My Short Story Tribute to Ray Bradbury and Other Inspiring Authors

I love great short stories.  They are quick, stimulating, and they always leave you wanting more—as long as they are written well.  I participate in a lot of flash fiction contests, which are challenges designed at creating meaningful fiction tales within only a hundred or two hundred words.  Definitely not easy, yet it’s great fun to challenge myself as a writer in that way.

One of my favorite authors, Jeffery Deaver, released a few compilations of short stories: Twisted and More Twisted, and I have to say they were two of my favorite books.  I’d just pick one up, read a short story or two, and walk away instantly satisfied.  And just as the names suggest, Deaver loves to turn the tables on his readers by including crazy and unforeseen twists, and he does not disappoint in either of these collections.

And likewise as I’d mentioned in a post a couple of weeks ago, Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man is a collection of his short stories.  Bradbury’s stories were written for Sci-Fi enthusiasts, and while he still had some shocking twists to his tales, the more notable aspect of his writing is how he details futuristic and often dystopian worlds with chillingly realistic details.

In tribute to these two great authors, I’ve released one of my own short stories, “Class One Act.”  I’ll probably have a few more in the near future.  If you are reading this and you’d like to check it out FOR FREE (rather than paying for a copy on Smashwords.com), let me know and I’ll send you a coupon.

And don’t hesitate to let me know if you think it stinks!  Because really, I can only get better when I know where and how I’ve erred!

Click here to check out "Class One Act!"

Oops. I made a mistake. So what?

My wife says I’m neurotic.  Not extreme like Sheldon Cooper from the Big Bang Theory, but definitely treading into the realm of abnormality.  She says I tend to gripe and dwell on things that most people would just overlook.  She does have a psychology degree, and she is my better half, so I can’t disagree with her.  Even if I had reasonable, verifiable evidence to contradict her, I wouldn’t.  I know I’m neurotic.  Stupid things get to me.  And by stupid, I mean STUPID.  I’m bothered by stupid mistakes.

The other day I received an email from a local TV station that is notorious for their on-air mistakes.  Yep, anchors looking at the wrong cameras, fumbling over words, technical difficulties.  “You stay classy, San Diego.  I’m Ron Burgundy?”  You name it, it happens.  I actually wrote a letter to their producer several years back asking why they had so many mistakes, and I received a very vague and unapologetic response about “live TV” and blah blah blah.  That didn’t surprise me.  I don’t know why I torture myself by continuing to watch their news.  I get most of my daily updates through my mobile devices anyway.  All it takes is Twitter, the Scanner Radio app, and some selective Google News searches, and I know just about everything going on in the area.  Mr. Information I am.

But this email I received the other day was for a contest for Mother’s Day, and it piqued my interest.  The winner would receive a gift card for like $500 from a local jewelry store, and all I had to do was finish the line “My Momma Says…” with some witty or profound advice I received from my mom.  Well, I had a great little story to enter about my mom, and so I clicked on the link and began filling out the form.  Here’s the story:

When I was little, maybe eight or nine or so, my momma said that when I had emptied an ice cream container, I should put it in the sink.  Her reasoning was that any residual ice cream left in the container would then melt, and then we could easily wash it down the drain.  So, as any good eight-year-old would do, I proceeded to throw all the empty ice cream containers into the sink.  A few months passed, and then my mom began to complain about people putting ice cream containers in the sink.  With an exasperated tone, she would say, “Why can’t people throw these into the garbage?”  Seeing her frustrations, I began throwing the empty cartons into the garbage, as any good eight-year-old would do.  After several weeks of that though (as I’m typing this, I’m realizing how much ice cream I ate as a kid!!), my mom began to complain that the garbage bags were always leaking because people threw ice cream containers in them.  So yeah, I was one confused kid!  We laugh about it today, and of course now I realize that my mom wanted me to RINSE the containers BEFORE tossing them, but I never picked that up when I was little.  Anyway, it was a good story of advice gone wrong, and I wanted to post it in this contest.

So I get my info and the story all entered into this website, and then I come to this part:



My mom does not like having her picture taken.  If I posted it along with my story, she’d kill me.  Seriously, she’d make sure I ended up in a garbage bag like those leaky ice cream containers.  So, before I’d even started into this thing, I had noticed the line that reads “Photo not required to qualify for contest.”  Cool.  Good thinking, TV station.

