#fridayflash~The Waiting Black Mariah

The Waiting Black Mariah


Jimmy Barletti and Vinnie, his muscle, slouched in their front row seats at the Regal. They watched the last of the credits roll by through a shroud of grey cigarette smoke. Vinnie glanced behind him as the last few people filed out of the theatre. “Looks like we’re good to go, boss,” he said as he ground out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“That Cagney’s some kind of guy,” Barletti said, stretching his arms above his head.

Vinnie nodded his agreement. “Yeah, but he’s no George Raft,” he said.

“Damn straight.”

The men wandered up the aisle of the opulent theater as the heavy velvet curtain slid across the screen. Barletti liked this joint best because of the fancy art on the ceiling. Guys wearing armour and swinging swords, protecting busty dames with next to nothing on.

“I gotta take a leak. I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Barletti said.

“I’m nearly out of smokes. I’ll get a pack from across the road and meet you on the sidewalk in a couple of minutes.”

Barletti had a quick pee and checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His fingers scraped against the stubble on his chin but he figured he’d pass muster. He was meeting his girl in O’Reilly’s for a drink. Barletti carefully combed his hair, put on his fedora and returned to the lobby. He pushed open the heavy glass door and walked past the ticket booth. There was no sign of Vinnie.

The bright marquee lights made the misty air sparkle but they suddenly flickered off, leaving Barletti in near darkness. It was only then he noticed the street lamp above him had been smashed. He slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat, fingering the steel of his snub nose revolver, as he strode along 47th street. Vinnie had parked half block away in front of Cicero’s butcher shop.

Barletti had just passed the dark entrance of Epstein’s watch repair when he heard the heavy footfall of two people behind him. He began to run but traveled only five strides when his left foot caught the trip wire strung low across the sidewalk. Barletti’s knee buckled and he sprawled face first to the wet pavement. His hat fell off and a layer of skin was scraped from his palms as they hit the rough concrete. He clenched his teeth but didn’t cry out, not wanting to give the bastards the satisfaction.

The thugs were on him like hyenas on a dying lion. The skinny guy with the silver tooth yanked Barletti’s head up by his hair while the other guy, the one with the flattened nose, gave him two quick jabs to the face. He was pulled to his feet when Nose guy kicked him squarely in the family jewels. Barletti sucked in air and stopped breathing for a split-second before the lightning bolt hit him in the balls. He vomited on the sidewalk and curled up on top of the mess. The men frisked him and took away his gun.

The attackers grabbed Barletti under the arms and hoisted him up. They nearly supported his full weight as the toes of his wing tips dragged against the pavement. Even with blood in his eyes, he spotted the large man leaning against the light post across the road. The guy’s cigarette glowed below the hat hiding his face but Barletti knew it was Vinnie.

The goons dragged him to their large, black cruiser parked behind the meat shop’s delivery van. He recognized the sexy curves of the ’38 Buick Special. Some of the boys joking called it the Chariot to Hell and Barletti had a bad feeling he might find out if the boys were right.

Silver tooth guy pulled open the door and heaved Barletti into the back. The bench seat was covered with a blanket that looked like it had been swiped from a granny’s bed. It was yellow with white lilies all over the place. Nose guy squealed the tires as he pulled out from the parking spot.

Barletti tried to ignore the throbbing and wetness he felt in his groin area and attempted to steady his breathing, even though his heart hammered in his chest. He was bathed in light and darkness and back to light as they swiftly passed under the street lights heading towards the freeway ramp. The rain fell harder now; it tracked down the window above them in glistening tears. He tried to raise his head but was rewarded with a cuff to the ear with the butt of a gun. “Don’t make me mess up the interior of this nice car, asshole,” Silver tooth said.

“What the hell do you guys want with me anyway? What did I ever do to you?”

Nose Guy chuckled and glanced in the rear view mirror at the prone form in the back seat. “You’re a pretty stupid guy, Jimmy. I’d heard you were a smart guy, but that ain’t true at all.”

“What are you talking about,” Barletti said, glancing up through his swelling eye, more sensing than actually seeing the driver.

“Ya know that broad you been seeing?”

“Maria?”

“Yeah, her. She’s taken goods ya idiot.”

“So what. That’s between me and her!”

“Maybe. But ya gotta ask yourself, what kind of moron would fuck the police chief’s wife and ‘spect to get away with it?”

“Yeah. Real moron,” repeated Silver tooth guy, jamming the gun barrel into Barletti’s ear. The thugs laughed in unison.

The large black Mariah, propelled by its 141 horses, sped along the freeway towards the marshlands west of the city. The heavy rain drummed against the shell of the car and disappeared into the water that pooled on the road.

Non-Writing Projects Galore

Not a lot of writing going on in Alan's world recently. I had meant to contribute a #fridayflash story last week but the story has gotten sidetracked and I'm struggling with it. Yesterday, though, a new story idea popped into my head while labouring away at my paying job. I know, the amount of focus I demonstrate on my job is commendable. We were at my parent's house, watching The Stone of Destiny (you know, the one where the Scottish college kids steal back the coronation stone from Westminster Abbey) when my dad made a comment about the big, black police cars in the movie. The seed was planted.

Anyway, I've roughed it out on paper and have to type out a first draft today. I'll try to get it together for Friday. My overlords are really cracking the whip again at the moment as it's the last week of the month and a certain quantity of steel must be issued for manufacturing by the end of the month. Or spankings will ensue. I won't go into details...

I have all of next week off. Normally it would be a great time to get some reading and writing done, but there are at least three household projects that I have neglected that require my attention. They all involve some amount of painting. Did I ever mention that I am the son of a painter? Not the 'acyclic on canvas' type of painter...more the latex on drywall sort of painter. When I was 12 my dad started taking me to job sites as a helper during summer breaks. Making the money was good, scraping and taping not so good. That may have been instrumental in my decision not to become a painter. Anyway that's another story. If I don't get some work done on those projects my bride will be annoyed...

...speaking of brides...those of you who follow Cathy Olliffe blog, Life on the Muskoka River, may have noticed the drastic changes she has made. It's all in an effort to help her celebrate her upcoming wedding in 60 days or so. Pop by and have a peek. She's also looking for your bizarre wedding stories and photos. I've got nothing to say to that end. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens at Twin Peaks Land's Edge!

While I pimping things up...Kat over at Crooked Tales is still looking for your erotic stories for her 'Smutfest 2010' contest. Entries can still be submitted until July 31, 2010 and you can get all of the naughty details here.

And, of course, Michael J. Solender is still seeking submissions to his Dog Days of Summer Contest. Deadline for that is August 15, 2010. You can get all the information here. Hey, it's only 101 words...how bad could it be...?

Yikes! Almost forgot about the ongoing humourous Vampire Commentaries from Katey Taylor. Part 2 deals with Martin (1977), Dracula (1979) and The Hunger (1983) and you can link to that here. Part 3 deals with The Night Stalker (1972), Vampire Hunter D (1985), The Lost Boys (1987) and Near Dark (1987). You can link to those here.

Rehash~What's Old is New?

I'm a bit pressed for time today (and honestly, my brain is really tired) so I think I will 'rehash' something from the Land's Edge archives from last year. There were a few comments in the last post about the night time harbour photo from Signal Hill in downtown St. John's. Those of you who have been following this blog since last fall or so may recall that I posted a few photos taken by a 'Harbour Cam' mounted on top of The Rooms, the provincial museum that sits up the hill from the harbour.

