Writing Contests

Art Prompt for writing contest

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Prompt: Write a story based on Adam Kluger’s art displayed here
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 300 words, excluding title
Deadline: FEBRUARY 15, 2018
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Artist & Judge: Adam Kluger
For details, click HERE.

 


IMG_8799

Prompt: CONCEALMENT
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 300 words, excluding title
Deadline: SEPTEMBER 15, 2017 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Charles Rammelkamp
For details, click HERE.


IMG_7933Prompt: the dubash
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 500 words, excluding title
Deadline: JUNE 15, 2017 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: KJ Hannah Greenberg
For details, click HERE


img_5254Prompt: Overseas Travel

No Entry Fee
Word limit: 300 words, excluding title
Deadline: MARCH 15, 2017 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize

Judge: Kirby Wright

For details, click HERE


img_8981Prompt: “AFTERMATH”
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 500 words, excluding title
Deadline: JANUARY 15, 2017 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Dr. Abigail Favale
For details, click HERE


IMG_1386Prompt: “It Came in the Mail”
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 500 words, excluding title
Deadline: SEPTEMBER 15, 2016 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Paul Beckman
For details, click HERE


IMG_8908Second Anniversary Writing Contest
Theme: No Theme

No Entry Fee
Word limit: 750 words, excluding title
Deadline: JUNE 15, 2016 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
Judge: Ty Spencer Vossler
For details, click HERE


IMG_4227Springtime Fiction Writing Contest
Theme: The Future
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 500 – 750 words, excluding title
Deadline: MARCH 15, 2016 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
For details, click HERE


Science Fiction Writing Contest
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 750
Deadline: JANUARY 15, 2016 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes:
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
For details, click HERE


IMG_5497September Freestyle Writing Contest
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 600
Deadline: SEPTEMBER 15, 2015 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to
brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes: 
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize
For details, click HERE


IMG_5298_1 Theme: EQUALITY
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 300
Deadline: JUNE 15, 2015 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com
Judge: Liz Nugent, Author of Unravelling Oliver
liznugent.ie
Prizes: 
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize


IMG_3120

For a larger version, click the photo!

PHOTO PROMPT WRITING CONTEST
Submit the best story inspired by this photo and win 100 euro (or the equivalent in your currency).
No Entry Fee
Unlimited Entries
Word limit: 1,000

Deadline: March 15, 2015 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Winner to be selected by writer/photographer Laurie Scavo.


IMG_2967Theme: Life is Good
No Entry Fee
Word limit: 300
Deadline: January 15, 2015 (WINNERS!)
Submissions: email to brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com

Prizes: 
50 euro first prize (or equivalent amount in your currency)
25 euro second prize
15 euro third prize


IMG_3677FINISH THE STORY CONTEST

Provide the best ending for the story below and win 20 euro (or the equivalent in your currency) via PayPal. Second place wins 10 euro; Third Place, 5 euro.

Deadline: 15 September 2014 (WINNERS!)

Total Word Limit for the completed story: 300

Winners will be published in 30 September edition of Brilliant Flash Fiction.

Chicken Soup Ice Cream
She met him at an international student exchange.
He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
“Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
“Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
“All right,” Sharon said.
She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
They went for ice cream instead.
“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”

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81 comments

  1. “Oh, you’re just TOO cute,” Sharon burst out laughing. “Cherry. The word is CHERRY, not Chicken. Cherry Ice Cream. Chicken Soup. Too. Funny!”

    Hans looked at her with total confusion. Then a smile spread across his face as he understood. He started laughing himself.

    “Cherry? Stupid American,” he thought to himself. “I know the difference between cherry and chicken, but if it gets me back to your place tonight. I’ll laugh at anything you say”

    With that Hans leaned back, flashed Sharon a smile, and continued to laugh.

    1. The thought’s of Hans should be italicized, but there was no way to do it with the simple reply box. I also noticed I missed a few punctuation marks. Hope you like it anyway.