But alas, my reminiscing of heartfelt tender moments was short-lived.  I had entered under the assumption that I did not have to post a picture of my mom.  However, notice the little asterisks by the fields?  Yes, you guessed it.  You HAVE TO POST A PHOTO to submit.  Ummm…OK?

Now I realize this is a minor mistake, but I just closed the website and didn’t even bother.  I guess I could have put my face on there, or perhaps some beautiful scenery, or maybe even a picture of melting ice cream like this:



But instead I just got so frustrated with the site that I quit.  I mean, if they can’t even get the submission portion right, how do we know they’ll get the selection portion right as well?  As a side note, I’d entered a contest of theirs before, one that required users to vote on a picture submission, and it had quickly become apparent that people were cheating by using fake names and email addresses.  The site was also very quirky to begin with, as if the TV producer’s eighty-year-old father-in-law was the webmaster.  I’d inquired about the validity of the results through their contact page, and my notions were again dismissed with a vague message.  To that end, I hadn’t had much confidence in this particular contest to begin with.

Mistakes happen.  Maybe this wasn’t even a mistake.  Maybe they did want random photos, or maybe there was a link somewhere to send a paper submission.  Who knows?  Who cares?

Well, I guess I do.  I mean, this is something so minor, so frivolous, so not worth getting worked up over.  Right?  Well, let me ask this.  If you are the owner of a vehicle, say a beautiful 2012 Dodge Charger, and you’re cruising along on a straight portion of rode and decide to really give it some gas, well, maybe you should care.



Here we have a mistake on such a level that a major vehicle manufacturer had to issue a recall.  Yes, recalls are issued all the time, but this one seems rather important.  Like urgently important.  Like get your freakin’ car to the dealership ASAP.  Because if you own a Dodge Charger, let’s face it, you’re going to drive it fast.  Otherwise, what’s the point?  But if this little fuse overheats, and you are driving fast and lose control, you are going to look like this:



My point is that mistakes cost us.  Some major.  Some minor.  But they do, and especially in the corporate world.  Yet it astounds me how often they happen.  Even as I’m typing this, I received an email about SEO Training with this posted in size 50+ font on the left side:



OK, crappy computer company that sends me newsletters every couple of weeks.  You do know it’s May, right?  I’d love to go to your training, but I’m not quite sure I trust the technology in the time machine you’re going to have to use to conduct this seminar.  And, uh, what’s up with this link?  You just sent this out to probably hundreds of current and prospective clients, and you couldn’t even edit the link properly?  This link was the most apparent thing on the page.  And you missed it?

I don’t know.  I mean, at the firm I work for, I produce a huge annual report for clients filled with statistics and charts and tons of information.  Yes, it has occasionally had mistakes in it.  But we’re talking about hundreds of pages of text.  And I’m the only one involved with it.  I don’t have an editor or a proofreader.  And mistakes happen.  We learn from them and move on.  In my case, I’ll fix them, recreate the PDF files, and upload them again to the clients who have purchased the reports.  Case closed.

Some people don’t even admit to them though.  A few years ago, when online banking was bleeding edge technology, my bank had a web form for users to add in new payees.  On the form it said, “Please setup your new payee below.”  I read this line over and over, for weeks and weeks and weeks as I added all of my payees, and then I finally emailed them, saying, “Please edit your verbiage on your website for setting up new payees.  It’s ‘set up’ and not ‘setup’.  The word ‘setup’ is a noun meaning a plan or an arrangement.  ‘Set up’ is the phrasing you need in this instance.”  That, by the way, is a common error among IT people who throw the two terms around like Frisbees.  Nobody must have caught it, however, and it was like that for months—even after I sent the email and received a reply thanking me for pointing out the error.  I would have thought that our local TV station producer worked there if the bank weren’t a multi-billion-dollar asset institution with corporate offices in Buffalo.  I mean, the fix was literally a two-second edit of HTML, and it remained like that forever.  They probably didn’t even read my email.  Either that, or they thought of me as some neurotic English teacher or something.

