"A Snapshot Of The World"

"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."

Für Elise

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.

"La Espina"

“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."

"The Sidewalk"

It is the first ever tie in Friday Flash Fiction poll history! So we have two starter sentences to chose from...

Beach says, "The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana."

And-

The Professor says, "On the sidewalk, fallen between the cracks was..."

I went with the latter. Here is "The Sidewalk."


“On the sidewalk, between the fallen cracks, was what looked like a twenty dollar bill.”

“Now, I will pass pennies right on by, and if I feel particularly limber in my advancing age on a given day, I will go after a dime. Nickels? Not even. So there was what looked like a twenty-dollar bill and I was on it like a kid hopped-up on sugar at a birthday party, in front of a freshly opened piñata.”

“Well, I hate to pass good money, but I really should have left this alone, because instead of Andrew Jackson on the bill? A picture of Pamela Anderson graced the illegal tender, and not a particularly good one. And the bill itself came with strings attached…literally, with a wire-thin metal cable that went below the sidewalk.”

“A wooden cage came down and trapped me like a lethargic and awestruck rat. Dumbfounded, I slumped down on my keister and that’s when they swarmed me. No, not bugs, but their high-pitched screams sounded similar to mosquitoes. They were blue Pygmies…or were they?”

“They were only five inches tall and they weren’t African, but they had on the same attire as Pygmies and they had blow darts…lots and lots of blow darts. It felt like a dozen beestings and I went from dumbstruck to woozy. My head felt like it weighed about one hundred pounds, and one of the miniature monsters grabbed a forelock of what was left of the hair on top of my head on my way down.”

“My skull bounced hard against the concrete and the little blue imp’s hold did not relent. I saw how they appeared out of the blue so fast, the little monsters had ropes dangling from the top of the cage that they rappelled down from. This one was brandishing a spear and he was about to poke me in my eye, when a purple cloud appeared around the cage.”

“They screamed in unison, ‘the Mauve Miasma! The Mauve Miasma!’ I laughed against my will, as their panicked running amok on my body tickled me. The swirling pale lavender cloud descended down at an alarming rate and the little fiends screeched and coughed as they collapsed on me. I soon followed them into that unwanted slumber.”

“I awoke some hours later, just how many, I don’t know. It was still daylight, yet somehow I was directly across the street from the place where I had fallen down. An elderly man stood over me and asked me if I was okay. He helped me to my feet and gave me a reassuring pat on the back.”

“As he walked away, pushing a laundry cart covered with a blanket, I thought I heard those familiar high-pitched screams again. I was too light-headed to follow the man. As I walked past the window of a closed store, I was in for a shock. I was purple! My face, my arms, even under my shirt, I was purple!”

“Murray…enough.”

“What, I’m telling you just what happened, as it happened, and…”

“Murray, stop it. That’s enough. You’re embarrassing yourself and you are embarrassing me, if you think I’m going to believe that horseshit. I’ve been stood up by better men than you, and they were at least polite enough to be honest about it.”

“How could you not believe me?”

“Because,” Dottie says as she gets up and licks her fingers, “this is why,” and Dottie rubs her fingers across Murray’s forehead. The purple above his eyes comes off. “What did you use, Murray, grape skins?”

“I’m telling you the God’s honest truth! If I’m not telling you the truth, may I be run down by an over-caffeinated waiter.”

As Murray stands up, a waiter with a tray of food comes along and bumps into him, sending the two men and the food all over the restaurant floor. Dottie takes her drink off the table and pours it on Murray’s head, washing all coloring off her sputtering never-to-be Lothario. Dottie storms away like a speeding cloud that is an omen before a hurricane.

“I suppose you don’t believe I was run over by an over-caffeinated waiter, either!”

“Give it a rest, Murray,” the waiter grumbles. “You owe me fifty for the stunt, another thirty for dry cleaning and for the food.”

“You, my friend, will receive no tip from Murray Himmelman.”

The End

Friday Flash Fiction #6

For #6, Doc came up with the starter sentence: "You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man's thoughts turn to love, but I think they're wrong."

Click here for the stories.

