F3 - Cycle 44 - The Fee

Prompt: A story about unrest.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1500 words (or fewer).
Deadline: Thursday August 18th 2011 8:30 PM EST

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War
Part 4: Poker Face
Part 6: A Day Late and a Dollar Short


"Now git in there and don't cause any more trouble!" Elroy McCrane yelled as he shoved Susannah down the stairs and into the cellar of the Old Tin Cup. "We'll take care of you later, if the fall don't kill ya!" he laughed as he slammed the door and locked it.

Susannah had been caught by Elroy, one of the Dirty Boys gang, when she was so close to Dirty Dan, she could taste the oil in his hair. Dirty Dan was playing poker at the Old Tin Cup and Susannah was posing as a barmaid. Jeb Riley had tipped her off about the game when he found out about Dirty Dan's aspirations to poker greatness.

The game was supposed to be top secret. But the owner of the Tin Cup had lost his mother to the gang and they had taken his young daughter and wife during one of their many waves of terror. He was forced to host this game but he knew Susannah was coming and let her in through the window when he went to get more whiskey from the storage room.

Suzannah had melted in with the other ladies of the evening and edged closer to the main table. She gripped the handle of her knife with the point of it angled toward her elbow along the inside of her wrist. She was going to sidle up to him, drape herself on his shoulder and then pull the knife across his hateful neck. But what light there was in the poker room had bounced off the polished blade and caught Elroy's eye. Fortunately, no one recognized her as the Susannah, who had been causing so much trouble for the Dirty Boys gang for months. She would have been killed on the spot for sure.

Ever since partnering with Jeb and coordinating George Shaw's access, the Chief's stealthy warriors, and her  money, Susannah had been systematically chipping away at the Dirty Boys' sphere of influence. Not that this was saying much; the gang had become so bold that they operated out in the open now. Most of the sheriffs in these parts were Dirty Dan's men. And they started enforcing his laws. Women over 18 years of age were to be kept indoors and out of sight unless they wanted to be shot. Schools were shut down. Boys were recruited for his gang. Children were taken. Men were forced into hard labor and those who opposed were hanged.

"Ow!" a voice shouted in the darkness as Susannah landed hard at the foot of the stairs.

Susannah froze and opened her senses. She could feel someone's leg beneath her and smelled something familiar...a strange blend of chamomile and sulfur.

"Doc?" Susannah whispered.

"Susannah? Is that you?"

"It is," Susannah said. For the first time in months, tears began to form at the corners of her eyes.

"Well, bless my soul..." his voice quivered.

"I owe you an apology, Doc," Susannah spoke softly, "I told you I wouldn't leave home and chase after the gang, but I did. I'm truly sorry for breaking my word."

"No, Susannah," Doc said, "I should'a recognized that look on your face, that air you had. I've seen it before, you know...you don't get to be this old without seeing the wrath of God at least once or twice being borne out by a person. I should never have told you to stay."

"Why are you here, Doc?"

"Well sister, Dirty Dan didn't take too kindly to me refusing to treat his right hand man's right arm. The scoundrel ended up bleeding to death. I'm to be hanged in the morning."

"I can only imagine what's in store for me now," Susannah sighed.

"It seems to me that neither one of us has a thing to lose," Doc pondered, "I think that makes us dangerous, don't you?"

"What are you proposing, Doc?"

"I know where there's a trap door into the store room," He revealed, "I also know where a group of sympathetic and angry men can be found. I say, let's get out of here, get them, come back and burn this place to the ground."

"The Chief and his men are not far away either," Susannah added, "I'm game if you are, Doc."

"We'd best hurry," Doc said, standing up, "The whims of the criminal mind change quickly; we must return in haste, lest they disappear from here and go on some other fool's errand."

Susannah got to her feet and felt for Doc's hand. He led the way, feeling for obstacles.

"I'd light a match or something, but I fear we'd blow the place up prematurely," he warned, "I can smell the gunpowder down here, can't you?"

"Yes, sir," Susannah replied.

"Now if I remember correctly," Doc whispered, "The store room is about 25 paces straight back from the stairs...now we just need to find the ladder and we'll be on our way."

They made their way slowly among the crates and cartons. They tried not to call out when barking a shin here and stubbing a toe there. They were both sweating from the exertion and fear of marching through the dark to overcome their recent fate.

"Ah," Doc breathed, "Here we are."

He pulled her hand toward the ladder and she gripped it. She began to climb silently up the rungs and when she reached the top, she pressed on the panel. It gave and she lifted it slightly, checking to see if anyone was in there. The room was still and lit with moonlight. She lifted the hatch the rest of the way and climbed up. When she pulled herself onto the floor, she turned back toward the opening and signaled to Doc that all was clear.

"You go on," he said. "Leave the window open and I'll come out after you. Make sure you get well clear of the building. I'll meet you at Doc Harmon's place. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

Susannah nodded and closed the panel. She moved toward the window and pulled it open. The air was still and the locusts' song throbbed around her. She looked up and down the main street and didn't see anyone. So she gathered her skirts and hoisted herself up and over the window sill.

Her landing was soft and she quickly found her footing and began to run silently toward Doc Harmon's, the hawk trailing her.

