I Can't Believe It's Not Better!

The March of Freedom - The Glass Coin

2010-12-14T10:58:00.000+11:00

My story "The March of Freedom" is now available to be read at The Glass Coin.

Also showing so far this month are:

Angel Zapata's story "El Dia de los Reyes (The Day of the Kings)" - Click HERE

Sairah Saddal's tale "The Red Bangles" - Click HERE

Sarah J. Schaffer's story "An American Holiday" - Click HERE

Adam Whitlatch's The Weller: Land of Plenty eBook

2010-12-14T10:14:00.000+11:00

Adam Whitlatch has just released a new short story e-book entitled "The Weller: Land of Plenty" through KHP Publishers and is available at The Merchant's Keep bookstore.

Matt Freeborn is scouring the wastelands of western Iowa for water and gasoline to replenish his dwindling stocks. He encounters a town where his precious water, the universal currency of the wastes, is shunned and everybody in town seems to want him dead. Matt must unravel the mystery of this veritable land of plenty if he ever hopes to get back out alive.

It's available for purchase at the crazy price of $1.99 (you get all three file formats: PDF, MOBI, and EPUB). Go on...you know you want to!!

Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 - Now Available

2010-12-10T19:09:00.000+11:00

Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 is now available from Pill Hill Press. 365 stories - one for every day of the year.

Edited by Jessy Marie Roberts and including authors such as: Carrie Clevinger, David Barber, Lee Hughes, Jim Wisneski, Laurita Miller, Lily Childs, and myself. I look forward to getting my hands on a copy and getting to know all the other great writers involved in this anthology.

For more information on this book, and other Pill Hill Press releases, go HERE.

The Glass Coin - Call For Submissions

2010-11-11T19:56:00.000+11:00

The Glass Coin is looking for a little more variety for their December issue. They have a few Christmas themed pieces, but would like something else. Perhaps a piece about the Festival of Lights or any of the ones listed in our summary or any celebration or tradition you may have. Variety is the key.

TRADITIONS & CELEBRATIONS

Extended Deadline – Accepting Submissions until November 15

December 2010 - You fast in Ramadan. Or maybe you eat turkey in October (or November – whatever). Some eat unleavened bread in Nisan. And others go vegan for the first full moon of Taurus. Maybe for you, the best day of the year includes trick-or-treating or fireworks. For some these times are sacred, for others it’s just a day of fun. And no matter when we ring in the New Year, we all have traditions and we all celebrate. What defines our differences can also be the source of our similarities.

Submission guidelines can be found HERE.

Click HERE for future themes.

Writing Contest - CZP/Rannu Fund for Writers of Speculative Fiction

2010-11-10T16:24:00.000+11:00

The CZP / Rannu Fund For Writers of Speculative Literature offers two awards per year of $500 CDN each, one for fiction, one for poetry, granted to two writers of speculative literature (i.e., science fiction, fantasy, horror, magic realism, surrealism, etc.), of any nationality/place of residence.

The contest is open from November 15th to Janurary 15th. 7,000 words or 5 poems (no more than 10 pages) Submit entries WITHIN THE BODY ofF your plain text email to: rannufund@gmail.com

Further details on the fund can be found HERE and details on the contest can be found HERE.

"The Truth Is An Illusion" up at Postcard Shorts

2010-11-02T09:44:00.000+11:00

I have a short piece, entitled "The Truth Is An Illusion" up now on Postcard Shorts.

Postcard Shorts is a cool site, with stories up to 1500 characters accepted and printed in a postcard format. It has a nice look to it and some really great flash fiction within the site. Have a look and see what you think - the submission guidelines are here.

A big thank you to the editor, Richard, for the quick response and acceptance.

I Dare You - Celebrate!

2010-11-01T15:27:00.000+11:00

This week is the last week of the Guest Dares over at JM Prescott's blog, A Reader's World.

Also happens to be my Dare as well.

And this week it is to Celebrate!!

All the details can be found HERE. Hope you can come out and play.

Just Discovered - Icy Sedgwick

2010-11-01T06:49:00.001+11:00

From her profile at Icy's Blunt Pencil:

Icy is an aspiring author, writing in her cold garret in old London town. Originally from the North East, she settled in the fair capital five years ago. She's had various works published online, but now she intends to try this 'novel' business...

I have read her eBook entitled "The First Tale" (available from Smashwords for the princely sum of 99 cents - and worth much more!) and have discovered she has published an eBook of her previously published online short stories entitled "Checkmate & Other Stories"...and the good news is - this one is free.

Her blog page has a lot of great writing - from Parrots & Pirates, to a web-serial set in Vertigo City - and some amazing flash fiction as well.

So, what have you got to lose? Go and have a look.

Hello Ween'er

2010-10-31T01:07:00.000+11:00

Erin Cole's 13 Days of Horror is almost at a close - what a fantastic set of stories she has had again this year. I have enjoyed them all so far.

If you haven't had a chance to read them, please do so. There are some fantastic writers showcasing their work, and Erin is such a champ for hosting them.

Last year, I was extremely pleased to be selected to have a story there. It was called "Branded" and I really enjoyed the characters so I decided to go back and revisit them again this year. I have noticed that my style has changed somewhat (hopefully for the better) and I present this year's piece entitled "Hello Ween'er".

Hello Ween'er

“...and a Happy Halloween to you, too.” Jimmy waved goodbye, grinning like a lunatic with a packet of Crazy Gum. He knew it was stupid; the customers didn’t give two shits if he smiled and waved – would care even less if he did somersaults and sang the company song naked in six foot of snow. Nope, them bastards just wanted him to fill ‘er up and don’t forget to give the window a good cleanin’ – those damn bugs were everywhere tonight. Is this place built on a fucking swamp? Jimmy would chuckle, nod and then curse them under his breath as they drove off.

When the taillights faded into the distance, Jimmy walked back across the driveway to the store when two figures, standing under a street lamp some hundred yards or so up the road caught his eye. Something about them was familiar...

“Oh, settle down Jimmy.” The words were meant to come out strong and authoritative, but were little more than a whimper by the time he finished. The whimper became a shiver (that became a tremble) as the names Damien and Lilith slapped him broadside across his head – names he had hoped to never hear again.

Jimmy discovered he was holding his breath as the two strangers crossed the concrete apron beside the driveway. The hair stood on the back of his neck and he could feel his balls trying to crawl into his abdomen. They stopped beside the gas pumps at the furthest edge of the driveway. The taller of the two (had to be a man – just look at the size of the fucker) raised his hands in the air and Jimmy could feel his heart doing the quickstep inside his ribcage. With a rush, he brought his hands back down and the fuel pumps exploded; balls of fire roared into the night sky, blinding him momentarily. The heat forced him backwards, and his eyes slowly regained their focus.

What he saw on first inspection of the destruction outside scared him; he could see them, standing there (damn, they were smiling) and they continued toward the front entrance. He got up from behind the counter with the intention of locking the doors, only to be halted by a terrible sense of déjà-vu. A memory of last year’s Halloween; his best friend Richard; impaled with a fireplace poker by a lunatic. That memory scared Jimmy six ways to Sunday.

He wheeled about on the heel of his Doc Martens, crashed through the door to the rear office and came face to face with the man of his nightmares. In a flash, a gloved hand – all sinew and strength - grabbed Jimmy by the throat – he thought he could hear the bones in his neck start to snap, crackle and pop.

A woman’s voice – dull and lifeless - reached his ears and for a moment, Jimmy thought it had come from the big guy who was using his Adam’s apple as a stress ball. Jimmy had to fight the urge to laugh and then the realisation come that maybe that wasn’t such a flash idea after all.

“Let him go, Damien.” The monster released his grip slightly – enough for the sweet taste of oxygen to fill his lungs, but not enough for Jimmy to make any use of his second wind.

Damien, Jimmy thought, damn I was right.

Lilith slithered up beside him and placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. Cold bitch, he though and, once again, had to stave off a case of the giggles. She ran a long, sharp fingernail down the length of his throat. Her cold, dead lips brushed against his ear.

“Nice to see you again, Jimmy – it has been far too long.” He felt his knees buckle slightly and the hulking presence that was Damien kept him on his feet. “Tell me where can I find the others?”

“The others? I don’t know where they are...we all went our separate ways after that night. I haven’t spoken to anyone since...”

“Liar!” Lilith screamed into Jimmy’s face. “You know what we do with liars, don’t you Jimmy?”

Jimmy didn’t know but was pretty sure he didn’t want to find out.

“Why did you run, Jimmy? You and Emily – and the others – were warned what would happen if you did. Now, your spur-of-the-moment, chicken-with-its-head-cut-off decision has come home to roost.” Lilith smiled at her own little joke. “Are you going to tell me where they are, Jimmy?”

One quick shake of the head – two, three – and Lilith screamed; in agony or frustration, Jimmy wasn’t sure, but he was sure-as-shit of the extra-long, blood-red fingernails pointed directly at his throat, and the intention that he could see in her eyes.

“Too bad, Jimmy...just, too bad.”

Outside, a car pulled up beside the gas pumps as Lilith and Damien searched the office for some clues to the whereabouts of the others. Lilith saw the vehicle arrive and nodded to Damien to take care of the unwanted attention.

“What the fuck happened here?”

Damien approached the driver’s side window. “Leave.”

“Don’t get pissy, mister, just askin’ a question.”

Damien reached in through the partially opened window and drove his fist into the startled man’s chest, ripping his heart from his chest and holding it up above his head – like a trophy. Damien spread his mouth wide, clamping down on the drivers face; tearing away skin and bone in easy, practised movements. The body of the dead driver flopped onto the cement driveway with a dull thump.

The sound of the store’s automatic doors distracted Damien as Lilith emerged holding a small, red book in one hand, serviettes in the other. “Clean yourself up, Damien – you look like an animal.” She passed him the handful of napkins. “Now, let’s get moving – I found Jimmy’s ‘Little Black Book’. I know where they are.”

She closed her eyes and smiled “Let the pain and suffering begin - again.”

Call For Submissions - The Glass Coin

2010-10-22T21:02:00.000+11:00

OPEN MINDS - The Glass Coin is Accepting Submissions for January & February.

January and February will be months for open minds.
There is no specific theme.
Explore an idea.
If you have a pair of ideas you may send those as well.

For these months, they will accept multiple submissions in the body of an email so they can see your ideas together.

The submission guidelines are here.

Bikes and Pink Dresses - I Dare You

2010-10-15T20:37:00.003+11:00

An "I Dare You" Challenge at JM Prescott's "A Reader's World" story.

The challenge this week was issued by Julia Archer, which was "My dare this week is to write about a passage from light to dark." Below is my response to this challenge.

Bikes and Pink Dresses

Light bulb burns brightly...

Photo frames of a smiling girl; a thin layer of dust alters the colour of her blue eyes. Blonde-haired Barbies on the mantelpiece; a child’s age indicated by the mix and match of the doll’s clothing – these are still in pink dresses and ballet shoes. Youth trumps experience when it comes to dressing Barbie – who needs a teenage version with denim skirts and black boots? Teddy bears, tea seats, Hannah Montana – a snapshot of life, a moment in time preserved.

A window overlooks the backyard – a pink pushbike sits abandoned, covered in a fresh dusting of snow. A young child looks through the iron rails of the fence and wishes she could take that bike and make it her own – give it a life, and love, of its own, rather than being stranded and forgotten – just like the girl who once owned it.

A curtain flutters in the breeze yet the window is not open. The light is on yet there is no one home. Faces peer up at the window yet there is no one there.

Light bulb flickers...

Dark stains corrupt the perfect white carpet. Fragments of torn clothes lie scattered over chairs and the floor. Broken hearts and broken lives fled these rooms, leaving them as eternal reminders to a life denied.

A mother leans against the fence, weeping quietly. The once-pink bicycle, now tarnished with rust and ignorance, lies on its side, wheels spinning lazily in the breeze – a reminder of a better time; a time when little girls wanted to ride bikes and play with dolls in pink dresses.

A young girl appears in the window above her head. She waves to everyone but no one sees her; she stares at her reflection in the glass and hesitantly reaches to touch it. Ethereal, spectral, spiritual - she wails in pain once again.

Light bulb burns out...

Dog Days Feature At The NOT!

2010-10-10T21:30:00.000+11:00

My story, Hearts Grow Fonder, is up at the NOT!

Mine was one of many, many excellent pieces - I don't know how Mr. S did it, but what a collection!!

Do yourself a favour and get over there and read some magnificent 101-word pieces. You won't be disappointed!! You can even download the whole eChapbook HERE.

Mr. Cynical Goes To Sea

2010-09-27T20:39:00.000+10:00

I was never one for the ocean – I could get seasick in the bathtub – but the wife had insisted I come along for the trip. Sharon had been pretty convincing, too; food, alcohol and poker were all mentioned as enticements, but I think it was the striptease and raunchy sex that finally won me over – not that I need persuasion in those matters.

We had set off two days later from the jetty down at the marina in a boat (and I use that word rather loosely – the proverbial lead balloon would have floated better) heading for the tiny island off the coast. Sharon had conveniently forgotten to inform me of our guests for the day – her boss, Karen, and partner Jock – and my thoughts about this tin-pot transporter were getting darker by the moment. I think sinking would have been a brighter prospect than spending the day with people that I had nothing in common with, nor had any interest in. A day on Flinders’ Island would have been wonderful had it just been the two of us – now it was going to be a nightmare.

“Oh, sailing, I remember when I was just a young girl...” I instantly didn’t like this woman but, to be fair to Sharon, I tried not to let it show. “...isn’t that right, Matthew?”

I had been ignoring her childhood regression like a teenager ignores housework. “Hmmm? Yes, you are most definitely right, Karen.” I replied, more out of hope than of understanding. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was prattling on about – something to do with family and castles and expense accounts. To me, she sounded like a reject from the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire auditions.

Several hours later, we came within sight of the small island harbour. Unfortunately, the rusting hulk hauling humanity started to give some signs that maybe we should have spent the extra fifty bucks and upgraded to the ‘condemned’ level. The engine began making noises that were normally only heard on those David Attenborough documentaries but, luckily as it turned out, we were able to float the rest of the way to our destination. Sharon’s boss, Karen (all boobs and no brains), told us all quite confidently that her husband, Jock, was a tram engineer and would be able to get us back on our way rather quickly. I had my reservations on that count.

“Oh yes, Jock has worked on all kinds of engines, haven’t you, Jock? I am sure he will be able to complete all necessary adjustments and calibrations before we head back to the mainland. Won’t you, Jock?”

Our maritime Saviour was silent. I think he was too scared of her to respond.

Unfortunately, no sooner had we stepped onto the white sands, the boat blew up; I don’t mean the engine – I mean the whole boat - exploded, erupted, blew itself into tiny little pieces and scattered its earthly remains across the majority of the beach – I guess it had had enough of the Self-Serving Bitch banter as well. A sacrifice I could well understand.

For the first hour or so, we sat around in a circle, trying to devise a plan (I didn’t hear anything more about Jock’s talent with engines – funny that) but we came up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. So we moved onto exploring the island for food sources. That seemed more like my kind of thing – food and I have a very good relationship and one I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with. It was decided that I would scout the around for food and shelter, leaving Jock behind “in case the women needed protection” – from what, I didn’t know. I wonder if they knew what the word deserted meant. I decided they didn’t.

“Now, don’t forget Matthew, if you see the wild Altherea berry, please get some for me. They are great for my skin.” I tried to judge if she was joking, then berated myself for forgetting that she wouldn’t recognise a joke if Jerry Lewis himself wrote it in the sand with big letters and flares all around – maybe someone removed her funny bone when she was younger. Maybe she had her brains relocated to her chest – although, if that were true, she must have been one smart woman. I do love a woman’s brain...

Morning high-stepped its way into afternoon; afternoon marched into evening. We had discovered no edible food on the island (I thought all deserted islands were under copyright law to at least have tasteless but edible berries) and shelter consisted of a few tall palm trees – sure they were pretty but not much good in the case of a tropical cyclone. Maybe if we all gathered under Karen’s chest we could be covered from any passing storm (not to mention the dribble that flowed from her lips.)

I began to wonder how long it would take before we started eyeing each other off. I remember hearing about a football team whose plane crashed in the mountains and that the survivors chowed down on their dead team mates. I considered relating this story to my fellow castaways. I doubted they wanted to hear it.

We cranked up a fire and sat around contemplating the future. Bad jokes about Gilligan and Ginger were aplenty – we all tried to laugh but it was hard...until I discovered that Karen wasn’t aware of who Gilligan and Ginger were. I made sure that Karen got the impression that Gilligan was the intelligent one (and you are just like him...) She pushed out those chest puppies in pride and, not for the first time, I felt like asking if she had gotten a building permit for them. But I guessed she wouldn’t appreciate it.

The evening closed in and Karen and Jock fell asleep by the fire; they were spooning – he was behind her (they had already worked out it couldn’t go the other way) and I looked at Sharon. She looked tired and hungry, but when she was sure Dumb and Dumber were asleep, she produced a Snickers bar from out of her top. We quietly nibbled on the bar that really satisfies (which, I may add, is false adverting) and lay down on the sand together, arm in arm – but still damn hungry.

Not exactly the perfect end to a perfect evening but, if worse came to worse (like it did for that football team)...that Karen looked like she might have a nice thigh, not to mention the breasts...

The Fires of Eden (Amelia & Kelsey)

2010-09-24T16:32:00.001+10:00

Here is my piece for Heather Fitzpatrick's guest challenge 'The Edge' at A Reader's World. JM Prescott has asked a few of her friends to guest host over the last few weeks and it has unearthed some amazing stories.

The Fires Of Eden

Amelia waited at the top of the crumbling stairs; crouched, ready for action, using the lengthening shadows as cover. Agent Kelsey, her bodyguard and protector, had taken a few steps into the cave and was gesturing for her to follow him.

“What is..?” Amelia felt two fingers on her lips.

Kelsey whispered to her – she could barely hear him and edged closer, feeling his body against her, his hot breath against her neck. He had removed his gun from its usual spot in his belt. The tail of his shirt was visible under his dark jacket. “Are you ready?”

Amelia could only nod as she followed him down the dusty steps.

The cold struck them both as they entered the open cavern. Amelia tried to pull her windbreaker tighter around her body – Kelsey just shrugged and moved on.

Amelia’s eyes wandered over the walls of the vast caves; torches burned in golden sconces on the sandstone walls – which had been hewn from the very mountain. In the centre, a huge altar had been erected; Amelia recognised the carvings in the backrest. She grabbed Kelsey’s arm and indicated the throne.

“That is not a good sign. Do you know who these people were?”

Kelsey surprised her. “Yes, Amelia, I do.”

Amelia thought about it some more. “So, that means you lied to me about what we are doing here? You lied when you said we were looking for an ancient amulet...”

“No, Amelia,” Kelsey placed his hand on her arm, “I didn’t lie – I told some creative truths. You are here now – do you want to help me recover this artefact or not?”

She took a deep breath and looked Kelsey straight in the eye. “Let’s do it.”

Kelsey began searching through grottos and wall cavities. Amelia had started around the altar; her mind’s eye trying to interpret what she was seeing, trying to make connections to things she had learned. She ran her fingers over the etchings in the throne, sensing the workmanship that had gone into creating such a work of art. She took a step to the side of the structure and, inadvertently, knocked over a mound of smooth stones. Her head shot up and looked for Kelsey. He was off to one side of the room, staring intently at the ground. Amelia wandered over to him.

“Found anything yet, Kel...what is that?”

Amelia found herself staring into a pit – that wasn’t right; a chasm would be a better word, she thought. The sides of the gaping hole were surrounded by large stones and held together with an adhesive that Amelia had never seen before. She couldn’t see the bottom of the abyss. She slowly backed away.

The first burning arrow landed beside her foot. She recoiled immediately, screaming at the same time, stamping at the flames with her boots. She heard Kelsey call her name and his heavy footsteps as he came beside her, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her.

“Where are they?” Kelsey pushed Amelia behind him, as he searched the walls and upper reaches of the cavern. Three more flaming missiles hit the floor around them, setting fire to the dry and rotten timbers that must have been lying there since the creation of the altar.

Amelia backed up some more and found herself at the edge of the precipice – unable to move forward due to the ever-widening fire.

“Kelsey, what do we do now?”

“It doesn’t look like we have too many options, Amelia. We...we have to go that way.” He pointed to the hole in the floor. “That seems to be our only choice.”

Amelia shook her head in defiance, even though she knew he was right. She just wanted it on the record that she had objected.

“Hold my hand, close your eyes and step off...”

Amelia stepped right to the edge and closed her eyes. She could feel the heat beating against her skin – a direct contrast to the cool air she could feel coming up from the shaft.

“On three – one, two...” and Amelia let herself fall...

Erin Cole - Grave Echoes BUY IT NOW!

2010-09-23T06:36:00.000+10:00

The nightmare is real…
Kate Waters suffers from narcoleptic hallucinations, which recently involve her unreachable sister, Jev, and a mysterious key. When Kate receives the terrible news concerning Jev's fatal car accident and acquires the strange key from her visions, she unlocks her sister's world of perilous secrets involving witchcraft, poltergeist, and a heartless killer determined to get back what is his.

The danger lies in whom to trust.
Terrifying paranormal encounters, a trailing wolf, and an attempted murder of one of Jev's friends, forces Kate to turn to the one she fears most, the priestess of Jev's coven, Thea. She challenges Kate's beliefs and provides her vital clues about her sister's murder, but will Kate overcome her fears before anyone else dies? To do so, she will have to trust in a world where the possibilities are unbelievable and the consequences are deadly.

You can buy Erin's book HERE in both paperback and eBook formats from Author House, and HERE from Amazon.

You know you want to!

The Days of His Life - I Dare You Challenge

2010-09-17T15:38:00.000+10:00

A different challenge this week at JM Prescott's blog 'A Reader's World.' Heather Fitzpatrick issued the following Dare:

Challenge Yourself

We live in cities, in societies (online and in person) and in areas that have landmarks at key places. They serve to remind us of an event, a loss, a hero, or anything else we should never forget. We also have milestones in our lives that we either celebrate or disregard, but either way we are left changed. Bring a landmark, real or fictional into your story.

So, here is my take on this theme...

The Days of His Life

Katrina put down the telephone and screamed into the silence of the empty room. Her heart was breaking into a million little pieces; fragments of her life coursing through her body on the back of each of those millions of pieces. She sank to her knees, hoping that there had been a mistake – knowing there hadn’t been.

Jacob had been a small child when he had spoken his first words; Katrina and her husband had argued – albeit in jest – about what that word had been. She had thought he said mama (as mothers will) and his father had been adamant that the word was manna. Jacob’s father was proud of the boy – his faith was strong, and he felt that strength also in his son. Katrina admitted (if only to herself) that she would have been proud, too – if she could convince herself that Jacob hadn’t said mama.

