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Strands of Thought Guest Post

Posted by Tim at 11:19 on 2012/02/03
Feb 032012

In lieu of a Friday Flash today I’m guest-posting over at Strands of Thought, the blog of children’s author Kai Strand. Throughout the month of February, Kai is hosting posts on the theme of Share the Love and five sub-themes: First Love, Industry Love, Current Love, Lost Love, and Leap of Faith.

My contribution is That Snow Angel, a beautiful memory of a perfect moment with my First Love. I’d love it if you take a look and leave a comment there [or here]. And take note of the cool photo I found to go with it. That’s the work of Barbara-B. She took and posted that just days before I started looking for cover art to go with my story. [So it was meant to be that I find it, if you believe in that sort of thing.] I was thrilled when she gave me permission to use it.

And lest you think I’ve gone all mushy and romantic or something, I assure you that tomorrow I’ll be back to the normally curmudgeonly self that you have come to expect around here. ;-)

YOUR DEAD

Posted by Tim at 00:27 on 2012/01/27
Jan 272012

Phillip began to tremble and felt sick to his stomach. His front door stood ajar, the jamb in splinters. His belongings were broken and strewn all over the floor. Drapes and sofa cushions had been slashed. Walls were covered with spray-painted graffiti. The message was clear enough, he had pissed off the wrong people.

That message was explicit, albeit ungrammatically, in large red letters across his living room wall:

YOUR DEAD

“Like adding insult to injury,” Phillip muttered. “Lousy punks can’t even spell, but they can sure make a hell of a mess. How stupid do you have to be to get that wrong? The idiots probably dropped out of school. I feel sorry for the teachers that had to put up with them before they finally quit. I bet they were nothing but trouble.

“Now they roam around like packs of wild dogs. If I ever get my hands on them, I’ll teach them a thing or two. They think they can just push everyone around. Lucky I wasn’t here when they broke in. Probably too chicken to face me or take me on one at a time.

“I’ll make sure they get locked up and throw away the key. And you can be damn sure every word will be spelled correctly when I see them in court. Every ‘I’ dotted and every ‘T’ crossed. Maybe after a few years behind bars and they’ll decide it’s worth their time to pick up a damn book and learn how to read and write after all.”

Just then three gang members crowded into the room behind him, guns drawn. Phillip whirled around and opened his mouth to speak. Before he uttered a sound, the guns put a final resounding exclamation point on the message. Phillip was indeed dead. And he was the one to learn a lesson that day: Only in bad movies and pulp fiction do the villains stand still for a lengthy diatribe.

.

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Wallflowers of the Elk Lodge Ballroom

Posted by Tim at 09:23 on 2012/01/19
Jan 192012

Note: Many of you know Helen Howell from over at Helen Scribbles. She’s a frequent contributor to Friday Flash and often records audio narration of her stories. She’s on a break from writing for a few weeks, but she graciously consented to provide narration for me this week. So, while I hope you enjoy reading my story, I also hope you’ll click

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

and enjoy hearing Helen read it to you. Thanks again, Helen!

Wallflowers of the Elk Lodge Ballroom

Rhonda turned to Carolyn and shouted over the music, “Thanks again for inviting me. I haven’t been out dancing in ages. This should be fun.”

“Yeah,” Carolyn shouted back, “they have a dance here every month. I’ve been coming for about a year. There’s usually twice as many women as men, but we can always do the line dances and fast songs even without a partner.”

They sipped their soft drinks and watched the mostly middle-aged dancers gyrate around the dance floor.

“Uh-oh,” Carolyn leaned toward her friend. “See that guy coming in wearing the loud print shirt?”

Rhonda glanced at the entrance and nodded.

“That’s Frank. He wears so much after shave it will make your eyes water from ten feet away.”

Rhonda scrunched up her nose in disgust.

“Yeah, I’m surprised the cloud around him isn’t visible it’s so thick. Good thing there’s no smoking allowed in here; one stray spark and he’d burst into a ball of flame.”

Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock ‘n Roll pounded out of massive speakers at one end of the hall and the two friends tapped their feet in time with the beat.

“Oh, there’s Clinton.” Carolyn waved to a man that looked older than most of the crowd. “He’s a sweet guy, but he keeps his hearing aids turned off. The loud music causes feedback apparently. He’s not too bad a dancer, but he won’t say a word while he’s dancing. Hardly talks at all in here for that matter. And of course he won’t hear anything you say either. It’s almost like dancing by yourself, but with someone next to you.”

