Thanks to Neptune - #fridayflash

This is a special #fridayflash as it comes during my "Feast of Flash." - All this week and most of next, the NOT is featuring award winning Flash stories that have "thankfulness" as their theme.

Today is a short break from the Feast that continues tomorrow, though I encourage you to check out the contest winners to date at the links on the right sidebar.

I get all mushy this time of year and have much to be thankful for. The story that follows while fiction - is just barely so - as it is a tale reminiscent of a similar experience my wife and I had 15 years ago in Mexico during our annual fall vacation.


Thanks to Neptune

Heavy with the scent of night blooming jasmine, the morning sunrise teased me with the promise of wonder and offered no forewarning of the near crisis that would soon befall us. Scarlet and magenta streaked clouds knifed along the horizon, only rarely punctuated by a lone gull, framing yet another glorious day.

Hot Mexican coffee, just baked sweet buns and a cellophane wrapped plate of sliced mango, papaya, star fruit and melon awaited me outside the door of our beachside Casita. I could taste the salt air mixed in with my coffee and the hot, unpasteurized con leche that accompanied it. It was 7:30, the fifth day of our vacation and while my wife was in the shower I was telling myself if it got any better we would never leave.

That day started exactly like each of its four predecessors. I had no reason to believe that it would not end just as the others had, with white Russians after dinner on the beach, a long walk back to the Casita, a Gypsy Kings CD in the player, and some serious hand to hand combat with the Mrs.

I was wrong. I would find out exactly how wrong in less than an hour.

Sweetie wanted, no – actually she demanded, remote and relaxed for our annual fall vacation. No agenda. No schedule. No reason to change. No watches. No going out away from the resort. Nada. “No” would define this trip for us.

I could not have done a better job in arranging for remote. Las Alamandas was on Mexico’s Costalegre – the beautiful Pacific coast off the state of Jalisco. Equidistant from Puerto Vallarta to the north and Manzanilla to the south, Las Alamandas was a long, bumpy, sweaty 2 hour drive from either of those tourist laden, mega-resort Disney-like playgrounds.

Las Alamandas offered NOTHING to bar hopping, disco seeking, parasailing, under 30 honeymoon crowds. Alamandas had none of the traditional Mexican tourist trappings. With only six Casitas and a maximum accommodation of 30 (against a staff size of nearly 3 times that) it did offer however, solitude, beautiful views, exquisite meals, hammocks, and nothing short of a tropical paradise where all you had to do all day is figure out what to have the chef prepare for your next meal.

We wanted to do nothing but read, sleep, soak in the sun and never change out of flip-flops and a T shirt. We got our wish and more. Much more.

Actually on one count we got less. We were literally the only occupants of the resort for the first 4 days we were there and only one other couple was to arrive on this our fifth day of vacation.

“Honey, should we go to the beach before breakfast?”

My wife and I loved our light “pre-breakfast” room service and had a more substantial meal a bit later. She didn’t even bother to dry her hair, preferring to pull it back and knot it up with a twisted scrunchy.

“Of course, another day in paradise! You ready?”

The surf looked particularly inviting, though for the most part we avoided going in very deep as, unlike the Atlantic that we were used to, the Pacific does not have a continental shelf, making for plunging drop offs just yards from shore and the rip currents were notoriously strong.

Small tent cards were in our bathroom explaining in English and Spanish that the beaches were not staffed with lifeguards, swimming was at our own risk and the rip currents were VERY dangerous. OK we got the point!

Barefoot, Sweetie and I walked arm in arm towards nowhere in particular. The surf was crashing just yards from us. The high tide forced us up towards the dunes more than the previous days. We still had sand between our toes and the water felt good as it ebbed and flowed no higher than mid- calf.

Sweetie chased a sandpiper as his stick-man legs raced towards a sand-flea closer to the breakers and out of nowhere it came crashing.

BOOM! A giant wave broke right at her feet. I was no more than 10 feet away but it might as well have been a mile. The surf was soon up to her neck and just as fast the rip had pulled her away from me into the roiling soup of the Pacific. She didn’t even have time to scream. In moments she was nearly fifty yards from me moving out rapidly at an angle to the shore line.

Sweetie could swim, and Lord knows how strong willed and physically tough she is. The panic I caught in her eyes as she raced out towards Hawaii was only matched by the sheer terror I had in my gut as I ran along the shore trying to determine where I was going to go in after her and who, if anyone, was around to help.

The latter question I resolved immediately and knew that at this early hour the routinely deserted beach was even more so with the entire staff up at the main dining area and too far for me to call to or go for help.

Once out past the breakers, Sweetie found calmer waters and was valiantly trying to swim, directly into the current – the absolute worst thing you can do in that situation – and back to the shore.

I chose a point of entry and ran in after her. I was now maybe 20 or 30 yards away and riding the rip out to her position.

When I got to her she was exhausted and had swallowed a lot of salt water. She was puking and crying and the tight scrunchy that had held back her hair had been literally torn out by the tide. She was drowning. For a moment before I reached her, I was too.

I screamed at her to roll over on her back. It was calm out past the breakers and the rip dissipated at that distance, making it insignificant.

As she swam in however, its strength resurfaced and pulled across her body, almost perpendicular to the shore. This is why all the warnings tell you to swim at an angle to the shore, you need to cut across the rip and mitigate its effect until you can get close enough in to stand up.

