tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77450353748036309992024-03-05T17:33:53.492-08:00Corsair HarbourPiracy, idiocy, lunacy...and maybe some falconry thrown in for good measure.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-73992202570835124042013-08-13T00:40:00.000-07:002013-08-13T15:17:00.227-07:00“Prey in the Cemetery”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Holy moley, has it been a long time! Somebody really should do some dusting in here. I can’t even say I have a good excuse for not keeping up with the blog, except...I’m no good at remembering to keep up the blog. I live on Facebook and talk everyone’s ears off there, so.... *shrug*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Anyhoo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’ve been stupid busy in the last year, both with fiddling about with Isle of Dogs and cranking through the first draft of the new project, which has needed so much research that I haven’t really given much thought to writing any flash, more’s the pity. And there was OryCon</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">s writers workshop, some Indigo seminars, and two Willamette Writers Conferences, each more mind-blowingly awesome than the last. The short of it is that many people I’m neither related to nor friends with now seem to think that this pirate saga has real marketable potential, and <i>that </i>just makes me all kinds of happy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But we’re here for some flash, damnit. Chuck Wendig’s latest flash challenge is to collect a randomly-generated title and spit out a story in 1000 words or less. Well, after sifting through a couple of rounds of nonsensical chaff on the generator page, I was given “Prey in the Cemetery”, so here we go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMkLJD43u855lBcdFzr2sRv8Wsl5JLQ2aGi67rDsOoybjCF8XGlOIsw1tfAFwgNoH_5CPc-QHd8zENiPXVEDLyWibNB0GR2s5rc2gbyD1NhlYnTVflAZShbIhRt4WIupB3Zy95z2LbobF/s1600/Northern+Goshawk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMkLJD43u855lBcdFzr2sRv8Wsl5JLQ2aGi67rDsOoybjCF8XGlOIsw1tfAFwgNoH_5CPc-QHd8zENiPXVEDLyWibNB0GR2s5rc2gbyD1NhlYnTVflAZShbIhRt4WIupB3Zy95z2LbobF/s1600/Northern+Goshawk.jpg" width="224" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> We were a quarter-mile from the truck when from behind me Dani said, “Oh, hell.”</span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> “What?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I forgot the quail.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /> Cleaver bated hard off the glove and the goshawk’s bells rang discordantly in the cold autumn air. She wanted to fly, to hunt. To kill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “You won’t need it. I never bring one.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Is this really kosher, hawking in a cemetery?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “It’s legal. There are so many rabbits here I’ve never even been all the way to the back. I’m guaranteed a double before I get halfway in. Been keeping this little honey-hole a secret, so don’t tell anybody.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /> We reached the cemetery gate, half-shrouded by the ancient gnarly apple trees crowding us. Even in spring the place seemed gloomy, but on a cool fall afternoon like this it was downright eerie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Dani stopped, eyeing the crooked old gate. “Creepy.” Cleaver squealed her impatience. “What if someone’s visiting in there?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I hunt here all the time and I’ve never seen anyone. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She was one of a few thousand others here for the big national falconry meet. The whole place was full of out-of-state license plates; people lugging dogs, birds, and field gear into hotel rooms and filling every all-night diner for quick pre-dawn breakfast before the morning’s hunt. Most brought falcons to hunt upland game-birds in the wheat fields. Prairie chickens are the holy grail of falconry, they say. But here I see this kid, all young and sweet, with a maniacal red-eyed gos the size of a dinosaur on her fist. She’d never been here and needed someplace with trees for Cleaver to catch some fur. I was only too happy to oblige.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The old cemetery was mostly forgotten, even by the locals. Headstones poked up through its rangy yellow grass. The broken markers hidden underneath were dangerous when you were chasing after a rabbit; I’d caught my ankle on a couple of them, nearly broke my foot once.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Two cottontails busted in front of us almost instantly. We both yelled ‘Ho!’ as Cleaver took off. The rabbits zigged and zagged and even more busted during the chase, but the hawk was savvy: she cut left and lit up the afterburners as one jinked the wrong way. Bells jangling, she piled in on top with her barred grey wings thrown wide. It was all over before we got there. Cleaver was already breaking in as she mantled over the kill, her hackles raised in excitement.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Dani, all smiles, traded her off with a choice tidbit so she could gut the bunny and hide it in her hawking vest. “Wow, you were right! That <i>was</i> quick. Can we try for a double?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Sure. But this girl of yours put the fear of God in them more than my redtail ever does. Did you see them all bolt?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Yeah, that was crazy! Is there maybe another good place here to roust one? We’re kind of losing daylight.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Well….” I looked toward the back of the property, even more grown over than the front where I’d kept the jungle knocked down. “She <i>is</i> a gos. She could handle that stuff. Let’s head back there and see what she’s made of.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /> Dani got in front, holding Cleaver to the glove as we slogged through. Pretty soon she was breaking trail and I was following. She had briar-jeans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Hey, you dropped this,” I said, picking up a freshly-severed rabbit leg.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I did? But I.…” Frowning, she hooded the hawk then pulled the rabbit out. “No, I didn’t. See?” Clearly it wasn’t missing any feet. “I just gave her the heart,” she said, and stuffed the carcass back.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> We stared at this mangled leg, both wondering the same thing. “What’s wrong with this? Look at it.” It was in bad shape—not like it had been chewed, more like it was rotting from the foot up. But at the hip ball, the meat was fresh.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She tossed it aside and unhooded Cleaver, who shot off in pursuit of something before we even saw what it was. Murphy’s Law states that any chase will lead into the most impenetrable stuff in the field, and that’s exactly where she went. I saw a white cottony flash just as she crashed after it into the briars. While trying to figure out how to get in to help, we heard the rabbit scream. Except it didn’t sound like any rabbit I’d ever heard.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> It sounded…angry.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Did you see what she was chasing before it went in there?” she asked, looking a little freaked out. “There was something really wrong with that bunny.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Like what?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Like, are you sure these critters are healthy?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The bells rang from somewhere in there, so Dani wormed her way into brambles so thick that she disappeared. Then she started to curse. “She’s in too deep; I can’t get to her. Damn berries.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Need any help?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “No, I’ll just take this off—holy <i>fuck!”</i></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She plowed out of the thorns like they weren’t even there, ignoring their scratches. She was ghostly pale and staring at the vest where it fell. It was moving. The hawk’s bells had gone silent.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “What the hell?! Are you okay?”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “M-my vest—”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “What? You said you left the quail in the truck.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “That dead rabbit I put in there…it wiggled.”</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I’d watched her clean the thing. I saw her feed its heart to Cleaver. But the ripstop vest writhed and then <i>tore open.</i> A gutted rabbit carcass crawled out and tottered drunkenly into the brush, making ugly sounds that a dead rabbit shouldn’t make.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Before we could make sense of that, we heard the bells. Cleaver laddered up out of the brambles, her beak as wet and red and evil as her eyes. She launched straight for Dani’s face with a scream that didn’t sound like any goshawk I’d ever heard.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Then Dani’s scream didn’t sound right, either.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> God help me, I ran for the truck, hearing hawk bells gaining on me.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-34581399817498173622012-07-07T14:31:00.000-07:002012-07-08T23:59:04.127-07:00“The Fisherman & His Wife”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This week’s flash fiction challenge at terribleminds is to modernize a
fairy tale or fable in 1000 words or less. Weighing in