O, Warrior Mother, she called out in her mind, I have done everything you have asked. Help me bring an end to this bloodshed by spilling the blood of Dirty Dan. Protect Doc Shaw and see us safely out of this...


Her prayer was interrupted by a blast and a burst of light. Susannah stopped and wheeled around toward the Old Tin Cup, which had burst into amber flames and black smoke. She fell to her knees and began to weep. Men came running out, entombed in flames; the lucky ones found troughs of water nearby and extinguished the fire. Before long, the Old Tin Cup collapsed in on itself, windows bursting and black, acrid smoke belching outward.

She guessed rightly that old Doc Shaw had sacrificed himself and ignited the powder kegs, taking the opportunity to strike at Dirty Dan. And Mother Warrior took her fee, that was for sure. Blood had been shed and Dirty Dan was done, but at a huge cost. Susannah's heart broke a little bit more, which surprised her; she had no idea there was anything left of it.

Susannah...


She looked up and saw Doc's spirit approach her. She was stunned.

Susannah...I'm sorry to leave you like this; I know I told you I'd follow you, and I broke my word. For that I'm truly sorry. I suppose this makes us even now, heh. Don't you waste your time crying over me. I chose my end and I'm satisfied. Now go and finish this. I'll be seeing you...

F3 - Cycle 42 - A Day Late and A Dollar Short

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: The aftermath of being late. Late. Late!
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1000 words
Deadline: Friday, August 5, 2011, 9 am EST

This is part 5 and here are the others...

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War
Part 4: Poker Face

"I left that night in pursuit of Dirty Dan and his gang," Susannah explained, "I knew the posse'd be chasin' them through the woods with dogs and such, but I was too late for that. So I hopped on Chance and started toward Two Forks. They've got a respectable Sheriff there, who I thought might have information about the Dirty Boys gang. I wanted to dig that weed out at the root."

"Well?" Jeb asked, "How'd that turn out?" Jeb and Susannah were sitting in old rocking chairs on the porch of his homestead, watching the stars as wind crossed the prairie and made dark waves in the grass. 

"Sheriff Stanley was some help," she said, "He did provide me with a list of crimes they couldn't pin on Dirty Dan. I've been moving from town to town, sheriff to sheriff coming up with nothing but lists. I'd heard stories about the posse and how they couldn't find the criminals nor the missing Hailey twins," she winced slightly at this admission.

"George Shaw and the Chief are tracking them now," she continued, "But they keep missing the gang somehow...showing up moments before they hopped on a train or hours after they broke camp." 

"Huh," Jeb responded, "That's damned inconvenient." 

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "The gang's got help in high places and they've got the locals terrified."

"So it would seem," Jeb said. 

"Anyway, I've spent my long evenings studying these lists and all these crimes had something in common: They all happened in the afternoon and women and children were the victims. Also, it seemed like the gang knew when extra money was going to be around...like they could sniff it in the wind. All the victims had recently gained access to piles of money."

"Hmm..." Jeb replied. "I wonder how they knew that?"

"Well, I can't tell you that, sir," Susannah said, "But I'm beginning to wonder if some banker isn't involved in all this, someone who knows about these kinds of things and can tip off the gang." 

She let that float into the evening. It was the crucial piece of information that she wanted to bring to Jeb Riley, a man of influence and one of the few who could stand on his own against most authority and did so regularly. He had enough money and power to be heard, anyway, which is more than she could muster. She wanted to give him a chance to think.

Susannah had said her piece. At least he listened. Of course, she'd had to trick him into thinking she was a man and prove herself in a card game first. She could've called on  Mother Warrior to help her again, but that tended to give people the impression that she was some kind of witch. Plus, Mother Warrior had a price when you call on her that left Susannah weak and sad afterwards. 

But it was a nice night and she could use a breather. Jeb Riley had just won a bunch of money at cards and had a snoot full of brandy; she suspected it was likely that he'd agree to throw his weight around for her cause. Susannah looked up at the sky and watched the hawk circle her. She was used to him by now; he was always nearby as a constant reminder of her quest. 

This evening had been a welcome respite from hunting. Her eyes were tired from searching and her mind ached from trying to put all the pieces together. And her heart burned with a mixture of righteous anger and holy terror. Tonight was a night of fellowship, really. The card table always bonds people, if they sit together long enough. 

If only she didn't feel so far behind...grasping at straws and always arriving a moment too late. Dirty Dan was bound to make a mistake; he's only a man, not an actual monster. He'll trust the wrong person or tip his hand. It's the only hope she had, until tonight.

"Well, Miss Susannah," Jeb spoke.

"Yes, sir?" She asked, looking at his face, into his eyes. 

"I think I can help you."

"I think you can too, sir."

"Heh," he chuckled, "You got guts, girl; let's just hope your mind is built of the same material and this ain't some wild goose chase."

"Thank you, Mr. Riley," she said.

"Call me Jeb," he replied as he stood up. "C'mon inside, sister. I reckon we've got a lot of planning to do."

F3 - Cycle 39 - Poker Face

Prompt: Title Prompt – Write a story involving playing cards and using these words: Ante, Drag, Bluff, Busted, Blind
Genre: Open
Word Count: Up to 1300 words
Deadline: Thursday, July 14, 2011 4:30 pm EST

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

This is Part 4. Here are the first three parts, if you would like to read them

Part 1: The Lone School Marm

Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks

Part 3: The Lone School Marm and the Art of War


"Ok, gentlemen," The Dealer said, "Ante up." 