She remembered the morning when he had taken his first steps. She had been in the kitchen, cooking their breakfast (how he ate, even at that age) and she felt something brush against her skirt. Looking down, she saw her son – all smiles and bright-eyed – shuffling along in an awkward gait. She had rejoiced; she had prayed for this moment (Jacob was a little slower developing these essential skills than the other boys in the neighbourhood – Katrina had often felt ashamed that their son wasn’t like the rest of the boys) and she immediately telephoned her husband to give him the good news. He had cried and laughed during the conversation, and left work early – just to be a part of yet another landmark day.

The choice of school for Jacob had been an important decision. They knew that they had to choose a school that would satisfy both their religious needs as well as Jacob’s educational ones. Once the decision was made, and Jacob was ready to start that first year, Katrina had been dealt a terrible blow. Her husband, working on the manufacturing press at the aluminium factory, had been involved in an accident which had taken his life – and her hope. She was inconsolable; only the desire to give Jacob the best life she could, kept her looking forward. His first day of school had been one of her brightest – yet saddest – days of her life.

Jacob had excelled at everything in the school environment; he was constantly at the top of his class – if not year – in most subjects, and became an excellent football player and runner. Katrina’s joy at Jacob’s selection in the All-State team in Athletics was unbridled. She could see his father in him, she knew he was looking down on their son and watching over him. College had followed, as had further recognition of his educational high standards and sporting excellence. She was as proud of her son as any mother, but she also knew that she loved him, regardless of his successes or failures.

The day Jacob proudly announced he had signed up for the Armed Services had shocked Katrina – not just that her little boy had grown up but he turned his back on his upbringing. Her disappointment was tempered by his desire to achieve and she couldn’t deny him his future.

The phone call had come, without warning, in the middle of the night. She screamed into the silence of the empty room.

Welcome To My World - Guest Dare Winner

2010-09-11T06:33:00.000+10:00

My story Welcome To My World has been chosen as the "winner" for this week's guest I Dare You challenge at JM Prescott's A Reader's World.

Thanks to Julia Archer for the challenge; it was a little different for me to think that way - and I loved every minute of it. Thanks again!!

I also look forward to next week's challenge...won't you come play, too?

Guest Challenge - Julia Archer

2010-09-06T20:04:00.000+10:00

Another week, another guest challenge at JM Prescott's A Reader's World. This week, Julia Archer has issued the challenge which can be found HERE.

For those of you who played along last time, I want to thank you again and, please, have a look this week and see what you can come up with. Should be interesting...

Dog Days of Summer at the NOT!

2010-09-01T19:44:00.000+10:00

The Magnificent Michael...that's what we should be calling Michael Solender with his latest creation - The Dog Days of Summer e-Chapbook. With the criteria for his selection process being the story should be exactly 101 words long, and must incorporate the words "summer" and "heat", he received nearly one hundred entries.

The selection process couldn't have been easy but his final decision has been made: congratulations to Sam Adamson for the Grand Prize winner entitled "The Pit of Hades". Darkness and humour in 101 words...my kind of storyteller.

Right now, get over to the NOT and have a look at the great e-Chap that Michael has done, plus the winning entry and others besides. Also a mention must be made to Kristin Fouquet for the excellent photography that really adds a wonderful touch to this collection.

Guest Dare at JM Prescott's 'A Reader's World'

2010-08-30T14:08:00.000+10:00

Not many people would let me have control of their blog pages - and with good reason, I am useless at this stuff!! However, Jo Prescott has obviously much more faith than I in my blogging ability and asked for me to guest host her "I Dare You" challenge for this week.

So it shall be written, so it shall be done...

The dare for this week can be found here. Come on over and see what you can come up with. It really is a very simple thing...just like me!!

Ambush! - Amelia & Kelsey (Thinking Ten Post)

2010-08-23T15:43:00.003+10:00

Today, on Thinking Ten, the prompt was On Location, Hiding.
I had been working on the follow-up piece to my Friday Flash story from this week and the prompt just seemed to work perfectly.
For those who haven't checked out Thinking Ten, go and have a look - it is great exercise!!
Also want to thank Blake Cooper for all his hard work behind the scenes - mate, you are doing a fantastic job!

Ambush!

Amelia sensed an ambush; the silence was too quiet, the streets too deserted. Her pack weighed down on her shoulders as she crouched behind a parked vehicle, scanning the intersection for signs of her pursuers. She knew they were out there; she had the bullet wound to prove it.

Agent Kelsey emerged from a darkened shopfront and gestured her forward. She closed the distance between them in a half-run, half crouch. When she reached him, he indicated for her to keep moving down the street. “Try to remain hidden in the shadows as best you can,” he whispered to her.

Amelia nodded in agreement and kept moving.

A few feet further down the block, Amelia heard shuffling footsteps and, before she had a chance to react, bullets ricocheted off the wall beside her head. She heard Kelsey return rapid-fire. She hit the ground, taking cover behind a Jeep. A click behind her told her the terrible news that Kelsey was out of ammunition.

She rose up from behind the vehicle and saw one of the assailants crossing the road, making a path towards Kelsey. In one swift, fluid movement, Amelia leapt over the bonnet of the Jeep, tucked into a forward roll across the pavement where one of the attackers lay dead. With one hand she grabbed the dead man’s gun, executed another near perfect roll and threw the weapon back over her shoulder to a rather surprised Kelsey.

The agent did stop to ask questions; he fired at the oncoming enemy, hitting him three times in the chest with precision, before placing another two in his forehead for good measure.

“Good work, Amelia,” Kelsey called to her. He could see her grin and the light in her eyes, even from a distance. He didn’t want to stop and explore that smile – not now, at least.

“Now let’s keep moving.”

The Treasure Hunter - FFF #39

2010-08-22T18:03:00.002+10:00

Friday Flash Fiction time again and our well-appreciated moderator Cormac Brown offered up a Randal-submitted starter sentence "She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again."
There was an added challenge this week i.e. not to write in the same genre that we did in the previous edition of FFF. To that end, I have written a action/adventure story. My last piece was a...err...ummm...not an action/adventure one!!
One final thing: this piece is just a little longer than normal (about 1200 words) - I just could find any more edits. If you have ANY suggestions, please fire away!!

The Treasure Hunter

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again. She firmly believed that her journey would finish here, that the answers she sought lay behind this carved oaken door, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they would want more for her – they always wanted more. She took a deep breath, turned the shiny brass knob and entered the room...

###

The flight into Nairobi had been a nightmare; winds had buffeted the Pilatus PC-12 immediately after takeoff and continued to so for the majority of the journey. She had been on many flights; however, they were usually in larger, international carriers. This small nine-seater scared her more than anything she had done before. More than the men in dark suits, the constant fear of discovery, the gunfights...

The pilot’s voice broke through her fear. “Miss James, could you buckle up please? We are about to set down in Nairobi. May God protect your soul.” The pilot laughed at his own black humour. Amelia James just wanted to punch him - hard.

###

Amelia had quickly located the Jacaranda Hotel. She unpacked her belongings, took a quick shower and waited for her contact to arrive.

She wasn’t made to wait long. She had just sat down in the huge, plush velvet recliner when there was a knock on her door. Amelia leapt out of the chair and crossed the room in a near-sprint. A quick peek through the spy hole revealed the man she had been waiting for. She unlatched and unlocked the door and ushered the man inside.

“Amelia, it is so good to see you. I had been worried you wouldn’t make it.”
“Thank you, Jamil, it is good to be here. I take it you have the documents we spoke of?”

Without replying, Jamil handed her a large yellow envelope, closing his hand over hers as she took it from him. “Be careful, Amelia, they are out there, searching for you. They know you are here.”

“I will, Jamil. I promise.”

###

Amelia arrived at the airport early. Her private flight waited at the far end of the airfield and she hurried across the tarmac and climbed the stairs. As she was about to enter the plane, a deep voice made her stop.

“Miss James, how nice to see you. Would you please drop your bags and come down the stairs slowly.”

Amelia turned and saw two men approaching the plane, arms by their sides but she could see the telltale bulges around their waists – definitely armed and dangerous. They stopped at the foot of the metal steps and crossed their arms, waiting for her.

“Come on, Miss James, we don’t have all day. Mr. Arbetreth is keen to see you and the documents you are withholding from him.” The taller of the two men spoke for the first time. “Besides, you don’t have a choice. Mr. Arbetreth can be very...persuasive.”

Amelia knew she had no choice; they had weapons and she believed they weren’t afraid to use them. Without really thinking of the consequences, she leapt into the air and spread her legs, each one landing smoothly on the railings either side of the stairs. She slid down toward her would-be assailants and, before they had a chance to register their shock, she landed one foot into the faces of either man, knocking them backward and off balance. She hit the ground hard, but rolled right back up to her feet. A sharp left foot snapped into the stomach of one of the men, doubling him over and she slammed her knee into face, hearing a satisfying crunch of bones and her attacker crumbled to the tarmac.

“Very nice, Amelia, I like your style.” It was the other man, gun raised and aimed directly at her forehead. This is it, she though, I am screwed. He is going to shoot me right here. She watched in fascination, as he tensed his finger on the trigger. That, however, was as far as he got. A split second later, his head had erupted in a splash of blood and bone. Amelia instinctively ducked her head and hit the ground.

“It is alright, Miss James, I mean you no harm.”

###

Amelia leaned back in the seat, staring out the window of the plane, watching the world slide below her, replaying the incident over and over. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased with her efforts or stunned by how close she was to be killed. She decided to be proud of herself. That kick...

“Care to share what you are smiling about? You were almost killed.”

Amelia looked up at the man who had saved her life. He was tall, handsome in an Indiana Jones kind of way, and had the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. He had introduced himself as Kelsey; she didn’t know if that was his first or last name – she found she didn’t care.

He sat beside her, worry furrowing his brow. “You really are a character – but if you aren’t careful, it is going to make you dead.”

“Kelsey, I can take care of myself. I have been chased, hunted and shot at so many times, I have lost count. This morning was a very close call, that is true, but I ain’t dead yet.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes and smiled. “You are definitely a character...”

###

Amelia and Kelsey arrived in Washington early the next morning. Kelsey had excused himself - citing appointments and a tight schedule, promising to catch up with her before she left town. Amelia found that she was looking forward to that.

###

She pushed open the door and stepped into the room. She was surprised by the size and opulence – even more surprised by the sight of Kelsey, standing beside the Director of National Intelligence. Her shock must have been evident, as the Director stood and approached her, a smile creasing his face.

“Amelia, welcome, please come in and take a seat. I see you know Agent Kelsey. No need for formal introductions, so we can get right down to business.” He shook Amelia’s hand and gestured to a seat in front of his huge desk. He returned to his seat, nodded at Kelsey, who moved around the desk and sat next to Amelia. She smiled at him, feeling a rush of emotions she knew had to be kept in check – she would explore them later.

“Amelia, my team and I have gone through the documents that you have brought to us, and Agent Kelsey has filled me in on what happened at Nairobi airport. We have discussed the implications of this and, coupled with what we know now about the missing artefacts, we believe we know exactly where we should next be looking.” The Director shot a quick glance at Kelsey. He nodded once – Amelia caught it – and the Director continued. “We would like for you to continue your service for the country, and would like to offer you an increased salary and top-level protection.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think...”

“Miss James, the protection I am offering comes in the form of Agent Kelsey. I understand he has already saved your life once. I think he may be a little disappointed if you don’t show him a little gratitude in return.”

Amelia turned to face Kelsey. His smile was wide, his pale blue eyes shone brightly.

“Alright,” Amelia said, “I think I can live with that.”

'The Thief of Shadows' up at Flashes In The Dark

2010-08-15T10:35:00.000+10:00

A new story of mine, entitled "The Thief of Shadows" is up at Flashes In The Dark. It has been up for a few days...I got the publication date wrong...what can I say??

A huge thanks to Lori Titus for the acceptance. "Flashes" is one of the best online sites for short, flash horror fiction and I am so happy to be a part of it. Thanks again, Lori!

A Solution to National Debt - FFF #38

2010-08-10T13:18:00.001+10:00

Another week of Friday Flash Fiction, and this week, in lieu of a starter sentence, moderator Cormac Brown has offered up four words to incorporate into our stories. These words are: Toil, Coil, Bubble, Rubble. Thanks to Cormac for his continual dedication to this site...it is greatly appreciated!

Now, I will apologise if this seems a little familiar or similar to someone else's writing...I can't help where my influences come from. Two points for picking the author and story I may (or may not have) read lately...

A Solution to National Debt

Laura and Richard found a spot by the side of the road – a great place to watch the runners as they came past, heading into Newtown and, eventually, the city centre. She unfolded the blanket that they kept in the back of the car and he grabbed the picnic basket, closed the passenger door with his hip and strolled across to where Laura had smoothed out the blanket and was arranging some cushions as if they were expecting royalty – not some sweaty teenage boys.

They got the call from the Marshall on the Friday evening, saying Davey had been selected and would need to be at the starting line in the city on Monday morning at nine sharp. Laura and Richard were both elated and worried at the same time – happy because his participation could help wipe the debt they owed City Corp, but worried that his lazy ass might not even make it to the first checkpoint, thereby forfeiting any chance of settling the account and repairing the rubble that was their financial lives.

An elderly gentleman approached Richard. He removed his Akubra and crouched down beside the edge of the footpath where Richard had begun to sort out the food and drink for lunch; crusty rolls with meat and salad, champagne for Laura (she just loves them bubbles) and a six-pack for himself.

“Hello, folks,” came the greeting from the twisted and toothless mouth of the visitor, “here for one of your own, or just here for the view?”

Television cameras appeared out of nowhere, capturing the moment and broadcasting them not just across the country, but around the world.

Laura looked up from the pillow arranging assignment she had set herself. Her eyes locked on those of the old man, as if telepathically sending a message of sod off. When she realised that it wasn’t working, she shrugged her shoulders and went back to her cushions. “Yes, our son is running this year. We had a pretty bad time of it last year; the business folded and I couldn’t find work anywhere the New Sector. That’s why Davey is running – we could really use the prize money.”

“Yeah, it sure was a crazy time; banks closing all over the place, people losin’ their homes – some folks lost more’n that. Wages went to hell – those who could keep the jobs – and the introduction of the New Coin and Note currency doesn’t seem to have helped any.” He wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and gazed up the length of the street. “They should be coming any time now. How do you think your kid is doing?”

Richard shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t know. Last I saw on the big screen, he had made it past Checkpoint Three – that’s three grand he has paid off with minimal work or toil – but I really don’t think he has it in him to run the full distance, let alone do it in front of the pack.”

The old man placed his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “He will want to keep going, won’t he? You and the missus didn’t come all the way down here to watch your lives disappear down the drain because your boy couldn’t pay off the debt, now did you?” Richard was about to reply, but he continued on. “How far does he have to get before the City grants you a reprieve?”

Laura stood up, cleared her throat and placed herself between her husband and the old man. “That is none of your concern, sir. We are well aware of the risks – and consequences – of this race. We don’t need to be sharing it with strangers.”

“Whoa, there, Missy, you get back on your blanket there and just let us men do the talking.” Laura was about to reply in her usual balls-to-the-wall fashion but a flash of silver, tucked into the man’s belt, quickly dissuaded her from any further conversation. A rifle shot in the distance added to the tense moment.

“You are a Marshall, aren’t you? My God – you are one of...them.” Richard could hear the fright in his voice, could feel the trembling in his hands and the fear coiling around his spine.

“I am, indeed, a Marshall, and don’t worry, the lady’s insolence won’t be taken into consideration – it is to be expected, I suppose.”

Richard paused again, weighing up his words. “Into consideration...what does that mean?”

The Marshall laughed, loud and hearty, and tucked his hands into the pockets of his neatly pressed slacks. “What it means, son, is that your boy has already – how shall I put this – retired from the rest of his life. He broke down four miles back. He didn’t even reach the Ten Percent Gate. I am sure you are aware of what that means for you both.”

Laura began sobbing immediately. Richard didn’t know whether it was from the death of his son (lazy bastard, couldn’t make five miles) or from the imminent punishment for Laura and himself.

“Yes, I am aware of what comes now.” He was resigned to the fact that this would happen – they had prepared for this eventuality. “Can you give us a few moments to say our goodbyes?”

“Well, of course. But just remember, seeing as though Davey didn’t make the Ten Percent Gate, the viewers have decided through an online poll that you both should perish for your debts. Don’t you just love modern technology?”
Laura and Richard clung to each other, whispering goodbyes choked with grief-filled sobs, touching each other’s faces, as if not to forget how they looked in those final few moments.

Richard heard the safety flicked off, and saw the shadow creep across him as the Marshall put the rifle to the back of his head. He heard nothing more.

Book Week at ThinkingTen - 5 Pieces

2010-07-31T06:45:00.001+10:00

This past week has been Book Week at ThinkingTen, a great site that I frequent often. We were provided prompts based on famous novels and had to write a piece within ten minutes (hence the title - but editing can take as long as you need!!) Below are my five pieces, with the prompt underneath each one for reference.
A big thank you to Blake Cooper for the challenge this week - it has been a blast!!

Retreat Or Surrender

They had come for her around midnight.

She had escaped the city just before it was destroyed, retreating to her haven in the mountains. The air, although tainted somewhat by the noxious aftertaste of the bomb, was still a lot healthier than that of the city. For how long, she didn’t know – but she had been happy to have escaped at all.

They had come for her around midnight.

She heard them before she saw them; scrapes of flesh across the veranda, broken fingernails tapping out a message of damnation on her door.

She locked all the doors and barricaded herself inside the living room – the one with the floor-to-ceiling windows. She saw them approaching the house through those windows; torn flesh, rotten teeth, broken limbs; yet on they came, coming for her – and she was trapped within the one place she had thought would be the safest in the world.

----------
On Location, Monday
A Room With A View

Me Thinks Me Is Sunk

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink – actually, to be more precise, a kitchen sink; not the one that is sitting in the bench-top of my condo down in Miami – no, I would be able to reach the phone from there. Instead, here I am, in the middle of someone’s horse paddock, legs tied (and ass-stuck) to this damn sink – and I am supposed to be writing a suicide note.

Damn this blackmailing crap – a couple of million dollars I was down, they gave me a loan, and now they want it back. They only gave me a really short time to pay it back – ninety days...ninety days? Why do they think I got a loan from ‘em in the first place? I couldn’t pay back the tenner I loaned from my eight-year-old son – and he’s mighty pissed, too, I might add.

So, here I am, knee-deep in seven flavours of shit, trying to write a convincing suicide note – how do you think I am doing? Pretty bad, so far, huh? But that’s okay...at least they had the decency to let me do it in my own time...

Now all I have to do is work out why they poured that sticky-as-shit honey all over my crotch...

----------
Take It Away, Tuesday (Starter Sentence)
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Pelican Decoy

Did I ever tell you I was dyslexic? Probably not – we don’t know each other that well. I would like to tell you all about it, but then, what would be the pinto? It’s not like you will be joining me for a bark fest in the morning.

Anyway, my story is short. I’m dyslexic, and I work for the Collins Pelican Decoy. Pretty strange job for someone with my condo in it, but there you have it.

I was sitting in the lunch room with my boss – his skin was so pale, almost wrath I like - when both our grapes went off luminously east. We made a mad rush for the crap ark, in an effort to get to the big press crone fence; there was to be a huge emu net cannon regarding the future of the English gnu algae.

I still wonder why I was given this ensign mast.

----------
Words Inc, Wednesday (Use these words in your story)
(1) wrath, and (2) grapes

Never Return

FADE IN...CLICK

A young man lies on a quiet beach, enjoying the sounds of the beach; the rolling waves, crashing and dashing themselves on the rocky cliffs that formed the boundaries of his childhood playground.

FLASH...CLICK

Fast forward a few years to find him walking the beach, hand in hand with his own young children, sharing with them the joys of a beachside existence. He taught them to listen to the ocean, to hear its secrets. They gave him a bright, colourful seashell so he could always hear the waves.

FLASH...CLICK

An old man now, sitting on the porch; a discarded newspaper lay at his feet, the headline proclaiming the sea has taken another victim to its watery depths. Beside it, a broken seashell.

He will never go to the beach again.

CLICK...FADE OUT

----------

The Plot Thickens, Thursday (Use these elements in your story)
An Old Man (include the sea)

A Boy & His Guitar

Dear Uncle Tom,

I am writing this missive to say thank you – thank you for the two biggest gifts I have ever received; the red Gibson ES 350T is such a beautiful instrument – I hope I get good enough to do it the justice it deserves. The other gift which I am thankful for is the chance to use your cabin down here in Louisiana – I enjoy sitting down by the railroad tracks in the evenings, under the giant evergreens. Sometimes I won’t even take that guitar out of the gunny sack, but just sit and feel the rhythm of the trains rolling past, feeling their power and trying to recreate that sound with my guitar. For all of this, I am thankful.

Anyway, I have to go and do some chores.

Thank you again,

Jonathon Bartholomew Goode

P.S. Mother is funny – she thinks one day I am going to be so successful that I will be in front of a big band and that many people will come from miles around to hear me play. Isn’t she a hoot?

----------
Member’s Pick, Friday
Uncle Tom (include a cabin)

If You Go Out In The Woods Today... - FFF #37

2010-07-26T21:07:00.003+10:00

Friday Flash Fiction time again and this week Cormac Brown, our fearless moderator and genuinely decent chap, offered up the following starter sentence: "As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down." I stopped and started this piece three times, each time going in different directions, and I hope this one came out well. So, without further (insert French word here), here it is:

If You Go Out In The Woods Today...

As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down. This is my motto and what I constantly tell the groups of snotty-nosed, private school kids who were regular visitors to these parts. School excursions had sure changed since I was a kid; no more museums, science fairs and historical monuments – no, now they came to me.

My name is Luke Lashner and I am the tour guide for the National Parks, usually in charge of leading these groups. I usually got dumped with old folks or bratty teenagers – god knows why, must be my charm.

This latest motley crew of adolescent misfits arrived at the assembling point – twenty minutes late. Their teacher – a mousy man with a roadmap of veins winding across his cheeks and a nose that Rudolph would be jealous of – introduced himself as Mr. Marshall (call me Reg) and apologised for the delay. His appearance gave me the distinct impression that he was scared stiff of the upcoming walk – not that I could blame him; it didn’t matter how many times I began this walk, I always found myself taking a deep breath (or three) before starting out.

After making sure that everyone was ready – water, food and good hiking shoes – we got on our way. It would be a long day for these kids and I took my time leading them down to the metal and stone steps that would eventually take us to the valley floor. On my own, I could do it in ninety minutes but allowing for teenage gossip, talks of girls and arguments about who had the better football team, it would take nearly four hours.

Mr. Marshall (call me Reg) gave some final instructions to the group – something about not fucking about and to pay attention to what they were told – and we started down. The first few steps were cut directly out of the mountain side (as were about half of the one thousand or so stairs we had to descend) and were slightly damp and therefore slippery. I told the kids to be careful coming down and I was quite surprised when they actually did as instructed.

Boys, at times, like to show off to their mates, but these kids were unusually quiet – I don’t know if it was fear or something else that made them hold their tongues. Maybe they had been threatened with school expulsion if they acted up but whatever the reason; I didn’t hear a word from any of them for the first hour or so of our descent.

