Best Of: "Type"

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

Best Of: "Let Them Eat Cake"

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.

Get Plugged In #10

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.

"Type"

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.

***

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

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.

Some good news

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.

Flash fiction challenge: Walmart, I Love You. "Acceptance"

"Acceptance"

Ante Scriptum: This story has been removed in order to honor a contract with Untreed Reads. When the contract is up, this story will be reposted here.

This was for a flash fiction challenge and I have an alternate story that I did for this same challenge that I'll save for mid-December. This act of arson is allegedly based on an alleged incident that a supermarket allegedly pulled to get rid of a union warehouse. They allegedly did this so that they could move everything to a warehouse in the boonies, that was outside of the union's jurisdiction and in a the county didn't recognize the union's rules.

I don't know the particulars beyond the alleged forklift "accident" and the alleged sprinkler "failure." Everything I've heard about alleged incident was third-hand, so don't ask me to comment on it.

Quoth the Patti-

Steve Weddle recently posted a link on facebook to this. (People of Wal*Mart) and suggested along with Keith Rawson) that Aldo, Gerald and I host a flash challenge using this site as our inspiration.

What I would like to propose is a 750-800 word story that is set, or at least partially set, in a Wal*Mart Store.It could also be a story that refers to such a store in a meaningful way. If you take exception to Walmart, name it something else. We'll know what you mean.

Post the story on your own blog or on Aldo's Powder Burn Flash. I'm thinking of November 30th. Please don't post your story ahead of time--it throws things off. Let Aldo know if you want him to post it. Let Gerald or me know if you're "in" as soon as possible.

Walmart shoppers: beware.

"Let Them Eat Cake" Flash Fiction Challenge #5

“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.


Aldo, Gerald and Patti have created yet another flash fiction challenge-

In the early nineties, a book was published where each story shared a single concept: "a wedding cake in the middle of the road." None of those stories were flash fiction, but let's see what we can do with that idea in a limited number of words.

Stories should be around 750 words, but anything under 1000 wrds is good. You can set your wedding cake on a road on Mars, in Montana, or anywhere at all. In other words, all genres are welcome.

The "wedding cake in the road" can be the main idea or a sidebar-so long as it's in there--like the gun in Plots with Guns.

Mystery Dawg will publish stories on Powder Burn Flash where no blog is available.

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 last winter.

Best Of: "Cynara"

Soon, the sixth issue of Astonishing Adventures Magazine and...well, you're just going to have to wait until it arrives.

In the meantime, when Aldo, Gerald and Patti get together? They always come up with a great premise and more often than not, even better flash fiction ensues. One day, they'll give Akashic Noir a run for the money and you will recall that you read that here first.

This story is called "Cynara" and you'll have to read it, to understand the origin of the flash fiction challenge, and just who "Cynara" really is. In this story, for a change of pace, you will have the actual and correct William Congreve quote-

Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.

I would bring up a famous Chris Rock quote, but nothing is worse than having the audience fail to make the distinction between the author and the fictional characters that he writes about. So just let me say this of this story's protagonist, you can't spell "lothario" without "l-o-a-t-h." But every story needs a villain and true to noir tradition, trust no one in this story except to do what is best for themselves.

Ladies and Gentlemen, here is "Cynara."

"All Time Low"

(Opening paragraph by Stephen Blackmoore)

Lowenstein’s caught his pecker in his zipper again. Too drunk by half and he has to be at work in four hours. He tugs, winces, and pulls it free. Wipes the spot of blood off on his shirttail, stuffs everything back inside and flushes the urinal. Beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead and he washes his face in the sink. The buzzing fluorescents give his face a green cast. Or maybe it's all the tequila. He's really not sure.

***

Lowenstein wakes up drunk.

A three-minute piss.

A shave.

A shower and one whole pot of coffee later, he drives into work. The traffic is hell and the fact that he can’t pass a breathalyzer test doesn’t help. Compounding the hellish commute is his aching dick, which feels like it is infected.

In all of this confusion, the only certainty is why he is on thin ice at work. He started drinking to forget his troubles, but whenever he sobered up his troubles were still there, larger than ever. So it got so Lowenstein couldn’t be content with the hair of the dog in the morning, and he had to have the whole damn kennel…which meant using up his sick days.

Lowenstein staggers in, and several awkward moments pass by before he realizes from the uncomfortable look on the receptionist’s face that he has been staring at just how her blouse accentuates her chest.

“Uh, Mr. Jenkins wants to see you right away, Mr. Lowenstein,” she says, as they both look away from each other in embarrassment.

Lowenstein sees how his fellow employees are staring at him. He thinks it is because they believe he is a dead man walking, on his way to the gas chamber. They are actually staring at him like that because he wouldn’t need any makeup at all to star in a zombie film.