Maybe I’m obsessive compulsive.  I just like to think of myself as a professional perfectionist.  When I’m sending out emails and correspondences, I proof-read them two, three, and even four times.  Even if they are just going to a few people.  And I type really freakin’ fast.  Like 120+ words per minute fast.  So fast that when my wife hears me typing, she jokes that I’m “fake-typing.”  Seriously, I typed this whole post in less than five minutes.  OK, not seriously, but I do type so fast that it’s not all that uncommon for me to have misspellings or grammar mistakes, which are mostly typos.  But I proof everything.  I make sure that if I’m publishing my work, it’s not shoddy.  Especially if it’s a one-page newsletter or a site that thousands of people are going to visit.

Do people just not care anymore?  Is it laziness?  Are others typing way too fast?  Are there deadlines that need to be met?  I don’t know.  You tell me.  Just make sure that if you write your response, you proofread it first.  Otherwise I’ll just erase it.  Or complain about it to my poor wife.  =P

Lucky 7 Writing Game/Chain

Lucky 7

So I was tagged in this Lucky 7 game by J. Whitworth Hazzard, @zombiemechanics on Twitter and one of my favorite flash fiction friends/adversaries.  This is a fun little game, it seems, providing a sneak peek into a writer's raw, unedited mind.

Here's how it works:

1.  Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript.

2.  Go to line 7.

3.  Copy the next 7 lines/sentences down.

4.  Tag 7 other authors.

My current manuscript is in the very early stages, and I only have two full chapters thus far.  However, I do have a page 7, so here it is.

 

She then saw the remains of the cow, highlighted in her headlights like some sort of twisted Halloween decoration, its head visible with dead, glassy eyes while the rest was a mangled clump of intestines and blood.  She had a strong stomach, but she averted her eyes nonetheless.

“Just saw the cow, Bobby.  Looks like a bear or bobcat or something got it.”

“You want me to come out?”  He sounded concerned.

“Just hold tight.  I’ll let you know.”

She stopped her car on the road and flicked on her heavy flashlight, shining it around the pasture.  None of the other cows appeared to be out, which was good, but how had this one gotten all the way out here?

 

So there we have it.  It just happened to fall on a rather gory part of my new novel, which I have yet to give a name.  I'm also still working on the direction I'll take with it--whether it will be more of a horror novel or science fiction or thriller.  Like I said, I've only finished two chapters!

As for my seven authors, I've decided to contact them directly rather than post here.  Hopefully that's not against the rules, but few people read this thing anyway!

Waiting? Wait, why?

So I submitted Terminal Restraint, my fourth novel, to a slew of agents over the course of the past week.  Now I'm playing the waiting game.  They all say it takes 4-8 weeks or so to get a response, and probably all of them will reject it.  I'm not being pessimistic; I just know that my chances are only marginally better than winning the Mega Millions.  Of course, I did buy $5 worth of Mega Millions tickets, and when they called the numbers, I chided myself for doing so.  But at least it didn't cost me anything to submit my novel, so even though I'm expecting several rejection letters, at least I had fun writing it.

After I sent them out, though, I realized that it was really quite silly to wait.  I mean, we spend far too much time waiting for things to happen.  We wait for coworkers or clients or vendors to send us reports or proposals.  We wait in line at the supermarket.  We wait in cars at stop lights.  We wait wait wait wait wait.  Aren't you sick of waiting?

I guess some waiting is unavoidable.  You can't exactly plow down all the cars in front of you at a stop light or mow over all the people in line at the supermarket.  What you CAN do, though, is go to the supermarket at perhaps a different time when it is less busy.  Or take that leap and use the self-checkout lines that are available in most major supermarkets.  I find it amusing when I see someone with four or five items waiting in line because they are afraid to use those things.  Everyone has touch-screens anymore.  Why wait?

We are not dogs.  We shouldn't have to just sit when our master says so.  I mean, yes, abide by all of your local, state, and federal laws, but don't sit on the couch waiting for something good to happen and complaining about how much your life sucks because you are poor or fat or ugly or lonely or whatever flaw it is you think you have.  Stop wasting your life away waiting and get up and do something about it!