Rhonda nodded in acknowledgement.

“Yikes! There’s one to stay away from.” Carolyn glanced furtively to her right. “That’s Hank. We call him the Dance Nazi. Stiff as a board and hard to follow. Pushes you around the dance floor, practically tramples you to death, then he tells you what you’re doing wrong all the time.”

Rhonda averted her eyes and sipped her drink.

“That’s Jeff over there. He’s half the age of most of the people in here. He wouldn’t ever tell me what a guy in his twenties is doing hanging out with us. He’s a horrible dancer, but I gotta give him points for enthusiasm. He really does try hard. He just looks so uncomfortable with his own body though, and forget about him being comfortable with yours.”

The DJ announced that he was going to slow things down a bit and the sweet strains of The Tennessee Waltz enveloped the room. A complex pattern of exits, entrances, and partner-changes rippled across the floor. Soon there was a commotion across the room. A woman stormed off leaving her partner open-mouthed and empty-handed.

“Good for her,” said Carolyn. “I call him Grabby Gus. Saw him here for the first time last month. I danced with him for about 30 seconds and excused myself to the bathroom. I felt like I had been patted down by airport security, the man’s hands were all over the place.”

The crowd settled back into its promenade in 3/4 time. A couple dressed all in blue glided by.

“Mmmm,” Carolyn followed the couple with a dreamy-eyed gaze. “We call them Fred and Ginger because they only dance with each other now. Such a shame because he’s gotta be the best dancer in the place. She’s not nearly as good as he is, but, I mean, look at her. Guys always go for the girls with the big boobs.”

Rhonda fished an ice cube from her glass and munched on it.

“Next fast song they play we should just jump on out there,” Carolyn declared. “We might have to ask the guys to dance or just have fun without them. Most of them seemed pretty shy the last couple times I was here.”

“I wonder why?”

“Guys just don’t know what they’re missing.”

.

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God does not play dice with vampires

Posted by Tim at 00:10 on 2012/01/13
Jan 132012

I have done the maths and I am here to take a byte [pardon the pun] out of the this vampire nonsense. The solution was so simple, I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. You see, it has to do with that bit [no pun intended that time] about immortality. If vampires live forever, barring any unfortunate run-ins with the likes of Van Helsing [or a jilted ex-lover], then the number of vampires in the world must always be increasing.

I don’t know how often a vampire decides to “turn” one of his or her victims. Some of the popular literature might lead me to believe it is a rather common occurrence. I’m inclined to be more conservative though so I chose once per century as the average rate of getting tired of the conversations with the old partner. ["Remember that time when -- ?" I remember everything. "Did I ever tell you about --?" Yeah, dude. Only like about a billion times already.] Let’s face it, even really good friendships probably last less than half that long [and marriages even less, but that's another story. And a different sort of blood-sucker. Ahem.]

It doesn’t seem like such a lot at first. Start with one vampire. A hundred years or so later there are two. And then another hundred years there are three. And so on. But, here’s where the math gets a little tricky, the growth is actually exponential. Because I figure that every vampire is going to turn one of his or her victims at roughly the same rate. I mean, that makes sense, right? It can’t be just that one original vampire doing it all the time. If you were a vampire and suddenly one day the old bat brings home a new BFF, wouldn’t you go out in search of some new blood too [so to speak]?

So what would really happen is that the number of vampires increases from one to two to four to eight and so on. Every kid that ever fell for the old penny-a-day-for-a-month gag knows that exponents start to turn into really big numbers really fast. So the way I figure it, if vampires exist then pretty much everyone in the entire world, except for me of course, would be a vampire by now and that’s just — excuse me. There’s someone at my door insisting that I invite them in. I’ll be right back.

.

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The Myth of the Garret-Bound Writer

Posted by Tim at 21:20 on 2012/01/09
Jan 092012

Note: You can still weigh in on the “Writing for Snob’s” poll. Also, the “We Don’t Need No Editation,” “Publishment Fits The Crime,” and Writing the Wheels Off posts provide some context to this one.

I rarely give advice. However, when I hear what I think is good advice I occasionally pass it along. I wish I could remember where I heard,

“You can get rich as a writer, but you can’t make a living at it.”

