FICTIONAL MUSINGS

Founding Fathers at Work and Play

2010-07-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

"Founding Fathers at Work and Play"
by Rod Drake

Storm clouds gather around the edges of Philadelphia. The humidity in the air makes this hot day even more miserable.

Benjamin Franklin dozes in the front row of the hall. He dreams of kites, electricity and lightning storms. John Adams’ loud oration rouses him. Adams is a windbag, Franklin grouses.

Franklin glances out the window. Carriages glide past and foot traffic bustles despite the heat. He wishes he were outside. Anything for a cool breeze and a cold drink.

Now Thomas Jefferson speaks. He is impatient. He is impassioned. The bane of youth. Franklin admires his full head of thick red hair. No powdered white wig for him. Franklin absently smoothes the few imaginary hairs on top of his head.

Sam Adams smiles across at him. Sam knows what Franklin is thinking. Sam always knows.

Franklin dozes again. He dreams of a flying machine, like in Da Vinci’s sketches. In the dream, Franklin pilots the ungainly craft over Philadelphia, waving to surprised citizens so far below. He is naked and much younger as he soars through the heavens like a giant bird, and he laughs uproariously at the panic in the streets beneath him.

Jefferson is ready to draft the document, this declaration of American independence. Now. But John Adams wants more discussion about its content. John Hancock, sitting at the table facing the congregation, feigning interest, playing idly with his gavel.

Thunder crackles in the distance. Franklin rouses and smiles. Perhaps blessed rain is coming. And maybe violent lightning. Franklin becomes the scientist again.

Another thunderclap rocks the sky, closer this time. John Adams continues talking above the excited murmuring of the delegates. Rain is more important than freedom today.

Hancock raps his gavel without enthusiasm. Jefferson laughs quietly at a joke Sam Adams has just whispered to him. Adams winks over at Franklin. Mischief is at play. A sudden cooling breeze whips through the open windows. All of the delegates feel it and sign relief.

Franklin’s daughter, Sally, slips into the back of the hall quietly. She waves mail that she has for her father. A thick stack of it. All sizes, colors and textures.

A second, more powerful blast of cool air comes. Papers are blown, maps and charts flutter. Hancock gestures to close the windows. No one moves to do it.

Francis Lightfoot Lee sticks his head out one of the windows and breathes deeply. Little gusts of wind whirl about outside. The air is charged. Shoppers and sellers hurry to find shelter.

A sharp crack of thunder ripples through the sky. Dark clouds are overhead now. All of the delegates rush to the windows. Hancock calls for order, pounding his gavel firmly. Then he gives up and crosses to the windows too.

In the sudden confusion, Franklin retrieves his correspondence. Many people seek the Great Franklin’s advice, support, approval or help. There is a new propaganda tract from Thomas Paine. Franklin enjoys these, so full of fire and outrage. Paine is a masterful writer but a terrible speller.

Thunder rumbles once more, and then the downpour starts. Everyone whoops and hollers. Some delegates stick their heads out the windows, letting the rain drench them. Others just breathe in the storm-cooled air. Independence from tyranny forgotten, they all simply enjoy the rain.

Franklin takes the opportunity to escape. Frock coat over his head, he runs as best he can to the inn across the street. He keeps his mail safe and dry. Franklin hopes that pretty young barmaid, Molly, is working. She flirts with him, and he likes that.

The tavern is dark like the day outside. It is mostly empty. Franklin takes his customary booth in the corner opposite the door. He blots the rain off his head with a perfumed handkerchief.

Then the door bursts open and half a dozen delegates charge in, laughing and dripping rain from their coats. It is raining hard now. Franklin hears the steady drumming of rain on the tavern’s roof. Candles are being lit in the suddenly boisterous inn. Time for ale, conversation and dirty jokes. Franklin smiles and feels young again.

Doctor's Orders

2010-05-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

"Doctor's Orders"
Flash Fiction
by Linda Courtland

My date enters the restaurant, meets my eyes, smiles. I look for a seat against the wall, hoping to disguise the small hump on my back. He surveys my legs, my lips, my breasts. If only he could see inside of me.

Sometimes I wish I'd been born with a tail, or six fingers, or any abnormality that would be immediately apparent. Instead, I hide my shame deep inside. A tiny second head is attached to my upper spine, sitting right under the skin, just above my shoulder blades.

"Is he handsome?" the head whispers directly into my auditory canal.

I rarely answer the head, especially in public. The only person who talks to the head is my internist. At each visit, the doctor presses a cold stethoscope against my upper back and giggles conspiratorially with whatever the head is telling him.

"What's so funny?" I say.

"Sorry, can't violate patient confidentiality," he says, handing me a prescription for the head.

My date moves closer when the entrees arrive. We sip wine with dinner and make small talk. The head gets tipsy and starts making off-color jokes that no one can hear but me. I smile at my date and listen to his stories, suffering my inner torment in silence.

I wish I could tell my date about the head. I'd hold his big, protective hand and run each finger over my hideous hump. My date would appreciate my uniqueness. He'd think I was special and precious. He'd listen to me whine about how hard it is to have an extra head. He'd take my side when the head got drunk and argumentative.

But even before dessert, I knew I'd never tell him. The shame runs too deep. I've hidden the head since childhood, and my carefree personality is now a permanent disguise.

My date and I discuss dessert. The head is rallying for chocolate mousse but I order the cheesecake. The head whispers death threats while I’m eating. The violent fantasies escalate with each bite. My date asks if something's wrong. I tell him I'm not feeling well. The head screams obscenities that echo inside of me. I hurry home, where I can scream too.

The next day, I go back to the doctor's office.

"When did the head go off its meds?" the doctor says.

"I swallowed all the pills that you prescribed," I say. "It's the head's responsibility to get them in its mouth."

The doctor listens to the head's side of the story through the same chilly stethoscope.

"It's upset about having to take this medicine," the doctor says. "It just wanted to feel normal for once."

I'm struck with a pang of empathy.

"But bi-head depressive disorder needs to be treated medically." The doctor fills a syringe with psychotropic drugs and attaches a very long needle. "Turn around," he says to me. "The head's having a breakdown. It needs to be sedated."

"I should've been more sympathetic to its pain," I say.

The doctor looks at me kindly.

"I'm a terrible two-headed person," I say, opening the back of my gown.

"We all have our challenges." The doctor jabs the needle deep inside my upper back. "Start the oral medication again in six hours. The head will take it now."

I follow the doctor to the exit. He casually rolls up a sleeve, revealing an unnatural bulge on his bicep. "It's okay to be different, you know."

I recognize the familiar cephalic shape, and for the first time, I feel like I'm not alone with my head. I reach for his arm.

"Just keep this little secret between us," he says, closing the door. "Doctor's orders."

Linda’s new book, Somewhere to Turn, is available on Amazon. Read the first story free at www.LindaCourtland.com

Psychedelic Apples

2010-04-07T08:38:00.000-07:00

Psychedelic Apples
Flash Fiction
by Rod Drake

It was April 1967. San Francisco was teeming with wide-eyed kids looking for answers.

Johnny Acidseed stood on Haight Street in front of the Free Store. He watched the endless throng of people that filled the sidewalk. Outrageous hippies, underage flower children, vocal college students, dazed runaways, stoned dropouts and potential revolutionaries.

Johnny checked them all out as they walked past. Every so often, one would catch his attention, usually a cute girl, and he would slip a hit of LSD into her hand. Today it was sunshine, the little orange tablet that looked like children's aspirin.

Some days it was little squares of blotter paper with drawings of a pyramid that had an eye radiating on top like on a dollar bill. Other days it was light blue microdot and on holidays, gelatin "window-pane."

"A day without sunshine is a day without acid," he said each time he pressed a pill into a palm, smiling at his own little joke.

Sometimes the girl would give him a hug or a flower; sometimes they offered him some change or a dollar, depending on what they had. He always refused to take any money. And sometimes a girl would invite Johnny back to her apartment to drop the acid and have sex. That was the best payback. It was usually for window-pane.

Giving away acid was what Johnny did. Every day, he passed out 50 to 100 hits to the endless new recruits on Haight Street. Johnny knew a chemist who made psychedelics, didn't care about money and enjoyed turning on as many people as possible. The chemist had an autographed photo of Albert Hofmann in his lab. Dr. Hofmann had invented LSD in April 1943 thinking it could serve as a psychology tool. What must he think of this whole generation turning on to his little medical experiment?

Johnny liked being part of the process. It was much better than being in the army, which he had been. He had served 18 months in Vietnam. It was during 1965 and early 1966 when the country more or less supported the American effort or at least was quiet in its opposition. Johnny saw things in Vietnam that haunted him. He did things over there that he still couldn't believe he did to fellow human beings.

All he wanted to do for those 18 long months, over 500 days, was to escape. Escape into a beautiful, peaceful world without pain and heartache. Now he helped gentle strangers in the Haight do that every day. Johnny was starting to feel good about himself again.

The Haight was definitely the place to be, and it was growing in population every day. Johnny's real name was John David Armstrong. He was the new All-American Boy. Someone in the Haight had dubbed him Johnny Acidseed in a moment of psychedelic humor. It fit and had stuck.

A man with an Old Testament-looking beard and a halo of kinky hair thumb tacked a handbill announcing a free concert today in the Panhandle by Big Brother, the Grateful Dead and other local bands. Johnny gave him a hit as a community service. A couple of giggling teenaged girls stopped and held their hands out to Johnny. And both girls were cute.

Rod Drake continues to live in Las Vegas and to be amazed by the neon wonderland. Check out Rod's other fiction in Six Sentences, The 6S Social Network, Powder Burn Flash, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

The Adventure of the Whitechapel Murders

2009-11-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

"The Adventure of the Whitechapel Murders"
Short fiction - Supernatural/Sci-fi
by Rod Drake

I remember it was bitterly cold that winter night, December 21, 1888, as we hid shivering in the Whitechapel area of London, Holmes and I, our trap baited and nothing to do but wait. I gripped the revolver in my pocket tightly, wondering if Saucy Jack, as he called himself, would indeed make his deadly appearance tonight.

Our prostitute target circles around the gas-lit side streets, alone and perfectly offered for Jack in her solitude. Holmes’ research, based on the previous 7 ghastly murders here, pointed to tonight and these streets as the location where Jack the Ripper would claim his next victim.

Holmes is quiet, unmoving in the cold, totally focused on the wandering girl, all of his senses acute and attention focused. He is scarcely ever wrong once he commits himself to a case, and Scotland Yard is depending on Holmes this time.

Something moves in the shadows behind the girl. There, it moved again, back in the alley. Holmes’ nostrils flare and his exhale of breath is visible, cloudlike in the chill evening, so I know he too has noticed it.

Then things happen all at once. The girl screams, disappears into the dark alley, and Holmes vaults past me on a dead run, blowing on the police whistle he holds at his mouth. I fumble for my revolver and trot after him, down the cracked cobblestone street and into the black alley.

Holmes has ignited a flare from his pocket, the thin white light illuminating a truly hideous monster in a gentleman’s suit and coat, snarling and slashing at Holmes with a knife in one twisted hand while the other holds the struggling girl aloft.

“Watson,” Holmes cries out, “use your pistol, shoot him.”

As I aim it with frozen, stiff fingers, the beast in human clothes tosses the girl at me as though she weighs nothing more than a rag doll, and the resulting impact knocks me to the ground, my revolver skidding across the cobblestones.

But the distraction has worked for Holmes, as he had planned. He quickly puts a blowgun to his lips and blows a dart into the monster before he can react.

The monster lunges awkwardly toward Holmes who fires a second dart, then beast sags backwards as the darts’ fluid courses through his freakish veins, and he collapses against the filthy wall, still clawing uselessly at Holmes as he passes out.

Inspector Lestrade and Scotland Yard officers arrive then, bearing torches, pulling the unconscious girl off of me, knocking her wig off in the process. “Coo, what’s this?” an officer exclaims.

The ‘girl’ is actually one of the Baker Street Irregulars, a young boy in disguise and fetching enough in the darkness.

“Are you alright Watson?” Holmes asks me, pulling me to my feet.

“Yes, I believe so. My God, what is happening to that creature?”

The monster is, melting it appears, changing shape from beast into . . . a small, pale man, fragile in comparison to the burly beast he was.

“Inspector, Watson, let me present to you Dr. Henry Jekyll. I believe the beast he was is named Edward Hyde, a transformation brought about through drugs. The evidence I gathered indicated they would be one and the same person, and our Whitechapel murderer. Jekyll cannot control Hyde, and Hyde is without restraint, morals or remorse.”

“Then those notes sent to the police,” Lestrade remarks, “were Jekyll—“

“Yes, Inspector,” Holmes interrupts, “Jekyll trying to leave clues so I would find and stop Hyde. Jekyll knew I was on the case.”

“And this?” Lestrade points to the blowgun still in Holmes’ hand.

“Our salvation. I consulted an expert, one Dr. Moreau, who is doing fascinating things with animal re-engineering, to prepare a solution that would change animal back to man. The dart was the best way to get the fluid into his system. And Watson provided the distraction to let me use it.”

“Well,” Lestrade comments,” this ends the Whitechapel murders. But Dr. Watson, I don’t think you should print this case; might cause a panic if people knew a man could change himself into a murdering monster.”

“Yes,” Holmes agrees, ”let’s keep this one of our secret cases.”

Rod Drake, like Elvis Costello, believes his aim is true. Check out Rod's other fiction in Six Sentences, The 6S Social Network, Powder Burn Flash, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

An Ode to Everything Outmoded, Including the NY Giants

2009-11-30T08:11:00.000-08:00

"An Ode to Everything Outmoded, Including the NY Giants"
Flash Fiction
by Ozzie Nogg

Anne Droid was about to give birth.

Yanking her right iPhone from it’s socket (her left iPhone being dedicated to out-of-Beta Zone calls) Anne texted her partner, Rob Ott, with whom she enjoyed a LTR.

“OMFG. Get here ASAP. Baby coming. H2G.”

Rob texted back. “N/P. BRT.”

By the time Rob arrived home, the newbie’s head was crowning from Anne’s right ear (her left ear being dedicated to a wireless BlueTooth headset.) With a final push from Anne, the slippery bundle of joy dropped into Rob’s hands.

“Gr8 catch,” Anne texted. “THNX”.

And in that moment, Rob Ott turned wistful. Melancholy. His memory optimized, Rob traveled back, back to the good old days, those boys of summer days, when Great-Grandpa Mel knocked ball after ball over the center-field bleachers, out of the Polo Grounds, while kids and their folks relaxed in the moment, relaxed in the sunshine, spoke eye-ball-to-eye-ball of hopes and dreams and fears and love, still safe from broad spectrum apps and the limits of 140 characters or less.

In 2003, Ozzie Nogg's story, Blue Plate Special, appeared in MARGIN: Exploring Modern Magic Realism, and was later nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the E-2ink Award. Her book of personal stories, Joseph’s Bones, won First Place in the 2005 Writer’s Digest Press International Self-Published Book Awards. Ozzie's Flash Fiction has been published in Diddledog, FLASHSHOT and 50to1. Her poetry can be read on-line at Archeology Magazine.

Spelling Bee

2009-10-19T21:47:00.000-07:00

Spelling Bee
Short Fiction - Sci-fi/Paranormal
by Rod Drake

Four tiny figures stood on the auditorium stage of Hamilton Middle School, two on either side of the imposing podium. One of these sixth-graders would be the winner of the distinct finals of the Crowley National Spelling Bee. The air was heavy with anticipation and tension, and the crowd of parents, faculty and students all rooted silently for their favorite.

Zachary, a nervous and sweating young boy wearing thick glasses that distorted his eyes, such that his classmates called him ‘goldfish,’ puzzled out the word CEMETERY. Clutching at his belt loops on his pants, he breathlessly spelled, “C – E – M – E – T –A – R – Y. Cemetery.”

And then there were three. Summer, the most popular girl in the school, and probably the meanest too; Eleanor, “Ellie,” the self-conscious, overweight girl who was frequently caught in situations that pointed up her heaviness, so she always ended up as the butt of all the fat jokes; and Marley, small even for an 11-year-old, whom everyone, students and faculty alike, thought was odd and thus avoided if at all possible.

Marley had the palest skin, the darkest hair and large, inquiring green eyes that seem to bore into you. She was very thin, had no friends at Hamilton and didn’t really seem to care. Her parents had just moved here this school year. They moved a lot, Marley once said to no one in particular. She was a strange little girl.

Summer, on the other hand, was a pinup waiting to develop. Blonde, blue-eyed, golden skin, and a practiced cutesy smile and flirty manner that usually got her whatever she wanted. If it didn’t, she was ruthless to get what she wanted, and assumed she deserved, no matter who got crushed in the process.

Her father was a rich, successful lawyer, and on the school board, so of course Summer made the finals of the spelling bee. In fact, it could be argued that Summer was getting softball spelling words while the rest of the students were getting words that seniors would have trouble spelling.

In addition, most of the boys, including Zachary, had folded because Summer messed with their concentration by pouting, playing with her long hair or adjusting her training bra at a crucial point. As for the girls, she made them feel plain, and either flat chested or pudgy.

Summer glared at dumpy Ellie, who stood next to her, cutting her down like wheat with a scythe. Ellie was shaking with nervousness at all this attention. Summer called her by the nickname that she had given Eleanor. “Hey, Ellie the Elephant,” she whispered, “I bet your word will be blubberbutt, and you’ll misspell it because you’re so fat and stupid.”

Marley heard her, and looking across the stage, behind the podium, fixed Summer with that penetrating, and unnerving, stare of hers. Summer felt her breath suddenly cut off, and she stopped whispering, gasping for air for a moment.

“Pterodactyl.” Ellie repeated the word, hoping she wouldn’t embarrass herself. “Um, P – T – E – R – O – D – A – C – T – Y – L. Pterodactyl?”

The audience applauded enthusiastically; Summer scowled. “That blimp is going down,” she muttered as she walked to center stage, bumping into Ellie returning to her place. Summer overemphasized the impact with Ellie, throwing herself backwards like a leaf in a big wind. Laughter erupted from the audience.

Summer pulled herself into beauty-candidate posture, and smiled a dazzlingly insincere but effective smile. “I’m ready,” she cooed.

No one was paying any attention to Marley. Which was just as well, or they would have seen her extend her slender fingers while her arms remained at her sides. Something like a low voltage of electricity sweep across the stage and Marley’s eyes opened very wide, and she froze for a moment.

“Amphibian.” That was a darn hard one, Summer thought to herself; what’s the deal? As she took a deep breath, she felt something in her throat. Something large and . . . slimy.

Her pretty pink mouth suddenly burst open and frogs, salamanders, toads and newts began pouring out, hopping up from the stage into the audience. People began screaming and those in the front rows rushed to the aisles, while the students broke out in explosive laughter.

Summer collapsed on the stage, and then vomited for real. Ellie had the trace of a smile, and a feeling of justice and confidence. Marley stared off into space, humming some ancient Babylonian melody to herself.

Rod Drake’s Marley series, all three of the stories, have been published right here in Fictional Musings. Check out Rod's other fiction in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Not So Simple

2009-10-14T21:28:00.000-07:00

“Not So Simple”
Short Fiction - Humor
by Linda Courtland

My phone rang at lunch time.

“How about a sandwich?” the ominous voice said. “On crusty French bread, with a buttery soft center.”

Ever since I’d adopted a low-carb lifestyle, I’d been systematically harassed by a secret consortium led by the Wheat Police.

“I’m gluten-free now,” I said. “I don’t want your processed grains.”

“You can’t hold out forever,” the voice said. “One day soon, you’ll have an overwhelming craving for simple carbs. And when you do, I’ll be there.”

I slammed down the phone but that night, my sleep was filled with flashes of pizza crusts and birthday cake, and I dreamt I ate a donut.

The next day, I saw the stalker’s face everywhere ¾ in the pastry section at Starbucks, on the street selling pretzels, in the cafeteria’s trough of macaroni and cheese.

On my desk at work, a perfect bagel greeted me. “Compliments of the Coalition for Carbs,” the note said. And I knew that something must be done.

When he called before dinner, we set up a meet ¾ in neutral territory, between a Krispy Kreme and a Raw Foods restaurant. I saw him lurking in the shadows, fondling a warm baguette. I snuck up from behind, and stabbed him with a carrot stick.

He swung a hard loaf of sourdough in my direction, but I used a water gun to disable his nutritionally-void weaponry. He stuck the softened dough back into his shoulder holster, then launched a sneak attack, trying to trip me with al dente strands of fettuccine. Finally, I slammed his head against a pork shoulder, with all the force that animal protein can offer.

“You won this round,” he said, skulking off into the night.

I reveled in my victory, doing shots of wheatgrass with strangers, but I knew the enemy would be back ¾ smiling behind a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough, laughing at my moments of weakness, and luring me down that spiral path to barley, rye, and degradation.

Linda’s new book, Somewhere to Turn, is available on Amazon. Read the first story free at www.LindaCourtland.com.

Up Close and Impersonal

2009-09-03T08:32:00.000-07:00

"Up Close and Impersonal"
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

I guess if you live in LA sooner or later you’re going to run into a celebrity at the grocery store, fast food restaurant or Starbucks. It’s inevitable, given the big number of stars living there, and, well, they have real lives too, things to do, errands to run, places to go.

So it’s no surprise in that Neon City, the superhero capital of the US, one day you’re probably going to encounter one of the numerous superheroes. Not grocery shopping in cape and cowl, or enjoying a latte while restocking the old utility belt, but still, they’re everywhere in the city all the time, so chances are good.

Mine came today. Taking the elevator up in the old Shuster Building to my agent’s tacky office (yes, I’m a film actress, sort of, more on this later), I waited for the door to close when all of a sudden, Doctor Future casually stepped into the car. Yes, the Doctor Future, emerald green spandex and brown leather costume, billowy red cape, aviator helmet and goggles, the whole deal. The door closed, and it was just the two of us.

Which was bizarre to say the least. I mean, I’m standing next to a man with superhuman powers in a gaudy outfit, and we’re both just staring straight ahead like two normal strangers in an elevator car. I had to say something, right? It’s a private audience with a famous superhero, the man who recently saved Neon City from complete destruction at the hands of the insane UltraMax. All I could come up with was, “Why use an elevator when you can fly?”

Doctor Future turned his head slowly towards me, took me all in (I’m used to that) and then asked, “You look familiar. How do I know you?”

Ah, fame is sometimes sweet. “Well,” I drawled out for full effect, “we haven’t met, but maybe you’ve seen one of movies. I’m an actress.” (Told you I would come back to this.)

He studied me for a moment, concentrating. Then he twisted a green glowing dial on his power belt, stopping the elevator between the 13th and 14th floors. He faced me and said, “Tell me the name of one of your films.”

Well, where to start. I’ve made a lot of them in a short period of time. “Um, The 300 Trojans, Sex with the City, HORN-E, and the whole ‘head’ series; Head Cheerleader, Head Candy Striper, Head Camp Counselor, Head Intern, then there was—“

Doctor Future held up one gloved hand for me to stop. “You’re LeeLee Holland.”

I blushed. He knew me or at least my work.

He leaned back against the wall, relaxed and smiled. “Big fan.”

“Back at you,” I replied.

Well, from one thing lead to another and soon Doctor Future was showing me how he did it superhero style. In addition to the elevator being locked between floors, he used his power belt to put an energy protection field around the car so we wouldn’t be disturbed by any errant super-villain.

After we were both completely spent, he said “I hope we ‘bump’ into each other again sometime.”

Here’s hoping it’s soon.

Rod Drake is hiding out in Las Vegas behind sunglasses, a white jumpsuit and an Elvis wig. Thank you, thank you, very much. Check out Rod’s other fiction in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

The Beginnings of LIl' Knuc-Knuc...

2009-09-03T08:26:00.000-07:00

"The Beginnings of LIl' Knuc-Knuc..."
Short fiction - Literary
by Shannon Cason

Delvon Lindsey Carter sat on the leather couch in a living room watching "An Eye for an Eye" starring Chuck Norris. It was his first time in this living room and his first time watching a television so large. He looked around the room.

There was a velvet painting on the wall of a nude black woman posing on her side. Her hands were flat on what would be the ground and her afro was perfect; separated from the black velvet by the thinnest of outlines. She was intended to be laying, but she could be floating depending on the way you looked at it. There was a oak bookshelf filled with video cassette tapes; some slotted like books, others stacked five or six laid flat. There was a magazine holder, two clunky end tables, and of course the Zenith big-screen projection television.

On the picture of the woman, her breast were pointed and her areolas were wide, her expression was serious, and she wore only a thick gold herringbone choker and a gold bracelet. Her hair down below was a V-shape, and there was a fight scene on the television.

Delvon looked at the television. The volume increased on the fight scenes. Then Delvon looked at the hallway and got up from the sofa.

A gold metal ashtray was on one of the end tables. It was tarnished with ash. There were little seeds in the base of the tray. They reminded Delvon of the ball bearings on the bike that was broken in his yard; or really tiny smooth walnuts. He picked out the two frayed roaches that were mixed with the seeds and pocketed them. He knew what they were.

He picked up a tape from a stack of six on the bookshelf. The cassette was black with a gold label sticker with black writing. It read: "Blackmania Vol: #11". He thought of putting the tape down into his pants, in his underwear, and hold it pressed against his belly between his belt. But he couldn't think of anyone who owned a VCR, so he took a Players Pictorial Magazine from the magazine rack instead. He put it in his underwear, pressed against his belly with his belt.

When he heard the door opening in the hall, he knew he didn't have enough time to make it back to the couch. The hallway wasn't really a hallway, just a way to get to the two other rooms. If they were coming out, it would only take two or three steps to see he had moved from the couch. He put the cassette tape back on the stack of five and stepped in front of the TV. Chuck Norris was round-house kicking a man and back-fist punching another. His mother walked in first.

"Little Boy! Did I not tell you to stay yo ass on that couch?" his mother said. She was loud and upset, and was pulling at her blouse and skirt, all while pointing at the sofa. His mother was tall and dark and her afro was near perfect.

"Loretta," the man behind her said. "The little nigga just watching the TV, girl." He stepped around Delvon's mother. His voice was deep and rumbled. He was almost the size of the entryway - shirtless - with a green towel around his waist. "He ain't doing nothing." The man squatted down to the size of Delvon and looked at the boy face to face. "You like to fight, little man?"

Delvon didn't move; he just felt the corner of the magazine digging into his belly. The man's eyes were black. A degree darker than him, and the whites were yellow.

"I'm going to teach this nigga something he ain't ever goin' forget." the man said, and grabbed Delvon's hands and curled his fingers into his palms and put Delvon's thumb on top of his pointing and middle finger. He told him the punch launched from his feet, gathered power at his waist - and grabbed Delvon's waist and twisted it - and if landed squarely on a chin or nose, it would knock any nigga out.

Delvon never forgot.

Stormy Weather

2009-07-14T12:45:00.000-07:00

"Stormy Weather"
Short fiction - Fantasy/Sci-fi
by Rod Drake

It was a classic summer day. Endless sun, no clouds, only the gentlest of breezes, comfortably warm.

Marley sat on the window seat beneath the attic’s turret window, her favorite location in the old house. At three stories up, she could survey the entire neighborhood from here. Today she saw the girls her own age sunbathing. There was Carly, with baby fat visible in her too-tight suit; Katie, thin and flat-chested as a boy; and Nicole, cute and petite in her two-piece suit.

But the queen was Ashley, amazingly developed for a thirteen-year-old, and not shy about showing it all off in a new skimpy bikini. She ruled this little group, the neighborhood and the cool cliques at their middle school.

Marley was excluded, of course. She was desperately pale with dark hair and inquiring green eyes, but that wasn’t why they didn’t invite her. Marley was not one of the group or any group for that matter.

Markley kept to herself mainly. In the neighborhood and at school, kids avoided her, and she didn’t seem to mind. There was a strangeness about her, had been since childhood. Her family moved a lot.

Marley heard the girls’ laughter drift up into the open window. Ashley was combing her long, luxurious blonde hair, natural, she told everyone repeatedly. Then Marley heard her name mentioned and put down the book she was reading.

“Maybe we should ask Marley to join us,” Katie quietly said.

“Eew,” Nicole replied, slathering on the sun tanning lotion.

“She’s a freak,” Carly commented. “A spooky freak.”

“Well,” Ashley drawled out, adding the final word as was her imperial right, “She is a bit . . . pasty, so I don’t think that she likes the sun. I doubt that she even owns a swimsuit.”
Sarcasm at a moment’s notice was Ashley’s specialty.

“Yeah,” Nicole jumped back in, “and if so, it‘s probably black and so out of style.”

It was true; Marley didn’t worship the sun. And she didn’t really fit in with teenage girls.

“Um, she has pretty eyes,” Katie offered in a small voice.

“Oh please – they’re big and buggy,” Carly cut in. “Like an alien or something.”

