Here are the fabulous entries from last week’s contest:
One day a dog sat on my face. I wasn’t surprised, it happened in all the lives. In the first life, when dogs were mostly wild, I was ten. I was a boy in that life, so my mates all laughed. It was before language, so I don’t remember exactly.
Probably the most memorable was when I was Queen of England, before it was called that. You might thing it strange to have dogs and Queens in the same space, but it wasn’t such a big deal back then.
But this time was different. It felt like the last time.
It’d been sitting in our fridge for a few weeks, turning green and scaly, ever since Grandpa had croaked in the middle of cooking it. So when, in the half light of early morning, just dark enough that it seemed a ghost was sitting on my eyeballs, Mufus rolled over and whispered, “Grandpa’s haunting the meat,” I shivered.
“Teesa, we gotta get rid of it.”
One day a dog sat on my face. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t remember details, because it was also the day I came into this world. My mom thought babies deserved to be born into a nice, comfortable, home environment. But when you are child number nine, sometimes things are a little too comfortable.
“Lexi! Please take the baby to Dad,” Mom hollered from her bed.
Lexi, age thirteen, had “follow through” issues, and I was left on the couch en route to my father. That’s where the dog found me. My welcome to a world of survival.
One day a dog sat on my face.
This is how it happened: Misty “bug-eyed” Manning apparently didn’t like it when people made fun of her insectan organ of vision and shoved me into the see-saw at the library park. It’s gotta be the last see-saw in all of America, and I found a way to get intimate with it.
And then a dog sat on my face, and I’m pretty sure it was Misty’s dog.
I couldn’t decide which was more humiliating—getting my butt whooped by a girl with ginormous eyeballs, or her dog squatting on my mug.
One day a dog sat on my face while I lay in bed.
It was my dead dog, Charlie.
Ahh!” I jerked upright, my head passing through a mist of cold, dank air.
Shivering, I turned around. Charlie sat on his luminous haunches and cocked his head.
“Fear not, Luke. I have a mission for you,” my phantom beagle said.
I squinted at his shimmering form. “How come you’re talking? And how can a ghost weigh so much?” I rubbed my nose.
“Follow me through that portal, and you shall see.” He walked toward a shimmering light on my wall.
“One day a dog sat on my face,” I told my boyfriend when he tried to kiss me the first time.
He just kind of stood there, lips puckered up like a blow fish’s for a moment. Then he backed away. Fast. “Okay?”
“I just thought you’d want to know,” I said. “In case I’m not so good at this. I mean, the only practice my lips have is with dog butt.”
That was the last time he tried to kiss me. I probably shouldn’t have told him that. Or maybe just waited until after.
Dogs are hard on romances.
One day a dog sat on my face. That’s the day I decided to drop out of the Visceral Enhancement Experiment.
Somehow, I’ll find another way to pay for med school.
Augh. This had to be Dr. Ralph’s idea. And, as usual, he’ll have a brilliant explanation at our next interview. I can already hear him: “You’ve grown accustomed to being surprised, Leisl. We had to try something truly unexpected.
Hah, I’ll bet they laughed themselves sick while my data came pouring in. Adrenaline spike. Logical processing. Physical reaction. Dog hurled. Outrage. Envisioning Dr. Ralph’s Fabio-like head on a pike.
That day of pee and needles and Nate Delacorte (the beautiful Nate Delacorte).
That day of dog. And death.
What do you think? I love them. Let me know which one is your top choice (other than your own) and why. You can email your pick to email@example.com. I’ll let you know the winner next week. In the meantime, write a comment or two here on some of your favorites so we can all get some good writing encouragement.
And if you want to enter this week’s contest, I’LL GIVE YOU UNTIL MIDNIGHT ON SATURDAY! Here’s the prompt:
Spooky/horror romance. One hundred words. Beginning of the story (or, for a real challenge, write a whole flash story in those 100 words).