Ditto for,

“It’s hard to make a living at something people are willing to do for free.”

I have been unable to locate the source of either one though. [And I may not be quoting them exactly as I heard them.] The former may have referred specifically to writing poetry and the latter might be from my foray into game design. In any case, I think they both describe problems faced by those of us who write. Actually, that’s not quite right. The problems are not obstacles to writing; they are obstacles to getting published or earning money from writing.

Let’s face it, it’s virtually impossible to stop a writer from writing. But when most people talk about being a writer what they really mean is being published. There are a fair number of us who simply must write even if we never earn a penny from it. Is it any wonder then that writing is a fiercely competitive field in which to earn a living? A precious few will be wildly successful, a significant percentage will bring in supplemental income, and the vast majority will toil away in obscurity, richer only in experience.

I think that obscurity is a valid choice. I don’t recall exactly when I started scribbling down the ideas in my head. I know it was completely disorganized — literally on scrap paper — and without any thought of publishing. I blame [and by "blame" I don't, of course, really mean anything disparaging] one of my high school English teachers for putting the notion of publishing in my head. I had brief and moderately successful dalliances with publishing on a small scale for a while and then reverted to keeping all my writing to myself. I spent many years writing in notebooks with no intention of ever sharing the words with anyone.

Remember how I said I rarely give advice? Well, here’s one of those rare instances.

If you want to write and be published, you should approach it like an entrepreneur.

[You're welcome.] You can’t expect to be successful if you ignore the business part of the publishing business. And you should recognize that, while publishing has some unique aspects, you are going to face pretty much the same challenges as any other entrepreneur.

You should have a business plan. You should clearly state your goals and identify strategies to achieve those goals. You should know what your market is and how to market your product. All of these are true whether you are self-publishing, indie-publishing, or pursuing a legacy publishing deal. Or if you were building widgets in your garage. And I know, like a lot of you, I’m not real keen on the marketing side. I don’t really want to be a “brand” and I’m not much more comfortable promoting my work than I am promoting myself. But every business has to divide its time and resources between trying to sell their widgets and actually making the widgets to sell.

Let me tell you what I think hinders more potential writing careers than anything else: the enduring myth that writers work alone. [You're welcome again.] Every writing project is a collaborative project. All that varies is the percentage of the work that you contribute. Well, that and the percentage of any profits you can expect to keep.

Sure, if your goal is to write page after page that no one else will ever read you can absolutely do that in isolation. Anything beyond that you can not do alone. If you want to sign with a legacy publisher, you become a part of their team. They will provide specific services and they will have specific expectations of what you must provide. [And it goes well beyond sitting in a room by yourself churning out words.] They will keep the majority of any profits that are realized. If that’s what you want, go after it knowing what you need to do and more importantly knowing what it is they do. School yourself on the process.

I think self-publishing is a much more exciting prospect and it has never been easier. [By easier I don't mean you won't have to put in a shipload of work, but the potential has never been greater and the resources have never been more plentiful.] Hire your own editor. [I like to edit. Hire me!] Hire your own cover designer. Hire your own video producer to make a trailer. Gather all the resources you need to make your book the best it can be. Enlist the help of your writing community — you are part of a community, aren’t you? I’m telling you, writers do not work alone. [OR: I'm telling you writers, do not work alone.] In fact, I think that should be my final bit of advice:

Writers, do not work alone.

And to All a Good Night

Posted by Tim at 11:11 on 2012/01/06
Jan 062012

“Evan, is it true?” asked Bob.

“Yup, I’m out of here.”

“But why?”

“Look, Chuckles the Clown here,” Evan rolled his eyes at the security guard that towered over him, “is only giving me one hour to clean out my desk. Come over tonight and I’ll fill you in.”

The security guard, who never enjoyed escorting employees — former employees — off the property, simply glared at him and said nothing.

Bob balanced a six pack on top of the pizza box and rang the bell. Evan opened the door and stood there with a distinctive glassy-eyed stare. Several empty cans littered the coffee table and floor. Bringing more beer suddenly seemed like a supremely stupid thing to do.

“Look,” Bob grabbed the six pack and held it behind his back and pushed the pizza box under his friend’s chin, “I brought your favorite meat-lover’s pizza. Let’s sit down and have a slice or three.”