It was the usual crowd at the Old Tin Cup on a dusty Friday night, with one exception. A slight and mostly silent man had joined the game this time. He was dusty and had a weary posture. The brim of his brown, leather stetson was pulled down, covering his eyes and shadowing his face. 


So far, he'd played a pretty tight game, calling here and there, and never raising the bets as they traveled around the old pine table. This was fine with the Dealer, who was no stranger to trouble from outsiders but certainly didn't care for it. 


This old gang had a certain rhythm to their game and strangers never seemed to sense it when they sat down to play. They just bumbled in and mistakenly thought the best way to join the group was to show off and prove that they had the chops to play with the big boys. They had no sense of grace about them, always splashing their money in the pot, calling blind, and assuming that because the gang was old, they were also soft or stupid. This stranger was different though...steady and calm.


There were plenty of years behind these good old boys, some good, some bad. But they came through it all together and ended up with a respect for each other that made them close-knit and powerful. And the Dealer had been with them all along, was one of them really. He never liked gambling, though, despite his love for the game of poker. But his years of dealing had given him certain insights into all of them, and they knew it. Away from the table, he was considered neutral and the fellows often consulted him when they had disputes. He also represented the gang when they had common interests that needed worked out with others. The Dealer could not be bluffed. 


"Raise," a quiet voice said, which pulled the Dealer out of his thoughts. "Thirty dollars."


Jeb whistled and said, "That's a pretty steep bet there, stranger."


"You gonna call?" the Dealer asked, nonplussed.


"Heh," Jeb said, "Well, it's only money...Call."


Jeb always said this when he had a good hand, the Dealer knew, but didn't let his face reveal it. The rest of the folks at table fell out of the hand and fixed their eyes on the stranger, waiting to see what his game was. He'd have to show his cards now. 


"Well," Jeb said, "Whatcha got?"


The stranger turned over his cards and said, "Ten-high flush." 


"Oh, well," Jeb said, "I guess that won't beat my full house...Aces over tens." 


He chuckled as he dragged the pot towards him and started to stack his winnings. "You got to get up pretty early in the morning to catch me, stranger."


"Oh, I get up early every morning," the stranger revealed. 


"I 'spect you get the worm then, most times, don'tcha?" Jeb replied.


"Nope," the stranger said, "That worm keeps slipping away from me. It's getting to the point now when I think I'd better give up sleeping and spend all my time chasing that worm." 


"What's your name, son?" Jeb asked, curious. 


"Susannah," the stranger replied.


"Funny name for a fellah," Jeb said.


"Ain't a fellah, sir," she said.


Jeb leaned in towards her and started to tip Susannah's brim back to see her face.


She stayed his hand and said, "I'd rather you didn't do that here." 


Jeb sat back in his chair, his mouth hanging open. She did tip her hat up quickly so that for a moment the shadows fell away and the gang could see her feminine features. She pulled the brim down and settled back into a favorite pose of her fathers: Legs outstretched, leaning back with her hands crossed at her waist.


"So, are we going to play cards or sit here catching flies," the Dealer said, amused by the fact that every member of the gang now had their jaws hanging loose. "Ante up, gentlemen." 


This certainly was an interesting woman who had managed to get into the Tin Cup and join this table, and past the Dealer's bullshit detector. He shuffled the cards as he mused. It's been a long time since anyone anywhere had been able to bluff him. He wanted to know more about her but respected the table, the game, and her skill too much to fuss here. Still, her worm hunting story interested him very much and wondered what could survive standing in this woman's way. He dealt the hand. 


The game continued for another hour or so before the group decided to call it a night. The Dealer knew they were all going home a bit richer this night, Susannah having kept up with the game, calling except when it was time to show her cards. She never raised or stayed in to the end of the hand for the rest of the night. He suspected she did this on purpose, to put the old boys in a good mood.


"Well, boys," Jeb said, patting his vest pocket stuffed with his winnings, "Let's retire to my place for an after game drink and cigars."


The gang grumbled cheerfully at the thought as they stood and stretched, happy with victory. The Dealer packed up his cards and kept one eye on Susannah.


"Come on, son," Jeb said and winked, "I'd like to hear how you got to be such a smart player."


He put his arm around Susannah and led her out of the saloon. 

F3 - Cycle 38 - Rage Diary

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

Prompt: Write a story involving madness in whatever form appeals to you.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1200 words.
Deadline: Thursday, July 7th, 6 pm EST.

********

Dear Diary,

I know they don't mean to get in my way. How could they possibly understand? They belong to the realm of the bottom feeders; they should take what's given to them, nothing more! But can't they see? I need to pass through untouched. And I cannot bear their proximity or their scent. It used to be that the bottom feeders knew their place and separated themselves out. They had an inborn courtesy toward their betters.

You know what I'm about to say, now, don't you Dear Diary? It's time again to make permanent the reminder that they are bottom feeders. I know you fret when I talk like this, but I'm sorry! It must be done.