Here and there

Because let's face it, I have you more twisted than Pretzel Dog, here-

Friday Flash Fiction #5 is up and the starter sentence was: "Come with me if you want to give..."

A special thanks to The Doc, who straightened out a logistical error in firearms with this story.

There-

Run, run for your lives! The Bad Lieutenant's Wife is back!...for the moment, at least.

No, I won't resort to gasoline or henna, but I guarantee you that I will be a Firecrotch one day.

Finally, I leave you with a grand interview with two great authors, and a pretty damn good filmmaker.

Friday Flash Fiction #4, The Stories

What?

Okay, no Rich*rd G*re jokes, damn it! It's Friday Flash Fiction time!

MRMacrum came up with the starter sentence and it is: "Hanging on with one hand, he considered his alternatives."

Six stories, each of them unique, each of them a different genre. So check it out.

Friday Flash Fiction with poll-chosen starter sentence

A haunting we will go
A haunting we will go
Hi-ho-a-mwa-ha-ha-ha!
A haunting we will go



Yeah...uh, anyway, F-F-F #3 is here. The Baroness Von Bloggenschtern came up with the starter sentence: "There was no respite; the vivid, violent dreams that ruthlessly tormented her slumber had now relentlessly stretched the abyss, to envelop her during her day."


Here are the wonderful results!

A Note on Friday Flash Fiction

Shall we fall into autumn?

All right, bad pun, but I'm too busy to do better, damn it! Luckily the authors of Friday Flash Fiction #2 won't let you down.

The starter sentence(s) is: “Nicole’s cataracts have worsened, so I knew she was going to be running late because she had to relearn her way around. She suprised me at the restaurant when she showed up beside our usual table and asked me, ‘wow, what just happened?’”

Also, please check out the Friday Flash Fiction #1 again, because you might have missed some stories. I had some problems typing the links from the field as it were, and not all of the stories were posted on that Tuesday morning.

"Friday Flash Fiction, The Sequel"

I posted the second starter sentence for Friday Flash Fiction yesterday, but I didn't have time to post it here.

Too many deadlines, not enough time.

Uh, no, that's not the starter sentence(s), this is: “Nicole’s cataracts have worsened, so I knew she was going to be running late because she had to relearn her way around. She suprised me at the restaurant when she showed up beside our usual table and asked me, ‘wow, what just happened?’”

Friday Flash Fiction #1 is here!

It's only fitting that on the last tuesday of Summer of 2009 that we gather around the campfire for some stories. Now I asked for people to write an anecdote, short story or poem using the starter sentence, "stop me before I date again."

The results were both surprising and outstanding.

Monday's Shorts

First with a quasi-NSFW link, (cue Don Adams soundbite) "missed it by that much."

Next comes two great sets of Six Sentences, one by Paul D. Brazill and another by Frieda Bee.

Though it is a brief a mention as possible, I finally (site decorum) got my (site decorum) name up on The Rap Sheet, whoo!

Damn...I spoke too soon, here comes Sandman Sims to give me the hook.

Doc has kicked off Friday Flash Fiction right, with "Grandpa's Last Blast."

Last but certainly not least, Keith "Awesome," a.ka. "Raw Dog" Rawson has a new gig reviewing short crime fiction at Fantasy Book Reviews. Not to mention he has been added on as a finalist for the Watery Grave Invitational and as I said before, you the reader will benefit the most...now, even more so.

Friday Flash Fiction is live!

Just what do they mean by when something "is live," anyway? It's not like it was dead before or that it is really alive to begin with and...

At any rate, I've brought back Friday Flash Fiction!

How is this for a starter sentence? "Stop me before I date again."

If you'd like to participate, click this and follow the instructions.

Best Of: "Arms Aching"

This story was one of the rare out of body writing experiences that I have had-

Arms aching...and if they fail? The best I can hope for is a token trial, followed by a hanging in the town square of San Jose de Oruna. I am one of the few Courlanders that venture onto this island, outside of tradesmen and merchants. The Duchy of Courland is a fiefdom of Poland and Lithuania. Neither of the home countries nor the Duchy itself were willing to fund my ambitions, and the Spanish have repelled both secret and overt Courland opportunism to expand out of Tobago.

