1. Lilly James Haro
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    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

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    Contest Winner! Flash Fiction Contest #29 - Well Done SethLoki!

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lilly James Haro, Feb 29, 2016.

    Let’s all say congratulations to the newest winner of the Flash Fiction Contest, @SethLoki who wrote the entry, ‘A Long Yarn’. Well Done on your second consecutive win! Thank you to all who entered and all who read the entries and voted, we wouldn’t be able to hold these contests without you guys.


    @Wreybies, if you could please present the medal :)
     
  2. Lilly James Haro
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    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

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    Here is his winning piece:

    A Long Yarn (450 words)

    No more rock rolling for Sisyphus—he’d just walked away. All things considered, being sentenced to an eternity of ‘shoulder to the boulder’ is not the bind it once was. Who’d know? He’d outlived his judge, jailers and the myth-scribes. So off he limped, rested for a few millennia, feet up, let his muscles soften up and pondered. Pondered his newfound boredom and loneliness—and how that of doing naught and of seeing no-one ate away at him more than his prior punishment.

    So he set off the next sunrise to put right his predicament and he soon chanced on Daphne. Her time in hiding in the guise of a laurel tree had ended when an aide of Apollo’s outed and delivered her to the god’s feet as the lushest wreath. She told Sisyphus that on returning to her nymph form, she’d refused Apollo his way and as a consequence was sentenced to threading the Golden Fleece into a yarn—for as long as it took. Her storytelling, as alluring as a siren’s song and usurped only by her beauty, beguiled and bewitched Sisyphus. In the shadow of the golden ball she’d wound, which was by now as big as a hill, he made an advance on her, a clumsy advance.

    ‘Sisyphus, you are no patch on Apollo, even him I’ve spurned and to him I am locked, you’re a criminal by past accounts too! Why I’d only talk to you by seashell if it were attached to the end of this yarn and you’d taken it to its extent and even then-so, pulled it tight. Such is the distance I’d want you from me.’ With that Daphne went silent and back to her task.

    Wounded by her rejection he coiled the thread about his wrist and left. Over his forte of high mountain and traipsing through the deepest rivers he went. Across sea and through the underworld he threaded himself; the yarn tight about his wrist but always loose from thereon. To save his mind from madness he counted his paces and focused on the hope of Daphne accepting him for his trouble.

    It was a day unknown many penances and 66,000,000 steps later that the golden string gave some resistance. So weary, so tired, he wished it not a snag. It wasn’t. Some paces more to draw some tension. At last, his commitment fulfilled, he eagerly attached a sea snail’s shell to the yarn.

    ‘Hello,’ he whispered into the shell.

    ‘Hello,’ came a voice. Not from the shell but from behind. Sisyphus turned, it was Daphne with smiles, eyes of acceptance and of admiration. The fleece—gone, a golden thread ran from her, around the world and back to where—they kissed.
     
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