When I read, I invariably run across lines of true artistry that make me stop, back up and read again. When I'm in the midst of an Opinion or Proofread, I even highlight these gems on the page. Contest entries are no different. I recently compiled my favorite lines from our previous Flash Fiction contest and would like to share them, in no particular order, with you. Some authors have included links to their winning story or their websites and blogs. Enjoy!

And then he's gone diving into the cab with Pete who's as green as his St. Patty's sweater, Conor burning red drunk and relatively round and sober Matt in his pea coat. They're accelerating hundreds of blocks through grey sludge, street lamps blur by like a thousand fireflies or goblins eyes laughing at him. Pete's eyes are closed and he sways with the motion of the cab. In the distance the diamond lights of the George Washington Bridge illuminate the black velvet sky, forming some sort of constellation. It's Poseidon's fork in the shape of regret. 

The Girl in the Lion's Head
by Phil Kreniske 

On the other side of her stands Blane, her brutish, slow-witted, on-and-off beau. And next to Blane slouches his even slower-witted compadre, Stiff. Don't even ask. There's a gun at Blane's side. I can't see it now, but trust me, it's there. Why the hell else would I be making this plunge?

Above Cold River
by Trevor Hambric

He studied the note, tracing the loops and swirls with his fingertip as if he could divine whether Tara had forgiven him. She'd once littered her notes with X's and O's and lopsided hearts. But that was before ... before last week when she'd found him in bed with Patricia.

Crumbs
by Renee Holland Davidson

He's kneeling in front of her. Quietly. It's not like him. The man she knows expands to fill empty spaces. He hates silence. It makes him nervous when he has no reason to be, but now, when he should be nervous, he isn't. She can tell by his even breath, by his stillness, by the unwavering hand that holds the ring.

When She Comes To It
by Jennifer Hemphill Tatroe 

Outside, the icy wind whipped along Wainwright hollow, tearing through the maples in a red and gold fury. Johanna heard the geese barking overhead and felt the leaves crunch underfoot. A young couple smiled at her, and Johanna waved back as she crossed the river, her footfalls echoing over the wooden planks of the covered bridge.

A Sense of Time and Place
by Paul Alan Fahey

"He can't be far," I mutter into the silence as my gaze darts back and forth across the street. I travel slowly, the tears in my eyes softening the scene into a Monet painting. I wipe away the moisture, clench my jaw against hysteria. 

Lost and Found
 by D'Ann Mateer

With all the warnings on television and advice on the Internet, visitors and residents alike were becoming harder to clip across the bridge. Tom had taken his talent into the bathrooms of Manhattan's finer restaurants, but he didn't like to work them too often. Lots of employees meant lots of people who could describe him. Average height, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes. He blended in with most crowds, but the deep scar through his left eyebrow was the "distinguishing mark" cops lived for.

Pawns in the Game
by Robin Allen

   "Who's that scrape, scrape, scraping over my bridge?" said a bleating voice. 
   "It is only I. A hot, irritable troll." Troll squinted. "I know you. You're Gruff, the billy goat."
   "One of them," said the goat. 
   "The little one." Troll smacked his lips. He felt like a snack.
   "Pay me tuppence and be on your way," said Gruff the smallest.
   Troll frowned. "Why should I do that?"
   "Because, this is a toll bridge."
   Troll chucked. "It's pronounced troll. The sign's spelt wrong."

Toll That Troll
by Mark Stallard

"No fishing line."
"Can we get one?"
"Even having one, don't suppose we could use it."
"Probably not."
"Let's go back."
Each blew into mouthpieces on wheelchairs and rolled toward the looming veteran's hospital.

Going Fishing
by John Thornborough

Without warning, she heard it. From somewhere beyond the pitter-patter of raindrops, a glorious harmony drifted into Sophie's ear. She closed her eyes and listened. A flood of wonderful memories washed over her. Feeling the colorful music she and Charles had shared so often, she hummed the melody. Accompanied by the colorful chords of her surroundings, she realized it was a stunning composition.

   The Music of Color
by Susie Sawyer

Iron girders glisten in the headlights as those saner than I rush homeward to warm dinners. We who are not so sane stand alone, feeling rain and wind and haunted thoughts hurl themselves against us as the year slips away. We are the outcasts, the homeless, the good-for-nothings without rules, responsibilities, or remembrance of things past or future. 

