Phil
by Tom Mahony - pacificoffering (at) sbcglobal.net
= = = = =
It looked like a body, floating in the kelp, under the blanket of Pacific fog. Jake couldn’t tell. Too far offshore, the morning light too weak.
He stood on the cliff, sipping coffee, contemplating. He’d stopped to check the waves, hoping for a surf. Hoping for some stoke before confronting another day of vagrancy. He had no job, no woman, and no prospects. Not even a home. With Phil—his roommate and best friend—vanished, Jake couldn’t pay the rent, already way past due. The landlord booted him yesterday. Everything he owned filled his truck.
The waves were small and blown. Jake didn’t feel like groveling in the mush. But this thing, the body or likeness thereof, haunted him. Phil. It might be Phil. He disappeared last week during a giant swell, surfed this very reef and never returned. His board washed up on the rocks, but no body. Could it be? Jake paced the cliff. Only one way to find out.
He slipped on his wetsuit, grabbed his board, scrambled down the sandstone, and hopped into the ocean. Frigid water stung his exposed limbs until they grew pleasantly numb. He stroked past crumbling waves into open water. Nearing the kelp, he felt, with deepening dread, the floater was Phil. Had to be. Just too coincidental, the mystery solved. Jake could not fathom his death.
Phil was a sketchy character of dubious scruples. But he set the bar, called the shots, made the plans. He devoured life, knew the answers. A dynamic enigma. Invincible. Phil scorned modern society. Jake did too, but lacked the balls to leave.
Since childhood, they dreamed of ditching the country, permanently, for a windswept Baja headland, surfing, fishing, taking local brides. Just talk, fantasy, but Jake never abandoned the dream. Nothing held him here, no job, no house, no family save a distant sister. Yet he remained, wasting into oblivion. Poverty stymied the adventure planning, sure, but inertia was the kicker. Phil needed to trigger the journey—a wink and nod over beers, supply list scrawled on a cocktail napkin, wheels in motion.
The past week, Jake doubted Phil’s demise, figured he just split town for reasons unknown. Had expected a postcard, replete with outlandish story, any day now. But the floating body changed things. Phil was gone. The dream was dead.
Jake’s heart thudded as he reached the kelp bed. He began to regret paddling out, didn’t want to see Phil’s corpse. Didn’t want to drag him to shore, up the cliff, and into his truck. He considered heading in and forgetting the body altogether. Keep pretending Phil was alive, somewhere, raising hell. Keep pretending the future held possibility.
He hesitated, groping for a valid reason to bail. But reality sunk in. Denial would change nothing. Just get it done. He paddled into the kelp. Apprehension grew with each stroke. Thirty feet to go. Twenty. Ten. He reached it.
Relief overtook him. He straddled his board and laughed out loud. Wasn’t Phil. Wasn’t a body at all, just a large black duffel bag, perhaps washed up in recent storms. He started toward shore, but curiosity stopped him.
He grabbed the bag, fumbled with the zipper, and looked inside. His jaw dropped. The duffel bulged with several handguns, and, sealed in freezer bags, cash. Lots of it. He rifled through the cash, shaking with excitement. Stacks and stacks of bills. Millions of dollars worth. Excitement turned to paranoia. Somebody must be looking for the duffel. Somebody with serious issues. And he held it, floating in a kelp bed. Time to head in.
As he zipped it shut, something caught his eye. A yellow drybag. Inside was a wallet, passport, map. He opened the passport and stared in disbelief. Phil stared back with his classic shit-eater.
What the hell?
Jake studied the map. Baja. Notations were scrawled beside a familiar headland deep down the peninsula. A remote fishing village of fine surf and friendly people. Since childhood, he’d frequented the place with Phil.
Truth hit Jake like a revelation. Phil hadn’t died surfing, only pretended to. The washed up surfboard was a nice touch. Upon reflection, he realized Phil’s prized possession—his guitar—went missing when he did. Jake felt a surge of anger, abandonment. Why would Phil split for Baja and leave him behind? And, more importantly, did he make it? The abandoned duffel was a bad sign. He’d been snared in something deep. But Phil defied expectation.
Jake sat frozen, wondering what to do. His life could change this instant, if he had the stones. He scratched his head and studied the fog. The kelp smelled like a whale’s ass. Or so he imagined. The decision came slow but certain.
He zipped the duffel, slid it on like a backpack, and paddled inside, catching a wave to shore. He unpeeled his wetsuit, dressed, and drove to an alley. After removing the money and drybag, he tossed the duffel into a dumpster.
Impending tasks cluttered his head as he drove off. He would stuff fifty grand through his sister’s mail slot. Another fifty to a local do-gooder group. Perhaps send anonymous roses to that top-heavy girl in the downstairs apartment who always smiled at him.
Then he would buy supplies. Food, water, surfboards, camping gear. The best he could find. All that would fit in his truck. He was headed south of the border, to find Phil, to surf and live in peace. And he was never coming back.
= = = = =
bio: Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University . His fiction has appeared in flashquake, VerbSap, Void Magazine, Laughter Loaf, Long Story Short, and Surfer Magazine. He is currently circulating a novel for publication.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
Fringe Magazine -- "The noun that verbs your world" -- seeks
submissions in all genres, particularly flash fiction. Political,
experimental, and cross-genre work welcome. Fringe turns one in 2007!
Now accepting submissions for our first anniversary theme issue,
Feminism, due out in February. See www.FringeMagazine.org for details.
submissions in all genres, particularly flash fiction. Political,
experimental, and cross-genre work welcome. Fringe turns one in 2007!
Now accepting submissions for our first anniversary theme issue,
Feminism, due out in February. See www.FringeMagazine.org for details.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
story: Just in Time
Just in Time
by Rod Drake - mrdrake (at) cox.net
= = = = =
“Time is not linear. It’s circular. Actually, it’s more like a loop, endlessly spinning.”
“So everything runs over and over again?”
“Right. That’s makes time travel possible, although you’re not really traveling through time. Imagine time like a carousel; you merely need to wait until the animal you want to ride comes around and then step aboard. The animal is a moment in time; the carousel is the time loop. If you miss it the first time, it doesn’t matter; it will be around again soon.”
“So, how did you get here from the future? If you’re from the future?”
“Now that would be telling. But you don’t need a time machine or any such elaborate science fiction device. Just an understanding of how time flows. And knowing where the holes in the flow are.”
“Holes?”
“Anomalies. Singularities. Essentially gauze-like areas that let time curve and retain its loop shape. Also to allow for branching time.”
“And branching time is?”
“Time that proceeds from an event, a decision. Each event has limitless outcomes; if you go to work, one timeline develops; if you don’t, a different timeline is created.”
“How do all of these multitudes of timelines fit together?”
“They don’t. The correct timeline becomes dominant, and the others spin off into pocket time universes. However, pocket time universes sometimes create real problems, aligning themselves with the dominant timeline and influencing it, sometimes changing it. But to answer your original question, I just slip through one of the holes in the “gauze” at the moment in time that I want to visit.”
“Why did you choose here? Or rather, now?”
“Good question. Normally I would say it’s better that you don’t know. By knowing, you might influence or change things. But this time I guess it won’t hurt anything.”
“Why not? Or can’t you tell me that either?”
“Because you won’t live long enough to affect anything.” Then the time traveler pulled out a cell phone-looking device, aimed it at his companion and clicked it. His companion disappeared like a television set being turned off.
The time traveler clicked a different button on the same device and held it up to his face. “The subject who created the branching timeline earlier today has been neutralized. The end of the world has been postponed. Time is running,” he smiled wryly to himself, “back on time again.”
= = = = =
bio: Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas. He is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Read Rod’s other stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding and AcmeShorts.
by Rod Drake - mrdrake (at) cox.net
= = = = =
“Time is not linear. It’s circular. Actually, it’s more like a loop, endlessly spinning.”
“So everything runs over and over again?”
“Right. That’s makes time travel possible, although you’re not really traveling through time. Imagine time like a carousel; you merely need to wait until the animal you want to ride comes around and then step aboard. The animal is a moment in time; the carousel is the time loop. If you miss it the first time, it doesn’t matter; it will be around again soon.”
“So, how did you get here from the future? If you’re from the future?”
“Now that would be telling. But you don’t need a time machine or any such elaborate science fiction device. Just an understanding of how time flows. And knowing where the holes in the flow are.”
“Holes?”
“Anomalies. Singularities. Essentially gauze-like areas that let time curve and retain its loop shape. Also to allow for branching time.”
“And branching time is?”
“Time that proceeds from an event, a decision. Each event has limitless outcomes; if you go to work, one timeline develops; if you don’t, a different timeline is created.”
“How do all of these multitudes of timelines fit together?”
“They don’t. The correct timeline becomes dominant, and the others spin off into pocket time universes. However, pocket time universes sometimes create real problems, aligning themselves with the dominant timeline and influencing it, sometimes changing it. But to answer your original question, I just slip through one of the holes in the “gauze” at the moment in time that I want to visit.”
“Why did you choose here? Or rather, now?”
“Good question. Normally I would say it’s better that you don’t know. By knowing, you might influence or change things. But this time I guess it won’t hurt anything.”
“Why not? Or can’t you tell me that either?”
“Because you won’t live long enough to affect anything.” Then the time traveler pulled out a cell phone-looking device, aimed it at his companion and clicked it. His companion disappeared like a television set being turned off.
The time traveler clicked a different button on the same device and held it up to his face. “The subject who created the branching timeline earlier today has been neutralized. The end of the world has been postponed. Time is running,” he smiled wryly to himself, “back on time again.”
= = = = =
bio: Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas. He is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Read Rod’s other stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding and AcmeShorts.
story: Postmodern Love
Postmodern Love
by Guy Hogan - www.flashfictionnow.blogspot.com
= = = = =
Frank Conti drove, enjoying how the car handled on the long stretches of nearly empty Pennsylvania highway. It was an old, used car but from a good dealer and it gave him no problems. Another person's old car can be big problems, but he'd been lucky and had been driving nearly half an hour before realizing Vivian Thompson hadn't said a word. He looked over at her. She sat looking away, out at an endless empty field with hills behind it and then blue-gray mountains far beyond the hills. The field was completely empty. No animals. No crops. No grass. Just dry dirt. Frank patted Vivian's thigh. She turned her face to him and smiled. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to talk all the way back into Pittsburgh. They'd been visiting Frank's best friends. The friends were young with a new baby, giddily happy in their marriage. Viv was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Frank drove through the light traffic in the city and parked in front of her apartment building. As they sat in the car the sun was setting. Viv was fifteen years older than Frank.
"Frank, do you mind if we call it a day?"
"Did I say or do something wrong?"
"I just want to do a few things around the apartment."
"Can't you do them with me there?"
"I need some time to myself"
"I was hoping to spend the night."
"Frank."
"All right," he said. "May I use the bathroom?"
She sat holding her shoulder bag in her lap with both hands.
Inside, after turning on the air conditioning, she sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. He stood near the couch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he should have worn slacks. No, she was dressed casual, too. She put her feet up on the low table. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Frank sat beside her.
"Viv, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"It's so hot. I've never known it to be this hot."
He watched her. He looked at her hair. He looked at her face. He looked at her arms, legs, ankles and feet. He leaned down and kissed the place where the pulse beat in her throat.
"Oh, stop it!"
She got up, went to the door and unlocked it. She stood holding open the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want you to go."
"What's wrong?"
"Just go."
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"Frank."
"Talk to me."
"Frank, please."
"All right," he said. "All right then."
"Frank?"
"Yeah."
"I liked your friends."
"We grew up together. We were kids together."
"When will I see you again?"
"I don't know."
"Call me?"
"We'll see."
Several days later Frank took Viv out to dinner. Afterward, they walked holding hands like the young couples out that night in a nice residential neighborhood near the campus of CMU. A warm breeze blew. The full moon hung in the star speckled black sky. Families sat out on their front porches.
Frank said, "Let's get a place together."
"We've been all through this."
"It doesn't make sense renting two places."
"I like my privacy."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
"Just what it says."
They walked through a pool of light from a streetlamp. Just ahead, a young couple got out of a car parked at the curb, locked it and went into a nearby home. Frank and Viv walked past a church.
