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Or Something Worse, by Bobby Warner

29/11/2014

 
It was night like this one, when everything was still and silent and the darkness seemed impossibly dark and filled with--he did not know what. But he was sure it--they--were there.


Just a week ago he had followed the little girl from the park through the wooded area she had to cross to get to her house. No one around. Perfect. He had been quick, and it had been so exquisite; the feeling of overwhelming power rushing through his mind and body. Then, depositing all that remained in a shallow grave, and rushing home to let the memories play over and over in his mind before they began to fade.


How many did that make? He had long ago lost count. Was it wrong, what he did? Of course it was, but what choice did he have? That feeling he got with the doing of his deeds was the only thing that temporarily drove away the lingering fear.


And the fear, lurking like eager phantoms in the shadows of his dark and silent room, was the fear of what the future held for him, for what he had done. One day, soon perhaps, he would have to pay the price by facing the eternal fires of Hell.

Living Alone, by Eric Smith

28/11/2014

 
June pushed her John Deere cap forward on her head, pulled the blond ponytail out the hole in the back, and let it swing. She stepped up into her truck and headed south on the two-lane away from the Lone Café. In the rear view she saw a storm gathering five miles back, heading her way and gaining. She’d make it home before it hit.


Eight miles down the road she pulled into the driveway of her rancher and killed the headlights. The kitchen and living room lights were on. She always turned those off and worried someone might’ve broken in. Most people didn’t lock their doors, but she’d started doing it after her husband, Randy, got sent away. And when her dog died she’d never had the heart to get another one. No vehicles were in sight. The front door was locked, but the spare key was now hidden under a different flower pot out front. She wondered if she should go in alone or call the sheriff first.


But the sheriff always made comments about how she’d been able to afford the rancher only after collecting the insurance money after Randy died in prison. She didn’t care to listen to him. The wind chimes jangled as the storm descended so she unlocked the door and tentatively walked in. Once inside, she began looking around the kitchen. Aside from the lights, everything looked about the same except someone with muddy boots had left footprints on the floor in front of the refrigerator. She knew she had two six-packs in the fridge and had been looking forward to a couple brews. She looked in to find only one left.


She figured her son, Rusty, and a couple of his so-called friends had come by and drunk up her beer. That would be just like him, like his old man, to leave a single beer—at least he hadn’t drunk them all, right? In the living room she found the empties, crushed, lying on the coffee table by the television. She felt the top of the console. It was cold. For some reason, she decided to explore the bathroom. She reached in and turned on the light. Some young guy lay there on his back—she'd never seen him before. She felt his forehead. He was cold and his chest wasn’t moving. Rusty couldn’t be involved in this. If he was, why would he put the key under the wrong pot?


Her mind raced forward. Now she’d have to call the sheriff. Would Rusty have to go to prison, too? She’d miss him even if he was a pain in the ass. She couldn't bring herself to call. June sat on the couch listening to rain pelting the windows; she felt dizzy. She heard an engine approaching and tires crunching on the crushed asphalt. Headlights flooded the room through the curtains, two doors slammed, and finally someone banged on the door. It was the sheriff. Cops never knocked.

Little Willie Who? by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

 
Little Willie sat on the curb with his feet in the gutter, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.

Along came a rookie cop, only two days on the beat, swinging his Billy club. "Hey, young man, what are you doing cluttering up the street. Get on home before I run you in on a vagrancy charge!"

"Can't go home," Willie said with a heavy sigh. "My dad spanked my butt and told me to get lost 'cause I talked back to him."

"Come on, young fellow. Let's go call your dad and see what gives. He sounds like a big bully to me. I'll set him straight."

"I don't think so," Willie said. "Dad's got a lotta pull in this town."

The young cop smacked the Billy club into the palm of his hand.

"A big shot bully, huh? What's your dad's name?"

"Amos Roy Jameson. He's the police chief, so most just call him "Chief."

