Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

3rd birthday entries


And the 3rd birthday cupcakes go to ... scroll below for the 3rd birthday celebration!



Pure Slush turned 3 in early December 2013, and to celebrate, we held a competition. The theme of the competition was ... three.

Entrants were asked to submit a three-sentence story or a three-line poem and use the words pure or slush or both in them somewhere ...

Entries opened in mid-September and closed on November 30.

Click on the links below for each entry and entrant.

Competition judges were Beate Sigriddaughter, Christopher Allen and James Claffey.

Thanks to all who participated ... and please enjoy their work!

Prize-winners (and there are three) are listed below thus: **

You can leave comments at the bottom of the page ... or click here.


Hazard  by  Mia Avramut

Mad Daddy  by  Paul Beckman 

A Winter Fling  by  Carly Berg **

Clean  by  Claudia Bierschenk **

Unhappy With His Extra-Slushy Green Tea Soy Latte  by  Randall Brown

poem  by  Colin W. Campbell

Insight  by  Sasidharan Cheruvattath

Mother Knows Best  by  E. P. Chiew

Promise  by  E. P. Chiew

Inspired  by  Sanjeev Chouhan

Heat Lightning  by  Alicia Cole

The Rookie  by  Peter Davidson

Distressed First-time Father  by  Matt DeVirgiliis

3 Antagonists  by  Tom Fegan

The 'Dutch' Rhinoceros of 1741  by  Desmond Fox **

Last Thoughts on a Least Favourite Uncle  by  Desmond Fox

The Tyranny of Threes  by  Gloria Garfunkel

Windows  by  Pamela Hill

Nothing Else Will Do  by  Abha Iyengar

Slush  by  Colleen Moyne

Three  by  Colleen Moyne

The City in Four Dimensions  by  Pedro Ponce

Hangover  by  Stephen V. Ramey

Losing Control  by  Chris Redfern

We All Share the Road, Whether We Like It or Not  by  Timmy Reed

Lust  by  Sally Reno 

Snow  by  Mark Rosenblum

No Cars  by  Angela R. Sargenti

Dreaming in Color  by  Wayne Scheer 

Haiku  by  Wayne Scheer 

Our Times  by  Wayne Scheer 

The Stone Wall  by  Wayne Scheer

Prism  by  Joan Stepp Smith

Soaking  by  Susan Tepper

Three's a Crowd  by  Michelle Wallace 

No Solution  by  Joanna M. Weston

Total Destruction  by  Joanna M. Weston

Winter Delight  by  Joanna M. Weston

Buses come in threes  by  Kathryn Yuen

Classically trained composer / singer  by  Kathryn Yuen

How Pain Rewires Perception and Reality  by  Kathryn Yuen 

Women!  by  Kathryn Yuen 


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by Mia Avramut

She is the one who opens that barrel of a hairy chest, just the chest, with a wavy incision under the nipples, because now her only assistant is the young transplant surgeon himself (brilliant, these transplants, even more so than brain cutters), come to find out why the heart he inserted in Mr. Middle Aged failed some nine hours ago.

She reflects the chest plate, opens the heart sack, elevates, palpates, explains, sections coronary branches, then under his hungry gaze pries the whole heart from its sutured roots, for both of them to marvel at how impeccable an organ it appears to be, but she longs for air so much that she lets him play with the inert muscle slices while she slowly mops the slush from that day’s routine full-body autopsies, coaxing it towards the floor drain.

When he’s done, his face glows as if under a crown of shining coronaries, because no obvious mistake was made by his team, so he glides to the slippery center, sneaks behind her bent back, moist under the full white Tyvek overall, and whispers to her ear “Pure hazard, eh? don’t sweat it”, like he didn’t know why the organ failed; as she straightens up her back, she wants to tell him it has to be more than donor finding, tissue typing, and flawless execution, has to be a deed of genes and heart trickles dripping along mucky life channels, carrying the answer – that is, until you chase them down quickly and definitively with a cupful of chlorine, soon after death.

