Flash Fiction: NINETEEN SECONDS

[My second collection of flash fiction, Thirty More Stories, seems to have been related to time, as there are several stories strongly-related to that dimension. Maybe it was because I was so focused on finishing it, on time, with time running against me and time being of the essence to write each story. Then again, if it was a matter of exposure, several of the stories could have had coffee as a common theme...]

NINETEEN SECONDS

            Nineteen seconds…

            A lifetime… in nineteen seconds…

            Harry London slammed chest-first into the rubble, his helmet flipping up and banging against a chunk of concrete as ragged as a scream. Heavy machine-gun bullets chewed the air and dirt around him as he struggled to merge his flesh with the cover he so desperately had run to.

            Across the charred and mangled street, strewn with several bodies in uniform and gray tweeds, Gunther Meis swung his heavy Vickers machine-gun in a deadly spray, trying to catch up to the British soldier racing desperately across the clearing to leap for cover. The Vickers was unwieldy, the narrow tripod legs slipping on the dusty floor inside the crumbled building that once housed a druggist and his medicines. Gunther cursed as the soldier skidded behind a concrete slab, the bullets spanging to fly off in unknown directions. He stopped firing to scan the street again, and the empty windows of the few remaining houses across the way. He checked the belt and grunted, satisfied he had ammo to fire a full minute’s burst if he cared to. He shifted his weight, peered quickly over the parapet and ducked as a bullet whinged off to his left.

            Harry curled up, holding his helmet steady. The strap was broken. He breathed a sigh of relief as the bullets stopped. Rolling slightly left, he peeked at the machine-gun’s nest and saw the German soldier adjusting the gun’s position. Harry quickly sighted his rifle above the parapet and stopped breathing, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Suddenly, the German raised his head and Harry pulled the trigger. The bullet went high and Harry cursed, rolling fast to his right to avoid the onslaught of bullets he knew was coming. He twitched a grenade from his vest, pulled the pin and held the explosive in his hand, silently counting One… Two…

            Gunther turned his head away to avoid the dust coming off the wall and lunged back to pull the Vickers’ trigger. Bullets tore at the edge of the concrete slab, reducing it by chunks and cracks from vertical ledge to air. Gunther roared as the Vickers fired, slamming the gun to the left to rip at the top of the slab, then down, hoping to bounce the heavy bullets into the enemy. He saw a green-gray object fly up from behind the slab, arcing its way across the dead street towards him, and without thought, yanked the gun up and to the left to intercept the grenade--the grenade!--his roar becoming a mad shriek of rage.

            Three… Four… Bullets shredded concrete to dust behind him, then walked like heavy rain across the slab to tear it above his head. The bullets then dropped to smash brutally into the slab’s lower edge and pieces of cement peppered Harry’s backs and legs. The slab was no cover there! Five… He threw the grenade in a stiff-armed toss, just like he was taught in Bingham, the thick-bodied metal apple curving up and away. Harry imagined it was flying straight and true, aimed with deadly precision at the machine gunner. He heard the bullets rise, then rise again as the hammering they caused became buzzing until suddenly a shriek of rage became--

            An explosion. The grenade blew up as Gunther’s aim crossed its path. The shriek of rage rose to become…

            Harry acted without thought, rolling to his feet as the explosion shredded the air everywhere, tucking his rifle and leaping to his feet, his mouth erupting into a shriek of rage that joined the German’s shriek…

            Gunther saw the British soldier rise like a spectre, like a demon, from the blast’s cloud, rifle at the ready, shrieking just as he was…

            Harry saw the German, heard him shrieking and pulled the trigger…

            The shriek ended as the bullets tore through Gunther’s head and neck.

            Nineteen seconds… A lifetime. In nineteen seconds.

NEW ISSUE: 20 In 5 -- Volume I -- December 2011

I am very pleased to announce a new project, a monthly e-mag/e-book titled 20 In 5, published by Mis Tribus Publishing and with me as Editor-in-Chief.

The concept is simple: 20 stories you can read in about 5 minutes each. Flash fiction ranging from adventure to western themes, passing through fantasy, horror, mystery and science fiction. 20 In 5 is the perfect companion for a coffee break, a waiting room or a nightcap, a little literary rest stop in your day.

Available for $0.99, you can subscribe to 20 In 5 and save a few dollars. If you will, please give it a look-see now by clicking over to the 20 In 5 page and reading the first story FREE.

And please notify your friends, those who love to read good short stories and especially those friends who love to write: 20 in 5 is a paying market! Here are the Submission Guidelines, informative and entertaining:

If you would like to submit your flash fiction story, send all submissions to: 20in5@mistribus.com.

Submissions must adhere to the following guidelines or will be deleted:

1) Send in .doc, .docx, .od or .rtf formats only. NO .zip or .rar files, please; attachments in those formats will be deleted immediately.

2) The story must be between 500 and 750 words in length. No shorter or longer unless you've won a Nobel Prize.

3) No porn, poetry or bloody gore. Adult language is acceptable, if its use is not excessive. We deem what is excessive, damn it.

4) Each story submitted must have your name and phone number listed, either in the document itself or the e-mail message. SexyFairy69 ain't your name.

5) If a story has been published elsewhere, please let us know. We don't mind second helpings, but we mind falsely touting them as our discoveries.

6) If your story(ies) is/are accepted, you will receive a MisTribus 20 In 5 contract. You will be happy. Don't hide it. Don't overdo it, either; we're not a Nobel Prize.