at just under 1000 words, please to enjoy “The Fisherman & His Wife”….</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I always knew you were full of shit,” Mike teased, taking a swig
of rotgut as we gazed at the ocean. The campfire sizzled with drippings; dinner
was awesome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hadn’t seen him in a long time. “It’s true. We had it all, more
than we ever shoulda. Damn woman, anyway. Never satisfied.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">*****<br />
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<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Wife and I lived in a rusted-out trailer in a rusted-out
trailer-park between the rail crossing and the jetty. Wife called it a hovel,
but I could pack up the tackle and walk to a couple sweet fishing spots from
there. I tried to get out every day for a little peace and quiet; <i>catching</i> something was a bonus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So this one morning I hooked a big one in the surf, but I reeled
in a fish like none I’d ever seen. Good fifteen pounder, whiskers like a catfish…but
it was bright gold. And as I pulled the hook from its bleeding lip, the bastard
looked me right in the eyes and <i>spoke.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Hey, if you let me go, friend, I’ll grant you a wish. Whatever
you want.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yeah, right. My trailer’s a dump. Gimme a house, maybe the wife
will stop bitching about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Set me free and go home. Your house awaits.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I felt stupid walking home empty-handed but sure enough, where the
trailer had been before, now there was a house. It was clean, not too big, had
a nice garden. The wife was thrilled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Too bad the thrill didn’t last. Pretty soon she was bitching
again: the house wasn’t big enough, not fancy enough. She insisted I go back
and find that fish again and demand a <i>nice</i> house, a big one
like the rentals up the mountain. If the fish was really magic, he could give
us one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Hey, fish!” I yelled at the water, and damned if that big gold
head didn’t pop up. “Wife says you need to give us a better house, like the
townies have up there,” I jerked a thumb behind me at the headland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Go home, fisherman, and see your mansion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I went…and I got lost, not realizing that the McMansion on the corner
was ours. It had decks, a three-car garage and a ten-foot-tall stone entry
with spiral-trimmed trees on each side. Wife met me in the foyer with a
bottle of good scotch and a huge grin. Took an hour to see the whole place, it
was so big.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh honey,” she cooed, “it’s perfect!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, maybe it was, but apparently not perfect enough. After awhile she
was back to her old self, but now she’d found ambition. I had to go back to the
fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What does she want now?” the fish asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“She wants to be president. She’s lost her mind, but—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Wow. Have fun being the First Man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I got home the place was swarming with Secret Service. Marine
One was now parked behind my Chevy. I got frisked walking up to my own damn
house! And it wasn’t even an election year….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’d figured as Prez she’d be too busy to bitch at me now. I was
wrong. Now she had <i>staff</i> to bitch at me <i>for</i> her.
And right on schedule, a few weeks later, her personal secretary informed me
that I needed to go see the fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What now, O Beleaguered One?” asked the fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“President isn’t good enough. She wants to be Empress.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The fish sighed. “Very well, Empress she is. I hope there’s room
in that house for you and her ego.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You ain’t kiddin’, buddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so it was…and there was much rejoicing, and kowtowing, and blowing
of trumpets. At least the trickle-down benefits of being King Consort included me
getting my own residence so I didn’t have to see her as much. But, well, too
much is never enough. Sooner than later, I found myself out on the beach again,
yelling like a lunatic at a fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yes, <i>Dolentem Imperator?”</i> The fish actually looked
put-upon, which I could totally understand, even if I didn’t know what it said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It means ‘The Emperor Who Suffers’,” it explained, with some
boredom. “I was being a little facetious but I probably shouldn’t be, given
your station these days. My apologies, O Great One. What does she want to be
this time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Pope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yes, the fish gave me the fish-eye. “Pope.<i> Pope?!</i> Are you shitting me? She</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">s aware that she’s
not a man, right? Hell, is she even Catholic?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“She wants to be the Pope and as Empress she demands that you make
her wish come true. Hey, I’m just the messenger, here. This isn’t my idea.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Fry me up and swaddle me in newsprint if that woman isn’t the
biggest megalo-maniac on the planet,” the fish said, somehow managing to shake his
head in wonder. “All right, all right. She’s the Pope. Good luck with that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The opulence of St. Peter’s Basilica looked ridiculous, planted in
this godforsaken beach town. Pikemen in garish purple-striped shorts and feathered
hats guarded the gates. Red-robed cardinals flocked around her, catering to her
every whim. She wasn’t sure whether she liked the hat or the red-heeled designer
shoes better, but she was over the moon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Was it enough? Nope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The next time I stood there on the sand, yelling at the fish, the
winds nearly knocked me over. I have no idea how the fish even heard me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“But there’s nothing else she could be!” it complained. “Great
Peter’s Net, man...<i>she’s the Pope!”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Yeah, that’s what I told her. But she wants to be God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The fish laughed a maniacal sort of laugh that a fish shouldn’t be
able to make and darted toward me, almost beaching itself in rage. “Yeah? Well,
fuck you! Go home to your harpy. I gave you back your hovel!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
*****<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I still think you’re full of shit,” Mike said, picking a long golden fishbone out of his teeth and reaching for the whisky. “Good fish,
though. Got any tartar sauce?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-81748667823886261592012-06-30T09:22:00.000-07:002012-06-30T09:22:53.749-07:00“Last Call": a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">The flash
fiction challenge this week at terribleminds is *really* flash…the whole story
in three sentences and less than 100 words. For your amusement, “Last Call”:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">“Jesus, how many
obnoxious, drunken, out-of-control parties can those asshole neighbors throw in
a month, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">“I dunno, but,
goddamnit, this is gonna be the last time they keep <i>me</i> up until dawn. Hand me my sword.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-15435941618408889702012-06-19T20:52:00.000-07:002012-06-20T01:01:43.355-07:00Adventures in Penmonkeying<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> In a process that took far less time than I envisioned, the revision is virtually com-plete. Hopefully this will free me up a little so I can get back into some flash fiction, which I miss. I've felt guilty wandering past TerribleMinds, knowing I had the revision project looming, and I pointedly avoided the temptation of checking in over there on Fridays, when the flash fiction prompts come out.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> There's still a bit of minor tweaking left to do but the heavy lifting is done (for now), in only a month and a day. And then, the very next morning after I finished the first full edit, I had just stumbled into the shower when the elusive <i>pitch</i> I need for this summer's conference smacked me right between the eyes (yes, it hurt). I'm never prepared for such epiphanies that early in the morning, and certainly not when I'm entirely un-caffeinated. The bruises are mostly gone now, though, so there's that.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I'm a little freaked out about pitching to big-shot editors for the first time. Okay, I'm a lot freaked out. <i>Go big or go home,</i> I'd figured when I registered...so I lined up two of the biggest fantasy-seeking publishing reps I could find. I'm telling myself that a ten-minute fiction pitch is like a super-short job interview. Maybe that will help. I've still got another month to fidget, so we'll see how relaxed and self-assured I can make them think I am. Internally I'm sure I'll be as calm as a bumblebee on meth, but maybe I can pull this off. We'll give it a go. Worst they can do is say it's not good enough, and that doesn't really faze me. They can't reject me any worse than I can reject myself. I've had more practice.