Lost on the Rock 2011 Contest Winners

I suppose we have waited long enough to announce the winners for the Lost on the Rock 2011 flash fiction contest. We have stalled so long that even I am dying of suspense. I know that everyone is giddy with excitement. It's as if it was Christmas morning...or something like that.

As I noted in my last post, the competition was tight and Laurita and I wish we could put ALL of the stories up here this week. Alas, there can be only four (and two honourable mentions). I should note that the top four represent three different continents. This Internet thingy is really something.

Without further ado, the winners are...(Drum roll, please):

• 1st place is "Keeners", by Angel Zapata
• 2nd place is "Lost", by Denise Covey
• 3rd place is "Oubliette", by Susan Harding
• 4th place is "Where is Esther?", by Mike Jackson
• Honourable mentions go to "Simply Lost", by John Wiswell and "Numbers", by Gerard Smith.

Many thanks to everyone who entered. A thousand blessings to you all and those who live in your tent. I'd also like to thank my writing buddy Laurita Miller for co-hosting this contest. Sharing a contest can be something of a challenge but it's well worth the pay off. A shout out to the lovely 'V' who acted as intake secretary and official bartender for the contest, allowing us to judge the contest 'blindly'. I hope you enjoy the line up of stories and interviews Laurita and I will present this week. Here is the schedule of what will appear here at Conversations From Land's Edge:

Monday-      Interview with contest winner, writer Angel Zapata
Tuesday-      Presenting 2nd place story "Lost", by Denise Covey
Wednesday- Presenting 3rd place story "Oubliette", by Susan Harding
Thursday-     Interview with 4th place writer Mike Jackson
Friday-         Presenting Honourable mention story "Numbers", by Gerard Smith


Over at Laurita Miller's blog, Calling Shotgun, you will pretty much find the opposite arrangement:

Monday-      Presenting contest winning story "Keeners", by Angel Zapata
Tuesday-      Interview with writer Denise Covey
Wednesday- Interview with writer Susan Harding
Thursday-    Presenting 4th place story "Where is Esther?", by Mike Jackson
Friday-        Presenting Honourable mention story "Simply Lost", by John Wiswell

Judgement Day

The fine people at Google have decided 6 days of non-blogging activity was punishment enough for 'breaking' blogger. They have let me come out to play. I just wish they'd give me that missing post back. You remember the one? There were two videos: one where a guy is teasing a dog and the dog is talking back to him. The other had guys trying on an electric dog collar....just for fun. High times.

I won't dwell. I'm prepared to move on to more important things like judging for the Lost of the Rock 2011 flash fiction contest. The lure of wine and nibblies was enough to bring the judges together to rank stories and participate in hand-to-hand combat.  We had it all: 15 flash fiction stories, cheese, crackers, two pairs of
boxing gloves and white wine dispensed from a box in the fridge.

Wine and nibblies on a fine ceramic plate

The stories covered quite a range of subject matter: from death of a loved one, to loss of a relationship. From the loss of moral fibre to the loss of innocence. Coming to think of it, the 'Loss' theme lead to some good stories, but some downer subject manner. *gulps back more wine* Perhaps next year we will run a contest with a more upbeat theme such as "euphoria on The Rock" or perhaps "cuddly animals on The Rock".

The contest was 'blind judged', meaning that we didn't know the names of the writers ahead of time. Surprisingly, the judges seemed to be on the same wavelength as six stories grabbed our attention from the start. The major challenge was putting them in proper order and declaring a winner. We have sent out email notification to the top finishers. These folks will also be given a few interview questions to answer and will be asked to supply a link to their web pages or blogs and also a photo of themselves. Remember...if no photo is supplied, I'll be forced to break out the purple crayon of doom and draw a likeness of that person to run with their interview...



Ripping open the hermetically sealed envelope of authors

Many thanks to all who participated in our contest this year. We appreciate your involvement at every level. Writing and submitting stories, Twittering about the contest, blogging and linking to our posts about the contest...it was all great and we're thankful for such a group of online friends. As usual, it's difficult to narrow it down and we thank ALL of you who submitted stories and wish we could run them all. You're all winners in our books.
We will be waiting for some feedback from the four prize winners over the next couple of days. We will announce the those names, and the names of two honourable mentions, on Sunday, May 22nd along with a schedule of when the stories and interviews will appear here and at Laurita's Calling Shotgun blog.

In other news... I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to Cathy Webster and her review of #fridayflash regular G.P. Ching's book The Soulkeepers at her blog. Drop by and check it out.

Savage Beatings. And a Joke

I was going to post this entry yesterday but somehow I broke blogger.

I am sorry.