“She fixed them on me once in the cafeteria,” Ashley began, adjusting the snugness of her swimsuit’s top, “and I was almost physically sick they were so creepy. And she just kept staring at me, like she had never seen a human before.”

“She was probably just jealous of how beautiful you are,” Nicole kissed up quickly.

“Well, we can’t all be bronze goddesses, now can we, girls?” Ashley laughed a hollow, condescending laugh. “Someone has to be the funny-looking one.”

Nicole and Carly laughed uproariously at that, knowing their role in the entourage. Katie managed a brief smile for appearances’ sake.

Marley pushed the tiny window farther open. Then she extended her slender fingers through it, and the air around her dropped a dozen or so degrees. Marley eyes opened wide, and she froze like a statue for a moment.

Suddenly ominous dark clouds appeared overhead and the breeze picked up, flapping the pages of the girls’ teen magazines. They looked up at the sky curiously, sun tan lotion still in their hands.

A booming crack of thunder shook the whole neighborhood. Before the girls could react, a downpour exploded, drenching everything. As they ran screaming for shelter, Carly slipped on the wet grass and fell, crashing into the bird bath, bruising her cheek. Nicole stumbled over Carly and fell into the rose bushes, scratching her legs badly.

Ashley refused to run as it didn’t befit her dignity, so as she headed regally into the garage. Then a sharp, twisting streak of lightning struck her, knocking her across the back yard. Ozone hung thick in the air and steam rose off of Ashley’s body as she sat up, dazed but alive.

The other girls ran to her and stood stunned, their hands over their open mouths. The lightning had singed off all her blonde hair, leaving only a few blackened tufts, like charred trees left after a forest fire.

The rain slowed then stopped. Marley hummed an ancient melody and went back to her book, Principles and Techniques of Mummification.

That summer, Katie’s boobs grew from AA to a full B cup.

Rod Drake’s first Marley story, “Retribution,” was published right here in Fictional Musings. Check out Rod's other fiction in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Grandma's Gun

2009-07-14T12:39:00.000-07:00

"Grandma's Gun"
Short fiction - Crime
by Shannon Cason

You see the fucking size of that gun?" Det. Harris said. "Where'd he get it?"

"He says he got it from his grandmother's bottom drawer. Says he saw where she put it after she used it to scare his uncle out the house once," Det. Markson said.

"He's how old?" Harris said sitting at a desk massaging the afternoon stubble on the top of his bald head. "Nine years old?"

"Nine and a half, is what he told me." Markson said with a smile. Markson was standing.

"Shit. Where's the grandma?"

"She's here. With him. She has legal custody, so she has to be with him. You gotta see this old lady, frail as a bag of bones. Fucking Death eating a cracker, man. Her ID says 67, but she doesn't look a year under 90. The kid's just scared to shit."

"Umph... Funny, I was imagining that lady in the play. You know, the guy who plays the grandma..." Harris said touching a bump that was just above his ear.

"Madea?" Markson said.

"Yeah, fucking Madea," Harris said.

"Naw man, just the fucking opposite. She's fucking Rosa Parks with a .50-Cal Magnum man. It would have to be like shooting a fucking newborn baby to her..."

"And the kid shot it?"

"Yeah. Dead fucking center too. Splattered the fucker's head all over the kitchen. The stove. The cabinets. The refrigerator. All covered," Markson said shaking his head. "It's these fucking video games. I was playing with my kid and he's like, 'Shoot for the head, shoot for the head'. This kid's a decent-sized nine-year-old though."

"So it's his uncle?"

"Headless uncle, yeah. The wallet was in his jeans. The uncle's got a sheet too - drugs, petty theft..."

"Distribution?"

"Naw man, just a bullshit 20-dollar rock a year ago. But he did time on the theft charge about ten years back though," Markson said. "My guess is abuse, but who the fuck knows? Could be he ate the last fucking piece of chicken, the arrogance of kids now'days."

Jurassic Leak

2009-05-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Jurassic Leak
Flash Fiction Humor
by Rod Drake

When I traveled forward through time, returning to my own present, things were . . . well, different somehow, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Of course now I only have four fingers. Eight if you count both hands. That doesn’t seem right.

I don’t remember having a tail either, although it’s rather nice swishing to and fro behind me. It is keeping the sparrow-sized flies away. Were there always gigantic palm trees and monstrous tropical ferns in downtown Chicago? And did Lake Michigan have a glacier as big as Wrigley Field (and where is the ballpark?) sitting in the middle of it . . . in the summer? Also, the sky is much pinker that I recall; I believe it used to be . . . blue?

I think I’m a little ‘jet-lagged’ from my recent 70-million-year time travel jaunt, but this definitely isn’t the place that I left just ten minutes ago. I was careful back there, of that I am very clear. I did not step on anything, no lizard, reptile, insect or god-forbid crush a butterfly. I did not harm a plant, move a rock, snap a twig or disturb a nest of dinosaur eggs.

Hmm, I wonder; do you think peeing in the river could have affected anything?

Rod Drake lives in mythic Las Vegas and finds inspiration for stories everywhere in the neon jungle. Check out Rod's other fiction in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Shadow Man

2009-05-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

Shadow Man
Short fiction - Crime
by Julie Morgan

‘It’s a sleeping disorder.’

‘What?’

‘That thing that’s been happening. You know, your shadow man thing. It’s a sleeping disorder.’

Jenny gave Michael a blank look. ‘It happened again last night,’ she said. ‘It didn’t feel like a sleeping disorder.’

‘Describe it.’

‘It was about two in the morning. I was wide awake, but the only thing I could move was my eyes. I was lying on my side and I knew there was someone behind me. Someone evil. I... could sense him.’

The fear had been intense. Jenny strained to move her body, desperate to see what it was that stood behind her. She could feel a brooding presence, eyes watching as she lay in her bed paralysed and terrified, able only to blink. There was a tall mirror on the wall at the foot of the bed. If she could just tip her head a little, the light from the bedside lamp should show her who, what, was there. Assuming it had a reflection. She struggled and fought, all to no avail. She sensed movement, detected a shifting of the air, felt a hand stroke her hair where it lay fanned out over her pillow, a dark stain on virgin snow.

Unable even to blink now, goggle-eyed with fear, she stared at the wall opposite while her hair was stroked by the shadow man, her heart leaping in her ribcage, thudding in her ears.

No matter what it was, no matter how terrifying, knowing could not be worse than this. She mustered all her strength for one last effort, willed her body to move, roared as she fought against the paralysis, the fear, the not knowing.

Suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switch, her body was once more under her control. It responded immediately and she flew out of bed, landing on the floor with a thump. No-one was there. No dark, menacing figure stood beside her bed, looking down at her with dead eyes and a black heart.

Stunned, Jenny had taken a minute to collect herself, then got to her feet. She turned on all the lights as she went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea; ordinary tea, not the special blend Michael the pharmacist had given her to help her sleep when she had complained of insomnia. She ought to be fine now. It had never before happened more than once in one night.

‘It’s called “sleep paralysis”,’ Michael was saying. ‘I’ve been reading about it, it’s well-documented. Google it, you’ll see.’

‘Maybe.’ Jenny wasn’t convinced.

‘Honestly, Jen, there’s nothing to fear. We all experience it, it’s just that most people don’t know because we don’t wake up. You do, that’s why it’s scary.’

‘What about the shadow man?’

‘All in your mind. It’s all part of it.’

That night, Jenny made herself a cup of Michael’s special tea. ‘Just one cup per night,’ he’d instructed. ‘About an hour before bedtime.’ She smiled. She had looked up sleep paralysis on the web. He was so kind, helping her to understand her problem, taking away the fear. She went to bed, drifted off to sleep, his face in her mind’s eye. She would cook him dinner, she decided. Very, very soon.

At about two in the morning, Jenny awoke. She was paralysed, the only thing she could move was her eyes. She felt panic start to rise and fought to quell it. She chanted silently: ‘Nothing to fear, nothing to fear...’. She breathed deeply, calming herself, grateful to Michael for what he had told her.

A shadow slid across the tall mirror as the dark figure behind her moved toward her bed. Jenny sensed movement, detected a shifting of the air, felt a hand stroke her hair where it lay across her pillow. She closed her eyes and pictured Michael’s face, kept on chanting: nothing to fear.

Michael loved the silky feel of Jenny’s hair. He breathed in deeply as if he were trying to inhale her, then crept out of her flat as silently as he had entered. Soon, he was thinking to himself. Very, very soon.

Julie Morgan lives by the seaside in the north east of England. She has previously been published on A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn and here on Fictional Musings, Flashes of Speculation and Flash Pan Alley.

Green-eyed Boy

2009-04-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

"Green-eyed Boy"
Short Fiction - Literary
by Julie Morgan

Have you ever watched a man become a ghost?

It happened last summer. It was a Friday afternoon and I was sitting in the back garden flicking through a magazine and drinking chilled white wine and soda. I felt decadent because I was loafing while elsewhere the workers still beavered away at their desks, when I heard the most dreadful screech and bang followed by... nothing. The noise had fractured the beautiful late summer afternoon and the return of silence should have meant the return of calm, but something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just that the birds hadn’t yet recommenced their chorus, there was something more profound about this silence. It reminded me of a winter’s night following a blizzard, the earth blanketed with snow and the air crisp, clear and still.

When I looked through the front window the man – boy, really – lay still on the tarmac, a ruined motorcycle in the gutter a little further down the road. I don’t know what caused the accident; perhaps he was going too fast or there was something on the road, but I do know that he wasn’t wearing a helmet or leathers, just jeans and a t-shirt.

Perhaps I should frantically have dialled 999, then raced outside with towels and hot water or something, but I didn’t. I picked up the phone and walked out slowly.

He could have been sleeping, his head resting on a scarlet cloak. I stood over him and my shadow fell across his face. His eyes opened, beautiful green eyes, brimming with pain.

Shocked, I stepped back and the sun closed his eyes again; hid, but did not relieve, his agony. I rang the emergency services then, my voice faltering, tripping over the words, trying to find the right ones to say to give the information they needed. The call seemed to take forever. I hoped that the paramedics wouldn’t. That done, I knelt by him, brushed his hair out of his eyes, stroked his cheek, murmured nonsense words about help, recovery and a better tomorrow.

Except he wasn’t going to see tomorrow and we both knew it. He would be lucky to see nightfall.

He opened his eyes again, desperate to tell me something, and I leaned closer to hear. He was cold, he said; he wanted to be held. I didn’t dare to move him. Didn’t dare to cradle his head in my lap as might have happened in a scene from a movie; I’d have only hurt him more. So I stroked his hair, caressed his cheek and murmured nonsense to him. Then, carefully, so very carefully, I lay down, stretched out in the dirt alongside him and put my arm across his body.

Part of me yearned to pull him fiercely to me and roar at the unfairness of so young a life lost. But he’d have paid the price and so I held my tongue, held him so very gently, hoped that he was comforted by my touch and warmed by the sun. I took his hand when he asked me to, again carefully, mindful of the amount of skin missing from his fingers.

He was becoming fainter, more wraith-like, as the seconds slipped away. It was like watching someone walk off into the sun; the further he went, the more indistinct and shimmery he became, until only the light remained.

I grieved more for him than I would for some of my blood relatives, the green-eyed boy who’d come out on a beautiful summer’s afternoon to ride his motorbike, hair flying out behind him, and found pain and death lying in wait around a bend in the road.

Julie Morgan lives by the seaside in the north east of England. She has previously been published on A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn and here on Fictional Musings, Flashes of Speculation and Flash Pan Alley.

Dirty Knees

2009-04-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

"Dirty Knees"
Short Fiction - Humor
by George Miller

Peter looked at his watch and smiled. ‘Only forty-five minutes ‘til show time!’ he thought happily. He was a man of simple means and simply pleasures, so being to meet up with the woman of his dreams was something that brought him unlimited pleasure.

He completed the last of his assigned tasks and hurried to the locker room. Chucking his work clothes in the locker as he walked on by, one of his co-workers asked him where the fire was.

“I gotta big date tonight.”
“With who?”
“Marilyn.”
“Marilyn? You lucky dog.” As an afterthought, he added, “Good luck.” but Peter was already out the door and on his way home.

It took him about fifteen minutes to get home. ‘Only got thirty minutes to get ready and be at the special place,’ he thought excitedly. After taking a quick shower and putting some clean clothes on, Peter had only ten minutes to get to where he needed to be.

Sure enough, when he arrived there, Marilyn was already waiting for him. Dressed in a loose fitting tee-shirt, faded jeans and work boots, Marilyn was every yokel’s version of sweet heaven.

While Peter was parking the car, Marilyn put on her hoody and walked over to him. Tapping the back window to get his attention, she leaned in and purred, “Are you ready for me to blow you away?”

Peter pulled at his shirt collar and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well then, get a move on young man. I haven’t got all day. You know where it is?
“Yes ma’am, I sure do."
"Okay then. I’ll meet you there in five,” she said while gently caressing his cheek.

When Peter got there, he saw that Marilyn had her hoody off and her hair in a ponytail. She took him by the hand and sat him on a nearby tree stump. She then removed her t-shirt, stretched her back and purred, “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Well then, let’s get it on.”
He watched her drop to her knees and get right to work. Within a minute, Peter had a warm tingly sensation come over him, as he watched Marilyn perform her magic.

“Oh my, that feels good!” he said while she was getting deeper into her work. “You have such soft hands it feels like an angel touching me.”
Marilyn came up for air and smiled.

Several minutes had passed as Peter sat there enjoying Marilyn’s handiwork. Suddenly he stiffened as the big moment finally arrived. She had definitely brought him to nirvana.
“Oh my God! That was the biggest one ever!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Here you go.” said Marilyn as she dropped a ginormous groundhog in his lap. “That’ll be thirty-five dollars please.”

Peter took a look at the groundhog and whistled. “Finally got rid of that bugger. Maybe now my azaleas and petunias will be able to grow in peace. There you go, it was worth every dollar.”
“Thanks,” said Marilyn as she put her tee-shirt back over her sports bra. “Remember to tell your friends about Cedar’s Landscaping Exterminators. We do the best work at the lowest possible prices.”
“I sure will, Ms. Marilyn, I sure will. Thanks again for all your hard work.”
“Anytime, young man, anytime.”

Hitchhiker

2009-03-16T09:17:00.000-07:00

Hitchhiker
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

It was a dark, rainy, cold, miserable day, but I was warm and dry in my old pickup truck, driving down the slippery two-lane blacktop surrounded by thick wet forests. I was an hour outside Tacoma, alone in the world it seemed, until I spied what appeared to be a hitchhiker hiding under a dripping poncho, pitiful thumb upraised. In the middle of nowhere.

I had to pick him up, this poor drowned kid, but when he climbed inside and pulled off the poncho, he turned out to be a she. And quite a she too. She was as breathtakingly beautiful and sexy as any girl ever to grace the pages of Playboy. Blonde, big baby blues, bursting boobs, the whole bit. She smiled shyly, seeing how surprised I was at what had emerged from under that dripping poncho.

“What are you doing out here alone in the rain?” I asked, feeling the sexy heat she was radiating in the small pickup cab.

She lowered her eyes and said, “My boyfriend dumped me here. We had a fight. He wanted me to . . . you know, go all the way, and I wasn’t ready to do that.” She looked up at me then and added, “So he stopped the car and ordered me out. I think he thought I would give in. But I didn’t, so he tossed me this poncho and drove off.”

The rain pounded harder on the windshield as we drove in silence.

“My name’s Holly,” she said, starting to warm up.

“Cassidy,” I replied. It was getting warm in the pickup.

After a long pause, Holly blurted out, “I’m not a prude; it just wasn’t right with Wayne. He was a grabby jerk. Just a stupid horny boy.” Then she leaned over towards to me. “I’ve always liked older men anyway.” I could feel the steam coming off her and her tank top gaped nicely and invitingly. “They know how to do it right.”

I knew what was coming, so I got ready.

“Maybe we could find one of the little motel cabin units out here and, you know, get to know each other better.” She licked her pouty lips like a porn actress and stretched her long, shapely legs casually.

I steered my old pickup to the shoulder of the deserted road and shifted it into park. I turned to face Holly, unzipping my jacket. “We could start here,” I offered and waited for her to make the first move.

I didn’t have to wait long. Holly smiled knowingly at me and then slowly stripped off her damp tank top, revealing her lack of a bra, which was not exactly a secret. As she slid over next to me, her arms open and eager to embrace me, I pulled out the Azrael .666 holy revolver that I was holding under my jacket.

The etherblast from it torn a hole right between those perfect 36Cs. “Holly” was completely surprised and cursed in some forgotten, ancient language as she morphed back into the demon “he” really was, a hideous, horned, obscene creature from the netherworld.

A second blast shut his mouth by opening it up even wider. Holy light shot out his ears, nose, eyes and broke through his now-shattered horns. He collapsed, dead before his back could hit the passenger door. I holstered the still smoking Azrael.

I wondered how many lives he had claimed and souls he had destroyed with this little act. Obviously he hadn’t heard of me. Too bad. I can smell the brimstone on ‘em no matter how much exquisite perfume they use or how many sex pheromones they give off.

I hauled his stinking corpse out of my pickup, pulled back the tarp covering the wagon bed, and tossed him in with the dozen or so other dead demons I had collected so far. I was having a good month as a demon slayer.

Rod Drake is a Nobel Prize winner, Top 10 Box Office movie star, astronaut who walked on the moon and former presidential candidate; naw, that’s just more of his fiction at work. Check out Rod's other fiction posted in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Holiday Hiccups

2009-03-16T09:14:00.000-07:00

"Holiday Hiccups"
Short fiction - Humor
By Jewel Allen

Ray should have known better than to drink the egg nog.

It wasn’t even the alcoholic type, just his mom’s old-fashioned fattening concoction that she served every Christmas Eve. And he knew the consequence, but he let her talk him into drinking a few foam cups anyway.

You see, when he drunk the stuff, he got the hiccups. Bad.

Which wasn’t altogether terrible, except for as a surgical tech, having the hiccups over the operating table was not Good Form.

So there Ray was, an hour into his hospital shift on Christmas Day, trying to hide out so he wouldn’t have to commit the unpardonable sin of hiccupping over a patient while holding sharp and pointy objects.

“Hey,” Brandon said, spying him in the supply closet. “Loosepants is looking for you.”

“Loosepants” was the staff code name for Dr. Lou Patagonia, who was a medical miracle in that his pants stayed up despite a very huge midriff. He performed surgery on patients whose appetites that led to their heart disease probably didn’t even begin to come close to his.

“Tell him,” Ray said, hiccupping, “tell him that I have to take care of, hiccup, a hangnail.”

“Oh, man, that sucks,” Brandon commiserated. “I hate getting the hiccups. I once had the hiccups for seven days straight.”

“No, hiccup, kidding?”

“Well, it would start and stop, but yes. Seven long days.”

“How’d you, hiccup, get rid of it?”

“My family banded together and tried to surprise the heck out of me. Didn’t work though. I was laughing too hard when I wasn’t hiccupping. And then Sunday rolled around and I showed up at church, hiccupless. I’m sure it was a miracle.”

Yes, Ray thought, after he got Brandon to agree to give Loosepants a brilliant excuse, he needed a miracle about right now. There was no way he was going into surgery and make a fool of himself in front of…

“Caroline!” he blurted out when he turned and came face to face with the new surgical resident. “I mean, hiccup, Dr. Baker.”

The beautiful and unflappable Dr. Caroline Baker arched an eyebrow at him. “Where’ve you been, Ray?” she asked.

“Just waiting, hiccup, for your orders, hiccup, ma’am!” he said.

“Oh no,” she said, “you’ve got the hiccups?”

“No, hiccup, it’s just a new verbal tic I’ve picked up. A Christmas, hiccup, tic.”

“Has anyone surprised you yet?” she asked.

“Nope, hiccup. Are you, hiccup, volunteering?”

“Let me think,” she said, looking up for inspiration at the ceiling. She then said, softly, “I’ve got it.”

She leaned over and gave him a swift peck on the lips.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.

“What was that for?” he said, when he finally remembered how to speak.

She pointed at the ceiling, and he looked up to see a mistletoe someone had hung up the day before and which Ray had forgotten about.

“Amazing,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “You are amazing.”

“No,” she said, “I mean, your hiccups are gone.”

And, true enough, they were.

Dr. Baker backed up and smiled. “See you at the operating table,” she said.

Ray smiled back, deciding that hiccups weren’t so bad after all.

Jewel Allen enjoys writing romantic suspense, horror and historical fiction. She blogs at http://pink-ink-pink.blogspot.com.

The Street Price of Happiness

2009-02-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

"The Street Price of Happiness"
Short Fiction - Speculative
By Linda Courtland

"What is the nature of your emergency?" the 911 operator said.

"Someone stole my emotions."

"I'll send a car out right away," she said.

Two officers knocked at my door. We stared at each other, blank-faced.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," I said.

"Stealing emotions is a felony in this state, ma'am. When did you first notice they were missing?"

"I suspected something was wrong this afternoon," I said. "I went through the whole day at work without feeling angry or unappreciated."

An officer took notes.

"But I know I had them last night," I said. "I distinctly remember screaming at my boyfriend."

"Was he the last person you saw before the theft?"

"Yes. In fact, I didn't even cry myself to sleep after we broke up. He must have taken them before he left."

"If you could give us his address," the officer said.

At the preliminary hearing, my boyfriend hollered at the judge.

"This is ridiculous," he said, slamming a fist against the table. "I didn't do anything wrong."

The judge addressed his angry attitude. "I suggest you sit down, sir. These are serious charges."

"She has no proof," my ex yelled.

"That's my anger he's using," I said. "I'd recognize it anywhere. And I want it back."

"Defendant is remanded," the judge said, and sent him to jail until trial.

The police officers were at my door the next day. "Good news," they said. "After a night in the slammer, the suspect confessed."

"Does that mean I get my emotions back?"

"He's already pawned your happiness and hope," they said. "We checked with the shops but unfortunately, those things move pretty quickly around here."

"What about my love and fear?" I said, stone-faced.

"He sold them on eBay(R), but we'll track down the buyers. And he's willing to return your anger and sadness in exchange for a reduced sentence."

"Make the deal," I said.

We met in the jail's visiting room.

"I took them when I was packing my things," he said. "I was upset that
you were throwing me out."

"So you sold my happiness?" I said.

"You could probably buy it back on the black market."

Driving home, I reflected on yet another failed relationship and felt my anger and sadness fill me. I cranked up the car stereo and slammed a fist against the dashboard. It felt so good to scream.

"Keys"

2009-02-12T21:02:00.000-08:00

"Keys"
Short Fiction - Suspense
by Phil Beloin Jr.

The man who came through the door of Ed’s Hardware marched over to the counter and asked if Ed was busy. Ed’s last sale, legit or otherwise, had been an hour ago—right after his wife had called, blabbing about this figurine she had seen online.

"No," Ed said. "What do you need?"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. "I need a copy. As quick as you can."

It was a round key, middle sized, with seven cut spacing. Ed knew it worked a burglar alarm, and he also knew why the man didn’t get a duplicate from the company that installed the security system or from a locksmith.

"Two hundred," Ed said. "Up front."

The man peeled off two bills from a roll and handed them to Ed.

They went into the back room where Ed kept his tubular-key cutting machine. Ed had been making illegal copies for several months now, the extra money helped a lot, especially with the way his wife liked to blow it. But Ed was getting curious about how the criminals operated. What did it hurt to ask?

"Why should I tell you anything?" the man said after Ed brought it up.

Ed placed a key blank and the original key into the machine’s synchronized self-centering clamps.

"Hey, it’s not like I know your name," Ed said. "And I can’t go to the cops, either."

Ed pressed a button and the clamps began to rotate in unison.

"My partner and I find a mark," the man said. "Usually it’s a broad, and we follow her home. If she’s got a burglar alarm, we peer through the windows, see if there’s something worth fencing."

The key machine was lever controlled, and Ed needed almost no effort to match the cuts.

"So what we do, we pick the mark’s purse when she’s out at the store or something," the man said. "We heard on the street to bring the key to you. My partner makes sure the mark doesn’t realize her keys are missing."

When the clamps finished turning, Ed shut off the machine.

"After the second key is made," the man said, "we’ll slip the original back to the mark."

Ed unclasped both keys and gave them to the man.

"Why don’t you just rob the house when you lift the key?" Ed said. "It would be quicker and easier."

"Nah, with the copy," the man said, "we can pick the time to enter the house. That way there aren’t any surprises from nosy neighbors or the homeowner."

***

Ed gave his wife the extra cash he had made that day, but instead of paying bills, she purchased a statuette of a boy and girl holding hands. Peering into the curio cabinet, Ed noticed the grinning brats surrounded by dozens of other ceramic figurines.

"How much for the new one?" Ed said.

"All of it," she said.

"You’ve got to be kidding me!"

Ed was still stewing when he and his wife went out to dinner that night.

"Oh, honey, don’t be mad," she said. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

Ed ordered a good bottle of chardonnay, and they got a little high on the wine and the anticipation of what was to follow. Ed drove home and had to help his wife through the door. A light was shining in the foyer.

"Hey, did we leave that on?" Ed said.

"Let me go," his wife said, "so I can shut off the alarm."

It was buzzing, reminding them to turn it off. She had her key out so Ed walked into the living room. He was stunned by what he saw. His wife came in behind him—and screamed. She brushed by his shoulder and stumbled towards the curio cabinet. Ed didn’t know why she wanted a closer look. There was nothing to see.

All her figurines were gone.

Read an interview with Phil Beloin Jr. on DellSmith.com. You'll find links to Phil's other stories on the web. Love him, hate him, zipp@snet.net.

Retribution

2008-12-15T22:12:00.000-08:00

"Retribution"
Short Fiction - Paranormal
by Rod Drake

A group of children, between 6 and 8 years old, gathered at the edge of the woods located far behind the housing development in which they lived. A pitiful little hole had been clumsily dug, and they stood in a loose circle around it.

Carl, a stringbean with a stubborn cow-lick, nudged one of the boys, muttering, “Say something.”

George, a chubby little boy, said, “Alright. Well, we’re here to bury Patches. Patches was a good cat and we all liked him, and . . . and . . .”

Billie, a sturdy red-haired girl of 7, whose cat it was, added, “And we will miss him. And he wouldn’t have gotten run over if Tommy’s stupid brother didn’t drive so fast!”

They all nodded in silence. Tommy’s face flushed red.

“Billie,” George broke the tension, “pick Patches up. Eugene, the box.” It was a shoe box for a pair of boots, now Patches’ eternal cardboard casket.

Patches’ body was definitely a car accident victim. They kids had tried to clean him up a little with the garden hose, but it didn’t help much.

Billie stood holding the stiff cat out in her hands gingerly while everyone else took their last looks at Patches. But Billie didn’t move, didn’t put the cat in the box that Eugene was so patiently holding. Billie was staring at something, so the kids all turned to see what it was.

It was Marley. She was standing 30 feet away, watching them silently.

Marley was an odd little girl, not one of the group, or anyone’s group for that matter. She kept to herself in her big old house outside the new development. At school kids avoided her, and she didn’t seem to mind. She had the palest skin, the darkest hair and large, inquiring green eyes that seem to bore into you. She was very thin, small for 8 and spoke little, usually on the strangest subjects.

“Come join us,” George said, trying to be friendly. Everyone else shot him daggers and hoped she would go away. She was spooky.

Marley walked quietly over to the circle. She studied the suspended cat for a moment then asked Billie, in a flat voice, “Did you kill it?”

“No!” Billie yelled, “I loved him.”

“Do you want him alive again?” Marley’s statement just hung there in the suddenly cold April air. No one moved or hardly even breathed.

Billie was taken aback. “Of course. But he’s dead. He’s gone to heaven.”

Marley looked slowly at each of the children in turn before Billie. “I can bring him back to life.”

“No you can’t,” replied Billie, and the other kids laughed uneasily.

Marley nodded, and the sun vanished behind a dark cloud. “I can. But if I do, his true feelings will come out. All the mistreatment he suffered in life will be remembered.”

“I never mistreated him. I just punished him when he was naughty.” The other kids looked away because they knew how Billie treated Patches, how she kept him tied up and how he was run over the one time he escaped. Patches was the latest in a long line of Billie’s pets.

When Billie saw how the others were acting, she yelled in anger, “Well then, do it, bring Patches back if you can, which you can’t, ‘cause you’re a big liar and a . . . freak!”

Marley extended her slender fingers, and everyone felt something like a low voltage of electricity sweep over their bodies while the area around them darkened and thickened in an odd, unsettling way. Marley’s eyes opened wide, and she froze eerily for a moment.

Patches wriggled to life, its fur standing up, hissing horribly and turned in Billie’s hands to slash at her face with its sharp claws. Billie screamed, dropping the cat. Patches ripped at Billie’s exposed legs in a frenzy of violence, while the other kids fell over themselves trying to get away. Then Patches took off, vanishing in the woods.