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Mad Daddy

by Paul Beckman 

Phillip’s father told him it was bad to leave his toddler bed and go to sleep in the closet because of the Whatodo’s, the purely evil invisiblemonsters who hide in bedroom closets deciding what to do to little children who sneak out of their beds. But three year old Phillip, who was destined for a life skirting the law in so many ways, talked it over with his friends - the stuffed bears he would form around him when he played “listen”, “mad daddy” or his favorite “conversation”.

He liked the closet because it bordered mommy and daddy’s room and he could hear them-especially when they raised their voices and fought like last night when Daddy came home late and his mothers yelling woke him when she called him a lush which Phillip remembered in the morning as slush and at breakfast he said, “Daddy’s a slush” and thought it was the funniest word he ever heard so he kept saying; “Daddy’s a slush, Mommy said Daddy’s a slush” until mad daddy showed his face and sent him back to his room with a red ass and a slice of burnt toast.

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A Winter Fling **

by Carly Berg 

She was pure as country snow, he was metro slush. You know how it goes. She threw snowballs and he pressed charges. 

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Clean **

by Claudia Bierschenk

He hated body hair. It had to be cut, lathered with soap, shaved, plucked, the skin scrubbed and exfoliated until it burned and he could run his fingers from his scalp over his face down to his scrotum and buttocks in one slick movement, trembling at the thought of how pure he was outside and inside, unblemished, free of disease, as proven by the quarterly medical check-ups. Moisturized and deodorized he’d walk through the driven snow, slush, squish, slush, squish until he finally caught glimpse of a taxi (what a relief to be able to avoid public transport), oh and the tingling excitement in his crotch when the driver pulled up outside the brothel. 

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Unhappy With His Extra-Slushy Tea Soy Latte

by Randall Brown

He submitted an email complaint via the company’s website that hinted at impurities in the ingredients—and got a $10 gift card for his trouble. He was being nice. “Had they not responded,” he told friends later, “I would have Facebooked or tweeted.”

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by Colin W. Campbell

though born high and free

any pure raindrop might fall

in the slush like me 

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by Sasidharan Cheruvattath

lures me to take its position

pure with a blush

a lotus from the slush

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Mother Knows Best

by E. P. Chiew

Oy vey Abishek! She brushed his cheek, still downy, and tucked in the tips of his collar, so white, like his face, and pulled at his shirtcuffs, pure hubris all this, when it’s ash and slush for me and you, she mumbled to him. There now, presentable, go and meet your Maker.

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by E. P. Chiew

Russell promises he won’t go, six months of separation and who even knows if Morrison will still be around when he comes back. They argue back and forth, as lovers will. Morrison’s stumps are what pass for fingers now and they grip Russell’s until pure pain shows in his eyes, but Morrison’s stumps won’t let go, his phantom fingers feeling the slush of the wind. 

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by Sanjeev Chouhan

For hours he sat on his writing desk twiddling his left thumb and staring at the blank sheet of white paper.

Then suddenly he leaned forward and uncapped his aged, Victorian pen.

He inspected the nib and with great gusto wrote the words: “Pure Slush”.

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Heat Lightning

by Alicia Cole

The snowball, syrupped blue, dribbled down the young woman’s arm. She licked the cool slush, pure processed sugar; New Orleans dropped its August heat. A man wheeling by on his bicycle swerved, but didn’t crash.

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The Rookie

by Peter Davidson

The rookie cop edged a polished toe-cap from the slush of blood oozing from the body at his feet and fought the overwhelming desire to vomit.

A killer stood beyond the body, gun wavering between corpse and cop, his expression of madness decorated in spattered crimson.

His gun steadied, then, in a movement designed for no regret was thrust under his chin and an instant later, a young cop lost both his breakfast and innocence.

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Distressed First-time Father

by Matt DeVirgiliis

“Doc, my god it’s coming out green and mushy and stinky ... pure slush.” 