"Chief Jameson?" the cop said in a sickly subdued tone of voice. "Well, er, I got work to do. You just sit right there and do whatever it is you were doing."

The cop turned on his heel and walked quickly away, leaving Little Willie Jones, the jailhouse janitor's son, grinning after him.

The Girl, The Grump And The Goat, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

 
Miss Helen Limbar had a cute little goat named Penny Girl. She doted on that goat like you wouldn't believe, and would have done anything for it. She never married or had children, and some folks said the goat made up for the lack of natural children.

Old Sam Drigglesworth lived next door in a run-down shack. He had a huge pile of tin cans he had been saving for years and years, and he was justly proud of his collection like any 65-year-old red-bloodied male would be.

One day Penny Girl got loose and wandered next door and proceeded to eat a hole in Sam Drigglesworth's tin-can pile. When Sam discovered what was going on, he got his old .45 automatic and tromped outdoors to protect what was his.

But Helen Limbar got wind of what of happening, and quickly took her semi-automatic assault rifle out of the closet and stuck the barrel out the side window of the house and potted old Sam where he stood taking aim at her precious Penny Girl.

Sam Drigglesworth got a brief but weepy funeral and burial in the local cemetery and Helen Limbar got 35 years in prison for 2nd degree murder. No one ever did figure out what happened to Penny Girl the goat, which was never seen again.

The Beanstalk And Jack, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

 
Once upon a time there was a beanstalk that grew beside the Smith house. The beanstalk was rather scrawny and no one imagined it would ever reach any great heights.

One day along came a young giant, who everyone called The Giant, and started tugging on the beanstalk to pull it up by the roots. Instead, the beanstalk started to grow upward, spiraling skyward as its truck grew thicker. Naturally, this scared The Giant so badly that he ran away shouting: "I think I'll stick to devouring Englishmen!" and was never seen nor heard from again.

Meanwhile, Jack Smith was awed to find that the scrawny beanstalk that had once stood beside his house was now grown o an unbelievable height--so high, in fact, that it was growing up into a cloud.

Acting on sudden impulse (as was he wont), Jack quickly scrambled up the beanstalk--all the way to the top--which had indeed grown up through a cloud. He discovered a grand house with two stories, ten bedrooms, six full baths, a Great Room filled with TVs, computers and electronic games galore--and a roomful of beautiful girls all of whom doted on his every word.

Jack decided he liked this new abode just fine and lived there happily ever after.

A Different Thanksgiving Dish, by Bobby Warner

27/11/2014

 
The new man at Finney's Market (everyone calls him "Joe") has recently immigrated to the U. S. and Mike Finney was good enough to hire him.

When my wife ordered the Thanksgiving Turkey Joe took the call. He also made the delivery the next day.

Joe proudly opened the box and grinned. "Me make. All by my meself I make!" he proclaimed.

An unusual aroma rose in the air as he presented the main course of our meal. "Here is you Tanks-givem Turtle!"

Both I and my wife started to protest and say, "No, no! We wanted a turkey, not a turtle!"

But the proud look on Joe's face held our words at bay, and we thanked him and tipped him handsomely for his efforts.

Actually, our Thanksgiving Turtle was quite tasty. We have invited Joe over for Christmas Dinner, and if he wants to bring along a Christmas Turtle that's okay with us.

The Donut Shop, by Lon Richardson

20/11/2014

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A woman and two children in a donut shop. One of the children, a girl about 3 or 4, holds a handful of coins and stands at the table where her mother sits. 

 “Glazed twist,” her mother tells her.

The child attempts to repeat the order, but apparently is still struggling with the basics of learning language. She says something that sounds like “gade quix?” Her mother doesn’t bother correcting her, so she starts toward the counter. She stops, turns, and asks her mother, “Did I say that right?” She seems to really want to know.

“Yes, dear.”

The girl beams, her baby teeth almost glowing in her smile. She is full of energy, still at the age where mere walking is insufficient. Moving from one place to another means running, hopping, skipping and generally experimenting with vigorous styles of locomotion. She skips to the counter.

