Happy Friday! We are so happy to present the winning entry for our first ever Flash Fiction Contest.  Our topic for this contest was to write the story from the monster’s point of view.  Contestants had 24 hours to turn in a short story of 1,000 words or less.  43 individuals submitted entries, and our super secret judging panel selected their top 5 selections.  
The winner received a free ticket to this year’s Geek Gala, and had his story read on our Guardians of the Geekery podcast (episode 36) which was released on both iTunes and iHeart radio.  And as promised, we are reprinting his story here as well.  

Congratulations to our winner, Bruce Mulford of Rock Hill, SC.  And without further ado, here is the transcript of his story, Breakfast. 

Breakfast

Bruce Mulford

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash.

Where does one go upon a cool, dawn’s morning, with a hive of starving bees in his guts promptly swarming? Hobbling up to the nearest knoll with schnozzle up and sniffing, I nearly choke when catching a whiff of a scent so sweet and bidding. What is that down in the dell do I spy, an illusion crafted by watery eyes? No, it can’t be – it’s smoke that I see; down near a stream coming from a chimney! One must make haste and roll down the hill, if swiftness and quickness means having my fill.

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash

Oh, the joy I’ll soon feel! To eat is to win! I’ll savor each morsel and slice it up thin! I’ll spare not a drop that which rolls down my chin, for all beings know to waste is a sin. Boiled, roasted, sizzling or raw; how it is had means nothing at all. Broiled, brined, or burnt to a crisp, so long as my gullet is thick like a fist. Stomach grumbling a guttural sound, tossing, tumbling round and round. When will this incessant rolling cease? When will my greedy corpus find peace?

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash

Abruptly, now I’m upright again – skimming like a stone on the stream near the glen. It won’t be long now; I’m speeding past pines. There’s wind in my sails, and I’m making great time! Finally slowing down to a crawl, I sink to the hem of my crusty old shawl. Sloshing and schlepping up to water’s edge, the scent once so distant now permeates the sedge. Limping along a trail by the stream, the sun, now waking, yawns with a gleam, but down on the floor, the forest’s still dim. I’m so close now, I can’t help but grin!

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash

At last! A cottage stands among these trees – a world hushed in silence except for the breeze. Through the glass pane there’s a flicker of light; not too much, though – just what’s left from the night. They will be in there sleeping for sure – dreaming not of what lurks at their door, but probably fanciful, ridiculous things such as slimy toad kisses and firefly rings. Ever so carefully, and ruthlessly bold, I line my course up and charge the threshold.

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash

I smash the door open in a hail of splintered wood, and scream like a banshee as a good hunter should, but when I flail to and fro, and glare about the room, something odd seems afoot in the murky morning gloom. The beds have all been emptied and the chairs are but a few – even the dining table is sparse and barren, too. At least upon the fire rests a pot of boiling stew, so that I won’t go without a nibble and a chew.

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash

I pitch the pot of scalding stew down my scratchy throat, and sit upon the cottage hearth to ponder this anecdote. The more I think, the more I dizzy – rapid blinking, a genuine tizzy! No hunger to be felt; no bees and no pangs – my innards feel as they’ve been stapled with fangs. I’ve spewed all the stew out onto the floor, and sliding back down I gaze at the door. My vision is blurred and my heart it is slowing, choking and coughing – pain exceedingly growing. There at the door appears a shape – teeming with fuzz and wearing a cape.

“How did you fancy the stew?” says he.

“Easy on eyes and nose” says me. “But on the way down is the part I hate most, you really are quite a horrible host”.

“A horrible host I may very well be, but if you had your way, you would gladly eat me!”

“A valid point and not one bit is a lie, so if it pleases you, sir, it’s my time to die.”

Gnarl and gnash, gnash and gnarl; I’ll whip their bones clean with a switch and a snarl.
Gnash and gnarl, gnarl and gnash; fileting my darlings with a scrape and a slash