Mr. Jenkins is usually cheerful but right now he looks as grim as a pit bull with indigestion. He beckons Lowenstein into his office and hands him several pamphlets.

“Lowenstein? I don’t care if you think you don’t need help or that you really don’t want any help. You’re getting help or you’re not working here anymore,” growls Mr. Jenkins.

“You…you’re one to talk!” Lowenstein growls back. Even through his booze-filled haze, he has seen his boss at many of the same bars he goes to. And while there might’ve been only club soda in his boss’s glass, Mr. Jenkins always has a different woman at his side.

“Don’t try to change the subject!...ahem. Look, I have plenty of…compulsions of my own, but I don’t let them interfere with my work. You’re too good of a worker and your performance has fallen too far for me to pretend that everything is okay with you. Just look those places over carefully and tell me which one you’re going to.”

Mr. Jenkins dismisses him with a wave, and reluctantly, Lowenstein leaves. As he goes through the door, a man bumps into Lowenstein. Before he can demand an apology, the man has a gun out and it’s pointed at Mr. Jenkins.

The man throws Mr. Jenkins’s work badge on his desk and yells, “I found this in my girlfriend’s bed this morning, so that means you’re the bastard that’s been screwing around with!”

The gunman chambers a round, and before he can pull the trigger, Lowenstein says, “look over here!”

Lowenstein unzips and looks down; the cuckold does, too. Lowenstein unfurls his scabbed and mangled pride. The miniature gnarled Franken-pecker causes the gunman to involuntarily heave and swallow; he has to struggle not to vomit. As the gun goes limp in his hand, Lowenstein clicks the safety on and takes it out of the gunman’s hand.

Lowenstein pistol-whips the gunman once and he staggers. He hits him again and the gunman slumps down in a heap, out cold. He hands the gun to Mr. Jenkins and motions for him to keep it trained on the unconscious cuckold.

“There. Careful now, the safety is off and if he gets up? Aim for his torso. I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

“Aren’t you going to wait for the police?”

“I have more important things to do. First, I’m going to the doctor’s before my only friend in the world here falls off. Second, if I have to go into rehab? I’m going on a bender that is worthy of forcing me into sobriety.”



Note: Aldo, Gerald and Patti dealt out another flash fiction challenge-

1) Sign up to play by January 13th.
2) Write the first paragraph of a story and send it to Patti. She will stir the pot and send it back out to another writer.
4) Write a 750 (or so) word story using it.
5) Post it on your own blog or with Mystery Dawg at Powder Burn Flash on February 10th.
6) I'll let you know whose lines you used when it's over.

Best Of: "Warmer"

Okay, there are only two more "best ofs," left, then the series goes into hibernation until spring. 2008 was not a fun year in virtually any aspect, though the most fun I've had besides reading the fine fiction of others and getting published, is when Aldo, Gerald, and Patti put together a flash fiction challenge.

"Warmer" takes a hide and seek game that we all played as children, and takes it a step further. Also, note that I still wouldn't be able to pick the antagonist of this story in a crowd, even if you spotted me a video of that person.

"Cynara"

I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion. I am glad that you can forgive me and I’m glad that you came back. After all, when we were just seven years old, you said that we would be together forever. Maybe if you were patient, I never would’ve strayed…but technically, I didn’t stray…you left.

The statistics for a marriage of childhood sweethearts lasting were against us, and you so desperately wanted me to get a job. I could’ve applied myself, but why would I bother when I knew my ship would come in? You should’ve trusted me on that one, though I wouldn’t have, either, with my track record.

Sure, my eyes wandered, but I was married, right? I was like a diabetic in a candy shop and I never cheated…while we married. But while I looked at women, flirted with women, texted women, I never looked for a job, and that was too much for you. What was that William Congreve quote that you would browbeat me with, whenever I pushed things too far?

Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.

So you left me before my ship came in, as I knew it would, in the form of an inheritance from my Uncle Elijah and it was just right on time, before they could repossess my truck. Of course you were long gone by then, leaving me with an empty home, an empty wallet and an empty heart.

You left for greener pastures, Cynara, never figuring that our old house would become an oasis again. And who benefited? Why, all those women from town who were waiting in the wings, that’s who. They kept me afloat; they kept me alive; they kept me happy. But there’s only so much money to go around in this hick town, and despite whatever I could do right, not every woman could come across with some cash or food.

So that meant that for all intents and purposes, that I could’ve (or is it “should’ve?) installed a revolving door in this bedroom. Jane, Janet, Jenny, Joan, Jolene, Juanita, Jycinda, and that was just the “J’s.” Yet, you were the one that asked for and got the separation. You were the one that filed for the no-fault divorce, as long as I didn’t ask for alimony and, like I said, I was faithful to you in my own fashion. I almost waited until the divorce decree was official, so there might have been a few weeks where I wasn’t so monogamous? Well, hey.