7) You must sign the contract to appear in any volume of 20 In 5. It lets you make money off of our picking your story. So it's a good idea.

8) Please allow 4-6 weeks for a response. We're not slow, it's that we can get swamped by submissions. And we're slow swimmers.


Mis Tribus Publishing and I look forward to reading your comments, your submissions and above all, your fulsome praise for the awesomeness of 20 In 5.

Read a FREE story now! And then subscribe! Thank you!

Flash Fiction: SOULMATES

[There are times when you are aware you are happy and pause to think what unhappy people are missing. Often it is a matter of choice, but more times than not, the choice is really out of your hands.]

SOULMATES

            After three years of virtual monkhood, Thomas felt it was time to “get out there,” to test the dating waters again. His last breakup had been bitter, agonizingly so, as Erleen had gone from loving partner to vicious bitch, to the point where even her closest friends were taking Thomas’ side. Jumping at the chance to leave Erleen’s savagery behind, Thomas took a new position in San Diego, putting two thousand miles between him and his painful past. But the past travels well, so Thomas let time do its thing. Three years led up to a late Friday night, Thomas nursing a beer he didn’t want. With a few clicks, he pointed his browser to one of those “compatibility sites,” rated “the absolute best” and before he thought about it too much, filled out the questionnaire, chuckling at the absurdity of the whole thing.

            The next day, his Inbox had a cheery Subject line: “Your matches have arrived!” Smirking, Thomas opened the message and scanned the text. Hyperlinked numbers introduced four descriptions of women (Thomas hoped they were women) who, the message proclaimed, matched Thomas’ profile to “a 98+% degree!” Thomas had no idea what “98+%” could even mean, but he reread the descriptions and finally clicked on the third one, described as “Adventurous within reason, lover of solitude and embracer of honesty.” What the hell, he thought, It’s only a blind date.

            His overture got a prompt response (Desperate?) and an invitation for lunch on Sunday at Il Pesto, a trendy new bistro that was neither ostentatious nor chintzy. Good choice. She—Lorraine—said she’d be wearing an emerald-green dress and would arrive promptly at 11:45.

            As Sunday rolled towards noon, Thomas felt himself getting nervous. Nervous, hell, he was beginning to get scared. What the hell was I thinking? A website test to meet women? Thomas shook his head and slapped the steering wheel, driving up the quiet boulevard to Il Pesto.

            He was early and let the hostess at the bistro know he was expecting someone. The tiny bar had comfortable stools and when the door opened at 11:45, he knew who it was. Lorraine was wearing the promised emerald-green dress and Thomas let out a sigh he never expected to be so deep. I was afraid it would be Erleen. He rose and introduced himself, enjoying the pleasant handshake and dazzling smile. Even so, he mentally kicked himself for checking out her throat to make sure it didn’t have a visible Adam’s apple. You never know, dammit.

            Lunch went past two and became a short drive to a museum, where Impressionists led to an early supper of Hungarian stew and rye bread in a cubbyhole café by the pier. Over that time they discovered they’d both grown up in the Midwest, been in Scouting, loved math, hated English, enjoyed picnics and family gatherings, swam well, couldn’t get enough of Disney movies, “24”, chocolate and pistachio ice cream. They’d loved Europe, yearned for Japan and would not spend a dime of lottery winnings until they’d let at least five years go by, just to get used to the idea of having all that cash. Over coffee, with topics buzzing and cavorting between them, Thomas sat back and smiled, his heart filled with a joy he thought he’d never feel. Lorraine saw his expression and smiled, her deep blue eyes alive with pleasure. Lifting her purse onto the table, she pulled out a slim cardcase and slid it across the table to Thomas.

“What’s this?” he said, picking it up.

“Your membership to SoulMates,” she said. “You’re in!”

Thomas was stunned. “Membership? What—what do you mean?” He stared at the contents of the cardcase, not seeing any of it.

Lorraine smiled. “We’ve even given you a discount.” She patted his hand. “My treat!”

Thomas noticed the hand patting his: It had a wedding ring. Thomas felt his heart thud in his chest. He felt like kicking himself.

            Lorraine sipped her coffee. “Every prospective member is interviewed by a staff evaluator to ensure we get the finest possible candidates in SoulMates. That’s why we have such a high success rate.” She frowned prettily. “You didn’t think we relied only on a website test, did you?”

            Thomas shook his head and tasted a sad bitterness he’d thought he’d forgotten.

Flash Fiction: INTERESTING TIMES

[Have you ever written anything with a sense of loopy adventure, just going pedal-to-the-metal with the words and seeing where you end up? Well, that could describe most of my writing, but here's a story that seemed to just pour out, as if I were merely transcribing someone else's loopy word adventure.]

INTERESTING TIMES

            When Pritchard was about to turn 17, he figured out the secret to anti-gravity. Over a furious four weeks between his first kiss with Melanie and his mom's loony "Sweet 17" party (that included a clown, to the utter humiliation of everyone at the party, including the clown), Pritchard (he hated his given name, Percy, so he fixed it) drew up the design, polished the theoretical underpinnings in a 34-page article (never published) and built the prototype, that he tested on Muggs, his loopy bulldog. The dog's maiden, er, flight, caused the poor mutt to vomit and run away for almost a week. The anti-gravity prototype was now disguised as an 8-track player in Pritchard's home-built display of passé technology.