“Matt, what have you introduced into Lil’s diet?”

“Smashed sweet potatoes, pulverized peas, and blended green beans… pure slush.” 

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3 Antagonists

by Tom Fegan

Three victims gunned down in a Fort Worth mansion included a dope dealer, a teenage girl and her mother Rose Bligh who was soon to be divorced from a wealthy oilman and only survivor of the incident; she cried out to the responding police officers, “Seymour Bligh did it.” The wealthy Seymour was put on trial with evidence piled on him along with his divorce attorney deserting and not responding to any attempts to be reached including private eye Joe East hired to survey Bligh’s mansion. East’s photographed all that entered the mansion and one license plate was traced to Patrick Flynn an investments counselor but East’s evidence to the police determined Flynn laundered money and fingerprints placed him at the mansion at the time of the shooting ; Flynn’s confession freed Bligh and included facts of Rose’s drug addiction and the dealer shooting the daughter and wounding Rose and concluded, “Rose trying to cover up what happened by blaming Bligh was pure slush.”

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The Tyranny of Threes

by Gloria Garfunkel

My father died when I was three, slipping on slush and smashing his brain on concrete. This led me to try to stay safe by counting like taking three steps at a time, allowing three items on my plate, eating three raisins or M&M’s for snacks, taking each item out of the drawer three times, and tapping everything three times as I walked by: tables, countertops, beds, hedges. Although I eventually sought treatment and was cured through a method called Exposure and Response Prevention, the therapist neglected to inform me of Symptom Substitution and I am now a clean freak requiring everything to be immaculate and pure. 

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by Pamela Hill

Pure white light illuminated the yard, shining from a window where a woman stood on a ladder hanging curtains on a moonless night as Gypsy, my hound on a leash, pulled me through a mound of snow from dark sidewalk to light, and I told myself to remember to meet the new neighbor.


A few weeks passed, and as Gypsy pulled me through sidewalk slush, I saw a pink ribbon decorating the new neighbor’s frosted glass door, and a sense of solidarity arose.


A month or so later, I saw the new neighbor’s name and date of death in pink paint on the rear window of a black sedan in her driveway and learned her name was Karena, and I touched the mass in my own breast and thought of her, whom I should have met that moonless night when Gypsy led me to pure illumination.

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Nothing Else Will Do

by Abha Iyengar

The first year we met, we gave in to the rush 

The second year lent to it a somewhat deeper flush

The third year sealed the deal, what we had was pure slush.

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by Colleen Moyne

Ellis trudged home, barely aware of the rapidly forming pools of grey slush left by the melting snow that seeped into his light shoes and chilled his feet.

His head hung low, weighted by thoughts of his impending divorce and the uncertain future that lay ahead. 

He had no way of knowing that his future was indeed certain, soon to be terminated by the number three bus that was sliding out of control around the next corner.

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by Colleen Moyne

He stood up, removed the stethoscope from his ears and clumsily bundled it into the pocket of his pure white coat.

I knew what he was going to say before any sound had left his throat simply by the way his lips pursed and his tongue poked itself between his teeth.

‘Three,’ he announced proudly, but I barely heard him amid the cacophony of panicked thoughts that came with the sudden knowledge that I was carrying triplets.

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The City in Four Dimensions

by Pedro Ponce

I reached the threshold of the Citys future, ignored the posted warnings, crossed over. Detritus scattered at my steps, imbuing banks of slush with a metallic luster. Wind stirred the tatters of my tourist map, browned to feathers against gnarled skin.

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by Stephen V. Ramey

We drank bourbon slush, cocooned ourselves back to back in down blankets, and slept without touching. In the morning we told ourselves that it was because our love was so pure that we withheld the mechanics of sex. The hangover was as bad as the guilt.

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Losing Control

by Chris Redfern

The car briefly lost traction in the slush, banging her head against the steering wheel. “Be careful down there,” he said with a smirk. Something inside her snapped and she began to bite.

