by Tony Noland
A thin cloud of old cigarette ash flew up as Meng-Shiu Tong slapped the newspaper onto his desk. "That fucking little bitch has gone too far this time, Simon. Too far!"
Jolian Simon lowered the sheaf of documents he'd come in to discuss and closed the door behind him. "You mean Lonnigan?"
Tong snatched the paper off his desk and threw it at the old man. "Of course I mean Lonnigan! I specifically told her to put the Acrobat in a coma, and what does she do? She screwed it up. One simple little assignment, and she screwed it up. Look at that, it says he's conscious. Conscious for Chrissakes! I wanted him dead in the first place, I never should have agreed to send in your goddamned prima donna for a simple gun job. Never!"
"She sent a full after action report. The Acrobat is taken care of."
"He's conscious and talking to his family! I wanted him out of action, and he's up kissing his wife!"
Simon shook his head. "The Acrobat is awake, but he's bewildered and terrified. He's not talking to anyone, and he doesn't even recognize his wife," he said. "The spy we planted in the household says the entire family is paralyzed with indecision about what to do."
"I ordered her to put him in a coma, goddamn it."
"Yes, you did. And I seem to recall saying at the time that a coma was no better than dead. If he were just in a coma, instead of shipping him off in a casket, he'd be shipped off to a quiet bed somewhere. Either way he's instantly out of the picture and one of his people would take over. This way, they don't know if he's going to get better or not. That whole organization is out of the picture for the weeks, maybe months for the medical testing, and we'll be able to solidify -"
"Don't you say one more fucking word in defense of her actions, Simon. I have just about had it with both of you."
On the muted television that hung in the place where the bookcases used to be, a smiling woman was excited about the forecast for the next five days. Clear and sunny, although there was a chance for some rain on the weekend.
"If my services are no longer required, Mr. Tong, I -"
"Don't give me that Mr. Tong bullshit, either. You worked for Uncle Quing-Mei until he died, now you work for me until you die, is that clear?"
Simon stooped to pick up the newspaper from the floor.
"Never threaten."
"What?"
"You should never threaten. If you're going to kill someone, just do it. A threat is a warning, and you should never give a warning to a target."
"Don't lecture me on how to run my show, Simon. It's exactly that kind of insubordination that I don't need. I don't want to kill you, I just want your little protege to do as she's told."
"Lonnigan is one of the best operatives this organization has. She's smart, experienced, talented, and fully capable of -"
"Her Talent is a joke. It's like the whole rest of the world has guns and knives and she had a sharpened paperclip."
Simon drew a deep breath before speaking. "It's precisely because it's a low-grade Talent that she's so effective. She's completely outside the arms race among the nanotech weaponry, the Talent booster implants and major native Talents. Those kinds of energies are too easy to detect and defend against, but Lonnigan always has the element of surprise. She's a formidable woman."
"She's a woman, and that's the problem. You can't trust women to do what they're told, they always think they know better than you. I say a coma, she doesn't listen, she gets fancy because she thinks she knows better than me."
"I don't think she intends to be insubordinate. She was just... using her best judgment."
"No! That's not what I want! I don't want people to use their fucking best judgment, I want people to do what the fuck they're told! Why can't she understand that? Why can't you, Simon? What, are you part woman, you gotta question every single goddamn thing I say?"
Simon set his reports on top of one of the piles on the desk. "Your uncle found my counsel useful."
"Counsel, yes. Argument and contradiction, no. It's been almost two years, Simon, what's the matter with you? Why can't you get it? Uncle Quing-Mei isn't running things around here. I am. You do what I tell you to do. Is that clear?"
Lips pursed, Simon squinted at the floor for a moment before speaking. "That's a contact from Sung Bo Kim."
"What is?"
"That." he said, indicating the papers he'd brought in. "Kim is one of Vincelli's biggest allies."
"I know who the fuck Sung Bo Kim is."
"Well, he's prepared to bargain. It seems he went to go visit the Acrobat. He found him healthy looking and conscious, but paralyzed from the waist down and unable to speak or think coherently. The fact that the Acrobat kept pissing himself in terror seems to have affected Kim rather profoundly."
Tong picked up the report, glanced at the first page, then threw it back onto the desk.
"Kim wants to make a deal with you." said Simon. "It's not a bad offer, but we can squeeze a lot more out of him than he's put forward. He's very upset."
"Where is she?"
Simon shrugged. "Not back yet. She's driving instead of flying. It's a security measure."
"I want to see her. Tell her to be here, Thursday night. Ten o'clock."
"Here? Your office?"
"Yes, here, goddamn you, now get the fuck out. You tell her, Simon. Tell her to be here at ten o'clock sharp. I want to debrief her personally about her assignment."
The councilor nodded, as if in thought. "Alright, I'll tell her." He turned to leave. When he was at the door, Tong said, "Oh, and you be here too. I think it would be best if you were here for that particular conversation."
As Simon left, before the door closed behind him, Tong picked up the phone.
#FridayFlash: Parole Board
Parole Board
by Tony Noland
Eleven dead flies lay on the floor in front of the judge. Charlie Lund figured they were real, though no one else noticed them. Well, someone else might have noticed them, but had pretended not to. People frequently pretended not to see things, even things that were really, truly there. The more uppity the person, the more likely it was they would pretend not to see.
The flies made a kind of a pattern on the floor, with glowing blue and green lines connecting them. The lines were Not-Real, so they were all for him; he was sure no one else could see them. The lines jiggled in time with the voice of the lawyer They'd given him.
Popping and slipping, the lines moved from fly to fly like an electric connect-the-dots. At first they made different shapes dancing among the tiny corpses. After a bit, they settled down, the green lines making a bent sort of "C" and the blue lines that wove among them making a lopsided "L". He thought that was pretty funny, that the dead flies were spelling out his initials with their glowing lines.
It was like they were cheering him on, his own private fan club, shouting his name out in their buzzing little dead fly voices. He smiled at that, but the judge looked at him when he did. After that, he didn't smile, but used his paying-close-attention face. He looked from his lawyer to the judge and back, and only watched the cheering dead flies sidelong like.
The judge was a woman. That was the capper as far as Charlie was concerned. That was just the absolute cherry on top. It was bad enough he had a lawyer who was probably a fag. There had to be a dozen judges who could have sat as the head of his parole board, maybe a hundred. He knew why They had made sure he got a whore for a judge and a fag for a lawyer. It was because They liked seeing him squirm; he was a danger to Them and They knew it. He could see Them among normal people and he knew how much of society They controlled. They wanted him to crack, stay locked away. Well, he would show Them this time.
He would be cool cool cool, and he would get out. And then things would be different. Oh, yes. Very different.
Silence stretched out; the judge was waiting for him to speak. Charlie pursed his lips and got to his feet. As he did, the dead flies lifted up from the floor, swooping and calling his name. He was thrilled that they were Not-Real, too. Charlie faced the judge and folded his hands, holding his smile inside as the dead flies crawled all over the judge's snotty bitch face. The glowing strands flowing from them braided themselves into a spiky noose around her neck. The flies were chanting his name, saying Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight, Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight...
But he couldn't do that. Not here. Not yet. Not until later, after he found out where the judge lived.
With his serious-but-really-sorry look firmly fixed, Charlie drew a deep breath and began to ask for his freedom.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
Eleven dead flies lay on the floor in front of the judge. Charlie Lund figured they were real, though no one else noticed them. Well, someone else might have noticed them, but had pretended not to. People frequently pretended not to see things, even things that were really, truly there. The more uppity the person, the more likely it was they would pretend not to see.
The flies made a kind of a pattern on the floor, with glowing blue and green lines connecting them. The lines were Not-Real, so they were all for him; he was sure no one else could see them. The lines jiggled in time with the voice of the lawyer They'd given him.
Popping and slipping, the lines moved from fly to fly like an electric connect-the-dots. At first they made different shapes dancing among the tiny corpses. After a bit, they settled down, the green lines making a bent sort of "C" and the blue lines that wove among them making a lopsided "L". He thought that was pretty funny, that the dead flies were spelling out his initials with their glowing lines.
It was like they were cheering him on, his own private fan club, shouting his name out in their buzzing little dead fly voices. He smiled at that, but the judge looked at him when he did. After that, he didn't smile, but used his paying-close-attention face. He looked from his lawyer to the judge and back, and only watched the cheering dead flies sidelong like.
The judge was a woman. That was the capper as far as Charlie was concerned. That was just the absolute cherry on top. It was bad enough he had a lawyer who was probably a fag. There had to be a dozen judges who could have sat as the head of his parole board, maybe a hundred. He knew why They had made sure he got a whore for a judge and a fag for a lawyer. It was because They liked seeing him squirm; he was a danger to Them and They knew it. He could see Them among normal people and he knew how much of society They controlled. They wanted him to crack, stay locked away. Well, he would show Them this time.
He would be cool cool cool, and he would get out. And then things would be different. Oh, yes. Very different.
Silence stretched out; the judge was waiting for him to speak. Charlie pursed his lips and got to his feet. As he did, the dead flies lifted up from the floor, swooping and calling his name. He was thrilled that they were Not-Real, too. Charlie faced the judge and folded his hands, holding his smile inside as the dead flies crawled all over the judge's snotty bitch face. The glowing strands flowing from them braided themselves into a spiky noose around her neck. The flies were chanting his name, saying Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight, Charlie-Charlie-pull-the-noose-tight...
But he couldn't do that. Not here. Not yet. Not until later, after he found out where the judge lived.
With his serious-but-really-sorry look firmly fixed, Charlie drew a deep breath and began to ask for his freedom.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: The Green Fields of Home
The Green Fields of Home
by Tony Noland
Water ticked and groaned in the pipes as the center pivot irrigation came to life. Dozens of rainbows flashed over the bean field, dancing in the spray. The sun-shot mist covered the undulating rise of greenery as Plot 621 rose up to meet State Road JJ.
"And what did he say when you laid down the law?"
Tom Wallott didn't respond, but continued leaning on the side of his pickup, watching the rainbows move over the land.
His neighbor, Bill Campbent, snorted. "I thought so. You didn't, did you?"
"You think that second pivot is running a little strong?"
"Don't change the subject, Tom. We both know damn well the pivots are calibrated properly. Why on earth didn't you just spell it out for Tom Jr.? He knows what's at stake, he'd do the right thing."
Tom reflected that the main thing about Bill was that Bill was a horse's ass. It used to irritate the hell out of him, the way Bill would give advice on matters he knew nothing about. Since Donna died, though, Tom had come to a sort of peace with lots of things. It wasn't Bill's fault he was a horse's ass. He couldn't help it.
"Thomas knows his own mind," Tom said. "We talked about it, one man to another. He's married and has own his life to lead in Wichita. He knows his affairs better than I do; he's made his decisions and I respect his judgment on them."
"Tom, him going off to Kansas for college is one thing, but turning his back on the farm completely? That's just wrong! Your great-great-grandfather cleared and claimed this land. Father to son, it's been worked ever since. Farming is in your family's blood. Doesn't that mean anything to him? And what are you going to do without a son to carry on? Sell out? You can't do that and you know it."
The leaves in the field were rippling, soaked with the false rain being sprayed on them. Thousands of years old, that water. For age on age it sat down in the aquifer, Tom thought, until just now. It was my soil moisture sensor that sent the signal, my control panel that closed the contacts, my electricity that fired up the pumps to draw that ancient water up to push these plants to produce on command.
On my command, he thought.
Tom adjusted his cap, mopped the sweat from his brow. June 14, 1974 was just such a day as this - bright and hot. It was two weeks to the day after he'd graduated from Iowa State with a degree in soil science, and a minor in English literature. The day his father laid down the law, the day Tom had boxed up his books and come home to do the right thing.
The plants were leaning, bent with the weight of the water. Bowed down, they were slowly being pushed face first into the mud of his great-great-grandfather's land.
"You know, Bill," Tom said, "the calibration must be out of whack. That second pivot is running too strong."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
Water ticked and groaned in the pipes as the center pivot irrigation came to life. Dozens of rainbows flashed over the bean field, dancing in the spray. The sun-shot mist covered the undulating rise of greenery as Plot 621 rose up to meet State Road JJ.
"And what did he say when you laid down the law?"
Tom Wallott didn't respond, but continued leaning on the side of his pickup, watching the rainbows move over the land.
His neighbor, Bill Campbent, snorted. "I thought so. You didn't, did you?"
"You think that second pivot is running a little strong?"
"Don't change the subject, Tom. We both know damn well the pivots are calibrated properly. Why on earth didn't you just spell it out for Tom Jr.? He knows what's at stake, he'd do the right thing."
Tom reflected that the main thing about Bill was that Bill was a horse's ass. It used to irritate the hell out of him, the way Bill would give advice on matters he knew nothing about. Since Donna died, though, Tom had come to a sort of peace with lots of things. It wasn't Bill's fault he was a horse's ass. He couldn't help it.
"Thomas knows his own mind," Tom said. "We talked about it, one man to another. He's married and has own his life to lead in Wichita. He knows his affairs better than I do; he's made his decisions and I respect his judgment on them."
"Tom, him going off to Kansas for college is one thing, but turning his back on the farm completely? That's just wrong! Your great-great-grandfather cleared and claimed this land. Father to son, it's been worked ever since. Farming is in your family's blood. Doesn't that mean anything to him? And what are you going to do without a son to carry on? Sell out? You can't do that and you know it."
The leaves in the field were rippling, soaked with the false rain being sprayed on them. Thousands of years old, that water. For age on age it sat down in the aquifer, Tom thought, until just now. It was my soil moisture sensor that sent the signal, my control panel that closed the contacts, my electricity that fired up the pumps to draw that ancient water up to push these plants to produce on command.
On my command, he thought.
Tom adjusted his cap, mopped the sweat from his brow. June 14, 1974 was just such a day as this - bright and hot. It was two weeks to the day after he'd graduated from Iowa State with a degree in soil science, and a minor in English literature. The day his father laid down the law, the day Tom had boxed up his books and come home to do the right thing.
The plants were leaning, bent with the weight of the water. Bowed down, they were slowly being pushed face first into the mud of his great-great-grandfather's land.
"You know, Bill," Tom said, "the calibration must be out of whack. That second pivot is running too strong."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: Truth Lies Beneath
This story is a sequel to Nom de Plume. You don't have to go read that one first, but it helps.
================================================
Truth Lies Beneath
by Tony Noland
"It's gonna be just another sequel," said Marcus.
"I don't think so." replied Annie. "Jorge Amaroso said he wanted to remake the original, not just add another sequel to the franchise."
"And what director ever says, 'I'm just doing this film because I know everyone that saw the first eight movies will come see this one'? It's a slasher flick, no matter how much money he spent on it or how he dresses it up as a re-imagining or a reboot or whatever."
"What do you mean, dresses it up?"
"I mean they should have just called it 'Blood Picnic IX' and be done with it. 'Blood Picnic: Origins' sounds like a comic book."
"Look, did you see the trailer?"
"Sure, I watched it on YouTube, it looked great. They always put the best parts in the trailer. I saw the teaser last year; you know, the one that was just a campfire on a deserted beach? Practically everybody in the theater laughed when we figured out what movie it was about. 'Blood Picnic VIII' was so terrible, I still can't believe they're doing another one."
"That's just the point! This isn't going to be just another sequel. This one is going to be true to the original book!"
Marcus blinked. "There was a book?"
"Yes, you moron, of course there was a book, the book came first."
"Well... so what? It probably sucked."
"No, it didn't. It was actually pretty good. There was a lot of subplot that got left out when they made it into the original movie."
"Hold it, subplot? In 'Blood Picnic'? Give me a break."
"Seriously, the book is completely different. OK, OK, that's too strong, it's not completely different. The basic facts are there, Carl Scrimshaw is a psycho father driven to revenge against the people who hurt his daughter. The big thing though, is that in the book, she was his stepdaughter, and the father was actually one of the people sort of responsible for the boating accident. Or at least, he thought he might have been. That's a little unclear. I thought it was just bad writing, but after a while, I realized it was because the father wasn't sure. It was his stepdaughter, and he wasn't really sure he loved her, see? The guilt and uncertainty arising from that complicated parent/child relationship, mixed with his guilt over the accident is what drove him crazy, not simple rage. He went after them because it was a way for him to project the culpability away from himself."
"Project the culpability? You're bananas. This is 'Blood Picnic', not 'My Dinner With Andre' or 'Citizen Kane'. You know, scary teen slasher flick? Don't make it out to be more than it is, Annie."
"I'm talking about the book, not the first movie. In the book, it was a group of men and women, a bunch of bigwigs in the park commission who caused the boating accident. When the father goes after them, it comes across as the powerless fighting against the powerful. They took away that whole dynamic when they changed the victims into teenage girls for the movie."
"Because who wants to see a bunch of middle aged farts in bikinis, right?"
"Exactly. Didn't you ever wonder why the killings got more and more outrageous, more sadistic?"
