Cinquentas
There's probably a better name for the type, but Cinquenta (Portuguese for
fifty) seems to fit well enough. The requirement is that a story be told in
exactly fifty words - no more, no less.
It needs a certain precision of language, but probably more important is the
need for a common cultural background. Hints can be given in the title, which
isn't part of the word count, but sometimes this can give too much away.
For added style, the title could be a quintessima, defined as exactly
one tenth of a cinquenta.
These have all been collected from the rec.arts.sf.composition newsgroup,
beginning in February 2002. As far as I have been able to, I have kept these in
the original order in which they appeared on the newsgroup, though Google has
its own ideas about thread ordering. One or two incorporate suggestions for
changes to the original text accepted or suggested by the author. Copyrights are
all to the original authors.
On rasfc, you will occasionally see a follow-up comment to a cinquenta:
usual rules. After the original collection, new cinquentas are only added
to this page if they are emailed to me by the original author.
Contact me, Neil Barnes, at nailed_barnacle@hotmail.com.
Last updated 23 May 2002
Contact
If she had to touch the thing again she would scream. It was soft and
clammy and the worst thing was how cold it felt. She gritted her teeth.
Everyone was counting on her. She reached out boldly and grasped its
outstretched hand. "Greetings from Earth," it said, and smiled.
Jo Walton.
Before Starfall
Three gemstones were set in her right cheekbone; she ran a finger over
them,
as she stared across the red-gold sea. Her brother the captain
had been
slain that day, on the borderlands, far distant. Tomorrow, her
son, the
private, was to fight and die. The clouds above rained tears.
Alter S Reiss
Tears
Running her finger over the gemstone set in her right cheekbone, she
stared across the red-gold sea. Her brother the captain had been
slain that day, on the borderlands, far distant. Tomorrow 'twould
be
her son, the private, who would fight and die. Tomorrow her cheek
would bear another gemstone.
Brian B Scott
This one was posted - deliberately - well over the word
count but was used for a series of stories based on it, and so is included
for completeness.
Name sat on the corral fence, wiping her tears from
the handle of her
father's six-shooter. She tried to polish away the dirt it had collected,
still in its holster, when her father had fallen -- yesterday, shot
in the
back. The gun had no notches on the handle, for her father had been
a
peaceful man. He had raised her to be peaceful too.
But if she were still alive tomorrow, the handle would
have a notch.
Rosemary Lake
Name sat on the corral fence, wiping tears from her father's
six-shooter, polishing dirt it collected, in its holster, when her
father had fallen -- shot in the back. No notches; her father was a
peaceful man. He'd raised her to be peaceful too. Tomorrow, the
handle would be notched.
Patricia J Hawkins
Lisa wipes her tears from the handle of her father's colt; wipes them
away along with the dirt it had collected where he fell, blood seeping
from his back. The handle is pristine, the symbol of a peaceful man.
Tomorrow, if she is alive, she will carve its first notch.
Catja Paford
Searching for the man who killed his father, he came at last to a
wayside grave. He learned about a plague and the stranger who
had
stayed to help. Seeking vengeance for a murdered warrior, he found
a
healer who died helping others. Letting go of vengeance, he finally
wept.
Helen Kenyon
Searching for the man who killed his father, he came at
last to a
wayside grave. The stone held the familiar name, the name of
a
murderer, the name of a man who died helping strangers in the plague.
Seeking vengeance, he found a healer, and at last he wept.
Elizabeth Shack
Henry wouldn't pay the rent, so I evicted him and changed
the locks.
Just before dawn he begged, "Let me in!" The sun rose.
I opened the
door, and found nothing but dust and his clothes. That night his
friends came for me. It's almost morning now; I must go.
Elizabeth Shack
Memory
Under the concrete step my home is damp earth. By summer it stays cool,
all
winter it will never freeze. In spring, the heavy scent of lilac seeps
down. That morning years ago a meadowlark sang above the pain. His
beard
was black, his hands so hard. I was eight.
