It was almost his now, not moving. He got himself into position until it appeared squarely in the finder. Don’t let it move now. Modern technology could do wonders, but a moving target was still difficult.

Was it looking at him? Two baleful spheres eyed him one last time. A rectangular piece of paper was stuck to its face.

Gently, as he’d been taught, he squeezed the trigger. Done. The perfect photograph. He returned the camera to his pocket.

He spun the parking ticket machine around his index finger, blew away the remaining smoke, and returned it to its holster.

Once again Ann-Louise takes up a mixture of previous themes, and weaves a couple of the writers in as well this time:-

The client wanted Dan dead, and he was willing to pay for it.
Rejoice managed to get me into Dan’s therapy group.
My brief conversation with him quickly revealed that he was emotionally fragile, easily led and very suggestable. It was easy to wear away the last remnants of his meager defenses and convince him that the only solution to his miserable life was to ‘off’ himself.
Worked as planned. The client was pleased.
Wait! Gordon says Dan’s alive! How’d that happen?
Rejoice, we got the wrong ‘Dan’! How awful! It means we’ll have to give back the hit money.

She worked the register at the drive-through, tattoos covering forearms, hands, and fingers. I almost asked why she wasn’t still in school but decided against it. I figure anyone with an honest job is okay in my book. Plus I wanted to get my large coffee without somebody hocking in it, man. Later another girl, this one with a dragon tattoo–black hair, pale, pierced nostril–checked me in at the Doctor's office. I didn’t ask if anyone ever threatened to rip the ring out of her nose; one doesn’t speak like that to strangers.

She was scrutinizing the structure of her poem. The doorbell sounded. She glanced at the Skype icon, no, she tapped a different icon, no message hovered bottom left on Facebook, she squinted at her mobile phone.

“Oh!” she grunted, swinging around. She tipped the cat, and unfolded herself on the way to the door.

She opened it to a man with flowers.

“Samantha ... ” he hesitated over her Polish last name.

“Whoa Chuck,” she offered. The ridiculous grade school joke. Her poor brother ...

“For you.”

“Thanks.”

No card. Charles always remembered their birthday.

Even before the door opened, Sam smelled the acrid piss and shit. He'd forgotten there were nine until Suzie and Pete, two grinning toothpicks in the midst of battered animal chaos, foundlings from shelters or streets transformed into children. Blind Simba and three-pawed Old Faithful. Peabody. Parslet. Tilly. Marley. Jolly. Joy.
Suddenly, Sam realized his friends were extras; in reality the home belonged to the motley crew of wounded pets. They were in command. It was their kingdom. These two humans were nothing more than slaves who'd spend their lifetimes in subjection to these testy beasts.

“To a scholar and a lady” – that’s what Mr. Harris wrote in my yearbook the last day of school. He was my favorite teacher of all time. He was a Christian man who taught English to our 8th grade at Hebrew Academy. I thanked him for the compliment and shyly walked out.
Turning around I saw Ruby and Lena kissing him on his cheek. I wished I had the nerve to do so.
We did sentence diagrams, but mostly we learned to love literature, especially, poetry. Mr. Harris loved the poem I chose to recite and discuss. My motivation skyrocketed.

It’s been 3 summers, still haven’t learned how to swim. At summer camp while the others are swimming in the deep water, I wade in the shallows and practice “swimming” from corner to corner.
Only when I switch camps and start Flamingo Park (free) day camp, do things change.
We pay 10 cents to get in the pool. All of us kids are lined up in the pool to “take swimming lessons”. The instructor says “Swim”. And we swim. That is, I took the plunge and really swam, just like everybody else. That’s how I learned to swim. (to teach/act)

I just turned 16, so I can take the Florida driving test. I’ve been practicing with Dad since I was 14, driving the Ford Mercury Park Lane, what Dad calls “a lady’s car because it handles real easy.”
Monday morning, we pay the 3 dollars. The examiner, this taciturn freckled red-head gets in. I drive around as commanded, making sure to signal each turn. Then he tells me to park between 2 poles. The long car hits over the back pole. He fills out my chart. No luck. No license.
Two more times – same examiner – same results. No license, yet.