            Between Melanie (who went off to college somewhere in Michigan, while Pritchard stayed near home) and Sally, Pritchard figured out faster-than-light travel, pushed to a superhuman effort in consolidating theoretical physics and what he called "hyperquantic thrust dynamos" for lack of a better name. Sally, a smashing little redhead with birthmarks in the darnest places, was Pritchard's first lover, and the extended post-coital daze dampened Pritchard's other thoughts about FTL travel until Sally joined the Navy and was eventually shipped out to some port in East Asia.

            Pritchard tinkered with hyperspace signals based on string theory tunneling until he met Lois, the tall brunette with the perfect dimples on her (most-often) unseen cheeks. Inspired by Lois' fond memories of her childhood in eastern Louisiana, Pritchard made the conceptual leap between his anti-grav concepts (already proven) and FTL travel (which he tested by sending a 54-inch probe to the Moon and back in 6.4 seconds...twice) to discover that time could be unlinked from gravitational space-time and moved anywhere. After a frenetic series of tests, drafts, edits, rebuilds and several cameras destroyed in tests (though one brought back an intriguing half-picture of what could only be a T-Rex in full attack mode), Pritchard finally got his prototype to work after using parts from his last FTL probe (disguised as an over-sized Sith lightsaber) to power his "time capsule." Two trips later (17th century France, smelly, and 15th century Japan, bloody), Pritchard plonked Lois on his lap and took her back 16 years to the tree-lined Alexandria streets of Lois' childhood home.

            Only to lose her there when she absolutely freaked out after seeing her mom sneak out of their house, climb into Russell Graham's house through the den window and rock his world in a way that made Lois sick and made Pritchard want to get to know Mrs. Killian a helluva lot more.

            With much effort, involving a frantic car chase, a brush with fat, chaw-chewing Southern cops, another couple of looks at the Killian Method for World Rocking and getting Lois blitzed on cheap tequila, Pritchard got them both back to their time/home and took an extra two days to convince Lois her pot dealer was dealing from the bottom, not the top.

            Redecorating the time capsule into a home entertainment center with a rad game system and enough speakers to drown out Spinal Tap, Pritchard gathered the fake 8-track player and the über-nerdy fake lightsaber and tucked them into a hidden panel at the base of the new 72-inch plasma screen he bought for himself from the beaucoup royalties he made on his only patented invention: a cell phone accessory that found your wallet, purse, briefcase, keys, car and nearest coffee shop for you.

            But every once in a while, Pritchard would carefully dismantle the home entertainment system, and use the time capsule, anti-grav and the now-real lightsaber he invented for fun to hit the Cretaceous creatures like a meteor strike, or leave the anti-grav and Sith weapon home and just drop in on Mrs. Killian...for old times' sake.

Flash Fiction: ROAMING HOODS

[The thing about flash fiction is that it imposes severe limits on what you can write, in quantity if not in thematic choice. Here's a story that kept trying to grow longer, kept trying to leap beyond my self-shortened leash and howl deep into the forest.]

ROAMING HOODS

            He hated being called “Robin Hood.” Robin Hood was a trifling piker while he was a true plunderer, a real robber-man. But that “stealing from the rich to give to the poor” just put a lot of pressure on Roaming John (as he liked to call himself) and incensed him no end. He was much more comfortable with “stealing from the rich and keeping to himself,” but he needed some goodwill from the gentlefolk and so every once in a while he’d hand out some trinkets and coppers. Every time he did so he felt a part of his gut burn as if with lye.

            Roaming John was a big man, broad of shoulder and with a beard that resisted any effort to trim and tame. He carried a sword meant for a giant, and though he often cursed its ungainly weight, he did enjoy the fear it put into nobleman’s eyes when he unsheathed its gleaming length.

            The early months of banditry yielded great gains and a few scars, but as months became years, Roaming John had to roam farther and farther to find booty and avoid capture, by either the King’s men or Robin Hood’s. As his roaming took on the appearance of fleeing, he was forced to spend even more on the poor, tarnishing his reputation beyond easy repair.

In the winter of his fourth year of outlawry, Roaming John holed up in a former nunnery with his tiny band of henchmen. The snow-covered woods were unmarked well past St. Swithin’s Day when a tiny knock was heard at the oak door. Royce of Bergen, he of the very few teeth, opened the door and gaped in surprise. Standing there was a slip of a girl, holding a naked rapier of impressive Damascene steel. Her words were blunt in the icy air: “I’ve come to kill Roaming John.” No laughter would mar this pronouncement. Stepping aside with an eerie courtly air, Royce bowed the girl in. By fortune, Roaming John was passing the oak door and was quickly faced by a rapier’s tip, rock-steady at eye level.

            Roaming John opened his mouth to speak, but Royce’s toothless grimace made him stop. “What is the meaning of this, girl?” he rumbled.

            “You stole our money. I’ve come to kill you and get it back.” The rapier was still.

            Roaming John shook his head. “Mayhaps I did, mayhaps I didn’t. But I cannot let you kill me on a simple claim. Have ye any proof?” The rapier wavered. Trembled. Then dropped to point at the cobbled floor. A trick of the light made it seem as if the girl’s eyes held tears. “I—I lack such—proof. I was merely told my family’s silver had been taken by Roaming John.”

            In a flash, Roaming John pulled out his sword and swung at the girl. Royce was startled into a warning cry, for even such as he was shocked at his leader’s treachery. With the grace of a cat, the girl ducked and rolled, rising to her feet and thrusting so quickly at Roaming John’s neck that he stumbled back. Pressing her advantage, the girl lunged and thrust, forcing the huge man and his sword to struggle to stay intact. “Royce!” bellowed Roaming John.