Frank said, "You lived with Ted."
"Ted was my husband and God knows I need another husband like I need a hole in the head."
The homes in this neighborhood sat behind neat lawns. The air was full of the smell of freshly mowed grass.
Viv said, "What brought this on?"
"I went down to the river today. I just sat and thought about things down by the river."
"What things?"
"Things in general."
"But what things?"
"You know," he said. "Just things."
"Well, let's leave things the way they are."
Still holding hands, they strolled on.
She said, "You want out?"
"No," he said.
"Are you positive?"
"I'm sure," he said.
"You let me know."
"I'll let you know," he said.
"Don't cheat on me," she said.
He said, "I'll let you know."
Just then the streetlamp ahead of them blinked out.
= = = = =
bio: Previous publications are Pittsburgh Quarterly, Chick Flicks, Word Riot and the book Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories (self-published at www.iUniverse.com).
by Guy Hogan - www.flashfictionnow.blogspot.com
= = = = =
Frank Conti drove, enjoying how the car handled on the long stretches of nearly empty Pennsylvania highway. It was an old, used car but from a good dealer and it gave him no problems. Another person's old car can be big problems, but he'd been lucky and had been driving nearly half an hour before realizing Vivian Thompson hadn't said a word. He looked over at her. She sat looking away, out at an endless empty field with hills behind it and then blue-gray mountains far beyond the hills. The field was completely empty. No animals. No crops. No grass. Just dry dirt. Frank patted Vivian's thigh. She turned her face to him and smiled. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to talk all the way back into Pittsburgh. They'd been visiting Frank's best friends. The friends were young with a new baby, giddily happy in their marriage. Viv was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Frank drove through the light traffic in the city and parked in front of her apartment building. As they sat in the car the sun was setting. Viv was fifteen years older than Frank.
"Frank, do you mind if we call it a day?"
"Did I say or do something wrong?"
"I just want to do a few things around the apartment."
"Can't you do them with me there?"
"I need some time to myself"
"I was hoping to spend the night."
"Frank."
"All right," he said. "May I use the bathroom?"
She sat holding her shoulder bag in her lap with both hands.
Inside, after turning on the air conditioning, she sat on the couch and pulled off her sandals. He stood near the couch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he should have worn slacks. No, she was dressed casual, too. She put her feet up on the low table. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Frank sat beside her.
"Viv, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"It's so hot. I've never known it to be this hot."
He watched her. He looked at her hair. He looked at her face. He looked at her arms, legs, ankles and feet. He leaned down and kissed the place where the pulse beat in her throat.
"Oh, stop it!"
She got up, went to the door and unlocked it. She stood holding open the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want you to go."
"What's wrong?"
"Just go."
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"Frank."
"Talk to me."
"Frank, please."
"All right," he said. "All right then."
"Frank?"
"Yeah."
"I liked your friends."
"We grew up together. We were kids together."
"When will I see you again?"
"I don't know."
"Call me?"
"We'll see."
Several days later Frank took Viv out to dinner. Afterward, they walked holding hands like the young couples out that night in a nice residential neighborhood near the campus of CMU. A warm breeze blew. The full moon hung in the star speckled black sky. Families sat out on their front porches.
Frank said, "Let's get a place together."
"We've been all through this."
"It doesn't make sense renting two places."
"I like my privacy."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
"Just what it says."
They walked through a pool of light from a streetlamp. Just ahead, a young couple got out of a car parked at the curb, locked it and went into a nearby home. Frank and Viv walked past a church.
Frank said, "You lived with Ted."
"Ted was my husband and God knows I need another husband like I need a hole in the head."
The homes in this neighborhood sat behind neat lawns. The air was full of the smell of freshly mowed grass.
Viv said, "What brought this on?"
"I went down to the river today. I just sat and thought about things down by the river."
"What things?"
"Things in general."
"But what things?"
"You know," he said. "Just things."
"Well, let's leave things the way they are."
Still holding hands, they strolled on.
She said, "You want out?"
"No," he said.
"Are you positive?"
"I'm sure," he said.
"You let me know."
"I'll let you know," he said.
"Don't cheat on me," she said.
He said, "I'll let you know."
Just then the streetlamp ahead of them blinked out.
= = = = =
bio: Previous publications are Pittsburgh Quarterly, Chick Flicks, Word Riot and the book Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories (self-published at www.iUniverse.com).
Monday, October 02, 2006
story: White Moth
White Moth
by Christian Smith - christianmyth69 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
A white moth, huge, wings stained with eyes and lines, rests in the corner where the windshield meets the roof. How the hell did it get in the car? For that matter, how the hell did the car come to stand on end like this? I lie back in the comfortable seat, looking straight up at the black sky, pondering these questions. So sleepy. Christ. I oughtta pull over. Close my eyes for a few minutes. Float backwards for a while.
I snap awake. The moth. It's a big fucker. Never seen one so big. At least a foot across from one wing tip to the other. Big as a bird. How did it get in the car? It's like a dream where you don't remember the thing that just happened, but you do recall the thing which happened just before. We’d been to a party, Ginny and me. So lit up we’d actually danced. It was nice. We haven't danced in years. Her smile whispered promises of the tastes we would share at home. On the long drive home, though, she crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. So forget about that. Still, it was nice to dance.
I feel sick. I'm not used to this much drink. It’s not my fault, though. They just kept pressing them into my hand. I turn my head and vomit blood and glass into the water.
The moth moves; an agitated flutter. Its wings hum. I wonder if Ginny sees it, if she's awake. The rear-view mirror shows her face. She is pale and white in the bright glare of the dome light. Her eyes are open. Ginny smiles at me through the shimmery curtain which has been drawn between the front seat and the back. Her hair floats about her head, buoyant upon a gentle wind. Seems strange that I see her so clearly. Strange that she looks so white.
She blows me a kiss and a bubble rolls from her lips. Water tickles the back of my ears. The moth flaps its wings, stirring the air before my face. It floats in space turned topsy-turvy.
Moths seek lights and flames because they navigate by the moon. The big moth eclipses the dome light. The car is darkened. The moth disappears but the darkness remains. I can't see Ginny anymore. The water in my eyelids is too cold to be tears.
I'm angry for a moment, and seek someone to blame, but this also soon dies. An old song plays on the radio, or maybe it's Ginny singing in the back seat. It is the song we had danced to, or maybe it's not. I can't remember. I try to laugh, but something blocks my throat.
The car dives backwards into the darkness of the lake. I open my mouth and a glorious moth flies from my lips, seeking the moon.
= = = = =
Bio: Christian Smith is a stay-at-home Dad who blogs at http://christian-lunatic.blogspot.com/ Come up and see him sometime.
by Christian Smith - christianmyth69 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
A white moth, huge, wings stained with eyes and lines, rests in the corner where the windshield meets the roof. How the hell did it get in the car? For that matter, how the hell did the car come to stand on end like this? I lie back in the comfortable seat, looking straight up at the black sky, pondering these questions. So sleepy. Christ. I oughtta pull over. Close my eyes for a few minutes. Float backwards for a while.
I snap awake. The moth. It's a big fucker. Never seen one so big. At least a foot across from one wing tip to the other. Big as a bird. How did it get in the car? It's like a dream where you don't remember the thing that just happened, but you do recall the thing which happened just before. We’d been to a party, Ginny and me. So lit up we’d actually danced. It was nice. We haven't danced in years. Her smile whispered promises of the tastes we would share at home. On the long drive home, though, she crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. So forget about that. Still, it was nice to dance.
I feel sick. I'm not used to this much drink. It’s not my fault, though. They just kept pressing them into my hand. I turn my head and vomit blood and glass into the water.
The moth moves; an agitated flutter. Its wings hum. I wonder if Ginny sees it, if she's awake. The rear-view mirror shows her face. She is pale and white in the bright glare of the dome light. Her eyes are open. Ginny smiles at me through the shimmery curtain which has been drawn between the front seat and the back. Her hair floats about her head, buoyant upon a gentle wind. Seems strange that I see her so clearly. Strange that she looks so white.
She blows me a kiss and a bubble rolls from her lips. Water tickles the back of my ears. The moth flaps its wings, stirring the air before my face. It floats in space turned topsy-turvy.
Moths seek lights and flames because they navigate by the moon. The big moth eclipses the dome light. The car is darkened. The moth disappears but the darkness remains. I can't see Ginny anymore. The water in my eyelids is too cold to be tears.
I'm angry for a moment, and seek someone to blame, but this also soon dies. An old song plays on the radio, or maybe it's Ginny singing in the back seat. It is the song we had danced to, or maybe it's not. I can't remember. I try to laugh, but something blocks my throat.
The car dives backwards into the darkness of the lake. I open my mouth and a glorious moth flies from my lips, seeking the moon.
= = = = =
Bio: Christian Smith is a stay-at-home Dad who blogs at http://christian-lunatic.blogspot.com/ Come up and see him sometime.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
story: Pink Flamingos
Pink Flamingos
by the name is dalton
= = = = = =
I wanted to see the window one more time. The lock on the front door hung loose, anybody who wanted to come in and see my collection of things could and at anytime. This never alarmed me that much. The few things I did want to see were not in my home but out on the lawn, which I could see from the window.
= = = = = =
bio: The Name Is Dalton is a punk rock bass player with too many beers in his fridge and too many Bukowski books on his shelves. His work has appeared in Culture Freak, Flash Flooding and Long Live The King.
by the name is dalton
= = = = = =
I wanted to see the window one more time. The lock on the front door hung loose, anybody who wanted to come in and see my collection of things could and at anytime. This never alarmed me that much. The few things I did want to see were not in my home but out on the lawn, which I could see from the window.
= = = = = =
bio: The Name Is Dalton is a punk rock bass player with too many beers in his fridge and too many Bukowski books on his shelves. His work has appeared in Culture Freak, Flash Flooding and Long Live The King.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
story: The Goat on the Mountain
The Goat on the Mountain
By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk
My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.
The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.
I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?
Or a?
He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.
Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.
She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.
So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?
He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.
He says:
Same again?
= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.
By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk
My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.
The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.
I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?
Or a?
He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.
Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.
She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.
So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?
He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.
He says:
Same again?
= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
story: Office Hours
Office Hours
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
Firefly Fiction
A forum based, free flash fiction workshop/ writer's community. Members supply each other with prompt, using them to write flash fiction stories that can then be submitted for critiquing/ reviewing. Also included are forums for asking grammatical type questions, for keeping up on who's recieved rejection/acceptance letters for flash pieces, and for general chit-chatting about whatever.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
story: Innè
Innè
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
Thursday, August 03, 2006
story: Marty Seeks Sympathy
Marty Seeks Sympathy
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
Monday, July 31, 2006
story: Company Policy
Company Policy
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki
= = = = =
Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?
= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki
= = = = =
Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?
= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.
Friday, July 28, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
Move over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
Monday, July 10, 2006
story: Mission
Mission
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
Friday, July 07, 2006
story: Tuesday
Tuesday
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
Monday, July 03, 2006
submit: MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares
This just in from the Flash Forward mail bag:
MicroHorror.com is a free online archive for short-short horror
fiction, and we're accepting submissions! You'll find no stories
longer than 666 words. Come and browse!
MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares.
http://www.microhorror.com
Nathan Rosen, editor
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
story: Anna's Crumbs
Anna's Crumbs
By Kim Nowlin - Kimnowlin@Hotmail.com
Anna was made from scratch. She was never finished, and was constantly being remade, over and over again. It took her twenty-eight years to discover that she had been created incorrectly, that something in her was off. Anna was like a yellow, fluffy birthday cake with crumbs that had fallen off and holes dipped in where fingers had probed, slopped over with a decorative coating of rich and creamy vanilla frosting. Occasionally, when her lumps became visible, Anna would find some edible flowers and confetti to slap over her mistakes, to keep her looking like the symbol of delight that she desperately tried to resemble.
It had begun to seem unfair to Anna, that with all the expensive frosting and her time spent self-decorating, that she did not turn out just as she wished she should. She had spent years adding to herself, trying to make herself more interesting, sturdy, self-reliant and attractive. But as she reached her peak, where she found that she could not add much more to her collection, Anna found supreme disappointment in the realization that she never truly wanted a collection to begin with. "Why," she would ask herself, "do I have to become someone for everyone else?"