This is another view of the harbour, taken this morning by that camera, looking in a northeasterly direction. I have included a second photo from the camera taken about this time last year. It's the one with the cruise ship. You can see Signal Hill to the left of the 'narrows', the small opening into the harbour. If you look closely (or if you are of my vintage...put on your glasses) you can see Cabot Tower sitting on top of Signal Hill. It is best know for being the site where Marconi received the first trans-Atlantic wireless message from Cornwall, England in 1901.

You can link to the Harbour Cam at the CBC (Newfoundland) web site here for a view updated every five minutes. Go to the 'features' section in the middle and then the bottom right block is the link. I understand that only Canadian locations can view video clips on the CBC site, hopefully this does not apply to the Harbour Cam. Let me know if it's a problem to access it (though there's nothing I can do about it).

More rehash...this blog was meant as a means to connect with other writers in order to share information, and perhaps share a few laughs. I think I have gotten away from the writing basics, so I return to the class notes and present fine advice from the experts. One hand-out was from Sleeping Dogs Don't Lay by Lederer & Dowis and offered up some useful points.

• Cut the Verbal Clutter. Train yourself to write with fewer words. Your readers will love you for it. If you can make twenty-five words do the work of fifty, you have reduced by half the amount of material the reader must assimilate to get the intended message.


• Keep it Simple. Contrary to what some people seem to believe, simple writing is not the product of simple minds. A simple, unpretentious style has both grace and power. By not calling attention to itself it allows the reader to focus on the message.


• Don't Overstuff Your Sentences. As a general rule, a sentence should have no more than one main idea. We emphasize general because this rule, like so many others, is violated by some good writers.


• Train the Ear. Writing is at once a visual and aural medium. Although not all writing is intended to be read aloud, most good writing can be read aloud with no detrimental effect. It is important, therefore, for anyone who wants to write well to train the ear to recognize the good and bad aural qualities.
  
• Help the Reader. An often-repeated axiom is that communication is a two-way street. But clear communication is the responsibility of the writer, not the reader. The writer must therefore give the reader all possible help in understanding what is written.
  
• Watch Your Language. Words mean things. You can no more write well without using words well than a composer can create a symphony without understanding rhythm and harmony. Good writers know that connotations are often more important than definitions, and that the true meaning of a word or phrase is the effect it has on readers.
  
• Set Your Work in Concrete. If the purpose of writing is to convey ideas and information, then unnecessary or unintended abstraction defeats the purpose. The more concrete the writing, the more precise the message it conveys.

I know, pretty dry stuff...yet useful all the same. The first two, I think, are especially handy in the flash fiction arena where brevity is important.

Passin' on the Love...The Fabulous Flash Award

I had heard tell, the past couple of days, of a pyramid scheme a prestigious award flying about cyberspace. It finally landed in my back yard where I quickly retrieved it before the dog got it.

Jon Strother, 'pappy' of the #fridayflash community of writers, has created a new award recognizing those regularly producing outstanding flash fiction (1000 words or less). The Fabulous Flash Award was presented to me this morning by Cathy Olliffe at Life on the Muskoka River and by Laurita Miller, a fellow islander, who blogs at Brain Droppings. I have become good friends with both of these ladies the past few months (and not just because the are fellow Canucks!) and enjoy every creative creative story, poem, photograph, photoshopped photograph, interview or whatever is going on at their blogs. Please check out their blogs if you haven't done so before.


The acceptance of this award means, of course, that I must sportingly follow a few rules:

• Recipients of the Fabulous Flash Award should acknowledge receiving the award in a blog post


• link back to the person who awarded it


• select four other fabulous flashers to receive the award to keep spreading the joy


• write one or two short lines explaining why you’ve chosen each recipient


• optionally (I know not everyone is on Twitter) tweet, “I just gave the Fabulous Flash Award to (name). They’re worth reading.” Include a shortened URL back to your post in the tweet.


• Pose for a full-body photo wearing only a fez and a smile

Ok, so maybe I made up that last one...

The hard part is selecting four people to pass this along to. There are probably over 100 people contributing stories to the #fridayflash scene and I have about 40 bookmarked and visit them regularly. I think my criterion is to select those blogs who I feel compelled visit each time they post a story and who always reward me for doing dropping by. My selections are...

Anthony Venutolo...what hasn't been said about Ant? His stories always take you to different times and different places in the American culture. With a few words he can shock you, impress you and amaze you with the depth of his characters and the often sordid lives they lead. Drop by his blog Bukowski's Basement, you may get a nibble of caviar or perhaps a bite from a greasy old burger. Either way, you won't go hungry.

Mark Kerstetter...I have been really enjoying my visits to Mark's blog The Bricoleur the past few weeks. I have little background in art, but I feel that I have learned more these past few weeks than all of my previous 47 29 years. His merging of art and fiction is flawless and the factual/fictitious stories of famous artists he has posted have been fascinating. Of all the bloggers I have come across, I have met none who write from closer to the heart than Mark. And I thank him for that.

Pamila Payne...I haven't been following Pamila's blog Bella Vista for very long, but she has impressed me with every flash story. If anyone was to surpass the previously mentioned Anthony Venutolo for 'seedy' stories, it's Pamila Payne. Her street-wise characters may be course but they show a glimmers of salvation and her descriptive stories make you wonder if she is in the room with real people; she is studying their movements and speech, faithfully recording them on paper.

Peggy McFarland...since I have started following Peggy at Eldritch Way, she has posted science fiction, human drama and horror all with equal skill. Her characters are so well-rounded and her descriptive passages are so vivid you feel that you are immersed in their world and you will be held there until Peggy chooses to let you go. Make time to check out her stories.

Links and Photos

Not a lot to report about this weekend. I've finished my 101 word story for Michael J. Solender's Dog Days of Summer Contest. There's still plenty of time to enter, folks, so you can link to the contest rules here. It's open to all followers of The Not. I'm not ready to hit the 'send' button just yet. Big bragging rights are at stake here, so I'll want a second and third opinion. My mother says that it's amazing but hey, what the heck does she know!

One of the blogs I regularly follow is Spec fic and Nonsense by dark fiction writer KV Taylor. She is a big fan of vampires and her post on Friday had me laughing my ass off. It's a commentary on classic vampire films Nosferatu in 1922, Dracula in 1931, and Brides of Dracula in 1960. Rumour has it that it's the first of who knows how many. The catch to this is that the commentary is between two of the 'undead' from a current WIP of hers (perhaps she can clarify that point if I'm telling lies). Follow this link to some humorous dialogue.

Finally I present a couple of night time photos we took from the top of historic Signal Hill last week. One is looking down into the harbour and the city lights beyond. The other is a shot of Cabot Tower lit up. The third is courtesy of The Weather Network and is of a rainbow spanning the Narrows into the harbour. That was taken by Regina Downtown. The night photos don't appear as large as I had hoped. C'est dommage!

#fridayflash~In My Mind's Eye

In My Mind’s Eye


The rising sun bathes my living room in an orange glow. I sip my mug of hot chocolate; tendrils of steam curl through the air and dampen my nose with condensation. As I close my eyes and inhale the drink’s rich aroma, I’m transported to my childhood home at the other side of the country. I part the sheer curtains, looking beyond the grimy glass and vinyl-sided houses lining my street to the stucco homes in the neighbourhood of my youth.