Don't wait for your wife to cook supper.  Cook it with her!  Don't wait for your kids to get better grades in school.  Help them out!  Don't wait for the economic recovery and a Republican president to come along and give you a raise and lower your taxes.  If you're struggling, do something with yourself that's fun, rewarding, and puts a little extra money in your wallet.  Try your hand at being a package handler for UPS or FedEx--you'll lose that fat belly and earn a paycheck at the same time.  Take a part-time job as a pizza delivery driver.  They make good tips!  Don’t want to because you are too tired?  Go run a half-marathon—or even a 5k if you are a couch potato—then you’ll know what it’s like to be tired.

Just don't sit around and wait unless you absolutely have to.  You only have one life to live.  Why spend it waiting?

As for me, I'm already three chapters into my fifth novel.  And when I finish that one and begin submitting it to agents, I'll then be three chapters deep into my sixth.  I won't sit around waiting.  Waiting for 5 o'clock.  Waiting for the weekend.  Waiting as time passes me by.  I’ve done way too much of that already.

My #FlashFiction Tales from Jan. 23-27

Last week I won #MotivationMonday and got to be the judge this week.  I also received a few kudos from my fellow writers on Twitter for my #TuesdayTales and #ThursdayThreads entries, but I did not win or receive an honorable mention from the judges.

 

Wakefield Mahon’s #MotivationMonday (1/23/2012):

http://www.wakefieldmahon.com/4/post/2012/01/enter-the-dragon.html

Prompts:  Start with “People call them dragons.”

 

“People call them Dragons. The Eighty-Eight Dragons, to be exact.”

Captain Emerson looked out the grimy side window at the group—men in their teens and early twenties—lining the street and staring down vehicles as they passed. Some wore expensive hoodies, jeans, and shoes, while others were adorned with white wife-beaters that showed off expansive and colorful tattoos.

“You’re saying my boy joined them.” Her inquiry was phrased as more of a statement than a question.

Emerson nodded soberly and placed his hand on hers in an attempt to comfort the grieving woman.

She began to sob, quietly at first but then erupting into an hysterical outpouring of emotion. He let her express her sadness and frustration for several minutes without interruption.

“Why didn’t he tell me? Why would he do this without telling me?”

“I’m sure he didn’t want to hurt you, and, well, obviously he knew you would not approve.”

She frowned but said nothing, staring at the troublesome young men as they laughed and pushed each other playfully like little, deadly pit-bulls. She saw the glint of hand-guns in the waist-bands of at least two of them.

“I understand today is Chinese New Year?” he asked, jarring her from her thoughts.

“Yes, but we are Vietnamese. It is Tet, the Lunar New Year.”

“I am aware. Chuc mung nam moi,” he said softly, trying his best to comfort her.

“Thank you. Happy New Year to you too, Mr. Emerson.”

She laughed humorlessly, adding, “How ironic is it that this is the Year of the Dragon?”

He nodded. “Yes, I thought the same thing.”

She swallowed and began to muster her strength, as if the question she was about to ask was the toughest she’d ever say in her life.

“So what will happen to him?”

 

“Well,” he replied solemnly, “he’s probably already been partially initiated. Part of that process requires extensive tattoos. He’ll be asked to steal a high-end vehicle. We don’t believe they’ll force him to hurt or kill anyone, but only time will tell.”

She nodded, wiping her eye with a tissue. “I just don’t understand. Why a gang? Why this?”

He remained silent, unable to give her the answer she desired.

“You think he’ll be OK?” she finally asked.

He nodded emphatically. “I’m sure of it. Nguyen is the best young cop on the force right now. If anyone can go so deep undercover, it will be him.”

She turned and looked to the police captain for reassurance as he patted her hand gently. At least, he thought, he wasn’t telling her that she’d lost her son in the line of duty. Yet.

440 words
@rastrohman

 

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Cara Michael’s #MenageMonday (1/23/2012):

http://www.caramichaels.com/defiantlyliterate/2012/01/23/menagemonday-challenge-week-18/

Prompts: Photo of an Irish Pub bar, the phrase: “just like you”, and a scenario of paranormal shenanigans at the pub.