Anna had grown up in the suburbs, in a slightly non-descript tract home, with suburban values and non-descript friends. The first of her many best friends was, however, different. She was named, Jennifer German. It had seemed silly to Anna, that Jennifer's parents hadn't changed their last name, since they were in fact German. It was just all too funny to Anna's seven-year-old self. Jennifer was innocent and giggly and Anna became that too. The would spend their after-school hours designing Barbie's hair and arranging puffy stickers in their sticker books.
The Germans celebrated Advent, which to Anna meant, opening little doors of a cardboard, Christmas scene, finding chocolates to split for 24 days. The family was so different from Anna's. They were quiet and proper and stacked their records in the living room. On special occasions, Jennifer's Grandmother would baby-sit. To Jennifer and Anna, this meant there were at least two hours of uninterrupted goofing off with no penalties. Grandma German only spoke German, and therefore did not speak too much. This came in handy every time she played guardian, but once. The time that Anna had watched Jennifer's instructions on how to flip over the top of a bunk bed, Anna did not realize that you must hold on to the frame, not just the blankets and fell nose-flat on the hardwood floor below. The comforting words of Es ist okay liebes, simply did nothing to warm Anna's heart or cure her bleeding nose.
Long after the innocent years of her friendship with Jennifer, Anna searched her way through friend after friend, looking for the balance of peace and genuine happiness that she knew with her first grade companion. With each year, friends and acquaintances, just as Anna did, became complicated and diluted. Female friendships were so much harder than romantic relationships. When she got to know her boyfriends well enough, she could let them know when they did things that bothered her and she could try her best to change the unappealing sides of them. Getting that involved with a girl would require so much delicate egg walking that Anna never let her friendships get that far.
Each year she would find the best friend for those two semesters and perhaps a summer that would best match Anna's current likes, hobbies and humor. She spent her college years with friends who enjoyed discussing similar theories and watching the same movies, shopping the same stores, but never anyone memorable.
Spending the middle and second half of her twenties creating the image she had intended to, Anna became well versed in the art of "smoke and mirrors." With a job that everyone would compliment, as Art Director for a major advertising agency, she found true misery in Monday through Friday hours, but slight delight in the compliments from new acquaintances. She had become a master of knitting, scrapbooking, yoga, French and pastry baking. It was a Friday afternoon, two weeks before Anna's birthday and one week before her boyfriend of six months planned to propose that Anna would quit her job with ten minutes notice, go home to throw away her knitting needles and let herself die in her garage.
Something lovely inside of Anna had snapped the hot August afternoon, and it was then that she decided there would never be enough time left in her life to be beautiful. There were always too many new things to learn and become good at. Too many people to show her presentational charm off to and not enough to see straight through it, into the hole that was widening within her. The more she collected, the more Anna became crowded. Her thoughts and passions were drowned in self-inflicted responsibilities and attempts at completing the self-portrait that she thought should have been done by now. After she pulled into her two-car garage and closed the door, Anna's cake stood no longer. There would be no more bland kisses with her lover, no more Range Rover to continue leasing, no endless reading of Women's magazines. Her chunks of vanilla patchwork were melting away, leaving a mound of moldy cake to quiver into sleep. As she began to nod off in her toasty, pungent garage, Anna felt satisfaction in the one deed she had done solely to impress herself and no one else. She longed for Jennifer to sit in the passenger seat and sweetly sleep along side of her. As she gently prepared herself to die, Anna whispered, "Es ist okay liebes."
= = = = =
Bio: Previous publishing history: Nov/Dec issue of Farmhousemagazine.com Essay: "Character"
By Kim Nowlin - Kimnowlin@Hotmail.com
Anna was made from scratch. She was never finished, and was constantly being remade, over and over again. It took her twenty-eight years to discover that she had been created incorrectly, that something in her was off. Anna was like a yellow, fluffy birthday cake with crumbs that had fallen off and holes dipped in where fingers had probed, slopped over with a decorative coating of rich and creamy vanilla frosting. Occasionally, when her lumps became visible, Anna would find some edible flowers and confetti to slap over her mistakes, to keep her looking like the symbol of delight that she desperately tried to resemble.
It had begun to seem unfair to Anna, that with all the expensive frosting and her time spent self-decorating, that she did not turn out just as she wished she should. She had spent years adding to herself, trying to make herself more interesting, sturdy, self-reliant and attractive. But as she reached her peak, where she found that she could not add much more to her collection, Anna found supreme disappointment in the realization that she never truly wanted a collection to begin with. "Why," she would ask herself, "do I have to become someone for everyone else?"
Anna had grown up in the suburbs, in a slightly non-descript tract home, with suburban values and non-descript friends. The first of her many best friends was, however, different. She was named, Jennifer German. It had seemed silly to Anna, that Jennifer's parents hadn't changed their last name, since they were in fact German. It was just all too funny to Anna's seven-year-old self. Jennifer was innocent and giggly and Anna became that too. The would spend their after-school hours designing Barbie's hair and arranging puffy stickers in their sticker books.
The Germans celebrated Advent, which to Anna meant, opening little doors of a cardboard, Christmas scene, finding chocolates to split for 24 days. The family was so different from Anna's. They were quiet and proper and stacked their records in the living room. On special occasions, Jennifer's Grandmother would baby-sit. To Jennifer and Anna, this meant there were at least two hours of uninterrupted goofing off with no penalties. Grandma German only spoke German, and therefore did not speak too much. This came in handy every time she played guardian, but once. The time that Anna had watched Jennifer's instructions on how to flip over the top of a bunk bed, Anna did not realize that you must hold on to the frame, not just the blankets and fell nose-flat on the hardwood floor below. The comforting words of Es ist okay liebes, simply did nothing to warm Anna's heart or cure her bleeding nose.
Long after the innocent years of her friendship with Jennifer, Anna searched her way through friend after friend, looking for the balance of peace and genuine happiness that she knew with her first grade companion. With each year, friends and acquaintances, just as Anna did, became complicated and diluted. Female friendships were so much harder than romantic relationships. When she got to know her boyfriends well enough, she could let them know when they did things that bothered her and she could try her best to change the unappealing sides of them. Getting that involved with a girl would require so much delicate egg walking that Anna never let her friendships get that far.
Each year she would find the best friend for those two semesters and perhaps a summer that would best match Anna's current likes, hobbies and humor. She spent her college years with friends who enjoyed discussing similar theories and watching the same movies, shopping the same stores, but never anyone memorable.
Spending the middle and second half of her twenties creating the image she had intended to, Anna became well versed in the art of "smoke and mirrors." With a job that everyone would compliment, as Art Director for a major advertising agency, she found true misery in Monday through Friday hours, but slight delight in the compliments from new acquaintances. She had become a master of knitting, scrapbooking, yoga, French and pastry baking. It was a Friday afternoon, two weeks before Anna's birthday and one week before her boyfriend of six months planned to propose that Anna would quit her job with ten minutes notice, go home to throw away her knitting needles and let herself die in her garage.
Something lovely inside of Anna had snapped the hot August afternoon, and it was then that she decided there would never be enough time left in her life to be beautiful. There were always too many new things to learn and become good at. Too many people to show her presentational charm off to and not enough to see straight through it, into the hole that was widening within her. The more she collected, the more Anna became crowded. Her thoughts and passions were drowned in self-inflicted responsibilities and attempts at completing the self-portrait that she thought should have been done by now. After she pulled into her two-car garage and closed the door, Anna's cake stood no longer. There would be no more bland kisses with her lover, no more Range Rover to continue leasing, no endless reading of Women's magazines. Her chunks of vanilla patchwork were melting away, leaving a mound of moldy cake to quiver into sleep. As she began to nod off in her toasty, pungent garage, Anna felt satisfaction in the one deed she had done solely to impress herself and no one else. She longed for Jennifer to sit in the passenger seat and sweetly sleep along side of her. As she gently prepared herself to die, Anna whispered, "Es ist okay liebes."
= = = = =
Bio: Previous publishing history: Nov/Dec issue of Farmhousemagazine.com Essay: "Character"
Friday, June 16, 2006
story: State
State
By Cynthia Burke - cynburke@gmail.com
Upon entering the clinic he led me directly into his office past the poor woman waiting in the sad, satin coat. He looked intensely at me as if I were to utter a deep secret. I announced myself and he was perplexed – we were double booked. As he explained the situation to the other woman, I volunteered that it must certainly be my luck that created such confusion. He took my appointment and sent her away.
His square jaw and gaunt face seemed sad and familiar. Truly, in this life, such attractions are rare if at all real. I flashed forward to languid Sundays as we read the paper and shared coffee. Long defunct evolutionary chemistry, what would drive someone instantly to such madness?
We settled into our session. "Tell me about your character," he began. His eyes clear and blue like the sky that September. A blue that disarms; that makes you believe no damage could possibly be done. No pain, no destruction could come, not in that blue.
My character is myself? I wondered of whom I should speak. The person who worked in a government building or made the evening meal? Should I describe the newly-wed who just moved into the home where she planed to grow old; the hopeful, one day, mother-to-be?
The notion of classical homeopathy is discovering root causes – like cures like, he explained. So what of my roots? How far must he dig to find them and would they be healthy or twisted with rot? The mere idea that someone might see such depths ignited a slow longing.
The interrogation continued as the cool, evening air crept through the window. I grew exhausted as my words were never clear enough for him. "That's not an emotion," he barked. "No, go deeper," he demanded. We discussed my tendency to lie; my desire to feel intelligent. The shock in me when others felt I was less or insignificant, my need to control all. Too many hours, I had to leave. "I'm in control now," he beckoned.
As he studied the notes from our session and contemplated the alchemy he might employ, mutual glances were stolen. Suddenly his decision was made: "opium." This substance would potentially bring about a state of deep healing. I was speechless. Should a struggling addict take opium? But there was trust in the blue.
The homeopathic opium dissolved under my tongue. Upon waking I rolled over, pushed my legs about the bed, and explored the cool pockets inside the sheets. I spoke his name and smiled. There are an endless number of doors leading inside the human heart. So many paths, and we often choose one and blindly follow, ignoring the alternate routes and twisting roads. How do you bend fate to forge a new path in another's heart? As the day began a quest was started and he became my constant mental companion. How complicated it was: he there, I here with a husband and lovely life.
When the world was sleeping and the sky was filled with the dawn's blue haze I rose to spend time with my love. Inside I was me again, wholly myself, loved and free. Like water following gravity my thoughts returned always to him. To his face, his body, his warmth, but anxiety slowly overcame everything. Weary from the indulgence I wrote a bold message and confessed everything. My attraction to him was too strong to continue treatment and I exhaled for the first time in days, years.
A message flashed in my mailbox. It is okay to be attracted to him, he said. It is okay if he is attracted to me, he said. The problem lies in the fixation. The fixation. His face. The fixation. His name. He gave me "permission" to feel this way – it must be part of what needs healing, he said. He said.
Plumbing the depths of this mystery his eloquence, determination and compassion were beyond seductive. My form shriveled and daily life ceased. The quest consumed me. No longer were there evening meals or stories of my day exchanged with others. There became only fragments of the person left in the body my once husband knew – shards tangible enough to cut through and remind him of what was.
Each question the doctor asked about my love drew blood from my veins. The pain; I pulled further and further away from myself until I was no longer in my body. My hunger for him was insatiable, ravenous. And anger welled that made the most violent act seem kind. The fixation. But the quest, yes, healing, yes, fulfillment; I pleaded for clemency, begged like a pauper for his touch.
"Though I may have desires," he confessed in a late night message that brought me to my knees, "I cannot lose perspective."
"The proper substance" he insisted. "This would bring inner peace which is a prelude to intimacy."
Intimate, have we not been? I was his and it was never dissuaded, never judged. Fantasy and reality had merged into a purgatory where I was trapped. Just beneath the concrete wall I could feel his presence. If this was as close as I could be – all the strings in me snapped – it was here I would stay. And remain in the state of my new freedom.