We didn’t have a lawn when we first moved to the suburbs. The front yard consisted of raked and seeded dirt, a small Pampas grass and a cherry blossom tree. Across the street from my childhood home grew a field of tall, golden grass that bent and swayed with the wind’s breath. Children frequently filled the space and launched their kites into the sky. The colourful shapes often gained such altitude we feared they would drift into the paths of planes approaching the nearby airport.

At the eastern edge of the field, where it bordered the school grounds, grew a tall maple. One spring morning I climbed high into the branches of the ancient tree whose waxy, green leaves were beginning to unfurl. Using a pearl-handled pocket knife I carefully carved my initials, and those of a girl I secretly liked, into the bark of a branch thicker than my father’s arm. Later that week the girl caught me admiring her from afar.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer,” she teased from across the school yard. My embarrassment prompted me to avoid her for the rest of the sixth grade—and all of grade seven.

The field was eventually subdivided into properties and large stacks of dirt were scattered around the area like giant Hershey’s Kisses. The neighbourhood boys frequently set up brown and green plastic soldiers on the mounds and bombarded them with lumps of dirt until the enemy was vanquished. As such war games progress with boys, the group eventually split into two camps and tossed our ammunition—dirt bombs—at each other.

“Take that, you Commies!” I shouted, lobbing a grenade.

“Get ‘em, guys. Let’s nail ‘em with these bombs,” shouted one of my other Allies.

The war games were a major source of amusement that summer until young Teddy took a direct hit to the forehead with a lump of dirt concealing a jagged rock. He stood stunned for a moment and eventually put his grimy fingers to the wound. A lazy stream of blood meandered to the corner of his eye. When he saw the red on his fingers he began to shriek and ran home to his mother. A ceasefire was declared.

As the summer progressed our mild climate blessed us with regular sunshine and minimum rain, typical for that region of the country. The shirtless boys played outside constantly; their pale skin eventually darkened to shades of chestnut brown.

The neighbourhood continued to evolve. Holes were dug, foundations poured and skeletons of new houses were soon erected. Large concrete sewer pipes lay stacked across our street awaiting their burial in the soil. One afternoon our front door bell rang, rousing my father from his afternoon nap. He answered the door. Nobody was there. He had just gotten comfortable in his chair when the doorbell rang again. Another walk to the door to find nobody. He sat down. Upon the third ring dad dashed to the door, again finding the entrance empty. He sprinted down the stairs and across the road. It took only a few moments to find a long-haired teenager hiding inside one of the pipes. He dragged the youth out by the scruff of his neck.

“If you ring oor bloody bell again I’ll kick your arse!” he shouted, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at the boy’s nose. “And if you tell your old man and he doesnae like it, tell him to come aboot and I’ll kick his arse an’ all!”

The youth, his eyes wide and his face ashen, nodded and fled through the construction zone. Truth be told, the kid probably didn’t understand my dad’s threats because of his thick, Scottish accent. In today’s world, the boy would tell his father who, in turn, would call the cops and have dad charged with assault and uttering threats.

Time crept past and the field was finally gone. Eventually the Pampas grass grew to such a size that small children could hide within its depths, ever mindful of the long, slender leaves that could slice their exposed skin. The cherry tree grew full and brightened the front yard for a couple of weeks each year with its fragrance and pink flowers. Somehow, though, its network of branches became an annual haven for wasps.

I release the curtain, losing my view of the street. The old neighbourhood is both many miles and many years away. I sip my hot chocolate but discover it has gone cold and wonder to myself: Where do all of the kids play these days?

I Love the Smell of Woodchips in the Morning

My office smells like wood chips.

I know that seems a banal topic, but I had to post about something because I was getting sick of looking at the beardless photo of myself. Thanks for all the comments on that last post. Mostly. The jury is still out on whether the moustache comes off.

Back to wood chips. Why that's of importance to anyone else, I do not know. We bought a new dog bed for Jet and it lay on the floor in my office for a few days until V took the initiative to move it up to the living room. It's from Costco and apparently the filling is wood chips. I'm not complaining about that because there are worse aromas that could waft from an office. Like old geezer middle-aged dude. Speaking of creepy geezers...

I apparently lost a bet recently and the punishment is that I have to pimp out some sort of sleazy contest. Kat Del Rio over at Crooked Tales is running Smutfest 2010. Many of you who read the #fridayflash stories may already know Kat and her steamy fiction.

Perhaps you made a wrong turn in the bad part of town and ended up in that dark alley. Yeah, that alley with its overflowing trash cans and back entrances to seedy nightclubs. That's where you hear the Kat call. You can get all the contest information here. Drop by her blog and give her a hand (just make sure you wash it first). Spin your sordid tale. Let the eroticism spill forth. I know ya want to.

I'm reminded of another steamy tale I recently read at Lerftbrainwrite, the blog of Linda Simoni-Wastila. But that's not why I'm mentioning her. Linda offered up a link yesterday at her blog taking you to 'I Write Like' where you can paste in a sample of your work and have the style and word choice instantly analyzed to reveal which famous writer your style resembles.

I pasted in samples from all 8 of my #fridayflash stories: Dan Brown, Stephen King, Dan Brown (at this point I'm waiting for Stephenie Meyer to pop up), P.G. Wodehouse, a Chuck Palahniuk and three Vladimir Nabokovs. I must admit that I have heard of Vlad but couldn't tell you any or his work. Apparently his biggest success was Lolita. Hmm...that was a bit erotic, wasn't it?

Post Cup, Post Contest, Post Beard

Alas, the World Cup 2010 has finally come to an end in South Africa. I'm going to miss the sound of vuvuzelas buzzing in my ears and the daily thrill of the game. Well, not really. I was only paying attention because of the ongoing World Cup pool being held back at corporate HQ. I'm happy to report that my dad and I were 2 of, I think, 6 that picked Spain to win. It now comes down to how well our selections panned out in the semi and quarter finals. I hope I won, the hordes of cash "poker chips" will help offset the cost of shipping the three books to the winners of the Land's Edge flash fiction contest.

Congratulations again to the winner Mike Robertson of Missouri for his story Festival of the Lift, to second place David Barber of Crieff, Scotland for The Millennium Princess and finally third place to K.M. McElhinny of Ohio for her story The Light and Shadows of Independence. You will be happy to know that an intrepid member of the Land's Edge staff dropped those in the mail on Thursday. The package to Scotland was going to cost so much that we considered offering the boy to Canada post in trade. They would have nothing to do with it. Not because of slavery laws against such actions, but because they had heard that he eats so darn much! We have opted to ship Mr. Barber's package via the cheapest means possible: solar powered fishing boat. And the propeller is broken. And the skies over the Atlantic will be cloudy for weeks...

A shout out also to the honourable mentions: Pedro Gully, Cathy Olliffe, John Wiswell, Anthony Venutolo, Michael J. Solender and Anton Gully. My heart-felt appreciation to everyone who entered the contest, even those whose stories were not selected. You are all a valuable part of the process.

Also, a big thanks to the lovely ladies who helped me judge the submissions. Laurita Miller and Ellen O'Toole added another dimension to the process and I couldn't have done this without them. I look forward to continue working with them in the future.

