Cormac Writes

"Bacon" is up at A Twist of Noir

2011-09-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

First, everyone needs to recognize and acknowledge, the editorial and personal greatness of Christopher Grant! He has assembled the largest flash fiction challenge ever undertaken by a single person. We're talking over a hundred stories! Mr. Grant invited virtually every author that has been published on A Twist of Noir to submit a story. The idea was in addition to the usual ATON fare, he would post stories that were to be between 600 to 700 words.

It's not enough to compile over a hundred tales, proof them and check the word count, but to devote that amount of time takes outstanding dedication. The results have been astounding to say the least, with a great yarns from both professionals and amateurs.

I can't do a teaser for the story, because it would pretty much just give it away. Well, without further adieu, here's "Bacon."

Best Of: "Type"

2011-09-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

This was for the "Sweet Dreams Flash Fiction Challenge" by Patti, Aldo and Gerald.

This is one of the few bars left in San Francisco that has a jukebox that still takes change and still plays vinyl, and that's why I love this hole-in-the-wall.

Did I say "hole in the wall?" Yeah, there’s that too, from where Jay slammed an unruly drunk into the corner, just right past the last booth. That was last week, and he just duct-taped a plastic sheet over it this morning and called it "fixed."

What I don’t like here is Annie Lennox in the blue dress.

She’s not Ms. Lennox herself, but close enough that David Stewart would want to start a reunion tour with her. She has played “Sweet Dreams” ten times in a row, which is about four times too many even for a Eurythmics fan, which I am not. She has on a $400 electric blue dress, yet the nail polish on her fingers and toes is chipped. She never strays far from her raggedy purse, but that’s to give her .40 caliber Glock a reassuring (and what she believes to be discreet) pat.

She is from the Pamela Anderson School of Acting, with her ersatz twitches and faux withdrawal symptoms. She might use many things, but I doubt she uses meth, coke or heroin. Everything about her, including her high-end salon dye job, clashes with these surroundings, and who she is supposed to be. Jay will see through this right away, and he will bypass slamming her into the wall for cutting her up in the basement.

“It’s gonna be awhile. Jay went to the bank to get change…so you might want to go somewhere else,” I mention.

"Do you know when he's going to be back?" she asks firmly. She's trying to seem braver than she feels, and I used to be scared like her, too, but that was more than a lifetime ago.

I swirl and sip my shot glass of rotgut like it’s fine cognac as I say to her, "He's not holding today."

"That's not why I'm here," she blurts.

"So you're here to meet a date?"

“No,” she says with the all the warmth of Finland in February.

“Then you’ll probably want to go where you’ll find one.”

“Are you the owner?” she demands.

“I’m just watching the joint for him,” I mumble, and shake my head. She sizes me up for the first time and sees an old barfly in a denim outfit that’s older than she is. She looks away and instantly writes me off…big mistake.

“Then pour yourself a glass of ‘Shut The Fuck Up.’”

I pour myself another shot and I say, “Noroc!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means ‘to your health’ in Romanian.”

“You’re weird.”

“My dear, I’ve been the same that I’ve always been…it’s the times that have gotten stranger. If you live long enough, though I don’t see this happening, you will come to realize this too.”

I close the distance between us and her eyes widen as I get closer, then they go blank. Her mind is…malleable, though not enough to get her to leave this place. I sniff around her and I was right; other than her beauty, she lacks that certain something. Jay enters the bar and the sunlight from the door snaps her out of it.

“I’ll see you sooner than both of us would like,” I whisper, but her attention is already completely focused on Jay. He has that effect, and we both want Jay…for the wrong reasons. This time he’s not alone; he has some psycho named “Daily” with him. I don’t know how that sociopath got his name, but I’ve seen him stab people over $5 bets. The Lennox clone, a.k.a. Officer Newcomb, has arrested him before, yet she unfortunately doesn’t recognize him.

I leave this bar and maybe I leave my conscience there, too.

***

I have lived a long time, a lot longer than my apparent age and longer than you can imagine. Still, I have just thimbleful of wisdom to show for all that time. So I have to work hard at most things, just like anyone else…sometimes, more so. It would be easy for me to leave Officer Newcomb to her death in the basement, because all I want out of the equation is Jay and saving her would jeopardize that.

As I slip in behind them, she trembles with her own gun being jabbed into her head by Daily. Being a coward, he has blindfolded her. All the better to do what needs to be done, which should lessen the need for no unnecessary explanations later on. Daily is easy to subdue, Jay…much less so, though I knew that going in. I leave Officer Newcomb still trembling down in the basement; she’ll come around, though I don’t know if she will ever recover.

As for Jay, my rare AB+ treasure, I have to figure out how to get him out of the building without being seen. I wish I could explain everything to Officer Newcomb. How we don’t run around in tuxedoes with our hair slicked back, and we sure as hell don’t fucking glitter. But I have no faith in her intelligence, because she came into a place like this without wearing a wire or having any backup. So I doubt that she would ever understand the ways of the Nosferatu.

The End

"Eight-Maids-A-Milking"

2011-09-12T20:30:00.000-07:00

This tale originally appeared in the late great Dark Valentine Magazine's, "Twelve Days of Christmas."

“Don’t look at my breasts, my face is up here,” Amy almost says out loud to the teen ogling her from three bus seats away. Then she thinks it over and decides she actually wants the junior pervert to obsess over her breasts, because maybe then he won’t recognize her. Amy is certain there is a reward out on her, but she doesn’t know that it started at $5,000 when she made her escape some two hours ago, and it’s climbing a thousand every hour. The young deviant has finally shifted his preoccupation to the big picture that is Amy Li Yahuan, and nothing is adding up.

It’s almost Christmas, yet she’s dressed up for Oktoberfest with an authentic Bavarian dirndl, a crown of plastic flowers, and her hair fixed up in braids. Amy looks like the Chinese-American version of the 80’s mascot for a certain cocoa. Amy goes through the purse that she stole from the makeup girl right before she escaped; she has to bribe the little creep before the other passengers recognize…too late.

How can she help it? Probably half of the people here wake up to her looking back at them during breakfast, and the other half have seen her on billboards and TV. Amy bites her lip in anger, because she worked so hard to get out of Bruno’s clutches and she is so close to getting her fix she can almost taste it. Maybe she can get her fill before her former captor finds out that she went south instead of home to Sacramento. As the 54 crosses the Golden Gate Bridge and slows because of the traffic, Amy wonders if she should just get off here and end it all with a leap from the span. Would death be preferable to being trapped on The Farm again?

***

After getting off the bus at Lombard, hitchhiking three times over 3.4 miles and fighting off two pawing creeps, she finally reaches her destination on Geary Street. Amy lets out a sigh of relief. The stolen makeup girl's purse that funded her escape has only six dollars left. Well, that's more than enough to fund the only thing that she has yearned for besides freedom for the last twenty months.

Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. Yet one of the worst aspects of The Farm for Amy was not the gangsters or former gangsters watching over her every move except for when she went to the bathroom. Nor was it her never being allowed to go outside the two main buildings of that establishment. She got used to the guns brandished at her and the hyper-sensitive alarms going off all the time, but she couldn’t abide the miserable forced diet. She wasn’t allowed any meat or junk food…not even a French fry.

Here in this Jack In The Box near 11th Avenue, she fights the Pavlovian response to salivate and the urge to give the cashier an earful, when she has to explain to him that yes, she wants an Ultimate Cheeseburger, but no, she doesn't want the cheese. He finally gets it when she says, "no dairy" in Spanish. Amy vows that she will eat no more dairy ever, even if it means her bones turn to powder before she’s forty.

As she sits down with her tray, nothing can ruin this moment...not even the bus that goes past the window with her picture and the other seven women that have been held captive just as long as she has. Amy pulls back the paper and savors the aroma. No, nothing can ruin this moment...though the sight of a hardened Latino male outside, covered in gang tattoos does not help.

Actually, this moment is ruined in the worst way, as she recognizes that most of his ink is the same as Bruno's. How did they find her so fast? There's no time to even take a bite, as she decides to strike before they can locate her. There is nothing in the stolen purse to defend herself with, not even a nail file. Just as the gangster reaches for the door, Amy sprints from behind an exiting customer, and pushes both the patron and the door into the tough.

She won't go back to The Farm no matter what, even if that means being run over by Geary Boulevard's relentless traffic. The east-bound cars slam their brakes and the west-bound cars do the same, though one of them skids too long and hits her pursuer hard, knocking the immense man to the pavement. He tries to get up on one knee, but he falls back down. Amy’s victory is short-lived, as two of his crew come charging after her. Of the two havens nearest to her, Amy flees for the shelter of the lamp store.

“Can I help…” are the last words the lamp salesman gets in before everything goes off like an errant spark at a fireworks factory. Amy greets the first gangster through the door with a torchiere that she has braced into the carpet like medieval lance man would with a spear. His eyes don’t make the adjustment from bright sunshine to the darker store and his momentum gives him a chest full of glass and iron. The man crumbles like a crash test dummy and he flops to the entrance floor.

His partner enters, leaps around his fallen friend and surprises Amy. She scampers around the corner and he trips over a few lamps before he can grab her. The tough stumbles to his feet with rage, as he seems to have lost track of her. He covers two-thirds of the store, before he is blinded by two track lights pointed at his face. A heart-shaped resin lamp hits the side of his knee and he falls down on all fours.

He is flattened by a tasteful walnut table lamp that is on sale for $79.95 until January 2nd, and Amy takes his wallet and his gun. She gives the astonished lamp salesman $200 from the billfold and she slips out the back of the store before he realizes that the money won’t even begin to cover the damage.

***

Harold knows this isn’t some kind of dream, because they never last three whole days long. Of course he keeps waiting for someone to wake him up, as beautiful women like her simply don’t fall from the sky. Actually, Harold really doesn’t know the first thing about her, other than she showed up at his brother’s restaurant in a dirndl, and that she loves hamburgers. As a matter of fact, the only thing she loves more than burgers is the man that brings her those patties and some fries.

“Emme” is what she asked him to call her and he didn’t ask any questions…because Harold has spent his whole life catering to pretty women. Emme is different though, because unlike the girls before her, she doesn’t make Harold jump through hoops, and she doesn’t make financial demands. All that she wants is burgers, fries, and making love with the shades pulled down. Come to think of it, Emme doesn’t want to go out…at all. Harold even offered to take her to the House of Prime Rib, figuring that if she likes beef…yet, she turned that down.

There’s something so familiar about Emme, as if he has known her somehow for the last couple of years. A light bulb goes off over Harold’s head and then it smacks him hard. She must be an escaped convict, it’s the only way this all makes sense. There’s the doorbell and that’s odd, Lloyd with the order of burgers from his brother’s restaurant isn’t due for another hour. As Harold opens the door, he wonders how lightning got into the hallway.

The first thing he notices is the funny taste, and the second thing he notices is that he can’t move his arms. The third, and most important thing he notices, is the angry gang bangers standing in his kitchen.

“I said, ‘where’s Amy?’”

“Who?”

The one in the middle punches Harold in the face and he says, “I’m not playing, homes.”

Harold realizes that funny taste is his own blood, and he also figures that “Amy” is “Emme.” Harold gets a rabbit punch to the left ear that leaves him wondering how much longer he can keep up this ruse of chivalry.

“We’re done, kill him, Gordo” the middle one says the fat banger on the left.

“Naw, listen Bruno, she’s here, man!” avers Gordo. “The bum that we found wearing her dress, he says he got out of the trash can from this house!”

The walk-in cupboard opens up, as it turns out Amy was hiding behind two Costco packs of paper towels. Unlike the gang bangers, she has her gun already out.

“Amy, thank God! Where were you?” Bruno whines almost like a jilted freshman.

“I’m not going back to The Farm, Bruno!” Amy seethes. “Chloe can attach the couplings from all the machinery and go milk herself!”

Bruno reaches behind his back and Amy cocks her gun’s hammer. Bruno holds his hands up and says, “Hold on, I don’t have a gun. I just want to show you something.”

He reaches back again and this time he brings out a rolled-up paper. Bruno unfurls a poster of Amy and seven other women. They are all dressed as Bavarian milk maids, and they are Caucasian, Black, Filipino and Japanese.“See?” mewls Bruno, “I had them Photoshop you into the center.”

Amy lowers her gun as she looks at the poster, then she raises it again and says, “I am not going back until Chloe leaves!”

“Why eight?”

The gangsters are aghast that Harold talked, much less to Bruno.

“Because a fortune teller told Bruno’s wife, Chloe, that eight is the Chinese lucky number that leads to prosperity. That and that stupid ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ song”.

“Yeah, well, she was right about that being a lucky number, there have to be eight of you. Come back to The Farm, Amy, and I’ll double your pay.”

“I’m tired of home shopping networks. What’s the difference if I never get to go out and spend the money?”

Bruno poorly tries to sound firm when he mumbles, “You have to come back, baby. All of your cows miss you and they’re not producing. Hell, even when they do, the milk is sour.”

“Please, Bruno. She doesn’t want to be cooped up in the boonies. Please…find another woman, and just let her go.”

Bruno raises his hand to Harold, but Amy rebuffs that with a wave of her pistol.

“I don’t think you understand, ese, I’m one of the biggest producers of organic milk in all of Northern California. I’m also the biggest employer of ex-cons this side of the glasses in an hour shop, so I can just take Amy away, while you get the full-on prison experience right in your home. I can make death look like a long-lost, warm and welcome friend, if you don’t shut the hell up.”

Gordo and his friend look down at Harold, like they are the IRS and he owes them money.

“If you divorce Chloe, I’ll leave with you right now,” Amy says faintly.

“I can’t afford to give her half,” replies Bruno with a half-pout.

Amy puts her gun on the table and cuts the rope off Harold’s right hand. She walks up to Bruno, deftly caresses him and responds, “You’ll work a way around that, I’m sure.”

Bruno puts his arm around Amy and they leave. Gordo and his sidekick follow, but not without glaring at Harold for the last time. As he unties himself, Harold is unsure if he has dodged a bullet, among other things and weapons. The only thing that he sure about is that when Tennyson said, “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all,” was that the poet certainly never had a woman like Amy.

The End

RIP Michael Hart

2011-09-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

Rest in peace, Michael Hart. He has done the most to change how we read books than anybody since Gutenberg.

How pulp covers got their start

2011-08-21T01:20:00.000-07:00

Here's an article featuring a book on how pulp covers began, from I09. We're talking ships that fly, John Carter illustrations and a camel with a machine gun mounted to its back.

Speaking of pulp covers, B-Sol, where are you?

Bomblog interviews Scott Wolven

2011-08-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

Scott Wolven talks about writing, writing a letter to the late great Jim Thompson, Treme and other things at Bombsite.

"The Hunter" is now available on Amazon E-books

2011-07-30T14:48:00.000-07:00

John Donald Carlucci's new E-book "The Hunter" just came out today!

Take a gander at it on Amazon.

Keith Rawson Interviews The Author Who Brings The Pain

2011-07-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

I have been lackadaisical about blogging as of late, but here is tidbit to make up for that via Keith Rawson.