Think about the smell of them. Oh, I just gag to do it, but you must know. First it's their sweat. It's dark with a pungency redolent of their low nature. Dirt, poverty, onions, garlic, subatomic lowliness. I can see it waft off of them in stale brown waves. Don't give me that look, Dear Diary, I do see it. I am sensitive to the supernatural and you know it.

I can smell their hair. The cheap shampoo that only masks the oily funk rolling from their scalps. A combination of "seaside breezes" and crude oil. Their efforts at cleanliness are an open mockery of God. Who do they think they are kidding?

And don't even prompt me to reveal what I know about their sex. I shiver at the thought. Shame on you, dirty Dear Diary! Do not lead me further into torment!

The way they move, trying to stand upright and confident, like they have as much right to be here as I do. There is a hierarchy. There always will be a hierarchy. Their confidence is an affront to my superiority and their disrespect for the natural order of things. No amount of friendly teeth-baring will even us out.

It is time, Dear Diary, for the ritual. I will gather the ingredients and focus my holy power. God has told me it is time to do this. That is why I am so sure. What would you know anyway; you're just a book. It is time to enter the sacred armory and apothecary and combine steel and poison to scare the ever-living fuck out of these "people."

So, hold me in your heart Dear Diary. I will tell you all about it when it's done. And you will be pleased; order will be restored and I will be happy again.

F3 - Cycle 31 - The Lone School Marm and the Art of War

Prompt: Write a story of a negotiation and have your characters use at least two tactics
I've used a Plant and an Expert in my story.Genre: Any
Word Count: 1000 words
Deadline: Thursday, May 19th, 2011, 4:30 pm EST


This is part 3 in a series. I think it stands on its own, but here are the first two parts, if you'd like to read them.
Part 1: The Lone School Marm
Part 2: The Lone School Marm Speaks


"We meet again," George said. 


"Indeed," Big Horse replied. "Come, join me in the home of my fathers."


Big Horse opened the flap of the tepee and stood aside so George could duck through the door. George paused before entering and looked at Big Horse for a moment. It was unlike him to be so formal. As he turned and entered the enclosed space, he expected to see the usual trappings of their annual negotiations: hot food, whiskey, tobacco, a warm fire and soft furs and skins to lounge on as they whiled away the hours discussing the fine points of boundaries and water rights.


Instead, his eyes found the steel blue eyes of a young woman, who returned his gaze with defiance and grief. He was stunned silent by her presence, his mouth agape. She held him in her power, which was amplified by the swirling smoke, sparks and an aroma of burnt sage and roasting meat. 


Big Horse tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to George's usual spot. George moved slowly to his place at the fire and dropped into his seat. He continued to examine the strange woman. 


"Big Horse..." George started to say.


"No," Big Horse replied. "No questions right now. No negotiations. The spirit world demands our attention." 


"The spirit world?" George replied, stunned. "Since when do you care about the spirit world?!?"


"I've always cared," Big Horse said. 


"Huh," George grunted, "Could'a fooled me."


"This is Susannah," Big Horse explained.


"Hello, Susannah," George replied, "I'm George Shaw."


"Mr. Shaw," she clipped and nodded her head slightly. "You're Doc Shaw's youngest brother, aren't you?"


"Dr. Charles Shaw?" George asked. "Yes, ma'am, he's my brother."


Susannah exhaled slowly. She looked at Big Horse and nodded slightly.


"George," Big Horse began, "The spirits have spoken to me in my dreams. It is time for war, as it was foretold to me during our negotiations last year." 


"War!" George shouted, "Are you crazy, Big Horse? You can't go to war!"


"Yes, I can," Big Horse replied. "And I will, with your help or without. Preferably with it."


"Since when did you put any stock in spirits and dreams?" George pressed. "After all these years we've bickered back and forth over technicalities. You've always been the one to be reasonable. I've never heard you talk about the spirit world unless it was an Indian holiday."


"It's true, old friend," Big Horse sighed. "I haven't been impressed with what our shaman has been trying to drill into my head for thirty years. I prefer to put my faith in what I can see and touch and talk to. Contracts, boundaries, goods and services...these things will guarantee our success as a tribe and as part of a new nation."


"That's right," George said, "You and I have worked towards that for ten years now. And you're saying suddenly that the spirits have moved you to war? I don't understand..." George drifted and turned to look at Susannah again. 


"Susannah is a harbinger," Big Horse explained.


"A what?" George replied.


"A harbinger...her arrival here confirms my vision is true. Her story completes our story."


George looked back to Susannah. "I'm waiting."


Big Horse began...


Last summer when we parted, I packed up a bedroll and some spiritual items to make remake my vision quest, as I have done every year since I was twelve. Every year, nothing happens. I camp, I enjoy the wilderness and the silence. My heart calms and I'm able to return to the business of our tribe's interests. But no vision. As you have pointed out, I am pragmatic and not bent by hokus pokus. I do not let intangibles govern my movements.  


But this time was different. As I prepared the herbs and said the prayers. I inhaled, I exhaled. The great stillness returned to me and I began to relax after a wearing week with you. As I sat perched on my rock, I was visited by Mother Warrior. She stood before me and shook her spear and shield at me. She called out and the Thunderbird swooped down on me and struck my heart with lightning. I was being called to a quest, George. Mothers are angry as men stand by and talk. The blood of children spills on our territory and yours. Warrior Mother won't stand for it and will not leave me alone. She cursed me until I do something about it. Ever since then, I could not get the song "Oh, Susannah" out of my head...until, that is, Susannah showed up yesterday morning. 