"Well, I'm no student of culture, but I'm going to guess it was to heighten the tension? Or is that too obvious?"
"Ha ha. When you get to hear the inner voice of the father in the book, you realize that it's because he's trying to expiate his own remorse through murder, but it doesn't work. With each one he killed, his guilt and self-loathing grew, and he's driven to more and more extreme methods, trying to avoid admitting to himself that he's as much to blame as anyone. Finally, when he's run out of people to kill, he has to face his own conscience. His guilt drives him to kneel at his stepdaughter's bedside so he can confess and beg forgiveness for everything he's done."
"And so she can tear his throat out and possess him like a demon for the next seven slasher movies. Wow, Annie, that ranks right up there with the 'Illiad'."
She punched him in the shoulder. "They totally changed the ending! I'm not saying it's one of the great books, I'm saying there was more to it than just blood and screaming girls with big boobs."
Marcus started to say something, then, seeing Annie's scowl and crossed arms, changed his mind.
"Annie, come on, it's just a movie, OK? Or a book, whatever."
"It happens to be one of my favorite books."
He stared. "You're kidding, right? 'Blood Picnic'? I thought you liked Proust and Updike."
"Call it a guilty pleasure, alright? It was one of the first books I ever read that had an actual subtext. Yes, it's a stupid little book, and yes it's blood and gore and sex, but there are elements of a really good story in 'Blood Picnic'. I'm not saying it was the only book that led me to become a writer, but it was one of the books that helped me to understand that books can have layers. It made me think about writing something that gives the reader something new with a second or third read."
"So... if it was so good, why didn't any of that come into the movie?"
"The first 'Blood Picnic' movie was really low budget. Besides, you said it yourself. Who wants fat, middle aged complexity when you can have a bunch of stuffed bikinis?" Annie sighed. "I just wish Billy Divine had gone on to write more. I read a few of his other books, the ones that I could find, anyway. They were technially competent, I guess, but still pretty lousy, just slasher thrillers. I think he was a guy who might have been a good writer if he hadn't spent all his time on genre crap."
"Or maybe he only had one good book in him," Marcus said.
Annie took off her glasses and cleaned them, then said, "I don't believe in that. A writer has has many good books inside of her as she has the time and energy to write." She put her glasses back on, and the silence grew between them.
"Annie..." he said, "maybe Billy Divine was just a pen name. What if, once the writer developed his chops, he quit the slasher stuff and started writing real books?"
Her eyes widened.
Seeing her reaction, he said, "If that were the case, then maybe there's a bunch of great stuff out there by this guy, just waiting for you to discover." He smiled in an encouraging, hopeful way.
"You know..." she said, "I never thought of that."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
================================================
Truth Lies Beneath
by Tony Noland
"It's gonna be just another sequel," said Marcus.
"I don't think so." replied Annie. "Jorge Amaroso said he wanted to remake the original, not just add another sequel to the franchise."
"And what director ever says, 'I'm just doing this film because I know everyone that saw the first eight movies will come see this one'? It's a slasher flick, no matter how much money he spent on it or how he dresses it up as a re-imagining or a reboot or whatever."
"What do you mean, dresses it up?"
"I mean they should have just called it 'Blood Picnic IX' and be done with it. 'Blood Picnic: Origins' sounds like a comic book."
"Look, did you see the trailer?"
"Sure, I watched it on YouTube, it looked great. They always put the best parts in the trailer. I saw the teaser last year; you know, the one that was just a campfire on a deserted beach? Practically everybody in the theater laughed when we figured out what movie it was about. 'Blood Picnic VIII' was so terrible, I still can't believe they're doing another one."
"That's just the point! This isn't going to be just another sequel. This one is going to be true to the original book!"
Marcus blinked. "There was a book?"
"Yes, you moron, of course there was a book, the book came first."
"Well... so what? It probably sucked."
"No, it didn't. It was actually pretty good. There was a lot of subplot that got left out when they made it into the original movie."
"Hold it, subplot? In 'Blood Picnic'? Give me a break."
"Seriously, the book is completely different. OK, OK, that's too strong, it's not completely different. The basic facts are there, Carl Scrimshaw is a psycho father driven to revenge against the people who hurt his daughter. The big thing though, is that in the book, she was his stepdaughter, and the father was actually one of the people sort of responsible for the boating accident. Or at least, he thought he might have been. That's a little unclear. I thought it was just bad writing, but after a while, I realized it was because the father wasn't sure. It was his stepdaughter, and he wasn't really sure he loved her, see? The guilt and uncertainty arising from that complicated parent/child relationship, mixed with his guilt over the accident is what drove him crazy, not simple rage. He went after them because it was a way for him to project the culpability away from himself."
"Project the culpability? You're bananas. This is 'Blood Picnic', not 'My Dinner With Andre' or 'Citizen Kane'. You know, scary teen slasher flick? Don't make it out to be more than it is, Annie."
"I'm talking about the book, not the first movie. In the book, it was a group of men and women, a bunch of bigwigs in the park commission who caused the boating accident. When the father goes after them, it comes across as the powerless fighting against the powerful. They took away that whole dynamic when they changed the victims into teenage girls for the movie."
"Because who wants to see a bunch of middle aged farts in bikinis, right?"
"Exactly. Didn't you ever wonder why the killings got more and more outrageous, more sadistic?"
"Well, I'm no student of culture, but I'm going to guess it was to heighten the tension? Or is that too obvious?"
"Ha ha. When you get to hear the inner voice of the father in the book, you realize that it's because he's trying to expiate his own remorse through murder, but it doesn't work. With each one he killed, his guilt and self-loathing grew, and he's driven to more and more extreme methods, trying to avoid admitting to himself that he's as much to blame as anyone. Finally, when he's run out of people to kill, he has to face his own conscience. His guilt drives him to kneel at his stepdaughter's bedside so he can confess and beg forgiveness for everything he's done."
"And so she can tear his throat out and possess him like a demon for the next seven slasher movies. Wow, Annie, that ranks right up there with the 'Illiad'."
She punched him in the shoulder. "They totally changed the ending! I'm not saying it's one of the great books, I'm saying there was more to it than just blood and screaming girls with big boobs."
Marcus started to say something, then, seeing Annie's scowl and crossed arms, changed his mind.
"Annie, come on, it's just a movie, OK? Or a book, whatever."
"It happens to be one of my favorite books."
He stared. "You're kidding, right? 'Blood Picnic'? I thought you liked Proust and Updike."
"Call it a guilty pleasure, alright? It was one of the first books I ever read that had an actual subtext. Yes, it's a stupid little book, and yes it's blood and gore and sex, but there are elements of a really good story in 'Blood Picnic'. I'm not saying it was the only book that led me to become a writer, but it was one of the books that helped me to understand that books can have layers. It made me think about writing something that gives the reader something new with a second or third read."
"So... if it was so good, why didn't any of that come into the movie?"
"The first 'Blood Picnic' movie was really low budget. Besides, you said it yourself. Who wants fat, middle aged complexity when you can have a bunch of stuffed bikinis?" Annie sighed. "I just wish Billy Divine had gone on to write more. I read a few of his other books, the ones that I could find, anyway. They were technially competent, I guess, but still pretty lousy, just slasher thrillers. I think he was a guy who might have been a good writer if he hadn't spent all his time on genre crap."
"Or maybe he only had one good book in him," Marcus said.
Annie took off her glasses and cleaned them, then said, "I don't believe in that. A writer has has many good books inside of her as she has the time and energy to write." She put her glasses back on, and the silence grew between them.
"Annie..." he said, "maybe Billy Divine was just a pen name. What if, once the writer developed his chops, he quit the slasher stuff and started writing real books?"
Her eyes widened.
Seeing her reaction, he said, "If that were the case, then maybe there's a bunch of great stuff out there by this guy, just waiting for you to discover." He smiled in an encouraging, hopeful way.
"You know..." she said, "I never thought of that."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: Nom de Plume
Nom de Plume
by Tony Noland
Mr. William J. Smith
2280 W. Pine St.
Okemos, MI 48822
Mr. Charles Demereste
Demereste & Associates Literary Representation
76 W. 54th St., Suite 600
New York, NY 10027
September 18, 1975
Dear Charlie,
I got your letter of August 29; I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond. It's just that your discussion of a book tour to go with the release of "Blood Picnic" came as a surprise to me, especially after I thought I'd made myself plain. I had to give my response a lot of thought, since I'll admit, I was a little dismayed to hear that you'd already started making the bookings. I know that my position must sound a little crazy to you. I never expected Scribner's Sons to pick the book up and push it, certainly never expected them to make my appearing in public a non-negotiable.
It's not that I'm ungrateful or that I have anything other than the utmost confidence in you to make B.P. a rousing success. After all, you've been my agent for twenty six years. If I can't rely on you by now, we're both in trouble!
The fact is, Charlie, I need you to go back to Mr. Wilkins at Scribner and try one more time to get him to lighten up. Did you tell him that my face was burned when I was in fighting the Japs in '44? I never go out in public if I can help it. Kids laugh behind my back when I go to the grocery store; can you imagine me on a book tour? Hell, that's why I've never come to New York to meet with you. I simply cannot appear in public as Billy Divine. I hate to be a pill about this, but if he can make a non-negotiable, so can I. Don't think I won't walk away from this deal if appearing in public is a sine qua non. I'd hate to see the deal fall through and see you lose the commission, but there it is.
Even without a tour, B.P. will sell well enough to make them some money, you know that. All of his talk about it being a new age of acceptance of disability is BS. His line about authors needing to be in charge of their own publicity is BS, too. People want to meet Billy Divine, the author of the great thriller? Tell 'em tough rocks and be done with it. If Salinger can hole up someplace, why can't I? Yeah, yeah, I'm no Salinger, but Charlie, you have to work with me here.
I know this is the big break for both of us, but to be honest, Charlie, I'm not sure I want a big break at my age. Handle the details with Scribner as you see fit, but two things I won't budge on: no book tour and nobody - I mean NOBODY - finds out who Billy Divine is a pen name for. (It's a stupid name and I should have chosen something that didn't sound so obviously nom de plume-ish in the first place, but that's water over the dam.)
Charlie, that brings me to the main reason it took me so long to respond. I've decided to hang up my Underwood. I'll send off the final draft of "The Howell Beach Horror" by parcel post when I mail this letter. That will be my last book. We've always worked well together, Charlie, and you know how stubborn I can be. Don't try to talk me out of it. If B.P. does well, then H.B.H. will too, as will the whole backlist, the ones that are still in print, anyway.
In recognition of all of our years together, Charlie, I want you to up your commission from 15% to 25% for H.B.H and the future sale of anything on the backlist, including any future printings of B.P. Don't try to argue with me on that, either. You're a good man and you deserve it.
I'm not going to get all sloppy in this letter and tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, or to thank you for taking a chance on an unknown rookie writer all those years ago. I'll save all that for later, after we sell H.B.H.
Sincerely,
Bill
P.S. I'm serious, Charlie - no book tour, and NOBODY learns who I am! - Bill
//////////
In a small house in Okemos, Michigan, a man pulls a letter from his typewriter, stands and stretches. At the window, he watches the sun rise through a line of clouds, low on the horizon. As dawn slowly pinks the sky, he sighs.
Time to change agents again. He chides himself for being foolish with "Blood Picnic". Too good, damn it. If he'd skipped all the moral ambiguity and cut that final tearjerker scene with the stepdaughter, he could have avoided the literary overtones.
The key to staying safely in the obscurity of the mid-list is to keep the blood flowing and the tits showing, and leave it at that. From age to age, that's the kind of thing that gives a steady income without the risk of a best seller. After four hundred years of turning out penny dreadfuls, he should know that.
With the sun up and shining, he returns to the typewriter and feeds in a clean sheet of paper onto the platen. He consults a pad with some handwritten notes and begins to type.
//////////
Mr. W. James Smith
2280 W. Pine St.
Okemos, MI 48822
Mr. Andrew Horowitz
Horowitz, Klein and Goldstein
141 Arch St., Suite 232
Philadelphia, PA 19021
September 19, 1975
Dear Mr. Horowitz,
A beautiful young bride is possessed by the ghost of a woman long dead, a woman whose animal passions killed her. Now, once again in a fresh young body, she is free to indulge her desires, no matter how depraved. The bewildered husband of the innocent victim, unable to satisfy the passions of his demon-possessed lover, is shocked to be faced with the most awful of choices: share his demon bride with other men or see her destroyed. Can he find a way to free his love from the clutches of this horror of horrors?
This is the premise of "The Taking of Mrs. Jones", a supernatural thriller novel of approximately 80,000 words. The novel draws on my recent experiences in the more sordid parts of Vietnam, where I was injured in the service of my country. I believe the novel would appeal to young men of my own age.
I have taken the liberty of including the first five pages of the manuscript. May I ask your opinion of it? I am seeking representation for "The Taking of Mrs. Jones." It is my first novel, and I would value your opinion of its merits and commercial potential.
Please note that for the purposes of this novel, I am writing using the pen name "Daniel Cutlass". I have one additional supernatural thriller novel, nearly complete, written under the same name.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
W. James Smith
==========
The sequel to this story is "Truth Lies Beneath".
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
Mr. William J. Smith
2280 W. Pine St.
Okemos, MI 48822
Mr. Charles Demereste
Demereste & Associates Literary Representation
76 W. 54th St., Suite 600
New York, NY 10027
September 18, 1975
Dear Charlie,
I got your letter of August 29; I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond. It's just that your discussion of a book tour to go with the release of "Blood Picnic" came as a surprise to me, especially after I thought I'd made myself plain. I had to give my response a lot of thought, since I'll admit, I was a little dismayed to hear that you'd already started making the bookings. I know that my position must sound a little crazy to you. I never expected Scribner's Sons to pick the book up and push it, certainly never expected them to make my appearing in public a non-negotiable.
It's not that I'm ungrateful or that I have anything other than the utmost confidence in you to make B.P. a rousing success. After all, you've been my agent for twenty six years. If I can't rely on you by now, we're both in trouble!
The fact is, Charlie, I need you to go back to Mr. Wilkins at Scribner and try one more time to get him to lighten up. Did you tell him that my face was burned when I was in fighting the Japs in '44? I never go out in public if I can help it. Kids laugh behind my back when I go to the grocery store; can you imagine me on a book tour? Hell, that's why I've never come to New York to meet with you. I simply cannot appear in public as Billy Divine. I hate to be a pill about this, but if he can make a non-negotiable, so can I. Don't think I won't walk away from this deal if appearing in public is a sine qua non. I'd hate to see the deal fall through and see you lose the commission, but there it is.
Even without a tour, B.P. will sell well enough to make them some money, you know that. All of his talk about it being a new age of acceptance of disability is BS. His line about authors needing to be in charge of their own publicity is BS, too. People want to meet Billy Divine, the author of the great thriller? Tell 'em tough rocks and be done with it. If Salinger can hole up someplace, why can't I? Yeah, yeah, I'm no Salinger, but Charlie, you have to work with me here.
I know this is the big break for both of us, but to be honest, Charlie, I'm not sure I want a big break at my age. Handle the details with Scribner as you see fit, but two things I won't budge on: no book tour and nobody - I mean NOBODY - finds out who Billy Divine is a pen name for. (It's a stupid name and I should have chosen something that didn't sound so obviously nom de plume-ish in the first place, but that's water over the dam.)
Charlie, that brings me to the main reason it took me so long to respond. I've decided to hang up my Underwood. I'll send off the final draft of "The Howell Beach Horror" by parcel post when I mail this letter. That will be my last book. We've always worked well together, Charlie, and you know how stubborn I can be. Don't try to talk me out of it. If B.P. does well, then H.B.H. will too, as will the whole backlist, the ones that are still in print, anyway.
In recognition of all of our years together, Charlie, I want you to up your commission from 15% to 25% for H.B.H and the future sale of anything on the backlist, including any future printings of B.P. Don't try to argue with me on that, either. You're a good man and you deserve it.
I'm not going to get all sloppy in this letter and tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, or to thank you for taking a chance on an unknown rookie writer all those years ago. I'll save all that for later, after we sell H.B.H.
Sincerely,
Bill
P.S. I'm serious, Charlie - no book tour, and NOBODY learns who I am! - Bill
//////////
In a small house in Okemos, Michigan, a man pulls a letter from his typewriter, stands and stretches. At the window, he watches the sun rise through a line of clouds, low on the horizon. As dawn slowly pinks the sky, he sighs.
Time to change agents again. He chides himself for being foolish with "Blood Picnic". Too good, damn it. If he'd skipped all the moral ambiguity and cut that final tearjerker scene with the stepdaughter, he could have avoided the literary overtones.
The key to staying safely in the obscurity of the mid-list is to keep the blood flowing and the tits showing, and leave it at that. From age to age, that's the kind of thing that gives a steady income without the risk of a best seller. After four hundred years of turning out penny dreadfuls, he should know that.