About halfway down, we came upon a rest area and I told the boys to take off their packs and relax for ten minutes. The journey down is hard on inexperienced legs and some of the kids were huffing and puffing (would more than likely blow a house down) and they accepted my offer gratefully.

I could hear voices down below us, probably on one of the lower look-outs.

Sound travelled a long way out here – something to do with thinner air and atmospheric blah-blah-blah – and I turned to ask Mr. (I refuse to call you Reg) Marshall if he knew why it was so but he was nowhere to be found. I looked back up the stairs, scanning the zig-zag pattern of the walkway but to no avail – he had apparently disappeared.

“Boys, have any of you seen your teacher in the last few minutes?”
Heads turned my way slowly, sending a tremor of unease through me. Their silence did nothing to alleviate that. One of the boys – the tallest one in the group – sauntered toward me with a lopsided grin stretched unnaturally across his face.

“He had an...accident. He won’t be joining us for the rest of the day.”

I was amazed that I hadn’t been told and told the boy exactly that. “Where is he? Did he go back up the stairs? I had a look a few moments ago – he couldn’t have got far...”

I was cut off by the boy raising his hand, gesturing for silence. His apparent authority scared me; I could feel that little vein in my forehead pounding rapidly, keeping the beat in time with my heart. My hands were sweaty – like a boy, no older than these ones before me – awaiting the arrival of his very first date and hoping he didn’t screw it up.

“Mr. Marshall wanted to have a good look at the valley – and we accommodated him.”

I found myself slowly trying to back away from these kids (not that they acted like kids, no sir-ree.) The others began to draw in around me, creating a wall around me that I wouldn’t be able to physically break through. Talking was all I had left.

“What is it that you want? Why are you doing this?”

The tallest boy took a few long strides and was quickly standing nose-to-nose with me. I could smell the sourness of his breath and the fear in mine.

“No more questions or you shall have a guided tour as well – our style.”

“I was only asking about...”

I felt a hand grab me roughly by the collar and the boy shook his head, almost ruefully.

“I’m sorry, but I did say no more...”

Not A Good Day, All Things Considered

2010-07-24T04:52:00.001+10:00

Another week, another dare over at JM Prescott's A Reader's World. This week's dare was to include a light - "Go outside and write in the sun, curl up under your favourite reading lamp or light a candle. Turn your writing into a literal flash and somehow include a light in your piece."

Not A Good Day, All Things Considered

Robbie tumbled down the last few steps of Playbirds International – the self-confessed innovators of adult entertainment – and rolled onto the pavement in an ungainly heap of arms, legs and cigarette butts - another day in Paradise City.

Paradise City wasn’t its official name – it was actually Kings’ Cross, the red-light district of Sydney – but it was how Robbie thought of it; although, that definition was rapidly beginning to change. Last week, he had been tossed out of the Bourbon Bar on Darlinghurst Road – that wasn’t so bad as there weren’t twenty nine steps to be thrown down (Playbirds did – Robbie had counted them on the way up – just in case.)

He rolled over onto his back, made a quick check of all his vitals (wallet, watch and phone) and, when he was satisfied all was in order, he put in the effort to raise to his feet.

Halfway up, he felt a boot slam into the back of his right knee, sending him back to the filthy pavement. His knees cried in protest, but it soon went ignored when he felt the hard rubber sole of what could only be a policeman’s boot on the back of his neck. Robbie struggled to free his head from the pavement and, after thirty seconds or so, he felt the weight lift. Things didn’t improve, however, when he turned his head to face his tormentors. Immediately, he was squinting as the light from the officer’s high powered torch shone directly into his eyes.

“Well, lookee-here, partner, looks like we got ourselves a D and D.”
The two cops grinned as Robbie tried to get to his feet.

“Hey, don’t we know you from somewhere? Yeah, yeah...we do. You were that idiot we kicked out of the Red Lantern in Surrey Hills the other night. Yeah, sure, we know you.”

Robbie grunted and tried to sit up. One of the officers put his size thirteen boot into his back and pushed him back into the pavement. Robbie felt a hand in his back pocket and sensed his wallet being removed.

“Now, look at this, Jimmy,” one of the officers said to his partner. “Seems our friend here has a fair wad of cash in his wallet - I’m sure he won’t mind if we lighten it a little.”

Robbie kept his head down, not wanting to argue the point with them - not that he was in any position to argue. A few seconds later, he felt the foot remove itself from the small of his back and then something hitting him in the back of the head. He reached up and felt his wallet next to his head and he turned to see that both of the cops had disappeared. Well, that was reasonably painless, Robbie thought, I’m only down a hundred bucks or so.

His opinion changed quickly when he realised that, stuffed inside his wallet, was an infringement notice for drunk and disorderly, with a fine attached of one hundred and seventy five dollars. He was wondering what else could go wrong as he was crossing Darlinghurst Road when he saw the police car, headlights off, coming his way – fast.

He shouldn’t have asked.

***

This week's winner was the wonderful Sal Buttaci and his story "Up In The Air". Congrats, Sal, another fantastic piece!

Acceptance at Pill Hill Press!!

2010-07-22T13:22:00.001+10:00

This morning I received an email from Jessy Marie Roberts at Pill Hill Press regarding my submission for their upcoming "Daily Bites of Flesh:
365 Days of Flash Fiction" and the good news is:

I was accepted!!

My very first "published" (read that as 'printed') piece!! I am absolutely ecstatic. I was really happy with the final story and apparently, so were they. It isn't a paying publication but, as far as I am concerned, it is just as good as. They have some fantastic publications every year and I am just so happy to be a part of that.

Nothing quite like a major (for me) acceptance to get the creative juices flowing...

Onwards and upwards!!

A thank you to Jessy Marie Roberts, editor and compiler of the Daily Bites anthology for the acceptance. I appreciate it so very much.

A big thank you to all of my friends from 6S and T-10 for your constant encouragement, advice and support. You guys are the greatest!

'Good Help Is Hard To Fry' up at The Glass Coin

2010-07-19T19:38:00.001+10:00

My story "Good Help Is Hard To Fry" is now up at The Glass Coin. The theme for this issue was Fame/Fortune. You can read my piece HERE.

A huge thanks to both Sairah Saddal and JM Prescott, co-editors of The Glass Coin, for accepting my story. I am very honoured to be a part of this publication.

While you are there, check out the upcoming themes and submission guidelines. Certainly worth a look!!

Her Family, The Nightmare - FFF #36

2010-07-19T11:42:00.003+10:00

Friday Flash Fiction time again and this week, due to a malfunction that moderator Cormac Brown blames on the lack of Bundaberg Ginger Beer in the States (it's an Australian product!!), we had a choice of three starter sentences. All were great, but I chose the one supplied by Sue.
Thanks again to Cormac for hosting this great site, and to all those who participate weekly and make it a wonderful place to frequent.
(As a word of warning, this is a little longer than usual - but not by much.)

Her Family, The Nightmare

You know that feeling when you wake up sweating and thing “thank goodness it was only a dream”? The cooling sweat that makes you shiver? The rumpled bedclothes that indicate a night of terror? What if it wasn’t a dream – what if, deep down, you know it is your subconscious reminding you of an event you have tried – for years – to ignore, hoping it would go away?

Karen had dreams like that. Karen – young, beautiful and ambitious – had been plagued by dreams of this nature for the last few weeks. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact time they had started; it was definitely before Rob had left her for the dumb blonde in the office, so she reasoned that wasn’t the cause – as much as she would love to blame the cheating bastard. No, the more she thought about it, the more she realised that the nightmares had begun when her biological father has made contact with her, wanting to see her.

Her recollection of her childhood was vague to say the least; snippets of home and school, remnants of friends made and lost – all circulated inside her head, never forming a complete picture. Her mother had passed away when she was young and she spent much of her formative years being shuffled from foster home to foster home; she was a troubled child for the most part – not really a bad kid, just extremely withdrawn and introspective. The few friends she made were snatched away from her when she was shuffled along the adoption highway.

Karen had come out the other side of this childhood as a shy and reclusive adult. Her one long-time friend, Sheena, had introduced her to Rob, a financial whiz kid, and her life had seemed to instantly improve – her confidence soared, her interests expanded and she soon found herself finishing her education at the local community college and gaining her first real job – as a receptionist at Rob’s office. She made many friends, attended book clubs and bridge nights, art exhibitions and all-night bowling parties. Marriage had come quickly after – it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. Life had become good for Karen.

And then the dreams began; she couldn’t always remember them in the morning at first (who wants to remember a bad dream?), and then she started to keep a journal, writing down everything she could remember as soon as she woke up. Rob had laughed about it – he thought she was being silly – didn’t everybody have bad dreams from time to time?

The dreams continued – her journal filled with notes, brimming with fragmented memories of frightening and frenzied nightmares. She started a second journal after seven weeks – a third just three weeks later as her recollections become clearer, the nature of the dreams more consistent. The vestiges of the previous night remained in her mind’s eye longer every morning. She wrote down everything, forced herself to remember every detail, every word said, every scream uttered. She never had sweet dreams, happy dreams – they were always the same, horrifying dream.
After the third notebook, she decided to see a psychiatrist. She hoped he would help distance herself from her past.

#

Transcription of interview between myself, Dr. Eugene Banks, and new patient, K.

December 2, 2009

Dr: Good morning, K. How did you sleep last night? Did those tablets help at all?

K: No, Doc, they didn’t help one little bit. In fact, I think it was worse last night than ever before.

Dr: Tell me what happened.

(K. remains silent for a few moments; her face twists in torment – I think she is trying to decide how much to tell me.)

K: It was the same as every other night, except for one small detail – I saw his face...

(K. nervously glances from side to side, as if in search of the cause of her nightmares.)

Dr: From the beginning, K. I need to know everything – if I am to help you.

K: The dream started the same way as always; in a darkened room, but a sense of someone standing over me. I couldn’t see – it was very, very dark, like I was blindfolded – but I knew someone was there. I couldn’t speak; I tried to yell but nothing came out. I tried to move but it was as if I was tied to my bed – but it wasn’t really my bed, you know? It was like a conglomeration of all the beds I had slept in, in all the houses I had lived in. (K. stops here for a few minutes – a steady stream of tears have forced her to pause and regain her composure. She apologises, and eventually continues.) I felt a hand touch me – just one at first. I couldn’t pull away from it, I couldn’t...I just couldn’t... (K. pauses again, but only briefly.) Then I felt lots of hands; touching, caressing, and then pushing and pulling. It hurt and there was nothing I could do about it.

Dr: Do you want to take a break? Get some fresh air?

K: No, thank you. (K. wipes her eyes, still crying silent tears.) After the touching for I don’t know how long, I was suddenly free. I was able to move my arms and legs and the first thing I did was flail my arms, trying to beat away whoever it was torturing me. I came in contact with nothing but thin air. I got up from the bed and bolted to where I thought the door was. It took me a few minutes – it felt like hours (you know how dreams can be?) – everything seemed somehow distorted, warped.

Dr: What happened next?

K: I made it out the door and ran down unfamiliar hallways, searching for an exit. The carpeted halls seemed to go on forever, never leading anywhere. I eventually discovered a doorway that led outside but as soon as I put my hand on the knob, a familiar voice crashed into my ears.

Dr: Who was it? Did you recognise the voice immediately?

K: Not straight away.

Dr: What did the voice say? I take it that it was a male voice?

K: Yes, it was a man and he said that I would never be free, that it was entirely my fault and the guilt would drive me to the same end as my mother. He kept on blaming me; calling me dirty – a slut, a cheap little slut. And that I was going to get what I deserved – just like mother.

Dr: Did you recall during these dreams what the man was talking about? Or have you discovered the meanings of these words since?

K: Oh yes, I know exactly what he was referring to. It took me a while to remember why it was that I was sent off to foster homes; my mother had passed away and my father told the authorities that he didn’t have the means to support me on his own. My father would arrange for people to care for me; it was like he was a pimp – I realise that now. He would send me to people who liked to take advantage of young, innocent girls. And that is exactly what happened – every foster home I was delivered to, every family I lived with – I was sexually abused by either the father, or both he and any boys that lived there. I hated myself more than I hated them, but more than anything I hated my father. He caused this...this nightmare life for me. And I want to see him dead.

Dr: You mean your father wants to see you again because he wants to – what? Abuse you some more? Torment you? Kill you? Shut you up for good?

K: Make no mistake, Doctor. He wants all of that – and more.

(I am not entirely sure what I make of this: it felt good to start but on reflection, it doesn't really go anywhere...and it was too late to start again. If you have any suggestions on ways of making this better, please, shoot em at me!!)

A Woman Scorned - FFF #35

2010-07-12T13:02:00.001+10:00

After a protracted absence, Cormac Brown has been kind enough to allow me to return to Friday Flash Fiction...and what a great starter sentence we have this week, supplied by Flannery. So, without anymore rambling, here is my piece for this week:

A Woman Scorned

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position." Charlene Faulkner didn’t like where this conversation was headed. She had faced up to the fact, long ago, that if her husband found out about her five-year-long affair, that he would walk out on her and take her kids – her kids, damn it – and leave her with nothing. She was used to having everything (two of everything if you included the open tab she had on her lover’s credit card) and to lose it all would be devastating – not so much the loss of her family; she was young, she could always start again – but the loss of privilege and standing she had in her small community of friends and associates.

“You see, I have always been the ‘go to’ girl; having trouble with your husband...go and see Charlie. A bit short of funds this month...Charlie will help you out. I like that and I will miss it if this comes out. I agree that we can’t continue to sneak around; meeting discreetly in motel rooms and deserted park benches. I know I need to leave my husband, but it is something I am just not ready to do. Surely, you can understand that?”
Charlie looked into the eyes of the man who had held her last night, and the previous five nights. As far as her husband was aware, she was in Adelaide for a business trip, when in actual fact, she and Brady (what a sexy name, just like the main characters in those awful books her sister loved to read) were in a motel in downtown Sydney, just a few kilometres from her husband and home.

“I understand, Char, but something has to give. I have lived up to my end of the deal – the divorce paperwork is going through now. Not that Belinda really cares. She hated the long hours and the not knowing where I was – or with whom.” He kissed her softly on the forehead and gently slid a stray hair out of her eyes. “I want us to be together, and I want it soon. Do you understand?”

Charlie nodded once and started weeping as she watched Brady walk out the front door.

#

Charlie hurled the telephone against the wall. “Bastard,” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Just wait ‘til I see you again, Mr. I-Want-Us-To-Be-Together.” A deep breath. “Bastard.”

She had received a phone call from her friend – a desk jockey down at the local police headquarters – informing her that the man she was seeing, the man of her dreams, was actually a private detective, hired by her husband to keep an eye on her, especially on her extended ‘work trips’. Her friend had told her that she had been tipped off by one of the other rich socialites who had discovered that her husband had done the same. Charlie’s friend put two and two together and knew she had to ring Charlie – as much as she knew it was going to hurt her.

“You bastard...I will teach you to try and have your cake and eat it, too.” Charlie picked up the telephone – the parts of it that were still attached to the cord – and threw it back down onto the floor in disgust. Cheap Japanese crap, she thought to herself as she fished her mobile phone out of the pocket of her Hermes handbag. She studied the phone for a moment, trying to remember his number. She wasn’t even completely sure she had it. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that he had always been the one to contact her, he was always the one that made the dates and times, that she was just a passenger on his train of deception.

“Bastard!”

#

Damien Faulkner was ecstatic. His wife, Charlie, had rung him and told him she had to stay away for another three nights – the convention was going longer than she had previously thought – and that she would be home on Sunday. Did he mind? Hell, he didn’t mind at all. Two phone calls later – one to the private eye he had following his wife, and the other to the sexy, if not slightly docile, secretary from the office he had been seeing for months – and he jumped in the car for a quick drive down to the local cellars. Kelly (or was it Kerry?) was always willing to ‘put out’ over a bottle of Dom. Long Live the Dom.

#

Brady sat alone in the near-empty restaurant awaiting the arrival of Charlie. She had sounded needy – desperate to see him. He knew in advance that she was going to call – Damien had told him about the conversation with Charlie – and he was excited to see her again. He knew that playing both sides was tricky – dangerous even – but she was such a good sort, he just couldn’t resist.

He saw her enter the foyer, dismissed the maitre’d with an annoyed flick of her delicate wrist (she was lucky she wasn’t really angry – the wrist would have snapped right off) and searched him out across the room. Their eyes met and Brady could sense something different about her; her hair was not perfect, she had left off the make-up and she was dressed like she had just come from the gym.

Brady watched her approach with growing apprehension; she looked mighty pissed off about something and he had already made the assumption that he was going to be the target of her fury.

“Bastard,” she screamed at him, “you complete and utter bastard.”

Brady knew – just knew – that this was not going to end well. He was even more sure when he saw he remove the snub-nosed pistol from her coat pocket (both coat and pistol he had paid for – bitch was going to shoot him with his own money) and point it in his direction.

“You picked the wrong field to play in, mister,” Charlie screamed as she fired twice, taking most of Brady’s head off in the process.

“Game over.”

Coated in History - I Dare You Challenge

2010-07-09T15:15:00.000+10:00

Another week and another I Dare You from Jo Prescott at her wonderful site JM Prescott - A Reader's World. This week, the challenge came in the form of clothing..."Clothing can set the scene as certainly as a wedding dress, predict plot like a ski mask and laytex gloves, or reveal character like chaps and spurs."

So, here is my piece for this week's challenge, entitled Coated In History. I hope you enjoy it.

Coated In History

I sit alone at the end of the bar, looking every bit like the sad, pathetic loser that I feel. Everywhere I look there are groups of people gathered together, enjoying each other’s company; several men, dressed in coal-covered overalls are gathered together near the open fireplace that is blazing in the far corner of the room, laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back as good friends are comfortable doing; half a dozen attractive younger women are seated in the middle of the floor area, simultaneously preening themselves in the long mirror behind the bar and whispering to each other and breaking out in huge fits of giggles, occasionally glancing over at the miners to see if they are paying them any attention.

My night hadn’t started out this way. I had come here with Jo, my friend from the office where we worked ten hour days, slaving over endless reams of tax forms and, this being Friday, decided to drop by the local for a few cold ones before heading home to our respective empty homes. Halfway through our second beer, Jo’s phone rings and, after a few seconds, puts the phone back in his pocket, apologises to me (my brother has just been in a car accident – I gotta run), and he leaves me, sitting there alone at the end of the bar.

I finish off the beer that I ordered half an hour ago – it has gone warm and I contemplate getting another but decide against it. As I gather my things together, I notice Jo has left his coat – that damn ugly coat he so loves to wear – hanging off the back of his stool. I don’t want to ring and bother him so I figure I will take it home with me and will return it to him on Monday, maybe even drive by his house over the weekend and drop it off for him.

I step out into the night and find it has become quite cold; thick, heavy clouds have rolled in – they look like snow clouds – and I do the only thing I can think of – put Jo’s jacket on. It is woollen inside and extremely warm. I snuggle my body inside it and head out into the darkness.
My trudging footsteps are halted by a sudden, blinding headache. I hear myself moan from the pain and I feel a mixture of beer, bourbon and bile rise in my throat. I crouch down, limiting the chances of falling and injuring myself.

A rush of images assaults my mind; flashes of Egyptian pyramids, sand storms, and wall after wall of hieroglyphics. I cannot fathom what is happening. In a panic, I try to throw the coat off, but only succeed in tangling myself inside it. As I struggle with it, a final, terrifying image of a man who could only be a Pharaoh, speaks inside my head.

“Imposter, who are you to wear the Soul of the Pharaoh? Be gone and suffer a slow and terrible death.”

A fresh burst of pain shook me and I fell the rest of the way to the ground, finally able to pull free of the coat. I threw it across the gravel parking area and lay, trembling on the stony ground.

The trembling, however, has nothing to do with the cold.

'Flagging Popularity' up at JM Prescott's A Reader's World

2010-07-03T06:53:00.000+10:00

I must admit, I have never really been a fan of FanFic. It feels a bit strange borrowing so blatantly from others (although we borrow all the time from our favourite writers...if only in a subconscious way.) So, when the challenge came from Jo Prescott at her blog A Reader's World to write a piece of FanFic, I wasn't sure what to write. What resulted was something I am kinda proud of. My piece, entitled Flagging Popularity, can be found by clicking HERE.

A big thanks to Jo Prescott for the dare.

A massive thanks to Uncle Stephen for the inspiration.

As a side note, I just wanted to mention that Jo is also co-editor of a great e-zine called The Glass Coin. They are always open for submissions. Why not go and have a look-see? What can it hurt?

Justice Is Served, Sir up at 50 To 1

2010-07-02T06:15:00.000+10:00

My piece "Justice Is Served, Sir" is now up at the cool microflash site, 50 to 1. If you haven't seen it, be sure to get over and have a look.

My thanks to Glen and Sam for accepting my story.

Plane Distracted

2010-06-14T23:54:00.002+10:00

Lincoln was restless; he was in the underground car park at the airport, awaiting his sister's arrival from some far-flung exotic nation - yet another glamour shoot for that magazine she was always prattling on about. The radio was quietly playing in the background - not that he was really listening; he was too busy cursing the fact that he was the one designated to pick Donna up.

He glanced at his watch for what was the fifth time in as many minutes - two in the afternoon and she was already fourty-five minutes late. He wondered what tired, lame excuse she was going to use this time: the plane was delayed, customs was a bitch, I broke a fingernail - he had heard them all before and wasn't too keen on hearing another version.

The news on the radio broke in on his thoughts: "....Air France flight 2228 has gone down over the Atlantic Ocean, there were no survivors...."

"Bloody hell, another one, can't they keep these friggin' things in the air? What the hell is keeping Donna..?”

(This was a piece for Thinking Ten. The prompt was:
On Location, Monday: Air France Flight 2228
The only rule: somehow tie the above location into your daily flash.)

Ornamental Warfare

2010-06-12T05:42:00.000+10:00

"What can you reach for right now without getting up and without cheating. Pick the weirdest and strangest thing within your grasp and write about it. The weirder the better." This was the challenge issued by Jo Prescott at her cool site, A Reader's World. Below is my response. I hope you like it.