            With a fluid motion, the girl flung a small pouch behind her, its contents tinkling mutely on the stone floor. “Keep it and stay away!” she commanded. Roaming John’s backward steps ended against a wall and the hellish fury of the girl’s attack pinned the villain until at last, tiring, his massive muscles failed to sweep away the rapier’s tip in time and it buried itself with a meaty thwip into his throat. Gagging and gouting blood, Roaming John collapsed like a fallen tree and died.

            Turning lightly, the girl saw Royce staring agape. Pulling a larger pouch from her leggings, she said “Round up the men. Tell them there’s money now and treasure aplenty on the morrow.”

            Royce nodded dumbly. “Who are ye?”

            The girl smiled. “Maid Marion.”

Royce gaped again. “And what about Robin Hood? He hates us so.”

Marion raised the rapier’s bloody length at Royce and said “He’s dead. In the same way.” She licked the blade and grinned in carmine glee.

            Royce turned to run, stopping not until his feet touched the quiet roots of the distant Black Forest.

Flash Fiction: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

[I often start stories seeing just a single image or thinking of one sentence. This one on came about after reading the description of a car crash, where thankfully, no one was injured, but the damage to the vehicles and the premises was huge. What connected that to this is a good question.]

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

            The battle had started in hyperspace, with temporal bombs—primarily subquantic cores wrapped in antimatter shells—being fired like ancient grapeshot. As the ships were damaged, they dropped out of warp and fired phasers, photon missiles and even a suicide run by a shuttle tug with its warp core disabled to explode via a timing mechanism.

            The badly-crippled ships hovered at cockeyed angles to each other, drifting closer together to meet some time in the future. But for now, with life support compromised, lifeshuttles skipped through the debris, firing laser cannons and scoring infrequently with totally fatal results.

            Eventually, three lifeshuttles made it down to the near-frozen planet, a Type G with scant atmosphere and no life signs. One of the Debengan shuttles lost control as it approached the landing point, rolling and smashing into an icy outcropping. Within seconds, the shuttle exploded.

The Terran shuttle slid onto the icy planet’s surface with a metallic screech, ripped away by the fierce winds. The remaining Debengan shuttle slammed down, bounced and came to a grinding halt. For almost half an hour, nothing moved except snow flurries. Then a blue laser beam shot out from the Debengan shuttle and sliced a chunk of ice near the Terran shuttle’s landing gear. Once again, silence.

            A figure dropped from the Terran shuttle and quickly rolled for cover behind a nearby outcropping. The figure was wearing a heavy suit, equipped with two airtanks on its back. In the right hand, the Terran held a heavy hand phaser, military issue. In the left were “bola packs”, sonic grenades linked by plasteel bands. The bolas could be adjusted for detonations from loud sound to Mach 4 impact capable of shredding steel. Moving in short dashes, the Terran approached the Debengan shuttle, using every inch of cover.

            With a sharp blast, the Debengan shuttle blew out a panel. From the opening emerged a large, gray-covered being, its suit a doubled set of orbs with four tentacles emerging from each orb. Two of the tentacles held a large cannon-like weapon, its opening glowing a hazy blue. Two other tentacles held smaller weapons, each glowing a different shade of red. The being whirled on its suit’s base, the tentacles snapping to point at different targets. The cannon fired one shot, high up against a nearby crag. The impact slammed an avalanche onto the Terran shuttle, smashing it under a blanket of ice.

            The Debengan stood still, then fired the smaller weapons at the only visible part of the Terran shuttle. The red beams converged and made the metal sizzle, then flare into a blazing explosion. The entire area then convulsed with a massive explosion, forcing the Debengan to retreat to avoid the debris.

            As the flurries covered the black scar where the Terran shuttle once stood, the Debengan retrieved the blown panel and began wedging itself back into its own shuttle. The actinic flare of a Terran phaser sliced through the suit’s midsection and the Debengan dropped and fired in an unbelievably fluid motion. The firing stopped as a bola pack landed next to it and exploded, sending a Mach 2 sonic wave against every solid surface nearby. The Debengan felt its insides hammered by a veritable wall of vibrations. It staggered, dropped its weapons and collapsed, quivering horribly. The Terran leaped down from its vantage point on the crag and fired once, slicing the Debengan nearly in half. The ruptured suit released a gush of fluids that steamed in the frozen air, a gush that quickly froze into a muddy stain on the ice.

            Tapping the suit’s chest pack, the Terran said “Lieutenant Grissom reporting. Debengan dead, shuttle recoverable.” Several seconds went by, then: “Excelsior, here. Well done, Casey. Are you injured?”

            The Terran sat on a frozen rock. “Negative. But I have no shuttle.”

            A chuckle was heard before “We barely have a ship. But we can pick you up in fifteen. Hold tight.”

            “Roger.” The Terran looked up at the heavy gray sky and set the timer on her suit for twelve minutes. After that kind of battle, a nap was really a great idea.

Flash Fiction: SWEET MORNINGS

I spend a lot of time in bakeries and cafés, pretty much anywhere I can get a cup of coffee or--rarely--some chai. (With milk.) The time often passes with me watching the people; this time I chose to create the story I wanted to see unfold.

SWEET MORNINGS

            She came into the bakery as she did every morning…A little flustered, slightly flushed, her hair sporting a stray tendril or two, her hands flitting about her slim figure in a near-frantic search for keys, wallet, sunglasses or change.