This week was a fairly regular routine of eating, working, sleeping and reading contest entries. I’ve gotten through a first read and am about to go through them a second time. I have four that stand out as superior stories for me. That being said, I’m sure that Laurita will have four different ones that SHE likes and Ellen will have four different ones for which she will emphatically support and administer savage beatings until we agree with her.

This is not me.

To counter this, I have been hitting the treadmill to build up stamina for what I’m sure will be a spirited debate with my associates to pick a winner for the Lost on the Rock Contest for 2011. I recently signed up for Tae Bo classes in a local gym, thinking it would help me get the upper hand on the lovely ladies. Sadly, when I arrived at the class I discovered it was Tie-Bow…a class where elderly gentlemen get assistance and training on how to create a proper cravat. The women will probably kick my ascot...but at least I will look simply maaaavelous (said like Billy Crystal, of course).

The chuckle of the day yesterday goes to Cathy Webster at her blog Life on the Muskoka River where she presents her “Ode to Lost Dryer Sheets.” If you missed it, it's hilarious and a must read.

And speaking of funny tales…corporate HQ back in Ontario recently held a contest to submit the best joke. The winner was guaranteed extra rations of bread and water. I didn’t bother to enter because I can’t compete against the combined wit of the drafting office. Besides, I could stand to lose a bit of weight. I present the winning entry below.


“For several years, a man was having an affair with an Italian woman. One night, she confided in him that she was pregnant. Not wanting to ruin his reputation or his marriage, he said he would pay her a large sum of money if she would go to Italy to secretly have the child. If she stayed in Italy to raise the child, he would also provide child support until the child turned 18. She agreed, but asked how he would know when the baby was born. To keep it discrete, he told her to simply mail him a post card, and write 'Spaghetti' on the back. He would then arrange for the child support payments to begin.


One day, about 9 months later, he came home to his confused wife. 'Honey,' she said, 'you received a very strange post card today. 'Oh, just give it to me and I'll explain it later,' he said. The wife obeyed and watched as her husband read the card, turned white, and fainted. On the card was written: 'Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti. Three with meatballs, two without. Send extra sauce!!!!”

And That's a Wrap

The deadline has now passed for the Lost on the Rock Contest 2011. Many thanks to those of you who entered. We had a little flurry of entries on the last day. In fact, one snuck in just before the deadline.

I would also like to thank those of you who helped get the word out via your blogs and Twitter, etc. Every little bit helps. For those keeping score, we ended up with 15 story submissions. I have read four and see that the bar has been set high. Laurita, Ellen and I will meet next week to champion our favourites. I will come prepared this year with boxing gloves and mouthguard. As I recall, Ellen has a nasty right cross...

We will be sending interview questions to the top four finishers late next week and hope to post the winning names on Saturday, May 21st.  The top four stories and interviews will be posted both here and at Calling Shotgun the week after that (ie. the story will appear at one blog, the interview at the other). Perhaps there will even be an honourable mention or two posted as well.

Just to pad this post out a little, I shall provide you a link here to an article at a travel website called Gadling. Perhaps the world's ten creepiest abandoned cities will provide inspiration to the horror writers in the crowd. There's a cool photo of each...from Taiwan to Turkey or Italy to the USA. There's apparently no shortage of places where people just up and left for reasons both natural and man-made.

The Back-up Post

I'm really annoyed with myself this week. To be more precise, I'm really annoyed with my computer. More specifically, my Word program.

A few months ago a had worked on a lengthy post and somehow lost my work. I then started to type out my lengthier posts in Word and then cut/paste them into my blog. On Wednesday I was working on a post about reality television. I finished it after about 1 1/4 hours and then did a spell check. For some reason the program locked up on a paragraph. I was then given an option to retrieve my work, and I did. Now, you'd think that the Fez Guy would hastily move that story to his blog or at least save the dickens out of it. Nope. I tried the spell check again and it locked up again on the same paragraph (it must have thought that it was complete crap). I tried saving the document but this time I must have done something different and then Poof, it was gone.

Those who know me well will attest to the fact that I don't often swear (I leave that up to the boy). He swears enough for all of us. In fact, he swears so much that when he goes to interview with the Canadian navy when he hits 18 they will admit him right away. He could be the profanity instructor to the entire Atlantic fleet. He'd probably make admiral in a few weeks...OK, so I'm off on a bit of a tangent.

Me as a boy...

