|Flash Fiction Contest||Journal Downloads|
Flash Fiction Contest
GINOSKO FLASH FICTION CONTEST: $500 Award, $10 entry fee, deadline for Contest #3 March 1, 2016.
Submit up to 2 pieces, 800 words maximum each piece.
Awarded work will be published on Ginosko Literary Journal website.
Guidelines and Eligibility:
The Ginosko Flash Fiction Award is for an unpublished work of flash fiction. Awarded piece is selected through a submission process open to all writers with the following
Procedures and Considerations:
Please submit work, along with a brief bio, and cover letter if desired, to EditorGinosko@aol.com. Attachments must be in .wps, .doc, .rtf, or .pdf form, otherwise they will not be considered (please include last name on every page submitted).
Send print submissions to:
Payment Procedures:Online submissions will receive emailed invoices via PayPal to account EditorGinosko@aol.com. You do not need a PayPal account. Print submissions may send $10 in cash or check (made payable to Ginosko Literary Journal) to the above address.
WINNER OF 2015 CONTEST:
A Clown's Lips
She smears it round and round. Santa red, an inch beyond the ridges. The 55 bus pulls up and I board with the crowd of iPhone zombies. But she stays behind, rifling through a soiled plastic bag or tyinguntyingtying a shoe, her clown lips fluttering in petroleum fumes. At haters imagined, I imagine.
I’m a goddamn clown. Just say it. Say I need to find out what’s up with the clown lips like everyone else. People think if they bully me into talking about my mother or some mean man who left his subtle scars, one day I’ll show up all normal in a navy blue pantsuit and pumps, wearing pale peach skincolored bullshit on my weedyass lips.
I quote sitcoms.
I need my meds.
Clown Lady paces the length of the bus stop, retouches her lipstick. A new copse of kids has begun to huddle in a corner. Their sniggering grows louder until it erupts into Clown Lady Clown Lady Clown Lady as they board the bus. Cowards, I say. Clown Lady smiles, sits back down next me and twists up her lipstick another inch.
What's your name, sailor?
She leans in close to me. Baby bulls, James, those kids. They don’t try to figure you out; they just charge. Me, I’m the bull and the poser with the Mickey Mouse hat and the stretchy sequined suit, drinking in Oil of Olays! from the crowd. Do they see my inner struggle? No. How the lips pass me in a mirror, a window, someone’s sunglasses and want to be touched up? No. How they need to be touched?
I do, I say, which sounds like I'm saying I need to be touched. I let it go. Maybe I do.
Clown Lady stands up to address a colossal audience. And when they see me, she shouts, my lips all fat and red, do they see how I straighten, lift my chin to the hissing crowd and dare the bulls to charge?
Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire). His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Indiana Review, Night Train, Litro Magazine, STRIPPED a collection of anonymous flash and many other fine places. He's the managing editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He lives somewhere in Europe and blogs about his crazy life at www.imustbeoff.com.
WINNER OF 2014 CONTEST:
BONE FOLDER He was sad and angry because his friend had died in a way that made it suicide in everything but name and he sat in a place where they used to drink and talk about Japanese literature and bullshit about work in progress and he thought that his friend might be forgotten which would be unjust because he was part of the resistance whereas the living collaborated and his anger at himself coalesced into action of a sort and he went out and bought tiles and a foam brush and a sheet of acetate and gloves and a mask and fingernail polish remover and a bone folder and he made color copies of a photograph of his dead friend with the right type of ink and he pushed the mirror image button so that the image would not be reversed on transfer and he heated the tiles in the microwave and placed each copy of the photo onto each warm tile face down and coated them with the fingernail polish remover and smoothed them with the bone folder under the acetate and applied the tile sealer to fix the image forever and when he was done he took off the gloves and the mask and left the tiles to dry and he was crying but he did not notice or if he did he thought it was the fumes of the solvent in his eyes and then one night later that week he mixed up a batch of cement and went out and fixed the tiles with the picture of his dead friend to the facades of buildings all across the indifferent city and for the rest of the year he smiled seeing the tiles in secret places or being denounced as vandalism by the authorities. - Jason Price Everett