I stood atop the Deeping Wall. Aragorn stood to my left, sword held by his side, eyes fixed firmly on the advancing army. King Theoden, now over his spell thanks to the magic of Gandalf, was on my right. Archers lined the walls, swordsmen stood by the ramparts, awaiting the arrival of the enemy, axes and swords in hand, ready to deliver the killer blow to the heart of The Evil One.
The battle horn sounded from afar. I could hear the enemy below the fortress chanting their war song. Unintelligible words soared upon the wind, carrying with it the smells of boiling tar and rotting flesh. I knew that my foes would catapult the hot, viscous mass up and over the walls. We were prepared.
Swords clashed on shields, pikes held at the ready – the enemy advanced. It wasn’t a quick march, mind – they were slow and ungainly creatures, but their size, strength and thick skins were going to make it hard for our men to penetrate their defences. But I knew these men – I knew they would stand tall, stand firm – for their King.
I held my sword by my side as I waited for the right time to issue the command to attack. I could feel it coming closer...
“Captain, you must come see this.” It was Legolas – my elfin friend. He was agitated and pointing in the direction from which he had come. “Bad news coming from the East. Very bad news. You must come at once.”
I watched as he raced back to his vantage point, gesturing to others in the vicinity to come and see. I strode across and smiled as the men remained at their posts. Legolas was flighty and prone to exaggeration.
Coming across from the East were creatures that I had never seen the likes of. They stood tens of feet tall and must have weighed in the hundreds of tonnes. Even from this distance, I could tell that what we possessed here would be no match against these vile creations.
Gimli strode forward, rested his hand on my shoulder and addressed the King.
“Sire, if arrow and sword fail, my axe would be most pleased to sink into the flesh of those fell beasts.”
“Gimli, you honour your ancestors with such fine intentions. We shall battle this new evil in whatever fashion we must – and we must if we are to save Middle Earth.”
My attention returned to those at the base of the walls. They still waved their torches and beat upon their drums of war and slowly made their way towards us. Then, without obvious command, liquid fire began to rain down upon the Hold. Men around me cried out in agony, some died before they had a chance to seek the temporary shelter. Arrows began to fly over the walls as the enemy fired blindly. Several found their marks and I watched, devastated as man after man, fell in battle.
“We must fall back.” Theoden cried out to Aragorn and those around him. “Fall back.”
I stumbled backwards and fell, staring up at the sky and saw the mass of fire and stone hurtling towards me. I knew there was no escaping...

***

“Dad...Dad! I thought we agreed that the figurines and ornaments were for decoration only. Put them down and just watch the movie, all right?”

The winning piece by Kathy Monson is available to be read HERE.

Jo's Challenge - She DARES Us!!

2010-06-08T05:44:00.002+10:00

Over at JM Prescott - A Reader's World, a challenge has been issued. A weekly challenge...with a twist (and we all like twists!!)

What is the challenge I hear you ask? Well, you are just going to go and have a look. It can be found HERE.

Our host, Jo, is a very talented writer and co-editor of The Glass Coin. Her writings can be found at Thinking Ten, Six Sentences Main Page, Six Sentences Social Page, Like Birds Lit, and the Leaf & Lizard chapbook she co-authored with Sairah Saddal, her co-editor at The Glass Coin.

The Glass Coin accepts "Good Help Is Hard To Fry"

2010-06-06T06:56:00.005+10:00

My story "Good Help Is Hard To Fry" has been accepted for the July issue of The Glass Coin. I am extremely pleased with this story and am deeply grateful to the editors Sairah Saddal and Jo Prescott for taking a chance with this piece.

I will give you more details for this piece when it is up and able to be read.

If you haven't checked out The Glass Coin...go and have a look. Every month has a dual theme. You can see the future themes HERE.

Submission guidelines can be found HERE.

Although only a fledgling publication, The Glass Coin has all the hallmarks of becoming a fantastic site for prose, poetry and art.

Check it out HERE.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2010-06-03T22:15:00.003+10:00

"Good not-day-nor-night evening, salutations and welcome to the transmission of us. Tonight we will be using the english - no other - language to make conversational discussionable commentry on my new baronial and majestic inscribing of opus-creating text. It contains, yes, yes, it does, it comprises many, many divisions and sections, from the prolegomenon, that's right - prolegomenon - through to the noted feet at its hindermost part. In the course of my august and grandiose personal narrative, i set forth, not back, to record the peregrination that all my born days have availed itself of. The availability and, indeed, its puchasableness, is in multitudinous and multifarious merchants and vendors of splendiferous collections of printed utterances."

"Yes, he is talking about his autobiography and you can buy it at your local bookseller."

(This was originally on 6S, but I have decided to repost some of them on my blog over the next few weeks. This one was the best fun to write. Aren't words cool?)

All Quiet Down Under

2010-06-03T21:49:00.000+10:00

Hasn't it been quiet around here? I wonder where the landlord is?

Last I heard, he was pounding at the keyboard, trying to make words join together in coherent sentences but failing miserably. That was last week...

This week, for some reason, he seems to be making a reasonable fist of getting some quality work done; some for his blog and various writing sites - some even to send off for submissions. Seems to be a good week.

I don't know why some weeks he - let's face it - sucks at what he is trying. Nothing comes together and he throws up his hands like a petulant little boy. Other weeks, he gets on a roll and gets a few really good stories out there. Why? Like I said, no idea (and I bet it has nothing to do with a certain single malt scotch - Ed.)

All I can ask is this: please be patient. He shall have some new work for you, as Uncle Stephen would say, the Constant Reader. And I am sure he would like me to add that he thinks it may just kick ass!

The Life Coach - Thinking Ten Canvas Challenge

2010-05-24T11:12:00.003+10:00

Coach Jackson had been a successful football coach at Kings’ College for over twenty-five years and, in that time, led nineteen teams to the finals and collected the premiership trophy fourteen times. It was – and still is – a record for the college; no other coach had gone close to emulating that success rate since Coach Jackson’s retirement many years before.

I had interviewed Coach Jackson numerous times over the years and, through all of the successes and triumphs, all of the players he turned into champions, he has one pang of regret, one player who, despite all of the accolades and star-player treatment, he never went on and made a life for himself. Coach always made a point of helping his players not just on the field, but off it as well.

I think the best way to explain it is to let him tell the story:

Many years after retiring, I was strolling along the footpath in a busy city when I came across my former star quarterback sitting on the footpath outside a busy supermarket. I didn’t recognise him at first; he was dishevelled, dirty and despondent. I had never felt such a pain in my heart before, a terrible outcome for one with such promise years before.
He was always the one who I thought would go on to greater things. I remember him telling me before one finals match, when everyone else in the team was nervous and anxious, that he always took a drive in his Mustang before arriving at the game. It gave him a chance to clear his head, gain a new perspective on things that were troubling him and, that way, he would always be ready to go, always in a fine state of mind.
I asked him what had happened for him to be in such a terrible way. My former player looked at me wearily, as if he had explained it many times before. He had just been through a very rough divorce. He had nothing. Only the few possessions that were bundled inside the shopping cart before him.
I remember reaching over and patting him on the shoulder and said I felt sorry for him for losing his wife.
”It’s not the wife that is the problem, Coach - she got the Mustang in the settlement!”

(This piece was inspired from Thinking Ten. The image was issued as a Canvas Challenge...write something based on the picture. Hope you liked it!)

For Eve

2010-05-13T09:24:00.002+10:00

Tony and Maria had purchased the apartment block with an eye to the future; a nice place to raise a family, and the rents they received from the other units would supplement their income. Eve had come along a few years later, blessing them with perpetual sunshine and happiness.

Money, however, had not been able to secure Eve’s health. She had been diagnosed at an early age and, regardless of the money they invested in making her better, they lost their sunshine just a few short years later. Darkness had enveloped their marriage. Maria departed and Tony grieved.

---

The climb to the third floor landing had been difficult. As he walked, ghosts of the past cried out to him; a squeal of joy reverberated off the walls

(daddy where are you...)

and the aroma of his daughter’s favourite meal wafted to his nostrils

(try some of this daddy it’s yummy-yummy for my tummy)

and made him think of Eve and the good times they had shared in this apartment block.

He opened the door slowly, allowing the mustiness seep out before he himself stepped inside. He wandered the unit; fingers touching photos of her on the wall, eyes examining for the umpteenth time the hand-drawn pictures on the refrigerator

(for my daddy. Love E.)

and finally stepping into her bedroom, which had not changed over the years. It was more than a shrine to his daughter – it was his connection to his past.

Tony tidied, dusted, vacuumed and made the apartment feel lived in again – he wanted her to be happy.

Afterwards, he left, closing the door on

Apartment
4
E.

There's Someone At The Door

2010-05-09T08:06:00.003+10:00

Another week goes by and not much writing being done. However, I am quite happy with these two pieces that I did for Thinking Ten.

The prompts for the two pieces were: Part 1 - Something Missing and Part 2 - Three Colours and Something Round. With any luck, I have incorporated these well.

There's Someone At The Door (Part 1)

“My God, what is that?” Eldnich asked, running up the stairs behind Ash’dan.

“I do not know,” he replied, “but I have sent for a messenger to find out.”

A few moments earlier, a massive crunch had been heard; the sound of metal slamming against wood. Ash’dan had checked the drawbridge, but there was nothing there. He had called his second-in-command to find the messenger and make some enquires.

“My Lord, he is nowhere to be found. Shall I continue to look for him?”

“No, stand down. I will find out for myself.”

Ash’dan, accompanied by the wizard Eldnich, made their way to the gatehouse. A sudden and deafening crash interrupted all thought. It came from the other side of the castle. Soldiers and guards will milling about; some in readiness for battle, others in fear.

“Eldnich, my friend, I do not know what this threat is – and a threat it must surely be. Would you be so kind as to protect us with your magic?”

“Sire, you know what this means – for me?”

“Yes, friend, I do. But what is more important: your life – or that of the dozens of men within these walls?”

There's Someone At The Door (Part 2)

Ash’dan stood atop the battlements, scouring the horizon. His red hair fluttered in the breeze like the blue and gold pennants that flew above the keep. Eldnich, the wizard, had gone below to rest a few hours before. Creating the Spell of Enclosure had worn him down; he was getting old and each time he dipped into the magic of the Ateru, he aged just that little bit more. Such was the curse of the Ateru.

Ash’dan stood down from the battlement, walked back along the ramparts and headed for the keep. He wanted to discuss some matters with Eldnich and then inspect the damage that the mysterious visitor had caused. He found the wizard’s door wide open, which was a surprise. Normally Eldnich was very demanding about his privacy but here was his room open for anybody to walk in. Ash’dan felt a rising fear. That fear turned to horror as he discovered the mutilated body of his sage friend, lying broken and battered on the floor beside his bed. Something had done this - not someone.

He raced down the stone steps to the grassy bailey, desperately searching for any signs of forced entry. What he found, to his disbelief – and then disgust – were similarly dismembered guards and soldiers. Something had come during the night as he stood watch over the castle. It was vital that he find the breech and remedy the problem before anything worse could happen. He discovered the large spherical rift beside the base of the keep; claw marks unmistakable in the stone structure. Whatever had come through was evidently not human at all.

Ash’dan quickly rounded up surviving troops to assist in the repair work when a thought struck him. With Eldnich dead, there was no way to lift the spell. They were locked inside – together...

The Glass Coin - Call For Submissions

2010-05-05T11:28:00.003+10:00

A relatively new magazine called The Glass Coin is asking for submissions. From what I have seen (and read from one of the editors), this will be a very classy publication.

Here is a summation of what they do:

Every magazine has a theme, be it politics; woman’s issues or weird tales, there is something that draws readers and writers or like interests to one magazine or another. At The Glass Coin it is our hope to bring writers and readers or all interests, styles and genres to connect over a like-interest in literature. We’ve seen how the written word can bring people together. It can ascend race, gender, nationality and even geography. That’s what The Glass Coin is about.

It’s a big theme for a magazine of flash literature and short poems.

So each issue dissects one idea – a split-theme. This makes the big idea possible. We aren’t a tied-down-to-a-single-theme magazine. This allows us to open up to different genres and styles and opinions. We aren’t afraid to publish words that explore views opposing our own – so long as the writer respects the positions of others while not compromising her own. That’s the exciting idea behind The Glass Coin – the possibilities are endless.

The upcoming themes can be found HERE.

The guidelines for submissions are HERE.

A Secret To Keep

2010-05-04T15:02:00.005+10:00

I have been quiet here for the last week or so, trying to refresh the batteries, although I am still writing for ten minutes a day over at Thinking Ten.

Monday's prompt was Deep in the woods beyond Campanella Point and so, without further ado, here is the piece:

A Secret To Keep

I had been summoned to my elderly - if not slightly eccentric - aunt’s home in the deep woods just north of Punta Campanella, in the town of Faro. Rumours had circulated about the sanity of Aunt Masina for years; rumours that were both bizarre and terrifying.

I had left Marina del Cantone just after a splendid breakfast overlooking the bay and had arrived shortly before lunch. Although the trip was only short in distance, it took quite a while to navigate the twisty, narrow potholed roads.

I was greeted at the door by her elderly servant Ridolfo, who excused himself after showing me to the sitting room; presumably to prepare refreshments for his employer and her visiting nephew.

“I hear the walls.” That had been her greeting once he had left the room. “They talk to me, telling me secrets of this house, this family - secrets that I can no longer bear to keep to myself. Our family have killed others - many times over many generations. The voices boldly confess of murder and mayhem perpetrated by members of our family. They tell me if I reveal these sins to others, appalling things will happen to all those who know the truth. They...”

A shriek from the kitchen halted her narration. I hurled myself out of the sofa and raced to find Ridolfo laying face down on the scarred linoleum; his neck bent at an impossible angle.

“They have returned – and I for one, welcome them.” Her voice startled me. I spun to face her and shock overcame me. Just like Ridolfo, her head had seemingly been twisted a full three hundred and sixty degrees; the skin around her neck looked like a corkscrew, her eyes bulged from their sockets like a bug-eyed goldfish. Blood oozed down the wall beside me. I turned my head and saw the others were the same. Dear God, what was this madness?

A cold hand touched my neck and then, as quick as lightning, two arms grabbed me; one around the neck, the other holding my arms by my side. I could barely make out Ridolfo behind me in the dirty kitchen window; head still twisted, smiling grotesquely.

“They have returned to tell their tales. There are, however, some secrets that just need to remain hidden...”

(This is also a highly edited version of the original, which I am currently reworking for submission.)

Thinking Ten - So Far...

2010-04-17T22:24:00.003+10:00

I have been recently been writing pieces at the cool site Thinking Ten. Here is a list of pieces I have done so far. Feel free to have a look...

Til Death Do Us Part

The Lovin' Spoonfuls

My Favourite Haunt

Memories On The Breeze

S'nuffin' But A Good Time

Accidental Bombing On The News

Sad Wings Of Destiny

Kill Me Again

This is two weeks worth of posts...will try to keep them a little more regular from now on.

If you have the time, pop in and have a look. Most posts are only 3-4 paragraphs, and the site itself is great practice.

(Near) Death Of A Salesman

2010-04-17T19:59:00.006+10:00

Last week, I failed to get a piece in for Friday Flash Fiction due to a number of reasons. This week, Cormac Brown is having a well-deserved week off so I thought I would use this time to write a story using last week's starter sentence which was supplied by none other than Paul D. Brazill.

(Near) Death Of A Salesman

The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I'm choking on the stuff. Right now, I don’t reckon I could have gotten any deeper – face first in the gutter, a boot on the back of my head, and a couple of shotguns pointed at me. Yeah, I reckon the shit was pretty deep right now.

Right from the get-go this morning I knew today was going to turn to shit. A flat tire kicked off my morning, the temperature was going to be in the high thirties, and my decidedly younger girlfriend had decided it was time to call it quits as her father had threatened that if he found out who was doing his teenage daughter, he was going to kill them – slowly.

I stopped in at the corner deli for a sandwich and a cool drink. Sitting in the air-conditioned comfort, I decided that today was going to be my last. Twenty-nine calls this morning and I could only convince one person to join up. I stared at the “best chance” cards in my hand and decided that one more would do and then I would hand in my resignation. The boss wouldn’t care – he fucking hates me anyway.

After lunch, I drove to my final door-knock in the insurance game. It was a huge place – a mansion, some would say. A circular driveway took me right up to the front door where I was greeted by two huge Dobermans, eager to take chunks of my flesh for their dinner. A man appeared at the doorway, whistled, and the dogs disappeared around the back of the house as quickly as they had appeared.

I got out of my car and headed for the door. The guy, dark hair slicked back, looked as if he had just recently stepped out of the shower – or a Hollywood Mafia film. Either way, I didn’t want to disturb him for any longer than I had to so I approached him and cleared my throat.

“Good afternoon, Sir, are you the man of the house?”

The homeowner didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded his head towards the door and ushered me inside.

The interior of the place was captivating; floor-to-ceiling mirrors, crystal chandeliers and leather couches. What caught my attention more, however, was the silenced pistol that had magically materialised in his hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” The stranger took one step towards me, expressionless as he lifted the pistol and aimed it directly at my head. “And what the fuck do you want?”

“Dude, I am just an insurance salesman – I just sell insurance.”

“Do I look stupid to you? Do you think I am a complete idiot? Is that what you think?”

I didn’t know how to answer him. The gun was making me nervous and I looked around, trying to locate any avenue of escape. He smiled at me, closing the distance between us until I could smell his cologne (or quite possibly what he had had for lunch.)

“So, you are just a lowly insurance salesman, huh? Life insurance, I hope – for your sake.” He looked me up and down, and seemed to realise that I was no threat to him. “Okay, I’m interested.”

I didn’t have the faintest notion how to sell insurance to a man holding a weapon and I could sense that he would use that gun with only the slightest provocation.

“Do you mind pointing that thing somewhere else while I get the paperwork out my bag? It is really making me nervous.”

The stranger chuckled and nodded, placing the pistol down gently on the end stand next to the couch.

Just as I started on the company spiel, a young, gorgeous brunette walked in the front door. She bounced into the lounge-room where I was and came to a grinding halt. The smile dropped from her face as she recognised me, and I her. She shook her head and gestured silence.

“Hi Daddy, how was your morning?”

I felt myself groan inwardly. Daddy? Oh, I am such a fucking dead man.

“Hey, princess. Been keeping out of trouble?”

“Always, Daddy, you know that.” Daddy could see me staring at his daughter; I hated to think what kind of expression was plastered on my face – didn’t take long to find out.

“What are you staring at, asshole?” He picked the gun back up and ran his fingers across the black steel. “Not staring at my daughter, I hope.”

“No, Sir, I wasn’t staring at Heather...” Oh shit.

“How do you know my...”

“Daddy, can I see you in the office? Like, right now?”

I could see Daddy was torn between the wishes of his daughter and wanting to find out how I knew his daughter’s name.

“You stand right fucking there and don’t fucking move or I will shoot you dead on the spot. I ain’t done with you yet. Capisce?”

I nodded dumbly, afraid to make even the slightest movement for fear of discovering just how serious he was.

Heather and her dad had been gone only a few moments when I heard shouts from the other room. All I could make out were the words bastard (him) and run (her). I figured that was my cue and made a break for the front entrance.

Flinging the front door open, I made a break for freedom. In my haste I failed to notice the two burly guys sitting on the bonnet of an Olds in the driveway, nor did I see them step quickly in my path. What I did see, however, was the giant fist as it careened into my face and knocked me on my ass. I struggled to get to my feet until one of the human tanks connected his right foot with my ribcage, sending me sprawling into the gutter.

So, here I lay - face first in the gutter, a boot on the back of my head, and a couple of shotguns pointed at me. Yeah, I reckon the shit was pretty deep right now.

BlogTriviaChallenge - At The Bijou

2010-04-14T09:31:00.003+10:00

Everyone likes a challenge - Absolutely*Kate does things LARGE!

So when Kate fires up the ol' Bijou and issues a challenge, you can always be assured of one thing - it is going to be a blast!!

Head on over to and check out the challenge HERE.

As a side note, Absolutely*Kate has also included her list of Sunshine Awards here. Go and see who brightens her day - you may find a spot of sunshine for yourselves!

I would also like to take the time to thank Kate for her support of my writing and many other writer types. She works ceaselessly to promote others and deserves all the recognition that I can throw her way.
Kate, you are truly a one-of-a-kind gal...that's why we loves ya!!

Sunshine Of Your Blog...

2010-04-13T06:04:00.003+10:00

"I've been writing not long
You be where I'm going
In the sunshine of your blog..."

Okay, I know that was bad but I had to try and think of something...

David Barber, a very cool and versatile writing dude, has nominated me for a Sunshine Award. The rules for me were pretty simple to follow:

1. Put the logo on the blog within your post.

2. Pass the award on to 12 bloggers.

3. Link to the nominees within your post.

4. Let the nominees know they have received the award by commenting on their blogs.

5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

So, thanks David, I do appreciate it.

So, on to my list. It is as follows:

Absolutely*Kate & Amazing Ensemble - At The Bijou
Laurita Miller - Brain Droppings
Anthony Venutolo - Bukowski's Basement
Daniel Stine - Daniel's In China
Jodi MacArthur - Fiction Writer - Jodi MacArthur
Lee Hughes - leehughes.net
Erin Cole - Listen To The Voices
Mike Whitney - Livin' In The Hills
Michael Solender - Not From Here, Are You?
Tess Dickinson - Thoughts From Tess
Nicole Hirschi - CJT's Word Vamp
Paul Brazill - You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?

Thinking Ten - A Writer's Playground

2010-04-08T19:05:00.002+10:00

"Each weekday morning, a themed writing prompt will be posted. What improvised story ("daily flash") can you create in ten minutes?"

That is the introduction to Thinking Ten - A Writer's Playground. Created by Blake N. Cooper, I stumbled across this site from a link he had added at Six Sentences.

The Point
Practice—that's the point of Thinking Ten. My goal, here, is to create a place you can come to each day to get your reps in, learn from others in the ThinkingTen community, and, ultimately, strengthen your craft.

The creative process—more specifically, the art of preparation and practice—feels like it's fading and this site is my attempt to reverse the trend. Full disclosure: I want to be part of your day—if only for ten minutes. No matter at what level you consider your writing skills to be, it is my hope that you jump into the ThinkingTen world, practice your craft by participating in the daily (weekday) prompts, and offer some feedback to other writers putting themselves out there.

Do yourself a favour and go and have a look. It has certainly been a great experience for me so far.

Community Spirit - FFF#27

2010-04-05T12:50:00.008+10:00

Another week, another excellent challenge at Friday Flash Fiction. This week, in lieu of a starter sentence, Cormac Brown offered up four words to be incorporated in our stories. Sounded easy, until I realised that I didn't even know what one of them meant...

The four words were: Cache, Cashew, Eschew, Through. Hope you enjoy it and, as always, any tips on improvement or typo-spotting always welcome.

Community Spirit

Alice had been working for Meals on Wheels for over a decade now and Mrs. Helder, her first delivery of the week, was by far the grumpiest (bitchiest) client she had. Not the greatest way to start the week.

Pulling up outside Mrs. Helder’s apartment block, Alice quickly shut off the radio, got out of the car and retrieved the small cache of food and medicine from the boot. Alice still could not believe that one woman could go through so much in one week.

The street outside Mrs. Helder’s seemed unnaturally quiet. This was not the wine-and-caviar section of town (more the beer and cashew nuts crowd) but still, she expected to find people milling about, small children playing in the street. She studied the faded and decaying building, the paint peeling badly and more than a few windows boarded up. No wonder this was the last refuge for the elderly, desperate and poor.