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I don't intend to self-publish, but I discovered recently that Powell's Books (local repository of indie awesomeness) has an Espresso Book Machine now. I thought it might be nice to get a couple of copies of the story printed, just for fun. In case you haven't seen an EBM, they're pretty cool: picture, if you will, a huge industrial-looking copier. You give it PDFs of your story and the full-color cover file on one end, then it chugs<i>whirrs</i><b>beeps</b> and <i>*ding!*</i> spits out a perfect-bound book--<i>your book</i>--on the other. In an age of technology, when you can make up entire worlds that live solely within the depths of cyberspace (or at least appear within the pixels of your monitor), seeing your project in print drives home that it really is a <i>thing.</i> (Incidentally, that perceived un-<i>real</i>-ness of e-books is why I'll probably never own an e-reader, but I digress.) I had been getting this feel of the early version of the story by occasionally sending the working draft out to be printed and coil-bound, but it always ended up looking more like a cookbook or some cheesy community-school textbook. But <i>perfect</i>-bound...damn, it'll be like a real, live, honest-to-God 500-some-page BOOK that could sit on a bookstore shelf anywhere.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> If I'm really lucky this summer, maybe it will, anyway. Wish me luck.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-69491150226304732012012-04-28T00:05:00.000-07:002012-04-28T00:57:39.587-07:00“You May Want to Stand Back From Our Mongoose”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This week’s challenge is to create a
short using a random-generated military operation title. I thought ops were always two words (Operation Desert Storm) but of
the five the generator spat out, three were whole sentences: </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Don’t Piss
Off the God”, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Prepare to Be Destroyed By Our Centaur”, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You May Want to Stand
Back From Our Mongoose”, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Flaming Preacher”, and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Civilian-Devouring
Kitten”. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was in a weird mood today already but a person with an overactive imagination really should NOT be
given prompts like this, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">cause, holy feck…where do you even start?? </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I may just have to do all of them just because they</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">re so damn strange...not to mention loaded with potential.</span></blockquote>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">RURAL MONGOOSE CULTISTS ARRESTED FOR FRAUD, WILDLIFE OFFENSES</span></div>
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<br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/89/Indischer_mungo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/89/Indischer_mungo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Deep Creek, OR – In a bizarre scene Monday afternoon, officials
from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s office, US Department of Agriculture, and US
Fish and Wildlife Service took seventy-seven green-robed followers of the Herpestida Movement into
custody at the cult’s secretive headquarters in rural Clackamas County. The group’s
leaders, Archus Parvu, 57, aka Herman Swift, and his daughter, Kuhni Naso, 38, aka
Alice Burkelt-Swift, passively
resisted with their fellows as they were read their rights and
escorted to inmate transfer buses. An explosives unit was quickly dispatched when
Parvu, being led away, gazed up at the compound’s giant monument and commented
cryptically to sheriff’s deputies, “You may want to stand back from our mongoose.”
No improvised explosive devices were found.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The arrests follow an intensive multi-agency investigation
spanning several years and reaching as far afield as India and Somalia. Among
the allegations are fraud and other charges under the RICO Act and dozens of
counts of wildlife trafficking under CITES, the Convention on International
Trade in Endangered Species. The wildlife allegations involve the group’s
illegal importation of several endangered and threatened species of mongoose, which Herpestida
devotees view as divine entities. USFWS and USDA authorities were unwilling to comment on how cult members managed to successfully smuggle at least thirty-seven dusky-tailed
mongooses from Sri Lanka, fourteen yellow-footed kusimanses (a related species)
from Somalia and eight lesser banded kusimanses from Ethiopia into the US undetected.
The cat-like mammals were found to be in good health when seized and were being housed in quarantine at an undisclosed
location while their fate was determined.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Herpestida Movement is no stranger to controversy
since it arrived in Oregon in 1997. It presents itself as an environmental
freedom group seeking enlightenment but residents in the secluded nearby town
of Deep Creek tell of strange torchlight rituals held inside the compound under
the full moon and cultists, apparently under the influence of hallucinogens, parading
through town brandishing semi-automatic weapons. Parvu and his inner circle have
also come under scrutiny for living a conspicuously lavish lifestyle while
preaching the blessings of a life of austerity to his followers, who must agree to surrender their worldly belongings to the cult upon moving to the compound. Animal rights
groups assert that the group engages in lewd conduct with the animals it worships
but Naso, the cult’s spokesperson, has emphatically denied all such claims. As she was quoted in
a 2006 interview, “Herpestida is the Great Mother, the All-Seer, who
challenges the Dark Serpent on our behalf. All Herpestida’s followers pay
homage to her wisdom and benevolent protection by caring for her children like
the furry little demigods they are. We could never conceive of such awful and
sacrilegious acts as we are accused of by those poor, sad, confused people.”
The group’s monument to the quasi-goddess Herpestida, partially visible from
the compound’s front gate, is a fifty-foot tall stone mongoose standing up
on its hind legs and facing south, the direction in which the group believes
the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">truly worthy</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">”</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">can find the gates of heaven.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Deep Creek residents seemed overjoyed that the group was
being taken into custody. “They’re all loons,” one man said under condition of
anonymity. “They’re nothing but bat-[expletive deleted] crazy and I hope the
state straps them into backwards jackets and throws away the key.” A local
business owner said she was “glad somebody finally got them out of here. They were
scaring off the tourists. They’d all wear those green robes and stand along the
highway into town and wave signs like they were picketing, but the signs didn’t
have any slogans...only these weird-looking pictures of squirrels. I’ve had
visitors come into the shop here and ask me if the whole town is all anti-fur hippies or
some silly thing. Since the mill shut down the river tourism’s all we’ve got
left anymore, and those whackadoos being here were just bad for business, let
me tell you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The
Clackamas County District Attorney declined to comment, citing the ongoing investigation.</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-81352956810618280692012-04-14T19:05:00.000-07:002012-04-15T04:15:48.101-07:00“Bloody Pirates”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">The flash fiction challenge at
terribleminds this week is to feature DEATH in 1000 words. Incredibly
appropriate, I thought, because after the break-in at our house this week, I
felt like ki—ahem. Well. Let’s just say that if I was a different person than I
am, this might have been a flash </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">NONfiction</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"> challenge….</span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Four-fifteen,
right on time,” Dave teased as we pulled into my driveway. A double-decker
train was nearing the house as I parked the truck; we could already feel it coming.
Two-plus miles of cargo at less than forty miles an hour equaled almost seven
minutes of rumble. Right on time.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">We were
sore and tired after another long festival weekend, too old to keep getting
smacked around with cutlasses anymore…but it was always fun. We were <i>Captain
John Weston and the Crew of the Red Herring</i>, with my neighbor Dave as my
trusty Quarter-master and a handful of other ne’er-do-wells for comic relief. <i>Scallywag
fun for the whole family: three shows daily.</i> I buckled my sword-belt, then
pulled on the leather great-coat and hat—easier to wear than carry them. The
jolly roger yard flag rippled in the passing train’s breeze and beyond it I
noticed a moving van next door at the empty house. Had there been a for-sale
sign? Maybe they were renting.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Dave
was fidgety. “Gimme the keys, man, my teeth are floatin’.” I tossed them over
while collecting gear to unload. He must have taken the porch stairs two at
once to get in so quick.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">About
the time I noticed the gap on my living-room wall where the plasma screen
should’ve been, I heard Dave upstairs, shouting. And another man, yelling back.