"Mr. Shaw," Susannah said. "We need your help.I have been tracking Dirty Dan's gang ever since they murdered most of my students at the old Prairie Schoolhouse. The closer I got to them, the more I began to understand that they aren't just a band of mavericks. They're one band of many bands of mavericks, loosely held together, but working together nonetheless. Working together to destroy our way of life...Big Horse's way of life. They want money, dominance, and flesh. It's time that men of consequence stand up and take action, lest all the women and children here are killed or enslaved and the men recruited forced into hard labor."


"Now, I remember you," George remarked. "My brother wrote to me about you, said you were on the run and dangerous."


"I am both of these things," Susannah admitted. "But I am also a warrior and spiritual mother to a graveyard full of innocent children. Which danger scares you more, George Shaw?"


"But war...we just got done with one!" George moaned, as he ran his hands through his hair. "It nearly broke us."


"It's not much, sir," Susannah said as she reached behind herself, "But it's enough to pull something together, don't you think?"


She opened a satchel George remembered. It was his brother's satchel that their father had given him when he started his practice. It was also stuffed to overflowing with paper money and gold. More than George had ever seen at one time. 


He looked at her again and his vision shifted. She was glowing gold and red. Her eyes boiled and she seemed to be ten feet tall. Tears began to stream as he felt her pain pour out of her soul and into him. She was anointed by vengeance, it was undeniable. And what was another war, anyway. At least this time there was money and it was summer. 


"War it is, Susannah." George replied. 


Big Horse nodded and began to pray. 

F3 - Cycle 27 - Goodbye

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday


Prompt: RANDOM FIRST SENTENCE – Following the rules of the game listed above, find your first sentence.
Genre: Open, though Hardboiled, noir, crime action would be nice.
Word Count: Under 700 words
Deadline: Thursday, April 28, 2011 4:30 pm EST
First sentence lifted from Big Trouble by Dave Berry


"Bye," said Jenny to Matt.

"Bye, Jen," Matt said. He stood looking down at her, unable to move. In an instant, he saw their future and their past together, what could have been, what was.

The first day they met: She was standing in the light by a window. She glowed. Her skin was so creamy, like warm alabaster. The light blazed through the browns and reds in her short hair and pixie sparks of dust surrounded her in a dance of joy. His heart and lungs had contracted at the sight of her and threatened never to move again.

They met, they clicked. He marveled that she found him as magical as he found her. Both of them were awash in the grace of the other. Neither felt they deserved to be so happy and lucky. They walked through the gardens together and talked through nights. They laughed so hard their faces and guts cramped. Endless cups of coffee, endless bottles of wine. Sexual nirvana. His racing thoughts lingered there and wanted to stay. He needed to remember that.

But the future, unrelenting, swooped through his mind. They would wed on a beach. Honeymoon in the mountains. Christmas pictures yet-to-be stacked before him of them and their two dogs, then their dogs and their kids. Matching sweaters and well-wishes would festoon their images. He would bring her coffee as she wrote out the bills. She would meet him for lunch sometimes.They would golf...

And the recent yesterdays replayed. He saw the quick switches, the pulse flutters, the nervous glances, so subtle only a lover could detect them. She was hiding things. She was covering up. She was deleting the incoming call list on her phone. Her email trash bin was worn out from emptying. He wouldn't press her, but he did ask her what was going on. Why nothing, she had said, scratching the back of her neck (her only tell).

The photos from the private eye he hired to clear or condemn her cascaded on his dining room table. Flash after flash of naked elbow, hip, ankle, jaw...hers, her lover's...The sordidness of it all screwed his guts. He had vomited, chugged gulps from a fifth of Jack and vomited again. He wrote the check to the PI on checks she picked out for him, "Save the Rain Forest," they said. Save the rain forest! Why not? We are damned. He laughed and couldn't stop laughing.

Her betrayal un-wrote everything. It undid their fabric. It unraveled his soul.

He returned to the moment and saw her again. She knew now what she had done to him. He could see it in her eyes. Satisfied now that he knew she knew what she had wrought, he pulled the trigger and sent her to hell.

F3 - Cycle 26 - Tiger Balm

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday


Prompt: THEMED WORDLIST – Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1500
Deadline: Thursday, April 14, 2011 about 4:30 pm.


"Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!" the crowd chants in rhythm, calling me to them. 


I wait in the dark corridor for the official invitation into the ring, hopping in rhythm with the crowd. Nicky knuckles the muscles in my shoulders to keep them loose. I see flashbulbs exploding around the arena like so many June fireflies. My white-trimmed red satin robe swishes as I jab the air in front of me.


I've been training my whole life for this fight. Tonight I will win. I have the edge. My fists know what they have to do. I will win. I will out-think my adversary. I will win. I will dance just out of his reach. I will win. I will.


I breathe deep one more time. I smell tiger balm, fighters tape, blood. My warrior spirit centers. Nicky pushes me. It's time. We set out of the tunnel and prowl towards the ring. The crowd sees me and erupts its energy. I take it in and soak it up. Cameras watch me climb into the ring. 