Heaving open the side entrance door, her senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of piss and decaying food, making her gag. Alice could never get used to that stench, no matter how many times she came here. Taking a shallow breath (she didn’t want to risk a deep one), Alice knocked on the door of number twenty-three. She heard footsteps in the hall beyond the door and a weak voice asking who was knocking. Alice found that strange; she usually just peered through the spy-hole that Alice had installed for her on her second visit. Maybe she couldn’t see very well as the light bulb on the landing was missing – probably stolen.

“It’s just Alice, Mrs. Helder. Got your delivery.” Alice waited patiently at the door as she heard the locks being disengaged. The old lady had four massive door chains and her hands were full of arthritis. It usually took her a few minutes to unlatch them all.

While she waited, she thought about the other residents in this block; she had come to know many of them during her visits. They were mainly retirees, unable to afford to live in private rental accommodations. They were a different community to what she was used to; she lived in tidy streets and leafy neighbours, they lived in a run-down apartment block, surrounded by drugs, guns and violence. She may as well be visiting another planet.

She sensed someone behind her, watching her and she turned to find Mr. Jackson, the Gulf-War veteran, peering at her from behind the mesh security door. His face was a mass of mangled flesh and deep scars and, even in this light, she could see that he was concerned about something. He was leaning heavily on his walking stick, looking much older than his fourty-nine years.

“I don’t think you should be going in there today, Miss. Bad things are happening here.”

Before she had time to ask him what he meant, the door to Mrs. Helder’s apartment was flung open and Alice felt a hand grip her forearm and pull her through the door. Her left shoulder collided with the door frame and she cried out; not in pain but in surprise. A split second later, pain caused her to groan, this time as she lost her footing and landed heavily, head first, against the solid oak coffee table. She felt the air rush out of her, leaving her doubled-over, gasping for breath. She noticed two men in the room. Seconds later she was left writhing in pain as one man unleashed a hellish right boot into her ribs.

Rolling ever so gently onto her side, Alice could see Mrs. Helder on the couch – hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth, held in place by a thick strip of black tape. The other man was sitting beside her, a handful of the old woman’s hair gripped in his fist.

“Who the fuck are you?”

It was such a simple question but said with such force and anger, it felt like a slap across Alice’s face. She couldn’t find the breath to answer so she attempted to reach for her purse, to offer her work credentials. The man nearest her stalked across the floor and planted that big heavy boot down on her wrist, causing Alice to scream in agony once again.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I can get it.” Bigfoot reached into her purse, surprisingly still slung over her shoulder and grabbed for her identification. He let his hand wander slightly, brushing against her breast and leaving it there for the shortest time, but to Alice it felt like forever.

“Alice Knowles – homecare worker.” Bigfoot looked down at her with disdain. “Isn’t that bloody civil-minded of you?” He tossed her plastic ID across the room and emptied her purse onto the floor beside her. Alice had been brought up to eschew ne’er-do-well’s and, as such, she had no point of reference of how to react to the disorienting predicament she now found herself in.

The other man, so far silent, rose from the sofa and walked to the middle of the room, took Alice’s chin in one hand and slapped her hard across the face with the other. “Interfering bitch,” she heard him declare. “Take her to the spare room and do whatever you think necessary, but make it quick,” he had directed his accomplice. “Once we get the cash out of the old cow, we are out of here - and you know what that means for these two.”

Alice felt bile rise in her throat, despair like a lead weight in her heart. Bigfoot grabbed her roughly by the hair, hauling her to an upright position. She couldn’t put any weight on her legs, pain still shooting through her side where she had caught the kick earlier. Half-carried, half-dragged, Bigfoot led her down the darkened hallway into a small bedroom. It was an elegant room, considering the building that contained it and Alice had a crazy thought that if she was going to die, at least it was in a beautifully furnished room. Mrs. Helder obviously had more means than the Social Security documentation showed. Alice giggled insanely to herself at the shrewdness of the old woman.

Bigfoot threw her roughly onto the small bed in the corner of the room, the spring groaning in protest of the sudden weight upon it. Alice felt tears come to her eyes once more as Bigfoot hit her closed-fisted in the chin, a rush of darkness enfolded her then quickly disappeared as she felt hands on her body, trying to remove her top. She fought hard but he was bigger, stronger and more determined. She heard him undo the zipper on her pants and felt him pull them down to her knees. She felt his body on her. She could smell alcohol and onions on his breath. She quietly prayed to a God she had believed in as a child, that she would get through this, if only with her life intact.

Without warning, a man appeared at the window, a finger against his lips, telling her to keep quiet. He showed her a gun, and motioned to Bigfoot, indicating that he was the target. Alice was more frightened now; what if the shot went astray, killing her by mistake? She shuddered involuntarily under Bigfoot. The man at the window put his hand to his ear, apparently in communication with another person. He took his hand away and held up three fingers. Two fingers. One finger...

The noise was deafening; glass shattered and Bigfoot spun around in surprise. The look of surprise was more pronounced when he removed his hand from his neck, discovering the blood and slumping onto the floor beside the bed. Gunfire erupted in the same instant from the front room, where Mr. Do-What-You-Think-Necessary had been with Mrs. Helder. Alice prayed that whoever was out there was as accurate a shot as the man now climbing in the shattered window in front of her. The new arrival bent down, placed his fingers against Bigfoot’s neck and stood again, nodding with satisfaction.

“Clear!” came a voice she recognised.

“Clear!” replied the man in the bedroom, who was now helping her into a dressing gown that had been hanging from the back of the door.

The door opened and in strode Mr. Jackson from across the hall, no longer looking feeble and crippled. Alice had never been so happy to see another human being in her life – except maybe for the man who had come into her life only a minute before.

“Ah, Miss Knowles, I see you have met Mr. Gibson.”

“But...what...?” Alice stammered.

Mr. Jackson placed a kind-hearted arm around her shoulders. “Never mind, there is plenty of time for explanations. Let’s get you and poor Mrs. Helder to the hospital and we can talk later.”

Alice leaned into the comforting embrace.

“Okay, I can live with that.”

What's The Story With Australian Fiction?

2010-04-04T10:40:00.002+10:00

I stumbled across this article this morning. It kind of terrified me as far as the market for writers in my country. Some of the statistics are damning, and I worry about the direction this country is heading.

Have a read and see what you think.

What's The Story With Australian Fiction - The Age

"The Celebrity Game" up now at BlinkInk

2010-04-02T16:31:00.002+11:00

A new story of mine - entitled "The Celebrity Game" - is now up at the brilliant site of fiction snippets, BlinkInk.

Thanks to Lynn Alexander and BlinkInk for posting this piece on their site.

Spring Has Sprung at The NOT!

2010-04-01T13:52:00.002+11:00

Michael Solender - host of the fantastic blog site not from here, are you? - recently hosted a Spring Has Sprung challenge. From what I can gather from Michael, he received millions of entries (well, maybe that could be an exaggeration...) and the winners, runners-up and honourable mentions are all now being showcased on his blog.

A mighty roar of approval for the grand prize winner, Angel Zapata, with his hauntingly beautiful piece, The Careful Seal Of Her Song. It deserves all the attention and words of paraise it has received. A fine write, Angel - definitely one for the resume!

Congratulations also to the runners-up and honourable mentions who Michael chose. There are some very good pieces of flash from brilliant writers such as Erin Cole, Laurita Miller, Nicole Hirschi, Gita Smith, Hazar Worth, John Wiswell and many others. Please, do go and have a read...I promise you won't be disapppointed!

Holly - Would Ya? - FFF#26

2010-03-29T10:40:00.003+11:00

Another week of Friday Flash Fiction and another excellent starter sentence provided by our host/moderator/all-round swell guy, Cormac Brown. Provided with the opening sentence of "What do you see when you close your eyes?", I had no real idea where to take this. I hope that it is somewhat close to okay.

Holly, Would Ya?

“What do you see when you close your eyes? Take that image and make it real.”

This was the first thing Oscar had been taught about the world of film-making. He had successfully made that transition from daydream to blockbuster; dozens of awards and many industry accolades had proven that. He had since hung up his writer’s cap and become the biggest talent agent in the business. Stars from far and wide would come to him for representation; television, theatre and film actors would approach Oscar and he could make career-altering decisions on the spot – if he accepted them, the sky was the limit; if they were rejected, the movie-world would immediately know and the star would flame out. Such was the sway Oscar held.

Oscar tapped his toe to the constant ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner of his office. Not usually an impatient man, he was beginning to have some reservations about his next client’s ability to deliver. His agency had been dealing with this family for decades but this latest member of the dynasty was becoming a problem. She had been slow in generating new box-office successes and did not seem to care. A bad sign, was what Oscar thought. Something that had needed to be dealt with for some time - and that time had finally arrived.

His musings were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

“Mr. Nelson, Miss Wood is here to see you. Would you like me to show her in?”

“Thank you dear - that will be fine.”

Leaning back in his leather wing-back chair, Oscar propped his feet up onto the corner of his desk and clasped his hands behind his head.

The door to his office opened slowly. Emma, his receptionist, poked her head around the corner and introduced his client.

“Thank you, Emma. That will be all.”

The secretary withdrew from the room and pulled the door closed behind her. Oscar waved his guest to the chair in front of his huge desk.

“Please, take a seat, Ms. Wood. Can I get you something? A martini? Shaken not stirred – of course.”

She dropped into the proffered seat and placed her handbag on the floor, resting it against the leg of the chair.

“Mr. Nelson, I would prefer if you dropped the formality. Please, call me Holly.”

Oscar was amused by her brashness. “If you insist, Miss...sorry, Holly. And you can call me Oscar.”

Holly only nodded slightly, weighing up the offer and finally deciding against taking him up on it.

“Mr. Nelson, is there a problem?” Holly bowed her head slightly, feeling like a schoolgirl being singled out in class. She quietly hoped that she didn’t get the proverbial caning.

Oscar removed his feet from the desk, leaned forward and rested his elbows on the expensive ink blotter in front of him.

“Holly, if I may be upfront with you, I am having some issues with your productions of late and am worried about the direction your films are heading.”

“Seven Academy Awards, five Golden Globes, two BAFTA’s and one Emmy that sits in the front office...”

“That’s Emma...she’s my secretary...”

“What? No, not her - I meant the award that is sitting pride-of-place on the mantelpiece out there.” Holly jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “What, exactly, is the problem with the direction of my films?”

“Well, for one thing, the casting has been a little - how shall I put this? – Uninspired. It has been seven years since your last major award and I am beginning to get a little concerned.”

Holly raised her eyebrows questioningly, daring him to continue.

“Let me give you an example. Richard Thomas is a wonderful character actor and is very popular, but to put him in a film with Bobbi “Big Boobs” Bracken was a bit of a mistake, I’m afraid. That’s why it was a flop. You can’t just sign big-time actors for any old film and expect them to carry it.”

“It was big in the Czech Republic...”

“Yes, that’s true, but so are Skoda and who in the hell wants one of those parked in their living room?”

“Well, what about The Greatest Story Ever Narrated? That was a great film; big cast, multiple camera angles and big budget. What about that one?”

“It made nineteen thousand dollars...but that was only in candy sales. Who knew that Maltesers would have been so popular for throwing at the projectionist? But I guess that the paying public had to find something to do for three and a half hours. Peter Jackson you are not!”

Holly was starting to get a little agitated. “But I have a huge film in production now. One of the most famous directors in the world has been working on this for years...”

Oscar had known she was going to pull this certain rabbit from her hat. It was the same tired argument from their entire clientele. The next one is going to be it, the next big thing...

“That is true. You do have this film, currently in post-production - where it has been, incidentally, for the last three years. However,” he said, standing now, “I cannot afford to keep pumping money into a film that has so far taken more than a decade – in filming time alone; countless millions of sponsors’ dough and the biggest plot hook you have come up with is a bunch of little green fucking monsters running around for no apparent reason. What the fuck is that all about?”

“But the special effects are awesome...” Holly’s cheeks were beginning to blush from anger and frustration.

“Holly, let me put it to you like this: to recoup the money my company has spent on this film - and working on the current price of cinema tickets – every person in the world would have to watch this film...six fucking times.”

“But Mr. Nelson, you’re just not seeing the big picture...”

“Frankly, my dear Holly, we’re not seeing it at all, and probably never will. I hate to say this but I am going to have to let you go. No hard feelings and all that. Just business, you know how it is? No business like it – show business.”

Rising from her seat, Holly withdrew a shiny .44 Magnum from her handbag and pointed the business end at Oscar.

“It seems like we have a bit of a problem here, Mr. Nelson. I may not be Peter Whats-his-name, but I am closer to Harry Callahan, I believe.” Holly stared at Oscar for a moment, ready to pull the trigger.

“My dear girl, I think you may be over-reacting just a tad. Not to mention being slightly melodramatic. You just don’t seem to have the...”

Without warning, Oscar dropped and rolled, hitting the floor and grabbing the Buntline Special that Kevin Costner had presented to him after scoring him a fine deal. Peering around the corner of his desk, Oscar saw Holly pull back the hammer on her pistol. Ducking as low as he could, he covered his head and waited for the explosion.

Opening up a Magnum inside any office was bound to be bloody noisy, but inside Oscar’s office, it was cacophonous. His ears ringing, his eyes watering, Oscar jumped up levelled his gun at Holly.

“Would you mind standing still? I am having a hard time focussing on you.”

Holly rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Where the hell are you? When I can see better, I am gonna – how do they say it in those tacky gangster movies? – pop a cap in your ass?”

The office door flew open and Emma raced in.

“What in the blue hell is going on in here? Sounded like gunshots.” Emma gasped at the sight of Oscar’s desk. “And what the hell happened to your desk?”

“If it sounded like gunshots, Blondie, then there is a good chance it was.” Holly, still seemingly disoriented, swung around towards the sound of Emma’s voice. “You have one chance to get out of Dodge alive or I am gonna give you lead poisoning.”

Emma needed no further encouragement. As quick as she had entered, she had gone. Lucky for her, as it turned out as Holly let loose another hellish explosion of gunfire, taking a sizeable chunk from the doorframe where Emma had been standing.

“...and stay out!”

Oscar had used this distraction to come around the desk and stand immediately behind Holly. Edging up closer to her, he placed the barrel of the Buntline against her ear and whispered, ever so softly, “Bang!”

***

Oscar Nelson sat in his leather chair, feet up on what remained of his office furniture and re-read the contract annulment with Holly Wood. He laughed to himself – in nervous relief, if the truth be told – and wondered what exactly had happened. In the end, he supposed, all’s well that ends well. Reasonably well. Partially okay, even.

“And to think, that Buntline was only a replica...”

“Sorry, boss,” came the reply from Emma.

“Never mind, was just talking to myself. By the way, on your way out tonight, can you throw that Emmy in the trash compactor out back?”

The Morten Bay Fig - SexyTouch Challenge (6S)

2010-03-24T19:51:00.005+11:00

...And now for something completely different...

Over at the Six Sentences Social Network, there has been a challenge issued to use the image above to write something "sexy". This challenge came from Absolutely*Kate (of At The Bijou fame...well, famous to those who know her!) Those who have been reading my writing of late know that this would be highly unusual for me, but a challenge IS a challenge. So, here is my piece:

The Morten Bay Fig

The peal of the church bell reminded her of Richard. They had first met under the Morton Bay Fig in the edge of the shopping district; her searching for another pair of shoes, he buying flowers for his long-dead wife’s grave. She didn’t believe in coincidence – she believed in fate and kismet and providence. So they had chatted, laughed and drank take-away coffee and ate home-made sandwiches under that same fig tree every Sunday morning, watching the good-at-heart and god-fearing population attend Mass and plan for a future they both so desired. Now, sitting alone on a bed in a hotel miles from that fig tree, she remembered him again; his touch, his smile, his soft, warm lips upon every inch of her body. She also remembered their last night together - his proclamations of eternal love, her offering herself to him; his cooling body beside her on the bed and she crying silent tears and longing for the man she had loved.

Breakout! - FFF #25

2010-03-23T12:44:00.006+11:00

This week at Friday Flash Fiction, we were given the starter sentence "He had been told crawling would get him nowhere." I had a hard time coming up with a story for this, even though it was my starter sentence!! Anyway, the story is below, entitled "Breakout!"

A thank you to Cormac Brown for his continual hosting of FFF as well...a great job!!

Breakout!

He had been told crawling would get him nowhere. Somewhere in the back of his jittery mind he remembered being told this. It wasn’t going to do him much good now, though. The rain pelted heavy on his head, his stringy hair pasted to his face as he continued on his hands and knees down the open canal that ran beside the outer wall of the penitentiary. He could feel stones and other sharp objects – possibly glass - digging into the heel of his hands, causing him to wince then instantly shake his head in quiet determination – absolutely nothing was going to deny him this break for freedom.

***

Planning had taken months; arranging for the right people to look the other way had taken more than greasy palms and a promise; he had had to debase himself, demean himself, to get the wheels in motion. He had humiliated himself but, he reasoned to himself, it would be worthwhile once he had cleared himself of his current inconvenient predicament.

Earlier in the evening, he had hidden in the projection room after the screening of some mind—numbing feature film. When he was sure that he was alone, he exited and made his way through 4 Division, skirting the edge of the compound wall, knowing that the guards would be watching the other inmates who were out for evening exercise before being locked away for the night. With his back to the cold, wet bricks, he slid his feet inch by inch along the wall, until coming upon the twelve foot drop to the fields below. He had sighed with relief when he saw the thick rope had been provided as arranged – he was amazed what a little blowjob could achieve.

Once down, his hands red raw from the rubbing of the damp rope, he kept to the shadows of the prison walls, until he rounded the south-east corner. The rain seemed heavier here; somehow denser. He understood it had something to do with the design of the roof and the runoff from a storm typically flowed down here, collecting finally in the canal that flowed along the eastern wall of the prison.

He waited for the siren to signal yard-time over, and, knowing that the guards would be otherwise distracted, headed for the bushes that lay just fifty yards from the perimeter wall. Keeping as low as possible and not daring to stop for fear of being he spotted, he broke out of his well-protected hiding spot and ran for the tree line and quickly dived head first into the murky, dirty water of the canal. Coming back up for air, gagging on silt and other filth that was more than likely present, he shot his gaze toward the outer wall, checking to see if his charge had been spotted. He had dragged himself for one hundred yards, crawling on all fours, whilst waiting for the opportunity to move once more.

***

He hadn’t heard the klaxon wail yet, so he figured those in charge hadn’t noticed his disappearing trick. He realised that their ignorance wouldn’t last long. It was almost time for lockdown and lights out and then – then – he knew that, without a shadow of a doubt, they would be scouring the nearby surroundings for him. And there would be very little in the way of concern about what method they used to recapture him.

A flash of lightning revealed a large concrete wall in front of him. It was the end of the canal that he had been warned about. He was exhausted; there was no way he could physically drag himself up and over such a large obstacle. That left him only one option – to make a break through open ground. He lay on the muddy bank, assessing the best direction in which to head. Looking back over his left shoulder, he could see the guard tower quite clearly but, to the right, the guards would have very limited visibility, especially with the rain and spasmodic flashes of lightning.

Crouching now, he watched for the lightning, trying to time his run. Waiting for the next period of darkness, he kept one eye on the towers, making sure that they were still partially blinded to his escape route. He could feel his muscles tense as the moment approached but he was then shocked by the sudden brilliance of the jail spotlights and sudden sirens. They had discovered his escape.

And now the chase was on...

'A Hike in Bad News' up at 50 To 1!

2010-03-23T07:34:00.003+11:00

My short piece 'A Hike In Bad News' is up at a very cool site called 50 to 1.

50 to 1 is "an ezine that posts only 50 word stories and first line inspirational sentences that are meant to get the reader hooked into the rest of the story."

Go and have a look and if you like micro-fiction, be sure to have a dip. It is a great site.

Thanks to Glen and Sam for accepting my first piece.

Fit For A King

2010-03-18T10:47:00.001+11:00

The blade had been long in the making; two years had passed since the smith first gathered together the Damascus steel and enough coal to keep the forge burning bright. A painstaking job to be sure, but something he approached with respect and dedication. Sweat rolled down his soot-darkened face which he wiped away with the heel of his palm, revealing a jagged scar that ran from eye socket to jawbone. He held the sword aloft, as if in triumph, marvelling at its beauty and weight, and then carefully laid it down upon the wrought-iron anvil in the centre of the wooden smithy. Sure that this magnificent weapon was ready for the task ahead, the blacksmith wrapped the blade in some old woollen blankets and managed a wry smile. The King – his former ally and closest friend - was sure to appreciate the workmanship and artistry of the sword; he would marvel at the weapon that had been created for him alone - he would get to appreciate it up close and personal.

The Dance We Shared - FFF #24

2010-03-16T15:03:00.004+11:00

Another week in the Friday Flash Fiction, and another curveball thrown at the willing participants. Cormac Brown, host of FFF, challenged us this week with the starter sentence "A Kiss As Sweet As..." and, much to my bemusement, he added the clause "Oh, and just like a nightclub? There will be no guns or knives allowed this week."

So here we are, with something completely different for me and, I am sure, for you, the reader. Here is my piece, entitled:

The Dance We Shared

A kiss as sweet as cold water on a hot summer’s day awoke from my slumber. She stood before me, a vision of beauty unmatched in my life until this moment – in fact, her beauty swelled with every passing moment. I had been bewitched by this woman from the first time I had laid eyes on her several months before and I am still captivated by her.

I rolled over and beckoned to her, hoping for another kiss of life - another taste of her full, red lips and hot breath on my neck. Instead, she sashayed across the living room, her red heels clicking on the bare hardwood floor, her curvaceous derriere straining to be free of the tight denim skirt that held it captive. She spread her long, pale arms and pulled the heavy curtains closed – the whoosh seemed loud in the silence of the early morning – then spun on her heel, hands already releasing the buttons on her silk blouse.

She began a deliberately erotic dance, moving to music that only she could hear. The rhythm of her swinging hips and heaving breasts had me sitting up, accidentally knocking over the empty coffee cup that I had placed on the edge of the coffee table. She didn’t seem to notice and the seductive shimmy continued. Step by step, button by button, she inched closer to me, finally removing her middy to reveal the low cut swimsuit she had been wearing at the beach the previous day.

We had spent a long time on the beach; swimming was only one of the activities we had taken part in, and it was also not the most pleasurable one. After collecting her from the airport, we went to the beach to watch the sunrise, and ended up staying the whole day, enjoying each other’s company and other pleasurable things. We had kissed, cuddled, fucked and made love; on the sand, in the water. We had been waiting a long time for these moments, and we took full advantage of it. Our time together was going to be brief – just a few weeks – and we were going to make sure we made the most of every minute we had.

Reaching out to me, she took my hand and helped me to my feet. Pulling me close, we shuffled around the living room, completely unaware of whatever may be going on in the outside world. I leaned in against her, taking in the sweet scent of her hair, drowning in the depths of her cool powder-blue eyes.

Finding my feet, I gently swayed with her toward the bedroom door. She pulled back from me for a moment, smiled the mischievous smile that I had quickly grown to love, and continued to let me lead her in that direction. I could feel her ample breasts against my chest and her hands running up and down my back, pausing only occasionally to stop and let me taste her tongue and lips once more.