I am a "privateer," or at least, that's what the British call it and they have provided some of my means, but I have provided my own methods. They started me out with my first crew of fifteen men. The original crew were mostly Irish men, but all of them were people that the British wanted to be as far away from England as possible and all of them were granted their freedom on the condition that they never return to Europe. All that serve under me, do so of their own free will or I won't have them on my ship, I will not be betrayed by my own for the wrong reasons.

Unlike true "privateers," we weren't granted a "Letter of Marque and Reprisal." It is a commission that would've allowed us to seize everything and anything of any merchant ship that wasn't British, on behalf of England. I had convinced a British go-between, Nathaniel, that I knew every square inch of Trinidad well and that I could wreck enough economic havoc in two years that the entire Spanish Armada would have to shift their attention southward.

My short term goal was to plunder every non-war Spanish ship that came within eighty square miles of Trinidad. My long term goal was to free the Amerindian Natives who were enslaved by the Spanish and have them rise against their Latin masters. I would trade their lives, freedom and land back to them in exchange for the vast amounts of gold that the Spanish kept on the island for trading and commerce.

Nathaniel questioned the soundness of my plan, but he said that England would invest in me. Simply because they couldn't afford to concentrate as much of their fleet this far south as they wanted to and any campaign however successful, could help turn the tides.

My crew fought hard and they fought well during their first battle, using nothing but a few row boats to seize a three-masted merchant galleon that was anchored, unawares. We took the same galleon (which we renamed "Wilhelmina") to Tortola, where we were to be out-fitted with cannons. We were given cannons so that this dog of a ship would have a bark, but no shot or powder to give the dog a bite. So many of our earlier campaigns were carried out with guile rather than brute force and barring that, we had to flee like a dog with her tail between her legs.

This left a taste in my mouth worse than the rations that remained after twelve days at sea, including the mold and the maggots that accompanied them. In a small tavern outside of San Jose de Oruna, I complained to Nathaniel about our weaponry being even being less effective than the weakest rum in the Caribbean, though it seemed that his mind was made up before we even sat down to parlay. He claimed that they would not provide powder because we had become too successful and due to the fact that most of my crew held grudges against the British, they were worried that we might branch off into raiding British ships.

The three crewmen that I brought to this meeting and myself, `said nothing as we simply stood and turned to go, but we were ambushed. The British Navy sealed both doors and the four windows with every available sailor in the area, almost two score. I had anticipated that Nathaniel would attempt some treachery, but not until we were under way. So my crew were at the ready, but anchored out of range of the British guns and of no use to me now.

The one thing working in the favor of we four in the tavern was that the British had only twelve rifles between them and that my father had taught me well in dealing with being outnumbered. He always said to go after the tallest and if they're all the same size, the strongest. If not the strongest, then do your worst to their leader.

I raised my flagon of rum to Nathaniel and motioned for a toast. He stood at the ready, his hand on his scimitar. "Would you not grant a man in my position, the courtesy of a toast and a drink to women?"

His face twitched, unsure if I would be as duplicitous as he. I thought it over...he wouldn't partake of women...or of men. His pleasure in life came from doing his absolute worst, to as many as possible. "Well then, if not to the fair company of women, how about to the British Empire?"

He relented his grip on his sword, reached for his flagon and our cups met. I took a shallow sip, then flung the rum at my adversary. I heard the hammers of a dozen rifles cock back as I reached for the candle on the table and threw it at Nathaniel. I knew that initial fiery scream would provide a good distraction, having seen the same thing done to someone else in Kingston some five years before.

As he spun like the embers from a burning sail and let out a chilling cry, my men and me did what we could to take advantage of the confusion, sending eight of them to the cracked British teapot in the sky. We dispatched another two before the fusillade began, the British getting the worst of it as Nathaniel and three of his own men were killed by their own, compared to one of mine.

The surviving rifle men were at us with their bayonets and one of my men took one of their rifles and became like a hurricane unto them. Steel upon steel, until it was ringing like wedding bells from a church. The screams of the dying and the screams of fear disguised as howls of intimidation, it was deafening.