She rolled on her back and floated with only her face out of the water as I approached her and grabbed her hair.

My lifeguard training from 35 years earlier kicking in, I got along side her cradling her chin in my left arm, all the while continuing to grip her hair tightly. I began to scissor kick back towards the shore at a forty-five degree angle. Waves rolled over us a time or two, almost submerging us, but we were soon standing on our feet and walked up to the dunes. We were almost 200 yards from where she had initially gone in.

We sat for five minutes and cried. Sobbing, and heaving uncontrollably, I blamed myself and swore I would have never let her go. I had a huge chunk of her hair still in my hand to provide testament to that.

Sweetie pulled it together sooner than I did and just shook her head. She stood, kissed the top of my head and started to walk back to the Casita.

“Where are you going?” She was walking way up high, well past where any surf could even moisten her toes.

“I’m going back to bed,” she said, “I’ve already had my swim for the day.”

One week later we were having Turkey dinner at my folks in Minneapolis. We had decided on the plane ride back that reliving the near miss with friends or relatives served no point other than to trivialize the occurrence and stress us out in the retelling.

We don’t talk about it much; never really have in detail, save once or twice at the oddest and most private moments. But we’re thankful; we are so very thankful we have each other and that we both held on that November morning those many years ago.

Feast of Flash - Grand Prize Winner - Laurel Wilczek

What can I say about our Grand Prize winning author and her entry?

I met Laurel Wilczek online earlier this year when I read her entry at the EU Flash Forty Contest. A haunting and darkly beautiful piece, Fairy Tales made an impression on all who read it.

A frequent presence at EU, Laurel is free with kind words for others in the discussion groups and always has a unique observation and insightful comment for her fellow writers in their forums.

Her story, by the way, won the Grand Prize there and caused bright lights to shine on a writer who has already achieved major recognition with her lush and finely nuanced work.

Laurel sets wonderful scenes and painstakingly works to develop just the right back story and detail. Her word choices and combination practically leap off the page. Nothing feels forced, all her words flow naturally with meaning and purpose. Truly, her stories are an absolute pleasure to read.

Laurel, aka Raven, has selected The Salvation Army of East Stroudsburg, PA as her charity of choice. I have sent them a $100.00 contribution in her name as Grand Prize winner.

What set her work apart from the other fine entries to Feast of Flash?

Her story is one that artfully combines humor, sentiment, relationship, compassion and great emotion using a unique structure and construction. The scene she develops is so well painted that I challenge you to read this and not envision the action. Her daring approach in using prose to tell her winning story was a risk rewarded and pulled off as a masterfully crafted piece.

This story is, in a word, simply, joyful.

I think you'll agree, The Raven soars with this write.


Thanksgiving Day Pies
By Laurel Wilczek


Mother hasn't come into the back room yet,
the guests must not have finished their turkey
or maybe they have asked for a second glass
of wine twenty years my senior.

Eight pies baked in glass saucers and set
on the vinyl table where
during the week,
patients lie uneasy
and listen to the crinkle of the paper
as they tilt like flaccid rafts on cool vinyl.

A caramel-eyed dog
and a sparrow-heart girl,
tucked beneath the counter
where the pipe curls like a worm
exposed to sunlight.

Bad dog's breath is an autumn orchard
bursting with fermented spices
and the drone of
wasps circling injured fruit.

Mother's heels do not snap like fresh green beans
in the narrow hallway outside the room
before the door hinge
whines and is
silenced by
the blow of astonishment.

Eight eviscerated pie plates
scattered across the floor
amidst white paper strewn
with canine frenzy,
and gummed into sticky wads.

Mother's eyes flare the bonfire reds
of the one-hundred-year-old Sherry
kept upon the fireplace mantel
for toasting the blessings
we must be grateful for.

The litany goes as follows:

Be grateful for the food you eat.
Be grateful for your health.
Be grateful you have a family,
Be grateful you can work.

Mother's knees crackle
as she squats and
sweeps the largest crumbs
into her cupped hand.

"That bad dog," she whispers,
her breath is
a quivering mouse
balled inside her chest.

I think about the hours she spent
measuring love,
with silver spoons
or plastic cups.

And I swear to God.

If he will spare bad dog
one more time,
I will give thanks every
Thanksgiving Day
Until I die.

For dogs that eat
the Thanksgiving Day pies
and live for me to tell about it,
and for mothers who forgive
the gluttony of beasts.

Bad dog unrolls her pink tongue
and burps pecan-apple-pumpkin air,
Gives paw and
then her tummy.

Mother notices the cranberry pie
under a curl of paper,
a nibble of crust gone but
the rest untouched!
and
smiles.

My breath is a feathered
prayer.

Thank you, God,
for sparing
bad dog
one more time.

Feast Of Flash - 2nd Runner Up- Jodi MacArthur

Jodi MacArthur is one of the hardest working writers I know. Novels, shorts you name it, she's probably got it going on.

An extremely talented Fantasy/Horror/Can't be contained to one specific genre writer, Jodi's writes have a style that are distinctly her own.

She just got her entry in to the NOT under the wire and it blew me away. So much so it garnered a 2nd runner up award of $50.00 to support our friend in need of surgery, John Wiswell (You can too here.)

Why is she considered such a word mistress? See what all the fuss is about below.