He grew exasperated of my insolence and finally sent me away; there were sadder, satin coats waiting. Beyond hope, I suppose, beyond healing. "Close this chapter;" he must have felt charitable that day or the strength of my delusions slammed into him with cataclysmic revelation. Or was it that he too felt trapped? The concrete wall will never be destroyed or reveal such secrets. They are only ours to guess and wonder.
= = = = =
Bio: Cynthia Burke is a historian by training and computer geek by living.
By Cynthia Burke - cynburke@gmail.com
Upon entering the clinic he led me directly into his office past the poor woman waiting in the sad, satin coat. He looked intensely at me as if I were to utter a deep secret. I announced myself and he was perplexed – we were double booked. As he explained the situation to the other woman, I volunteered that it must certainly be my luck that created such confusion. He took my appointment and sent her away.
His square jaw and gaunt face seemed sad and familiar. Truly, in this life, such attractions are rare if at all real. I flashed forward to languid Sundays as we read the paper and shared coffee. Long defunct evolutionary chemistry, what would drive someone instantly to such madness?
We settled into our session. "Tell me about your character," he began. His eyes clear and blue like the sky that September. A blue that disarms; that makes you believe no damage could possibly be done. No pain, no destruction could come, not in that blue.
My character is myself? I wondered of whom I should speak. The person who worked in a government building or made the evening meal? Should I describe the newly-wed who just moved into the home where she planed to grow old; the hopeful, one day, mother-to-be?
The notion of classical homeopathy is discovering root causes – like cures like, he explained. So what of my roots? How far must he dig to find them and would they be healthy or twisted with rot? The mere idea that someone might see such depths ignited a slow longing.
The interrogation continued as the cool, evening air crept through the window. I grew exhausted as my words were never clear enough for him. "That's not an emotion," he barked. "No, go deeper," he demanded. We discussed my tendency to lie; my desire to feel intelligent. The shock in me when others felt I was less or insignificant, my need to control all. Too many hours, I had to leave. "I'm in control now," he beckoned.
As he studied the notes from our session and contemplated the alchemy he might employ, mutual glances were stolen. Suddenly his decision was made: "opium." This substance would potentially bring about a state of deep healing. I was speechless. Should a struggling addict take opium? But there was trust in the blue.
The homeopathic opium dissolved under my tongue. Upon waking I rolled over, pushed my legs about the bed, and explored the cool pockets inside the sheets. I spoke his name and smiled. There are an endless number of doors leading inside the human heart. So many paths, and we often choose one and blindly follow, ignoring the alternate routes and twisting roads. How do you bend fate to forge a new path in another's heart? As the day began a quest was started and he became my constant mental companion. How complicated it was: he there, I here with a husband and lovely life.
When the world was sleeping and the sky was filled with the dawn's blue haze I rose to spend time with my love. Inside I was me again, wholly myself, loved and free. Like water following gravity my thoughts returned always to him. To his face, his body, his warmth, but anxiety slowly overcame everything. Weary from the indulgence I wrote a bold message and confessed everything. My attraction to him was too strong to continue treatment and I exhaled for the first time in days, years.
A message flashed in my mailbox. It is okay to be attracted to him, he said. It is okay if he is attracted to me, he said. The problem lies in the fixation. The fixation. His face. The fixation. His name. He gave me "permission" to feel this way – it must be part of what needs healing, he said. He said.
Plumbing the depths of this mystery his eloquence, determination and compassion were beyond seductive. My form shriveled and daily life ceased. The quest consumed me. No longer were there evening meals or stories of my day exchanged with others. There became only fragments of the person left in the body my once husband knew – shards tangible enough to cut through and remind him of what was.
Each question the doctor asked about my love drew blood from my veins. The pain; I pulled further and further away from myself until I was no longer in my body. My hunger for him was insatiable, ravenous. And anger welled that made the most violent act seem kind. The fixation. But the quest, yes, healing, yes, fulfillment; I pleaded for clemency, begged like a pauper for his touch.
"Though I may have desires," he confessed in a late night message that brought me to my knees, "I cannot lose perspective."
"The proper substance" he insisted. "This would bring inner peace which is a prelude to intimacy."
Intimate, have we not been? I was his and it was never dissuaded, never judged. Fantasy and reality had merged into a purgatory where I was trapped. Just beneath the concrete wall I could feel his presence. If this was as close as I could be – all the strings in me snapped – it was here I would stay. And remain in the state of my new freedom.
He grew exasperated of my insolence and finally sent me away; there were sadder, satin coats waiting. Beyond hope, I suppose, beyond healing. "Close this chapter;" he must have felt charitable that day or the strength of my delusions slammed into him with cataclysmic revelation. Or was it that he too felt trapped? The concrete wall will never be destroyed or reveal such secrets. They are only ours to guess and wonder.
= = = = =
Bio: Cynthia Burke is a historian by training and computer geek by living.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
submit: Fringe
Move Over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line. Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com, and feel free to check out our general guidlines here - http://fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm .
Friday, April 07, 2006
news: New online community for flash fiction horror
Chad Helder says:
You're quite welcome!
Dear Flash Forward:
I just started a new online community for flash fiction horror. The site contains a forum where horror writers can post their flash fiction, and others can respons. The best submissions will be compiled into an anthology. This site defines the flash fiction story as 500 words.
Here is the address:
http://unspeakablehorror.com
Also, I have embarked upon a quest to write 300 horror movies in the form of flash fiction stories. Here is my flash fiction blog:
http://chadhelder.com/horrormarchen.html
Thank you, Flash Forward!
Sincerely,
Chad Helder
You're quite welcome!
Thursday, March 30, 2006
news: Ediciones Efímeras
I got this email:
I'm Santiago Eximeno, from Spain. I write flash fiction in spanish in several magazines and two blogs, but recently Ediciones Efímeras (http://www.edicionesefimeras.com), a spanish online editorial, has published a flash fiction horror anthology (in english) in PDF (free to download) called Ephemerals (http://69.57.128.94/~admin13/efimero/ephemerals.html) that includes several short-short stories written by me and illustrated by Pedro Belushi, translated to english by Joaquín Revuelta. I hope you enjoy these stories.
Friday, March 17, 2006
story: The Comfort of Snow
The Comfort of Snow
by D. A. Ward - daward74@comcast.net
At the end of all things, Daniel was little more than a toiler. Other men dreamt of great things and saw them come to fruition. Inventors, writers, artists, scientists, builders; especially builders. Off the backs of men like himself were their visions realized, for Daniels only skill was that of laying brick. Not the dreamer of cities, not the architect. He lacked the divine spark of inspiration for such things. He rolled down the Plymouths window and felt the deep chill of winter seep in as he lit a cigarette. The gray blanket of sky, its damp smell betraying the oncoming snow, rolled lazily above the horizon of the city, so close but never touching the tops of the tall buildings that lined the floodwall on the other side of the violently flowing river. Looking again about him, he thought of the abandoned and run-down buildings that were once part of the great southern city. It would seem that south of the James River downtown was a terrible place to be, having not yet been touched by the downtown renaissance that was taking place where the tall buildings grew and middle-aged hipsters dwelt in lavish apartments that had once housed tobacco and Union prisoners. Just south of the river, it was decay. He felt sadness, for other toilers like himself, who laid the foundations and walls of these buildings so long ago. Grand old buildings built of fine red brick that were now relegated to memory, inhabited only by the ghosts of human beings. Squatters and addicts whose lives had perhaps meant something more at one time, but who now came to call this blighted stretch of civilization their home or perhaps buzzardly wandered its streets in search of what carrion could be found. Trash blew across the street, tumbling like weeds gathered in the desert of human neglect. He snickered. How appropriate it was that he should seek knowledge and guidance in such a place as this. Surely, it was the notion only a madman would have offered, but then his friend the priest was no madman. It was he who had directed Daniel to this place, to a point of light amidst a vast darkness. An old used bookshop called Serapeum Books, a home for words of the strange and antique. Something there, perhaps, to help quell the thirst within him demanding to know more of her loss. Something that neither priest nor policeman had been able to offer.
It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that his beloved had disappeared. A blinding snow storm and her faithful canine companion with a shorn leash waiting alone in the gathering snow were all the memories he had of that night. He had suffered a year of postulation from the authorities and friends alike. Many explanations had he heard, and none had satisfied him. A violent crime? Probably. A sudden urge to flee from their impending nuptials? Perhaps. After all, he was often capable of being the lousiest of drunks. Nothing had sat right with him, nothing had added up. Last week, odd dreams and memories more powerful than usual had led him to that great hole in the earth near their apartment, and it was there that he had felt the most truthful thing since her disappearance. He remembered the sense of dread, palpable and pounding in his chest as he stood there paralyzed. A drumsong of fear and human suffering seemed to pour out of the black depths and resound in his soul alone, for none other could hear it. Daniel didn't know how or why, but he knew then that the answers to his loss lay in that hollow tunnel beneath the earth, and if he could find some explanation then he might have some hope of reconciling the days of emptiness he had endured. If the answer be there, then by God he would find it, even if it meant facing down his own demons or whatever dark thing lay hungry in the hillside.
Daniel rolled up the window of the Plymouth and swung its heavy door open wide. Stepping out onto the cold street, he pulled his coat about him as the wind toppled off the river and spiraled around the corners of the buildings and through the alleyways. Indeed the bookstore seemed like an oasis; the only building not in ruin, grand in its stature and meticulously cared for, almost as if time and poverty had spared it entirely. Warm lights burned within and wholesome smoke from a wood fire drifted from a chimney in its roof. A modest wreath of holly and red berries adorned the front door. If he could not find direction in such an unlikely place as this, then where?
Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he dropped it and ground it beneath his shoe. The warmth that beckoned from within the place stirred something in him, and he thought of the way that Shannon had always made Christmastime so special. Her spirit for it had resonated within him, where he’d nothing of his own. Hot cups of cocoa, blankets bound around them as they dozed on the couch, the way the lights of the tree in the dark of the small apartment and the scent of evergreen made him feel safe and content. The way she laughed and how she grinned like a child, her long dark hair falling around her face as she dug into a wrapped gift. Then there was the comfort of snow that had always been so magical, but which had since become a painful reminder of that night of his loss. Long had he mourned her, and he mourned her even now. As he stepped off the curb and began his pensive strides down the long walk among the first falling snowflakes, a murder of crows broke loose from the skeletal treetops along the rivers edge. That they seemed an eerie welcome was not lost on him.
= = = = =
bio: David is a native of the vibrant artist community that is Richmond, Virginia. He moonlights as an inconspicuous Ops Manager by day before sitting down to pen his tales of the darker side of the south by night. His fiction and poetry have been published in Dream International Quarterly, and Treasures.
by D. A. Ward - daward74@comcast.net
At the end of all things, Daniel was little more than a toiler. Other men dreamt of great things and saw them come to fruition. Inventors, writers, artists, scientists, builders; especially builders. Off the backs of men like himself were their visions realized, for Daniels only skill was that of laying brick. Not the dreamer of cities, not the architect. He lacked the divine spark of inspiration for such things. He rolled down the Plymouths window and felt the deep chill of winter seep in as he lit a cigarette. The gray blanket of sky, its damp smell betraying the oncoming snow, rolled lazily above the horizon of the city, so close but never touching the tops of the tall buildings that lined the floodwall on the other side of the violently flowing river. Looking again about him, he thought of the abandoned and run-down buildings that were once part of the great southern city. It would seem that south of the James River downtown was a terrible place to be, having not yet been touched by the downtown renaissance that was taking place where the tall buildings grew and middle-aged hipsters dwelt in lavish apartments that had once housed tobacco and Union prisoners. Just south of the river, it was decay. He felt sadness, for other toilers like himself, who laid the foundations and walls of these buildings so long ago. Grand old buildings built of fine red brick that were now relegated to memory, inhabited only by the ghosts of human beings. Squatters and addicts whose lives had perhaps meant something more at one time, but who now came to call this blighted stretch of civilization their home or perhaps buzzardly wandered its streets in search of what carrion could be found. Trash blew across the street, tumbling like weeds gathered in the desert of human neglect. He snickered. How appropriate it was that he should seek knowledge and guidance in such a place as this. Surely, it was the notion only a madman would have offered, but then his friend the priest was no madman. It was he who had directed Daniel to this place, to a point of light amidst a vast darkness. An old used bookshop called Serapeum Books, a home for words of the strange and antique. Something there, perhaps, to help quell the thirst within him demanding to know more of her loss. Something that neither priest nor policeman had been able to offer.