The waitress appears and asks, “Yes, dear?”

“Gade … quix!” says the girl.

“Excuse me?” 

The girl repeats her order, and the woman, her face a question mark, looks over at the mother.

“Glazed twist,” the mother says.

The girl looks from the woman to her mother and back again. You can almost read her thoughts on her face: Didn’t I just say that? The waitress hands her the pastry in a paper bag, and the youngster empties her handful of coins into the woman’s palm. As the girl starts back toward the table, her mother says, “No, honey, get your change. You gave her too much.”

The youngster retrieves her change and returns to the table. 

The concept of “change” will be another lesson for another time. Today, it is enough to know that, now, she can do a grown-up thing. She can order a gade quix.

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Two-Trees Breakdown, by Eric Smith

16/11/2014

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June didn’t like his looks. He had soft-looking white hands, no veins showing on the backs, and his nails looked like he’d had them worked on. He wore an expensive-looking brown leather jacket. Immediately after he sat down he took out a phone and began swiping at it. His lips pursed. She thought he looked like a kid sucking on a persimmon. 

“I can’t get any reception for my phone around here. The towers must be too far apart.” 

“Must be.” 

“What do people around here do about that?” 

“Talk to each other in person, I guess.” She was getting annoyed. “What’ll it be, mister?” 

“Coffee black if it’s fresh. Otherwise, I’d like cream and sugar for it.” 

He looked around. She knew his type. She could tell he noticed the place was empty and must have figured the coffee had been sitting on the burner all morning. A real detective. 

“It’s fresh enough,” she said. She wasn’t smiling. 

“People around here aren’t too friendly, are they?” 

“It’s like anyplace else. Takes us awhile to warm up to strangers. 

June set his coffee down in front of him. Before she could turn around he said, “So you’re June, huh?” 

“That’s what it says on my name tag.” 

“Well, June, how long have you lived here?” 

“Are you writing a book, mister?” 

“Hey, I’m just passing the time, which I have plenty of until I can get my car fixed. They tell me at that so-called mechanic’s across the road they have to drive to another town an hour from here to get a new solenoid. I’m stuck until tomorrow and can’t even make a phone call.” 

June didn’t say anything as the guy—he was maybe forty-five, about her age—doctored his coffee with the cream and sugar she’d given him. She could tell he was interested in her, at least up to a point. She had a bad-news detector that went off whenever she met a man who wouldn’t be good for her. And it was screaming at her now. In fact, she was picking up something else—the kind of thing that goes right by a man but that women pick up on right away. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but this guy gave her a major case of the creeps. She had a feeling he was going to make another move. She was thinking of calling for Roy, the cook, but he was probably sleeping in the back. 

“So what time do you get off? I notice you’re not wearing a ring.” 

“Two things, mister,” June said. “First, I don’t wear my ring when I work, and second, you’re so far from being anybody’s type I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave before I have to call the cook out here. I don’t want this to turn into a discussion. Okay?” 

The guy didn’t even look upset. He got up and left. She figured he must be used to pissing people off.


(Submitted in the 500-word maximum category.)
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Jars, by Eric Smith

16/11/2014

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Every Christmas my sister-in-law made preserves for me in shallow, wide-mouth jars. One January I learned my roommate’s girlfriend had been urinating in the empties. I threw them out. In retrospect, a good scalding might have done the trick. I confessed to my sister-in-law that I’d thrown some of them out and why. 

Why did my roommate’s girlfriend misuse the jars? She was no doubt marking territory and expressing contempt. Also, an element of slothfulness entered the equation. She would leave a jar in the bedroom so she wouldn’t have to walk to the bathroom, even though she didn’t have to make a long trek; it was a two-bedroom apartment. I finally confronted her when I caught her with a partially full jar. 

