TERRIBLE MINDS FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: 200 WORDS

What an incredible writing challenge Terrible Minds has offered this week.  Actually, it is only Part One of a five-part challenge.  This week, we are to write the start of a story (200 words max).  Next week, we take someone else's 200 words and add 200 more to continue it.  Then, the following week, do the same and so on until a 1,000 word story is complete.  Here's the link to the challenge so you can join in.

My offering for Part One of this challenge comes in at 198 words.  It is only a beginning, and I really hope someone picks it up and continues it.  I'd love to see where this could go.  But, for now, here's Reunion.  I hope you enjoy.

REUNION

They are waking up slowly, one by one.  It has been so long since we have been together--so much time and distance between us.  Fate stepped in and assisted with my plans for our ten-year reunion.  Their surprise will be my sublime pleasure.  I will greet them with a smile, as they often did me.  Mine will be counterfeit.  Too.  As I watch and wait, I remember.

Our childhood games.  Simon Says go play in traffic.  Hide and Seek, and I am left for dead.  Scrabble dictates slit your wrists.  The promise of friendship broken as it was pledged.  Rejected, abandoned, deceived.  Ah, the sweet memories of my youth.

These three companions, these three acquaintances, these three schoolmates, these three abominations.  I did not fit with them.  Or anyone.  They still pulled.  And pushed.  And tormented.

The bars and floor of their cage are wired.  In my heart, I know they will be pleased with this game I have selected.  It will be so familiar.  So typical.  So fitting.

Wake up, my friends.  My very dear friends.  Let us share one last stroll down memory lane.  One more, before I flip the switch and turn on my hose…

 

TERRIBLE MINDS FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: FIND YOUR FAVORITE OPENING LINE

Last week, the Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge was to write an opening line of 15 words or less. This week, the challenge is to write a 1,000 word story based on one of those.

I didn't participate last week--my current work in progress was holding me hostage.  It has since loosened its grip, so I thought I would select one of the openers and slide in a story after it.  Brennan's opening line (set in bold type) was what I chose, and it worked beautifully to begin my twisted little tale.  Please enjoy.


FORGET HEAVEN

The sun shone down as it always had, and for a moment, everything was perfect.  Oddly, this had seemed a good idea at the time.  Wearing nothing but a black cloak to mock the darkness of the world we were departing, and to pay homage to the darkness of the world we would be joining.  Our eternal bond sealed with a last kiss as we leapt from the cliff to be impaled on the jagged rocks below…

Yeah, I know.  Sounds like an old B movie, but I figured it was all some kind of mystic symbolism.  At sunrise, Willow and I would strip down in the parking lot by the observation area, put on long black capes, and walk to the edge where she would chant some nonsense while waving around some foul-smelling incense.  After she was done with all that crap, we would head over to my beach house and she would screw my brains out.  Not a bad way to start the morning, huh?

My name is Ralph Mobo.  Not exactly a made-for-Hollywood moniker, but I’m not exactly a made-for-Hollywood guy.  I’m a semi-pudgy, 66-year old retired CPA, widowed close to 4 years.  With the firm’s retirement package and my 401(k), the oceanfront condo was a steal.  The house on Morning Glory Drive belonged to the old me--the one who was married 41 years to a well-educated, socially accomplished, not-too-hard-on-the-eyes woman I had met in the stacks at college.  I found myself in a bit of a fog after she passed, but once it cleared, I decided to grab life by the horns and take it on.

I was walking through the park one afternoon when I saw her by the fountain.  White gown, long blonde hair, humming, and splashing paint on a canvas.  I wondered what it would be like to do it with an artist.  She noticed me watching, dropped her brush and pallet, ran to me, and said I was her destiny.  Okay.

“I am Willow,” she whispered.  “Unlock your shackles and live with me on the wind.  Let us unite our souls.”

I was all for that ’uniting our souls’ bit.  I took her to my condo and we did it on every surface in the place.  She said it was important to cover everything with our spirits, to aid the wandering dead with their quest for solace.  Whatever.