It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that his beloved had disappeared. A blinding snow storm and her faithful canine companion with a shorn leash waiting alone in the gathering snow were all the memories he had of that night. He had suffered a year of postulation from the authorities and friends alike. Many explanations had he heard, and none had satisfied him. A violent crime? Probably. A sudden urge to flee from their impending nuptials? Perhaps. After all, he was often capable of being the lousiest of drunks. Nothing had sat right with him, nothing had added up. Last week, odd dreams and memories more powerful than usual had led him to that great hole in the earth near their apartment, and it was there that he had felt the most truthful thing since her disappearance. He remembered the sense of dread, palpable and pounding in his chest as he stood there paralyzed. A drumsong of fear and human suffering seemed to pour out of the black depths and resound in his soul alone, for none other could hear it. Daniel didn't know how or why, but he knew then that the answers to his loss lay in that hollow tunnel beneath the earth, and if he could find some explanation then he might have some hope of reconciling the days of emptiness he had endured. If the answer be there, then by God he would find it, even if it meant facing down his own demons or whatever dark thing lay hungry in the hillside.
Daniel rolled up the window of the Plymouth and swung its heavy door open wide. Stepping out onto the cold street, he pulled his coat about him as the wind toppled off the river and spiraled around the corners of the buildings and through the alleyways. Indeed the bookstore seemed like an oasis; the only building not in ruin, grand in its stature and meticulously cared for, almost as if time and poverty had spared it entirely. Warm lights burned within and wholesome smoke from a wood fire drifted from a chimney in its roof. A modest wreath of holly and red berries adorned the front door. If he could not find direction in such an unlikely place as this, then where?
Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he dropped it and ground it beneath his shoe. The warmth that beckoned from within the place stirred something in him, and he thought of the way that Shannon had always made Christmastime so special. Her spirit for it had resonated within him, where he’d nothing of his own. Hot cups of cocoa, blankets bound around them as they dozed on the couch, the way the lights of the tree in the dark of the small apartment and the scent of evergreen made him feel safe and content. The way she laughed and how she grinned like a child, her long dark hair falling around her face as she dug into a wrapped gift. Then there was the comfort of snow that had always been so magical, but which had since become a painful reminder of that night of his loss. Long had he mourned her, and he mourned her even now. As he stepped off the curb and began his pensive strides down the long walk among the first falling snowflakes, a murder of crows broke loose from the skeletal treetops along the rivers edge. That they seemed an eerie welcome was not lost on him.
= = = = =
bio: David is a native of the vibrant artist community that is Richmond, Virginia. He moonlights as an inconspicuous Ops Manager by day before sitting down to pen his tales of the darker side of the south by night. His fiction and poetry have been published in Dream International Quarterly, and Treasures.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
story: Snapshot
Snapshot
by Dallas Shaw - jadan2904@aol.com
We were late the moment you walked through the door. Unexpected work kept you an hour longer and traffic another twenty minutes. You need a shower, I can't find my other black pump and I hop around, gathering your clean socks, underwear and a tie. I know now is not the time. Everyone is waiting and dinner is likely over, but the cake will not be cut until we arrive. Your father would never allow it. You are his pride and joy, he will wait until sunrise tomorrow for you to sit with him and help blow out the candles. I know this, and still I feel playful.
I wait to hear the toilet flush, water spray and the sound of splashing as you wash your hair. I sneak in holding a Polaroid camera, my one bare foot slides on the tile. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh as I push aside the curtain, checking to see that your back is turned. I lean part way in, center you body in the box and call your name.
Water is everywhere, my dress is soaked, you reach for the camera and my arm, but I am too quick. The naked, cat and mouse dance that follows leaves us both breathless and drenched.
Another thirty minutes and we are ready to walk out the door. My dress has been changed, eliminating the search for the shoe; your tie is crooked but brings out the blue in your eyes. I tell you everyone will be furious over the wait, you say it doesn´t matter, that your dad will understand. I think you are right; your playful nature is a gift he shares. We decide to tell him once your mother leaves the room, knowing he will break our confidence later, over coffee, as he always does.
We are still laughing over the picture, over our play fight, over the time, when the phone rings. You tell me to forget about it. You say, we have to go, let them leave a message, but I snatch up the receiver anyway. I feel the blood leaving my face. Tiny fingers of ice close around my throat, I can barely breathe. Your face is impatient; your hand is on the doorknob. I tell you, your father has died.
= = = = =
bio: Dallas Shaw is currently a creative writing student, working towards her bachelor's degree while raising two children and living in a far-too-quiet, suburban neighborhood.
by Dallas Shaw - jadan2904@aol.com
We were late the moment you walked through the door. Unexpected work kept you an hour longer and traffic another twenty minutes. You need a shower, I can't find my other black pump and I hop around, gathering your clean socks, underwear and a tie. I know now is not the time. Everyone is waiting and dinner is likely over, but the cake will not be cut until we arrive. Your father would never allow it. You are his pride and joy, he will wait until sunrise tomorrow for you to sit with him and help blow out the candles. I know this, and still I feel playful.
I wait to hear the toilet flush, water spray and the sound of splashing as you wash your hair. I sneak in holding a Polaroid camera, my one bare foot slides on the tile. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh as I push aside the curtain, checking to see that your back is turned. I lean part way in, center you body in the box and call your name.
Water is everywhere, my dress is soaked, you reach for the camera and my arm, but I am too quick. The naked, cat and mouse dance that follows leaves us both breathless and drenched.
Another thirty minutes and we are ready to walk out the door. My dress has been changed, eliminating the search for the shoe; your tie is crooked but brings out the blue in your eyes. I tell you everyone will be furious over the wait, you say it doesn´t matter, that your dad will understand. I think you are right; your playful nature is a gift he shares. We decide to tell him once your mother leaves the room, knowing he will break our confidence later, over coffee, as he always does.
We are still laughing over the picture, over our play fight, over the time, when the phone rings. You tell me to forget about it. You say, we have to go, let them leave a message, but I snatch up the receiver anyway. I feel the blood leaving my face. Tiny fingers of ice close around my throat, I can barely breathe. Your face is impatient; your hand is on the doorknob. I tell you, your father has died.
= = = = =
bio: Dallas Shaw is currently a creative writing student, working towards her bachelor's degree while raising two children and living in a far-too-quiet, suburban neighborhood.
Monday, March 06, 2006
story: Bad Boys
Bad Boys
by Jack Swenson - swenjack@comcast.net
We were playing poker in my apartment. It was just a friendly game, nickel and dime. What we were doing in fact was keeping Ben company, trying to cheer him up. Ben's girlfriend had dumped him; she told him she didn't want to be with him anymore. I asked him why, and he shrugged. "She didn't say," he said sarcastically.
I'd had my own women troubles not long before. My wife threw me out when she found out I was sleeping with her best friend. Then our friend said adios to me and to her husband and ran off with a high school social studies teacher.
J.T. and Frank were work friends of Ben's. They were both married, happily or not, I don't know. Frank was a glassblower, and J.T. was an engineer, like Ben. They all worked in Silicon Valley, in the computer chip biz.
When Ben and his friends showed up at my place, they were wearing what they wore to work. Ben had on a navy sport coat, grey slacks, and a tie. I had a couple of cats, so I told him to hang up his coat before he sat down so he wouldn't get cat hair on it, but he made a face like he didn't care what he got on his coat, and he sat down with it on and loosened his tie.
Ben drank Heinekens, one bottle after another. I drank old fashioneds, bourbon in a glass with ice and a maraschino cherry. T.J. drank scotch, and Frank didn't drink much of anything. He had a couple of beers.
A little after midnight, somebody got the idea that we should throw soap into the swimming pool. I don't know who suggested it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I had a box of Salvo, and we went out onto the balcony of my apartment, which was on the second floor, and pegged the soap cakes, each about the size and shape of a hockey puck, into the pool area. The swimming pool was in the center of a quadrangle of two and three story apartment units.
Some of the missiles hit the water, and some of them didn't. The ones that didn't exploded like grenades on the concrete pool apron.
When the party broke up, after Frank and T.J. left, I told Ben that he could sleep on my couch, but he said no, he had to be at work early in the morning. Some people have real jobs, he said.
I walked as far as the landing with my friend, and as he walked down the steps, I saw the slump of his beefy shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat. He was shedding hair like an old tomcat heading home from a lost war.
= = = = =
bio: Jack Swenson is a former teacher reborn as a penner of everyday mysteries. He writes about life in the slow lane and occasionally about memories of another kind of life. More than three dozen of his stories have been published in ezines including Burning Word, ken*again, Cenotaph, The Adirondack Review, and ausgang.
by Jack Swenson - swenjack@comcast.net
We were playing poker in my apartment. It was just a friendly game, nickel and dime. What we were doing in fact was keeping Ben company, trying to cheer him up. Ben's girlfriend had dumped him; she told him she didn't want to be with him anymore. I asked him why, and he shrugged. "She didn't say," he said sarcastically.
I'd had my own women troubles not long before. My wife threw me out when she found out I was sleeping with her best friend. Then our friend said adios to me and to her husband and ran off with a high school social studies teacher.
J.T. and Frank were work friends of Ben's. They were both married, happily or not, I don't know. Frank was a glassblower, and J.T. was an engineer, like Ben. They all worked in Silicon Valley, in the computer chip biz.
When Ben and his friends showed up at my place, they were wearing what they wore to work. Ben had on a navy sport coat, grey slacks, and a tie. I had a couple of cats, so I told him to hang up his coat before he sat down so he wouldn't get cat hair on it, but he made a face like he didn't care what he got on his coat, and he sat down with it on and loosened his tie.
Ben drank Heinekens, one bottle after another. I drank old fashioneds, bourbon in a glass with ice and a maraschino cherry. T.J. drank scotch, and Frank didn't drink much of anything. He had a couple of beers.
A little after midnight, somebody got the idea that we should throw soap into the swimming pool. I don't know who suggested it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I had a box of Salvo, and we went out onto the balcony of my apartment, which was on the second floor, and pegged the soap cakes, each about the size and shape of a hockey puck, into the pool area. The swimming pool was in the center of a quadrangle of two and three story apartment units.
Some of the missiles hit the water, and some of them didn't. The ones that didn't exploded like grenades on the concrete pool apron.
When the party broke up, after Frank and T.J. left, I told Ben that he could sleep on my couch, but he said no, he had to be at work early in the morning. Some people have real jobs, he said.
I walked as far as the landing with my friend, and as he walked down the steps, I saw the slump of his beefy shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat. He was shedding hair like an old tomcat heading home from a lost war.
= = = = =
bio: Jack Swenson is a former teacher reborn as a penner of everyday mysteries. He writes about life in the slow lane and occasionally about memories of another kind of life. More than three dozen of his stories have been published in ezines including Burning Word, ken*again, Cenotaph, The Adirondack Review, and ausgang.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
story: Crosswalk
Crosswalk
By LaTanya McQueen - LaTanya_McQueen@emerson.edu
At the crossing she takes a breath. The bitter air burns her lungs as she breathes slowly in. She looks up at the image of an orange hand. “Wait,” the automated voice says. She wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s unraveling around the edges.
People start to gather creating warmth around her as they huddle. A mother extends her gloved hand to her daughter, their two hands interlocking. There’s a couple across the street, they seem young and foolish, looking up towards the sky with open mouths trying to capture the falling flakes. She watches as the people in front of her rush by, trying to make the light.
If she hurries she’ll find them. After crossing she’ll be two blocks away from her brownstone. She knows what awaits her. Two more blocks and it’ll be confirmed. She hopes now she’ll be the one to throw him out. He will leave her, she’s aware of this, and she knows that upon finding them his face will show relief and not surprise. That evening he’ll pack his bags, only the essentials, the rest he’ll get later, and leave. She’ll spend the rest of the night washing another woman’s scent off the sheets, the comforter and quilted blankets, even the accent pillows. Everything will go.