The upturned faces of the media surround the boundaries of my battlefield. I am lit from within, from without. Nicky pulls off my robe to reveal muscle and bone, skin and sinew, oil and sweat. I raise my fists and feel the wave of hunger that rolls across the arena and floods me. 


I am ready and we start. I grapple with my nemesis. I introduce him to his new master. He fights me back. He tries to win. He is losing and I break the bad news to him. Hard. He will be better for the beating he is receiving. He will learn the locations of his weaknesses. I am giving him accurately detailed maps, a topography of pain. I find the treasure. X marks the spot and I dig in. He falls, then crawls, then falls for good. 


We stare at each other while the countdown marches us towards our destiny. I see I have awoken in him the awareness of all that he doesn't yet know. He understands that I know all his secrets. His eyes close and he slumps on the mat. And I take my glory.

FFF - Cycle 24 - It's a Man's World

Submitted for Flash Fiction Friday

Prompt: PERIOD FICTION – A pulp styled story set between 1900 and 1950
Genre: Pulp Genres – See above.
Word Count: Under 1800 words

I climbed out of the taxi cab, one leg at a time and opened up my umbrella. It had been raining for six days straight and most people had just submitted to the damp and let the rain pour down their waterlogged stetsons or raincaps. Well, I was tired of it, tired of everything. I'd run out of options, which is why I found myself overtipping a cabbie in front of Number 7 Lucky Street and the door to the offices of Max Fletcher, Private Investigator.

I'd gathered a lot of information about P.I.'s in those lonesome evening hours after John went missing. None of them were interested in a case where a husband took off and left a Plain Jane like me. I finally figured out that it took a bombshell to get the kind of personal assistance I needed. So I'd given myself the full treatment: Shampoo, rinse, and style at Ros' Doll House and a new dress and undergirding undergarments from Macy's. My red hair was shaped into glowing waves that flooded my back and eddied around my face. My makeup was flawless and the red dress and spoke for herself.

John had left for a pack of cigarettes one night and had never came back. I always thought that was a euphemism for something else until it happened to me. Certainly someone would already have to have plenty of reasons to be suddenly moved to leave home forever. Going for smokes was just a way to get out of the door. But we were happy. He said he was happy. He didn't have a reason to leave. He smiled a lot, laughed, loved my cooking, bought me thoughtful gifts. Why, oh, why would he disappear?

The police did the minimum: Filed the report, posted signs, retraced his steps. Then a kindly old commissioner sat me down and filled me in on the facts of life.

"Men are animals," he said, "I know; I am one myself."

"But John was different," I pleaded.

"You may think so, honey, but in the end, a man's going to do what a man's going to do. It ain't fair, sweetheart, but there's nothing you can do to cage us."

"I never wanted to cage him..."

"Sure, sure," he said, lighting a stogie, "But what is marriage but a trap, really? And when you trap a wild one, he would sooner chew off his own foot off than stay penned down. It's not you, honey, it's his nature."

"It isn't," I said.

"Suit yourself, doll, but there's nothing else the police can do for you."

P.I. after P.I. guffed my chin and sent me on my way home with nothing more then trite sentimentalities. They wouldn't even take my money to do three day's work, just to see what they could find. They all came to the same conclusions: Ain't nothing to stick around for.

So, here I am with a new look and a new tactic. I will set my trap knowingly this time. I stepped off the curb and crossed the street in my five-inch heels and tiptoed my way through the puddles and pot holes to the brownstone office building across the street. I climbed the stairs and entered the foyer. I thought it best to shake the umbrella and leave it here. Umbrellas are about as sexy as a doily on a lawn chair. I opened my clutch and pulled out my compact mirror. I held it up and looked at myself critically. My mother always said I was beautiful, but it was only now that I could really see she was right.

I pursed my lips, shook my hair then bared my teeth to make sure none of the "Lover Red" lipstick had smudged my white teeth. Satisfied, I put my compact back in my purse and straightened the deep vee of my red dress so that there was just enough mountainside to give Mr. Fletcher a reason to cross the valley between us.

I breathed deep and considered for a moment what Lana Turner would do. Then I headed down the hallway to Mr. Fletcher's office and opened the door.

There was an empty waiting room. The walls were amber with age and nicotine. There was a brown plaid couch with a small, rough hewn coffee table. The air was filled with the scent of burnt coffee and dust. And the clock that had quit working at 11:20 some day long ago hung above the receptionist's empty desk. This told me the man was too busy to clean but not busy enough to turn me away.

I sashayed my way over to the office door and struck a pose with the dreary light behind me, casting a curvy shadow on the opaque window. Then I knocked on the door and called for him.

"Mr. Fletcher?" I called and opened the door, "I need your help."

I found myself facing a large desk with a man who was old enough to know what he was doing but young enough to appreciate what I had to offer. He was peering through a magnifying glass at black and white pictures strewn across the blotter.

"Whaddya want...can't you see I'm bu-" He started to say, but stopped when his eyes refocused on me.

"I can see that you're busy. Do you want me..." I let that float and then finished with "...to come back some other time?"

"Yes, I want you..." he stammered, "I mean I can see you now, just have a seat."