            Milton was always there, often kneading dough for one of Eiffel Pierre’s delicate pastries. The quiet dawn hours were his favorites, but they gained a new aura once he knew that she—Jean Marie—would walk in. She was simply beautiful, not in the glamorous, plastic modern way, but in the natural “look twice and you’ll see” way, the kind of beauty that slips across your eyes, brings a small smile to your lips, then gradually absorbs you until you can’t remember ever thinking she wasn’t beautiful.

            Milton’s claim to fame, at first glance, or maybe down to a third or fourth, were his eyes, a deep green that shimmered with gold specks reminiscent of elves in a wondrous fairy tale. Sadly, those beautiful eyes were obscured by the heavy lenses of glasses that kept him barely this side of legally blind. His eyes were the main reason he took up baking, for the work relied very little on seeing and oh-so-much on sensitivity and feeling.

            Jean Marie breezed in and Milton, as was his habit, smiled shyly, wiped his hands of flour and stood in rapt attention as she flittered and flexed in search of…something. Milton waited patiently until Jean Marie smiled up at him and asked his usual opening question: “Will you buy a pastry or three?”

            She laughed, as she usually did. Their morning ritual complete, Jean Marie bit her lower lip and scanned the display, hovering over each item as if absorbing its essence. Milton watched, entranced, taking in her profile, the gleam in her eyes and the very sense that Jean Marie was alive in a magical way no one else was.

            Milton’s heart sped up. It always did when Jean Marie was around.

            “A maple-glazed doughnut, a pair of ladyfingers and a medium coffee, please.” She frowned slightly. “I may be overdoing it.”

            Milton shook his head. “No, ma’am. Seems to me you’re just having a solid Continental breakfast.” He quickly placed her order in a waxed box and served her coffee, to go.

            “That’ll be $5.87,” he said. “Busy day today?”

            Jean Marie stopped suddenly. “Oh, yes. Today’s my last day at work.”

            Milton took her money and sombered a bit. She was leaving town! He was afraid to ask, but simply had to know. “Did you get a new job?”

            Jean Marie shook her head. “No. I did something better.” Her smile was half delight, half roller-coaster rictus. She seemed happy and on the verge of fainting. The she laughed happily and he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Something big!”

            Milton chuckled. “You bought the company?”

            Jean Marie clapped once in surprise. “You almost guessed! I did buy a company, of sorts.”

            Eyebrows rising like semaphores, Milton said “’Of sorts?’ What did you buy?”

            “This!” Jean Marie twirled, a lithe ballerina under golden hair, swirling like a vision of happiness in the morning light. “I bought Eiffel Pierre!”

            Milton’s jaw dropped. His first words got lost somewhere between brain and mouth, but his next group came out audibly, if somewhat strangled. “You’re…my new boss?”

            Jean Marie dimpled, and Milton’s jaw dropped again for he’d never seen that touch of beauty before. “I guess so.” Then, with a blush of shyness that made Milton’s heart break and soar at the same time, she said “That way we can see each other more than just before breakfast.”

            And they did just that, for the next forty-one years.

Flash Fiction: MORNING AT ROSSGEN

This just came out in one long stream, although I detect my interest in stem cell research may have been at the heart of the initial thought.

A MORNING AT ROSSGEN

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... Yes, we have all types of organ tissues, including corneas…No, it doesn’t come in any colors…No, ma’am, it’s not at all like contact lenses…Corneal tissue isn’t something we can color-coordinate…Extension 436, ma’am…You’re welcome.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... You want to know if we have ‘experimental’ bodies here? What do you mean, sir?... Breasts where?... On the back? What for?... No, sir, we don’t experiment with human bodies here. We don’t do that kind of work… No, sir, I certainly don’t know who does…”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... Excuse me. Excuse me, sir! I told you last time we can’t do that without your wife’s permission… I understand you find her less attractive than your neighbor, but it is her body and it is her decision alone whether to get the implants or not…Sir, we don’t do that without the patient’s prior written approval…Have you considered marital counseling or therap--…No! She has to request it and she has to sign for it personally… I’m sure she has other, very positive qualities, sir, which you would do well to focus on instead of her glutes…No I will not send you pictures of me…Good day.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... It takes several weeks to generate compatible tissue, unless you have an account with us… Because all our clients get what we call “starter cell sets” that are basically cell clusters at different stages of development. With them we can generate organs in less than half the time than starting from scratch…No, that wasn’t meant as a pun, ma’am…Any body part or any organ…Yes, any body part or any organ… A what, ma’am?... Uh, no, I don’t think we can do that… I understand, miss, but the hymen isn’t an organ… No, a wedding is not a true medical emergency… May I suggest you talk to your grandmother or an older female relative? I’m sure one of them will have very good advice on how to handle this—uh—problem… I once read that iodine was good for that… No, miss, on the sheets, to give the right, uh, impression, if you know what I mean… Yes, while he’s sleeping is a good time… I’d try the drugstore or a friend who works in a hospital… Oh, he does? Then try some other hospital, miss. You know how people love to talk… Best wishes.” 

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs…Please slow down, sir. I can barely understand what you’re sa--…Sir, please! Start again…When did this happen?... If it’s been less than ten minutes, shouldn’t you be calling 9-1-1? You could bleed to death before the replacement surgery takes place!…I know that, sir, but you need to live to have it reattached…I’m calling 9-1-1 now and patch them in…Direct pressure!...May I suggest you worry about size later, sir? You need to stay alive… If your wife is caught and they get your—uh—original, uh, part, back then we’d use that, sir…You don’t want it? I see…I’m sure you’ll be happy with a RossGen—uh—replacement, eventually. Yes, sir. I’m glad the EMTs are there… No, sir, I don’t date clients… Especially after surgery.”

