Eldritch Way

WEEKNIGHT TELEVISION

2011-10-06T17:38:00.000-07:00

This week, I found inspiration in six words offered at Easily Mused. The link gets you to the home page, so that you can explore this terrific forum for writers. You can also bump into some #fridayflash regulars over there. The words I used will be in the labels; I find that telling the words ahead of time detracts from a story. Comments welcome!

WEEKNIGHT TELEVISION

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes," the contestant sang, botching the melody for the tenth time. Jack threw Jenna a disgusted look. "I don't know how you watch this shit. Reality my ass."

Jenna curled up tighter under the raveling afghan, kept her gaze fixed on the television.

Jack fumbled in the kitchen, complained about the contents, or lack of contents in the fridge.

The contestant walked off the stage to condescending smiles and insincere thank yous from the judges. The host of the show spouted disingenuous platitudes, then issued a teaser for the next segment.

X Factor. X Games. X Box.

A child dressed as Darth Vader tried to make objects move. He flung his hands before him, but the washing machine did not perceive the pint-sized omnipotence. She changed X to EX, tried each one again inside her mind. Yeah, that worked. EX Box got Jenna snorting.

"What's so funny?"

She pointed to the television. Darth flinched, shocked that he started the car. His dad winked at the mom as he held the remote car starter.

Jack sat down, popped the top on a Narragansett. "Shit!"

Jack hopped up as frothy beer foam spewed his jeans. "Aren't you gonna do something?"

Don't giggle, don't laugh, face is stone, my face is granite....

EX marks the spot. Jenna giggled.

"Get me a friggin' towel, whydontya. Geesh."

Jenna went to the bathroom, pulled a damp towel from the bar. She dropped it in Jack's lap. Before she could return to her seat, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her down onto him.

"I remember a time when you woulda dried this for me."

He nuzzled her neck, reached his hand under her shirt.

She slid off his lap. "Hungry?" she asked.

"Huh?" Jack said.

"I'll make popcorn."

Jenna peeked through the cut through. Jack rested his forearms on his knees, stared at the screen. She opened the box of Pop secret, shoved a bag in the microwave, hit the "popcorn" button. Idiot-proof. If only everything was so simple.

The ersatz butter reek filled the apartment. So did feminine laughter.

Jack had changed the channel to HBO. Boobs filled the screen, and a dwarf—no, small person, she'd watched the documentaries, and besides, this guy was considered a serious actor, not a munchkin, not like a token member of a rapper's entourage—he was surrounded by gratuitous nudity until the scene cut to a guy getting beheaded.

"I don't know how you watch this shit," Jenna said, offering Jack the bowl.

He looked at her until she squirmed, then grabbed a handful of popcorn.

Jenna set the bowl on the couch between them, picked up the remote control.

On Demand, maybe there she'd find something they both liked.

SALVATION BOX

2011-08-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

Hello again. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions... I'm in the fast lane. Missed last week, but here I am today with a #fridayflash. Thanks for reading. Tell a friend if you like the words.

SALVATION BOX

Carmen pulled the box out from under the bed. ADIDAS. In junior high, that meant All Day I Dream About Sex. Seventh grade. Bangs and octagon-framed glasses, acne and a training bra. Did she think about sex? After Mr. Gauvin spent four months on human reproduction, she tried her best to forget about sex. Learning the difference between clitoris and vulva from a two-chinned biology teacher with Rorschach stains on his tie somehow dampened the ardor. She remembered the boys disgusted expressions every time a girl crossed or uncrossed her legs. Maybe that was the school board's intention—birth control by revulsion.

She never owned a pair of Adidas.

For that matter, neither had Jeremy, as far as she knew. Jeremy was a Nike man. Except for the occasional Chuck Taylors. At least, people referred to the Chuck T's as sneakers. Running shoes, cross-trainers, board shoes, basketball shoes—what was so politically incorrect about the word sneaker? Maybe the "sneak" part. But that was the point of rubber soles, wasn't it? Rubber soles...rubber souls...rubbers...Jeremy always used Fantasy brand....

Adidas. Women's Running adiSTAR Salvation 3 shoes. Size 5½. Medium width. Carmen opened the box. White shoe—no, white sneaker, pink and black treads. Cool design, if one were to run in the mud, or snow, or on thick-piled carpeting. Also inside the box, she found a pair of ankle socks, stretched flat on cardboard inside the cellophane. Fuzzy white socks with pink edging and fuzzier pink pom poms.

Carmen tucked a few stray hairs back under the bandana covering her head. She stared at the dust motes floating lazily on the late afternoon sunbeams. Still needed to vacuum and dust, but organizing the clutter came first. She left the sneaker box on the bed, and slid open Jeremy's side of the closet. She sniffed a suit, relishing his lingering cologne. She missed him so much when he left town for the weekend. But, business was business, and her business this weekend was to tackle the fall cleaning.

Carmen grabbed a garbage bag as she remembered Jeremy's erotic dream, one he'd shared with her shortly after they'd met. Something involving pom pom socks and sneakers. She was supposed to wear that and nothing else. In his dream, she'd, well, she'd done things that even Mr. Gauvin may not have disclosed to a class of pre-teens while stroking the labia majora and labia minora on that female anatomy poster. She laughed out loud, surprising herself at the sharp sound. Labia Majora, that should be the name for an all girl rock band. Imagine what the drummer did with her sticks....

Carmen had always intended to do it, really, she wanted to please Jeremy, but somehow she'd never quite gotten around to shopping for the socks. Had Jeremy intended to surprise her? Bought the dream sneakers, found the dream pom poms, then got shy and shoved the box under the bed? Sure, he was waiting for the right time to pull it all out and ask her to fulfill the fantasy. But before that happened, he stored his suitcase under the bed. The box got shoved deeper, almost forgotten. Sure, that was it. Then he took a trip and Carmen decided to do the fall cleaning and looked under the bed when the vacuum whined on the dust bunnies and she found the box. Maybe, maybe, maybe....

Carmen yanked his clothes off the hangers and stuffed them in the garbage bags. She found Salvation. That was Salvation 3 running shoes. Those sneakers were not her size.

COMMUTE

2011-08-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

Gosh, I miss doing this every week. But in the paraphrased words of Dr. Suess, I am thankful I do it occasionally, rather than regret when I cannot. #fridayflash. Thanks for reading.

COMMUTE

MONDAY
She groaned at the tired punch-line the morning deejay delivered after a rambling story. Vanessa slammed the volume knob, listened to the tires roll against pavement. A to-do list formed in her mind, quickly segued to a should-have list, then a shouldn't-have list. She turned the radio back on. Vanessa let the familiarity of an overplayed classic lull her back into the morning commute.

A white sheet billowed ahead. Though rarer these days than a year ago, she made a point of reading each testament to a brave soldier's return, adding her silent prayer of thanks and welcome home. Vanessa eased up on the gas pedal as she approached the overpass. This wasn’t one of those.

I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. Such vulnerability rippled across the white sheet, the corners tied to the steel fencing. Eight thick, crooked words let the world know ME put his or her heart out on the line. Was Sam a Samuel or Samantha? What did ME know about love? So hopeful, there for the world to read. The driver behind Vanessa laid on his horn.

She sped up, thinking if only ME knew. Hopeful, all-consuming, shout-it-from-the-rooftops love—or from Interstate 93—lasted only until the top layer of wedding cake thawed. A year layer, a mere token from its once glorious affec—confection, she meant confection—it tasted stale, bland, maybe a little freezer burnt. But Chris and she shared it, pretending it still meant something. Well, maybe not enough. They ate it two days after their first anniversary. Or was it three?

Would SAM see the proposal today? Would SAM say YES? She missed that warm, tingly, all-I-can-think-about-is-him feeling. Even more, she missed him feeling that way about her. Vanessa swerved to avoid the mutilated carcass of what once could have been a squirrel as she took her exit. She wished ME luck and added a stop at the bakery, maybe a bottle of wine to her to-do list.

TUESDAY
The sheet sagged. Between wiper passes, Vanessa read I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. It looked a little soggy, less hopeful. The last M had smeared in the rain. Did SAM see it yesterday? Of course she/he did. When someone says yes to a proposal, the couple would probably celebrate, toast with champagne, linger over a romantic dinner. She would lift her hand, let her new diamond catch the flickering candlelight, let it bounce until his pupils reflected the same sparkle. They would make love for hours rather than have sex. In bed, she would hold her diamond up again to catch the street light peeking in between the venetian blinds, then kiss and cuddle and fall asleep with a satisfied smile. Of course SAM and ME would not drive to the overpass and untie their first banner of love. That would be the last thing on their to-do list.

Vanessa turned onto the off ramp, hand-over-hand on her steering wheel. Her engagement ring did not sparkle. Neither did her wedding band. But it was a rainy, gray day; no sunshine to glint off diamonds. She added jewelry cleaner and maybe a quick peek in the lingerie department to her to-do list.

WEDNESDAY
The lower right corner had loosened from between the chain links. I LOVE YOU WILL YU ARY was visible as the wind caught the flap, folded and battered the sheet against the fence. Did SAM say yes? Had SAM even read the proposal? ME must be losing sleep, biting fingernails, ricocheting between righteous anger and self-doubt. How dare SAM make ME wait?

Or had SAM said no? Then of course ME would leave the sheet on the highway, probably take a few days off to avoid ever seeing such a naive message of hope. Vanessa felt for ME. And for SAM.

Maybe something happened to SAM. SAM had not driven on I93. Maybe SAM stayed longer than expected at a family event. Got reacquainted with a long lost cousin, one of those persons who is called cousin due to family friendship, and not because of blood. Better if ME had his/her heart broken now, rather than later. Better to learn now, rather than after the sex becomes obligation, when foreplay becomes the minty fumes of mouthwash.

Vanessa took her exit, added reorganizing the photo albums to her to-do list.

THURSDAY
Large tears bisected the sheet, I LOV WIL MAR SA wrenching on the right, E YOU L YOU RY ME M flapping on the left. Vanessa cried, added buy a legal pad for more to-do lists.

FRIDAY
Vanessa called in sick, then drove the back roads. She parked on the berm just before the bridge. She hoped SAM had seen the message, and knew in his/her heart that someone, at least for a moment, had burst with so much love that it needed to be shared. Vanessa hoped ME held onto that depth of feeling, and could feel it again. Or continue to feel it. Maybe SAM said yes and maybe ME left the banner up for inspiration.

Vanessa detached the tattered corners from the chain links, gently folded the stained and ripped cloth. She could have it dry cleaned, have the attendant sew it back together. She would store it, maybe in her hope chest.

The crisp white sheet snapped in the breeze. Vanessa noticed she missed a paint smudge on the back of her hand as she tied the corners to the fencing. Her L looked a bit crooked, but the OVED blazed thick and bold. Chris would drive under this bridge, maybe tomorrow, maybe next weekend. She could wait for his response.

TWO FLICKS OF A SQUIRREL'S TAIL

2011-06-02T17:54:00.000-07:00

This story I thought would be longer, and I had started and stopped it several times. Today, I saw my way through to the end of it as a flash. So, for two weeks in a row, I participate in #fridayflash. Some weeks are easier than others, that's all I'm sayin'.

TWO FLICKS OF A SQUIRREL'S TAIL

Mike looked out the plate-glass windows to see the bagger leaning against the cart corral, texting. Damn kids. Mike stepped outside to yell at Jake when the moon stopped him. Full and bare in all its pockmarked glory, Mike half expected Elliot and ET to bicycle across the surface. A beat-up LeMans careened into the lot, almost grazing the snaking buggy-line Jake pushed toward the store.

Three doors shot open. The driver grasped his door to pull himself out of the car. He limped to the two reaching arms and helped a hunchbacked woman from the back seat. He got a walker from the trunk, rolled it on its tennis-balled feet towards the gesturing woman. Another old man shuffled around from the passenger side. The trio headed toward Mike.

"Store's about to close folks."

"Are you turning away customers? Back in my day—"

"Shush Frank, let the lolly-gagging boy do his big-boss routine."

He hadn't heard lolly-gagging since nana. The hunchbacked woman's sandpapery voice scratched Mike's eardrums. "Have some respect, boss-man—"

—she pushed her walker closer—

"we'll be gone—"

—the automatic doors swooshed behind him—

"—in two flicks of a squirrel's tail."

He stepped aside to let them pass, breathing through his mouth. They smelled like the last time he was at nana's house, an aromatic blend of mothballs, hamburger grease, and urine with a hint of lavender.

But growing up, her house smelled of strawberry rhubarb pie, and pot roast, and Canada peppermints, and clean sheets and lemon Pledge. Her yard buzzed with bees and dragonflies and the faint whoosh of distant traffic. Mockingbirds and jays called from the edging pines, competing with the chickadees and whippoorwills. Turtles crawled, ants hilled, toads hopped. He had seen rabbits and chipmunks, startled squirrels with bulging cheeks. Both he and the animals would stop, stare, and then the squirrels would flick their tails twice before they'd flit away. Always, two flicks of a squirrel's tail—

Mike lost the old folks.

Marci glared at him from register six. The automatic recording urged shoppers to bring their purchases to the front, the store would be closing in ten minutes. Jake crashed the line of carts against the front wall. Mike couldn't hear the old folks shuffling steps or their querulous voices.

"Goodnight boss. See you tomorrow," Stan from produce said as he headed for the exit. He covered his bald spot with a Boston Red Sox cap, instantly erasing years from his face.

"Did you see some old folks in the aisles?" Mike asked.

"Nope. You all set with me?"

"Yes. Goodnight."

Sam left. The women from the deli said their goodbyes. Mike overheard one comment to the other to wish on the full moon. The other retorted it took more than a full moon. The last two stock boys told Mike all set. None of them had seen any shoppers.

Can I do my drawer now?" Marci asked. She winked at Jake, who lingered at the end of her line. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. The announcement thanked everyone for shopping at Soucy's Market.

"Fine! I'll leave a self check-out open," Mike said.

"How do three gimps disappear?" he mumbled as he walked to the front of each aisle, checking the length for the trio. He immediately felt guilty for the insult; his nana would have boxed his ears for that under-breath comment.

A soap smell wafted, a familiar, fresh scent that he couldn't place. Halfway down aisle eight Mike spotted a spilled box of Calgon. Just as he was about to yell for Jake to get a broom, Marci shouted, "Bye Mike! I left the green thingies on top of my drawer."

The automatic doors swished shut. Mike returned to the front, saw the kids run to Marci's Corolla where Jake trapped her against the door. They kissed. Moonbeams shone on the empty LeMans.

Mike locked the doors, wishing he could have a do-over. No way would he spend his career at the local grocery store. He'd be the one kissing girls in the parking lot, Mike thought as went to Marci's register—an entire sheet of S&H green stamps covered the drawer.

Nostalgia sucker-punched Mike. He remembered licking stamp after stamp, filling up the booklets. He had studied the redemption catalogue, agonized between a camera or binoculars. On his thirteenth birthday, his nana had used all the booklets and surprised him with a shiny red Schwinn.

Mike got the broom and dustpan. Over time, those green stamps had paid for nana's oversized suitcase, alarm clock radio; even her pink floral bedspread.

The walker leaned against an endcap.

"Where are you!" Mike shouted. The Calgon smell wafted stronger, reminding him again of nana. Gosh, he hadn't thought about her since he'd brought her to the nursing home, her suitcase filled with housecoats, and her faded bedspread. The alarm clock radio looked out of place in that utilitarian room. So had nana. He should have visited more often.

Soap powder must have drifted as he swept because his eyes stung. Mike pulled the hanky from his back pocket, blew his nose, then let out a self-deprecating laugh. He hadn't thought so much about nana in years.

Mike bent to pick up the fallen box and slipped. His head slammed against the tiles. Suddenly, the catch phrase came to him.

He shouted, "Calgon, take me away!" and covered his eyes with his forearm, trying his best not to sob.

The fluorescents buzzed louder, then altered into a different tone. Bees, Mike thought. He sniffed. Peppermint and lavender filled his nose.

"My, that was quite a spill, Mikey. You fell faster than two flicks of a squirrel's tail."

Mike opened his eyes. Nana smiled at him. "You're fine. Help me with these groceries. Oh, they had the new catalogue down at Soucy's. Hope you wished for something good on last night's full moon!"

I did Nana Mike thought. Yes I did.

FANTASMIC!® VACATION

2011-05-26T23:04:00.000-07:00

No rain, hot weather coming our way... I am dreaming of vacation.

FANTASMIC!® VACATION

For the fifth time today we queued, as my twelve-year-old son said in his best British impersonation. His British slipped into Swedish, but I chuckled nonetheless. At least this queue was out of the burning sunshine.

The air-conditioned holding tank piped in almost current music and even a slide show distraction while we pretended our 3-D glasses were Ray-ban© designer and we were movie stars rather than weary tourists waiting to act as a “shrunken audience.” I hated “True Colors” (it was a morning radio staple that targeted my age group, so it reminded me of Starbucks® coffee and TJ Maxx® deals and Aerostars®), but combined with the poignant (not corny I rationalized) Kodak® images of vibrant families simulating touching milestone moments, I couldn’t help but hum along and wipe the spec that suddenly irritated my eyes (my son said I could get the red out with Visine®) as I gazed upon my own family milling about. With zero chores and clean sheets and ‘top-notch’ accommodations—not to mention loads of family time—it had turned out to be a terrific week. So what if the brochure-promised "family-time" was spent in "queues?"

I chose to think of it as quality time, since we got to really listen to, and laugh with the boys (or at least I found the patience to clench my teeth and smile indulgently rather than scream it's only funny the first time as my son attempted the tired ersatz British accent again). Later we could spend more time together as we waited our turn for Pluto or Captain Hook or Chip and Dale to visit our table while we ate overpriced burgers and paid for the souvenir photograph. We would go to the parade and light the night with the Simba flashlight and Pocahontas glow sticks. Of course, we would order the keepsake dvd of the spectacular(!), and hurry to catch the shuttle so we could spend the last half hour of our day at the Lego® store and maybe get a Ghirardelli® chocolate shake for dessert, and, and....

That’s when I realized; we paid to vacation inside a commercial.

SUMMER HEAT AT CANNOLI PIE

2011-05-15T09:17:00.000-07:00

The lastest issue of Cannoli Pie, "Fresco", features a short fiction piece by me! The editor describes the story as "ornate, sexy and trippy." I can dig that. Check it out:

http://cannolipie.com/Documents/CP9%20Fresco.pdf

FAKE REAL WOMAN

2011-03-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

FAKE REAL WOMAN

Diane smashed the portrait she'd painted of Tim and herself against her knee. She pulled drawers, swept the night stand, got rid of every memento and gift that reminded her of him. The anger still boiled. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.

She yanked clothes he bought for her from her closet, ripped each into rags. No loss on those; he still bought her clothes from two sizes ago. For when you get back to yourself, he'd said. She slid the wedding gown from the back, but stopped herself in the nick of time. Mom's wedding gown. Diane's first fitting was supposed to be Saturday. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.

He had yet to promise for better or for worse. He had opted out. Her finger throbbed from tugging off the engagement ring. He'd slid that on her finger two sizes ago.

Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.

Tim got her through mom's funeral. So what if she spiraled a bit after that. Missed classes, lost her art students, lost the downtown studio. Lost her figure. She caught her reflection above the bureau.

Frizzy auburn curls framed her splotchy pale skin, lids swollen over hazel eyes, mascara sliming down puffy cheeks—and two chins, neck folds, the beginning of a matronly uni-boob. She couldn't erase his expression from her mind. There was no remorse. Only pity. I'm sorry, I'm just not attracted to you anymore.

She could handle not being pretty to him anymore (though it hurt). She could handle him not loving her anymore (she'd try). But she could not handle him believing her insignificant (a non-person). If she bumped into him on the street, he wouldn't say hello. Only people who thought themselves superior doled out pity. To him, she would be invisible.

She could show him. She mattered. She could be thin again. Pretty again. Diane raced to her attic studio, slammed a blank canvas on the easel. She slipped on her apron, tied her hair into a ponytail. She'd show him the real her, the perfect Diane.

She mixed paints, brushed bold lines across the blank white. First the hair, blue-black and flowing. She added dots of white then blurred them to give shampoo-commercial shine. She outlined a heart-shaped face, widow's peak a point on the smooth forehead.

Her arm tingled as she shaped eyebrows, arched and haughty. Not something she'd felt before, but yes, if she could feel haughty, she could get over the hurt. Cerulean irises under luxurious lashes, only the faintest hint of laugh lines.

Diane watched her hand fly across the canvas. The collar bone, sleek, visible, not cushioned by fat. Sculpted arms, graceful wrists, elegant fingers all appeared. She hadn't felt such inspiration since her mother started chemo. Painting felt good again. She added flesh tones, filled in shadows, gave the Diane in the picture dimension. A warmth spread from her fingertips to her hands, from there to her entire body, exciting her, arousing her, spurring her to give life to the woman on the canvas. Show a part of herself that Tim....

Diane lowered the brush. In her artistic frenzy, she had forgotten. He had dumped her. Pitied her. Deemed her insignificant.

She stared at her self-portrait, the portrait of the better self she wanted to be. The one Tim wanted her to be. One that Tim could be attracted to.

The woman was not Diane.

From the eye color to the erect nipples on melon-shaped breasts, to the perfect cheerios navel dotting the pilates-structured stomach, to the curly black triangle between full hips, to the muscular legs....

Diane could never be the goddess on the canvas. The nude woman looked too real. The woman was taller, shapelier, bolder—Diane realized she had painted a nude Wonder Woman. Diane reached for more blue pigment to cover the nudity. She couldn't believe she had painted every hot-blooded teenaged boy's fantasy woman. Her fantasy.

Tim's fantasy.

How could lines and paint be more attractive than flesh and blood? Diane stared at the statuesque image. Her fantasy, his fantasy—regardless, not real. Not Diane.

She put down her palette. This hurt too much. What was she doing to herself? Before she could become jealous of this non-person, Diane turned around to look for the gesso. Start fresh, begin again, all that happy horseshit—as long as she didn't have to stare at someone she could never be. Gesso—artist's white-out.

Something yanked her ponytail.

Diane screeched and slapped the arm holding her hair. It did not let go. She slammed into the canvas. Another arm reached over her shoulder, snatched the gesso. She recognized the hand. She had just painted it.

"You're not real" she shouted. Diane twisted and pulled, tried to free herself. In a flash, Wonder Woman's leg grew in dimension until it kicked Diane.

She crumpled to the floor. The canvas ripped as Wonder Woman pulled free. Diane crawled toward the door, but the comic heroine was bigger, stronger. She pinned Diane as she coated a spatula with gesso.

Diane balled her fist but before her punch made contact, it disappeared in a smear of white. Two more swipes and Diane's body was gone. The thick white goo touch Diane's cheek. Then she felt nothing at all.

CARRY THAT WEIGHT

2011-03-10T12:44:00.000-08:00

Thank you to all who read this story at this spot. I have sold it to Golden Visions Magazine and hope you will go and read (or reread?) this story there, along with the other terrific content. I am keeping the comments here, because on down days, these keep my writing.

Golden Visions also published "Memories Captured", another flash story I debuted in this forum, then felt confident enough to submit elsewhere. Thank you for your encouragement, and for supporting me, as well as the independent publishers.

I am addicted to weight loss shows; Heavy, The Biggest Loser, even MTV's I Used To Be Fat--I can't get enough. On almost every show, after the final weigh-in when it is time to cheer success, someone says "I/You lost a person." I would think, yeah, cool, that is a whole other person but it never inspired, you know? On a recent show, the trainer said, "you lost xxx pounds, that's what I weigh." It was my weight too. Inspiration hit, hence the story above. Oh, and the title meant I had to get the appropriate song. Enjoy.

FLASH AND FADE

2011-03-03T14:06:00.000-08:00

He didn't recognize the phone. Or the number on the screen. He answered it anyway. "Hello?"

"Who is this?"

He opened his mouth, but a name didn't blurt. He shouted louder than he intended. "You called me."

The other voice took on a nasty tone. "You’re not Angelo. Who the hell are you?"

Angelo. The name didn't ring a bell.

"Tell Angelo I'm coming." The line went dead.

He looked around the room. Bare. Colorless. Windowless. Doorless. Just him, a table, two chairs and the phone. He checked himself. White tee shirt over a slight paunch. Blue jeans, right knee ripped. Pockets empty. Feet bare. He ran a hand over his head. Smooth. He wondered when he became bald. He wondered when he had hair. Shit, he just wondered.

The phone gleamed under the solitary bulb. The bulb wasn’t here a minute ago. Trauma. He’d experienced a trauma, that’s why his senses were scrambled. He cleared the lump from his throat, fidgeted with the phone. He cleared his throat again. Rubbed his neck. Maybe he was coming down with something. Why couldn’t he come up with his own name?

