Contest: The Summer of 75 Words

in Featured/From EWR

The Summer of 75 Words

So the 50 word contest was so much fun we decided to run a new Summer 75 word contest. The contest will run from today, June 1st until August 31, 2015. The reward is the same as before. We will give you 3 months of ads and promotions on EWR. This is worth $1000. If you have a book or a magazine to promote, this contest is for you!

The ground rules:

  • Submissions must be posted in the comments.
  • The submission cannot be more than 75 words (please include a title but does not count in the final word count)
  • It can be on any topic, but stories about summer will have a little leverage.
  • Make them interesting and fun.
  • The work must be original.
  • Deadline is August 21, 2015.

Good luck the contest, and we are really looking forward to reading all your stories. Happy Summer.

Richard Edwards has a BFA in Creative Writing and Journalism from Bowling Green State University and an M.S. in Education from the University of Akron. Managing editor of Drunk Duck, poetry editor for Prairie Margins, reporter for Miscellany, Akron Journal, Lorain Journal...check our About Us page for more. Also here is info on our On Classic Articles

22 Comments

  1. “The summer of ’75. Words.”

    The sun was burning as hell outside. It was almost 6 hours of sitting, pacing, sweating and reading magazines probably left by the workers who have built this four-by-three meter sized room called reception in the Neilburry village hospital. A place that even accidentally cannot be found on a map.

    Finally he showed up and said: “Congratulations. It’s a girl.” The sun was still shining outside.

  2. Chincoteague

    Tiny birds gliding above breakers, their wings white and black. Marsh horses walking in surf, only a few hands high. My wife in a sunhat, watching. Young James wants a picture, but they have other ideas: the roan walks under our parasol, knocks over a woven basket, searching for peaches and melons. I let her have all she wants, delighting my wife and James. Those birds fly past again. This life is all I desire.

  3. A Myth Washed Ashore
    Bob Thurber

    He found the baby near the shoreline, seaweed twisted around its limbs. He was disappointed it wasn’t a crab or turtle, something he could crack open and eat. What good was a dead child? He stared out at the ocean, looking for ships or wreckage. He supposed the infant had simply been tossed overboard. Then he saw its eyes flutter. Afterwards he would tell everyone she had been born from the foam of the sea.

    (Forgive me. I’m visual impaired and posted without noticing the glaring typo. Here’s the corrected version. Best wishes. – BT )

  4. A Myth Washed Ashore
    Bob Thurber

    He found the baby near the shoreline, seaweed twisted around its limbs. He was disappointed it wasn’t a crap or turtle, something he could crack open and eat. What good was a dead child? He stared out at the ocean, looking for ships or wreckage. He supposed the infant had simply been tossed overboard. Then he saw its eyes flutter. Afterwards he would tell everyone she had been born from the foam of the sea.

  5. The Sound from Upstairs!

    Two men sat drinking Coors in a mountain lodge at midnight.
    “Good Lord!” Miller said, spilling beer. “Was that an orgasmic outcry or someone being murdered?”
    “Definitely the latter,” Wallace said.
    “Should we go upstairs?” Miller asked.
    “Hell no!”
    “We have to do something.”
    “Get killed?”
    “There it goes again!”
    “I’m not moving.”
    “That’s why I came down here.”
    “Ahhh!”

  6. The Sun

    Her friend unveils a Tarot deck. She hasn’t had her fortune read in years.

    “Look, the Sun,” he says of the first card. “That has to be good luck, fortuitous.”

    She stares at the card. Bright beams and a carefree child. Wild colors.

    “That could be anything,” she tells him. “Fun, freedom—”

    “New romance,” he suggests, smiling.

    “Maybe,” she agrees. “If there were any takers.”

    “There’s one,” he says, kissing her full on the mouth.

  7. Beach Trip

    The kids built a sand castle. Marvin helped. Eventually, he told Penelope he would try out those surfing lessons.

    Wetsuit on, he disappeared into the waves. She watched for a while. The children kept shaping sand into turrets.

    An hour passed. Where was he? She scanned wave crests for a clue.

    Then screams rose up. Beach combers ran. She saw his red striped surf board cruise by.

    A dorsal fin emerged, tombstone grey.

  8. The Cellist

    Across the river, I watched a young woman playing the cello, sheltered by willow trees. Bach, probably. It was the hottest summer in years and the pressing heat clutched at her, the voice from the mature instrument soared, the dying light sparkled resiliently. Her bare, white legs shone under the rounded wood. At that moment, the river swelled up into a great wave and swallowed… legs, sound…gone. Tragic, I thought, gasping on the other bank.