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... You did what? You cut off your husband’s…No, we don’t accept tissue donations unless they’re from clients who want us to genera—…No, we don’t take ‘second-hand’ organs, even if it were an organ… Pardon me?... All our clients are dealt with in the strictest confidence, ma’am. We neither deny legitimate treatment nor divulge treatments, so if he does call us, we will provide him with the service or services he contracts us for… I can’t tell if that’s a police siren or an ambulance…Hello?...Who’s this?...Officer Brand?... Yes, she called just now and was talking to me when you came in… Did who call?... I’m sorry, I can’t confirm if that person called RossGen this morning or at any time… I can’t confirm that, Officer… No, I’m not being difficult, I’m just doing my job… Yes, I go out for lunch… I don’t think that'd be a good idea, Officer, seeing as how I’m married… I’m not like that. Are we done here, Officer?... You’re welc—“

            “Good morning, RossGen Labs. How may I help you?... “

Flash Fiction: FOOD FOR LOBO

In my hometown, a very elderly lady, bent almost double by osteoporosis, sells small bags of shortbread cookies every day. Watching her make a sale gave me the idea for this story. (Booger I just made up.)

FOOD FOR LOBO

            I didn't catch Booger teasing Lobo, tied across the street, until the night the power went out because of the wind storm and the heat made it difficult for me to sleep, even when I took another two of my red pills. Booger came up to where Lobo, a pit bull/mastiff mutt, was chained. Booger was dangling a long piece of rope in his hand and started whipping the dog with it. Lobo went crazy, snarling and foaming at the mouth, yanking at his chain so hard that he sometimes flipped over backward with a thud. Booger laughed like a maniac, like he did when he was 6 and started becoming the bully he was, a laugh that sounded crazy and silly and at the same time. He beat that dog for a good 15 minutes and when he left, Lobo was left spent, his neck and mouth bleeding. Lobo couldn't bark, but his wounds spoke volumes about what he felt.

            Booger came up almost every night. Lobo would get wild when he sensed Booger was near, pulling hard against the chain. Some nights, Booger would just stand there, a few feet out of Lobo's snarling reach, the long piece of rope dangling, unused. On other nights, Booger would beat the dog horribly, snapping the rope with his lanky arm's strength. A few times he tied a big knot at the end of the rope. On those nights, Lobo bled a lot. His drunken owner never saw anything, just slopping the food and water in the dog's bowls and staggered away to get drunk again or sleep.

            I'm 94. I live alone, have no car, no phone, no kin, no visitors except for the Meals on Wheels woman who acts like delivering food once a week is penance for wearing too much make-up. I couldn't call the police, nor ask anyone to do it for me. The people near me were afraid of Booger, many of them old and frail as me. To rat out Booger was to ask to be hurt. Or killed.

            Once a month, I'd dress up warm and take a very slow walk to Findlay's Groceries, four blocks and two hours away. I did it to buy my own food with a budget that could barely keep a body and soul together, even one as thin as mine. A stock boy once asked me if I had a lot of cats. I lied. That's why I bought my own food: fewer questions that way.

            My long walk was nearing an end, the light bags now heavy in my rolling walker's basket. I could see the door to my house and Lobo, across the street, lying in the shade. Suddenly, water drenched me head to toe. A big black car, music thundering from it fit to wake the dead, drove away, Booger at the wheel, his arm thrust out the window and the middle finger rising above it.

            I took a chill that lasted almost a week. I thought I'd die, what with no one to care and the Meals on Wheels woman knocking once and leaving the food on the doorstep, where I found it four days later. That same day, before the chill could stop me, I walked again to Findlay's. Bless his heart, Greg Findlay actually came out to see if I was okay, senile maybe, for making a trip back so soon. No, I said, I want ground beef. Two pounds.

            He actually looked very sad. Rather than waste a word, I opened my purse and showed him the crisp tenner I had saved for a rainy day long ago. He pursed his lips, got the ground beef himself and even got his manager to give me a ride back. I didn't say no, because my legs were aching something fierce and my head was fit to burst.

            It took me an hour to thaw the beef well and roll chunks of it into meatballs. My hands weren't as good as they used to be, but a ball is a ball. With the sun going down and my heart hammering to break a rib, I walked across the street. Towards Lobo.

            I tossed him a couple of meatballs and went away. I did that every day, getting closer to Lobo until I gave him the last two standing right next to him. Then he waited patiently as my feeble hands sawed at the thick leather collar he wore, tears of rage at my weakness splashing his matted fur and the fear that I'd faint and be found out. I lost what little strength I had left and had to leave. I had to take four of my red pills because the pain was awful. I was sobbing from the effort. But I was awake and smiling when Booger got the smile ripped off his face by Lobo. I swear I heard that mutt howl with glee.

Flash Fiction: GIRL IN SEARCH OF A TREE

At the beginning of this story, I had a fuzzy sense of the plot, but a near-perfect image of the girl in mind (rare for me as I'm not really a "visual" thinker.) By the end, I had the story and the girl's image in my mind was fuzzy. I don't know what that means.

GIRL IN SEARCH OF A TREE

            “Hello. Is this the path that leads to the lookout?”

            Benson whirled around, his heart thudding quickly. The voice here in the middle of nowhere belonged to… a child. About 8 years old. A girl.