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We All Share the Road, Whether We Like It or Not

by Timmy Reed

Under an overpass bridge across town, a world away from this comfortable chair, exists a family of ghosts who sleep in piles of cold brown slush during winter. Their pure white hearts beat only when the passing cars honk their horns at each other. The ghost family survives off this communication; they grow fat and cause traffic jams with huge invisible bodies to remind us that living is a spectator sport.

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by Sally Reno

I am the apple of pure discord rolling off the smiling fingertips of Eris.

I am the slush of wanting beneath the holy steps of pilgrims.

I am the potter of the cup of revelation. 

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by Mark Rosenblum

Pure, clear crystals float down

upon the child’s red knit cap and dissolve

into warm cotton memories. 

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No Cars

by Angela R. Sargenti

Its warm today.

The slush is pure and white.

No cars.

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Dreaming in Color

by Wayne Scheer

Ellie’s husband Sam thought a slush gray necktie daring. She dreamed of a man unafraid of pure red. But when she woke and Sam kissed her, she knew red was for a mid-life crisis sports car while gray offered substance. 

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by Wayne Scheer

Early spring snowfall--

daffodils offer pure joy

despite slushy leftovers.  

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Our Times

by Wayne Scheer

When Vera Williams moved into an abandoned Hummer after the bank foreclosed on her house, Charlie Pierson interviewed her for his final story in the Star-Ledger before the newspaper went bankrupt. Three months later without a job, deep into the slush of winter, Vera slit her wrists and Charlie shot himself in the head. No newspaper was available to publish their obituaries.

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The Stone Wall

by Wayne Scheer

After Reese and I broke up, my friend Gary claimed we were too close. Pointing to a stone wall in the middle of his property, he said, “Lisa and I mend it every spring while the ground is still slush, so we can stand on opposite sides when we need to.” 

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by Joan Stepp Smith

Pure misery, his dog looking at my husband and me after it found the headless baby frozen stiff out in our lower pasture.

Nothing but icy slush, I recall, the winter Jack read WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE over the phone to me for a week, every night, just before bed.

Last time we spoke, Jack asked if I knew who to call to euthanize raptors if they’d been declawed illegally. . .

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by Susan Tepper

Pure love is the equal of sludge. You fill a pail and carry it to a dried creek bed. The winter is longer than long, soaking your boots in slush and envy.

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Three's a Crowd

by Michelle Wallace

A politician, the town trollop and a person of the cloth embroiled in a controversial saga of: he said, she said and the truth in between.

An indiscretion exposed, absorbed, dissected and redistributed by the pure slush of a community ripped apart.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!

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No Solution

by Joanna M. Weston

the washing machine

slushed round and round

like her thoughts

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Total Destruction

by Joanna M. Weston

A howl of pure grief tore from deep in her body.

A slush of mud ran through her collapsed home.

The typhoon had destroyed everything.

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Winter Delight

by Joanna M. Weston

pure joy as the four-year-old

jumps in a pile of slush

wearing new green boots

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Buses come in threes

by Kathryn Yuen 

Yesterday I arrived by the bus driven by a stork.

Today, I’m wondering if I should bus it via slush pile or drive via self publishing.

Tomorrow, I’ll keep happy while waiting to be hit by the last ‘bus’.

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Classically trained composer / singer

by Kathryn Yuen

The musician sick of singing covers and slush for a living

Offloads his piano from truck into sea   Black grand crescendos into white caps of salty foam

The tinkling of ivories become a tinkle-donk-donk-dunk

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How Pain Rewires Perception and Reality

by Kathryn Yuen

I try to rest; I’m tormented-slush between sleeping and waking states In a clear-enough blur, a mother and child rush into my lounge room, as if my stuff is their stuff, oblivious to my presence This is also their space - I’ve accidentally entered another dimension…..

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by Kathryn Yuen 

Joan of Arc burned with a passion more pure than the fire at the stake

SuBo sang for nought till the world ‘discovered’ her

‘Mae West was Snow White till she drifted’

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