 

The boyish man sauntered into the pub, looking around at the patrons before climbing onto a stool at the bar.  He couldn’t tolerate alcohol, and yet bottles lined the wall like colorful decorations.  A beefy, red-nosed bartender shuffled over, studying him suspiciously.  He pulled out his ID and gave it to the large man, who inspected it as if it were a flawed diamond.

 

“You’re 28?  I would have pegged you for 17.”

 

He scoffed.

 

“So what can I get you?”

 

“Oh, just a soda, please.”

 

The man shook his head and returned with the can, snapping it open loudly and slamming it down onto the bar.

 

A beautiful brunette beside him commented, “Don’t mind Charlie.  He’s a jerk.  You, though—what’s a fine young man like yourself doing in a place like this?”

 

“Oh, I’m just like you.  Out to have a good time.”

 

“Is that right?  You need a date?”

 

He smiled wickedly and leapt off his bar-stool, pulling back the skin around his lips and nose to reveal hideous black lizard scales and a thick forked tongue.  The prostitute screamed and dropped her beer as he threw himself on top of her, ripping her flesh apart.

 

199 words

@rastrohman

 

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Stevie McCoy’s #TuesdayTales (1/24/2012):

http://glitterword.wordpress.com/2012/01/24/tuesdaytales-25-legion/

Prompts:  “Legion” and a picture of a road closed due to snow.

 

“Ok, gentleman, our legion is about to rain down upon this foreign planet. Considering that there are over 100 trillion of us, this should be a piece of cake. Earth will be ours!”

 

The invaders began leaping from their ships, plummeting to the ground below.

 

“General, we’ve made grave miscalculations!”

 

“What’s that, Colonel?”

 

“The objects on Earth are a thousand times bigger than we imagined! And, it’s entirely too warm. Half of our soldiers are literally melting on impact. The other half are immobilized, getting shoveled to the side in droves.”

 

“Then our only hope is to snarl their transportation!”

 

100 words
@rastrohman

 

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Siobhan Muir’s #ThursdayThreads (1/26/2012):

http://siobhanmuir.blogspot.com/2012/01/thursthreads-challenge-that-ties-tales_26.html

Prompts: “As a matter of fact, we are.”

 

Wally hated jobs like this. As a general contractor specializing in roofing, he was accustomed to walking on roofs and being high up in precarious positions. This, though, was something else entirely. The pitch of the roof was extremely steep, nine inches of rise by twelve inches of run, and while he’d been on roofs like this before, this was one of the highest ones, nearly twenty-five feet from the ground below. Somehow, though, the church had come up with the money he quoted, which he had set purposefully high due to the risks involved. Therefore, here he was, climbing off the ladder onto what could potentially be his last job.

He clipped a safety strap into an old metal eyelet at the edge, not really trusting the worn and partially rusted circle, but it was all he could find. He then crawled slowly, on hands and knees, up to the area of the leak. Within seconds he spotted it, a handful of shingles missing.

He reached into his sack and pulled out matching shingles and a small can of roofing cement. He began the repair but stopped as he heard footsteps approaching.

Turning, he saw four little ragamuffin children scurrying up toward him.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be up here!” he shouted.

“As a matter of fact, we are. Mother Bijou sent us up to help you.”

He cursed, silently questioning this silly idea his wife had of going to Haiti to help rebuild the devastated country.

249 words
@rastrohman

 

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Jen DeSantis’s #FridayPictureShow (1/27/2012):

http://jendauthor.wordpress.com/2012/01/27/the-fridaypictureshow-week-12/

Prompts:  A picture of a sign post with a slew of signs pointing to different mythical places

The signs pointed in all different directions: a ruse, meant to confuse. He ignored it completely and instead studied the ground. Little wet footprints went this way and that. They were clever, but not as clever as he was. They had doubled back, retraced their steps, but he could clearly see their tracks, in reverse heading west to the Shire.

 

Shaking his head, he proceeded in that direction, and sure enough he saw their little heads a moment later, their unmistakable curly brown hair, balloons trailing them.

 

“Kids, I’m not kidding! Trip’s over! We’re going back to the hotel now!”