  2. LOST IN TRANSLATION

    She met him at an international student exchange. He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough. They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes,” he said, “although I do not eat it because I am vegetarian.”
    Sharon frowned. “I’m not vegetarian, but the chicken would need to be free range.”
    “You want the chicken for free?” Hans asked. “Are you mean?”
    This was not going as well as Sharon had hoped.
    “I’m Scottish,” she said in an attempt at humour. “We count every penny.”
    “I do not like stereotypes,” said Hans. “Scottish people cannot all be mean. It is like when people say Germans want to conquer the world. Perhaps you are mean but not all Scottish people will be mean.”
    “I’m not mean,” Sharon said, indignantly.
    “You said you were.”
    “I was joking,” she said, despairingly. “Can’t you understand that?”
    “There you go,” said Hans. “Stereotyping we Germans. You Scottish people are not good.”
    Sharon sighed; she knew he was not for her. But a good ice-cream wasn’t to be wasted, so she rammed the chocolate-and-mint cone down Hans’ shirt front before turning and walking away from him for ever.

    (Gordon Lawrie)

  3. Chicken Soup Ice Cream
    By Gerri Leen

    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    “We have a jelly bean company that does that—no chicken soup, but they make draft beer.” She dipped her spoon into her strawberry ice cream. “So have you had it?”
    “It sounds bad. I always get chocolate.” He pointed to her bowl with his spoon. “Do you always get that?”
    “Pretty much.” She wasn’t sure that translated. “Usually. I like to stick with what I know.”
    “Then why did you come tonight?”
    She studied him. “Your English is a lot better than it was.”
    He didn’t look guilty, more…proud. “Did you believe I was German?”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “I’m a theater major and this was practice. I decided to be whoever didn’t show up. It was Hans Wittmer or Yong Lee Hau. I’m glad Hans didn’t make it.” He gave her a sweet smile that he no doubt practiced in the mirror. “Bitte, forgive me? One smile?” His German accent was back, and he made a pleading face.
    “You’re a jerk,” she said.
    But she smiled.

  4. She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    Sharon was a tad surprised. “Really? That’s interesting.”
    “Well, of course,” Hans said. “It’s the German way. Why would we waste time on sugar when we can have product that will cure many illnesses?”
    “Why indeed?” said Sharon. “But I think I’ll stick to Basil ice cream, if it’s all the same to you.”

  5. Hello. I’ve a question about your journal’s preference. Are you comfortable with the story going dark and creepy?

  6. Thanks for the inspiring story start. I have two questions though. May we enter more than once? And if we leave the original intact, may we weave other lines into it, keeping of course to the three hundred word limit?

    1. You may enter this contest as many times as you like, leaving the original part intact. Do what you like with the ending within the 169-word limit. If you have any more questions, you can email them to brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com. Because the Reply box doesn’t allow variety in italics, etc., you might prefer to send your contest entries to brilliantflashfiction@gmail.com rather than posting them on this page. Thanks, everyone, for this great response. —Aurore

  7. Chicken Soup Ice Cream

    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”

    “Why?” she asked.
    He looked puzzled, but only for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said, “but it sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”
    She laughed. That was all it took.
    His honesty attracted her. His smile kept her wanting to be close.
    Six months later they were married.
    After the ceremony they served cake and Chicken Soup Ice Cream. Everyone said how much they loved it.
    But neither the bride nor the groom ever took a bite.

  8. Chicken Soup Ice Cream

    She met him at an international student exchange.

    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.

    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.

    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”

    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.

    “Will you … can I …” he began, fighting the language.

    “All right,” Sharon said.

    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.

    They went for ice cream instead.

    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavour in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”

    Sharon licked her spoon, trying to imagine the taste.

    These were two things that she loved; serious comfort foods.

    Last July, after Luke had dumped her, she’d needed both.

    She remembered the Saturday evening two weeks after he’d gone. She’d settled in for a ‘True Blood’ marathon, trying to salve her curetted heart with vicarious sex and bowls of steaming, creamy soup.

    Long after midnight, the ragged sobs finally subsiding, she’d taken the carton from the freezer and spooned silky vanilla into her mouth until there had been no more to eat.

    Could chicken soup ice cream ever offer the same level of comfort?

    Hans watched Sharon run her tongue slowly along the length of the sundae spoon.

    It was Quatsch, naturally. In what shop would chicken soup ice cream be made? Whomsoever in their right mind would eat it?

    He reached across and brushed creamy dribble from the side of her mouth.

    “Perhaps… we could… ?” he paused, struggling to articulate an intriguing possibility.