I didn’t tell you about Uncle Elijah, but you came knocking on my door anyway. You always smelled so good…and you could always smell money. How could I say “no?”

Sitting here in this bed watching you slip into that dress...just makes me want to take it off of you again. And the way you put that lipstick on just gives me all kinds of ideas. Of course you know that I won’t be exclusive until we walk down the aisle again, right? I mean, why else would you laugh off Kara’s little message on the answering machine and Terri’s panties hanging on my headboard?

“Did you like the way I put my lipstick on, Owen?”

“You can clearly see that I do, Cynara.”

“Would you like a taste?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Wow…that tastes different, I’ve never tasted…why am I having a hard time breathing? Why is my tongue swelling? Oh, God, I’m falling off the bed. What the fuck is going on? It feels like my lungs are turning inside out and all the air went with them.

“Crawl around Owen, go ahead, you won’t find your epinephrine because it’s in my purse.”

Damn…it’s my peanut allergy, she’s known about it since we were six. I wonder if Samson and Delilah were childhood sweethearts.

“I have been faithful to you, Owen, as you say “in my own fashion.” But if you thought I would just forgive you for bringing all of these sluts into my house, while my name is still on the deed, you are sadly and fatally mistaken. My sister has told me about the parade of whores that go through here and the bank sent me a notice of foreclosure. You are not dragging my credit down with yours.”

You dumb bitch! If you’re so damn smart and your sister knows all of my business, how could you not know that we’re rolling in money...


Patti Abbott said-

What I need to do to take me away from so much stressful news is to write something short and sassy. Will you join me? It's been six months.Aldo Calgagno, Gerald So and I are ready to challenge flash fiction writers once again. I hope you're in the mood.

Since women have become a bit of a political football of late, I have a choice of two lines to use in a 750 or so word story. Both lines come from an obscure and strange Kay Francis movie from 1932 called Cynara.

"I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion."

Or "Call no woman respectable till she's dead."

Change the name to whatever suits you if you choose line 1, although it's hard to beat Cynara for mystique.We're thinking of an end date of October 20th. Aldo will post stories for those without sites on Powder Burn Flash . And Gerald So and I will post the links for those who do have blogs. Hope to hear from you.

"Flashpoint"

With gas prices rising, our plans had to change…if you could call them “plans.” We were already two months behind on our rent and the scratch that Jason and I eke out together as carpenters, isn’t cutting it. With Californian foreclosures at all time high and only so many remodel jobs to go around, our profession is as choice as opening a miniskirt shop in Saudi Arabia.

So Jason plans to pool our remaining $200 and head for Nevada, where we’ll make our rent and them some. If we weren’t so broke, I’d nix this, because Jason’s usual idea of a plan is $20 on black, $20 on green and $30 on “00.” I don’t trust roulette, as the ball always bounces badly like a toothpaste cap that bounces straight for the toilet.

We can’t buy food, cigarettes or gas along the way, as we’ll have to grab what we can and save the rest. I hate this part because I got sick the last time we siphoned gas, so I bought a hand pump in case we had to go through this again. We hit the places where people pull over to hike, so that we have more time to work.

Just forty miles west of Tahoe, around Cisco, our gas tank is running on fumes. We exit off Interstate 80 and we drive around for awhile. Pickings are slim, even though it is a sunny July afternoon. We see a brand new Ford Explorer just off the road and just in time, as Jason’s truck is on “E.” We pull past it some 200 feet away.

Apparently there’s no one around and thick trees on this side road make seem duskier than it really is. Jason has the gas can and I have the pump, we get within ten feet when the Explorer trembles. Two shapes move around in the back seat and we duck off the side road.

The vehicle starts to shake, and then it bounces around, just like a low rider. Jason and I look at each other, and then nod. So what if the SUV is a rockin’? There’s no choice, we have to risk it. Before I walk over there, Jason pulls the tubing off the pump and it hands it to me, I guess he figures the hand crank will make too much noise. I’m just glad I’ve had nothing to eat all day, that way there’s less to vomit up.

I pry the filler door with a pocketknife, fit the tube in the tank and I inhale off the other end. The hardest part is not the taste of gas, but suppressing the gag and not tipping off the couple in the Explorer, who seem to be getting real hot and heavy. The temptation to look is surpassed by my fight not to vomit, but then a woman’s scream for “help” changes my mind.

I carefully peek, they could be role playing, after all, but it seems like they’re not. My first clue is that they seem fully clothed, my second clue is her bulging eyes and his hands wrapped around her throat, and my third clue is the murderous look in his eyes. That same malevolent glare shifts to me and he throws her against the passenger door. I take a step back and reopen the pocketknife as he goes for the other passenger door.