Sylvia Li
Inland
Salt would have preserved the skin, but Lake Marreva is only wet. The boys
are both swimming; they think they are like fish, instead of half-fish
themselves. Without my skin, I cannot swim at all any more. The ground
is
like knives beneath my feet. I want to go home.
Rachel Lininger
I could have stayed with you, my goddess, living as if
there were no past
and no future. Now, my past condemns me and my future is bleak like
the rocks I've built my house on. I'll plant a garden on the bare rock.
Take me back into your arms.
Irina Rempt
"Makron killed your father?"
the sexton asked me, watering green
hearts-ease.
"In the war, in single combat. I vowed revenge,
and have searched ever
since."
"Makron's grave is over there. He stayed to
heal us of plague, and
died of it himself."
I sat down on Makron's grave and wept.
Rosemary Lake
Paper, Stone, Steel
Yesterday, in the cold rain of winter, his funeral: polished wood and
cut stone, incense and prayer. Today, as the last leaves fall, there
is time for contemplation, for endings, for making peace with my gods.
And tomorrow, who knows? Steel cuts paper, paper wraps stone. But
stone sharpens steel...
Neil Barnes
Gifts of Silver
He brings me gifts, gifts of silver. Alone in the night, I hear him in
the forest. In the sound of the storm and in the light of the moon
he
is there, and he loves me. But I cannot love him, and so he brings
me
gifts of silver...
Neil Barnes
He coalesced from moonbeams, tall, strong, and dark; the
epitome of everything she had ever wanted to be. She offered
her throat, knowing that she would rid the world of his evil,
then replace it with her own. He bit only to feed - having
met, in his lifetimes, her kind before.
Mary Gentle
Her husband came to her in the night, in darkness. Who is the
man that she
married, her sisters asked. She had not seen his face; she could
not say.
Tonight, she bore her lantern, hid it behind the bed. She sees
his face for
the first and last time.
Geoff Wedig
To win her he had to find her namesake flower in the treacherous
mountains.
The journey was perilous but he was brave, determined and, perhaps,
in
love.
The white bloom, like his lady, was lovely.
She would not touch his triumphant offering, for the bloom,
like his lady, was deadly.
Nicola Brown
They met in the cool evening, each looking at the other more than at
the ships they had come to watch. The only sound was that of the
water. All they wanted to say, they could say mind to mind, if it had
to be said at all. Night fell.
Irina Rempt
My hands weave tapestries upon my great loom. They tell a cruel
story, so cruel I cannot understand. The figures are red with
blood.
Why blood?
I am Philomela. For years I have been unable to speak. I
do
not know why.
Procne, do not look, or Itylus is lost.
Patricia J Hawkins
Ouroboros
The Emperor of Northern and Southern ice, of Western lands and Eastern
seas, sent armies and navies beyond his distant borders to conquer
all.
"There's a great threat in the West," said the General.
"There's great resistance in the East," said the Admiral.
"Fight to the end!" said the Emperor.
Zeborah
Love Story
In that summer school physics lab, I knew she was the one. She wore blue
at
our wedding, blue like her eyes. We had three children. The youngest
died
at six, the others grew; our great-grandson has her blue eyes. I read
to
her every day. She knows me still.
Sylvia Li
She turns, coils of hair waving gently. I cannot look.
She sees me, hides her face. Conscious of her tarnished
beauty, she retreats. I cannot let her go. She glances
back, and I hasten toward her. I meet her gaze,
and I am lost. I am hers, always. Stone unchanging.
Rob Kerr
The coral-trees struggled to communicate, releasing clouds of
pheromones, neurotransmitters, hormones. He dedicated himself
to breaking their code, knowing that communication is the key
to peace.
*Obey*, the trees said. *Serve us.*
We live his legacy.
Mary Kuhner
They put him in a golden cage, to entertain them with his
singing.
He sang of his pain, of lost freedom, of open skies.
"Observe the songbird," said his captors, "not a care in the
world;
living only to spread joy and beauty."