Something crashed. More shouting. I ran for the stairs. There shouldn’t be
anybody else up—</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">BLAM!!</span></i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My
.69cal converted cartridge pistol discharged up there, rattling the house. I’d
left it on the workbench; had I also left a charge in it? “What the <i>fuck!!</i>
<i>Dave?!”</i> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">More
breakage. A skinny powder-burned meth-head thundered down the stairs away
from Dave, who was limping, brandishing the pistol like a club. The guy piled
into me, clutching my laptop —<i>my new laptop!</i> —and a bottle of rum. Right
then I was angry enough to use him for every piratical torture method I’d ever known. The roar I let out as I shoved him backward and drew my steel was
no act.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">He threw the bottle at me but I deflected it with the blade as he made a break for
the front door. The bottle crashed against the bookcase, filling the room
with a warm spicy vapor. I only had <i>one</i> rum that smelled like that.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mother<i>fucker!</i>
That was thirty-year Cuban!”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">One of
Dave’s throwing knives whistled past me and caught Tweaker in the calf just as he
reached the door, sending him ass-over-teakettle down the stairs to the parking
lot. My laptop cartwheeled away from him to freedom, only to burst into
shrapnel on the concrete. <i>Fuck.</i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The
moving van next door suddenly revved and peeled out of the driveway, careening
down the street with the door still up. They hadn’t been moving anything <i>in</i>
at all: they’d been moving me <i>out</i>. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Tweaker
flipped onto his back, pulled a gun out of his pants. The punk-ass held it sideways,
ghetto-style, which pissed me off so much I even stopped caring that he was
holding a gun.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Until
he fired it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Time
crawled. I felt the slug pass close by my ear; it blew my tricorn off and shattered
the living-room window into a huge spider-web…and then I stopped thinking. Next
thing I knew, I was standing over a <i>deceased</i> Tweaker whose sternum had
sprouted my un-edged cutlass. Dave was behind me on his cell, screaming
panicked obscenities at an emergency dispatcher, and just like that, time resumed
its normal speed…maybe a little faster.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Jesus,
I killed him! Oh my fucking God, I <i>killed</i> him! Ohshit ohshit….” Blood
was soaking his grimy shirt, pooling red in the fir needles. <i>This</i> wasn’t
an re-enactment and <i>that</i> wasn’t stage blood. I stumbled over to the
bushes and puked.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Police
cruisers showed up fast: lights and sirens. A sheeplike flock of gossiping
neighbors gathered across the street. Weapons drawn, the cops barked commands
and slammed us against the house: took awhile to remove the considerable arsenal
I was wearing but when I produced my ID things calmed down somewhat. They
seemed impressed that I could even move, packing that much weaponry, let alone
sword-fight. Tweaker had stabbed Dave in the knee —not deep, luckily—and hit
him with a lamp. Dave had grabbed the flintlock just to scare him, not
realizing it was loaded, although Tweaker hadn’t really ‘dodged the bullet’.
The gun’s stage-friendly powder charge wasn’t lethal, but it sure would’ve
burned at close range. It could’ve even set the office on fire. Adrenaline made
us jittery as we talked. Meanwhile, officers kept staring at us like they’d
never seen grown men dressed from cocked hats to bucket boots like authentic
Golden Age pirates. <i>Three shows daily.</i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">An
officer followed me around to inventory what was missing. The big-screen?
Gone—but the assholes left the remote, adding insult to injury. Three whole
shelves of CDs, high-end stereo gear, DVR, change jar? All gone. I stared at
the empty entertainment wall: something else had been there.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“The
X-box! Fuck me, they took the X-box…and the games! I was forty-two hours in on
Mass Effect 3! Shit.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“No
great loss there, Mr. Weston,” the officer smirked, making notes. “Trust me,
you’d have hated the ending anyway. He did you a favor.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometime
that evening they removed the body and let Dave go home. I wandered around in
shock. Didn’t bother mentioning that my hand-blown glass bong and herbs had disappeared,
but I could’ve used a hit just then. My shit was looted, pillaged, plundered.
Bloody <i>pirates!</i> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Eventually
the sergeant said no charges would be filed against us: it was “justifiable
homicide.” They were confident they could recover my stuff, too. Tweaker and
his ring were not the sharpest tools: county lockup was their second home. Their
rap-sheets were long enough to fill a filing cabinet.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’d
think when they saw the pirate flag they woulda known better than to try <i>this</i>
house,” he joked. “Looks like self-defense to me…Cap’n.”</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-67354486496197801902012-04-06T01:43:00.000-07:002012-04-06T01:50:32.666-07:00“Just the Opening Line”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">The terribleminds flash challenge this week is short and sweet: not 1000
words, not e</span>ven 100. Just the opening sentence of an as-yet-unwritten
story, but as Chuck says, that one sentence “will drag me kicking and screaming and shove my
face into wanting more.... You’ve got a single sentence
to <em>promise</em> a killer story.” So, one
sentence it is. By the end of this week I’ll probably have the rest of the story
to go with it; if so (and it’s worth looking at) I’ll post it here too.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
He was nine when he watched his father die, brawling with the other men of Llangennith for beach salvage like dogs over a carcass, and he grinned madly as the man he knew as “Da” fell in the surf and failed to rise.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-28992849894693067262012-03-30T23:07:00.000-07:002012-04-06T14:06:23.831-07:00“An Accomplished Liar”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The challenge at terribleminds this week is to tell lies. Not having kids, I can only
imagine what really goes on in a teenage boy’s bedroom, but I’m pretty sure it
isn’t this. (1000 words)<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 27pt;"> </span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Honey ham, sliced cheddar, dark rye…ooh, roast beef, too. Perfect.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I loaded my arms full of sandwich fixings, taking a pass on the
veggies, and piled them all into my duffle bag. I hesitated at the mayo but
took it anyway (good fat, there) and left the mustard. With the stove fan going
and her back to me, Mom wouldn’t even notice me here unless….</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Fuck. Held the door open too long: busted by the fridge.</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Mom
turned around in surprise and frowned, catching me red-handed with a two-pound
bag of deli beef.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Jamie, what are you doing? Dinner’s in under an hour. Put that
back.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“It’ll be fine, Mom. I’m <i>starving</i>.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She gave me the standard-issue Mom-the-Martyr look. “I just bought
that deli stuff and it’s supposed to last all week. I swear: one
sixteen-year-old human shouldn’t be able to eat like you and still be so
weedy.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I shrugged. “Like Gramma says: I’m a growing boy….”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yeah? Well, Gramma doesn’t have to buy your groceries,” she
grumped, turning back to the sizzling pan. “Don’t you dare ruin your appetite.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I won’t, Mom. Promise.” It was so easy to lie now. I zipped the
duffle closed and bolted up the stairs.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Dad was coming down the hall with the basketball as I fumbled for
my door key. “Hey, James, how ‘bout a quick game of Horse before dinner?”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“No thanks. Homework,” I said, hefting the bag. He wouldn’t know
it was mostly full of groceries. “Got a test tomorrow in Poli-Sci.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Atta boy. Keep up those grades or that lock comes off.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yup, I know.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He went downstairs. I entered my room and closed the door firmly
behind me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I heard the first loud growl of hunger as I dumped my loot on the
bed. I hadn’t even finished arranging everything to make the first sandwich
before another grumble came, sounding even more impatient.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Shut up already, I’m workin’ on it….”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Once I cracked open the zip-locks of cold-cuts, meat smells
drifted into the room. <i>No stopping it now.</i> I stuffed a slice
of beef into my mouth and opened the louvered closet doors.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The tawny griffin hunched inside bumped her head on the ceiling.
She clacked her black beak at me eagerly, gold-and-black eyes nearly sparking
with excitement, and squeezed forward into the room. A hand-sized downy feather
pulled free on a door hinge. She rumbled again as she spied the sandwiches on
the bed.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Hi, sweetie. You know you need to sit before you get anything,” I
reminded her. Her owl-ears flattened and she obediently plunked her butt on the
carpet. The long feline tail curled around her hawk feet and thumped against
the foot of my bed.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Raising a griffin in your second-story bedroom is sort of like
building a boat in your basement. There comes a point at which you (belatedly)
realize that the door just isn’t going to be big enough for your <i>project</i> to
leave. I’d waited too long to come clean about my pet, and now, well…I dunno. <i>That</i> day
would certainly be interesting.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Dad’s voice called from outside my door: “What was that noise?
