Las Vegas Fiction - Bodog Nation: "Tonight, a puncture in the air-conditioning unit above the third turnstile, a slow drip of chilled water into the stack of plastic trays. Like a miracle rain, delivered to Vegaboy of the Desert, but they can't see the miracle. Instead, the monsters waiting in the security lineup nervously complain: my wallet's soaked, my alligator belt, my laptop can't get wet, dammit, dammit, dammit."
Click the link to read the rest
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Story: Violeta
Artvoice - Buffalo's #1 Newsweekly: "He came back again. The best at the agency, knocking on her door. This time she was sitting cross-legged among candles burnt low. There were circles under her eyes; they were deep violet in the dimness. She leapt her bony frame and grabbed his arms by both wrists.
“Come sit with me!”"
click the link to read the rest
“Come sit with me!”"
click the link to read the rest
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
story: Phil
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.
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.
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"
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