All of this raged until there were ten of them and I was alone, except death and the devil in my corner...which is where I stand now. Arms aching, wanting to feel the sea breeze caress my face just one last time. They toy with me, they're too scared to come closer and seem content to just wear me down.

A cutlass in each hand, my shoulders and arms are cramped and stiff. My will to live is all that's left to fuel my limbs...

The End

You'd think that I would remember to post this during "International Talk Like A Pirate Day," but something always comes up and I wind up forgetting to. At any rate, there is a sagacious man in Texas that the Internet and hopefully, the world eagerly awaits his return. JJ's starter sentence was "arms aching."

Replay: "In The Purple And Gray Morning"

The way JJ worked it, he came up with the starting sentence and he would post it on Friday, around 11 AM. Then, you had to come up with the story by Monday 12 PM C.S.T.

Well, I had writer's block that weekend, so it tends to be a good idea to go with what is in front of you and what do you knnow? That's what I decided to write about.

Check out, "In The Purple And Gray Morning."

Replay: "They Should Make People Take A Test"

I believe the gist of this Friday Flash Fiction challenge, was JJ was channeling Keanu Reeves' remark in "Parenthood"

"You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car - hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they'll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father."

So JJ wanted us to run with our own version and I came up with something a little different. Not so long ago, people were taking up extreme sports with little or no training at all, with predictable results. So here is "They Should Make People Take A Test."

BTW, I don't want to hear about the narrator's orgasm remark again, I heard it all last time.

Best Of: "When Gunpowder Gets In Your Eyes"

"The Best Of" gets redundant, by reviving the very post that I originally posted as the first "Best Of." What do you want? I'm on a mobius twist ever since I've seen the new "Star Trek."

It's not a Platter's tune, yet...

They said someday you'll find
All bullets are blind
Oh, when your heart's on fire
You must realize
Gunpowder gets in your eyes

Please check out "When Gunpowder Gets In Your Eyes."

Best Of: "They Call Her The Breeze"

Statistically, for every three people murdered in the United States, two of the victims will personally know or be acquainted with their murderer. If you’re in a musical trio, or in a car pool, don’t look at one of your fellow musicians or commuters funny, or say the wrong thing. You don’t want to become another statistic.

Worse yet, more often than not, the system is set up so either the evidence must be more overwhelming than merely solid, to get a conviction. Or if there is a conviction, the punishment often, doesn’t fit the crime. So justice sometimes fails as a deterrent to both crime and murder.

It’s hard to feel safe as a woman in America, and I feel even less than safe because with my job, I have to frequently move. I did extensive research on this neighborhood before I even moved to this town, then I narrowed down the blocks that I found to be ideal. One house met my criteria and even looked picture perfect in the daytime.

At night? That was something entirely different. I found that there certain shadows that wouldn’t be cast out, no matter where I put my halogen lamps. When the sun went down and all the heat escaped to the attic, the house would moan and creak with the contractions of the wooden walls. The floors often sounded like someone was trying to sneak up on me, where there was no one to be found.

Amazingly, I was used to all this. This was my fifth move in as many years. It took me a few days to unpack and get situated, then two more to find the perfect jogging path. My chin-up bar, I kept in my bedroom closet, along with my free weights. After a week, I had to find a steady job to pay my bills. The job that should’ve been started, was at a standstill. It looked like it was going to take longer than I had anticipated.

I was always careful to jog in the same place, at the same time and stroll the same area at night. I decided to keep to myself and not socialize too much with the locals, because in the last town, that complicated my job. I practiced the few self-defense moves that I knew, who knows when they’ll come in handy?

It was an unseasonably hot evening that October, I had to open a few windows because the air was stagnating. I came out of the shower, all nice and relaxed. I slipped into a tee and some shorts, then I decided to sit in front of the living room window as a nice breeze was blowing against that side of the house.

As I flopped onto the couch, I realized that the center window was up higher than I had left it. I tensed, but before I could get up, I felt a sharp blade prick the left-side of my neck.

“Don’t scream…don’t move. Keep quiet and I won’t have to hurt you. If you understand me, say so, quietly.”

“Yes,” I whispered with a voice that sounded far more scared than I felt. I was actually quite calm.