He scrolled through the contacts, hoping a familiar name would pop. The bulb swayed. Angelo's phone. Angelo's contacts. Angelo knew thousands of people. He scrolled to the M's. M...something. He concentrated, tried to pull a name. Mel—, Meli—. A song replayed in his head, a nostalgic melody, no words until the chorus. Sweet Melissa.

Melissa pregnant, rushed into delivery. His reflection in a security mirror, blue scrub hat covering his bald head, nostrils distorted into caverns on the convex surface. He bent to kiss her perspiring forehead, her grip crushed his knuckles. He brushed dark strands off her cheeks, could not recall her face. Nurses firm, signing forms, scalp itchy under the elastic band, sweat trickling over the goose bumps along his spine.

Pictures. Angelo's phone must have pictures. Maybe Melissa. Maybe... bells tinkled. A text message loaded. A newborn, slimed and bawling, legs curled, umbilical stump clamped. A baby's smile inside smashed peas. A toddler boy pouting on Santa's lap. Picture after picture of his son flashed into view, a slide show of Christian's life.

Christian. Living with Melissa's mother. He saw his son on weekends. Bought him a trike. Took him fishing once. To the movies. They saw one of the Shreks. They shared the bucket of popcorn. Christian puked in the car. He never got the smell out. Melissa's eyes, Melissa's pointy chin, Melissa's two sneezes in a row—weekends with Christian hurt. He didn't visit often. He just couldn't.

Complications. He signed the release. No kiss, no touch, just Melissa screaming, screaming save the baby, please David, DAVID....

She never said goodbye.

David dropped the phone on the cheap wood. A hexagon table, came with two uncomfortable spindle-legged chairs. Something to fill space in the apartment. A breeze. David turned to the window. A stained shade covered the top half.

He jumped away, knocked the chair over. The doorbell rang. Someone pounded his apartment door. This was his apartment. Not a colorless room. The bare bulb shone over the table, because the chandelier broke. The visitor pressed the doorbell, the discordant buzz blending with bells tinkling from the cell.

"Angelo! Open up."

David read the text.

Hold on.

From Angelo.

Black smoke billowed from under the door. David choked. White smoke swirled before him. There was no dangling bulb.

A rope.

The door splintered, then crashed onto the floor. A sigh cascaded from the window. A man-shape burst from the black smoke. A man-shape formed in the white smoke. David's vantage point changed. The ceiling smoke detector's red light blinked at him. He looked down to the visitors.

"Suicides are mine Angelo."

"He's not dead, Nick."

"No one's coming for him."

Angelo glanced at David. David swung, first towards Angelo, then toward Nick. David heard a car backfire. A child's squeal. A dog's bark. Garlic and onions floated on the breeze underneath the smoke and over his own acrid stink. The rope chafed his neck. He couldn't gasp.

Angelo reached toward David.

"Uh-uh, Angelo. The rules."

Angelo smiled at David, nodded toward Nick. "Just giving him his show. Remember the life flashing part?"

Angelo gestured at the table. The phone floated to David. Pictures filled the screen, pictures he'd never aimed or snapped, but pictures of four-year-old him, dad holding him safe and pictures of eight-year-old him sliding into home plate and pictures of him with cousins and friends and at school and at parties and in uniform and feeding Melissa wedding cake and watching the heartbeat on the ultrasound monitor and all the people at her wake and each simple picture of his daily routine so mundane yet profound because it was his last view ever of every thing he had ever hoped or regretted or loved or—

—Christian's face filled the screen—

—despaired. Despair shrouded the rest.

Yesterday he called his son, but the boy never answered. He tried again from True Value, where he bought rope. He tried again after he tested his weight against the hook in the ceiling, the one that used to hold the chandelier. He never said goodbye.

Nick wiped his mouth. Drool sizzled on Nick's knuckle.

Angelo twitched.

"No Angelo. No divine interference."

"Stop me."

Angelo rose. Nick flashed from the doorway, rammed Angelo. Nick's fingertips flickered. Angelo blew. Flames flared to the smoke detector. The alarm bleated.

Alarms sounded in the entire building. The door splintered, then crashed to the floor. A firefighter shouldered between the disappearing Nick and Angelo. Black spots filled David's vision. The room faded.

Melissa's face appeared. He remembered. Freckles on her cheek, gold flecks in hazel eyes. Her easy laugh. Her soft lips. Goodbye David.

Her face blended into his. Mouth agape, cheeks slack, a glare bounced off his head. His reflection transparent on a firefighter's mask. David took a breath.

The End

a co-worker passed this week. he was not only a consummate bartender--he honed techniques, studied the history, and made every single guest feel special--but he was the first person to ask me for permission to quote and post a story I wrote. joey made me feel like a writer.

if only we all could understand the myriad of ways we touch others. he is missed.

LOST ALONG THE WAY

2011-02-23T20:17:00.000-08:00

After months away, well, I just missed being here. Some good things have happened since I've been here, such as a few acceptences, even a token payment or two. One of my favorite blog posts garnered an honorable mention spot in the Silverthought Online Sparkly Vampire Jamboree Contest (just follow the link and scroll down if you want to read the story). That one earned more than token! But before you think my head is swollen, it's all been tempered by many rejections. Even ones pertaining to writing (snicker).

Time to write flash again. For #fridayflash (if they let me back in--Peggy who? they are asking), here is:

LOST ALONG THE WAY

Eddie drummed invisible fingers against the marble. He remembered when the bar was oak, when whiskey and cigarettes and stale beer perfumed the air, when the burly Hap poured the spirits. To be stuck for eternity with fruity ales and pastel liquids "hand-crafted" by Alana and Zachary and Sergio killed him. Of course, nothing could kill the already dead. Fifty years of purgatory, and counting.

"If you hate it here so much, go to the goddamn light." Benny removed the match from his mouth and flicked its sulfur head with his thumbnail. "Here you go, your way out."

"You're an ass."

Eddie hit the match out of Benny's fingers, knocking it into a martini glass. After the barely audible sizzle, the match disappeared from the liquid, reappearing between Benny's shit-eating grin. Eddie hit that too.

"A ghost of your former self. Didn't feel a thing." Benny laughed.

Celebrating a sale, they had stopped at this hole-in-the-wall for a quick scotch. Three hours later, Hap the bartender poured one more for the road. Eddie couldn't remember who bought the cigars. Last living memory Eddie possessed was slumping to the floor, and Benny laughing. The first memory after that was of smoldering on the floor and Benny laughing. Benny had been sending smoke rings out of all his orifices. They've been arguing ever since about who started the fire. Benny's flame-joke wore on Eddie's nerves. If he had nerves. Or skin. Or muscles.

Before Eddie could summon the psychic energy to really wallop his friend, he heard new bartender Alana ask, "Is something burning?" She sniffed as she squinted at the martini glass, a ripple dispersing on the liquid surface.

"Hey! She saw something," Eddie said, nudging Benny. Eddie hoped so. For what felt like the first time since getting stuck in Hap's Bar/Stanley's Place/The Silver Lining/Antonio's/Park and Fortieth and now Trini'tinies, he started paying attention to time passing. Eddie found himself looking forward to week-ends, when the beautiful Alana with the pert figure and the long legs and the crooked smile and the mole under her left nipple—he only looked through her tee shirt once—worked until last call.

Benny winked at Eddied then glided through the bar. "Think she'll feel this?" He began a slow bump and grind against Alana.

"Now why you gotta go and get dirty with her? Oh, I get it, because I like her." Eddie noticed two pert spots on Alana's tee. Goose flesh had also popped along her arms, pale follicles semi-transparent in the diffused lighting. What he wouldn't give to stroke those hairs down smooth.

"Zachary, Sergio, check the thermostat. It's chilly in here." She hugged herself as she walked away from Buddy's spot. "Too bright too. Where's the dimmer?"

Benny stared. He looked pale, as if he'd seen, well, himself. "D-Did she say it's chilly?"

Eddie nodded. He heard Sergio's lisp, telling Alana about "cold thpots" and how he "thuspecths this place is haunted. It has a hith-story, you know."

"She can sense us." Eddie almost felt his heartbeat. He glided through the bar, through Benny, through Sergio to be near Alana.

Benny glided to catch up. "Should we do something?"

"Like what?"

"Like. Like...."

Benny cupped his mouth. "HEY CHICKIE-POO, WE'RE HERE!"

"Not that." Eddie concentrated and stroked Alana's bare arm. The fine hairs sprang to attention again. She hugged herself as she squinted at Sergio, then at Eddie's spot, then at the rest of the room.

"You're going to scare her," Benny said. "Remember the medium?"

Almost in unison, Sergio said, "We had a medium here once. A fire burnt this place to the ground. Two men died."

Benny snickered. "He has it half right. One man and one pussy died in the fire."

"What's your problem?"

"I want to leave. Can't drink the booze, can't touch the women, can't even get a decent laugh from you. As long as we're stuck here, we are stuck."

Eddie stared at his friend. The match was bopping up and down from between Benny's lips, a sure sign that he was thinking. "Go to the light," Eddie said. "I'm not stopping you."

"Yes. You are."

"How?"

Benny glided to the plate glass windows. Eddie followed. Streetlights beamed down on smokers, their cigarettes dots of light inside oncoming headlights. Eddie couldn't believe it; he had sensed every thought, every nuance, every inkling Benny had ever since they'd died—how did he not know Benny couldn't find the light?

Eddie felt Benny's gaze. "You can't find it either," Benny said.

"I thought you knew. I thought all your light-comments were cruel jokes. I-I-I thought you liked it here."

Benny shook his head. "We died together, I guess we have to leave together. But you always find a reason." Benny pointed at Alana. She shaded her eyes. "So, we stay."

Eddie wanted to ask another question, but was afraid of the answer.

"No one gets lost on the way to hell. Let's go, Eddie. Find our heaven."

"So, where's that infamous beam of light?"

Benny moved the match from one side of his mouth to the other. Eddie stared. "Why do you still have that?"

Eddie plucked the match from between Benny's lips. Both souls studied the red-tipped sliver of wood. Eddie flicked the head. Flame burst, a wisp of smoke rose.

Alana's head whipped around. "Sergio, LOOK!" She pointed at Eddie and Benny. "I see them!" Her face glowed. Light bathed her body, except for two man-shaped shadows. Eddie and Benny stared at the match, trying to figure out how such a small flame created such an effect.

"Guys! Behind you." She pointed at the window.

Eddie and Benny whipped around. The match-flame leaned toward a passageway of pure brilliance. Eddie grinned, then chortled, then joined Benny in a belly laugh as they floated into the light.

SYLVIE'S STORY

2010-11-13T19:27:00.000-08:00

This story originally appeared in print in the short story collection, hoi polloi III, published by Dog Days Press about a year ago. I broke a rule in writing this one that I didn't know at the time--always start the story with the protagonist. Despite my faux pas, I have a soft spot for this one, and decided to present it here as it appeared in the book.

My original intent was to create Eldritch Way, with many shops and each shop (or shop owner, or customer, or...well, the idea isn't caput yet) having its own story. Maybe a cohesive short story collection with a common thread would make me famous...eh, I dream. Anyhow, Sylvie is a psychic, with stiff competition on Eldritch Way--Elvira is another psychic on the street, but she's a fake (a fake with personality)--but this isn't Elvira's story. This is Sylvie's. Here she is, trying to drum up some business.

(I should warn you, this isn't flash. Get a snack, a bevie, and your fuzzy slippers, then enjoy the read.)

SYLVIE’S STORY

The woman standing on her porch did not look like a psychic. The newspaper ad promised top-notch clairvoyants. It piqued her curiosity — a psychic party sounded fun. Anything was more entertaining than burping Tupperware or matching frames with sconces and candles.

This bony woman in the discount store dress did not inspire confidence. Her stringy, dark hair hung limp around her gaunt face; dark circles smudged under her eyes. How was she going to explain that this homeless looking creature could divine futures?

“Is this the Rayburn home? I’m Sylvie, from Mr. Leland’s Extraordinary Clairvoyants,” the creature said.

“Um, yes. Hello. Is... Is it just you?”

Rhonda stood in her doorway, uncertain. Mr. Leland already had her credit card information. Plus a customary tip of twenty dollars per person was expected, extra if especially satisfied. Rhonda did not believe her friends would be satisfied with this woman. Too late; they waited to be amazed. Thank god she bought extra tequila. The margaritas would be strong tonight.

~

Sylvie looked behind her, then back at Ms. Rayburn and gave the hostess a crooked smile. The psychic wanted to be here about as much as she wanted a tax audit. It didn’t take psychic abilities to see this snobby woman rejected her. Too bad. Sylvie needed the cash, even if it meant demeaning herself by whoring her talents at a home party.

“Where do you want me to set up? This porch is okay, but will the other women mind?” The tall blonde blushed under her matte finish make-up. The psychic wondered if this woman in designer jeans and a silk blouse was embarrassed by her forgotten manners, or angry because of Sylvie’s rude tone.

“I’m sorry. Won’t you come in? Er, what do you need to set up? I don’t see....”

“It’s all here,” Sylvie said as she lifted a small paper bag, “I only need a quiet room and a small table, if possible.”

A real psychic didn’t need accessories; she could just see. Tarot cards and crystals were distractions used to trick a client into offering information. It wasn’t prophesy — it was telling what the person wanted to hear. Of course, the fakes earned more money than Sylvie; hence, this awkward encounter on the Rayburn porch.

The psychic reminded herself, this job was for the contacts. Her psychic studio could use more business. Maybe if she foretold a torrid affair, or a child protégée, these plastic women would visit her studio.

Rhonda led Sylvie to a spacious living room. Three women sat on the overstuffed sofa, another on the matching love seat, a young fresh-faced woman sat beside a dowdy woman on the hearth, and one regal Victorian chair was empty — Rhonda’s seat before she answered the door. With seven readings at fifteen minutes each, plus the introduction and the shuffle between readings, Sylvie realized she was committed to a full two hours, or more. Next time she would bring Ibuprofen.

Refreshments crowded the coffee table: chips and salsa, finger sandwiches, a platter of raw vegetables and dip, and frosty margarita glasses. In her head, the psychic groaned. Drunken women meant a very long night. She prayed they tipped better than the customary Andrew Jackson. Maybe one of these bankers would hand over a Ben Franklin.

“Ladies, this is Sylvie, our clairvoyant for the evening. I’ll let her explain what she would like us to do.” A buzzer sounded. “Oops, the mini-quiches. Does anyone want a fresh margarita?” The hostess took count and left the room.

Sylvie wasn’t sure how to proceed. Six expectant faces stared at her. Each one became stony as they got a good look. She understood she didn’t look like an exotic gypsy, but she possessed ability. It was time to take control.

“Hello ladies. As Ms. Rayburn mentioned, I’m Sylvie. You’ll each receive a full fifteen minute private reading, in a separate room. When it’s your turn, let me know if you’d prefer a reading of your future or your past. Before the individual readings, I will reveal a few things I’ve sensed from the group, nothing too embarrassing, to give you ladies something to talk about.”

As she spoke, she felt a strange vibe in the room. Impressions — fleeting, but they would strengthen as she absorbed more of these women’s energies — were of pain, loss, delusions and treachery. She struggled to find a positive; bad news did not entertain, or encourage business. Meanwhile, she stalled.

“Before we start, could someone ask Ms. Rayburn where I should set up?”

A large woman with a very pretty face rose from the loveseat and offered her hand. “Hello, I’m Amy. Rhonda asked me to help. Right this way.”

Amy led Sylvie to a luxurious bedroom. A small round table and two café chairs were set in front of a sliding glass door. A huge crack, bandaged by duct tape, scarred the slider. The psychic thought it quite the contradiction to the pristine order of this home. She blinked, and the glass was intact. This vision didn’t emanate from Amy. Someone else’s story intruded.

Sylvie spread a red-tasseled, black tapestry embroidered with colorful symbols over the table — her one concession to showmanship. She lit her lavender scented pillar candle and centered it on the ornate tablecloth. At the edge of the table she placed her “Sylvie’s Psychic Studio” business cards next to the obligatory ones from Mr. Leland. The anxious psychic touched her stomach, took a deep breathe and returned to the living room.

“Would you like something to eat before we begin?” asked Rhonda. Sylvie did not want to take the time to eat.

“Just water, thank you. Ladies, I already know that most of you work at First National Bank with Ms. Rayburn...”

“Call me Rhonda.” The margaritas relaxed her, thought Sylvie.

“Okay, work with Rhonda at the bank. Except you Amy, you’re her neighbor. I see that one of you will get your promotion within two weeks, and two of you recently suffered from food poisoning. Remember, if the floor looks dirty, the restaurant’s kitchen probably needs attention too. And all of you will shop....”

Sylvie faltered. All of them would be shopping for black — either dresses, or appropriate accessories. All except one. She couldn’t say that to the group. Oh my, this was going to be an awful evening.

“Shop? For what?” asked a petite redhead with parentheses lines around her mouth and crows feet around her eyes. The psychic sensed deceit and an insane jealous streak from this one. Sylvie pitied the co-workers.

“Um, nothing special. Sometimes I see the mundane. Hmmmm.” Sylvie looked from face to face. “One of you lost an important piece of jewelry at the gambling reservation.” The spiky-haired brunette reddened, while the redhead and a stunning Hispanic woman jostled her and giggled.

“One of you just moved in with your boyfriend, two of you are married. I see a divorce from husband number four? No, not divorce... a timely break-up?

“Most of you have children...” Sylvie knew one was on the way, but couldn’t mention it, “and more will be revealed in the individual readings. Ready ladies?”

They were nervous, but excited. The clairvoyant for the evening noted that Rhonda smiled. The young woman on the hearth fiddled with her bangs and tapped her foot. Sylvie dreaded her session with this doomed, hopeful, beautiful child-woman bearing the tiny embryo of her only pregnancy.

“In the interest of each of you getting the most out of your fifteen minutes, I would like to choose you. Some first impressions are stronger than others.”

Rhonda interrupted. “I would prefer to go first. That way I can keep up with my hostess duties, if you don’t mind.” Sylvie didn’t mind, as long as the young brunette went last.

~

Sylvie told Rhonda of her husband’s infidelity, of her impending promotion to branch manager and the hefty raise, of a future affair with a bank vice president that would give her an advantage at work. At the end of the reading, she gave Sylvie a cool, appraising look.

“You would inspire more confidence if you looked the part,” the hostess commented.

Sylvie gave a rueful smile. Ten years living with a jealous man taught her to dress plain. The woman’s blatant observation caused the psychic to realize she wasn’t done healing. Sylvie understood beneath the condescending tone, Rhonda was trying to help. “What do you suggest?” asked Sylvie.

“Use tonight’s money and splurge. Go to the mall. Hit a make-up counter, buy an outfit. Consider it a uniform for your trade.” Rhonda rose, retrieved her pocketbook from the closet and rummaged for her wallet. She placed two fifty-dollar bills on the tapestry. The psychic regretted her earlier judgment of this woman.

~

The neighbor Amy was next. Sylvie revealed her struggles with weight loss, her daughter’s bulimia and her husband’s secret passion for cross-dressing. The good news was her line of greeting cards would be distributed across the region by the end of next year.

The redhead was sleeping with Rhonda’s husband and recently sabotaged the Hispanic woman’s chance for a promotion by planting “unfounded allegations” in her personnel file. The duplicitous woman’s son stole money from her bedroom safe, for drugs. She would lose a lawsuit over a dog bite and owe a neighbor substantial damages. The angry woman did not tip.

The spiky-haired brunette’s gambling problem would interfere with her banking career. Sylvie gently suggested Gamblers Anonymous. The psychic hinted that not only would the gambler kick her addiction; but she also would meet a sensitive, caring, similarly inclined woman at the meetings.

Every time Sylvie returned to the living room she was surprised by the quiet — no laughing, no kidding, no gossiping — not the usual home party atmosphere. Most of the revelations were too personal, too accurate to share. Sylvie rubbed the bridge of her nose and chose number four.

The Hispanic woman’s eldest son would attain a full scholarship to an Ivy League School next year. Her husband would get a new job and take her on a worldwide cruise. Her sixteen year old daughter would make her a grandmother soon.

The dowdy woman hesitated, but entered the bedroom after the other ladies coaxed her. This woman dumped her fiancé yesterday, almost husband number four. She would meet a romantic car salesman by summer’s end, and live a life of leisure — no more banking for this one. The psychic couldn’t discern the lady’s secret weapon.

After six readings, Sylvie’s face was more haggard than when she arrived. The psychic asked for headache tablets before she addressed number seven. Disappointment crossed the young woman’s large hazel eyes.

“If you’re too tired, I understand,” she said, with a half-hearted smile. The psychic wanted so much to beg her forgiveness and say yes, she was too tired; but she couldn’t break her heart. Someone else would do that to the bright-eyed woman, very, very soon.

“What’s your name?” Sylvie asked as she led the girl-woman to the reading area.

“I’m Jocelyn. I’ve always wanted to go to a psychic. I was so happy Rhonda invited me. Have you given a lot of readings?”

“All my life, I could see things. But I only made it a career choice about two years ago.” Two years ago she was finally free of him. This talent allowed her to earn a living. “Have a seat.”

Jocelyn leaned over the candle, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Mmmm, lavender. Does that mean anything?”

Sylvie replied, “You’re the first to ask. Yes, lavender gives protection, and aids in love and vision. Important properties, wouldn’t you say, for a woman giving seven readings in two hours?” She gave the young woman a kind smile.

“What do you need me to do? Do you want my palm, or should I think or say something special?”

Sylvie wanted to cry. This eager girl, full of trust and promise, was a younger version of herself.

“No, just sit,” Sylvie replied. “Honey, you know you don’t have to put up with his abuse, don’t you?” The girl didn’t understand the full definition of abuse.

“No, oh no. That was my boyfriend in high school. He beat me. Yeah, it was a tough time in my life, but I survived, and I learned.” Jocelyn nodded her assurance to the psychic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you which reading I wanted. Please, tell me my future, not my past.”

This innocent woman was stubborn, as Sylvie was in her youth. How would she teach, in fifteen minutes, that a push leads to a hit leads to broken bones and worse? How did she explain that the rough sex was a precursor to rape — and it was rape even within a relationship? How could she convince the woman that her current boyfriend would--?

“Will my boyfriend ask me to marry him?” Jocelyn brushed a tassel of the tapestry across the back of her hand.

Sylvie bit her lip. Resolute, she proceeded.

“Your boyfriend, Dustin?”

“Duncan.”

“Duncan has a mean streak. When he pushes you, he’s not playing.”

Jocelyn picked at the melted candle wax. “No, it’s not like that. We wrestle, he sometimes gets rough, but he’s sooo sorry after. He loves me.”

Sylvie sat silent. She remembered the “I’m sorry’s” and the passionate love-making; the “but I love you’s” after the pain; the “but I love him’s” no matter what.

“I’m ready, Sylvie. Go ahead. What do you see?”

Sylvie concentrated on the candle flame. She saw.

~~~

The two lovers wrestled among the half empty boxes in the tiny second floor living room. His knees pinned her arms to the ground, his hands tickling her sides mercilessly. His eyes gleamed with malice and power. Jocelyn recognized that look from her past, but dismissed it as her imagination.

She begged Duncan to stop, screamed at him. He used the back of his hand and roughly pushed her face. Tears stung her eyes — his ring cut her cheek. Duncan begged her forgiveness, helped her off the floor, swept her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He promised he didn’t mean it, he got carried away. He would never hurt her. She was everything to him.

~

He came home late from his job at the quick lube garage. Jocelyn saw his eye twitch. She hoped her new recipe would cheer him.

He pushed her out of his way to get a beer from the fridge, complained what smells awful? She rubbed her hip — it smarted from contact with the brass drawer pull — and explained how she learned a new recipe from a girl at work.

He looked in the pan and called it slop. He grabbed her by the hair, pushed her face an inch from the pan, told her to breathe deep and then threw her back. She fell hard on the kitchen tiles, bruising her tail bone. She sobbed; he apologized, with a “but”.

He didn’t mean to hurt her but, he had a bad day. His asshole boss fired him for only being ten minutes late. She made it worse by serving chicken, again. Couldn’t she fix a real man’s meal, maybe steak? She didn’t dare say they couldn’t afford steak. She gently asked him if he would find a new job tomorrow.

He raised his arm, but Duncan held his temper in check. He kissed her neck, she giggled, they moved to the bedroom. He convinced her she owed him. She felt guilty, so she tried the new, painful thing.

~

She put the flowers in a lead crystal vase. He purchased them at the convenience store where he now worked.

He swung her around and they danced in the living room. She commented on how they needed a second paycheck. Duncan yelled why did she have to be such a bitch? He got a job didn’t he?

He threw the vase against the slider. The door cracked, but didn’t break. She sobbed, he apologized — the same routine. They laughed together as they duct-taped the ugly gash on the glass door. He professed his love, and again led her to the bedroom.

~

She worried. Traffic was horrendous. He insisted she was seeing someone else whenever she was late. She wished she knew a way to prove how much she loved him and how she would never, ever cheat on him. She still hadn’t told him. The little pink plus sign excited her but also made her anxious. She hoped he would believe it was his.

~

He sat at the table, twirled his can of beer. He asked her why she was late. He needed her.

His rag head boss fired him this morning, only because he didn’t pay for a candy bar and coffee. That asshole owed him much more than a friggin’ snack. She tried to change the subject to tell him her good news. He yelled she should shut the fuck up until he was done. And who kept calling her and hanging up? Don’t lie and say ‘telemarketer’.

He called her a slut and demanded to know who she was seeing on the side. He jumped from the table, ran to where she stood and pushed her against the living room wall. A string of saliva connected his lower and upper lip as he screamed in her face, as he belittled her, as he trapped her between his arms. He kneed her in the groin, told her she deserved that for sharing her pussy.

She doubled over to hold herself and tried to tell him she was pregnant, but the sobs choked her words. He screamed more obscenities, lifted her by the shoulders and pushed her. Duncan forgot the slider glass was weak at the duct-taped crack.

Jocelyn’s body broke through the door, hit the wrought iron railing, and toppled over the edge.