Her name was Maggie. My roommate, Morgan Treadway, was madly in love with her. Who could blame him? She was a tall, short-haired, willowy, young, blonde. She was also mentally quite sharp if odd and about as trustworthy as a cobra. She had a killer smile—the kind that said two things to a man at once—“you are the only man in the universe for me,” but also “if you believe that, you sorry jerk, I have no respect for you at all.” Her father was a minister. 

Morgan’s personal philosophy centered on decay; he claimed that was the only certainty in the universe. I looked at it as an odd form of philosophic reductionism. Morgan and Maggie worked together at the Library of Congress. He was not the best employee, I’d say, suffering as he did from a lack of work ethic. He came home one evening and told me he’d spent the entire afternoon “kissing Maggie in the stacks.” Not long after, she came to live with us. 

Unfortunately, Maggie decided early on she hated me. She didn’t just find me irksome or annoying. No, she had a deep abiding hatred for me. Her feelings stemmed largely from my personality which, in fairness, did at times leave something to be desired. One guy described it as manic-depressive, which people now refer to as bipolar. I’m overstating the case, perhaps, but she hated me nonetheless. 

Eventually, my roommate delivered the bad news. I had to move out because Maggie didn’t like me. He described in graphic terms what he could do to Maggie and not do to me and that’s why I had to leave. There was nothing I could do about it. His name was on the lease—it was his place. The night I left he threw open the window of the third-floor walkup on Capitol Hill and screamed in his crazy, menacing Jersey accent, 

“What about da keys?” he bellowed repeatedly. He wanted my copies of the keys. 

I ignored him. When I arrived at the house where I was going to live next, I put his keys in a vice and smashed them in half with a hammer. Both Morgan and I were extremely mature.



(Submitted in the 500-word maximum category.)
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Euthanasia For The King, by Bobby Warner

16/11/2014

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Old King Zukalliz was in his 80th year. His obese body was wracked by all sorts of illnesses and diseases, but for all that it seemed he was destined to live on forever. His only pleasure anymore was eating. He had always been a great one for devouring lavish meals--sometimes five or more of them a day--and of course this had contributed to his poor health.

"I am weary of life," he said. "And I wish to end my life." But he did not want to commit outright suicide; that might taint his legacy, for suicide was synonymous with cowardliness.

One morning he awoke with just the right and perfect way to execute his own passing. "I shall die by euthanasia!" he proclaimed.

He ordered the cooks to prepare all his favorite dishes and had a dozen of his most loyal and loving concubines gently place him on a pile of soft, soft satin pillows, then ordered the feast to begin.

He ate and ate, and ate even more, though he felt he could not hold another bite. He was determined, for his means of euthanasia was this: He planned to eat himself to death, which he had been doing for many years, anyway.

At last he felt that his time was near; his body was stretched to bursting. He was suffocating from the huge amounts of food and drink he had taken in, in such a short period of time. To make his exit from this life as comfortable as possible, he drank a gallon of water liberally laced with baking soda so that he might die with a minimum of stomach distress.



(Submitted in the 500-word maximum category.)
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Worms, by Bobby Warner

16/11/2014

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"Terry, come look at this!" Alice called out.

Terry dropped his Saturday morning paper and ran to see what was up.

Alice stood stiffly at the screen door, gaping out. Terry touched her shoulder and she flinched, startled. Then she pointed.

Terry looked, and his jaw dropped.

The back yard was covered in a three- or four-foot layer--mass--of wriggling sickly white worms, the leading edge of which was rapidly approaching their house.

"Jesus, that's impossible!" Terry said, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach. He grabbed Alice's arm and tugged her away from the door. "Quick! Upstairs, in case they somehow get in the house. The cell phone's in our bedroom. I'll call for help, and we'll stay put till the police get here."

They didn't make it upstairs. There was a violent grinding noise as the back out the house caved inward toward them.

"The basement!" Terry pulled Alice out of the hallway into the kitchen. They barely got the basement door closed and locked behind them when the entire house collapsed in upon itself.

They hurried down the steep flight of steps, and Terry flipped the light switch.