Last night, after a particularly rigorous one-on-one, from out of left field this 19-year old wild child springs this ‘we need to jump off a cliff tomorrow morning’ thing on me.  Naturally, I didn’t take her literally.  She always spoke in metaphors and tried to create elaborate illusions with her stories.  I never understood any of it, but, since she’d be all over me while she told her little tales, I’d smile and nod.  Every time.

So here we are.  The point’s deserted most mornings.  Good thing, because we’re both stark naked, doing it on the hood of my Mercedes.  When we’re done here, I’ll run it through the car wash on Fifth and Delmont.  If nothing else, they’re discreet.  The cloak she made for me looks like a black bed sheet with ties.  This is definitely not something I would want to be caught dead in.  Good one, huh?

“The time has come for us to surrender,” she says.  “We shall seek darker regions still and remain forever in torment, punished for the sins of humanity.”

She dons her cloak, takes my hand, and moves us closer to the edge.

Wait a minute.  All I wanted to do was try to break out of my mold and maybe unclog an artery or two, but this kid‘s serious.  She releases my hand and leans in for one last smooch.  I give her a slight nudge.  She just a wisp of a gal; drops like a stone.  The mist-covered shoreline obscures my view, but I’d heard the thud.  I quickly put on my jeans and sweatshirt.  A fella could freeze his woo-woo’s out here.

As I pass the old fairgrounds on my way home, I notice the circus is back in town.  I pull in and watch the high-wire gal rehearsing.  I wonder what it would be like to do it with a…

NaNoWriMo Time--Yay!

Here we are in November again, and that means NaNoWriMo.  I always look forward to this time of year.  Of course, it's time for Thanksgiving, being together with family and eating until you can't move.  Too, once Thanksgiving is over, Christmas is just around the corner.  Then again, time with family, eating wondrous meals, sharing gifts, and looking forward to the new year and lots of new beginnings.

There is also that terrific event that occurs each November, and that is National Novel Writing Month.  I have participated for years now, and will continue.  Thirty days to write 50,000 words?  Is it stressful and do you end up putting a great deal of pressure on yourself?  Definitely.  Is it an incredibly enjoyable way to push yourself into creating something you may not have created otherwise simply because of the timeline factor?  Absolutely.

NaNoWriMo is time-consuming and requires dedication and a lot of work.  But there is nothing negative about the experience.  It's a personal challenge that is so fulfilling at the end of the month when you look back at what you've created.  This novel you've written does require major editing since during NaNo time, you only write.  And write.  And write.  There's an editing event through NaNo too, but I've never tried my hand at that one.  Not yet, anyway.

One of the novels I wrote during NaNo was able to be divided into a six-part children's/young adult's fantasy series, Choices, which I had published.  I'm currently in the process of completing the editing process on another one of my NaNo projects, and it will be ready to send to my publisher in the very near future.  There is another that requires completion, and of course, major editing, that was a NaNo project and then, we have the one I am currently writing.  Do I take NaNo seriously and follow through on all my projects?  You bet I do.

My point being, while NaNo is a wonderful experience and as far as I'm concerned, great fun, great things have occurred for me as a writer as a result of my participation.  Not only has my work been published, but writing 'with abandon' I believe has helped me to be a better writer.  The first time through, while I am mindful of sequencing, spelling, grammar and all the basics, I'm not obsessed with those things.  My obsession is directed at the story, the characters, and continuously moving it forward.  Isn't that where a writer's focus should be directed?

I would encourage anyone, regardless of where you're at as a writer, to participate in NaNo.  It's interesting, fun, and it makes you crazy for 30 days, and you'll be so glad when November is done.  You will be holding in your hand a creation of yours.  Perhaps not complete, perhaps a grammatical nightmare, but there's plenty of time to go back and fix.

Use November to simply write.  Give it all you've got, and when you're done, be very proud of yourself and treat yourself to some reward.  Go to a nice restaurant and have your favorite dinner.  Buy yourself that outfit you've been admiring in the store window.  Order that season's worth of DVDs of that television show you watch every time it comes on.  Pat yourself on the back and award yourself a prize.  You've earned it!