The dance slowly came to an end as we reached my intended destination. Leaning across me, she flicked on the light; the deep crimson illumination had caught her attention the previous evening as we had made love on the floor at the foot of the bed; her smooth skin lustrous in the glow. She pushed me into the room, sending me spread-eagled onto the bed. I looked up in mock surprise at her sudden playfulness, as she ran her fingertips against her soft, sweet lips and flung the door shut behind her.

Do Yourself A Favour - John Wiswell Reading

2010-03-14T11:27:00.002+11:00

Recently, I came across this excellent piece by John Wiswell. A fantastic story that was made even more brilliant by the reading by the author. If you have the time, do yourself a favour and check this out - you won't be disappointed!!

Possible Origins For Him.1. - The Bathroom Monologues

Possible Origins For Him.1. - At The Bijou

A Duel To The...

2010-03-10T14:46:00.002+11:00

“You’ve insulted me for the last time you lily-livered rapscallion, you...you...cowardly, sniveling little, little man, I challenge thee, I challenge thee to a Duel and let death be the end of you!”

“Dear Sir Whine-A-Lot, the only thing challenged here is you and the death of me will be your whiny voice, but, in the interest of chivalry and all things ass-kicking, I accept thy challenge, and furthermore, I demand that this duel be completed in the next seventeen minutes, with both our hands tied behind our backs!!"

“Both hands behind our backs? That's childs play; I say you face certain grisly death no matter what appendages are left at my disposal, therefore I see your hands tied and up the ante: we shall bind our legs as well and how DARE you call me whiny you scum sucking son of an ass-kicked mule!”

“Oh contraire, you son-of-a-motherless goat, it is the bonding of my limbs that make me even more dangerous, and I will henceforth reduce you and your long-winded gas-bagging to nothing more that a faint memory of something quite distasteful... prepare to meet your destiny, fate and many other clichés!!!”

“Ahhhhh, you shall die!!!” As the two misguided miscreants hobble towards each other in slow motion hobbled fury, clouds gather above and the air is charged with electricity; all life on Earth has stopped to observe the outcome of this apocalyptic fracas.

With buzzards circling overhead, each man more determined than the other, they hippity-hop-scotched into one another, clashing heads and stumbling to the ground, they flounder about on the desert floor until Sir-Whine-A-Lot rolls onto his back and exclaims “How does one win one of these contests....”, to which the arrival of a very ravenous buzzard gave him his answer.

(My thanks to my friend, Daniel Stine, for his participation in this piece. We wrote this awhile ago and I thought it nice to re-visit.)

Do Yourself A Favour - Sal Buttaci's "Flashing My Shorts"

2010-03-09T04:08:00.005+11:00

I know, I know...shamelessly plugging other people's books can be a bit of a pain in the you-know-where but I feel this one is worth it.
I came to read Sal's writing over at 6 Sentences and was taken immediately by his sense of style and place, genuinely warm characters and sometimes heart-rending tales. Here, in all their glory, are over 160 pieces of flash from Sal, of all genres and styles. Do yourself a favour and go and check it out.

FLASHING MY SHORTS - by SALVATORE BUTTACI
or HERE.

For more info on Sal and some of the other outstanding work this man has done, go and visit his site HERE.

Leap Of Faith - FFF #23

2010-03-08T09:34:00.005+11:00

Thanks to Cormac over at Friday Flash Fiction for his continued hard work keeping this site running.
This week's starter sentence was contributed by MRM.

Leap Of Faith

Dave Jackson had to kick out the back window to escape. The collision had crumpled the driver’s side door, and the resultant flips had crushed the front window of his beloved Mustang. He hadn’t seen the truck coming and he doubted he would have had a chance to avoid it, anyway. He suspected this had something to do with the trouble he had gotten into a few weeks back, although he wasn’t sure. Not sure, that is, until bullets started disturbing the air around his head and thundering into the old eucalypt he had leaned against to regain his composure.

Low cloud hung in the air, making visibility hard for attempting to locate the shooter. Jackson summed up his options and quickly decided that heading into the heavily wooded area on the side of the road as his best choice. The gums and oaks here were wide and offered plenty of protection from any incoming ballistic barrage. Ducking low, he started running.

The fog proved to be just as big an enemy as the unseen individual behind him. Low branches lashed his face and body as he scrambled through the ever-thickening underbrush. The moss and soft, springy ground made quick movement near impossible, as did the invisible tree roots and stony outcrops. He paused for breath behind a massive scribbly-gum. He poked his head around the tree and through a group of wattles, he could see movement; one man, as far as he could tell.

He was preparing to move off when a voice gave him pause.

“Jackson. Give it up. There are officers of the law arriving every minute. We would hate to see something nasty happen to you.”

Jackson issued a snort of disgust. He knew the voice and he knew exactly what would transpire if he was caught. He vowed to make sure that didn’t happen.

Moving slowly but quietly in the direction he had first started, he noticed a break between a cluster of stringy-barks. The sun was starting to break through the cloud and the fog was lifting. This offered him hope, but also made him more wary; up until now, he had used the mist as a manner of protection. If he couldn’t see his pursuer, it made perfect sense that they couldn’t see him.

Jackson changed direction, making for the clearing that he had spotted moments ago. Edging around a rocky outcrop, he discovered to his dismay that he had stumbled upon a cliff face. He cautiously stepped back and leaned against the stony ledge. Breathing deeply to clear his head, he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“Well, now, what do we have here? Thinking of taking the plunge?”

Jackson turned and came face to face with Sheriff Thomas. The lawman was holding his pistol in both hands, pointed downwards. He took measured and calculating steps as he approached his quarry. Without taking his eyes off his prey, the sheriff reached into his pocket with one hand and withdrew his radio and gave his location to the deputies. Replacing the radio in his pants pocket, he turned and addressed Jackson.

“So, boy, no more running now, nowhere left to run. You are cornered. You are out of options.” Thomas grinned, the corner of his mouth crooked; a bar brawl had turned vicious; the sheriff had been slashed with a broken bottle. Jackson had been the one who did it. But that was just the beginning. The sheriff had a bug up his ass about something else.

“Did you think that I wouldn’t track your ass down? For what you did to my little girl?” Thomas glared at Jackson; his face reddening, veins popping on his forehead. “You are gonna pay – oh, yes, you are gonna pay big time.”

“Sheriff, you got it all wrong.” Jackson opened his arms in a pacifying gesture. “I ain’t done nothing to your little girl.”

Sheriff Thomas lifted his pistol, aimed it at Jackson’s head. “You call kidnapping, beating and raping my daughter nothing?” He took another step towards Jackson. “I’m gonna make sure you get the V.I.P. treatment in jail, son. You are gonna be everybody’s bitch.” He spat out the last word.

Jackson nodded towards something behind the sheriff. “I think you have more to worry about at the moment...”

Thomas spun around; gun in front of him, searching for trouble. Confusion flickered across his face as he saw nothing but his deputies standing a respectful distance back. Turning back, he was suddenly aware that Jackson had disappeared.

“What the...?”

The sheriff twisted his body left and right, trying to work out what had become of the prisoner who had been standing before him just a moment before. Sizing up the situation, Thomas knew that his adversary couldn’t have just made a run for it – his deputies would have been aware of it. That only left one available option. Edging forward again, the sheriff peered over the edge of the lookout. There, twenty feet below him, waving back to him, was Jackson. The drop wasn’t as far as Thomas had first thought. Obviously Jackson had known better.

“Sheriff, we ain’t done, you and I. Next time, though, it will be me tracking you.” With another wave, Jackson dashed off into the undergrowth of ferns and was gone before the sheriff realised what was happening.

“Don’t just stand there, go find him.”

Diving Into Trouble - 3WW Post

2010-03-04T11:11:00.003+11:00

This week's 3WW words were scared, frail and amaze.

“You never fail to amaze me with your stupidity.” She could be venomous, my wife, but this time it was more than deserved. “Tell me again what happened.”

I shuffled my feet, head down, looking more like the frail old man that I had sent to the hospital, rather than the strong, virile thirty-something male that I am.

“As you know, Cyril rang this morning. He said he wanted to go and watch one of the grandkids compete in the diving championships today. Being that he is your grandfather, and that you were busy, I agreed to take him.”

A grunt was all I received in reply, and when my wife offered nothing else, I continued on with the story.

“I met him out in front of his house and I drove him down to the beachside lookouts – thinking that this was where they would be having the competition.”

Raised eyebrows greeted this and, although we both knew that marriage was both sacred and forever, if I didn’t put forward my best argument, there wasn’t going to be much ‘forever’ left for me.

“Anyway, we got out of the car and Cyril wanted to know what we were doing here. I told him that this is where they were holding the diving and that he needed to get a little closer if he wanted to watch the competition.”

“Why did you presume a local diving competition would be held at a local beach lookout?” She is clever, my wife.

“Well, it’s all the rage nowadays, isn’t it?” I raised my hands to ward off the invisible daggers heading my way and continued the story. “Cyril edged closer to the railing, mumbling something. I asked him what he said. He replied that he had never experienced cliff diving before. So I showed him.”

I held my hands out to her in a gesture of peace. I could see the anger and fury building in her. Once more I feared for my own personal safety.

“For the last time: Cliff is our nephew. Pop said he had never experienced Cliff diving.” Another set of daggers flashed my way.

“You really are brain-dead, aren’t you?”

Jack Was Here - FFF #22

2010-02-26T09:50:00.002+11:00

This week at Friday Flash Fiction, just for something different, Cormac offered us up four words, to be included in our stories, rather than a starter sentence. These words were Panic, Manic, Organic and Non-corrosive. A different challenge but one I was happy to take up. My story is below.

Jack Was Here

Carrie stood in the doorway; well-tanned arms resting on her well-rounded hips. Her posture announced to anyone unfortunate enough to pass her that she was in a foul mood. Her alabaster skin seemingly shimmered in the light cast by the single lacklustre bulb that lit the hallway and threw indistinct shadows on the walls around her. Dressed only in a negligee, pert breasts straining against the white satin, she was the epitome of the phrase all dressed up with no one to blow.

***

She had made his acquaintance downstairs at the blackjack table, where he had been throwing fifty dollar chips around like a child would throw bread crumbs to ducks. She had always been a sucker for a man with some coin so she had eased up next to him at the table, surreptitiously rubbing her bosom across his arm to capture his attention. And capture it she did, if only for a moment. He sized her up in an instant before returning his interest to the game before him.

“What’s the matter, Sugar, don’t like what you see?”

“Darlin’, you look mighty fine but can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” was his only reply. He barely even glanced her way, his attention solely focussed on the cards in his hand.

“I can see you are in the middle of something,” she had answered, “but wouldn’t you rather be in the middle of something else.” Carrie fluttered her eyebrows like she had seen some of the older girls do. She also added a few seductive deep breaths – another trait she had learned from the long-termers. On the spur of the moment, she had taken one of his hands and placed it against her bosom.

“What do you think of them?” she had whispered into his ear.

He hastily withdrew his hand. “I think they are a magnificent pair, but nowhere near as good as the pair I have in my other hand.”

Carrie had stared at him. “Oh, you men, you always have something else clouding your brains when you are gambling. Don’t you think I am pretty?” Carrie flashed him a come-hither look, pouting and gyrating against his hip. “Don’t you want some of this? Wouldn’t you like to accompany me to my quarters later and we can get to know each other just a little better? Here, let me start: my name is Carrie. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“The difficulty isn’t the issue here, Carrie...that’s what you said you’re name was, am I correct?” Without waiting for confirmation, he continued. “You have come down here, dripping with sexual intentions and interrupting what had been a profitable evening. No, it’s a matter of manners, dear woman. I never said I wasn’t interested – just that I was otherwise engaged.”

Carrie leapt on that remark like a shearer on a sheep. “So, you are interested in a little getting-to-know-you session, then? That makes me so happy.” Carrie ran the tip of her index finger across her lipstick-laden bottom lip. “Come and make me even happier, sugar.”

“It doesn’t appear that I will be able to say no to you, so, let me finish up here and I will meet you upstairs.” He bedazzled her with a smile full of perfectly white teeth. The casino was open all night and he didn’t plan on being with her for the duration.

“That would be wonderful. I am in Room 16. Look forward to getting to know you more...umm...”

“Jack, the name is Jack.”

***

Carrie now observed Jack sauntering up the hallway toward her. Her anger at his dilly-dallying had abated, sensing that he had made himself a bit of a profit; money that she could easily relieve him of if things went according to plan.

“I thought you must have had a moment of panic and contemplated making a run for it, Sugar.” Carrie said, casually extending her arms towards him. “I had hoped the tables would not have been too much of a lure for you. You were attacking those cards like a maniac.”

“Not a maniac, sweetie. It is true that the lights and sounds excite me and that I zone out into some sort of a manic state when the dice or cards are in front of me, but that certainly doesn’t make me a maniac.”

“Yeah, whatever, honey,” Carrie replied, inching closer to him, until the bare skin of their arms touched, setting of a thrill in Carrie that she couldn’t describe. Something about his character was drawing her; his reckless nature at the tables, his obvious wealth, and his unbeatable good looks. But what really did it for her was the obvious bulge beginning to appear in the front of Jack’s pants.

“Shall we go inside and take care of that?” She asked him, smiling impishly, nodding into the room the whole time. “I may not be a doctor but I know a sure-fire way of bringing down that swelling.”
Carrie followed Jack inside. She noticed as he brushed past that he was carrying a half-full bottle of Evian. Good thinking, Sugar, she thought to herself, you’re going to need to keep your fluids up. We are gonna sweat up a storm tonight.

“Why don’t you put that bottle down and make your hands more useful? I sure could use a bit of a squeeze in the all right places, if you know what I mean?”

Removing his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, Jack held the bottle out to Carrie. “Fancy a bit of Dutch courage – not that you really need it?” A grin broke out on Carrie’s face as she took the proffered bottle from his hand.

“Shit, Jack, this smells weird. What the hell is it, baby?”

“That is one of the most expensive gins in the entire world. It is awfully costly but I figured that if you were going to offer up to me your own heady wine, I could do nothing but reciprocate.”

Carrie shrugged her shoulders, tipped the bottle back and took a large swig of the contents. Immediately, she started to gag and gasp for air. Her face contorted in agony. She started clawing at her throat, her long nails peeling layers of skin until blood started to stream down her neck and onto her chest, staining her elegant camisole.

“Actually, I may have lied to you, Sugar,” Jack said, sarcasm dripping heavily from each word, “As a matter of fact, that is sulphuric acid – one of the more nastier liquids going around. I used to deal with the non-corrosive stuff but it just didn’t have the same zing, if you know what I mean?” Jack stared at the writhing form on the floor; vomit and blood quickly staining the plush white rug beneath. “My God, girl, don’t you watch the news broadcasts? There is a serial killer in town and you continue to offer your services – such as they are – to any man who looks your way. I know your type and I know that you had lied to me about your intentions. You wanted to do me out of my winnings and that’s fine – as far as it goes.”

Jack glanced a final time at Carrie.

“Unfortunately for you, this isn’t as far as it goes. The next step – and the beauty of this method - is to wait for the acids to reduce your earthly body back down to an organic matter, which then simply gets returned from whence it came – in your case, probably a garbage tip or a swamp. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

Jack dipped his finger in the decaying matter that was once Carrie and roughly daubed his calling card on the wall:

“Jack Was Here.”

Do Yourself A Favour! Check This Out!

2010-02-24T20:51:00.003+11:00

Today, I read a story that has caused me to create a "Do Yourself A Favour" section on my blog. It absolutely grabbed me and I wondered how I could share this with others. Hence the new section.
Each and every time I find a piece of writing that makes me think 'Holy crap, I wish I had written that!", I will add it to the list. You can find it on the right hand column of my page.

So, to the story...

Pamila Payne, writer of dark fiction and the fantastic Bella Vista Motel series of stories, makes the first on this list with a story entitled "Before She Was A Ghost", a story as breathtaking and beautiful as any I have ever read, be it flash or full length fiction. Please, do yourself a favour and check out this brilliant story.

Someone Hand Me The Extractors...

2010-02-19T14:51:00.002+11:00

He looked at the tooth in his hand and shuddered. He couldn’t believe it had come to this. Such lengths he now went to, just to stay above the poverty line. There has to be more to it than this, he thought, this can’t be what I have become.

***

Finishing ‘school’ had been a major achievement in his life. Various family members had tried – and failed, all for various reasons; too difficult, too demanding, too disgusting. He, too, had almost pulled out after the second-to-last course. There was something not quite right about putting your hands in someone’s mouth. But he got through it alright, and graduated with extremely good marks and his diploma to go on the wall at home.

Following grad school, he had been employed in multiple locations around the world; Texas, Beijing, Melbourne and Paris, to name a few. But he found the work dull and mundane, even though he made quite a decent living from it. Then came the big squeeze. All of the employees were forced to make a quota every week, which at first hadn’t been too demanding but with the amount of employees that were involved in the company, things slowly became a bit tougher. Keeping ahead of the game was getting harder by the week.

Worse was unfortunately to follow. He got into a nasty fight with a fellow employee over the last job in Venice, which lead to his arrest and imprisonment. He was promptly shown the door by his boss, claiming that the company didn’t need that kind of publicity and that he had signed a pre-employment document stating that he agreed that the company had the right to dismissal on grounds of felony crimes. His days with the corporation were over.

Since his release from prison, he had not been able to find steady work as the only job he was qualified for was run by only one company, and he had no chance of being accepted by them again. So he did the only thing he knew how – he went independent; a mercenary, if you will. But even that wasn’t entirely profitable. He found some extra work in the poorer parts of European towns, where his previous workmates wouldn’t dare to tread, but these jobs soon dried up. He was only left with one option: take what wasn’t his to take.

So, here he found himself, standing in the rain on a balmy evening in the middle of Madrid, staring at the tooth in his palm. It was a good tooth; a strong tooth, as it had turned out. But for renegade tooth fairies, every single molar and incisor is up for grabs.

(This piece came from a Friday Flash Fiction starter sentence that wasn't used, so I thought I would give it a go. Hope you liked it.)

Father Knows Best - FFF #21

2010-02-16T08:30:00.002+11:00

This is my story for Friday Flash Fiction. A big thanks to Cormac Brown for hosting this weekly challenge. The starter sentence this week is in italics. I hope you enjoy. It was rushed and may be a bit convoluted and grammatically shit, but I liked the idea of the story.

In matters of life and death, one could not forever rely on the judgment of his fellow man. This was the last thing Father Jacobs had said to me as he hung up the phone. I stared at the receiver, wondering what he had meant. I grabbed my jacket and headed for the car. I wanted to know the meaning behind this cryptic message.

I headed for St. Augustine’s on the corner of Wiltshire and Jackson. The traffic was heavy and the god-awful weather wasn’t helping my mood. I spotted a gap in the traffic and threw the car across both oncoming lanes and headed down a side street that would take me around the back of the church. Pulling into the parking lot, I grabbed my coat from the backseat, shrugged it on and headed for the rectory door; head down, trying to avoid getting soaked from the heavy rain.
Knocking softly on the front door, I was greeted by silence. I rapped on the wooden door again and was about to give up when a gap appeared and Father Jacobs’ wife appeared. She looked a mess; her usually well-groomed hair looked more like a rat’s nest, her face was devoid of the any hint of make-up and she looked absolutely distraught.

“Mrs Jacobs? Are you okay? Is Father Jacobs in?”

She stared at me, seemingly unaware of my identity. Which was rather strange as my family had known the Jacobs’ for over half a century. Father Jacobs had married my parents and he had baptised me thirty two years ago. I couldn’t understand the confusion that was evident on his wife’s face.

“Oh, Jimmy, it’s you.” This was almost a whisper. “Do you want to come in?”

She removed the safety catch and opened the door wide, gesturing for me to come in. I removed my boots and left them on the front porch, took of my wet coat and placed it down next to my boots. My mother used to get very angry when my brothers and I would march through our house with wet and muddy shoes, so it has become a habit now to take them off before entering someone’s home, whether they were wet or not.

“Sit down, Jimmy. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want some coffee? Maybe a cold drink?”

“A coffee would be lovely,” I replied, “But only if you are making one.”

She smiled thinly and left me sitting in the lounge room and headed for the kitchen. I could hear the rattling of teaspoons in ceramic cups but I also could hear Mrs Jacobs sobbing as well. I hurried into the kitchen.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” I gently placed my hand on her shoulder. The look on her face when she turned to face me was one of pure distress.

“He is in the hospital. I don’t know if he is going to make it.” And with that, she burst into tears and threw herself into my arms. I could feel her racking sobs and I pushed her away, feeling just a little self-conscious and a lot concerned.

“What happened?”

She looked at me again, as if weighing up just how much she should tell me.

“He is at St. Vincent’s. Go and ask him yourself. I am sure he would be pleased to see you.” She turned on her heel and walked into what I supposed was the bedroom and closed the door behind her. I guessed that the conversation was over so I left her to her grief and went back outside, put on my boots and jacket and headed for the hospital.

***

Father Jacobs looked like hell. Tubes ran from every orifice in his head, thick bandages covered his forehead but it was the ugly bruising that shocked me the most. Someone had done a number on him, of that there was no doubt.
I approached the bed, thinking he was sleeping, when he turned his head toward me and smiled that million dollar smile of his. It was a smile I had seen every Sunday morning at church but this time it seemed strained and somewhat painful. He beckoned to me with his left hand and I could see that it too had a tube running from it to an IV drip that sat silently nearby, steadily pumping painkillers into his system.
I sat on the leather chair that was provided for visitors and he reached out to me. I took his hand in mine; it was the hand of a feeble old man, an experience I had never had before. Father Jacobs was a strong man, both physically and spiritually. His handshake was like crossing the palm of God. It was full of warm cheer and blessing. This felt like the shaking hands with a dead man.

“Jimmy Bertolli, what a pleasant surprise.” He swallowed hard; talking was obviously difficult for him. “How did you know I was here?”

I explained to him that after the odd phone call I wanted to know the meaning of the cryptic last line. I told him of my visit to his wife and that she had directed me here.

“How is Betty?” I could see a faint spark in his eyes; his love for his wife was as strong as his love for God.

“She’s not doing too well, but obviously better than you. Tell me what happened, Father.” I squeezed his hand to show him that I cared. “Take your time; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Father Jacobs withdrew his hand from mine and reached for the glass of ice chips beside the bed. After sucking on them for a few seconds, he wiped his mouth and gestured for me to come a little closer.

“Son, I have known you for a long time, haven’t I? Our families go back quite a ways. So I will dispense with the preamble and just get right to it, shall I?”

I nodded, not wanting to interrupt with speech.

“During the morning service I was attacked by an unknown person. I was beaten, kicked and...” He pulled up his hospital gown to show three sets of stitches. “...I was stabbed a few times.”

I was in shock. Father Jacobs was one of the most generous, caring men I had ever met. Why someone would want to do this was beyond my comprehension. His breathing became more laboured so I encouraged him to wait for a few moments before continuing. He waved me off with a quick flick of his hand.