            She smiled shyly. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

            Benson decided honesty was the best policy. “You did, but that’s okay. Don’t get many people this deep in the woods.” He looked around. “Where are your folks?”

            The girl seemed to be trying not to laugh. “I don’t have ‘folks.’” Her emphasis on the word was odd. Benson stared. With a toss of her head, straight dark blonde hair rippling silently, the girl said “I belong to The People.”

            Uh-huh, thought Benson, those words are capitalized. “Uh, The People?”

            A series of nods that ended abruptly. “They won’t miss me for I’ll be back before they do.” She bit her lip, the first gesture she made like a child. “But I need to find the lookout.”

            Benson removed his ranger hat, sweat-stained and stiff, and rubbed his head. No hair got in the way. “Well, I don’t rightly know what you mean by ‘the lookout’… Are you sure your parents or kinfolk aren’t here with you?”

            A frown was chased away by a determined look. The girl said “You have to know where the lookout is. It’s still here, on this side, only I can’t see it because now I’m too small to climb the bigger trees to search for it.”

            Benson wanted to sit down, maybe with a frosted beer in one hand. He rolled the hat in his hands, rough hands that had led a serious life. “You came alone? Several miles into this mess of woods? By yourself?” His hands were showing a tiny tremor.

            The girl humphed. “I got here. Now I need to leave. But I need to find the lookout.” She put her hands on her hips and suddenly looked much older than eight. Much, much older.

            Benson swallowed, then cleared his throat. An idea popped into his mind. ‘What does this, um, lookout, look like?”

            The girl nodded, her child-like smile returning. Benson released a breath unknowingly held. “It’s a big oak, split near the top, with a huge set of branches spreading out wide.”

            Benson sighed. The tree was famous for its strange shape and size, product of deep loam in bottom land and a lightning strike before white men trod these woods. “That’s Ole Two Arms,” he said. “About two miles from here, that way.” He pointed. After a grunt, he said “You can get there in about an hour.”

            Her face fell into panic. “Oh no! I don’t have time for that! They’ll find out for sure!”

            Something in Benson made him forgo the obvious “They?” He noticed the girl now looked smaller, younger, 6 now instead of 8. Maybe even 5...Then she looked up at Benson and a slow…wicked…smile came over her face and leaped into her eyes. “Maybe you can help me…” she said, her voice a deep trill along Benson’s spine.

            He stood transfixed as the girl walked to him, seeming to grow with every step, her body taller, fuller, but misty, as if she were becoming transparent. With gentle stealth, she placed her hands on Benson’s face and as time stretched to eternity, she kissed him. His eyes closed of their own volition and the kiss, immeasurably sweet, infinitely warm, washed through him.

            The kiss ended and Benson opened his eyes. The girl was no longer a child. Benson’s mind said Eight going on eight hundred, while his eyes told him 18...and beautiful.

            With a giggle and a wink, the girl turned and ran away, impossibly fast, her giggle a musical trill amongst the whispering trees.

            Benson forever after hoped that The People didn’t find out that one of theirs had been lost.

Flash Fiction: THE BOX

I was going for that quiet moment when Life finally makes sense.

THE BOX

            The road had pretty much washed away, a pair of shallow ruts marking the last times a vehicle drove over it. The grass was high, on both sides of the ruts and between them, weedy grass that would never be a lawn. The car bounced and heaved over and into the ruts, the grass whisking loud enough to be heard over the neutral hum of the air conditioner. Stan drove slowly, not risking a flat tire or broken axle, his eyes fixed on the road just ahead. After a minute, the road curved right, just as he remembered. Rain had gullied the road and Stan had to drive off the ruts, the wheels spinning of the gravel. He drove on and then stopped next to the oak tree, the tower of his childhood, now a stunted, hollowed stab into the sky, leafless, without magic.

            Ignition off, Stan stepped out of the car into the cool dry air. The house that used to be there, where Mom smiled when the bus pulled up and where Dad mowed the lawn every other Saturday when it was warm, had collapsed. The upper bedrooms, where Kitty and Jeff and Stan dreamt their coming days, were gone, part of the debris where the kitchen and living room used to be. Only one wall remained, part of the laundry room, the wall where Mom kept a sewing table and Dad stored his Popular Mechanics. Just past that was the old tile floor of what was once Granna’s room, the room Dad built so that Mom could nurse Granna as only a daughter could. Stan squinted in the fading light as he remembered how Granna, then Dad and finally Mom had gone from cheerful to resigned to belligerent as the cancer took its sweet time to take one life and thus ruined five others.

            For as soon as Granna died, just after Stan’s 11^th birthday, Dad and Mom sat the three kids down and told them their life was changing. Dad had taken a job in Texas and was leaving in a couple of days… alone. The world stood still and rushed by, glared and became dark, and Stan could vividly remember Mom’s lone tear, the mirror image of Dad’s.

            The next few days were a blur. Even after hours of conversations with Kitty, over cups of increasingly-exotic teas in decreasingly-adequate apartments and days of watching wrestling antics with a listless and aimless Jeff, none of them could recall very much except The Box.