 

100 words

@rastrohman

My #FlashFiction Tales from Jan. 16-20

Last week was an off week for me and my flash fiction tales.  I didn’t even win an honorable mention, although I was feeling under the weather, and each challenge offers 10-25 other amazing stories by unbelievably incredible authors.  This week is looking more promising, but as for last week, here are my tales!

Wakefield Mahon’s #MotivationMonday (1/16/2012): http://www.wakefieldmahon.com/4/post/2012/01/i-have-a-dream.html

Prompts:  Start with “We just wanted to be free.”

“We just wanted to be free.  Free from the hatred.  Free from the disparaging looks we received when we went shopping or to the park.  Yes, we know we are different from the majority of Americans.  Most of us do not have white skin.  Many of us do not speak English as well as those born here.  We dress a little differently than the majority.  Some of our foods can’t be purchased at a local supermarket.

Most of us, probably close to 99%, do not condone terrorism.  We are no different than the Protestants and Catholics living in Ireland, where factions within those religions detonated bombs and killed in the name of God.  We want to live peaceful lives and be productive and integral parts of our communities.  Our goal is not to disrupt the United State government or change the way Americans think or believe.  We are not looking to convert you, and we do not look down upon you for not embracing our tenets and beliefs.

I write this now, as a Muslim-American, because for over ten years now we have been victimized by the actions of a few.  For over ten years we have been unable to travel and gather in our communities without the scrutiny of the United States or local government.  And, just like in this case, we have been discriminated against in the workforce.

Yes, I wished to practice Salah in my office with my door closed at noon and during the afternoon as my religion commands.  I did not interfere with anyone else’s work, nor did I ever cause any undue hardships for the organization.  Not only was I made to feel as if I were wrong for requesting to do this, but I believe I was also passed over on numerous occasions for supervisory jobs based on my religion.  As such, I am resigning from my position, and I have obtained a lawyer and filed a complaint with the Equal Opportunity Commission regarding the hiring and employment practices of this organization.

Sincerely,

Yusuf Al Farran”

Patrick Wilmore, CEO of Applied Logistics International, Inc., closed his eyes tightly and slammed the letter down on his desk.  His migraine was coming back, full-force, and this was the last thing he needed.  Whoever this Yusuf Al Farran character was, he was in for a fight.  Nobody questioned Patrick Wilmore’s authority, especially some raghead, Koran-spouting, Muslim.

400 words

@rastrohman

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Cara Michael’s #MenageMonday (1/16/2012): http://www.caramichaels.com/defiantlyliterate/2012/01/16/menage-monday-challenge-week-17/

Prompts:  A statue of Jesus, “blessed are ___”, and a scenario of which an angel is talking to a ghost.

The angel pointed to the statue in front of them and remarked, “He was in the same position you are in now, Mr. Morris.”

The revenant glanced over at the replica of Jesus, his hands open as if forgiving his followers.  “Blessed are those who believe in him.”

“You will have an important job as well.”

He scoffed.  “I am no Jesus.”

“And He is not asking you to be.  You are simply a spirit, left on this earth to accomplish a task before you enter the gates of His kingdom.  Jesus, being His son, was resurrected to complete his work.  That will not be your fate, but you do have something you must do.

“And that is?”

“You must take the lives of men and lead them to their eternal destinations.”

“Wait, what?  You’re saying I’m to be like, what, the Grim Reaper?”

“Yes.  A hundred million souls and your work will be finished.  Just like the one who preceded you.”

“But what did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing, Mr. Morris.  Believe me, it’s not that bad of a job.  You could have been asked to haunt a schizophrenic or become best friends with a pre-pubescent girl.”

199 words

@rastrohman

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Stevie McCoy’s #TuesdayTales (1/17/2012):

http://glitterword.wordpress.com/2012/01/17/tuesdaytales-24-pulchritudinous/

Prompts:  “Pulchritudinous” and a picture of dresses hanging in trees in a swamp with a dreary background.

“You know how to catch ghosts, don’t you?”

The withered old lady stared at the young boy, her cataract-afflicted eyes simultaneously beckoning and frightening.

“You talk to the trees.  They are Mother Nature’s pulchritudinous children, natural, of the Earth, meant to cast out the supernatural.”

“Pulchritudinous?”

“Beautiful, son.  They keep evil at bay.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should!  Look over yonder.”