  9. How to Fly

    Five maybe? In the front yard, cars flying down the busy hill I’d one day roll old car tires down; dry grass baking, long stalks fruited with foamy marbles of bug spit. My best rubbery plastic guy smelled like sweet vanilla, but not quite. I threw it up in the air to see how high it would go – maybe four times, maybe forty. Threw it again and it never came back down. Not ever.

  10. Martian Summer

    Everything’s the same, only worse. Where windows might ship in days back home, NASA gives the new shielding eight months. The heat’s gotten to Commander Walker, who spends afternoons hurling basalt clods, reenacting ninth innings at Wrigley.
    The water is purified of sulfur—ditto with soil of sodium, air of nitrogen. But tea has no ice, kids no sprinklers, A/C no MAX.
    “Send them home on a strikeout,” Walker says mid-windup. “Send them home.”

  11. Migrant Scene.

    The bees had left the blueberry field, flying lovers of flowers retreat in late July from the rocky and sandy barrens. The sun crawled and then jumped from behind the ridge to the south, into the trillion glossy leaves surrounding a man wool-wrapped by blankets blinking and rolling from his folded coat pillow. This field is work and hope and for these weeks home. A journey’s prayer for trust of this bounty.
    He begins.

  12. “Well bless your heart.”
    Aunt’ Louise said this while fanning herself a mile a minute. Of course she didn’t really mean bless your heart. Not to that husband stealing tramp, but we were Southern and she was company on our porch and it was hot as hell to boot so no one said much after that. What could I say? I was only twelve and tramp or not that woman’s legs just sent me.

  13. LEGS

    “Well bless your heart.”
    Aunt’ Louise said this while fanning herself mile a minute. Of course she didn’t really mean bless your heart. Not to that husband stealing tramp, but we were Southern and she was company on our porch and it was hot as hell to boot so no one said much after that. What could I say? I was only twelve and tramp or not that woman’s legs just sent me.

  14. “I never scream.”
    Meg’s hips snuggled Tim’s, flushing her cheeks.
    “…at all times. Enjoy your ride.”
    “Don’t you get that sensation?” Tim said. “Of losing control.”
    “Nope.”
    The coaster rattled off. “I bet I can make you scream.” He elbowed her. “Close your eyes.”
    Meg obeyed, tightening her grip around Tim’s arm. The coaster clinked in ascent.
    “Now open.” The cart crested as the unbuckled belt end gleamed in Tim’s hand.
    He grinned in victory.

  15. Three Foxes and a Stranger

    All I can remember is numbness when I heard the shuffling behind the conifer trees. I mentally chided myself for hiking so late at night; the sun had not fully set yet, but it was past supper and only a few dozen steps lay between me and who was behind that tree trunk. Running in the opposite direction would only lead me to the fraction of the woods where I would never see another hiker.

  16. Swarm

    Summer camping with a toddler; my daughter screams, “Daddy, the squitos!” and runs into the tent. Mosquitos follow. With her, I wait out the twillight swarm. She stands on our sleeping bags like a dictator telling the squitos to go. Now I know why everyone else had their fire going early. Typical, no warning. The world. They fly up to the mesh, these mosquitos, and seem to bounce off of it without hitting it.

  17. Jenny’s Drag

    The best thing about Summer is the evening. When the blazing sun drifts below the skyline and leaves traces of dying orange and pink in streaks like a watercolor. She closed her brown eyes and breathed deep the humid air, now cooled a reasonable degree, glad she was able to cruise with the convertible top down. The next joker that revved at the main drag stoplight, she’d take down with her mighty V-8.

  18. Nostalgia

    July, 1994. Grunge on the radio, Clinton on t.v. The Internet like a rumor that hasn’t yet reached everyone. Two girls, fifteen, nurture their eventual implosion. Nine years from now they will stop speaking, a wound that won’t sew over. The jogger runs from it forever. The writer dwells on it indefinitely. But this moment they have Nirvana, Dunkin’ Doughnuts, ears tied together by cordless phone. They will try to return here all their lives.

  19. A Carpenter’s Nemesis

    The Sun continued its unwarranted brutality. Another swing with the hammer brought another two drops of sweat slamming into the ground, and now a damp trail was following below James as he maneuvered over the trusses.
    “You look rough, Jim. Take a break.” The Foreman noticed Jim’s plight.
    “I’m fine,” then to himself: “I hate summer.” Another swing of the hammer produced no sweat. Slowly, he succumbed to the encroaching black and lost his grip.

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