From the ground, the kids and Billie, who was moaning and bleeding profusely from deep gashes, looked up at Marley. She just smiled and walked back to her house, humming some ancient melody.

Rod Drake wonders what Stephen King is doing right now. Check out Rod's other stories posted in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Retreat Rules

2008-12-15T22:09:00.000-08:00

"Retreat Rules"
Flash Fiction
by Bill Dollear

Welcome to the Leadership/Coaching/Life Retreat. The following rules must be obeyed at all times:

Rule No. 1: No alcoholic beverages may be consumed on the retreat grounds.

Rule No. 2: No Michael Bolton nor Tony Orlando and Dawn songs may be played, sung, or hummed.

Rule No. 3: Do not rearrange the furniture as it has been played psychometrically in a fun fen shuy way.

Rule No. 4: Do not alter the climate control. It has been scientifically set to similar climate conditions of the world's greatest leaders: Julius Cesar, Abraham Lincoln, and Oprah Winfrey.

Rule No. 5: No intimate relations between retreat members will be allowed.

Rule No. 6: Ignore Rule No. 5.

Rule No. 7: Only kidding.

Rule No. 8: You must discover which rule we are kidding about: Rule No. 6 or Rule No. 7.

Rule No. 9: No one may use the washroom between the hours of 5AM and midnight.

Rule No. 10: No one may use the washroom between the hours of midnight and 5AM.

Rule No. 11: No television, cell phones, nor laptops nor any online services are permitted.

Rule No. 12: All announcements must be obeyed. Announcements will be sent via e-mail.

Rule No. 13: Proper attire must be worn at all times. Attendees are not permited to wear pasties, see through red silk lingerie, black silk fish net stockings, nore candy flavored panties. This applies to the female attendees also.

Rule No. 14: Shoes must be worn at all times. This applies to everyone, including those from Indiana.

Rule No. 15: Please take away from this experience a new heart, a new conscious, a new view, yet not the bathroom towels.

Another Slice

2008-12-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

"Another Slice"
Short Fiction - Crime
by R.J. Mangahas

Jake turned up his collar as the red orbs of the bus's tail lights faded into the rainy night. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he entered the diner with the burned out 'n' in the neon sign. Inside a big bear of a man, probably a trucker, sat at the counter. A waitress was bringing a check to a couple sitting in one of the booths.

Jake set down his bag and sat at the counter. The big man at the other end gave him a polite nod. Jake returned it, flipped over the coffee cup in front of him and picked up a menu.

After a stop at the register, the waitress, whose tag read 'Sheri', came over to Jake, a pot of coffee in each hand.

"Fill ya up there?"

"Sure," Jake said.

"High test or decaf?"

"High test."

"Something nasty out there, huh?" Sheri said as she poured the coffee.

"What's that?"

"The weather. Pretty nasty."

"Sure is." It had been awhile since Jake had seen weather, or anything for that matter, from the outside world.

"Did you want something to eat? We have a great smoke house burger on special."

Jake eyed the menu. "I think I'll just have some scrambled eggs, ham and wheat toast."

"Sure thing." Sheri wrote down the order and passed through a small window to a short order cook. On her way back she picked up a plate heaped with eggs and sausages and another with a short stack and brought it over to the trucker at the other end of the counter.

Jake figured that she'd be the easiest so he'd save her for last. He wasn't too sure about the short order cook. The trucker would present a problem.

" 'Scuse me."

Jake looked over and saw that the trucker was talking to him.

"Think you can pass me that syrup next to you?"

"Sure," Jake said, sliding it down the counter.

"Thanks, pal."

Jake nodded at the big man and gave him another quick glance. The trucker was a big guy, but one well placed strike would---

"There you go," Sheri said, putting Jake's food down. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thanks."

While Sheri refilled the trucker's coffee, Jake took one more side glance at the trucker.

* * *

"How was everything?" Sheri asked when Jake finished.

"It was great thanks."

"Would you like to try some of our blueberry pie?"

"Sure."

Sheri opened a glass case that was sitting on the counter and sliced a piece for Jake. "You want some more coffee?"

"Sure."

Sheri refilled Jake's cup then went off to collect the money from the now empty-booth and the trucker who had just left.

Jake took a couple of bites then stared off into the rainy night.

"The pie okay?" Sheri asked.

"It's fine," Jake said. "Just thinking about stuff."

Sheri smiled. "I know how that can be."

"Is there a place I can freshen up a little?"

"Sure," Sheri said. "There's a bathroom down that hallway, past the kitchen on the left."

Jake finished his pie and went down the hallway.

Jake dried his hands and looked into the mirror, trying to find some resolve. Pulling a razor from his coat, he ran his finger along the edge. Still sharp. On his way back, Jake stopped at the kitchen where Sheri and the short order cook were talking.

After he was done, Jake went back out front, opened the glass case on the counter and helped himself to another slice of blueberry pie.

R.J. Mangahas is currently a walking cliche: He works in a bookstore while working on his novel. He also has had one play produced and lives somewhere in New England.

Grimm Revision

2008-10-31T17:40:00.000-07:00

"Grimm Revision"
Halloween Story
by Rod Drake

Let’s say it was Halloween; it fits, and it was close, definitely fall, with colorful leaves falling, all that season changing stuff. Anyway, the story was that one Redphenia (it was a family name and totally gross) R. Ryding, a typically bored and gloomy thirteen-year-old girl was making one of her frequent deliveries to Grandma (more on her later). It was a nice afternoon, and since she was too young for a driver’s license, she trudged on foot through the Grimm Forest, taking a familiar shortcut.

Being a tad cool, October and all probably, she wore her ever-present Gap hoodie, pulled tight around her little frowny face – yes, that’s right, she was known as Little (she was a small girl) Red Ryding Hood because she wore it so often. And the hoodie was navy blue, not red (surprised?).

Now back to Grandma. That was her code name; the old lady wasn’t blood-related to Red, but was actually the boss of a successful dope smuggling ring, hidden inside the alleged goodies that Red transported as a naïve and innocent-looking mule, for which she got free downloads for her iPod (another gift for services rendered). Without pension, savings or prospects, Grandma had turned to the lucrative field of under-the-counter pharmaceuticals.

Now in the forest on this autumn afternoon was a werewolf. Well, sort of. Harry Talbot was an odd kind of werewolf, one that turns physically into a werewolf by day, but keeps his human mind, and a man with a wolf’s mentality by night. The result of a mixed-up curse by a gypsy who stuttered.

Harry hid in the bushes, watched Little Red plod past, swinging her basket, and the fumes from the goodies overwhelmed him. He popped out onto the path and asked, as casually as he could, “Hey, what you got in the basket, and, uh, where are you headed? Does anyone know where you’re going, I mean, is anyone expecting you, would, you know, miss you if you didn’t show up?” He wasn’t the brightest werewolf in the forest.

Not slowing down or missing a beat, Red answered in a surly voice, “Goodies for Grandma, and she’s waiting for me. Not that it’s any of your business, fur face, so take off before I blow my rape whistle.”

Before I forget to mention, next to Grandma’s dope den deep in the woods (good hiding place) was a gingerbread house, where a teenage rock band practiced daily in the gingerbread garage. They called their group The Woodsmen, as it fit. In fact the lead guitarist, Hunter (of course) went to the same school as Red, P.S. 666, a real hellhole, where they had a calculated disinterested flirtation thing going on.

Red continued on her sullen way. Harry decided to beat her to Grandma’s house (he had the scent of the goodies now, and Grandma’s house reeked of them so he could find it easily). Once there, he knocked on the door, yelled, “Federal Agents!” and knew Grandma and her crew would high tail it out of the back door at top speed.

Deciding to dress in Grandma’s clothes so he could fool Red (remember I mentioned Harry wasn’t very smart) and capture her because after smoking and snorting all the goodies here, he would need something for the munchies, and Little Red looked tender and tasty.

Red showed up, knocked the secret knock, sauntered in and emptied the basket on the lab table like always. Grandma/Harry called to her from the bedroom; she hoped that’s where this trip’s downloads were.

Now Harry in drag didn’t look any more like Grandma than Seth Rogen looks like Halle Berry. Red wasn’t fooled for a moment. She blew her rape whistle at decibels so loud that The Woodsmen heard it over their speed metal music.

Hunter burst in, zip gun (he had made it in metal shop) in hand and quickly figured out the situation, firing it till it was empty into the dumbfounded werewolf who was busy clamping both paws over his sensitive ears. Red finished the job by jamming a silver replica paperweight of the Washington Monument right through Harry’s heart.

Well, this brought Hunter and Red’s budding romance out into the open, and she ended up joining the band as their new angry, strident lead singer.

And they lived happily ever after. At least for a while.

Rod Drake hopes the Great Pumpkin visits all of the Fictional Musings writers and readers this Halloween. Check out Rod's other stories posted in Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Happy Halloween

2008-10-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

"Happy Halloween"
Short Fiction - Halloween
by Rod Drake

It’s Halloween and a miserable, freezing cold rain is pounding down on me as I wait in the empty street. I’ve got one silver bullet left in my gun, and my shoulder’s bleeding pretty badly from the swipe I received earlier. Call me . . . Jack. It’s close enough and fitting if you know children’s literature.

Nice job I’ve got. Monster killer. Creature exterminator. Freak remover. No matter what you call it, it’s a crappy, dangerous, thankless, but unfortunately necessary, job. Over the years, I have dispatched my share of demons, vamps, zombies, mummies and werewolves. I’ve done it well too - dispassionate, focused and professional. To me, it’s just another day at the office. Get the work done clean and quick, and then move on.

But this werewolf I’m tracking is different. This kill will be pure revenge. That’s because he killed my partner. So this one is personal, which isn’t a good thing and is probably why I was careless enough to let him wound me in the shoulder earlier.

Parker had been my partner from the beginning, and she fit naturally into the rhythm of bringing a monster down, knowing just what to do and when to do it. No muss, no fuss, just a wooden stake, salt spike, holy torch or mystic artifact when it was needed for the killing stroke. The one time her timing was a little off, this werewolf made the most of it.

I was closer to Parker that my wife in some ways. My wife had left me years ago, unable to accept my job, always wondering when I went to work if she would see ever me again. I understood, but lives were depending on me doing my job, so I couldn’t just walk away from it. So she walked away instead.

Tonight, here and now, one of us is going down for the final count. We both know that. It’s raining too hard, and it’s too dark to see, but I know he’s out there, still close by, probably licking his wounds and readying himself for one final savage attack.

This werewolf is a particularly vicious one; he likes kids (tender and tasty, I imagine), and I knew tonight would draw him out to feast on the abundance of trick-or-treaters. This end of town is close to the woods where Parker and I had tracked him, instinct summoning him to his natural setting.

So where is he? Hiding between those parked cars or maybe crouching in the service alley? It will be tough to see him in time to hit him in the heart, but a head shot is possible, and that will work just as well. In fact, I would enjoy seeing his furry head explode.

Of course, if I can’t make either shot, then he wins. And he claims both me and Parker. He is clever for a beast, having somehow avoided five of my silver bullets here tonight, something no other werewolf has done before.

His luck can’t last forever, but then neither can mine. The rain slows down for just a moment, and I can hear his labored breathing as he takes his killing leap at me – I turn suddenly and face him, firing my last shot dead center, yelling like hell.

Rod Drake wishes all Fictional Musings writers and readers a werewolf-free Halloween. Check out Rod's other stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Bedside Manners

2008-10-05T21:49:00.000-07:00

"Bedside Manners"
Flash Fiction
By Randy Rohn

We are standing around a hospital bed. I, my brother, my mother and the doctor.

“There wasn’t anything we could do,” the doctor says.

“Was he in a lot of pain?”

No one looks at me as I say this.

“I’m sure he didn’t suffer much,” my brother says.

My brother should know. He held the pillow over the face as the body on the bed convulsed and the
arms flailed uselessly.

I can stand it no more.

“He’s the killer.” I point to my brother.

No one acknowledges me as they file out. I am left staring at my own corpse.

THE END

Three of Randy Rohn's short stories will be featured in YOUR DAKEST DREAMSPELL: An L + L Dreamspell Thriller Anthology soon to be published by L + L Dreamspell.

Heavenly Strike

2008-08-18T21:01:00.000-07:00

"Heavenly Strike"
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

In Starbucks, of all places, I saw the archangel Gabriel drinking a steaming latte, just like any other customer needing his (or her) caffeine fix. Well, perhaps not like just any customer, since he was sitting at a table with a group of fellow angels, and their enormous white wings did make them stand out in that tiny coffee house.

I sat down at the empty table next to them, asked to borrow the USA Today on their table and that started up a casual conversation. Soon, Gabriel was telling me the reason for his earthly visit: a strike in Heaven. Now that pretty much beat any headline in the USA Today.

He explained to me that while wages were unneeded and unnecessary in Heaven; there was free room and board for all eternity, of course, and who needed spending money since there was nothing to buy in the celestial realm? But what really got to the angels was the 24/7 work schedule for ever and ever (Amen) with no holidays (except religious ones, and them had to work them, usually double-shift) or vacations. It was chafing the angels something fierce (and there is nothing worse than chafed wings I’m told) until it had now reached this Norma Rae point.

So all the angels, Gabriel went on as though he were at a press conference, from the seraphim down to the cherubs, had walked out, which explained why things on earth had gotten so bad lately. Rumor had it that the fallen angels in Hell had joined their heavenly brethren in a sympathy strike; union solidarity and all that. Satan was being forced to do his own torturing of the damned, and it was certainly more than one demon could handle, even given Lucifer’s many hands and tails.

The Angel of Death had joined the strike, putting dying temporarily on-hold. This explained why recent victims of grisly car accidents and that plane crash in Brazil refused to die despite being scattered in pieces. Odd things were happening down here as a result of the angelic strike, which was Gabriel’s bargaining chip.

Just then, Gabriel stopped talking. Outside flaming toads began falling in droves from a clear blue sky. The angels leaned back in their chairs, smiling and nodding at Gabriel. He got up dramatically (which is easy when you have majestic white wings and an ethereal glow about you) and winked at me, telling his fellow angels that the Big Guy wanted him back at the bargaining table. Gabriel felt victory would be theirs, since the Creator of All Things didn’t have any lawyers to help Him with a convoluted, protracted settlement (as there are, no surprise, no lawyers in heaven).

I wholeheartedly wished him the best of luck. And was glad to know about the strike and its effects on earth. Having been “murdered” a day ago in a street robbery gone wrong, I was getting tired of being between worlds.

Rod Drake likes to stand convention on its head for a laugh. Check out Rod's other stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Gig

2008-08-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

"Gig"
Short Fiction - Literary
by Julie Morgan

In the end, I went to the gig on my own. I thought it would be okay. Christ knows why – I'd had to stop playing the band's albums because they reminded me too much of you. Everything about them was so intensely intertwined with you, with us, from hearing their first single on the radio when we were driving, to looking out for the tour dates on their website and getting excited about seeing them when the tickets arrived in the post.

I always thought we would do this together, catch the band on their first UK tour. I could never have imagined that when the time came, you would be gone from my life, that you would have left me. It was so brutal, such a cruel thing to do. I still can't believe you did it.

Just a few songs in, the band played that song. You know the one. The one we liked the best, the one that was special to us. Before they finished, I felt a tap on my shoulder. If I had been in some story that followed the happy – sad – happy formula, I would have turned to see you standing behind me wearing the lopsided grin that always turned me inside out. Instead, I saw a bouncer with a face like stone and I realised that I was crying. I could hardly believe I had any tears left, but sure enough they were streaming down my face. Instead of you taking me by the hand and leading me into the future we'd dreamed for ourselves, he took me by the arm and led me out of the venue. He thought I must be drunk or stoned to be crying like that. Didn't want me upsetting the straights.

Of course I wasn't drunk and I wasn't stoned. I was just more alone than I had ever been in my entire life. Hurt, confused, bereft… I still don't know what I did for you to leave me behind like that, without a word, without anything at all. More than anything, I want to ask you why you did that.

Did you think what it would be like for me to find you? At first, I just saw your feet. You were so still, hanging there and I was so still, staring at you, barely comprehending what I was seeing. That's when the crying started. God knows if it will ever stop.

I go into a pub and get a drink. Brandy, because I think it might steady me, then I head for the Metro, nothing left to do but go home.

Home. That's not what it feels like, not any more. You're there and yet you're not. Your jacket is on the peg in the hall, your CDs are in the rack, your book lies open, face down on the bedside table. All untouched. I stand on the platform and wait. There's a roar and a whoosh of air as a train heading in the other direction passes through the underground station. The board shows my train is due. I hear a dim roar, see the lights approaching through the tunnel, hear the announcer say where the train is bound, then I'm running, jumping, falling, over the edge and out of this mess, no more tears, no more missing you, coming to find you to ask you why the hell you left me like you did.

Julie Morgan lives by the seaside in the north east of England. She has previously been published on Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn and (as Julie Wright) here on Fictional Musings, Flashing in the Gutters and Flash Pan Alley.

Crank caller

2008-08-07T07:36:00.000-07:00

"Crank caller"
Flash
by Kate Kaminski

Drummer Dossett was really into crank calls. He loved that frisson when the voice on the other end tunneled, unsuspecting, into his phone ear, relishing the secret knowledge that he was, however momentarily, the answerer’s puppet master. More often than not, the juvenile nature of his jokes simply caused annoyance. When he began to try his hand at impersonating the famous – he did a creditable Johnny Carson and a truly stellar Jimmy Stewart – the most thrilling part was how long he could string his victims along before they figured it out, started yelling or hung up. When he grew bored playing other people and the calls became too predictable, he graduated to scamming geezers into sending him donations on behalf of Unicef and Make A Wish Foundation and eventually was able to take his first Caribbean vacation. Now Drummer spends his phone call time in the exercise yard, lifting weights and smoking Marlboros.

Kate Kaminski is an underground writer-filmmaker.

Generation Gap

2008-06-30T15:50:00.000-07:00

"Generation Gap"
Short fiction - Literary
by Rod Drake

It was April 1967. San Francisco was the bridge between movements.

Richard Brautigan sat on the grass in North Beach's Washington Square Park, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was nearly noon, and he liked it here, across town from Haight-Ashbury. It was getting too crowded in the Haight; everyone seemed to be migrating there now.

Two years ago he used to hand out his little poems there, to anyone who would take them. They were quirky, absurd little poems that Richard lovingly copied by hand on small slips of colored paper. He remembered two girls, runaways no doubt, who loved his funny short poems and followed him everywhere he went, or sat Indian-style against a storefront, his two-person fan club, when he distributed his poems to passersby on Haight Street.

He would have slept with them, but they were too young. And they would have slept with him willingly, but they settled for the grass he gave them from time to time. Then the girls started going to Kesey's Acid Tests, and he never saw them again.

Now Richard was the poet-in-residence at the California Institute of Technology. He had published some poetry and one novel. Neither was successful. A second novel was coming out this year. It was very surrealistic and strange, so he had little hope it would be popular; he called it Trout Fishing in America, but it had nothing to do with trout fishing.

His favorite place to write was still here in Washington Square, in front of the Benjamin Franklin statue. It was going be featured on the cover of his new novel and would be mentioned in the first chapter. North Beach was where he had first lived when he moved to San Francisco in 1956.

North Beach was home to the Beat Movement. City Lights Bookstore was just a few blocks from here, where Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Michael McClure and the rest had hung out, creating a new literature for the beat generation. Across the street was the hungry i, where Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl used to perform comedy laced with beat commentary.

Richard finished his sandwich and went back to writing in a tattered little notebook. Children played at one edge of the park while old men sat and slept on the city benches as they had for generations. The smell of Italian food drifted up from the sidewalk cafes in North Beach. A long-haired young man threw a stick that his dog kept retrieving with enthusiasm.

A young couple approached him shyly. They were either from the Haight or were on their way there. Their outfits, wire-rim glasses and hair length were pure hippie style.

"Excuse me," asked the boy who looked like Jesus or Buffalo Bill, "but aren't you the hippie writer who wrote A Confederate General from Big Sur?" Richard’s photograph was on the back of the book; he hadn’t changed much since then.

Richard smiled wryly. "No," he answered, "I'm the beat author of that book."

Rod Drake would like to encourage readers to rediscovery Richard Brautigan’s literary works and experience the beat/hippie movement firsthand. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

The Way of Love

2008-06-27T14:56:00.000-07:00

"The Way of Love"
Short Fiction - Literary
by Kate Kaminski

If this is the way love is supposed to go, then perhaps Sana wants out. Today he announces, during one of their interminable and ongoing arguments, that she's playing Delilah to his Samson, that their entire relationship rests upon a power struggle that will inevitably end with one or the other of them shorn, hemorrhaging from myriad nicks in newly exposed skin. Why does he have to make everything into a drama?

So when her ex-lover Robbie calls to ask her out for a coffee and some conversation from a pay phone just two blocks away, and weary of Samson's metaphorical arguments, is it coincidence that she's just putting on her coat to leave? Sana picks up the phone the way one might grasp at a life preserver. On the other end, Robbie's voice is at first unfamiliar, but once she
places it, she pictures his face, as if on a movie screen–gigantic–smiling at her from the center of a crisp white donut with S.S. Titanic stenciled across its surface.

Her mother always said she was inconstant. Will a sense of constancy ever be something she truly desires? Yet surely she is not the type of woman who disdains family and home. Is she?

When she glances at Samson–a.k.a. Paul–to say goodbye, he has already turned his back on her and the dangling earbuds of his iPod look like lost worms seeking safety among the earthy tangles of his black curls. She knows that, once she's gone, he’ll flow again into the safety and comfort of his imagined life, the music a stream, carrying him away from the confines of their cramped and grimy one bedroom. Once she's gone, he'll be happy.

She closes the door gently, respectful of his pleasure at her leaving, and grateful for her freedom.

On the street, pushing through a group of skateboarding teenagers hellbent on breaking limbs as they defy the ordinances that seek to constrain them, she admires, as she always does, the hearts of such youth. Like her, they too are transplanted into a corpus mundi that wants to reject them. She takes her gloves from their nesting place in her pockets and slides them over her hands.

Sana hates the cold. Every winter it hits her the same way, as if she were an exotic plant kidnapped by aliens in order to be experimented upon in new and diverse native climes. At the corner of 106th Street, a woman with long colorless hair, wearing a vintage camel's hair coat that is several sizes too large brushes past her, audibly chanting with determined cheer a nonsensical string of syllables. Watching the woman hurrying, purposeful, safe inside the bubble of her madness, Sana girds herself for the inevitable Robbie experience of endless, depressive commentary on the dismal state of the world. And now, ahead, she sees him sitting in the coffee shop window, waiting for her, his comforting, habitual dishevelment apparent even
from this distance.

Sometimes she thinks it is the extreme permeability of her skin, her willingness to absorb whatever is thrown at her, that, in the end, violates all sense. It is at such times that Sana will often panic and make hasty decisions. Leave a lover. Quit her job. Move across town.

She pulls open the door to the coffee shop and Robbie looks up. He smiles and Sana moves forward, embracing, all of her senses electric, ready for whatever comes next.

Release the Inner Wolf

2008-06-02T11:06:00.000-07:00

Release the Inner Wolf
Short Fiction - Sci-fi/Fantasy
by Rod Drake

I never thought that I would become a werewolf, but one random event just led to another, and bam, there I was, the local wolf man of Chaney Falls, Massachusetts (don’t laugh at the town’s name, please, we all get the irony).

Of course, nothing ever goes like it’s supposed to for me, including this lycanthrope curse. Instead of turning into a wolf when the moon is full, which would only be two nights a month, for me the change occurs anytime after sundown when I hear a song mentioning the moon.

You know, like “Bad Moon Rising” by CCR. “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young. Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream.” The Doors’ “Moonlight Drive.” “Blue Moon” by the Marcels is a given, but the kicker is “Moon Madness” by the indie group, the Spirit of Evelyn Ankers (yeah, another funny coincidence; my life is ripe with ‘em). I never knew there were so many songs with the moon in them.

So I never know when the change is going to occur; could be I’ll hear a radio playing down the street, or a CD blasting in some teenager’s room, or an outdoor restaurant’s mood music. That, naturally, leads to embarrassing moments, and a few bloody ones, but the less said about that the better. No fatalities yet at least. And only fleeting, vague memories of my nights as a beast. At least no one knows it’s me.

Some articles have hit the local newspaper about a big animal from the nearby woods (so they think) on the loose, who injured a young couple out at Bellamy Point (interesting name, all things considered), a common make-out place, and another group of kids that were on a girl scout overnight camp-out plus some other hit-and-miss sightings. The eyewitness accounts weren’t very good or detailed, the panic of the attacks being too shocking to be remembered clearly. Thank heavens for that.

Eventually it had to happen. I’m sitting in the car with my long-time girlfriend, Haley Talbot (you can cut the irony in my life with a knife, probably a big silver one), who suddenly turned on the radio (I keep it off after sundown) and a moon song happening to be playing on KLCJ-FM. I think it was Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon.” Whatever, the song triggered the change. Before my consciousness fled, I opened my car door and ran into the woods as fast as I could, but I could hear Haley chasing after me, asking what was wrong.

The next hours were lost to me. Waking up on the bank of the Rains River (I know, but just let it pass) at dawn, I struggled to remember how I ended up here. And what I might have done. Fearing what I did to Haley.

But sometimes a curse can turn out to be a blessing. Haley was sitting next to me, smiling despite the faint traces of blood and mud on her face, and showing me the bite mark on her shoulder that was healing as we looked at it. Her shoulder was bare, as much of her was, since her blouse had been rather badly shredded.

“I think wolfie is lonely,” she said to me quietly, calmly, “instead of hungry. He wants a mate to run with him, so instead of killing me, he nipped me so I could be that girl werewolf.”

“Really?” I was stunned, but not unhappy.

“Yup. Next time you change, so will I, and we can have a great time together. And I have the distinct feeling that his animal aggression will be channeled into, well, you now, sexual energy, so that no one in Chaney Falls will be hurt anymore, or probably even know about our secret, erotic lives. After all, you have always been a bit of a wolf, with or without the fur.” Then she winked at me.

Now this is the way a horror story should end.

Rod Drake apologizes for all the “punny” references to Universal’s The Wolfman (1941) in this story. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

More Than a Hustle

2008-05-26T21:42:00.000-07:00

"More Than a Hustle"
Short fiction - crime
by Ed Lynskey

“Congratulations, ma’am! The apartment is yours,” I said to the brunette.

Her mocha brown eyes melted in gratitude. “You’re more than kind.”

I felt a little uneasy since I’d rented this same three-room apartment to four other tenants. Who really owned it? I didn't have the foggiest. It'd stood empty for three weeks and I greased the doorman downstairs to get a spare key. Once this mark had paid her security deposit and first month's rent, I'd blow town.

Mocha Eyes had removed a checkbook. “Do I make this out to Mr. Jones?”

“Nothing personal but I don't accept personal checks.”

Sheepish, Mocha Eyes smiled. “I forgot.”

Now I smiled. “No problem.”

Her money and signed bogus lease fell into my hands.

“I’ll bring up my bags now.”

“Tonight is too soon, Miss -- “

“Natalie Rome. It’s on my lease.”

“Right, but the cleaning crew needs to come first.”

Natalie gazed around the room. “No need. This suits me just fine.”

Her pushiness grated but I smiled. “Okay then, can I lend you a hand?”

“I’d be most grateful. Stairs or elevator?”

“Elevator.”

We ambled down a corridor and Natalie jabbed the “Down” button. The elevator arrived and we boarded it.

Natalie frowned a little. “Why didn't you run a credit check on me? Everybody else has.”

“Because you’ve got such an honest face.”

The elevator hit bottom and we stepped off. “When do I get my copy of the lease?”

“I’ll mail it tomorrow.” I gazed around us. “Where are your bags?”

Natalie pointed in the lobby. “Hidden behind the potted palm.”

A different female voice intruded. “Mr. Jones?”

The dimness helped to obscure the alarm flying into my face. Squinting, I turned. She'd been my two o'clock appointment and I'd no recall of her name.

“Good evening,” I said. She moved into the brighter light, a tallish, striking blonde perhaps in her mid-thirties.

Natalie introduced herself and the blonde responded, “I’m Gayle Featherstone. Do you also live here?”

“Moved in just today,” replied Natalie. “Mr. Jones is my landlord.”

Gayle looked surprised. “Yes, Mr. Jones also settled me in here.”

“Really?” Natalie rolled her wondering eyes at me.

“Many units in this building are rent controls,” I explained. “Ladies, I really must go.”

Huddling to chat, they tuned me out. “You live on the fifth floor, too?” said Natalie . . .

That was the last snatch of conversation I overheard as I shot through the revolving door out to the starlit sidewalk.

A cop siren wailed through the next intersection. I gloated as my hand patted the bundle in my pocket. Lumping in Natalie's
cash made it five grand. I darted down an alleyway. At the first dumpster, I trashed the bogus leases. I walked faster until the
alley gave way to an abandoned lot. The desolation here lay so thick even the junkies had fled. My confusion worsened. I’d lived in the city for years, but this ghetto was a new place to me.

