flash contest

Our January 2024 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #286 (provided by Stone Soup contributor Molly Torinus), which asked that participants write a story based on the classic game: Would You Rather. There were many incredibly creative takes on this prompt, and characters had tough decisions to make. They debated between super speed and super strength, a girl left her hometown–never to return, and a boy chose to change career paths after accidentally destroying cheese shop property with his pet rat. In one submission a Would You Rather spirit even forced a girl to decide between two delectable concoctions: pickle-filled oreos or a poppyseed cake doused in gravy. As always, thank you to all who participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “I’d Rather Not” by Alia Ashworth, 12 “Thankfulness” by Rayansh Bhargava, 10 “Would You Rather?” by Meghan Li, 13 “The Boy with the Rat” by Alborz Yousefi Nooraie, 12 “Two Years Ago” by Vanaja Raju, 12 Honorable Mentions “Balance Has Been Achieved” by Jayan Byrapuram, 12 “Would You Rather” by Angelina Chen, 13 “The Word” by Yuna Jung, 10 “The Spirit of Rather” by Kate Le, 11 “Would You Rather” by Josi Prins, 12 I’d Rather Not ALIA ASHWORTH, 12 “It’s just a game,” I whisper to myself, taking a deep, calming breath. I know it isn’t true, but it helps steady my resolve, imagining that it isn’t the single most important thing I’ve ever done in my life. My cursor wavers, darting from one button to the next. I push a strand of hair behind my ear, my mind racing. The silence of the room, only interrupted by the brief humming of my laptop, is almost deafening. This is I’d Rather Not, an intense game show where 80 competitors fight for the chance to answer one single question. I survived four rounds of rigorous physical and mental challenges to make it into the top five competitors. Now I have twenty minutes to decide my answer to one single question: Would you rather be rich, famous, powerful, admired by the world, but never be sure if those closest to you are only in it for the money and attention, or live a quiet life out of the public eye, but with real friends and real relationships? The catch is, whatever I answer will come true. And I now have 11 minutes and 48 seconds to decide my future. If I choose option one, the next few years of my life will be an incredible whirlwind of lights, fame, riches, and glory, whereas option two will lead down a road similar to what would have happened if I had never been invited to join I’d Rather Not. My cursor hovers over the button for option one. It would be so easy to click it and be ensured riches and glory for the rest of my life. I glance up at the clock. I only have 6 minutes and 17 seconds. I close my eyes, and an image flits through my mind. Me, in sixty or seventy years, laying in a bright, blindingly white hospital, an acrid, overly clean smell fills the air. I’m wired up to a machine, and I can see my heartbeat on a screen. In one world, I’m surrounded by loving friends and family, and in the other, paparazzi. Would I rather breathe my last breath in the company of friends and family, people I love and who genuinely love me back, or the flash of cameras and buzz of recording devices? Would I rather my life be a constant publicity game or a genuine attempt to be the best I can be without conforming to society’s idea of perfection? Would I rather…? I open my eyes, resolved in my choice. I turn to the screen, a smile on my lips. It’s almost funny. I competed for so long, risked so much, only to go back to the way I was before. No, my life won’t be glamorous, I won’t be envied by millions of people. I won’t live my life in the spotlight or be insanely wealthy. But honestly, I think, as I choose my answer, I’d rather not. Thankfulness RAYANSH BHARGAVA, 10 Heimlich Praüse Alaëdor gazed out the window in his room. The sun was setting in the distance, and Heimlich’s mind was distant as well. All that was on his thoughts was his longing—his desperation—to visit Earth. In Qasøe, Earth was a forbidden subject because of the cruelty displayed there by its inhabitants, but Heimlich nevertheless had always wanted to visit this tranquil yet aggressive planet. Whether it was the architecture or the cultures, Heimlich didn’t know. His whole life he had dreamt about being asked whether or not he would want to leave Qasøe and live on Earth, and his answer would have obviously been the latter. “Heimlich Praüse Alaëdor, come down here this instant! You’ll be late for school!” a voice interrupted Heimlichs’ thoughts. Heimlich stood up from his post near his desk, grabbed his packed bag, and trudged downstairs. Qasøe was a familiar place; but Earth was not, and Heimlich was eager to get a glimpse at it. “Mother—” “No, Heimlich.” His mother responded tiredly, as if she’d heard this question hundreds of times before; and she had. “But Mother—” Again Heimlich was dismayed by his mother’s response, and he reluctantly sat down to eat his våflia. He deliberately forced each spoonful down his throat quickly, and then leapt up and waved goodbye to his mother as he headed out for school. “Heimlich, don’t try anything you know I wouldn’t approve of!” his mother called after him. Heimlich just shook his head and began to jog, his backpack waving loosely behind him. The buildings were ramshackle and run-down, with some having loose windows and falling-off doors. “Earth must be so much better than this.” Heimlich moaned. Slowly, he approached the