He pointed me to a chair and I took my time over there, hovering over the seat and then finally resting and crossing my legs. I noticed he enjoyed the show. I opened my clutch and found my silver cigarette case. I opened it, selected a long smoke and held it between two fingers.

I looked into his eyes and held his gaze for a moment. He had hazel eyes behind long thick eyelashes, the kind that are wasted on a boy. His face was rugged and dark, with thoughtful lines around his eyes and brows. His hair was longer than it should have been and fell in brown-gold locks on his forehead, despite his efforts to tame it with quick, smart fingers. His mouth opened slightly and we both sat there sizzling.

"Got anything to light me up?" I asked.

His pupils dilated as he considered the possibilities. I wiggled my cigarette to bring him back to earth. He recovered. He stood up and bent over the desk to give me a light.

"What can I do for you, Miss...?" he asked.

"Missus," I corrected and watched his face fall slightly.

"Missus...?" he prompted.

"Mrs. Smith, if you must know and, yes, that's my real name."

"How can I help you Mrs. Smith?" he asked, regaining a bit of his professional polish.

"I need to find my husband," I said and explained the story to him, but this time I added some embellishments. Not lies, just facts with some sparkle added to draw him into my trap.

"I really need to know where he is," I explained, "I know it's not a case of marital disharmony; he was completely satisfied."

"Who wouldn't be?" Mr. Fletcher muttered under his breath.

"At any rate," I replied, "I've never worked and I can't claim my sizable inheritance without some closure here, do you see what I mean, Mr. Fletcher?"

"I do see," he said.

"And while I do have some savings, enough to pay you for sure, I know it won't last forever. I want him to come home, but failing that, I at least need to be able to survive. You understand, right, Mr. Fletcher? Yes, you do. I can see it."

I watched him again and saw his eyes swim with lust. I knew he was dreaming of screwing me on my pile of money someday. He reached for a contract and started filling it in with the facts I had given him. I never had to repeat myself like I had in the past. Good doggie, I thought.

I sat and confirmed the facts as he wrote them down and considered how different this experience was from the twenty other people I consulted. How did I never realize this before? That a turn of the head, a direct gaze, some strategically placed red and holding myself in a state of neediness and not neediness would get me exactly what I wanted.

I want John back and I'm going to get him. And I'm never again going to stand by and accept only what I've been offered, be happy with what other people want me to have. If John is an animal, so be it. I will track him with my faithful doggie and trap him so good, he won't even know that he can never escape.

FFF #20 - Mel Gibson Verses The Korean Bagel Lady

Submitted for this week's Friday Flash Fiction:

Prompt: ANYTHING GOES – Battle Royale with your favorite villians, monsters and myths.

Genre: Open
Word Count: Under 1500 words

Dedicated to Dale, who fought the Korean Bagel Lady in the original series.

It was a hot day in Tijuana, but it was a good heat, in that it was dry and several degrees higher than the current temperature in Canada. And several is a lot when you're talking Celsius. I was in the middle of my vacation, knee-deep in margaritas, burritos, and lots of direct sunlight. But it was about the time in a vacation where I started to need a taste of home. Also, there was going to be a beheading downtown in the evening and I really wanted to change into something more appropriate first.

I started the long walk back from the beach to my hotel, but there was a prostitute jam, so I had to side step it into an alleyway. I thought that if I continued in this direction then I could eventually take a right and another right and I'd be back on track towards the Casa del Suave Rico in no time.

I soon found myself wandering around and ending up in the "Real Mexico." It was tough and gritty and I was conspicuously sunburned. I kept my pace and continued in what I thought was a westward direction, hoping to at least get back to the beach, where I could be a victim of tourist traps rather than an abduction or worse.

As the sun began to set behind the buildings, a sign caught the light in a specific way, such that I was temporarily blinded. I stopped and rubbed my eyes. When the psychedelic retinal burns subsided, I was able to read the sign: La Tienda del Panecillo. There was a picture of a bagel on it. I couldn't resist heading over there. I was intoxicated by the bready aromas and the promise of some food that wasn't tortilla-based.

The bell jingled as I entered the bagel shop. I was hoping to find that they offered a cheese bagel and cup of coffee, an old favorite of mine. I hadn't stepped foot in any bagel shop since The Korean Bagel Lady closed hers down for good three years ago. She said she was retiring, but I believe she may have actually killed someone by adding bleach to his coffee and was skipping the country to head to Panama with her husband and stay one step ahead of the Mounties.

There was a small crowd around the counter. These were North Americans, if all the L.L. Bean labels and the highlighted hairdos I saw indicated anything. A man was shouting. I edged my way forward to see what was going on.

"There is something wrong with this coffee," he yelled.

"No there isn't, dumbass," came the reply.

That was all I needed to hear. It was her all right; that was what she used to call me. I could also tell by the antidulcet tones and the smirk that went with it. I was sorry I didn't already have my coffee and bagel as I settled into a chair near the fracas to take it all in.

"Yes there is something wrong with this coffee!! My tongue is numb!!!" he repeated, an edge settled on the side of his voice that made me take a good look at his face. He sounded familiar and with one good look, I knew where I knew him from: The Lethal Weapon movies they played on channel six.

"You think you famous and that mean you can yell at me, blame me for your coked-out tongue, but you can't!"