“Mr. Jones, I presume?”

The raspy male voice startled me. Straining my eyes, I turned around. A warehouse loomed off to the side and the mysterious speaker stood in its shadows.

“Who are you?”

“Call me your conscience.”

I reached behind me. “Look, if you’re after my wallet, here --take it.”

“Shut up and listen to me.”

“Good idea. I’m all ears.”

“Here’s the new deal. You’re carrying an ill-gotten gain?”

I resented his nosiness. “I earned it on my job.”

“Your job is evil. You rip off folks. That angers me. Now I’m giving you a map. Once you get back to the city, you’ll make restitution to poor ladies.”

“And if I don’t?”

The eeriest chuckle echoed through my head. “You’ll live in a dark, lonely place for eternity.”

The map appeared in my hand and I’d an appointment to keep. My feet took me by more and more familiar landmarks: pizza joint, laundromat, and billiards hall. As I drew nearer to the apartment building, I caught the distant growl to a cop cruiser.

I had a growing hunch the cops’ handcuffs had my name -- Mr. Jones -- engraved on them.

The End

Ed Lynskey’s new P.I. Frank Johnson novel, PELHAM FELL HERE (Mundania Press), will appear in June 2008. The previous two titles in the series are THE DIRT-BROWN DERBY (Mundania) and THE BLUE CHEER (Point Blank/Wildside Press).

Summer of ‘62

2008-05-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

Summer of ‘62
Short fiction - Literary
by Rod Drake

It was the summer I turned 12. My friend Jenks, who lived across the street, had a big back yard, and he set up his pup tent so we could sleep outside for three whole months. We could stay up as long as we wanted, read comic books by flashlight, listen to baseball games on his transistor radio and agonize over baseball cards we needed to complete our team runs.

It was 1962. Americans were orbiting the earth in funny-looking space capsules and war in a far-away, unknown Asian country was beginning; the world was changing rapidly.

The house behind Jenks’ was home to Bobby Cubber, two years younger than we were, and his 16-year-old sister, Beth Ann. We never had any interest in Bobby, he was too young to hang out with us, and Beth Ann was, well, a girl, four classes ahead of us.

We realized her second-floor bedroom faced our tent, and in the darkness of the night, its lights let us see everything going on in there. At first, we could have cared less; we had interesting stuff to read, games to listen to, and constellations to try and figure out. Jenks had his brother’s telescope as part of our ramshackle collection of camp equipment.

It wasn’t until the night we noticed Beth Ann getting undressed for bed that we got interested. In a hurry. Focusing the telescope on her, we got to see our first topless girl, discounting a relative or two, who were too young and not, well, developed was the term back then. Beth Ann was obviously proud of her body and took her time putting her pajamas on, looking at herself in the mirror and messing with her hair, giving Jenks and me a good, long look at her boobs in all their round, full, flawless glory.

Well, that changed everything. Comics and baseball games were one thing, but a cute, young naked girl giving us a free show was the stuff dreams were made of. Wet dreams at least.

This went on for several nights, and we remained a rapt audience of two, scarcely breathing for fear Beth Ann would hear us somehow in her bedroom with the window closed, some 50 feet away.

Then her folks went out of town for the weekend, taking Bobby with them, leaving Beth Ann home alone. In our juvenile fantasies, we hoped she would run around the house naked all night, posing and touching herself.

But something every different occurred instead. We could see Beth Ann was talking to someone, someone we couldn’t see, someone in her bedroom with her.

She smiled at her unseen guest and took off her top and bra. She slid off her shorts and probably her underwear as well; we couldn’t see because the window limited our view to above the waist (unless she would stand on a chair, which was unlikely). But just the thought of her naked was enough to get us going and that she was going to be making out that way.

At that point her guest moved into our view. And we knew him. He was our Little League coach, Mr. Spanner. Bobby’s too. He was married and had kids as old as Beth Ann. He kissed her, hugging her tightly. It was gross. Then he cupped her boobs playfully and led her to the bed, out of our sight.

But it didn’t matter. We looked at each other ashamedly, not speaking, not interesting in watching any longer and crawled into our sleeping bags. I woke up early, and went home to sleep in my basement on the old couch.

When I returned the following evening, Jenks had re-pitched his tent facing the other direction, and the telescope was put away in its box. We never talked about what we had seen, and we never told anyone either. At summer’s end, Beth Ann was sent away to stay with her aunt in Minnesota, and her room went dark.

Rod Drake lives in Las Vegas which may explain his surreal take on things, but he grew up in Iowa so he is grounded. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Piece of My Psychedelic Heart

2008-04-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

"Piece of My Psychedelic Heart"
Flash Fiction
by Rod Drake

It was April 1967. San Francisco was home to a new wave of musicians.

Janis Joplin sat in a lawn chair with her feet on the railing of the little balcony at her Lyon Street apartment in Haight Ashbury. She was playing with a psychedelic pinwheel a fan had given her in Golden Gate Park yesterday. She liked it and laughed in her throaty fashion which carried down the block on the warm, gentle breeze.

Janis was only wearing underwear and didn't care. Under the lawn chair was a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's and a half-eaten bag of red licorice. A young man walking past down below caught her eye.

"Hey," she hollered down to him, "aren't you ... um ... from that band ... what's its name, uh, The Medicine Show?"

The young man stopped and smiled up at her. "Dr. Marmalade's Medicine Show," he corrected her.

"Yeah, that's it. You play bass, right?" Janis pulled her legs down and leaned on the balcony's railing.

"Uh-huh. You're the girl that sings for Big Brother and the Holding Company, right?"

"Yeah, that's my gig," Janis smiled widely in appreciation of being recognized. "You playing at the free concert in the Panhandle today?"

"Nope."

"Well," Janis laughed, "come on by and listen to me then."

"Can't. Moving our equipment to another practice hall this afternoon."

Janis leaned over the railing. He was really cute, in an unkempt sort of way. "How about coming up now instead? We could get to know each other." Then her maniacal laugh rang out through the neighborhood again. “I’ve got some killer weed," she added as incentive.

He considered it for about three seconds. "Okay. By the way, my name's Keith."

"I'm Janis. But my friends call me Pearl. And I think you're about to become my friend." She laughed once more as a light breeze blew her pinwheel into a frenzy. Could life get any better than this, she thought, running into her apartment, pushing magazines, sheet music and empty food containers off her unmade bed. Probably, hopefully, they would end up here.

Janis was popular in San Francisco, and she had no problem attracting men and taking them home with her. So very different from her life in Port Arthur, Texas, where she as an outcast, a freak, an overweight ugly girl no one wanted. But here she was special, the reigning queen of the Haight. Janis hoped it would last forever.

Rod Drake observes, thinks and writes in the neon fantasyland called Las Vegas. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Welcome to Purgatory, Son

2008-02-28T23:07:00.000-08:00

"Welcome to Purgatory, Son"
Flash Fiction
by Kelly Parra

Breaths gushed through his mouth. His heart battled against his ribs like a drum. "Shit," he hissed. A movement to his right caught his eye.

A man leaned his head through the passenger window. "You all right?"

"You see that shit? Fucker ran me off the road."

"Crazy shit. That's a big ass tree you ran into. You hurt, any?"

He looked down, ran his hands down his thighs. Relief cooled his head. "I'm good. Good."

"Let me help you out of there."

"Yeah, thanks."

The man walked around the back to the driver side door, tried the handle. Didn't budge. Yanked again, and the door creaked open.

He stepped out, mindful of the glass and blood.

Blood? "Shit." His head whipped to the driver's seat, and he stumbled back with a scream. "What the fuck?!"

The man scraped a hand across his jaw. "Yeah, hell of a way to go."

That was him. Leaning over the wheel, eyes wide. Blood spilling from his mouth. "Nah, man--I ain't dead. No way!" He looked around. People were all around him. Some yelling, crying. Running. "Where am I?"

"Welcome to Purgatory, son."

"I said, I ain't dead!"

"Yeah, figured you'd say that. This is where you all come who think they ain't dead." The man shook his head, slid his hands in his pockets as a woman walked by crying for her dog. "None of you are very smart."

When Hemingway Met Dillinger

2008-02-14T20:07:00.000-08:00

"When Hemingway Met Dillinger"
Short Fiction
by Rod Drake

A back room in a neighborhood bar in downtown Chicago, Summer 1934. Five men of varying sizes and shapes sat around a worn table that initials, dates and crude drawings had been carved into. A powerfully built, athletic-looking man smiled broadly and tossed down his playing cards. “Full boat, gentlemen; jacks and tens.”

As he began to rake in the money while the others at the table groaned, a tall man, who called himself Jimmy Lawrence, but wasn’t, stood up. “Take your hands off that money. I think you’re cheating.” To back up his accusation, Jimmy pulled a long-barreled .38 out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at the winner’s forehead.

“Hey, hey, let’s calm down here,” exclaimed a shorter, curly haired man whose name was Leonard Marx, but everyone in America, except at this table, knew him as Chico. Chico had a gambling problem. With some advance money for A Night at the Opera, Chico had sniffed out this game while in town for a personal appearance at the Metro Grand Theater.

Jimmy Lawrence, who was really John Dillinger and hiding out from the feds in Chicago this summer, had a problem losing.

And the winner, author Ernest Hemingway, who was back in his hometown for a brief stay between Europe and his sanctuary in Key West, didn’t like to be called a cheater or threatened with a gun. And he didn’t shy away from confrontation; he was a pretty good boxer and didn’t mind mixing it up.

“C’mon, Jimmy, this guy is just lucky, so let it go,” the fourth gambler said. He was Chester Gould, now in his third year writing and drawing the Dick Tracy comic strip for the Chicago Tribune. He had no idea who Jimmy really was, nor did Dillinger know Gould was the guy behind the comic strip he read enthusiastically every morning, cheering for the freakish criminals and swearing at the clever and upstanding Tracy.

“Yeah, Jimmy,” Hemingway replied, standing up, “sit down before I make you.” With that, Hemingway slapped Dillinger hard across the face and snatched the revolver out of his hand.

Hemingway fumbled with the heavy gun, which fell onto the table, where everyone tried to grab it before it accidentally went off. Petite and nervous, Orville Penbinder, a numbers-runner for Frank Nitti’s Chicago Mob, ended up claiming it at the same time Dillinger lunged over the table, tackling Hemingway, upsetting the table and knocking Chico and Gould over backwards.

Hemingway and Dillinger were going at it full out, trading punches like heavyweight contenders, while Orville uncomfortably held the revolver, shifting it from hand to hand like a hot potato. Gould shouted for the fighters to break it up, but was careful to stay out of their way. Chico was quietly scooping up the money from the floor, stuffing it into his various pockets, looking for an exit.

Hemingway hit Dillinger with a roundhouse punch, knocking him over Chico, who was still crawling around picking up the scattered money. This caused Dillinger to crash through the backroom door and into the bar proper, much to the surprise of its patrons. Hemingway followed him and continued the battle, as the patrons, now spectators, began betting on the winner. Chico put a fiver on Dillinger.

But the time the police arrived, everyone had fled out the back door. Hemingway and Dillinger went for drinks at Paddy’s Tavern, now bosom, if battered and bleeding, buddies. In July, Dillinger would be gunned down in the alley by the Biograph Theater. Hemingway would be back in Key West writing Green Hills of Africa, an account of his 1933 safari. Gould would use the situation in a future Dick Tracy strip. Penbinder sold Dillinger’s revolver to a pawn shop to make up the numbers money he had lost at the game. And Chico found another game in another bar where he lost all of his ill-gotten money.

Rod Drake thinks coincidences make interesting fiction. Check out Rod's longer stories posted on Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

How the Curse Was Broken

2008-01-28T17:55:00.000-08:00

"How the Curse Was Broken"
Short Fiction - Contemporary Fantasy
By Michael Frissore

March 2004
Newton Highlands, MA

When Tim entered the apartment, he smelled smoke and heard bizarre chanting. Not that any chanting isn’t bizarre.

“Oh, my God!” Tim screamed. Pat, his roommate, was putting Tim’s cat into a giant, smoking bowl. The kind a witch would use.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tim shouted.

“Oh, hey, Tim,” Pat said. “Yeah, I’m just making a sacrifice.”

“Oh, well, okay, then,” Tim said, walking away. “Wait a minute,” he stopped and rushed to grab the cat before it was too late. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a sacrifice to the gods of the game.”

“Uh-huh, which game? Sorry? Candyland? Chinese Checkers?”

“Baseball,” he said as he began chanting.

“What, again?” Tim said. “Will you please stop with this?”

Tim had been through this many times with his roomy. Pat was one of those strange Boston sports fans, especially of the Red Sox. He would chant, “Yankees suck” in his sleep. It bothered Tim that you couldn’t go to any event in New England, sporting or not, and not have this chant start. When they built the Leonard Zakim Bridge, Pat wrote letters requesting that they call it “The Yankees Suck and Derek Jeter Swallows Memorial Bridge.”

Pat had gone through ridiculous lengths to break what Tim believed was a fictitious curse, the Curse of the Bambino, including actually traveling to Hawthorne, NY, where Babe Ruth is buried, to dig him up in order the break this curse. For weeks Tim had been trying to tell him that there is no curse, and that this could be the year. They got Curt Shilling, after all.

“This sacrifice,” Pat said. “Is in order to break the Curse of the Bambino. It’s gonna be wicked pissa.”

“Dude,” Tim said. “We’ve been over this. There is no curse.”

“Eighty-six years!” Pat chanted. “Harry Frazee! Bill Buckner!”

“Listen, Patrick,” Tim said. “Babe Ruth was a drunk. He couldn’t put on his own pants half of the time, let alone a hex on an entire baseball franchise. And, if he could, the only recipients would be the bars that closed after 2 a.m. And even if there was a curse, didn’t his niece or someone officially lift the curse a few years ago?”

“She doesn’t have that power.”

“Oh, I see. But a fat, dead, drunk guy who can hit a baseball does. Well, maybe you’re right. The curse of Susan Lucci was lifted. Hey, when you’re done, do you think you could break the curse of the Cat People for me?”

Suddenly, a large puff of smoke erupted and Tim thought he could see the ghost of Babe Ruth coming out of it. There were voices as Tim and Pat stood in amazement. Then it all stopped, and there were just little smoke clouds left.

“Wait,” Pat said. “Who’s Susan Lucci?”

“Not important. Holy shit. You’re a witch.”

“A warlock, thank you.”

“So, you’re like Paul Lynde in Bewitched.”

“Hey!”

“I don’t mean that way. Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“They burn witches in this town, Timmy.”

“In the seventeenth century. Not now.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, they never burned Elizabeth Montgomery. Hey, can you grant me three wishes?”

“I’m not a genie, you ass.”

“Okay, I just…”

“That’s a far inferior show.”

“I agree, but…”

Just then a gang of unruly Puritans busted the door down, poured gasoline all over Pat, and lit him on fire. All Tim could do was stand and watch. They chanted and danced around Pat’s flaming body and left. Tim then ran to get the fire extinguisher until he realized they didn’t have one. When the flame died out, Tim stood before his friend’s charred body.

Seven months later, when the Red Sox won their first World Series since 1918, Tim tried to spread the word about Pat being the one who broke the curse. But no one would listen. So he just got wicked hammered for his old pal and chanted, “Yankees suck!”

Michael Frissore's short prose has appeared in The Cerebral Catalyst, LitBits, Fictionville, Triptych and elsewhere. He's even landed a little poetry in Clockwise Cat, Red Fez and Right Hand Pointing. He was born in Massachusetts and now lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife.

Fighting the Good Fight

2008-01-24T13:00:00.000-08:00

"Fighting the Good Fight"
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

The old windmill loomed in the rapidly falling dusk, the only structure on the red-streaked horizon. We were speeding our way towards it through the endless ranks of demon warriors running towards it, this impromptu Armageddon. Tension was so thick in our battered van that it could be cut with a knife, or more accurately, a demon’s razor claw.

The four of us had been through heaven and hell, to coin a phrase, in our pursuit of the weapons that we needed to stop the great dark evil from this infernal purpose. That windmill we were getting close to was going to be the site of a battle between the forces of Good and Evil not unlike the one in heaven when Lucifer was cast out.

But this time it’s we mere mortals against an immortal and limitless dark army. Somehow it has fallen to us to make the stand, to hold the line, to save the world (just as long as there is no pressure). Hopefully we can beat the demons to the windmill.

The windmill was closer now, and my team was as ready as they would ever be. Father Merrin had blessed weapons of antiquity strapped and belted all over him like some Christian commando, intoning a litany to calm himself. Gabriel gripped the Sword of Azrael so tightly that his hands were white, but his smile was full of youthful confidence and “game on.” Beth trying to figure out how this suit of holy armor that can shine with the Light of Divine Retribution in the heat of battle, fit her so perfectly like a second skin; He moves in mysterious ways, I tell her with an ironic smile.

She would laugh, but I can see that the endless rows of demons we are driving ahead of have taken her sense of humor away. But she and her armor will be ready when we make our stand. She gives me a crooked half-grin. I can see the barely controlled panic in her blue eyes.

Of course, it all comes down to me in the end. I possess the secret weapon, the trump card. More on that later.

We are still ahead, but barely, of the running demons-beyond-number, who are restless for this confrontation, to tip the balance for evil incarnate. We can see in their burning eyes the presence of their dark lord, and the desire to shred our soft bodies into so much chaff in the wind.

Our van skids to a stop, reaching the foot of the windmill first, its blades slowly spinning in the gentle breeze. We jump out, facing an advancing multitude of inhuman hate and rage. They raise their weapons over their horned heads and yell their war cry. The ground shakes from the sound. They are maybe 200 feet away.

It has come down to this. What we do here and now in the next few minutes could save the world. We’re its only chance.

We make a line of defense, weapons ready, the windmill under our protection, even though we don’t know what Divine Instrument resides within. But then that’s His Way, so we just focus on our task.

I can feel my team’s resolve as insurmountable odds rush toward us. They have played their part, played it well and with courage in previous skirmishes, but this final battle belongs to me.

I am calm and ready now. The first wave of demons is within 100 feet of us now. I possess the secret weapon. I know and can speak the One True Name of God. Nothing evil can hear it and live. Nothing. That is the ancient belief. I hope it’s true.

The demons are here, so I throw back my head and shout the Name.

Rod Drake lives, observes, thinks and writes in the neon capital known as Las Vegas. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

Silent Night

2007-12-10T13:11:00.000-08:00

"Silent Night"
Short Fiction - Holiday Tales
by Rod Drake

On a winter’s night in 1944, a few of us, stragglers from the 3rd Army, now deep into Germany, were settling in for the night and hoping that the weather would get warmer sooner rather than later. Somewhere in this winter wonderland was the rest of the 3rd, no doubt in heavy-duty tents with heaters and hot food, probably using the tanks as wind breakers. In this snowstorm, we would never find them.

So we decided this abandoned barn would do; at least it was dry, and a little fire would add some warmth. We could cook our C rations, so we wouldn’t starve, although real hot food prepared in the mess was running through our heads, not visions of sugar plums. Even army food sounded good to us tonight.

Cpl. Manning made some coffee, and although it was rot-gut, it put some needed warmth back into us, and made us feel more like soldiers and less like snowmen. Jenkins had cigarettes and passed them out. Between that and the fire, we were starting to thaw out. Larrimore found some lanterns by a stall and lit those for light.

“Hey,” Manning called out, “look outside! It’s stopped snowing.”

Sliding the barn door open, we saw that he was right. The sky was now crystal clear with thousands of stars twinkling brightly down on us. One was particularly sharp and large. I think it was a planet, since it wasn’t twinkling. Probably Venus.

“Check that big one out overhead,” Cpl. Denally exclaimed, “it’s like the friggin’ Star of Bethlehem!”

And at that, we suddenly all looked at each other. “What day is this?” I asked, shaking snow out of my machine gun.

Jenkins looked at his pocket notebook, grinned at us and said, “What do you know, sarge; it’s December 24.”

We laughed and went back inside the barn. Time for a lousy tin supper and then some welcome shut-eye.

Just as we were settling in again, I heard something move in the dark area of the barn. The next few seconds are still a mystery to me. Three Nazis lunged forward, towards the fire, and I fired my machine gun at them in a wide burst.

Except that the safety was on. And I never have the safety on. Ever. I don’t know how it got switched on. Anyway, those Nazis weren’t harmed. Which was just as well. They turned out to be sixteen- and seventeen-year-old unarmed kids. They had their arms upraised in surrender; all they wanted was some heat from the fire.

Carmichael could speak some German, and he found out they were separated from their unit like us, were cold and looking for shelter. Their boots had holes in them and only one of them had gloves. Carmichael told them to sit down by the fire and gave them some coffee. They thanked us, and then, in the Christmas spirit, I guess, produced some loaves of bread and Italian sausages from their packs. We made sandwiches for everyone, and one of the German kids had discovered several bottles of red wine where they had been hiding in the barn, so we all enjoyed a nice meal that night.

As if that wasn’t enough, now that the snowstorm had ended, a few of the stranded farm animals wandered back into the barn. A donkey, some sheep and two pigs.

“What is this,” Jenkins laughed, “the manger in Bethlehem?”

“I don’t know,” replied Denally, “if these three German kids count as wise men, but they did show up at this stable with gifts.

“And nobody died tonight. The war stopped for a few hours,” I added. “That’s pretty much a miracle.”

As we bedded down in the straw, Carmichael joked, “So who’s the baby Jesus?”

“I hope it ain’t Patton,” responded Larrimore, “or we are in for one foul-mouthed savior.”

We all laughed, even the German kids after Carmichael translated, and enjoyed a peaceful sleep. Santa Claus didn’t come, but it was still a memorable Christmas Eve.

Rod Drake often wishes his life were as exciting as his fiction. Check out Rod’s other stories on Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, MicroHorror, Flash Forward and AcmeShorts.

Somewhere to Turn

2007-12-05T12:59:00.000-08:00

"Somewhere to Turn"
Short Fiction – Humor
By Linda Courtland

"I want you to meet someone," Allison says. "Get in."

I slide into my best friend's new car.

"In 100 yards, turn left," a soothing male voice says.

"Thanks, Brad." Allison giggles, flipping her hair.

"You named your navigation system?"

"He's my new boyfriend."

I guess it's an improvement over the one who just broke her heart.

"Follow the road for six miles," Brad says.

"See how considerate he is? He anticipates my every move."

"Did you bring the tickets?" I ask.

She points to a corner of the touch screen. "Brad's holding them."

"In 400 yards, turn right."

"Shouldn't we get on the freeway?" I ask.

"Brad probably knows a shortcut."

Two miles later, we're cruising through gang territory.

"Let's turn around," I say.

"Brad will protect us."

At a stop sign, some tattooed teens move toward us.

"Brad?" Allison says.

The group hurls obscenities in our direction.

"Brad??"

Allison makes a decisive U-turn.

Brad's screen disintegrates into a manic mix of colors.

"Recalculating route," he says, pulling himself together. "Turn right in 200 yards."

"Don't fall for it," I say.

Allison gets on the freeway.

Brad breaks the uncomfortable silence.

"Recalculating route."

Several miles later, we exit the freeway.

"Turn right ahead," Brad says.

Allison turns left.

"Brad told you to turn right," I point out.

Allison clenches her jaw. "Yeah, but it was the *way* that he said it."

Allison's hand flies over the dash, pushing buttons.

"Destination ahead," a female voice says.

"You gave Brad a sex change?" I ask.

"Maybe being a woman for awhile will teach him some sensitivity."

We pull into the parking lot and pay the attendant to enter.

"A woman would never send us through that neighborhood at night," Allison says.

A 10,000-seat sports arena towers in front of us. Brad chimes in.

"You have reached your destination."

"Does he think I'm an idiot?" Allison asks.

We pull into a parking space.

"I'm sorry, Brad, but I just can't do this anymore." Allison presses a button, plunging her ex into utter darkness.

We get out of the car and start walking.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," I say.

"He was too bossy, anyway."

But a single tear traces her cheek.

"We had some good times," she sighs. "I hope that we can still be friends."

"Everything will be okay," I tell her, meaning it.

"Let's get some wine," she says.

We head toward the concession stands. Two guys stop to look us over.

"They're kinda cute," I say.

The guys take a detour in our direction.

"I'm not sure I'm ready yet," Allison says, facing the true source of her sadness.

We recalculate our route.

Linda Courtland would be lost without her GPS navigation system. Check out her flash fiction at Six Sentences, Flashshot, and right here at Fictional Musings.

Celiac's Are People, Too

2007-11-27T18:14:00.000-08:00

"Celiac's Are People, Too"
(A Bo Fexler Short Story)
Short fiction - Mystery/Crime
by Clair Dickson

"Wait-- she was ill on and off for weeks before she died?"

"Well, yeah, but she was a celiac. She must've eaten something that made her sick." Wendy explained.

"Over and over?"

"Sometimes that happens. Things get cross-contaminated. And the thing with cross-contamination is that one bag might be contaminated, but the next one may not be. Makes it hard to tell."

"How long was she a celiac?"

"She was diagnosed maybe two or three years ago."

"It's gluten she had to avoid, right?" I recalled my earlier research.

"Yeah."

"And how long was she gluten-free?"

"Pretty much right after she was diagnosed. Took a little while at first because gluten hides in so many products!"

"So, she pretty well knew what she was doing."

"Oh, yeah. I mean, she ate well! She could cook all sorts of meals, and you never even knew they were gluten-free. I mean, they were just good meals."

"So, she lived a full life, in spite of her disorder?"

"Yeah. I mean, she was happily married. Never had kids, but celiac can do that."

"How did her husband take it?"

"The celiac diagnoses?"

"Yeah. And the not having kids."

"Oh, fine, I guess. She told me that he never complained."

"You get along pretty well with her husband?"

"Yeah."

"He didn't want an autopsy, did he?"

"He was opposed to cutting her up. They'd discussed cremation before."

"That's what he did?"

"Oh yeah. That's what she wanted."

"The M.E. called it natural causes, based on her condition."

She touched a finger to the side of her dry eye and swallowed. "Yeah."

"And she was cremated, destroying all evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"You left your job as a dental hygienist about six months ago. Until I talked to them, they didn't put together that the missing mercury-- from the amalgams-- had anything to do with you. Or with you leaving."

"What-- I don't know what you're talking about." She licked her lips, then no sooner was her tongue back in her mouth, her lips were dry again.

"Oh, you were smart. No doubt about that. And it was only a freak thing that her parents called me and asked me to look into this. See, they were going through some of Jill's things, and they found a letter. A love letter. Dave surely didn't know that she had that letter. Wanna guess who it was from?"

She didn't guess.

"Which, there's your motive. Get this sick woman out of the way-- quietly-- so you and Dave can do… well, each other. Without fear of getting caught. And he can have the wife and family he wanted to have. Only, I was hired."

She swallowed. "So I noticed."

"You were so confident in your scheme-- I am impressed. You really kept your cool when I started asking questions. That's how sure you were that you would be able to pull this off. But you didn't think I'd check back to your previous employer. You probably didn't even think anyone would connect you to the stolen mercury. After all, it was such a small amount that you took. Mercury so highly toxic. It took a little bit, just a little. A couple mornings a week. In her orange juice? Or maybe on her gluten-free frozen waffles. But a celiac can be poisoned just the same as anyone else."

"The letter wasn't signed and it was typed. How did you know it was me?"

"Because you picked this funky font. It's not a standard font-- I checked. But it's on this website of free font downloads. You emailed Jill a link, once. You didn't count on me getting her computer, did you? Apparently you both liked fun fonts. You also both liked Dave. Maybe you and Dave can write to each other from your respective prisons. Only, I don't think you'll be allowed to download any funky fonts. By the way-- never ask how someone knew it was you!" I laughed, shaking my head.

"She was sick--" she tried feebly.

"She had a disorder. She was very much alive. She was just a regular woman with a cheating husband and back-stabbing best friend."

Clair Dickson writes when she's not teaching alternative high school. Or when she's not ill from something she ate or breathed. She's had more than 30 Bo Fexler short stories published so far. Visit www.bofexler.blogspot.com for links and more.

Slip's Big Case

2007-11-17T08:40:00.000-08:00

"Slip’s Big Case"
Short fiction - Crime
by Rod Drake

“Think you’re pretty darn clever, don’t you, gumshoe?”

“Clever enough to track you down, which in truth, a child could have done.” Private Eye Miller “Slip” Stream was known for his snappy, wise-cracking style. That and the fact that he was continually down-on-his-luck, usually getting stiffed by clients and always picking the wrong cases. And getting into fixes like this one.

“Yeah, well, who’s the one tied up and who’s the one holding the gun?” Biff Axelrod was big and dumb, the perfect stooge. No one ever confused Biff for being the boss, who was the thoroughly crooked Assemblyman Algernon “Big Al” Reinhardt. One slippery customer.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. The handsome one is tied up, the monkey-faced moron has the gun--what do I win?” Slip shifted in the chair he was tied to, but the ropes held tight.