“We’re going to go into the bedroom and you’re going to keep quiet. This will be over sooner than you think, if you don’t scream and you do exactly what I say.”

I took a deep breath, then I slowly got up. He had to shift the knife to keep it on me and I knew he would be leaning forward. I spun just as the knife went back a couple of inches and he stepped over the back of the couch with his right foot. He hesitated, they always do. His eyes went wide under his ski mask and he lunged forward with the knife.

I began with a simple aikido move using his own momentum and I turned his own knife back into him. His eyes went wider still, as the blade sunk into his chest. I used another aikido maneuver to grab him by his shirt and he fell on his own blade with a loud gasp. I smiled at the ease of this night.

I went over to the alcove to pick up my phone and call 911, when he grabbed me by my ankle. He was begging me to call him an ambulance, while he tried to find the handle of the knife. I kept an eye on him as I took the phone as I walked into the kitchen, where I grabbed a dish towel.

I looked as concerned as possible when I stood over him and said, “try to hang on, the ambulance is on its way.”

He said, “thanks," just as he had successfully found the hilt of the knife.

The concern on my face melted into another smile, and then, by God, I killed the son of a bitch. With the dish towel, I pushed down on the pommel of the knife and drove it in as far as it would go. I cursed myself for getting sloppy, mentally. If you saw as many horror movies as I had seen in my lifetime, you would know that the very first thing you do when the villain is down, is finish him.

I left the towel on top of him and went into the kitchen. I opened a drawer with my right foot, then grabbed one baggie, then another with my toes. One baggie was for the dish towel and the other was to open the back door, where I had a stash spot for any unplanned evidence in the yard. Then I worked myself up into hysterical fit and called the police.

With these small towns, it’s always open and shut with them, but I always like to make sure by leaving as little evidence as possible. The police interviewed me, taped off my house as a crime scene, while they put me up in a local motel. It never takes more than two days and at the end of the two days, I tell them that I simply have to move as soon as possible because I don’t feel safe in their town.

The easiest part is finding the paroled rapist and getting him to rise to the bait (though this one took longer than most). The hardest parts are the identity thefts that I have to perpetrate to protect my own identity. As well as wiping away all fingerprints and traces of me in the home before I move on.



This was originally a Friday Flash Fiction piece and JJ's starter sentence was, "and then, by God, I killed the son of a bitch." It's odd if you consider that the title was taken from what I originally thought was a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, but it turns out that JJ Cale originally wrote it. Wow, the name "JJ" came full circle.

I've said this before and I'll say it again, I miss Friday Flash Fiction. The closest thing to it is when Aldo, Gerald and Patti have a flash fiction challenge (there's one coming up a few days from now), but they have to limit it to every three or four months. If the writing deadlines didn't crop here and there, I would revive the Friday Flash.

Best Of: "A Cool Breeze Licked The Back Of Her Neck"

This will be the last "Best Of" until some time during the summer. It's a quick read about a girl's valiant last stand. Here is "A Cool Breeze Licked The Back Of Her Neck" and as with all of my stories, don't try this at home.

Best Of: "Snow And Sacrifice"

Well, that post went over badly, without comment and cue the chirping of the Internet crickets. Here's the same post linked to a different story-

It pains me to read some of my old work, though not exactly for the reasons that you would imagine. I can write with greater economy now and I've gotten better at building suspense, though that is not saying much at all. What really annoys me is that I can't write horror the way I used to. I can't up the stakes with horror in the same manner as I can with crime fiction, and I can't create a twist that I am happy with, and still have the story come out to more than 200 words.

Super Editor Katherine Tomlinson is sitting on a horror story that I wrote for Astonishing Adventures Magazine, that you will probably never read unless I become famous. That story has a strong premise, a decent beginning and not much else. It's all sizzle and somehow the remaining steak turned into really mediocre tempeh. I have an old story that deserves another go, and hopefully you will read it in the next three months.

In the meantime, let this tie you over. It's called "Snow And Sacrifice" and please note, this was originally written back in June, 2006, so some aspects of the story are a little dated.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Snow And Sacrifice" and please, don't ride the white horse.