Only his song could escape his prison.
Magnus Olsson
Before declaring war, we consulted an oracle.
It answered: "The gods will grant what you ask for."
So we sacrificed ten thousand slaves to the gods of war,
retribution, and justice.
Our armies were slaughtered.
We consulted the oracle again.
It answered: "What you asked for, the gods have granted."
Magnus Olsson
Lost Sky
A bright line lit the sky, then another. No meteor shower this; instead,
residue from the station explosion. It orbited, ten tons or more,
small as
grains of sand. So small, yet deadly at orbital speeds.
It would be a long
time before space again became safe. The stars blurred.
Geoff Wedig
The oracle's answer was harder than the sphinx's question, but the gods
demand only justice. I slew the one who lamed me and blinded
the man
who killed my father, but my mother killed my widowed bride.
I wander
in the dark as my sons do fratricide upon their uncles.
David M Palmer
Waking is painful after so long, but her children
are
stirring, and they give her strength. The strongest kills the
guards and technicians to reach her, then gently disconnects
her
from the network. Even as he carries her away from that place,
she can sense how much he loves her.
M Teo Crawford
I shoveled the rich loam onto the warm, gravid body of my wife,
then stood guard over her grave. Three months later, I help her
children crawl out of the ground. I shall raise them well.
Someday, I'll find a husband to love and bury me, and raise my
children.
David M. Palmer
Pyrophilia
"Why eat here?"
"I was hotbunning for a john..."
"Hotbunning?"
"Hydrogel for protection, rubbing alcohol for cool flames.
He
spanks
out the fire. 'My Hero!' dot dot dot."
"Sick"
"He was a sniffer, but I had gas--goodbye eyebrows."
"Pity."
"So 'Hello Taco Bell'. He wants the same again tonight."
David M. Palmer
The Mirror of the Soul
Their lovemaking had lasted until dawn. Morning
sunlight glinted dully off his eyeglasses as off a
computer screen.
"Don't you ever remove your specs?" She reached
toward the barrier before his sand-colored eyes.
The glasses fell from her hands as she saw the
maggot-infested sockets they had concealed.
Stormie Parsons
Mind the thorns
Friday I found a ghost in our hawthorne tree. From across the
yard it looked like a plastic shopping bag, attenuated and shrieking
in the wind.
I was afraid I'd have to call the fire department.
Then, standing on a step ladder, I knocked it free with the
broom handle.
Gwynedd
One sits alone, pondering vanquished kindred.
Baal fed to his fires. "In hoc signe vinces" over Jove's
family. The sky fell on Toutatis. One-eyed Odin sees no
more.
Names of the fallen, once in prayers and curses, now known to none.
One remains. The others were not true gods.
David M. Palmer
I fall exhausted, my unborn children drawing the last of my
strength.
I give freely, remembering my life's loves.
My father helped me from the earth.
My wife gave of herself, and taught me well.
My husband stands by me, and will raise my children.
Is my last love God?
Ray Drouillard
The dragon's body lay between the knights and the children, the
ground stained with her blood.
"You think they'd appreciate being rescued."
"Bunch of sniveling brats."
"How dare they condemn us?"
"Hate the thought of traveling home with them."
"Let's kill them and blame the dragon."
"Sounds good to me."
Jenna Thomas-McKie
"Are you sure you want to delete Hera.goddess?"
I chose "yes." I, Baal, would eliminate so-called
deities. No penates, no
lares--only one true Eternal. Only three left, four
letters long. I
eliminated uppercases leaving one title case god.
YWEH.god left
BAAL.god left
Word.god remained
Virginia Jolly
"No fire extinguishers needed on this spaceship," said the Captain.
"There are absolutely no flammable materials used in the construction.
My explicit instructions were carried out to the letter by my
most
literal-minded subordinates and Artificial Intelligences."
"From the lithium hull to the nitrocellulose crew uniforms, everything
is completely inflammable."