Strangers step down on the curb tempting fate, and look around. They are eager to cross. “Hold my hand tightly now, don’t let go,” the mother says to her daughter.
“Wait,” the voice keeps calling. “Wait.”
The light changes, and the orange hand is replaced with the white outline of a man. Turning away, she takes one step down and exhales--a warm breath amidst the freezing air.
= = = = =
Bio: LaTanya McQueen--originally from Kentucky, now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Published before in Rumble, a literary e-zine specializing in microfiction.
By LaTanya McQueen - LaTanya_McQueen@emerson.edu
At the crossing she takes a breath. The bitter air burns her lungs as she breathes slowly in. She looks up at the image of an orange hand. “Wait,” the automated voice says. She wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s unraveling around the edges.
People start to gather creating warmth around her as they huddle. A mother extends her gloved hand to her daughter, their two hands interlocking. There’s a couple across the street, they seem young and foolish, looking up towards the sky with open mouths trying to capture the falling flakes. She watches as the people in front of her rush by, trying to make the light.
If she hurries she’ll find them. After crossing she’ll be two blocks away from her brownstone. She knows what awaits her. Two more blocks and it’ll be confirmed. She hopes now she’ll be the one to throw him out. He will leave her, she’s aware of this, and she knows that upon finding them his face will show relief and not surprise. That evening he’ll pack his bags, only the essentials, the rest he’ll get later, and leave. She’ll spend the rest of the night washing another woman’s scent off the sheets, the comforter and quilted blankets, even the accent pillows. Everything will go.
Strangers step down on the curb tempting fate, and look around. They are eager to cross. “Hold my hand tightly now, don’t let go,” the mother says to her daughter.
“Wait,” the voice keeps calling. “Wait.”
The light changes, and the orange hand is replaced with the white outline of a man. Turning away, she takes one step down and exhales--a warm breath amidst the freezing air.
= = = = =
Bio: LaTanya McQueen--originally from Kentucky, now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Published before in Rumble, a literary e-zine specializing in microfiction.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
submit: Snow*Vigate
"Snow*Vigate: A literary journal, a snowshoe guide, a prosodic field guide to snow"
Snowvigate, a new online literary journal, is currently seeking flash fiction submissions, poetry, and essays for its first issue. We've stretched the usual definition of flash to give writers a bit more wiggle room. We will consider stories up to 1500 words. Submissions should be sent to snowv@snowvigate.com as plain text pasted into the body of an e-mail.
More information at www.snowvigate.com
Professor Doug Martin, Editor-in-Chief, has started a blog regarding the snowvigate adventure at www.snowvigate.blogspot.com
Snowvigate, a new online literary journal, is currently seeking flash fiction submissions, poetry, and essays for its first issue. We've stretched the usual definition of flash to give writers a bit more wiggle room. We will consider stories up to 1500 words. Submissions should be sent to snowv@snowvigate.com as plain text pasted into the body of an e-mail.
More information at www.snowvigate.com
Professor Doug Martin, Editor-in-Chief, has started a blog regarding the snowvigate adventure at www.snowvigate.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
story: The Model's Downfall
The Model's Downfall
by John Colvin
Julie is sitting at the table in Gertrude's kitchen, describing a TV movie about a girl who becomes a porn star and a drug addict. Gertrude is still wearing her McDonald's uniform and looking out the window at the house across the street. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. She started smoking when she was in her thirties, trying to lose weight. It didn't work, but she kept smoking. She is watching the house across the street because she wants to see the man who lives there come home. She hopes he will spend some time outside this evening, maybe do a little yard work. She knows better than to wave or try to shout out the window at him. She just wants to see him.
"They showed how it could really happen," Julie says, "It was very true to life. She started out as a model and one thing just led to another, you know. She got hard up for money and posed naked for this one magazine. Then she ended up in dirty movies, and she got on drugs and then she was a prostitute. It was so sad. It made you think. It really made you think about how it could happen to anybody. It was really true to life."
Gertrude's feet ache from standing, but she keeps watching, shifting from one foot to the other. The man who lives across the street filed a restraining order against her after she broke into his house the third time. That last time, he walked in to find her in his kitchen, cooking him dinner. Now she thinks she may go someplace and call him from a payphone. She could act like she was someone else. She could act like she was from the phone company, disguise her voice. Maybe he will like how she sounds, and they will talk and flirt, and then they can arrange a meeting somewhere . . .
Gertrude flicks her cigarette ash into the sink full of dirty dishes. "True to whose life?" she asks.
by John Colvin
Julie is sitting at the table in Gertrude's kitchen, describing a TV movie about a girl who becomes a porn star and a drug addict. Gertrude is still wearing her McDonald's uniform and looking out the window at the house across the street. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. She started smoking when she was in her thirties, trying to lose weight. It didn't work, but she kept smoking. She is watching the house across the street because she wants to see the man who lives there come home. She hopes he will spend some time outside this evening, maybe do a little yard work. She knows better than to wave or try to shout out the window at him. She just wants to see him.
"They showed how it could really happen," Julie says, "It was very true to life. She started out as a model and one thing just led to another, you know. She got hard up for money and posed naked for this one magazine. Then she ended up in dirty movies, and she got on drugs and then she was a prostitute. It was so sad. It made you think. It really made you think about how it could happen to anybody. It was really true to life."
Gertrude's feet ache from standing, but she keeps watching, shifting from one foot to the other. The man who lives across the street filed a restraining order against her after she broke into his house the third time. That last time, he walked in to find her in his kitchen, cooking him dinner. Now she thinks she may go someplace and call him from a payphone. She could act like she was someone else. She could act like she was from the phone company, disguise her voice. Maybe he will like how she sounds, and they will talk and flirt, and then they can arrange a meeting somewhere . . .
Gertrude flicks her cigarette ash into the sink full of dirty dishes. "True to whose life?" she asks.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
submit: Flash Me Magazine
"FLASH ME MAGAZINE is a quarterly magazine, accepting all genres of fiction, as long as the story is under 1,000 words.
*The deadline for our next issue is March 31, 2006.* Stories received after this quarter's deadline will be held for consideration in the following issue.
Issues are published on Jan 31, April 30, July 31, and Oct 31, with submission deadlines one month prior to publication.
"
Monday, February 06, 2006
story: Dad’s Rules
Dad’s Rules
By Joanna Kelly
Ginger’s room had everything she had asked for at Christmas: a queen-sized bed, mini fridge and a new microwave. She and her dad tested it out with a cold cup of tea. When it dinged, she got the tea out and took a small sip. “It’s good right?” he asked. “Now you guys won’t bug me when you’re having your party.” As part of her first slumber party, her dad would not smoke pot nor have his clients over to the house. It was 8 year old Ginger’s reward for finally living in one school district long enough to make friends. She heard him on the phone with his girlfriend, Brandi: “She wants to bring four girls here. I think people in this neighborhood are cool but little kids get into everything. Like roaches.” He winked at Ginger. “Can you come over that day and help me out with them? Oh, that’s OK. I’ll handle it then.” He hung up and asked “What’s Lee’s number again?” Lee was his other girlfriend, a graduate student who Ginger actually liked. She recited the number to him and he dialed. Lee was much nicer than Brandi and never talked down to her. “Lee will be great at this,” he muttered.
The afternoon of the slumber party, Ginger had checked everything in her room. She watched as they were printed on the long green and white printer paper. “Make sure every girl reads it and knows it,” he nagged. Now she looked it over and felt an urge to break every dumb thing on the list. Lee arrived, with some of her books and homework, and Gin read the list over and over while waiting for the girls to show up:
1: Stay away from Dad’s bedroom. There is NOTHING there.
2: Everything you need is in Ginger’s room.
3: The bathroom across from Dad’s room is the guest bathroom. This means adults Only.
4: Only food should go in the microwave; use microwave safe dishes.
5: Only Ginger is allowed to operate the new microwave. Handle all micro-waved food with care. Avoid standing in front of the microwave.
Lee teased Greg about the list saying, “I thought you’d enjoy hosting this. This list will embarrass them.” Greg didn’t want to hear it, there was too much that could go wrong and the list made him feel better. Ginger and Lee holed up in her room the rest of the night, Lee studying a book, and Ginger arranging and rearranging things in her bedroom. Ginger’s rotation included her videocassettes, books, stuffed animals, and shoes. “Relax, it’s only 10pm,” Lee said after the girl started reshelving her books. “But they should be here now,” Ginger said. “My invitation said it starts at 8 o’clock.” Lee stopped reading and asked her if she was sure she gave them the right info. Ginger gave her a copy of the invitation and watched her read it. Lee didn’t remember hearing any phone calls to cancel since she had been there. In fact the phone rang once but Greg got it while they were in her room. She told Ginger to wait in her room and went to Greg’s home office.
She knocked on the door but came in after hearing his voice. She hoped he wasn’t talking to a client and tying up the line. “Greg, no one’s come or called her.” Greg’s back was turned and he was on the phone. He finished the call and turned around to face her. “Of course not. I called them and cancelled. It’s not a good night for this.” He turned away from her and started to dial but Lee got right in his face and asked for an explanation. Greg stood up to her and lowered his voice, “I’ve got to help out my brother and his friends.” “What does that mean?”
“It means Chris is in jail and I have to help him. I don’t know what he did but I have to go right now,” Greg was trying to keep calm but she didn’t seem to believe him. “I don’t want to be going in and out of the house while they're here. And I definitely don’t want his friends here scaring the kids.” Lee was amazed; he didn’t trust her to be in the house alone with the kids. Lee argued that there were alarms on every outside door and a guard dog in the backyard but he went to his closet and looked for some clean clothes. There was nothing to feel guilty about and Lee could frown all night if she wanted, he had to cancel it. “Just take her to a movie. Pet Sematary or something’s at the Gateway.” Lee said she was OK with calling the girls back but Greg said it would be too much stress for everyone. Lee kept protesting and even blocked the door. Greg shut her down by asking, “You wanna break up over this? Let’s do that after I get back.”
Thirty minutes after telling Ginger the party was cancelled because of a family emergency, they were in line to buy tickets for The Little Mermaid. Ginger’s face was streaked with tears and she had gone silent. Lee tried to convince her seeing a movie at night was much better than a slumber party. She made a big deal about getting a large popcorn, large drink, and candy. Both sat still in their seats while the other people laughed and whispered throughout. After it was done, Ginger tapped her arm. “You’re not coming back to visit us, are you?” Lee took a deep breath and told her no; Ginger was too smart to be lied to. Ginger nodded and told her it was OK since, “I hate Dad too.” Without saying a word they stayed through the next showing; Lee paid a tired looking usher who cleaned their aisle. It was worth it so they could stay together as long as possible.
= = = = =
Bio: Joanna Kelly was born in Houston, Texas and has been published in College Bound Magazine. She’s a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin and writes for the video podcast “Student Filmmakers Showcase TV”.
By Joanna Kelly
Ginger’s room had everything she had asked for at Christmas: a queen-sized bed, mini fridge and a new microwave. She and her dad tested it out with a cold cup of tea. When it dinged, she got the tea out and took a small sip. “It’s good right?” he asked. “Now you guys won’t bug me when you’re having your party.” As part of her first slumber party, her dad would not smoke pot nor have his clients over to the house. It was 8 year old Ginger’s reward for finally living in one school district long enough to make friends. She heard him on the phone with his girlfriend, Brandi: “She wants to bring four girls here. I think people in this neighborhood are cool but little kids get into everything. Like roaches.” He winked at Ginger. “Can you come over that day and help me out with them? Oh, that’s OK. I’ll handle it then.” He hung up and asked “What’s Lee’s number again?” Lee was his other girlfriend, a graduate student who Ginger actually liked. She recited the number to him and he dialed. Lee was much nicer than Brandi and never talked down to her. “Lee will be great at this,” he muttered.
The afternoon of the slumber party, Ginger had checked everything in her room. She watched as they were printed on the long green and white printer paper. “Make sure every girl reads it and knows it,” he nagged. Now she looked it over and felt an urge to break every dumb thing on the list. Lee arrived, with some of her books and homework, and Gin read the list over and over while waiting for the girls to show up:
1: Stay away from Dad’s bedroom. There is NOTHING there.