He interviewed Duane Swierczynski and survived!

At least I think he did. Come to think of it, someone else could be posting as Keith, and Brother Raw might have met his demise a couple of months...naw, that all sounds too Ludlum.

Anyway, meet the man who brings the pain in every sense of the word. We're talking the author whose writing is so hard-boiled, that he makes Spillane and Hemingway look like a pair of weak sisters, Duane Swierczynski.

Big Things Loom On The Horizon

2011-07-03T16:38:00.000-07:00

Possibilities and permutations abound. All I know is that I haven't been this excited about reading or writing in ages.

A story redux, and a restaurant review for your perusal

2011-05-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

I've written a couple of things for your perusal that I hope that you enjoy. First up is a revision of an old story of mine for Dark Valentine Magazine, called "Passion In Venice."

("Bridge of Sighs" image from Writerquake)

Next, comes a restaurant review of a cuisine that even the most traveled gourmet has never tried, at John and Jin's new blog, The Clumsy Eater. Have you had Burmese food? What is it like? Take a gander at my family's adventures at The Burma Tea Leaf, a.k.a. Pagan.

Enjoy!

"Be Prepared"

2011-05-06T19:02:00.000-07:00

For Daniel B. O'Shea's Tornado Relief Flash Challenge-

"Some day a real rain will come and wash the scum off of the streets."

-Travis Bickle, "Taxi Driver"

After women, booze that isn’t made with something that should never be fermented in the first place, and meat that you don’t have to guess what species it came from, I miss the rain the most. During my last stint, the warden had three successful escapes happen during the rain, so he wouldn’t permit us to go out in the exercise yard in anything stronger than a mist.

Getting back to Travis, this just goes to show how crazy Travis really is. The rain won't kill the rats because you know they can swim out of anything, nor would it affect the rest of us that God and everyone else has been trying to drown since the day we were born. And to think that I've been waiting four years to see that movie...actually, three years and ten months with good behavior. Fuck "Star Wars," this was all I heard about in the joint, and this? This was just a let-down.

I just had to walk out on a showing of “Raging Bull” right now, because the last thing I want to do is spend my second day out of the joint with some asshole exactly like the ones I was in lock-up with. The certifiables crazies that have no "off-switch," you know. You let that animal mentality stay with you for too long and you can't adjust back into society, and getting back into society is just what I want to do this time around.

I’m happy to walk in the rain again, and the touch of a woman will happen as soon as I can get twenty-five bucks together. I want to be able to sleep in, to eat when I want to eat, and to take a bath instead of a shower. The pisser of it all is that I know that it's not a question of if I'm going back to prison, but when. I’ve spent more time in state-run institutions than I have as a free individual, so I know my die is cast. Go straight to jail, do not pass Go and do not collect $200.

I can’t hold a normal conversation with anyone, but I know how to use the fewest words necessary to put the fear of God in them for the rest of their lives. I don’t know which fork or spoon to use at a dinner, but if it came down to it, I could take someone out but permanently, with either utensil in seconds. I wouldn’t know the path of the straight and narrow if it ran right over me, yet I know opportunity way before it even gets up to the porch and puts its knuckles to the door.

Take that brand-new 1981 Buick Regal across the street. It has a broken-out window just behind the driver’s side and it’s been idling there for about two minutes. Even though the windows are pretty fogged-over, I can tell the driver is fidgety. If there is anything I’ve learned from my short stint in the Boy Scouts, it’s how to cuss, how to smoke, and to “Be Prepared.”

Like when I cut through a high school track meet the other day, and helped myself to a spare starter’s pistol when everyone’s eyes were fixated on a heated race. And I always wear a hooded sweatshirt because carrying around a ski mask when you have a record, is just begging for the cops to frame you for the one thing you didn’t do. Now, the fact that no one has left that bank for the last two minutes, coupled with the Buick, tells me that opportunity is about to kick in the door like a cop with two alimonies and a warrant, and I’m going to be the one to capitalize right here on someone else’s hard work and planning.

It’s a damn shame though; they ran a trailer for “Raging Bull” just before “Taxi Driver” and it seems like that’s going to be my kind of movie. It’s a pity because I doubt I can stay out of the joint until December.

The End

Daniel B. O'Shea threw down the flash fiction gauntlet and asked us to come up with a story that centered around rain, and that came under 1,000 words. The beauty of it is that for every story written, he will donate $5 to the Red Cross to help those that were devastated by the recent tornadoes.

This is just sick...

2011-05-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

... and it's sacrilege. Just utter and complete sacrilege-

Obviously whoever did this sign up is not a fan, or a mystery fan nor is he or she earning their money in any sense of the word.

"Miami, 6 AM"

2011-02-28T21:06:00.000-08:00

“Est-ceci un coyllar?”

“Mais, oui.”

Babette, she’s so knowledgeable…I knew that there was something special about her. Maybe we will have to get to know each other, and hopefully sooner than later. Yes, it’s a coyllar like the one that was used by Charles VIIth.

When you throw a party, you should make sure that your guests are well fed, entertained and that they will want to come back for the next soiree that you throw. Not to mention, you should give them something that they will talk about long after the event.

Me? No “Wh*te Party” like Sean, I won’t tell invitees what they can and cannot wear. I won’t do “black-tie only” like the Carquinezes, no one wants to look like a penguin on purpose. Fireworks have been done to death, and animals are trite and too Vegas.

I said to myself that I’m going to do something different, something that nobody else has done. It starts with what amounts to the world’s biggest duck blind. That keeps guests wondering and it also keeps my neighbors from tipping off the authorities. It also means that I won’t be needing permits.

“Yes everyone, it is a coyllar, also known to us as a ‘trebuchet.’”

Oh, if they could see the looks on their own faces, like children on Christmas morning in front of hundreds of presents.

“And that, is a Grand Piano. Shall we countdown together?”

“Ten, nine, eight,” ah, now they wake up and join in. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

Wu-wonnnnggg!

I don’t know which is more impressive, the rush of air as the trebuchet releases that sizable object, or when it recoils back toward us. It is certainly astounding when something that takes four men to move on the ground, soars through the wind like an eagle. You can certainly imagine that despite being made of wood, that it would cut through a castle wall…or two.

And here comes the splash…no, it is not meant to be. I thought that sandbar was dredged out, this is anticlimactic in a way, though the cheers of my guests suggest otherwise. As long as they are happy, it was all worthwhile. Unfortunately, there won’t be any encores, lest my neighbors or the Coast Guard figures out where that monstrosity came from.

It was a Steinway Model M, Grand Piano, and it was a little less than five-hundred and eighty pounds. Give or take. A floating arm trebuchet would’ve been more efficient, but nothing is more fun than old school mischief. My, I do believe that is Babette’s come hither grin.

The End

This story was part of Informal Exercise #1 for the blog Icarus Flight To Perfection. A big thanks to Sue H. and Nicole for participating.

"Stone"

2011-02-24T09:08:00.000-08:00

“You were exceptional today, Marisa.”

Jodi is a phenomenal physical therapist and she means well, but Marisa knows a half-truth when she hears it. She’s told more than her share, and it’s the greater part of her job to say things that have just enough veracity in them, that they could actually be plausible. Jodi builds up people one way, and Marisa? Well-

“Oh, my God, look at all the flowers!” Jodi exclaims with excitement, and she forgets that Marisa cannot maintain her balance without her. She catches Marisa before she falls, which is the first time anyone has ever done that in her life.

“Hey, Babe, I’m glad to see that you are up and about,” comes a smooth voice from behind them. Jodi turns and Marisa almost plummets again. “You like?” asks Roger with a tone so mellifluous that it would go well with either tea or bread. His looks surpass his voice, though despite her absence of makeup and her infirmity, Marisa is his equal in attractiveness.

Almost the entire room is covered in roses, and Roger holds out his arms and says, “Nothing is too special for my special lady.”

Yeah, “special.” Marisa notes that most of the blooms are old, spotted or have black leaves. Also, none of the colors match, so she figures that Roger must have raided every supermarket in the surrounding area…and possibly even some cemeteries. Roger gently tilts her chin, caresses Marisa and looks her over.

“That plastic surgeon did a pretty spectacular job. The scars are really only visible in direct sunlight.”

“I really don’t mind the scars,” Marisa mumbles.

“Well, hopefully another surgery can bring out all the beauty that was there before. Please…listen to your therapist, and work hard to get better. I miss you, and all the girls miss you, too.”

Roger kisses her, but Marisa turns away. He caresses her one last time and leaves.

Despite her envy, Jodi smiles. “Wow, you are really lucky to have a man like that. Have you two been together a long time?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she grunts as she sits on the bed with great difficulty. “Roger and I are not exclusive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’s my pimp.”

No, Marisa doesn’t mind the scars at all. Despite her disheveled state, she still manages to turn heads in this hospital. These wounds are her reminder to work harder in her rehabilitation. They are a maimed mnemonic that someone did this to her, and that would-be killer is someone powerful. He’s possibly too powerful and untouchable for a simple prostitute like Marisa to get revenge.

She has always been able to spot the psychos, and that intuition never let her down. If anything, Roger let her down by offering her up on a platter to that “political advisor,” Clifton Maynard. Marisa is also fairly certain that Roger slipped her something that day, but it’s hard to remember just what happened.

She does remember the face of her attacker, and she has been reminded of it, as Clifton Maynard has been on TV twice since she has been admitted here. He was standing right behind the mayor with that deceivingly boyish grin. Marisa also remembers her disbelief at all that blood. She remembers thinking that it couldn’t possibly be all hers, but it was. Marisa wants to suppress her fear, her screams, and channel that pain into getting better.

***

“Welcome home, Baby!”

There are no flowers this time, and none of the girls are here to greet her. Roger believes that they are angry at Marisa because they had to work harder to cover the loss of the stable’s top earner, but Marisa knows otherwise. It took two more surgeries and six months of physical therapy to come to this full, twisted circle.

“You can take the next couple of days off, and get comfortable.”

Marisa already has, as it came to her in an anesthetic-fueled dream.

A pimp must know all the weaknesses of a woman, or he’ll go broke. Women can be mercurial, so Roger has always made it a point to stay one step ahead of the girls in his stable. Of course, that goes both ways in that Marisa knows Roger’s deficiencies almost as well as he knows hers.

For instance, he likes to videotape everything.

Everything.

Lorazepam.

It’s his Kryptonite. Marisa went without during her hospital stay, just so that her pimp could do with. Roger will OD tonight and it will look like a homicide, of that she is certain. Then, when Roger’s cousin reads about this, she will panic and send the media some copies of that tape of Clifton Maynard nearly killing Marisa.

Clifton will take the fall for Roger’s murder, of that she is almost certain. Either way, when all is said and done, she will kill two birds.

The End

This story was for Patti Abbott's latest flash fiction challenge, and you know that she always comes up with the best ones. She said-

"On Saturday night, we passed a young woman on the street who was talking to her male companion and said, "I really don't mind the scars." A good startup line for a little challenge perhaps. I looked for a picture to go with it but 1) they scarred (make that scared) me too much to post and 2) I felt like the pictures steered the story.

So how about a 800 or so word story that contains that line in it. How about an end date of February 28th? What do you think?

If you don't have a blog to post it on, I'll post it here with mine. Just give me a few days' notice."

For Valentine's Day: "The Price of Perfection"

2011-02-13T16:01:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, I am linking "The Price Of Perfection," which has been on the third page of my blog for a few months.

The light from The Heart Nebula by Matt Russell from Apod.nasa.gov.

It was originally published in Issue #5 of Astonishing Adventures Magazine and after March, only a few of the story's paragraphs will be here. It's a tale about a man who loves a woman more than life itself. His...or the existence of anyone else.

So click here to pull the trigger, er, bow for Cupid.

Moo-lah

2011-02-06T04:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have more fun researching a story than writing it. That certainly is not always a good thing, but, hey. At any rate, as I was typing away, I wondered about the origins of the word "moolah," and please note, my spell check was wondering about it too. It turns out that there is no definitive story on its entomology, though this post by the Word Detective is the most interesting one out there-

One would think, with so many people wondering about the roots of “moolah,” that someone would have come up with at least one entertaining “urban legend” about the word, but no such luck.

What theories do exist about its origins are both terse and far-fetched. One holds that “moolah” derives from the French “le moulin,” meaning “the mill,” referring to factory mills as a source of wealth. Color me extremely unconvinced. But while we’re stretching plausibility to the breaking point, I must mention the recent announcement, by the Times of India newspaper, that “moolah” is the Fijian (as in Fiji, in the South Pacific) word for “money.”

Unfortunately, I lent my Fijian dictionary to my accountant last week, so I’ll have to wait until he gets back to check this assertion. But unless someone can explain how a Fijian word ended up on the lips of US gamblers and hipsters in the 1930s, I plan to ignore that theory. Yet another theory traces “moolah” to the Romany (Gypsy) word “mol,” meaning “to be worth,” which is not impossible but is considered unlikely by linguists.

Naw, those sound as hokey as the one that says it is old Spanish slang for "donkey," as apparently donkeys were fairly expensive beasts of burden. The other one that the Word Detective added made more sense-

Another theory, proposed by Daniel Cassidy in his recent book “The Secret Language of the Crossroads: How the Irish Invented Slang,” traces “moolah” to the Irish phrase “moll oir,” meaning “pile of gold.” My inclination is to consider this quite plausible, but Mr. Cassidy apparently paints with a very broad brush, also tracing “buckaroo” to the Irish “bocai rua” (wild boys). It has long been generally accepted, on solid evidence, that “buckaroo” is actually derived from the Mexican Spanish “vaquero,” meaning “cowboy.”

Begorrah! Judging by the accompanying jpeg to that post, money not only corrupts the mind, but it makes your head abnormally large and your body disappear.

Why La Cosa Nostra didn't set up shop in San Francisco

2011-01-25T08:21:00.000-08:00

Uh, just what exactly is Marlon doing to the poor cat in this picture? Anyway, we have had our share of gangsters in San Francisco history. We even had an Aussie Mob during the Barbary Coast days, The Sydney Ducks, and they used to burn most of The City down on a regular basis.

Yet, even with our extensive history of crime (Dashiell Hammett didn't just pull all those stories out of his hat, you know), the Mafia never really did get a solid hold on the City of Saint Francis.

Retired policeman Kevin J. Mullen said, "Al Capone sent emissaries out to San Francisco in 1931 to case the joint, but decided it was "too tough" a town to crack." That may just be a proud cop talking, but Mullen says it's an easier town to police, given its size and geography, and the transcontinental railroad terminated in Oakland, after all.

That doesn't mean that they passed this area up altogether, because they set up shop across the San Francisco Bay, in Emeryville. Emeryville is now the home of Pixar and freeway traffic...so much freeway traffic.

"Yasmine's Garden"

2011-01-22T03:41:00.000-08:00

September 3rd, 1987

Was it Robert Frost that said, “Good fences make for good neighbors?” Yasmine’s nearest neighbor is some four-hundred yards down this private, restricted road. And for good measure, the walls and fences around the house are eleven feet high, except for the front and back gates.