“Sure. Come on in, buddy. Happy frikkin’ new year!”

Evan dropped into his La-Z-Boy while Bob cleared space on the coffee table. When they had both taken a few minutes to wolf down a slice Bob asked, “So, did they really fire you?”

“Technically, I resigned. But they made it clear they would fire me if I didn’t. They even had me date the resignation two weeks ago so it would look like I gave notice.”

“What the hell? I thought things were going great.”

“Apparently there were complaints from customers. Some said they thought I was making fun of them. Some said they were so put off by my attitude that they would never deal with the company again.”

“No way….”

“Way.”

“But did you explain why you were acting –”

“Yeah, right! Tell HR that some ghost appeared to me in a dream? They would have had hauled me off to the loony bin. No, it’s better this way. At least I leave with my dignity intact.”

“I guess so. I mean, is it?”

“Better? Sure”

“Well, no. I mean is your dignity intact? After all, you were acting in good faith. I’m sure those customer’s feathers could have been smoothed over.”

“Probably, but you know when your boss isn’t willing to back you up there’s not much point in fighting. I guess they figure it was too much of a PR hassle.”

“I suppose.”

“I read some of the customer complaints. The big guys just don’t have the balls to stand up to them. Or they really do think I’m wrong. In either case, I’m better off going somewhere else.”

“So what are you going to do? Where are you going to find another job in this economy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a little savings and the boss did slip me some severance pay off the books. I’ll just have to hit the bricks like everyone else.”

“And when they ask why you left your last job?”

Evan mulled it over for a minute. “I’ll tell them I had gone as far as I could with the company and the only way to advance in my career was to go somewhere else. That’s pretty much true.”

“But you won’t tell them about….?”

“The dream? Hell no. Besides, at this point I figure that’s about the worst advice I ever got in my entire life. I might never smile again.”

“Oh, dude… you know I’m your best friend and I’ll stand by you no matter what, but… well, to tell you the truth, I kind of liked you better after that dream.”

“And see what it got me?”

“Yeah, but except for, you know, getting fired, wasn’t it better for you too? I mean this might turn out to be one of those things that looks bad but turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Hmmpff.”

The two friends ate another slice of pizza in silence. But the words Evan had read kept ringing in his ears like taunting silver bells: “excessively cheerful… disgusting happiness… unfettered joy… out of touch with reality….”

In a cloaked ship orbiting overhead the aliens marked their experiment on Evan as an unqualified success.

.

Note: I trust that this restores the faith in my cynicism that some of you thought had slipped away in my Christmas Spirit flash. Happy frikkin’ new year everyone! ;-) ~Tim

.

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Christmas Spirit

Posted by Tim at 00:01 on 2011/12/23
Dec 232011

Evan grumbled more and more through the month of December. “I just can’t get into the Christmas spirit this year,” he said as if that were explanation enough for his sour mood and boorish behavior. He had no patience for the throngs of shoppers. The ubiquitous holiday music further fouled his mood. He was cross with his coworkers and crass with his friends.

Before long his friends began greeting him with, “Bah, humbug,” before saying hello. But nothing, it seemed, would bring him out of his funk.

And then on Christmas Eve he was transformed. He greeted everyone with, “Happy Christmas!” or “Have a wonderful holiday!”

“What gives?” asked his best friend Bob. “You’ve been crabby as hell since before Thanksgiving and now you’re all sunshine and smiles.”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” said Evan.

“Try me.”

“Okay.”

And Evan told this tale:

When I went to bed last night I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, much less get to sleep. Suddenly I became aware of a presence in the room. Someone — or something — was standing at the foot of my bed!

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the figure said.

“I’m not — I mean who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” I said. I sat up and inched toward the headboard to get as far away from the intruder as I could. “Get out. I have a gun!”

“No you don’t, Evan.” The figure chuckled. “And to answer your questions, I am the Spirit of Christmas and I am here to help you.”

“Huh? You mean like with Scrooge? Not that I believe you, but are you the spirit of Christmas past, present, or future?”

“Ah, well Dickens took some dramatic license in his tale. There are not three Spirits, only me. And while I could show you Christmases past or future, I’m really only concerned with the present. You see, you need help now.”

“What, exactly, do you intend to do to me?”