2: Everything you need is in Ginger’s room.
3: The bathroom across from Dad’s room is the guest bathroom. This means adults Only.
4: Only food should go in the microwave; use microwave safe dishes.
5: Only Ginger is allowed to operate the new microwave. Handle all micro-waved food with care. Avoid standing in front of the microwave.
Lee teased Greg about the list saying, “I thought you’d enjoy hosting this. This list will embarrass them.” Greg didn’t want to hear it, there was too much that could go wrong and the list made him feel better. Ginger and Lee holed up in her room the rest of the night, Lee studying a book, and Ginger arranging and rearranging things in her bedroom. Ginger’s rotation included her videocassettes, books, stuffed animals, and shoes. “Relax, it’s only 10pm,” Lee said after the girl started reshelving her books. “But they should be here now,” Ginger said. “My invitation said it starts at 8 o’clock.” Lee stopped reading and asked her if she was sure she gave them the right info. Ginger gave her a copy of the invitation and watched her read it. Lee didn’t remember hearing any phone calls to cancel since she had been there. In fact the phone rang once but Greg got it while they were in her room. She told Ginger to wait in her room and went to Greg’s home office.
She knocked on the door but came in after hearing his voice. She hoped he wasn’t talking to a client and tying up the line. “Greg, no one’s come or called her.” Greg’s back was turned and he was on the phone. He finished the call and turned around to face her. “Of course not. I called them and cancelled. It’s not a good night for this.” He turned away from her and started to dial but Lee got right in his face and asked for an explanation. Greg stood up to her and lowered his voice, “I’ve got to help out my brother and his friends.” “What does that mean?”
“It means Chris is in jail and I have to help him. I don’t know what he did but I have to go right now,” Greg was trying to keep calm but she didn’t seem to believe him. “I don’t want to be going in and out of the house while they're here. And I definitely don’t want his friends here scaring the kids.” Lee was amazed; he didn’t trust her to be in the house alone with the kids. Lee argued that there were alarms on every outside door and a guard dog in the backyard but he went to his closet and looked for some clean clothes. There was nothing to feel guilty about and Lee could frown all night if she wanted, he had to cancel it. “Just take her to a movie. Pet Sematary or something’s at the Gateway.” Lee said she was OK with calling the girls back but Greg said it would be too much stress for everyone. Lee kept protesting and even blocked the door. Greg shut her down by asking, “You wanna break up over this? Let’s do that after I get back.”
Thirty minutes after telling Ginger the party was cancelled because of a family emergency, they were in line to buy tickets for The Little Mermaid. Ginger’s face was streaked with tears and she had gone silent. Lee tried to convince her seeing a movie at night was much better than a slumber party. She made a big deal about getting a large popcorn, large drink, and candy. Both sat still in their seats while the other people laughed and whispered throughout. After it was done, Ginger tapped her arm. “You’re not coming back to visit us, are you?” Lee took a deep breath and told her no; Ginger was too smart to be lied to. Ginger nodded and told her it was OK since, “I hate Dad too.” Without saying a word they stayed through the next showing; Lee paid a tired looking usher who cleaned their aisle. It was worth it so they could stay together as long as possible.
= = = = =
Bio: Joanna Kelly was born in Houston, Texas and has been published in College Bound Magazine. She’s a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin and writes for the video podcast “Student Filmmakers Showcase TV”.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
"Don't be shy! Send us your fiction, no matter how 'out there.' However, short stories and self-contained novel excerpts should be no greater than 7,000 words—about 22 double-spaced pages. For Fringe purposes, short shorts or flash fiction is work less than 1,000 words, and will be considered a sub-genre of fiction. You may submit 1-3 short shorts at a time, in a single attachment. Your subject line should contain the words 'Short short' before the piece's title.
Email all fiction and short short submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com"
Email all fiction and short short submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com"
workshop: Flash Fiction Writing Workshop
"The Flash Fiction Writing Workshop (free)is for serious writers of short short pieces (beginner to more advanced, but serious). All members share one goal--to improve in the craft of writing.
The length limit for pieces submitted for critique is around 500 words, more or less, but nothing over 1,000 words.
Participation is mandatory . The minimum requirements to remain in the workshop are to submit one piece of your own each month and do four critiques for others. Those who are not able to meet these minimum requirements will be unsubscribed. We have no upper limit, however, on the number of critiques you can do for others. The more you do the more you learn about writing (by trying hard to understand and express what makes a piece effective or not effective)."
The length limit for pieces submitted for critique is around 500 words, more or less, but nothing over 1,000 words.
Participation is mandatory . The minimum requirements to remain in the workshop are to submit one piece of your own each month and do four critiques for others. Those who are not able to meet these minimum requirements will be unsubscribed. We have no upper limit, however, on the number of critiques you can do for others. The more you do the more you learn about writing (by trying hard to understand and express what makes a piece effective or not effective)."
submit: Cezanne's Carrot Literary Journal
"We accept flash fiction and short stories from 100 to 3,000 words. Novel excerpts are acceptable if they stand on their own and stay within the word limit.
Qualities we look for in fiction:
* Three-dimensional characters that do more than just serve a plot
* Good use of imagery and detail
* Realistic dialogue
* A beginning, middle, and end (doesn't need to be as clearly defined in flash or experimental works, but we do like to see some sense of movement or change)
* Smooth, tight prose that is the result of several, careful edits"
Qualities we look for in fiction:
* Three-dimensional characters that do more than just serve a plot
* Good use of imagery and detail
* Realistic dialogue
* A beginning, middle, and end (doesn't need to be as clearly defined in flash or experimental works, but we do like to see some sense of movement or change)
* Smooth, tight prose that is the result of several, careful edits"
story: Last Natural Born Blonde
Last Natural Born Blonde
by Tamara Wilhite - tamarawilhite@hotmail.com
“I don’t like your latest modeling contract promotion,” Lexus mewled.
“We’re looking for someone who is unique.” Yvonne countered. “That is, by definition, a unique promotion--"
“Can’t you find another undiscovered beauty somewhere?”
“What? A fifth trip to Papua New Guinea to look for a girl who is so backward that she has an outhouse?” Yvonne grimaced. “Or do you want us to sneak into the Muslim territories and find a neglected beauty under a burqa AND smuggle her to the civilized world? Anyone who meets the requirements of this promotion will be unique in the world. And there is far less risk. And no one else has done it before.”
“There are plenty of blondes walking around.”
“And they’re all products of that `enhancement’ available after 2033. You can find blonde Arab girls because their oil prince papas wanted them to be. You can find Asian girls because some doctor paid the parents to make a beauty to sell in Calcutta’s bride market. There are even girls who have European descent who are saying, `I got this blonde hair from my grandma!’ We both know how rare that really ever is. Rumor has it, there aren’t any more.”
Both women glanced at the photo of the blonde black woman posing in the genetic tailoring ads on the nearby wall. “Gentlemen prefer blondes. Make sure your daughter gets the gentleman!” With the rich paying for their kids to be geniuses, tweaking coloring genes to meet an old fashioned standard of beauty was the middle class “upgrade”. “This could be taken as racist. After all, natural blondes were of European descent.”
“With all the hype about how genetically engineering your kids being bad, this `natural blonde’ search dovetails into the `all natural’ movement. And with several generations of mixing, any natural one is as likely to be Asian-Anglo-Hispanic as mostly Anglo.”
“How do you prove someone is a natural, compared to manufactured ones?”
“DNA testing.”
“Isn’t the gene the same?”
“Require DNA samples from the biological parents. If both parents are carriers of the blonde gene, then we can assume the kid is.”
“What if the parents had the procedure? It’s been around for 80 years.”
“Then require that any blonde parent prove they inherited the gene themselves. Find parents who carry the gene for a birth date before the enhancement is available, and you’ve got your last natural blonde.”
“You said it’s rare. What if the last one is past 40?”
“Do the standard touch-up graphics and say we’re not guilty of age discrimination like so many of our competitors. Play off the all-natural angle again.”
“Doesn’t it seem funny that the standards of beauty haven’t changed, even as the population demographics have?” Lexus reluctantly agreed. “OK. Do the model search. Say it’s for the Chi-guna’s latest fashion line. They are begging for something different.”
It took 14 months. There were many entries, though 90% were rejected immediately by DNA profile comparisons of person to parent. It turned out there were plenty of people who actually thought they were blonde whose parents had lied about a pre-conception doctor’s visit. The remaining 10% were weeded out more slowly. Double-checking DNA databases of the deceased added an extra year to the search.
At the 18 month follow-up meeting, Yvonne arrived with a report in hand. Lexus asked. “Did you find the last one?”
“Yeah,” Yvonne replied quietly.
“Why did you have to go through the deceased database?”
“No. Our winner and all of our runners-up’s parents were dead.”
Lexus went stiff. “How old is our winner, then?”
“Our last natural blonde is 69.”
“Didn’t you put in an upper age cutoff on the modeling contract?”
“No. We released the model search with all participants having to meet the natural DNA requirements. We didn’t think to limit it to a maximum age. We though that looking for the last one would inherently mean the youngest one would win.”
“So why isn’t the youngest natural blonde younger?”
“None of the natural ones we found were younger.”
“Look at their kids.”
“Interracial marriage. Or even same race marriage with people with darker hair colors. Engineered blonde grandchildren in many cases, but no younger candidates who met the `natural’ criteria.”
“Are you saying our last natural blonde on the planet is 69?”
“Yeah.”
“If she’s 69, her hair’s white, isn’t it?”
“She dyes it blonde.” Yvonne brushed her own un-dyed blonde hair behind an ear, her light brown skin a harsh contrast to the ultra-pale face in the photo.
“So there are no natural blondes, then. Kill the contest. Say no one won.”
“It’s not really true. We found natural blondes--"
“They carry the genes for it, but they aren’t blonde anymore without hair dye. So there are no more natural blondes. Say no one won and kill the contest.”
“Our winner won per the contract. She gets the Chi-guna modeling contract, per the contract she signed to enter the contest. We never stated you couldn’t have gone naturally gray.”
“You mean we’re going to put an old lady in designer clothes and promote her as the last natural beauty? I can’t do that to Chi-guna. Their clothes are hip and fresh -”
“Can we redesign the clothes to suit an older demographic?” Yvonne grasped.
“The designer won’t redesign their clothes to suit the model. We are supposed to supply the model to suit the clothes.”
“They wanted something new--"
Lexus whipped out her electronic pad. “That model goes up once on the walkway, per contract. Then we say criteria’s met, the woman is paid, and beg the Chi-guna to say that one outfit is their `line’. We put the rest of the outfits under a new label release and put them on a new girl. And you are as much history as your vaunted `last of a kind’ ideas.”
by Tamara Wilhite - tamarawilhite@hotmail.com
“I don’t like your latest modeling contract promotion,” Lexus mewled.
“We’re looking for someone who is unique.” Yvonne countered. “That is, by definition, a unique promotion--"
“Can’t you find another undiscovered beauty somewhere?”
“What? A fifth trip to Papua New Guinea to look for a girl who is so backward that she has an outhouse?” Yvonne grimaced. “Or do you want us to sneak into the Muslim territories and find a neglected beauty under a burqa AND smuggle her to the civilized world? Anyone who meets the requirements of this promotion will be unique in the world. And there is far less risk. And no one else has done it before.”
“There are plenty of blondes walking around.”
“And they’re all products of that `enhancement’ available after 2033. You can find blonde Arab girls because their oil prince papas wanted them to be. You can find Asian girls because some doctor paid the parents to make a beauty to sell in Calcutta’s bride market. There are even girls who have European descent who are saying, `I got this blonde hair from my grandma!’ We both know how rare that really ever is. Rumor has it, there aren’t any more.”
Both women glanced at the photo of the blonde black woman posing in the genetic tailoring ads on the nearby wall. “Gentlemen prefer blondes. Make sure your daughter gets the gentleman!” With the rich paying for their kids to be geniuses, tweaking coloring genes to meet an old fashioned standard of beauty was the middle class “upgrade”. “This could be taken as racist. After all, natural blondes were of European descent.”
