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.

Best Of: "Hot Ice And Cold Blood"

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

Best Of: "B*tch"

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.

"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.

Get Plugged In #6

Oh, I have links, but first comes a lecture. You see, you kids have so easy today. You have A Twist of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Crime Factory, Pulp Metal, Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, Yellow Mama, (hopefully still) Astonishing Adventures, and many more places to submit your work to. In this sense, we are now living a golden age of crime fiction, where there are several venues for you to perfect your art and for you to have an audience.

Go all the way back to January 2007 and most of the magazines and sites mentioned above didn't exist. And the ones that did exist were expired, or on the verge of expiring. In stepped a man with a vision, Aldo Calcagno. He started Powder Burn Flash and the rest is history. So many of the writers in my links section and the aforementioned zines, have Aldo to thank for where we all are today.

Paul D. Brazil interviewed Aldo, and you really should read it. Not just because I say so, but also becuase it is an insight into the ever-changing world of crime fiction, and its existence on the Internet.

Katherine Tomlinson has updated her links and all of her works that can be accessed through the Internet, are at the top right of her page.

Last but certainly not least, while on holiday in Britain, Quin has met up with my favorite fiction couple, Margaret and Neville. Their latest tale has started off with a cliffhanger, and the next two weeks should get real interesting.

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.

Best Of: "Beef Wellington, It's What's For Dinner"

Note: once upon a time, there was a man among men. He championed crime flash fiction better than any, but some alleged knucklehead, allegedly brought that to a close, by allegedly...well, just Google "Flashing In The Gutters" and I'm sure you can find out just what occurred. It is still murky to me and I witnessed it (on the Internet) firsthand.

At any rate, that man is still very much with us and cats like Aldo Calcagno, Christopher Grant, and Col Bury are keeping the tradition of the man called "Tribe," going on strong. Mind you, there are plenty of great crime fiction sites, but these guys follow Tribe's tradition of crime flash fiction for the people, by the people.

As long as you follow the criteria of each site and you don't bring the weak stuff, you are in. No hoops to jump and no oddly distant rejection letters that make you wonder if the editor even read your story at all. Here is "Beef Wellington, It's What's For Dinner" and you even get the little side note/coda that I attached back in February 22, 2007-


They say that a man who defends himself in court has a fool for a client. So one of these fools told me that the law says that you have the right to be tried by a jury of your peers. Of course, the same fool had pizza for his last meal so that shows you where his head was at.

“Peers.” Ha, that’s a good one. If they’re my peers, then I’m an innocent man. Hold on, maybe I misspoke. I’m not claiming to be innocent…I’m just saying that I wasn’t guilty of this crime. Each of the two times that I’ve had to face the twelve people sitting to the right of the judge, I’ve never seen a familiar face.

By familiar, I mean someone who has even remotely looked like they’ve experienced even a fraction of the things I’ve experienced. They are not my peers. My peers know what I’ve gone through. My peers would’ve known right away that everything I’ve done, I did to someone else before they could do it to me.

By familiar, I mean someone who has had to risk their life to just to go to the store. Someone who has been shot at, just because some joke of a man was high and thought that I looked at him funny. Someone who has given his best friend a roof over his head and food, only to have that friend try and kill him over fifty dollars that wasn’t his to begin with.

So like I said, I’m not innocent, I just didn’t commit this crime. But the things I’ve done in life, who would believe me? I’m not even sure that I’d believe me if I sat in that jury box. I know I thought my real peers would understand, but let me contradict myself again. Who were my fake peers to judge me? Walk a mile in my shoes and you’d cut off your own feet.

Still, I’m not bitter…though I’m not exactly resigned to my fate either. I just know that it is my time…they’re going to get me one way or the other. My appeals are as exhausted as my spirit. I’m out of options, but I guess the one thing that I can do is to fuck them up for my last meal.

I want some of that beef Wellington that I’ve always heard about and some lobster, fuck that pizza crap.

