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Sunday, July 29

Home Delivery

"Home Delivery"
Flash Fiction
by William Dollear

I was living in Chicago and had grown tired of trudging through the trugdery of the cold and snow for the sole purpose of purchasing a newspaper. I called for home delivery. On the first day of the delivery I heard a THUD at my door. The second day, the same THUD. The third day, THUD. On the fourth day I went to the door to tell them, "No more THUDDING!"

I opened the door and there stood my newspaper delivery person. Person? No. Woman. Woman? No, goddess. She was beautiful and had long dark hair and big....eyes. She had the body of a Hooters waitress without the scent of bad hamburgers.

I learned all about her through our many morning mini conversations. She was a university student with a major in art history and the erotic meanings of the Kama Sutra. And she was in a sorority. I knew I was in.

One day I decided to make my move.

I met her at the door wearing only my silk robe which I strategically opened to reveal my chest hairs that I shaved to show a portrait of the love goddess, Aphrodite.

"Nice robe," she said. Then she touched Aphordite. Then her hand went lower.

"I have a class now," she said. "But tomorrow I can stay, and we can explore, more."

I froze. I remained frozen all morning. The I prepared myself and my apartment for a day of devious debauchery. I bought candles, lava lamps, jungle sound effects CD's. I bathed myself in Old Spice.

The next morning finally came. I heard her approaching. I closed my eyes. I opened the door and flung open my robe and yelled, "Here's my Sears Tower of LOVE!"

But, rather then soft caresses I felt hard punches. I opened my eyes and saw a large man.

"What in the HELL are you doing?" he said. He was her father and was subbing for her that day.

Rather than portraits of Aphrodite I had bruises.

I never saw the coed again. But, I learned a lesson. Sometimes with home delivery you get more than just a newspaper.

Wednesday, July 18

Photo Finish 1942

"Photo Finish 1942"
A Chase Harlowe, Nazi Fighter, Adventure
Short Fiction - Humor
by Rod Drake

Chase Harlowe hoped she was wrong, but she knew she wasn’t. As the taxi squealed around a corner, Chick Foster, her reluctant sidekick and ace news reporter, was thrown roughly into her.

“Sorry,” Chick mumbled as he retrieved his notebook and pen. He was more or less forced to stick close to Chase. Her father, Jefferson Kane Harlowe, the millionaire owner and publisher of The New York Sentinel, and Chick’s boss, wanted him to watch out for Chase and keep her safe. An impossible and dangerous task. After all, she was “Chase Harlowe, Nazi Fighter” (so dubbed by Chick in one of his news stories), the scourge of Nazi spies and saboteurs. But this scourge had a pretty smile and nice legs.

“Flatiron Building,” the taxi driver yelled, slamming on his brakes and skidding to a stop.

Chase knew she had only minutes to save her father and Alan Banning’s life. Banning was the FBI agent that she often called upon to help her catch the Nazi agents she tracked. Chick felt there was a romantic spark between them, but neither would admit it.

“Get an elevator, Chick,” Chase called out as they ran into the building, headquarters of The New York Sentinel.

As the elevator climbed, Chase’s thoughts raced. Today was the day Dad and Alan were getting photographed by Time magazine here at the newspaper. Some article about her father being a tireless crusader against Nazi sabotage and the FBI’s appreciation. A fitting tribute and well deserved.

Except that the Time photographer got detained by some nasty Nazi henchmen. Chase and Chick freed him, but she noticed that his photog credentials and camera equipment were missing. Odd.

Added to that, the rumor that Klaus Keller, the infamous Nazi Exterminator, was sighted in New York, made Chase put two and two together. She knew the targets. Hailing a cab, she and Chick were off and running.

The elevator stopped. Chase and Chick burst out like thoroughbreds, racing into the Sentinel’s suite, in route to Jefferson Kane Harlowe’s private office.

“Is the Time photographer here?” Chase yelled it on the run to Hap Riley, copy boy, loitering on the AP wire desk.

“Yeah, Chase. He’s taking the pictures now.” Hap stood as tall as he could and smiled broadly. He had a secret crush on Chase, but it wasn’t much of a secret.

Chick shouldered the door open. Jefferson and Alan, posed for the shot, were startled. The Time photographer, however, paid no attention, and not missing a beat, clicked the picture. Or so it appeared.

Before Chick burst in, Chase pressed her thumbs against her temples and quietly chanted the incantation she had been taught in mystic Lhasa. The Lokkzu Effect. A Tibetan technique that slowed time in a localized area but let Chase remain outside its temporal consequence.

Chase could now see the dozen spreading deadly slugs appearing to just hang in space, fired from the “camera,” intended for Dad and Alan. Too hot to handle, Chase grabbed her dad’s autographed Yankees’ bat and knocked all the slugs to the floor. Then she took the camera from its tripod, and beaned the photographer with it. When she touched him, time resumed its normal flow again.

“Young lady, what do you think you are doing,” Jefferson Kane Harlowe sputtered.

“This isn’t the photographer you were expecting. This is Klaus Keller!”

Alan Banning pulled out his gun and held it on Keller. “The Exterminator himself. Don’t give me a reason to pull this trigger.”

“How did you know it was him?” Her father was still trying to put all this together.

“Good detective work,” Chase replied, removing Keller’s fake nose and chin.

“Nice job, Chase.” Alan smiled at her as he handcuffed the Nazi murderer.

“Another daring exploit of the Nazi Fighter.” Jefferson was beaming now. “Chick, are you getting this all down?”

Rod Drake believes that if wishes were indeed horses, he would have an awful lot of horses to corral. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Thursday, July 12

3 Days

"3 Days"
Flash fiction
by William Dollear
(note to readers: please offer suggestions for lengthening this story)

3 days passed before they found the body. It would have been more days if Mrs. Stenton from next door had not complained about the radio that was on "24 by 7, playing that crazy jungle music with the THUMP-THUMP-THUMP." The landlord, Larry, relented and pounded on the door. No answer. He opened the door with his master key.

"Stay out here, Mrs. Stenton," he said. She had been waiting for him.

"Turn that damn thing down!" Mrs. Stenton yelled, ignoring Larry except to shove him to the side. They both stopped when they saw him.

He was sitting at a table, head on the table, motionless body. Blood splattered everywhere. It was not the bright red of fresh blood. Rather, it was brown and dark. His pen was still in his hand. She heard he was a writer. There were papers scattered about. Some were blank. Others had scribblings and scrawlings.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Stenton.

"Let's get outta here," said the landlord.

"Poor dear. I wonder what he was writing."

She walked closer to the papers on the besmirched table.

"Terrible handwriting. I can hardly read this mess," she said. She was a retired sixth grade teacher and she was passionate about proper handwriting, even that of a dead man.

"You really oughtened be reading that," the landlord pleaded.

"I see a letter here. L, an L word. It says, I believe...yes, it says Larry did this, L A R R Y..."

Larry had his hand around her mouth and his arm firmly around her neck before she could go on.

Now he had two dead bodies. But, he also had a best selling manuscript.