~~~

A watery eyed Sylvie faced an expectant Jocelyn. The psychic looked at the alarm clock across the room and saw that only four minutes elapsed since she sat with this doomed young woman. Oh, she so desperately wanted to save her life.

“What?” Jocelyn asked.

“You will be a mother....”

“Really?” The young woman’s eyes sparkled. She clapped her hands. “Oh, I hoped this wasn’t a false alarm. I’m only two days late, but I prayed it was real this time.”

“Get a pregnancy test and see a doctor.” Maybe a doctor would see signs of abuse and lead this girl to help.

Sylvie changed tactics. “When Duncan is around, do you have many accidents?”

“Well, yes, but I’m clumsy. He says he never met such a clumsy girl. Wait. I’m not here to answer questions. I want to know my future. Will Duncan marry me, how many kids will we have, will he get a great job, will we have money?”

Sylvie hesitated. Should she tell this girl all she wanted to hear? No. The psychic tried again to guide the innocent girl to the truth.

“You could have it all: a great career, lots of beautiful children, a handsome appreciative husband. All you have to do is break up with Duncan. He is an abuser. You are a lovely, innocent, trusting, compassionate, generous, beautiful woman. You deserve better.”

The disillusioned girl argued, “Duncan loves me. He appreciates me so much that he worries about losing me. Sure, he has a jealous streak, but... I love him. He didn’t abuse me, it was just a push. He didn’t mean it. You have no right calling him an abuser. Trust me, I know abuse. My last boyfriend put me in the hospital. You can’t compare a push to black eyes and broken bones.”

“But Jocelyn, it escalates. Recognize the signs! Do you want your son to be born to a life of tears and pain? Do you want him to learn it’s okay to push women? Please, think of the life you carry inside you.”

“No, Sylvie. It’s his. Duncan wants to be a father. This is the good news he needs. It’ll be his incentive to find a new job and be more responsible.”

Sylvie tried a new argument. “How did you get to come here tonight? Does Duncan mind that you’re at a home party?”

Jocelyn’s eyes clouded and her face turned pink. “Well, he doesn’t know. Boys’ night out.”

Sylvie gave her a knowing look. Jocelyn’s pink face deepened to crimson.

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. It’s just... easier not to tell him.”

“Jocelyn, does he make it hard for you to go out with friends? Visit family? Talk on the phone? Does he call you fat? Or stupid?”

Jocelyn snapped her mouth shut and pressed her lips together. The older woman sagged as she saw the anger. She lost the battle, and didn’t know what else to do.

“Jocelyn, I’ve been there. Ten years of abuse before I got out. And barely with my life. Please....”

“Maybe he is a little critical, but you have no right insulting him. He’s my man and I love him. He promised to change. A baby will thrill him and he’ll prove you wrong. He will be a great father and a wonderful husband.”

Sylvie’s headache was now a migraine. She felt helpless, but not surprised. All those years ago, no one convinced Sylvie. The weary psychic chose to tell the young woman something she could hold on to next time she was hurt, or humiliated; to give the doomed young woman hope.

“Your son will grow to be handsome, strong, and intelligent. He’ll become a lawyer. You will have a beautiful girl two years after your son. She’ll be an athlete. I think she’ll compete in the Olympics — gymnastics.

“You’ll have many friends, get involved in city politics, and even write a memoir. You’ll meet celebrities and get to tour all fifty states.”

Sylvie lied.

I’m here to entertain, not save the world. Sylvie rubbed her temples and glanced at the nightstand. Blessedly, time was up.

“Thank you for allowing me to peek into your life.” The psychic rose and offered her hand along with a business card. She almost added, “If you need help….”

Jocelyn’s eyes sparkled. She reached in her pocket and pulled out two crumpled tens. Sylvie cringed. The last thing she wanted was this young woman’s money.

“Jocelyn?”

The young woman hesitated in the doorway.