“Oh, dear. I really have frightened you, haven’t I? I won’t do anything to you except talk to you. I want to explain the problem. The rest is up to you to do with, or not, as you wish.”

“Is this because I haven’t gotten into the Christmas spirit this year — if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“No offense taken, but you see, that is exactly the problem. You keep saying you can’t get into the spirit. What you need to do is let the Spirit get into you.”

I pulled my blanket up to my chin. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is this like some alien probe or something?”

“Nothing of the sort. You simply need to be open to the possibility that people need the gifts you have to offer. Not the things you can buy them, although you may find some of those as well, but your gifts don’t have to cost you a penny. Just take a moment to look at the people around you as you go about your day. Many of them won’t need anything more than a smile or a kind word. And the best thing? You’ll be surprised at how much you gain by giving those little bits of yourself.”

“That all sounds a little too ‘woo woo’ to me.”

“Well,” the Spirit laughed, “the simplest things are often the most profound. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. If you look for opportunities to give of yourself, you’ll find them.”

“That’s it? And you won’t keep haunting me about it.”

“You’ll never see me again, except perhaps in the faces of the people you give to. I promise. Now get some sleep. You look awful.” And with that the figure faded from sight.

I remained curled against the headboard with the covers pulled up to my throat for several more minutes watching and waiting for any further sign of the intruder. Finally I gave a huge yawn and realized how very sleepy I was. I stretched out and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

“It was the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” Evan concluded. “And I found out the Spirit was right. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get into Christmas, I wasn’t letting Christmas into me. Once I relaxed and let it in, everything changed. Most people don’t need anything more from me than a smile and a kind word. And it seems I have an abundance of those to give because I get just as many in return.”

Happy Christmas

.

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In Which I do the Splits

Posted by Tim at 16:24 on 2011/12/20
Dec 202011

20 Years LaterFrom Dark PlacesI am honored to host the wildly talented Emma Newman who recently celebrated the hardcover release of her novel 20 Years Later. You may also know her from her anthology of short stories, From Dark Places, or her participation in FridayFlash. Or — as if that weren’t enough, like it should be, but it’s not — you may have heard her voice work which you can check out here.

 

Split Worlds ProjectToday Emma treats us to the eighth in her Split Worlds Short Stories. She is releasing one per week for a year and a day. You can find all the stories along with audio versions here. You can also sign up there to host one of these stories on your own blog.

 

Do you want to hear Emma read the story to you? Click here or on her pretty picture below. Without further ado, please enjoy this week’s Split World Story: Separation.

Emma Newman


Separation

Kim sat at the kitchen table, dropping the letter onto the scraps of fabric and coloured paper. She felt sick, then tearful, then furious, but she didn’t make a sound.

The door was open, letting in the scent of summer along with birdsong, the heavy drone of bees and Natalie’s singing. Everything around her spoke of happiness, seeming absurd when her life was imploding. Divorce should only happen in the winter, she thought.

Her mobile chimed, she bit her thumbnail, now fearful of text messages. He hadn’t sent any for a few days, perhaps it was the first of the next burst of hate. She tidied the table, putting the paper and fabric back in the crafting box, sweeping up the fallen glitter with the dustpan and brush, all the while the ‘new message’ symbol flashing on her phone. Finally she’d gathered the frayed edges of herself back together again and picked it up.

“Hey chickadee, am near your place today, can I pop in for a cuppa?”

She smiled as the relief flooded in and texted an enthusiastic reply. Natalie appeared at the door. “Mummy, can I have some scissors?”

“What for darling?” she folded the letter from the solicitor over, even though her daughter wouldn’t be able to understand it.

“The fairy wants some of my hair.”

“You’re too small to use scissors. How about I do it?”

Natalie squeaked and bounced up and down until told to stay still. Kim snipped a lock from the back, where her strawberry blonde curls were thickest, and showed it to her. “Shall I tie a ribbon around it?”

“Yes, a purple one. My friend wears a purple fairy dress.”

Kim rummaged in the crafting box. “My best friend will be here soon, Auntie Magda, do you remember her? She has blue hair.”

“Oh! I like her. Will you make a cake then?”

“Why not,” Kim agreed. There should be time.

***

“What a bastard,” Magda said, pushing the letter back across the table. “What a sleazy, evil bastard.”

Kim nodded, tearful now she’d started to talk. “I don’t know what to do. He knows I can’t afford to challenge it.”