And while I'm in the thanking mood...I'd also like to thank everyone who took the time to advertise this contest. Be it by email, carrier pigeon, blogging or Twittering. It was all very helpful. Remember: networking is good. I tried to keep up with the re-Tweets on Twitter and thank those in question. If I missed any of you, consider yourself thanked. You all helped make this a success (at least in my books).

We on The Rock have been moaning about the late arrival of summer this year. It has come at us with a vengeance the past few days. As my father-in-law would say, "It's some shocking hot today!" High temperatures and humidity have had many here shedding their winter parkas, exposing their pasty, white underbelly.

In celebration of the weather I decided to shave off my beard on Thursday (to the annoyance of my wife). This is the first time I've shed the winter coat in 3 years. It's a nice change, but my tendency towards laziness will rear its ugly head and longer intervals will pass between shaves until the beard is back on. I figure I now look 40 years younger and bear a striking resemblance to Tom Selleck, where Sean has been laughing at me, saying that I now look like Saddam Hussein. Not true, I protested...he had black hair. And a beret.

I present you with the photo below. Consider it 'freshly killed', taken a mere one hour ago. Please pass along your opinions below. Beard on, or beard off? Loose paper bag over my head, or plastic garbage bag, tied off at the neck? Thumbs up or down?

Land's Edge Contest- Hon. Mention- Anton Gully

Anton Gully helps us bring the Land's Edge flash fiction contest to a close. He is a man of mystery, a trait he shares with his cousin Pablo. I could bend your ear with the rumours that I and the Land's Edge research team have collected over the past few months. But I won't as most of what we heard were second or third party accounts and most of those interviewed were either drunk, under the influence of a hallucinogen or enraged at hearing the name 'Anton'. The best information can be found in my expose of Anton that appeared here a few weeks ago. For those of you who missed it, you can link to that post here. But how on earth did we end up talking about moi?

Okay people...a little honesty here...

Mr. Gully is a little on the pale side, a bit of a curmudgeon and sometimes downright abrasive. But I right off that behaviour as the signs of alcoholism mental instability a temperamental artist. A Hemingway or perhaps a Bukowski (that's for Ant) in the making. In fact his stories are often enlightening, dramatic and can be quite funny at times. You may, or perhaps man not have, noticed that Mr. Gully doesn't take compliments well. To that I say, "tough noogies to him." I invite all of you to read his honourable mention story, Best Wishes, and let your truths be known in the comments box. You can read more of his #fridayflash stories at The Black Dogs Reading Room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Best Wishes


It was wet out and Mr. White was glad to be home. He pulled the anorak off his back the moment he stepped inside, juggling the package in his hands as he wrenched his arms free, before flinging the coat on to the telephone table in the hall.

He careered into the front room, dropped his arse into his easy chair like a saggy depth charge, and expelled a gasp of breath still perfumed from the spicy curry he had eaten the night before. His wife had not yet acknowledged his existence. She was sitting in a chair the twin of his own, the space between them occupied by a table that heaved with glossy magazines, two over-flowing ashtrays and a selection of half-eaten snacks and candies, nestling amongst discarded wrappers. Peeking out from under the clutter was a copy of the self-help book, "Learn to Unlock Your Wit and Charm: Booze!"

His wife's attention was focused entirely on the enormous television, as the local news reported on an atrocity at the zoo.
Mr. White declared, "I WISH you wouldn't watch that rubbish... oh darn!" The television snapped off, while the package in his hands seemed to twist and turn as though alive.

"Hey!" his wife exclaimed, then she noticed that the remote control lay undisturbed on the table between them.
He held the package out to her now. "It grants wishes, Mother," he said. "Thr-two of them!"

Mrs. White tore at the wrappings until she held it, naked in her hand. A monkey's paw, soft to the touch and bloody at the stump. She turned her eyes to regard the now silent television. "Oh, Father, you're a celebrity."

"You know what this means?" he asked her.

She nodded.

Their son had died and today was the anniversary of his death, exactly five and one quarter days earlier. Losing him had sucked the joy and colour from their home. Their lives were meaningless - even more so than before.

"I wish our Herbert was alive." As his wife spoke the words, Mr. White silently mimed them, his blubbery lips quivering. "Now what?" she asked.

"We'll have to wait."

"Typical. Never did anything in a hurry, that boy." Mrs. White sniffed and dumped the paw on the table.

Eventually the knock came, the tremulous pattering at the door drowned out by the sounds of the soap opera the pair were watching. Finally, when the knocking grew louder, Mr. White heard it during a break in the action on screen.

"There he is, Mother," he said.

Another knock. Heavy now. "Well, go on then, let him in," Mrs. White said.

"Me? I've only just sat down... oh, fine."

He opened the door. There stood Herbert White, his hand cocked to rap once more.
Mr. White sighed. "Get in, you're letting all the heat out." He grabbed Herbert by his arm and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. He dragged his son into the front room, pressing him into his own seat. "Let's get a look at you. Well, Mother, what do you think?"

"Aren't his cheeks rosy," she said. "So lifelike."

"He looks a darn sight better than he did when he was alive, always wandering around like something half-dead." Mr. White squinted at Herbert and tapped his waxy forehead. "The mortician did a lovely job. That was money well spent."

"You get what you pay for," his wife agreed. "And considering what he had to work with... I mean, our Herbert was no oil painting. He got his looks from your side, Father."

"He wishes. Got a face like a dropped pie, he has. No amount of make-up's gonna hide that."

"I wish..." The words were wrung from Herbert's throat like barbed wire from a barrel of custard, as he, haltingly, reached for the monkey's claw with his own curled and quivering hand. "... I was de-"

Deftly, with hardly a sidelong glance, Mother White swept the paw from the table. "Typical him; only here and he wants off."

"No time for us," Father agreed, shaking his head sorrowfully. "I expect he's somewhere better to be."

"Off to see his fancy friends."

They nodded, together.

Once more the little terraced house was alive with conversation, as Father and Mother batted epithets back and forth with the ungainly vigour of top-ranked British tennis players. For Herbert White, recently plucked from the jealous talons of an abominable Hell, the nightmare was only just beginning.

Land's Edge Contest-Hon. Mention-Anthony Venutolo

Anthony Venutolo is a newspaper man for the Newark Star-Ledger. And, as with news guys, he gives all the facts...tells it like it is. You need only peruse his blog Bukowski's Basement for a while to see the style in which he carries out the business of writing. He also supplies audio for many of his stories, as was the case with his last #fridayflash story Albino Village. He supplied a creepy background soundtrack for you to listen to while reading the even creepier story. Check it out.

Cathy Olliffe recently featured Ant as one of her 'American Weeks' writers and did a fantastic interview with him. She wove interview facts within the lines of a story called A Gossip Nation posted by Anthony a couple of weeks earlier at his blog. You can link to that interview here. If nothing else, check out her interview for the cool photos of Ant. Style personified.

His entry to the contest, Bums Celebrate Christmas, may seem familiar to regulars at his blog as it was a poem he posted there last December. I had no qualms about previously published 'blog stuff' but I consulted with my judging associates and concluded that a holiday poem was permissible. Pretty much because, in the contest rules, I didn't say that you couldn't submit poetry. Then again, those who know me have determined that I'm a poetry imbecile. Submitting a poem to a writing contest with me as judge is like having Nurse Betty moderate a debate at the Royal Society of Medicine.