With the sun up and shining, he returns to the typewriter and feeds in a clean sheet of paper onto the platen. He consults a pad with some handwritten notes and begins to type.
//////////
Mr. W. James Smith
2280 W. Pine St.
Okemos, MI 48822
Mr. Andrew Horowitz
Horowitz, Klein and Goldstein
141 Arch St., Suite 232
Philadelphia, PA 19021
September 19, 1975
Dear Mr. Horowitz,
A beautiful young bride is possessed by the ghost of a woman long dead, a woman whose animal passions killed her. Now, once again in a fresh young body, she is free to indulge her desires, no matter how depraved. The bewildered husband of the innocent victim, unable to satisfy the passions of his demon-possessed lover, is shocked to be faced with the most awful of choices: share his demon bride with other men or see her destroyed. Can he find a way to free his love from the clutches of this horror of horrors?
This is the premise of "The Taking of Mrs. Jones", a supernatural thriller novel of approximately 80,000 words. The novel draws on my recent experiences in the more sordid parts of Vietnam, where I was injured in the service of my country. I believe the novel would appeal to young men of my own age.
I have taken the liberty of including the first five pages of the manuscript. May I ask your opinion of it? I am seeking representation for "The Taking of Mrs. Jones." It is my first novel, and I would value your opinion of its merits and commercial potential.
Please note that for the purposes of this novel, I am writing using the pen name "Daniel Cutlass". I have one additional supernatural thriller novel, nearly complete, written under the same name.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
W. James Smith
==========
The sequel to this story is "Truth Lies Beneath".
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: Ridi, Pagliaccio
Ridi, Pagliaccio
by Tony Noland
"Excuse me, Mr. Maverick? Casey Maverick?"
Knuckles whitened on the spoon's handle. Espresso swirled around it, arrested mid-stir.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt you, Mr. Maverick, but I just had to tell you what a fan I am."
Withdrawn and laid aside, the spoon stained the saucer of the demitasse.
"I'm Richard Betz." The young man held out his hand; after a fractional pause, it was accepted.
"It's such a thrill to meet you; it's an honor to shake the hand of a such a great comedian!"
"Oh?"
Betz stifled a giggle.
From his seat, the older man regarded Betz, the lines around his eyes deepening.
"Mr. Maverick, I apologize, I don't want to take up a lot of your time, but - may I sit? thanks - I've got a question that I really hope you can answer. See, I'd love to be able to do what you do."
"You mean you want to suffer?"
Betz bit his tongue and turned red as he nodded, his face contorting with the effort of self-control.
Finally, wiping his eyes, he said, "God, you are just amazing in person! No, I mean keep a straight face like that! How do you do that serious, flat-faced delivery without ever breaking it and smiling? You're better than Steven Wright or Buster Keaton. My friends tell me I'm a funny guy, you know, around the office and everything. They keep telling me I should do stand-up. I did it a few times on open mike nights, but I couldn't keep from cracking up. I thought maybe you might be willing to give me some pointers."
"So... you want to know how it is that I'm able to say such funny things without laughing?"
Betz couldn't help himself; his laughter snorts, and he took several breaths to calm himself. "Please?"
The comedian drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then slid his espresso over to the the younger man.
"Here. You drink while I talk. It's already grown cold and someone might as well benefit from it."
"Ha! Benefit from it! That's classic! God, I can't believe I'm having an espresso with Casey Maverick!" Betz downed the cup eagerly and set it back on the saucer.
"Now then, young man, please don't interrupt me, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
Betz made just one muffled squeak as his face widened into a huge grin.
"I've tried many times to tell people the truth, Mr. Betz. No one ever believes me. They just... laugh. I used to do that, too. I used to laugh all the time back when I was Kasimir Marveski. I was the funniest guy I knew, at least in my own mind. I thought my obscure little jokes were hysterical, even if no one ever laughed at them. That didn't stop me from telling them, from laughing at my own hilarity. I was a happy man, Mr. Betz."
He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, they were red and wet.
"Until, that is, my wife left me. It blindsided me completely. She said a lot of things on the way out the door, but what cut me the worst was what she said last: '... and your jokes aren't funny'. Those were her final words to me before the door slammed. 'Your jokes aren't funny'. I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Betz, it made no sense for me to latch onto that the way I did. I was in shock, I suppose, but the thought just echoed, back and forth. I got it framed in my mind somehow that if I were actually funny, she'd come back to me. So, when the devil appeared and offered to make it so, I signed the contract without a second thought. From that moment, everything I said would be funny."
Betz's eyebrows twitched and his grin widened fractionally.
"You don't believe me," the older man said. "But it's true. The problem is, Mr. Betz, Satan has his own sense of humor. Did you know that? Not ten minutes after my blood was dry on the contract, the police called. At the morgue, they started giggling around me as I identified her body. At the mortuary, they snickered as I made the arrangements. When I spoke at her funeral, they roared. After someone posted a video of it on YouTube, I couldn't escape the publicity.
"In the end, I had to leave my position at the university. You can't teach if no one takes you seriously, if they interrupt every lecture with giggles and guffaws. Fortunately, all the agents who'd seen the video made it easy to get work as a comedian. All I had to do was open my mouth. It didn't matter what I said. The agents negotiated the contracts for the stand-up gigs, the Comedy Central specials, the movies. I grew famous, we all grew rich, and my soul shriveled a little more each day."
He put his hands together, fingers interlaced.
"My mother died two days ago, Mr. Betz. I am expected to give the eulogy at her memorial service on Friday. I don't think I can face that again. That's why I came here and loaded up my espresso with puffer-fish poison, what they call tetrodotoxin."
He sat in the silence, drumming his fingers. He looked at the wide, rictus grin on Betz's face, the saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. After a little while, the old man stood, put a few bills on the table and picked up his hat and newspaper.
"But you know what's strange? I feel better for having had a chance to tell someone the truth, to talk about it without being interrupted with laughter." He patted his admirer on the shoulder. "You're a good listener, Mr. Betz. A good listener."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
Note: Special thanks to Anastasia M. Ashman of Istanbul, Turkey, for being my muse this week. This story grew out of one of her tweets. Sen, Anastasia ederim!
by Tony Noland
"Excuse me, Mr. Maverick? Casey Maverick?"
Knuckles whitened on the spoon's handle. Espresso swirled around it, arrested mid-stir.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt you, Mr. Maverick, but I just had to tell you what a fan I am."
Withdrawn and laid aside, the spoon stained the saucer of the demitasse.
"I'm Richard Betz." The young man held out his hand; after a fractional pause, it was accepted.
"It's such a thrill to meet you; it's an honor to shake the hand of a such a great comedian!"
"Oh?"
Betz stifled a giggle.
From his seat, the older man regarded Betz, the lines around his eyes deepening.
"Mr. Maverick, I apologize, I don't want to take up a lot of your time, but - may I sit? thanks - I've got a question that I really hope you can answer. See, I'd love to be able to do what you do."
"You mean you want to suffer?"
Betz bit his tongue and turned red as he nodded, his face contorting with the effort of self-control.
Finally, wiping his eyes, he said, "God, you are just amazing in person! No, I mean keep a straight face like that! How do you do that serious, flat-faced delivery without ever breaking it and smiling? You're better than Steven Wright or Buster Keaton. My friends tell me I'm a funny guy, you know, around the office and everything. They keep telling me I should do stand-up. I did it a few times on open mike nights, but I couldn't keep from cracking up. I thought maybe you might be willing to give me some pointers."
"So... you want to know how it is that I'm able to say such funny things without laughing?"
Betz couldn't help himself; his laughter snorts, and he took several breaths to calm himself. "Please?"
The comedian drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then slid his espresso over to the the younger man.
"Here. You drink while I talk. It's already grown cold and someone might as well benefit from it."
"Ha! Benefit from it! That's classic! God, I can't believe I'm having an espresso with Casey Maverick!" Betz downed the cup eagerly and set it back on the saucer.
"Now then, young man, please don't interrupt me, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
Betz made just one muffled squeak as his face widened into a huge grin.
"I've tried many times to tell people the truth, Mr. Betz. No one ever believes me. They just... laugh. I used to do that, too. I used to laugh all the time back when I was Kasimir Marveski. I was the funniest guy I knew, at least in my own mind. I thought my obscure little jokes were hysterical, even if no one ever laughed at them. That didn't stop me from telling them, from laughing at my own hilarity. I was a happy man, Mr. Betz."
He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, they were red and wet.
"Until, that is, my wife left me. It blindsided me completely. She said a lot of things on the way out the door, but what cut me the worst was what she said last: '... and your jokes aren't funny'. Those were her final words to me before the door slammed. 'Your jokes aren't funny'. I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Betz, it made no sense for me to latch onto that the way I did. I was in shock, I suppose, but the thought just echoed, back and forth. I got it framed in my mind somehow that if I were actually funny, she'd come back to me. So, when the devil appeared and offered to make it so, I signed the contract without a second thought. From that moment, everything I said would be funny."
Betz's eyebrows twitched and his grin widened fractionally.
"You don't believe me," the older man said. "But it's true. The problem is, Mr. Betz, Satan has his own sense of humor. Did you know that? Not ten minutes after my blood was dry on the contract, the police called. At the morgue, they started giggling around me as I identified her body. At the mortuary, they snickered as I made the arrangements. When I spoke at her funeral, they roared. After someone posted a video of it on YouTube, I couldn't escape the publicity.
"In the end, I had to leave my position at the university. You can't teach if no one takes you seriously, if they interrupt every lecture with giggles and guffaws. Fortunately, all the agents who'd seen the video made it easy to get work as a comedian. All I had to do was open my mouth. It didn't matter what I said. The agents negotiated the contracts for the stand-up gigs, the Comedy Central specials, the movies. I grew famous, we all grew rich, and my soul shriveled a little more each day."
He put his hands together, fingers interlaced.
"My mother died two days ago, Mr. Betz. I am expected to give the eulogy at her memorial service on Friday. I don't think I can face that again. That's why I came here and loaded up my espresso with puffer-fish poison, what they call tetrodotoxin."
He sat in the silence, drumming his fingers. He looked at the wide, rictus grin on Betz's face, the saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. After a little while, the old man stood, put a few bills on the table and picked up his hat and newspaper.
"But you know what's strange? I feel better for having had a chance to tell someone the truth, to talk about it without being interrupted with laughter." He patted his admirer on the shoulder. "You're a good listener, Mr. Betz. A good listener."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
Note: Special thanks to Anastasia M. Ashman of Istanbul, Turkey, for being my muse this week. This story grew out of one of her tweets. Sen, Anastasia ederim!
#FridayFlash: Reconciliation
Reconciliation
by Tony Noland
The fat man limped onto the stool next to the thin man, eliciting a crinkling noise from the almost new plastic. Everyone sitting at the counter made the same noises as they shifted and swiveled, eating and turning this way or that to face their companions. People spoke, silverware clinked, seats creaked. The thin man didn't turn to face the fat man.
Cup and saucer already in hand, the waitress asked the fat man if he wanted coffee. He said yes, he did want a cup of coffee, please. She poured it for him, refilled the thin man's cup, then left.
The fat man looked at the menu for a moment longer, then set it aside.
"I liked this place better before it was no smoking." said the thin man.
The fat man shrugged. He stirred his coffee, though he'd put neither cream nor sugar in it.
"Was a new owner made the change. I been comin' here a lot, last couple of years. If it wasn't for that, I'd have maybe said a different place." said the thin man.
The fat man sipped, said nothing.
"It's just..." the thin man said, "breakfast don't taste the same without a smoke afterwards, you know?" His fork and knife were crossed on top of the rye crusts, forming a perfect right angle in the middle of his plate. Traces of yolk spiraled around the edges, drying into a halo above. The thin man wiped his lips, set his paper napkin on the plate.
"So." said the fat man. "You called me. I came."
The thin man turned his cup, back and forth.
"It's been a long time, Michael. A long time."
"Cut it. What do you want?"
The thin man swallowed. "I was hoping that we could maybe work something out."
"We? Who exactly do you mean by 'we'? You and the boss?"
The thin man swallowed again, said, "Michael... I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. Kinda let him know I was sorry, you know? That I... well, you know what I mean."
"You want me to tell him that you want to come back to the family? That you want to come home?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The fat man sipped his coffee. The waitress returned and the fat man asked for eggs and ham, please, no toast. She took the order and left them.
"Michael, please..."
"Forget it. I vouched for you when you ran away, remember? I stood before the boss and I vouched for you, you son of a bitch, because I thought all you'd done was steal. Anybody can make a mistake, I said. He got too full of himself but he's basically a decent guy, I said. Stupid ass fuckin' me. I didn't know you'd been makin' a power play, tryin' to overthrow the boss and get the big chair for yourself."
"Mikey, I'm sorry."
"Don't call me Mikey. Now you tell me, how do you think I looked when they told me what you'd done? There I am vouching for you, and I get that little piece of news. Tell me, genius, how do you think the boss was feeling on that day? Listening to me vouching for you, the favorite lieutenant, the one who was like another fuckin' son to him, who had just tried to cap him and take over. Tell me, whadda you think, good mood or bad mood for the boss? Whadda you think?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Not half as sorry as I was. It took me a long time to convince the boss that I was just a dumb ass who got taken in by you, you fuckin' snake. Care to guess what the boys were doin' to me as I was beggin' for my life? Me, the boss' go to guy, on the floor beggin' for my life, all because I vouched for you, for my good friend, you rotten piece of shit?"
"Michael, please, I'm sorry! You're my only hope! I want to come home!"
"Fuck you." The fat man stood and tossed a tenner onto the counter.
"Hey," the fat man said, turning back. "I got an idea. If you want to come home so bad, why don't you try going to see the boss directly? Tell him to his face that you're sorry?"
The thin man paled and shrank.
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You got no balls, you lyin' coward. You never did. If the boss wants to see you, he'll send some of the boys down to get you. He knows where you live."
The fat man picked up the thin man's mug and quietly spat into it.
"You made your own hell, Lucifer, now you can fuckin' well burn in it. Don't call me again."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
The fat man limped onto the stool next to the thin man, eliciting a crinkling noise from the almost new plastic. Everyone sitting at the counter made the same noises as they shifted and swiveled, eating and turning this way or that to face their companions. People spoke, silverware clinked, seats creaked. The thin man didn't turn to face the fat man.
Cup and saucer already in hand, the waitress asked the fat man if he wanted coffee. He said yes, he did want a cup of coffee, please. She poured it for him, refilled the thin man's cup, then left.
The fat man looked at the menu for a moment longer, then set it aside.
"I liked this place better before it was no smoking." said the thin man.
The fat man shrugged. He stirred his coffee, though he'd put neither cream nor sugar in it.
"Was a new owner made the change. I been comin' here a lot, last couple of years. If it wasn't for that, I'd have maybe said a different place." said the thin man.
The fat man sipped, said nothing.
"It's just..." the thin man said, "breakfast don't taste the same without a smoke afterwards, you know?" His fork and knife were crossed on top of the rye crusts, forming a perfect right angle in the middle of his plate. Traces of yolk spiraled around the edges, drying into a halo above. The thin man wiped his lips, set his paper napkin on the plate.
"So." said the fat man. "You called me. I came."
The thin man turned his cup, back and forth.
"It's been a long time, Michael. A long time."
"Cut it. What do you want?"
The thin man swallowed. "I was hoping that we could maybe work something out."
"We? Who exactly do you mean by 'we'? You and the boss?"
The thin man swallowed again, said, "Michael... I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. Kinda let him know I was sorry, you know? That I... well, you know what I mean."
"You want me to tell him that you want to come back to the family? That you want to come home?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The fat man sipped his coffee. The waitress returned and the fat man asked for eggs and ham, please, no toast. She took the order and left them.
"Michael, please..."
"Forget it. I vouched for you when you ran away, remember? I stood before the boss and I vouched for you, you son of a bitch, because I thought all you'd done was steal. Anybody can make a mistake, I said. He got too full of himself but he's basically a decent guy, I said. Stupid ass fuckin' me. I didn't know you'd been makin' a power play, tryin' to overthrow the boss and get the big chair for yourself."
"Mikey, I'm sorry."
"Don't call me Mikey. Now you tell me, how do you think I looked when they told me what you'd done? There I am vouching for you, and I get that little piece of news. Tell me, genius, how do you think the boss was feeling on that day? Listening to me vouching for you, the favorite lieutenant, the one who was like another fuckin' son to him, who had just tried to cap him and take over. Tell me, whadda you think, good mood or bad mood for the boss? Whadda you think?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Not half as sorry as I was. It took me a long time to convince the boss that I was just a dumb ass who got taken in by you, you fuckin' snake. Care to guess what the boys were doin' to me as I was beggin' for my life? Me, the boss' go to guy, on the floor beggin' for my life, all because I vouched for you, for my good friend, you rotten piece of shit?"
"Michael, please, I'm sorry! You're my only hope! I want to come home!"