“Um, fix your slider.”

~~~

Sylvie dabbed on lip gloss and appraised her new look. The slacks and blouse flattered her trim figure. She felt great. Her experience at last month’s home party was exhausting, but an eye opener. Rhonda’s observation and generosity spurred Sylvie to work harder on self-healing. Two years ago, she kicked out the man; at last, she was free from his influence. The whistling kettle intruded.

As she let the tea cool she went to the front entrance to retrieve her mail. Among the junk mail and bills was an envelope with the return address of Mr. Leland’s Extraordinary Clairvoyants, her percentage from the home party.

A tentative voice called her name. From the sidewalk, a young woman with dark glasses waved. Sylvie’s first thought was great, the check and the client, but a tiny spark of pride ignited. Maybe she’d made a difference.

Jocelyn limped to the doorway. A shiner’s ugly stain spilled beneath the rim of the dark glasses. “You gave me your card. I… I didn’t know where else to go. I wasn’t gonna fix it, you know. Your warning made me… angry.”

“It’s okay….”

“He said it’s a waste of money, but after Rhonda’s… the duct tape scared me.”

Jocelyn swallowed a hiccup and rubbed her stomach. “I told him about the baby. He threw me, Sylvie.”

Sylvie nodded. Awkwardly, Sylvie placed her arms around the young girl’s shaking shoulders. Jocelyn’s tears stained Sylvie’s new blouse. She didn’t mind. It had been a very long time since she’d hugged.

CRACKING EGGS

2010-10-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

Thank you to those who stopped by and read my story and commented. I am removing it from this forum in order to publish it elsewhere. Keep your fingers crossed with me!

EVERY FIBER #FridayFlash & 3WW

2010-10-07T22:08:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, Mark Kerstetter wrote a #fridayflash called "Perched." In it, he wrote a line "...he loved her with every fiber of his tired old soul." I couldn't stop thinking about that line--how Mark chose "soul" rather than "being." Subtle, but inspirational. Here's my (finally!) new #fridayflash, and I also incorporated this weeks 3WW prompts.

EVERY FIBER

He tapped on her bedroom door. After months of pursuit, Penelope had invited John to her bed. He took it as a sign that she was finally over her disappearing ex.

John turned the knob after her husky come in. Her diaphanous sheet covered just enough to give a hint of propriety; bare arms and legs glowed ephemeral in the flickering candlelight. Dark spots pooled on the bed, suggesting blood, but Penelope's inviting smile along with the rose-scented air erased his momentary unease. Lust propelled him forward. Rose petals fluttered to the floor.

"I've wait—," John cleared the huskiness from his voice, "I've waited so long for this, for you."

"Me too," Penelope whispered. Her voice sounded calm, but candlelight bounced off the perspiration sheen on her forehead. He kissed her forehead, combed his fingers through the thick cords of her hair. He marveled at her translucent skin, her fluttering eyelashes, her shallow breaths.

He glided his hand across the sheet, felt her nipples harden under the silky fabric. She unbuttoned his shirt, traced the line of hair to his navel. Like a seam, she whispered. He slid the sheet, revealing the swell of her breasts, his eyes hungry for what his fingers already tasted. She pulled the sheet until the hem touched her collar bone, intensifying his need. He wanted to rip the fabric shrouding her body, touch his skin to her skin, but her lip quivered, her body trembled.

John leaned closer, about to say it's okay if you want to wait, but all he heard was his own grunt. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, teased him by brushing her lips against his. The sheet chafed against his chest, but her tongue distracted him. She licked a trail to his earlobe.

"Tell me how much you love me." Her breathy words heated his ear canal. He felt her pulse in her temple. "Tell me."

"I love you so much—"

"How much?"

"I love you more than life itself. I love you with every fiber of my being."

"Do you mean it? Really, truly mean it? I need you."

"Yes I mean it. I'm all yours."

She shifted, flipped them so he was under her, his back against the bed. She straddled him, her thighs vice-grips against his hips. Penelope leaned close. The sheet molded against voluptuous form, defying gravity. "Thank you," she said, studying his eyes. The force of her gaze mesmerized him. Lethargy seeped into his body. She shook her head.

Her hair snapped the air, a thousand whips cracking before each lashed at John, securing his ankles, his wrists, his whole body immobile. The ties that bind he thought, then felt an insane urge to giggle.

"I can see them! Each and every fiber of your being. I need them, you know." She straightened, extending her hands in front of him. Each fingernail ended in a sharp point. With her index finger, she tapped at the soft dip in his collar bone. He gasped at the sudden puncture-pain, screamed from the sensation—the tugging of a tube out of the base of his throat.

"Got one!" She held a long iridescent string. She deftly looped it from her hand to her elbow, until she held a long coil, which she laid carefully on the bed. "This is the fabric of my life."

Penelope then touched her sheet. The thin covering slithered off her chest, revealing—nothing. Instead of breasts, a stomach, and hips John saw a shimmer, opaque air between the legs squeezing his body and the shoulders hovering. She touched the end of the coiled fiber to the top of her thigh, to where her non-existent crotch somehow rested on John's pubic bone. John screamed.

She traced around both his nipples, let her fingernails glide down the center of his chest, slicing the hair-seam down his stomach to his navel. John's screams echoed in his mind as Penelope tugged, her fingers racing to weave the fibers she extracted from his body into her body. Pale skin emerged, filling the blank space.

"Almost done. One last fiber and I'll be ready for his return." John slurred your ex? but felt his mind unravel. As sensation ceased, Penelope stood, radiant and whole.

GOLDEN VISIONS MAGAZINE...

2010-10-06T22:00:00.000-07:00

...accepted one of my stories and even printed it in their magazine. PDF is a mere $3, or the printed-on-real-honest-to-goodness-paper version is $11. Here is the link: Golden Visions Magazine. Yes, you would make me very happy if you purchased a copy (either pdf or print) and read my story.

Cool cover, eh? "Memories Captured" on page 46. Maybe you first read it here on my blog, but it only stayed here a week before it flew away to a new home... and found one you-know-where. Golden Visions, thank you.

GAME ON

2010-09-30T22:44:00.000-07:00

I couldn't let another friday pass without contributing something to #fridayflash. This one originally appeared last October at Long Story Short. Read other #fridayflash stories either through Twitter, or by going to the mastermind of it all, Jon Strother at Mad Utopia. I'll be around commenting; now don't you leave without adding a word or two.

GAME ON

"Five dollars apiece for those," Fay told the limping old man. He sniffed, picked up the commemorative Eagle-shaped liquor bottle, replaced it and then stroked the State House-shaped bottle. Six collector bottles were set among odd glassware on the make-shift plywood and sawhorse table. She ignored him. A young mother handed off her toddler to the dad before she plopped cross-legged in front of paperback filled boxes. The dad shifted the toddler to a hip and walked to the rusty tools.

The old man cleared his throat. "Ma'am! Will you take three dollars each?"

Two hours into the yard sale and so far, not one haggler. Fay turned toward him. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Suspenders held up stained khakis; rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed a Rolex watch on his bony wrist. Game on, she thought, as she cocked her head and countered, "How about four?"

He rubbed his grizzled chin and checked the sun. "I'll give you sixteen dollars for all of them."

He grimaced a crooked-toothed smile. She frowned and turned to the woman at the books. "JD Robb is really Nora Roberts. You'll love that one."

A lip-studded, black-fingernailed teenaged boy let his bike fall to the curb and ambled to the hanging clothes. The toddler arched his back and pounded his dad's chest. The father released the child, who then ran to a box of fast-food toys. His chubby fingers grabbed a Grinch figure and threw it across the lawn, followed by a Yoda watch. "Connor, NO!" shouted the boy's father.

Fay turned when she heard an impatient exhale and nodded to her opponent. "At four dollars each, it would be twenty-four dollars for the lot. I'll take twenty-two."

The old man snorted, stomped his gimp leg and shifted his attention to the costume jewelry. Limpy's not the faux pearl type, she thought. She flinched when the toddler shrieked so she missed the angry mumble. Fay figured he wanted to tell his social club cronies how he finagled a great deal, maybe even brag: She didn't know who she was dealing with! With her peripherals, she watched him sidle to the dusty exercise equipment, his magnified eyes fixed on the Schooner bottle.

"Holy shy-keys! '77 Aerosmith tour shirt!" exclaimed the teen.

Connor and dad moved to the plywood table. Dad picked up the Locomotive bottle. The little boy raised his arms and pouted.

"Seventeen dollars!" the old man shouted. He hobbled back as fast as his bum leg would allow.

Fay ignored his offer while she gave the teenager his change. The old man tugged his suspenders, scratched his chin stubble and repeated his offer; his stare drilled her. She enjoyed his discomfort. She watched the teen pedal away before she exhaled a heavy, theatrical, this-hurts-me sigh. "I'll take twenty-one."

He "humph"-ed and glanced at his wristwatch. She checked her cell phone. Ten twenty-two. If it were three o'clock, she'd give those ugly bottles away. It was early; she could wait. Another shopper might find those bottles enchanting, and she bet Limpy feared as much. He shook his head, he frowned, but he did not leave the plywood table. She had him! Fay bit her lower lip to prevent a smile.

He caressed the Minuteman bottle with the rifle pourer spout. "OKAY! Okay, eighteen." He opened his arms, palms skyward, as if to prove sincere generosity.

"I started at five dollars apiece! No way. My dad collected these when I was a girl. They have sentimental value AND…."

"If they're so sentimental, why are they in your yard sale?"

Fay "humph"-ed, and tossed her head. The toddler's, "up-up-UP, dada" reminded her of knives sawing through Styrofoam. "Twenty-one. FIRM!"

The toddler's dad shouted to the cross-legged woman. "Wrap it up! Connor needs a nap."

"We agreed today it's my turn. Five minutes watching your son too much for you?"

The mother rolled her eyes and continued to sort books. The dad grasped Connor's shoulder and guided him towards the curb.

The old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You drive a hard bargain," he complained. He pulled a worn leather wallet from his back pocket and counted out ones. She coughed to squelch a smirk as she grabbed newspaper and an empty box.

Connor shrieked and kicked his father. Dad swore, released Connor's shoulder and rubbed his shin. Connor ran back up the driveway, stubby legs pumping; wide eyes intent on the ground.

His head cleared the plywood table--

--and his pudgy body slammed into a sawhorse. Crystal glasses, chipped mugs, cloudy vases and the commemorative liquor bottles teetered and swayed... and crashed.

Mom screamed, Dad yelled, Connor wailed, Fay gasped… and Limpy snickered. A pitcher and the Eagle bottle seemed intact. The parents' accusations interrupted Fay's damage assessment.

"This is YOUR fault! Look! An egg on his forehead. He needs an X-ray!" Mom spit her words at her husband. She marched to their car, sobbing Connor squished against her chest.

"My fault? MY FAULT? If we'd left when I said, this wouldn't have happened!" Dad gestured as Mom secured Connor in his car seat.

Doors slammed, tires squealed and then, blessed silence. Fay exhaled, relieved the young family didn't mention suing. Fay stretched her shoulders and turned to see--

--Limpy hugging the Eagle bottle to this chest and lurching across the lawn.

"Hey! Get back here! Five dollars or nothing!"

He limped faster. Fay ran and jumped in front of him. He clutched the bottle tighter to his chest. Game on, she thought, and grabbed the ceramic wings.

DIMES

2010-09-16T15:40:00.000-07:00

Six Sentences was the first ezine to publish my stories. Thanks to the encouragment of Rob McEvily and his New York Times recognized publication, I've been on this writing journey for 3+ years now, and accept my rejections, enjoy my successes, and savor every minute of this process. Having said that...

...with my new position at my restaurant (Moonstones in case you find yourself in Chelmsford, MA) I am finding it difficult to find writing time. I will figure this all out soon, trust me, but until then I've decided to showcase some of the stories Rob accepted. This one originally appeared as part of a 6x6 collection. This is a fictional, semi-autobiographical piece *smirk*.

As always, comments accepted and appreciated.

DIMES

I find dimes, and that makes me smile. Sometimes I find them in obvious places, such as under cushions or on the sidewalk or even on the window ledge, but always dimes; never pennies or nickels or quarters.

One time a dime materialized on the kitchen counter after I sponged it clean and another time one fell on my forehead as I sunned myself in the backyard. They arrive whenever I don’t trust my decisions, to assure me, as if to say, “That’s right!”

I just came back from putting down my sick dog, and a dime twinkles from her empty food dish. Sure, the dimes reassure when I decide to play hooky from work, or when I resist the urge to spend money on a frivolity, but hell, I want -- no, make that need -- that shiny Roosevelt comfort when I wield the power of life and death in my hands.

Control Issues

2010-09-10T21:56:00.000-07:00

This one first appeared at Six Sentences on August 11, 2009. A late addition to #fridayflash.

CONTROL ISSUES

I had the radio dream again. I'm at the control board and U2 is warbling the last 10 seconds of "Out of Control" and I look at the empty second turntable and panic. The albums are all down the hall in the record room and I didn't pull them ahead of time. I grab a cartridge for an unscheduled commercial to buy sixty seconds but all I find are ten second public service announcements. Song ends, microphone on and my mind blanks. Dead air… until I awake and realize radio is all computerized now and I'm not a dj and I never run out of things to say.

Pimento Fantasy

2010-09-02T22:29:00.000-07:00

If you haven't yet, stop by the NOT and check out Mike Solender's echap-book, The Dog Days of Summer 2010. Many #fridayflash fav's are featured (sorry for the alliteration), and an honorable mention story from my new writing buddy, Jay Thurston. Oh yeah, if you search hard enough, you may even find a 101 word story from moi.

In other news, Barry Basden of the Camroc Press Review nominated a story of mine for the "Best of the Net Anthology 2010". It's a long shot, but I am so honored to be considered. Thank you Barry.

Here's this week's 3WW and #fridayflash.

PIMENTO FANTASY

Carl stared at the bottom of his martini glass, wondering why his olive wriggled. Air bubbles rose from beneath the olive, as if his glass held carbonated water instead of gin with a whisper of vermouth. He knew better. From some physics formula he learned in his youth but forgot in the five decades since, he understood. Movement forced air bubbles to rise. What the hell moved his olive?

"Nurse!"

"I'm not your nurse Carl."

"Would you prefer 'bar wench'?"

"Would you prefer coffee?"

"Try it and I won't tip."

Tara scrambled for the remote, pointed it at the tiny box beneath the HD television. "Did hell freeze over Carl? I didn't think you knew the word 'tip'?" Tara laughed. The news anchor's blathering replaced Journey's believing-mantra fading from the jukebox.

Carl shook his head. "With that negative attitude, what do you expect?"

Tara shushed him, turned to grab a rolled up newspaper and swatted at a fly. Carl squinted at her tight shorts, thought about how much he wanted to do her and wished he'd thought even four seconds sooner you can't handle the tip I've got. That would have topped her. He would top her. Carl wanted to gulp his martini, but he forced himself to refrain; today was the only day in the month he could allow himself a martini. Tomorrow, and for the next twenty-eight days, he could only afford happy hour beer, and linger over those until they became piss-warm.

But today he cashed his social security check, and the gin glistened and the condensation dripped and Dan Fogerty warbled about something rising as Carl felt his own something rising that hadn't risen in a very long time, not since the government suspended the contract one month before his pension and he lost his house and lost his wife and lost his confidence, but now, right now, he could savor not only the rot-gut gin but his gut-growing lust for a young girl in tight-ass shorts who should consider him a sugar daddy instead of dismissing him as a lecherous grandfather and what the hell was bursting from the pitted hole of his olive?

Carl rubbed his face with both hands, cleared his throat, clutched the wet stem of his glass. "Tara?"

She swatted at the air, then sighed. "What now Carl?"

"What's in the olives?"

"What, you think this is the capitol grille? Nothing's in the olives. And for what you pay, you're lucky you get any olives."

Carl slammed his fist against the wooden bar. "Watch it Carl," Tara warned, but he ignored her. The vibration against the bar shook his glass; the olive spun.

A tiny girl burst from the pitted hole, arms raised in a celebratory "v". Her curly blonde ringlets floated in the gin as she popped then settled, her red halter top accenting her wee-shapely breasts which settled against the smooth green. Her miniature lips formed an oh, the liquid shimmering from a diffused buzz. "Are you talking?" Carl asked.

Carl lifted his glass to eye-level, the faint pine-y scent of juniper berries tickling his nostrils. She was beautiful, proportioned perfectly, a dream woman... except for the fact she fit inside a Queen's olive. Carl snorted. It could be worse, he thought, a manzanilla olive... wish I were a pimento right about now. Carl gulped, looked around the room and wondered if anyone else saw what he was seeing.

A skinny kid sporting spotty sideburns and raging acne fed dollar bills into the jukebox. Carl heard his damn! I haven't heard the chili peppers in ages. Aggressive chords filled the room, drowning out the buzzing fly and pimento fantasy. Carl returned his attention to his glass.

The olive girl hoisted herself out of the hole and balanced on the olive-edge. She bent her wee knees and sprung, arms swimming in an upward breast-stroke as her feet kicked. Carl marveled at the tiny red dots on her toes. She rose to the surface of his martini. Before olive-bursting girl was able to grasp the glass-lip, Carl's hand shook, plopping her back through the heady liquid and into her hole.

A fly landed on the bar next to Carl's elbow. Before Carl could react, Tara swatted with her newspaper, knocking Carl's drink out of his hand. "Ah!" Carl yelped, startled by the sharp slam of newspaper and the sharper sound of shattering glass. The skinny kid sang with the jukebox, twisting and turning as the olive rolled along the bar and cold gin shocked Carl's crotch and Tara shouted "damn!" and the living pimento crawled out of her hole and Carl heard you're feelings are burning and Tara raised the newspaper and olive thumbelina shook herself and Carl shouted "no!" and the off-key kid droned you're breaking the girl as Tara smashed the bar. To Carl, the smash echoed for a very long time.

"You okay Carl?"

Carl reached into his back pocket, mopped his face with his handkerchief. "Hang on, I'll make you another," Tara said.

"Nah, that's okay. One's enough." He got out his wallet, put a couple dollars on the bar. Tara raised her eyebrows. Carl turned away before he had to explain he planned on skipping tomorrow's happy hour.

HALO

2010-08-26T07:05:00.000-07:00

The 3WW words are abstain, halo, prayer. Play along one of these weeks. This inspires me to write at least one story a week, (as I flounder in my other wip) and keeps me involved in #fridayflash.

halo

The halo screwed into his head, long rods held him rigid. He lay still, monitor beeping, diminished inside the sterile. A wave, a stumble, a one-in-a-million accident. His brother bent to kiss him, left the room. She would not leave.

They kissed on the couch, side by side, his body held her still. He was the first to probe. Good girls' fingers tent for prayer; good boys' fingers seek the eternal. She could not breathe. His mother glided. I'm not that kind of girl, she told the closed door.

"You have to leave. Visit for a few minutes, then go. Displaying your misery does not help my brother." Offended, she stayed. His touch created a devoted girlfriend; she did not know how to leave. Unconditional love's condition. Her halo hovered.

The hospital released him. One prayer answered. She could live inside her anticipation for their again, abstain from his tangible. Six months was not forever.

The doctor removed his halo. His blond hair screened the holes. In time, they would diminish. "I am free," he said. She drove him home, to his life. He kissed his fingers, touched her cheek. "You are too," he said. He shut the door, her freedom locked inside her rigid halo.

HUMBLE

2010-08-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

This week's #fridayflash got about 20 rewrites but each one my friend Tim discarded and told me to stick with the original. So here's the original (almost), with maybe a name change, or two.

humble

A flutter at the base of her neck woke Katie. His hand cupped her breast; his body molded against hers. She offered a moan, felt his tongue-stud flick her shoulder. She focused on the poster, his only decoration. JULY 5TH in bold, his band red arrow third on the roster. The night Rise Records signed the band. The night they met...

...he had looked so hot, sweat glistening his hairless chest, black-tipped fingers flying as he humped his guitar. She had been jealous of the girls gyrating at him. After his set, he whispered insults about those sluts while his hand strummed her thigh. She gasped yes.

He had washed off his make-up, put on a life is good tee, plucked a ballad on his ukulele. He became vulnerable; he became Stone. He talked about the label rep, promised he'd stay humble. She found the bed, he found her moaning-spot...

...her current shriek cut off her memory-moan as Stone's chin slammed her shoulder blade and her head slammed the bunk wall. The driver's muffled sorry, pothole came from the front of the bus. "Forget this!" Katie said, "I've got to pee, anyways." She thrashed at the tangled Egyptian Cotton sheets, inadvertently kicked the HD screen. Her four-carat diamond snagged on the privacy curtain.

The band manager winked at her from the office/kitchen/dining room/general hang-out space. The bassist sprawled along a leather couch, his armpits darker than his tee. The keyboardist balanced a beer can on his chest.

Katie slid the bathroom door shut, but still heard, "Remember! TP in the wastebasket."

CONDITIONAL LOVE

2010-08-12T01:21:00.000-07:00

My 3WW for this week is short and sweet (excuse the cliche).

CONDITIONAL LOVE

Jackson chewed the raw chicken, did not grimace once. Bethany could not believe he took the joke so seriously. All she wanted was for him to say, no, I won't do it. But Jackson never said no; at least not to her. He held hope, gripped it in his sweaty palm and wrung it breathless. She held hope too, but caressed it, nurtured it—her hope embodied his surrender. Love conquered nothing, except for ill-conceived notions of two-dimensional greeting-card sentiments. Jackson believed those dimensions—the remedy for unrequited love dwelt inside the definition of "unconditional." Her leverage became his demise. If only he could understand; love-sick did not want a cure.

UNSUNG HERO

2010-07-30T01:17:00.000-07:00

This week's story is based on a tweetale I wrote sometime ago and always wanted to expand. Thanks to 3WW and #fridayflash, I found the inspiration.

UNSUNG HERO

Troy watched the seagulls wheel above the ocean, dive for clams, then guard their catches from comrades. With tourist season a memory, the gulls had to work for their meals.

A runt gull burst from the surf with a large shell bulging from its bill. In his peripherals Troy noticed a gray-winged giant intent on the smaller bird's catch. The runt soared above the cottage line, hovered as if measuring the distance. The larger bird took flight. Troy shouted to divert gray-wing's attention, but the bird disregarded him and aimed for the roofline. It swooped in just as the clam crashed on the rooftop and stole the sweet meat. The runt screeched its frustration, but gray-wing ignored the tantrum and flew away. Troy understood gull law; every bird for himself.

Troy dropped his cooler in the sand, set up his beach chair, then placed his easel before the ocean, eager to draw uninterrupted. No sunburned brats asking mister whatchya doin' or couples begging please! a souvenir, we'll pay; Troy could stare at the horizon, replicate the trawler and lazy clouds and create artwork motels paid modestly for. Not quite the life he envisioned when teachers asked what do you want to be when you grow up? but, eh, it paid. Almost enough. As long as his buddy let him crash at the beach house, Troy could afford art supplies and child support. Child support for a daughter his ex rarely let visit. Bastard lawyer. Stole his woman, his daughter and somehow, most of Troy's income.

The trawler winked off the horizon. Troy sketched enough to paint the scene later, away from the breeze and sand. He settled in his beach chair, retrieved a coke and a snack and surveyed the encroaching tide for inspiration.

Sunlight glinted off distant whitecaps, rainbow hues danced above the water. Troy opened a bag of chips. The gulls heard the crinkle. Within moments, a flock descended. Several positioned themselves to dart for fallen chips. Gray-wing flapped and squawked, bullied the competition out of range. Troy broadened his hatred of lawyers to include bullying gulls. He took off a shoe and threw it at gray-wing. The flock dispersed. Troy sketched the stragglers, tried to capture their robot-like pecks as they waded in the rising surf. A huge wave sent the remaining birds airborne.

A child-sized creature with seaweed hair and glass eyes emerged from the receding wave. With nubby appendages, the creature dragged itself beyond the tide line, settled itself onto the sand. Troy flipped a page, sketched as fast as he could.

He filled the page with a blob-like form, no legs, but a growing extension. The nubby appendages ended in two projections, the rudimentary beginnings of a thumb and hand. The neck fused into the body. If it weren't for the face, Troy would have assumed the creature was a deformed seal.

Nothing outward indicated male or female, but Troy thought female. Maybe it was the seaweed tangles, clumped like his daughter's after a day playing. Maybe it was the way the eyes sparkled clear blue, like his daughter's, smiling eyes that made him feel loved. Troy rubbed his face, waited for his vision to clear, wished damn gray-wing hadn't reminded him of bullies.

Troy sketched in details as he watched her gaze settle on him. The creature opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Troy ventured a smile. She dragged herself closer to his spot. Troy noticed pink skin peeking underneath flaking scales. Troy drew her aquiline nose, dainty upon her amorphous face. She wrinkled her nose, moved closer and barked.

Troy retrieved the bag of chips. She opened her mouth, kept her gaze on him. "Are you hungry, little one?" She barked again, seemed to nod. Without thinking, Troy threw her a chip. The gulls descended.

"Get away you bastards!" Troy rushed in, kicked at the birds. The creature's bark sounded like a cry—less seal-like, more human. "Leave her alone!" Troy's action dispersed all but gray-wing. The giant bird opened its bill, clamped on an appendage. Before Troy could grab her, the bird flew with the creature in its mouth.

Troy chased gray-wing as the bird struggled to stay aloft. "Greedy bastard! Drop her!" Troy kicked off his remaining shoe, lobbed it at the bird. He missed. Gray-wing rose a few feet. Runt-gull dive bombed at the bigger bird, pecked at the creature dangling in the beak. Gray-wing faltered. The child-creature wailed.

He had to throw something else. Gray-wing refused to let go as the other birds tried to steal the prize. Troy strained to hear child-cries inside the gull screeches, prayed she could survive the abuse. The attacks prevented the giant bird from gaining altitude. Troy ran back to his cooler for the soda cans. Two full ones left; he hoped that was enough.

Troy ran towards the diminishing mob, thankful the child's weight kept the melee low. The fight drifted near the shore rather than the roofline. Troy prayed they'd remain near the water.

He ignored the cramp in his side, closed the distance, and lobbed the first can. Feathers and bird poop and soda fizz rained on his head. Troy wiped his face, focused on gray wing and hurled the second can.

Runt-bird dove at the same moment. The can hit the runt-gull, hurling its body into gray-wing, knocking both birds over the ocean. Three bodies plummeted into the water. Troy raced into the surf before another greedy gull dove for the child-creature.

Sunrays dazzled upon a sleek body as it dove into the water. Troy glimpsed flowing hair, long arms, a naked bosom and a sleek tail. Water exploded as the woman-fish broke the surface, hugging the child-like creature. The creature flapped a nubby appendage at Troy before the pair disappeared into the ocean.

Troy went back to his easel, flipped the page. He drew his daughter with seaweed hair and glass eyes. No one would ever believe he saved a mer-child.

*************
*************

The 3WW words were abused, cramped and hatred. Including those words, I took this story in a different direction from the original nano-fic piece I posted on Twitter on 1/23/10:

The wave receded, revealing a child with seaweed hair and glass eyes. It barked. Scared, I threw it a Frito. Thank god for hungry seagulls.

WHITE HORSES FLOW

2010-07-22T16:29:00.000-07:00

This week, I rediscovered one of my favorite albums, Jeff Buckley's "Grace". This album is so good, that if I had to play the game of "If you could only listen to one album for the rest of your life, which one would it be?" I would choose this one. Those who know me would assume a Goo Goo Dolls album, but for overall emotional and resonating content, "Grace" wins. He died before the world discovered him, but I'm sure this one rates on many critics top 100 lists. Jeff performing this song is included below (if I figured out embedding properly).

The song "Mojo Pin" combined with this week's 3WW inspired this #fridayflash. A different style for me, and I'm amazed that for once, I didn't push the limits of a "flash" word count.

WHITE HORSES FLOW

Tabitha grabbed the slimy worm, didn't flinch at all as she pierced its body with the hook. She looked at her daddy, basked in his approval.

~~

Scott paddled the boat to the still pool, pulled the oars into the keel. He laid the bait box between them, smiled at his daughter's beaming face.

~~

Tabitha felt the vibration from the pole. She set the hook, just like daddy taught her, then reeled the white horse into the boat.

~~

Scott jumped when the hoof kicked his chest. He worried the thin line of oozing blood would frighten Tabitha.

~~