“Why, I oughta--" Biff raised his revolver to hit Slip.

“That will be enough, Biff. The gun is to keep him in line, not bludgeon him. At least, not yet.” Big Al walked into the old warehouse, with Slip’s girl Friday, Rainey, as prisoner it seemed. “I found her skulking about outside, looking for Slip here, I imagine.” Al shoved her down into a worn chair next to Slip.

“Hey doll, did you bring me some coffee? Or maybe a sharp penknife?” Slip was grace under pressure; he was unflappable.

“I will miss these witticisms, Mr. Stream, but let’s get down to it- who hired you to watch me?” As incentive, Al toyed with a strand of Rainey’s hair.

“FDR,” Slip cracked, a topical reference in the fall of 1942.

Al smiled, withdrawing a sleek knife from an inside jacket pocket, and placed it under Rainey’s chin, grazing her throat. “Shall we try that again without the comedy?”

The situation seemed hopeless, but that was when Slip was at his best. “Let the lady go, and we’ll talk. You know, man-to-man, even though we’ll be one man short.”

Biff tried to defend his boss’ honor, “Hey!”

“Sorry, Biffy. And one ugly gorilla.”

Biff lunged at Slip, but Al held him back. That left Rainey free to act. She flipped up her skirt, which stunned Biff, transfixed by that lovely view of her slender, silk-hosed leg, from which she drew a small pistol from a thigh holster.

“Drop the gun, or I’ll drop you,” she said, standing up and trying to untie Slip with her free hand.

“That little pop-gun don’t scare me,” Biff snarled, stepping forward to grab the pistol from Rainey.

Then several things happened all at once. Rainey fired her revolver, hitting Biff right between the eyes; however, his head was so hard, and the bullet’s caliber was so small, that it didn’t penetrate the skin, just flattened itself there. But the force was powerful enough to knock Biff out, and he toppled backwards onto Al on as he collapsed. Al’s right leg shot out as he fell, catching Slip’s chair, knocking it over, which bumped into Rainey, whose arm flew up, resulting in her squeezing the trigger and shooting wildly into the air. The shot hit a lamp overhead, which fell, smacking Al on the head as he struggled to get back up.

The door to the warehouse burst open then and federal agents stormed in waving machine guns, taking control of the situation. A situation pretty much over now.

FBI agent-in-charge Connor Pangborn helped Rainey untie Slip. “Well, you led us right to the stuff. And it looks like quite a haul.” Behind them in the warehouse was a wall of Nazi weapons, spying devices and sophisticated explosives.

Rubbing circulation back into his wrists, Slip commented, “Yeah, Big Al is a fifth columnist, just like you guys at the bureau thought. I knew ruffling his feather and dogging him and his goons would eventually lead me to the goods.”

“And me to rescue you,” Rainey added.

As he was led out in handcuffs, Al moaned, “You told the truth; you really were working for FDR.”

Slip turned to Connor, “Now about my fee.”

“What fee? This was your patriotic duty, and your government thanks you for your service.”

Dog Attack

2007-11-07T12:27:00.000-08:00

"Dog Attack "
Flash Fiction
by John Sheirer

This morning when Dustin was out walking his cocker spaniel Princess, the darned little thing started to talk bad about Dustin's wife. One minute she was tugging on the leash and rooting in the dirt and pooping on the sidewalk like a normal dog, and the next she turned around and glared up at him and started ranting.

"I've got something to say, and you just better listen, mister," she growled in her throaty dog voice. "Just yesterday she neglected to give me a treat when I did that retarded trick she's always begging for. And she hasn't taken me for a walk in weeks. Can she get off her big butt and cut the web surfing down to five hours a day? And I'm not even going to mention the blanket in my crate. Pee-yew! Doesn't she know how the washing machine works? I gotta tell you, man, how you put up with her, I have no idea."

"Hey, that's not fair, and you know it!" Dustin shouted, caught off guard by this tirade.

But by then Princess was pretending to be fascinated by a squirrel scampering up a nearby tree. A young couple pushing a baby carriage gave Dustin a strange look and hurried by, keeping as much of the sidewalk between themselves and Dusting as they could.

Dustin yanked the leash, pulling Princess away from the squirrel, and they resumed walking, but the walk was no longer fun for either of them. A great deal of unspoken tension hung in the air all the way home.

When they arrived at the back door, they could hear Dustin's wife moving around in the living room. As Dustin unhooked the leash from Princess's collar, he bent close to Princess's big stupid floppy ears and whispered with as much dignity as he could project, "We'll discuss this later."

Road to Transylvania

2007-10-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

"Road to Transylvania"
Halloween Story
by Rod Drake

“A vampire!” Chester “Turkey” Hopewell screeched as he slammed the door of the pair’s antique bedroom suite in a 14th century castle in gloomy Transylvania. (In fact, that was their current advertising slogan for 1940: “Transylvania – Always Gloomy, All the Time. Take a Break from the Sun!”)

“Turkey, my boy, you’re overreacting again,” Duke Bingle crooned out in his reassuring manner, “You’ve got the willies, and you’re scaring yourself out of your wits. Or at least half-wits.”

“Oh yeah, funny to you, but I’m fighting for my life over here. I have garlic aftershave on,” Turkey yelled at the door as he pressed all of his weight against it.

Calmly tapping his pipe, Duke replied, “I believe that’s room service with our supper. Compliments of the management since we offered to do our song-and-dance act in his otherwise empty nightclub downstairs.”

“You mean that tomb in the basement! Yipes! I scared myself just saying that.” The door swung open easily despite Turkey’s desperate pushing against it.

“Your meal,” the hunchback waiter mumbled as he wheeled the rickety cart in.

“Meal?” Turkey exclaimed, lifting a container lid from which heavy fog tumbled out obscuring the tray. “Man, that looks like a B-picture on the Universal lot. Somebody call Claude Rains; tell him his set is missing.”

“Don’t mind him,” Duke mock-whispered to the waiter, “he’s been jumpy since Dottie made a picture with Errol Flynn.”

“Errol Flynn! What does that good-looking, classy, heroic, romantic guy have that I don’t?” Turkey huffed.

“I think you just answered your own question,” Duke offered, tipping the waiter. The waiter looked with his good eye at the measly coin in his hand, then up at Duke who added, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Let’s eat out on the veranda and enjoy the night air,” Duke suggested, pushing the cart out onto the stone balcony.

“Yeah, night air does wonders for my appetite, and I’m still a growing boy,” Turkey replied, tying a napkin around his neck.

“Not so much growing as expanding,” Duke tossed in, poking Turkey in the stomach.

“That’s just my muscles at rest.”

As the pair settled down to eat, a delicate bat flew onto the balcony, hovering in the air for a moment, while Turkey and Duke stared at it transfixed.

Then the bat transformed itself into a very beautiful woman in a black, form-fitting, satin ball gown with elbow-length gloves and a huge ruby necklace on the whitest skin imaginable. She was exotic-looking, with come-hither eyes and full lips.

Turkey leaped up, exclaiming, “Now, this is the kind of delivery service I’ve been looking for.” He took the breathtaking girl in his arms and put his ski-nose profile softly against her cheek, purring, “You put the va-va in va-va-voom. Let’s find a nice crypt where we can be alone.”

As Turkey closed his eyes in rapturous love, the girl opened her mouth, revealing razor-sharp fangs intended for his neck, but Duke suddenly plunged a wooden stake through her heart from behind. She went limp in Turkey’s arms.

“Hey, this babe’s gone gaga over me; I knew I was a lady-killer.”

“Junior, I think I’m the lady-killer this time. You were just the blood bank, and she wanted to make a withdrawal.”

The girl dissolved into a centuries-old corpse in Turkey’s arms. “Oh no, this chick’s older than those musty songs you warble. But she looked so gorgeous a minute ago; it must have been a trick of the light.”

“Yes, you being light in the head. That’s your vampire. You were right, Turkey; this castle is filled with vampires, and we’re on the menu.”

“Then let’s scram before some other undead pinup girl wants some of this All-American red-blooded boy,” Turkey yelled as he grabbed their luggage. “Next train to anywhere sounds good to me.”

“Let’s slip out the back before anyone misses us at the club.”

As they rushed down a winding stairway, Turkey asked, “Hey, Duke, where did you get that wooden stake from?”

“Props Department. If we hurry, we can make Berlin by dawn.”

Turkey addressed an imaginary audience. “That place is scarier than here!”

Rod Drake loves Halloween, and old Hope & Crosby Road movies, so he combined the two. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Orca

2007-10-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

"The Orca"
Flash Fiction
By Linda Courtland

The orca was part white, part black; he had no idea which box to choose under Ethnic Group. Perhaps there was a learning curve; the vet had only recently begun collecting demographic information. Surely this world-class caregiver was not intentionally insensitive to the plight of patients whose genetic makeup wouldn't fit neatly into one category. The orca had quietly endured numerous challenges since coming to this place – being called a killer in public, being forced to perform for food, being placed in amorous situations while others watched. Still, as he surveyed the doctor's monochromatic clientele – smelly sea lions with dental issues, know-it-all Atlantic bottlenose dolphins, a particularly fidgety ADHD sea otter –the orca realized with a familiar sense of ennui that he would always be different, no matter what he did or which box he checked. So, despite clear instructions to the contrary, he marked both boxes – black and white – and embraced his inherent identity, a perfect fusion of opposites that few could understand or appreciate; unless of course, he was finally willing to open up and let them.

Linda Courtland is an LA-based travel and entertainment writer. She loves whales, and travels the world to watch them.

Hidden Gem

2007-10-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

"Hidden Gem"
Halloween Story
By Patricia J. Hale

It was Halloween at dusk and Ann was living the nightmare.

The key stuck in the lock. She had the feeling she was being watched while fiddling with it and when it snapped open at long last, the key broke off in the door. “Damn it. I’d better leave the door open,” she said aloud. “If it shuts, I’ll be locked in.”

She pushed the door slowly forward and it creaked. “Is anyone there?”

She needn’t have bothered. Judging by the dusty stale air, no one had been there for at least 10 years. As she walked in, she coughed, breathing in cobwebs. She flailed her arms around to clear her way and then felt a spider crawling up her arm. “Give me a break!” She said as she flung the spider off to the floor where it crawled away before she could kill it. “Whatever.” She heaved a sigh.

Looking around the room, she could just make out the faded Victorian style furniture, a table with a broken leg, boxes. The heavy blood red velvet shades were all drawn. Not what she expected.

Just then a large black bird flew into the living room and Ann jumped back, accidentally closing the door with a thump. “Damn!” Hope that door is unlocked from the inside, she thought. “Was that a—a BAT? I must be losing it.

Then she heard voices beyond a short dingy hallway. “Hello? Hello?”

She walked down the hallway, smelling foul mysterious odors. “This is absurd,” she said under her breath. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Anyone there?” She called out, reaching the kitchen. It felt cold, clammy. She looked up at the skylight and saw the glass was broken leaving a gapping hole. She felt something under her feet, looked down and saw that bird droppings covered the kitchen floor, making almost a black and white pattern with the occasional feather. “Disgusting,” she said, continuing to look around.

The walls had faded and flowered wallpaper punctuated with horrible clown pictures in cheap cardboard frames. A small table had a large Tupperware bowl full to the brim with candy corn. Apparently, even the birds and bats had rejected it.

The voices she heard must have come from outside, because there was nothing human in this kitchen. As far as she could see. But where was the odor coming from? She gingerly stepped to the refrigerator and opened it, causing a glow of light, temporarily blinding her. She glanced in, and then jerked her head back to avoid the overpowering rancid smell. Dear God, what WAS that in the plastic bag? For the life of her, she could swear it was a human head. She slammed the door closed.

Unable to escape the smell, she bent over double, holding back from retching. She closed her eyes. “I don’t get paid enough for this!” She said and rushed back toward the living room. On the way, she couldn’t stop herself from peering into the bedroom, where she was shocked by a skeleton, hanging from a noose.

She ran to the front door and grasped the door handle to escape, but it wouldn’t turn, covered in some sort of slime. Yanking her hand back, Ann screamed in frustration, “This is it! No more! Never! I’m absolutely, positively NEVER EVER going to visit a house again without the seller! NEVER!”

Patricia J. Hale has had stories published in Powder Burn Flash, Flashshot, Flash Pan Alley, and MicroHorror. And a couple of limericks in The Rap Sheet. She writes because she can’t stop herself. Her husband can’t stop her either. For her latest work see patriciahale.blogspot.com or reach her at patriciajhale@aol.com. Especially with paying gigs.

The God of Hellfire

2007-10-11T20:29:00.000-07:00

"The God of Hellfire"
Short Fiction - Crime
By r2

I am one of the world’s best-kept secrets.

I have to be. If word were to ever get out, there would be panic. I can’t have
that. People would no longer trust the institutions designed to protect them.
People would no longer feel safe, because there is no safety. There is no
escape. There is only hell.

So every night you double and triple lock the front door. You check the back
door. You make sure all the windows are locked. If you live in a house, maybe
you check the garage door to make sure it is down. You turn out the lights.

Maybe you’re with someone. Maybe you make love. Maybe you kiss your loved
one goodnight and then turn on your side. Maybe you’re alone. Maybe you
read. Or, watch Dave or Jay. Then you pull the covers up to your chin and fidget
a little until you’re comfortable. Maybe you whack the pillows a couple of times
to get them just right. Then you close your eyes. Eventually you sleep.

When you fall asleep, you’re dead.

There once was a song, “Fire” by a group called The Crazy World of Arthur
Brown. Anyone who heard it remembers it. It was a single during a time in the
60s when there were other songs about fire; “Light My Fire” by the Doors, and
“Fire” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Arthur Brown began his live concerts by insulting the audience. Yelling at them.
Cursing them. Then, he would light his head on fire and scream the beginning
of his song: “I am the god of hellfire and I bring you…Fire!”

That was entertainment. I am real. I AM the god of hellfire.

Take Betty. Tonight she dies. She’s in her little bed all snuggly warm. Let’s see,
there’s a cat by her bed. He’s already dead. And Betty can’t even smell the
gasoline I’ve poured all around her. It’s on her chest of drawers. In her mattress.
On all of her pretty little clothes. The fumes have knocked her out. She’ll never
even wake up.

The cops have never caught me. I’m too tricky for that. I never leave clues.

No fingerprints. No DNA. No dirt samples or fiber samples. No tire tracks. No
witnesses. Only gasoline. And one charred match.

I’m very careful in my work. I am a secret because I am clever

How do I choose my victims? Easy. If you piss me off, you’re gonna burn. There
are too many people that are bothersome, nettlesome, just plain annoying. A
good, cleansing fire is the best way to remove their stain on humanity.

You just never know whom I’ll pick. If you’re rude, it might be you.

Betty Linder never thought she would perish. But she’s an awful person. I was in
a cafeteria line and I asked for more tater tots. She said they were out. Out of
tots? I love tots.

Now I’m standing over her bed. All I have to do is strike the match. Do you
know people’s skin actually melts if it gets hot enough?

I love the wompf gasoline makes. I love the crackle of fire.

“Somethng smells funny”

“It’s nothing.”

“I heard that awful song playing. Are you burning your sister’s dolls in the
utility sink again?”

“Go away mother.”

This is so much more rewarding than frying ants with a magnifying glass. I AM
the god of hellfire.

Weird Scenes Outside the Gold Mine

2007-10-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

"Weird Scenes Outside the Gold Mine"
Short Fiction - Humor
by Rod Drake

So, we're Americans in Paris, in this really weird old hotel that looks like it was designed by Tim Burton on blotter, and Amanda was pouting as usual, acting more difficult than normal because she knows she can get away with it, when walking down the funky little hallway came, I kid you not, Jim Morrison. Bearded and gray, but behind low-slung sunglasses, the mad Morrison eyes were a dead giveaway, dead being the operative word.

Jim Morrison had died here in 1973, over 30 years ago, or so the story the media had bought and printed without much proof, including a view of the corpse, or any credible eyewitnesses, and days, if not weeks, after the fact. Plus who trusts the French to give Americans the straight scoop or even the time of day?

Morrison eyeballed Amanda, which I couldn’t blame him for, and paused about a foot after passing by us, then turned around and followed us to our room. Leaning casually on our door jam as I fumbled with the foreign lock, he asked, “Hey kids, want to Break on Through to the Other Side?”

Amanda looked at him curiously, appreciating the visual attention he had and was still paying her, but most likely nothing else about him. But there was his indefinable strangeness, which was compelling in an odd way.

Actually, that strangeness, the unspoken dangerous edge, the unpredictability of Morrison, had survived and was still strong, hovering around him like pheromones on a Chinese fire drill. It must have drawn Amanda like a moth to a flame, or maybe more accurately, like a hippie chick to the original bad boy rock star. The Lizard King himself, now somewhere in his 60s, I imagine.

We went inside, sat down on the floor of the quaint little living room, each of us taking a swig from a green bottle with an antique label that read “Absinthe” on it that Morrison pulled out of his weathered pea coat. We laughed, listened to a story or two from Morrison and his lost glory days with Joplin and the Jefferson Airplane, took another drink of the funky-tasting, psychoactive liqueur favored by poets, madmen and the suicidal, and that was the last thing that I remember until waking up the next morning.

I guess it was the next morning. I was lying up on the roof of the American Embassy, in my underwear, French pigeons waddling around me with disapproving French pigeon looks, a slight drizzle just starting to fall from the gloomy French sky. I was alone. Images of last night flashed through my mind like brilliant and brief lightning strikes. One of them was of Morrison and Amanda walking, dancing actually, on the handrail at the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight. Another image was of Amanda running through the closed Louvre Museum in her underwear, guards chasing her with flashlights. She was a diversion to give Morrison the opportunity to remove a Gauguin from the wall, then climb out a window with me handing him the painting before making my own escape. I hoped that they, and other bizarre visions of activities from last night, were just hallucinations, or I’m in all kinds of trouble.

I was decorated with a long red velvet scarf that probably belonged to you-know-who from his Whisky A Go Go days, and a note was pinned to it on a piece of the old sheet music. The note said, in Amanda’s crisp penmanship, “M and I went for baguettes. To Le Mans. See you again some day.” Morrison had apparently added a whole, curvy string of “Ha Has” in blood-red ink all around the edges of the note.

I never saw either one of them again. And no one ever believed my story.

Rod Drake denies this story actually happened to him. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

FM Bulletin: Halloween Stories

2007-10-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder that in the month of October, FM loves flash and short fiction Halloween Stories!

Muhahahahahaha. ;)

We had some great ones last year. Check them out. :)

Publish or Perish

2007-09-17T22:41:00.000-07:00

"Publish or Perish"
Flash fiction
By Patricia J. Hale

I’ve had it. I can’t take it anymore.

Rejections. Damn editors. Think they’re God!

Well, they’re not.

I’m going to get this one. Samuel Nakadia. Sends me a snarky form letter with “can’t use your piece at the current time” bull. He can judge my work but can’t write a decent, original form letter? He doesn’t deserve to live.

I’m not kidding. I’m researching right now to get this blowhard’s address. Turns out he’s a real loner. House back in the woods. Doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer the door.

Drove to his city. Didn’t diaper it though, stopped at rest areas.

Scoped out his place then came back to the motel to hatch my plan.

He’s not going to know what hit him! Literally. Ha. Ha.

Next day I park up the road, grab my weapon. Sneak down to his house. Find his back door open.

I walk in and look around. What a pack rat. Wow, throw something away now and then, Samuel.

He can’t see me over his stacks of crap, but I can hear him clicking keys in a back room.

I step up to the room and can see him. Doesn’t look that different from me. Same build, same black hair, his head down, peering though glasses at a laptop screen. Looks pretty out of shape and something tells me he’s got slow reflexes, too.

Time to go.

I run in and finish him off in one blow with the bat before he even looks up. He sinks down and falls to the floor.

I find myself staring at his computer screen. He was editing some slob’s work.

Leaning over, I read a few lines. Awful. So the mighty Samuel thought this was worthy?

Not a chance.

Now, where does Samuel keep those rejection letters?

We'll Never Have Paris

2007-08-25T20:51:00.000-07:00

"We’ll Never Have Paris"
Short fiction - Humor
by Rod Drake

It was just like the ending of Casablanca. Except that seventeen-year-old Tony and fifteen-year-old Mia weren’t at an airport on a rainy night, trying desperately to escape the Nazis and neither looked much like a world-weary Humphrey Bogart or a heart-broken Ingrid Bergman.

Mia was being driven by her parents to a private school several states away which would effectively end Tony and Mia’s budding relationship. Tony had no crafty ally like Claude Rains on his side or a loyal sidekick like Sam to play as “Time Goes By” and watch his back, plus Tony certainly didn’t want to do the noble thing and give up Mia for a greater cause. It wasn’t World War II, and Mia didn’t have a brilliant young husband important to the war effort anyway. They weren’t in black-and-white Morocco either, wherever that was. This was Oxnard, California.

Mia’s parents wanted the best for their only daughter, and Tony wasn’t it. A nice boy, they said, but not nice enough. Nice enough meant his lack of future plans, ambition, personality and social position. Tony hoped to become a skateboard professional, a world champion with tons of cool endorsements and endless publicity. His parents were divorced, and his mother spent a lot of time drinking at a downtown bar, which wasn’t named Rick’s Café Americain, nor was it anywhere near that classy.

Tony hoped Mia would run away with him, come on the national skateboarding circuit with him, once he figured out how to get on it and where it was. She seemed less enamored of the idea than Ilsa was of running away with Rick in Casablanca. In fact, she appeared to actually be looking forward to the private school out east. Tony complained that long-distance relationships don’t work, and Mia cheerily agreed with him. Tony and Mia didn’t even have Paris to remember.

After a brief hug with Mia, more friendship than anything else, her parents’ car pulled quickly out of the driveway as Tony stood in the street, hoping to see Mia’s tear-streaked face in the back window, but she was facing forward, listening to her iPod and bopping to the music.

Tony decided this wasn’t like the ending of Casablanca at all.

Rod Drake has been to Hollywood, he has been to Deadwood, and he keeps on searching for a heart of gold. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Monarch

2007-08-20T14:57:00.000-07:00

"The Monarch"
Short Fiction - Suspense
by Heather Leet

She put her glasses on adjusted her suit and walked into the office building. To a casual observer she looked like every other young woman who was entering the busy office building on this Tuesday morning. In her dark suit and glasses she looked like your typical young executive who was climbing the ladder to the top hoping not to hit the glass ceiling. But if you were more then a casual observer, perhaps someone who also knew how to conceal your real identity, you might observe that the color of her hair was just a tad off, or that the glasses she wore were simple glass, or that the suit she wore covered the body of a skilled warrior. But these things were only apparent to another who worked in her same field and had employed similar tactics to conceal his identity. He got up from where he was sitting and adjusted his own suit and walked toward the building. Riding up in the elevator with his weapon concealed beneath the newspaper he held he regretted that it had been so easy to find out her every day identity. He had hoped that it would be harder to find her and still harder to kill her but it looked like this was going to be the easiest job he had ever had. He was very disappointed. He got off the elevator and headed toward the end of the hall where he knew her office was located. He smiled to himself as he looked around the luxurious office building. He could not believe that someone so skilled and adept would hide her secret identity behind the image of a frumpy accountant. What another disappointment. He expected something sexy not an accountant. He slowed as he got closer to her door. There was a sliver of a window running down the side of the door. He peered in and saw her sitting at her desk tapping away at the key board of her computer. This was too easy he thought as he twisted the knob of the office door and burst into the room. He barely felt the slight jolt as the bullet pierced his chest and blood bloomed on the front of his white shirt. She stood over him as he slide to the ground. “ Did you really think it would be that easy” she asked. “ I am really disappointed.” She said. “I was really looking forward to a challenge, and I am a little angry that I am now going to have to find a new identity to conceal my secret one, I really liked being an Accountant!” She went to her desk picked up her bag and walked back toward him. He felt hot and weak at the same time and he knew he would soon be dead. She kneeled down beside him and placed a monarch butterfly on his chest. Then she stepped over him and as she walked down the hallway he could hear the clicking of her heels on the hard wood floor, it was the last sound he would ever hear. When the police arrived to find his prone body the lead detective muttered, “I wonder what this guy did to piss off the Monarch?”

Home Delivery

2007-07-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

"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.

Photo Finish 1942

2007-07-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

"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.

3 Days

2007-07-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

"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.

All You Need Are Loveburgers

2007-06-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

"All You Need Are Loveburgers"
short fiction - Literary
by Rod Drake

It was April 1967. San Francisco was overflowing with new ideas.

Molly worked in a used bookstore on Stanyan Street near Golden Gate Park. The store also sold comic books, cigarette papers and roach clips, plus handmade hippie necklaces and bracelets. The job didn't pay much, but Molly didn't need much money.

She shared an apartment on Fulton Street with two other girls, Rachel and Patty. The building was an old Victorian home that had been converted into a dozen apartments. The Jefferson Airplane lived in an old Victorian mansion at 2400 Fulton. Molly had seen Paul Kanter come into the bookstore twice, and once Grace Slick was with him.

Molly could walk to work and up to the Haight for anything she needed. There was always something going on in the Haight; a parade, a demonstration, a lecture, street theatre or some kind of literary/musical thing. It seemed like every weekend one of the local bands held a free concert in either the Panhandle or Golden Gate Park. Something to do was never a problem.

It was almost noon, the store was empty and Molly was hungry. She decided to hike up to the Haight for lunch and see what was going on. She ran into Patty just as she was leaving.

"Hi, " Patty said cheerily, "going for lunch?"

"Yeah. I feel like a loveburger. Maybe two." Loveburgers were what they called hamburgers in the Haight now. They were 25 cents each.

"Big spender. I'll go with you." Patty handled her some letters as they walked. "Here's the mail that came for you today."

Molly looked through the stack. A letter from a friend at college, the PG&E bill, a couple of ads and a business letter from Speak Softly Recording Studio.

Molly had done some work for the studio reading Anais Nin's The Delta of Venus. A couple of guys from Berkeley ran the small spoken word recording company, and they liked Molly's voice. They said it had the sensual, earthy quality needed to interpret The Delta of Venus' erotic stories. Molly had met them at a Family Dog concert in the Panhandle. Free, of course

Molly enjoyed doing the recording; she had always liked high school drama and poetry reading. It was just something fun to do for her.

She opened the envelope and found a check. Made out to her for $500. For her vocal services. She was astounded.

"Wow," Patty commented, "I've never seen that much money. You could buy a ton of loveburgers with that!"

"Yeah." Molly was clearly stunned. "I never thought I would be paid for recording those stories. Let alone this much money."

They stopped at the Happy Tummy, the Haight's local grill and greasy spoon restaurant. Outside, some obvious runaways were panhandling unsuccessfully.

"That's it!" It came to Molly just like that.

"What's it? You're gonna buy me lunch for the next five years?"

"No. The money. I know what to do with it." She beamed at Patty like a saint who's suddenly found her mission in life. "I’m going to give the money to the Free Store, so they can continue helping people in the Haight. And to the Diggers, 'cause they offer food to anyone here who needs it. What could be a better use than that? I don't need that much money; I've got enough to be happy."

"Okay, but first you're buying me a couple of loveburgers."

"Deal. With fries and cokes."

As they left the Happy Tummy, they bumped into Johnny Acidseed, a local character who gave out free samples of LSD up and down Haight Street. He put his last hit of acid for the day into Molly's palm.

Rod Drake believes that the best thing in life is, well, you know. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Searching

2007-06-06T09:12:00.000-07:00

"Searching"
Flash Fiction
by Julie Morgan

I know things nobody else knows. I know how many legs you can take off a spider without crippling it, I know four different ways to set fire to ants, I know how to tie ten different types of knot, and I know where Jennifer Evans is.

We’re out looking for her now. Her mam’s blubbing, her little brother’s with his nana and her dad’s not here. He’s dead, like her. His heart burst in his chest last Christmas, leastways that’s what she told me. Gruesome.

All the neighbours are out. All of them, and a load of coppers an’ all. Some of them aren’t even meant to be working today, but they want to do their bit to help find little Jennifer.

They’ve put out a picture of her, I saw it on the news. It’s the last one we had taken at school. She looks dead pretty on it, got her hair tied back in a ponytail, big smile on her face, showing her dimples.

I’m here with me mam and dad and our Tony. We’re the celebrity searchers, since the last little girl to go missing was our Becky.

I know where she is, too.

They’re together, Becky and Jennifer, keeping each other company so that they don’t get lonely. Along with that tatty looking little mongrel used to hang about in the park next to the swings. Two little girls and a dog. Nice that. Bit of company, bit of fun.

‘Y’alright, son?’ The family liaison copper squeezes my shoulder as she goes past. I give her a brave little smile then go back to staring at the ground, searching. I see a button, half trodden into the dirt. It isn’t either Becky’s or Jennifer’s, I’ve accounted for all of them.