He comes out and while I’m taller and got about fifteen pounds on him, his anger is at full steam and he is on the verge of turning rabid. We circle each other and just as I am about to stab him, liquid falls from the sky and splashes him. It’s Jason; he’s soaked this crazed demon with gasoline and before he can pounce on Jason, Jason has a lighter out. The would-be murderer just doesn’t care and he jumps Jason and he tackles him, the lighter flies out of his hand.

They roll around on the ground and Jason throws him off. As he lands, his belt buckle hits a rock and somehow he ignites. I’d rather not talk about what happens next, other than to say I won’t ever forget the smell of burning flesh.

The woman? She’s battered, she’s bruised, but relatively fine, considering. The police give us plenty of grief, and then they eventually let us go.

Today, her family gave us a reward, for saving her life. So, in a way, the roulette wheel actually bounced right…for a change.



This is for a flash fiction challenge that Patti Abbott posted

SHIFTING GEARS

Spring’s half gone, school’s out, so are you ready for another flash fiction challenge? Mystery Dawg, Gerald So and I have come up with a new one.

Here’s the idea: incorporate the following sentence into a flash story of around 750 words.
“With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.”

OR for those who prefer first person: "With gas prices rising, our plans had to change."

OR the bit ominous, "With gas prices rising, your plans had to change." (Thanks, Peter)

Anything you can do with that sentence as a part of your story is fair game. The line doesn’t have to be the central idea of the story. Or it can be. Whatever you want.

"Warmer"

Benton is a broker though the commodities that he deals with aren’t necessarily traded publicly. His specialties aren’t exactly illegal, yet they are rarely acquired through legal means. Most of the merchandise that he deals with, the public never sees, though some they do: the tabloid pictures and adult videos.

Some of these items were submitted by the owners in a misguided attempt to gain more publicity, but most were turned over by disgruntled employees and enemies of the former owners. So Benton is on the speed dial of many publicists and agents, or eventually they desperately seek his number out.

This arrangement also has created a lot of enemies for him; note the spray-painted “Fucking die, Bent-on, die!” on the side of his McMansion and the same phrase burned into his lawn, albeit misspelled.

Oh, shit, the alarm is off. Common sense would tell anyone to call 911, but Benton can’t risk the police because more than likely, someone is trying to steal their property back. Benton goes back to his Porsche for his gun. As he goes through the front door, he notices that the only lights on, are the ones not connected to the timers. The next thing he notices is a picture covered with rose petals.

Benton picks it up and sees a beautiful pair of immaculate female feet with toes painted bright pink and the words “follow the trail.” He tilts his head as he gazes at the trail of petals that go into the living room and beyond. Benton tucks his gun in his waist and follows the rose-covered road. The petals zigzag up the front stairs and they stop at the landing, right before a picture with shapely calves and the caption, “you are on your own, now.”

He decides to check the guest bedrooms first and he enters the closest one. There is a picture on the bed of a distended belly, bearing the caption: “you’re getting cold.” Benton checks the closet and under the bed to make sure that no one is there, then he goes to the next guest bedroom. He is greeted this time with a picture of a morbidly obese stomach with stretch marks and cellulite, and the caption: “colder still.”

There are no pictures in the guest bathrooms or linen closets. Benton creeps down the hall towards the master bedroom and in there, he shudders: on his bed, there’s a picture of decaying corpse and the caption “coldest yet.” He checks every hiding place in there and he goes down the back stairway.

In the den, Benton gets another shock because the painting that was hiding his safe and the safe’s door itself are wide open. He checks his safe and sees that it’s completely cleaned out, save for another picture and this one is of a slim woman barely covering her breasts with her right arm. This one’s caption reads “warmer.”

Benton is livid and he bites his hand to stifle a scream. He had over two million in bonds, valuable memory cards and photo negatives, as well as the master DVDs that hasn’t been turned over yet for production. The sound of his treadmill running in his exercise room gets his attention, but it doesn't lessen his rage as he runs in there. This time he has his gun out, though there is no one to aim it at. On his treadmill is a picture that seems to be a continuation of the last one. It is the same arm and breasts taken from further back, this time accompanied by slim hips and a thong that just barely covers the thinnest Isosceles of a Venus triangle. This caption read “warmer still.”

The quick whirl of his blender brings Benton into the kitchen and in his wide open freezer is another picture. This photo has the breasts bared and he's baffled because they look natural. This caption said “you’re getting hot” and he agrees, because he is about to blow a gasket.

“You’re red hot” says the woman behind Benton as she shoots him twice. He tries to place her face as he falls to the tiled floor, he guessed from the body in the pictures that she was one of those MTV celebutantes and now he is certain. She was on one of the DVDs, though he can’t remember if he has the sole copy.

As she walks away, he mutters “the joke is on you; your fifteen minutes were up a long time ago.”


Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno asked writers to post stories in the spirit of Valentine's Day. According to The Rap Sheet, it had to be 750 words or less and I snuck it in at exactly that.