Tabitha cried at the sight of her dad's blood. The red oozed bright in the gray twilight.

~~

Scott touched his daughter's face, promised daddy would stay near. He closed his eyes, a victim to the pain.

~~

Tabitha screamed herself awake, tucked tighter into herself. She willed herself back to sleep, back into the boat, back to before the white horse kicked.

~~

Scott watched his daughter sleep, apologized for leaving. The light beckoned, he couldn't ignore its call.

~~

Tabitha grabbed the slimy hose, didn't flinch at all as she pierced her arm with the needle. She looked at her boyfriend, basked in his approval.

FABULOUS FLASH AWARD

2010-07-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

John Wiswell bestowed upon me the Fabulous Flash Award, a Jon Strother creation. I am honored and touched to receive the recognition from John (@wiswell). The whole point of the award is to introduce new readers to the works of deserving writers.

Before I pass this on to four others, I want to also reciprocate this one to John (though I won't make him repost or repass to four more people). He is someone I consider a friend, though I've never met him in person and I'm not sure if that will ever happen (though I hope we do meet). He is talented, passionate, humorous, prolific, generous and one of the best writers I know. He knows how to use minimal words for maximum impact, and layers his stories with so much. I often laugh out loud at his writings, and then surprise myself when days later, a nuance of his story hits me. He never makes me feel stupid but always makes me think.

So, now that I have received the award, I must bestow it upon other deserving writers. The hard part is only choosing 4. The caveat is that this will be passed on again, so more of my favorites will get recognized, and possibly, you will discover their impressive stories too.

Timothy P. Remp writes in many genres, but his passions are science fiction and fantasy. He doesn't post as often as I would like him too (yes, I'm nagging him) but when he does, he'll blow your socks off (excuse the cliche). On occasion, he can be found lurking by the pseudonym @Tim_Remp_writer (shh! don't tell him I gave you his real name). We met in a writers' group, became friends, even wrote a story together (and it's published!) and I would not be the writer I am today without his encouragement, insights and friendship. Visit The Event Horizon and bring an extra toothbrush. You should probably get your EVA suit back from the drycleaners first.

Cathy Olliffe portrays the most realistic characters with humor and compassion. Visiting life on the muskoka river is like dropping in on your favorite neighbor, sitting at her kitchen table and talking for the next hour. Sometimes she serves coffee or tea; other times she giggles, says it's noon somewhere, and gets a bottle of red and two wine glasses and enthralls you with her stories. She always makes you feel right at home. If you are a twitter enthusiast, follow @mattiasville

Linda Simoni-Wastila She writes everything from six sentence stories to poetry to novels. I met Linda (and John W) through Harbinger*33. I am indebted to that project (hope H*33 fulfills its dream!) for introducing me to writers that I now feel I can call friends. I just read at leftbrainwrite that she finished her first draft of PURE. Often, through #fridayflash (follow @drwasy) she gives us glimpses into her fascinating characters and situations. When it's published, I will be at the bookstore, waiting for them to unlock the doors so I may purchase one of the first copies. Her writing often gives me chills (not the horror kind, the insightful kind).

The fourth person is the hardest. So many I want to recognize. Some (phew!) already received this honor from either John or Jon; others I know will receive it through the inevitable chain this will create. Therefore, I'm giving the fourth spot to someone I hardly know, but I love her words.

Diandra Linneman There is this woman who lives in Germany (I think she does--her blog and twitter page say that) whom I found through #fridayflash and I follow on twitter. I've only exchanged a few words with her, but I read most of her posts, (follow @LaCaffetnatta). She makes me laugh! Irreverant, a bit cantankerous, impatient with her co-workers and BF, her posts are hilarious. She's resourceful, intelligent, wry, adventerous and totally real. I'm glad she writes, otherwise I fear for the life of her boyfriend! No, she's not mean, she is compassionate and her stories are sharp and witty, include a touch of dark humor and often involve killing a deserving individual.

FALSE ALARM

2010-07-16T00:34:00.000-07:00

FALSE ALARM

This story appeared here June 2010, but has found a new horror home at Trembles. I'm so excited! Editor Gregory Thompson compared "False Alarm" to Stephen King (what a compliment!) and is including this story in the premier issue, January 2011.

WALKING CLOSET

2010-06-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

So this week, I'm watching The Ellen Degeneres Show and she does a feature called "Really Real Real Estate" and one of the laughs involved a "walking" closet. That stayed with me for the remainder of the week. Thank you Ellen for my #fridayflash inspiration.

WALKING CLOSET

Rose giggled at the typo, then swiped at her sudden tears. "Walking closet" reminded her of Papa, his gruff voice reading C.S. Lewis then taking her on an explore; his rough hand grasping her small one, his other hand navigating with a debarked branch, pipe smoke mingling with autumn fresh on their long walks. She substituted "walk-in" in her head. Lung cancer took Papa long ago; benevolent lions did not live in closets; and thanks to an overworked trucker cranked up on amphetamines, Rose did not walk.

She reread the listing. One level living at its finest. That phrase alone sold her, but the four bedrooms, three and a half baths, seventeen acres, mountain views and great privacy for less than $300,000 clinched it. Almost. For that price they probably moved the headstones, not the bodies. Still, privacy and a fresh start tantalized. A walk-in closet meant a wheel-in closet, and that meant independence. She reached into a side pouch for her phone and dialed her real estate agent, wishing a "walking closet" could be.

###

"The sellers are extremely motivated, though I'm not supposed to divulge that tidbit." Liz Quincy winked at Rose as she held open the door to the master bedroom. Rose wheeled herself into the room.

Liz's gaze darted from Rose's face to the chair's wheels, her expression passive as she said, "I think you'll find every room a perfect fit. And you can't beat the views!" Rose glanced toward the slider, murmured it was a nice view of Mt. Kinsey and rolled straight to the closet doors. "Oh, let me get those!" Rose heard. She tried not to giggle as her agent's heel caught on the threshold.

Shelves filled with walking shoes flanked the doorway. Rose wheeled past the shoes, swept aside garment bags to touch the back wall. Solid, nothing more than a closet. Rose snorted, angry at herself for expecting a fairy tale. "Is everything okay?" Liz asked.

"'Walk-in' closet doesn't mean a 'wheel-in and spin around' closet," Rose said as she backed her chair out of the space. Flannel brushed her cheek. A plaid hunting jacket, similar to her Papa's hung askew. "How motivated are the sellers?" Rose asked.

###

The Carvers looked exhausted as they entered the lawyer's office. Rose endured both of their wide-eyed gazes.

"A wheelchair, of course!" Mr. Carver said as he limped to a chair.

"Yes, Ms. Taylor is perfect," Mrs. Carver said as she fell into her seat.

Rose smiled, noting both Carvers bloodshot eyes. "Ms. Taylor is too formal. Call me Rose." The Carvers murmured "Joan" and "Steven." Ms. Quincy offered her hand and said, "Call me Liz." The lawyer passed out pens, Attorney James Nadeau emblazoned in gold.

Mr. Nadeau addressed Liz as he presented documents for Rose. "And your client's initials go here... and here... sign this one, and now, the funds?" The sellers seemed to hold their breaths. Rose signed a personal check; Mr. Nadeau raised his eyebrows.

"My injury lawyer was a tiger," she said and touched an atrophied leg. He shrugged as he presented a receipt for the Carvers. "Just this... and this." Rose noticed Steven's hand trembled as he signed the final document.

Mr. Nadeau slid the deed across the table. "Congratulations Ms. Taylor, you are a homeowner." Both Carvers sighed, their shoulders relaxed.

"Now that it's a done deal, may I ask why you sold your home at such a 'motivated' price?" Rose asked. Their lawyer shook his head at his clients.

The Carvers exchanged a knowing look. Steven cleared his throat. A red-faced Joan stammered, "We are tired of walking."

###

With the Carvers clothing gone, the master bedroom's closet appeared roomier. Rose unpacked her Papa's red-plaid hunting jacket, buried her face into the flannel, caught the fading whiff of pipe smoke and cherry cough drops. He would have loved living in the shadow of a mountain. As she hung the jacket, she noticed a slight jog to the closet. She snorted; secrets weren't always at the back of closets; she should have known. Her chair just fit.

The space opened into a slightly curved corridor. Rose's heart raced, thrilled to find a secret passageway. "Walking closet" was not a typo after all. Her chair rolled faster, momentum helping the descent. She almost smashed into a door.

The brass knob turned easily. The open door revealed a small workshop, sunlight spilling in between wide planks. Canes and staffs and walking sticks leaned against every rustic wall. Rose pushed herself across the room, touched a knotty staff, oiled and smoothed to natural beauty. Goosebumps prickled her skin. Not her papa's walking branch, but he would have approved. Rose grabbed the staff and tucked it between her knees. She wheeled around, wanting to bring the treasure back with her.

A tool-filled shelf commanded the space where the door had stood. Rose spun her chair, looking for an exit. Claustrophobia threatened. She swept aside canes and staffs, the clatter deafening in the small space. One wide plank leaned outward, a hook and eye-latch keeping it in place. Rose yanked the hook, pushed herself forward into a meadow, gasping for air. A gradual slope led to a distant house, Mt. Kinsey filling the skyline. The looming presence reassured her.

Rose could understand the Carvers tiring of the ascent; the mere thought of rolling uphill almost daunted her. Once her breathing slowed to normal, she seated the walking stick firmly against her shoulder and aimed the wheels to her dream home. The prickly sensation washed over her again; from her scalp to her waist, from her waist to her thighs, from her thighs to her toes.

Tingling was a start. Rose dared to believe in magic.

TO TRICK A MOCKINGBIRD

2010-06-18T12:17:00.000-07:00

Friday Flash. Done.

TO TRICK A MOCKINGBIRD

Brett waited to take a deep breath until after he crossed the manicured lawn and entered the tree-lined walkway. Green-scented air filled his lungs. Before he passed Nurse Riann wheeling a patient back to the facility, he ducked onto a footpath. Whether her contempt included all orderlies or just him, he didn't know; but he did not want to confront her scorn on his lunch break. Birdsong led him to the pond.

Brett ate his sandwich on a rock by the water. Goldfinches danced atop a broken fir as a bullfrog pinged its lazy song while long-legged insects skated across the surface. Brett savored his refuge.

A string of song burst from a nearby tree. Brett recognized a towhee-trill, as well as that of an oriole, a chickadee and a blue jay. He also identified a cat's meow and a warbled alarm. The mockingbird sang through its repertoire several times, enough for Brett to pick up the pattern. He mimicked the song as he returned to the footpath.

Dull silver glinted between leaves. White-patched wings bolted into the sky then swooped close, just clearing Brett's head. The bird's blue eyes flashed at Brett before he stumbled, falling through the undergrowth onto a crutch. Greenbriar marked the aluminum. He wondered how crutches landed so far from the nursing home. He brushed off his scrubs and scanned the upper branches for his blue-eyed attacker. The trees were silent.

###

Brett glided the mop into room 214. Less than two weeks ago, Mrs. Wilson had sat up in bed and complained to him about everything from food to dust bunnies. She'd given him her blue-eyed stare, waited for his, "May I do anything else for you Mrs. Wilson?" She demanded her crutches and he helped her hobble to her chair by the window. "Freedom," she had whispered, then stared outside.

He peered at her wizened face, her gaping mouth, her still body, willing her to complain instead of lying there catatonic. He wished her chart was wrong. Stroke victims rarely recovered a second time. He whistled softly as he passed the mop under her bed, then opened the blinds before he left the room.

A faint chirp stopped him. Brett glanced out the window. Distant tree tops swayed in a breeze, but nothing else moved. He heard the chirp again, faced the bed. Mrs. Wilson opened her eyes and closed her mouth.

"Mrs. Wilson?"

Nurse Riann appeared at his side. "Other rooms need your attention, Mr. Norwood."

Brett stared at the bed as Nurse Riann injected medicine into the IV tube. Mrs. Wilson's lids fluttered. "MR. NORWOOD!"

"Yes ma'am," Brett mumbled and left the room. Mrs. Wilson's eyes were brown.

###

Brett entered Room 214 with his linen cart. Mrs. Wilson's mouth gaped open, her eyelids shut, her chest rising and falling with her shallow breaths. Brett whistled as he changed her sheets.

Mrs. Wilson's eyes fluttered open, revealing brown eyes. Brett wondered if he had imagined her with blue eyes. Her mouth pursed closed. Brett tucked a clean sheet over her and continued whistling. She chirped.

"Mrs. Wilson?"

She chirped an oriole's sound. Brett mimicked her. Mrs. Wilson whistled a jay. He mimicked again. They both whistled through the mockingbird's repertoire, matching sound for sound. She turned towards the window.

Brett opened the blinds to a flash of gray and white. A bird perched on the outside ledge, answering Mrs. Wilson's songs. The outside bird expanded the pattern; Mrs. Wilson repeated. The bird had brown eyes.

Chuckling to himself, Brett wondered what he was thinking. Whistling ability was not a stroke side-effect, as far as he knew.

The bird added a groan, closely mimicked by Mrs. Wilson, which resembled her former voice. Brett rushed to the bed. The mockingbird on the ledge became agitated, then bolted into the sky. Brett rushed to the window in time to see the bird swoop at a person below. Nurse Riann swatted at the bird as her gaze swept the second floor. Brett locked stares with her. She hurried into the nursing home.

Within minutes Brett heard the squeak of rubber soles against tiles. Nurse Riann entered the room.

"Mrs. Wilson didn't have a stroke," Brett said. Nurse Riann stared at the patient. "Well?" Brett asked.

"Since when does an orderly demand?" The mockingbird returned to the window ledge, shrilled a piercing high-low call, then flew away. Mrs. Wilson's mouth opened and closed, soundless. "Get a wheelchair, Mr. Norwood."

Brett obeyed, hurrying back to the room. He caught Nurse Riann cooing as she gently stroked the old woman's wispy hair. "Only a few days of freedom, she broke the rules. We'll get you back." Brett cleared his throat as he approached the bed.

Once outside, the mockingbird swooped close to the trio before it disappeared. "That was the male," Nurse Riann said. "Mockingbirds are fearless, sometimes even attacking hawks. They are truly free."

She led them in the bird's direction towards the pond. Two mockingbirds landed on a close branch, one chattering, the other glaring. "And they are monogamous." The glaring bird's eyes were blue. The old woman struggled in the chair.

"Mrs. Wilson did not have a stroke," Brett said. Nurse Riann gave him a taut smile. "She's not Mrs. Wilson," she said.

Nurse Riann raised her hands, returned the blue-eyed mockingbird's glare. "Time to return, Mrs. Wilson." Nurse Riann began the repertoire of sounds, waved her hands, seeming to mesmerize the blue-eyed bird. It trembled, then alit onto the nurse's outstretched arm. In unison, the male bird, the woman in the chair and the nurse mimicked a human groan. The blue-eyed bird collapsed; the patient slumped under Brett's grip.

The old woman in the chair moaned, staring at them with blue eyes. "Freedom," she whispered. "Freedom," Nurse Riann whispered to the mockingbirds. Brett followed the birds flight over the pond.

CHARITY CASE

2010-06-11T00:19:00.000-07:00

My #fridayflash came through after all.

CHARITY CASE

Gina stared at Max's armpits. The black curly hair looked damp. “I saw a beggar today,” she said.

Max got the remote off his nightstand, resettled against the headboard. "The one-legged guy?” he asked.

"Which one-legged guy?"

"The one at the Hudson bridge. He's out there every day."

"Do you give him money?"

"Damn straight I do! He's a veteran, lost his leg defending America." Max raked his fingers through this unkempt hair. "I admire him. He's at his spot every day, standing there with his sign. Society fucked-him over, but he found a way to say 'fuck-you' back. Made it his job. I'm proud to support him every day."

"Every day? You give a total stranger money every day?"

"What of it? He lost a leg defending me!" Max increased the television volume. "We owe him, Gina. He deserves our support."

"I wasn't in Hudson." Gina entered the bathroom. She shouted, "The one I saw had two legs."

She opened the medicine cabinet for her night cream. The new Right Guard Sport still had the plastic top. The Quattro razors were still sealed. So was the purple Trojan box. She slammed shut the mirrored door.

The opening music to Leno blared from the bedroom. “So where'd you see your beggar?" Max shouted back.

Gina went to the doorway, ignored the pile of dirty clothes on the carpet. "Trust me, he's not my beggar."

Max shifted to make room for her on the bed, then returned his gaze to the television. She breathed through her mouth as he crossed his arms behind his head.

"He was at the traffic light out of the Whole Foods' plaza. You know, catching all the shoppers, trying to make 'em feel guilty after spending too much money on grass-fed beef and organic chocolate chips."

"Is that where you shop? At Whole Foods? No wonder you always complain about money."

"No, that's where my dry cleaner is and Home Depot and Border's and, anyhow; I was doing my errands and I saw the this guy in an overcoat, sitting on the stone near the traffic light. The light changed to green and the SUV in front didn't move. I beeped and then saw the guy go to her window."

Max asked, "Did you give him money?"

"I didn't have to; the SUV in front of me did. The light changed to red and green again before she handed him a bill. She caused a back-up."

Max muted the television. Gina watched black bars bounce on a wild girl's chest. "While she was fumbling, someone yelled 'get a job fatso,' but the beggar didn't flinch. He just stood patiently as soccer-mom fumbled for her money."

"You mean someone heckled a homeless guy? That's low."

Gina winced. "I know! But, this guy sort of deserved it. His open coat framed a pot belly—a huge one. His cardboard sign read 'Hungry, Please Help.' My first thought was, 'how hungry can you be with a gut like that?'"

"How non-judgmental of you," Max said. The Tonight Show logo filled the screen. Max un-muted the television.

Gina fluffed her pillow, settled under the covers. "Today was the first day over 60 degrees and almost everyone walked around in shirt sleeves. People were all giddy and friendly and commenting that summer had finally arrived and then I see this guy, just sitting under the bright sun in a bulky gray overcoat. He stared at everyone with this expression... Max!"

"What?" He turned his head to her, but his eyes still focused on the screen. "You saw a homeless guy today, and had no empathy. You don't get the Nobel Peace Prize this year, big deal."

Gina reached across him for the remote. His once hard abs felt spongy under her forearm. She muted Jay's and an aging actor's repartee. "Why should I feel empathy for a guy with a beer gut holding a 'Hungry' sign? 'Liar,' that's what the sign should have read! He should have been job hunting instead of sponging off strangers."

Max frowned at her. "Don't tell me; you're the heckler?"

She stared pointedly at Max. "Well, instead of looking for work, he was looking for charity."

Max returned her stare. His stubble accented his clenched jaw-line. "Is that what you think I am? A charity case?"

"Come on Max, that's not what I said."

Max got out of bed, put on the jeans from a pile on the floor. "But that's what you think."

She didn't look at him. "Well, I am the only one supporting this household. I mean, you're out of work, but you could be doing more." She pointed to the clothes pile. "You could be helping with the household chores. Shaving. Showering. Doing something to say 'thank you.'"

Max held her stare, his resentment battering her. "Thank you," he said through his still clenched teeth.

"Max. I... I'm sorry."

"I am too." He left the room. She heard the screen door slam.

~~

Gina drove to Whole Foods' plaza, stopped at the traffic light. The sedan behind her beeped its horn. She rolled down her window, waved at the man in the dirty gray overcoat. He gazed at her, his expression still. "This is for you," she said, waving a wad of bills. The man put down his cardboard sign, braced his palms on his knees to rise. The car horn behind Gina beeped again. The homeless man limped to her window, his reek overpowering. She pushed the bills into his hand, held his stare, waited for acknowledgement.

The light changed to red. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, accepting the money. She tried not to flinch as his fingers brushed hers. Gina watched the light instead of the beggar, wanting to feel anything but his resentment.

American Week

2010-06-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

Cathy Olliffe of Canada has been featuring American writers at her blog, Life on the Muskoka River, including moi. She made me feel special, and writer-special, which is extra spec... well, you get the idea. Thank you Cathy.

Of course, the link I provided gets you to my interview and story. Feel free to scroll around her site and find other great authors such as Carrie Clevenger, Mike Solender, Anthony Venutolo, Shannon Esposito, Eric J. Krause and the wanna-be-American, Alan W. Davidson. More will be featured after I post this, and I am so looking forward to not only what they are offering, but what Cathy will ask them and how they'll answer. Cathy is as much an expert interviewer as she is a stellar fiction writer. (If Dave from my writer's group were here, he would get me for all the missing hyphens--but I will just go with it and say, hey! it's Wednesday!)

I met someone through Cathy's features that somehow, despite me trying to get to everyone on #fridayflash, I missed his name and works. When I say missed, I mean I never stumbled across his stories and by missing that, missed reading some extraordinarly touching, interesting, haunting, imaginative, artistic, honest prose. I thank Cathy for featuring Mark Kerstetter, because now I've been exposed to someone and something wonderful, and look forward to the adventure of discovering more, whether from Mark or the other incredibly talented authors that Cathy featured, or maybe someone that none of us have met yet, but will participate in #fridayflash. (#fridayflash is the brainchild of J. M. Strother--check him out too.)

SOLEMN'S VENTURE

2010-06-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

I love Cathy Olliffe! If you haven't stopped by yet, do yourself a favor and check out her friends from her version of "down under" for American Week. The stories are great, but Cathy's interviews and chatty style of writing is stupendous!

For #fridayflash another visit to Mars for Chapter 2 of "Venture" (just a reference title for now). Check out Timothy P. Remp for another #fridayflash based on the same world. If you missed the first chapter "Repetetive Patterns", go here.

SOLEMN'S VENTURE

Keith arrived in sector forty-two. Norman Solemn's residence was located on the outer edge of the lowest tier. A sign announced Econo Bio-Domes, but Keith saw no evidence of the construction outfit. Before he could engage the security panel, the door lifted. A stout man with a greasy complexion clutched his chest.

"Jeez Floyd! You scared the piss outta me. What the hell're you doing here?"

"Hi Solemn. Good to see you too. Just thought we'd chat, catch up. You know."

"Yeah? About what?"

"You building Econo-domes anymore?"

Solemn squinted. "Outta business, thanks to you and that insurance bitch."

Keith raised his hands in the "surrender" pose. "No, not me. I was only the hired help."

Solemn's eyes gleamed. "Maybe I believe you, maybe I don't. Why don't you try persuading me over a beverage."

Keith took the hint. "How 'bout I buy a round or two, no hard feelings?"

Solemn winked. "Least you could do."

Keith followed the fat man through an alley, into a dim passageway. After a few more turns, Keith felt lost. He'd never been this deep into the lower sector. He looked up to get his bearings.

For the first time since settling in Venture, Keith couldn't see the dome. The city's upper tiers bridged over this sector, blocking the view of the Martian skies. He checked between buildings for any view. Even buried under a sandstorm in his hovercraft, he hadn't experienced such an acute sense of claustrophobia.

Solemn stopped before a flashing neon sign of a woman opening and closing a robe, conical breasts the same bright purple as "The Iron Queen." A statuesque redhead writhed on stage. Other tall women—mostly topless—mingled with customers. Keith found two empty stools at the bar. Hell-hole, Keith thought as he shoved an arm off his shoulder. He preferred his women without adam's apples.

Solemn gulped his first beer and insisted on a second before Keith received an answer to his question about the defunct business.

"Couldn't build the econo-homes without the bots. Your insurance-bitch ruined me." He drained his second beer and gestured for a third. The bartender shook his head. "I got to see your credit chits Solemn, you know that."

Keith nodded at the bartender and laid a stack of credit chits on the bar. "Get us clean glasses this time."

"You heard him dickwad, fill it up!" Solemn turned his stool to watch the stage. "Yeah, that bitch told Stella Insurance that I 'tampered with the hive master-mind.' She reported I 'caused irreparable damage' by vacuuming inside the Boyar's brain cavity." Solemn leaned in close enough for Keith to get a whiff of sour breath. "And if I didn't clean out the goddamn iron grit, the insurance would've said I didn't follow a 'proper maintenance schedule.'" Solemn's gesturing air quotes hit Keith in the face. Solemn mumbled an apology.

"She should've paid. Geez, I insured those bots to the hilt. If she'd paid—" Solemn finished his beer and wiped his mouth with his dirty sleeve. "I wouldn't be depending on the kindness of friends."

Keith asked, "So why'd you get the Boyar in the first place? That's an expensive investment for any construction outfit."

Solemn took one of Keith's chit off the bar, waved it in the general direction of a topless body. "Don't I know it! A human can't remain in that hostile environment. Come on Floyd! You know what it's like out there! Between the sandstorms and dust devils and tremors, only an artificial being can maintain any sort of schedule to get things done."

"Still, a Boyar with labor bots? I thought only scientists used Boyar's. Your basic A.I. could've done a construction job."

Solemn gave Keith a self-satisfied grin. "Your pal Norman here is just as smart as scientists. You see," Norman said, tapping his own temple, "it's called a 'master-mind' because the Boyar can control other bots by its artificial intelligence."

Keith frowned. "I don't get it."

Solemn sighed. Keith assumed his drinking buddy was implying he was teaching a slow student. Keith ignored the insult and only raised an eyebrow.

Solemn explained, "Okay, they call it hive-intelligence because the Boyar can control other bots by its brain powers, if you will. Telepathy. It sends commands and the labor bots tune in. Like bees to a queen bee. But there's a trick to it."

"What's the trick?"

Solemn pantomimed zipping his lips, then threw the imaginary key. He let his hand fall on Keith's credit chits. Keith smirked even as he slammed his hand on top of the fat man's greasy one. He admired Solemn's style, even if he abhorred the guy. Keith gestured the bartender for refills.

"Imprinting."

Keith kept his expression still, though his heart raced. He felt he was close. "And what is imprinting?" He released his grip on Solemn's hand. Solemn grinned, revealing a blackened incisor and helped himself to several chits.

"Okay. You get a Boyar and as many labor bots as you can afford. New ones, never used. It won't work with repurposed bots. Anyhow, I got myself twelve, hooked 'em all up to the Boyar's brain before I turned 'em on. Once connected, I gave the Boyar my programming, and it uploaded to the labor bots. Then the Boyar turned them all on." Solemn popped open his hands. "And poof! The Boyar is their 'mommy'. Imprinting. Those bots would've followed that Boyar into a volcano."

"Is that what happened?" Keith asked.

Solemn winked. "Was supposed to. My Boyar was the queen bee and was going to make me a king." Solemn waved the chits at a dancer. "It woulda worked too, if that insurance bitch hadn't recovered the goddamn event module. Who the hell knew Boyar's came equipped with little black boxes?"

"So Econo Bio-Domes was a scam?"

"Everyone knows the Arcadian Plains are unstable. Too many dust devils." Solemn grabbed the dancer by the crotch. The impersonator feigned surprise. "Speaking about queens—we done here Floyd?"

REPETITIVE PATTERNS

2010-05-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

My writer buddy Timothy P. Remp (@Tim_Remp_writer if you want to follow him) and I once wrote a story together titled "Claims" which was included in Absent Willow Review's Best of 2009 anthology (thank you very much).

Tim is writing episodes for a Pluto story, which when finished will probably become his first novella. He tied it to Mars, the setting for "Claims". A week ago (like a fool) I suggested that we both write separate flashes, but relate them to Mars. He was enthusiastic (manic!) about the idea and talked Mars with me all week. (Check out the "Prelude" episodes at The Event Horizon which he also writes in conjunction with 3WW and #fridayflash).

Well, I couldn't not write a story based on "Claims", but apparently, I couldn't write a flash either (1800 words and not finished yet). My offering will be serialized, if you will, over the next three, maybe four weeks. We'll all be surprised by the ending ;). Here's part 1:

REPETITIVE PATTERNS

Keith felt a feather's touch on his shoulder.

"You awake?" she whispered. Keith kept still. Her name began with an "S"? Sasha, Sarah... something like that. She kissed his shoulder again. "Keith?" It escaped him. He used his stand-by. "Hey Baby."

"The dust devils are scary," she said. She snuggled against his chest.

"They're just part of Mars. Sandstorms and iron grit and dust devils. I thought you said you've been here a while?"

She sat up and pointed out his window. Keith watched a couple cabs whiz past on Perimeter road. Tourists. They always opted for the scenic route. Insiders chose direct interior routes to get around Venture. Most structures had at least one view toward the dome and the Martian landscape, but that first dome view elicited awe.

Keith barely noted the looming silhouettes of Ascreaus Mons, Pavonis Mons and Arsia Mons below the twin moons. A red desert stretched between the domed city limits and the lesser volcanoes. Several dust devils battered the side of the dome.