‘Here!’ I shout, sounding all excited like. ‘Here! I think I’ve found something!’ I stand still with my hand up like we were told to. They all turn to look and a copper runs over to see.

‘Good lad, Josh,’ he says. ‘Well spotted.’ I smile. I am a good lad, I know that. Everybody says so.

Julie Wright has had stories published in Bullet, Flashing in the Gutters and Flash Pan Alley, and is in line to appear in Issue 2 of Out of the Gutter. She lives by the seaside in the north east of England and hangs out on Crimespace http://crimespace.ning.com/profile/Julielew when she's supposed to be working.

Grand Slam

2007-05-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

"Grand Slam"
Short fiction - Literary
by Rod Drake

Terry “Big T” Barnes stepped to the plate quietly, powerfully swinging his bat while the New York Knights Stadium, filled to the rafters with normally loud New Yorkers, leaned forward as one, holding their breath, not uttering a sound.

It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, two men on base, one run behind their cross-town rivals, the Brooklyn Kings, and “Big T,” star of the Knights, was at bat. The perfect situation for a hero.

But Terry had other things on his mind. Mainly his wife Iris. His cheating wife Iris. And Terry knew who she was sleeping with. Marty Gaines, the third baseman for the Brooklyn Kings. Just a quick subway trip apart, Marty and Iris could do the deed whenever the Knights were on the road and the Kings were playing at home. Seemed like a cozy deal, a safe affair, and it was until the doorman at Terry’s building put two and two together

Terry looked down the third base line and saw Marty pounding his glove and grinning at his dirty little secret. Of course, it wasn’t a secret anymore. When confronted, Iris fell apart and admitted everything. That happened yesterday. Today was the league playoff game, a New York contest, the Bronx versus Brooklyn.

Terry stepped out of the batter’s box and gestured with his bat to left field. A shout went up from the crowd, at least half of them. “Big T” was calling his shot; a home run to left field, just like the Babe had done a couple of decades ago.

The Brooklyn Kings readied themselves as Terry took his stance and the Kings’ pitcher went into his wind-up. The first pitch was low, a ball. The second, outside, another ball.

Marty moved closer to third base, watching for a pop up and keeping his eye on the runner there. He smacked his glove with force and continued smiling at Terry.

Terry fouled the next pitch, a low one, that went high and hard into the grandstands; the crowd oohed at the power of the hit, and ahhed at the foul call.

The following pitch was the one Terry wanted; clean, fast and down the center. He pulled it to the left and low with an incredible slam.

Like a bullet the baseball shot through the infield, smashing right into Marty’s groin. The two runners both came home in the confusion, and when the dust settled, Terry was standing on first, smiling as Marty was carried off the field on a stretcher.

The sportscasters said it was a freak accident, but great strategy on “Big T’s” part, fooling the Kings into thinking a home run was coming, and instead hitting it infield, driving the tying runs in, while he was safe at first.

Terry waved his cap at the crowd as the Knights and the stadium went crazy. The league championship was theirs. Hoisted up on his overjoyed teammates’ shoulders in bouncy triumph, Terry watched from the corner of his eye as Marty Gaines was lifted into an ambulance. It was a good day at the stadium.

Rod Drake is thinking about giving up writing and becoming lead singer for Satan’s Cell Phone. Then again, he writes better than he sings, so maybe he should stick to what he does best. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Chatting with the Ghost of Dr. Freud

2007-04-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

"Chatting with the Ghost of Dr. Freud"
Short fiction - Paranormal
By Gayla Chaney

I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Doc. This couch is soft, and your photograph looks nice taped to the ceiling like that. I can’t remember what we’re supposed to do. Delve into my subconscious? Scour the bottom of my dark, hidden heart? Play word association games? Call me attention-span deficit, but I’m easily bored. My Id craves stimuli. I lose focus if I stare at something too long. Hey, that cigar you’re holding…is it a real cigar or a symbol from some future dream I’m going to have?

By way of introduction, consider me a Woody Guthrie song in the flesh. I reject hobo, bum, or transient, though I will confess to having migratory tendencies. But I am not lazy. It’s just that settling down seems dangerously close to rigor mortis in my book. Versatility is my strongest virtue. So, I’m a dishwasher, farmhand, cabdriver, and part-time landscaper who sometimes heads south in winter to drill for oil on offshore rigs. I can lay pipeline or cable, concrete or brick, and when necessary, I sleep in my truck. Mimicry makes all things possible.

My relationship with my mother? Oh, Doc, she gave me my nomadic soul. My name is not recorded in any family bible handed down from generation to generation. I think of myself as the product of selective breeding, a hybrid deposited like a cowbird’s egg in a robin’s nest. Wanderlust is my inheritance.

Routine affects me like an itch that I can't reach. But I'll be alright. I’m neither criminal nor insane. I just can’t remain in one place too long. A tank of gas and some cash in my wallet, that’s all I need. In motion, I come to life.

Maybe I am just redefining rugged individualism for the twenty-first century, carving out my own version of the American Dream. It’s not the Horatio Alger version, but it’s the only version I can stomach. Family and community? Chains and shackles. A picket fence or barbed wire? Any distinction is lost on me.

So, I live in this new, fluid frontier because I need diversity, plain and simple. My actions got nothing to do with repressed desires or symbolic dreams. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, right? By rejecting the tethers of kinship in favor of a loner’s lifestyle, I am simply expressing my individuality. Thank God I live in a country where it’s perfectly legal to do so. Tomayto, tomahto, and to each his own, I guess.

What do you think of my analysis, Doc? It works for me, mostly. Except for running into your ghost from time to time, in town after town, I’d probably never question why I dream of empty boots.

Gayla Chaney's work has appeared in Potomac Review, Paper Street, Natural Bridge, Thema, Carve, and online at Silverthought, Bewildering Stories, and Amarillo Bay. She lives and writes in central Texas.

Shagging Comets

2007-04-20T08:39:00.000-07:00

"Shagging Comets"
Short fiction - Sci-fi
by Ed Lynskey

The leather was soft as a baby’s butt. Smiling, Dakota smacked his fist into the baseball mitt. Driving, I sighed.

“Lance, tonight’s the night,” said Dakota.

Nodding, I stared at the headlights probing the night. “Did the Old Farmers Almanac tell you that?”

“No,” replied Dakota. “Zank did.”

Again, I sighed. “We talked about Zank. And agreed he wasn’t real.”

“You did,” said Dakota. “Not me. But I’ll send Zank away.”

“Smart move. How do your feet feel?” I asked.

Dakota gave me a grin. “Fast, man, fast.”

“That’s good to hear.” Our going to the city park at night bordered on nutty, I mused.

“Ouch!” said Dakota. “That hurt.”

“Huh?”

Dakota puffed out his chest. “I can read minds.”

“Can you? Okay, what am I thinking of now?” I asked.

Dakota’s chest deflated. “It comes and goes, I’m afraid.”

I made a left turn and sped up. The park we sought lay on the city’s outskirts. The light pollution was less there.

* * *
Dakota unlatched his car door. The dome light popped on in our eyes. “Whoa, horse,” I said to him. “At least let me park the car.”

“Hurry up,” Dakota said. “I feel fast as the wind.”

I braked, switched off the key, and threw on the brake. My squeeze on Dakota’s forearm was a gentle, affection one. “Sure,
kid. Go catch a falling star.”

Rolling out of the car door, Dakota whooped. I took a few seconds, watching him race off beyond the range of the headlights. How could one person be so happy? His parents had died in a mysterious auto wreck. They were unmarked, not a scratch or bruise. I shook my head until spotting Dakota deep in centerfield. He tilted his head to study the star-studded night sky.

I went over and flumped down on the dugout bench. I unclipped the cell phone from my belt and called home.

“Hello,” said the female voice.

“We’ve arrived,” I told Cara, my wife.

“Is Dakota keeping a sharp eye out?”

“The meteor shower hasn’t started,” I replied. “Say, where’s our special meteorite?”

“Inside the glove compartment,” said Cara. “I hid it inside a little cardboard box. Isn’t this a dirty trick to play on Dakota?”

“He won’t know the difference. Plus, he’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Okay, he’s your brother, not mine,” said Cara. “I’m going to bed. Call me if anything exciting happens.”

“Will do,” I said. “We’ll soon bag it here.”

We severed our connection. A shout grabbed my attention.

“Hey, I’ve shagged one comet.”

“Uh, Dakota, better come on in,” I said. “We need to talk.”

After removing the sunshades, Dakota trotted across the emerald turf and dirt infield.

“Let’s chill in the dugout,” I said. We sat down on the bench. I spat. Dakota spat. “Dakota, I’m a little puzzled. You say you shagged a meteorite?”

“I sure did,” he said.

His baseball mitt extended toward me, then unfolded to bare its webbing and stitches. I looked down. A nugget the size of a golf ball blazed in its greenish incandescence. I detected a sizzling noise.

“Where did you really get this?” I asked.

“The comet tumbled out of the sky,” replied Dakota.

“Isn’t that really a chunk of foxfire you dug up in the woods?” I asked.

“No,” replied Dakota. “I caught it in my baseball glove. Here, feel how hot it is.”

“You’re getting weird on me,” I said. “I’m calling your Aunt Cara. Maybe she can calm you down. Your eyes are pretty intense.”

Cara answered my ring. Watching Dakota, I gulped and then explained our situation to her.

“Yes, Lance,” Cara said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I believe it. Now, are Dakota’s eyes red and glittery?”

“His eyes gleam,” was my reply. “Way weird.”

“Excellent. Now Lance, listen,” said Cara. “Touch the meteorite.”

“Touch it? Why?” I asked.

“Just do it, Lance. Touch the meteorite and join us,” said
Cara.

The End
Ed Lynskey's mysteries include The Dirt-Brown Derby (Mundania Press, 2006) and The Blue Cheer (Wildside Press, 2007), both featuring P.I. Frank Johnson.

Wearing Flowers in Your Hair

2007-04-17T21:41:00.000-07:00

"Wearing Flowers in Your Hair"
Short fiction - "flower power" humor
by Rod Drake

It was April 1967. San Francisco was throwing out the old ways, bringing in the new.

Kat sat in the kitchen of 810 Ashbury, the Grateful Dead’s house, reading the latest edition of The Oracle, the free hippie newspaper. The noon sun made the room bright and warm. Sunny was still upstairs making love to one of the band members. Kat didn't know which one. Maybe the drummer. The downstairs seemed to be empty, and she was alone in the spacious, if messy, kitchen area.

Kat had enjoyed smoking the bong with Jerry Garcia (it was choice stuff) and would have balled him, but she never got the opportunity. His old lady, Mountain Girl, showed up and broke up the party by taking him away, leaving Sunny and Kat alone in the bedroom. Soon other people began drifting in, started smoking with them and now Sunny was with one of them. Maybe the bass player.

Kat's long-haired partner was too stoned for sex, so she left him passed out on the mattress lying on the floor and came downstairs for some Kool-Aid. She had the munchies too.

Two girls, very young, walked into the kitchen completely naked and dripping wet. Their long hair was plastered to their faces and necks.

They looked at Kat like they were caught in the act by Mother Superior. Finally one of them, a small, very thin girl, with a slight overbite and freckles across her nose asked timidly, "Um, do you know where the towels are?" A circle of water had formed on the floor around each girl.

A question occurred to Kat. "Were you girls taking a bath together?"

They both giggled like mischievous schoolgirls which they could have been. Freckles replied, "Yes, but it wasn't just us in the tub. Jerry was there too."

"Jerry? I don't think so," Kat replied. "He left with his girlfriend an hour ago."

The two naked girls looked at each other. "It was Jerry. It had to be Jerry," Freckles whined.

Kat was intrigued. "Why does it have to be Jerry?"

Again the two girls exchanged glances. "Because," the second girl confessed, "we did stuff to him, underwater-"

"Holding our breath," Freckles tossed in.

"Tag team," the other girl added.

"Until he was, you know, satisfied." Freckles blushed a little. "Because he's Jerry Garcia."

"Un-huh. Where is he now?"

"Still in the tub," both girls said in unison.

Kat followed the girls to the bathroom. "Jerry" was lounging in the communal tub, resting his head on the rim. Kat looked at him and back at the girls, still dripping water and now shivering a little.

"Girls," Kat began.

"I'm Annie," Freckles said. "Everyone calls her Mouse."

"Annie, Mouse--this is not Jerry Garcia." She turned to the man in the tub. "Who are you?"

The man in the tub grinned at them like an idiot. "I'm Duncan. I work at The Oracle. I distribute copies of it in the Haight. I heard this was the place for free dope and sex. And, brother, it's true."

Mouse sputtered, "But we thought you were Jerry Garcia!"

Annie turned to Mouse and cried, "We gave head to a paper boy!"

Rod Drake thinks about a lot of different things, and some of those thoughts get turned into stories. You just read one. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Mayhem in Mid-Town

2007-03-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

"Mayhem in Mid-Town"
A Chase Harlowe, Nazi Fighter, Adventure
Short Fiction - Humor & Fantasy
by Rod Drake

“So you are the celebrated Chase Harlowe?” It was less of a question than a pronouncement.

A pronouncement of doom, Chick Foster thought. Ever since he had been more-or-less required by his boss to protect Chase, things had gotten dangerous for him. Chase was a handful. And Chick was no hero; his weapon of choice was the typewriter being a star reporter for The New York Sentinel.

And this situation looked pretty dicey. Chick did have faith in Chase, after all, she had saved them both from certain death before. But her luck had to run out sometime. He just hoped it wasn’t today.

Madame Mayhem, Hitler’s handmaiden and spy supreme, regarded the helpless Chase Harlowe, held tightly between two Nazi goons. “You don’t seem much of a threat to me.” Then Madame Mayhem laughed a terrible, evil laugh.

Chase struggled against her captors, replying, “Yeah, well she who laughs last, laughs best.” Chick did admire her feistiness.

“Laugh at this then.” Madame Mayhem, wearing her trademark black mask with a red swastika in its center, nudged Chick to the edge of the roof with her Luger’s barrel. They stood on top of the 44-story Merriweather Building in mid-town Manhattan. A very long way to the ground, Chick noticed.

“Wait,” Chase’s voice, strong and even, rang out. “He’s not who you want. He’s just a third-rate reporter for a second-rate paper. I’m the one who’s putting the kibosh on your Blitzkrieg buddies.”

Chase was right about that, Chick acknowledged. She was the famous Nazi Fighter, America’s latest hero, when the country needed one. The New York Sentinel had christened her “our nation’s cutest secret weapon” and the “prettiest patriot in pink.” Jefferson Kane Harlowe, owner and publisher of the Sentinel, who happened to be both Chase’s father and Chick’s employer, always went overboard on subjects he cared about. And these two were his favorites; anti-fascism and pro-Chase.

“What are you proposing?” Madame Mayhem was momentarily intrigued.

“Get Hans and Fritz off of me, and you and I will settle this. And you can even keep the gun if you think you need it.” The gauntlet had been tossed, and tossed hard. That last remark angered Madame Mayhem as it was intended to. What was Chase up to, Chick wondered.

“Release the little spitfire,” Madame Mayhem snarled. She brained Chick a hard one with her Luger, and he collapsed like a bag of wet cement, moaning. “I won’t need this.” She holstered her gun and untied the whip dangling from her belt. “This will do better, I think.” She lashed it once for practice.

The two Nazis stepped back and left Chase alone to face her opponent. “Give me a moment to prepare myself.”

“Take your moment. It will soon be your last.” As emphasis, Madame Mayhem cracked the whip sharply.

Everything depended upon this. Chase pressed her thumbs against her temples and chanted the incantation she was taught in isolated Lhasa. The Lokkzu Effect. A Tibetan technique to slow time in a localized area but allowed Chase to remain outside the temporal disturbance.

Everything on the roof appeared to stop moving. She used this advantage to retrieve her discarded, faithful Webley-Vickers revolver and jab it hard into Madame Mayhem’s back. The physical contact with Madame Mayhem halted the time dilation, and everything returned to normal speed.

“Don’t move, boys, or your boss gets a liberty bullet.” Chase pulled the hammer back to show that she meant business.

Chick groaned at her feet. “Chick, get up,” Chase chided. Slowly he did so. “Here, hold my gun on those two sieg heilers.” Chick took the revolver and pointed it with shaky authority. His head ached something fierce.

Chase used the whip to tie up Madame Mayhem. “All ready for the FBI. Thanks, Chick.”

“Not so bad for a third-rate reporter,” Chick winced.

“Oh, I was just kidding. You know you’re my favorite newshound.”

“I might believe you, but wait till your father hears that he owns a second-rate newspaper.”

“Chick, you wouldn’t! Dad will never forgive me!”

Rod Drake lives in over-the-top Las Vegas and has decided that work is less fun than it was advertised as being in college. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Airing Things Out

2007-03-19T18:14:00.000-07:00

"Airing Things Out"
Short fiction - Humor
by Jason Kranzusch

Everything on the outside looked cute. Her blond hair was one of those short, bobbed numbers. Her clothes were bright. Her face was almost always smiling. Even her voice was of a higher pitch, without being nasally or shrill.

She was the epitome of the cliche. Her boyfriend had discovered the hard way. "Looks CAN be deceiving." You could see it in the eyes. The tigress in the tall grass. Waiting to pounce, but also ready to be pounced on. There was something else in those eyes, a deep mischief that bordered on cruelty.

He was on his way up to the fifteenth floor where she worked as an executive assistant. She was standing there when the elevator doors opened. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Yes." She grinned, entered the lift and pecked him on the cheek. The doors closed on them. She did the little trick with the buttons that would prevent the elevator from stopping on any other floors on the way down.

"I've got something I want to talk to you about," he confessed. He had worked at this all day and could not restrain himself any longer. He was looking at her. It seemed like she shifted but continued looking up at the floor numbers. A few seconds passed. Just as she turned her head to meet his gaze it hit him.

Foul, rancid, awful, wet were the words that raced through his mind. "Silent but deadly," she said, obviously pleased with herself.

"Really! That's gross! Uhhgghh! Eeeww!" The stench settled on him. He looked at her aghast. She reminded him of Hannibal Lecter whiffing Clarice Starling's perfume through the prison glass. They were only at the twelfth floor. His eyes watered and he tasted the Power Bar he had consumed a few hours earlier. He was at a loss.

She had phoned down for security to hail them a cab. It was waiting. They got in. He had recovered in the lobby and was back on track.

He said, "I really want us to talk. I've been thinking ..." She leaned forward and slid the glass partition closed. He thought she was doing it so they could have a bit more privacy. She took both of his hands in hers. He heard it this time.

"For God's sake, what is up with you!" His nose was assaulted for the second time in less than five minutes. He started to turn to open the window. Her grip tightened. "What the ..?"

He noticed the cabbie had opened his window. Whatever it was that allowed the smell to get to the front of the cab did not allow the fresh air to get to the back of the cab. Her fart released all the dormant and not-so-dormant smells in the taxi: stale coffee and cigarettes, vomit, sweat, ass, foot, urine, and other smells that were harder to identify but no less disgusting.

They reached the restaurant in silence. The hostess informed him that there would be a fifteen minute wait. He looked around for a quiet corner. All he could find was a large phone closet near the door. He guided her inside.

"I really need to talk to you." She stared at him. "This is serious, dear." She smirked.

The sound was deafening. The glass and wood door shuddered. It went on and on, sounding like a duck in its death throes. She was between him and the door. She secured the door with her foot and looked him square in the face.

If his stomach had not already been empty, it would have been as a result of her emission.

They ate in silence. He was shell-shocked. Well, maybe shell-shocked isn't the right word for it.

They got back to the apartment about 10:30. He had three glasses of red wine with his dinner to try and take the edge off his nerves. He was still buzzing.

They got ready for sleep and slid into their respective sides of the bed. He decided to try one more time.

"Listen, I really needed to talk to you tonight about us. I'm not sure what's up with you, all this gas passing and such. I don't appreciate it one bit. I guess maybe I'm pressuring you."

Silence.

"If you're not going to talk will you at least hold me?"

He was staring at the ceiling but could hear her stirring on the other side of the bed. He felt the covers move. He began imagining her warm body wrapped around him. The anticipation made him feel better.

Suddenly, the covers flew over his head. A split second later he heard a rumbling from her side of the bed. The next moment he was coughing. A moment after that the tears began welling up in his eyes. All the frustration of the evening came crashing back on top of him. He was lost in a cloud of insecurity and flatulence.

It seemed a fitting summation of his life. He lost it and began sobbing. He cried and cried. His body heaved under the covers. Between his sobs he could hear sounds coming from the other side of the bed. It was laughter.

Jason Kranzusch has been seen at Six Sentences, McSweeney's and The Wittenburg Door. He likes buffalo wings and the blues.

Word Power

2007-03-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

"Word Power"
short fiction - humor
by Rod Drake

By the time the two police officers arrived at the scene, it was all over but the crying. And the once haughty super-villain, the Mad Magpie, was the one crying. He was sitting on the curb, a shattered and sobbing man, no longer a vicious threat to civilization. His henchmen tried to comfort him, but Magpie would have not of it, waving them away like an upset child.

“Well,” say the first policeman, Lt. Lou Tenant, an old hand at picking up broken super-villains in Neon City, “looks like The Critic did his work on this one.”

“Yeah,” replied his new partner, Sgt. Moe Thursday, handcuffing the henchmen who looked lost and embarrassed by the pitiful state of their formerly terrifying boss. “So how does this Critic guy do it?”

“It’s a weird deal, that’s for sure. Unlike most the super-heroes here in Neon, The Critic doesn’t use super-strength or super-speed or magic rings or burst into flame or any of that stuff to nail the bad guys. In fact, he never lays a hand on them.”

Thursday started to push the manacled henchmen into the police van that had just pulled up. “That’s a neat trick; what’s his ability?”

“He makes cutting comments about them.” Tenant shrugged. “About their clothes, their looks, their haircut, those sorts of things.”

“He … makes fun of their appearance? That’s all?”

“I mean really cutting comments. He’s a master at it. It’s his super-power, I guess. Something in what he says, and how he says it. Maybe it’s some kind of vocal energy power. Anyway, it works. See the results?”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Thursday responded. “It’s hard to believe that a homicidal monster like Mad Magpie could be this … devastated by nothing more than words.”

“Yeah,” replied one of the henchman as he was pushed into the paddy wagon, “The Critic shows up, casually, unconcerned by all the violence going on, and just starts lobbing these unbelievably insightful but cruel criticisms at Magpie -- his costume’s goofy design and clashing color schemes.

“Right,” chimed in another bruiser of a henchman, “Cruel but clever. We started snickering, Magpie got angry at us, The Critic made fun of Magpie’s ludicrous temper tantrum, we all busted out laughing, then the cutting comments came fast and furious, and Magpie . . .”

The first henchman continued, “Fell apart and ended up sitting there on the curb, bawling like a baby, feeling sorry for himself. We knew it was all over at that point.”

“How did we know to show up?” Thursday asked Tenant as the police van’s door was closed and locked.

“The Critic’s teenage sidekick, Cheeky, called us with the location. He always does that. And we just come for the pickup. Usually there’s no rush. The super-villain is too depressed and weepy to escape.”

“Cheeky, huh? Cute name. He part of the criticism angle?”

“Yeah,” answered a henchmen through the tiny barred window in the paddy wagon, “He’s can give some sweet and nasty critical shots too; when he and The Critic double-team a super-villain, like they did last week to Max Force, it’s game over. Nothing left but the crying.”

“And that,” Lt. Lou Tenant added as he and Sgt. Moe Thursday headed for their squad car, “is where we came in.”

Rod Drake used to think he was a fictional character in a story, but discovered he was the author instead. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

We Spend Our Years as a Tale Told

2007-03-09T08:52:00.000-08:00

We Spend Our Years as a Tale Told
Short non-fiction, literary
By Kelli Pliner

These words could not be truer. As with every tale there is a beginning, middle and an end; although, not every ending is a happy one. We go through our life hoping and praying that the end does have happiness, but in reality, our ending – as with the rest of our life – is what we make of it.

We each write our own tale-page by page. We are all authors, penning our own book, just hoping that it will be worth reading someday. This is where I pen a small part of my story.

For years I have been a writer of others. I have created worlds, met characters from near and far and I have survived earthquakes, wars and death. Not today. Today, I will tell a part of my story. It may not be one filled with quick witty humor, or great feats of strength; but it is mine just the same. Mine and mine alone.

Those you will meet along this small trip; whether they are good or bad; have all played a key role into shaping the person I am today. However, one thing to keep in mind is that no one shapes you more than you shape yourself…whether you know it or not.

I would be lying to you if I said this journey didn't frighten me some. Things always seem more real once they are written down. It makes them permanent…concrete. No longer just a thought or a hidden memory.

One thing I ask of you before I begin my tale…tread softly through these pages. Read closely these words I write, for they are who I am; both the beautiful and the ugly. So, read carefully and judge gently, for I am only human.

Where to begin is always difficult. The actual beginning of one's life is not ever remembered. The earliest memory in my possession is one of my most precious. To this day, it brings me comfort, joy and sadness. It is a memory of my Grandfather. A man I have known for only a small fraction of my life, but a man who has played one of the largest roles.

The memory is an ordinary one.

It is weekday mornings spent at the home of my grandparents. I was no older than four and no younger than 3 ½ years old. I can still see it in my mind--coming into the quiet house, hearing Grandma in the kitchen, making breakfast and knowing Grandpa was still in bed waiting for his granddaughters to give him his wake-up call. It would be years later when I would realize that he had never really been asleep. It was only one more tradition, one more memory to keep close. Breakfast was simple…the routine a treasure…a jewel of a memory.

Grandpa would sit in his chair; my young sister would crawl into his lap and share his oatmeal, while stealing sips of coffee when Grandma wasn't looking.

I always remembered those drinking cups. For years and years after his passing, using those blue and green tin cups would bring me a feeling of comfort – a connection to him somehow…a way for me to keep him alive.

My favorite and faintest memory of him is not a holiday or special day of celebration--not even just one particular day. No. It was something that happened whenever I came to the house or he came to visit us. These 5 simple words are those I will cherish forever.

"How's my Brown-eyed-Sweetheart?"

I can no longer hear his voice and the details of his face are somewhat diminished; but the love and tenderness spoken through those words will always remain.

On days such as this one--days that are a little darker than they should be--these few words can do more than most others I know. In these few words so much is said. It is said that I am special; I am treasured, loved and protected. I am flawless to his eyes--even if the entire world says different. It says that no matter what…I am unconditionally loved…and that is something we all long to have.

Instructions

2007-02-21T09:53:00.000-08:00

"Instructions"
Flash Fiction
by Heather Leet

The instructions said to simply add water. So she filled the small glass jar with water and waited. She checked on it every few hours the first two days, then as the days became weeks she checked every few days. As the weeks became months she checked every few weeks and as those months added up and became years she simply forgot about the small glass jar and went on with her life. She grew up and went to high school, then college. She got a job she liked but did not love. She met a man she liked but did not love. She liked the life she had carved for herself but she did not love it. She never complained and was grateful for a good steady life. But she did dream of far flung adventures with dashing men and fabulous clothes and exotic places. She dreamed of becoming a spy and seeking out all the worlds’ secrets she dreamed of being a doctor who traverses the Rainforest looking for its secret cures. She dreamed of speaking every language known to man. She held her dreams close to her and told no one of her desires. Until that day when she was reminded of the instructions she had followed years ago, "Just add water." The police came to her door that day asking questions, then the FBI showed up asking questions, then the CIA and Scotland Yard showed up asking more questions. She did not have the answers to their questions. She was confused. They took her away and put her in a small room by herself. They came again and asked the questions again, but this time she knew the answers, she even could answer in several languages. She did not know how she could do this but she could and slowly as they kept asking questions and she kept answering, she began to not just like her life but love it. What transpired after all the questions is a mystery because she left through a side door and no one has seen her since. Her parents keep mementos of her around the house to remind them that she did exist. One of the mementos her mother cherishes is the small glass jar that had once been filled with water by a little girl formulating dreams of the future, on the instruction tag it said, fill with water and all your dreams will come true.

Graf Flash: Winner!

2007-02-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

And the Graf Flash contest officially ends, with some very unique and awesome entries! Thank you to everyone who entered, it's been really fun reading the flash! Not many people enjoy flash, and are willing to write about Graffiti, but you each did great and I thank you!! I hope you'll return and submit your fiction with FM. :) :)

There were two ways to win a Graffiti Girl ARC, entering your Graf Flash and simply passing on the info about the contest. Thank you to Mike Miller for sharing the Graf Flash contest on his blog. Mike has been an original FMer since we started a year ago. Thank you, Mike!!

And the winner of the Graf Flash contest is...

Anna Marie Catoir with "Boy With Paint"!! Anna wins a Graffiti Girl arc!