Everything okay in there, bud?”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I froze in panic—<i>When did he come back up? Did he hear me? Did
he hear HER?</i>—but my voice was calm and measured when I answered,<i> </i>“Fine,
Dad! Just unloading my books. God, you know how heavy these things are? Gonna
need a chiropractor after I graduate!”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Yeah, I bet.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I relaxed as his footsteps continued toward the stairs. The
griffin raised her owl-ears so high they brushed dust off the ceiling fan. She
trilled quietly, looking between me and the treasure trove on the bed. At least
she had manners.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Okay, here. Watch the fingers.” She leaned down and the cinnamon
hackle feathers glowed like copper in the sun. She pinched the sandwich with
just the points of her beak, tossed her head and it was gone. Another trill and
a curious sideways tilt of her neck, and the purr started. Even with my shoes
on I could feel it in the floor. After she first did that last year I’d told
Dad it was the subwoofer making that noise, and so far that lie still worked.</span><br />
<i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; text-indent: 27pt;">So
many, many lies.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“’Nother one?” I asked unnecessarily. I’m sure she could eat every
pet in the whole neighborhood at once if she wanted to, but she seemed to understand
that she could get me in trouble if she was greedy. I tried to feed her more
dog kibble than deli meat, though: I mean, how much salty, preservative-laden
turkey pastrami is healthy for a griffin, anyway? Some things you just can’t
find on Google, no matter how hard you search.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I piled together some more sandwiches and she snapped them up as
quickly as I could offer them; like a happy cat, the purr only stopped long
enough for her to swallow. After the last she walked her front feet forward into
a long canine bow, squinting her eyes shut and spreading her talons before
dropping into a sphinx pose next to my bed. A couple of months ago, when she’d
knocked all the breakables off my bookshelves with one sweep of those barred
goshawk wings, I’d told Mom I’d been throwing the baseball to myself and it got
away from me; she’d believed that.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When the griffin rested her head on the bed, longingly eyeing the
leftovers, I scratched her eye-ridges. “Y’know, one of these days they’re going
to find out the truth, big girl,” I said, hearing Mom calling us to dinner.
“What are we gonna do then, hmm?”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She purred, regarding me with one half-lidded golden eye, probably
not caring that for her own safety she’d forced me to become such an accomplished
liar. I locked her in and headed down with the sandwich stuff, chuckling at a
thought.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I should run for Congress. I could teach all those amateurs a
thing or two.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-25539492819939542302012-03-23T17:18:00.000-07:002012-04-05T14:07:31.044-07:00“Descent” : a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;">So sayeth the Great Penmonkey, Chuck Wendig: </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 36px;">“</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;">I’m going to give you five
whacked-out settings. You may choose one, and set your story within that space.
What five settings? Here goes: </span></span><strong style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lunar Brothel,</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Abandoned Amusement Park, </span></strong><strong style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Bottom of the Ocean, P</span></strong><strong style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ent-house Apartment during
the Apocalypse, </span></strong><strong style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fairy Tale Forest.</span></strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 36px;">” 998 words, for your pleasure....</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He’d relaxed when he felt the hands on him; he’d thought he
was rescued…until they pulled him under.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At first he wasn’t sure if it was their strength or
his own exhaustion that made his resistance so useless. An icy snake thicker than a topmast
wrapped about his chest, at once both squishy and solid as cold iron, and then
there was the sensation of falling through water. A rational part of his
panicking mind observed that he should be drowning by now: he had, after all,
exhaled his last dry breath. He couldn’t think for all the pain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Clicks and whines echoed all around him as he was dragged
downward, and an ominous intermittent rumble that was nearly felt more than
heard. Then he detected a gentle greenish glow about him that almost wasn’t
there: if he stared at one spot it seemed dark, but if his eyes relaxed he
could make out shadows and forms in the gloom. None of them were human.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Without sun, time had no meaning in these murky depths; he
had no way to know how long he traveled. The glow strengthened, punctuated by
sharp random flashes as if he was surrounded by stars. He was glowing now, too,
as tiny luminous creatures collected on him. Fantastical features of ridges,
pillars, arches became dimly visible in the distance: a landscape at the bottom
of the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Seeing close about him was easier now but his other senses
were heightened also. He sensed the others near him without seeing
them. Three swam above him, several more below. With effort he craned his
neck to see past the appendage gripping him and got his first look at one’s
face. He screamed for all he was worth at the sight of it, but
no bubbles emerged from his mouth. The rational part of his mind tried to decide
if that frightened him even more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The creature following him seemed small compared to the
rest, perhaps only a little larger than him. Its gleaming face was a grotesque
nightmare of fist-sized jet-black eyes, needle-teeth and thin finger-like tentacles.
At his reaction, its toothy expression changed to something resembling a grin. It touched his leg and he realized that the “hands” he’d felt were these
creatures’ flexible bony fins. A shudder of revulsion rippled through him and he
kicked but could not break its grip. Then he heard it speak.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">You are
one of us now, airbreather.</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The sound was not a sound but somehow it echoed through his
head, more real than his own thoughts. It seemed childlike and diabolically
gleeful. He tried to pray but feared he was too far from
Creation now for his God to hear him, let alone save him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">The
storm brought you to us as a gift, and now you will live with us and be one of
us</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">, it said<i>.</i>
Semi-transparent membranes clicked quickly across its eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I’m not one of you! Let me go!!” His words were muddled by
the water such that he barely heard them himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">No one
will hear you like that, silly human,</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"> it
laughed<i>. You must talk like me. Focus.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pain, terror, desperation: he channeled that and shot it
like a cannon at this grinning abomination. The beast reeled back, pausing as
he was carried away from it. Then it darted forward again and grabbed both his
legs, showing rows of teeth as it was towed along with him. He saw that a row of spines traveled all the
way from the crest atop its head to the base of a wide silver
tail, flat like a whale’s but jaggedly striped.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">You are
so strong! Oh, they will like you!</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He focused another burst of emotion, only this time adding thoughts: <i>You must let me go; I’m not one of you!
Please, I beg you! I don’t belong here!<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;">But you
DO belong here!</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>You
are the only one the storm has brought us for many lifetimes. You will bring us
much enjoyment.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His eyes closed as his mind whirled in utter denial. He’d
been on that island so long he must be delusional. He’d drunk seawater or
gone into a starvation-induced, deranged fugue. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t
be: his mind must have cracked. Heavenly Father, hear the cry of thy humble
servant in his time of need….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The steady downward drag became rough and erratic, then abruptly
stopped. The appendage loosened and released him: dozens of toothed discs ripped
free from his flesh. While gasping in pain he finally saw his captor for what
it was: a mighty beast at least as long as the galleon which had marooned him,
with a wide finned body and a dozen massive tentacles—some of which ended in great
fan-like paddles. Its skin shifted unnaturally, changing in both texture and color.