It might have been a trick of the light.

Watching television, I gradually started to sense that the figures on the screen weren’t the only things moving in the room. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the subjects in the photographs on the fireplace and the wall had changed slightly; an altered expression, an adjusted posture, perhaps. My normally-gentle sister Jan appeared angry. Auntie Emma seemed to be frowning instead of smiling. Ann-Louise, my ex-wife, seemed to be holding something in her lap: a revolver? She certainly wasn’t smiling, for sure.

Then I realised someone was behind me.

“Wack somebody? I could if they dented my car. How about you, Jeannie?”

“If somebody criticized my shoes or hair. But, I might not have the nerve to do it myself.”

“Dan,” I asked the new guy, “Could you could kill someone?”

He thought, elbows on knees, and said, “Sure.”

“Okay, Dan, but who?” asked Jeannie.

“Some day, when you’re pursuing your miserable little lives, you’ll hear a knock on the door. When you open it, I’ll blow you away.”

Then Dan clomped out.

Jeannie asked, “I wonder why he didn’t stay and watch the game?"

She flung herself onto the fainting couch. (It had been reupholstered with a modern blue and white design that worked surprisingly well with its antique mahogany trim.) She clutched a cool washcloth to her forehead. Why couldn't we have dainty hankies and long flowing Edwardian dresses? It's not that I want to be decorative, but being surrounded by beautiful things can be uplifting ...

She turned the washcloth over to revive its coolness.

I am tired of death. These fictional murders will not redress the wrongs done to women through the centuries ... I fear they tend to desensitize us all.

Afterwards, in the darkness, they lay in bed, talking.

“Sometimes I just wish we could reach our climaxes together,” she said.

He smiled. “I like to see you finished, satisfied,” he replied. “It’s so much more rewarding for me to know you’re done.” Then he added, “Anyway, it’s quite difficult to make sure that we get there simultaneously. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

She nodded. “I need to abandon myself, I know. But you often finish so long after me.” She glanced at her watch. “Take tonight, for example. Your story should really be called Saturday Flash Fiction.”

The queen bee had called the drones to order. “Tell me,” she asked, “exactly WHAT is your function around here?”

The drones spoke in unison. “Our duty is to obey, Your Majesty. Our duty is to serve your every need. Our duty is to otherwise loiter about and let the women do all the work.”

“So do I really need you?" the Queen said. "I mean, apart from the occasional bit of hanky-panky... and I could settle for a vibrator.”

Suddenly, the drones formed themselves into a giant boy-band, singing: “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got wing...”

It was 0130. Joe’d run Ohara’s plates last night. Now the dude, with a high-and-tight carrot top, sat by the crazy lady, elbows on the counter. He wore a big-and-tall work shirt and three sharp-edged rings on his right hand. He stared across at Joe like last time.

June picked up Joe’s plate, topped off his coffee, and turned to touch up the crazy lady’s cup. Then June extended the pot toward O’hara; he shook his head.

Joe figured he’d jump him in the lot out back. He touched his waistband, looking around for anyone who might follow them out.

Anticipation is dangerous. It can make you sloppy. This was the sixth day I’d waited on the hunt.
Melurian had to have been exhausted, too. I’d set traps to lure him into using his magic. In a place so far from fey lines, he’d be slow to recover. It helped that Daona engaged him when she shouldn’t have. That was an interesting skirmish to watch.
Now, with the others gone, I can take my quarry and collect my prize. Ah! It is done. He is ensnared and the vines are draining away his last defense. One fugitive for 600 tokens.

“I know I could if it were in self-defense … and to protect my wife and daughter. How about you, Jeannie?”

“Maybe in self-defense. I just don’t know if I’d have the nerve.”

Then Dan came in from having a smoke outdoors. New to the area, he’d only muttered a vague “up north” when asked where home was. Here was a chance to get to know him better.