“With all the hype about how genetically engineering your kids being bad, this `natural blonde’ search dovetails into the `all natural’ movement. And with several generations of mixing, any natural one is as likely to be Asian-Anglo-Hispanic as mostly Anglo.”
“How do you prove someone is a natural, compared to manufactured ones?”
“DNA testing.”
“Isn’t the gene the same?”
“Require DNA samples from the biological parents. If both parents are carriers of the blonde gene, then we can assume the kid is.”
“What if the parents had the procedure? It’s been around for 80 years.”
“Then require that any blonde parent prove they inherited the gene themselves. Find parents who carry the gene for a birth date before the enhancement is available, and you’ve got your last natural blonde.”
“You said it’s rare. What if the last one is past 40?”
“Do the standard touch-up graphics and say we’re not guilty of age discrimination like so many of our competitors. Play off the all-natural angle again.”
“Doesn’t it seem funny that the standards of beauty haven’t changed, even as the population demographics have?” Lexus reluctantly agreed. “OK. Do the model search. Say it’s for the Chi-guna’s latest fashion line. They are begging for something different.”
It took 14 months. There were many entries, though 90% were rejected immediately by DNA profile comparisons of person to parent. It turned out there were plenty of people who actually thought they were blonde whose parents had lied about a pre-conception doctor’s visit. The remaining 10% were weeded out more slowly. Double-checking DNA databases of the deceased added an extra year to the search.
At the 18 month follow-up meeting, Yvonne arrived with a report in hand. Lexus asked. “Did you find the last one?”
“Yeah,” Yvonne replied quietly.
“Why did you have to go through the deceased database?”
“No. Our winner and all of our runners-up’s parents were dead.”
Lexus went stiff. “How old is our winner, then?”
“Our last natural blonde is 69.”
“Didn’t you put in an upper age cutoff on the modeling contract?”
“No. We released the model search with all participants having to meet the natural DNA requirements. We didn’t think to limit it to a maximum age. We though that looking for the last one would inherently mean the youngest one would win.”
“So why isn’t the youngest natural blonde younger?”
“None of the natural ones we found were younger.”
“Look at their kids.”
“Interracial marriage. Or even same race marriage with people with darker hair colors. Engineered blonde grandchildren in many cases, but no younger candidates who met the `natural’ criteria.”
“Are you saying our last natural blonde on the planet is 69?”
“Yeah.”
“If she’s 69, her hair’s white, isn’t it?”
“She dyes it blonde.” Yvonne brushed her own un-dyed blonde hair behind an ear, her light brown skin a harsh contrast to the ultra-pale face in the photo.
“So there are no natural blondes, then. Kill the contest. Say no one won.”
“It’s not really true. We found natural blondes--"
“They carry the genes for it, but they aren’t blonde anymore without hair dye. So there are no more natural blondes. Say no one won and kill the contest.”
“Our winner won per the contract. She gets the Chi-guna modeling contract, per the contract she signed to enter the contest. We never stated you couldn’t have gone naturally gray.”
“You mean we’re going to put an old lady in designer clothes and promote her as the last natural beauty? I can’t do that to Chi-guna. Their clothes are hip and fresh -”
“Can we redesign the clothes to suit an older demographic?” Yvonne grasped.
“The designer won’t redesign their clothes to suit the model. We are supposed to supply the model to suit the clothes.”
“They wanted something new--"
Lexus whipped out her electronic pad. “That model goes up once on the walkway, per contract. Then we say criteria’s met, the woman is paid, and beg the Chi-guna to say that one outfit is their `line’. We put the rest of the outfits under a new label release and put them on a new girl. And you are as much history as your vaunted `last of a kind’ ideas.”
Monday, January 16, 2006
story: The Trick
The Trick
by Dee Harding
Johnny shows Jane the trick.
Standing in front of her, sleeves rolled up.
He takes the corks from the wine they've been drinking, and idly passes one through the other. Hands flowing like water.
She stops. She stares. She asks him how it's done.
Johnny shrugs, and gives her a mischievous smile.
'It's a trick', he says.
Later, on the way home, he admits to himself that he doesn't know.
That he's tried to remember how it's done, where he learnt the knack of it.
But that nothing comes.
Two weeks on, Jane shows Johnny the corks.
Awkward, a twist, a slight of the hand.
Step by stilted step, eyes narrowed with focus, she shows him the knack of it.
He smiles. He nods.
'That's it', he says.
But later, when Jane has gone home, he admits to himself, that it isn't.
Johnny takes the hands he's been staring at, and with a shrug, with a troubled smile, idly passes one through the other.
As if they were water.
Trying to remember where he learnt the trick.
- - - - -
Bio: Dee Harding is not a writer by trade, but has appeared in a number of small online flash-fiction collections and communities for fun and very little profit. Dee's favourite playmates are called 'Ambiguity', and 'Inference', and they listen to far too much Kate Bush.
by Dee Harding
Johnny shows Jane the trick.
Standing in front of her, sleeves rolled up.
He takes the corks from the wine they've been drinking, and idly passes one through the other. Hands flowing like water.
She stops. She stares. She asks him how it's done.
Johnny shrugs, and gives her a mischievous smile.
'It's a trick', he says.
Later, on the way home, he admits to himself that he doesn't know.
That he's tried to remember how it's done, where he learnt the knack of it.
But that nothing comes.
Two weeks on, Jane shows Johnny the corks.
Awkward, a twist, a slight of the hand.
Step by stilted step, eyes narrowed with focus, she shows him the knack of it.
He smiles. He nods.
'That's it', he says.
But later, when Jane has gone home, he admits to himself, that it isn't.
Johnny takes the hands he's been staring at, and with a shrug, with a troubled smile, idly passes one through the other.
As if they were water.
Trying to remember where he learnt the trick.
- - - - -
Bio: Dee Harding is not a writer by trade, but has appeared in a number of small online flash-fiction collections and communities for fun and very little profit. Dee's favourite playmates are called 'Ambiguity', and 'Inference', and they listen to far too much Kate Bush.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
submit: Mad Hatters' Review
Submission Guidelines:
"The Reading Period for Issue 5 will commence on January 20th and end on February 9th, Midnight EST, USA. Submissions of writings received after that date and time will be tarred and feathered; they will NOT be considered. Please submit writings ONLY during our reading periods, which we announce here and on our homepage."
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
contest: First annual Flash Fiction Contest at Sideshow Collectibles (?!?)
No fee flash fiction contest:
"Things to remember: keep it concise, stay on track, make every word absolutely essential to the story, don't involve too many characters, have a clear plot diagram before starting, and make sure your story stands alone!"
submit: SleepingFish : Literary Magazine of Text, Art and Text/Art.
"SleepingFish is an independent print literary magazine of experimental prose, text/image, art, textual art, poetic TEXTures and general memetic nonsense, now on issue 0.75, the third installment. "
Submission guidelines here
Thursday, January 05, 2006
class: flashquake Flash Fiction Classes
This 4 week course costs $100.00:
"Are you intrigued by powerful and memorable short-short stories, sometimes also called flash, sudden, micro, fast, quick, furious, skinny, or postcard fiction? Have you discovered the difficulty of trying to write them? If you want to learn more about this popular and very marketable type of writing, then this is the course for you.
This action-packed four-week online course will help you understand some effective principles for writing flash fiction. You'll receive lessons and reading assignments, and you'll experiment with exercises. You'll try your hand at analyzing good short-shorts in order to discover writer techniques. You'll learn the value of careful critiquing to help your writer colleagues and yourself. You'll also learn about formatting, market strategies, and finding markets for your work."
Monday, January 02, 2006
story: Out
Out
by Christopher Garlington
She was ironing. She ironed everything. She ironed all the shirts, the sheets, the pants, his work jeans, even the towels. She was passionate about creases. A collar could absorb her for twenty minutes or more as she patiently smoothed its wrinkles and its pillowed fabric down to a perfect plane.
“Always work from the middle,” and she pushes the iron away from her, “oooout. From the middle,” again the iron sails toward the edge of the board, gliding suddenly upward in a graceful practiced arc, “oooout.” That was her motto and her lesson to anyone foolish enough to ask her about ironing. Not that you had to ask, the conversation would eventually get there all by itself.
This morning she walked into the ironing room after her husband had left. She had her cup of coffee. She clicked on the little TV and turned it to CNN. She turned on her iron and stripped off her blouse.
The new Cuban shirt her husband’s brother had sent him had a collar as wide and as clear as a sail and she spread it out on the ironing board to flatten it. She touched the tip of the iron to check the heat. She sprayed some starch and went to work. After a minute or two, she had one side perfect. Then she pressed the edge of the iron against her skin, just under her right breast.
The pain was quick. It drove through her like a spear. She shook her hair and said “hmmph,” and finished the collar out. The next one was a pale blue ruffled skirt for her niece. It had 37 pleats. She laid it out across the board and touched the edge of the iron to her skin just a little off from the first burn. She shook her hair again, like she’d just done a shot of Jack in a roadside bar.
She was absorbed in the pleats when the screen door opened up and her sister walked right in. She whirled around with the iron in her hand, tits bouncing.
“Rhonda what the fuck are you doing?!”
She automatically crossed her arms over her tits and sunk the edge of the iron into her shoulder. She stared right at her sister as it burned. Her sister took a step toward her to grab the iron and stopped with her hand stretched out. Her sister could see the steam ports patterned like a daisy on her skin. She followed the criss-cross pattern down Rhonda’s arm to the elbow, then she saw her belly.
Starting around her navel, a floral pattern of tiny triangles was burned into her sister’s torso. They bloomed up to a hand’s width from her perfect tits. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them. She looked up at her sister.
“But you’re so pretty.”
Rhonda’s eyes welled up with delighted tears. She would never be able to explain it. She put the iron down and took her sister’s hands. She looked earnestly into her sister’s plain eyes and said
“It makes me happy.”
by Christopher Garlington
She was ironing. She ironed everything. She ironed all the shirts, the sheets, the pants, his work jeans, even the towels. She was passionate about creases. A collar could absorb her for twenty minutes or more as she patiently smoothed its wrinkles and its pillowed fabric down to a perfect plane.
“Always work from the middle,” and she pushes the iron away from her, “oooout. From the middle,” again the iron sails toward the edge of the board, gliding suddenly upward in a graceful practiced arc, “oooout.” That was her motto and her lesson to anyone foolish enough to ask her about ironing. Not that you had to ask, the conversation would eventually get there all by itself.
This morning she walked into the ironing room after her husband had left. She had her cup of coffee. She clicked on the little TV and turned it to CNN. She turned on her iron and stripped off her blouse.
The new Cuban shirt her husband’s brother had sent him had a collar as wide and as clear as a sail and she spread it out on the ironing board to flatten it. She touched the tip of the iron to check the heat. She sprayed some starch and went to work. After a minute or two, she had one side perfect. Then she pressed the edge of the iron against her skin, just under her right breast.
The pain was quick. It drove through her like a spear. She shook her hair and said “hmmph,” and finished the collar out. The next one was a pale blue ruffled skirt for her niece. It had 37 pleats. She laid it out across the board and touched the edge of the iron to her skin just a little off from the first burn. She shook her hair again, like she’d just done a shot of Jack in a roadside bar.
She was absorbed in the pleats when the screen door opened up and her sister walked right in. She whirled around with the iron in her hand, tits bouncing.
“Rhonda what the fuck are you doing?!”
She automatically crossed her arms over her tits and sunk the edge of the iron into her shoulder. She stared right at her sister as it burned. Her sister took a step toward her to grab the iron and stopped with her hand stretched out. Her sister could see the steam ports patterned like a daisy on her skin. She followed the criss-cross pattern down Rhonda’s arm to the elbow, then she saw her belly.
Starting around her navel, a floral pattern of tiny triangles was burned into her sister’s torso. They bloomed up to a hand’s width from her perfect tits. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them. She looked up at her sister.
“But you’re so pretty.”
Rhonda’s eyes welled up with delighted tears. She would never be able to explain it. She put the iron down and took her sister’s hands. She looked earnestly into her sister’s plain eyes and said
“It makes me happy.”
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