It flicked him away as though his presence offended it, and promptly vanished into
the murk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Shock took him then and he drifted to the silty seabed's embrace,
aware that the Others were waiting over him even as he felt his sanity beginning
to slip away. The little one came down, floating just above him so he could see
nothing else. It stared through him. If he lived, the stare of those horrible black eyes would surely drive him mad, so his only wish now was to die. He was a child of
God, and his Eternally Loving God was merciful. He prayed feverishly to his Merciful Father
that he might be saved from this unholy fate, but felt his prayers went unheeded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hovering over his face, the creature stared into his soul. <i>The Elders want to know if you can learn to Speak
to the depths like we can. I hope you can, airbreather. If you can’t, the Elders
won’t eat you…but you might wish they had.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He prayed, and perhaps his God was merciful after all. Even
the worst torture imaginable can be surmounted if one isn’t present to remember
it. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-71483538752378321672012-03-17T12:07:00.000-07:002013-08-14T13:22:25.894-07:00“The Fire of the Gods”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The terribleminds flash fiction challenge this week is to pen a 1000-word story with a specific title: “The Fire of the Gods.” I wrote this using one of the best characters I’ve ever worked with: a thoroughly tortured fellow inspired by my writing friend, Fred Hellmig. Given all the trials and tribulations we’ve visited upon poor Hell, I hope to all that’s holy that we never meet him in person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></blockquote>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Señor Williams, you must
tell us everything.” The governor of Trinidad leaned forward solemnly. “You are
the only one we know who has spoken to him. He has defied all our efforts to
apprehend him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One of the governor’s officials handed me a flask. My trembling
hands nearly dropped it but I gulped some of its contents: rum burned like fire
all the way down. Feeling a little steadier, I nodded and handed it back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The <i>Prometheus</i> left the Guinea Coast three
months ago with a nearly-full hold,” I began. “We were bound for Hispaniola
after taking on more cargo in the Canaries. Cap’n said the Colonials would pay
handsome if all those Africans didn’t take sick and die first….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Where did you encounter the ship? What was its ensign?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“We were just east of Barbados; I was on lookout when we spotted
her. She was sailing fast with a fresh breeze on her quarter, making straight
for us. Cap’n said she looked Spanish, and ordered us to raise the Burgundy
Cross….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I glassed her again. “She’s hoisting the saltire too, sir!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Good. Helm, stay your heading. Company to stations!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But she wasn’t Spanish at all: once we were too close to escape
she dropped the Spanish ensign and raised colours I’d never seen: a snarling
dog’s head on a crimson field. It was a Red Jack, and we were beset by pirates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Their sleek low-hulled craft was painted gray and rust, bearing a
triangular headsail and huge blood-red Moorish lateens on both cocked masts.
This profile lent her the appearance of prowling shark fins, and we would soon
come to realize the truth of this predatory likeness. She crossed our bow with
all ports open, displaying a fearsome array of armament we had no hope of
countering with our small deck guns. Cap’n surrendered and we were quickly
boarded by the crew of the <i>Red Dog</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Such dedicated purpose I’ve never seen! They were so efficient it
was as though they knew each other’s minds, hardly speaking a word betwixt
them. In a flash they had our entire crew collected and restrained. The fools
who resisted were ruthlessly cut down where they stood. The rest of us feared
even to pray aloud and thus risk undue attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Their captain boarded us then, and under his fell gaze I must
admit feeling like a doomed sparrow charmed by a serpent. This man had a dark
presence about him that was difficult to quantify but easily felt. He was young
and fair, slight of stature, well dressed. While not Spanish he was clearly of
European descent, with reddish-blonde hair pulled back in a loose tail and
hawk-sharp sea-green eyes. The sword he held at his side was long and thin, delicately
curved with a long leather-wrapped hilt. As he approached, his men forced our
captain down to his knees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Sir, you fly a Spanish flag. Whither bound and whence come you?”
he calmly demanded, with a hint of an indistinct accent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“From Arguin and Las Palmas, bound for Santo Domingo.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The pirate’s eyes narrowed evilly. “You carry slaves to New Spain?
Under Spanish contract?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Aye, a cargo of three-and-seventy remaining, all of good health
and strong backs. We lost less than a score to the flux on this passage. Take
all our cargo; just please set us free. We expected a substantial profit in
Hispaniola. This sale will make you all rich men.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He smirked at this and shook his head. “You are a far greater
merchant than I, to seek trade in human <i>souls,</i> my lord.” His
voice bore a deathly chill. “Shall I bow to you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would not have believed what followed had I not seen it myself.
In one smooth motion he performed a courtly bow, drawing a sweeping flourish
with his sword arm. At the depth of his gesture, our good captain’s head parted
neatly from his body and both pieces tumbled to the deck in a gory fountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The pirate straightened, casually flicked a spray of blood from
the blade, and fixed us with a demon’s glare. “Now that I have your attention,
hear your fate. You will sail under my command. Resist and be swiftly reunited
with your captain. Comply willingly and live a while longer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I glanced at my fellows but saw none stupid enough to resist: they
all looked as ill as I felt. The Mate nodded dumbly and called us to duty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We sailed west to a forested islet where we released the slaves
with provisions and basic tools. He took me aboard his ship while his crew collected
our weapons and remaining valuables. They confined my former crew in the <i>Prometheus’</i> hold;
I watched with dread as the pirates broke open oil casks and set her
weather-deck and sails alight. Then the <i>Dog’s</i> crew set the slave-ship adrift and fired a devastating
broadside which must have killed most of my mates instantly. Hearing screams, I
gaped in horror at the conflagration and sank to my knees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The captain strolled up, watching the flames. “<i>Prometheus</i>,
eh?<i>” </i>he mused. “It is dangerous to play with the fire of the gods,
mortal, lest you get burned. Deliver this message for me in exchange for your
life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’d started shivering while recounting my ordeal and when offered
the flask again, I emptied it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He freed me just this morning. His name is Captain Hell. I was to
tell you: ‘Hell preys on Spain and those who serve it, in retribution for sins
of Inquisition committed against both God and Man. Stop searching for the three
treasure galleons you lost this spring. Their wealth is beyond your reach,
being put to good use against you.’ ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This last made them all flush. A heated exchange of some length
ensued in Spanish, which I could not follow. The governor rose with a
carefully-diplomatic expression and personally escorted me to the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Señor Williams, you have been most cooperative. Thank you for
your time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-27987140330208009642012-03-15T22:12:00.000-07:002012-03-15T23:01:54.573-07:00Kenna's Drinking Game<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kenna MacLeod is a troublemaking Scots privateer and one of the
three protagonists in the major project in our pipeline right now. This was a
scene I did just for fun awhile back, but it doesn’t fit anywhere in the story
arc. I bump into it in the working-files folder ever so often and decided today that it could go up on the blog since it’s got nothing better to do. There</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 36px;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">s not <i>nearly</i> enough piracy up here yet, anyway.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="8" width="100%" />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A gentle breeze drifted through Corsair Harbour on a beautiful
mid-June afternoon in 1756, cooling the sunbaked cobblestones along the wharf
and putting Captain Kenna MacLeod in the mood for mischief. She lounged on a
crate in front of the Curr’s Head, chuckling to herself at a snobbish,
petulant gentlewoman passing by on the seawall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The woman was overdressed for the tropical heat in a striped gown
of the London fashion, complete with corset and matching—and completely useless—lace-trimmed
parasol. She shrieked in panic at a handful of gulls swooping in to join more
than a dozen others swirling around her feet. Her foppish, equally-overdressed
escort </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">wondered aloud at the reason for their sudden charge </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 27pt;">as he shooed them off, but they only retreated a few steps, chattering among themselves
as if planning the next attack. Gentleman and Lady had no sooner turned to continue
their stroll than the birds were charging across the boardwalk at them again,
forcing Man to grab Lady’s parasol to swing at them in comically feeble defense.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kenna giggled and raised the bottle for a drink, toasting the man
for his valor. He shot a look her way but thought better of saying anything
when she drummed her fingers over the pistol resting on her crossed knees.