I should be at home, falling asleep to Johnny’s monologue. Instead, I’m stuck with a double Gordian Knot that cannot be solved or cut, and there is no kingdom to be had or any right answer to be found.

In this moonlight, the blood looks quite black.

There’s so much of it.

This is a small town in Northern California, and I can’t even tell you where, though as to why will all make sense in a few moments. It’s a nasty little place, full of pollution and polluted minds. There has been a little relative prosperity in the last decade or so, but don’t be misled, none of us that grew up here have had it easy. Especially Yasmine.

We’ve known each other since kindergarten, and she used to have the biggest heart of anyone that I have ever known. Her warm demeanor faded somewhat when both of her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. After that, bad things just went to worse, as her drunk aunt became her guardian and drank up the estate of Yasmine’s parents.

Her aunt drank them out of house and home in four years. Yasmine became a ward of the court and days later her aunt’s liver gave out. We didn’t see Yasmine for three years after that, as she bounced from foster home to foster home until she wound up back here. She was different by then, and in some ways, she was hardened like someone who had spent decades in prison.

It took until our senior year in high school to mend a friendship that shouldn’t have been broken. There were many things she wouldn’t talk about that affected her during those years, and she still won’t discuss them to this very day. After we graduated, we hung out every once in awhile, but we pretty much drifted apart again. Such is life; you might grow in a different direction than your friends, and then before you know it, you are an entire world apart from each other.

My mother asked me to drop something off at the little cottage Yasmine and her jerk boyfriend Clyde were renting from his grandparents. I can’t remember what it was my mother gave me, but I remember all too clearly what happened after I knocked on the door. When she opened the door, her right eye was a plum, purple and swollen. Yasmine jumping on my back was the only thing that saved Clyde’s life that day, and one of my knuckles never healed properly after that (it was still worth it).

She broke up with Clyde soon after that, and she stopped speaking to me for years, so I guess we were both punished for it in a way. Some months later I saw her in town, and she did a poor job of hiding another shiner behind some considerably large sunglasses. Yasmine ran away from me, yet I wasn’t even paying attention to her at that point, and I drove as fast as I could to Clyde’s.

He was both scared and surprised to see me, as Yasmine and he had not been an item for some time. She moved out of town not too long after that and I never did find her other abusive boyfriend, though I gladly would have risked my left hand improperly healing for a chance at revenge. I became a patrol officer just after she left, and eventually I became the town deputy. It really wasn’t an issue of me wanting justice, though I tried to do good whenever was possible, but I chose the job because it paid more than anything else around here.

I joined the force in 1977 and Yasmine came back to town in 1985, with more money than she ever had before. She had made her money with Apple Computer, and she was all set to buy the Miller property on the edge of town. She was friendly enough at first, but she became reserved when I asked what she would do all by herself with such a big place. After swearing me to secrecy, Yasmine confided in me that she wanted to run a shelter for abused women.

I told her that big house would be perfect for it, and nobody from in town or from the outside goes near the private road leading up to it. I helped her fix the place up, along with Eduardo, whose usual job is to fix everything both inside and outside for The County. It took a couple of weeks to bring it up to par, and the garden was the hardest part. It was also Yasmine’s pride and joy, where she spent countless hours toiling in it, despite her lack of a green thumb.

Gardening can be quite therapeutic, and whenever I brought groceries there from the next town over to avoid attention, Yasmine would have the newest woman at the house helping her out. Besides pitching in on house maintenance and food, I would make sure to drive by and to patrol the grounds. You never know just how far a man will go, if he won’t even hesitate to hit a woman. Often, Yasmine would be walking the grounds as well, though many times I didn’t see her until the last second.

Every once in awhile, I’d catch a non-local driving off the main town roads. I would call in their plates as I rode right on their bumper, just to let them know that whatever their intentions were, that they weren’t wanted in these parts. None of them ever came back, save a dark green ’71 Camaro from two towns over. I stopped him twice, and though he seemed nice enough, there was something about that large bastard that didn’t seem right.

If I told you I was surprised to see that same Camaro tonight, hidden some seventy feet off the road from Yasmine’s house, I’d be lying. It would also be a lie if I tried to convince you that this situation would never turn into something ugly. I was completely shocked, though, when I saw all that blood covering the jasmine flowers that Yasmine was named after. And I wanted to simply turn away in denial when I saw what was left of that big fake-polite asshole lying in the middle of the garden. Even in the dark, I could tell he had been cut and stabbed too many times to count.

The spatter and the trail of blood said that he was killed after climbing over and that his body was dragged. This week Yasmine has only three women staying at the shelter, and they are all outside with her. They are all covered in blood, just like her, and all four of them have knives. They put the knives right next to body, and they walk back to the patio.

I don’t know what to do, and as I walk towards them, I hear a twig snap. It’s Eduardo, and he’s trampling all over my crime scene with his size thirteens. I know that Yasmine has called him before me, and he stands next to the women in solidarity. I can’t let a murder go unpunished, yet if anyone is arrested, the shelter will be as good as closed. The Gordian Knots that are my brain and my heart tighten as if pulled by elephants startled by guns.

The End

This story is for the Fourth Installment of Icarus' Flight To Perfection. It combines the starter sentence of Katherine Tomlinson, "In the moonlight the blood looked quite black." And the four words of Nicole Hirschi; Fence, Mend, Court, and Misled.

A change to The Flash Fiction Offensive

2011-01-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

There is a new addition to The Flash Fiction Offensive, David Barber is now their Editor! This will certainly be a trial by fire, but I certainly know that Dave will be up for it.

After all, this is what he has to go through just to get a pint at his local pub (here's an unsolicited bit of advice, Mr. Barber: never beat the neighborhood arsonist at darts).

Replay: "The Original Rainmaker"

2011-01-09T17:43:00.000-08:00

Daniel O'Shea had a flash fiction challenge, and I had an idea mulling that had been simmering on the back burner for some time. I wanted to give closure to the traumatized strip club owner from "A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing," and the rest was cranked out pretty much inside of a day. The "crime fiction" tag is misnomer in a sense, as virtually no crime occurs in this story, and I made a conscientious effort to tone down the usual violence and occasional gore.

Without further adieu, here is "The Original Rainmaker."

A short poignant tale from Quin

2011-01-05T12:13:00.000-08:00

It's rare when Quin Browne has time to write anymore.

So on the rare occasion when she does post her writing, she always hits it out of the park (is there such a thing as "writing steroids?").

"Eight Maids-A-Milking" is up at Dark Valentine Magazine's "Twelve Days of Christmas"

2011-01-02T20:43:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you thrills, under-dressed chills, milk spills and hamburgers.

We're talking "Dairy Noir," with "Eight Maids-A-Milking." Which can only be found at Dark Valentine Magazine's "Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Santa Must Die" is up @Do Some Damage, and a cameo

2010-12-31T22:29:00.000-08:00

Well, here is the last post for 2010, and...it's a different one.

For the Do Some Damage Christmas Fiction Challenge, I was going in one direction when I was writing the story, and I let the word count influence what direction it finally ended in. Either way, the working title was and is, "Santa Must Die." It's also the last Do Some Damage post of the year, so I might really have to move out of the country after this one (preferably to one without extradition).

In other news, over at Dark Valentine, Paul D. Brazill has the sixth day of Christmas covered, with Roman Dalton. I guarantee that he's a detective unlike any other that you've seen before. There's also a cameo by the biggest bastard that I've ever known, and he plays the bartender.

"The Barbarian's Story," as sung by Steve Perry

2010-12-30T18:05:00.000-08:00

So I was over at "Davy Crockett's Almanack," the other day (which is the blog of author Evan Lewis), when what did I see? This cover-

Did you catch it? No, I'm not talking about anthropomorphic personification of that old Saturday Night Live character, the Land Shark. Naw, I'm talking about the author's name on this novel, "Steve Perry."

Wow, who would've thought that the 80's soft rock balladeer would have an inner barbarian? Mmm, probably not. Yes, I realize that the chances of the author and the crooner being the same person are nil, but maybe we should all "Don't Stop Cleaving."

Er, "Believing."

"The Big Lebowski," as written by Shakespeare?

2010-12-29T07:27:00.000-08:00

So let me get this straight, "The Big Lebowski" as written by...

...William Shakespeare?

Yea, verily.

Christmas Isn't Over

2010-12-27T07:30:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I relate to "Scrooged" just a little too much...

...mostly because when The Ghost of Christmas Present isn't jabbing my in the eyes, she's kneeing my groin.

"Oh, what is this, Cormac? Oh, oh look, Cormac! It's a toaster!"

Whaddya know, I fell for that, yet again. Well, just because December 25th has come and gone, doesn't mean that Christmas has to end. The folks over at The Do Some Damage Blog have a flash fiction Christmas Challenge still going strong. You already have Patti Abbott, John McFetridge, Richard Godwin, and Daniel B. O'Shea, as well as more strong crime authors still waiting to crawl down your chimney.

As they used to say on the old Ronco commercials, "but wait, that's not all!" The folks over at Dark Valentine Magazine have kicked off "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

That means a new Christmas story every day every day, until January 6th, 2011! You will get tales from Andrew Douglas, Kat Parrish, Nigel Bird, John Donald Carlucci, Christine Pope, Kaye George, and Paul D. Brazill.

Guess who got "Eight Maids-A-Milking?" No, not Danielle Steele. Guess again...no, not Michael Chabon.

"Streaking For The Shy"

2010-12-23T02:43:00.000-08:00

No, it's not this kind of streaking, but if I presented a picture of the other kind? You would probably shine this post on, you, crazy diamond.

Nor am I talking about a streaker of this variety, though this is an image...never mind. The point is, Splotchy did a brilliant short film last spring (which I first found a link to at Freida's), called "Streaking For The Shy," and it is more than worth your time to pop on over to his blog and check it out.

"Sometimes"

2010-12-16T23:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes...promises are made to be broken. Sometimes “for richer finds” another home and “for poorer” outlasts its welcome like termites feeding on an already-shaky retaining wall. Sometimes for better is as unrealistic an expectation as winning the lottery, and “for worse” is as real and tangible as the air that we all breathe.

Sometimes we don't learn from our mistakes, and we wind up being amnesiacs on a Möbius strip of senselessness. Sometimes we remember that children are not weapons, so the lawyers will seek other means of provocation and waging war. Sometimes we cannot move ahead, because the little children inside of us are too scared of a world that will change and that will be different. Sometimes love is a many splintered thing, and tweezers and antiseptic are hard to come by.

Yet most of the time, I love you no matter what, and that is for always.

Image from artlies.org.

This was done for the Third Session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection and the starting sentence I chose was, "Sometimes, promises are made to be broken."

"Dancing With Myself" Interview @ Nigel P. Bird's Sea Minor

2010-12-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

Honestly, I wanted this guy to do it...

...but he's been busy with other things lately.

So, I interviewed myself for the series "Dancing With Myself Interviews" over at Nigel P. Bird's Sea Minor. Pop on over and maybe it will clear up a few things about me...or maybe it will confuse you even more.

If I had a chance, I'd ask the world to dance...

Here's to Paul's 2nd Anniversary!

2010-12-06T07:24:00.000-08:00

Please stop by Paul D. Brazill's blog and wish him a Happy Second Anniversary! It was wonderful to see your career at its inception, and here's to your continued success, Sir! Na zdrowia!

The Winter Issue of Dark Valentine Magazine is here!

2010-12-03T17:45:00.000-08:00

The Winter Issue is here!

With stories from Patti Abbott, Christine Pope and Dale Phillips. Not to mention some outstanding art by Mark Satchwill, Pamela Jaworska, Karyn Lewis, and the amazing cover by Jane Burson.

Don't forget, when you get to the back of this magazine, there is an important ad at the end ; )

If there's a bustle in your...

2010-11-30T21:06:00.000-08:00

...Heathrow, don't be alarmed now. It's just the airport's first "writer-in-residence," Alain de Botton.

My favorite quote from the article, "I would love to run British Airways, and feel I would be eminently qualified for the job. I don't know very much about making money, and nor do they.

However, I am deeply fascinated by the mechanics of getting planes in the sky and around the world -- and that's their area of expertise, too."

Oh, and Alain, nothing is wrong with JFK. It's a perfectly serviceable airport, especially considering the amount of traffic, and the Port Authority keeping it in a perpetual state of (dis)repair. Try being lost in the bowels of LaGuardia or dealing with the expanse and lack of heating in Detroit. You'll be begging for the mild inconvenience of JFK.

The Messenger Gets The Ricochet

2010-11-20T03:33:00.000-08:00

It was Sunday, and there shouldn't have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was. The last four days had been hell, but Hardy Shepard had a feeling that whatever was in that envelope was going to make everything worse. It was surely lemon juice and salt on the gaping psychic wound which he was already contending with.

***

The Bremer Company was a public relations firm, and it was the epitome of corporate/employee relations until seven years ago. The founder and president, Jeff Bremer, was a benevolent leader and friend to everyone, until he met the girl of his dreams, Emma, who was thirty-eight years his junior.

Emma blessed Jeff with three children, and that was three more children than she intended to raise. As Emma dedicated her time to shopping and spas, Jeff became both father and mother. The more time he spent away from his company, the more he decided that he really didn’t need it after all. Jeff figured he would be better off if he simply sold the company, but he didn’t want to pay out any would-be bonuses or severance packages. He also decided out that he would keep the money for himself and let the company flounder a bit, and then he could sell it off for cheap.

The thing was that Jeff didn’t want to deal with each and every employee during the execution of his plan, so he needed a hatchet man to deliver the bad news as the company was pared down. He thought he had found that hatchet man in Hardy, when he overheard a remark that he made. When an employee’s car was towed for parking in one of the handicapped spaces, Hardy notified the employee long after the fact and was met with a barrage of cuss words.

Hardy replied, “Don’t shoot me, I’m only the messenger.”

Jeff noticed a gleam in Hardy’s eyes at that tidbit, and he knew that he found a low-rent Judas. And he had, though the first couple of times were difficult for Hardy. The young would-be executive decided that he would find resolve by using slights his fellow employees had wrought upon him...both real and imagined.

Dennis, who ate everyone’s food in the refrigerator? Oh, that was the icing on the cake. Ava R. had never done anything wrong to Hardy, so he simply called her "Avarice" in his mind before he told her the bad news. Ava G, however, was tipsy at last year's Christmas party and she pawed at him in front of his girlfriend Dani. Dani believed that Hardy was cheating on her, and he wound up spending Christmas and New Year's alone.

But Mort never did anything wrong to him...hell, Mort helped Hardy move, and he even helped him install his home theater when such devices needed a degree in electronics and a contractor’s license. It didn’t take long for Jeff’s hatchet man to become a pariah, which only made Hardy relish giving his fellow workers the shaft even more. The more he was shunned, the more he began to savor being the villain.