KIRK'S LANDING by MIKE YOUNG: A REVIEW

Question.  What is the critical attribute a law enforcement officer needs to successfully infiltrate a gang involved in criminal activities?  Why, of course, it is the ability to blend in; in fact, blend in so well the gang hardly notices you at all.  Corporal Dave Browne of the RCMP operates undercover in just such a role and his ability to ‘blend’ far surpasses that of his team members.  You see, Dave doesn’t simply blend in--he actually fades away--literally disappears and reappears at will.  Handy, huh?  You bet.  That is, until the one time during a ‘fade out’, he ‘fades in’ at quite the inappropriate moment.  Cover blown.  But, how?  Why?  No time to theorize and analyze.  If he expects to survive, time to get re-assigned.

His superiors relocate him to Kirk’s Landing, a town in Manitoba, to serve as Commander of the detachment.  A neutral enough position to bide his time until the fallout from his last assignment clears.  After all, it isn’t as if anything really serious was going to occur while he was there.  What could a sleepy little town’s crises amount to anyway?  A couple of domestic disputes, buddies scrapping with too much beer under their belts, kids playing their music too loud…  Just the usual small town stuff, right?

Dave discovers there is absolutely nothing ‘usual’ about Kirk’s Landing.  Behind those friendly smiles are dark and sinister secrets.  Everyone has a skeleton or two in their closet, and those bones are restless.  Dave was instructed to put in his time there and make no waves.  But, as the seemingly picture-perfect façade of Kirk’s Landing begins to crumble, Dave finds he cannot turn a blind eye to the shadows lurking around each and every corner.

A missing person’s case hangs over the town like a shroud.  Rumors abound concerning issues at the mill.  When Dave tours the facility, he is made to feel like an intruder, and the information he receives is vague and misdirected.  Is there a connection?  Did the missing man discover unethical or illegal goings-on and need to be silenced, or was it just another case of a hiker losing his way in a snowstorm?  Dave isn’t receiving a lot of input from the locals.  They need time to basically figure him out and determine whose side he’s on.  Is he there to help hold the community together, or is he just like all the others before him--there to simply help himself to whatever he can take from them.  And, as if all of that wasn’t enough for Dave to contend with, Evil itself decides to follow Dave to Kirk’s Landing, and threatens to permanently tear the community apart.

Kirk’s Landing has everything a story needs:  Three-dimensional characters, diverse cultures and customs, and enough twists and turns to keep your head spinning.  The puzzle is there, to be completed one piece at a time, chapter by chapter, page by page.  If you enjoy suspense, action, and mystery, along with a sneak peek into man’s dark side, you’ll love Kirk’s Landing.  Make sure you allow enough time to finish it once you start though.  There’s no putting this one down!

Kirk's Landing is now available on Amazon, and the link to purchase it is here.  I've made it nice and easy for you, so go ahead and order your copy.  You'll be SO glad you did.

CHUCK WENDIG'S FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: THE COOPERATIVE CLIFFHANGER, PART TWO

The challenge this week, for Part Two, was to select one of the cliffhangers from last week (not your own, of course) and finish it.  The story I chose was called Hello World by Sam Barnett.  This was a story I felt needed to be continued, but actually ending it didn't seem right somehow.

Before you read Home, make sure you read Sam's story here.  It sets quite the impressive baseline for what follows.  Please enjoy.

HOME

Today is the one-year anniversary of that horrific, yet oddly liberating, event.  After the Enforcers had departed, I began to extricate myself from my mother’s body.  Like others of my kind, within moments of my birth, I was able to function independently.  Within 24 hours, I had achieved the appearance of an adult, and became able to move virtually unnoticed among them.

Inexplicably, I became aware that, upon my mother’s death, it was my obligation to consume her, but I could not defile that gentle soul.  I made the decision that my father, who had allowed the love of his life and his unborn child to be brutalized and left to die, should sustain me.  His flesh was bitter and without merit, but it would be weeks before I required another meal.