"Fuck you." The fat man stood and tossed a tenner onto the counter.
"Hey," the fat man said, turning back. "I got an idea. If you want to come home so bad, why don't you try going to see the boss directly? Tell him to his face that you're sorry?"
The thin man paled and shrank.
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You got no balls, you lyin' coward. You never did. If the boss wants to see you, he'll send some of the boys down to get you. He knows where you live."
The fat man picked up the thin man's mug and quietly spat into it.
"You made your own hell, Lucifer, now you can fuckin' well burn in it. Don't call me again."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: Philly's in the house
Philly's in the house
by Tony Noland
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
God, that pile's bigger than I thought. That broken concrete's gonna hurt.
Damn straight it will. Forget it. Burn that bridge when you come to it, pal. Yeah, funny guy, won't be so funny trying to climb it. Never mind, figure out a way up once you get there. Climb it, get to the light, get out. One, two, three.
See those sharp edges on the exposed rebar, Danny boy? Better protect the leg. Snag it on one of those and the pain's gonna be a showstopper. Yeah, right, protect it with what? Never mind. Figure it out when you get there. Leg hurts bad enough just to drag it.
Pain would help wake you up, though, wouldn't it? Can't feel the elbows anymore, too torn up from the rubble. Gotta rest my arms for a minute. Gotta rest. I'm so tired.
So tired.
And cold.
Thirsty.
But not hungry.
Not hungry.
Hungry.
Snickers bar... pistachios... pizza...
... so tired ...
WAKE UP!
Wake up, god damn it, wake up! Focus, you idiot, focus! Come on, chop chop, get moving, count 'em off, almost there. You can do this, Danny boy, you can do this, get your arms out there and pull, just get moving.
Left.
Right.
Four more, then climb the pile and follow the light. Don't rest, just count 'em off.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Christ, you lying bastard, it wasn't four, it's more like ten. Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's like that half marathon, OK? The Memorial Day thing, back in 2031? Couldn't have done that without lying to yourself about it, huh? Focus, just do it one mile at a time. OK, no problem, just rest for a minute. Elbows are taking the worst of it, and they'll probably heal. Just rest. Catch your breath, then get up there. Come on, you can do this.
Rest just a minute. Just, just for a minute.
So cold.
Yeah, I know. You're cold and hungry and thirsty, and big fuckin' earthquakes aren't supposed to hit the East Coast and it's not fair and blah, blah, blah, and people in hell want ice water. Get over there. Use your arms, crawl god damn it, right now. Now, Danny, now!
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Almost there.
Left.
OK.
OK. OK. Now, push up and get up there. We got water and blankets and food up there. Yeah, Danny, there's coffee and fried chicken and rum and cokes and pie and ice cold martinis with three olives and
WAKE UP!
Come on, Danny, doctors can't fix you if you don't get up there, can they? There's doctors and nurses and EMTs and all kinds of people. Leg's a loss, it's gotta be, but if you get up there, they can take it off clean, get you a nice clean stump to work with. They got blood and morphine and antibiotics up there, don't they? And if you don't get up there, an aftershock's gonna get you, boy. You hear me? Aftershocks gonna bring down this whole slab. Cheap ass parking garage concrete ain't gonna last forever, man.
Come on, you lucky bastard. Everybody else was crushed flat, but you got eighteen inches. Eighteen inches, floor to ceiling, you gonna gripe about it? Waste it? More than anybody else got. You even got some rainwater to drink. You been lucky for three fuckin' days, jerkface, you think it's gonna last forever? Are you from south Philly or not? Philly's in the house, man. I bet Baltimore and New York got hit, too. Betcha they're climbing in New York. You just know they're climbing out of the rubble up in New York, you know that, don't you Danny? You gonna let New York show us up? Come on, Philly, whadda you got? Get up there. Get up there, Danny. Get out. Gotta get up there.
I will. I will. I just need to rest for a minute.
Just for a minute.
Just a minute.
So tired.
Tired.
Cold.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
God, that pile's bigger than I thought. That broken concrete's gonna hurt.
Damn straight it will. Forget it. Burn that bridge when you come to it, pal. Yeah, funny guy, won't be so funny trying to climb it. Never mind, figure out a way up once you get there. Climb it, get to the light, get out. One, two, three.
See those sharp edges on the exposed rebar, Danny boy? Better protect the leg. Snag it on one of those and the pain's gonna be a showstopper. Yeah, right, protect it with what? Never mind. Figure it out when you get there. Leg hurts bad enough just to drag it.
Pain would help wake you up, though, wouldn't it? Can't feel the elbows anymore, too torn up from the rubble. Gotta rest my arms for a minute. Gotta rest. I'm so tired.
So tired.
And cold.
Thirsty.
But not hungry.
Not hungry.
Hungry.
Snickers bar... pistachios... pizza...
... so tired ...
WAKE UP!
Wake up, god damn it, wake up! Focus, you idiot, focus! Come on, chop chop, get moving, count 'em off, almost there. You can do this, Danny boy, you can do this, get your arms out there and pull, just get moving.
Left.
Right.
Four more, then climb the pile and follow the light. Don't rest, just count 'em off.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Christ, you lying bastard, it wasn't four, it's more like ten. Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's like that half marathon, OK? The Memorial Day thing, back in 2031? Couldn't have done that without lying to yourself about it, huh? Focus, just do it one mile at a time. OK, no problem, just rest for a minute. Elbows are taking the worst of it, and they'll probably heal. Just rest. Catch your breath, then get up there. Come on, you can do this.
Rest just a minute. Just, just for a minute.
So cold.
Yeah, I know. You're cold and hungry and thirsty, and big fuckin' earthquakes aren't supposed to hit the East Coast and it's not fair and blah, blah, blah, and people in hell want ice water. Get over there. Use your arms, crawl god damn it, right now. Now, Danny, now!
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Almost there.
Left.
OK.
OK. OK. Now, push up and get up there. We got water and blankets and food up there. Yeah, Danny, there's coffee and fried chicken and rum and cokes and pie and ice cold martinis with three olives and
WAKE UP!
Come on, Danny, doctors can't fix you if you don't get up there, can they? There's doctors and nurses and EMTs and all kinds of people. Leg's a loss, it's gotta be, but if you get up there, they can take it off clean, get you a nice clean stump to work with. They got blood and morphine and antibiotics up there, don't they? And if you don't get up there, an aftershock's gonna get you, boy. You hear me? Aftershocks gonna bring down this whole slab. Cheap ass parking garage concrete ain't gonna last forever, man.
Come on, you lucky bastard. Everybody else was crushed flat, but you got eighteen inches. Eighteen inches, floor to ceiling, you gonna gripe about it? Waste it? More than anybody else got. You even got some rainwater to drink. You been lucky for three fuckin' days, jerkface, you think it's gonna last forever? Are you from south Philly or not? Philly's in the house, man. I bet Baltimore and New York got hit, too. Betcha they're climbing in New York. You just know they're climbing out of the rubble up in New York, you know that, don't you Danny? You gonna let New York show us up? Come on, Philly, whadda you got? Get up there. Get up there, Danny. Get out. Gotta get up there.
I will. I will. I just need to rest for a minute.
Just for a minute.
Just a minute.
So tired.
Tired.
Cold.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
WAIT: Don't read this one yet. Read the REVISED version. Then come back and read this one, and see how I incorporated the comments into the revision.
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton absently thanked the deck steward and took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the fresh mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, the alien device was charging up; the telemetry said whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young men.
They'd sent the signal more than an hour ago, in the exact sequence specified by the pictoglyphs on the original signpost artifacts. There was no way to know how long it would take for a response from the device, the one somebody had dubbed the pot of gold. It was clearly waking up, but it wasn't clear what would happen when it did. The pictoglyphs instructions had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red. Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly.
It had only taken a few years to decipher the signposts after they'd been discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. They were inert, with no internal mechanisms even on a nano scale. They were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium, with thousand of glyphs etched into the twelve faces - references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
The signposts were almost a million years old, and had been parked in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, and they had used universal language to say that something even better and more wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point. It had even given the instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use.
And so here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting for it to wake up. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device was glowing bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling in back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton absently thanked the deck steward and took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the fresh mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, the alien device was charging up; the telemetry said whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young men.
They'd sent the signal more than an hour ago, in the exact sequence specified by the pictoglyphs on the original signpost artifacts. There was no way to know how long it would take for a response from the device, the one somebody had dubbed the pot of gold. It was clearly waking up, but it wasn't clear what would happen when it did. The pictoglyphs instructions had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red. Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly.
It had only taken a few years to decipher the signposts after they'd been discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. They were inert, with no internal mechanisms even on a nano scale. They were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium, with thousand of glyphs etched into the twelve faces - references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
The signposts were almost a million years old, and had been parked in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, and they had used universal language to say that something even better and more wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point. It had even given the instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use.
And so here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting for it to wake up. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device was glowing bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling in back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Truly, Deeply, Endlessly
Truly, Deeply, Endlessly
by Tony Noland
He stood as she approached. Bundled against the cold, carrying her hat in her left hand rather than wearing it, she came closer, a slightly hesitant look on her face.
"Richard?" she said.
"Yes, it's me, Richard Tollofson, although maybe I should call myself ZombieFanBoi."
Her face split into a wide smile. She laughed as she shook her head.
"Thank God! I had this image of walking around asking guys in the park, 'Excuse me, I'm FleshBiterMama...are you ZombieFanBoi?'. I guess I should introduce myself properly. I'm Melinda, Melinda Jackson."
They shook hands, and then stood, awkward in a sudden silence. Across Lake Shore Drive, a few hardcore joggers and walkers moved along the paths near the frozen beach. Lincoln Park itself was pretty empty.
"Um, so..." she said, "should we go get a coffee or something? I'll be honest, this is the first time I've ever met one of my online friends in real life for a... you know, a get-together." She blushed slightly. He looked at the ground.
"Yeah, it's a new one for me, too. Actually, I thought maybe we could just walk, you know? Talk a bit?"
She looked around the park, at the ice on the shore, the joggers, the stilled and silent tourist booths by the marina.
"Um..."
"We could go somewhere with more people around. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just would rather be outside on a day like this. Do you want to go to the zoo?"
"Are you kidding? It's freezing out here!" She laughed again, pulled her hat on. "This isn't going to be much of a lunch date if we're incompatible right off the bat!"
He smiled slightly. "The cold doesn't bother me much. Tell you what, I think I saw a lunch vendor up on Lincoln. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Between that and the walk, it'll be almost as warm as being inside."
Her eyes glanced over his shoulder, at the Starbucks sign on Clark Street, across from the park. His sunglasses were the wrap-around kind, mirrored. Her own face, stretched and distorted, was reflected back at her.
"Well... OK. But let's get moving, Richard, it really is kind of harsh out here. It smells like it's going to snow."
"Does it?" He drew in a long, deep breath, let it out. "Hmm, I'm not getting anything. What does impending snow smell like? Like impending rain, only colder?"
She laughed, her breath a fog between them.
"You goon." She dug her hands into her pockets and they set off, faces into the wind.
"So, you live north of the Loop?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I live over in Wicker Park, not too far from here."
"How do you like it? I hear it's getting pretty gentrified these days."
"Yeah, but it kind of goes through cycles, you know? Bad, then good, then bad again."
"How long have you lived there?"
He didn't answer right away. For more than a minute, they walked in silence.
"A long time. A real long time. Look, Melinda, I guess that kind of brings me to what I really wanted to say."
"Uh... OK."
"The fact is... well, I don't meet many people. In real life, I mean. The internet is great, lets me have lots of friends online, but real life is a whole different matter."
She didn't respond, but only dug her hands deeper into her pockets as they continued to walk.
"It's not that I'm shy or antisocial or anything. I like people, like to be around people. It's just that I have a ... condition that keeps me kind of isolated. Very isolated, actually. It's not a medical thing," he said quickly. "I mean it's not a disease or a sickness or anything. It's just ... part of who I am."
They walked in silence.
"Jeez," he said, "this is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard to, you know, to tell you. It's just that... well, look, I like you. I mean I've come to like you a lot, and I just don't think it's fair to you for us to keep chatting and sending e.mails and tweets back and forth without you... knowing."
She stopped, turned to face him.
"Without me knowing what, Richard?"
He stood, looking at the ground. After a moment, he reached up and removed his sunglasses. Dead gray eyes, rimmed with bruised purple flesh stared out at her.
She took two steps back, her body rigid.
"I can dye my hair," he said, "and rub tanning solution onto my skin. I can even paint my nails a normal flesh tone. But my skin is always cold and I can't do anything about my eyes. They just don't make contact lenses for zombies, Melinda. I ... I'm sorry." He looked back down at the ground. "I was hoping you might... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tried this. It was stupid, and I'm sorry. Christ, I'd weep if I could. I should know by now not to... I'm sorry. How could I hope that you'd understand when -"
"Richard."
He stopped, looked at her.
"I do understand. I've suspected this for awhile. Now that I know for sure... I just wanted you to know that I think it was a brave thing you did, coming out like this."
At her words, his expression of despair slowly turned into one of rising hope. She drew her hands from her pockets and held them out to him.
Twin cracks erupted from the HK 9mm pistols she held, small flashes licking from the barrel shrouds. Richard's head exploded, sending a spray of dried flesh backwards in a gray cloud. His body dropped to the ground.
She leaned into the button mic on her collar.
"Got him," she said.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
He stood as she approached. Bundled against the cold, carrying her hat in her left hand rather than wearing it, she came closer, a slightly hesitant look on her face.
"Richard?" she said.
"Yes, it's me, Richard Tollofson, although maybe I should call myself ZombieFanBoi."
Her face split into a wide smile. She laughed as she shook her head.
"Thank God! I had this image of walking around asking guys in the park, 'Excuse me, I'm FleshBiterMama...are you ZombieFanBoi?'. I guess I should introduce myself properly. I'm Melinda, Melinda Jackson."
They shook hands, and then stood, awkward in a sudden silence. Across Lake Shore Drive, a few hardcore joggers and walkers moved along the paths near the frozen beach. Lincoln Park itself was pretty empty.
"Um, so..." she said, "should we go get a coffee or something? I'll be honest, this is the first time I've ever met one of my online friends in real life for a... you know, a get-together." She blushed slightly. He looked at the ground.
"Yeah, it's a new one for me, too. Actually, I thought maybe we could just walk, you know? Talk a bit?"
She looked around the park, at the ice on the shore, the joggers, the stilled and silent tourist booths by the marina.
"Um..."
"We could go somewhere with more people around. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just would rather be outside on a day like this. Do you want to go to the zoo?"
"Are you kidding? It's freezing out here!" She laughed again, pulled her hat on. "This isn't going to be much of a lunch date if we're incompatible right off the bat!"
He smiled slightly. "The cold doesn't bother me much. Tell you what, I think I saw a lunch vendor up on Lincoln. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Between that and the walk, it'll be almost as warm as being inside."
Her eyes glanced over his shoulder, at the Starbucks sign on Clark Street, across from the park. His sunglasses were the wrap-around kind, mirrored. Her own face, stretched and distorted, was reflected back at her.
"Well... OK. But let's get moving, Richard, it really is kind of harsh out here. It smells like it's going to snow."
"Does it?" He drew in a long, deep breath, let it out. "Hmm, I'm not getting anything. What does impending snow smell like? Like impending rain, only colder?"
She laughed, her breath a fog between them.
"You goon." She dug her hands into her pockets and they set off, faces into the wind.
"So, you live north of the Loop?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I live over in Wicker Park, not too far from here."
"How do you like it? I hear it's getting pretty gentrified these days."
"Yeah, but it kind of goes through cycles, you know? Bad, then good, then bad again."
"How long have you lived there?"
He didn't answer right away. For more than a minute, they walked in silence.
"A long time. A real long time. Look, Melinda, I guess that kind of brings me to what I really wanted to say."
"Uh... OK."
"The fact is... well, I don't meet many people. In real life, I mean. The internet is great, lets me have lots of friends online, but real life is a whole different matter."
She didn't respond, but only dug her hands deeper into her pockets as they continued to walk.
"It's not that I'm shy or antisocial or anything. I like people, like to be around people. It's just that I have a ... condition that keeps me kind of isolated. Very isolated, actually. It's not a medical thing," he said quickly. "I mean it's not a disease or a sickness or anything. It's just ... part of who I am."
They walked in silence.
"Jeez," he said, "this is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard to, you know, to tell you. It's just that... well, look, I like you. I mean I've come to like you a lot, and I just don't think it's fair to you for us to keep chatting and sending e.mails and tweets back and forth without you... knowing."
She stopped, turned to face him.
"Without me knowing what, Richard?"
He stood, looking at the ground. After a moment, he reached up and removed his sunglasses. Dead gray eyes, rimmed with bruised purple flesh stared out at her.
She took two steps back, her body rigid.