Burning Yesterday
by Jodi MacArthur

You close your eyes and visualize pregnant clouds impending upon a violet sky. Outside you hear a clap of thunder, the log cabin lights up. The storm unleashes, pouring its tempest across the plains. It will steal what is rightfully yours and Jacob’s – the corn, wheat, tomatoes, squashes, berries, grapes. How dare the weather take and leave as if it were God deciding your fate?

“It is the same with everything,” you tell Jacob, hugging Mathew’s crocheted blanket in your arms. You keep rocking, rocking in the chair you had held, soothed his little body in. “Is there nothing it won’t take?”

Jacob takes the pot off the hearth and pours you a cup of tea and places it on the little wooden table he had built for you the Christmas before last. His calloused thumb grazes your cheekbone gently, so gently, and he’s looking at you with that patient look. “Sabrina,” is all he says. It infuriates you all the more. How can he stand there so calmly when your year’s work is drowning?

“We’ve lost everything. Everything. And you want to lecture me about what fate can’t take?” You know all he said was your name, but it felt like a lecture in itself. Wasn’t it? Couldn’t it have been? Yes, you decide, most definitely a lecture. “We both know the celebration for the harvest is tomorrow and we don’t have anything to celebrate.” You show him little Mathew’s blanket. “Dead for three months today. My baby is gone. And all our year’s work will be gone by morning. There is nothing worth living for.”

Wind howls across the plains. Rain banters at the door, demanding to be let in. “Can’t you hear it? It wants us too now. We might as well give it what it wants.”

You wipe your tears away with the soft blanket.

Jacob stands in the soft glow of firelight. He holds his own cup of tea, and you watch the steam rise out of it. You both listen to the wind shriek and rock the log cabin. It slashes like a scythe at the crops, your life, even time. Yes, even time is scythed, harvested and the fire lies in luminous coals. Midnight is at hand.

Jacob says, “Yesterday is gone.” He slips the blanket out of your arms and nears the fireplace.

You awaken from your doze and jump out of the chair. “What are you doing? Give it back. Please, give it back. It’s all I have of Matthew.”

Jacob gives you a thoughtful look, glances at the crocheted blanket, then throws it into the coals.

“No!” You scream and scrabble on the floor to the hearth. Jacobs wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you back. You stretch your hands for the blanket anyway. Wishing you could pull your baby out of time as you reach for the blanket.

“How dare you! How dare you!” you say. You could kill him. You could beat him to death. So you try, you beat your hands against Jacob’s chest until the arthritis ache sets in and you have to stop. You weep, you weep as he folds you into him. You are too tired to resist, too beaten down by life, too lost and heartbroken.

The tears run dry. Your weeping ceases. You simply lay limp in his arms. He has covered you both with an old quilt. You are not angry anymore, you don’t understand…you don’t understand anything, but you know the strength of his arms, of his spirit. This is familiar, so you cling to it.

It is more silent than before, and you realize the wind has stopped beating the house. The rain only drizzles. The coals have run cold in the fireplace, but there is a dim light from the window.

He stands, holds your hands, and you let him pull you up. He brings you to the window, and he lifts the curtains. The crops lay on their sides, useless, lifeless…dead. It is the way you feel.

“Do you see it?” Jacob asks.

You don’t know what he is talking about. He points his finger up, up above the ruins, and you see orange and purple swirling and looping together, all connected by the slice of orange half hidden by the horizon.

Your breath catches at its beauty, and you know Jacob hears this. As it rises, the colors turn pink, yellow, rainbows striping the sky in one glorious expanse named dawn.

Jacob doesn’t speak a word. He doesn’t have to. He has burned your past, just like the rain drowned the crops. It’s ironic, but you suppose that it is something to be grateful for.

You snuggle into Jacob’s chest. You remember how happy you and he were the morning you left everything behind to start your life together. With the slate wiped clean, maybe, it can be that way again.

Feast of Flash - 2nd Runner Up - Mary Beth Ray

Mary Beth Ray is a fellow Minnesotan I met last year at Queens University here in Charlotte. I was taking a creative writing class and Mary Beth, fresh off her MFA, was using the class to jump start her work on an upcoming novel.

I came to know her masterful work in class exercises and found her writes smart, funny, intellectual and finely crafted. Her work with dialogue in particular is clean, natural and always advancing her story.

The charity she has chosen to receive a $50.00 contribution in recognition of her 2nd runner up entry is The Humane Society of Charlotte.

This very short piece packs an emotional wallop that may take a second, or even third read to fully appreciate. Enjoy her entry below:


On The Autostrada
by Mary Beth Ray

Mary left the orange restaurant at the Autostrada rest stop and headed back toward the rented Opel with AC, thank God, that she had used for the last two weeks in Tuscany. A group of sturdy middle aged men watched her walk across the parking lot and to her car. One of them, short and round with a stubble of gray hair set out from the group to follow her. Mary walked to the space between the Opel’s driver’s side door and the truck along side and juggled her bottle of Pellegrino she had bought for the road as she looked for her keys. The stout man was at the back of the Opel, then he entered the space between the two vehicles and Mary was trapped.

“Buon Giorno,” said the man.

“Hello,” said Mary in English. Her heart was pounding.

The man reached into a back pocket and Mary assumed she was being mugged. She was silent. She looked down to see what he had in his hand and noticed how worn his belt was from years of use buckled into the same hole. He showed Mary a folded handkerchief almost flat, not big enough for a gun to be in it. Mary was mentally grateful for that.

