elaine Rodgers
• 4th – “Dear President Lincoln” by Pat Doyne
• 5th – “Fan Mail” by Tish Davidson

Here are the winning entries:

“A Day in the Life of a Jar of Peanut Butter During COVID-19 Lockdown” by Jill M. Buono (1st place)

It’s day who knows what of COVID-19 lockdown, and I’m losing my FREAKIN mind. This morning, the grape jelly finally followed through on her threats and moved to the pantry. She claims that she “just needs space”, but I suspect that she’s never forgiven me for my fling with the marshmallow fluff.
Around lunchtime, the human took the coldcut bin by eminent domain to quarantine newly arrived perishables, leaving its inhabitants homeless. Since then, a tub of yogurt, perched precariously on a half empty can of olives, has complained of a pinched nerve in its neck. A package of ground beef, pushed to the back of the refrigerator, is constantly moaning that it’s freezing. The ham and roast beef are locked in a death struggle with a stick of butter.
On my shelf, there’s a block of sharp cheddar cheese balanced on my lid. A bottle of Caesar salad dressing, propped on its head, is drip, drip, dripping its dressing dregs into its head. It’s muttering incoherently, probably brain damaged.
One shelf down the mustard and ketchup, who used to be BFFs, are having a personal hygiene discussion regarding the black crud around the ketchup’s lid. A bottle of who knows what, which lost its label in a scuffle with the soy sauce, has been trying to intervene, but with little success.
Added to the cacophony of complaints, there’s been a faint odor of sulfur since a cracked egg was evicted earlier this evening. The eggs can’t socially distance in their carton so I’m not surprised that they’ve turned on one another.
Yup, that’s my reality! This also explains why all my recent paintings resemble Dante’s first circle of hell… if it were in a refrigerator!

“The Riddle Of A Writer” by Nitika Sathiya (2nd place)

My pencil twists and turns into new places.
I take the wrong direction on purpose.
I run confidently into dark alleys and abandoned buildings.

Day and night, I fight.
I kill monsters and banish ghouls.
I reform corrupt governments.
I build castles in wastelands.
I travel and experience more in each paper.

Every punctuation mark is a punch.
Every sentence is a new mystery.
Every poem is a power.
Every decision is another story.

Day and night, I write.
A vigilante in the streets made of lined paper.
I live in a different world within these words.
A world without boundaries.
A world without fear.

Some call me a fighter.

Others know me as the writer.

“Michelangelo #1″ by Elaine Rodgers (3rd place)

Dust, I live in dust,
Marble blocks from the quarry,
Towering heavy white rock,
Hiding what is miraculous,
Envision what’s inside.

I pick up a hammer,
Chip away at the stately rock,
Looking for the hidden prize,
Located inside this hulk,
A priceless treasure.

A face appears,
Eyes searching for love,
Arms reaching out to me,
Slowly coming to life,
Freedom is near.

Dust, I live in dust,
My hand holds the hamme6
Man, woman or child,
Prisoned in the marble,
Immortalized forever.

“Dear President Lincoln” by Pat Doyne (4th place)

Dear President Lincoln,

I’ve been reading that speech you gave at the Soldiers’ National Cemetery, the “Gettysburg Address.” The one about “all men are created equal,” and “these dead shall not have died in vain.”  All those soldiers who gave their lives so the Union might live must be feeling pretty disappointed right now.

We’ve got this Congresswoman giving interviews and speeches to encourage a “National Divorce.” She wants Red and Blue States to make their own laws: choose who votes, who’s permitted inside secure borders, whose rights will be protected. If a Blue migrates to a Red State—well, that’s ok, but he can’t vote.

Looks like our union is once again coming apart at the seams. So, Mr. President, do you have any healing words for us today?

Of course, “government of the people, by the people, and for the people” has a built-in problem: people. Some think that anyone who doesn’t agree with them is the enemy — so they grab a gun and start shooting. I guess you know all about that attitude, since John Wilkes Booth shot and killed you.

Anyway, our nation is a war-zone again. We know you’re honest, Mr. Lincoln. Do you think the United States will ever pull together? Or will we “perish from the earth?” Just asking.

Yours truly,
Concerned California Citizen

“Fan Mail” by Tish Davidson (5th place)

E. B. White came down from his writing studio to eat lunch. His wife had set his fan mail at his place on the table. White loved hearing how much his readers liked his books. He opened the first letter. It was from a fourth grade teacher who wrote “I have been reading Charlotte’s Web to my class. My students got so involved in the story that they threatened to go on a homework strike unless I read two chapters each day instead of one. The girls love the gentle spider Charlotte. The boys like Wilbur the pig because he is messy, and the troublesome boys all want to be Templeton the rat.”

“A homework strike,” White chuckled. “They must really love my book.”

The next letter was from a mother. She wrote, “I read Charlotte’s Web to my children. It took me back my happy childhood on a farm in Iowa.”

The paper inside the third envelope was covered in cobwebs. White read, “We are angry orphans. You killed our mother before we could meet her. Thanks to you, we grew up without parents. How could do such a thing?” The letter was signed Wilbur “Some Pig” Zuckerman, typed for Charlotte’s 518 offspring.

White wondered if he were hallucinating. He glanced around the room. Everything seemed normal, then his eye caught sight of a spider web high in the corner of the dining room. He got up for a closer look. Slowly the words the spider was spinning emerged. “Bad Man.”