Bridge to Nowhere
by Jan Weeks

"Every time another Jack comes for adventure. You climb the beanstalk bridge to kidnap, to steal, and kill. Don't you think that's getting pretty old?" The big man steepled his fingers, his nails were clipped smooth and clean. "Fellows like you break into my home defiling it over and over. Haven't you ever asked yourself why? Or given a choice to Ladyharp? Or asked the hen what she wants?" 

Climb the Stalk
by Pamela Lord 

The sprinklers cast rainbows of water across the grass as I sat watching my small daughter play in the shadows of a magnolia tree. After trying to occupy my thoughts with a popular women's magazine I put it to a more practical use and fanned my face with its pages as I waited for my mother to arrive.

The Bridge
  by Elizabeth Thompson

Sliding as much as running, they rushed to the bottom of the slope, and fell to kiss the ground. Without rising, they dug out great chunks of rich, delicious enamel and began to feast. Energy returned as they ate, and eventually they sat back in satisfaction, bellies full and flagella nutating idly, to admire their new home. A virgin, vacant bicuspid, ripe and inviting, lay before them, and they sighed with contentment knowing that they would never go hungry again.

The Periodontal Bardo
by Jeff Dunne

A black-particle beam on a moonless night had been a wise but not unexpected choice. I hadn't reacted quickly enough. My flare had blinded him, and my backup EMP weapon had fried his gear, but not before he had unleashed the beam at knee level, sweeping the ridge behind me like the sound of a blade slashing deeply into a barrel of sand.

Brother's Bridge
by Christopher Gentry

She sits in the abandoned traffic-police stand in the busy intersection, drawing hundreds of perfect 10 paise outlines. Whorls with faces - some smiling, some forlorn, until her pencil blunts or she runs out of paper. She then stares at the coin - her prized possession, worrying the scallops will lose their edge.

At Dum Dum Intersection
by Savera Z. John

   "What do you think you are doing?" she commanded. 
   The troll was taken aback; he was not used to his lunch demanding anything from him before it was eaten. 
   "This is my bridge," he meekly replied. 
   "You are not supposed to be here," she said, clearly unamused. "This is a historical romance. This is medieval Portugal, and I am the Princess Amanda. Waiting for me in the next chapter is a knight named Paulo, who intends to ravish me. Now, if you don't mind getting out of my way, I'm already late and I'm rather looking forward to a ravishing."

Between Chapters
by Paul Barton

   "But how on the earth did you spot me? I've never bragged on my army day exploits!" a relaxed Sharma asked.
   "It's technology, sir," Khanna replied sheepishly. "The whiz kid next door had searched the Internet for a consultant and what luck - had hit on 'an internationally acclaimed bridge expert' right at Mirpur!"
   "My God," Sharma gaped. "That's contract bridge, my current passion and profession! I've even played in the last world championship!"

A Bridge Expert
by Aniruddha Sen

When she could see again she was in a field at dusk. A gnarled tree twisted its spindly black branches up at the moon like a hag's fingers. A bat fluttered and circled; then swooped down and at her hair, struggling and pulling and tearing at the roots. The roots of the tree. She was underground again.

Liv's World
by Michael Monkhouse

So here I stand today, a bridge built of metal and wood. Motorcars rumble across me now, but I am strong enough to hold them. Though I do have to deal with the infernal roar of airplanes, I do not complain, for I am entirely grateful to that long-gone sheriff who gave me my life back.

Black Riders
by Arielle DeMarco

The first comers enter and seat themselves. Four women who look like they mean business. Next a mixed crowd of enthusiasts walks in. They glance at Ella, pump their fists in the air. Within ten minutes more high scorers arrive, and by the time the doors swing shut every chair sports a gung ho occupant.

Let the Battle Begin
by HL Carpenter

I walk back onto the Champs de Elysee and turn toward the Eiffel tower to meet my tour group by the carousel at the foot of the landmark along the Seine. As I eat my chocolate crepe waiting for the group to assemble, I stand underneath the coppertone structure and look straight up. The amazingly beautifully edifice appears almost lace-like yet stalwart.

A Day in Paris
by Ana J. Cortina

He was rough and angry, an ugly intrusion into our quiet lives. He rarely smiled or spoke, but when he did his voice was loud and coarse. He and Mama fought constantly, horrible screaming arguments. It frightened me and I would curl up in my bed, trying to make myself invisible.

The Bridge
by Maria Murad