"Listen, lady," he said, wiping his face with his bandana and trying to calm himself, "I am not on coke, ok?"

"If you say so...yeah...you right, you too fat to be on coke."

Ignoring this, he pressed on, "My company hired you to provide coffee and bagels to us while we worked on our film..."

"You mean you try hire my shop but pay Mexican prices," she corrected. "I not Mexican, I Kor-e-an, deserve better. Go get some huevos rancheros from Juan if you want Mexican prices."

"But we still paid you, lady," he said keeping his calm, but I could see his hands were starting to shake, "That means we bought this coffee from you. It is bad. You need to either give us our money back or give us some new coffee, that's how it works."

"Pfft," she splurted and yelled something incomprehensible to the back room. More shouts returned.

"You know what she say about you back there?" she asked him.

"No, I don't speak Korean," he replied wearily.

"That not Korean, dumbass, that Spanish," she grinned, mocking him. "I'm bilingual, not stupid and ignorant like you."

"Fine, what did she say?" he asked. He really should have kept his mouth shut, took the coffee and headed back to work at this point. He's asking for whatever he gets now.

"She say you crazy, don't deserve good coffee."

"I...don't...I'm crazy?!?"

"Yes, and I agree. Get lost, fatty," she said, waving the back of her hand at him.

"That's it," he said, his eyes bulging, "You cannot tell me that I don't deserve good coffee!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" he retorted. "I have Oscars! I have money! I am the most feared man in Hollywood! I am beholden to no studio and I don't have to kowtow to anyone. I produce my own work and I say what I want, I drink what I want and I interpret history how I want! How would you like it, lady, if my next movie was an expose on how shitty Korea is? Huh?!? How about I tell everyone what a jerk you people are?!?"

"You think you can tell the world how shitty Korea is? What, you think you surprise them? Why you think I not in Korea? I'm smart, that's why...unlike some other people in this room like you," she snotted and pointed into his face.

He jumped over the counter and grabbed her finger and twisted with all of his might. The Lady screamed and fell backwards toward the dual coffee machine. She reached for the decaf pot and pitched the contents into his face and then slammed the empty pot onto the edge of the countertop, shattering it.

"You want a piece of me?!?" she yelled, waving the shredded remains of the pot in his face.

"Aaargh!" he screamed as he toppled backwards, his face sizzling.

"Come on, fatty dumbass!" she taunted, "Show Lady Gin what you're made of!"

His assistant caught him and handed him a can of Red Bull. He hefted it in his hand and hurled it at her head with all of his strenghth. She ducked in plenty of time, then leapt onto the counter, weilding the jagged coffee pot.

"You leave now," she yelled.

"Not without my coffee!" he screamed and bounded toward her.

She shrieked and swung her leg around and nearly caught his jaw with her shin. He grabbed her by the ankle and gave her the crazy eyes and pushed her backwards.

She staggered and nearly dropped off the counter, but caught her balance. They locked eyes and began to circle one another. She dropped down from the counter and they squared off, grabbing each others shoulders and slamming each other into things.

My need for a bagel and a cup of coffee started to wear off. I thought I'd better leave before I was noticed and dragged into this affair.  I got up from my seat and sidled over to one of the members of the production team.

"Psst," I hissed to one of the ladies. She appeared to be holding the movie star's keys.

"Huh?" She said, turning to me, slowly tearing her eyes from the dannybrook.

"Jessica?" I asked, recognizing my former co-worker.

"Dale?!?" She squealed.

"Shhh..." I hushed her and signled for her to join me outside this little Casa de Loco.

We slipped out of the front door as a table crashed through the front window.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you were working for the Ministry of Labour not Mel Gibson."

"I am working for the Ministry of Labour," she expained, "I'm just undercover right now. Come on, I'll take you back to your hotel and tell you all about it."

"Won't they miss you?"

"Nah," she waved her hand in dismissal, "That prick can find his own way home. Here, jump in the HumVee."

I hoisted myself in and plopped down on the luxurious leather front seat of the paramilitary monstrosity. She climbed in to the driver's seat and got situated. She turned the keys in the ignition. The engine roared in the way that only eighty thousand dollar engines can and I was immediately chilled to the bone by a  fierce blast from the air conditioning and the Adam Lambert CD in the stereo. I hoped the windows were bullet-proof.

"Yeah, we almost had her in Toronto, but she figured out how to get to Panama on a loophole in the immigration policy. We had to let her go, but I followed her."

"Seriously?" I asked, "I mean, seriously? Why?"

"Violation of minimum wage laws. And attempted murder. I'm working with the Mounties on this one."

"How did you get in with Mel Gibson's crew?"

"Well, you'd never know it, but all of his productions are covers for covert investigations. It's a win-win. We clear the way for him to film his crack-pot histories and we slip in while the local government is temporarily blinded by Hollywood glamor."

"Wow," I said, stunned.

"Yeah," she replied, "But he might be at the end of his usefullness. I'm not sure he'll be able to take the Korean Bagel Lady down."

"Shouldn't you stick around and make sure?"

"Nah, policy says Canadians first and you are that, so I'm getting you out of this hellhole and taking you to the Mexican opera. We'll leave them to it and let the best asshole win."