Taking his now quite hysterical companion by the elbow, he made to hurry on but
stopped as a piece of bread the size of an orange landed just in front of him.
The pair quickly found themselves besieged by a feathered, squealing feeding
frenzy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Behind them Kenna pulled a soft piece off the loaf for herself and cackled wickedly. This bread was still warm and fresh: probably better used in
mopping up thick beef juices than feeding the birds, but she was feeling fickle
and wanton at the moment. And rather drunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“So <i>you’re</i> the one behind all this,” a familiar deep
voice came from her left, sounding somewhat put-upon. “Why am I not entirely
surprised?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Still snickering through a rum-soaked mouthful, she
squinted up at the man standing there. “Aye, Constable Tucker,” she said, then
hiccupped. “I’m findin’ this port o’ yers a mite boring.” As the next likely
target came into range she pulled off another small piece and sent it skittering ahead of a high-strung palfrey. A trio of gulls ran straight out in front
of the horse, chasing the morsel down with open wings. The horse crow-hopped
sideways in terror, slamming its rump into a knot of pedestrians and nearly
knocking its cursing rider into the water. Kenna laughed herself to tears amid
shouts of disgruntled passers-by and took another long pull off the
bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You’re <i>bored</i>, Lady? So you made up a drinkin’ game to
torment the townsfolk?” He sighed. “Can you not find another means of
entertaining yourself? Maybe one that doesn’t come at someone else’s expense?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Och, this bread and rum, sir, came at <i>my</i> expense,
I’ll have you know,” she slurred. “What’s a little inconvenience on the part o’
these fine folk here havin’ to dodge a bird ‘r two—’r <i>twenty</i>,
heh—when I’m so <i>grossly</i> inconvenienced by havin’ t’ be stuck here
sendin’ gulls at ‘em in the first place? I could be harassin’ the Colonials up
north right now if the <i>Talon</i> was in one piece, but she’s not. She’s
still off yonder in dry-dock and so I’m…sssstuck here.” She smiled lazily and
offered him the loaf. “Ye should try it: oddly cathartic, sendin’ a beast out to
harass someone at yer whims. Almost makes a lass feel empowered.” She paused,
regarding him. “Oh yeah…I guess ye <i>would</i> know about that then,
wouldn’t ye, Constable?” When he shook his head, she shrugged. “The rum’s not
bad, neither, but ye only get to drink if ye piss somebody off. Them’s the
rules.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Is that so? Hmm. You’ve been at this awhile now, ‘twould seem. How
long does this game continue?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well…ye play until there’s no more rum.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“All right, I’ll have a go at it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She grinned crookedly and handed him the bread again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Now bear with me, Cap’n. You’re not the only clever one in this
port.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He tore off a little piece and chucked it out onto the path.
It was squashed almost instantly; the gulls milled about until the
traffic cleared enough that one could run in to snatch it. None of the
passers-by even seemed to notice. Kenna shook her head and leaned back with a
disgusted snort, raising the bottle to take a swig.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Not so fast, there. I’m not finished yet.” He reached over
abruptly and grabbed the bottle away from her, downing the last shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Hey!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 27pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Just a mite outta order, but them’s the rules. You only get to
drink when you piss somebody off, and you play until there’s no more rum,” he
smiled, waggling the empty bottle. “Good rum, too. Now go home, Cap’n. Try to
be patient…and <i>try</i> to stay outta trouble?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-54877812108042075312012-03-10T06:01:00.000-08:002013-08-14T10:22:19.556-07:00“Sponsor's Apprentice": a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This week<span style="line-height: normal;">’</span>s terribleminds flash fiction challenge is to write and post a 1000-word flash fiction story before Noon EST, March 15th, (this one totals 1000) using <em>10</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of the following words:</span></span> </div>
</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;">Beast,</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;"> brooch, cape, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;">dinosaur</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 15pt;">, dove, fever, finger, flea, gate, insult,
justice, mattress, moth, paradise, research, scream, seed, sparrow, tornado, university.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span></blockquote>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> Tour groups always
made me want to </span><span lang="EN-CA">scream</span><span lang="EN-CA">, and the
junior-high groups were the <i>worst</i>. The gaggle of boys who slouched in front of
me during my talk on falcons all wore the same rumpled skater clothes and the
same cow-stupid expression. They expected to be entertained, not educated. Nothing
I did, short of pulling an Xbox and big-screen out of my gauntlet, was likely
to make an impression. I gave the talk anyway, mostly ignoring the two right up
front who were chatting over me.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “You
should be more respectful of him,” one of them sagely told his buddy. “He’s a </span><span lang="EN-CA">dinosaur</span><span lang="EN-CA">, y’know.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> I
almost took offense to that until I realized he was talking about the
bird on my glove, instead. These guys didn’t look clever enough to craft left-handed
compliments.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Is <i>not,</i>”
his friend said, apparently ignoring my existence altogether. “He’s a falcon.
And not even a very big one.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Well,
falcons are birds, and birds are dinosaurs. Just look at a bird’s skeleton and
a dinosaur skeleton. You can totally tell.” He paused as if something profound
had just occurred to him. “You’re an idiot.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Shut <i>up</i>. <i>You’re</i> an
idiot.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Thank
you for coming,” I lamely offered as they moved off with the group to the next
station, still declaring their mutual idiocy. As they went, they scuffed their
feet through the gravel, leaving dark furrows I’d have to rake back into place
later. One of them turned back just to give me the </span><span lang="EN-CA">finger</span><span lang="EN-CA">.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> What
charming citizens.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> I
tried not to sigh as the next kids rotated through. It was bad form to look
bored around the guests. Skipper, the kestrel I was holding, didn’t seem to
mind. Sitting on my gloved thumb like a brown-eyed fluffy peach, he bobbed his
head in that ridiculously-cute way kestrels have, and I grinned. He always made
my day better. The tour group would leave soon and I could take him out to the
parking lots for a little hunting. If I flushed a </span><span lang="EN-CA">sparrow</span><span lang="EN-CA"> for
him, his day would be better too.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> I
really did love this gig, and would probably do it even if it wasn’t my job. I
was lucky to have found a </span><span lang="EN-CA">university</span><span lang="EN-CA"> with
such a fantastic raptor</span><span lang="EN-CA"> research</span><span lang="EN-CA"> facility
on campus. Being a general-class falconer—and at twenty-three, only a year away from master
already—had made me an easy pick for this job when the departments were filling
their work-study positions, and my boss was glad to have someone she didn’t
have to train from scratch, for once.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> The
next—and thankfully last—group was girls who cooed over Skipper like pigeons
on a </span><span lang="EN-CA">seed</span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pile </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but paid no more
attention to me than the boys had. When they moved on, snapping their gum at
the world with slack-jawed disdain, I was free. I already had the whistle and
most of the gear; I’d just grab a baggie of tidbits and a bush-beating staff, then
head out to the lower parking lot by the gym, and….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Umm…Mr.
Grainger?”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> Thinking
there was no</span><span lang="EN-CA"> justice</span><span lang="EN-CA"> in the universe, I
turned back to find a skinny dark-haired girl nervously lingering by the
display. She’d been at the rear of this last group, gazing intently at the big
falcon poster the whole time. I wasn’t sure she’d even looked at Skipper, which
is unusual, given raptors</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> innate charisma. “Yes, can I help you?”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Do
you ever, I mean…that is, I wonder if you’d consider, umm….” Her face flushed
bright red and she picked obsessively at the button on her shirt cuff, not
making eye contact and looking as if she wanted to bolt. Then her eyes locked
on Skipper and she lost her train of thought entirely. The cheeky little </span><span lang="EN-CA">b</span>east actually chirruped at her! I defy anyone to convince
me that kestrels don’t know how cute they are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> “Did
you have a question?”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> As
if entranced, she spoke directly to Skipper. “Mrs. Harris said you’re a, umm….