Without further rambling from yours truly I present the prose poetry of Anthony Venutolo, an honourable mention in the Land's Edge flash fiction contest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bums Celebrate Christmas


In the gutter, you tend to
notice things normal
people wouldn't dare dream.
You notice puddles;
And that befriending a hungry
pooch can be your biggest
mistake or quite
frankly, your only hope;
Nerf footballs make the
oddest shapes when each
end is chopped off and
they make damn fine pillows;

Blended beers from different
bottles don't taste all
that bad once you get used
to the initial warm jolt;
If you think women are hard
to come by in the waking world,
brother, just wait until you
haven't showered for a fortnight;

You realize that the time
of day doesn't seem all that
important anymore;
Bums celebrate Christmas;
You hair can hurt;
A small radio tuned to a lonely
talk station will get you through
the coldest of nights;
Oh, and a can of soup won't hurt;

You remember your best job
and wonder how it all went
poof;
And then you remember;
You start to blame people;
Your shitty company;
cheating wife;
that fucking president;
And then you take another
sip of that glorious hooch
and hope you pass out
before the wind keeps you awake;

You look at children walking
to school and that makes
you weep on so many different
levels that it's incomprehensible;
Their bounce reminds you
of promise and that's
something long gone;

You savor matchbooks;
You consider knocking that
old lady in the head just to
get off the street and land
in a nice warm cell, but then
you remember your mother and
hear her soothing voice;

After a time, the gutter
makes you read people
much better than you would
normally; you can see
where they went wrong;
It's in their eyes.

Land's Edge Contest- Hon. Mention- John Wiswell

I have been reading John Wiswell's blog, The Bathroom Monologues, for quite a while now. His daily entries frequently amuse, sometimes baffle but always entertain me. He writes fantasy, horror, political satire...heck, probably any kind of satire.

John is a regular contributor to the #fridayflash scene. He is also one of it's most popular contributors, as evident in his essay Exposure by Community recently winning the first #fridayflash writing contest held by its founder Jon Strother at his blog Mad Utopia.

His humour is very slick and subtle and, if you're not paying attention, it may pass you by. Such was the case with his entry in the Land's Edge flash fiction contest. It was most obvious (Duh!) that his story was about the Christmas holiday. My initial reaction to this tale was, "Big hairy deal, I get it...white beard, rosy cheeks...pretty obvious who the dude is!" The other judges promptly smacked me up the head with a half-eaten pastry. "Read it again," they said. I did. You know what, there is an entire substrate there I hadn't noticed. I challenge you to read the following story carefully. Again if you must, and appreciate the writing of John Wiswell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Necessary Getaway


He moved north at the first opportunity. Way north. He cut all ties, even to his mother, which was the hardest on him. He was a mama's boy. His hair went white from all the stress, including his beard. He took that as a sign to change his appearance and began dressing in pants as soon as they were invented. He spent so long in sedentary hiding that he put on tremendous weight, face filling out, giving him rosy cheeks in the snowy environment. He stayed in doors as much as possible, but always came out around his birthday. It was too lonely, even with the elves that had found him and made camps all around his house. They fashioned him thick boots and gloves that comforted his scarred extremities so much he took up carpentry again, making little wooden toys. The gregarious wee folk did so much for his spirits that he reached out to a similar-sized people - children. He only went out on his birthday, but brought a sack of the toys with him for those boys and girls who had the right attitude. There were always more gifts to give, too, as the elves copied his work and began production for every good child. And associating with children turned out to actually help, for in his old life he had been an average-sized Jew, but to children he was a giant. So his new identity was a jolly mammoth with a white beard and a bag of presents. Even though he only went south on his birthday, no one made the connection. He was safe. No one down there ever guessed that Santa Claus was an alias.

Land's Edge Contest- Hon. Mention-Cathy Olliffe

What could I possibly say about Cathy Olliffe that most of you don't know already? Cathy visits every one's blog and is friends with all! Heck, my circle of friends has increased drastically just by association with her. Cathy's blog is a medium for her regular flash fiction with the #fridayflash crowd. It's also a perfectly framed window to get a fine view of Life on the Muskoka River. Many of you will recall her recent showcase of writers during American Weeks at her blog. Drop by again for a visit. God knows what will happen next!

Cathy writes in an with an 'earthy' flair and tells tales about regular folk thrust, sometimes, into unusual situations. Her entry in the Land's Edge flash fiction contest was no exception. The Blue Swimsuit is a story about a man's memories of a little girl he met years ago at a popular Ontario beach. Let's take a short walk through this man's thoughts. This timeless story is set in 1966, but it could just as well be 2010. Heck, the beach may be just down the road from you.

Note: The painting is Life's a Beach Ball by Allison Hunt and can be found at the Pink Picasso website.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Blue Swimsuit

The Polaroid is like a home movie frozen on one frame in the projector.
Faded almost to white.
Even her navy blue swimsuit is faded. But you can still tell it's blue.
Her light brown hair, caught up in a strong breeze, shining in the midday sun, is lighter. But you can still tell it's brown.
Her smile is enormous. Beatific. Contagious. And she's got these crazy sunglasses on, perfectly round, clamshell pink.
He fingers the edges of the photograph. The date is handwritten on the bottom.
July 14, 1966.
A perfect summer day.
He remembers seeing Cheryl for the first time.
He is at Wasaga Beach, stretched out on a towel, a bottle of Pepsi and a John D. MacDonald paperback lying in the sand beside him, a camera in his hand. He ignores the hundreds of bright young women who walk by him in their best bathing suits, a parade of taut, tanned skin and sprayed curls, stepping lightly to impress the hundreds of young men who gawk openly as they go by.
He barely notices them.
But he sees Cheryl.
She is running pell mell down the beach, sand flying up from her feet in every direction. She is chasing a plastic beach ball, coloured like gas station flags, and she is squealing because some other kid is in hot pursuit. Likely a brother. He watches. The kid chases her for a bit, to make her happy, then dekes out and goes to where a bunch of girls are hanging out at the hamburger stand.
Cheryl takes the ball over to a young couple who might be her parents and tries to get their attention but they're talking to another couple, laughing and drinking Labatt's 50. They scold her for interrupting, then shoo her away.
Unconcerned, she picks up an orange pail with a white plastic shovel, and starts wandering down the beach.
He watches her meander further away from her parents. Nobody but him is paying attention.
He gets up from the towel and walks towards her.
When he's close enough he begins to take pictures.
He smiles as the shutter clicks.
She is so happy.
So alive.
So doomed.
Soon she will be a headline in newspapers across the country. "CHERYL THOMPSON, 6, MISSING" will be replaced after a week by "BODY PARTS FOUND IN GEORGIAN BAY" and finally "TRAIL GOES COLD IN SEARCH FOR CHILD KILLER."
For a few minutes more she is still a little girl playing in the sand on a pristine summer day.
He walks up beside her and gets down on one knee, like he is proposing.
He is blocking her sun so she looks up.
"Hey mister," she says.

Land's Edge Contest- Hon. Mention- Pablo Gully

Pablo Gully...best described as a solitary man. A bit of an enigma wrapped in a conundrum, akin to a cabbage roll or perhaps a jelly roll. Little is known about the man. The name implies a Mexican thread in the tapestry of the Gully family, nestled in the wilds of Northern Ireland. All I can say for sure about the man is that he is bald, like his cousin Anton, and drinks far too much tequila. Sadly, Pablo does not have a blog but refers you to Anton's blog with any messages of goodwill or perhaps gifts of money.