“But you’d win,” Magda said, pouring more tea. “If his own brother tells you he’s moved assets into that bitch’s name to avoid the assessment, it’ll come out in court.”

A squeal of delight floated in through the window and they shared a smile. “At least Nat seems okay,” Kim said, picking at the crumbs on her plate. “She’s going through a fairy phase.”

Magda looked at the pictures pinned on the corkboard. “I guessed,” she smirked. “It’s good to see there aren’t any Daddy monsters in them.”

“She doesn’t ask about him anymore.”

“Kids adapt, better than we do.”

“Mummy,” Natalie appeared at the door again. “Can I play the piano for the fairy?”

“I’ll open the cover for you,” Kim said, happy that Magda would hear her play.

“She’s so gifted,” Magda said as the notes floated in.

“But if he won’t pay what he should, I won’t be able to afford her lessons any more. That’s what upsets me; he might be doing it to spite me, but it’s Nat who suffers.” Then she was crying. “Her teacher keeps saying I should apply to the private school in town, they’ve got this amazing music department, but I can barely afford the mortgage now.”

“What about a scholarship?” Magda said, moving round the table to sit next to her. “And sod the house, it’s too big and old anyway. Move closer to me and Dave.”

“But the countryside is good for Nat. And she practically lives in the garden over the summer. He’s such a git!”

Magda rubbed her back as she sobbed. The music stopped and she struggled to get a grip before Natalie came back in. “Mummy? Is Daddy making you sad again?”

“I’m alright darling, go out and play.”

“Shall I ask my friend to turn him into a frog?”

Magda laughed. “Yes! A big warty toad!”

“Okay,” Natalie skipped out.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Kim blew her nose.

“Why not? It gives her a way to cope, and she suggested it. Kids are wiser than we think.”

“Mummy!” Natalie reappeared a minute later, breathless. “Can I go to fairyland?”

“Maybe after lunch,” Kim said. “Can you help us make soup?”

“Okay.”

“Mummy,” Natalie began, stirring the soup as she stood on her stool, Magda’s hands on her shoulders and kisses on her hair. “Is there a history of madness in our family?”

“What?” Kim lay the knife down as Magda’s jaw dropped.

“My friend wants to know.”

“Who is this friend of yours?” Magda asked, exchanging a suspicious look with Kim. “Is it really a fairy?”

“Oh yes. She’s tiny and sparkly and pretty and looks like that,” she pointed at the wall of pictures with the wooden spoon. “She lives at the bottom of the garden, by the old well.”

“And why did she ask about that?” Magda took the spoon from her.

“I don’t know. It was when we were talking about me going to live in fairyland. What does it mean?”

“I need a couple more carrots,” Kim said, wiping her hands on the apron. She went outside, the heat of the day oppressive after the cool farmhouse kitchen. She went past the vegetable patch and through the bushes to Natalie’s favourite spot, half expecting to find some weirdo lurking in the hedge, putting these mad things into her child’s head. But there was no one. Her tea set was laid out for two, a wasp drowning in the lemonade. She tipped it out.

***

Bellies full and dishes washed, Magda and Kim were looking over the pile of correspondence. “Thanks for staying Mags,” she said. “I couldn’t do this by myself.”

“S’ok,” Magda smiled, a blue lock twisted around her finger. “Nice to put the degree to some use. If only I’d kept it up, I could be your freaky blue-haired lawyer.”

They giggled, Kim felt better. “I think-”

Natalie’s scream cut her off, she was on her feet and at the door in a moment, hearing the exact pitch of genuine distress.

“Nat?” she called, heading down the path in her slippers, Magda close behind. “Nat?”

She emerged from the bushes in tears with outstretched arms, running towards her. “Mummy! A man caught my fairy!”

She ran into her arms, as Magda carried on running past them, no doubt fearing the same as she. “What man?” Kim asked, feeling her daughter quivering. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, he said the fairy was bad and caught her in a net.”

Kim’s shoulder was soon wet with her tears. “Did he touch you?”

“No, he caught my friend. The net made her all still.” The words unravelled into hysterics, Magda emerged from the bushes, shaking her head. “No-one there,” she said. “No-one in the fields either.”

“He went through a magic door,” Natalie wailed. “With my friend in his net.”