  9. She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    She raised an eyebrow. He had used an official MI6 codeword. Only operatives knew the codeword. “Wow. What a funny flavour to make!” She giggled as she smiled at him.
    ‘Would you like a scoop of my ice-cream?’ He asked. She immediately sensed the tension. He lifted his spoon and put it to her mouth. It was Cookies and Cream. She moved it around in her mouth. There was something else. It felt like a computer chip! She quickly swallowed it.
    ‘Mmmm. Delicious.’ She looked him dead in the eyes. He looked back knowingly.
    ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ He asked.
    ‘Sure! Sounds nice.’ They got up and walked out. Two men followed.
    As soon as they left the shop, he turned to her. ‘My colleague gave me this. You need to get it to the proper people. I will head them off. Go now!’ He ran back towards the shop and hit the men as they left. She began to run.

  10. …“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”

    “Did you try it?” she said.

    He was surveying the rows of tubs behind the glass carefully, but he looked at her to answer, “Oh yes,” before returning to the ice cream and the labels.

    She took a bite of the speckled yellow (mint-mango) of her ice cream and then spoke around the mouthful, “Was it any good?”

    “It was awful,” he said. “But somebody said it could cure a cold.”

    She wondered if he was attempting a joke. His accent made it hard to tell.

    Hans paid the boy behind the counter and then lifted his own ice-cream to his mouth. It was green and brown. “Green tea with fudge swirls,” he said, in explanation. Turning his head sideways and lapping at the ice cream as it started to drip, he added, “I would like to try everything.”

    Their gazes met, and he blushed scarlet.

  11. Chicken Soup Ice Cream
    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    She imagined the cold gloopy mouthfuls of Cambell’s condensed soup she had eaten from the can when her mother had been passed out drunk. Too young to use the cooker but able to wrestle with the can opener. Jagged edges had made her careful. She flinched.
    “I have upset you? You are not an eater of meat?” He looked at her earnestly.
    She remembered her brief flirtation with vegetarianism and Josh, a dreadlocked traveller with a rusty van that didn’t get very far.
    Hans held hands awkwardly and talked about her coming to visit him in Hannover. They kissed and grappled in the alley next to the hostel but her heart wasn’t in it. Afterwards she scrunched up his neatly written address and threw it away. Hans had spoiled everything, despite his limited English, with stupid talk of chicken soup ice cream.
    In the morning, she avoided Hans and calling home again. Instead, she smiled at some new exotic arrivals and planned another escape route.

  12. Chicken Soup Ice Cream
    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    “Insane,” she said. “Yet, I could see how the seasoned chicken and the broth drizzled on top of vanilla and strawberry scoops is tasty.”
    “Yes,” said Hans. Confidence expressed in his voice. He linked his arm around hers.
    “Let’s try the pub on the corner.” She reasoned people are like food they may not look good together but they are delectable together.
    “We’ll ask for our meal and dessert served together.”
    “Ice cream on the bottom and chicken soup on top,” she said, skipping. He followed.

  13. Chicken Soup Ice Cream

    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    The perfect remedy for a fever, she thought about saying, but something didn’t feel right.
    “I need to go,” she said. This had gone on long enough.
    “To Germany?” asked Hans, seeming both bemused and excited. “For the ice cream perhaps?”
    “No.” She picked up her handbag from under the table and placed it on her lap. “I just need to go.”
    “It’s getting late,” said Hans. “The city is dangerous at night. You should stay and eat.” He spooned a scoop of ice cream from her bowl into his mouth. “It’s very good.”
    Their eyes locked and she considered what to do next. She had been hiding in crowds for weeks, gatecrashing social engagements to find unwitting bodyguards, avoiding anyone who fitted the description. Hans didn’t. She had fallen into a fatal trap.
    “What’s your name, Hans? Your real name. At least tell me that before you kill me.”
    “Eat your ice cream,” he said, smiling. “The mission is complete. I’m here to bring you home.”

  14. He surveyed her reaction. Disgust needs no translation. At least she attempted to hide it.
    “Is that a traditional German flavor?”
    “No . . . Yiddish.”
    She searched his face and found something she understood. “Your name isn’t really Hans, is it?”
    He dug into his pocket for the familiar pack of tablets. “Yehudi,” he whispered.
    “It’s OK, I’m Jewish, too, on my mother’s side. My father’s Vietnamese. Sharon Trung Nguyen.” She reached into her purse.
    “What a beautiful name. My father is Sharon also.”
    A warm smile spread across her moon-shaped face. They quietly blessed G-d and chewed their lactose intolerance pills.

