Kelly Gombert - Writer

This is my entry for the  The 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2020.  My story had to include these elements:    GENRE   DRAMA ACTION   GETTING ARRESTED WORD   COURTESY "Chalk" was selected as one of the top 20 stories in round one in the Group (76) which means I move forward in the competition and will be working on a new story for round two this weekend.    http://www.nycmidnight.com/Competitions/MFC/100/1stRound2020_Results.htm This is the story that I wrote on May 8th, 2020 for the MicroFiction contest.  The George Floyd killing that rocked the world occurred on May 25th, 2020. I do not have a crystal ball.  I did not want to create a topical story so I did not write about the pandemic, etc.  But yet, here we are.  This is my story. Chalk   The cop pressed Francesca’s wrinkled face to the pavement, knee in her back, as he pulled her other arm behind her.    He snapped the...

An entry to a Flash Fiction contest My prompt was: Fantasy / Factory / a dozen eggs Icthian  Eggs Synopsis:  With only one chance every 10 years to reproduce, the Icthian race struggles to continue. They took away her first egg when she was but 10 years old and too young to understand.  At twenty, she had knowledge but no power. By thirty, her reproductive rights had been legislated again; her ovulation cycle pre-empted and her egg harvested before it had manifested itself on her hip. This proved to be a mistake. At forty and sick with a curable disease, her egg was deformed and discarded. Fifty arrived as she was desperately in love and determined to have a natural outcome.  It made no difference. Her sixth egg, it was later determined, was the most healthy and promising.  She was permitted to watch this attempt’s failure to continue the Icthian race. Half of her eggs gone and only six more chances to correct the errors of her forbears. Each egg arrived at the ...

“I’m so sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” said Jess. She moved the pot to another burner and dived for the nearby cleaning supplies. The spaghetti had boiled over covering the stove and countertop in the communal kitchen of the youth hostel with a starchy mess.   Ian’s small open notebook caught the brunt of the water, soaking his hand-drawn artist’s renderings. Jess was a flurry of paper towels trying to dry everything in sight.   Ian said, “Hey, don’t worry about it.   It’s no big deal.   It’s just scribblings.” Jess had picked up the book and was wiping down the front cover frantically. “It is a big deal.   Art is important.   Look, I’m really sorry.” He rescued his notebook from her and flipped through the pages. “See?   Not too much damage.   Just the first few pages.   It will dry.   Chill.” Jess had just arrived in Paris riding the train from London that morning and landing in the Gare du Nord. Her backpack was needlessly...