The man unfolded the handkerchief and inside there was a gold, ruby and sapphire necklace and matching earrings. It was beautiful, thought Mary; not exactly her taste, but beautiful. It looked old, like an estate piece.

“Twenty,” said the man in English. “Twenty euros.”

So he was selling hot jewelry, thought Mary. Only twenty euros for pieces worth a hundred times as much. What a bargain. Quickly Mary imagined getting stopped at customs in the US, or even worse, what if this was a set up and they were looking to catch someone receiving stolen goods. The risk of possible bad outcomes weighed too heavy on one side of the argument Mary was having in her head.

“Twenty,” the man said again.

“No,” said Mary. She fumbled for her keys. “No, thank you.” She could feel the embarrassment rise to her face, embarrassed to be too much a goody-goody. She turned the key in the Opel’s door. “No. Grazie,” she said. The man backed out of the space they had shared, and Mary was no longer trapped.

As she drove onto the Autostrada headed for Milan, she wondered how long she would regret not spending that twenty euros.

Feast Of Flash - First Runner Up - J.F. Juzwik

I was secretly thrilled to receive a FOF entry from our next winner. Her pieces have a just under the surface edge that make reading them a tension filled pleasure! Her plot-lines demonstrate rich complexity that she never fails to tie together well and completely into very satisfying conclusions.

J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology. She is a member of several writers' networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers here.

Her FOF story is elegantly told and might make you shiver just a bit. Joyce has chosen the American Diabetes Association to receive the $50.00 prize that accompanies her First Runner Up award.

Undying Gratitude
By J.F. Juzwik

Yes, Jamison, I understand. But, a simple thanks would have been sufficient. Maybe even a couple would have been acceptable, but this is too much."

"Mitch," Jamison began, speaking in the tone generally reserved for jumpers perched on the ledge of the 40th floor of a high-rise. "This fellow of yours is obviously some sort of neurotic who feels compelled to continue to demonstrate his appreciation. Besides, how much longer can it go on? Give him a few more days and I'm sure it will wear thin. Got to run. Meeting Charlese for drinks. Chin up." Click.

'This fellow of mine'? 'Some sort of neurotic'? As usual, Jamison was incapable of comprehending just how totally fucked up my life had become.

I never should have confided in that poor excuse of a human, but I was out of options. My mother suggested I invite him over for a rousing game of canasta. Of course, my mother had knitted an afghan covered with the faces of sheep for Ted Bundy to use on Death Row since she was certain he wouldn't be able to get a good night's rest there. My lady, whom I was planning to propose to on the day this all began, had been stronger than I had given her credit for, but she eventually came to the conclusion that I was certifiable and took out a restraining order on me.

I was alone; a cornered animal being poked with a sharp stick. Jamison said to give him a few more days. It had already been 12 days, 9 hours, 54 minutes, and...yes, I am counting the seconds too. I poured another Scotch, my...who the hell cares. I lost count hours ago. I sat back, took a long slow sip of its soothing warmth, closed my eyes, and remembered how the nightmare began.

It was a bit after one in the afternoon on a bright sunny day--the last bright sunny day I would ever have-- and I was on my way back to my office. I had popped in to the printer to pick up a presentation and had stopped at the crosswalk. I was soon joined by a young man in a bargain basement suit, who obviously had never seen the inside of a gentleman's barber shop. We exchanged brief nods, and when the walk command flashed, he seemed to lunge into the street; as if his immediate presence anywhere could be that necessary.

His thoughts must have been on the contents of the burger bag he was carrying, because he didn't see the black sedan coming straight for him, or the police car on its tail, but I did. I grabbed him by the collar of his dollar store dress shirt and pulled us both back as they careened around the corner. We landed in a heap against the newspaper stand. I stood up, straightened my tie and reached down to lend him a hand, and he took it into both of his, got to his feet and began to cry.

Now, I am as caring as the next man, but display of raw emotion makes me very uncomfortable. I asked him if he was hurt and he replied he was not, but his emotions were flowing freely because I had saved his life. I had literally plucked him from the jaws of death, and he knew from that moment onward, he was going to spend the rest of his life showing his thankfulness for my grand gesture. I told him that wasn't necessary, but to no avail. That was the moment my life, as I had known it, came to a screeching halt.

Morning, night, weekday, or weekend, if not in the sanctity of my office or living room, he was there. He was always there. Buying my coffee. Picking up my newspaper. Carrying my dry-cleaning. Catching the check for dinner. Nothing I said could dissuade him--it was like being haunted with no hope of an exorcism. 'Thank you', 'thank you', 'thank you'--that's all he ever said. Jamison said to give him a few more days. Can't do it. In a few more days, I'll be looking for a bullet to eat.

As we journeyed to my office this morning, him holding my Journal and a latte, he said tonight we'd be going to his place so he could give me something I would never forget. I knew what I had to do. He would never forget what I'd give him either. One last 'you're welcome'.

As we left the elevator heading to his door, I noticed the place seemed deserted. Perfect, since I had made up my mind to strike as we entered. Quick and quiet. I reached into my briefcase and eased out the letter opener I had brought. My only fear was that if anyone ever said 'thank you' to me again, I'd go postal. Yet, finishing this once and for all might give me some closure.

He seemed so animated as he swung his door open--it almost seemed a shame to rain on his parade, but I plunged the blade in with a ferocity I hadn't felt before. Again and again. He finally went down, having staggered completely inside. I quickly shut the door and felt for the light switch. It was over. I was finally free.