The Germans have a word for what he was feeling, “schadenfreude,” which is the feeling of enjoyment in seeing the misfortunes of others. Hardy stopped going to the few company parties and picnics that the Bremer Company bothered to throw (everyone had mistakenly chalked the reduction in festivities to the economy).

Alas, when Jeff personally let his attack dog go last Friday morning, Hardy didn’t see it coming at all. He thought all along that he was going to be rewarded handsomely for doing the dirty work, but his prize ultimately was being left to do the walk of shame in front of the ten remaining people. Unlike all the others he had given termination notices and layoff slips to, no one made any effort to console Hardy. They wouldn’t have urinated on him if he were on fire.

So here this envelope has been sitting by the front door, the unopened white elephant in the room. He picks it up, cuts an end open with scissors and slides out the contents. In it he finds a letter that shows it was sent from his former fax machine right back to the same machine. A little opening salvo that was delivered, no doubt, from whomever escaped the bloody axe that Hardy used to wield. The first page is a list of everyone that he had to give the bad news to, and there are more people than the former hatchet man can initially remember, though they were all let go by him.

The second and last page is a low-res picture of Hardy when Jeff gave him notice. Hardy Shepard has cried all of three times since he turned fifteen. The first time was when his favorite aunt passed painfully and quickly from cancer. The second time was when the Chicago Bears lost the Super Bowl in 2007. And the third? Well, Hardy’s reaction is all too clear despite all pixilation; that of a child who has had his sand castle stomped, dropped his ice cream cone in the sand, and has been slapped.

Hardy decides to take a shower, where no one will see or would notice tears that can’t seem to stop.

The End

This was written for the Second Session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection. There were three starter sentences to chose from and I went with, "It was Sunday, and there shouldn't have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was."

Caveat Scriptor

2010-11-16T08:02:00.000-08:00

Jeez.

For your perusal, "The Silver Wraith"

2010-11-10T14:05:00.000-08:00

Though Blogger has had the Page Feature for some months, I have yet to see anyone actually use it. How does that work into this post? Keep reading.

My story "The Silver Wraith," was originally intended for Astonishing Adventures Magazine, but it really didn't mesh from a tonal standpoint (IMHO, not the Editorial Staff's). It's a little too long for Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, so at this blog is right where it will stay. If you go to the top of the blog, it's the tab in the middle, right underneath the header.

So, if you add one part crime fiction + one part pulp + one part horror = "The Silver Wraith."

All Hallow's Reave

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

Here is Halloween, in all of its terror, and by "terror," I mean adults in costumes that fall under the category, "things you cannot unsee." To take your mind off of that, we at Cormac Informercials™, have the second story in Katherine Tomlinson's NoHo Noir Series, "Wrong Turn." Check the Mark Satchwill illo-

Plus, you get horror from across The Pond. Lewis J. Peters has a short one up on his blog called, "The Horror of Halloween."

Oh, and call me lazy, but I will repost "Succuba," yet again. But if you call within the next five minutes, I'll even add "Introductions Are In Order," at no extra cost. Just pay shipping and handling. So call now, operators are standing by.

NoHo Noir @ Patch.Com

2010-10-25T20:01:00.000-07:00

NoHo? Where in the world is "NoHo?"

Who is this woman? And who is she talking to? Who does these dynamite illustrations? All will be revealed in Katherine Tomlinson's tale "House Blend," which can be found at Patch.com.

Icarus' Flight To Perfection

2010-10-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

So the first session is in the bag and the first starter sentence poll is up.

Go ahead, take the plunge.

"Bebe"

2010-10-21T07:48:00.000-07:00

This is for the inaugural session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection, which is the new blog that I am co-moderating with the mighty Nicole Hirschi. This story is also a semi-sequel to "Strawberry Quick; same narrator, similar situation, different day."

7:43 on a Monday morning and I’m stuck with this Chatty Cathy of a mug in a minivan, in a suburban parking lot. We are packing a shotgun, a crappy Glock-knock off, and a ski mask apiece. He may have gotten me this gig, but if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to empty all four of our guns into him and call it a day.

“Uh, I like to get mentally ready with some silence,” I offer, leaving him the chance to shut it. “I need to focus, ya know?”

“Well, it’s just that…” he trails off. His sad face turns even more forlorn and oh, Lord, please tell me he doesn’t want to cry on my shoulders.

“What’s…what’s wrong?” Did I just say that?

“I’ve got a terminal disease.”

Shit, what the hell do I do? I wouldn’t hug a friend of less than five years over something like this. I certainly don’t want to embrace a near-stranger. What does he have? Cancer? ALS? Maybe the big disease with the little name? He gets his wallet out, opens it, almost shows me a picture, and then quickly pockets it.

“What?” I ask, and I’m beginning to suspect that this disease is really some kind of dementia.

“That’s not right, ‘disease’ isn’t the word. It’s more like a ‘condition.’ Do you watch Bugs Bunny cartoons?”

“Sure,” I reply. Should I plug him right here? I mean, my fingerprints are all over this stupid minivan. I can’t simply walk away and risk him getting caught in this vehicle, knowing that they will check for prints after. If I plug him now, it’s an unnecessary murder rap and I’ll have to torch this, but maybe it would be better than walking into a situation with this unstable nut ready to go off the rails.

“Well, it’s like the one with Elmer Fudd and Humphrey Bogart,” he says with the assurance that he just told me everything. The only thing he has really told me, is that I should be contemplating just which kind of accelerant is the most effective in destroying evidence.

“How does a cartoon relate to your ‘condition?’” Gawd, listen to me. If we get caught and sent up for a long stretch, maybe I should become a jailhouse shrink.

“It’s the one where Bogie tells Elmer that he better serve up a fried rabbit, ‘or else.’!”

I mull it over for a few, and then it comes to me. “Yeah, yeah,” I reply, “Bogart says, ‘Why did you hit me in the face with a coconut custard pie with whipped cream?’”

“And then, when Bogie says, ‘Baby will just have to have a ham sandwich instead.’ What does Bug do?”

It’s been years, but it comes to me as if it is after school again, and I’m sitting in front of the TV, eating graham crackers. “He comes out of hiding, jumps on the plate right in front of Lauren Bacall, and he says, ‘Remember, garçon the customer is always right! If it's rabbit Baby wants, rabbit Baby gets!’”

He holds his arms open with a grin, and me? I’m left to fill in the blanks again. I chew it over, and my mind still draws a blank.

“You see, that’s my problem; what Baby wants, Baby gets. If I showed you her picture, you’d get my predicament right away. Fuck Lola and “Damn Yankees,” that cartoon “Slick Hare” came out almost eight years before the Broadway show. For the purposes of this conversation, let’s call her “Bebe.” When we watch a TV show and they mention some kind of exotic shoe brand or $1,000 handbag, she’ll ask me for it and that’s what I’ll get her. I dropped $2,800 on three pairs of shoes for her the other day.”

“So you’re saying that some piece of ass has you pulling heists, so that she can keep up with the Joneses?”

At this point, I have to ask myself, who’s the bigger chump? Is it me for letting a friend of mine talk me into becoming a substitute stick-up man for him? Or is it the moron sitting next to me? When will it end for him? Will he wind up having to steal everything in the world that isn’t nailed down, just to keep this woman happy?

“She’s not some piece of ass, she’s “Bebe.” She is the piece of ass. Helen of Troy might have been the face that launched a thousand ships, but if that whole thing was about Bebe? All of those stupid Trojans wouldn’t have waited on the ships to be built and they would’ve swum in their armor and full gear.”

“She’s all that to you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer, and he goes blank as a TV with the cable disconnected. This mutt is gone; he’s got it worse than any junkie or gambler I’ve ever worked with. And by “mutt,” I mean that this guy is dog-ugly, so I’m guessing she isn’t all that hot. Money can only change so much, and I doubt that there is enough of it to make him appealing enough to the woman he described.

He apparently loves her, though I wouldn’t call what they have “love.” Either way, he’s got it bad and he’s probably right about this being a terminal thing. Hopefully, we’ll get the money, get out of here without getting caught and I’ll never have to deal with his whipped-ass again.

“Hey, are you ready for this, Romeo? Or do you want to back off and try this another day?”

“I’m good, and when it comes to jobs, I always have my head on straight. I’ve been trying to keep her happy for two years straight, and it’s worked beautifully…so far.”

“Okay,” I mumble with a nod. I look the minivan over and mention, “We need to roll down the windows, because fogged-up windows will draw the wrong attention.”

“No, take a quick peek at the other cars that have been sitting here and you’ll see it’s okay. He won’t be able to see in. Our windows have the same condensation on the outside as the other cars that have been left here overnight.”

I rub the window a little bit and see that this is the first thing that he’s gotten right. The other cars, including a few that have been left here with for sale signs, have the same watery buildup. I also see a BMW 5-series pulling into the parking lot, and it’s definitely the bank manager’s car. I duck back down and I nod to him.

He pulls the mask over his face and he whispers, “C'mon, Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”

The End

Best Of: "Let Them Eat Cake"

2010-10-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

This was from Patti Abbot/Aldo Calcagno/Gerald So's Fifth Flash Fiction Challenge-

"I’m not a bridezilla!”

You’re absolutely not a bridezilla!

“What have I ever asked you for, Dad?”

You never asked him for a thing, Tammy. If anything, he’s always borrowing money from you.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I know you’ve never asked for much, but I gotta keep a strike fund ready…look, your uncle could get us the basement at the Elk’s Club for cheap.”

“Oooh!”

Damn, Tammy, you slammed that door so hard, I think you tore it off its hinges!

“What am I going to do? If I don’t come up with the rest of the deposit by Wednesday, we’ll lose the wedding hall!”

Not to panic, not to panic. Let’s go shopping.

“Why?”

Inspiration, Tammy, inspiration.

“To the mall?”

No, let’s go to Downtown Los Colinas.

***

“Okay, we’re here; now what?”

That’s it.

“What’s it?”

That’s it.

“I already have my engagement and wedding ring sets.”

I know. Look next door, what do you see?

“A CPA’s office.”

And?

“And what?”

Do I have to spell it out for you? Think like your cousin Charlie.

“Why…would…I…ever, do a thing like that?”

Because you’re going to need Charlie’s help, as well as your fiancé Larry’s tools.

“I don’t follow.”

Think like Charlie. What do you see, Tammy? One of these things is not like the other.

“Don’t mock me…oh…Oh! There’s no visible alarm on the CPA’s office.”

Exactly. We’ll double-check around back, but I doubt that there’s an alarm. Identity thieves would rather get the information via trash, mail or online. Now comes the hard part. You are going to make nice with Charlie and invite him to your wedding.

“For God’s sake, why?”

Because you don’t know the first thing about tools, theft or anything that comes afterwards. And what are you going to do, research this on the Internet so that you leave a trail for the police to follow?

“But he’ll get drunk and ruin the wedding.”

There won’t be a wedding or a reception if you don’t make nice with Charlie. Do this right and everybody will come out happy, plus you’ll be able to afford a honeymoon.

“And how are we going to pull this off?”

What does Larry have that can cut through all of this, as if it were a slice of wedding cake?

***

“I’ll stay in the car, Charlie, and radio you if there are any cops.”

“Oh, no, I’m staying out here and you two will go in.”

“Charlie, let’s be realistic for a second. How much safe-cracking experience do you think I have?”

“Um…none?”

“And you know what kind of a thief I am. I shoplifted that one time when we were twelve and I got caught. Now, how much experience do you think I have with tools?”

“Fine, I get your point.”

“Why should we even cut her in, Charlie?”

“Hey, asshole, did you scout this place?”

“No bitch is going to talk to me—"

“Look, Myron! I’ll talk to you the way I like! I came up with the plan, I scouted this place and these are my fiancé’s tools! If anybody is a “bitch” around here, it’s you begging Charlie to cut you in on my job! Got it?”

“…Yeah.”

***

“Oh, man, look at this! There must be over $250,000 in loot!”

“Don’t open that bag until we’re out of here!”

“Yeah, sorry. Hey, Myron, don’t you have something to say to my cousin?”

“I’m sorry I disrespected you.”

“It’s all copacetic now, Myron.”

***

That was a beautiful wedding, if I say so myself. The reception is going to be a breeze, especially without Charlie there.

“I’m worried. Where is he?”

“Who are you talking to, Tammy?”

Shut up, Larry!

“Shut up, Larry!”

Uh-oh.

“’Uh-oh,’ is right. The cops.”

Three squad cars? Charlie or Myron gave us up, probably Myron because he really did strike me as a bitch. Have the driver stop behind the catering truck before the cops see us.

“Driver? Please pull up behind that truck.”

“What’s going on, Tammy?”

Don’t forget the passports and the money!

“Just get the suitcases out of the trunk, Larry.”

Tell me the keys are in the ignition.

“They left the keys in there, yes.”

“Tammy, who are you talking to?”

Shut up, Larry!

“Shut up, Larry and put the suitcases in this truck!”

***

“Honey, where are we going and why is that police car chasing us?”

The cake, it’s the only way.

“No.”

There’s no choice.

“Larry? Open the back door and dump the wedding cake in the road.”

“But, honey, are you going to slow down?”

“Fine.”

Yes, look at them spin! Let them eat cake and canyon!

“Why do I even listen to you? When have you ever been right about anything?”

Beats me, what do I know? I’m just a voice in your head and if you took your medication like you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t have to listen to me either.

The End

Patti got the idea from a book of short stories that centered around a wedding cake in the middle of the road. A long time ago, I was going to do a story based on real-life drunken bride that went pugilstic on everyone in sight. Her "inner voice" that steered her wrong was retained, and I added that to a real life jewel heist that happened on The (San Francisco) Peninsula in 2008.

"Introductions Are In Order" is up at Dark Valentine Magazine's October Frenzy

2010-10-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

The magnificent Molly Brewer provides this wonderful illustration...

...and I provide the words. Check out my story "Introductions Are In Order" at Dark Valentine Magazine's October Flash Frenzy. It's dedicated to all the fathers who have daughters.

Coming soon: Katherine Tomlinson's "Just Another Day In Paradise"

2010-10-11T20:08:00.000-07:00

Life in the big city is not for the faint of heart. Shadows lurk in sunlight; blood spills on floors; hope and dread are just two sides of a neon sign; and loneliness is a paper cut on the heart, an invisible wound that eventually kills. In these stories, Katherine Tomlinson explores the dark heart of urban living. It is what it is...Just Another Day in Paradise.

Coming soon, the anthology "Just Another Day In Paradise" by Katherine Tomlinson.

P.S. It's here, click this for the details.

You might be a writer

2010-10-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

Over at Thomas Pryce's Unnatural Selection blog, he has a whole list of symptoms that show, "you might be a writer."

Some of my favorites are-

If you are sometimes hesitant to even refer to yourself as a writer…..you might be a writer.

If the word rewrite brings you a tinge of panic…..you might be a writer.

If you’d rather be writing even more than you’d rather be fishing right now…..you might be a writer.

If you’ve ever searched through the phone book to find the perfect name for a fictional character…..you might be a writer.

If you feel that Hallmark should make a sympathy card to send to friends suffering from writers block…..you might be a writer.