"I can dye my hair," he said, "and rub tanning solution onto my skin. I can even paint my nails a normal flesh tone. But my skin is always cold and I can't do anything about my eyes. They just don't make contact lenses for zombies, Melinda. I ... I'm sorry." He looked back down at the ground. "I was hoping you might... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tried this. It was stupid, and I'm sorry. Christ, I'd weep if I could. I should know by now not to... I'm sorry. How could I hope that you'd understand when -"
"Richard."
He stopped, looked at her.
"I do understand. I've suspected this for awhile. Now that I know for sure... I just wanted you to know that I think it was a brave thing you did, coming out like this."
At her words, his expression of despair slowly turned into one of rising hope. She drew her hands from her pockets and held them out to him.
Twin cracks erupted from the HK 9mm pistols she held, small flashes licking from the barrel shrouds. Richard's head exploded, sending a spray of dried flesh backwards in a gray cloud. His body dropped to the ground.
She leaned into the button mic on her collar.
"Got him," she said.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: I Weep Not for Thee
#FridayFlash: I Weep Not for Thee
by Tony Noland
Summer had stopped her involuntary sobbing a few minutes ago; the tendons in her neck stood as she worked her jaws, clenching hard. As each lamp went by on the shoulder of the highway, the blue-white light through the passenger window slashed at her, casting misshapen shadows across her distorted face. Flash, flash, flash... she cycled from smooth, silhouetted beauty to clenched, glare-lit fury and back again.
She wiped at her face, pushing the tears away. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were raw, but they were dry again. His quilted varsity jacket was far too large for her; the turned-up collar made her head appear oddly small and doll-like.
Dean tried to keep his eyes on the road, tried not to look at her.
The silence stretched as he drove, broken only by the mellow contralto voice of the GPS gently warning him that his exit was coming up in one mile. ETA to Summer's house - eighteen minutes, forty seconds. More than an hour since they left the party at the farmhouse, and she hadn't said a word. She'd gone from stone-faced immobility to weeping, but even that was over now.
He felt he had to say something. He only had eighteen minutes left, and then he would never be able to talk to her again.
"Summer..." he said, "I'm sorry."
She didn't look at him.
After a moment, she said, "So am I." At any other time, he might have called her voice calm or steady. Now, it just sounded... flat.
He took the exit, listened to the GPS talking about his next turn, some three miles ahead.
"You know," he said, "Rick was drunk even before he started on the pot." It had sounded more consoling in his head.
She turned to face him, her jaws clenched.
"So he wouldn't really have been safe to drive you home, anyway." he said. Her face didn't change, but her body fell back as she returned her stare to the road ahead.
He drove on.
The next turn came, followed by a red light. They waited.
"I thought you were going to defend him," she said. "That it was just the booze and the pot."
"Uh, no. No, I don't think I could do that. I mean..." The light turned and he had a moment to choose his words. "Look, Summer, I don't know everything about what was going on there, or how things are between the two of you -"
"Were."
"- uh, right, but from what I saw, it looked like he was... I mean, that's not the kind of thing you can defend. Especially not with ..." He let it go.
"Not with what?" Her voice was still flat, anger the only emotion behind it.
"Um, with you waiting out in the cold and all. He could have at least... come back for you, I guess. Or said something."
She sank back into the seat of the minivan, seeming to deflate into the folds of his jacket. After a time, she spoke.
"No, I don't think he was thinking about me at all." In a changed tone, she said, "Do you think he'll get frostbite?"
"Huh?"
"On his ass. Exposed skin and all that."
"Uh... I don't think it's that cold outside. It's only about forty degrees, maybe thirty five." He looked over at her, decided to risk a joke. "I think Allyson might be in for it, though. She was the one up against the car."
She scowled, and he bit his tongue at his miscalculation. Then, unexpectedly, she gave a snort.
"One can only hope," she said.
He thought about saying more, but his nerve failed him. How many times he'd hoped for just such a situation - Rick the asshole finally screwed up, Summer was distraught and in trouble and he was right there, right there! He was the hero, ready to provide comfort and a shoulder to cry on. Or at least ready to give her his jacket and a ride home. That should be a decent opening, right?
Unfortunately, he thought, things just didn't happen in real life the way they do in movies or books. Somehow, her being boiling mad was never part of the damsel in distress thing. More than an hour, and he had said hardly anything to her.
And in three more minutes he would be nothing more than a reminder of the worst night of her life.
He spent his remaining time trying, and failing, to think of some way to tell her ... something. Anything. He was still trying as he pulled into her driveway.
She sat and looked at her house for a moment. The windows were dark, and only the porch light was burning.
"Thanks, Dean." she said. "For the ride and everything. And for not... for just letting me be, you know? Not ... trying to talk. Or anything."
He flushed, hot. She knew. What a fool he was, of course she knew.
"Sure, Summer," he said. "I'm ... I'm really sorry."
She nodded without speaking, her jaws flexing and clenching. She got out and closed the car door behind her. He watched her go, seeing in the slump of her shoulders what he knew would be a long night for her.
One, two, three steps up to the porch, and she stopped. She stood for moment, then turned and came back to Dean's side of the car. He rolled down his window.
"I still have your jacket, don't I?" she said. "Do you want to come in for a minute? Give me a chance to get a sweatshirt or something, and I'll give it back."
"Sure." He killed the engine and got out. He walked with her up to her porch, and they went inside together.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
Summer had stopped her involuntary sobbing a few minutes ago; the tendons in her neck stood as she worked her jaws, clenching hard. As each lamp went by on the shoulder of the highway, the blue-white light through the passenger window slashed at her, casting misshapen shadows across her distorted face. Flash, flash, flash... she cycled from smooth, silhouetted beauty to clenched, glare-lit fury and back again.
She wiped at her face, pushing the tears away. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were raw, but they were dry again. His quilted varsity jacket was far too large for her; the turned-up collar made her head appear oddly small and doll-like.
Dean tried to keep his eyes on the road, tried not to look at her.
The silence stretched as he drove, broken only by the mellow contralto voice of the GPS gently warning him that his exit was coming up in one mile. ETA to Summer's house - eighteen minutes, forty seconds. More than an hour since they left the party at the farmhouse, and she hadn't said a word. She'd gone from stone-faced immobility to weeping, but even that was over now.
He felt he had to say something. He only had eighteen minutes left, and then he would never be able to talk to her again.
"Summer..." he said, "I'm sorry."
She didn't look at him.
After a moment, she said, "So am I." At any other time, he might have called her voice calm or steady. Now, it just sounded... flat.
He took the exit, listened to the GPS talking about his next turn, some three miles ahead.
"You know," he said, "Rick was drunk even before he started on the pot." It had sounded more consoling in his head.
She turned to face him, her jaws clenched.
"So he wouldn't really have been safe to drive you home, anyway." he said. Her face didn't change, but her body fell back as she returned her stare to the road ahead.
He drove on.
The next turn came, followed by a red light. They waited.
"I thought you were going to defend him," she said. "That it was just the booze and the pot."
"Uh, no. No, I don't think I could do that. I mean..." The light turned and he had a moment to choose his words. "Look, Summer, I don't know everything about what was going on there, or how things are between the two of you -"
"Were."
"- uh, right, but from what I saw, it looked like he was... I mean, that's not the kind of thing you can defend. Especially not with ..." He let it go.
"Not with what?" Her voice was still flat, anger the only emotion behind it.
"Um, with you waiting out in the cold and all. He could have at least... come back for you, I guess. Or said something."
She sank back into the seat of the minivan, seeming to deflate into the folds of his jacket. After a time, she spoke.
"No, I don't think he was thinking about me at all." In a changed tone, she said, "Do you think he'll get frostbite?"
"Huh?"
"On his ass. Exposed skin and all that."
"Uh... I don't think it's that cold outside. It's only about forty degrees, maybe thirty five." He looked over at her, decided to risk a joke. "I think Allyson might be in for it, though. She was the one up against the car."
She scowled, and he bit his tongue at his miscalculation. Then, unexpectedly, she gave a snort.
"One can only hope," she said.
He thought about saying more, but his nerve failed him. How many times he'd hoped for just such a situation - Rick the asshole finally screwed up, Summer was distraught and in trouble and he was right there, right there! He was the hero, ready to provide comfort and a shoulder to cry on. Or at least ready to give her his jacket and a ride home. That should be a decent opening, right?
Unfortunately, he thought, things just didn't happen in real life the way they do in movies or books. Somehow, her being boiling mad was never part of the damsel in distress thing. More than an hour, and he had said hardly anything to her.
And in three more minutes he would be nothing more than a reminder of the worst night of her life.
He spent his remaining time trying, and failing, to think of some way to tell her ... something. Anything. He was still trying as he pulled into her driveway.
She sat and looked at her house for a moment. The windows were dark, and only the porch light was burning.
"Thanks, Dean." she said. "For the ride and everything. And for not... for just letting me be, you know? Not ... trying to talk. Or anything."
He flushed, hot. She knew. What a fool he was, of course she knew.
"Sure, Summer," he said. "I'm ... I'm really sorry."
She nodded without speaking, her jaws flexing and clenching. She got out and closed the car door behind her. He watched her go, seeing in the slump of her shoulders what he knew would be a long night for her.
One, two, three steps up to the porch, and she stopped. She stood for moment, then turned and came back to Dean's side of the car. He rolled down his window.
"I still have your jacket, don't I?" she said. "Do you want to come in for a minute? Give me a chance to get a sweatshirt or something, and I'll give it back."
"Sure." He killed the engine and got out. He walked with her up to her porch, and they went inside together.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Time's Arrow
#FridayFlash: Time's Arrow
by Tony Noland
The first arrow was less than two feet from his chest when he pushed it with his sword, just a slight upwards thrust to the barbed tip. He'd learned a dozen lifetimes ago not to try to stop arrows completely. Less than an eyeblink later, as men felt time, the arrow rotated around its middle and the wooden shaft slapped broadside on his armor. It snapped and fell, and he rode on toward the archers and warriors. The rest of the first wave of arrows was tightly spaced as it closed on him; these men knew their business. Probably four fifths of them would have hit his torso, even though he was mounted. It took him a moment to see his way through the cloud of arrows, but there was plenty of time. They were still seven feet away.
As they came within reach, he pushed a few of them on the tips, others at the fletching; they parted like a flock of sparrows. Tips of iron, knapped flint and sharpened wood went past his head, over and under his arms, around his body. A dozen shafts broke against his chest, the splintered pieces flying behind him as he cleared the first wave and rode on. The second wave of arrows was already in the air, but he could see the archers' eyes go wide as he came on, untouched.
Five of the warriors took a half-step back from the front line. Their smooth cheeks and shocked faces marked them as boys, probably in their first fight. He'd make a point to leave at least two of them alive, perhaps three. Boy warriors spread the legend best, since they had the longest to live. Maim them so they would never be in a fight again, and they'd have thirty or forty years to scare children with the story of how they'd lost their eye and hand. Of the other hundred or so on the line, he might leave some. It depended on how the fight went.
The hard old soldiers knew who they were facing, and they did not budge. He saw their fingers curling around their axes and swords. The pikemen braced themselves as he came through the second wave of arrows. There was no third; he was too close. He came as fast as his horse would carry him, and ten feet from his attackers, he jumped forward and to the side.
His horse was thrown backward by the momentum of his leap. He twisted sideways in the air, moving almost faster than their eyes could follow. He threaded through the pikes and landed sideways against the front line. His sword caught three faces at a stroke; the spikes of his shin guards impaled another two. He spun away from the impact, turning in the air over the group of men he'd knocked down, and landed on his feet behind them.
His sword in one hand, the mace in the other, he bludgeoned and cut and kicked them down. Their arms sometimes came close to contacting, but they couldn't land blows effective enough to hurt him. He moved among them as a wasp moves among a pack of dogs. In the thick of the fight, they couldn't bring their numbers to bear all at once. They saw it too, and shifted tactics without waiting for orders. They attacked him in small groups, each mass of six or eight men coming hard after the other; as he killed each group in turn, he saw that they were trying to wear him down. A mistake - he did not tire.
Men had never learned how to fight him, and never would learn. Even if he ever left enough of them alive, it was impossible. He could be hurt if they were able to land a blow. In his first century he had been hurt a few times, through foolishness or inattention. Now, old as the forest and clever as a river, he was simply too fast for them to touch.
Hours later, with the sun behind the hill, with the men killed and the boys maimed and unconscious, he drank their supply of mead. He didn't require drink any more than he needed food, but he still liked the taste. A metallic scratch sounded from far off to his left and the world saw only a blur and a flying mug as he spun into a crouch, sword drawn. His eyes scanned for threats, but saw only an unarmed old man sitting on a large barrel, working slowly at tinder and flint. In the gathering gloom, he saw the man's lantern catch and flare.
For what was to him a very, very long time, he waited for the old man to move or threaten. To the old man, it seemed only a moment before the Walking Death moved cautiously closer, his eyes hard to see clearly as they looked everywhere at once. The old man only sat silently, holding his lantern.
"So,” the warrior called out, “is an old crow come to see the wreckage of an army? Shall I kill you, grandfather? Are you truly well into your dotage that you tempt me so?"
The man on the barrel raised the stump where his right hand had been.
"We have met before, you and I," he said. "You did not kill me then. I do not believe you will kill me now." He covered his stump again with the cloth of his coat.
"You mean nothing to me. Don't be too sure of what I will and will not do, foolish fellow. However many years ago I took your hand from you, I left you alive for my own reasons."
"Yes, I know," said the old man. "I thought long and hard on that. You spared my life so I would tell the story of the Walking Death who comes when the world is grown too kind. As you can see, I did what you would have had me do." He waved his wrinkled old hand, indicating the bloody field. "For three generations, I told them. Their grandfathers knew the truth and were afraid. Their fathers knew only the stories and were doubtful. These men knew nothing at all and they were all eager for the fight. Each of them wanted to be the one to kill the unkillable warrior, as I wanted to when I was a young man."
The warrior laughed and spat into the other's sunken chest.
"And they were no more able to harm me than you were, foolish boy who grew into a foolish old man. My ears hear the boasting and singing of every man who thinks he can kill me. To defeat one such man is as nothing to me. I am faster than any man or beast ever was or ever can be. When there is an entire army of them for me to slaughter," he sneered, "that is what makes for a day of good sport." Spreading amid a face covered in dirt and other men's blood, his smile was ugly and feral.
"I know this all too well, oh destroyer, all too well and to my sorrow. I encouraged them to fight you. I encouraged them in their songs of ill-starred glory because I wanted to see you again, and I hoped you would come. Here," he said, climbing slowly and painfully down off the barrel, "help me open this up." He began to lift the heavy wooden lid. Struggling, he said, "Well? Aren't you going to help me?"
The warrior resumed his battle stance, raising his sword with a sound like a flag whipping in the wind. He kept his distance and did not move, but stood with his dancing eyes and twitching arms.
Sighing, the old man strained his hand against the lid. He slid it over, then allowed it to drop to the ground. Panting, he ran his sleeve over his forehead and leaned against the barrel.
Against the purple sky and the red lantern, the warrior's shape was slightly blurry. At the height of caution and readiness, he waited with a smile for something to emerge from the old man's barrel to challenge him. He had nothing to fear from even the fastest viper.
The old man gently set his lantern down onto the black powder in the barrel, and the eyes of the Walking Death were burned by an enormous flash of light. Even if he had seen them, he could not have done anything at all about the hundreds upon hundreds of razor-sharp caltrops flying at him. They were just too fast.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
The first arrow was less than two feet from his chest when he pushed it with his sword, just a slight upwards thrust to the barbed tip. He'd learned a dozen lifetimes ago not to try to stop arrows completely. Less than an eyeblink later, as men felt time, the arrow rotated around its middle and the wooden shaft slapped broadside on his armor. It snapped and fell, and he rode on toward the archers and warriors. The rest of the first wave of arrows was tightly spaced as it closed on him; these men knew their business. Probably four fifths of them would have hit his torso, even though he was mounted. It took him a moment to see his way through the cloud of arrows, but there was plenty of time. They were still seven feet away.
As they came within reach, he pushed a few of them on the tips, others at the fletching; they parted like a flock of sparrows. Tips of iron, knapped flint and sharpened wood went past his head, over and under his arms, around his body. A dozen shafts broke against his chest, the splintered pieces flying behind him as he cleared the first wave and rode on. The second wave of arrows was already in the air, but he could see the archers' eyes go wide as he came on, untouched.
Five of the warriors took a half-step back from the front line. Their smooth cheeks and shocked faces marked them as boys, probably in their first fight. He'd make a point to leave at least two of them alive, perhaps three. Boy warriors spread the legend best, since they had the longest to live. Maim them so they would never be in a fight again, and they'd have thirty or forty years to scare children with the story of how they'd lost their eye and hand. Of the other hundred or so on the line, he might leave some. It depended on how the fight went.
