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.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
news: Ediciones Efímeras
I got this email:
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.
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