Dark Valentine Magazine's October Flash Frenzy still has some spots available

2010-10-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

Editor Katherine Tomlinson says, "I thought I'd mention that there are five (5) open slots left for the October Flash Frenzy. I prefer flash at this point (under 1200 words) because I need time to read and edit and assign So if anyone is feeling frenzied, they should submit to us at: submissions@darkvalentine.net."

The October Flash Fiction Frenzy has begun!

2010-10-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

Thirty-one days.

Thirty-one stories.

Thirty-one illustrations.

This will be an October to remember. Starting today, October 1st, Dark Valentine Magazine will post a new story a day. The frenzy begins with a real chiller, “Animal Lover” by Kat Parrish. It's illustrated by Mark Satchwill, and the frenzy will end with a Lovecraftian tale by Barbara Emrys, also illustrated by Mark Satchwill. You won’t want to miss a single story.

Get Plugged In #10

2010-09-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

chuffed [chuhft]

–adjective British Informal.
delighted; pleased; satisfied.

"Chuffed?" That I am, but you'll have to get to the bottom of this post to see why.

Today? I have more plugs than The Hair Club For Men, and not only am I the President of Cormac Brown's Plugs For Writers, but I'm also a member!

Aldo Calcagno has scored a major coup for Darkest Before The Dawn, with the first three chapters of Hilary Davidson's new novel "The Damage Done!"

Richard Godwin has interviewed Pamila Payne and in it, she gives us some wonderful insights into the supernatural and goings on of The Bella Vista. Richard also can type out a mean tale, and "Nowhere Man" at A Twist of Noir, is no exception. He lights a fuse under some dynamite prose and I guarantee that after you read it, you won't look at the outside world the same way.

At Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Sandra Seamans can make a bright sunny day turn dark in ways that most of us can't imagine.

Nigel P Bird has taken all the spotlights out of Hollywood, and shifted them to the crime writing community, with his "Dancing With Myself" interviews.

He has noir great Kelli Stanley!

My fellow AAM alum, Chris Dabnor.

Paulie Decibels, who I will touch upon later on in this post.

The King of Crime Poetry, Gerald So.

The legendary Eric Beetner (where's JB?).

My crime writing Dad, Christopher Grant.

The Godmother of noir, Patti Abbott.

And with Steve Weddle, who was nice enough to plug me twice. Say even one semi-cross thing about the man and I won't eat your children, but I will make your ears look like some kind of odd hybrid between Evander Holyfield's and Vincent Van Gough's.

So what am I so proud of? Well, it's whom. A one Mister Paul D. Brazill has made it into the Premier League, with a story in The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime. It even made his hometown newspaper, The Hartlepool Mail.

Take the plunge

2010-09-25T00:03:00.000-07:00

It's the same, yet it's entirely different...

...because this time, Nicole is running the show. I'm glad to have her around, and that she is steering the ship. This time, there will be three sentences, instead of one. This time around, it will be a once a month prompt.

Go ahead and take the plunge.

Best Of: "Hot Ice And Cold Blood"

2010-09-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

A couple of projects loom over the horizon and I have more plugs to give out than a dozen Hair Club For Men franchises put together. In the meantime, the following story should tie you over. "Hot Ice And Cold Blood" appeared at the original Powder Flash Burn blog. A lot of us owe our writing and our readership to Aldo Calcagno, so I ask that you visit the Original PFB, the New PFB and Darkest Before The Dawn.

Right after you do that, pop back over here and click the paragraph below to read some more Neo-Noir-

"Who was that idiot who said “the meek shall inherit the Earth?” And really, who would want the moldy crumbs that would be left over, after everyone else had taken their fill?"

Image from http://www.artquotes.net/masters/hirst/diamond-skull.jpg

Asimov kicks off yet another Writing Quotes

2010-09-19T01:59:00.000-07:00

"If the doctor told me I had six minutes to live, I'd type a little faster."

- Isaac Asimov

The following quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter...

"The role of the writer is not to say what we all can say, but we are unable to say."

- Anais Nin

"Every story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end...but not necessarily in that order."

- Jean-Luc Godard

"The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master - something that at times strangely wills and works for itself."

- Charlotte Brontë

Johnny's Trattoria

2010-09-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

The Trattoria di Gianni was a warm and small restaurant. Though it had the capacity for twenty-four people, it was never that full. Yet it was never empty, either, and it had small, but steady and loyal clientele. The enthusiasm of Giovanni Calvo, the love and quality in the ingredients of his food, and the intimate setting kept the people coming back.

He was the first chef I ever worked for, and I apprenticed under him some twenty-four years ago. Over the last twenty years, I would fill in for him at his restaurant when he would take his annual vacation back to his hometown of Ascoli. Unfortunately, two years ago on his last trip, Giovanni simply never came back. His niece came by the trattoria on the day he was due back and said that he had had a major heart attack. While he survived the coronary, he was left weakened and couldn’t stand up for more than a few minutes at a time.

Giovanni’s niece, Eleanora, asked me if I could take over the restaurant in his place, as she believed that if it closed, it would kill him. So, I reluctantly gave notice to the restaurant that I had been grinding away at for the last two decades and took over the trattoria.

What a difference it was between running this joint for a couple of weeks, and running it even a day beyond that. It was an exhausting endeavor. Attached to the back of the eatery was Gianni’s green house, where he kept his large garden. In it were fresh basil, fragrant rosemary, bright red tomatoes, Italian parsley, chard, garlic, eggplant, and three different kinds of onions. Even though he had a fairly simple drip system feeding water to the plants, the garden still required a fair amount of maintenance.

Gianni also insisted on grinding his own sausage and he made his own bread, and the latter was the bane of my existence. I can cook virtually anything you ask me to, but I cannot bake to save my life. The customers were not happy with the salty or cardboard-like results, and I wound up having to buy bread from a bakery. That was the last straw for a few of our regulars and they stopped coming altogether.

Still, things went smoothly for the most part, but trying to be all things restaurateur to all people took its toll on me. It was debilitating and my health began to suffer. My empathy for Giovanni must have increased three times over, and I wondered how much longer it would be until I wound up like him. In the meantime, Eleanora suffered a few financial setbacks and she desperately needed money. She asked me if I would buy the trattoria from her and I told her that I really couldn’t afford to.

His niece went to Italy and explained to Giovanni that she couldn’t afford to keep the restaurant open, and that it might be better if they sold it. I imagine that he reluctantly agreed, though I don’t know because I wasn’t there. I didn’t find out about this until a couple of days after she got back to The States. She didn’t even have the heart to tell me directly that the place was for sale. She cryptically said, “I want you to cancel all food orders for next week, because we will be remodeling.”

Our meat wholesaler was actually the one to break the bad news to me. What could I say to her? I didn’t have a partnership with Eleanora, so she could do whatever the hell she wanted to do with trattoria. I tried to throw a nice farewell fete, but a couple of inebriated customers ruined it. The less said about that, the better.

Seven months later, I’m on my feet again at a fairly nice place that almost cares about their food and menu as Giovanni did. As this is a very-close knit industry, ugly rumors would pop up every known and then, like the earwigs that loved the basil in Giovanni’s garden. I went by the old joint one night to see if they were true. Gone was the subtle “Trattoria Di Giovanni” sign and in its place a giant, cold logo. You know, the kind that people pay companies and focus groups to come up with.

I went inside and even though there were plenty of employees, there was no one at the front to greet me. I picked up a menu, looked it over and it was like a sucker-punch to the gut. There before me was the Americanized version of Italian food, and a quick glance at the tables confirmed it. Everything that wasn’t canned, came from a deep freezer or looked dubious at best. All of the fresh herbs and spices were replaced by the sawdust that passes for Parmesan and mozzarella that must have come from cows that grazed on Astro Turf.

The seating was expanded and the garden in the greenhouse was paved over. All the better to seat you, my dear, as we serve you processed and microwaved mystery foodstuffs. Unlike before, there was little space between the tables and the diners were wedged against each other. The waitstaff loomed over the customers like vultures, swooping down on their plates before people were finished, and giving them the checks while they were still eating dessert. I felt a tear welling up and I had to leave, before I became the chef version of that old TV ad with the Native American chief surveying the polluted land.

I’d like to tell you that the plastic clone of Trattoria Di Gianni closed down, but it’s going somehow. Remember this, though; food without quality, care and love, is merely sustenance. It’s an oxymoron of the definition of the word “substance.” If you feed your soul nothing but the ersatz and the empty, it will remain unfulfilled.

The End

Raymond, we hardly knew ya around here

2010-09-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

Wait a minute, let me get this straight...Raymond Chandler was living in San Francisco, some three years before Dashiell Hammett? This wonderful tidbit was discovered by novelist, Mark Coggins.

Honestly, I don't think Chandler ever set a story here, and I cannot even remember a specific passage where he even bothered to mention San Francisco in passing. It's just as well, Los Angles, I mean Angeles is the city the Brit is associated with most.

"A Snapshot Of The World"

2010-09-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

"I got your dozen or so messages, Wynona. What are you so fired up about that you had to blow up my cell phone with all those messages?"

"Then you still don't know, Nadine?"

"'Know what?'"

"I’ll venture that you and Clint must have been part of the two percent that weren't affected. You didn't at least listen to the radio?"

"You know damn well that Clint insisted we spend one whole week off the grid, talking about how it was going to make our lives stressful. Well, I can't tell you how worked up I am, wonderin' if the DVR recorded all of my stories and how on Earth am I ever going to catch up?"

"Well, Nadine...you missed out on a bunch...a whole bunch. Edgar left me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be, I'm not sure I am exactly sorry. That ain't the big news anyway. The big news is that for fifty-two hours, your mom, my mom, everyone's mom was right!"

"Stop speaking in riddles. What happened?"

"Well, Nadine, I'll try and explain it the best I can, though the USA Today or The Times- Picayune can certainly explain it better. You know how scientists have been bringing up theories about those solar flares and how they're going to disrupt cell phones and everything that has a plug or a battery?"

"Are you gonna stop taking these side trips to Tangent Street and steer us over to Relevant Avenue, Wynona?"

"Well, there was a great big solar flare and it somehow affected the neurological systems of 98% of the people in the world. Remember how your mom used to say that if you keep making that face, it will get stuck that way? Well, for fifty-two hours, that's exactly what happened to everyone. Beyond the two percent exception, that was every man, woman and child.

On TV, they called it ‘The Flare.’ And I don't know why the animals got away scot-free, but they did. You know I would've loved to see the lions down at the Zoo with their faces stuck like the MGM Lion on freeze-frame."

"I don't believe you."

"Shit, you don't have to; change the channel to CNN."

"Oh…my Lord, you're not kidding."

“Can you imagine that, Nadine? The people that were asleep when The Flare struck, couldn’t open their eyes. They were effectively blind for every minute the phenomona-”

“Phenomenon.”

“-Phenomenon took place. And you remember that perky little Bree Croque from high school? The one that never stopped chattering like a chipmunk and smiling all the time? One can only imagine what she was up to when The Flare happened, because I saw her down at the Piggly Wiggly and she looked like she was weaned on a pickle when she was born.”

“You’ve seen her husband; wouldn’t you make that face all the time, too?”

“Speaking of strange faces, Nadine. They say that everyone that was having sex at the time, was too scared to leave their houses. You can imagine how many people got caught doing what they weren’t supposed to be doing.”

“That, or surely more of them claimed that they were asleep, than there actually were. Speaking of which, Wynona, is that what happened with Edgar and you?”

“Well, I was at work down at the bank, and I was so distracted by watching the expressions of everyone else, that I didn’t see Edgar come in. He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk.”

“What photograph?”

“He took one of me before I left for work, and he used my damn Polaroid. He knows I’ve been saving that for special occasions, and you can’t even get the film for it on eBay anymore.”

“Again, you’re steering us away.”

“He asked me, ‘why weren’t you smiling when The Flare happened?’ I told him that I was contemplating something. Then he said, ‘you always look like this…all wistful-like. What do you have to think about? I put a roof over your head, I provide for you and that’s all you really need.’”

“Oh no, what did you say to him? Tell me you didn’t let a good man get away.”

“I told him the truth, Nadine. He does a lot of things for me, but he doesn’t make me happy. I wasn’t going to lie to him, I couldn’t…it was all in the picture. By the time I got home from work, he had everything out of the house. I can’t say I miss him much, but I can say that I’m happier. If it wasn’t for The Flare, I probably would’ve been stuck with him until one of us was in the grave.”

The End

For Friday Flash Fiction #41, The Professor came up with the starter sentence, "He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk."

Nigel P. Bird's Interviews

2010-09-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

Over at Sea Minor, Nigel P. Bird came up with a unique idea. Why not let people interview themselves and he would post it?

He has already put up some fine ones with Keith Rawson and The Drowning Machine's Naomi Johnson. Not to mention that ones with Jedidiah Ayers and Megan Abbot are forthcoming. Today, he is one with writer, columnist and super editor, Katherine Tomlinson.

Check it out.

Writing Quotes helps you to be good to yourself

2010-08-28T03:14:00.000-07:00

The first quote I thought was written by somebody else, but Walter "Red" Smith apparently was the first person to have it directly attributed to him-

"There's nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."

- Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

- Ray Bradbury

"Better to write for yourself and have no public, than write for the public and have no self."

- Cyril Connolly

"I have made this letter longer, because I have not had the time to make it shorter."

- Blaise Pascal

The above quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with."

- William Faulkner

Für Elise

2010-08-23T08:03:00.000-07:00

5:57 PM

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again.

5:48 PM

Osvlado has had more than a few drinks, and this is not a new development. He enjoys a cerza (beer) or two with his desayuno (breakfast), a snort of tequila in his cup of coffee on the drive to work, and a generous pour of more tequila before lunch. The problem from two weeks ago, is the same as today's. Osvlado can't seem to stop drinking when he's supposed to be working, and he can't seem to be able to do the balance of his drinking at his own home.

12:30 PM, fifteen days ago

Chester Brock is patient; at least, that's what he believes himself to be. This...this, however, this would be too much even Job. Or even for Jesus. He doesn't mind if the gardeners are not constantly working, but that asshole Osvaldo spends more time sitting on his butt and not-so surreptitiously sipping from his flask, than doing anything that involves his job. Now, Osvaldo is urinating all over Chester's yard...and no, he's not even bothering to do it behind the bushes. In these trying times, no one should be out of work and yet...oh, great, now Mrs. Addison across the street sees this spectacle, too!

Wonderful, on top of everything, Chester is going to get an earful from Mr. Addison when he goes into work tomorrow. No, no, screw this, it's time to call Miguel up and let him know what kind of employee he has. This dickweed can work anywhere he wants, but he definitely won't ever work in Chester A. Barraza's yard again.

5:59 PM

Once the butterfly has emerged, it can't go back into the chrysalis, right? The butterfly can't go back to being that ugly, woolly, crude thing that crawls on the ground, and devours what tasteless foliage it can find. That is, the butterfly gets to sail on the wind and feed from the sweetest nectar. Such is Nora's dilemma.