They didn't even have time to scream before a tidal wave of worms moved across the basement floor and settled smotheringly over them.



(Submitted in the 250-word maximum category.)
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A Different Code, by Bobby Warner

16/11/2014

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I walked boldly up to the man standing beside the bus and held out my hand. "Hello, Jim," I said.

"Do I know you, Miss?"

"No," I said. "We've never met. But I was hired by someone you do know. I've been paid a lot of money to kill you. No hard feelings, okay? It's nothing personal, just my job."

I knew his bodyguard had stepped inside briefly for a cup of coffee. He looked wildly about, getting ready to sound an alarm. I held my silenced weapon, in my left hand, concealed in my shoulder bag. The suppressor was aimed at the center of his chest.

He saw the look on my face, and decided not to yell out. Instead, he said, "Look, I'm a very wealthy man. I can pay you a lot more to let me live that you've been paid to kill me. How about it?"

"Sorry," I said and I quickly moved forward and shot him three times at point blank range. I jumped back as his body fell, and called out:

"Somebody call a doctor. There's something wrong with this poor man!" Then I melted into the gathering crowd.

I had been paid well over a million dollars to kill the man named Jim, whom I already knew to be a very wealthy man. I am certain he would have paid me whatever amount I asked to spare his life. But that's not my way of doing things.

It's probably mostly true that there is no honor among thieves; but as a top gun professional assassin I live by a different code of ethics.



(Submitted in the 500-word maximum category.)
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The Tightrope Walker, by Bobby Warner

16/11/2014

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He paused for a moment, feeling the familiar nervousness and doubt, then letting the determination and exhilaration flow through his being. Far below--6,500 feet straight down--the huge crowd was shouting, screaming, chanting, cheering him on. The sound rose like a tiny whisper to his ears. He was, in that moment, the supreme tightrope walker in all the world.

A gust of wind reminded him of his height and of his need to keep going, so he moved on, one steady foot before the other, until he reached the other platform. He had walked a distance of 6,500 feet, from one tower to another. His family and friends and media personnel, along, of course, with his personal physician, were there to greet him.

But first, there were his fans. He turned and looked down, held up his arms in a victory gesture.

And suddenly, terrifyingly, a grim thought numbed his mind:

Even now someone, somewhere, is planning to walk a 7,500-foot rope between two towers 7,500 feet off the ground. When that happens what I have done here today will be utterly forgotten--and that will be the end of me.

He could not bear that hideous thought, so he lifted his right hand and waved farewell to the ones behind him, then took a step off the platform and plummeted downward, spinning almost lazily toward his horrified fans far below.



(Submitted in the 250-and-under words category.)
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Focus, by Yvonne LaRose

15/11/2014

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Picture
which link is this. which link is this? WHICH LINK IS THIS!

The inquiry was futile. Nothing was in place to indicate the link’s source and its destination was an empty space. Nora gave up. She saved the test pattern as a draft document. Too many other more pressing and important matters needed attention and successful resolution.


Notwithstanding, she fully realized this mystery would be haunting her until the puzzle could be handled.

“What started this distraction,” she pondered. Her attention veered back to the project already at hand when she stumbled onto that mystery link.

“Focus. Focus you ninny!”

The command was successful for the next two hours, until completion of the project. Shifting gears into the next priority brought recollection of the mystery. “It will simply have to wait until all four projects are done. I must focus. $250 per project is not worth eight hours of finding the answer to a mystery that has scant promise of an answer.”

The distraction started at 9:43 AM. By 10:58 PM, the projects completed, the PayPal invoices sent, Nora finally found the answer to the question.

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The Wish, by Bobby Warner

10/11/2014

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The man with the dark suit was standing on the corner, watching as Felicia approached. There were plenty other people around, and even a uniformed policeman was walking his beat not far away, so she felt safe enough. Still, the strange man made her nervous with his blatant stare.

"One moment, please," the man said as she walked past him and started to cross the street. "I'll grant you one wish. Anything you want. Anything at all. Believe me when I say I can do this, and make your wish."