The sight that assualted my eyes didn't quite register for a moment. Colored balloons and banners strung across the room--'THANK YOU--THANK YOU--THANK YOU'... I believe the defining moment was when I saw the people, Jamison and Charlese at the forefront next to our CEO, all standing in a semi-circle, all shouting 'surprise'. Even the cop who had his morning coffee at the newstand near my building was there.

He was giving me a party. Something I would never forget. The bastard. I figured things couldn't get any worse so I kicked him in the head. Really hard. Maybe I should have had a bullet for lunch after all...

Feast of Flash - First Runner Up - Mike Whitney

There is a guitar picking-musician-writer guy I know that lives in the North Carolina Smoky Mountains. The guy is a hoot, I know 'cuz I met him and watched him perform to a sold out crowd of folks one Friday evening not that long ago.

Oh, something else, the guy can also write.

He's been doing that and getting published longer than most of you reading have been walking.

Mike Whitney touches the soft spot with his story and has chosen the Hayesville House to receive a $50.00 donation in his name as a First Runner up in the FOF. Enjoy his tale.

Simple Gifts
by Mike Whitney

November 24, 1952

Mewling softly, the younger kitten shivered next to his seven week-old brother as they struggled for warmth by huddling together beneath the last pew of the old frame church. The former home of the local Unitarian congregation deserted these many years since the new one was built, had never been converted or torn down. Margrove - population 2,345 was meant to be what it was: a small town in southern Indiana.

The mother of these infant felines was missing, and her babies were hungry, and cold. She had gone hunting early that morning.

Now, the afternoon sun slanted across the simple stained glass windows along the western side of the old building, put together with love by members of the farming community one post-harvest September in 1933.

It would be cold tonight, and the kittens had not learned to hunt yet, although the mother had been bringing mice and the occasional bird for several days. She had not yet taught them the killing bite, and they still played with their wounded food.

Wind whistled through the cracks in the broken glass windows near the altar. Clouds were thickening above, and the sun would set in an hour without being seen again till morning.

In the distance, a dog barked and was faintly answered by Trouser, almost ten year old Pauline Barkley's old Collie mix - so named for the dog's habit of crawling into Father's coveralls as a pup to sleep with just a small wet nose showing at the end of one pant leg.

"Trouser! What is it, boy? Who is that? Huh? Is that a friend of yours?

The dog looked up from grooming himself, stared at Pauline for a moment, and huffed agreement.

~~


Morning always comes too soon on a school day.

"PAULINE! You miss that school bus again, young lady and you and me are going round and round. Hurry along, now. I've got your lunch bag here at the door."

"Yes, Mom, coming Mom."

Giving the dog a smooch and getting a tongue bath in return, Pauline grabbed her books and headed down the stairs to find her mother and lunch waiting at the front door. Outside, someone was burning leaves - against the new unenforced ordinance - and the smell of Fall filled her nose as she pecked the proffered mother-cheek.

Trouser stood on the porch and barked at the yellow school bus with the bad muffler as it took his mistress off to school, past home owners raking leaves and sweeping driveways and sidewalks. In a few short days, the transition of leaves from tree to ground would be complete.

At the church, the kittens were struggling to find a way out of the church, but the mother had been entering by leaping to a broken window ledge, a skill still far beyond their reach. Their cries were becoming weaker. They especially needed water, and soon.

~~


After being cooped up on a beautiful fall day, Pauline's heart rejoiced at the final bell. She hurried outside, and decided to walk the seven blocks back home.

As she passed the old church, there was a faint sound from the nearest window. It sounded like a kitten! Pauline hurried across the overgrown yard to the window with the missing pane.

"Pauline, you can have the kittens in your room tonight. You'll have to keep Trouser away from them. And in the morning, we'll see about finding them a good home."

"Nooo, Mom. Please let me keep them, please, please!"

"Listen to your mother, Pauline."

The young girl stifled her protesting. When Father spoke, it meant the discussion had ended. "Pass the potatoes. And the dog sleeps outside tonight. Otherwise he'll be scratching at your bedroom door all night if you have those cats in there with you."

Trouser was curled into a ball and napping with an ear and eye open for table treats. Pauline awoke to the sound of screeching brakes and a sickening thump. She was crying before she ran out the front door. Trouser lay on the curb inert while old Mrs. Peabody stood over the still form talking to herself in loud bursts of bewildered shock. Her ancient Ford wagon, still running, was parked in the middle of the quiet street. When she saw Pauline, she kept on as though the child had heard every word. Pauline heard only a blur of sound as her tearing eyes focused and refocused on the lifeless shape of her lifelong best friend and companion.


November 26


"Let's join hands and say thanks!" Father stood at head of the Thanksgiving feast table, and affectionately grasped Mom's hand, giving it a little squeeze. On his right, Pauline felt her small hand turn tiny in Father's huge, work-hardened grip. Father's touch still made Pauline feel like nothing bad could happen, even since Trouser's sad demise. The family was together, the kittens were thriving.

Grandma had on her "special" locket with a few strands of Grandpa's hair inside. Pauline's married brother and wife Danielle, with baby Ron completed the circle.