“Son, I have seen much violence in my life – always against my fellow man. I knew that, with the growing violence in our society that this was going to happen to me someday. I am an easy target; soft perhaps. And it has happened now. I will live, thanks to the wonderful people here at this hospital. They are good people.”
I was beginning to understand what the message meant. It was obviously directed at the bastard who had carried out such a cowardly act.

“Anyway, what I want to tell you is this. Do not be angry with my attacker. He knows not what he does.”

I stared furiously at the priest. “What do you mean do not be angry? This man attacked you in the house of God. Can there be a lower act perpetrated by one human on another?

Father Jacobs sighed deeply before continuing. “Son, I am afraid there is. You see, although you may despise the man who did this to me, there is a much worse crime to be reported.”

I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. There was more? “What, Father, could be worse than that? Is this not the judgement you were referring to in our phone conversation?”

“No, son, I am afraid not. The worst part of this sorry affair is that my congregation – my flock – sat idly by and watched what happened to me and not one person did a thing. No one saw fit to come to my aid, no one stood up and tried to help me in any way. Like I said to you on the phone: In matters of life and death, one could not forever rely on the judgment of his fellow man.

Garage Days

2010-02-13T06:54:00.001+11:00

“Aren’t you coming, Daddy?” Her voice reached him in the garage, more insistent this time around. Her sing-song refrain drifted down the breezeway; it filled his heart with love and his eyes with tears and, in an attempt to deceive himself that she was not calling to him, he reached for the Bakelite radio on the shelf she had given him for his birthday and turned the volume higher, an act which had been successful many times in the past.

She suddenly appeared in the doorway; her face a mirror image of the one he dwelt upon following the car accident that had taken her life more than fifteen years ago. He broke down and shed bitter tears; with his whole heart and soul he sobbed for the mistakes he had made until, finally, he took down the shotgun he kept on cast iron brackets on an otherwise blank wall. Yes dear, he thought, Daddy’s coming.

The Devil's In The Details - FFF #20

2010-02-08T12:27:00.003+11:00

My first attempt at taking part in Friday Flash Fiction, currently hosted by Cormac Brown. The premise is simple. We are provided with an opening sentence on Friday and post a story or poem by the following Tuesday. So, here is my piece, entitled "The Devil's In The Details". The starter sentence is in italics.

The Devil’s In The Details

His life would have been a lot simpler if he'd just said no. Not that I am the easiest person to say no to. I can be very persuasive; I could tell you some damn scary stories about what I have made people agree to through the ages. I can sense your disbelief and hesitancy to believe what I am saying. Do I have to prove this to you?

Oh, very well.

Are you comfortable?

Let me give you just one example...

George Tarpin was a frequent visitor to the Donny’s. Every afternoon after work, he would come in the front door, usually accompanied by a few workmates and pull up a chair at the bar and order a beer. He drank Cooper’s Light; not enough alcohol content to stop him from driving home but enough to help wear off the rigours of the day - working in the high-rise office block and staring at clients tax records was enough to make George thirst for a drink. He generally appeared to be a happy and content man. As happy as he could be, being an accountant and all.
The day I met George, he bustled in alone, looking agitated and ordered himself a full-strength brew. He threw his briefcase on the corner table and put his head in his hands. This got my attention and aroused my natural curiosity. I continued to observe his unusual demeanour; he seemed stressed and was drinking far heavier than normal. His usually wrinkle-free attire of button-down shirt and business suit was crumpled and dirty. He raised his head again and I saw he was also unshaven. His lips moved soundlessly and he bowed his head once again. He began alternately nodding and shaking his head, as if having an internal argument with himself (which he was).

Did I mention I can read minds? Obviously not, judging by that mental frown you are currently wearing (I told you I could read minds – it’s what we demons do). Just take my word for it.

Good for you.

Anyway, back to the story. George was deep in thought...

I made my way over to George’s booth and introduced myself. George stared up at me through red eyes and nodded towards the seat opposite. I sat down slowly, never taking my eyes from him. We spoke about a lot of things that day - many things which I can’t divulge to you – it’s not just lawyers who have confidentiality issues (and, just for the record, lawyers are demons too. Makes sense when you think about it. Go on, think about it.)

“George – I can call you George, right? I couldn’t help but notice you, George. I have seen you come into this place most afternoons. You are always upbeat and in a good frame of mind. Don’t ask me how I know that, you wouldn’t want to know the answer.”
George stared blankly across the table. He simply nodded in acceptance, and I took that as an invitation to continue.
“Now, George, it appears that something is decidedly wrong and I wish to offer my assistance.”
“There is nothing you can do.” It came out as a whisper and I nearly missed it.
“See, that’s the thing, George, I think I can.” I flashed him my Better-The-Devil-You-Know smile. “I think I can help you a lot. Would you like my help?” I sat back, arms open in a gesture of well, what do you say?
George’s eyes swam into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. “What do you mean? How can you help? She is sick, dammit, and there is nothing that the doctor’s can do.” A pause here, a silent sob then he continued. “I don’t know who you are or how you think you can help.”
I reached across the table and put my hand on this forearm. “George, all I will say is that I can fix this problem. I can make it go away. All I need is your permission. All you have to do is say yes.”

***

I waited until George and I had finished the meal we had ordered to celebrate our new agreement before returning to the business at hand. He still seemed a little wary but I think he realised he had no choice (or maybe it would be better to say he had no other options – either way, he was screwed without me). While we ate, we spoke about his wife’s cancer and how it was going to be hard to keep working and still raise his young daughter. We spoke about his wife being unable to have any more children after the birth of the daughter, and how he now realised the blessing he had been given with her arrival.

When we got back to the agreement, I whipped a piece of paper out of my top pocket (here’s one I prepared earlier) and spread it flat against the wooden top of the diner’s poor excuse for an eating surface. The bottom section of the page was folded under. George looked up at me in surprise.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Just the standard form, stating your particulars and setting out the list of services I will provide. Also, at the bottom of the page is the confirmation of the charges and costs to you for me to provide said service. It’s all very plain and ordinary. Just wanted to show you – part of the rules.”
“But...but...where did it come from?”
“Didn’t you get my email?” I replied, trying hard to keep that evil smirk from appearing on my face – which is my normal face but let’s not split hairs here, shall we?.
“No...I didn’t...what email?”
“Never mind that now. All the information you need is contained in this...contract.” (I hate that word – it sounds so...lawyerly.)

It took a few minutes for George to read through the particulars. He seemed agreeable, for the most part. He suddenly sat bolt upright, hands trembling and a sweat rapidly breaking across his forehead.
“What the hell is this?”
“What would that be, George?” I asked casually, knowing full well what he was referring to.
“These so-called charges. I won’t pay it. They are ridiculous and, well, sick. I will not do that to my daughter. I will not.”
I shook my head slowly, waiting to see if the reality of the situation would sink in. It didn’t. I may have to produce the match-winning field goal (I love football metaphors).
“That’s it. The deal is off. I don’t agree to this shit. There is nothing you can do to change my mind. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going – and I hope to never see your fucking face again. You can take your contract and shove it up your...”
“Just a minute, George. Before you go, may I show you just one more thing?”
George spun around quickly, his head snapping towards me.
“What is it?”
“This,” I replied and unfolded the bottom section of the contract. (Standard operating procedure, naturally. No withholding information here.)
George’s face seemed to sag as he asked me the question that he surely knew the answer to. “What is it?”
I gave him my game-winning smile. “That, George, is your signature. Don’t you recognise it?”

That Sinking Feeling up at MicroHorror

2010-02-08T05:50:00.003+11:00

I have a new piece up on one of my favourite sites: MicroHorror.

My piece is entitled "That Sinking Feeling".

Thanks to Nathan Rosen for his continued support of my writing.

Shock Therapy - 3WW Post

2010-02-04T08:14:00.001+11:00

Treading water full of worry
This frantic tick tick talk of hurry...

“How many times do I have to tell you? Turn that shit down, son. For God’s sake, it way too fucking loud for this time of the morning.”

I looked at my step-father. As usual, the veins in his forehead are bulging, his face a deep scarlet and he is shaking. He doesn’t seem to appreciate me or my taste in music, which is just fine with me.

Fred came into our lives several years ago, marrying my mother after my father died. He had married mum based on her looks and bank balance. She married him, apparently, for sex. I have heard them numerous times as my bedroom backs onto theirs, the bed head banging against the wall behind me.

Mum is beautiful; Fred is a deadshit. I don’t understand her attraction to him but I certainly understand his attraction to her. If she wasn’t my mother...

“...and what is that smell?”

Dragged back to the present, I looked at Fred innocently. “Sorry? What was that?”

“What is that odor...that fucking stench? What is it?”

I was watching Fred closely, waiting for the right time. I knew he had a bad ticker. He knew that I knew he had a bad ticker. I also think he knew I purposely tried to set him off so he would just leave me alone. I accidentally increased the volume on the stereo.

His eyes started to glaze over and I could sense that this may very well be the day. He reached out his hand for the door frame, lurching from side to side. He missed the door and collapsed onto the floor; his head hitting the brass bed end on the way down. I considered calling out to Mum but thought better of it. Just make sure the bastard is dead first.

I think Freud was right.

Battle Of Olmen-Ra - 3WW Post

2010-01-28T16:22:00.002+11:00

I still dream of that fateful night atop Olmen-Ra. Dozens of our kindred passed into memory that evening, and many is the dream I have had since, remembering the fallen and the loss of our loved ones.

We had gathered at the base of the mountain in the early dusk, prepared to rescue our beloved Queen from the forces of Dwindor. She had been taken from us many weeks before, and it had taken time for us to locate her and devise a plan of action. It had fallen to me, as war chief, to lead the rescue.

Gregor, the invisible, had lit the beacon from the hilltop; our signal to begin the surge to the top of the hill. We were ten score strong but the Dwindorians were stronger still. The battle had been bloody, the loss of life innumerable.

We fell back into the night, still Queen-less. I do not know what has become of her. I grieve for those lost, but especially for my betrothed. I shall never forget that night – or her.

Circle Of Friends Blog Awards

2010-01-28T14:28:00.002+11:00

Spreading faster than Paris Hilton's legs after a night at the casino, the Circle of Friends Awards have been doing the rounds and I have surprisingly been awarded one by David Barber; an aspiring author (or so he says on his blog) from Scotland. In my books, he is a damn fine bloke and a damn fine (aspiring) writer. You can find his excellent blog page HERE.

The downside to this award is trying to pick only 5 blogs/writers to pass this award on to. It is never easy to pick "favourites" as there are so many people who contribute to the writing of certain stories, but my list is for the people who have had the biggest influence on my writing; people who have taken the time to encourage me and people who have read my writings and offered useful and contructive comments.

My five (in no particular order) are:

Absolutely*Kate - At The Bijou

Kate has been, from the very beginnings of my time at 6 Sentences, one of the few people who has not only encouraged my writing (even if she does have to close her eyes at the scary bits) but has also been a great friend in matters other than writing. She has mojo and moxie - bucket loads of it, in fact. She has a writing style that has no equal, and a personality to match. She has a brilliant sense of humour and knows also when to be smart and serious. You rock Kate (as usual, said in my ultra-cool accent!!)

Daniel Stine - Daniel's In China

My mate, Big Red, and I have a passion for music and Mustangs. We also like to dabble in writing as well. He has always been more than happy to read manuscripts (if I can be so cheeky as to call what I write a 'manuscript') and offer advice that is always spot-on. Even with his busy life, he always finds time for a quick hello and we have even found time to write a couple of 6S pieces together. Dan is THE MAN!!!

Harry Sanderford - Posterous

What can I say about Har? The man who christened me a Phillipstine? We both have a liking for James Lee Burke (to the point that we sent books to each other across the damn big ocean!!); we talk about the NFL; we discuss the shortcomings of modern society; we have also been known to occassionally discuss writing. Like Daniel, Harry has always been eager to read pre-posting stories of mine, always offering helpful advice and encouraging commentary. He may love a surf (I can't swim), he may like the odd flutter on the gee-gee's (gamblings bad, m'kay?) and he may live in the world's largest retirement home, but to me, Harry is fantastic value and a great friend indeed!!

Erin Cole - Listen To The Voices

Now, I realise that Erin probably has more than her fair share of awards by now (and if she doesn't, she damn well should!!) I have always found visiting Erin's blog page to be a thrill. She writes like I wish I could (and I think a lot of us feel the same way!) and I find a nicely dark and disturbing place to haunt when the mood strikes me. It was an absolute honour (yes, spelled with a 'u'...we do use the proper English language down here!!) to be asked by Erin to contribute to her 13 Days Of Horror late last year and to be included amongst some of the best writers I have come to know on the web. Erin's writing sometimes scares the shit out of me...and we wouldn't want it any other way!!!

Mike Whitney - Livin' In The Hills

Mr. Mike "Mongo" Whitney...having a fantastic sense of humour doesn't necessarily make it's way on to the page but Mike, through Mongo, does it flawlessly. Mongo is character that needs to be experienced to fully understand but once you know him, you wanna keep going back. Aside from Mongo, Mike pens some wonderful memoir-style pieces on his life on the road as a musician, or just his life in general. His music writings are fascinating - some things are better not knowing (especially with an aspiring musician for a son!) but always told in Mike's brilliant voice. He is also a gifted musician and often blogs videos of performances, or new songs as he records them. A damn fine guy and a pleasure to know!

Having done that, I would like to make special mention of the websites that have published my writings these last 12 months:

MicroHorror
Powder Burn Flash
Six Sentences
BlinkInk

Make a Difference - One Comment At A Time!

2010-01-21T21:51:00.003+11:00

Fellow 6S-er and blogger, Linda, over at leftbrainwrite has come up with, what I think, a brilliant idea to help those people suffering in Haiti. And it won't cost you, dear reader, a cent.

She has proposed that for every comment that gets left on her blog thread - Helping Haiti: Cash For Comments - up until midnight this Friday, she will donate a dollar to the Doctors Without Borders organisation. If you link a blog to her page, she will double that donation.

If every there was a cause worth supporting, this is it. And let's face it, it doesn't require any work except a click of the mouse button.

Go on, you know you want to....

Punishment Fit The Crime - 3WW Post

2010-01-20T22:14:00.001+11:00

“...and then I kicked him once more to the head for good measure.”

Jimmy looked up at his older brother in awe and asked, for the third time, for him to tell the ending again.

“I reached down and grabbed him by his now-bloodied hair and wrenched his head back. I could see him teetering on the edge of consciousness but I wanted him to know just how much he had pissed me off. I cocked my arm, ready to finish him off, when I felt a rough hand on the back of my neck haul me off the bastard. I rolled over and saw a fucking copper standing there with a smug look on his face.”

“Then what happened, Billy, then what happened?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, then the damned copper pulled me to my feet and told me that he knew the ideal place for people like me.”

A bell chimed in the background and Jimmy slowly rose from his chair. He looked at his brother once more.

“See you next Thursday, Billy.”

Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal - Lame Goat Press

2010-01-20T05:29:00.002+11:00

Mark Crittenden is the guest editor and artwork illustrator for Lame Goat Press and is hosting a new anthology this spring — Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal.

"What I am looking for in this anthology is something off the beaten path: strange tales about the struggle between man and the animal-beasts of myth and legend. I am looking for horror, so that means scary. Average story length should be between 1000-4000 words. Send your story in .rtf format with the title line "Howl Submission-(story title)" to editormc@yahoo.com. Please include a cover letter with word count of submission, your name, address, email address, and list of writing credits. Also include a brief 100 word or less bio in the third person."

So, If you have something that you think might serve the purpose, get busy and get it in.

Dialogue Contest at Fantastic Horror

2010-01-15T15:37:00.003+11:00

A little something different this time for me.

The people at Fantastic Horror have created a 13-line Dialogue Horror contest entitled The Passenger. The rules are very simple:

"Craft the most compelling piece of horror fiction. A driver stops to pick up a passenger. They speak a total of thirteen (13) lines forming the entirety of the text. Narration is not allowed, only spoken words in quotation marks."

Here is my entry:

As Sure As Eggs Is Eggs

“Thanks for stopping, Mister."
“What are you doing out here in the woods by yourself at this time of night, kid? Where are your parents? And what happened to your clothes?”
“I am looking for my sister, Katy-Taty. She has gone missing.”
“Where did you last see her? Maybe I can help you look.”
“She was down there by the lake and she walked into the mist and she just dog-gone disappeared.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About two days. Katy-Taty has never been gone this long before and I am scared, Mister. There are sounds out there that scare me bad. I think the bad things killed her dead.”
“Two days? My god, kid, no wonder you look like hell. Look, get in the car and I will help you search.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mister. I think there is something out there and it has taken Katy-Taty. And, as sure as eggs is eggs, the same thing will happen to you and you will end up as dead as she is.”
“Don’t you worry about that, I am an adult and can take care of myself.”
“Are you sure, Mister, because you don’t look that...did you hear that? Oh my god, I think the bad thing has found us...”
“What in the blue hell is that?”
"That, Mister, best I can tell, is Katy-Taty and she ain't dead no more. Which is more than I can say for you. Thanks for stopping, Mister..."

There have been some great entries so far, including some of my favourite writers and bloggers. Go and check 'em out...definitely worth a look!!!

Shock To The System

2010-01-14T07:51:00.002+11:00

The house was silent; her husband had gone to work earlier in the evening and the children were now both sleeping soundly in bed. Jennifer now went about her work with an almost religious zeal, knowing that what she was doing was for the best – her family would benefit greatly from her actions. She tied the ribbon off; the same ribbon she had worn on their first “official” date. She stared at her handiwork and was pleased with her creation.

Her thoughts drifted to the counselling sessions she and her husband had attended. She thought about the progress the counsellor told them they were making. She also thought about the affair her husband had continued even after these sessions. She shrugged these thoughts off and finished the job she had started.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the ribbon-laden knife in her right hand and jabbed into the power socket. The initial jolt surprised her by its ferocity and the subsequent shocks stopped her heart. Her last thought was one of deep concern – did her insurance policy cover suicide?

Garage Days

2010-01-12T18:37:00.001+11:00

“Aren’t you coming, Daddy?” Her voice reached him in the garage, more insistent this time around. Her sing-song refrain drifted down the breezeway; it filled his heart with love and his eyes with tears and, in an attempt to deceive himself that she was not calling to him, he reached for the Bakelite radio on the shelf she had given him for his birthday and turned the volume higher, an act which had been successful many times in the past. She suddenly appeared in the doorway; her face a mirror image of the one he dwelt upon following the car accident that had taken her life more than fifteen years ago. He broke down and shed bitter tears; with his whole heart and soul he sobbed for the mistakes he had made until, finally, he took down the shotgun he kept on cast iron brackets on an otherwise blank wall. Yes dear, he thought, Daddy’s coming.

Screening The Competition

2010-01-05T07:04:00.000+11:00

I had recently been married and my wife and I had decided that we would make Friday nights our ‘special’ night – as a way to relax after a long week at work, we would catch a movie and have dinner out at some fancy restaurant.
One night, a few months ago, when Nikki went and purchased the tickets for the film, she came back laughing and, after asking what was so funny, she explained to me that the young girl behind the counter had admitted to her that she found me cute and sexy. Nikki thought this was a laugh-riot and we thought nothing more of it. Over the following weeks, though, we started seeing this girl everywhere we went; the movies, obviously, but also in shopping centres, bus stops, garages and the cafe where we usually had lunch on a Sunday.
Nikki told me not to worry about it, that it was just a teenage crush and that it would soon fade as her attentions would become focussed on someone else just as quickly as they were on me.
Last week, I got home from work to find Nikki in an agitated state. I thought something was wrong but she quickly told me that she had gotten herself a new job. She wouldn’t tell me where it was, but seeing her so excited was infectious so I didn’t press her for details.
Last night, we saw on the news that the young girl who worked at the cinema, the one with the teenage crush, had been brutally murdered in the back office and the movie theatre.
Last night, I discovered the usher’s uniform in the bathroom pantry.

Cornered

2010-01-05T07:02:00.001+11:00

She stood beneath the streetlamp, eagerly searching for the bus that would take her from this dark, squalid street corner to her home in a vastly brighter suburban neighbourhood. She had been keeping tabs on the stranger across the road, watching him intently in the darkened doorway. His Yankees cap was pulled down low and she couldn’t see his eyes; his hands were in his pockets, perhaps from the cold, but her mind pictured something else entirely. She glanced around, hoping to catch sight of other late night commuters but she was seemingly alone on the deserted street. Alone, that is, except for the stranger.
Finally, the bus appeared in the distance and she found that she had been holding her breath and, exhaling slowly, she dared another fleeting look at the man in the shadows, only to find him making his way across the street. As a single passenger alighted from the bus, she felt the stranger standing directly behind her, touching her, rubbing himself against her and it took all her will to stop herself from screaming in disgust. A sudden agony gripped her chest as she turned and found the passenger unhurriedly removing a blade from her chest, dripping her sanguine fluids onto the pavement. Her knees buckled, her vision starting to blur, her determination gone as she screams; shrieks of pain and fear and of sudden understanding. The last thing she sees is the two men standing over her, rifling through her belongings and the stranger smile and say “Same time tomorrow night over on Jackson?”

2009's Ten Things Lists

2009-12-27T21:49:00.002+11:00

As the year comes to a close, I decided to take a look back on things that I had read, watched, listened to etc, and made of list of my ten favourites. By no means are these complete lists but they do encompass what my year has been like.

Ten Books I Read From 2009

The Lost Symbol – Dan Brown
Under The Dome – Stephen King
Driven To Distraction – Jeremy Clarkson
True Blue – David Baldacci
Rain Gods – James Lee Burke
Last Chance To See – Mark Carwadine & Stephen Fry
In America – Stephen Fry (Re-Issue)
Justice For All: The Truth About Metallica – Joel McIver
Toy Stories – James May
Drood – Dan Simmons

Ten CD’s That I Bought In 2009

Colour Me Free – Joss Stone
21st Century Breakdown – Green Day
Preliminaires – Iggy Pop
Chickenfoot – Chickenfoot
Battlefield – Jordan Sparks
Breakthrough – Colbie Caillat
Endgame – Megadeth
World Painted Blood – Slayer
The Fall – Norah Jones
Them Crooked Vultures – Them Crooked Vultures

Ten TV Shows I Have Been Collecting on DVD in 2009

House M.D.
Q.I.
American Gothic
Bottom
30 Rock
King Of Queens
That 70’s Show
Frasier
Complete Monty Python’s Flying Circus
Dharma & Greg

Ten Songs I Am Learning On The Piano in 2009

Right To Be Wrong – Joss Stone
Humble Me – Norah Jones
Van Nuys – Sixx A.M.
My Immortal – Evanescence
In The End – Linkin Park
Unforgiven III – Metallica
I Wish It Would Rain – Phil Collins
Bed Of Roses – Bon Jovi
Overcome – Live
Uninvited – Alanis Morrisette

Bully and Victim

2009-12-17T07:21:00.002+11:00

The hiccups had started when the verbal abuse did.

“Gaylord.”

“Queer.”