She was overcome by a sudden dark fear of the man, because, somehow, she did believe him. He reached out for her, and she was gripped by an overwhelming panic, and said to him without really knowing what she was saying: "I wish you had never been here." And the next moment the man was gone.

Felicia was confused. There was a brief, a fleeting memory fragment; something about a man in a dark suit. But then the memory faded to nothing, and she asked herself: "What man?" and stepped down onto the crosswalk and hurried along her way back to her apartment.
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Crossing Over, by Bobby Warner

10/11/2014

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As Evelyn leaned over the bed, Marvin opened his eyes and smiled. He looked past his wife's right shoulder and saw Pastor Lewis in the doorway.

"Come in, Rev," Marvin said in a weak, frail voice. "Glad you're here. I feel the need of a final prayer to send me on my way."

Evelyn sat on the edge of the bed; Pastor Lewis knelt beside her and began the prayer. Before Lewis to finish, Marvin closed his eyes for the last time.

"If only I had gotten here a few minutes sooner, we could have shared the entire prayer."

Tears glistened in Evelyn's eyes. She gazed down at her husband of 65 years, and at the smile on his lips.

"I'm sure he heard all your prayer, Reverend Lewis. And it comforted him on his journey to that other shore."

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Night Noises, by Bobby Warner

10/11/2014

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I lie awake, listening. I am afraid, and I have every reason to be. No one can help me now. My fate is sealed, as they say.

There is someone downstairs. They are treading lightly, but I have unusually sensitive hearing, and I can hear their footsteps.

Across the living room floor. Into the hallway. Yes . . . now taking the left turn into the stairwell. Up they come, slowly, trying to be noiseless--but I can hear. I know exactly where they are.

Now onto the second floor landing, and along the hallway. Oh God, oh God, the steps are nearing my door! It's locked, but what good will that do.

There is a crash, and the door is flung inward to bang against the wall. A full moon floods my bedroom with an eerie light.

And the tall, thin form slouches into the room. I get a good, long look--and it is he. In God's name how could it be he?

There is something in his hand. I recognize it. I used it once, then burned it. Now it is back, along with him.

He crosses the room, stands over me, gazing down with sightless eyes. He lifts the object--yes, it is the axe--and holds it for a moment above me.

Now I hear someone screaming. Such a wild and foolish sound!

And then, as the blade descends, the sounds dwindle to an anguished, hopeless moan, and I realize it is my own . . .

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Capricorns, by Bobby Warner

10/11/2014

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The man was tall, almost gaunt, but strangely handsome in his own way. He was dressed in a brown suit, and had a long, sad-looking though somehow youthful face.

She stopped a few feet from him, and they stood on the platform waiting for the 10:37 p.m. commuter.

"What's your sign?" he said suddenly. He was so old-fashioned! She couldn't believe anyone still used that line.

"I'm a Capricorn," she said, wondering what he was really up to.

"How about that?" he said. "So am I. Would you like to go someplace and have a drink?"

"I think not," she said as the train approached. "Being the same astrological sign, I fear we'd be too much alike to ever enjoy an intimate sensual relationship." She tried to make it sound like a light-hearted joke.

The man took a rather fat billfold from his pocket, held it open for her to see the numerous 100-dollar bills therein.

"I really do hate to drink alone," he said, smiling faintly, suggestively, but earnestly. "And I can be a very generous person."

"On second thought," she said, "I've developed quite a thirst, and I think I can trust you--so I'd be delighted to have a drink with you."

The mounted the subway stairs and emerged on the street, pausing for a few moments to look up at the Zodiac namesake, the constellation Capricorn, as it hung before them in the night sky.
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Giants In The Earth, by Eric Smith

6/11/2014

1 Comment

 
“So what do think?”

“Think about what?”

“You know, how did we get here and why?”

“That’s laid out in detail in the Book of Genesis.”

“You buy all of that literally, word for word?”

“Yeah, why not; it works for me.”