I can also tell you that Pablo can write creepy, family drama very well. I present to you now his story Cold Comfort, an honourable mention in the Land's Edge flash fiction contest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cold Comfort


The window flapped and clattered in the wind, but it didn't bother her. When Gina was little she'd have flinched and whimpered at the sharp noise. She would have welcomed any excuse to stay awake, any excuse to have her father lift her, hold her tight and whisper warm assurance in her ear.

She lay on the cold bed clothes, listening. They were arguing.

The wind blew the casement, slapping it against the frame with a dull shiver threatening to burst the glass. Inside, papers flapped under a pyramid of crayons, a rag doll shivered in the breeze, and silk flowers bowed and curtsied frantically.

She heard. "Leave those alone!"

She heard. "Get that fucking dog out of here!"

She heard. "Why is this so easy for you?"

Chancy scraped at the door. He whimpered and puffed wetly at the gap, paws scrabbling on the wood.

She heard her father. "It isn't healthy. We can give them to charity. Christ, Joanie, it's February. We have to take the tree down, at least."

Gina pulled herself to the edge of the bed when she heard her mother's first raucous sob. She twisted inside, feeling her mother's anguish. There was so much emotion that it bubbled through her, rather than finding a place to lodge. It was too much. Her eye's bulged with greasy tears, even if she did not fully understand why.

Her father's voice came, soothing and strong. "Let's get these away. We'll go see your mother tomorrow."

Chancy huffed and blubbered at the space between door and floor, black nails skittering off the cheap wood.

Gina heard her mother, but the voice was too low to make out. She strained forward on the bed, hoping to hear what she said but the words were muffled.

Her father's voice was stronger. "I'm taking him out, Joanie. You know, he just misses her too."

Chancy was no longer scraping at her door. There were no voices. Gina strained to hear anything, but toppled from the bed instead. She landed wetly.

Eventually, her father spoke again. "He's outside. Please, babe, you have to be strong."

Sobbing.

Gina dragged herself forward. She wanted to hear what was being said.

"We'll throw it all away, or give it to whoever needs it."

Hand over hand, Gina clawed her way to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood, hands pressed either side of her head. Her fingers bunched with excitement, dragging at the door loudly.

She gasped when she heard her mother say, "what's that scratching? Are you sure Chancy is outside?"

A long moment passed. She had heard her mother walk to the door, touch the door knob, could almost hear her strangled breath as she fought away the tears. Her mother did not open the door, instead she held her hand to the handle.

Gina reached up and thought she felt the warmth.

Land's Edge Contest- 3rd Place- K.M. McElhinny

I have been following the blog of K.M. McElhinny for a few months. Her love of all things horror is most apparent. I laughed when I read her most recent blog post flashing back to her childhood. Here is a snippet of that:

"Where other girls were having tea parties, dressing up and playing barbies, running around carefree willy-nilly, I was playing funeral, Go to The Hospital and Die, and my barbies were kidnapped, tortured and then they managed to find their way out of the horrid mess all on their own."

Kara is a charming woman who can post blogs about horror with great humour and imagination. Though when you read her poetry and short stories you discover that she's all about the business of horror and to her it's no laughing matter. The judges were impressed with Kara's story The Light and Shadows of Independence. She took as for a tour through the thought process of a person on the edge...perhaps even over the edge. Her tale was dark, in the evil sense, and the descriptions of light and dark were well done throughout the story. I present to you the third place entry in the Land's Edge flash fiction contest.

The Light and Shadows of Independence


You sit in your bedroom, double-edged memories slice through your mind as fireworks burst outside, boom in the night sky, crackle with searing shot. They remind you of her.

You remember the Fourth of July when you met her so many years ago, before she’d become your wife. Her auburn hair slicked into pigtails, freckles dashed over full cheeks; life’s light flashing in her gaze, drawing your eye, until you wanted nothing more.

You wish you could tie your heart to the next explosive to make up for the pain you’ve wrought her and your children. Lights dance across the window and faraway people murmur, excited. It will be better if they see you, instead of the kind and friendly person they think they know. You struggle against shame and guilt. Your insecurities a fuse, she the match that lit them. She burned so bright, magnifying your doubts until you weren’t sure if you were good enough.

You place your head in your hands, rocking the chair forward with a squeak. Groaning with succinct harmony.

Rockets flair outside, explosions rain through the dark.


Boom. Crackle. Sizzle.


You didn't realize the depths your piety selfishness ran. Now you do.

A fist to squelch her flame. A word to smother her light. You know it should have never been, but you feared being eclipsed, despite your love.

So, you pushed: to break her, to trip her, to tick her off. Each time ignoring the voice whispering, ″Let her rest, she's a good girl, she needs a break.″

No! Your mind had cried. She doesn't deserve a break!

If you allowed her an inch, a breath, she would leave. You couldn't have that. She was yours, no one else’s.

Colored lights flicker through sheer drapes.

She grew wary of your pushing, she was ready to leave. You'd blown it. Ten years of marriage. But you’d told her, “You’re not leaving. All I’ve ever offered is your protection…”

A sigh escapes your lips. You wait for the fireworks to end but they keep coming, combusting.

The Fourth of July: Independence Day.

Her Independence Day.

You don't want independence; you want your wife, your family. You had thought: How will my sons grow without their father? And once the moment calmed, you’d told her, “I'll go to counseling. Is there a way you can ever forgive me?” Because you had stomped her into nothingness. You see the error of your ways. You must say anything to make her stay, to keep her shackled to this life, your heart.

The spark you thought you’d snuffed out flickers to life once again in her eyes. The flame says, “I'll try.”

Trying is not enough because it doesn’t change anything, it will only make her stronger. And it kills you—this tearing inside, the choice covered in a veil of shadows. The fireworks, her smile, her promise, they flint your fear and fuel the panic inside your chest. She'll be too independent, too ready to give it to everyone, willing to share what is yours. You hate that she’s stronger than you. A seizure of despair grasps your heart, jerking it again and again until you can barely breathe. Her light will leave you in the dark, it is what suffocates you, lifeless. It is her fault. Not yours.

You must do something.

Her or you. You or her. What will the choice be?

Boom.

Crackle.

Sizzle.

Light is too distracting, water moistens your eyes. It is too much, you kn-kn-know...it's your fault. Someone brilliant couldn't love you with the shadows playing over your heart. You should have stopped it, never allowed yourself to feel her heat. It is too much, too intense, and now you will never kn-kn...know, what your life would have been like.

You turn your head, it hurts even to look at the flashes of fireworks. Too much like her. So much greater than you. Finally they end and people sigh in joy and leave. It soothes your soul to know that it was right, to extinguish the light because there is no peace in a blazing flame.

The darkness is your solace.

You turn slowly and your gaze falls across the bed. There she lies: belly bloated, dead eyes, light extinguished. Nothing more to share with the world, no power left to drive you crazy. You breathe a sigh of relief, at peace, finally.

You are a good husband.