I had been used to these taunts all through my childhood. The other kids just didn’t understand me. They didn’t realise what these verbal barbs did to a young man’s confidence and self-esteem.

“Hey, poof, want another pillow to bite?”

As if my future wasn’t bleak enough, growing up in a foster home, this constant abuse had almost sent me over the edge. I had stolen the pistol my foster father kept in the bottom drawer of his bedside table – he won’t notice until it is too late.

“Hey, queer, we’re talking to you.”

The first punch landed on the side of my head, knocking me off balance; the second one hit me in the kidneys which made me groan in pain. I felt the nausea rise, along with the years of anger and humiliation.

The first shot, much to my surprise, hit the bully between the eyes. Shock formed on his face, gradually melting away as his life did the same.

I will never be the victim again.

Money (In God We Trust)

2009-12-16T16:25:00.002+11:00

...and we shall see how godless a nation we have become...

Whirlwinds dance upon the empty streets. The cracked and faded sign that once proudly proclaimed "You are Now Entering The City of Joy" leans against a rotten tree stump, awaiting another resurrection in a long line of resurrections. Another coat of paint - applied by another newcomer - in the hope of lifting the spirits of a town long-since forgotten.

Brian lazily eyed the lone crow, flying low across the now-barren crops in search of nourishment. Taking in what was left of this community, he smiled to himself in the knowledge that this had been a thriving economic town before he and his entourage of purse-emptiers had arrived. He remembered the singing, the dancing, and the praising of his Lord’s name. He also remembered the pressing of the flesh and the swelling of the bank balance.

Now, just a few short months later, it was bankrupt. It was just a desolate outpost on the road to redemption - a shadow of its former self. First, it had been the small businesses that went under, unable to sustain the rent and utilities payments after giving more than half of their profits in the name of God, followed by the bigger chain stores relocating as they realised that the money was slowly dwindling in town. The younger generations were moving away in search of other opportunities.

Pastor Brian Jackson removed his dog-collar, undid the top button of his freshly starch ironed shirt. He had been the only one to profit from the venture. As it was meant to be - at least, that was how he saw it. Brian bent down, picked up his suitcases and loaded them into the trunk of his very new car. All part and parcel of the benefits of bringing the Word of God to His people. However, all good things must come to an end. With one final look around the near-abandoned Main Street, Brian got into the driver’s seat and closed the door behind him.

"City of Joy?” He thought to himself. “Not anymore.”

Brave Days Indeed.

2009-12-14T10:36:00.003+11:00

Bravery and courage are words I hear on the news, usually in reference to some sport star that played with an injury. That is cool, but neither brave nor courageous.

I have always thought that these traits were more appropriate for people who go above and beyond what is expected of them, usually selflessly.

I am hoping that people will refer to me as brave and courageous after successfully pulling off this stunt.

If I don't succeed, I don't really mind - chicks dig scars!!!

Story Virus v.5

2009-12-12T05:47:00.005+11:00

Right, then. Tagged in a project with some pretty amazing writers. Let's hope I don't let the team down.

Here's the lowdown: This is basically a series of flash stories. I was tagged by the wonderful Michael Solender, and given the list of previous posts so I could continue this on. I will add to the story, then tag more people for them to keep it moving. It is a wonderful concept and a lot of fun.

Start here:
I, Splotchy

Then here:
Cormac Writes

And then here:
Lost In The BoZone

Then here:
David Barber's Fiction World

And then:
Writing The Hard Way

Next:
Not From Here, Are You?

And here is my addition to this story:

Detective Gary Houston was dining with his mother at Erica's immediately across the road from the Poof Palace Spa and Beautification centre. He had been listening to her drone on and on for the last forty-five minutes, occassionally focusing on her words, but generally ignoring her whilst picking at his lunch.

His mother's voice penetrated his thoughts.

"Are we expecting a storm today, Gary?"

"Not of the wet variety, Mother, but I feel a shitstorm coming."

His mother looked at him disapprovingly. "You know I don't like it when you use that language." She glanced out the window, at the rain-laden clouds. "I think it will rain, dear."

"Not until Christmas Eve, Mother." Gary sighed, knowing that the joke would be wasted on her. He stood, needing to use the rest rooms when he caught sight of Blanco exiting the building across the road. He stood motionless, stunned by the hue of the man's skin. He quickly excused himself from the table and made his way outside.

"Blanco, over here. What in the fuc..."

"No time for that now. Houston, we have a problem. Big Bopper is on the loose again. Damn I hate Christmas."

A stern look came over Gary's face. "You know what we have to do, right?"

"I will ring him now, Houston. If this fails, we are in deep shit."

**********

Ok, now I will tag the following people:

Daniel Stine
Erin Cole
Mike Whitney
Word Vamp
Harry Sanderford

Dressed To Impress on BlinkInk

2009-12-10T15:19:00.002+11:00

My very short story "Dressed To Impress" is now up on BlinkInk. A big thanks to Lynn Alexander for accepting it and putting it in such a highly impressive publication.

Click here to read.

Losing Weight is Quite An Affair - 3WW Post

2009-12-10T08:24:00.003+11:00

Hello, my name is Andy, and I am an asshole. It must be true; everyone says so. My family tells me all the time; Rebecca’s family does the same. Even my secretary thinks I am an asshole. While there may be some truth to it, you need to know the whole story, from the beginning...

Rebecca had always wanted to be slim; she had pored over the fashion magazines, pointing out to me the women who had the best figures – the women she wanted to be like. We had only been together for a few weeks and I thought she was beautiful and curvy. A great catch for a private dick with a few extra pounds of my own.

As the months passed, Rebecca became obsessed; walks in the morning, gym at night. Things came to a head one day, however, when I suggested that she should just forget about it. After a few choice words about the size of my ass (I was quite offended), she came at me, waving her arms and screaming at me about not being sensitive to her needs, not caring for our relationship. I grabbed her by her slender, lithe wrists and told her that if this madness didn’t stop, that our relationship would be over.

Two weeks later, I started to notice a definite change in her attitude to me and began to wonder if she may have been having an affair. One morning, I decided that I had to put my mind at rest and decided to follow her. After weaving through the morning traffic snarls and avoiding detection, I saw her pull into a side street and park her car. I drove around the block, parked and got out of the car to observe.

A young man came out of a nearby house, waved in her direction and made a beeline towards her. He leaned in through the driver’s window and gave her a kiss. Went around to the other side of the car and got into the passenger seat. Rebecca did a u-turn in the middle of the street and headed back the way she came. I raced back to my car and jumped in; making sure my Smith & Wesson semi-auto was in the glove-box and followed from a discreet distance.

I followed them to Mac’s, where they had lunch. Afterwards, they drove across town to the cemetery. I had no idea what they were doing here; Rebecca had been known to have a few, shall we say, eccentricities when it came to sex, but we had never done anything this morbid or bizarre. Sure, I was jumping to conclusions but, in my line of work, that can usually save your ass from trouble.

Once again, I parked the car down the road from where Rebecca and her beau had stopped. Cautiously following on foot, pistol secure in my belt, I watched as they walked, arm in arm, down the leafy path until they arrived at a huge mausoleum. Rebecca made a quick, cursory glance around. When she appeared to be satisfied that all was well, she hugged the young man tightly. Gun in hand, I broke through the bushes from behind the mausoleum.

“What in the fuck is going on here?” I screamed at Rebecca, scaring them both.
I saw shock and fear in Rebecca’s eyes, obviously distressed at being caught in the middle of her afternoon tryst.

“Andy? What are you doing here?” It took her a few minutes to process the picture she saw before her. “Have you been following us? What is going on?”

I turned from her without responding and stared at the young man next to her. A puddle had formed at his feet and it sure as hell wasn’t rain. I didn’t feel any sympathy for him – he was doing my girl.

“You, shit-for-brains, who in the fuck do you think you are?” When he tried to respond, I pointed the gun at his head and flicked off the safety. He shut his mouth soon enough. “I have one question for you. Nod your head for yes, shake your head for no. Got it?”

He nodded vigourously.

“One nod, asshole, or I swear to God, you and a bullet are gonna be real close friends. Okay, here’s what I want to know. Do you love Rebecca? I don’t give a fuck if this is a casual screw or a full-blown relationship. I don’t care. Just answer the question. Do you love her?”

Silence hung over the small clearing. I could see the kid weighing up his answer; I think he knew there was no right answer, yet he nodded his head slowly. Once.

“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” I gently squeezed the trigger, the echo of the shot reverberating around the cemetery grounds, as the young man collapsed onto the ground, a significant part of his head missing; most of it painted in giant splashes on the grave markers behind him.

“So, that puts a bit of a dampener on your sex life, doesn’t it? The question is - what do I do with you?” I said, swinging around to face her. I could see her eyes flitting about, hoping to catch sight of someone – anyone – to come to her aid and rescue. That wasn’t likely to happen.

“But, Andy, you don’t understand,” Rebecca pleaded between sobs, “He was my...”

One bullet. That’s all it ever takes.

So, what do you think? Killing people for having an affair is harsh, that’s true, but that is just the kind of guy I am. Had I waited a few more seconds and found out that the young guy was Rebecca’s brother and that they were visiting their grandparent’s grave, things may have turned out differently – also true. But, there is one positive to come from this: after ten months buried in a shallow grave, Rebecca’s wish of losing weight has come true.

I really am an asshole.

Making Their Day up at the NOT

2009-12-03T09:27:00.002+11:00

Michael Solender has been running a wonderful series of writes revolving around a Thanksgiving theme. There are wonderful stories from some of my favourite writers. Today, mine has been included in his Feast of Flash. It is entitled "Making Their Day" and can be found here.

Michael's blog, not from here, are you can be found by clicking on the title.

MIKE WHITNEY (A John Wiswell Get Well Soon Message)

2009-11-20T10:21:00.004+11:00

John,

Stay strong, you've got some very good friends indeed rooting for you and sending good thoughts, prayers and money.

I can only imagine the pain, my dad had kidney stones and they would drop him to the floor.
Best to you, really, man!

mike whitney

Mike's blog can be found here.

To contribute to the John Wiswell Surgery Donation Drive, follow the link below...

JODI MacARTHUR - Skittles (A John Wiswell Get Well Soon Message)

2009-11-19T10:15:00.005+11:00

Skittles
by Jodi MacArthur

Rainbow colored candies drop from the sky. I watch in amazement and try to catch them with my tongue, but instead they bounce off my teeth. I smile anyway and hold out my arms and hope they don't bruise me as they hit with the force of a bug bouncing off a windshield. One finally lands in my hand, a bright wagon red, and I put it in my mouth and chew. Strawberry flavor bursts upon my taste buds, the freshest, purest strawberry you could ever taste. This is the best day of my life.

Hey John,
I realize this is rather silly, but if it makes you smile I’ve done my job.
Feel better soon.

Jodi

Jodi's blog can be found here.

To contribute to the John Wiswell Surgery Donation Drive, click this link.

John Wiswell Surgery Donation Drive

2009-11-18T09:24:00.002+11:00

by John Wiswell

This campaign is to raise funds for the gallbladder surgery of John Wiswell. The combined bills could run over $10,000 (more on that below). That figure is outside his means to pay.

John has severe gallstones. The attacks began in November of 2008. The attacks became much more frequent in September of 2009, coming as frequently as once every two days, and lasting for up to twelve hours or until he passed out. These attacks included powerful vomiting, inflammation in the spine and shooting pains through the back and abdomen. John also suffers from a neuromuscular syndrome that exacerbated every attack, leaving him bedridden for as long as a week following any episode. This became even more agonizing once the attacks began occurring more frequently than he was recovering from them. Doctors found several gallstones in his gallbladder and diagnosed that removal of the organ was necessary to stop the attacks. Surgery is scheduled for November 20th, a week before the U.S. holiday of Thanksgiving.

John is uninsured. Since 1993 he has suffered from a neuromuscular syndrome and related health issues that prevented him from being able to work. These same conditions made almost all health insurance companies decline him, charge far outside his means, or by their terms of “pre-existing conditions,” useless in getting coverage for nearly anything. With government programs failing to assist, he pays for all treatment out of savings.

Office visits, medicine, radiology and ultrasounds have already run over $1,000, but the surgery will be far more expensive. Due to billing being separated between multiple departments, the hospital has not given him a proper estimate, but complete with a necessary hospital stay, the total cost could exceed $10,000. Raising funds sooner is pressing as the hospital offers discounts for prompt payment (potentially 25% of the total).

Through his life savings, John has a few thousand dollars set aside to pay what of the procedures he can. The Pledgie Donation Drive will be set for $5,000. Any donation will help.

Though his other health issues will slow the healing, he is expected to make a full recovery from the gallbladder-related issues after the surgery.

Thank you for your time and generosity.

More info can be found here.

Stephen Fry Is A Twitter God.

2009-11-16T20:53:00.003+11:00

To me, Stephen Fry is one of the most intellectual, incredibly funny guys to have ever graced this earth. In celebration of the one millionth follower on Twitter, Stephen Fry sends us a message from the future.

Please enjoy this video blog of Stephen's, entitled "Twillionth".

Nothing Else Matters - by my son, Jesse.

2009-11-15T21:07:00.003+11:00

My son playing Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" at his end of year music school concert, on the 16-11-09.

Let The Feathers Fly (A Thanksgiving Tale)

2009-11-12T07:53:00.001+11:00

“...and it has been announced that the National Thanksgiving Turkey Presentation will take place at Flying Pan Park, where the President will be presented with this year’s turkey, only this year, he plans on eating it. In other news...”

Monte’s head shot up at the announcement. Our farm, he thought, that can’t be right. Monte could see the farm owner and his wife sitting on the veranda of their farmhouse, listening to the radio transmission also.
“Did ya hear that, Mary? The President is gonna come here and pick himself a turkey for Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, I heard. I guess we better spruce the joint up a bit.” Mary replied.
“It’s a fine day for us, a fine day indeed!”
Upon hearing this, Monte raced across the farmyard to inform the turkeys of the impending doom of one of their own.

“Are you absolutely certain that’s what was said?”
Monte had called the turkeys together to inform them of the news. Mr. C, the patriarch figure of the gang that had been locked in this enclosure for the past few years, had called for a meeting of the senior birds, to try and hatch a plan.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We have given in to the humans for too long now – the time for revenge is upon us. We must band together and prevent this injustice.” Turning his attention to Monte, he continued, “Monte, I want you to go out into the paddocks and relate this news to as many animals out there and see if we can’t rustle up some support. Let’s do this!”

Monte was pleased with himself. He knew that calling in on Chuck the Woodpecker first was a great idea. Chuck was more than happy to assist. Monte watched in amazement as six midnight-black ravens rose from the treetops, answering Chuck’s coded call-to-arms. He had also received partisan support from Slithers, the rattlesnake, and his rhumba. Also, he had the word from a bale of box turtles from Florida. What would have been a nightmare getting the turtles from Florida had been made easier by an agreement between the turtles and one of their natural predators, a brood of Harpy Eagles.
All of these creatures would come under the command of General Sam, an ageing, but highly respected, Bald Eagle. He would oversee the whole defence plan and make sure that everyone involved would know their role and perform to the best of their abilities.

“General Sam, Sir, Airborne One reporting in as requested. We have locked sights on the oncoming fleet of vehicles. ETA is fifteen minutes and counting.”
“Thank you Airborne One. Keep us informed of their progress.” General Sam glanced around at the cowering group of turkeys, each one determined but scared.
“Okay, gang, they are almost here. Mr. C, can you and Marion be sure to bring up the rear of the escape group. We will need your size and experience in case those bastards try something sneaky.”
General Sam flew to the top of the enclosure and spread his wings, garnering silence from the rest of the group.
“May Jupiter go with you all.”

Chaos erupted immediately upon the arrival of the Presidential cavalcade. Several of the president’s Secret Service men were seriously injured by Slithers and the other rattlesnakes, who had hidden in the long grass, awaiting their chance to strike. Added to this, the ravens and the eagles had begun dropping large stones and tree limbs onto the entourage, forcing them back towards their vehicles. The farmer was absolutely livid with proceedings and raced into the shed nearby, bringing out shovels, axes and other items which may be used to fend off this massive assault. Secret Service agents revealed their handguns and fired a few warning shots in the air. This seemed to startle the defenders somewhat, and the humans used this chance to make their way toward the gate of the pen, swinging wildly at anything that appeared to get in their way. Several turkeys were lost in this melee, including some of the younger poult who were eager but desperately outmuscled.
But what the humans had not counted on were the box turtles. They were lined immediately in front of the gates. On the command of General Sam, their heads and necks were replaced with cannons - which had been affixed earlier in the day – and began firing off explosive rounds at the encroaching forces. Although the explosions weren’t large enough to do any major damage, the shock and awe was enough to drive the humans back again.

With the humans receding to a safe distance, one lone turtle made his way to the other side of the enclosure. He had been assigned the job of firing into the fences, to make a hole large enough for the turkeys to make a break for freedom. The eagles and ravens had resumed their aerial attack, keeping the men locked down around their vehicles. The turtle was young and idealistic, his head full of bravery and his heart full of passion. He knew that one or two shots weren’t going to open up the gap enough for the turkeys to make their break for freedom, so he took it upon himself to take one for the team. Closing his eyes, he voluntarily created a backfire, sacrificing himself for the good of the many, blowing a hole so large that even the turkeys were amazed, but saddened, by this sudden turn of events.
“Go, go, go, go,” screamed General Sam, urging the turkeys to flee. “Now is your chance. Viva La Resistance!!”

Monte and Slithers had observed all this from a safe distance. Slithers’ family had done their job, preventing the first wave of invaders from entering the turkey compound. As the lone turtle made his brave sacrifice, Monte and Slithers both hung their heads and gave thanks for his gallantry and courage. It wasn’t long until Monte realised the implications of this and said softly, “Excellent!”

Dracula: The Undead - New Novel

2009-11-06T06:12:00.003+11:00

112 years is a long time between sequels, but direct descendent of Bram Stoker, Dacre Stoker has joined forces with Dracula historian Ian Holt, to create the long-awaited sequel to the original horror story.

Using Bram Stoker's own handwritten notes, these two have cobbled together a story which has been both applauded and criticised all around the globe. For me, I don't know if I will venture down that path. To me, is seems like these authors are trying to ride on the popularity of 'Twilight' and associated stories that are popular at the moment.

However, if you want to know more, here is a link to the book's website, 'Dracula: The Unborn' and also a link to the Amazon listing for it. Make up your own mind.

November Down Under

2009-11-06T05:18:00.001+11:00

November: where have the disheartening drizzle and the blasting Siberian chill gone?

November: the year feels reborn, flowers blossoming, laying the foundations for a glorious summer; the birth of a new generation of kingdom Animalia, eager to frolic in the wilds with abandon.

November: the sun belts down from the heavens, brightening our earth, ridding the land of the bleak and characterless winter, lifting our spirits, gladdening our hearts.

November: the Pacific shimmers gracefully with sunlight, dappling across its majestic waves, stretching from the graceful horizon to the resplendent sand-lined shores, where we now frolic and play.

November: the trees are filled with virginal leaves, fresh and green, obscuring their formerly stark frameworks, adding colour to what was once a dull and lifeless landscape, invigorating our senses.

November: warm country breezes, birdsong and blinding sunshine...Christmas must surely be on its way.

"Why I Write Contest" at Editor Unleashed

2009-11-03T06:19:00.001+11:00

The topic that every writer takes on at some point is: “Why I Write.” In fact, reflecting on what compels a writer could be a genre in itself. You might say it’s the literary equivalent of an artist’s self-portrait.

That’s why I’m so excited to announce that Editor Unleashed is once again teaming up with Smashwords to present a writing contest with a theme:

Why I Write…

More info here.

I Can't Believe It's Not Better!

The March of Freedom - The Glass Coin

Adam Whitlatch's The Weller: Land of Plenty eBook

Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 - Now Available

The Glass Coin - Call For Submissions

Writing Contest - CZP/Rannu Fund for Writers of Speculative Fiction

"The Truth Is An Illusion" up at Postcard Shorts

I Dare You - Celebrate!

Just Discovered - Icy Sedgwick

Hello Ween'er

Call For Submissions - The Glass Coin

Bikes and Pink Dresses - I Dare You

Dog Days Feature At The NOT!

Mr. Cynical Goes To Sea

The Fires of Eden (Amelia & Kelsey)

Erin Cole - Grave Echoes BUY IT NOW!

The Days of His Life - I Dare You Challenge

Welcome To My World - Guest Dare Winner

Guest Challenge - Julia Archer

Dog Days of Summer at the NOT!

Guest Dare at JM Prescott's 'A Reader's World'

Ambush! - Amelia & Kelsey (Thinking Ten Post)

The Treasure Hunter - FFF #39

'The Thief of Shadows' up at Flashes In The Dark

A Solution to National Debt - FFF #38

Book Week at ThinkingTen - 5 Pieces

If You Go Out In The Woods Today... - FFF #37

Not A Good Day, All Things Considered

Acceptance at Pill Hill Press!!

'Good Help Is Hard To Fry' up at The Glass Coin

Her Family, The Nightmare - FFF #36

A Woman Scorned - FFF #35

Coated in History - I Dare You Challenge

'Flagging Popularity' up at JM Prescott's A Reader's World

Justice Is Served, Sir up at 50 To 1

Plane Distracted

Ornamental Warfare

Jo's Challenge - She DARES Us!!

The Glass Coin accepts "Good Help Is Hard To Fry"

Shameless Self-Promotion

All Quiet Down Under

The Life Coach - Thinking Ten Canvas Challenge

For Eve

There's Someone At The Door

The Glass Coin - Call For Submissions

A Secret To Keep

Thinking Ten - So Far...

(Near) Death Of A Salesman

Blog*Trivia*Challenge - At The Bijou

Sunshine Of Your Blog...

Thinking Ten - A Writer's Playground

Community Spirit - FFF#27

What's The Story With Australian Fiction?

"The Celebrity Game" up now at BlinkInk

Spring Has Sprung at The NOT!

Holly - Would Ya? - FFF#26

The Morten Bay Fig - SexyTouch Challenge (6S)

Breakout! - FFF #25

'A Hike in Bad News' up at 50 To 1!

Fit For A King

The Dance We Shared - FFF #24

Do Yourself A Favour - John Wiswell Reading

A Duel To The...

Do Yourself A Favour - Sal Buttaci's "Flashing My Shorts"

Leap Of Faith - FFF #23

Diving Into Trouble - 3WW Post

Jack Was Here - FFF #22

Do Yourself A Favour! Check This Out!

Someone Hand Me The Extractors...

Father Knows Best - FFF #21

Garage Days

The Devil's In The Details - FFF #20

That Sinking Feeling up at MicroHorror

Shock Therapy - 3WW Post

Battle Of Olmen-Ra - 3WW Post

Circle Of Friends Blog Awards

Make a Difference - One Comment At A Time!

Punishment Fit The Crime - 3WW Post

Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal - Lame Goat Press

Dialogue Contest at Fantastic Horror

BlogTriviaChallenge - At The Bijou