My reality TV post is now 'Lost' in Cyberspace. Speaking of 'Lost'...the deadline for the Lost on the Rock 2011 flash fiction contest is the end of day tomorrow. You may already know this as Laurita, myself, and our friends have been Tweeting the heck out of this in an attempt to get more entries. It's a mere 1000 words. Give it a try. Take next week's #fridayflash story (if it's already written) and send it to us! (as long as it fits the 'Lost' contest theme). You can read the contest information here. The post about the prizes is here. We will take a couple of weeks to read, re-read and then rank the stories. The top four will be sent a few interview questions to answer and return. The interviews and writer's photo will appear at our blogs the week after the Canadian Victoria Day weekend. If you are selected in the top four and don't want to include a photo, that's OK too...I'll just sketch up a likeness of that person with my handy drafting crayon...

Yeah, the death of my last blog post had me a bit bummed out this week, but my friend Cathy Olliffe sent along this video from tooshocking.com to cheer me up. The cute dog video then led me to this video which, as a former dog catcher who had to deal with obnoxious owners, really put a smile on my face. I don't think that I need to say that alcohol and dog collars don't mix...

Contest Prizes!

Lost on the Rock 2011 Flash Fiction Contest



There are only 7 days left to get your entries in for the Lost on the Rock 2011 flash fiction contest. For those of you still pondering this, you can link to my earlier blog here with all of the contest rules. We are expecting a varied selection of story genres on this ‘Lost’ theme from our combined circle of friends. We're really looking forward to how some of you worked this theme of things 'Lost'.

Laurita Miller and I have had some discussion about prizes and decided on the following four (in no particular order). We're thinking that the story selected as the Contest Winner will get first choice from this list, second place gets second pick, and so forth.

A copy of 52 Stitches horror anthology, edited by Aaron Polson. Strange Publications, 2010. Trade Paperback, 129 pages.This collection of 52 flash stories come in bit-sized pieces of 750 words or less by horror writers from Canada, the United States, Great Britain and Australia. You will find frightening tales from established writers such as Alan Baxter, Cate Gardner, Jeremy Kelly, Jonathan Pinnock and Laura Eno.

A copy of The Cuffer Anthology: Volume II, edited by Pam Frampton. Killick Press, 2010. Trade Paperback, 152 pages. This anthology of 34 short fiction (1200 word max.) features stories of local flair by both new and established writers from Newfoundland and Labrador. This is a collection that varies from literary fiction to science fiction, humour and horror. The feature story is Holes to China by Cuffer winner Chad Pelley. Also included are stories by Jillian Butler and Gerard Collins, not to mention Fledgling by my friend and writing buddy Laurita Miller. My story The Inscription also lurks somewhere within the anthology.

A copy of Haunted Shores: True Ghost Stories of Newfoundland and Labrador, by Dale Jarvis. Flanker Press, 2004. Trade Paperback, 208 pages. Dale Jarvis is a writer, researcher and story teller who lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland. He has searched archival sources and taken first-hand accounts of mysterious lights, ghost ships, headless pirates and other unexplained entities and weaved them into dark tales from all parts of this historic province.

And finally, a $15 gift card from Amazon to get whatever the heck you like...Woot!

We'd like to remind everyone that not only do the top four stories selected by the judges get their stories published either here or at Calling Shotgun, they will also be interviewed by us and have the interview posted on the same day. Think of the crazy things one can say. Think of the promotional value. Does it get any cooler than that? (Don't answer that...)

We would also like to give the prizes a personal touch and perhaps include a load of moose droppings an item or two with each book that screams 'Newfoundland'. Have no fear...there will be no Jiggs Dinners, cod tongues or seal flippers sent out with the prizes...

...on Boardwalks, Paddles, and E-book Pricing...

The Auld Y'in and the boy at Job's Cove boardwalk, 2008

The long weekend is finally behind us. Speaking of behinds...I ate more than my share of turkey and chocolate (not at the same time) when we visited my parents 'round the bay. The weather was nearly warm on Saturday and we ventured out onto the boardwalk at the nearby community of Job's Cove. The snow drifts had finally melted from its boards and the 20 minute walk was  now do-able. The only issue was that a couple of sections were blown over by recent high winds and repairs have yet to be undertaken. We didn't have a camera with us, but I've included a couple of photos from previous years to give you the idea of the topography. This moss-covered moonscape is a familiar sight all over this island.

Many of you may recall this conversation that the boy, V and I had when we were out to supper recently. I know present an abridged version of a chat that occurred while my mum was making lunch. Let me set the scene...she held a knife and then brought out  a cutting board to chop up some veggies to stuff into pita bread. The board had a short handle and appeared wider than it was long.

Me: "Jeez, that cutting board looks like a paddle."

My dad (the auld y'in): "Aye, you mother and I break that oot on Tuesday nights. There's nae much on the telly..."