"Boy With Paint"

I heard the rattle of a spray can before I saw him. He looked nervous, rubbing one hand down the side of his baggy shorts. He began to spray in wide fluid arcs, that refused to resolve themselves into an image no matter how long I stared. Today he used blue, braiding his lines around yesterday’s red. I waited. The letters E-M-M-A appeared as if by magic. A name. My name. He turned to where I was hidden and smiled.

Graf Flash: The Wandering Author

2007-02-18T20:32:00.000-08:00

Graf Flash Contest
by The Wandering Author

Patrick got a lapful of engine on a fall night like this. No one asked the obvious questions. I didn't believe the stories. Too much didn't add up.

Nobody wanted to listen, so I decided to make them. Me and a can of Blaze Orange.

I sprayed "They killed Pat Byrne!" on the station wall, but a cop leaving spotted me. They left me my belt. I don't want to do it, but they'll do worse when they come back.

Graf Flash: Dead End

2007-02-18T09:28:00.000-08:00

"Dead End"
Graf Flash Contest
by Bonnie Staring

Katy’s friends told her that Greg was perfect, but they didn’t know about his unyielding demands.

"This way," Greg said.

The night air was cool. Ahead of them the street stopped at a dead end cast in shadow. Greg pulled something dark out of his pocket and Katy could taste her fear.

There was a click and a pool of light shone on a graffiti-covered stretch of concrete.

Large, colorful letters shouted out "WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

"No," she said.

Graf Flash: Dad always liked him better than me

2007-02-17T21:53:00.000-08:00

"Dad Always Liked Him Better Than Me"
Graf Flash Contest
by Mike Miller

Unbelievable. You tell me not to use your pencils. You tell me not to waste your computer paper with my "doodling." By the way, that did so look exactly like a dragon.

But, the most recent insult is too much. I am not going to repaint that wall white. It's my wall. Get off my back.

"Who painted my dog purple?"

I should probably hide that spray can before dad gets up here.

Graf Flash: Coming Clean

2007-02-17T21:52:00.000-08:00

"Coming Clean"
Graf Flash Contest
By Joni Haws

We spent our whole Saturday trying to scrub all that black paint from the church. Brick’s hard to clean. Dad didn’t talk. The muscles in his jaw stuck out, but his eyes were soft and sad. He finally left in search of someone with one of those high pressure water things. I waited for him there on the sidewalk and cried because they’d defiled a House of God. But mostly I cried because I didn’t stop them.

Graf Flash: Cheryl Strange

2007-02-17T15:04:00.000-08:00

Graf Flash Contest
by Cheryl Strange

Making the solitary trek along the road toward home, the forest beyond the adjacent field beckons me. Scanning the road over my shoulder for unwanted observers, I slip among the trees. Rummaging within the depths of my backpack, I find the cylinder I’d hidden earlier within a paper bag. Removing the can, I hesitate briefly before shedding the cloak of shyness the world sees and wield my paint can, leaving evidence of my existence on the mighty oak before me.

Graf Flash: Boy With Paint

2007-02-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

"Boy With Paint"
Graf Flash Contest
by Anna Marie Catoir

I heard the rattle of a spray can before I saw him. He looked nervous, rubbing one hand down the side of his baggy shorts. He began to spray in wide fluid arcs, that refused to resolve themselves into an image no matter how long I stared. Today he used blue, braiding his lines around yesterdays red. I waited. The letters E-M-M-A appeared as if by magic. A name. My name. He turned to where I was hidden and smiled.

FM Bulletin: Graf Flash Contest

2007-02-15T12:46:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: If you repost the announcement below on your blog and let me know, you'll be entered in a drawing for another free ARC. Thanks!

Are you interested in reading an advance reader's copy of the young adult novel, Graffiti Girl? :)

Maybe?

Wanna think about it?

While you're thinking it over, here's how you can get one...by playing Graf Flash. You write an 80 word flash fiction piece on the theme of graffiti, and enter it in the contest. The piece just has to involve graffiti. The flash can be less than 80 words, not over.

Graf Flash runs from now until Sunday, February 18th, midnight. Best entry wins the ARC. Or you can just enter for a little writer fun. Entries (with titles) can be posted in the comments or you can e-mail your piece to Kelly Parra at earthlink dot net with "Graf Flash" in the subject line, and I'll post the entries here at Fictional Musings. And if you help me out by reposting this announcement, you'll be entered in a drawing for another ARC!! =D

Here's a sample flash:

Midnight Graffiti
by Kelly Parra

The night closed around me, and I had all I needed.

Moonlight. Spray paint. Wall.

I gripped the can and felt free. The hiss of the spray filled my ears, the fumes dancing through air.

Hours passed. A car cruised by. My heart raced in the depths of shadows.

When I finished, my fingers hurt, my muscles like rubber. And there in the first morning light...my masterpiece.

The can, my pen. The street, my canvas.

My world. Graffiti.

Hope you win! :) :)

FM Bulletin: You are labeled

2007-02-15T10:03:00.000-08:00

Dear FM Contributers,

You have been officially labeled. Under your name on the left sidebar under FM Contributers, click the link and you will find each story you have shared with FM.

The only ones who are not individually categorized are the few individuals who entered the flash contest last year and didn't return, but you can find all those entries under the Doorway Flash Contest on the right sidebar.

Let's see... I think Rod Drake wins for the lifetime FM award. haha! Let's give Rod a big thanks for contributing often to FM!! :) :)

Thank you to all my blogging friends who keep returning, whether to contribute or to comment. You guys are great!

-Kelly

Cloud 9

2007-02-07T08:37:00.000-08:00

"Cloud 9"
short fiction - humor
by Rod Drake

The Cloud 9 Bar, located just outside the Pearly Gates in Purgatory Flats, was a popular meeting place for those waiting to be called up and hopefully in.

One eternal day, W. C. Fields sauntered in, nodded to the bartender for his usual, and sitting down at his regular table with his little group of scoundrels, declared, “Gentlemen, and I include Barrymore despise the obvious inaccuracy, I have a plan.”

He smiled and downed his drink, gesturing for another which would unfortunately be his last for the day, since only two drinks were allowed at the Cloud 9 Bar. After all, it was next door to Heaven. The rest of his famous tablemates clamored to find out what he had devised.

Mark Twain wryly commented, “I hope it’s not white washing the Pearly Gates; St. Peter apparently read my book and is wise to that scheme.”

Adjusting his bifocals, Ben Franklin replied, “Fields’ wisdom is like wine; it’s always intriguing, mildly amusing but gone in a swallow, only leaving a headache behind.”

Jackson Pollock, busy dribbling melted wax from the table’s candle onto a napkin he was using for his canvas, remarked, “This better be something modern, sophisticated that will work, not one of your hackneyed vaudeville routines.”

Jack Kerouac, wild eyed and wired, offered, “Do it, W.C. Grab the moment, man. Experience the now as it happens. What’s your plan, funnyman?”

Pounding impatiently on the table, Ulysses S. Grant yelled, “Spit it out, Fields, what’s your tactic to get us into Heaven; do we storm the gate or create some kind of tactical diversion?”

John D. Barrymore, the Great Profile, hung over since his death in 1942, held his head gingerly, winced and cracked, “Fields is a lover, not a fighter, General. Did I say lover? I meant boozehound. He has spilled more liquor than all of us together consumed during our entire lifetimes on earth.”

Then Barrymore flashed his matinee idol smile at Fields and asked, “So, you great rum-soaked charlatan, what ill-conceived scheme have you concocted to get us into the Kingdom of Heaven?”

“Into Heaven?” Fields was taken aback. Irritated and flustered, he fumbled characteristically with his oversized top hat. “Godfrey Daniel! Who wants to get into Heaven with the pious and the pure, that soul-killing collection of choir-singing old nags and their henpecked capon husbands? I’m talking about getting us unlimited drinks here at Cloud 9!”

Rod Drake is pretty sure this is not his first life, nor will it be his last one probably. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Break-Up

2007-01-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

"The Break-Up"
short fiction - Humor
by Rod Drake

Breaking up was never easy, never pleasant, but this time it would be even more difficult, Janie decided, since it was with a satyr. An actual satyr; half-goat, half-man, horned, pointed ears and scraggly beard. Theo, he called himself, hung around the university campus, playing his flute and chasing coeds. He was a campus character, almost the school’s mascot, at least half of him.

Somehow Janie, a pretty blonde sophomore majoring in history, kept crossing paths with Theo, who flirted with her something fierce; one thing lead to another, and suddenly they were dating, or at least keeping company.

Theo knew a lot about history, especially Greece during its Golden Age, which interested Janie, and he could definitely spin a tale when he felt talkative that captivated anyone listening (sweet young girls being his favorite audience). Before long the relationship between Theo and Jane got physical, real physical, and Janie had to admit that the sex was amazing if a bit uninhibited, along with being very frequent (actually too frequent and too public, truth be told). And that led to the problem:

Theo thought sex anytime, anywhere with anyone (or anyones) was cool; Janie, naturally, did not. And while they weren’t exactly exclusive, this was too much. After all, this wasn’t ancient Greece, she told herself; it was 21st Century America, Stanford University to be exact. And she was no casual nymph of the woods.

So it had to end. They were, Janie explained gently to him one spring day in a park near the campus, from two different worlds. Often said, this statement was probably never more fitting or true than it was now.

“Look, Theo, you’re a forest deity, an immortal spirit of the woodlands; I’m just a girl from Petaluma who likes shopping and dance clubs. I have to behave according to established human rules. I can’t keep seeing you as a . . . boyfriend of sorts, when you are so, well, unconventional is being kind, uninhibited is closer to the right word, but I guess amoral is the most accurate term.” Janie bit her lower lip and waited. Did she hurt his feelings with her honesty?

Theo had no rules of conduct, and why should he? He was satyr who spent his time frolicking, flirting, fluting and removing twigs from his beard. His thoughts were few and far between, usually focusing on sex, playing the flute, sex, chasing girls, sex, spinning stories, sex, drinking wine and sex. He knew Janie was saying something, but he was too busy peering down her blouse to listen.

With no response from Theo, Janie felt compelled to come right out and say it. ”It just isn’t working anymore.”

Theo knew that everything he had was working. Working well. Very well and very often. He was confused, so he decided to go with what he knew best. Leering, he asked, “Want to do it right here in the park?”

Breaking up with Theo was easier than Janie had anticipated.

Rod Drake used to think he was a fictional character in a story, but discovered he was the author instead. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Nasty Thoughts

2007-01-12T08:52:00.000-08:00

"Nasty Thoughts"
Short Fiction - Crime
by Stacie Penney

Perhaps it's my Catholic school upbringing that makes me believe that the passing police officer will stop me. Does the imagination have far to leap when it's trained to believe that a supreme being knows everything about you? Could a human tell when you have sinned from the flapping plastic garbage bags in the bed of the truck?

I watch my rearview mirror, just in case, but the police car continues. No dramatic u-turns or flashing lights. No wailing sirens or amplified voice demanding I pull over immediately. Nothing about the rusted frame to catch his attention.

Quite disappointing.

Perhaps if my parents had chosen the public school, I wouldn't possess a misplaced sense of importance. But they choose the finest school the Church had to offer. It was easy to believe their teachings when nothing contradicted them.

The problem might not have been a by product of my fine religious upbringing. It was, after all, my parents' decision to send me there. My mother specifically.

I expect that after three miscarriages and eight years of marriage, it was easier to indulge her whims than fight. How does one fight against someone who has the backing of the venerable institute like the Catholic school? God commanded, "Go forth and multiply." She treasured the command in her heart but wasn't allowed to fulfill it. I was meager satisfaction for the promised blessing of children.

My mother enforced the Church's teachings at home while Daddy read the newspaper. Once I crossed that line symbolized by puberty and middle school, I heard nothing but how boys wanted to take advantage of girls and talk them into doing nasty things.

I was curious. Not about the boys so much, but the nasty things. No one could actually say what those were. Even when she screamed threats through the locked door, she was careful not to let it slip what might be so nasty.

I never heard my mother yell as loud as she did when I played hooky in seventh grade. Until today. But that day was just as thrilling. After that I heard about girls who had nasty ideas and unnatural thoughts and needed to pray for their souls.

My knees still ache when I think of the Hail Marys I did for penance.

Today my mother learned just how nasty a girl's thoughts truly can be.

My rear view mirror isn't large enough for me to watch the police car drive over the bridge that leads to the bad side of town. I'm sure that's where he's headed, though.

Probably answering a call of domestic abuse or a child playing with a gun.

No reason to suspect that the lumpy garbage bags in the bed of my truck are anything other than lawn clippings.

Stacie Penney resides in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, with her husband, two sons, two dogs and possibily a pair of ducks, should they decide to return this year. In between dishes, laundry and researching Oshkosh's night life, she's stealing time to finish her next novel. Raspberry-Latte.blogspot.com is the best way to catch-up with her.

The Real Genesis Story

2007-01-09T18:11:00.000-08:00

"The Real Genesis Story"
Short Fiction - humor
by Rod Drake

So after creating the heavens and the earth, light and dark, the sun, moon and all the rest of the solar system, plus fish, birds and animals, God created Adam and Eve in His own Image. He put them in the Garden of Eden, and gave them only one rule: do not eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Satan, disguised as a serpent, deceived and manipulated Eve into eating an apple from the Tree, which she shared with Adam and then Big Consequences took over and none of them were even remotely good.

That’s the story that ancient Hebrew scribes and storytellers were told. But it’s not what really happened. Here’s the straight scoop.

Eve was a lot sharper than in the original tale; she was also the only woman in the world, so that gave her an enormous edge. She realized her feminine power and started using it immediately.

She wrapped the snake around her little finger, and he became her obedient pet. Eve made apple martinis out of the fruit from the Tree and coaxed the beavers into cutting down the Tree of Knowledge. Then she flirted with other animals, apes and monkeys in particular, until they all agreed to build her a lovely split level with a nice picket fence out of the Tree for Eve and Adam to live in.

By the time God came to visit Eden, there was no Tree of Knowledge for Him to find, and Eve was too busy to answer God’s questions. Adam, as usual, knew nothing about anything.

Eve ordered the animals to fix up Eden as she decided it should look. Less jungle, more cultivation, the rise of feminine style. The animals were too much under Eve’s dainty thumb to speak up, so God left, shaking His head.

By the second day, Eve was wearing a smart-looking, nicely tailored silk business suit, short skirt and low-cut, to keep Adam on a short lease. She spent most of their time together in the split level pestering him to go talk to God about getting a better job, something in management, maybe director of the tides or vice president of sunshine. And when were they going to take a vacation?

By the third day, Eden was no longer a paradise but a fascist sorority of one. Adam just tried to stay out of the way and find something to repair so that he would look busy.

God realized that He had made a mistake, which was quite a surprise to Him, so He created a dimly lit bar just outside the Gates of Eden, peopling it with other downtrodden working stiffs for Adam to drink and commensurate with about women, work and life in general.

The snake decided Hell was better than this estrogen paradise and slithered out of Eden, now renamed Eve’s Home & Garden. God decided to just stand back and let events take their own shape. And so the world began.

Rod Drake often wishes he were someone else. This is not one of those times. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

Clark

2007-01-05T10:13:00.000-08:00

"Clark"
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Randall Pretzer

“You don’t really love that guy,” I said.

They both stopped and looked up at me.

“I do too," she said.

“No, you don’t," I said.

Eddie got up from the bench and walked over to me. I didn’t know what else to say.

“This is none of your business. Now beat it.”

He pushed me but I didn’t budge an inch. He was perplexed. I stood still.

“You are making a mistake, my dear,” I said to her, overlooking Eddie.

“I am going to give you five seconds to leave or I am taking you down.”

He raised up his fists. I didn’t budge.

“It will only help both of you in the end.”

He threw a punch at my face, I didn’t even feel it. He grabbed his hand and screamed in pain. Eddie kicked me between my legs and the pain caused him to fall on the ground.

She ran up to him and hugged him. She looked up at me.

“Why are you doing this? Can’t you see you have hurt him?” She was crying.

“I didn‘t do anything to him, but here let me help.”

I kneeled down and grabbed his hand and foot. He felt no pain in a few seconds. He felt his hand and foot. Eddie looked at me astonished and she got up slowly and backed away a bit in fear.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Just a friend of humanity. I am sorry for the trouble.”

I was about to walk away, but then she came up to me. Eddie slowly got up to his feet.

“How do you know if I love someone or not?”

“Because I can see right through you.”

She turned to Eddie. Eddie went up to kiss her but she pulled away.

“No, Eddie. I am sorry. I don’t love you.” She started to cry again.

“What do you mean? Of course you love me. Why are you listening to this guy? He is no one.”

He went up to her again and put his hands on he shoulders. Angela removed his hands gently and backed further away closer to me. “I am sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie walked away. Angela turned to me once more.

“Thank you. You stopped me from making the biggest mistake in my life.”

She came up and hugged me. I hugged her back and let go.

“You’re welcome but, really, you did the work.” I smiled.

“What is your name?” She let go of me.

“Just call me Clark.” I fixed my glasses.

“Nice to meet you, Clark. I am Angela.”

She put out her hand. I took it and we shook gently.

“Nice to meet you Angela.”

I let go of her hand.

“Well, want to go for a walk?”

She put out her hand again.

“All right.”

I took her hand.

Randall Pretzer has been writing since the 4th grade. He has written a few screenplays, plays, several short stories and poems, and had a few poems published in the National Library of Poetry.

FM Bulletin: Contest @ Clarity of Night

2007-01-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

Jason says...

Using the photograph above for inspiration, compose a short fiction piece of no more than 250 words in any genre or style. Send your entry to me by email at jevanswriter at yahoo dot com before 11:00 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th (Eastern Time, United States). I'd prefer attachments formatted in Microsoft Word or Word Perfect, but if you have something more exotic, you can paste the text into the body of an email. Each entry will be posted and indexed.

Check here for the rules!

I Resolve

2007-01-01T21:34:00.000-08:00

"I RESOLVE"
Short Fiction - Crime
By BJ Bourg

Paul Rutherford leaned across the narrow table and kissed his girlfriend’s soft lips. “Happy New Year, baby.”

“We still have fifteen minutes.” Darla smiled, dimples accentuating her sculptured features. “But don’t you mean ‘Happy Anniversary’?”

“Yeah, hard to believe it’s already been a year.”

“Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

“I agree--”

“Hey, everybody,” Rex, the old bartender, called to the handful of patrons scattered about the lonely saloon. “Care to share y’all’s New Years resolutions?”

“I plan to make love to Darla more,” Paul bellowed.

“Me, too,” a stranger slurred from across the room.

Paul felt his face redden. He stood to see who said it.

“Okay, Paul,” Rex soothed. “It was a joke.”

Before Paul could respond, a stranger in the shadows of the room called out in a raspy voice, “In 2007, I resolve not to take any more crap from my husband.”

Something shattered against a wall. A belligerent drunk bellowed, “And I’m gonna break more beer bottles than I did last year!”

Amidst the raucous clatter that followed, Darla stood and grabbed her purse. “Let’s go to the room. It’s getting too wild in here.”

Paul nodded and escorted her to the door. Unable to secure a designated driver, they’d decided to spend New Year’s Eve in the hotel across from Rex’s Watering Hole. If Paul had his way, they would lock themselves in Room 210 and not come out for two days.

Once they were settled in the room, Darla flicked off the lights and tackled Paul onto the bed. “I’ve been waiting for this night forever,” she whispered.

“Me, too.” Paul pulled her face close to his in the darkness and rubbed her back.

Just as their lips met, the door rattled from the force of a heavy knock. Darla jumped in his arms. “Who could that be?”

“Can’t be the manager, we didn’t start making noise yet.”

“Well, no one knows we’re here.”

“Probably some drunk at the wrong room.” Paul rolled from the bed and padded to the door. He peered through the hole, but couldn’t make out the figure in the darkness. Leaving the chain in place, he opened the door a crack. “Can I help--”

The door burst inward and smashed Paul across the face. Something struck his chest and he fell backward, onto the floor. The door slammed shut, lights flooded the room. Darla screamed.

Paul lurched to his feet, blood oozing from his nose. A large man stood before him in a trench coat. A black Glock, equipped with silencer, protruded from the man’s right coat sleeve.

Paul took a cautious sidestep toward Darla, who was huddled at the head of the bed, a pillow covering most of her face. “What…what do you want?”

The man’s face twisted into a wicked smile. “In 2007, I resolve not to take any more crap from my husband.”

That raspy voice--the stranger from the bar!

The man pointed the gun at Darla.

Paul lifted his hands. “Whoa, whoa, mister, wait, stop! What the--”

The gun bucked in his hand. Once, twice. Darla screamed and struggled briefly, the life slowly leaving her body. Paul dove onto the bed and cradled her, tears streaming down his face. “Jesus, God, why? Why are you doing this? Who are you?”

The man calmly shifted the muzzle of the Glock to Paul. “It’s what Cynthia told me.”

Paul’s heart stopped beating. He stared wide-eyed at the stranger. “What did you say?”

“The New Year’s resolution. It’s what your wife said when she paid me to kill you and your girlfriend.”

As Paul slowly stood to his feet, fireworks exploded outside the room in celebration of the New Year. It was the last thing he would ever hear, his lifeless body thumping to the floor long before the echoes of the first volley had faded into history…

THE END

Visit BJ's websites, www.bjbourg.com and www.mouthfullofbullets.com.

F.E.B.

2006-12-29T10:40:00.000-08:00

"F.E.B."
Short fiction - Sci-Fi
By Ed Lynskey

“Space aliens can commingle with the populace. They might be the barber who cuts your hair. They might be the preacher who leads your Sunday worship. They might be the mechanic who does your brake job . . .”

A thumbnail scratching my eyebrow, I flipped the booklet over. Generic beige, it was titled “CITIZENS HANDBOOK NO. 13-A.” Quaint, I thought. The 1956 copyright cited its publisher, Federal Extraterrestrial Bureau. Or F.E.B.

My mind took flight. Buried deep in the government's bureaucracy, the lean, mean organization called F.E.B. (a precursor to S.E.T.I.?) had pursued its charter. 1956 was the year the U.F.O. hysteria climaxed . . .

“What's that?” Dickey nodded to indicate the booklet in my hands.

“It covers the personality traits an alien might exhibit,” I replied.

“No kidding.” Distracted, Dickey dropped the manila folders. They clomped to the attic floor. Gray dust stirred. “Like what, for instance?”

My shrug showed disinterest. "How aliens dress, talk, and act. Stuff like that.”

That response drew a dry chuckle from Dickey. “My Uncle Felix, what a sense of humor.”

“Some government outfit called F.E.B. put it out,” I said.

Dickey gaped at me. Arrow straight, he stayed a bundle of nerves and boundless energy. "Uncle Felix had a government job. What I never knew precisely. A paper shuffler was my impression. But he was smart as a cactus.”

“It could be Uncle Felix was a key cog in this F.E.B. wheel,” I said.

Blade-thin to my roly-poly, Dickey moved around a ladder-back chair holding more cardboard boxes. “JUNK” had been scrawled across them. Tired and sore, I’d concur. “We haven’t made a dent in this mess,” he said.

“May I make a suggestion? Let’s haul down it down into the yard. Do our sorting down there.”

A new optimism brightened Dickey’s scowl. “Good idea. The F.E.B.? I wonder if they still exist.”

I retrieved a brass floor lamp, no shade. “Maybe this was Uncle Felix’s home project. Something to laugh away the hours.”

“Now, don’t go ragging on Uncle Felix,” said Dickey. “Excitable, yes. Rash, yes. Brilliant,
definitely. Crazy? I never thought so.”

“You were a loyal nephew.” With extra care, I propped the brass floor lamp, possibly an antique, against a
chest of drawers of the same vintage. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to write this booklet, probably for distribution.”

Dickey sighed. “Do you watch those fifties sci-fi flicks? Campy, sure. But I love ‘em.”

“Yeah then Star Wars came along and killed off the pulpy stuff,” I said. “I own every issue of Weird Tales except two. One had a Robert Bloch tale. The other published Manly Wade Wellman and Ted Sturgeon.”

“But this booklet is freaking me out,” said Dickey. “I mean Uncle Sam issues a handbook to identify space aliens among us. Was it a freebie?”

I looked. “Must’ve been. No price is listed on the covers. Who’d order such a publication?”

“Oh near everybody was paranoid back then,” said Dickey. “Duck and cover. Fallout shelters on every street corner. What ever happened to them?”

“Beats me,” I said.

“I need to take five.” Grunting, Dickey copped a squat on a steamer chest. “Lay a few signs on me. What do I look for in a suspected Martian? I already know about their green skin.”

“Well . . . aliens, according to this, like meerschaum,” I said.

Again, Dickey chuckled. “Martians like to smoke pipes?”

“No,” I replied. “They like to eat meerschaum. Ingest it as nourishment.”

“Nonsense,” said Dickey. “Uncle Felix did up that booklet as a practical joke.”

“Did he ever marry? Kids?” I asked.

Dickey wagged his head. “Uncle Felix remained the family’s confirmed bachelor.”

“What did the old boy do for fun?” I asked gazing around at the shabby debris. “Besides playing a pack rat and a practical joker?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dickey. “Uncle Felix was a jolly elf. Always laughing. He loved telling
‘knock-knock’ jokes. I can still smell the aromatic tobacco on his clothes. Cherry swisher.”

“Sure,” I said. “So, Uncle Felix was a big pipe smoker.”

“Was he ever,” replied Dickey. “Uncle Felix could put a smokestack to shame.”

“Maybe we’ll run across his collection of pipes,” I said.

“Doubtful. As I recall it Uncle Felix forever lost his smoking paraphernalia,” said Dickey.

“So he was absent-minded, too.” I fished two objects out of my brown paper bag. “Candy bar?”

“No, I’ll pass for now . . . is that a crunchy peppermint filler?” asked Dickey.

My head shaking, I spoke between deliberate chews. “No. Meerschaum.”

To his credit, Dickey cobbled it together fast. “No-no. It can’t be.”

“It can and it’s time for you to learn. First, I refer you to page 14,” I said, brandishing CITIZENS HANDBOOK NO. 13-A at Dickey. “The heading reads: ‘Reincarnation Traits’.”

Ed Lynskey's crime fiction novels include THE DIRT-BROWN DERBY (Mundania Press, 2006), THE BLUE CHEER (Point Blank/Wildside Press), PELHAM FELL HERE (Mundania Press, 2007), and TROGLODYTES (Mundania Press, 2008). A science fiction novel, THE QUETZAL MOTEL (Mundania Press) is due out in 2007. His work has also appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.

Happy Holidays!

2006-12-24T20:33:00.000-08:00

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Butcher's Block

2006-12-22T19:48:00.000-08:00

"Butcher’s Block"
Flash Fiction
by Mathew Danaher

Writers get writers’ block, so it is possible for butchers to get butchers’ block? I look at the shoulder of lamb in front of me and feel completely uninspired. Around me the cold pinks, whites, and reds hang from their hooks. They are choice cuts to say the least, and most of them will be gracing some of the finest dining tables and restaurant kitchens in the land. Today though they do nothing for me. I throw the hacksaw down on the pile and stomp off through the bucket of disinfectant and out into the yard. Here the strong winter sun warms my bloodstained white overalls and makes the little gobbets of sheep’s flesh start to smell, so I brush them off. The two polish lads from the agency are hosing the blood and shit off the yard with the karcher jet wash and the red puddles are slowly evaporating.

After the shift, having still failed to find inspiration in the meat, I go for a pint in the Horse’s Head with Trev the driver and shop steward. He’s a decent bloke, and he’s got me off disciplinaries a few times, quiet though until he starts banging on about "The Party" and how it will lead us to a new world if we only buy the paper and call for a general strike now! (Always with an explanation mark.)

“Yeah, alright, mate”, I say not really listening, “fancy another?”

Later with three pints of lager and a packet of crisps dissolving in my gut, I walk home through the high street pausing to check in the windows of the various employment agencies. Forklift drivers, van drivers, process workers, all wanted for six or seven pounds an hour. I want another job, hacking at the bodies of freshly slaughtered heifers, living among sheep that are about to be stunned and have their throats cut soon looses any appeal the slightly higher wages might have given it at first.

In the window of the job centre an advert catches my eye. "Prop builder and set designer required by Marvo the Magnificent, meets minimum wage requirements."

Time to put my GCSEs in art and design and technology to the test, I think, I could well imagine working for the illusionist.

Mathew Danaher is a London based writer.

FM Bulletin: Thanks Graham!

2006-12-22T08:44:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Graham Powell for running the cool site that rounds up crime and mystery blogs, CrimeSpot.net! Today the owners of blogs listed on his site are giving a big thanks for all his hard work. :)

The Little Boy

2006-12-18T08:43:00.000-08:00

"The Little Boy"
Short Fiction - Literary
by C.S. Nusbaum

The bag of marbles hit the floor with a crack that filled the hall with echoes. The little boy’s frightened face turned even whiter when the man took a step toward him. His eyes grew wide, and he tried to speak, but his words were incomprehensible.