She is in the front bedroom of Chester's l-shaped ranch-style house. She moved into his house over two years ago, but she still doesn't quite feel at home, so he lets her have the spare bedroom as her own little oasis from him. That crazy drunk that Chester got fired two weeks ago, is threatening Chester and she knows that Chet doesn't see the huge hunting knife that the angry asshole has hidden behind his back.

Nora clutches a simple little jewelry box. It's poorly lacquered and while she knows that it's not balsa, the wood that it is made of doesn't seem that much stronger. If you open it up, it plays "Für Elise," and if you lift the poorly disguised compartment below it? Well, no one wants that, especially Nora.

3:30 PM

Osvaldo was happy with his job and while Miguel wasn't happy with his drinking, he tolerated it as long as Osvaldo showed results. It's been two long weeks since then. Two long weeks where no one will hire Osvaldo, because Miguel has told everyone at all of the local garden nurseries about the whole incident. Yes, two long weeks where Osvaldo's money has dwindled down to nothing, and he has had to choose between drinking and eating.

At night, he has walked by Chester's house and seen this pinche cabrón living well, while Osvaldo starves. For reasons that baffle Osvlado, Chester's beautiful girlfriend actually wants a man whose hands are softer than hers. Osvaldo has twice the Spanish blood as this Indio, yet works harder everyday, than this puto has ever had to in his entire life. So, Osvaldo has called on Arturo, who always seems to have a bottle of liquor, a spare knife or two lying around...and the same itch to stir things up.

6:00 PM

Nora clutches the jewelry box as if it was a long lost relative, and in a way, it is. Osvaldo is shouting at Chester and Chet shouts back in the few words of Spanish that he knows. She knows that Chester still hasn't registered the hunting knife that is waiting for him, and that he also hasn't seen that a man has just stepped on the porch. It looks like Osvaldo is trying to lure him out and then, the other man will attack Chester from the side or from behind.

Nora opens the box, then the compartment. Inside there is a piece of red cloth with white and black spots, wrapped around something silvery. She takes the cloth out and wastes precious time touching in it to her forehead, because everyone has their own rituals.

6:01 PM

Chester steps off the porch. His first instinct is to just go back into the house and call 911, but this isn't high school anymore, and he will not be bullied. The two months of judo that he had taken almost six years ago, has given him an undeserved sense of bravado. If the adrenaline and testosterone had not clouded his sense of reason, then maybe he could remember that he couldn't even wrestle the TV remote from Nora two nights ago.

Arturo is about to let Chester's kidneys taste the steel of his switchblade, when he feels something cold poke the back of his neck. He hears the distinct sound of a slide going back and a bullet being chambered. That sound is the universal language of "don't move a fucking muscle, behave!" A woman whispers in Arturo's ear and he drops his knife, which clatters on the porch. This grabs the attention of both Osvaldo and Chester.

That woman is Nora and the red cloth is a bandanna that is tied tight around her forehead. It is pulled tight like a headband, just above her eyes, in the old Pachuco-style and Arturo seems to fear what she is whispering more than the gun that is jabbing him. He runs past Chester and grabs Osvaldo, who is about to take a run at Chester with his knife. Chester hears Arturo screech in Spanish the letter "m," and his both of his would-be assailants flee as if Nora is three jaguars.

Chester turns around and even he's not so sure that the nice girl he knew hasn't become some kind of creature. She has a fierceness in her that he's never seen in her, much less any human being. She's angry and she doesn't even see him, her focus is completely on the retreating duo. Suddenly the things that Chester took for granted or really didn't bother with follow-up questions, have taken on a meaning.

It always struck him strange that she has saved absolutely no pictures of herself, from ages thirteen up until she turned twenty-one. And the scars on her hands that she claimed were just burns from a cooking accident? Chester now knows that those must have been gang tattoos that she had removed. She puts the gun's safety on and she goes into the house. Chester hesitates several moments, before he follows her in.

Nora didn't want this, she wanted safety and boredom. She wanted to leave her old life behind and to find a nice guy to settle down with, where she could just stay in the background and relax. She wanted to go back to school and now? Now that's gone, and this isn't the first time.

Nothing can be as it was, and now she can't blend in, as she has become the alpha of the house by default. Even if Chester won't initially be scared like the others, how can she stopping being her old self now? Nora beckons Chester to follow her into the kitchen.

She sits down at the little breakfast nook and puts her feet across the table, as she slides into a comfortable, but tough stance. She pulls the bandanna down until he can barely see the whites of her eyes and Chester leaves the kitchen. He comes back with the music box and he opens it, Beethoven's familiar song begins.

Chester pulls the bandanna off of her forehead and kisses it, and then he kisses her on the lips. Chester remembers that in the myth of Pandora's Box, the one thing that remained in the box was hope.

The End

Note- this is part of Friday Flash Fiction #39, and Randal came up with the starter sentence, "She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again." The "Nora" in this story is nobody that you know, but my variation of Pandora.

Happy 90th, Ray

2010-08-22T03:34:00.000-07:00

Happy Ninetieth Birthday, Ray Bradbury!

While I must admit that other than "The Illustrated Man" (which I finally read in its entirety, two summers ago), I haven't read a lot of your work. You are certainly both a brilliant and prolific author, and hopefully you will live well beyond the century mark. You are also not only a great author, but a prophet as well. We don't always agree, but hey.

And as long as we agree to disagree, you were mostly right...

...except, who needs 451 degrees? When we have the idiot box, which can bake a book reader's mind from within (including mine).

Noir and San Francisco

2010-08-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

The Rap Sheet asked author Kelli Stanley to name her Top Ten Movies set in San Francisco. She came up with an amazing list and I agree with most of it, though my favorite is-

Not what would you expect for such die-hard Hammett fan, right? You would've guessed I would have chosen "The Thin Man" or "The Maltese Falcon." Well, neither has as many exterior shots of my favorite city in the world, as "Dark Passage."

And neither film had Lauren. Both "Dark" and "Falcon" had Bogart, though "Maltese" had the better Bogie performance. I am not, nor will I ever be a Mary Astor Fan, and as great as John Huston was, I prefer shot-for-shot, Delmer Daves direction. Before you get angry, I said I "prefer," as in it's a personal preference. Put the lead bird down.

The Rap Sheet also has a Top Ten Books Set In San Francisco List by Janet Rudolph, and J. Kingston finishes it up with the Top Ten TV Series.

Issue #2 of Needle Magazine is here!

2010-08-15T08:51:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Sterling?

Stay on the line, I might need you to swing by here and set some people straight.

Well, you see, I've got some folks that don't know when they've got a good thing going. They don't realize that Steve Weddle and crew have done it again, with another outstanding issue of Needle Magazine!

For just seven bucks, they will get a line up of: Ray Banks, Nolan Knight, John Stickney, Frank Bill, Julie Summerell, Nigel Bird, Sarah Weinman, Allan Leverone, the novella "The Hitter" by Chris F. Holm, David Cranmer with "The Sins of Maynard Shipley," Stephen Blackmoore, and Mike Sheeter! Why, you can't even get an E-book with that kind of roster for an Abe Lincoln and two George Washingtons!

They could order it here or...

...maybe you could make them see things my way, if you get my meaning. Oh, and while you're at it? I wouldn't go out to dinner with that Michael Corleone kid. What's that? Uh, just call it a "hunch," on my part.

Was that correct, back then?

2010-08-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

So I was reading Paul Cain's "Murder In Blue," which is the second story in "Los Angeles Noir: The Classics," when I saw this-

"Mr. Winfield reached up into the pockets of the dressing-gown, fished out a cigarette, matches. He lighted the cigarette, leaned back in the water, sighed."

Did you see that? In case you missed what I'm talking about, it popped up a few pages later with-

"They were silent for awhile and then Halloran lighted a cigarette and stood up."

If you still don't see it...

"The girl lighted a cigarette, sipped her coffee."

No, I'm not talking about all the smoking, that was par for the course back then. The "lighted" part instead of "lit." Mind you, "lighted" wasn't just for the cigarettes-

"The room was large, bare: somewhere around thirty-five by four. It was lighted by a single green-shaded droplight over a very large table in the center: there were other tables and chairs stacked in the dusk of the corner."

All right, I understand that back in 1933, it was acceptable to write "okay" as "okey" or "oke." I've also seen "girlfriend" written as "girl friend" or as "girl-friend" in more than a few stories from the first half of the 20th Century, but when was it ever okay to substitute "lighted" for "lit?"

Now, I know that you see this error.

Oh, and yes, "lighted" is a word.

Can't get enough of Lots of Pulp

2010-08-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

Brian Solomon delves deep into history to bring you the original pulp art from Pulp's Golden age, at Lots of Pulp. Please, do me a huge favor and drop by his blog to praise him for his efforts.

Say what you will about Heather Graham's acting abilities, but you can't question her bravery. I mean, who else will swim in deep cold waters buck-naked, and slap sharks at the same time? Not you, Bucky.

Now you can see why I hate my job. This is what I had to go through just to get a vacation form, and even H.P. Lovecraft couldn't have conceived of what lurks near the fax machine.

Not that our vacation was that much better. People claim that Times Square is too safe now...The Missus and I, beg to differ.

Methinks they have the title juxtaposed. The "all new sock stories" on the cover just confirms it.

Trust me that when Kirk Douglas says he's "Spartacus," you damn well better call him "Spartacus."

Actually, Marlon Brando was no better, after he had a few too many.

Just between you and me, let's just say that some unusual steps were taken this time to rehabilitate Lindsay Lohan while she was in jail.

Don't let anyone kid you, it's tough being a writer.

Issac Bashevis Singer kicks off Writing Quotes

2010-08-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter...

"Originality is not seen in single words or even in sentences. Originality is the sum total of a man's thinking or his writing. "

- Isaac Bashevis Singer

"Writing is a question of finding a certain rhythm. I compare it to the rhythms of jazz. Much of the time life is a sort of rhythmic progression of three characters. If one tells oneself that life is like that, one feels it less arbitrary."

- Francoise Sagan

"The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium."

- Norbet Platt

"Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind."

- Catherine Drinker Bowen

And let's finish this up with one from Mark Twain...

You need not expect to get your book right the first time. Go to work and revamp or rewrite it. God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. These are God's adjectives. You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by.

La Poesia Pura

2010-08-05T09:10:00.000-07:00

Coraline knows poetry.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree and goodbye Thug Lit

2010-08-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

On the brightside, the son of author Pamila Payne, Sigmund Werndorf has made it into Thug Lit with "Prisoner's Dilemma." Click it and you will find that he possess the same amazing gift for storytelling as his mother.

Also in this issue is Mike Wilkerson's finest effort to date, "Five Kilos." It's a gritty and raw tale. You know, the kind that your mom used to make...if your mom is James Cain or Gil Brewer.

On the darker side, Thug Lit is in limbo and seems as if it will be gone for good.

R.I.P. Thug Lit, one of the best crime magazines ever and the one that certainly featured the greatest writers of our time.

Rumi kicks off Writing Quotes

2010-07-28T06:37:00.000-07:00

"The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you; Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want; Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep."

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there."

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray."

“Only from the heart can you touch the sky.”

“Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don't claim them. Feel the artistry moving through and be silent.”

- Rumi

And because she pointed the way to these quotes, one from...

"To write is to breathe."

- Beth Mende Conny

This quote came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter...

"Many books require no thought from those who read them, and for a very simple reason; they made no such demand upon those who wrote them."

- Charles Caleb Colton

The "Uncovered" Clarity of Night Contest

2010-07-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

Two of my close friends have made it into the Top 40 of The "Uncovered" Clarity of Night Contest (huzzah!), Katherine Tomlinson and John Donald Carlucci. Please, take a look at their stories, as well as the other fine entries in the competition.

"I Write Like: Redux"

2010-07-24T10:32:00.000-07:00

You might remember I went to this site and they said that my writing was like Robert Louis Stevenson.

Well over at the NY Times Paper Cuts Blog-

I entered my last blog post and was told I write like Edgar Allan Poe. (Judging from the Twitter traffic, so do a lot of other people.)

Pretty neat. But then a colleague plugged in a paragraph from Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher” and was told it sounded like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Hmm, furiouser (sic) and furiouser (sic).

Get Plugged In #9

2010-07-23T11:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, I've got some great ones today...

Paulie Decibels has the fourth installment of Warsaw Moon up at Disenthralled Magazine.

Richard Godwin talks to Hilary Davidson and comes up with one of the most fascinating interviews of the year. Vegetarians, the darker side of the mind, and murder...oh, my.

Soon, we all will have the opportunity to vote for the finalists in the next The Clarity of Night Contest, but in the meantime? Check out the best entries of the past, with the E-Book "The Clarity of Night Contests Volume 1: 2006-2010" which includes Sandra Seaman's "Civic Duty."

Jason Duke debuts on Crimewav.com with "Phoenix Nightlife."

Last but certainly not least, Beat To A Pulp Magazine has scored a major coup! A certain artist will illustrate the anthology "Beat To A Pulp: Round One." Who? You have to click the purple to find out.

"La Espina"

2010-07-18T04:12:00.000-07:00

“In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was.”

Agustí lets out a long sigh. Julio and he have been lifelong friends, but Tomás has insisted that a confession be wrung of Julio, and no one says “no” to Tomás. To those that have dared, death was as welcome as a cup of water after crossing the Tabernas in the middle of summer. As they say here in Sevilla, “God forgives…Torquemada doesn’t.”

“Please, Julio, don’t prolong this any longer. If you will just admit to dabbling in witchcraft, I can hopefully convince the Inquisitor General to show some mercy.”

“Listen to my story, Agustí, and then I will gladly sign anything. I will admit to being a warlock, I will admit to being a Jew, I will admit to being anything that your friend Tomás desires, but I will have my say first.”

Agustí’s two assistants are visibly disappointed. They know that they will eventually have their fun making this infidel see God by giving him a taste of Hades, but what artisan wants to wait, when he takes such pleasures from his endeavor? Maybe one day soon, even Agustí will be under their auspices. Oh, to hear the over-demanding, never satisfied voice of authority begging for mercy.

One of the assistants looks about the small dungeon walls as to determine which combination of instruments will create a unique symphony, as the other stirs the fire under the coals, making some of the strange-looking implements in the brazier glow a bright orange. The first assistant walks over to the far wall and sits down because inhaling the smoke has made him a little dizzy. There always seems to be a slight breeze of relatively fresher air wafting around in this corner.

Agustí reluctantly nods and Julio clears his throat. “It was weird, this thing that the birds circled…I still cannot accurately describe it now. I can tell you, though, that it was almost near the end of its life.”

“Was it man or beast, Julio?”

“Yes...and no. I mean to say that it was both.”

“This is no time for jokes or chicanery. Remember that we were friends once and that is the only reason that you will not suffer the same fate as those that have dared to mock me before.”

“Agustí, in all of the years that we have lived side-by-side, gone to the same schools, worked at my father’s shop, have you ever known me to tell a falsehood?”