The hard old soldiers knew who they were facing, and they did not budge. He saw their fingers curling around their axes and swords. The pikemen braced themselves as he came through the second wave of arrows. There was no third; he was too close. He came as fast as his horse would carry him, and ten feet from his attackers, he jumped forward and to the side.
His horse was thrown backward by the momentum of his leap. He twisted sideways in the air, moving almost faster than their eyes could follow. He threaded through the pikes and landed sideways against the front line. His sword caught three faces at a stroke; the spikes of his shin guards impaled another two. He spun away from the impact, turning in the air over the group of men he'd knocked down, and landed on his feet behind them.
His sword in one hand, the mace in the other, he bludgeoned and cut and kicked them down. Their arms sometimes came close to contacting, but they couldn't land blows effective enough to hurt him. He moved among them as a wasp moves among a pack of dogs. In the thick of the fight, they couldn't bring their numbers to bear all at once. They saw it too, and shifted tactics without waiting for orders. They attacked him in small groups, each mass of six or eight men coming hard after the other; as he killed each group in turn, he saw that they were trying to wear him down. A mistake - he did not tire.
Men had never learned how to fight him, and never would learn. Even if he ever left enough of them alive, it was impossible. He could be hurt if they were able to land a blow. In his first century he had been hurt a few times, through foolishness or inattention. Now, old as the forest and clever as a river, he was simply too fast for them to touch.
Hours later, with the sun behind the hill, with the men killed and the boys maimed and unconscious, he drank their supply of mead. He didn't require drink any more than he needed food, but he still liked the taste. A metallic scratch sounded from far off to his left and the world saw only a blur and a flying mug as he spun into a crouch, sword drawn. His eyes scanned for threats, but saw only an unarmed old man sitting on a large barrel, working slowly at tinder and flint. In the gathering gloom, he saw the man's lantern catch and flare.
For what was to him a very, very long time, he waited for the old man to move or threaten. To the old man, it seemed only a moment before the Walking Death moved cautiously closer, his eyes hard to see clearly as they looked everywhere at once. The old man only sat silently, holding his lantern.
"So,” the warrior called out, “is an old crow come to see the wreckage of an army? Shall I kill you, grandfather? Are you truly well into your dotage that you tempt me so?"
The man on the barrel raised the stump where his right hand had been.
"We have met before, you and I," he said. "You did not kill me then. I do not believe you will kill me now." He covered his stump again with the cloth of his coat.
"You mean nothing to me. Don't be too sure of what I will and will not do, foolish fellow. However many years ago I took your hand from you, I left you alive for my own reasons."
"Yes, I know," said the old man. "I thought long and hard on that. You spared my life so I would tell the story of the Walking Death who comes when the world is grown too kind. As you can see, I did what you would have had me do." He waved his wrinkled old hand, indicating the bloody field. "For three generations, I told them. Their grandfathers knew the truth and were afraid. Their fathers knew only the stories and were doubtful. These men knew nothing at all and they were all eager for the fight. Each of them wanted to be the one to kill the unkillable warrior, as I wanted to when I was a young man."
The warrior laughed and spat into the other's sunken chest.
"And they were no more able to harm me than you were, foolish boy who grew into a foolish old man. My ears hear the boasting and singing of every man who thinks he can kill me. To defeat one such man is as nothing to me. I am faster than any man or beast ever was or ever can be. When there is an entire army of them for me to slaughter," he sneered, "that is what makes for a day of good sport." Spreading amid a face covered in dirt and other men's blood, his smile was ugly and feral.
"I know this all too well, oh destroyer, all too well and to my sorrow. I encouraged them to fight you. I encouraged them in their songs of ill-starred glory because I wanted to see you again, and I hoped you would come. Here," he said, climbing slowly and painfully down off the barrel, "help me open this up." He began to lift the heavy wooden lid. Struggling, he said, "Well? Aren't you going to help me?"
The warrior resumed his battle stance, raising his sword with a sound like a flag whipping in the wind. He kept his distance and did not move, but stood with his dancing eyes and twitching arms.
Sighing, the old man strained his hand against the lid. He slid it over, then allowed it to drop to the ground. Panting, he ran his sleeve over his forehead and leaned against the barrel.
Against the purple sky and the red lantern, the warrior's shape was slightly blurry. At the height of caution and readiness, he waited with a smile for something to emerge from the old man's barrel to challenge him. He had nothing to fear from even the fastest viper.
The old man gently set his lantern down onto the black powder in the barrel, and the eyes of the Walking Death were burned by an enormous flash of light. Even if he had seen them, he could not have done anything at all about the hundreds upon hundreds of razor-sharp caltrops flying at him. They were just too fast.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Comes the Witching Hour
FridyFlash: Comes the Witching Hour
by Tony Noland
Today he would fight. Today he would win. He clung to the thoughts, and repeated them like a prayer. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
He checked the time - 11:45. They always came for him at the stroke of 12:00. The smell of smoke, the flash of flame and there they would be - the three archetypes of female beauty that he was never strong enough to resist.
Today he would fight. Today he would win.
All three of them served the same master he had served for almost twenty years, ever since he first made the bargain. The difference was, they delighted in their slavery. They laughed about their master, giggled in that maddening way. He swore that he would be a slave no more. As he had every day for a year, he swore that this would be the hour he resisted, that he broke free, that he showed himself to be a man.
Ah, but what man could resist them? Each of them was perfect in her own way. Hair of red, gold and brown. Eyes of green, blue and hazel. Bodies boyish, trim and lush. Every kind of perfection mixed and matched and offered to him, if only he would walk the path of fire. Walk and watch their hips sway in front of him. Walk and feel their hands on him in their teasing, delicious way. Walk and let himself be surrounded by these visions, these succubi, these beautiful angels of death.
11: 50. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
He had already traded away ten years of his life for these delights. All his loneliness had come to an instant, glorious end with one simple bargain. Allowing his body and soul to be possessed and eaten away one small piece at a time meant a host of delights. To be surrounded by such flesh as would otherwise be utterly unapproachable. To have the eyes of his rivals turned toward him in bitter envy and admiration as he moved and cavorted with these lovelies. To hear his name on their lips, to see his own face shining in their eyes, to smell the lilacs and cinnamon and musk of them... when the stench of the fire and smoke did not overwhelm all else.
11:55. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
His grip on the arms of his chair made his arms ache. The muscles of his back and legs were knotted and he hurt. But still, the pain of resistance was just pain, nothing more. He could feel the horror that yet lived within him clawing at him, screaming at him to be freed, stabbing at the soft tissues behind his eyes. Viselike, he embraced the pain and defeated it. He was strong, stronger than anyone would have believed. He knew this about himself. When people saw him at all, what they saw was not much of a man. Soft, pale, smallish. They only saw what was left of him. They did not know his history, what he had survived, how far he had come. He knew what pain was, and he had conquered more forms of it than most men ever saw. He was strong and focused and powerful.
How bitterly he wept that he had enslaved himself so foolishly! Only the pain of loneliness had ever defeated him, and now, could he truly turn his back on this, the central guiding feature of his pathetic life? Could he live without them? Would life be worth living? Surely it would be better to stop resisting and go back to being a slave, or better yet, embrace his servitude as they had?
With a grinding of teeth, he throttled the demon and choked off its lies. A fresh sheen of panicked sweat broke onto his forehead.
11:58 Today he would fight. Today he would win.
11:59 Today he would fight. Today he would win.
12:00
His eyes opened at the smell of smoke and the flash of flame.
"Hey, Jerry, lunch time is smoke time!" Billie from accounting was waving the little flame of her lighter back and forth, like she always did. She was leaning against the wall of his cubicle, her breasts pressed and divided against the brown metal as though it were a pole. Her green eyes were lit by her bright smile. Behind her, twitching with anticipation were Helen and Carol from purchasing.
Fight. Win.
"Sorry, ladies," he said. "I quit this morning." The speech was short, but how he had practiced it!
Fight! Win!
Her flame flicked out. A moment's false hope, and then all three of them leaned forward, sexy and smoky and hungry for him.
"Oh come on, Jerry. Come with us. You know you want to."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
Today he would fight. Today he would win. He clung to the thoughts, and repeated them like a prayer. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
He checked the time - 11:45. They always came for him at the stroke of 12:00. The smell of smoke, the flash of flame and there they would be - the three archetypes of female beauty that he was never strong enough to resist.
Today he would fight. Today he would win.
All three of them served the same master he had served for almost twenty years, ever since he first made the bargain. The difference was, they delighted in their slavery. They laughed about their master, giggled in that maddening way. He swore that he would be a slave no more. As he had every day for a year, he swore that this would be the hour he resisted, that he broke free, that he showed himself to be a man.
Ah, but what man could resist them? Each of them was perfect in her own way. Hair of red, gold and brown. Eyes of green, blue and hazel. Bodies boyish, trim and lush. Every kind of perfection mixed and matched and offered to him, if only he would walk the path of fire. Walk and watch their hips sway in front of him. Walk and feel their hands on him in their teasing, delicious way. Walk and let himself be surrounded by these visions, these succubi, these beautiful angels of death.
11: 50. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
He had already traded away ten years of his life for these delights. All his loneliness had come to an instant, glorious end with one simple bargain. Allowing his body and soul to be possessed and eaten away one small piece at a time meant a host of delights. To be surrounded by such flesh as would otherwise be utterly unapproachable. To have the eyes of his rivals turned toward him in bitter envy and admiration as he moved and cavorted with these lovelies. To hear his name on their lips, to see his own face shining in their eyes, to smell the lilacs and cinnamon and musk of them... when the stench of the fire and smoke did not overwhelm all else.
11:55. Today he would fight. Today he would win.
His grip on the arms of his chair made his arms ache. The muscles of his back and legs were knotted and he hurt. But still, the pain of resistance was just pain, nothing more. He could feel the horror that yet lived within him clawing at him, screaming at him to be freed, stabbing at the soft tissues behind his eyes. Viselike, he embraced the pain and defeated it. He was strong, stronger than anyone would have believed. He knew this about himself. When people saw him at all, what they saw was not much of a man. Soft, pale, smallish. They only saw what was left of him. They did not know his history, what he had survived, how far he had come. He knew what pain was, and he had conquered more forms of it than most men ever saw. He was strong and focused and powerful.
How bitterly he wept that he had enslaved himself so foolishly! Only the pain of loneliness had ever defeated him, and now, could he truly turn his back on this, the central guiding feature of his pathetic life? Could he live without them? Would life be worth living? Surely it would be better to stop resisting and go back to being a slave, or better yet, embrace his servitude as they had?
With a grinding of teeth, he throttled the demon and choked off its lies. A fresh sheen of panicked sweat broke onto his forehead.
11:58 Today he would fight. Today he would win.
11:59 Today he would fight. Today he would win.
12:00
His eyes opened at the smell of smoke and the flash of flame.
"Hey, Jerry, lunch time is smoke time!" Billie from accounting was waving the little flame of her lighter back and forth, like she always did. She was leaning against the wall of his cubicle, her breasts pressed and divided against the brown metal as though it were a pole. Her green eyes were lit by her bright smile. Behind her, twitching with anticipation were Helen and Carol from purchasing.
Fight. Win.
"Sorry, ladies," he said. "I quit this morning." The speech was short, but how he had practiced it!
Fight! Win!
Her flame flicked out. A moment's false hope, and then all three of them leaned forward, sexy and smoky and hungry for him.
"Oh come on, Jerry. Come with us. You know you want to."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Racist Bastard
#FridayFlash - Racist Bastard
by Tony Noland
Xai Feng gritted his teeth and waited for the asshole to stand up. Everybody knew the fucking bastard Carruthers hated Asians. How he had the gall to show up here at all was beyond anyone's belief. The Asian-American Association lunch was supposed to be for Roger Wu; this guy just stank up the place. Through the whole lunch, he and Mei Xu and Shao Hui and the rest of the guys had watched him over there, eating and laughing. They didn't bother to keep their voices down much as they talked about him. The whole group, the core group anyway, was all basically of the same mind about the guy and since Carruthers, of course, couldn't speak Chinese, it was OK.
The way that bastard had treated poor Xu Huang! Right after Carruthers had gotten promoted, Xu Huang had told everybody what a mean, vicious and foul mouthed dictator he was. The first thing he did after he came into that department was to meet with everybody one on one. He said it was just a "get to know the team" exercise, but Xu Huang had said that Carruthers had made it a point during his meeting to say that he didn't think the Asians were very talented and that they certainly weren’t doing enough good quality work. Racist bastard! Xai Feng and everybody else knew that Xu Huang was one of the smartest, most talented guys in the building. He graduated top of his class from Beijing University, and had turned down three other high-paying offers to come work here. Xu Huang had told them so himself.
Here we go, Xai Feng thought. He's coming up to the podium. How could Roger Wu act like he was friends with that guy? Xai Feng wasn't a bit surprised that Roger was being promoted. He was a great guy, very hard working. Xai Feng had never worked in that department, but Roger had a reputation as someone who knew how to deliver and knew how to spot talent; Xai Feng was just sorry that it meant the Roger would have to relocate. He certainly deserved this farewell luncheon. Roger had been in that department for six years, and had done a lot of great things. The funny thing was that he had been Carruthers' supervisor for most of that time. Why hadn't he done something about him? Surely his racism and bias would have shown itself. Xu Huang had quit because that asshole was such a prejudiced bastard, made all sort of changes to Xu Huang's work schedule and deliverables.
Look at him! He's shaking Roger's hand and they're both smiling as though they were really friends! You had to give Roger credit for loyalty anyway, thought Xai Feng. He's been defending that guy all along. The other guys in that group, the guys like Li Xu and Hong Ching, they defend him too. Must be Roger’s influence, that culture of loyalty. All the guys that worked with Carruthers over there seem to defend him. They're so blind. That's just because they’ve benefited from the association; he probably didn't show his true colors to them.
Strange, Xai Feng said to himself. His voice doesn't sound like I expected it to. It isn't nearly as deep and harsh as I thought it would be. Xu Huang said he was raspy and yelled all the time and had stained teeth. Maybe he's had them whitened or something.
Xai Feng looked around the room. Almost all of the Westerners and even a lot of the Asians were smiling as Carruthers spoke. That fucker - he's just using his charisma to hypnotize everyone, even the Regional Director and the Vice-President. It just goes to show how people can be fooled. All the guys at that table worked with him on that big reorganization plan. They're only in his camp because that all turned out well in the end. And that table over there is all people from the employee safety committee he chairs. All the staff from Roger's department are over at those five tables. I don't know why everybody else seems to like the guy.
Sure, go ahead and laugh at his little jokes. He can talk about the work he's done with Roger, what a great mentor Roger has been, his friendship with him and all the rest. All of us know that he's a racist and that he hates Asians. The way he treated Xu Huang proves that. Forcing him to change the way he was working, to cut short all of those interesting side projects he was working on. And for what? Like Xu Huang said, numbers of projects completed aren't as important as picking the right projects to work on. Whatever Xu Huang was doing, I'm sure it was more important that whatever Carruthers was trying to force him to do. Xu Huang was a really smart guy, with lots of experience. He told us all about it!
Carruthers should have just stayed out of it and let Xu Huang use his best judgment. The asshole didn't micromanage anyone else in that department. After the initial meetings, he just left everyone else alone to do their jobs, but no, not poor Xu Huang. It was only Xu Huang he picked on, having him come in for extra meetings to track progress, making him write all those reports on the backlog, all that stuff. That proves he's a bigot. After all, didn't Xu Huang file an EEO complaint against him before he quit? Isn't that proof enough of what kind of person Carruthers is?
Oh, please. So you went to Beijing with Roger and toured the Forbidden City together. So what? That doesn't mean anything. You were probably hating every minute of it, being surrounded by Chinese. Even that collaboration you set up with Jiao Tong University was probably just a political thing.
So you can make an audience smile, laugh and stand up to applaud you. You're a racist bastard, Carruthers, and giving Roger Wu a hug and wishing him well in his new job isn't gonna change our opinion of you.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
Xai Feng gritted his teeth and waited for the asshole to stand up. Everybody knew the fucking bastard Carruthers hated Asians. How he had the gall to show up here at all was beyond anyone's belief. The Asian-American Association lunch was supposed to be for Roger Wu; this guy just stank up the place. Through the whole lunch, he and Mei Xu and Shao Hui and the rest of the guys had watched him over there, eating and laughing. They didn't bother to keep their voices down much as they talked about him. The whole group, the core group anyway, was all basically of the same mind about the guy and since Carruthers, of course, couldn't speak Chinese, it was OK.
The way that bastard had treated poor Xu Huang! Right after Carruthers had gotten promoted, Xu Huang had told everybody what a mean, vicious and foul mouthed dictator he was. The first thing he did after he came into that department was to meet with everybody one on one. He said it was just a "get to know the team" exercise, but Xu Huang had said that Carruthers had made it a point during his meeting to say that he didn't think the Asians were very talented and that they certainly weren’t doing enough good quality work. Racist bastard! Xai Feng and everybody else knew that Xu Huang was one of the smartest, most talented guys in the building. He graduated top of his class from Beijing University, and had turned down three other high-paying offers to come work here. Xu Huang had told them so himself.