Me: *Shudders*  "I don't recall the paddle being an instrument of such fun when WE were kids." *flashes back to cricket bat-like paddle hanging prominently from a nail on the kitchen wall*

Sometimes, visits home can be a bit TOO educational. Speaking of educational...

I'd like to point you in the direction of John Wiswell. Those of you who contribute to and read #fridayflash stories will be familiar with John's eclectic and often satirical brand of writing. Today, at his blog The Bathroom Monologues, John has posted an essay entitled High Book Prices are Good For You. He discusses the practice of some e-book publishers setting prices as high as $14.99 for top-notch (ie. those that are enormously popular with massive fan bases) authors down to the regular folks (comparatively new or unknown writers) peddling their wares for a mere $0.99. Take a few minutes to read his essay and to follow the growing comment thread. There are some interesting thoughts that are both for and against his arguments.

And speaking of interesting thoughts writing...I'd like to take a moment to remind you all that there 12 days left to submit your stories to our Lost on the Rock 2011 flash fiction contest. You can get the contest information here. Laurita and I will post later in the week about the prizes up for grabs this year. Those of you who followed this blog last year may recall my 'unsightly begging' just days before last year's contest...I'm not at that point yet, but am getting dangerously close. Even if you're not going to enter, Laurita and I would really appreciate if you would promote (blog, Twitter, etc.) the contest to other circles of writers. Many thanks!

Lost on the Rock Contest 2011

Lost on the Rock Contest 2011

It recently occurred to me that it’s been nearly a year since I held the Land's Edge contest to celebrate the first anniversary of this blog. It was also about a year ago my writing group buddy, Laurita Miller of Calling Shotgun, ran her Seaside Flash Fiction contest.

This year we’ve decided to share a contest based upon the theme of ‘Lost’. We believe that this theme will lend itself to many types of stories in all genres. It may mean that one is physically lost—but it can also refer to the loss of one’s job, or of one’s freedom, or even the ‘loss of innocence’.

The Lost on the Rock 2011 contest starts today (April 16) and the deadline for submissions is end of day on Sunday, May 8th. Please send forth your best short stories or essays that pertain to the ‘Lost’ theme. We leave the use of the word open to your interpretation (but remember: my mother and her associates from the ‘blue rinse brigade’ may read it).

The contest is open to all, from South Africa to Australia and Great Britain to Peru. That being said…the farther away the winner lives, the cheaper the form of transportation we will use to send the prize (a certain European prize winner in my last-year contest didn’t receive their book for nearly two months. A donkey and three carrier pigeons gave their lives to deliver the weighty novel).

Speaking of prizes…Laurita and I have emptied our children’s penny jars and pooled our money. There will be prizes for the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th place finishers. After the judging is complete, we will contact the top four with a few interview questions. These winners (and their interviews) along with two honourable mentions will all be published on this blog and at Calling Shotgun after the winners are announced on Saturday, May 21st (the Victoria Day week end for those in Canada). The contest rules are as follows:

1. Stories that fit the ‘Lost’ theme, of any genre, 1000 words or less.

2. We would prefer previously unpublished stories, however you may send a gently ‘used’ story if it meets the contest theme (and we’ll try not to hold it against you).

3. Send entries to lostontherock2011(at)yahoo(dot)ca with Contest Submission, Story Title, and your name in the subject line of your email.

4. Place your story, and its title, in the body of the email...no attachments please. And please, your name goes on the subject line…NOT in the body of the email.

5. Spitting on the contest judges is strongly frowned upon.

All submissions sent to that newly created email address will be forwarded to the judges by a trusty Land’s Edge staffer. The stories will be 'blind judged' by Laurita, myself and Ellen, the third member or our writing group. No pandering to the judges, please, as we are honest  moral  nearly impervious to such things (and a twenty doesn’t go as far as it used to).

The 1st , 2nd, 3rd and 4th place entries earn bragging rights and will each receive either a book or a Newfoundland prize pack (we’ll iron out the sordid details later). The honourable mentions? They will also get to brag after their stories are published on our blogs. I hope all of that was clear…if not, email myself or Laurita with questions. Please tell others about the Lost on the Rock Contest 2011...through Facebook, blogging and the evil Twitter…and start writing.

Am I Awake Yet?

"...and the great, woolly mammoth stirred temporarily from its deep slumber."

Yeah, sounds like a good line. Perhaps I'll use it in a story one day. It's a pretty good description of the state of my writing this year so far. I scraped together about 750 words for a flash story the past couple of weeks. I'm not happy with it, though, and will work with the suggestions from the 'writing group' and try to evolve it into something interesting.