“Hmm. A lot of people believe in the good book as long as it serves their purposes, but when a part of the text becomes morally inconvenient for them, they claim it’s just allegory, or that certain parts of the Old Testament are meant for Jews but not Christians. And where it’s self-contradictory they call it a mystery or say we can’t understand everything stated in the inspired word of God.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, how did we get here and why?”

“I don’t know for sure. I grant you it seems unlikely that the world and the rest of the universe is just an accident or an illusion. I figure a higher power must have put this all together. But I’m pretty certain God isn’t following the action all over the world or the entire universe and watching over what everybody does with their life.”

“Well, I believe God is all knowing and all powerful, so it’s not much of a stretch to believe He’s following what kinds of choices every person makes.”

“That’s where we part ways, I suppose. I believe God put the universe together but has better things to do than worry about all our decisions and revisions. 
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Incident On A Bus, by Bobby Warner

3/11/2014

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Posted in the 500-words-and-under category.

I was running late that morning; you know how it is. Bad cold that made me feel lousy; I had too left feet and two left hands. I stumbled and fumbled about, and almost didn't get to the stop before the bus came.

The door wheezed open and I started to climb aboard when suddenly a tall, heavyset woman jumped out of her seat and rushed toward the front of the bus, blocking my way.

"You can't ride this bus. Get off. There'll be another bus along in a little while." Arms akimbo, she glared determinedly down at me.

"Get back in your seat, lady, and let the guy on," the bus driver told her.

"I won't!" she said, bunching up her powerful-looking shoulders. "I have a feeling about that man, and I'm not letting him on this bus."

"What the hell," the driver growled. "Look, we're blocking traffic; I'm gonna be late. Now get back in your seat, lady." He caught hold of the collar of her jacket and pulled her back a step. I took another two steps up and quickly ducked under her outstretched arms, reaching around her to deposit my fare. Then I raced down the aisle an dropped into the first empty seat I came to.

The door was still open; the bus sat idling its diesel engine.

"Lady, you gotta get off this bus. We can't have people acting like this. You oughta go see a doctor, or something."

"But why?" moaned the woman in a hurt tone of voice. "What did I do that was so bad. You should put him off the bus, not I!"

The driver pointed toward the open door. "Go on now," he said. "We don't want no more trouble. You can't use public transportation acting like this."

The woman slowly stepped down off the bus. She had somehow been drained of her anger; her shoulders sagged, and she looked much older. She took three steps forward onto the sidewalk and just stood there with her back to the bus.

"Damnedest thing," the driver said, letting the bus move forward, back out into the stream of traffic. He looked at me in his mirror. "Did you know that lady, sir?" he asked.

"Never saw her before in my life," I replied.

No one said anything else. We all turned and glanced back at the woman. She had turned back to face the street, as though waiting for another bus.

I wondered what she might do next. I'm sure the other passengers did, too. All except the driver. He reached up, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and whistled an almost inaudible tune, as though he had not a care in the world. As though the incident had never happened at all.
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Gratitude And Despair, by Bobby Warner

1/11/2014

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Posted in the "under 200 words" category.

Maria walked all the way to the little farm and knocked on the door.

"I had to come and thank you again. If not for you, my son would be dead now."

John Trench stood in the doorway and looked down at the tired-looking woman. He had tackled the boy and pushed him aside as a car's front tire blew, sending the vehicle out of control.

"You don't have to keep thanking me, Mrs. Gomez. I just did what most folks would have done."

"Oh, no. Not many would have risked their own life to save another."

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

"I haven't told anyone else yet, but the doctor said last week that little Pedro has but six months to live. You gave him back his life today, and oh how I wish you could do so again. Oh, if only you could. Do you think--?" She let the question go unfinished.

"No, Ma'am, I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think of to say as she turned and began to long walk back to town, and her son.
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    Longer
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    Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

    Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

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    One little further note. Posting and publishing 500-word stories takes a little time if they need to be formatted, too.
    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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