After the prayer, Father began carving the plump, perfectly-roasted bird, when suddenly the kittens ran to the living room window and began mewing. There came back right away the answering sounds of another cat Around the table, the family looked at each other. Pauline ran to the front door first. Outside, on the front yard was the mother cat, crying for her kittens.

© 2009 mikewhitney

All He Needed Was One More Good Hand

One More Good Hand

Now at ATON. Thanks to Christopher for hosting the best NOIR going.

Feast of Flash Contest - The Results Are In!

A HUGE Thank You to all who entered the inaugural Feast of Flash contest here at the NOT.

The response really surprised me, I was literally flabbergasted at the volume of quality writes I received which made the judging especially difficult.

So much so in fact that I decided to add four Special Runners Up awards that will receive charitable contributions of $50.00 each in addition to my $100.00 contribution to the Contest Grand Prize Selection. Ten additional Honorable Mention award winners will have their stories featured here at the NOT according to the schedule that follows.

I've never judged or evaluated stories for a contest before. What I thought would be an easy task proved to be agonizing as the styles, stories and technique of the writers varied considerably, yet in each instance was extremely effective.

I developed criteria from which to evaluate the stories and looked at three weighted factors: Story/30%, Craft/60% and, Theme/10%.

I read each story three times and allocated points according to the above criteria. In the end, only a handful of points separated the lot.

**********************************************************************************

The Winners and the Schedule

The NOT is so very pleased to announce that the Grand Prize Winner of the inaugural Feast of Flash Thanksgiving Contest is......: Laurel Wilczek with her story, Thanksgiving Day Pies. Laurel has chosen The Salvation Army of East Stroudsburg, PA to receive a $100.00 donation in her name. Her story will run on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day.

Two stories were selected as First Runner Up, they are Simple Gifts, by Mike Whitney and J.F. Juzwik's Undying Gratitude. Their stories will be published at the NOT tomorrow. Their chosen charities, The Hayesville House and the American Diabetes Association will each receive a $50.00 donation in their names respectively.

Two Second Runner Up stories will also receive a $50.00 donation in their author's names. Our friend in need, John Wiswell and The Humane Society of Charlotte have been selected by our 2nd Runner Up winning writers. Jodi MacArthur's Burning Yesterday & Mary Beth Ray's On The Autostrada will be published on Wednesday.

Several additional stories in the running were deserving of special mention and very worthy of feasting upon. Each of the following will have their stories published here at the NOT later this week and into the next. The schedule of Honorable Mention selections (in random order) is as follows:

Saturday 11/28: Lee Hughes
Sunday 11/29: Kim Perzy Urig & Aleathia Drehmer
Monday 11/30: Eric Beetner & Hazar Worth
Tuesday 12/1: Christopher Grant
Wednesday 12/2 Paul Phillips & Erin Cole
Thursday 12/3 Angel Zapata & Daniel Stine

Audio - The Sum of His Deeds Recorded

My story, The Sum of His Deeds, has been made into an audio recording by the folks at Stories That Lift. You can hear it here:

Audio: The Sum of His Deeds

Feast Of Flash - Winners Announced Tomorrow

My Feast of Flash Contest received dozens of super high quality writes and a few unexpected surprises.

I'll be taking the veil off tomorrow and then, beginning on Tuesday sharing a baker's dozen and then some "thankful" writes for the remainder of Thanksgiving week and into the next.

The schedule of publication and winning entries will be announced right here tomorrow.

Guest Write - Elaine Escribe

Elaine Escribe is the pseudonym of a writerly woman I've known for over 30 years. She seems to follow me everywhere I go and ends up in whatever part of the country I am in. Amazingly enough, vagabonds each of us, she has landed right here in Charlotte where we hang together frequently. I can't quite get her to make a more public appearance with her writes, so she prefers to fly anonymously. Followers of the NOT will note that they've seen her here before and know from prior writes that literacy is her passion - she works closely with a tutoring program here in the city and has tutored adults for many, many years. Here is a short one from her very talented pen.

Devilish Interruption
By Elaine Escribe

“What is it; what do you want now?” Sean yelped, suddenly coming out of the hazy mists of a heavy slumber and a peaceful dream.

The banging on his bedpost continued unabated, louder and more demanding than before. “What does the devilish fiend want in the middle of the night?” groping for comprehension. “Stop that banging!” he growled, “I will do whatever you want me to do. Just stop that maniacal banging!”

A twenty-five pound weight collapsed on his chest with a thud, and his cherubic son giggled gleefully, “Daddy, I want to play now."

Dangling About - #fridayflash

It was hardly the post-coital afterglow he had read about.

Staring at the ceiling, he noted where the soot of a long-forgotten room fire had ignited the curtains sending acrid fumes in a northbound retreat. Some asshole had left his Camel on the window ledge while he wiggled the rabbit ears on the sorry excuse for a TV that was wedged into the corner. But he didn't know any of that, all he knew was he'd just spent $30.00 for a spin with a working girl who refused to even take off her skirt, it was much more efficacious to just drop her panties, which she did after he produced his end of the transaction.

He’d spent another $30.00 for the room. His check hadn’t been in his hands for 30 minutes and he was doing his best to piss the whole thing away in one night. He stood up and caught his reflection in the mirror.

It was the only piece of glass in the room that wasn’t cracked. The windows were scratched and had spidery fingers into their corners and the lone glass on the nightstand had a chip that he spun to the other side as he poured himself a shot of bourbon earlier. A small pellet or BB had nicked the surface of the television which probably hadn’t bothered many of the room’s prior patrons.