Our December 2023 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #278 (provided by Stone Soup intern Sage Millen), which asked that participants craft a story around a family heirloom. Our submitters wrote about a variety of items passed down between generations including rings, a bracelet, a deer figurine, necklaces, a wooden fox, and a piano that unleashed a demon. Some of these heirlooms were desirable–giving their original owners’ descendants special powers–while others were cursed. As always, thank you to all who participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Honorable Mentions, listed below, and our Winners, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “The Box” by Nandan Chazhiyat, 12 “A Music Memory” by Chrysanthi Constantinou, 13 “The Holgate Gauntlet” by Yuna Jung, 10 “The Path to Atlantis” by Ethan Lee, 9 “Twain’s Pencil” by Gargi Mondal, 11 Honorable Mentions “The Chandler’s Revenge” by Matilda Carliner, 10 “The Locket” by Angelina Chen, 13 “The Wooden Fox” by Wilson Chen, 11 “Santanic Symphonies” by Andrew Khawam, 13 “Cursed Earrings” by Taeeon Alya Kim, 12 The Box NANDAN CHAZHIYAT, 12 Fear was clouding my mind. My parents had just told me that they wanted to talk to me, and every bad thing I had ever done was in the forefront of my mind. As I walked into the office room, an unusually weighty silence filled the room. I looked inside and…I was in the wrong room. I slowly walked over and opened the door. “Hey, we have something for you.” I was confused. I thought they were punishing me, but they are giving me something? “What is it?” I spluttered. “As you know, we have a…rather large family.” my mother begins. “And we have many things passed down, but this one is rather special,” she finished. My father takes out a small black box, curved and twisted with engravings and chips in the material. As I reach out my hand to take it, I feel a coldness surrounding it. I grab it in my hand and instantly, a dark energy seeps around my hand and through my arm there’s a sinking feeling. I shiver. I feel…different. “Normally it isn’t that violent!” my mom says. I shriek in surprise as I feel a coldness curving through my body. “GOODNESS GRACIOUS GOLLY GEE WILLIKERS!” my mom screams. “What just happened?” I quiver. “That was a spirit, not evil. It helps you. It’s lucky in a way.” “HOW IS THAT THING LUCKY?!?!?!?!?” I scream. “IT ALMOST KILLED ME!” “It will teach you, just listen to it.” And so I listened. And I learned. And I got better. What did it teach me, you ask? It taught me to fight. “Good job!” my mother exclaimed when she saw my practice. “You are getting better! You are finally ready to start the REAL training.” “Real training?” I asked in a meek voice. Suddenly, I am pulled into a swirling tunnel of lights. I am thrown roughly onto the ground. A feeling of bile creeps into me and I throw up. Black surrounds everything except a small island I am on. I look up and a pair of white eyes stare back. “AHHH!” I shriek, crawling back on the hard stone surface. “Do not be afraid,” it says. “IT’S A LITTLE HARD TO NOT BE AFRAID WHEN YOU GET VIOLENTLY YANKED INTO THE VOID ALRIGHT?!?!?!” I scream. “You need to test your skill,” I hear. The voice seems to come from everywhere at once, and every voice is a symphony in this one. And so I am not afraid. And I train. And train. And train harder. I have been hunting someone. He steals from the poor and gives to himself. He kills ruthlessly, and leaves no potential money-grabbing opportunity alone. And I know where he is. As I walk into the small, broken door of the museum, night encroaches on me. He seems to have disabled the lights and security. Clever. I hear the shuffle of feet. Shh shh shh shh. I walk toward the jewel room. And I burst into it. There he is. The man I have been trailing for so, so long. You see, after my training, I fought people who did evil. And this person is one of my greatest adversaries. “You can’t escape now,” I crow. “OOOOOOH yes I can!” He crows back. And he runs. The power of my box-spirit pulls me forward, grabbing the back of his shirt. He turns and punches me in the gut. I block his fist and ram his elbow into his face, hurting his arm and face. He tries to go for a left hook, but I grab him and flip him over; however, he manages to kick me in the face. I step back, reeling from the blow and send a flurry of punches his way. I hit a few, but he dodges the rest. I kick his leg and pull it out from under him, forcing him to the ground. I kneel on him, ending the fight. Or so I thought. He rips reality, and suddenly, I am falling. The air whips past me, striking my cheeks and pulling at my skin. He grabs me and punches me so hard I seem to fly. The concrete street is still hundreds of feet below me, but I know in my mind it won’t be far away for long. I feel a cold shiver in my arm, and I turn just as he knees me in the face, causing a burning, stinging pain in my nose. I try to punch back, but I’m too slow. In what seems like an hour but is only a few seconds, I fall. And fall. And fall. I try to turn, to flail, to do something, but I cannot. My shirt tears from another brutal punch, and a flash of light as he teleports away. The punch shoves me back, so I have a few more seconds. In that second, I know I will die. SPLAT