"See what I mean?" she asked.

Sandy? Keith wondered. "Sandy" on Mars; Keith stifled his chuckle. Might as well name her Desert. Sierra! That was her name.

"Why are you smirking? I've never seen dust devils act like that," Sierra said. She got out of bed and searched for her clothing. Keith remembered more than her name. Yeah, he thought, I could do that again.

"Sierra, don't go. I've never seen dust devils form a pattern—" The pattern was familiar.

"I know! Watch." Sierra pulled her shirt over her head and walked to his window. He found his pants and joined her. The rust-colored sand gradually swirled into cones, aligned into precise rays—a sunburst pattern—and then en masse surged forward, ramming and collapsing against the dome. Transfixed, Keith watched several repetitions of this phenomena. Sunburst patterns niggled his memory. Where had he seen that happen before?

Sierra's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I've never seen dust devils together. They're supposed to be solitary. And random. This is bizarre." She leaned against the window to peer left, then right. "They're only doing it here. In this section."

The last time he'd seen so many dust devils was with the claims investigator. The insurance company that hired her also hired his company, K.F. Salvage Services to take her out onto the Arcadian Plains to locate Norman Solemn's lost labor bots and the Boyar master-mind. The labor bots had unloaded supplies into that pattern.

They had found pieces of those bots. He had kept the pieces for his salvage business and was able to get top dollar for parts. Settling the planet required almost an army of labor bots, and the grit did a number on them. He could have made a killing off the Boyar brain, even if it was fried, but he held onto the head and torso. I couldn't sell him—IT. I couldn't sell IT.

Keith remembered watching the event module with the investigator. The iron grit or something affected the Boyar. Instead of supervising construction, the Boyar abandoned the project after watching meteor showers. It had led the bots on a hike to a geyser. The retrieved holographic diary showed the Boyar frozen in terror as a wall of sand buried it alive.

"I've got to go." Sierra finished dressing. "Call me?"

"Sure, sure," Keith said. "Um, what's your last name?"

"Jenkins."

"Floyd."

"I know. We wouldn't have done it if I didn't know your name." She stood on tip-toe and kissed the scar above his eyebrow. A couple hours ago, she'd licked it, told him it was sexy. He didn't tell her he got the scar falling on his beer bottle.

Keith returned to the window after she departed. He counted twelve separate dust devils. There had been twelve lost bots. He ran his fingers through his shaggy blond hair. Before he could convince himself twelve was a coincidence, he heard muffled thumps and scrapes.

Keith followed the sounds to his storage annex, swiped his uni-card. The door-panel slid up.

The Boyar placed its fists on the threshold, then lifted and swung its torso forward, propelling itself gorilla-style through the open doorway. The Boyar's eyes shone with green lights. "All accounted for Norman. Ready for our next assignment."

PIRATE GLASSES

2010-05-20T23:26:00.000-07:00

This 3WW and #fridayflash could be considered another episode relating to "Unchained Feeling" from a few weeks ago. This flash features the guitarist Stone and stands alone; but if you're interested, follow the link. I like the band members, and they seem to like me. We'll see how much they tell me about themselves. I think the band's name is Red Arrow, but they haven't verified that yet. Comments welcome.

Pirate Glasses

The phone buzzed and vibrated against the nightstand. Stone grasped for it, trying not to actually get up. He brought its small screen to his face and squinted at the display. He groaned. She was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. The never-never land between Saturday night and Sunday morning meant she drunk-dialed. He didn't need to listen to her slurring; a body warmed his back. Stone replaced the phone onto the nightstand... he didn't own a nightstand.

The body murmured. Think! He peeked. Her face was turned away from his, one arm flung over her eyes. All he could see was a halo of red curls, a creamy neck and his Heavy Metal tee covering a different chest. Oh jeez, it had been that kind of Saturday night. Sore muscles competed with his throbbing head. His tongue felt wooly. Stone was pretty sure the Captain had something to do with his evening.

Oh my god, did she take me home? Solo gig at Terrence's, red curls bouncing under a green plaid fedora. The hot chick swayed and mouthed lyrics in front of the stage. She'd sent him a Cap'n and coke during his first break, proving she made the effort to learn about him. Of course, he was obliged to show his appreciation.

Oh man, he'd appreciated her vintage Pretenders tee, the block-style "P" stretched over what proved to be much more than a mouthful. She'd laughed at his wedding gig story, begged him to play the Righteous Brothers. He acquiesced, and followed it with Joe Cocker's "You Can Take Your Hat Off"—which she did, as part of a slow grind, her gaze locked on him as he strummed and wooed. Those gray eyes sparkled and for Stone, Katie's moves were irresistible. Katie!

Stone eased out of her bed, relieved he remembered her name. Katie murmured again before turning on her side. Stone pulled on his jeans, held up her discarded tee, decided against it. His phone vibrated again. He dreaded answering it.

"You should get that," a soft voice said within a yawn.

He pressed a side button, shoved his phone into his pocket. "That's okay, nothing important."

Katie sat up. "Really, it's okay. If she's expecting you, you should answer."

"It's not what you think," Stone answered. His pocket vibrated. Shit! he thought. Not that he expected this one-night-stand to blossom into a relationship, but he'd like his baggage to stop cock-blocking him. He definitely would appreciate a second round with Katie.

"It's my mother. She won't stop if I don't answer."

"Sure, whatever." Katie reached to flick on a bedside lamp. Stone could tell from her frown that she didn't believe him.

He bolted from her bedroom, found his way to the kitchen. An almost empty handle of Captain Morgan sat on Katie's kitchen table, set between two pirate glasses half-filled with watery amber liquid. Stone emptied the rum into one as he waited for his mother to ring again. Before he swallowed one gulp, his phone vibrated.

"He'sh gone."

"Who's gone ma?"

"YOUR STEP-FATHER'S GONE! WHO HELL DO YA THICK?"

Stone pulled the phone away from his ear, shouted into the mouth-holes. "GOOD RIDDANCE. RAY'S A JERK!"

"HE'SS NOT A JERK! God yer'n ass."

"Is that why you called? To insult me?"

Katie stepped into the kitchen. His Heavy Metal shirt didn't hug her curves as well as her Pretenders one, but something about a chick in a man's tee got to him. He mouthed sorry.

Katie purposely walked to her coffee maker and pushed the start button. Through the earpiece he heard a click and a sharp inhale. "Ma, I thought you quit smoking?"

"I did, but I'm not a critter." Snorts filled his ear canal. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee intensified Stone's headache. "I didn't quit, no sirree. Ray did. Ray'ss a quitter." Sobs replaced her bitter laughter.

"Don't mom. Please. He'll be back. He'll apologize and beg for your forgiveness. Just go to bed; we'll talk in the morning." Ray wouldn't apologize—it was his mother's fault, even if Ray was a jerk—but Stone had to say something to pacify her. He hated dealing with drunk mom.

The night faded to gray through Katie's sheer curtains. It was morning; he didn't want to talk yet.

"I don't wanna live alone" leaked into his ear. Me neither, Stone thought. He stared at Katie leaning against her counter, his tee draping her body, the hem caressing her thigh.

He wanted to caress that thigh. He wanted to ask her for his tee back, sniff it for her citrusy scent, forget about his needy mother. He fingered the pirate decal on the glass in his hand; different glass but still a pirate. Ever since he could remember, his mother drank from a pirate glass. If he visited now she'd be sitting at her kitchen table, clutching her jelly glass, amber liquid defining a faded red hat and hook; the vestiges of a movie promotion.

"Mom, you're not alone. I'm around. Go to bed. I'll be over later today." Katie cocked her head, blushed when she realized he watched her listen.

"Promish?"

Stone heard his mother's hiccup. He got up and placed his glass in the sink, motioned for a mug. "Promise. I just have to finish my Saturday night." Katie smiled and poured him a coffee.

"Whass 'at mean?"

"It means thank you mom. I'm—I mean, you're not alone."

Stone pressed "end" and took a sip. Katie's coffee sucked. She yawned then smiled at him. "Your mother."

"Yes. I have to go soon."

"I heard."

He winked at her. "I need my shirt." Stone tugged on the hem, leading Katie back to bed.

MOM CALLED HIM A GIFT

2010-05-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

First things first. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and vote for "Flying Colors" at Chad's Site. I won! I received the beautiful collection of graphic novels and The Deputy by Victor Gischler.

Second. I had a dream this morning that I bumped into Stephen King and he liked me, offered to do something special for me, but then got called away to an event that I didn't have a ticket for. I woke from this dream, thrilled that I had met Stephen King--you know how dreams do that to you? Anyhow, FedEx delivers a package from my sister who lives in Florida. She went to a special event (which I couldn't go to), heard Stephen King speak, got me an autographed copy of Under the Dome and a framed photograph of my inspiration signing books. Sometimes, dreams really do come true.

Okay, it's been a couple weeks since I've participated but a story idea came to mind. Enjoy this week's 3WW and #fridayflash.

MOM CALLED HIM A GIFT

Matt stared straight ahead as he and Ted passed the gawking woman. "I wish they wouldn't stare," Matt said. Ted shrugged and overlooked the woman's magnified eyes and gaping mouth. Matt tried to act natural as he glided behind Ted.

"Let's take the shortcut," Matt whispered. Ted nodded. The two left the sidewalk and cut through the overgrowth to the old trestle. Once under the spotty light, Matt felt more at ease, hopping and dashing in between leaves and around branches. Ted ignored his antics and concentrated on the path.

"Why do they always stare?" Matt waited for Ted's answer, but Ted only shook his head as they walked onto the bridge. Matt kept to his heels.

A couple slats had rotted, a gaping hole framing the chortling river below. "The current's strong. See the eddies?" Matt hugged the edge, wrapped his body around a vertical support. He envied Ted's fearlessness.

Ted rocked from heels to toes, swung his arms, sight-measured the distance. Don't jump, don't do it, Matt thought. Both heard the loud crack. Ted sprang forward as the cross-slat snapped.

"AAAHHHHH!" Matt hollered, his body weightless as he fell. A secret part of him wondered if Ted wasn't fearless at all but reckless, maybe even malicious. Did Ted jump on purpose, knowing Matt couldn't? The river's chortle grew to a derisive roar; Matt never heard his splash. He didn't feel the wet as he melted into the swells. A sharp tug flew him upwards. Matt found himself on the bridge again, dry.

"Thanks man," Matt offered, wanting to hug him, but knew Ted would only shrug him off.

They emerged in the town center, Ted walking in the glaring sunlight while Matt shrunk against his friend's back. "I thought you didn't want us to be seen?" he asked, but Ted stayed focused, intent on the library. After Ted got a book, they'd return home, away from the stares and the frightened faces. Matt tried his best to go unnoticed, but others noticed—they always noticed. Maybe someday Matt would run into someone that looked like him, though he was losing hope.

He'd stick with Ted, try his best to avoid others and thus avoid causing a scene. Ted hated scenes.

Sometimes Matt wondered if Ted wished he didn't exist. He never dared to ask. Matt tried, he really tried to give Ted his space, let him go out alone, but Matt just couldn't. Irrational, maybe, but he feared that without his companion, he would disappear.

Ted found the self-help section, shook his head, moved on to astronomy. "What're we doing here?" Matt asked, but his reticent companion ignored him as he scanned titles. Moving towards mythology, Ted paused, cocked his head. A woman's animated voice caught Matt's attention too. Ted crept along the aisle, nearing the children's room.

Matt peeked around the corner, saw it was story time. The woman turned the page, smiled at the seated children. On the book's cover, a boy with a leafy hat and green tunic flew over a city. Matt glanced at Ted who seemed enrapt in the story of the flying boy waking a girl, looking for something he'd lost in her room. A girl interrupted the reader. "What's a shadow?" Before she answered, Matt said, "We should get out of here," but Ted kept listening.

Before he could react, Ted dashed forward to "Classics" and searched the bookshelves. Matt hurried to keep up with him, but didn't see the boy sitting cross-legged in the aisle. Matt's leg brushed against the boy's jutting knee.

"Ma! Ma! It touched me!" the boy shouted. Ted jerked Matt closer and rushed them to the exit.

Back on the path, Matt apologized, but Ted only muttered. "Could it really be that easy? Why hadn't I thought of it before?" Ted looked at Matt, for once actually stared at his face. "Mom calls you a gift. I try to see it her way. But now, I think I can fix this."

Matt didn't dare ask what Ted meant; he was just happy that Ted actually talked to him.

As soon as they arrived home, Ted read the book to himself. Matt tried not to disturb his friend and attempted to blend into the sofa. Ted slapped the book shut, went into the kitchen, shuffled through a drawer and then pulled out the shears.

"Whatchya doing?" Matt asked.

"You are called a shadow. The only one. Mom says I'm lucky, cause I wear my darkness on the outside while everyone else hides theirs inside. She says once, under a different sun, everyone and everything had a gift like you.

"She may say you're a gift, but you've made me a freak. I won't be a freak anymore."

Ted opened the shears, ran an edge against the floor where Matt's feet merged with Ted's.

Don't do this! PLEASE!" Matt shouted as he dodged to avoid the sharp edge.

Ted snipped. Matt felt nothing, but the edge of his foot floated. "Please, don't," he whispered, but Ted cut again. Matt bent forward, reached for Ted's leg, Ted's hand, the scissor handle—anything to stay attached. His fingers passed through Ted; Matt's left leg lifted. Ted started to laugh as he snipped faster. "IT'S WORKING! I'M FREE!" he shouted as he threw aside the scissors and jumped upright.

Matt whispered please but Ted only gloated. "Be free too!" he said then sucked in air.

Matt wafted on Ted's exhaled breath, through a wall and into the outside. He darkened a passing jogger but didn't care. He brushed against a leaf, drifted over a tree and then soared over the city, felt himself disperse inside a ray.

CHAD ROHRBACHER'S SUPERHERO CONTEST

2010-04-26T08:06:00.000-07:00

Here's my entry for the generous Chad Rohrbacher's contest, to win free Gischler. Comments welcome. Follow Chad's link to vote. Thank you!

FLYING COLORS

Paige smiled at the security guard with the wand. Mint green superimposed the tan around him. He'd come into money.

"Congratulations!" she said.

"Thanks," he mumbled. Mud-brown spots darkened the colors over his head. Distrust. Paige sighed. She gathered her carry-ons before his distrust detained her.

Wait till Toronto, she admonished herself. At the psychic convention she could reveal her insights. She hurried through the concourse, disregarding the overlapping, colorful haze to find her gate.

A monitor showed her flight was on time. Only an hour to kill, she thought. Cinnamon mingled with fresh-brewed coffee. Cinnabon to the rescue.

Paige touched her gurgling stomach, not sure if her innards reacted to the aromas or her nerves. She anticipated the convention but felt like an imposter. Auras only indicated emotional or physical well-being. Phantom hues never stopped a crime or saved a life. No, she wasn't a seer; she was a sneak—a peeping-tom reading strangers' souls.

"Hi, may I help you? Love your bag." Paige hugged her tote closer to her side. The clerk's compliment belied her band of critical navy. Paige ordered a mochalatta and declined the bun, the clerk's resentful sulfur killing any appetite.

Paige found a seat near her gate. Some people queued along the loose ropes, others sat around. A young mother brought her toddler to the window, pointed at a taxiing plane. A business man speaking to himself elbowed past an elderly couple. The husband gripped his wife's arm to steady her. The old man winced. Paige noted a yellow-grey cloud around the elderly man's joints, and a Bluetooth inside the businessman's predominant reds. Before she learned too much about her fellow travelers, she rifled through her bag, checked for her boarding pass and passport.

"We have two things in common."

Paige whipped her head up, stared through a muddy-orange haze at a dazzling white smile inside a groomed five-o'clock shadow. He gestured toward the brochure peeking from her bag with his Cinnabon cup. She slid her bag back between her feet.

He laughed. "I know, we hate to be found out. Well, it doesn't take a psychic to deduce you're going to Toronto." He nodded toward the large 42C. His muddy-orange blended into an orange-red. "My gate too. Matt Hewitt." Paige inwardly groaned. Vain and horny, she though, fearing a mile-high club invitation.

"Don't tell me... your special ability is finding Cinnabons?" He laughed, air-clinking his cup.

"Just one of my specialties," she mumbled, hoping he'd notice her lack of warmth.

"My forte, if you will, is healing. Reiki, to be specific." Paige checked his colors for the non-existent apple-green. To his credit, no dishonest hues clouded his aura; he believed he possessed skills. He mistook her aura-reading as interest and sat down next to her, stretched his legs. "Glad to meet someone on my journey."

Matt launched into an animated conversation about himself. Paige coughed to suppress a giggle, which prompted hand-positioning hovering her "lungs" and explanations of energy fluxes. She smiled blandly, fixed her attention at the gate podium.

An agent took his position, checked paperwork. A flight attendant wheeling her bag stopped to share a story with the gate agent. Conversations lulled as travelers gathered their strewn belongings and queued between the ropes.

"Let's meet up in Toronto," Matt said.

"My schedule's pretty...."

Paige didn't finish her sentence. The flight attendant had no aura—no colors at all. Paige glanced at the gate agent's friendly coral. Paige stared at the woman. Blank.

"Ah, hello? Something wrong?"

"Does that woman seem odd to you?" Paige pointed at the flight attendant, who surreptitiously rubbed her stomach before forcing a smile.

Matt shrugged. "Plastic smile and too much make-up. All in order to me."

The attendant hesitated at the gate, touched her stomach again, then hurried into the tunnel as the gate agent spoke into his microphone. The queuing passengers perked up, straightened their line.

The young mother holding her squirming toddler stepped forward. The child screeched. Passengers moaned. The mother tried to soothe the kicking boy before she entered the tunnel. Her mingled colors separated and peeled away from her body, dissipated above her head. Faded denim remained haloed around the child's tiny body. Paige's heart hammered.

The elderly couple hobbled forward, the woman leaning heavily on her cane as her husband showed the attendant their papers. Their pale colors peeled away, floated and danced above their heads, then dispersed.

"We should get in line," Matt said.

Paige followed Matt between the ropes, attention riveted to the other travelers. She had seen colors intensify and fade, blend and separate, but never disperse. Yet as each traveler entered the tunnel, colors floated away. Persons with thick blue threads or silver flecks stumbled, as if their subconscious perceived the loss.

"Something's wrong. This plane mustn't fly."

Matt frowned. "Now why would you say such a thing?"

Paige raised her eyebrows, touched her bag. "Trust me."

The agent insisted the protesting business man remove his Bluetooth. He removed the device from his ear, then all his hues peeled away from his body. Paige watched his anger fade before the windows.

Paige pushed past Matt, stumbled to the gate agent. "You have to stop this flight."

Impatience flickered mauve before the agent said, "Thank you for your concern, ma'am. Why do you think something's wrong?"

"Please, sir. I...," she tried lamely, then settled for, "I have a bad feeling." She imagined him accessing his mental how-to-deal-with-complications checklist.

"We can book you on a different flight?"

Paige shook her head. "No, please, this flight can't take-off."

"Thank you ma'am for your concerns. Let me contact my supervisor." He shielded his mouth as he spoke into a walkie-talkie.

A high-pitched wail mixed with a screeching, "CONNOR!" The toddler burst into the terminal. His color intensified to indigo. Carnation pink swirled then enveloped the mother as she ran past.

"I don't believe this," Matt grumbled from behind her. "What now?"

Paige turned, noticed his scarlet fading to russet, thankful his temper obliterated his interest.

A man in a starched white shirt approached. "What seems to be the problem?" He added a placating smile. Paige figured a heart-felt appeal would be interpreted as hysteria. She inhaled through her nose, then exhaled slowly, taking the time to read his muted tones. He was a by-the-book guy.

"Please sir, could you just... check things? I have a bad feeling."

The supervisor stared, his stance as stiff as his collar. He gestured the gate agent, who then spoke into his walkie-talkie again. The monitor flashed, the flight information displayed "Delayed" rather than "On Time."

Another passenger emerged from the tunnel, his pallor confirming mumblings about feeling poorly. Paige watched a balloon of melon and taupe envelope him as he rushed past the queuing travelers toward the men's room. Paige saw Matt's aura blow to the side, as if the disturbed air currents detached it from his body. His colors collided and pooled with those of his line-mates, all unattached but lingering. The supervisor shouted to the sick man to stay put then mouthed to the gate agent where the hell is security?

The mother returned with her sniffling son. Connor chanted a no, no, no, no as snot leaked from his nose. He renewed his struggle, managed to slide out of his mother's grasp and ran to Paige, clutched her shin.

"CONNOR! Sorry ma'am." His mother tugged on his back. He clung tighter.

The gate attendant spoke into his microphone, informed the crowd that flight 6871 would recommence boarding after security checked the plane and thanked everyone for their continued patience.

A commotion within the tunnel quieted the crowd. Paige heard a female voice say, "Sir, Please!" as a male voice shouted "Whass takin' so long?"

A pilot stumbled into the terminal, followed by the attendant with no colors. He doubled over, balanced one hand on a bent knee, his other held his shoulder. Sweat poured off his temples and dark stains spread from his armpits. Security arrived. One guard shouted for the gate agent to call medical services, another ran forward and grabbed the pilot by the forearm. Matt rushed forward in a haze of raw sienna declaring, "I'm a healer, I can help!"

Security swatted Matt's hands aside and ordered him behind the ropes as medical personnel arrived. Paige heard the pilot say the whole world's azure as the flight attendant asked, is it his heart? The paramedics exchanged a look while the supervisor muttered, damn blue pill. Twelve hour minimum, Captain Stephen knows and the gate agent shook his head, repeating, so lucky they weren't airborne, so lucky.

Paige saw colors explode into the air, then fly inside the tunnel.

The toddler released her leg, allowed his mother to lift him. Matt swore his Reiki surpassed a defibrillator as the gate agent's coral mutated into a golden-orange tone of self-control.

Toronto can wait Paige thought, then walked through rainbows to the exit.

UNCHAINED FEELING

2010-04-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

This week's words from 3WW are... wait, if I tell you you'll look for them and not pay attention to the story. Let's just say, I was glad I found a story that let me incorporate all three. Happy Earth Day! Read on-line, save a tree!

UNCHAINED FEELING

Camilla fist-bumped Janky. "Hey all, sorry I'm late."

"Home pregnancy test. Medicine cabinet."

Camilla flipped Nori the bird. "Watch it, we already got the mini-fridge."

"Cold, so cold." He put down his bass, went to the refrigerator for a beer. "Nice hardware."

Camilla touched her two new lip rings. "Thanks. A little swollen—"

"Anga—LEE—nah!" Janky shouted.

"Shut-up."

Stone stared.

"What?" Camilla asked. She straddled a chair, helped herself to Stone's flask. Her eyes watered as she concentrated on the swallow.

Stone took the flask from her, brushed her fingers. Camilla tried to hide her gasp. He took a pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, his gaze intent on her mouth. Camilla wished she could hear his thoughts. He hadn't said anything to her about Tuesday night.

"What's the purpose?" he asked.

"You don't like?" Camilla pouted for Stone then turned to look anywhere but into his unreadable walnut eyes. "Is that really a turntable?"

Janky swiped her teal spikes with black-tipped fingers. "You know Bud. He saw a yard sale, went old school on us."

Camilla sighed. "So what random-assed band is this?" Bud gazed at the ceiling as he fingered the melody on the keyboard.

"No, really. I mean, pierced tongue has a purpose, but lip rings?" Stone shook his head.

"What do you care, gage-man? A dolphin could jump through those earlobes."

Bud stopped playing to stare at Camilla. "You're taking those out. Gig next Saturday and we've gotta have a look."

"Tell her." Janky closed her eyes, beat a complicated rhythm against the table.

"Hey, I know this one," Nori shouted.

"Indoor voice," Janky admonished.

"The song from 'Ghost'." Nori straddled behind Camilla, nuzzled her neck and sang, "I hunger, for, your touch."

Camilla elbowed his stomach, glanced at Stone. Maybe Nori's antics would get Stone jealous. Stone walked away from the table, picked up his guitar. She admired his molded butt, remembered how amazing it looked without skinny jeans. "Bud, lip rings stay in. They're part of my 'look'."

Janky continued drumming. "Not this gig. Tell her."

"Tell me what!"

Bud restarted "Unchained Melody". "This one is the couple's favorite song. We're learning it for their first dance."

"No, no, no. You didn't."

"Oh yes he did," Janky said. "Late bloomer, but he discovered Craig's List and got us—wait for it...." She drummed a fast roll. "...a wedding gig."

Camilla snatched Stone's flask, took a huge gulp. Nori laughed, Stone shrugged and Bud spoke. "Shut-up Janky. Listen. Camy. A gig's a gig. Plus I negotiated us dinner, drinks and an obscene amount of money."

"How obscene?"

Bud smiled, wide enough to crinkle his dimples into chasms.

"Two K. Worth learning the Righteous Brothers, don't you think?" Bud stood still as the song changed. "Oh! This one's important. 'Ebb Tide.' The bride's parents' wedding song. Apparently this wedding's also the 'rents twenty-fifth."

Stone picked up the album cover. "So what else do we have to learn?"

Bud changed the track. "This one. It was—is—the most played song on the radio. Ever."

Stone cocked his head at the opening lines, then stared at Camilla and chortled. "This song's for you!"

The other band members looked and laughed. "Oh man... I gotta hear that again!" Bud dropped the turntable's needle back to the beginning of the track.

Nori grabbed Camilla's arm, half-closed his eyelids and crooned, "You never close your eyes—" Stone, Janky and Bud joined in on "—anymore, when I kiss, your lips!"

"Ef you, all 'a you." Camilla sucked on her tongue, a trick to stop the tears. She expected them to mock her, but not Stone. "No Stone, this isn't my song. It's yours."

Janky did a double-take between the two. "Uh-oh. No. You two didn't. Shit!"

"What?" Nori asked.

Camilla ran out of the room to Janky's swearing. "They fucked each other, I don't believe it. Now we're fucked."

Camilla leaned against the closed bathroom door. She could hear the band members' murmurs. Janky's voice carried over the others. "You asshole. You know you don't shit where you eat, right? If your hormones blow this for us, I'll kill ya both!"

The knocks against the back of her head made her jump. "Camy? Open up."

"Never mind. Forget it."

"It's me, Bud."

"I know. You're the only one who calls me Camy." She couldn't hear the others.

"You coming out?"

Camilla opened the door, wiped her eyes. "Where is... um—"

"They'll be back. We'll practice later." She followed him to the band room.

Camilla picked at a loose thread on her strategically ripped tee. "Um, yeah. About that."

"No, uh-uh. You're not quitting over a stupid mistake."

"But I can't look at him, knowing—"

Bud gave her a fresh beer, then sat on the couch. She never noticed the tawny flecks inside his steel-colored eyes. He patted the cushion for her to join him. "Listen, this happens within bands. They don't break up over it."

"Name one."

"Fleetwood Mac. No Doubt. Rolling Stones."

"What?"

Bud chuckled. "Just checking." He took a sip, then settled against the cushions, stretched almost horizontal. "It's just a part of the scene. Sex and drugs and rock 'n roll."

"Got any drugs?"

Bud smiled. She noticed his dimples again. "Why don't we keep it at two out of three."

Bud balanced his beer on his chest. "Hey, guess who sang back-up vocals on 'Lovin' Feelin'?"

Not that song, Camilla thought. She shrugged.

"Cher. Think you can handle it?" Bud raised his eyebrows. She knew he didn't mean vocals.

She sighed. "Sure. I'll get all throaty and buy a hair extension."

"You're hair's beautiful just the way it is." Camilla faced Bud, considered him. He offered her his knuckles. "Band?"

Camilla hesitated. "Yeah. Okay." She tapped his knuckles, then let her fist rest against his. "Band."

FLYING COLORS

2010-04-16T09:38:00.000-07:00

Thank you to everyone who stopped by to read this post. I reworked it and cut a few words to qualify for Chad Rohrbaker's contest, posted above (April 26th to be exact. Read it in its now polished version and follow Chad's link to vote for it.

THANK YOU

2010-04-08T21:30:00.000-07:00

Thank you to all who stopped by Eldritch Way and read "Memories Captured". I decided to submit this to Shock Totem, so I have to remove this story from my site. Thank you for all the great comments and encouragement.

CHARLIE MAKES HIS WAY

2010-03-24T22:03:00.000-07:00

I have removed this story as I am trying to sell it to other markets. Thank you to those who read it here, and I will announce soon where it may be found again.

Peggy

NEW LIFE

2010-03-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

In the past 2 weeks, I've received four rejections for three different stories, but all were from professional markets, and three of the four encouraged me to submit again. Those stories are awaiting word from six more venues. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

On a sad note, Phat Cat, our deaf, declawed, fat and long haired cat passed. He's been a family member for over six years, the best cuddler, and quietest pet I"ve ever had. He's missed.