“Dan,” I asked as he sat down. “Do you think you could kill someone?”

He thought for a moment, leaned forward, elbows on knees, said, “Okay … who ya got in mind?”


Ann-Louise Truschel – the specialist plagiariser/adapter – was challenged to do something with Lon's tale, so:-

“I know I could if it were in self-defense … and to protect my wife and daughter. How about you, Jeannie?”

“Maybe If I didn’t like somebody enough. I just don’t know if I’d have the nerve to do it myself.”

“Dan,” I asked as he sat down. “Do you think you could kill someone?”

He thought for a moment, leaned forward, elbows on knees, said, “Okay … who ya got in mind?”

“How ‘bout yourself, Dan,” said Jeannie.

“Damn!” I gasped. “I never thought he’d actually do it!”

“I never really liked Dan,” said Jeannie.

Robert Adema posted this original on 15th January 2014:-

It is Day 5. Except for some large bugs, I haven't eaten since we left Swift Current. My energy is low. I can't find a safe place to sleep and I'm starting to hallucinate. Some images are welcome, some less so, and it's always damp. I'm chilled. Maybe I ate the wrong bug. I'm close to using my emergency phone, and writing this off as a failure. I don't think I can last two more days. An icy wind is blowing from the west and I smell wild Cinnamon rolls, but can't find them. I wish I was Martha Stewart.

It was swiftly followed by resident story-adapter Ann-Louise Truschel's... well, adaptation of the story:-

It is Day 5. Except for some large bugs, I haven't eaten since I left the swift current. I can't find a safe place to sleep. I'm chilled. Maybe I ate the wrong bug, but I have little choice. With all those fishermen around, I have to be careful which bugs I eat. Some of them could be lures! My gills hurt.

This inspired a further contribution from Eric Smith:-

Five days into the reprogramming effort and we still have several vexing bugs to fix. I haven't eaten since we moved down here from the second floor. Ideas? I’m fresh out and can't isolate the problems so we can go home and sleep. I'm starting to hallucinate: the images crowd out all productive thought. I have the DTs. Damn, where’s that next bug? I could use my emergency phone and write this off as a failure; but that will undoubtedly come back to bite me. A cold wind blows from the vents, and I smell peanut butter, perhaps.

They just kept coming, this time from Gordon Lawrie. This was all on the same day, mind you:-

It is Day 5. Except for a few battered Beetles, we’ve been unable to find any quick fixes for the electrical problems which seem to have beset all the local cars. I’m starting to see diagrams of ignition systems in my sleep. Maybe we’re using substandard parts, but we have little choice; at the end of the line, we’re hooked into a contract with this Spanish supplier who sends us kit for “BW Veetles”. (It’s a linguistic thing, I think.)

And then, from Eric Smith again:-

My Beetle has sat in the same spot for five days in the 24/7 Diner parking lot. The constables have marked the tires with chalk to see if it moves; I’m looking out the window waiting for them to have it towed to impound. I’m on my tenth cup of coffee but don’t have the funds for food. I’m hungry enough to wolf down a spider. I’d use my emergency phone, but there’s no service in this part of town. I continue to stare at the current of customers, flowing in and out the door, letting in a cold wind.

Then from Emma Baird:-

Bugs, bugs everywhere - and even when you crush 'em up and stir 'em in with a little peanut butter, they still taste pretty weird.

Alice concluded that it had not been the smartest idea signing up to I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, even with the enticement of prize money and exposure. She wasn't sure she qualified as a celeb either, but as the other half of SuperParkingAttendant Danny, she did have to wear sunglasses indoors these days.

The emergency phone beckoned. A 10-sec call and she could be outta here. The cat had promised this.

And then, to round off the day, from Jane Reid:-

The weather was fine today. I lounged in my comfortable spot, swaying in a gentle breeze. I nibbled at my snack, then wrapped it for later.

But soon I was provided with another snack, and another. I couldn’t eat them all.
I tried to wrap them for safekeeping, but they just kept coming – another and another and another.