Looking at his pale and pimpled flesh, he was repulsed by his flaccid and lifeless member. The accompanying bits, dangled about far from his frame as the summer heat drew them away from his sweaty and unwashed body. Nature’s way of preserving and keeping viable the life bearing fluid they were prepared to secrete. In Jack Spence’s case the only exodus they would see in the upcoming days would be at his hand or as a result of another three sawbuck expenditure.

Most men had some kind of sorry love affair with their equipment; Spence was not so attached to his that he wasn’t willing to put it inside of some very questionable receptacles.

Work. Eat. Sleep. Screw. Repeat.

40 years old and Spence was barely more than a day laborer at a Compton manufacturer. His $180.00 a week was good for rent, a bottle of bourbon, lunches at Nicks, a few groceries and one or two working girl visits.

Maybe tomorrow he’d figure it out. Maybe tomorrow he’d get the jump start he needed. Maybe tomorrow. They could write that on his tombstone. Jack Spence left through the front door of the Motel 6, drove his car 8 blocks to the intersection where the Blue-line train passed every 18 minutes, parked on the tracks and waited for tomorrow.

Final Stroke of the Blade

The cold hard steel blade rests precariously against my jugular. I'm thinking. Maybe I'm thinking too much. I should just do it and get it over with. Does anyone really care?

I wonder.

I press gently on the blade, its tiny serrations begin to grip. Do I even care? I know the answer to that. I would have ended this insanity long ago, but my wife pleaded with me.

Every day, the viscous grind.

I might as well be done with it. Just get it over with. Stop agonizing!! I really was losing all hope.

I pulled the blade tensely with my hand towards the conclusive stroke.

Gawd-O-Mighty, I hate shaving on the weekend.

Going Postal - Fashion For Collapse

My absurd short, Going Postal, is featured at Fashion For Collapse.

FFC is a new online-zine-like venture brought to you by the wildly prodigious Lynn Alexander and the fun folks at Full Of Crow.

I'm in very fine company as there are some stellar writes from the likes of Offbeat Jim Wittenberg, Paul Corman-Roberts, Spencer Livingston, Doug Mathewson and a host of others.

Comix and cool art are featured for your enjoyment as well. Stop by and try it on for size.

Numerology

I dropped the tablet containing Ten Commandments.
It shattered into nine tiny pieces.
Eight people came to my assistance.
It was the seventh day of the month.
I had a sixth sense about the moment.
In five minutes we had reassembled the dictum.
Four millennium of beliefs fragmented.
Three tribes of Moses documented the word of God.
The words, they seemed, directed at only two.
One day - maybe, I'll understand.

Guest Write - Jeanette Cheezum

Hanging out around Six Sentences, Pen Ten or any number of other writerly sites one begins to get a sense for the breath and depth of talent that abounds in the flash universe. It is always encouraging to gain the respect and kudos from one's peers and it is especially meaningful when it comes from someone as accomplished as today's guest writer.

Jeanette Cheezum is one of those writers with a serious polish to her work. She has been an inspiration and source of encouragement for many writers, including me and always has a keen observation and kind word for those wrestling with the written word.

A founding member of The Hampton Roads Writers, her work has been featured on a broad palate of venues including: Blink Ink, Six Sentences, Helium, Word Salad and a number of others.

Here is a warm up to the upcoming Feast of Flash headed your way next week, Jeanette Cheezum's Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving
by Jeannette Cheezum

We all wore our little black and white costumes at school to do our Thanksgiving Pageant. To educate us about the blessings we shared. The teacher could hardly keep us quiet

We were all so excited about our holiday break. While the classes were led in single file, stories were whispered throughout the auditorium. Whose mother was the best cook and how many people would attend the pageant. The bell rang and we ran out the doors like race horses.

Thanksgiving morning we drooled when wonderful smells permeated the house. My sister and I argued over who’d get the wishbone and the drum sticks. My parents seemed to be oblivious to our antics. After all, we were a product of them.

Grandma and Grandpa were on the way. Mom asked us to hurry and help with the last minute clean-ups while dad hid the extra booze so Uncle John didn’t drink every thing he could find. My brother had to clean up poop out of the yard so if Uncle John fell off the porch he didn’t slip in anything smelly. Oh, how we hated that job.

Aunt Katie as wide as she was tall arrived first with her usual large bowl of green bean casserole. Usually when we finished dinner she could rinse out the dish and fill it with enough leftovers to last her a couple of days.

Jasper our Great Dane was lurking behind my little cousin Billy, hoping to vacuum up the droppings and Dandelion the cat was no where to be found.

We said the grace, filled our plates with all kinds of food to compliment the turkey and listened to the same old jokes and embarrassing stories we’ve heard year after year. Mom and her sister argued about who was Grandma’s favorite and Uncle Jack as predicted searched every cabinet to see if dad forgot to bring out the good stuff.

Aunt Katie sprang to the kitchen to fill her bowl before anyone put anything in containers to store away. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I won’t have time to get to the store for a couple of days.”

Before time to clean up, everyone started to make excuses and slip out the door.

Mom swore under her breath, this would be the last time she’d have this dinner at our house. “Our family was a bunch of ungrateful leeches.”

When I heard Grandma ask, “What time are you doing it next year?”

“Same time, same place,” my cowardly mother replied. “I hope you all enjoyed it.”