Here's my fresh 3WW and #fridayflash.

NEW LIFE

Sue sliced through the tape of another box and groaned. The movers marked this one "kitchen" but it contained Jake's video game system. At least she found it. If she heard "I'm bored" one more time, she knew she'd scream.

Come to think of it, Jake hadn't complained for over twenty minutes. Her mother instinct screamed too quiet. He was up to something.

From the kitchen screen door Sue stopped on the porch and gazed upon her yard. She never thought she'd be able to purchase a house, never mind a rambling farmhouse with a yard. The price was surprisingly affordable, one could even say cheap. Not quality cheap, but single-mom-with-limited-child-support cheap. Call it a lucky break. The real estate agent never offered a reason why, and despite disclosure laws, Sue chose not to ask the direct question. They both closed that transaction relieved.

Sue followed the wrap-around porch to the dirt yard between the gravel driveway and the encroaching woods. A tire swing lazed from an ancient oak. Squirrels chattered and chased, ignorant of the new tenants. Jake stared at the tree swing, moving in the faint breeze.

"Jake honey? Let me check the rope before you swing."

Jake started, turned toward her but kept his head down, Nikes kicked the dirt. Besides the trees, squirrels and tire swing, the yard held little else. Sue walked to the swing, examined the rope. It looked old, frayed to thin in some spots. She'd have to replace that.

"Hey kiddo, I found your X-Box. Wanna play a video game?" Jake peered at their new home. He cocked his head, whispered sure. A tiny blue vein pulsed against his temple. Sue touched his shoulder. He looked up at her and for a moment, just a tiny, singular eternity, Sue thought brown eyes peered back at her. Jake shivered, smiled and his eyes cleared to blue.

~~

Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are duh-one. Lay your weary head to re-est; Don't you cry no more….

Jake's voice sang pure, carried through the grating above the kitchen. Sue smiled, loving Rock Band and how Jake was learning all her music. She hummed along as she unwrapped newspapers and placed plates in the dishwasher. She tapped her foot in time to Jake's drum beat and bobbed her head to his guitar riffs. A plate slipped from her hand, shattered.

"Damn!" she whispered, wondering where she'd put the broom as her mind repeated, vocals, drum AND guitar? Something sharp pierced her sole. She screeched.

A plate shard was embedded in the ball of her foot. She hopped to a chair, flecks of blood scattered behind her. The music stopped. Sue gritted her teeth and yanked the shard out of her foot. She heard sniffing. She looked above her head at the grate, but saw nothing. "Jake?" she asked.

His voice sounded distant. "How do you unlock 'Eye of the Tiger'?" Jake asked, his voice distant, from deeper in his room and not from above her head. Sue heard a shuffle. "JAKE! Who're you talking to?"

Her son's steps pounded down the stairs. He made enough noise for two boys. Gooseflesh tickled Sue's skin.

"JC says you're bleeding."

Jake stared at the foot resting on her opposite knee. She heard a sharp intake of breath. Not Jake's. "Who's JC?" she asked.

Jake glanced to his left, frowned. "You're right. She can't see you."

Sue ignored his aside. "Can you run to the car and get the first aid kit? I haven't unpacked the bathroom boxes yet." Sue waited for her son to leave the room. Huh, she thought, an imaginary friend.

The move must have traumatized him. JC, that's what her ex had named her pregnant stomach ten years ago. Jake Christopher. Imaginary friends weren't unheard of in these situations, if she remembered her pop psychology from all those parenting books. She'd help Jake adjust to their new home. The car door slammed. Play along, she ordered herself, don't deny JC's existence.

Jake returned with the kit. She opened it, looked for the antibiotic cream when something touched her foot. Licked her foot. "Ew, gross!" Jake said, giggled.

Sue felt pressure on her foot, thought she saw an afterimage. She scrunched her eyes shut, told herself it was her imagination. Nothing was sucking the blood from her foot, probing into the cut, hurting her.

"Hey! Stop! That's my mom!" Sue opened her eyes. Jake yanked a boy's arm away from her. A brown-eyed boy wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, grinned at her before fading. "Come on! Let's go play," Jake said.

In her head she heard, how 'bout Pearl Jam. Alive and then an echoing giggle.

LEFT OUT IN THE COLD

2010-03-05T07:44:00.000-08:00

This story first appeared in November 2009 in at Camroc Press Review. For the first time, an editor contacted me and asked me to submit a story, based on reading Katie's Six at Six Sentences (which I offered a couple weeks ago here). By reaching out to me, Editor Barry Basden gave me a new-found confidence as a writer and helped me rise to the next level. Not to say I don't have a million more levels to attain, but I sure am enjoying the climb.

At the original posting, there wasn't a place to leave comments. Feel free to leave your thoughts, or even a quick hello right here. Thanks for reading and following the #fridayflash links.

Left Out in the Cold

YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR

2010-02-25T10:25:00.000-08:00

Here's a character originally from a tweet tale that I keep thinking about. She worked her way into my NaNoWriMo attempt, and has been sitting in the green room, waiting for her turn to take the stage again, tell a tale or two. Not that this one is the story she wants to tell, but she'll bide her time, wait patiently for her next call-back.

YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR

Isadora stroked the shaft on the Bounty Hunter Quicksilver Metal Detector with LCD Display. Just the name sounded exotic, fun, adventurous. She looked at the yellow, crooked-smiley-face with its declaration of a 'roll-back' price and sighed. Rolled back or not, Dora couldn't justify spending over $300 for what would amount to be a hobby item. She turned her attention to the Bounty Hunter Lone Star Hobby Metal Detector with Free Pinpointer. Only $180. It looked cheap, a meager imitation of the more powerful, sleeker Quicksilver.

The clerk in the boxy blue vest stepped beside her. His name tag announced Billy-Bob. "That's a fine model right there. I got me the Lone Star and let me tell ya, not a day goes by that I-ah don't apree-shee-ate its powers of loca-tie-za-tion. Just last month, my wife Bessy—she just as purty now as the day I stole her from her daddy—she lost the ring I gave her for our twentieth. Not that it's the queen's jewels or nothin' but it has centy-mental value. Anyhow, Bessy gits herself in all a-tizzy, sayin' how she can't live with herself if she lost this token of our undyin' commitment and her finger feels empty without it, empty as my heart will be… you know wimin when they work 'emselves up over nothin'. Well I says to my Bessy, 'don't worry, the ol' Lone Star will loca-tie-zate your ring' and I fire it up and sweep the back yard and wouldn't you know it, as I git near her prize-winnin' Jet City tomater plants it starts abuzzin' up a storm and right there, under them there stalks is her ring! Yessirree—pardon me, yessama'am—you'll do right by the Lone Star."

Isadora nodded, a little dizzy. "Thanks for the advice, Billy-Bob. Just a-lookin'." Isadora turned from the metal detector display, stuffed her wrist into her mouth to stifle the giggle that teased her throat. It just slipped, after listening to his patios. She sighed. Ray was home, waiting for "his Dora" to bring him his Preparation H and Cherry Garcia; she didn't have time to chit-chat about lost rings or consider metal detectors, of all the frivolous things in the world. Isadora snorted, thinking about how she'd laughed at those head-phoned geezers at the beach, with their socks and sandals and dangling tote bags, digging in the sand for a meager thirty-five cents and maybe a teenager's lost retainer. Why did the instrument of the most laughable hobby in the world inspire such a sense of adventure? Because she was bored. Sweeping beach sand had to be better than sniffing 'new & improved' seaside-breeze-scented air fresheners.

When had she become the good-wife-"Dora"? Growing up, she had been "Izzy".

"Izzy" did things. "Izzy" climbed to the top of the monkey bars, even though she almost peed her pants. "Izzy" smoked a cigarette in the woods behind elementary school. "Izzy" kissed a boy at the junior high dance on a dare, before any of her friends had even held hands with the opposite sex.

The "Dora" part of her brain reminded her that "Izzy" got pregnant at sixteen, talk about adventure. "Izzy" reminded "Dora" that only dowdy women shopped for hemorrhoid creams and punny foods and spent their days generating false enthusiasm for whiter-whites and gleaming-grout and their nights living vicariously through shallow people confessing to reality show cameras.

Isadora pushed her shopping cart past a display of pepto-bismol colored shorts and thought those look comfortable. She stopped, stared at the yards of terry cloth and something inside snapped.

No more comfortable clothes or medicinal creams or bleach alternatives or plug-in air-fresheners. No more predictable. No more DORA. IZZY was spontaneous. IZZY lived in the moment; let future IZZY deal with consequences.

Isadora raced her shopping cart back to the metal detector display, justifying that she could sell her finds on E-bay, earn back the cost. She picked up the Lone Star (powers of loca-tie-za-tion!) and put it back. No. She didn't want to find lost rings under "tomater stalks." She fumbled through the Lone Star boxes stacked above the display until she revealed a capital Q. "Izzy" placed the Bounty Hunter Quicksilver Metal Detector with LCD Display in the shopping cart and hurried to check-out, before "Dora" reprimanded about melting ice cream.

IN BETWEEN SOUND

2010-02-18T22:00:00.000-08:00

This past week I found out six of my flash horror pieces will be included in 365 days of horror, by Pill Hill Press and E/Fiction Magazine accepted a piece. Details forthcoming on when. Now, for this weeks 3WW and #fridayflash.

IN BETWEEN SOUND

Savannah stared at the night sky, in between blades of grass. Rough ground pressed against one cheek. Light pollution glowed along the horizon. A plane's red taillight flashed before the stars. She located the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, the dots of light against the backdrop of closed eyelids.

Hot ragged air blasted her cheek in time to grunted "whore, you like this, whore" but between, that was where Savannah tried to hide, between the clouds of sick, aside from the onslaught of sweat and rotten attraction; behind a night owl's hoot—no hoots, two times, two times—yes, Savannah could count two because the pause, a long pause between, and in between those two hoots a lifetime could occur so she listened harder and heard the chirps, the cricket chirps but that sound swelled and abated, so crickets took breaths, they had to take breaths, if she could count his breaths, her breaths, cricket breaths she could listen in between and hear the watery swoosh of distant traffic, but even tires rolled there had to be a pause and gap and if she could hear it, maybe, she could muffle the roar of blood over his pounding muscle (it's not a heart, this is not a man it is just a muscle and skin and bones—and don't go there, don't go there, listen) LISTEN and find the silence and if she could just hear the blissful silence, or not hear the silence, not hear anything for a moment, a nanosecond, a lifetime she could hide and if she could hide she could be. Again. She could be again and she could live and continue and after, after she could put this into a tidy little box and hide it in a compartment of her brain, the corner she never visited except late at night, very late at night when she thought she heard nothing but the menacing wisp of soundless screams but that wasn't silence because there was always the refrigerator hum or her jack-hammering heart or her roaring blood flow, her blood was flowing so she had to find the real silence, true silence and listen to nothing and hide inside the non-noise, the absence of sound, so she strained to hear while the rock jabbed her back and he slapped her face in time to the taillight blinks and the searing ramming and the chirping cricket and the smooth roll of tires against asphalt in between one tread roll after—

—after the nothing the crickets chirped and the owl hooted once and the swoosh of traffic rose to the blinking stars that ignored the red eye traversing the sky over her torn blouse and her bleeding back and her bruised cheeks and her raw snatch but she could breath. She could breathe and be again because inside the silence, the blissful nothing she had hid and she had survived the eternity of violation, of violence and inside the silence she hid from that eternity but found infinity and inside infinity she found she could just be. Again.

Savannah heard his footsteps recede. The grass caressed her cheek, the night breeze whispered against her skin and her sobs eclipsed the night.

Katie's Six for #fridayflash

2010-02-12T06:22:00.000-08:00

When I began this writing journey, I discovered Six Sentences, and editor Rob McEvily was very good to me. One of my shining moments was creating and seeing my first 6x6 (six stories compiled together as a virtual book) at the site. To view the original posting, as Rob designed it (it looks so cool!) follow the link:
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/05/katies-six-by-peggy-mcfarland.html

I offer you for this week's friday flash:

KATIE'S SIX

Moving
(Katie’s Six/One)

White/gray, white/gray, white/gray. The dotted line on the highway mesmerized as Katie pressed her forehead against the cool window. Drops of rain plastered her hair against her scalp--mom’s cigarette smoke pooled into a cloud near, but never escaped through the crack. A passing sign’s letters spelled WELCOME, but Katie doubted they’d stop in this state long enough to find out if it were true. Mom mumbled it wasn’t far enough. Maybe in the next place, the boogie man wouldn’t find and hide inside mom’s boyfriend.

Stopping
(Katie’s Six/Two)

“Hey baby, we’re here.” Katie yawned, rubbed her eyes and saw her mom’s tears and a ‘v can y’ sign blinking behind her mother’s bent form. “Come on, little angel, get your backpack.” Katie stepped out of the car and into a puddle, the dirty water cold and squishy inside her thin sneakers. A thick rope clanked against the flagpole, striking a rhythm that signaled the rain to attack. She wanted mom to carry her, but mom had already disappeared in the dark room behind the dented door marked with the crooked six.

Coloring
(Katie’s Six/Three)

“Spongebob is yellow.” Katie knew that. It took almost twenty minutes and digging through three plastic buckets before she found the broken crayon. She didn’t care what color everyone else used. Tonya-with-an-‘O’, could use the sunshine yellow crayon, and the burnt sienna, and the carnation pink, and the pine green, and any and every other crayon, except one. Because, despite all the colorful names in the world, Katie knew--truth was grey.

Riding
(Katie’s Six/Four)

Katie liked the song but pressed her lips tight together, even though the bus driver hummed along and winked at her in the slanted giant mirror. The bus driver wore a sleeveless shirt. Birds’ nests filled the space under the woman’s arms, but Katie never spied a canary, or a nightingale, or even a parakeet. No, birds couldn’t live under arms. Sometimes, they lived in cages, but only if they didn’t sing. The boogie man snapped the necks of canaries that sing.

Eating
(Katie’s Six/Five)

Katie poked her straw into the thin membrane and imagined she broke the juice box’s head. She wished she could poke a hole in another head. She stared at her plate and counted. Fourteen peas. Eighteen macaroni elbows. Four mommy screams… and one more boogie man.

Leaving
(Katie’s Six/Six)

A cold breeze woke Katie. A moon beam shone on the backpack. Katie pulled on her sweatshirt and slipped on her sneakers. Mom threw the backpack out the open window and then climbed over the sill. Katie leaned into the night and let her mom pull her close. She wrapped her arms around mom’s neck, laid her head on her mom’s shoulder and hummed a tuneless song.

MOONLIGHTING

2010-02-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

Here's my offering for 3WW and #fridayflash.

MOONLIGHTING

"Listen. Do you smell something?" That was still her favorite line from Ghostbusters. Jen flipped through the channels, saw nothing else interesting and decided, why not, it'd been a while. She returned to Comedy Central, perched on the edge of the couch and waited for a commercial break.

"Bob" and his smiling goofy face filled the screen. Even though the limp hose cracked her up, she hurried to the cabinet, slammed a Pop Secret Bag in the microwave and poured herself a tall glass of diet coke. Wow, she was enjoying herself. Jen couldn't remember the last time she spent a working night watching television. Shoot! She was working; she better check on Dick.

Jen flipped the bedroom light switch. Disco blues and pinks, yellows and oranges swirled over the bed. Frantic, Dick struggled against his restraints. She could hear syllables between his grunts. Jen pulled her nightstick from her belt, whacked him across his chest. She yanked him by his hair and adjusted the ball gag; tightened his ankle and wrist cuffs while she stood close. Jingle notes from a local car ad mingled with Dick's pants. "Dick, dick, dick," she said as she removed her gun belt, unbuttoned her blue shirt. She couldn't decide whether to stay in her pants and tee shirt or change into something more comfortable. Absently she tickled his left sole, listened to a lizard talk about insurance from the other room.

Sweat poured off his temples. Jen yawned. "What am I supposed to do with you?" She flipped open her ticket pad, pretended to read. "Your wife says you've been naughty. You understand that right?"

Dick's eyes bulged from the bed. "Melissa hired me to teach you what can happen. Men who cruise, lose." Jen laughed; that line cracked her up, no matter how many times she used it. She sniffed. "Dick, did you just soil yourself?" The reek of his bowels mingled with movie butter whiffs, a unique and almost not unpleasant odor to Jen. The announcer's voice boomed over bright music, reminding the viewer that a new South Park could only be seen on Comedy Central.

"Usually, I like to draw these things out, but Dick, tonight, I'm just not in the mood. Let's get this over with." Jen showed the shackled man her taser, aimed for the body part his wife had ordered and zapped him. Dick lurched into an impossible arch before he passed out. Jen dropped the stun gun, closed the bedroom door and returned to her living room.

Good, she thought, I haven't missed Slimer. Jen emptied her popcorn, brought the bowl and soda to the living room and placed them on the coffee table. She tucked her grandma's afghan under her curled legs, found the remote and increased the volume. She laughed when the four ghostbusters ruined the hotel dining room. Capturing the green ghost got Jen thinking. Containment box... I could charge more.

I'm It

2010-01-28T22:18:00.000-08:00

My friend Christian Bell of http://imnotemilioestevez.blogspot.com/ made me "it". I have been blessed with a blue circle, and it is now my responsibility to pass it on to five friends. Find a blog, read a post, these are very entertaining friends of mine. Hope you enjoy their words. (thanks Christian... I think)

http://quinbrowne-words.blogspot.com/ Quin Browne
http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/ Linda W.
http://albruno3.blogspot.com/ Al Bruno III
http://disenthrallme.wordpress.com/ Walter C.'s stunning ezine
http://thomg.blogspot.com/ Thom G.

Spread the love.

Rainbow Ends

2010-01-28T19:21:00.000-08:00

This week's Three Word Wednesday calls for Beacon, Grieve and Kindred. Enjoy.

RAINBOW ENDS

Tom shot the flare at the rainbow. He thought if the rocket's trajectory arced along the bow, he could find the infamous pot o' gold. The smoke trail obscured the orange band, right on target. The explosion was awesome! Tom ran towards the glowing white beacon.

White hot flames leapt at the colored bars. Eight colors, each a separate beam, twisted into angry, smoking curls. A smoking lump of indigo broke off and crushed a chattering squirrel. Death by blue, Tom thought and giggled. His giggles turned into howls when he noticed the bawling leprechauns. Green and white striped leggings, leafy hemmed tunics, the tiny green men wailed and flipped and rushed forward and back from the glowing pot. Violet ash rained on their buckled hats.

Tom elbowed his way into the grieving green men, tried to approach the pot o' gold. Heat singed his eyebrows. The gold burned! His rocket melted the treasure.

Tom shouted at the leprechauns. "Come on guys! Use your magic! Shoot water out of your fingers or something, save our gold!"

As if one being, the green creatures turned to face Tom. Furrowed eyebrows contradicted exaggerated smiling faces—those smiles were not friendly.

Tom backed out of the circle, turned and dashed for yellow, its jagged end the closest to the ground. He jumped, pulled himself up and ran along the bright track.

Tom dared a peek behind him. The leprechauns swarmed, smudging every color into Kelly Green. The gap closed. Grit pelted his back, the back of his head, fell before him. The leprechauns threw tiny shapes, minute crystals refracting light in the brilliant sunshine. Tom ignored the pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers and focused forward, at the azure blue skies—

—the rainbow disintegrated before him. A small city appeared below the fading red. Tom dove forward, slid off the rainbow…

…into Killarney's. Green-clad creatures spilled onto him, knocking him off the bar stool, crushing him into the plank floor. Tiny hands pulled and pummeled, yanked and sparked.

"Guinness! Barkeep, for God's love, pour mugs for me mates!"

The green men chuckled, climbed off Tom, pulled him upright, clapped his lower back. One told a limerick, beer foam shot out Tom's nose. The leprechauns clanked glasses with Tom, kindred spirits, at least until the keg ran dry.

I'm 40 Plus!

2010-01-21T01:00:00.001-08:00

No, not age. Well, maybe age (shut up!) but at http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/, if you look up my name (#136, thank you) in the "Silhouette" contest, you will discover that J. Evans and his editing team honored me with an asterisk. That means that according to his judging standards, my story earned at least 40 out of 45 points. I'm okay with that (YEAH!). Ahem.

Watch for my story from a few weeks ago appearing at http://powfastflashfiction.com/index.html. I'll let you go there to discover which one was accepted. Thank you Karen!

This week's 3WW and #fridayflash contribution is:

TRADE MARKS

"Two and tree lines," Saul yelled. Bryant resented the sheet-rocker. After ten years in America, couldn't the hairy Canadian translate "tree lines" to "three-eights-of-an-inch?" Bryant fumed, swore his best harsh-k's under his breath while Bryant whistled an Alanis Morissette tune.

"Bri-ent, bring me up more nails you."

Bryant balanced the cut piece of sheet rock up the ladder and considered what his ideal job would be. A CIA agent maybe, trained at Guantanamo Bay, one skilled in the art of torture. He'd use those skills to administer pain to anyone that couldn't sing all eight verses of America the Beautiful. Or not read a goddamn tape measure. Or whistle "All I Really Want" incessantly.

Bryant struggled over to Saul, shoved the freshly cut section of wall at the Canadian. Saul thanked Bryant, replenished the supply of nails under his moustache and blithely seated the dry wall, biceps bulging, still whistling. Saul's effort exposed armpit stains which not only offended Bryant's gaze, but also his nostrils… and his machismo. Two hours a day at the gym and he could barely balance one sheet of drywall, never mind lift it alone. Where did the goddamn Canadian get his strength?

Saul wriggled nails to the corner of his mouth. He snapped the tape measure out, marked the air between the studs. "You cut piece, eh…."

"Two and tree lines? Isn't that what it always is?" Bryant sneered. "Come on man! It's TWO FEET, THREE EIGHTHS OF AN INCH! INCHES! Not 'TREE LINES'!" Bryant punched a hole through the new sheet of drywall. "Cris-sakes, you live in AMERICA!" Bryant punched a second time.

His knuckles, obscured by a cloud of chalky dust slammed a stud. Bryant screamed in a pitch high enough to rival pre-teen girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. He yanked his throbbing fist to his chest, held it with his healthy hand and side-stepped in rhythm to his, "Ow, ow, ow, fuckin' OW!"

Bryant stumbled onto a loose piece of plywood, rocking it off the support beam. His arms—hurt fist and unimpressive biceps included—wind-milled as he teetered between second-floor sub-flooring and space-between-cross-beams.

Saul shook his head, took one giant step and reached for Bryant's tool belt, yanking him back onto the sturdy, nailed-down flooring.

Bryant collapsed, gasping for air. "Thanks, man. You saved my life."

Saul shrugged, wriggled the nails between his lips and hummed what Bryant eventually recognized as, "You Oughta Know."

STARTING THE YEAR OFF RIGHT

2010-01-14T08:38:00.000-08:00

Not even at the mid-point of January and I've already entered a contest. Whether I get a prize or not, I wrote a story based on a picture. I've used writing prompts, but pictures as inspiration has been tough for me. Check out the 235 entries at http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/ Be sure to read entry #136 and look for some of my writing buddies, such as Timothy P. Remp, Thom Gabrukiewicz, Mike Solender, Mira, Christian Bell, Paul Brazill, Eric Beetner, Jodi MacArthur, John Wiswell, Angel Zapata, and probably a few others that I haven't found yet, but enjoy their words. Leave comments for any that you read! (Writers are comment whores.)

Okay, now for my double-duty 3WW and #fridayflash contribution:

HOMECOMING

"Where to?"

"Forty-two Trenton Street."

The rearview mirror revealed his raised eyebrows under the ball cap's brim. Teri ignored his look, reached for the door handle. Static shocked her fingertips. Stale sweat and old fried onions assaulted her nose. The meter's click jolted her. She shut her door. It had been a long time since she'd ridden in a cab. In any vehicle.

"Trenton Street, isn't that where—"

Teri interrupted the driver. "Don't know. I've been away."

Teri looked out the side window. She had escaped. Ess—caped. She savored the hiss between her teeth, the sibilant sounds fleeing her mouth just as she'd fled the compound.

"Miss, I drive by there every day—"

"I'm sure you do. Driving is your job, right? Just take me home, please."

Home. She hadn't used that word out loud or in her head for… two years? Three? Time was different at the commune. She'd called from the bus station, but her mother hadn't answered. Teri hoped her mother would be there when she arrived. The meter clicked again. Such a tiny sound, but she jumped again.

"How long have you been away?"

"Sir, it's been a rough… day." She'd almost said "life". The meter clicked. She started. Her stomach gurgled.

Brother Paul said his previous life as a dog trainer prepared him for his true calling. He used the clicker with zeal. Please Brother Paul, he'd click. Sometimes, her reward was food. Other times, her reward was to further please Brother Paul. The meter clicked. She shuddered. Despite herself, she drooled.

The cab passed the Circle K, turned the corner. Teri sat straighter, pressed her nose against the glass. Her eyes filled. How long ago had mom done that?

She shifted to see out the windshield. "When I was little and slept away, my mom would tie a yellow ribbon around the tree in our front yard. Corny, but we only had each other." The driver frowned. Teri explained, "You know, like the song—"

"Miss? Do you have anywhere else to go?"

Color caught her attention. "Yellow ribbons," Teri whispered around the lump.

The driver slowed the vehicle. Teri sagged against the back seat. She clamped her eyelids shut, against the tears, against the invasive black letters on the tattered yellow tape. They swathed the tree, the front door, the yard perimeter.

The driver's tone held pity. "Miss, do you have anywhere else to go?"

TOO MUCH VODKA OR TOO LITTLE SLEEP?

2010-01-07T00:47:00.000-08:00

I wish I could explain. Nah, I wish I could say that, but I don't. Explain it yourself. But I will say: Three words can inspire, if you stop trying and just think. Or in my case, don't think. (sorry mom!)

BANDITTIES

Stomach against the pavement (as well as her extended legs), Raven peered into the grating. Sparrow crouched next to her, ignored the loud protest of his knees and instead, appreciated the way her jeans molded against her derriere. He retrieved his pack of smokes from the inside pocket of his duster.

"I think I see them," Raven said as she scrambled away from the storm drain.

"Them?" Sparrow stopped thinking about how to get those tight pants off Raven and tried to recall her blabbering.

"YES! THEM! Don't you listen?" Raven stood, brushed off her thighs and stole a cigarette from his pack. "People blame rodents, but no, no, it's not mice that nibble through the walls and steal stuff. It's—" Raven leaned in for his cupped flame, inhaled and held the smoke before exhaling skyward. She swiped her hair curtain away from her right eye. "It's the banditties."

Sparrow thanked Judas Priest that he'd already lit his smoke, or he would have choked. "Raven Raven Raven. Pray tell, what are band-titties?" He couldn't prevent a giggle.

"BAN-DIT-TEES," Raven replied. She either was too engrossed or just didn’t hear his giggle. "Sometimes they steal things, like your keys or your wallet or, well, you know. They steal the stuff that you think you've misplaced."

"So when I can't find my lighter, I blame the... banditties?" Sparrow chuckled despite his intentions to humor her.

Raven flicked her half smoked cigarette into the storm drain. To any one else walking by, like the douche dragged by his collie singing off-key (you want it all, but you can't have it!) she appeared nonchalant, uninterested.

Sparrow thought, shit! Who the fuck still sings that!

But Raven's squinting eyes and sneering nostrils told Sparrow—

("Epic!" What kinda asshole still downloads Faith No More)

—that he blew it. Or rather, that he wouldn't get it blown. Until she slapped him he had a chance. So he asked, "Okay, I'm sorry. What is the problem with banditties?"

Raven glanced between her feet. "Sometimes, they steal your things. And if you act upset enough, they are okay."

She peeked at him for approval. He smoothed his frown and smiled his practiced sultry look. Crazy chicks gave the best—

"SHIT! They're swarming!"

"What the fuck?" Sparrow yelled as the ground shook violently enough to knock them down. Six-legged spores swarmed from below, onto the iron mesh, across the tar and over his Timberlands. He kicked skyward, yelling, "RAVEN!"

Raven clutched his arm as the crunching, gnashing noises began. Her fright anchored him to the site. He wrenched his arm free, then grabbed her by the waist and propelled her onward. He wondered fleetingly if the dog and jogger were close enough to hear him scream.

"What the fuck are those… things?" Sparrow shouted.

"Banditties. They steal your… AHHH!"

Sparrow ran faster, spurred by her yell. The gnashing sound waned as his speed increased. Pins and needles prickled his skin under his clothing.

"I think I found those endorphins!" Sparrow yelled to her. He couldn't hear Raven over (or under, no not under, under means gone) his ragged breaths. He glanced to his left. Raven wasn't running beside him (Raven? What's a raven?), but the arm still felt warm in his closed right fist. He stopped to consider why he held a disembodied arm.