The man wore a black coat, worn to a faded grey, hood up. His face was scraggly and unshaven, flecks of dark grey and white like snow over his chin. His eyes were a watery blue, deep yet empty. He took short, staggering breaths, and his smile was terrifying.

Yet, there was something in the man’s unmoving gaze on the little boy, something wishful, even longing. the man’s lips opened slightly, as if he were to say something.

The boy didn’t move. He felt afraid, but he couldn’t stop looking at the ragged man standing before him. the old man smiled encouragingly, and the boy, forgetting himself, smiled back. It was kind of nice, the small happiness that protruded from the man’s sudden appearance. something…special.

Footsteps echoed through the great hall, shoes of firm, womanly heels. the little boy twisted his head to look back, and saw his mother walked through the doorway. The little boy turned back to the man. His mother frowned disapprovingly and she put on her silk gloves.

“Robin,” she called grimly, “come back here."

The little boy tried to ignore her, not wanting to tear his eyes away from the man. The man grinned appreciatively.

“Robin?” the boy’s mother called, “Didn’t you hear me? We’re leaving now.”

The little boy gave a little, half-sigh. He tried to wave, but it came out half-heartedly. At last, he gave one last look at the man, then turned away to trudge back to his disapproving mother.

“What did I tell you about talking to them?” the mother asked frowning deeper. She sent a swift, piercing glance to the man still standing in the same place as before. “I don’t want you to do that, not ever.”

The little boy suddenly brightened. He tore himself from his mother’s side and ran back to the old man.

“Robin!”

The little boy kept running. when he reached the man, he bent down and picked up his bag on marbles. Slowly, carefully, he handed them to the man, who took them equally carefully in his right hand.

“Merry Christmas.” the little boy whispered. The he stood up and ran back to his mother, who grimaced at the scene in a stern manner. Their voices could be heard until they reached the parking lot.

“Robin, what did I tell you? No talking to that sort. It’s not good for a young boy like you.”

“But, Momma--”

“No buts. I don’t want you to ever do that again.”

The man listened to them quarrel until the voices died and silence recommenced. He tilted his head, one glistening tear dripping down his face and into his frayed cloak.

“Merry Christmas.”

Fallen Angel Blues

2006-12-11T18:58:00.000-08:00

"Fallen Angel Blues"
Flash Fiction
by Rod Drake

Satan was sitting in an outdoor Italian café in North Beach enjoying the warm breeze from San Francisco Bay. It was a shock to see him, looking as he did now. The horns were filed off, the goatee shaved, cloven hooves hidden in Reeboks, tail jammed into old man slacks and wearing a retro ‘50s bowling shirt. With spaghetti stains on it.

I knew him from the old days, back when I was a guardian angel. I left that job to work as a free-lance do-gooder.

He recognized me, nodded hello, so I sat down at his table. “Why are you doing here on earth, Satan,” I whispered.

“Call me Luce,” he replied, apparently going by a nickname for Lucifer. “I have no choice; hell is so overcrowded, you can’t swing a pitchfork or lash your tail without bumping into some damned soul. It’s a nightmare.”

“Looks like you’re winning the battle for souls,” I remarked.

“Yeah, lucky me. No bad deed goes unpunished. But that’s only part of it. I’ve got no job either.”

“What do you mean?”

“People in this world have gotten so greedy, so ruthless, so completely amoral that I don’t need to tempt anyone into giving me their souls; they do it all on their own, gladly, like direct deposit.” He shook his head. “I’ve got no home, no job, no purpose anymore.”

I almost felt sorry for him. “Perhaps this is the Almighty’s idea of retribution. You know, He is All-Knowing. And He enjoys irony.”

Luce shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway, I’m thinking of starting a whole new career. Something where my talents would be useful; you know, my gift of gab, knowing how to motivate, making secret deals, collecting favors.”

I was stumped. “What would that be?”

“Politics,” he smiled, and I saw the old glint back in his eye.

Rod Drake watched too much television growing up, which obviously warped his imagination. Check out Rod's other stories published in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Lawn Mower

2006-12-07T10:50:00.000-08:00

“The Lawn Mower”
Short Fiction - Romance
By Stacie Penney

Silence hung between them as the roar of the lawn mower faded from their ears. She had watched him from the window for the last twenty minutes while he drove up and down the lawn. The lawnmower made tidy rows, but it was the operator that interested her.

"Thought you might be thirsty, seeing as you've been working so hard." She held a wooden tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses garnished with lemon. Shorts of an indecent length exposed tan legs that ran for three miles every day.

"Yes, ma'am, I am, but not as bad as when I use the push mower." He took one of the two tall glasses. The sun-brewed tea had been poured over full glasses of ice. It had just been pulled off the porch; he'd watched her bend down to get the gallon jug. The tea hadn't completely cooled from the ice, but that was how he liked it.

"I didn't remember seeing the tractor before. New, is it?"

He took a long drink, partly to quench his thirst, partly to prolong the conversation. "Yep, she's part of John Deere's LX Series. Fifty-four inch mower deck with three blades."

She ran her hand over the steering wheel. Her fingers curled around the black circle's edge. His thoughts wandered to what else those fingers might curl around. He looked up and realized the question she had asked had fallen on deaf ears.

"What was that, ma'am? I missed it."

Her lips curved up at one corner as if she knew his thoughts and why he had missed her question. "I asked how long you'd had it."

A moment fumbled between them before he realized what "it" referred to. "Only a couple weeks. This is the first big job I've had to use her on." He gestured to a realtor sign with "Sold" hanging from the bottom.

His eyes roved the brilliant green grass that could have been found on a golf course. Half of the 2.5-acre plot was striped from the mower's patterns. "Sure would be tough to mow this with a push mower."

"Refill?" She held up the pitcher. The ice clinked against the side and sweat dripped from the bottom.

"Don't mind if I do." He held his glass for her to refill, glad that she was interested in continuing their conversation.

"I really appreciate your hard work. It's nothing big, but I'm sure the heat gets to you. Riding on that tractor must take it right out of you."

"It's nothing. I'm glad to have it."

"Will you get much use out of it?" Her question was followed by a long drink from her own glass. He watched her take long swallows of the cool liquid. A bead of sweat ran from her forehead, down her cheek and into the collar of her shirt where it disappeared. Once again, he had forgotten the question she asked.

"Well," he said when he remembered. "It has about 20 different attachments that will make it real useful all year." He continued to list the attachments for her and explained how they were useful for large yards, such as this country home had.

Her hand moved from the wheel of the tractor to the back of his seat as she leaned in to better see what he demonstrated. Neither was interested in the conversation so it didn't matter what he said. When he finished, her face was no more than five inches from his.

"When you're finished, you could come up to the house and I'd show you around. Since we're new here and all."

"What would your husband say about that, ma'am?"

"He'd never know."

Her eyes were a deep blue, the pupils dilated. The tip of her tongue reached out to moisten her lips.

"Unless, of course, you'd like a break now. Before you finish the rest of the yard."

The green and yellow lawn tractor was abandoned. It sat under the weeping willow tree, about two-thirds of the way through its path across the yard. Two empty glasses and a half-full pitcher of ice tea sat on the mower cover.

A dark blue sedan pulled into the driveway, the passenger door opening as the car glided to a stop.

"Bye, Aunt Becky. Thanks for the ride home." A tan hand held onto the door and pushed it shut before turning to find the lawn tractor sitting in the middle on the front lawn.

"Will those two never stop?" Her sigh followed her as she walked to the front porch that curved gracefully around the front of the house. She rang the doorbell, to let her parents know that she was home.

You Just Killed Me

2006-12-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

"You Just Killed Me"
Short Fiction - Crime/Suspense
By Kelly Parra

The wind was fierce, blowing autumn leaves across the busy intersection. I pulled the lapels of my coat tightly together as I walked down the sidewalk.

From an outdoor restaurant, a slip of paper flew off a patio table across my line of vision. A man cursed, jumping from his seat and grasping for the airborne slip. "Get that paper!"

I grabbed for it, but the wind took an unexpected spiral, spinning the note up and then down, straight into the street gutter.

The man ran past me, falling to his knees on the curb, clawing at the iron grate. "No, no, no! I can't reach it. It's ruined down there. I won't be able to read it!"

I hesitated, a little weirded out by his actions.

He slowly got to his feet, turned toward me. His face looked pale. "You just killed me."

I blinked. "What?"

"You just killed me," he said, an octave higher. "Clues to my wife's whereabouts were on that paper. Oh God." He cocked back his head, stared up at the cloudy sky.

"Calm down," I said. "What are you talking about?"

His face scrunched and a tear escaped down his cheek. "I'll never see her again. Oh Sally. Sally!"

"Hey, buddy." I patted his back. Yeah, I was awkward about it. "Take it easy."

Something snapped inside of him. His eyes flared. He clenched my arms in a vise grip. "I didn't mean to take their money. I didn't know the stock would drop. A sure thing it was supposed to be. A sure thing!"

Realization slowly crept through my system. Had the guy mixed with the wrong people?

He released me, plowing his fingers through his thick hair. "I tried to pay them back what I could, you see, but they still took her. Came into our home. Took her! Oh God, oh my God." He turned, stepping onto the street. "My Sally."

My eyes widened. "No! Stop!"

A taxi hit him square against his thigh. He rolled onto the hood, smashing the windshield. The taxi screeched to a halt, and the man flew straight off, rolling to a stop in the middle of the intersection, an arm and a leg lying in odd directions.

My hand slapped against my mouth as my body began to tremble. I whispered, "I really did kill him."

Rotating Archives

2006-12-04T19:14:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry things have slowed down! It's the Holidays, what are you going to do?

Well, I'm going to rotate our archives every few days unless we have a fresh submission. Thanks for reading FM!!

-Kelly

Payback

2006-11-27T09:31:00.000-08:00

"Payback"
Short Fiction - Crime
by Rod Drake

“Do you remember Scott Benson?”

“No, I don’t remember any Scott Jensen.”

Kirk, the young man asking the question, shot the older, frightened man in the thigh with a Smith & Wesson .22. “Benson, you murderer!”

“I didn’t murder nobody. Oh God, that hurts.” Tony held his leg which was bleeding only slightly. “Why are you doing this?”

“Think back, 26 years ago. You were a young man then, just 27. You were driving home drunk as you often did. But that day you hit and killed a little boy riding his bike on the sidewalk.” Kirk shot Tony in his other thigh.

Tony screamed and clutched the new wound. “Okay, okay, I remember now. It was an accident. The D.A. couldn’t prove I was drunk. So the court let me go.”

“And the mangled bike had ended up in the street, so your attorney said Scott, being only four-years-old, had ridden into your path. You couldn’t stop in time.”

“How do you know all this? There were no witnesses.”

Kirk stepped down hard on Tony’s wounded thigh, causing Tony to cry out and twist in agony. “Because I was Scott Benson.” Kirk extended his arm, shooting Tony in the right bicep.

Tony curled up in torment, grabbing his arm. “Please stop. Please. Scott Benson died 20 years ago. I was there. I saw the little boy’s body. It was horrible.”

Kirk smiled knowingly. “That’s right. Scott was killed by you, a drunk driver then, a drunk driver now. But sometimes the dead come back for revenge. Do you believe in reincarnation, Tony?”

“Wwwhat?”

“Six years after Scott was killed, his spirit, or soul, or whatever you want to call it, came back to earth again. This time Scott was reborn as me. When I was 12, I began to have dreams, terrible dreams, that took years before they made sense, and I could finally understand them. Dreams of you killing me on the sidewalk all those years ago. But not too long ago because you’re still alive. And unpunished.” Kirk leaned down and fired the .22 into Tony’s left bicep. The small caliber bullets wouldn’t kill Tony, but they hurt like hell.

Tony tried to focus through the pain. “You’re telling me you’re Scott. In a new body.”

“Bingo. And whatever cosmic force watches over everything let me remember what you did, who you were and where you still lived. After that, it was just a matter of finding you alone.”

“Alright, damn it, you’ve hurt me. Hurt me bad. I’ll limp the rest of my life, and I probably won’t be able to lift more than 25 pounds. I get it.”

Kirk put the .22 away and pulled out a Colt .45 automatic. He pressed it against Tony’s forehead. “No, you don’t get it. But you will. The .22 was just . . . foreplay.” He cocked the hammer of the gun. “You know the saying ‘an eye for an eye’?”

Rod Drake. Las Vegas. His name, his byline. He writes them like he sees them. Check out Rod’s other stories published in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Photosynthesis

2006-11-13T08:40:00.000-08:00

"The Photosynthesis"
Flash Fiction - Literary Parody
by Rod Drake

Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to discover that he had been transformed into a houseplant. A philodendron, he believed, judging by his leaves. Or maybe a big fern. Gregor didn’t know much about plants. Or insects, for that matter.

Something was wrong, however. Very wrong. He was in the wrong story that was for sure. But there was nothing to do but wait for Kafka to fix it. Kafka, unfortunately, was always slow and usually depressed.

Gregor wished his sister, Grete, would water him. And while she was at it, she could move him a bit more into the sunlight. She was gone most of the day at the university. He hoped she was studying horticulture.

Gregor decided that he needed a bigger flowerpot. His roots were crowded, and he was getting a cramp. Lots of them actually.

He hoped Kafka would revise this story soon; Gregor didn’t like how the family dog was sniffing him.

Rod Drake lives in Las Vegas and has taught Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. Read Rod’s other stories published in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.

The Unconscious Apple

2006-11-06T08:28:00.000-08:00

"The Unconscious Apple"
Short Fiction - Literary
by C.S. Nusbaum

The wind was just barely above a whisper now, but the cold was still biting hard on Apple’s cheeks. Her nose was like a cherry, and she was wrapped up in multiple jackets and scarves. Her breath came like swirls of fog. The sky was grayish and gloomy, as she stepped into the warm, cozy café.

There was a single empty booth in a corner of the room, and Apple slid herself into it. The table was hard and cold, and the seat stiff. Still, Apple was as comfortable as she would ever get, and she quickly took out her notebook. Sliding a pen from her pocket, she continued struggling with the first sentence of her new novel.

But, would one really call it a new novel? For many weeks, Apple had been living off her last book, which was not very good to begin with. The beginning was confusing, something about a little boy and an old woman. The middle was wishy-washy, and the end was just where her words had run dry.

Apple gave a little sigh and took the cap off her pen. She had been struggling to begin her novel for the past few days. A waitress with a lipstick smear on her cheek came to take her order. Apple barely moved her lips.

“Coffee. Black.”

The waitress rolled her thick fake eyelashes, and swiftly turned away. Annoyed at the interruption, Apple continued to delve into a world of mediocrity and endeavors. She chewed the cap and wrote a line. The man saw a snowflake falling. She stopped and reconsidered. The old man watched one snowflake fall to the ground.

The waitress returned, but Apple was too busy rewriting her sentence to take notice. The steam from the coffee steamed her glasses. The crippled old man wearily observed a single snowflake fall and melt into the earth. A car screeched outside, and a girl screamed. The air was filled with the sounds of incessant chatter. Apple took no part in it.

The crippled old man wearily observed a single snowflake fall and melt into the earth, as if he was watching his life flutter by. His life? Apple tapped her pen nervously. Perhaps it was a bit much. A light flashed by the café, and the waitress, who was waiting on four toddlers and a mother, interjected an “Oh my gosh!”

The crippled old man wearily observed a single snowflake fall and melt into the earth, as if his life was melting with it. Better. Apple ignored a small child’s wail, and the sound of sirens in the background. She had no time to see what all the fuss was about. She looked at her paper, covered with blotted out sentences. Her one line stood out among the ramble.

She imagined an old man watching a snowflake, then disappearing as it the ground.

“Beautiful!” she declared. “By George, It’s magnificent!”

The sound of glass suddenly attracted her attention. She stared out the window wearily. Outside, two police men, a flashing ambulance and two jarred vehicles lay in the road. A man in a grey trench coat was sitting on the curb with his hands on his head. In the white snow of the morning, Apple could just barely see a dash of red.

She tilted her head thinking. Then she ripped her paper off the pad and threw it to the side. Again, she tilted her head and watched that single, strip of red, melting even as she watched. Looking down at the blank pad, she wrote a few words.

The blood was red, so red it shone on that morning when, or so it seemed, anything was possible.

What the hell. It had potential.

A Walk With A Slightly Creepy Woman On Halloween

2006-10-31T07:43:00.000-08:00

"A Walk With A Slightly Creepy Woman On Halloween"
Short Fiction - Horror - Halloween story
By Mike Miller

Everybody knew she was crazy as a bat. Everybody was afraid of her, too. Rumors of enchantments causing deformities, illness, even death followed her whenever she left her quaint, little ranch. The ranch itself occupied many late night conversations over a couple of beers. What kind of evil witch or gypsy or whatever the hell she was lived in a quaint, little ranch? Nobody ever saw a black cat or a crow in the house. She did feed the squirrels but that seemed more strange than creepy.

Few people talked about the darker rumors. Whispers of sexual enchantments cast on out-of-towners looking for a few days work in the corn fields only passed the townies lips during the deepest of gossip. None of the men wanted to begin to think what the old, wrinkled, vile beast did to the laborers. None of the women wanted to think of touching their men again if the old hag ever got her hands on them.

Dennis considered all of this as he walked past her house on the way home from trick or treating. He felt stupid for begging for a few pieces of candy at his age. He should have just gone straight home after finishing up the round of trick or treating with his nephew. The frowns as the people held out their candy bucket still made Dennis' cheeks flush.

He considered crossing the street but no self respecting adult crossed the street to stay away from a spooky house. He stiffened his arms and continued walking. A curtain moved. Dennis had not noticed it open but it had definitely moved and was now definitely closed. He saw no sign of movement inside the house.

The warm breeze brushed Dennis' face. He realized that he had stopped moving. He had even stopped breathing. A floating leaf smacked his face sending him dropping to one knee. Before having a chance to chastise himself, the front door suddenly opened. The door did not suddenly begin to open. Rather, the door all of the sudden was open. Before it was closed and then it was open.

Dennis forced his mind out of this thought loop. A tiny shadow stood in the doorway. The bright light behind it hid any features.

"Boy."

Dennis wet himself.

"Boy. I need you to walk me to a friend's house through the woods and across the old bridge. I'll give you twenty dollars."

Dennis managed a few shaky words. "What do you need my help for?" He licked his dry lips.

"It is Halloween. I know the rumors about me. I don't need some punk kids trying to do something...mean...to the neighborhood witch," she finished the last with a sneer.

The woman limped toward Dennis. In the soft moonlight and with so much of her weight supported by the staff, all fear of the old lady vanished. He even felt sorry for the poor, old lady trapped by the gossip of the small town. There were a few rumors floating around about himself that he did not particularly like either.

"My pleasure. But, you can keep your money. I was heading that way anyway."

Dennis let her wrap her arm around his. She used her cane to point out various changes over the years in the town. Their feet smashed the orange and red leaves. By the time they reached the bridge, she barely needed the cane, or even Dennis' arm, for support at all.

"Let's stop here for a few minutes."

Dennis walked to the side of the bridge and watched the water break on one of the support beams. He turned back when the woman began mumbling under her breath.

"Shhh. Just wait right there," the woman said while sliding her dress from her shoulders.

"Whoa. I think there's some kind of...." Dennis rushed to grab the top of her dress to keep it from falling any further.

"Get your hands off of me you impudent fool."

The chanting resumed in earnest.

"Shit." Dennis picked her up and carried her to the railing. He threw her over the side. She seemed to hang in the air for a moment. She reached into a pocket and threw the contents at Dennis.

"Curse you, you stupid boy. You shall forever be bound to this bridge and these woods until somebody returns all five of the pennies to you. You shall roam the woods a vile and despised monster without the ability to satisfy your cravings until the pennies return."

She hit the water. Fire erupted and consumed her body before the five pennies hit Dennis in the chest and suddenly disappeared.

Dennis's body twisted, stretched and hardened in unbearable pain. It would be days before he would see his own reflection and months before he could see it without wanting to vomit. During the time that passed, he would walk as far away from the bridge as he could. Anything more than one hundred feet seemed to rip his soul from his body. He tried suicide several times but apparently that was no longer an option.

So, Dennis learned to live underneath the bridge and waited for the five pennies to return.

Trick or Treat

2006-10-27T20:42:00.000-07:00

"Trick or Treat"
Short Fiction - Halloween Story
by Rod Drake

The doorbell rang. Scuffling noises could be heard on the front porch. Then the cry “Trick or Treat!” came through the door.

Another Halloween. Sam Dinkins padded wearily to the door again, scratching his sizeable belly and smoothing his few strands of thinning hair. He opened his front door, prepared to encounter another rat-tag group of pint-size witches, ghosts and skeletons with their beggar bags held wide open.

But Sam was surprised this time. These costumes were elaborate and authentic, as was the make-up or masks. A vampire, two zombies and a furry thing that stood down on the steps, partially hidden in the darkness, shy apparently. And these weren’t children, but high school students at least, maybe adults. And not a one of them had a beggar bag.

Sam stood there dumbfounded with fun-size candy bars softening in his hands. “Um, great costumes, but aren’t you guys a little old for Halloween?”

The vampire-costumed one replied, “Aren’t you a little naïve for one so old?”

Sam stepped out on his porch. “What does that mean? Rudeness isn’t going to get you candy, you know.”

The vampire laughed dryly. “Candy? You are naïve; no, foolish I think is the better word. We don’t want candy.”

Sam felt his belly tightened. Robbers dressed up in Halloween costumes, getting people to open their doors to them at nighttime. What a great scam. “I don’t have any money or jewelry for you to steal; my wife took all of that from me years ago, so buzz off before I call the cops.”

The vampire laughed an unnerving laugh. “I was wrong. Not foolish. Idiot. Soon to be a dead idiot. Hull, tear him apart!”

From the front porch’s steps, the werewolf lunged forward, knocking Sam into his living room, ripping into his soft flesh.

The vampire gestured to his two companions. “Feast time, boys. Brains for you, and hopefully Hull will leave the neck and some blood for me. I just love Halloween!”

Despite tabloid headlines, Rod Drake is not the missing fifth Monkee (Micky, Davy, Peter, Mike and Rod?). Check out Rod’s stories posted in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

FM Bulletin: Very Short Stories

2006-10-26T16:36:00.000-07:00

Check out these VERY short stories in 6 words or less, written by sci-fi, fantasy, and horror writers. Very cool.

Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
- William Shatner

Computer, did we bring batteries? Computer?
- Eileen Gunn

Vacuum collision. Orbits diverge. Farewell, love.
- David Brin

Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.
- Joss Whedon

Automobile warranty expires. So does engine.
- Stan Lee

Machine. Unexpectedly, I'd invented a time
- Alan Moore

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood

His penis snapped off; he's pregnant!
- Rudy Rucker

From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings.
- Gregory Maguire

FM Bulletin: New Look

2006-10-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

Yes, FM has a new look. Things were getting a little tame around here so I found a three column template that works nicely.
-Kelly

Special Delivery

2006-10-23T14:49:00.000-07:00

"Special Delivery"
Short Fiction - Halloween Story
by Rod Drake

"Are you going to open it?" He stood on the front porch, wet from the rain when he ran over from the house next door. He shivered slightly in the cool autumn night.

The girl turned the damp envelope over and over again. "I'm afraid to."

The boy took the envelope and held it up to the bare yellow bulb. He squinted at it. "Doesn't seem to be much, if anything, in it." He bounced it on his flat palm. "Pretty light too."

She reclaimed the envelope. It was thick, like a manila folder. Old and weathered, from some bygone age. Funny, foreign stamps decorated it. The address was written in an ornate, flowing style of penmanship. "Look," she pointed to the writing.

It didn't list a name. Or an address. It just read "To the One Who Must Know Despite the Risk."

"Sounds like a practical joke," the boy offered.

"How did the mailman know to deliver it to me?" She asked, not really expecting an answer.

The boy shrugged. "I guess it's just fate," he smiled. "What's the return address?"

The girl wrinkled her brow, trying to read it. "I don't know; I think it's in a foreign language. Maybe Arabic; it's really loopy and artistic."

The boy was feeling the cold now. "Just open it," he urged. "What do you have to lose?"

The girl wasn't sure, but she had an odd feeling it might be a lot. But it was just an old letter from some faraway place; what harm could come from that?

"Alright." She took a deep breath and slid her finger under the envelope's edge, breaking the seal, opening it.

As soon as she did, all manner of phantoms, evil spirits like Disease, Hunger, Conflict, Rage, Misery, Intolerance and Hatred, flew out of the envelope, wailing and escaping into the suddenly much colder, wetter night.

The girl dropped the envelope which floated gracefully to the porch's floor. Upside down, the return address was readable; it said "Curiosity Killed the Cat and Now It's Doomed the World As Well."

"What have I done?" the girl cried, burying her face in the boy's shoulder.

"I don’t know, Hope" the boy, whose name was Tom Faith, replied, "but I have a bad feeling."

Rod Drake is not a Desolation Angel, a Dharma Bum, a Subterranean nor is he On the Road. Check out Rod's other stories in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

A Duel

2006-10-16T08:49:00.000-07:00

A Duel
Short Fiction Halloween Story
by C.S. Nusbaum

An owl hooted in the distance. Thick, silver-blue clouds drifted along the black sky, as midnight lay heavily over the forests of Darken Night. Crickets chirped and the thick of pine trees blanketed itself over the stretch of land. The moon, a golden orb, shed its shimmering light across the land, harmonious to the soft, fluttery wind.

The ranger, his black and blue hair falling across the pale white of his face, lay on the earthy ground, his back to the forest, lying against a great oak. He was wearing a black coat with a hood that threw most of his face into elongated shadows. Still, his eyes sparkled maliciously through the night.

A soft crunch here and there put the ranger on his guard. It was perhaps a human, although it was known that they were slow. No, they were far to clumsy to have traveled such a distance, the ranger decided. Still, the soft noises did not subside, not even after the ranger let out a warning howl. The clan would not be happy.

Just as this thought flickered through his mind, the noise subsided. He closed his eyes once again, feeling the moon's rays warming his eyelids. Striking the silence was the belt of a bowstring, some distance from the oak. Immediately, the ranger jumped up, faster than the speed of light. He saw the arrow in flight and his mind forced the arrow to snap barely seconds before it was going to strike him in the chest.

The ranger stiffened. It was no ordinary foe he was facing. He pulled out his own bow and arrows, but barely had he knocked the arrow to the string did another arrow whip out. This one found its mark. The sharp stone edge broke the bow no harder than slicing butter. The ranger involuntarily jumped two paces backwards, his back touching the bark of the oak.

A single, shrill cry erupted from a passing hawk. The intruder's eyes were strange cat-like slits of pure silver. As one lock of magenta-black hair fell across his face, the ranger realized that the intruder was not a he at all.

As the ranger was caught off guard, the intruder thrust an underhand cut at the ranger's unprotected left side, causing the ranger to be thrown off balance. The sword cut his robes, but it missed becoming a serious injury. Still, blood was seeping through his robe, and for that the ranger was angry.

Holding his side carefully, so as to contain his blood, he used his other hand to mark a number of side thrusts that pushed the enemy back against the tree, where the ranger wanted him. Releasing his side, his hands red with his blood, the ranger used is free hand to slide his poisoned dagger from his hood.

The move was deadly, but too slow. The intruder suspected what he was doing, and quickly brought his short sword to stop the poison dagger, slicing it cleanly in half. The venomous green juice sizzled to the ground, hissing as it seeped into the dirt. At the same time, however, the long sword made a deep, wounding gash in the intruders left leg. The sword slid and jarred, embedding itself in her bone.

Oddly, not a sound passed from the intruder's lips; even though the ranger was still gasping from the minor wound in his side. Blood was trickling down the intruder's leg. She gave the ranger a cold, menacing stare, and leapt from the oak, directly at him, as if her leg wound was nothing. The ranger quickly stumbled back, shocked at the sudden movement.

Quickly, he brought the long sword, bloody and dented, to block the attempt. It was clumsy, and most of the strength in the intruder's thrust went into his right shoulder. He heard his bone snapping, and felt a great pain in his collar bone. Dropping his weapon, he sank to his knees, the world becoming dark and obsolete. The evil maiden seemed to tower above him.

Some of his blood has rubbed into her shoulder. As he watched, black spots dancing before his eyes, she licked his blood from her ashen-white skin. In one last stand, the ranger through what was left of the poisoned dagger at the figure. A single, toxic drop of the poison flicked just where blood was still pouring from the gash in her leg. Her leg trembled convulsively, but again, no sound was heard.

The ranger, from shear exhaustion, crumbled into himself. He lay upon the floor, panting his last breathes of life. The intruder likewise came to the ground. She put her back to the oak, in the same position that the ranger was in. Her pearl-white fangs glittered in the moonlight, and she closed her eyes.

And an owl hooted somewhere in the distance.

C.S. Nusbaum writes fantasy novels, short-stories, and war poems.