“No, but certainly you could tell what kind of creature it was…or is this another wild tale that was brought over from the so-called “New World” by charlatan Cristoforo Colombo?”

“I am unfamiliar with the recent adventures of that explorer, as this incident happened some eleven years ago.”

Julio’s posture and stature grow, as if the chains are no longer suspending him, but he instead is using them to hold the very walls together. He looks down at Agustí and his voice finds strength as he says, “You remember that day, don’t you, Agustí? The day that you were careless in my father’s shop and you accidentally cut yourself? It seemed that no bandage or poultice could staunch the flow of blood that was escaping from you.”

One of Agustí’s assistants smiles with glee, until his superior quashes it with a baleful glare.

“You recall that don’t you, Agustí? I rode as fast as I could from here to Gelves, to find that apothecary that blended the very herbal cataplasm that saved your life? Well, your mortality was not the only one that I had rescued that day.”

“So, are you saying that this creature was a demon?” scoffs the sitting assistant.

“I am saying that this creature spoke our language just as well, if not better than you,” Julio snaps back. “And though most of him did not seem to be human, he has apparently more heart than your overseer here. Yet here we have this so-called “man” that stands before us. Agustí, you who had no family that would take care of you, no roof over your head, no food in your belly, you would let them bring me here. You would subject me to this, knowing that I have lived a just life and unlike yours, a life without sin!”

“Silence!”

“No, Agustí, I will not be silent. You call yourself a Christian, yet you have never lived your life like Jesus. You have never truly served your fellow man. I could list the acts of kindness that you’ve done in your lifetime on one fing—”

Agustí slaps Julio once to silence him, and then he backhands him for good measure.

“Give me the parchment; I can sign his name better than he can himself,” Agustí barks at his standing assistant. The aide lays it out on the table and produces an inkwell and quill.

Julio clenches his lips and slowly regains his posture of strength.

“Agustí? Do you remember the fables that my father would tell you from time to time?”

The Inquisitor Minor does not reply, as he chooses instead to concentrate on forging Julio’s signature accurately, yet with a flourish that is too cheery, considering the circumstances.

“Agustí, in particular, remember Aesop. Remember that tale of The Slave and The Lion? How The Slave came upon The Lion as the great cat was in pain from the thorn in its paw? He removed the thorn from The Lion and they became friends. Well, it wasn’t a thorn I removed, but I saved the life of a good friend. He is a remarkable friend that promised me he would never forget his debt.”

As he admires his penmanship, Agustí grumbles, “No doubt this friend is even more foolish than you.

The sitting assistant shifts, as somehow the draft of air has increased and the wall seems to be nudging him in the back.

“No, Agustí. He is more human than you, because he understands the concept of redemption…”

A quick yelp is followed by snap like a hundred twigs being stepped on at once. Agustí slowly turns around to witness his other assistant succumbing to the same fate as the first, being torn in two like a tree split by lightning. He wants to scream, but his voice has taken flight, along with his sense of reason and sanity. This horrific creature lumbers towards Agustí as blood drips from its fangs.

Julio says with a smile, “Unlike you, he also knows that a true friend always repays his debts.”

The End

For Friday Flash Fiction #36, Welles Fan is a particpant that came up with one of the three starter sentences that we could from. His was, "In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was."

Just call me "Bobby Lou"

2010-07-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

I saw this at Eric Beetner's blog first, and then at The Rap Sheet-

It's a program called "I Write Like."

So I plugged in "Tit-For-Tat" and I got:

I write like
Robert Louis Stevenson

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

What, RLS? Don't give me that look like you are about to go Mr. Hyde on me, I don't see it either.

I am over the moon...

2010-07-14T21:02:00.000-07:00

Becky says that this guy is faking it...

You know what? This woman is too...

...because I am July's Firecrotch!

Fiiire! Who knew that burning could feel this good?

Writing Quotes for Post #500

2010-07-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

Barring a false start here, and a yanked post there, this is Post #500. I couldn't have done it without you, the audience. Well, I mean, I could, but it would be boring all by myself and it would something other than blogging (insert your own joke about going blind -- here). At any rate, I thank those that comment and those that lurk. I also give thanks to those that give me the helpful slap on the back and those...well, I draw inspiration from both.

So, here is to everyone that has every visited this blog. Here is to all of you and for success to bless each and everyone. Sláinte!

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter-

"Character gives us qualities, but it is in actions -- what we do -- that we are happy or the reverse...All human happiness and misery take the form of action."

- Aristotle

"In nearly all good fiction, the basic -- all but inescapable -- plot form is this: A central character wants something, goes after it despite opposition (perhaps including his own doubts), and so arrives at a win, lose, or draw."

- John Gardner

"Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."

- Sylvia Plath

"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it."

- Jules Renard

Frost, Heinlein, Writing Quotes

2010-06-23T18:13:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second."

- Robert Frost

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards."

- Robert Heinlein

"When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can."

- Samuel Lover

Get Plugged In #8

2010-06-22T09:10:00.000-07:00

Certainly first and foremost, The Pop Eye Blog turned five. Out of all my friends who blog, Becky is the Atlas when it comes to blogging. She does it harder, longer, faster, Kanye, and she is my only reliable source of pop culture (i.e. she doesn't float half-truths like every other pop or gossip blog does, to draw in readers).

Next, Nora O'Sullivan brings the pain and the blood, courtesy of Chicago Reader.

Richard Godwin interviews-

Needle Magazine Creator/Editor Steve Weddle.

Iraq War Vet/Author Jason Duke.

Author Paul D. Brazill a.k.a. "Paulie Decibels."

As well as a compelling and surreal conversation with Christopher Grant.

Richard writes as well, and he paints a vivid picture at Michael Solender's You're Not From Around Here, Are You...with "The Iconoclast."

Speaking of "vivid," Patti Abbott types out a Renoir-worthy portrait at Beat To A Pulp, with "At The Cafe Sabarsky."

Last but not least, if you somehow missed Paul's interview with Brit Author Alan Griffiths in Pulp Metal Magazine, here it is again, with You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?

The Premiere Issue of Dark Valentine Magazine is here!

2010-06-11T17:34:00.000-07:00

So here it is, the day that it all comes fruition. Here is a new venue for dark fiction, a new publication that will change the way that you read magazines.

Agatha-nominated Elizabeth Zelvin kicks things off with "The Silkie." Chad Rohrbacher brings us into a robotic near future with "Furious." Sandra Seamans offers up a surreal piece of noir with "What Doesn't Kill You" and it is accompanied by an equally amazing illustration by Jane Burson.

Paul D. Brazill turns horror on its ear and gives it a Michael Madsen, with "Drunk On The Moon." "Automancer" is a tale that gives a new twist to magic, by my friend author and editor, Katherine Tomlinson. I have a story in there called "His Hands, which is a tribute to the writing style of my friend Quin Browne. I chronicle a doomed relationship that takes unforeseen tragic conclusion.

The aforementioned isn't even half of the stories that are in this issue, and the art work is truly a feast for the eyes. There is horror, fantasy, noir, science fiction and all the dark things that are under the sun...and in the shadows.

Please, check out the Dark Valentine Magazine in PDF form, here.

And here it is, the Cover for The Premiere Issue of Dark Valentine Magazine

2010-06-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

The next part of the build up and now everything will be that much clearer, with the illustration for the Cover of Dark Valentine Magazine.

Is it wrong that I fall in love with virtually every cover illustration that Joanne Renaud does? A special thanks to Joy Sillesen for the formatting and Editor Katherine Tomlinson has all the details for this missive at her blog.

Just a taste...

2010-06-10T07:17:00.000-07:00

What do Sandra Seamans, Paul D. Brazill, Chad Rohrbacher and me, all have in common?

That's right, none of us are represented by this guy. Wait, what?

All will be revealed soon, but in the meantime? Here is a teaser. If you come back here at 10:30 AM, PST, it will make even more sense.

The biggest Writing Quotes, ever*

2010-06-08T20:46:00.000-07:00

The first is from Beth Mende Conny-

"Life is a book and you are its author. You detemine its plot and pace and you--only you--turn its pages."

The next ones are from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter-

"Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies."

- Terri Guillemets

"I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it."

- Ernest Hemingway

"Writing is no trouble: you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity itself -- it is the occurring which is difficult."

- Stephen Leacock

"A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer."

- Karl Krauss

"Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will."

- Goethe

"I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head."

- John Updike

*Only because I haven't been posting them.

Ah, yeah...

2010-06-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

Dark Valentine's "Through A Lense Darkly" Flash Fiction Contest

2010-05-24T07:28:00.000-07:00

From editor/author Katherine Tomlinson comes this item-

I always enjoy photo story prompts, so we've put another one up at Dark Valentine. We're looking for flash (under 1000 words) inspired by the photo. Here's all the info.

We don't pay for the stories published on the site but Dark Valentine is a paying market for stories published in the magazine. Our first issue will be available in mere weeks, but we're open for submissions to issue #2 now. Here's a link to our guidelines. Dark Valentine is looking for any sort of dark fiction--you pick the genre.

"Mauve"

2010-05-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

For Needle Magazine's first Flash Fiction Challenge-

This links back to all the stories.

“Firsts?”

“No…go ahead.”

When the Apocalypse comes, it’s going to look twice as pretty in L.A. That’s the way Chet figures it. The smoke from the September brush fires have commingled with the smog and the setting sun, to make the most amazing collage of red, pink, gray, and…what’s the word?

Dennis moans, “Where’s my lucky vein?” as he flicks his left arm hard with his right middle-finger. “Are you sure you don’t wanna go first, Chet?”

“Ha. No, it’s your money, your stuff and your rigs. You get dibs.”

Dennis finds the well-worn vein and inserts the needle perfectly, in a manner that would make a hematologist envious. The plunger goes down and Dennis goes up, seeking the troposphere and beyond.

Red, pink, gray, and…damn it, what’s that word? Chet went out with a girl whose name was the same as the color. “Mauve,” that’s it. Chet digs Dennis, a bit of bonhomie, good company, and plenty of China White. Denny is a trust fund brat and as everyone around the way says about Dennis, “you can’t spell ‘trust fund brat’ without ‘r-a-t.’”

Still, Chet knows better. All junkies are self-centered assholes, only they are too spaced out to notice it. His friend may be moody to the point of psychotic episode every other hour, but he sure as hell doesn’t steal or screw you for your share when you pitch in for a buy. Jesus, he even paid for this posh hotel room off of Sunset Boulevard. Nothing is better than get your fix on without having to worry about being rolled or killed while you are floating.

“Hey, Chet? You and me are cool, right? We’re tight, yeah?”

“Better than brothers, better than family.”

“So, if the shit hits the fan and we got front row seats, can I count on you?”

“I'm down for whatever, Denny.”

“That’s all I wanna know, man,” Dennis says with a smile. He rises as best as he can, considering his condition. He reaches into an armoire drawer, pulls out a 9mm, and chambers a round. The next fifteen seconds seem like an eternity, as Chet tries to extricate the pistol from his unsteady volatile companion.

“Chill out, man, I was trying to give it to you.”

“Okay, it’s okay, Dennis.”

“No…it’s not okay. They are after me, I can feel it.”

“No one is after you, that’s the stuff talking.”

“No, it’s not the drugs, they really are after me. You’ve known me only for six months. It’s time for them to take me away…and if they do? I won’t survive, man. The things that they do to me? It’s crap that even the CIA would frown upon, guy. I’d rather be water boarded with my nuts attached to four car batteries. I…you don’t, you don’t wanna know. Truly, man, truly.”

Dennis turns even paler, which is quite an accomplishment considering he is already as close to a cadaver as humanly possible.

“All right, man, what do you want me to do?”

“You put three in me…don’t let them take me alive. What they have planned for me is far worse than dying slowly from a gut-shot wound.”

Dennis weeps and Chet embraces him, and nods. “You got it.”

Not that far away, the old man sits down at the front of The Ivy Restaurant. He has on an Edwardian suit, replete with a cane and white gloves. The thin black man across from him peeks out from under his sunglasses and mentally muses that all his elderly counterpart is missing is the ascot. But it’s too hot for ascots, and for perfunctory bullshit.

“Mister Minter, I presume. You can call me ‘Cryptic.’” He offers a handshake, but the old man refuses.

“If we are to do business, I will know your proper…”

“No, Mister Minter. The less we know about each other, the less that can be used as leverage against us by the law. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s at a boutique hotel off of Sunset.”

“Well, then by all means, give me the envelope under the table.”

Mister Minter discretely hands it to him and Cryptic takes the money, and fans it. He runs a counterfeit marker across them, and then tucks the money in his jacket.

“We’ll take my vehicle, Mister Minter.”

“Hold on,” Mister Minter says as he takes off his gloves to reveal burned hands. “Be forewarned, he can be resourceful.”

“So can I, Sir, so can I.”

Chet is happy. He’s forgotten Dennis’s troubles and he’s found his own happy niche. They are both passing up the stratosphere and orbiting with the satellites, zero gravity. The door swings open with a thump and a bang. There’s a thin black man with a shaved head pushing a laundry cart. It’s Cryptic and he has on a bellhop uniform, but no bellboy moves with that kind of speed and determination.

Chet rises as if he’s been jolted by defibrillator paddles. He stands up to the oncoming challenge and he panics, because he can’t remember where the gun is…until he realizes that it is in his hand. He points it at Cryptic and pulls the trigger.

Only there is no trigger to pull. The gun is out of his hand and pain shoots through Chet’s now-broken wrist. He tumbles to the ground in agony, and that agony is doubled as he hears his friend’s ear-piercing scream.

“Don’t let them do it, Chet! Don’t let them do it! Kill me, Chet, fuckin’ kill me! I would do the same for you, end it! Fucking end it!”

Chet crawls towards the pistol, only to have Cryptic kick it away. He is rewarded for his efforts with a stomp to his left hand. Cryptic picks Dennis up and body-slams him into the laundry cart. Chet lies on the floor, helpless and in pain. His friend is carted out into the hall and he can hear one last cry, “Fucking kill me, Chet. Don’t let them put me in rehab. Not fucking rehab!”

The End

Exactly...

2010-05-17T07:20:00.000-07:00

Best Of: "B*tch"

2010-05-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

Some of you have read or even heard this story, and some of you haven't. The title is "Bitch" and I guarantee that whatever your initial impression is of the title or the story, you are completely incorrect. In a reversal, I'm going to do this differently. I won't repost the story in its entirety on this blog, and I'm going to list the audio version first. It's on Seth Harwood's Crimewav podcast, and it was produced by the great Aldo Calcagno.

We're talking Episode #26: First comes "Beer" by David Price and then "Requiem of Wind And Rain" by James C. Clar. My story kicks in right around 25:11.

Or if your computer/Internet device can't play podcasts, you can read the original version at Powder Burn Flash.

A message from your Internet Operator...

2010-05-07T09:45:00.000-07:00

www.quinbrowne.com, is now www.quinbrowne.net. Please make a note of that, thank you.

Needle Magazine First Flash Fiction Challenge

2010-05-06T10:49:00.000-07:00

I'm beginning to think that Steve Weddle is a cyborg, when does he stop?