My spinnerets were empty. I had no more silk. And another snack just landed.
Wrong. It’s my husband. I hurry to meet him.

And although I have no appetite left, I am able to finish my task. I’ll wrap him later.

Still not finished. Kerry Allemann posted the following a couple of days later (a Friday, to be fair):-

Coleoptera Redux

It is Day 5. The peanut butter is gone, and so have the bugs. All I seem to do is sleep. And dream of swift currents. A VW Beetle splashes past, trailing a scent of wild Cinnamon rolls. Could it be trying to lure me out? I am strong! I will resist! I will NOT be reprogrammed!!

Holmes studied the victim’s body in the library. Head beaten with a blunt instrument. Blood, yes, but also water on the carpet. No murder weapon.

“I’m baffled,” Watson said. “It’s cold in here.”

Suddenly, Holmes leapt to his feet. “It’s elementary, Watson!”

“Elementary?”

“The butler did it,” said Holmes. “Ring for him!”

Moments later the butler, Jeeves, appeared. “You rang, sir?”

“You beat the victim to death with a block of ice, which melted.  As butler, Jeeves, you’re the only one with access to ice.”

Jeeves bowed. “As you wish, sir.” Then he added, “Shall I bring the handcuffs, sir?”

The Flash Fiction Writer sighed to herself, but what, what? She had found herself entangled in the lives of Alice, Danny, Behulah, Trent, the bug fixers, spiders and the women with murderous tendencies. They had all become dear to her and she adored the way their stories sometimes took unexpected twists.

Could she, perhaps, write a 100-word play, or possibly an angst-filled poem which hit on the complexities of modern life in a mere line or three?

She wrote a line – and stopped. Blast it, there really was very little that rhymed with orange.

Looking to break out into new directions, Robert set up his own website company. His first commission was from the obscure Murderesses Incorporated group, a band of homicidal maniacs whose bizarre request was to create a site where women could request discreet “wasting” of husbands.

Ever the professional, Robert responded swiftly with a new site, www.cyanidemolarpoisontastingdog.com to meet all their needs, and proudly presented it to his clients a week later.

They were delighted. Having lured Robert to meet them, the women poisoned him with cyanide, ate most of him in bite-sized pieces, then threw the rest to the dogs.

Hot, sticky vapour rose from the ground. Fletcher looked around. Nothing about this flushed atmosphere was familiar. “Where on earth, am I?” he wondered.
The dust rose, whirling slowly about his feet. Fletcher stamped impatiently to shift the clods of dirt. His arms flailed in the thick air, trying to remove some specks of dust from his brow.
Then it happened. Turbid, winged creatures emerged from the dirt, pinching the toes of Fletchers boots, and then his ankles. Fletcher looked down. The creatures were going for his toes.
“Oh, boy”, Fletcher thought. “It is going to be a long day...”

This comes from Jane with apologies to Etta James:-

I want arachnid kind of love,
A love to fill me with delight,
And I’d like to know it won’t last past the night.
I want arachnid kind of love

I want a guy who’s hot for me,
Whose yearnings just won’t set him free
And put him on a path to meet his destiny.
I want arachnid kind of love.

I used to dream of ways to get my mother-in-law. She was a very arrogant woman who believed that nothing in this world was good enough for her. She adorned herself as though she were a Christmas tree. Where ever possible she hung huge pieces of valuable jewelry. She wore false eyelashes and wigs. Her clothes were outrageously gorgeous. Now that didn't bother me but her intrusion into my life via her mommy's boy son, took it too far and when she decided to take my apartment because she liked it, I flipped out and started dreaming of ways to annoy and embarrass her.

I know you feel like everyone steps all over you but don’t be envious of me. Don’t believe anything you’ve heard about me being spoilt either. You want to hear the facts from me.

It’s true that the first thing that ever touched my mouth was a silver spoon and that I’ve always been the favourite around here. Yes, the family give me something almost daily. Christmas and birthdays are particularly special. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I DIDN’T get anything. As I said, there’s no need to envy me, doormat, because it’s all rubbish really.