Tiny creatures swarmed his….

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2010-01-01T10:55:00.000-08:00

So glad it's 2010! Here's the first story of the new year, brought to you courtesy of 3WW and #fridayflash. Ambush, hideous and meddle helped shape this one.

CLEAN SLATE

Sister Harrid hovered over the acolyte's cauldron. Warwick flipped the pages of his spell book back to the "Clean Slate" recipe. She sniffed. "Good job Warwick." She scratched the puckered scar of her right eye socket. "That's what you want, that distinct mold mixed with ranch dressing essence. That'll wipe out anyone's memory."

She zipped over to the second cauldron. Serena threw rabbit pellets behind her back and coughed. She didn't want Sister Harrid to hear the plops fall into Warwick's brew.

Sister Harrid sniffed again. Her nostrils sucked closed as her face crumpled into sharp wrinkles. Sparks flew from her pursed lips. Serena's watched the sparks disappear above her cauldron.

"Not your usual work, Serena."

"I know. Er, it's Warwick's fault."

"Hey! Don't throw me under the broom. You zapped me while I was at the pantry closet—"

"Splashing holly water over your shoulder! You ambushed my potion, Wart-Sick!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

"Yes Sister Harrid," they answered in unison.

Their teacher sighed. "Witches don't complain; they get even. Tend to your brews."

"But sister? How do I counteract holly?"

Sister Harrid glared as she pointed toward the wall of tomes. She then zoomed to the room's corner. "Try the Encyclopedias. 'H' should help."

She swung her broom around, pointed the business end at the cauldrons and shrunk herself down to doll-size as she floated.

Both acolytes groaned. Serena glanced at her eight-inch teacher hovering from the ceiling perch. "This is your fault," Serena whispered, "with her meddling as a kitchen witch we'll never get the transfiguration spell."

Warwick glared. Use telepathy idiot! She can hear whispers. Kitchen Witch means all spells work. This means our spell will work! We just don't want her to know what we are really brewing.

Serena giggled. You're right. Okay, I added the rabbit pellets to yours. You look away and I'll drop a ladleful of my brew into your cauldron. That should do it.

The liquid plopped then sizzled. A tiny whine exclaimed, "Perfect, Serena! Now Warwick! Pay attention and stir." Both students snapped their mouths closed, trying to stifle their giggles.

Squeaky bought the revenge act. Warwick wrinkled his nose. Pew! This reeks worse than sewage!

Serena walked to the bookshelf and removed the "H" volume.

Remember Warwick, just your hand in the brew. Submerge for twenty seconds and I'll keep my fingers crossed and chant Edward, Edward and you should see scissor-fingers form.

Warwick glanced at the corner then peered at the hideous mixture. The gelatinous matter bubbled, forming boils on the surface that erupted into tiny pus volcanoes. Maroon threads slithered and quaked around the bubbles. Warwick gulped. Are you sure you followed the recipe?

I thought 'kitchen witch' guaranteed success. Should I call you Wuss-wick?

Warwick took a deep breath. Serena held hers. Warwick plunged his hand into the viscous mess.

"ARGH! ARGH! AHHHHHHH!"

Warwick yanked his pulsating hand out of his cauldron. His fingers elongated and thickened, bristles erupted along the creases and crinkles of his hand, spreading to his wrist and up his arm. Warwick collapsed.

Sister Harrid zoomed down from her perch and grew into herself. "You think I don't know about transfiguration spells? Hmm, rabbit pellets—my nose is very sensitive—holly, two cauldrons… what are you trying to become?"

She shook her head and cackled. Sparks showered the room. Serena thought, The sparks fell into my cauldron! She sabotaged us!

Oh, and I am a WITCH! I hear every thought. Scissor fingers carve hedges. How about another creature from a hedge?

Warwick writhed on the floor, bristled hairs poking through his robes, arms and legs sprouting from his torso. His eyes bulged and shrunk as his face rippled. Fangs grew out below his disappearing lips. Serena opened her mouth, about to ask what was happening, when her own milky brew splashed onto her tongue. She gagged.

"Transform, my acolytes." Sister Harrid rubbed her clawed hands together and watched.

Serena gagged as what felt like hair filled her mouth. She tried to grasp the strands as she ran to the cracked mirror. She screamed.

Gossamer filaments swirled above her tongue, with single strands lashing onto her molars, anchoring a spider web. Within moments, perfectly angled spirals filled the cavity. Her fingers plucked but only strummed the cords, causing discordant tones to resonate inside her temples. Her jaw fell wide, unhinging, her chin touched the floor. She backed away from the mirror—

—and eight legged Warwick scurried up her leg and settled onto the web inside her mouth. Serena tried to pluck Spider-Wick from her mouth, but his fangs sunk into her thumb.

Sister Harrid flew out the room and locked the door. Serena felt her head crack as her teacher's cackling voice filled her mind. You'll be yourselves again by morning. Tomorrow, we'll try a new batch of 'Clean Slate' and forget this ever happened.

FLASH FORWARD

2009-12-24T07:27:00.000-08:00

The three words on this Christmas Eve are hinder, journey and rigid. Merry holiday season.

WEAK HEARTS

She should get up, throw together some hors d’oeuvres. Seth had mentioned something about people coming over. How long had she been sitting at the dining room table, fingering the doily, anticipating sunbeams across the oak grains?

His baritone carried to her. He was at the door, greeting his guests. She brushed strands of hair with her palms, smoothed her black dress, her favorite. Thank goodness for small miracles; at least she was dressed for company.

Before she could rush to the kitchen, Seth led his guests into the dining room. “And here we are. Miranda’s spot.” He cleared his throat. A petite blonde rubbed Seth’s back. Her manicured fingers caressed his back a little too intimately, in Randi’s opinion.

Seth used her birth name! Who were these strangers? Besides the presumptuous blonde, there was another couple and a black-haired woman draped in a sari and scarves and decorated with bulky jewelry.

Randi was about to lean in to ask Seth what was going on when the gaudy woman lit the centerpiece candle, asked Seth to dim the chandelier and waved her arms to indicate the others should sit. Randi sat again, decided to watch this soiree play out.

The stranger-man approached Randi. He placed his hands on her chair-back, pulled her away from the table and sat on her lap! She felt his body go rigid as a chill shivered through her body, drawn into his. He jolted up but his date glared him back to sitting.

“We are gathered today to help Miranda begin her journey to the other side. Taken so young, the victim of an undiagnosed weak heart, her soul is restless. Let us clear our minds.”

The medium, Randi realized, theatrically stretched her arms and laid her wrists, palms facing up, onto the table. Seth grabbed her left hand. The other woman took her right.

“Now, close your eyes and inhale, one deep cleansing breath.”

She sniffed in a noisy breath, held it for a five count, then blew out through pursed lips. "Join hands."

The man asked, “Do you feel a draft?”

“Bernie, shush!” his date hissed between gritted teeth as she grabbed his hand.

The blonde grabbed his other hand. “Five people in a séance or else it doesn’t work.” Her free hand latched onto Seth’s. The medium inhaled again. Seth and company closed their eyes and imitated the medium.

Randi sputtered, “Seth? Wha-what…?” but he didn’t notice. His hand, the one attached to the blonde, slipped below the table. The blonde’s lips parted; her breathing became shallow. He peeked across the table as the other woman opened one eyelid. Seth winked at her, she blushed and clamped her eyelids shut.

The medium’s face scrunched into lines. Randi realized the woman was peeking at the group, checking their commitment to this séance. Before the woman's third eye saw her, Randi ducked below the table.

“Remember, keep your minds clear and allow the spirit of Miranda to join our circle.”

The medium’s knee jerked up and bumped the underside of the table! Did Seth pay for… her consciousness screamed wrong question.

“Miranda is close, I feel her. I… I…” the medium stuttered. “I am opening myself to Miranda’s soul. Miranda, come forward, use my voice to tell us why you still haunt this room."

Seth’s hand rubbed the blonde’s pantyhose-covered upper thigh, and advanced under her skirt. The blonde was in a trance! Randi remembered. Seth's inbox, filled with texts from—

She felt her essence tugged toward the blonde. Randi grasped for the table leg, attempting to hinder the inevitable, but her fingers grabbed air. If anyone made googly-eyes again, she hoped they'd notice the pink-on-ruby line her heels were carving into the carpet's pile.

Her mind couldn’t wrap itself around the concept that a) she wasn’t technically alive so she could not feel the table cut through her mid-section as she was sucked into the blonde’s body; and b) she was a dead soul about to posses her adulterous husband’s date.

Randi popped into the other, settled into the blonde like a new suit. Seth's hand stroked the thigh, the strange heart raced. The other's chant zoomed into—

If her spirit is here I hope this gets rid of her. I sense her even if he says it's all in my head. Residual guilt from when she was alive, he says. I want him I want him I want him yes I love him oh that feels good keep at it Seth, yes, get over her, it's out turn....

“shut up shut up SH-UT UH-PP!” Randi shrieked through the blonde’s mouth. The blonde's shrill fear pushed at Randi. It felt as if the skull cracked.

The medium shouted, "Oh!" then "hmph. The spirit chooses the medium and tonight, Liz is the conduit.” The medium gazed at the ceiling for a moment before she commanded, “Miranda, speak through Liz. Let us guide you to the light.”

“Randi is here?” Seth paled. So did the medium.

“GO TO THE LIGHT. GO TO THE LIGHT,” the group chanted.

Liz’s hands flailed, breaking contact with her circle mates.

Randi was sucked out of Liz’s body, the sensation similar to sweaty thighs separating from a vinyl seat on a hot, humid day. She welcomed that familiar, instantaneous cool release. A spotlight from above dropped a huge, bright beam onto the center of the lemon-scented Pledge-polished dining death-site table.

Weak heart? No, broken heart. She remembered. He ruined her life, but like hell was she going to let him ruin her afterlife. She floated into the light.

The blonde bitch could have him.

THIS WEEK'S THREE WORD FLASH

2009-12-16T23:21:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay! I promise I'll get up and do my shopping, even though I stayed up way past midnight to finish writing this one. Before you read, I'll have you know I do not have any daughters. Or daughter-in-laws... yet.

MILF

Barbie tried the door knob. Locked. "Amber? Please, I never meant—"

'HOW COULD YOU MOTHER!" Barbie flinched. Amber shrieked vibrato, giving her words a contrasting harmony as if her daughter was possessed instead of just hurt and hating.

"He was my BOYFRIEND! DO YOU HEAR ME? [hiccup] MY FU-HU-HUH-KING BOYFRIEND!"

Barbie heard a thump and shattered glass. She wondered if it was the mother and daughter sterling-framed photo or the Amber and TJ photo inside the red-heart frame. Another thump-CRASH. The other one.

"Please baby."

"fuh-[hiccup], FUCK YOU!"

"I know you're hurt. Let me tell you, you can't trust males—look at your father! He left me, six months pregnant, no job, no home, no—"

"Shut up shut up SHUT UP! This isn't about you and your sorry fucking past! THIS… is… a... bout... ME! AND HOW YOU RUE-[hiccup] RUINED MY LIFE!"

"AMBER! HE mauled ME!" Barbie rattled the door knob. "UNLOCK THIS DOOR!" Barbie inhaled, then slowly released her exhale. "Let's talk."

"I HATE YOU GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

Barbie slammed both palms against the door. Two more years of hormones and tantrums. A teary, loud, (guilt-ridden) two years. Barbie sagged. She didn't think Amber would stay until her eighteenth birthday. She wasn't sure if she'd stay until next week.

Barbie stepped into the bathroom, splashed water on her face. She stared into the medicine cabinet mirror. If she squinted hard, almost shut her eyelids, she could see a little bit of Amber's youthful features on her own face; between the 'laugh lines' (wrinkles), underneath the 'sun-kissed' (leathery) skin, framed by her lustrous golden (wiry brass) hair with the dark (gray) roots. She wondered if she'd get to see Amber age.

No, Barbie hadn't meant to hurt her daughter, she just wanted to pretend she wasn't fast approaching "middle age." She wanted to feel attractive again, even desired. She wanted the ardor of a young, virile male at his peak instead of the prescription hard-on of an aging, pawing, paunchy widower. Was that wrong? Was it wrong to want to be called a MILF?

Temptation knocked, and she opened the door. It was TJ asking for Amber.

Barbie invited him in, said he could wait here and how 'bout a cold one? His eyes widened, a smile teased his lips and he said, sure, why not. She knew. Hell, everyone knew an eighteen year old wouldn't say no to beer.

So what if she unbuttoned one blouse button, bent into the refrigerator, let him check out her shapely ass? Two hours a day at the gym, her ass better look good, to any age male. Maybe she did touch (caress) his shoulder, rub (massage) his back, asked him (whispered) would he like something… else? And when he said, er, no ma'am, maybe, just maybe, she asked him if he was gay. Teased him, unbuttoned another button, called him queer boy. Leaned in closer to him, watched his lips separate, heard him pant.

He grabbed her blouse, popping off the rest of the buttons and yanked at her bra and mauled and poked and demonstrated he was a testosterone-influenced eighteen-year-old boy with two beers in him and a raging need to prove he was one-hundred-percent-genuine-heterosexual. And just as she panicked and wondered how stupid could she be, what was she doing… Amber came home.

Barbie knew she'd done wrong and could not make it right. Middle age taught her one bleak truth: MILF meant 'Mother Is Lonely Forever."

WHY FLASH?

2009-12-10T00:16:00.000-08:00

I just realized it's called Flash Fiction because often, the story come to a writer as a flash, a glimmer, a lightening bolt of an image or an idea, with only the after image to imply the back story or the forward movement. Yet, it's enough to compel, to reveal, to intrigue.

DESIRE

From his tenth floor window, Gil stared across the alley, hoping to spy on her. The woman across the way often undressed before her windows, shades forgotten. Tonight her windows remained covered but backlit by bright lights. Two shadows danced across the ersatz screen. She had company.

Gil slammed his fist against his sill, feeling betrayed, offended that she didn't look out and NOTICE him. A tiny female figure grew large before it shrunk back to human size. Gil assumed his fantasy neighbor had walked across the room to pose for him. Maybe she was aware. Of his eyes. His presence. His need. He pulled a chair to his window.

Gil leaned on his sill, lips parted, unaware of his shallow, panting breaths. A male figure joined the woman across the alley. He reached for the female, pulled her into an embrace. Gil watched as her lithe form bent backwards, one arm extended over her head, a tableau of surrender. The man's shadow arm reached behind his back as his head lowered; two human shapes merging into one bulbous shadow. Gil seethed. Gil desired.

The arm shadow behind the man flitted down. The shade snapped open. Gil saw a room behind the pair; simple, stark. A bare wall. Two floor lamps, bright sentinels, each providing six different bulbs set at different angles. A man plunged the woman's bent form into a dip.

The man raised his arm again, the light behind casting him as an outline rather than a three-dimensional form. A knife's edge glinted. Gil held his breath. Light sparks arced into the chasm between their apartments.

He stood, kicked his chair aside, horrified, wanting to scream, to project his voice and warn the woman across the alley.

His arms trembled, his voice constricted. Gil didn't want to warn; he wanted to remain silent. His dread fascination elicited gooseflesh on his arms, a shiver down his spine, a throbbing in his loins. One part of his brain screamed, "NOOOOO!" as a smaller, more compelling voice inside his head whispered watch.

The shimmering blade plunged into the female bosom, a small hill conquered by a shadow, marked by a handle in the surreal outline tableau.

Gil shoved one wrist into this open mouth, stifling grunts, giving his teeth something to bite, squelching the scream worrying his vocal chords. His other hand crept to his jeans; fingers slithered to his zipper, stretched the slit into a gap; relieved the throbbing with feathery strokes.

Wide-eyed and moaning, Gil savored the pleasure, understood the truth. He could never reveal what he had witnessed; never. Her death would remain his until his grave. But until then, he would own her in a way he never could have owned her in life. He closed his eyes, watched the knife's arc, heard her catch her breath, whisper his name, beg for his mercy. Yes, he would replay that secret, treasure it, coddle it, embellish it until she became lost within him.

CONTINUE THE SAGA...

2009-12-02T23:14:00.000-08:00

Huh. I think I like Wednesdays that become Thursdays when you're not looking, but always, ALWAYS, remember... it's still tonight until you go to bed. This weeks offering:

SEGUE

Ben bounced his right knee. He heard Curly mumbling from the seat in front of him, "What in bloody 'ell is a 'kwadree, lattral'? Has a zee in it." Ben stared out the window and thought, the bus window is a quadrilateral. Wait… trapezoid? Ben jiggled his knee harder, jostling her seat. He tapped the window and mumbled, "Trapezoid." Toad-voiced Curly can stick that in her boxes and see if it fits.

She started singing off-key "Ice Ice Bay-bee" and Ben figured he died and went to hell, capital H-E-double L. How did he get stuck here? Oh yeah, I thought I could bluff a raise. My bad!

Mr. Brennan, THE boss, had stood but not come around his desk. He grabbed the stress ball from his desktop and squeezed it while staring at Ben. Ben cleared his throat. Mr. Brennan winked before offering his free hand.

Curly's voice interrupted Ben's memory. "Nine letter word for magnificent. Ends in 's'. Hmm." Did she raise the volume, hoping for his help?

Ben wriggled to get comfortable, kneed the back of her seat again. He sure missed his ergonomic office chair. Mr. Brennan's reply to Vesco Instruments is offering me 5K more a year, but I love it here and would hate to leave was a condescendingly cheerful, "That's great! Shoot, we'll miss your contributions but how can we stifle talent? Ben, when opportunity knocks you answer the door, invite it in. You woo it; hell, you schmooze that opportunity. Open the expensive champagne, splurge for that sumptuous feast and in the end, you'll get your Just Desserts. Yessiree, stroke that opportunity until it surrenders and gives you the ride of your life."

Yep. This is the ride of my life. Wait…that's it! Sumptuous. Nine letter word, ends in s, means magnificent.

Ben was about to lean forward and offer Curly the word, but she was whispering to a buzz-cut Neanderthal across the aisle; a Neanderthal with the same saucer-plate ears as his boss. His ex-boss.

That pompous prick had fondled his bean bag as he avoided eye contact with Ben and said, "Human resources will cut you your last check. And Ben? Return your washroom key."

Ben shook the memory clear, re-crossed his legs and concentrated on the humming wind, the moaning tires… hey! Small miracle! Curly wasn't croaking cover songs.

She had turned to glare at him. Ben raised his eyebrows and smiled a hey-I'm-sorry-I-insulted-your-awful-singing voice smile. The corners of Curly's mouth twitched. Ben took it as a hey-you're-cute-and-you-called-me-beautiful look.

"Sumptuous. Sumptuous means magnificent," he said, adding a wink, hoping she'd smile.

"If yer epileptic knee kicks me seat one more time," she threatened as she poked her thumb towards the Neanderthal, "Me brother Sean here'll kick ye so hard that yew'll fly through this...," she paused to reach over his seat and punch his window, "...TRAPEZOID."

3WW & #FLASHFRIDAY aka Double Duty

2009-11-25T21:14:00.000-08:00

On this Wednesday in November, when (if you try hard enough) you can still dodge Christmas music, comes the appropriate words GIVE, OBVIOUS and THANKS. I didn't go dark this time, but still enjoyed being creative.

Enjoy the season!

INTERLUDE

“Give a little bit. Give a little bit of your love, to me.”

Curly sang aloud, off key, bopping her auburn mop to the beat emanating into her head. Even though the melody was off, it was obvious by her jiggly nods that she was listening to the bastardized Goo Goo Dolls version of the song rather than Supertramp’s feel good classic.

She sat directly in front of him on his first, and hopefully last, Greyhound bus ride. Thirty years old, without a job, without prospects, without hope, and moving in with his parents. Ben was extremely bitter. The last thing he needed was to travel the one hundred some odd miles listening to an off-key head-bopper with horrible taste in music.

Silence. She stopped singing. Curly bent forward. Ben thought he heard a quiet “damn”. Ben let out a breath, one he hadn’t realized he held. Maybe her IPod ran out of juice... one could hope. Just as he settled back, turned his head to watch the passing scenery, she started again.

“Did you write the book of love....” she croaked. Curly’s debauchery of Madonna’s debauchery of Don McLean. Toes curling, fists clenching, teeth gnashing, Ben wished the bus would just crash already and speed him to hell rather than torture him with the soundtrack.

After an eternal four more minutes, she pulled out her earbuds. Ben heard the tinny whine but blessedly, he couldn’t make out the song. Curly turned around in her seat.

“Hey! What doos ‘paradox’ mean?” she asked with a lilt. Irish, he thought. She kneeled in her seat and handed her folded newspaper over its back. “See? Right here, seven doown.”

“Paradox,” Ben repeated, pretending to look at her paper. She had the most gorgeous green eyes he’d ever seen. He cleared his throat.

“Well? D’yew knew or whot?” Her lilt softened the tone.

“Oh yeah, I know. A paradox is a woman with horrible taste in music and the singing voice of a toad, but the speaking voice of an angel. Paradox.”

She stared at him, expressionless. Ben smiled at her, but she didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t budge.

After a full minute she shook her paper at him.

Ben blushed as he looked at the puzzle again. “Er, paradox means ah, let me see, ends in ‘a’… try ‘enigma’.”

“Another goddamn know-it-all, A-hole-critic,” she mumbled under her breath as she replaced the earbuds. “Thanks. Thanks a lot,” she shouted over her shoulder before she belted out “There she goes… there she goes again….”

3WW... Again.

2009-11-18T22:36:00.001-08:00

I know, lame excuse, but it is a valid one for the whole month of November... (cue ominous music) NANOWRIMO! Yes, that's my excuse for taking a break, wandering along the friend-thread to the back alley where words hang out, get high, interface with each other and expect me (and you) to sort out their mess.

I think I did it. The words that stumbled into me (and spilled my beer without offering to replace it... the nerve!) were Obscene, Loyal and Accident. It was an obscene accident for me to try to be loyal to my tweet buddy, the f*#@ing administrator of 3WW...

No, that wasn't my offering. This is it:

A Head to Get Ahead

Troy, her great-great-great-great (how many greats?) grandson placed her head, within its cryogenic acrylic-alloyed capsule gently upon the gurney. She had told her lawyer (how many centuries ago?) that the MacIntyres were fiercely loyal to the family name, and would do anything in the name of family—as long as there was an obscene amount of money involved. Troy proved her right by authorizing the opening of the hermetically sealed vault and ordering the thaw.

She raised her eyebrows (and savored the physicality of it!) at her descendant. He nodded once before turning away from her. Her nephew-to-the-fifth-power was carrying her head to the reattachment center! "Hey there… Troy, right?"

Her progeny's freckles flared the same orange as his curly head. No mistake, he was a MacIntyre. Troy mumbled, "Yes Ma'am?"

"Am I really getting a body today? Pinch me to make sure it's real!" She added, "Just kidding!" when his pale skin flushed. That shade of red looked painful.

"Oh, to walk again and have arms to hug you!" Troy flashed a tight-lipped smile. Jenny didn't notice. She was too happy just to hear her voice again.

"Can you imagine living—no, existing—with only your brain? I can imagine smell. Sure, there's a nose on my face, but I can't actually… smell. Do you know what I mean?"

He glanced left and right before answering, "Yes ma'am."

Jenny frowned just to feel her skin wrinkle and crinkle—amazing.

Troy cleared his throat. "Um, since the twenty-third century—"

"You mean the twenty-first century! I know, a long time ago." Jenny laughed. "In the twenty-FIRST century, Dr. Leon Poule perfected cryogen—"

Troy shook his head. "No, I'm talking about the twenty-THIRD century, when legislation allowed the use of cryogenically preserved brains to provide energy."

Jenny shivered at the ominous tone of his words (though she relished feeling her cheeks jiggle). "Energy? Whoa, slow down. Energy! Like batteries?"

Troy continued. "Thawed cryogenic brains can power and maintain all the lights, heat, electronics--heck, if you get the right adaptor, you can even power a transport--plus your home for a year on just one brain! Imagine!" Troy beamed at her.

"Do you know how excited I was to discover our family, The MacIntyres, actually inherited a cryogenic head?" Jenny heard his excitement. He pushed her gurney faster.

"I paid to be preserved to gain a body!" Jenny shouted.

"Aunt Jenny, you're more appreciated as a head. Trust…." He crashed into another gurney rounding a corner. "Aw, fuck ME!"

Jenny's head smacked against the weakened acrylic, the force tumbling her off the gurney and onto the composite tile floor. A zipping crackle zapped her right ear as she watched a zigzag line glide then crack wide in front of her face. She gulped for oxygen.

"No, no, no, No, NO!" was the second to the last phrase Jenny heard.

A squeaky female voice pleading, "I'm sorry! It was an accident!" was the last.

3WW

2009-11-11T22:45:00.000-08:00

NaNoWriMo is a demanding... cretin (you thought I was going to say lover.. no love here in week #2!). Anyhow...

I took a break from my strange disc found by a metal detector and now in the hands of a bored housewife rather than the alien booked on InterGalactic Flight 1101... and tried to work 'errant' 'hanker' and 'murky' into a story. Enjoy.

THERAPY

I sit on the hard slats of the wooden folding chair, staring at the five—no, make that ten- o’clock shadow—of Bigsworth, or Bozsmouth, or whatever the hell his name is. The harsh fluorescent lights tinge his skin a sickly green. He’s a fucking whiner. He loved crack more than his old lady, his children, his six figure job… whatever. He lost it all and now he’s looking for redemption in the murky depths of a Styrofoam coffee cup. The one perk of Wednesday group therapy: burnt coffee. I hate that mud but by Wednesday morning I’m hankering for it. Maybe that’s how they get us to go to therapy… drug the joe.

“Joe? Would you like to share with us this evening?” I grunt no. Maybe later.

The brassy blonde next to Bigmouth, the one with the deep creases above her lips, deep from puckering them around cigarettes and god knows what else for the past forty years, says in her gravelly voice how sure, she lost it all, gave it away really, but she could do what she fuckin’ had to because of vodka and Quaaludes—that gave her strength. She spreads her legs; I get an errant view of a dick poking between the tear in her orange coveralls.

I never sipped, snorted, smoked or shot up. I have a carton of cigarettes back in the cell and a modified toothpaste tube. I wink at brassy, chin-chuck toward Bigmouth. Yeah, I'll share with them how I got here. Later.

six small meals

2009-11-06T07:45:00.000-08:00

Today, I have six shorts live at http://sixsentences.blogspot.com. The last story is a tribute to my parents, who after almost 50 years of marriage, still love each other unconditionally.

Three Word Wednesday

2009-11-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

At the prodding (wheedling, cajoling, borderline nagging) tone of my new writer friend Thom Gabrukiewicz, I have tried my hand at Three Word Wednesday. Briefly, Thom provides three words and anyone who is up to the challenge incorporates those three words into a cohesive story, posts it on a blog, and then sends a link in the comments section @ http://threewordwednesday.wordpress.com/

November 4th's words: Karma, Obey and Wither.

Here goes:

Turn Around, Tadpole!

"Prettyprettyprettypretty pul-eeze? Show mommy how you can be a daddy." She stopped to pretend to suck her thumb. "Mummy wuvs her sweet-ums."

Alton hated it when she talked baby talk. "Forever" was indeed a very long time, and becoming longer, exponentially so, with each passing month. He didn't get those men that said their wives bloomed during pregnancy, became glowing, sensuous goddesses. All he saw when he stared at Brittany's swelling belly was a manatee. That tadpole of his, the one he learned existed during junior high school sex-ed class, that one out of a million that waited those fourteen years since junior high to obey the laws of procreation; it probably high-fived all the other tadpoles before the mighty swoosh!—before it swam against the odds and left its flagellating buddies in the dust to impregnate that insidious egg. His tadpole fulfilled its karma and helped form the seahorse-image in the first ultrasound, which then grew into an alien-headed frog, metamorphosed into a… didn't matter what it looked like; all he knew was what it transformed his petite, feminine, sexy wife into a lumbering, sea cow. A sea cow that barked baby talk.

"Altee, Altee, cock's-in-free!"

Didn’t she understand that tone made his dick wither rather than grow? Alton focused on her pouting lips and tried to ignore her pendulous breasts; her once delicate fingers, swollen into Vienna sausages, stroking her distended stomach. He refused to let his stare wander to the foot of the bed where her cankles rested. Alton bit his lips, his physical effort to check his mental disgust. Brittany smiled.

"Aw, you're so sweet! You won't hurt me. It's karma, me getting pregnant. Us Winslows, we're fertile and we're from sturdy stock. My Grammy had fourteen children! Yessirree, fourteen pregnancies. Imagine that?"

Under Construction

2009-11-03T09:45:00.000-08:00

Yes, whatever that means, I am constructing this site. I hope to watch the tutorial by the end of this week and at least post one story that directly relates to Eldritch Way.

Eldritch Way, someday, will be a collection of short stories that all relate, in one way or another, to this fictional, shop(pe)-filled street. Some stories are complete; some still float over my head or inside my head or, well, who knows where stories float to when you don't give them your attention.

Also, once I figure it out, watch for links to some really great writers and blogs that I have encountered along the way. Oh look! A sale at Escapades--talk about jumping inside a story! Gotta go now.

And for my fellow NaNoWriMo-ers STOP READING RANDOM BLOGS AND WRITE YOUR 1667!