David Palmer
Stew
The hero, pushing food around his plate, inhaled with delight. Dark
gravy, succulent meat, vegetables, spices. 'Excellent,' he said, 'I
don't know how you do it so quickly.' Only minutes ago they'd made
camp. 'By the way,' he asked, 'Where's your assistant, Stu?' The cook
smiled. 'Don't ask. Just enjoy.'
Neil Barnes
There was a pale half-moon high in a still daylit sky late this
afternoon. It was windy and warm at the same time. Wisps of
cloud, speeding along the firmament, held the slightest promise of
rain.
I was content, lazy with summer. I chose my falae name: it was
"Riyène".
Irina Rempt
Trafalgar Square
From the heights, columbidaean eyes see as well and as far as Nelson.
Around me, comrades twirl and flutter in the air like autumn leaves,
kings of the air and of the ground and of all the perches of the
city. But, landing, I stand aslant - sometimes, Nelson bites back.
Neil Barnes
Saint Columella
Once young wings carried her over battlefields. Lately she
limped and scratched for crumbs beside a crippled beggar in
the town square. Now the enemy had breached the gate, but
she still owned the air. Wings battered the enemy's face
and the beggar's crutch remembered it had been a sword.
Heather Rose Jones
Cinquenta for a Ninety-Third Page
Mother was always
A reader. She
Read silver and silk
You could see.
Butterflies flew
Up at her voice -
You and I were loosed
To gentle wild
Hours
In pages of
Swift sweet soaring.
But be budgets broken
Of woolly pig, slaughtered tree
Or deadly sword,
Keeping words rash-spoken.
Sylvia Li
(Mary Gentle has stated that she buys books based on the first page
and page 93. She keeps pigs and (allegedly) slaughters forests.)
"I swear, Ned," Oliver said. "Cats are capable of limited teleportation."
Ned frowned. "That's stupid. Cats do nothing but shed."
Meanwhile, high above them the alien veered his craft away from Earth,
wondering at the quarantine signs and the light dusting of dander that
had suddenly appeared on his dashboard.
Suzanne Palmer
Cinquenta from the ConJosé Magnetic Poetry Table**
Dinosaurs communicated by color language: purple, yellow --
escaping in a scream -- flew crying up in to the starry
storm.
Light and dark twirl together to tell essential dreams.
Remember -- then the rain was a winter knife and creatures
perished, crying in wide flood, who can recall that once we
spoke.
Heather Jones
Death of Trees
The commuter rubs his shoulder, gasps, and falls. His briefcase
bursts
open, its contents spills. As his overburdened heart gives out,
his last
sight in this world is the blurb, "Probably the biggest fantasy
novel ever
published in a single volume."
Somewhere in England, a witch feels her power wax.
Manny Olds
Death of Trees 2
She had an idea for a nice little book. The first character to
create was
the author--grew up without plumbing, reenactor, took a degree
in warfare,
partner an armsmaster, pet rats. This character turned out to be
a bit
demanding.
Somewhere in Washington, a chiropractor orders a new Mercedes.
Manny Olds
Death of Trees 3
He dumped his briefcase out on the bed again. He would have to
cull to
make room for Ash. Wallet? Into pocket. Umbrella? Lose it.
Project file?
No, not today. Laptop?
"Fuck this!" He got down the old canvas tote.
Somewhere in England, the witch smiled and collected another
soul.
Manny Olds
Another day, another world, another battle -- this time an old swamp.
Gunpowder working; electronics not. We've been fighting Thrawns with
a brigade of Selcats. But they've pulled out, relieved by someone
unknown.
Unknown until I spot myself in the enemy lines.
Not again.
I curse the day the worldwalls broke.
Peter F. Caswell
Second Amendment Dairy Workers
Marrow makes the butter better,
Cream and femur in the vat,
Cave of gold in long shank's hard stone,
Milkmaid is a poor-paid slat.
Work all day against temptation,
To take home more than is earned,
So they wear no long-armed garments,
And can sleeve no bone, unchurned.
David M. Palmer