  15. Chicken Soup Ice Cream

    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    “We’re not in Germany anymore, Toto. I’ll order for myself if that’s okay? Knickerbocker glory, and a little warning in advance, I don’t share.”
    Sharon’s heart began to pound through her chest as she looked around at all the other people at the tables around her who were devouring endless varieties of ice cream. It had been a while since she had allowed herself an indulgence like this. She knew it was wrong and that she was embarking on the return leg of a journey, back to a place she had worked so hard to leave, but it was irresistible to her now.
    “What can I get you?” asked the server with a tired smile on her face.
    “A knickerbocker glory for me, and a knickerbocker glory for him,” said Sharon, speaking rapidly.
    The server looked a little surprised. “So, that’s two knickerbocker glories? No problem.”
    Sharon glanced at the void in the empty chair opposite her and licked her lips at the prospect of filling it.

  16. ….“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    Sharon was about to tell Hans this reminded her of Salvador Dali’s Lobster Telephone, when a nearby shout interrupted her.
    “Hey! Where did you go?”
    It was Eduardo. The creep must have followed them from the international student exchange, thought Sharon. The other Brazilians were kicking a ball to each other in the adjacent road. Each wore their nation’s bright yellow football kit like peacocks fanning their elaborate feathers. Sharon knew exactly what Eduardo wanted. He was an alpha male, and the moment she had chosen to spend time with another man, his natural instinct was to steal her away.
    “We came for ice cream,” said Sharon.
    “Did you forget?” asked Eduardo, ignoring Sharon and looking at Hans. “The football match in the sports hall starts in ten minutes. You said you’d play.”
    Hans turned to Sharon, his face expressing regret and apology; his eyes expressing delight and excitement.
    Alone, Sharon ordered her ice cream.
    “What flavor would you like?”
    “Anything,” she replied. “Except chicken soup.”

  17. …“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    “Is that your line?” asked Sharon.
    “My…what?”
    “Your chat up line? Is that what you say to all the girls you date?”
    “Oh…not really. I have only dated German girls before.”
    “And did you say it to them?”
    “No. I said Wir haben eine Eisdiele, die jeden Geschmack in der Welt … auch hühnersuppes Eis verkauft.”
    Sharon laughed and took him by the hand.
    Chicken soup ice cream, thought Hans. Never fails.

  18. …“In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    They had been seated outside the ice cream parlor for half an hour. The ice cream had long since been eaten and the bill settled.
    “What other flavors do they have?” asked Sharon.
    Hans stuttered.
    “Do they have banana?
    “Yes, they have banana ice cream.”
    “Do they have bacon?”
    “Yes, they have bacon ice cream.”
    “Do they have pepperoni pizza?”
    “Yes, they have pepperoni pizza ice cream.”
    “Good,” said Sharon. “You’re improving.”
    This signaled the end of the session. Hans slid a twenty euro note across the table to Sharon, which she quickly picked up and placed in her purse.
    “Shall we meet the same time next week? Holidays okay? Prepare some things to say in advance and let me know any words you don’t know.”
    The pair stood up from the table and shook hands.
    “Oh,” said Sharon just before they went their separate ways. “Email me if you feel confident enough to see a movie. I’ll book the tickets and you can pay me back next week.”

  19. “Really,” she said, wondering if he was telling the truth.

    “Ya!” he said, sticking out his tongue and swirling it around the creamy, wet dessert.

    She felt a slight unsettling in her stomach, however, he seemed to be getting less subdued, and that was a good thing.

    “How about liver ice cream?” he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows over his rimless glasses.

    Her lips gripped together in a grim, little smile. She hated liver, but still wanted to be polite to this possible new boyfriend.

    “Then, of course, there are the bodily function flavors. You vant should name one?”

    Sharon looked at Hans’ leering grin, and realized suddenly that maybe the inept Brazilians would do for now. Or, possibly a spot of celibacy. “Speaking of bodily functions,” she said, gathering up her purse and scarf. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

    “Don’t be long.”

  20. Her eyes widened and twinkled like polished hubcaps. This man, this Hans, this cute-crazy Hessian knight with his chicken soup ice cream flirtation, yes, yes, she would play along.