Kim shut her eyes, realising it was all part of her child’s fantasy, probably some reflection of the divorce or something like that. She felt Magda’s arms around them both. “I’m so sorry Nat,” her friend said. “Perhaps if we draw a picture of your fairy, she’ll find a way back again.”

Sniffing, Natalie twisted to look at her. “You think so?”

“Let’s try it, eh?”

Natalie wriggled free and ran into the house, sniffing.

“Thanks,” Kim said.

Magda looked just as relieved. “I thought it was something worse.”

“Kids eh?” Kim said as they walked back. “Where do they get this stuff from?”

Thanks for hosting Tim! I hope you enjoyed the story. If you would like to find out more about the Split Worlds project, it’s all here: www.splitworlds.com. If you would like to host a story over the coming year, either let me know in the comments or contact me through the Split Worlds site. Em x

Dead Letters

Posted by Tim at 00:01 on 2011/12/16
Dec 162011

Mike is dead.

Michael yanked open his front door and found the street deserted; there was no sign of whoever might have dropped the note through the mail slot. He examined the page. The text was standard laser printer quality. Times New Roman. The paper was cheap white bond that could have come from any office supply store. He dropped the note in the trash, assuming it was some sort of prank, and resumed getting ready for work.

The next morning another sheet fell through the mail slot and skittered across the floor. This time the same brief message was followed by a map and directions. The starting point was his house. The ending point was called Wabasha Street Caves located across the river near St. Paul’s Downtown Airport, Holman Field. At the bottom was another line of text: Tommy Gun Trouble Friday 7:00.

Friday morning there was no note through the mail slot, but when Michael got in his car to go to work he found a duplicate of the map along with two tickets for the Tommy Gun Trouble Murder Mystery Show on the passenger seat. He knew the vehicle had been locked and the alarm set. He was at a loss to explain how the items got there, but his curiosity was overriding his fear.

While his car warmed up he called his wife. “Let’s go out tonight.”

In its checkered past the Wabasha Street Caves housed mobsters and speakeasies. Now the site specializes in historical tours, weddings, conventions, dances, and other events. Just after Michael and his wife were seated in the ballroom a tall, middle-aged man in a tour guide’s uniform approached.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Michael, “there’s a message for you at the cave entrance. If you’ll follow me, please.” Michael excused himself and followed.

“Who’s the message from?” he inquired. But his guide just grinned back at him and quickened his pace. At the cave entrance the guide glanced back again and then entered a small side tunnel. Michael hesitated only a moment and then hurried in pursuit, spurred on by unbridled curiosity. Twice he lost sight of the guide and then spied him again as the distance between them increased. The third time the guide moved out of sight Michael stopped, determined to give up the chase and return to his wife. This is beyond ridiculous, he thought.

Just then he heard a loud whisper. “Psssst. Over here.” A light flickered just around the next bend. Slowly, he moved deeper into the cave once more. When he rounded the bend he found a flashlight and a pocketknife on a small ledge along with another note. Like the first one he had received this one said simply, “Mike is dead.”

Just then there was a terrible crash as the cave ceiling collapsed behind him, trapping him in total darkness.

John was perched on his porcelain throne when a single sheet of paper slid under the door. “Who’s there?” he called. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house. Unnerved, he finished his business quickly and retrieved the page. His breathing became labored and his face paled as he shifted his gaze from the note to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

There was a soft rustling noise on the other side of the door and a quiet voice called back.

“It’s Jonathan.”

His body trembled as he read the brief but ominous message printed in neat laser text on the cheap paper.

John is dead.

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Note: Michael and John both posted pieces recently with the opening line, “Tim is dead.” This is my revenge.
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What's that Lassie? Timmy fell down the well?

Posted by Tim at 17:52 on 2011/12/13
Dec 132011

I’ve read two flash pieces in the last week with the same opening line:

Tim is dead.

If this is the universe trying to tell me something, picture me with my hands over my ears going “IIIIiiiii caaaaannnnnn’t heeeeaaarrrrrr yoooouuuuuu La la la la la la la la la …..”

On a brighter note, the inimitable Michael A. Tate chose my Chances Are for his Best #FridayFlash of the Month for November award. I rose from the dead to give an interview which is up today. Click on over and let me give you a piece of my mind [before it's all gone].

Oh, if you want to read those other ominous bits, they are here and here.

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