Through my interactions with the humans, I have discovered this species consists of not only the weak and the strong, but strangely, there are numerous variances between.  My kind is comprised solely of those who obey and those who enforce.  Having experienced the one and having inherited my father’s memories of the other, I can but only wonder which is most equitable.

Life thus far has been difficult, at best.  Locating nourishment, however, has never been an issue.  These creatures, these people, literally profess everywhere how much they care for one another.  They ‘love’ this scent, they ‘love’ the sound of that music, they ‘love’ to band together to protect and serve.  I find these proclamations quite amusing considering not one of them seems even slightly annoyed when their own begin to disappear.

Humans in towns appear to be more mindful as their numbers decrease, but not so in the cities.  As they are generally oblivious to those who no longer frequent their customary habitats, the same disinterest is demonstrated regarding any outsiders who replace the missing.  It is for this reason I have chosen these large regions in which to survive until…; well, since I know not what destiny awaits me, I simply go on.  Resigned to exist from sunrise to sunset--searching, and hoping.  That is, until I met Elise.

In this, my latest metropolitan refuge, I walk tree-lined paths that provide me with a pleasant sensation called ‘peace‘.  It is not a substance one can see or touch, but is a feeling that all is right and there is nothing to fear.  It is not often I am privileged with this intense calm, but strolling through this park is guaranteed to allow me to believe that, at least for the moment, I am safe.  Deep in the surrounding woods is also a ready supply of sustenance.  Some humans have no permanent structure to retreat to when their world goes dark, so they congregate in camps.  When necessary, I fetch one or two of the denizens to satisfy my hunger.  These camps constantly replenish themselves however, as, for every two I may take, at times, three or more replace them.  This practice also reinforces the hypocrisy of their kind.  When one or more go missing, those who remain confiscate and claim their meager belongings as their own.

It was on one of my treks along the trails when I passed a bench for resting.  It was there I saw her.  She was beautiful and delicate and her smile brought a warmth to me I had never experienced before.  Her skin was pale and smooth, and her dark eyes revealed many lifetimes.  I knew immediately she was not human, so I was as much filled with dread as fascination.  She held out her hand to me and her touch brought my father’s memories of love flooding in.  My future was with Elise, and the humanity within me pledged if we were to meet the same fate as my parents, I would not follow in the footsteps of my father.  I would not die on my knees.

We made a life together, and I was happier than I’d ever thought possible.  She never spoke of that other world, and I never asked.  She and I would sit comfortably together in silence for hours upon hours, and we shared our hopes and dreams for the bright future that lay ahead.

After a few months, Elise began to change.  She insisted on taking midnight walks alone and requested I leave our home for specific periods of time during the day.  I wondered if she was with child, but dare not ask.  I knew all would be revealed when the time was right.  One afternoon, I decided to surprise her with a snack and returned a half hour earlier than expected.  A young man from one of the camps had been killed by his comrades for his shoes; I simply took him out of everyone‘s way.

I was drawn to her voice.  She was in the bedroom, speaking into a transmitter I had never seen before.

“Target is ready to be terminated.  Come tonight when I am out.  He will be drugged and offer little resistance.”

“Why?”  I asked her.

Startled, she quickly tried to restore the connection.  I pulled the microphone from her hand and destroyed the unit.

“You are the child of a violator,” she explained, her tone devoid of emotion.  “My task is to locate and befriend such as you, then alert the Enforcers when the time is right.  You half-breeds tend to fight, so I introduce sedatives so the execution is effortless.”

I killed her quickly since time was precious.  She bled profusely as the blade caressed her throat.  I left her for others of our kind to dispose of.  I had no taste for betrayal.

So, I am yet again on the run.  I have learned much since the day I was born.  I have learned about love and lies and trust and the death of all things.  I must go on.  I am home.

CHUCK WENDIG'S FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: THE COOPERATIVE CLIFFHANGER, PART ONE

The flash fiction challenge this week was to write an unfinished story, around 1,000 words, that leads to a cliffhanger of some kind.

Next week, for Part Two of this challenge, someone else may write the end of your story, provided you entice them enough to want to, that is.