She has her independence.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

K.M. McElhinny is writer and poet of the dark and the in between. She chased the white rabbit down the writing hole over a year ago and has been thrust into a Wonderland of shady characters, fantastical places with twisted endings. She has been published with Flashes in the Dark; her poetry can be seen at Spilled Coffee, SNM Horror Magazine and The Cynic Online. Upcoming publications include a new poem at Daily Love.
http://randomthoughtsofawriterygirl.blogspot.com/

Land's Edge Contest- 2nd Place- David Barber

David Barber lives, as he described to me in an email, a "stone throws away" from the Glenturret Distillery in Crieff, Perthshire, Scotland. Being born is Scotland I thought to myself, "How cool, a fellow Scot" only to find in his bio that he was actually born and raised in Manchester. But that doesn't matter...he may as well be a Scot by the way he proudly speaks of his new home and promotes the region by posting regular photographs. Like so many of us trying to make our presence known in the writing world, David works as a self-employed tiler and still juggles the rest of his time with family, blogging and writing short stories.

David regularly posts gritty, noir-type stories to the #fridayflash scene and I have come to enjoy his 'working class-guy' style. I present now The Millennium Princess by David Barber, second place finisher in the Land's Edge flash fiction holiday contest. All I can tell you about this tale is that it occurs on the eve of the Millennium...and a princess is involved. Please give it a read and then talk amongst yourselves.

Note that the princess photo is courtesy of Costumes Inc. and you can link to their website here.

The Millennium Princess


“This is supposed to be a fancy dress party,” the Vampire at the door said, “What have you come as?”

I looked inside and saw all kinds of characters milling around, talking and dancing. I grabbed a woman and told her to jump on my back.

“There. I’ve come as a snail, and this is Michelle,” I said pointing to the laughing woman on my back. “Now get out of the way and let me in.”

The Vampire, speechless, stepped aside and I walked into the party. The woman jumped off my back and I thanked her, only realising as she walked away what a fine looking arse she had.

I made my way through the throng of people. Mary Queens of Scots was chatting to Charlie Chaplin while The Statue of Liberty was dancing with Batman. I’ve got to say, it was one of the best fancy dress parties I’d seen in a long time, probably because it was Millennium eve, though.

Anyway, I wasn’t there to assess the costumes, although one of the characters before me was of importance. You see, I’m in the private security business and, New Years Eve or not, I had a job to do: even if that meant being in the biggest gay club in London.

I made my way towards the bar area, the music bellowing out from the DJ’s platform to my right. Prince was telling everybody it was 1999.

No doubt in another hour or so, Robbie Williams will be telling us it’s a Millennium, I thought to myself as I approached the bar.

“A large whisky on ice,” I asked. The bartender, dressed as a cowboy got me my drink. As he turned to fill my glass from the optic two eyes, tattooed on his bare arse cheeks, stare back at me.

The barman turned and brought back my drink, a flirty smile on his face.

“It’s the tattoo’s mate, not your arse. Don’t flatter yourself.” I said, turning and leaning against the bar.

The place was buzzing, the music was thumping and I had a job to do. I scanned the faces around the room. Everyone was here. Marilyn Monroe was on the dance floor kissing with JFK, albeit two blokes. Elton John was getting down with David Bowie, while Madonna was dancing with the ugliest version of Wonder Woman I had ever seen. The usual fancy dress suspects adorned the rest of the place.

I walked away from the bar, sipping at my drink. I got a few stares from guests, as my attire quite obviously didn’t blend in with the general theme of things. The Village People, one by one, filed out of the toilets to my right. Almost in unison they wiped white powder from their noses, sniffing loudly as they passed me.

‘There’ll be no stopping the music for them tonight,’ I thought, draining the rest of my drink. I left my empty glass on a table I passed.

I knew who I was looking for, but at the moment my target was nowhere in sight. I made my way round the room, rubbing shoulders with every celebrity under the sun. I checked my watch.

“Fuck!”

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I had to cause a commotion. I walked straight into the main crowd of revellers and started ripping masks off of the people who wore them. Screams and yells of protests were drowned out by the music the DJ was playing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my target. I should have guessed, the costume was so obvious. Cinderella made her way to the back exit and I followed as quickly as I could. She ran awkwardly in her stiletto’s, holding the huge dress up with both hands. It was a comical sight.

As I reached the back of the club, I saw the emergency exit closing shut. I ran, caught it before it closed and stepped out into the cold night air. Fifty or so yards away a figure stood leaning against the wall on the other side of the alleyway, smoke bellowing from its mouth. I walked towards the person I’d come for.

“It’s getting close to midnight,” I said.

“Yes, and I’m going to turn back into a little slave girl when the clock strikes twelve,” The figure dropped its cigarette and ground it into the concrete with a stiletto clad foot. “OK, Prince Charming, I’m coming.”

“I think that’s best, Prime Minister.” I advised.

The End.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David Barber was born and bred in Manchester, England, but now lives in Crieff, Scotland with his wife and two daughters. He wrote some years ago but was inspired to write again by the beauty that surrounds him in Scotland. His writing has been published on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers, A Twist Of Noir, Blink Ink, New Flesh and on his own blog, davidbarberfiction.blogspot.com.

Land's Edge Contest Winner- Mike Robertson

As noted in my official announcement, Mike Robertson of Columbia, Missouri is the winner of the first Land's Edge flash fiction contest. His story Festival of the Lift captured the imaginations of the judges. It is a well-written tale hypnotically describing the arrival a universal event. The art shown to the right is a surreal monotype by Marius Starkey and I thought it fit well with this story. You can link to his site here.

I was not familiar with Mr. Robertson prior to the contest but I'm aware that some within the #fridayflash circle are. He is a self-taught musician, composer, writer, poet and philosopher. Some of you may have read his entry this weekend as he posted it as his #fridayflash story for this week. For those that haven't read it, I present it to you now. Enjoy.



Festival of the Lift

None of us knew why they called it the Festival of the Lift. Word went out, be ready on this date. Settle whatever you need to settle because we're lifting off. We didn't really care what it meant, Jackie and me. It was a party, no question. We were ready for that.

Of course, things had been getting strange for some time, what with the sounds coming from everywhere, deep whines and sighs and hums, indistinct at first, then louder and clearer, a buzz in our ears that everyone got used to because we had to. No one knew what it was, and truth is, no one cared that much, because what came with it was a rising sense of … what? Peacefulness, a kind of relaxed cheer that held a sense of optimism.

We talked less as the Day approached. Some of us, Jackie included, stopped speaking completely. She didn't need to, at least not to me. I knew what she meant by every gesture, every expression. As she grew silent, her eyes seemed to grow larger and to shine. It seemed to me she was seeing something, maybe many things, that the rest of us could not see.

On the final day the bells began, chiming away the hours, then the minutes. The colors of things, which had been growing brighter and sharper daily since the announcement, began to mix with each other, to shimmer and glow. Night had been gone for some time now – the light and colors had been different, but always present, always visible.

Our imaginations were in high gear for this event. It felt like every thought we had, every memory, every fantasy, could become real at any moment.

The morning of the Lift, the sky changed from flaming yellows and oranges of the night to morning's magenta and pink. It was like the changing hues of the wings of a monarch butterfly caught in the morning sun.

Vague motions near the horizon. My body felt ever larger and lighter. My mind too. Conversation was getting a little hard to imagine under the circumstances. “How you feeling?”

Jackie grinned at me, her face like a piano wire being drawn tighter. “Ha,” she said finally. “Ha!”

Things began lifting around us, rising gently into the air. An old hotel model armchair, overstuffed and dusty, rose without rocking from the front yard of a house. In it sat a tiny woman, hands clasped, body relaxed, a comforting aura about her, wearing a beatific smile. She looked down on us as she rose. The chair turned like a leaf in an eddy until she had beamed her smile down on all below. We smiled back at her, sensing that our turn would come. Then a bench rose, and stones and a tree, and then … everyone.

