"All The Deeper"

So I entered my story "Quartz Flask" into the "three minute fiction" contest and lost to "Reborn," by Ben Jahn. I will employ my expertise in comparative literature. If you are not familiar with the field, it is where you just make a table & line up the sentences of the two literatures to see which one is better.

Reborn, by Ben Jahn Quartz Flask, by Peter Schranz
At the Reborn Convention at the Creektown Holiday Inn, the women mill and mingle, fawn over mohair follicles, blue-blotched underpainting, voice-boxes uploaded with found sound. When she was looking, Lillet could see the pinnacle of Charleston Tower from the hill behind her house.
Distant crying. She wasn't looking that day, although it was sunny, and the long mirrors at the top cast breathtaking reflections that through a certain mastery didn't dazzle, even when reflecting a cloudless sky at noon
Summer afternoon nap meltdowns. On that day she dug in the dirt with her little brother Dode.
I'm the only man, and I sense their suspicion. She had tried to teach him at breakfast that she was twice his age, since he was three, but he didn't understand much of it.
I feel lost. Their father had dueled a man for the property, so terribly close to Charleston Tower of Pale Manse, which had become gray since it was named.
I eat a tasteless finger sandwich. He never told the children of the duel or the burial, but on that day Dode found a pretty little flask in the clay.
I touch a doll with the back of my hand. "What's this?" he asked Lillet, who could usually answer such questions.
A pamphlet explains: Real Baby Heater Systems. The flask was thick and pink and rectangular, and didn't look like it would break even if you threw it.
I've been doll shopping all day. A shiny brass stopper stood in its mouth.
Mom-pop small shops, to mid-range chains hanging on in the e-conomy, to toy depots built into stucco strips. As a matter of fact it was the quartz flask the Duke of Carolina had used to carve out his capital at Charleston, and to build Pale Manse, but Lillet had no idea about any of that.
The high florescence of toyland. The dirt packed under Dode's fingernails threatened to befoul the flask all the more, and the little girl snatched it out of his poor grubby hands.
The dolls' faces sealed behind cellophane. "This is a perfume bottle," Lillet instructed her brother.
The saleslady said these were the top sellers. "Do you know what perfume is?"
"None of these speaks to me," I said. "No," Dode responded, hoping Lillet would return the flask to him at once.
"Oh, we got dolls that coo and laugh." "It's a precious juice that girls wear to smell better than their brothers."
"Laughing's not speaking." "I want perfume," said Dode.
"We got dolls that cry. Their father approached anxiously; he was down by the house then, and Dode hoped to describe the situation well enough that their father would re-award him the jewel.
You might try the Reborns in Creektown. If it weren't for the quartz flask, which always seemed to have a little bit more liquid inside than you thought, the Duke would probably still be Henry Foote, North Charleston sculptor and divinity student.
You might find what you're looking for there." Just a dab under the chin of the smell in the flask, and those around him just had la pêche to help him in every way he asked.
At the hairing station, I watch a woman with craft-specific tools tweeze strands through micro-perforations in a scalp. It was how he won his bride.
A small digi-cam and halogen lamp beam down on her knuckles and project on a portable screen, before which others have gathered with notepads and clandestine camera-phones to bootleg instructions. After he had done all the damage he was to do, a brigand, who met Lillet's father one day, pinched the flask.
When she has a patch on the soft spot she palms the wispy fuzz to prove the sensory logic of it all. Lillet held it in the sun, which looked pink and cracked and pretty.
A plastic placard at her table reads REAL HUMAN. "It's mine," Dode pouted.
I ask what's the story of the hair there? But he asked for everything, his sister reminded him.
"That came off a three-year-old girl." "Remember when you asked father to remove you from school?
"Does that add to the value? And when you asked the policeman to make you a king?"
Right, how could it not?" "Lillet," he said as their father came finally, "I'm telling.
Did the girl know what she was doing? Lillet took my perfume."
Did she think she was shaving her head for the sick? "It's mine," she argued.
"I know what you're thinking." "It doesn't look like either of yours," their father said.
She waits several seconds and says, "the answer is yes and no." "Now come away from there this instant."
I wander in a trance watching the reborners create the semblance of infant life. Her father seized the flask before Lillet even tried to defend it.
Diorama style set-ups with mood lighting, bassinets, blankies, and mobiles. "Neither of you are acting like you're old enough for this," he glowered, waving it to cement his case.
Night-monitors for the baby noises. As he did, the stopper flew into the grass and the sweet and pungent odor spilled all over Dode.
Music boxes. "Please give it to me," the boy sobbed, dripping.
Strollers folded in the corner for endless calming walks. "Here you are."
A brawny mannequin in plaid and jeans (like me) with a reborn in a Bjorn. His father bent and paid him the pink flask.
"Are you in the market?" "There, there, Dode," Lillet cooed.
I want to say yes, make me one with an electric heart that never stops.
Make me one with a real GI tract, real stench.
I want to say yes, sell me a kit with six toes on the left foot, a harelip and a palsied hand.
I'd take that.
"Can I take —" I almost say "it" — "this little guy" (it's wearing a sky-blue onesie) "for a walk?
Just to see how it feels."
"This one's five hundred."
She lifts it off the mannequin and helps me into the straps.
"Just around here," I say.
"A test-drive.
You can have my car keys for collateral."
Outside, in the natural light, I can see his underpainted blue-blotched blood vessels, the most accurate glue-fleck cradle cap.
Away from all of the other dolls, he looks realer than ever, sleeping with those tight-shut eyes.
Passers by don't think twice.
Passengers on the train give knowing looks.
So sweet.
By the time I get to my stop, it's easy enough to imagine the heartbeat I'm feeling isn't my own.

To read stories published by people who actually know up from down, click on the following items:

Cecily Garden, published by Flashes In The Dark

Elizabeth, published by Deimos

I am a Doofus