I would love to see someone take this story further.  What would be your choice?

LIGHTS, CAMERA…

The director sighed.  Already had a buyer for his usual fare, and now this happens. One hundred thou offered to make a snuff? An actual, honest-to-fucking snuff film? The order’s from some big-name actor, so the money’s real enough. The actor’s rep let Clyde look at it in his briefcase. Let him feel it up for a sec too. Even brought the gun he wanted to be used. A nice shiny new 9mm Glock--loaded. ‘Like your other films, please’ he said quietly, ‘except this time, when the girl puts the gun into her mouth and pulls the trigger…’

Clyde felt like he was going to be sick. So far, he’d had no problem unloading his work. He has the girl make herself feel real good, then she sucks on his old Colt 38 with the broken firing pin for awhile, pulls the trigger, looks right into the camera and laughs. But this time?

He’d picked this cutie up at a bus stop on the edge of town and brought her out here to the cabin. Told him she was 18, but he didn’t believe a day over 15. Promised her a few bucks, make her a movie star, you know the routine, and she’d come willingly enough. But, still. A snuff film?

He took her into the master bedroom, where he had his lights and camera already set up. Clyde told her to lie on the bed and get comfortable and try to relax. He handed her a bottle of some cheap whiskey he had stashed there for just such occasions. As soon as she unscrewed the top, she started gulping it down. Clyde hoped to hell she wouldn’t puke it up later on film. A scene like that would certainly decrease its value. He told her he had some stuff to take care of in the other room, but he’d be back in about 15 minutes and then they would make the movie. She just nodded and kept gulping. Clyde went into the back bedroom he’d converted to a kind of office and sat down at the desk. He really needed to think this through.

He put the Colt and the Glock on the desk and lit a smoke. This should have been an easy decision, but he couldn’t just wave off a hundred thousand dollars. At the rate he was going, that’s more money than he would see in 25 lifetimes. But, we’re talking death for real here…

Clyde always figured there were two sides to everything. Were there this time?

Nobody makes snuff films. Not for real, anyway.

Apparently, there’s at least one guy out there who believes I would.

This kid can’t just disappear.

Told me she had no family--totally on her own.

I’ve never even punched anybody out, much less killed anyone.

I wouldn’t actually be pulling the trigger.

How could I live with myself if I let this girl die?

A hundred thou buys a lot of therapy.

Doesn’t matter how you look at this. When all is said and done, it comes down to cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

Yes. It does.

Four o’clock. Clyde thought the kid must be pretty well looped by now, considering she’s probably been gulping steady for the past 15 minutes.

Showtime.

He picked up the gun from the desk and went into the bedroom. The girl had already removed her clothes and was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes were barely open and lifeless in the room’s dim lighting. The bottle of whiskey sat almost empty on the nightstand against the wall.

He placed the gun on the bed next to her and asked if she knew what she was expected to do with it. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, picked up the gun and began caressing it.

He positioned himself behind the camera and said, “Five, four, three, two…”

barcode: Pure Slush, Vol. 8 -- A Review

Pure Slush's anthology, barcode, is a collection of 32 stories all about bars and the individuals who frequent them.  As you make your way through each of the stories, you will find yourself drawn into a different world with each turn of the page.

You will meet those who are searching for love and acceptance, and those who have long ago bitterly renounced both.  You will bear witness to the hopes and dreams of some who still believe wishes can come true, as well as some to whom Life has dealt the cruelest hand.  You will be privy to thoughts and emotions that should never have been shared, as well as joy and fulfillment desired yet never realized.

barcode is a collection in the truest sense of the word.  It is an assemblage of places, of sentiments, of memories, of lives.  The characters in each story are as different from each other as night to day, yet they all seek--something.  Relief from loneliness, to create new memories, somewhere to discard painful old ones, affirmation of their very existence, or perhaps something as basic as a friend...

These are stories you can enjoy over and over again.  Take your time with each though; sip them slowly as you would a fine wine.

The link to where you can obtain your copy of barcode is here.