It's been an odd week. In the blink of an eye it passed by in a blurr. "Forgive me...fa...it's been a week since my last post." I know...a penance of some sorts is in order.

We had the boy's birthday this week, so my parents came down for a visit. And cleaning the house prior to their visit was quite a chore (even with the assistance of a dozen types of cleaners, a couple of Swiffers and a team of hunch-backed, old, cleaning ladies). It was also surprising that I missed Robbie Burns day on the 25th all together. Nary a word about it in the news either. Guess that I'll have to crack open that bottle of single malt and eat tinned haggis for supper tonight. I think that I may be dining alone.

I forgot to mention that I received a package in the mail a couple of weeks ago that contained two books. I hadn't ordered anything from Amazon? They were from a certain A. Polson in Kansas. I was so perplexed about why I had been given the copies of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and Robert Frost's Poems that I emailed him asking why. Back in November he had held a contest at his blog promoting the release of his book Loathsome, Dark & Deep. I think that I had read as far as "winner of an Amazon gift card for $25" and stopped reading when I Wooted! and did a happy-dance about the office (much to the chagrin of my neighbours who discovered it was "Pantsless Friday"). So...apparently the books were another prize for winning the contest (to be honest, my name was randomly drawn...or so Aaron Polson SAYS...I think that he's developed a soft spot for Canadians--and why NOT?)

But don't despair. You can enter his newest promotional contest described here until this Monday. I have a purchased a copy of Loathsome but, alas, am yet to read it. I will surely post about the book once I've read it.

But wait...Al the Pimp is not finished yet! A friend emailed me this morning with a link to Jodi MacArthur's Love Bug contest. I have no idea how I missed her post on that. I was probably on my hands and knees, slaving away, scrubbing muddy paw prints off the floor  sleeping. She's looking for one-liners to post leading up to Valentines. I think that you have up to Feb. 3 to get her an ending to..."Love is..." How hard could it be. Even a geezer like me managed to dredge up some Hallmark-ish wisdom. Or perhaps it was something I heard uttered by my thrice divorced Uncle Angus...

Dog Days of Summer E-chap Released

"When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it." ~Bernard Baily

That quote popped up as one of the quotes of the day on my igoogle home page. It's very true but does not apply to two people today: Michael J. Solender and Sam Adamson who are, in fact, sharing the incredible glare of the spotlight.

Michael released his E-chapbook today at his blog not from here, are you? The 80 stories included were entries in his Dog Days of Summer Contest during the summer. The stories had to contain the words 'summer' and 'heat' and had to be exactly 101 words in length.

Contest winner was Sam Adamson for his story The Pit of Hades. You can find him lurking at his blog Future; Nostalgic. Take a moment and read Michael's funny interview with Sam at The Not. And then pour a glass or mug or whatever of your favourite bevvy and sit and read the wonderful stories in the Dog Days of Summer chap. My story, Escaping the Heat, can be found on page 48 of this fine publication.

Just Call Me Big Al, Pimpmeister

There were a few things I wanted to pimp out promote this week but being the first week back after holidays and some unexpected house guests I haven't found the time. Please refer to all the links below. I'm sure that there's something for everybody. From this day forth, Ant Venutolo said that he will call me Huggy Bear (I think he's gonna send me the fur coat and the fedora with the purple band and big feather). Luckily it's only 16C here today (62F) so the zebra suit isn't too hot to wear!

1. The final two installments of Katey Taylor's Vampire Commentaries are now available for your enjoyment (who am I kidding, they have been available for ages. I've just been negligent about bringing it up). Part 4 covers the movies Chronos (1993), Interview with the Vampire (1994) and Shadow of the Vampire (2000). Part 5 covers the movies 30 Days of Nights (2007), Let the Right One in (2008) and Twilight (2008). Click the links for a bit of inspired banter from her characters Gianni and Liam.


2. I believe that you still have 2 days to enter your 101 word stories to Michael J. Solender's Dog Days of Fiction contest over at his blog not from here, are you? You can click on the link here for the contest details. Winners will be published in the Not's e-chapbook...


3. I still think that there's time to cast your vote for the top story in Kat's Smutfest 2010 up at her blog Crooked Tales. Her top three are on display for your enjoyment (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). Link here for the stories.


4. It is now time to submit your horror stories to Erin Cole at Listen to the Voices for her 13 Days of Horror that lead up to Halloween. Submissions close on Oct. 1 and you can click the link here for all the gory details. The quality of the stories was amazing last year, and I can only assume the murky pool of talent that will be submitting is much deeper this year. It will be tougher to make the cut, but the payoff for the readers will be big.

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!

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.