Do you take apprentices? ‘Cause I, uhh….”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> It
was the first halfway-thoughtful question I’d been asked all day, and the last
thing I would</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA">ve expected from a group like this. But then the <i>spiel</i> kicked
in. “Falconry isn’t pet-keeping. You have to hunt with your bird, and there’s a
long process to go through before you get one. Most sponsors don’t let their
apprentices start with kestrels: weight management is really tricky on the
little hawks, and it’s easy to make a fatal mistake….”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> She
was already nodding but it wasn’t that false patronizing acknowledgement that
teens are so good at. This was earnest, as if she was anticipating me. She
swung her backpack down, fished out a dog-eared, tattered paperback and handed
it to me. I smiled in surprise as I recognized it. It was a copy of Beebe’s “A
Manual of Falconry,” one of the first falconry books I’d ever read, and it was
well-loved. Its pages glowed with yellow highlighting. Notes crammed its
margins.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> Her
initial nervousness forgotten, she puffed up with the resolve to prove her
worthiness. “I have my triple-beam scale, bath pan, swivel, perch, leash and glove.
I’ve read all twenty-eight falconry books the county library system has, some
of them twice. I can tie the falconer’s knot and make anklets and jesses. I
made my own bal-chatri trap; it’s got forty-seven nooses I tied myself. My
grandpa has a farm just down the street from my house, with starlings; he traps
and kills them but he said he’d give me some live ones to help train my bird
with, and he doesn’t put poisoned bait out, so I could hunt her there once
she’s trained. I made flash cards with all the questions for the state test and
I’ve been studying nonstop for the last six months. Ask me anything.” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> Her
intensity was formidable. I’d never had such a young apprentice with such drive.
Only in eighth grade and she already had the </span><span lang="EN-CA">fever</span><span lang="EN-CA">.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"> I
smiled. “Want to go hunting?”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745035374803630999.post-88504455789646814812012-03-04T03:05:00.000-08:002012-03-10T22:41:58.643-08:00“Learning to Fly”: a terribleminds flash fiction challenge<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />The terribleminds flash fiction
challenge for March 2, 2012: shuffle a random song. That random song becomes the title of your 1000-word story, which you post to your blog. My song is Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly”, and this story is exactly
1000 words.</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Name’s Floyd, and my message
is this: exotic animals are cool and all, but it’s important to understand what
you’re getting into first, before things get…complicated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I mean, reptiles are fun,
but they have limitations. You can’t take a lizard outside to play (at least
the ones I had) without the risk of it shooting off into the nether reaches of the
yard to die of exposure or get got by a cat. I even tried harnessing one but all
that did was make him look stupid before he wriggled out of it and wedged his
skinny butt halfway down a mouse hole. Added bonus: the hole had a slug in it
so when I fished him out he was all gooey. Biggish snakes can give great neck
rubs but most of the time they just lay there. Fairly cool, but boring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I took up falconry. Lot
of time and expense involved with falconry. It’s the sort of thing where the
people who do it know just how cool they are for doing it, so are frequently
disinclined to share their coolness with newbies. But I persevered and got a
hawk, and learned that this sport was indeed every bit as cool as I’d thought
it was. After a year I let my bird go and got another one, which is pretty cool
too: don’t like the bird you’ve got? Trade it in for another: no muss, no
fuss. But there are laws about what you can and can’t hunt, and where, and
when; and then the owners of the best hunting place you’ve found decide they
don’t want you hunting there anymore, so then what? It’s not like good rabbit
fields grow on trees…or something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hadn’t found my <i>thing</i> yet. I wanted an animal hobby but
normal animals just didn’t do it for me. I wanted to do something with <i>cool</i> animals but nothing seemed cool <i>enough</i>. Well, you can imagine my utter surprise
when, one night this last February, I was downstairs enjoying a nice toasty
fire and a shot of nice oaky scotch when a not-so-nice black spiny dragon the
size of a cocker spaniel marched across the room (from God-only-knows-where) like
he owned it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I suppose, being an apex
predator and all, even a little dragon has a right to think he owns whatever
patch of real estate he finds himself on at any given moment. I mean, breathing
fire does pretty-much trump whatever claws or tools or what-not some mere mammal
might bring to the party. And when the surprised mammal suddenly blows a
mouthful of alcohol at the dragon, the startled dragon reacts <i>quick!</i> and snorts a fireball that,
well…I didn’t like those slippers much anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So now I have a dragon. How
cool is that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His name is Rax, but I don’t
know how I know that. It just popped into my head one day. He started out
sharing the cat’s bowl. Then the cat abruptly decided she’d rather just stay in
the bedroom, so I got her another bowl and left it by the dresser. Then one day
a week or so back I realized I hadn’t seen her in a while and, well, apparently
cats and dragons don’t cohabitate. I’d thought that scorch mark in the hallway
was the result of a dragonling’s hiccup, but maybe not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rax graduated to Alpo a week
after the cat went missing, then advanced to hamburger. After a growth spurt
took him from Cocker-size to Rottweiler-size he ate bigger meals, but less
often. The guy at the supermarket meat counter sure is chatty now. If he’s paid
on commission I’m probably putting his kid through college.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But let me just say, there is
something outstanding about relaxing on your couch with an oaky scotch and your
Great Dane-sized dragon loyally sitting at your knee with his head across your
lap. His eyes are bright purple, by the way, and the pupils are vertical. He
purrs like a ’69 Mustang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He climbs like a squirrel,
too: a predatory, <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">armor-plated, incendiary squirrel. I came home from work one
night to find him lounging casually atop the refrigerator, having knocked off every
box and bottle to make enough room. A punctured two-liter of Coke was still a
fizzing fountain in the middle of the potato chip and cereal-strewn floor, so this
was a recent accomplishment. I have no idea how he got up there, but apparently
he didn’t stick the landing: if all that scratching and clawing isn’t his doing,
then someone stopped by my house just to key up my fridge with much enthusiasm.
I guess stranger things have happened.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">By June he still hadn’t
flown yet but my house was clearly getting the raw end of this deal. I took
leave, and Rax and I went camping. I rented a van because now he was as big as
a draft-horse. (Since the waterbed incident he’d been mostly confined to the garage.)
The van-rental people won’t be happy: I can probably kiss that deposit goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I drove up the mountain to a
dead-end Forest Service road and set up camp. I’d just gotten the fire going
when Rax sat on his haunches and snuffed it out with one awesome stroke of his
wings (apparently the next four flaps were just for effect). He said he was
stretching. Then he strolled into the trees, swishing that fifteen-foot-long tail dismissively
when I meekly suggested he not go too far. He came back an hour later with an
elk. The coolest part? When he dropped it in front of me, it was already gutted
and grilled medium rare. Sweet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The next morning we hiked up
to the cliff-top, admiring the scenery and the warm wind on our faces. It was a
beautiful day; the thermals would be epic. He looked at me and dipped his
shoulder invitingly. I got on and we <i>flew</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think we’ll stay here for
good. I have a dragon. How cool is that?<br /><br /></span></div>
<o:p></o:p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09054608264860740213noreply@blogger.com1