Here we go, Xai Feng thought. He's coming up to the podium. How could Roger Wu act like he was friends with that guy? Xai Feng wasn't a bit surprised that Roger was being promoted. He was a great guy, very hard working. Xai Feng had never worked in that department, but Roger had a reputation as someone who knew how to deliver and knew how to spot talent; Xai Feng was just sorry that it meant the Roger would have to relocate. He certainly deserved this farewell luncheon. Roger had been in that department for six years, and had done a lot of great things. The funny thing was that he had been Carruthers' supervisor for most of that time. Why hadn't he done something about him? Surely his racism and bias would have shown itself. Xu Huang had quit because that asshole was such a prejudiced bastard, made all sort of changes to Xu Huang's work schedule and deliverables.
Look at him! He's shaking Roger's hand and they're both smiling as though they were really friends! You had to give Roger credit for loyalty anyway, thought Xai Feng. He's been defending that guy all along. The other guys in that group, the guys like Li Xu and Hong Ching, they defend him too. Must be Roger’s influence, that culture of loyalty. All the guys that worked with Carruthers over there seem to defend him. They're so blind. That's just because they’ve benefited from the association; he probably didn't show his true colors to them.
Strange, Xai Feng said to himself. His voice doesn't sound like I expected it to. It isn't nearly as deep and harsh as I thought it would be. Xu Huang said he was raspy and yelled all the time and had stained teeth. Maybe he's had them whitened or something.
Xai Feng looked around the room. Almost all of the Westerners and even a lot of the Asians were smiling as Carruthers spoke. That fucker - he's just using his charisma to hypnotize everyone, even the Regional Director and the Vice-President. It just goes to show how people can be fooled. All the guys at that table worked with him on that big reorganization plan. They're only in his camp because that all turned out well in the end. And that table over there is all people from the employee safety committee he chairs. All the staff from Roger's department are over at those five tables. I don't know why everybody else seems to like the guy.
Sure, go ahead and laugh at his little jokes. He can talk about the work he's done with Roger, what a great mentor Roger has been, his friendship with him and all the rest. All of us know that he's a racist and that he hates Asians. The way he treated Xu Huang proves that. Forcing him to change the way he was working, to cut short all of those interesting side projects he was working on. And for what? Like Xu Huang said, numbers of projects completed aren't as important as picking the right projects to work on. Whatever Xu Huang was doing, I'm sure it was more important that whatever Carruthers was trying to force him to do. Xu Huang was a really smart guy, with lots of experience. He told us all about it!
Carruthers should have just stayed out of it and let Xu Huang use his best judgment. The asshole didn't micromanage anyone else in that department. After the initial meetings, he just left everyone else alone to do their jobs, but no, not poor Xu Huang. It was only Xu Huang he picked on, having him come in for extra meetings to track progress, making him write all those reports on the backlog, all that stuff. That proves he's a bigot. After all, didn't Xu Huang file an EEO complaint against him before he quit? Isn't that proof enough of what kind of person Carruthers is?
Oh, please. So you went to Beijing with Roger and toured the Forbidden City together. So what? That doesn't mean anything. You were probably hating every minute of it, being surrounded by Chinese. Even that collaboration you set up with Jiao Tong University was probably just a political thing.
So you can make an audience smile, laugh and stand up to applaud you. You're a racist bastard, Carruthers, and giving Roger Wu a hug and wishing him well in his new job isn't gonna change our opinion of you.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
FridayFlash: Two Lutheran Pastors
A joke for #FridayFlash, while I work on NaNoWriMo. Enjoy.
There were two Lutheran pastors, one from Philadelphia, one from Minnesota. They met at a conference and struck up a friendship. After some discussion about fellowship and evangelism, they decided to trade sermons at each other's congregations. So the Lutheran pastor from Philadelphia went to visit his friend's church in Minnesota... in January.
He went over to the church early on a Sunday morning and found the other Lutheran pastor out front with a bucket, spreading sand on the ice leading up to the door.
"Hey," said the first Lutheran pastor, "that's interesting. In Philadelphia, we spread salt on the ice to melt it."
"Oh, salt is great stuff," said the second Lutheran pastor, "but it only works down to about zero degrees. On really cold mornings like we get here in Minnesota, it won't melt the ice. The only thing you can do is spread some sand to provide some traction."
"Really? I had no idea." said the first Lutheran pastor. "Salt won't work at all? Sand is your only option?"
"Yep," said the second Lutheran pastor, "this is Minnesota. Here I sand; I can do no other."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
UPDATE: If you're not a Lutheran, then this joke was not only not funny, but was probably incomprehensible. It refers to Martin Luther's testimony at the Diet of Worms, wherein he (supposedly) uttered one of the most famous quotes in the history of Protestant theological determinism, "Here I stand. I can do no other." Just forward the link to a Lutheran. They'll laugh enough for both of you.
There were two Lutheran pastors, one from Philadelphia, one from Minnesota. They met at a conference and struck up a friendship. After some discussion about fellowship and evangelism, they decided to trade sermons at each other's congregations. So the Lutheran pastor from Philadelphia went to visit his friend's church in Minnesota... in January.
He went over to the church early on a Sunday morning and found the other Lutheran pastor out front with a bucket, spreading sand on the ice leading up to the door.
"Hey," said the first Lutheran pastor, "that's interesting. In Philadelphia, we spread salt on the ice to melt it."
"Oh, salt is great stuff," said the second Lutheran pastor, "but it only works down to about zero degrees. On really cold mornings like we get here in Minnesota, it won't melt the ice. The only thing you can do is spread some sand to provide some traction."
"Really? I had no idea." said the first Lutheran pastor. "Salt won't work at all? Sand is your only option?"
"Yep," said the second Lutheran pastor, "this is Minnesota. Here I sand; I can do no other."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
UPDATE: If you're not a Lutheran, then this joke was not only not funny, but was probably incomprehensible. It refers to Martin Luther's testimony at the Diet of Worms, wherein he (supposedly) uttered one of the most famous quotes in the history of Protestant theological determinism, "Here I stand. I can do no other." Just forward the link to a Lutheran. They'll laugh enough for both of you.
FridayFlash: Cutting
FridayFlash - Cutting
by Tony Noland
"Mr. and Mrs. Eckston? Come right in." The counselor was petite and happy looking, not at all what Paul had expected. His own guidance counselor in high school had been a fat, dumpy woman who'd been killing time until retirement. She'd been as uncaring and useless as all of his teachers, a complete waste of an office. This woman, though, seemed much more committed to her job. He still didn't know why she'd called them in.
"Please, sit down," she said. Amanda Parlemente, that was her name. The sign on her desk had a sticker of a smiling bullfrog on the upper right hand corner.
"Mr. and Mrs. Eckston -" she began.
"Please, it's Paul and Allison," said his wife. She was always the one to insist on first names. Paul would have been just as happy to keep things professional, but whatever.
Ms. Parlemente - Amanda - smiled.
"Paul and Allison it is." She turned serious. "I know you're wondering why I called you and asked to speak to you about Janice."
"I’d say we’re wondering a bit, yes," Paul said. "Jan's grades are fine and her scores on the SAT and ACT were pretty good. Is something going on that we should be concerned about?"
Amanda paused, then folded her hands in front of her.
"Mr.... I mean, Paul..." She stopped. She looked down, opened a folder on her desk, then looked up at them both. Paul was getting a little worried, and he could tell that Ally was, too.
"Janice is doing very well in all of her classes. Her grades are good, her teachers like her, she has lots of friends and gets along with everyone. The articles she writes for the school paper are really quite good. She hasn't mentioned journalism as a career option, but I think she would do well to consider it, or another field where she could use her gift for writing. There are any number of colleges that she would really thrive at."
Good news first, Paul thought. She's giving us the good news first. Oh, Christ, here it comes, whatever it is, here it comes.
"However..." Amanda paused again.
"What is it?" Ally's voice was calm, but very measured. She was worried, and he could hear it.
"I noticed something that, well, it bothered me. I wanted to talk to you about it. I spoke to Janice in a roundabout way, but she said there was nothing to it. I'm not sure that's really the case. I thought you should know."
"Well, what is it, for heaven's sake? What are we talking about here?" Paul was worried, too, and unlike his wife, he didn't bother to hide it. "Is she pregnant?"
Both women stared at him for a moment, Amanda in surprise, Ally in horror.
"No, no, nothing like that!" Amanda said. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be elliptical. What I saw was some... well, on her arms, I noticed... Mr. and Mrs. Eckston, is Janice, well, happy at home?"
"Happy?” Paul said. “Yes, of course. I mean, I suppose so. No, that's crazy, yes she's happy. What is this? What are you talking about?" Paul was getting scared.
"The fact is, her arms have a series of cuts. On the forearms, just below the elbow. Her shirt sleeve was open and I noticed them this past week. I've noticed in the past that Janice always favors blouses with long sleeves, although the tees and tank tops are more the fashion with girls these days."
"Cuts?" Ally sounded confused. "What do you mean, cuts?"
"I mean shallow cuts. More like deep scratches. She said it was from her volunteer work at the city gardens - pruning roses and the like. I’m not sure that’s the whole story.”
“What are you talking about?” Ally was still very controlled, Paul thought, so she must be freaking out inside.
“Some girls develop a, you might call it a kind of addiction to harming themselves. I'm talking about cutting or scratching themselves. It's more commonly associated with girls who suffer from bulimia or anorexia. I don’t see any evidence of either of those with Janice, but cutting can be a standalone issue. Is there anything that you've seen in her home life that would suggest there's a problem?"
"In her ‘home life’? You sound like she's in a mental institution!" Paul said. "No, everything is fine at home. I mean, I wouldn't let her have the car last weekend, but that's just a normal thing, right? I mean, for a teenager to not get what she wants all the time?"
"I don't mean normal things like that." Amanda said. "I mean, and traumas or major concerns. Things that might push her to seek some kind of solace with cutting."
"No!" Ally's voice was indignant.
"Well, that's reassuring. I just wanted to explore the possibility, to bring it to your attention in case there was something going on that needed to be addressed." Amanda's voice was placating. "Janice is a great kid, and I just wanted to be sure. I felt that I should discuss this with you, let you know what I saw, and what it might mean. If there were any real reason to be concerned, I'd ask you to ... keep an eye on her. Maybe discuss things, have a heart-to-heart with her about how things are going. But if there's nothing going on, then we can just go forward."
She doesn't believe us, Paul thought. And she knows that we WILL keep an eye on Jan, and WILL have a talk with her. Sneaky, aren't you, Ms. Amanda Parlemente?
After some final conversation about more mundane matters, all three of them said goodbyes that were forcibly relaxed and cheerful. Ally had to visit the ladies' room on their way out of the school. Paul stood in the hall, waiting.
He was so confused, his mind so muddled. Jan? Hurting herself? Why? It didn't make any sense. What could possibly be encouraging her to do such a thing?
He closed his eyes. It was all too much. He just couldn't seem to think straight. He reached into his pocket, took out the car keys and gripped them, tight.
Tighter. Tighter. The keys dug into his palm, and the familiar rush of pain in his hand rose and rose until his eyes flew open at the breaking of the skin.
As always, the pain cleared his mind, and he was once again master of the situation and master of himself. He put the keys away and dabbed at his palm with his handkerchief. He would talk to Janice as soon as they got home and get this nonsense cleared up.
No daughter of HIS would do something so foolish as to cut herself!
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
"Mr. and Mrs. Eckston? Come right in." The counselor was petite and happy looking, not at all what Paul had expected. His own guidance counselor in high school had been a fat, dumpy woman who'd been killing time until retirement. She'd been as uncaring and useless as all of his teachers, a complete waste of an office. This woman, though, seemed much more committed to her job. He still didn't know why she'd called them in.
"Please, sit down," she said. Amanda Parlemente, that was her name. The sign on her desk had a sticker of a smiling bullfrog on the upper right hand corner.
"Mr. and Mrs. Eckston -" she began.
"Please, it's Paul and Allison," said his wife. She was always the one to insist on first names. Paul would have been just as happy to keep things professional, but whatever.
Ms. Parlemente - Amanda - smiled.
"Paul and Allison it is." She turned serious. "I know you're wondering why I called you and asked to speak to you about Janice."
"I’d say we’re wondering a bit, yes," Paul said. "Jan's grades are fine and her scores on the SAT and ACT were pretty good. Is something going on that we should be concerned about?"
Amanda paused, then folded her hands in front of her.
"Mr.... I mean, Paul..." She stopped. She looked down, opened a folder on her desk, then looked up at them both. Paul was getting a little worried, and he could tell that Ally was, too.
"Janice is doing very well in all of her classes. Her grades are good, her teachers like her, she has lots of friends and gets along with everyone. The articles she writes for the school paper are really quite good. She hasn't mentioned journalism as a career option, but I think she would do well to consider it, or another field where she could use her gift for writing. There are any number of colleges that she would really thrive at."
Good news first, Paul thought. She's giving us the good news first. Oh, Christ, here it comes, whatever it is, here it comes.
"However..." Amanda paused again.
"What is it?" Ally's voice was calm, but very measured. She was worried, and he could hear it.
"I noticed something that, well, it bothered me. I wanted to talk to you about it. I spoke to Janice in a roundabout way, but she said there was nothing to it. I'm not sure that's really the case. I thought you should know."
"Well, what is it, for heaven's sake? What are we talking about here?" Paul was worried, too, and unlike his wife, he didn't bother to hide it. "Is she pregnant?"
Both women stared at him for a moment, Amanda in surprise, Ally in horror.
"No, no, nothing like that!" Amanda said. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be elliptical. What I saw was some... well, on her arms, I noticed... Mr. and Mrs. Eckston, is Janice, well, happy at home?"
"Happy?” Paul said. “Yes, of course. I mean, I suppose so. No, that's crazy, yes she's happy. What is this? What are you talking about?" Paul was getting scared.
"The fact is, her arms have a series of cuts. On the forearms, just below the elbow. Her shirt sleeve was open and I noticed them this past week. I've noticed in the past that Janice always favors blouses with long sleeves, although the tees and tank tops are more the fashion with girls these days."
"Cuts?" Ally sounded confused. "What do you mean, cuts?"
"I mean shallow cuts. More like deep scratches. She said it was from her volunteer work at the city gardens - pruning roses and the like. I’m not sure that’s the whole story.”
“What are you talking about?” Ally was still very controlled, Paul thought, so she must be freaking out inside.
“Some girls develop a, you might call it a kind of addiction to harming themselves. I'm talking about cutting or scratching themselves. It's more commonly associated with girls who suffer from bulimia or anorexia. I don’t see any evidence of either of those with Janice, but cutting can be a standalone issue. Is there anything that you've seen in her home life that would suggest there's a problem?"
"In her ‘home life’? You sound like she's in a mental institution!" Paul said. "No, everything is fine at home. I mean, I wouldn't let her have the car last weekend, but that's just a normal thing, right? I mean, for a teenager to not get what she wants all the time?"
"I don't mean normal things like that." Amanda said. "I mean, and traumas or major concerns. Things that might push her to seek some kind of solace with cutting."
"No!" Ally's voice was indignant.
"Well, that's reassuring. I just wanted to explore the possibility, to bring it to your attention in case there was something going on that needed to be addressed." Amanda's voice was placating. "Janice is a great kid, and I just wanted to be sure. I felt that I should discuss this with you, let you know what I saw, and what it might mean. If there were any real reason to be concerned, I'd ask you to ... keep an eye on her. Maybe discuss things, have a heart-to-heart with her about how things are going. But if there's nothing going on, then we can just go forward."
She doesn't believe us, Paul thought. And she knows that we WILL keep an eye on Jan, and WILL have a talk with her. Sneaky, aren't you, Ms. Amanda Parlemente?
After some final conversation about more mundane matters, all three of them said goodbyes that were forcibly relaxed and cheerful. Ally had to visit the ladies' room on their way out of the school. Paul stood in the hall, waiting.
He was so confused, his mind so muddled. Jan? Hurting herself? Why? It didn't make any sense. What could possibly be encouraging her to do such a thing?
He closed his eyes. It was all too much. He just couldn't seem to think straight. He reached into his pocket, took out the car keys and gripped them, tight.
Tighter. Tighter. The keys dug into his palm, and the familiar rush of pain in his hand rose and rose until his eyes flew open at the breaking of the skin.
As always, the pain cleared his mind, and he was once again master of the situation and master of himself. He put the keys away and dabbed at his palm with his handkerchief. He would talk to Janice as soon as they got home and get this nonsense cleared up.
No daughter of HIS would do something so foolish as to cut herself!
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
FridayFlash: Back of the Class
Back of the Class
by Tony Noland
"Danny, I'm a little concerned about your behavior."