Story Slam! Charlotte - It's All Story.

Theater. Music. Art. Poetry. Graphics. Performance Art. It's all story.

What a concept. These guys are wildly creative and the buzz that they have established in this transitional part of town is amazing. Great work. Great people. Great ideas.

Check out my write-up on Story Slam! Charlotte in the Observer here.

EU Why I Write Contest

Editor Unleashed is at it again. The uber-popular site for writers of all shapes and sizes has teamed up with Smashwords the self/ebook publishers for another Writer's Contest.

They are looking for essays on the theme of: "Why I Write." 750 words or less. No entry fee. Deadline is 12/31.

I write essays every week for my paying job - it is a much different go than Flash Fiction though many elements of style, description, pace etc. are in common.

Creating a "story" that can connect and relate to a wide audience who may not be interested in the essay topic is a trick. Done poorly, you'll never get them past the first paragraph. Done well, you can get them hooked on following you and reading about things they would normally never give a second glance to.

I didn't intend on entering this time around even though I placed in their last (Flash Forty) contest. I'm not a fan of the open/popular vote by the members after entries close. Just let the editors pick, I say!

However, as my title suggests, the words just came and I think the essential question: Why do I write? is one that every writer should answer in print at least once in their life.

My entry The Words Won't Stop Coming is up over there. No comments there but if you'd like to let me know what you think, you can do so here. Just don't tell me if there is a typo...

Contestant - #fridayflash

I was simply one of eighty pasty white, slightly nerdy contestants readying for evaluation. This process would be undertaken by a similar number of fairer sexed combatants in the staged ritual of precisely timed speed dating. Marcus insisted upon accompanying me.

It wasn’t a loser-enough sign that I found myself searching in eight minute increments for my life’s companion in the windowless, basement ballroom of the airport Embassy Suites on that balmy Saturday evening in June; I had to have a wing-man present. It would erase all doubt regarding my abilities to attract and retain a date that could potentially lead to cohabitation. I wasn’t getting any younger, noted Marcus.

The Goldfarb Bar Mitzvah party was in full advance in the adjacent ballroom and featured the ever popular stylings of the Hoboken-based Klezmer band, the Mazel Tones. I had to admit that their clarinet-heavy rendition of Hava Nagila had me tapping my feet and humming along.

Marcus grabbed my elbow and directed me to the men’s check-in table. It was lined with small, cheesy, dime store fish bowls. There were dozens of them. Each had what appeared to be fortune cookie sized strips of paper. Each with a single number. These represented a lone woman manning a table with a corresponding number on a tent card in the ballroom opposite the Goldfarb’s.

Cleverly, the organizers had “hidden” the girls behind the curtain so-to-speak to make certain number selection was random and not motivated by physical attraction. This decision had to be fat girl driven - I was certain.

I was seven choices in to my allotted eight when Marcus informed me that the total of my choices must equal seventy-seven.

“It is essential.” he said.

“And pour quoi is that?”

“Double hockey sticks.”

“Huh?”

“Double hockey sticks, ya know, seventy seven.” He said as he rolled his right hand down and made the number “7” with his thumb and index finger. “It is an auspicious number. What have you got?”

I spilled my fortunes with Verdana font onto the end of the table. 6, 8, 9, 14, 17 and 22. My subtotal was 76, a very bad sign I determined. “This sucks,” I said, "I will not be selecting Bachelorette Number One under any circumstances.”

“You must.” Marcus said. “You have no other option.”

“Oh yes I do, I can start over or I can trade some in. I’m not picking #1, I can smell her desperation from here.” It smelled like Binaca, Mop sweat and Friday’s potato skins. Nothing doing.

“Look you are challenging karma, the power of numerology and all the advice of your wing-man if you don’t just pick Number One – do it.”

“They hand these numbers out first come, first serve, she has got to be the most desperate and hugest loser of the bunch!” I was wining.

“And you are such a prize, Mr. twenty-seven and practically still a virgin??”

The Mazel Tones were playing a rocking Fiddler–on-the-Roof medley.

“Alright. What is another eight minutes of my life? I’ll do it.”

I caved. Marcus went on how this boded well not only for tonight, but for the future, my wife’s fertility and the extreme likelihood of a son as first born, as if I cared at that moment.

The organizers informed the guys that they should cue up beginning with their lowest numbered selection and move forward at the predetermined signal. Number one was going to be my first “date” of the evening.

I spied Marcus out of the corner of my eye, some blond had corralled him out of the rest-room and they were headed towards the bar. He half-waved and shouted he’d meet me later. My wing-man had flown off.

The doors to the adjacent ballroom now open I saw number one nervously fingering her pearl choker. Petite, slender and a certified knock out, I wondered what her malady was as I approached her table.

I introduced myself, sat down and immediately told her that I was crazy for Egg Foo Young. She laughed and told me that her favorite Chinese place in all of Jersey was only two miles away, Peking Palace #7.

“Number seven?” I said. “The single hockey stick? Now that’s auspicious! How’d you like to split this nonsense and go there right now?”

She grabbed her purse and in less than ten minutes we were munching egg rolls. Marcus would no doubt approve.

Panic Attack - up at Calliope

My new poem, Panic Attack is up over at Calliope Nerve. My rant, It's You Not Me is also featured.

Thanks to Nobius Black for hosting and featuring some of the best poets and writers on the independent scene.