            It had been Granna’s, a teak-and-walnut chest made by an old boyfriend of hers who sailed the world between wars. She had given it to Kitty for “her girlie things,” but she had given it to Jeff to store baseball cards and Stan had won it in a game of marbles. On the last day at the house, before the move to the sterile subdivision, the frenzied new school, Mom’s first job and Dad’s guilt-ridden visits every two weeks, Stan suggested they each put something important in the box and they could bury it in the back yard. Kitty said it would be like an anchor to their home, like the anchor on the chest’s lid. So they searched quickly, opening boxes as Mom and the movers carted things out, the minutes draining with painful speed. Once The Box had the items, they rushed out and desperately picked a spot. They had no shovel, so they dug with their hands, shredding nails in the packed dirt. All three were crying, their sobs and tears an added rhythm to the effort. Mom called once, then again and when she called a third time, they patted the dirt down, wiped their faces as best they could and, surprisingly, hugged each other.

            Sixteen years later, Stan looked over the once-pristine back yard. Dad had passed away first when a stroke claimed him. Mom followed just last month. The doctor called it a heart attack; Kitty said it was from a broken heart.

            Just past the rise, Stan dug. The ground was softer now. He quickly found The Box and with a tear rising softly, he opened it. The ballerina slipper had faded, just as Kitty’s dream had. The tape recorder with Jeff narrating the World Series had corroded batteries, but the tape looked intact. And Stan’s woodcarving kit, his first art tools, were blobs of rust, but of the three items in The Box, his life was the only one that reflected that day long ago..

            Stan smiled and wiped away the tear. The Box with the anchor—the anchor to home—was going to make a difference. He knew it.

            And soon, so would Kitty and Jeff, who simply needed to remember.

Flash Fiction: MRS. LANSING

Of the 60 flash fiction pieces written for my two anthologies, this was the only story anyone read just after it was written. Coincidentally, it was read by a teacher who thought a story couldn't be handled well in just one page. I believe I changed his mind. From my collection titled "Thirty Stories," here's a story of a teacher I wished I had.

MRS. LANSING

            She wasn’t “just” a teacher. Not Mrs. Lansing. Not to Jeremy.

            Jeremy had started the fifth grade with a bad mood. His parents had split and because of their having moved around as the marriage crumbled, he’d lost a year of schooling. So here he was, thirteen in a world of twelve. Not a problem, really, except that old Mr. Hatcher, the stupid school’s stupid principal, had told everybody Jeremy’s age the first day.

            The first week went by in an angry blur, with Jeremy lashing out at any student who tried to talk to him. They gave up quickly and their ignoring him made him lash out against the only other target in the classroom: Mrs. Lansing. The first outburst made her blink, then say in a soft voice “I expect better from you.” Jeremy crossed his arms and snorted, slumping into his desk.

            The next day, Mrs. Lansing asked Jeremy to read aloud and he refused. When Mrs. Lansing insisted, Jeremy erupted. “I don’t wanna read a stupid book to anyone!” he shouted. Mrs. Lansing carefully placed her book on her desk and told Jeremy to meet her after school let out.

            As the kids rushed out, free at last, Jeremy sat at Mrs. Lansing’s desk, his body a tight fist. She began to speak, quietly, clearly and though later Jeremy couldn’t remember the words, he could never forget their impact. Mrs. Lansing believed in him, expected great things from him and wanted Jeremy to achieve them all. Yes, life could be a mess of problems, but facing up to them with a proper attitude would always make a positive difference. She made Jeremy a believer and from that day forward, Jeremy devoted every minute to living up to Mrs. Lansing’s expectations.

            Jeremy couldn’t wait to get to school and sit off to the side, his eyes riveted on Mrs. Lansing as she discussed the Greeks, fractions, subordinate clauses or entropy. As the weeks went by, his dedication to being the Jeremy he believed he could be started paying off. He would raise his hand more and more often until there came a time when he was raising his hand at every one of Mrs. Lansing’s questions. She would smile to see his eagerness and the day she said “I know you know the answer, Jeremy, but let’s let someone else have a chance,” was the day Jeremy walked home on air.

            The year went by so fast—Halloween, Christmas, Spring Break—and Jeremy couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want school to end. A surge of fear spiked through him. But in that fear, he forged an idea: He’d give Mrs. Lansing a gift. The following days were filled with work and searches, work to add money to his savings and searches for the perfect gift. Jeremy spent hours looking at everything, then narrowed his choice to the perfect one: A pearl pendant necklace. It was expensive, but Jeremy was thrilled to afford it.

            A few days before the best school year ever ended, Jeremy waited until the class had rushed out at day’s end. Shyly, nervous beyond belief, he approached Mrs. Lansing. Her clear green eyes smiled at him, then sombered as he struggled to speak. Flustered, he barely croaked out “I…bought something…for you. To, uh, thank you. Ma’am.” Stiffly, he held out the gift..

            With the brilliant smile he loved, she took the brightly-wrapped box and exclaimed “Thank you, Jeremy! And today’s my anniversary, even!” As she bent over to open the gift, Jeremy suddenly saw something that made his blood run cold: Mrs. Lansing was wearing the same pearl pendant he’d bought!

            Mrs. Lansing opened the box and looked at the gift. Jeremy’s face was red and his back slick with sweat. He felt nauseous and wanted to crawl away and hide. Mrs. Lansing set the box down, took off the pendant she was wearing and put on Jeremy’s, placing the one she took off in the box. She smiled at Jeremy and held out her arms. He stepped into them for her hug. Holding him by the shoulders, she smiled again and said “I’ll always wear this one and it will be our secret.” Jeremy’s heart soared. “Now please, return this and use the money to buy yourself as wonderful a gift as you’ve given me. And thank you for being so nice to me.”

            On his way home, gift tucked carefully in a pocket, Jeremy couldn’t figure out why he was smiling so hard with tears in his eyes.