Now he has a flash fiction contest going, and the first prize is...

...you're going to have to read on-

Let’s have us some flash fiction up in these parts.

Come up with a flash fiction story of no more than 1,000 words.

The story MUST have a needle in there somewhere, somewhere. Phonograph. Tattoo. Syringe. Knitting. Don’t care, but ya gotta have a needle.

Post a link to your story by MAY 18 (that’s a Tuesday, folks). If you don’t have a home for your story, we’ll find a spot for it around the innerwebs somewhere.

We’ll start the linking up here on that day.

That Friday, we’ll randomly pull someone’s name outta the hat and give away a NEEDLE T-SHIRT. (You can get a mug instead if you don’t wear shirts.)

That’s the random part. We’ll also look through the stories to see whether anything might be a good fit for the summer issue of NEEDLE, expected out around the first of July. If it seems like a fit, we’ll chat about it.

Are you in?

If so, post in the Needle Blog's comments and we’ll get this thing rolling.

Thanks and have fun.

Clickety-click the green here for the details.

Get Plugged In #7

2010-05-05T07:47:00.000-07:00

First, Peggy MacFarland has won Chad Rohrbacher's "Victor Gischler Giveaway."

David Cranmer's "7 Questions continue," with a certain Paul D. Brazill.

This is just one of the many reasons, that she is my favorite non-published author.

Last, but not least is Skyler Hobbs. The creation of Evan Lewis has made both Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and he got a little review in Mystery Scene Magazine.

"Type"

2010-05-03T07:51:00.000-07:00

This is for the "Sweet Dreams Flash Fiction Challenge" by Patti, Aldo and Gerald.

This is one of the few bars left in San Francisco that has a jukebox that still takes change and still plays vinyl, and that's why I love this hole-in-the-wall.

Did I say "hole in the wall?" Yeah, there’s that too, from where Jay slammed an unruly drunk into the corner, just right past the last booth. That was last week, and he just duct-taped a plastic sheet over it this morning and called it "fixed."

What I don’t like here is Annie Lennox in the blue dress.

She’s not Ms. Lennox herself, but close enough that David Stewart would want to start a reunion tour with her. She has played “Sweet Dreams” ten times in a row, which is about four times too many even for a Eurythmics fan, which I am not. She has on a $400 electric blue dress, yet the nail polish on her fingers and toes is chipped. She never strays far from her raggedy purse, but that’s to give her .40 caliber Glock a reassuring (and what she believes to be discreet) pat.

She is from the Pamela Anderson School of Acting, with her ersatz twitches and faux withdrawal symptoms. She might use many things, but I doubt she uses meth, coke or heroin. Everything about her, including her high-end salon dye job, clashes with these surroundings, and who she is supposed to be. Jay will see through this right away, and he will bypass slamming her into the wall for cutting her up in the basement.

“It’s gonna be awhile. Jay went to the bank to get change…so you might want to go somewhere else,” I mention.

"Do you know when he's going to be back?" she asks firmly. She's trying to seem braver than she feels, and I used to be scared like her, too, but that was more than a lifetime ago.

I swirl and sip my shot glass of rotgut like it’s fine cognac as I say to her, "He's not holding today."

"That's not why I'm here," she blurts.

"So you're here to meet a date?"

“No,” she says with the all the warmth of Finland in February.

“Then you’ll probably want to go where you’ll find one.”

“Are you the owner?” she demands.

“I’m just watching the joint for him,” I mumble, and shake my head. She sizes me up for the first time and sees an old barfly in a denim outfit that’s older than she is. She looks away and instantly writes me off…big mistake.

“Then pour yourself a glass of ‘Shut The Fuck Up.’”

I pour myself another shot and I say, “Noroc!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means ‘to your health’ in Romanian.”

“You’re weird.”

“My dear, I’ve been the same that I’ve always been…it’s the times that have gotten stranger. If you live long enough, though I don’t see this happening, you will come to realize this too.”

I close the distance between us and her eyes widen as I get closer, then they go blank. Her mind is…malleable, though not enough to get her to leave this place. I sniff around her and I was right; other than her beauty, she lacks that certain something. Jay enters the bar and the sunlight from the door snaps her out of it.

“I’ll see you sooner than both of us would like,” I whisper, but her attention is already completely focused on Jay. He has that effect, and we both want Jay…for the wrong reasons. This time he’s not alone; he has some psycho named “Daily” with him. I don’t know how that sociopath got his name, but I’ve seen him stab people over $5 bets. The Lennox clone, a.k.a. Officer Newcomb, has arrested him before, yet she unfortunately doesn’t recognize him.

I leave this bar and maybe I leave my conscience there, too.

***

The End

Patti Abbott said- Maybe I'm an April Fool and there have been too many of these challenges going around lately, but I feel like writing this story-or having you write it better than I can. It's been rolling around in my head for days.

It begins in a food/drink establishment of some sort. The radio/juke box/band is playing "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurythmics. A red-headed woman in an electric blue dress comes through the door.

And then what?

The story doesn't have to center on these elements. I'm just giving you the initial setting.

You can take it from there.

Stories under 1000 wrds. End date: May 3. If you don't have a blog, Mystery Dawg will post it on Powder Burn Flash.

I was wrong, there will be another Writing Quote from Michener

2010-05-01T01:18:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"To me the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make."

- Truman Capote

"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions."

- James Michener

Replay: "One Hundred And Twenty-Five Grams Of Pain"

2010-04-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Oh, the woe of a drug dealer. Such an accursed trade, and such an abysmal life. Here is his lament, in the (almost micro) story called "125 Grams of Pain." This tale was posted on Flashing In The Gutters.

As to what the dosage alludes to, you'll have to read for yourself.

"The Wrong Old Man" is up Thrillers, Chillers 'n' Killers

2010-04-27T09:05:00.000-07:00

Before Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers goes on a hiatus to recharge their batteries and revamp the site, they have a little story from Christopher Grant called "The Wrong Old Man."

Good Writing Quotes from...?

2010-04-24T15:41:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"The drudgery of being a professional writer comes in trying to make good days out of bad days and in squeezing out the words when they won't just flow."

- Benjamin Cavell

"No one is asking, let alone demanding, that you write. The world is not waiting with bated breath for your article or book. Whether or not you get a single word on paper, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the universe will expand. Writing is forever and always a choice -- your choice."

- Beth Mende Conny

Caption This VI!

2010-04-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

Say that I'm mailing it in...

...but not until you caption this.

Eric Beetner has posted the opening sentence of each story in Needle Magazine

2010-04-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

Author Eric Beetner has posted the opening sentence of each story in the Premiere Issue of Needle Magazine.

Pop on over, relax and get tantalized by some fine crime fiction.

Borges and Doctorow for Writing Quotes

2010-04-17T03:06:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"Every writer creates his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future."

- Jorge Luis Borges

"There is no longer any such thing as fiction or nonfiction; there's only narrative."

- E.L. Doctorow

Chad Rohrbacher's Flash Fiction Contest

2010-04-16T09:22:00.000-07:00

Chad Rohrbacher is having a Flash Fiction Contest! Check it out-

Since I’m such a nice guy and I love Gischler’s writing, I decided to do something out of character for me: give something away for free. Well, let me qualify that since it’s not quite free.

“Oh damn” there’s always a catch. Stupid infomercial.

Don’t change the channel yet, because all I’m looking for is to see some good writing. In a flash fiction crime or superhero piece, this means under 1500 words.

I will post a poll once all the entries are in and the winner will receive:

Victor Gischler’s work on Marvel Comics’ Deadpool: Merc With A Mouth and the newDeadpool Corps and The Deputy. This means prelude 1-5 and Issue #1 of the Deadpool series and the novel for a little emotional sweat in a flash fiction piece.

So if you are a fan of comics, this gives you an opportunity to check out his novel; or if you’re a novel reader and think comics have nothing to offer, this gives you a chance to check them out and see how wrong you are. The best thing is writers don’t get to have all the fun, because everyone who loves crime and comic writing gets to vote for the winning entry.

Rules:

1. Sign up by Monday, April 19th 5 pm in the comments.

2. You have 1 week to write and post your entry to your blog and share your link with us.

3. This entry must be posted and linked by Monday, April 26th at 5 pm EST.

4. Vote – The poll will remain open until Monday, May 3rd at 1 pm EST.

So spread the word and, more importantly, get writing.

Update: This is a hardcover copy of The Deputy. And those across the pond are free to join in — the book will be shipped directly from Amazon while the Deadpool series will come from me directly. Happy Writing.

How does a crime writer look at clouds?

2010-04-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

Is it me...

...or do you see-

A Sig Sauer

And a bikini bottom, too?

Capote...WTF? And other Writing Quotes

2010-04-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

These quotes came from The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

"Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it."

- Truman Capote

"A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others."

- William Faulkner

"When a man is in doubt about this or that in his writing, it will often guide him if he asks himself how it will tell a hundred years hence."

- Samuel Butler

"Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we?"

- Terri Guillemets

And...

It takes as much courage to have tried and failed as it does to have tried and succeeded.

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh, via Chris.

Needle Magazine is here!

2010-04-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

Well, the big day has arrived and it came much sooner than expected. The Premiere Issue of Needle Magazine is here!

Steve Weddle, Scott D. Parker, Naomi Johnson, Daniel O'Shea and John Hornor Jacobs have covered the crime fiction and noir spectrum from A to Z, literally. From Patti Abbott, to David Zeltserman.

We're talking Sandra Seamans, Paul D. Brazill, Christopher Grant, Eric Beetner, Keith Rawson, Chad Rohrbacher, Kieran Shea, Hilary Davidson, Jedidiah Ayers, Eric Nusbaum, Nathan Singer, Kent Gowran and yours truly.

Needle Magazine will be offered in a print only version on Lulu. Please click here for the details and buy your copy today!

David Cranmer interviews my "Dad!"

2010-04-08T07:48:00.000-07:00

David Cranmer, Publisher of Beat To A Pulp Magazine, has seven questions for my "Dad!"*

That's right he interviews Christopher Grant, the very man who once said, "That's right, I'm pulling for my bastard son Cormac." Christopher runs one of the best sites for fresh and reprinted noir, crime fiction and mayhem.

David asks some great questions, covering Spaghetti Westerns, A Twist of Noir, Christopher Grant's character "The Deaf Guy," the future of ATON and desert island reads. Please, pop on over and read it.

*I'm twelve years older than him, but he is the most supportive parent when it comes to all of us writers of crime fiction.

"Mightier Than The Sword" -DSD Flash Challenge

2010-04-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

The cats at Do Some Damage had a Flash Challenge revolving around The Recession. Et voilà-

"Oh shit, here it comes. Let’s kick off 'Bitch and Moan Fest 2010,'" whispers Carrie.

"Carrie, where's my pen? Have you seen my pen?" snaps Trent, like a Chihuahua that has had its favorite chew toy taken away.

Carrie quickly pulls the pen off of the counter and hands it to Trent before he can blow his top. Still, even this won't delay his inevitable lecture and her mind goes into an old-fashioned TV off-the-air pattern replete with a Technicolor Indian chief, as she tunes him out.

Carrie doesn't miss the "same shit, different day" of her old job, and she doesn't miss her cubicle, either. But she misses the pay...God, how she misses the pay. She misses her BMW Z3, too. It was the first thing she had to give up during the six months she was unemployed, after her layoff notice. She cried when she had to forfeit the lease on that rolling decompression chamber.

Now she drives a used Tercel, and the only decompressing that goes on with that is its leaky right front tire. Now she brings her lunch to work, and now even dinner at McDonald’s is a luxury. Same mortgage, micro pay scale. The nastiest part of this economic readjustment is not making 39% of what she used to earn. No, the worst aspect of this downturn is spending each and every underpaid day working with Trent. You can't spell "anal-retentive" without "T-r-e-n-t."

The owner of the card shop, Nikki, only agreed to hire Carrie on as assistant manager if she also did a clerk job as well…for just two dollars an hour more.

"Are you even listening to me?" he whines.

"It's just a pen."

"I've had the same pen for ten years now. I've changed the ink, but it's the exact same one. The grip is just right and the ink doesn't smear. You are right handed, and you can use any pen you want. We work in a greeting card store, for God sake; just take one from the shelves!"

"Yeah, so you can report me for theft to Nikki? Look...Trent, why don't you go home? I'll punch your card out."

"I don't want to-"

Carrie snaps back, "I cannot work with you for the remaining twenty minutes left in this day. Either you punch out, or I'll punch you out!"

With that, Trent harrumphs off...dropping his pen. Rather then saying anything, she pockets it.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Carrie locks the front door. She goes into the back and turns the lights off. Suddenly Carrie is grabbed and an arm closes around her neck. She can’t breathe as everything goes entirely too bright for her, and then it turns pitch dark.

***

She wakes up behind the counter and on her back. There is a strange man on top of her. He reeks of drugs and body odor, and he's pawing at her. She flinches as she feels something pricking her neck.

His bushy brows furl angrily over his distant and cold eyes. He shows her a long hunting knife and mutters, "the three of us are gonna have fun…me, you and my blade." He pokes the knife at her again and his free hand tugs at the button of her slacks.

"Carrie, why are all the lights out, and where is my fucking pen?"

Trent startles Carrie, but he startles the intruder even more. As her assailant wheels around, Trent grabs a crystal vase off the back counter and clubs the Intruder twice. The glass vase shatters with the second blow. Trent grabs another vase and hits him again, for good measure.

Trent helps her to her feet.

"Carrie, are you okay?"

Her lips tremble and her eyes water up. Trent offers her an arm as he dials 911 on the store's phone. As it rings, Carrie leans into Trent and he gives her a reassuring embrace.

"Uh, Carrie, I'm so, so sorry. If it's not too much to ask...uh, could I have my pen back?"

The End

Jay Stringer said-

On the other hand, it could be said that the subject matter of crime fiction is recession proof; many of the stories are already dealing with people in deprived situations. It’s already about grabbing social mobility with a fist and the pointy end of a gun. In that regard, crime fiction has long been waiting for the world to catch up.

And this element is timeless. It was as true a century ago as it is today.

This is a meaty subject to get into, and one that I’m sure all of you could write about far better than me. So here’s the thing, short and sweet this week. I believe if there’s a subject worth discussing, it’s a subject worth writing fiction about.

So this here is a DSD flash fiction challenge. And I’m giving you plenty of run up time on this; lets call the deadline Tuesday, April 6th. Just after we’ve all enjoyed the Easter weekend, that seems somehow fitting.

Let’s have your recession stories. The usual flash rules apply, length no more than 800-900 words (I’m looking at you, Weddle). Write about anything and everything, as long as it’s tied into the theme.

You can send your stories to us to put up here on the day, or you can just run them on your own blog and link to us.

Some good news

2010-04-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

Finally, some good (solid) news! I'm sorry to be a tease, but you'll have to read Gerald So's interview with Steve Weddle over at Chatterfic, to find out.

Psst, don't forget...

How about that lineup? Thanks to Paul for the back cover.