The End

Note: This story relates to my fascination with the last meals of death row inmates. Invariably, they tend to choose comfort food or the food that they miss the most from outside of the prison walls. So I always have wondered why haven't I read about someone who wanted something just a little more eloborate before the chemical drip.

I would've elaborated more, but Tribe set a 500 word limit.

The Watery Grave Invitational Is On Like Original Star Trek Vs. The Klingons

The contest...

Da Man that put it together.

The judges...

...and no matter what, you the reader are the winner.

My Story "The Trees" Is Up At Powder Burn Flash

Do you ever check the trees to see what is up there?

You would be surprised at what you can find.



Over at Powder Burn Flash.com, Aldo Calcagno has posted a story of mine concerning the once in a lifetime things that a teenager has discovered in "The Trees."

"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."

Best Of: "Same Circus, Different Town"

Well, spring is finally here and as I promised, "Best Of" has returned. Today's selection was from the good old Tribe days. Tribe is an author out of Ohio and he used to have crime flash fiction site that was the precursor to Powder Burn Flash.

It was just like Powder Burn in that you had fine crime fiction and undiscovered writers, and we are very fortunate that Aldo Calcagno decided to pick upcarry that torch and carry it onward. Still, I'd like to thank Tribe for providing the first true venue where every writer was on equal footing and he or she could stand on their own merit.

The odd thing about this story's title was I asked a German native/American citizen coworker how he was doing and instead of the standard, "another day, another sixty-two cents after taxes," or "same sh*t, different day" that had become standard at my job, he responded with the phrase that would become this story's title. As a matter of fact, I had to disguise the lightbulb that went off over my head, because I knew right then and there that I had to build a story around this right away. When lunch came around, I jotted some notes on a paper towel.

In wake of the current financial scandals, "Same Circus" has taken on a different light and some of the narrator's words ring truer than ever. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Same Circus, Different Town."

"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.

"B*tch" Is Up At Crimewav!

Aldo was nice enough to have chosen, recorded and posted my story "Bitch" from Powder Burh Flash, up at Crimewav. What does it sound like? I have no idea, I'm stuck with a pterodactyl in a box, or "dial-up" to those of you who have never seen an episode of "The Flintstones."

Please, up on over, click, listen, and then pretend that I am deaf...by giving me a report. Ya hear?

P.S. Princess Ladybug says, "in the upper right hand corner is a box that says "CrimePlayer - Click to Open." When you click on it a pop-up window comes up. Click on episode 26."

"Vibrant"

How do you feel today?

Are you feeling a little down?

Do you feel lethargic?

Do you feel detached?

Do you need a little "pick me up?"

The protagonist in my story at Powder Burn Flash feels "Vibrant."



You should try "Vibrant," too!

Paulie Decibels Debut on Powder Burn Flash.Com

My mate, Paulie Decibels has debuted on Powder Burn Flash with a little ditty about being "In The Dog House."

Top ho, Paulie, good stuff!

"B*tch" Is Up At Powder Burn Flash And It Already Has A Four Star Review!

First, my story "Bitch," is up at Powder Burn Flash.com.

Second, you have to don't listen to me about compliments concerning my own material, as I am not the partial bastard. Listen to Geoff Eighinger of Eastern Standard Crime-

Cormac Brown has the keen ability to put me in a literary trance, focusing on the story at hand before literally twisting me into oblivion at the end. This story was no different, narrated by a police officer named Heidi.

"In most situations, they send me in first and quite frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way. They all just slow me down, anyway, so that's probably why they give me such a wide berth when the shit hits the fan."

Heidi is a conceited one, boasting about her ability to outshine her male counterparts in every way. After describing her recent capture of an armed robbery suspect, we find something out about Heidi that I should have suspected as a reader but never even considered.Bless you, Mr. Brown. Keep up the hilarious fiction sundaes with big cherry surprises on top.


He gave it four hats Ladies and Gentlemen. Here's the review, and more importantly, here's the story.

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.