    “Cream, broth or consommé?”

    “This language, I do not know so good. Ice cream, you know, lick lick lick.” He pantomimed what could fairly be interpreted as a Golden Retriever’s tongue lolloping the surface of a fresh chew treat.

    She giggled, charmed. “You are a dog, I see.”

    He bolted upright and his face took on a nervous glare. “That, no, that I am not!” He spun one-eighty and strutted off.

    She thought about chasing after him to clear up the misunderstanding. But no, she had chased after too many men. She remained seated at the stainless steel table, his cup of chocolate marshmallow treat on one side of the table top and her cup of pistachio nut on the other, both untouched, both melting away alone in their separate cups.

  21. This is mine! I’ve already e-mailed, but I wanted to share mine publicly 🙂
    Chicken Soup Ice Cream
    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    Sharon stopped her reply. “Wait. When did your English get so good”?
    He smiled wickedly. “Once we were alone.”
    Before she could act, he grabbed her and hustled her out of the ice cream shop.
    “Hey!” She stumbled on the uneven path as he half-dragged her down the deserted side street. “Where are we going?”
    “Somewhere no one will find us.” His dark eyes darted furtively towards a copse of bushes. Pushing her in first, he surveyed the street once more before following.
    “I lied about being an exchange student. I am German, but I was raised here. It was easy to slip in and lure out an unsuspecting woman.” Hans whispered to her. The distance between them was intimate.
    Sharon’s heart pounded in her chest. “What are you going to do to me?”
    Hans wickedly curved his lips. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
    A car came down the street. Hans shoved her out of the bushes and straight into the awaiting vehicle.

      1. Thanks! I was thinking of possibly extending it soon, but that alone was EXACTLY 300 words 🙂 there is so much more I could do with it!

  22. Chicken Soup Ice Cream
    She met him at an international student exchange.
    He was German—not her first choice. But he was dark and subdued, unlike the Brazilians who talked too much and ran their eyes over every woman in the room.
    “Hello. I’m Sharon,” she said.
    He stood up. “My name is Hans.”
    They drank plastic cups of fruit punch and communicated in simple English phrases until it was time to go, and then Hans grew agitated.
    “Will you … can I … “ he began, fighting the language.
    “All right,” Sharon said.
    She wanted to see a movie but his English wasn’t good enough.
    They went for ice cream instead.
    “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”
    Sharon looked up from her bowl. Hans had his palm out, obviously reading something he had written on it earlier. She smiled. He would do.
    “You are very good looking,” She said, looking lustfully into his eyes.
    “Thank you.” He could sense the atmosphere changing.
    “Would you like to make some extra money? I know students are always looking for work.” She continued to eat her ice-cream, her eyes looking him up and down.
    “Money? Yes, always. Poor student here!” He laughed, his eyes opening as he heard the word money. “What…how I can make it?”
    It was now or never. “Well,” She paused. He seemed very eager to hear her proposal. “I take photos of you,” She made the clicking motion with her hands, “And then I pay you.” He looked unsure, like many students before him had. She touched his hand lightly, seductively. “You are very handsome.”
    The touch did it. He locked eyes with her. His pupils were dilated.
    “Ok.”

  23. They walked along the footpath. “We have one of them here as well.” She replied, impressed by the improvement in Hans’ grammar.
    They reached the street corner. Sharon stopped. Hans continued absentmindedly into the road. She looked to her left. A car was coming towards Hans, the driver’s eyes showing sheer terror as he realised he wouldn’t stop in time. Hans was completely oblivious. Time slowed down as the scene unfolded. The car’s horn beeped loudly as the driver vainly attempted to get Hans’ attention. Hans slowly turned, but it was too late. The impact was inevitable. Suddenly Hans was pulled violently backwards. The car screeched past, coming to a halt further down the road. Hans hit his head on the pavement as he fell down. He looked up. Sharon was looming over him.
    “Do you not look both ways in Germany?” She asked, relieved at avoiding a gruesome scene.
    Hans did not understand. “What flavours does your shop have?” He smiled stupidly.