She said it in her warmest, most caring voice. At least, she hoped that was how it was coming across. She didn't like Danny Young. It was a terrible thing to admit to, even to herself. But there it was. He was a strange little boy. None of the other kids in her class liked him, either. That was a shame, but not unheard of. Third graders can be picky and clannish, much more so than their parents realized.
However, Allison Clarksen always made it a point to find something likable about every child. Even the ones who had been truly terrible over the years, she'd found some way to at least pity them for their situations. She never blamed the child. It was brutish parents, poverty, or other circumstances beyond their control that made children difficult. She believed in every child in her class, every year. It was not just a saying or a pose. She cared about every child, and wanted them all to succeed.
Until Danny Young. She tried and tried to find some way to connect with him. After seven months, she finally admitted to herself that she did not want him to succeed. She just wanted him gone.
"What is it about my behavior that concerns you, Ms. Clarksen?"
It was like fingernails on a blackboard. The little bas... the little boy was always so calm! He never got upset or angry or out of line. He never misbehaved or spoke out of turn or turned his homework in only half-done.
But he never smiled. He never laughed. He didn't play with anyone. He was so... so... controlled! That was it, he was far too controlled for a nine year old boy. They should be wild, free spirits, eager to laugh or cry. Emotions should be running high in them, like waves crashing on a shore. But Dannny was like a still pond. No, even worse, she thought, he was like a frozen pond. Smooth, clear, motionless.
Cold.
She shivered. She tried to call his parents to be a part of this, but got only voice mail at the regular telephone number. It wasn't worth the paperwork of using the emergency contact number. She had never met Danny's parents; they never came to conferences. They signed all the permission slips, and corresponded with her by e.mail, but she had never met them. There had been other families in the past that didn't care about their children. It was a tragedy, but she reached out to the kids, did her best to help them grow and ushered them on into fourth grade. She hoped that she made them better, but there was precious little a teacher could do for kids without a family.
She wondered what kind of parents Danny had.
"Ms. Clarksen?"
She started slightly, as he interrupted her thoughts. So damned polite. What was wrong with him, what was it about him that bothered her so?
She cleared her throat. "Danny, you made our visitor uncomfortable with your behavior today. This was the first time I've had to speak to you about paying attention in class."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Clarksen," he said, "it won't happen again."
Too quickly. He agreed too quickly. All of the other kids were bored to tears by Hua Feng's father. He was an engineer at Cryodyne, the aerospace firm. A very smart man, no doubt, but his Chinese accent was so thick the class could barely understand him, and they were all chattering and twitching. Except for Danny. He'd appeared to be absolutely rapt by the tedious drone about circuits and electrons and surfaces and things. It made Danny's outburst even worse. Everyone had thought Mr. Feng was boring, but barking it out in the middle of his presentation! The entire class had laughed, and poor Hua, already embarrassed about her father's poor English, was crying over how shamefully her father had been treated.
"Danny, it looked to me like you were actually listening to Mr. Feng. You were writing notes down, copying some of what he'd said. Why would you be so rude to him? Why did you say what you did? That he was... was boring?"
"I didn't say..." Danny stopped.
For the first time, Danny's face flushed. He looked embarrassed!
Feeling terrible as she did so, the teacher pressed home her advantage, the first chink in the little boy's armor that she had come across. It was mean and it was petty, but she couldn't help herself.
"Tell me, Danny. Tell me why you did that. You must have known that calling Mr. Feng boring would hurt Hua's feelings. Why did you do it?"
"I didn't call him boring."
"Danny," she said, warming to her subject, "don't lie. If there is one thing I won't tolerate, it's dishonesty."
"I didn't call him boring. I didn't say he was boring."
"I heard you say it, young man. We all did. Don't try to deny it."
Danny looked her in the eye. Cold and still, unblinking. It took only seven seconds before she cracked and looked away.
"I didn't say he was boring. You misheard what I said." The little boy got up from his seat in front of her big wooden desk.
"And where do you think you're going? Sit down this instant!" She used her command voice.
It didn't work. Danny picked up his notebook, the twenty-nine cent spiral kind, opened it to the one of the last pages and dropped it on her desk.
"Goodbye, Ms. Clarksen. I don't think I'll be coming back."
Shocked, she watched him walk towards the door and she watched him leave.
In the silence, she looked down at the notebook.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
"Danny, I'm a little concerned about your behavior."
She said it in her warmest, most caring voice. At least, she hoped that was how it was coming across. She didn't like Danny Young. It was a terrible thing to admit to, even to herself. But there it was. He was a strange little boy. None of the other kids in her class liked him, either. That was a shame, but not unheard of. Third graders can be picky and clannish, much more so than their parents realized.
However, Allison Clarksen always made it a point to find something likable about every child. Even the ones who had been truly terrible over the years, she'd found some way to at least pity them for their situations. She never blamed the child. It was brutish parents, poverty, or other circumstances beyond their control that made children difficult. She believed in every child in her class, every year. It was not just a saying or a pose. She cared about every child, and wanted them all to succeed.
Until Danny Young. She tried and tried to find some way to connect with him. After seven months, she finally admitted to herself that she did not want him to succeed. She just wanted him gone.
"What is it about my behavior that concerns you, Ms. Clarksen?"
It was like fingernails on a blackboard. The little bas... the little boy was always so calm! He never got upset or angry or out of line. He never misbehaved or spoke out of turn or turned his homework in only half-done.
But he never smiled. He never laughed. He didn't play with anyone. He was so... so... controlled! That was it, he was far too controlled for a nine year old boy. They should be wild, free spirits, eager to laugh or cry. Emotions should be running high in them, like waves crashing on a shore. But Dannny was like a still pond. No, even worse, she thought, he was like a frozen pond. Smooth, clear, motionless.
Cold.
She shivered. She tried to call his parents to be a part of this, but got only voice mail at the regular telephone number. It wasn't worth the paperwork of using the emergency contact number. She had never met Danny's parents; they never came to conferences. They signed all the permission slips, and corresponded with her by e.mail, but she had never met them. There had been other families in the past that didn't care about their children. It was a tragedy, but she reached out to the kids, did her best to help them grow and ushered them on into fourth grade. She hoped that she made them better, but there was precious little a teacher could do for kids without a family.
She wondered what kind of parents Danny had.
"Ms. Clarksen?"
She started slightly, as he interrupted her thoughts. So damned polite. What was wrong with him, what was it about him that bothered her so?
She cleared her throat. "Danny, you made our visitor uncomfortable with your behavior today. This was the first time I've had to speak to you about paying attention in class."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Clarksen," he said, "it won't happen again."
Too quickly. He agreed too quickly. All of the other kids were bored to tears by Hua Feng's father. He was an engineer at Cryodyne, the aerospace firm. A very smart man, no doubt, but his Chinese accent was so thick the class could barely understand him, and they were all chattering and twitching. Except for Danny. He'd appeared to be absolutely rapt by the tedious drone about circuits and electrons and surfaces and things. It made Danny's outburst even worse. Everyone had thought Mr. Feng was boring, but barking it out in the middle of his presentation! The entire class had laughed, and poor Hua, already embarrassed about her father's poor English, was crying over how shamefully her father had been treated.
"Danny, it looked to me like you were actually listening to Mr. Feng. You were writing notes down, copying some of what he'd said. Why would you be so rude to him? Why did you say what you did? That he was... was boring?"
"I didn't say..." Danny stopped.
For the first time, Danny's face flushed. He looked embarrassed!
Feeling terrible as she did so, the teacher pressed home her advantage, the first chink in the little boy's armor that she had come across. It was mean and it was petty, but she couldn't help herself.
"Tell me, Danny. Tell me why you did that. You must have known that calling Mr. Feng boring would hurt Hua's feelings. Why did you do it?"
"I didn't call him boring."
"Danny," she said, warming to her subject, "don't lie. If there is one thing I won't tolerate, it's dishonesty."
"I didn't call him boring. I didn't say he was boring."
"I heard you say it, young man. We all did. Don't try to deny it."
Danny looked her in the eye. Cold and still, unblinking. It took only seven seconds before she cracked and looked away.
"I didn't say he was boring. You misheard what I said." The little boy got up from his seat in front of her big wooden desk.
"And where do you think you're going? Sit down this instant!" She used her command voice.
It didn't work. Danny picked up his notebook, the twenty-nine cent spiral kind, opened it to the one of the last pages and dropped it on her desk.
"Goodbye, Ms. Clarksen. I don't think I'll be coming back."
Shocked, she watched him walk towards the door and she watched him leave.
In the silence, she looked down at the notebook.
"Clever idea, but he's going about it like an idiot using that chromatogenic infiltration system. He should be using a plasma coupled vapor deposition chamber to lay down his dipole layer - that would give him the charge drainage and electron flow balance he needs, while also containing the B-field!
And he shouldn't be using silicon, that's too big of an electron shell to adjust the containment. What element would be good for that? Erbium? Yttrium? No, boron! BORON!!!"
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
FridayFlash: Not My Intention
Not My Intention
by Tony Noland
Sunday afternoon, and R.J. was hanging out in the laundry room, waiting for his dryer to finish. He always waited for his stuff. It drove him crazy when people just dropped their clothes off then went back up to their dorm room. Half the time, they didn't come back for hours or even days, and they were the ones who got all pissy if you took their stuff out of a machine. There were only six washers and dryers. He thought it was a matter of simple courtesy to get his stuff in and out as efficiently as possible.
There was no way they were going back up to read or study; they could have done that down here at either of the beat up old desks. No, they were going back up to watch TV or hang out. There were no bars or WiFi down here in the basement, either, so people couldn't use their phones or laptops. Only the dedicated students stayed and read actual books or went over actual notes while the laundry tumbled.
Dedicated, hard working, lonely, friendless students. He looked up from his book and shook his head a bit as he rejected the thought. Too hard on himself again. No, he thought, not friendless. I have lots of friends. Or rather, I have lots of classmates and a few friends. He'd just started down the old, familiar path of wondering if he had enough real friends when, as though on cue, one of his real friends walked in. Teegan was carrying an empty laundry basket.
"Hey, R.J.", she said.
"Hey, Teeg. Great minds think alike, huh?" He smiled at her. She smiled back, then turned to take her laundry out of one of the washers.
Teegan lived in Willott House with him, and she was in his American Civ and Calc 201 classes, too. She was really bright and was also kind of a smart-ass with the Civ TA. He thought that was a riot, although he never really spoke out of turn himself.
She carried her wet clothes to the one empty dryer, next to the wooden desk where he was sitting. He pushed back out of her way so she could start putting items into the machine. T-shirts, jeans, a towel, socks... white cotton underwear with pink elastic...
R.J. looked away, and lifted his book up with a bit of a jerk. He knew even as he did it that he was overreacting, that he looked silly. He was an adult now. He shouldn't be embarrassed at seeing a girl's underwear!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teegan smile very slightly as she shook out the wadded clothes, item by item, before adding them in. All except for the bras, which were apparently not going in the dryer. These she hung over the side of the basket. Beige satin, beige satin, gray athletic. R.J. felt his face grow hot.
"So, R.J.", she said, startling him, "what's the matter? You've never seen a bra before?" She pulled the bras down into the empty basket and stood up. She kicked the dryer door closed and began to fish in the right front pocket of her jeans for some quarters.
"Ah... I, uh..." He tried to think of something witty and cool to say, but drew a complete blank. The absurdity of the scene struck him. He gave a laugh and shook his head. Screw it. It was just Teegan. "All right, fine, Teeg, you caught me off guard. Must be a guy thing. Automatic response to lingerie or something. Sorry. It was just a... a thing, or something, I dunno. Never mind. Sorry." He should stop talking, just shut the hell up for Christ's sake, but she was smiling as she stood next to him, holding her basket with its three damp bras.
"It's OK, R.J. Don't worry about it." She turned away from him and reached over to put the six quarters into the dryer. Her T-shirt rode up in the back. She was wearing white underwear with pink elastic. He lifted his book slightly, but didn't look down at it.
She straightened as she turned around, repositioned her basket. She smiled at him again then headed toward the door. "See you around, R.J."
"Yeah, see you," he said to her back. He watched her walk toward the door and was swept up by the craziest goddamned impulse. Years later, he would marvel at going straight to Talk without passing Think.
"Hey, Teeg?" no no don't stupid stupid don't don't
At the door, she turned back to him. "Yeah?"
"I was just wondering," don't do it don't no don't stupid don't "would you maybe like to go out sometime?" NO NO DON'T SHIT YOU STUPID FUCK NO NO "You know, to a movie or something?"
Teegan's eyebrows went up, then came together as surprise was replaced by thought. She didn't answer right away, but just looked at him, considering.
"I mean, if you don't want to, that's cool." DUMBASS FUCK FUCK STUPID FUCK "I just was, thinking, you know, if you wanted to, but that's cool -"
"Well, to be honest, R.J., I kind of promised my mom I wouldn't date any white guys."
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFU
"But... yeah. Yeah, we can go out. I'd like that."
==========
Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
Sunday afternoon, and R.J. was hanging out in the laundry room, waiting for his dryer to finish. He always waited for his stuff. It drove him crazy when people just dropped their clothes off then went back up to their dorm room. Half the time, they didn't come back for hours or even days, and they were the ones who got all pissy if you took their stuff out of a machine. There were only six washers and dryers. He thought it was a matter of simple courtesy to get his stuff in and out as efficiently as possible.
There was no way they were going back up to read or study; they could have done that down here at either of the beat up old desks. No, they were going back up to watch TV or hang out. There were no bars or WiFi down here in the basement, either, so people couldn't use their phones or laptops. Only the dedicated students stayed and read actual books or went over actual notes while the laundry tumbled.
Dedicated, hard working, lonely, friendless students. He looked up from his book and shook his head a bit as he rejected the thought. Too hard on himself again. No, he thought, not friendless. I have lots of friends. Or rather, I have lots of classmates and a few friends. He'd just started down the old, familiar path of wondering if he had enough real friends when, as though on cue, one of his real friends walked in. Teegan was carrying an empty laundry basket.
"Hey, R.J.", she said.
"Hey, Teeg. Great minds think alike, huh?" He smiled at her. She smiled back, then turned to take her laundry out of one of the washers.
Teegan lived in Willott House with him, and she was in his American Civ and Calc 201 classes, too. She was really bright and was also kind of a smart-ass with the Civ TA. He thought that was a riot, although he never really spoke out of turn himself.
She carried her wet clothes to the one empty dryer, next to the wooden desk where he was sitting. He pushed back out of her way so she could start putting items into the machine. T-shirts, jeans, a towel, socks... white cotton underwear with pink elastic...
R.J. looked away, and lifted his book up with a bit of a jerk. He knew even as he did it that he was overreacting, that he looked silly. He was an adult now. He shouldn't be embarrassed at seeing a girl's underwear!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teegan smile very slightly as she shook out the wadded clothes, item by item, before adding them in. All except for the bras, which were apparently not going in the dryer. These she hung over the side of the basket. Beige satin, beige satin, gray athletic. R.J. felt his face grow hot.
"So, R.J.", she said, startling him, "what's the matter? You've never seen a bra before?" She pulled the bras down into the empty basket and stood up. She kicked the dryer door closed and began to fish in the right front pocket of her jeans for some quarters.
"Ah... I, uh..." He tried to think of something witty and cool to say, but drew a complete blank. The absurdity of the scene struck him. He gave a laugh and shook his head. Screw it. It was just Teegan. "All right, fine, Teeg, you caught me off guard. Must be a guy thing. Automatic response to lingerie or something. Sorry. It was just a... a thing, or something, I dunno. Never mind. Sorry." He should stop talking, just shut the hell up for Christ's sake, but she was smiling as she stood next to him, holding her basket with its three damp bras.
"It's OK, R.J. Don't worry about it." She turned away from him and reached over to put the six quarters into the dryer. Her T-shirt rode up in the back. She was wearing white underwear with pink elastic. He lifted his book slightly, but didn't look down at it.
She straightened as she turned around, repositioned her basket. She smiled at him again then headed toward the door. "See you around, R.J."
"Yeah, see you," he said to her back. He watched her walk toward the door and was swept up by the craziest goddamned impulse. Years later, he would marvel at going straight to Talk without passing Think.
"Hey, Teeg?" no no don't stupid stupid don't don't
At the door, she turned back to him. "Yeah?"
"I was just wondering," don't do it don't no don't stupid don't "would you maybe like to go out sometime?" NO NO DON'T SHIT YOU STUPID FUCK NO NO "You know, to a movie or something?"
Teegan's eyebrows went up, then came together as surprise was replaced by thought. She didn't answer right away, but just looked at him, considering.
"I mean, if you don't want to, that's cool." DUMBASS FUCK FUCK STUPID FUCK "I just was, thinking, you know, if you wanted to, but that's cool -"
"Well, to be honest, R.J., I kind of promised my mom I wouldn't date any white guys."
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFU
"But... yeah. Yeah, we can go out. I'd like that."
==========
Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
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