I felt colors playing over my skin, under and through me, like music. I realized I wore no clothes and couldn't decide if I had actually been wearing any before, maybe not for a long time. All around me people arched their backs, facing the eastern sky and then I realized there was no direction; there was only up. The earth had dropped away, or gone transparent, and in that boundless sky, I saw there were planets, it seemed you could touch them, all lined up in an arc, Jupiter leading Saturn and Venus and the rest, moving closer in perfect time to the music we sensed but could no longer hear. I realized that was it, it was the music from the planets, we heard it all the time without knowing we heard it and it made all other music comically weak by comparison, making us yearn to hear more and join in that song, hearts ringing like bells and and yes! we were bells ringing joyously to this music ... and I was happy yes! except there was no longer a me, we were a union just perfectly happy to be moving toward those spheres, toward a body I could find no words to describe, could not even imagine, but I could see Jackie's face, a cloud of joy before me, and she knew ... she knew ... she knew.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Mike has been rarely published but has been writing fiction since age twelve. He turned from word to music in his twenties, having realized he wanted to be a writer more than he actually wanted to write. Music (and zen) seems to have cured that malady over time, and having raised his family and finally retired, he has returned to his first creative love. He has written a number of short stories (all unpublished), a novelette and most of his first novel. You may find more of his flash fiction at http://lazlokovaks.com/Flash%20Fiction/FridayFlash_Story.php?ff=4.

And the Winner is...

I am back after a couple of days away from the 'big city'. Sunny skies and warm weather (OK, it was 21C here today or 72F which is darn good for Newfoundland) made for some nice outdoor walking in the hills with my dog. The only drawback was the black flies. Not a single bite on me, but the greyhound didn't fare as well. The little blighters honed in on his 'tender underbelly region' the way Homer Simpson hones in on donuts. His parts look like they've got a bad case of the measles. But not a word of complaint from him. Good lad.

Back to topic. I'm here, of course, to announce the winners and honourable mentions in the recent Land's Edge flash fiction contest. As you probably recall, the only rules as such were a 750 word limit and the stories had to be a holiday theme. I must say, at times the judges had a struggle determining what the holidays were in the entries. We tried not to hold that against the entries too much.

As you can see in the photo, I've donned my tux again for this gala occasion. There are three things to point out prior to announcing the winners of this prestigious prize...and the recipients of the fine Newfoundland literature, of course:

1. My last minute begging appeal for stories, combined with the Tweeting by fine friends, resulted in quite a few last minute entries. The judges were pleased at the high quality and entertaining submissions. With that in mind, I will be announcing first, second and third place winners (recipients of book prizes) and also six honourable mentions. I'd like to thank every one of you who took the time to write these wonderful tales and enter them in the contest. I am sorry that I can't use all of them here, so please don't be offended if your story wasn't mentioned. As noted, the competition was stiff.



2. I'd like to thank the other two judges who 'blind read' all of the stories. Fellow islanders Laurita Miller of Brain Droppings and Ellen O'Toole of MyMentalPicture joined me in an evening of lively discussion of the stories submitted. There was hardly any wailing and gnashing of teeth. We had to narrow five very strong stories down to the top three and reach a compromise on the order. I must say that co-operation was the order of the day and my facial scars are barely noticeable in a dimly lit room. I likened their impassioned plea for their favourites to the beatings I used to suffer at the hands of my three younger sisters. But we're all still friends...they were easily placated with copious amounts of coffee, cheese danishes and caplin flavoured bran muffins.



3. Umm...my last point was so bloated and long-winded that I can't remember the third point that I was going to make. I guess I'm just a forgetful ass. Let's forge on.

One thing many know about me is that I hate to get dressed up in a shirt and tie. Since I'm in this outfit, I have to get a lot of mileage out of it so I'll start with a little joke...

This American, Canadian and Scotsman go into a pub...um, scratch that! Not very PC. *Looks in son's big old joke book* ...

To some, 'marriage' is a word ... to others, it's a sentence...Har!

Anyhoo...without further ado, the winner of the Land's Edge flash fiction contest is Mike Robertson of Columbia, Missiouri for his story Festival of the Lift. Second place goes to David Barber of Crieff, Scotland for his story The Millennium Princess and third place is K.M. McElhinny of Ohio for her story The Light and Shadows of Independence. I shall be in touch with the three winners shortly to get mailing addresses.

I shall post The Festival of the Lift tomorrow the 4th of July, The Millennium Princess on Monday, July 5th and The Light and Shadows of Independence on Tuesday, July 6th. In no particular order, the honourable mentions go to Pablo Gully and Cathy Olliffe (stories will be posted on Weds, July 7), Anthony Venutolo and John Wiswell (Thursday, July 8), and Michael Solender and Anton Gully (Friday, July 9). Thanks again to everyone that took the time to both write and submit such great stories . I invite everyone back this week to read the writers listed above.

Excuse me, must run and get out of this damn outfit!

A Day to Celebrate...and to Remember

I have been MIA this week. It's hard to believe my last post was on Sunday and the week is nearly over. Fear not, Alan has been busy reading over the entries to the Land's Edge flash fiction contest. I met with the other judges last night and we have come up with a 'top 3' with many other fantastic stories nipping at their heels. I will be incommunicado (that's Spanish for "there's no damn computer in deez hacienda") for a couple of days but will post the names of the winners and honourable mentions on the blog either late Saturday or early Sunday. I will begin posting the stories starting on Monday July 5.

Today.

For the information of our American neighbours and British, Australian and other international friends, today is our Canada Day . July 1, formerly 'Dominion Day', celebrates the anniversary of the enactment of the British North America Act when the British colonies of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick and a province of the British Empire were united into the single country of Canada in 1867. Sadly, I must work today but will get a day of in lieu tomorrow. My mind will be on my work...and it will be on those out celebrating today. My son has a cadet ceremony and parade to attend this morning. In part to celebrate Canada Day, but also to honour an occasion not well-known outside of Newfoundland and Labrador.

On July 1, 1916 the 1st Newfoundland Regiment, along with British and French troops, began the Battle of the Somme near the village of Beaumont-Hamel in France. It marked the first day of what would be four months of fighting. The final outcome, a movement forward of the front lines by 10km, would cost the British and their allies more than 650,000 either killed, wounded, missing or taken prisoner. The image above was borrowed from the Veterans Affairs Canada web site.

Etched into the memories and fibre of older Newfoundlanders are the loses sustained by the 1st Newfoundland Regiment at Beaumont-Hamel on the first day of action on July 1, 1916. These brave soldiers, nicknamed the "Blue Puttees" because of the colour of their leggings on their lower legs, left the trenches in the early morning. Of the 801 who went into battle, only 68 answered roll call the next morning. The count was 255 dead, 386 wounded and 91 missing. The numbers were staggering for the island dominion of Newfoundland with a population of about 240,000 (12,000 of whom enlisted in the war).

The commander of the 29th British Division said of the actions of the 1st Newfoundland Regiment:

"It was a magnificent display of trained and disciplined valour, and its assault only failed of success because dead men can advance no further."

Happy Canada Day to my Canadian friends and best wishes to my American friends who will be celebrating their Independence Day this weekend.