  24. “We have those here as well,” She replied as they sat down with their ice-creams. Hans had Honey Jalapeno Pickle; Sharon had Goat Cheese Cashew Caramel.
    They savoured the tastes. The whole shop was silent as each person experienced the most unique flavours known to mankind.
    Suddenly Hans began to cough. He had a pickle caught in his throat. “What’s wrong? Are you choking?” Sharon asked as Hans gestured to his throat. He tried to answer but all that came out was a strange gasping wheeze. She slapped him on the back. Nothing. She hit him harder and harder, losing feeling in her hand as she tried to save him. He fell to his knees, terror in his eyes as he realised this might be it. His eyes began to roll upwards as he got weaker. With one last great THWACK Sharon punched his back. The pickle flew out and landed in Sharon’s bowl.
    “A new flavour,” Hans remarked as they looked at the pickle settling in Sharon’s bowl.

  25. ‘In Germany,’ he said, ‘we have an ice cream shop that sells every flavour in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.’
    ‘Chicken soup?’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t believe you.’
    ‘Is true. Will you not try some if you come to Germany?’
    ‘I will in my Swiss.’
    ‘I do not know if they have it in Switzerland.’
    She sighed, gazing into those dark brown eyes, pools of misunderstanding. It would be too difficult, surely, to make him understand Dublin rhyming slang.
    Then it hit her all over again, the pain she’d felt, that she still feels, whenever she thinks about Julien. Her friends called it a type of masochism, getting involved with someone who was only passing through.
    It’s not as if she was going to move to Frankfurt. Not for Hans. Not even for chicken-soup ice cream.
    And yet…
    ‘Hans, have you heard of a type of cake called a Swiss Roll?’

  26. “We sell that in every shop here,” Sharon replied indifferently as they walked. She began to point at every shop. ‘Now selling Chicken Soup Ice Cream’ was plastered across every window. Get with the times, Sharon thought as Hans looked around, bewildered. He was in heaven.
    “Kann ich….we go in?” His face was planted against a shopwindow, drool escaping his mouth and running down the glass.
    “Ja,” Sharon conceded. Of course she had picked the one student who had an ice cream fetish.
    They sat down with their bowls. Sharon ate absentmindedly, questioning her choice. She could be playing bongo with a Brazilian model right now.
    Hans buried his face in the bowl and began to slurp the ice cream into his mouth, perfectly mimicking a pig at a trough. What is wrong with this guy, Sharon thought as he stood up, his face covered in the pastel green goo.
    “Wunderbar!” Hans exclaimed, ecstatic. There was a noticeable bulge in his pants.
    That was the last straw. She left.

  27. Sharon cringed at the word chicken. It brought back memories. Very bad memories.
    “You try chicken soup ice cream before?” Hans continued to make conversation. Sharon looked at him fearfully. It was happening. Her eyes were bloodshot, wide as saucers.
    “Get away from here! It’s not safe!” She yelled at Hans as her body contorted violently. Hans looked at her.
    “Are you ok? What is problem?” He didn’t comprehend the danger he was in.
    Sharon’s arms locked behind her, her knees bent. “NO DADDY, NOT THE CHICKEN!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, her leg kicking out behind her and knocking a table over. She darted her head around, her red eyes glowing. A loud “BEKEEERRRKK!” escaped her lips as she pecked at Hans. He fell backwards and curled up into a ball, petrified. Sharon began to peck at everything, smashing tables, chairs, bowls of ice cream. Her face became a bloody gooey mess as she destroyed the shop.
    Young love, Hans mused, watching the carnage unfold.

  28. “In Germany,” he said, “We have an ice cream shop that sells every flavor in the world … even chicken soup ice cream.”

    “Yeah…great.” Sharon replied apathetically. She turned her head towards the exit, trying to think of a way to excuse herself without hurting Hans’ feelings.

    Hans felt the date was going well, but he knew the time had come for him to tell her everything before their relationship became too serious. He tapped her on the shoulder and leaned closer to her so that his face was parallel with hers. He took a deep breath.

    “There is something I must tell you and I hope it is no problem.” He stuttered.

    Sharon was slightly intrigued.

    Hans continued, “In my country, it is custom for people on date to smear chicken soup ice-cream all over nipples.”

    Sharon laughed uncontrollably. She leaned back in her seat and wiped away the tears forming in her eyes. She composed herself and smiled at Hans. “Germany sounds like a pretty interesting place.”

    Hans breathed a sigh of relief and continued eating his ice cream, imagining all the different patterns he could swirl around his areola.

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