Her decrepit finger pointed to the swamp.  At first the boy was spooked, but then he knew better.

Scoffing, he said, “Grandma, those are just your undergarments.”

“Aye, be a good lad and fetch them for me.”

100 words

@rastrohman

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I skipped Siobhan Muir’s #ThursThreads this week due to Adam and I contracting strep throat (early outs, doctor visits, picking up prescriptions, etc.)

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Jen DeSantis’s #FridayPictureShow (1/20/2012):

http://jendauthor.wordpress.com/2012/01/20/the-fridaypictureshow-week-11/

Prompts:  A picture of a tray holding seventeen old-fashioned keys.

“You all have a decision.  Seventeen keys for seventeen heirs.  One for each box in front of you all, but make your decisions wisely, as Eldridge had a bizarre and sometimes heinous sense of humor.”

Fifteen greedy hedonists chose, but Wesley and Gretta, the two teenagers, stood back, watching, frowning.

Simultaneously the keys turned, each person instantly being sprayed with a noxious mist, causing them to retch and fall over dead.

“How did you know?”

“It’s chlorine gas.  Seventeen is chlorine’s atomic number.  And the odor of pepper and pineapple, unmistakable.”

“Uncle Eldridge was pure evil.”

“Or a mad genius.”

100 words

@rastrohman

My 1/12 and 1/13 Flash Fiction Tales

Before I post my tales, I just wanted to note that I won honorable mentions for my 1/9/2012 #MotivationMonday tale as well as my 1/10/2012 #TuesdayTales stories.  Yay for me!  Think I’ll buy myself a donut this weekend!

Today is #FridayPictureShow hosted by Jen DeSantis (@JenD_Author): http://jendauthor.wordpress.com/2012/01/13/the-fridaypictureshow-week-10-friday-the-13th-edition/. The prompt was a picture of a black cat with the number 13 and a full moon.

Here is my tale:

He lounged on the sidewalk, staring up at the full moon, waiting for his next victim.  It was a special day, Friday the 13^th, and he had purposely come to Walmart to have some fun.  He’d already gotten a few, walking in front of them, chasing them under a ladder, and even spooking someone into dropping a mirror.  He loved how superstitious people could be.

Of course, he hadn’t had much luck himself.  He’d wanted desperately to have supernatural powers, but of all the lycanthropic curses, he had to get the one that turned him into a domesticated black cat.

100 words

@rastrohman

Yesterday was #ThursThreads hosted by Siobhan Muir (@SiobhanMuir): http://siobhanmuir.blogspot.com/2012/01/thursthreads-challenge-that-ties-tales_12.html?zx=a38e19337b795f8.  The prompt was to use the line “sure you are, tough guy” in the story.

Here is my tale:

“Here you are, in all your glory. Tie just right. Shirt fitting perfectly, outlining those muscles. You’re tall and handsome, and you have a winning smile. You look great, and yeah, you’re worth a million bucks. You know that? You can tackle anything. And you want to know something else? You will take the bull by the horns and come out of here grinning with the thought of knowing you did it. People may say you lack character or charisma, that you maybe aren’t brave enough to do something like this, but sure you are, tough guy. You are a born winner, and you can accomplish anything.”

“Hey buddy, quit talking to yourself and move it. You’re holding up the line.”

He turned and glared back at the sour old man, then took a step forward. Time to shine.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked, smiling cheerfully.

“Yes, my name is Reggie, and I have severe agoraphobia. I’m trying new medication though, and this is my first time out of my house in seven years. Ahem. I’d like a hamburger and a small Coke please.”

As she smiled awkwardly and called out the order, he whispered to himself, “You did it, Reggie. You did it!”

206 words
@rastrohman

UPDATE:  Just heard from the judge.  I won for this tale!  Woohoo!!  Buying myself a donut AND a mint chocolate mocha this weekend!

 

If you actually read these posts, and you have a Twitter handle and want to participate, just do a search each day for #FlashFiction or any of the individual daily challenges.  The people are great and very positive, and it’s always a good time.  Join in on the fun!

My 1/10/2012 Flash Fiction Tale

From @theglitterlady and her #TuesdayTales challenge: http://glitterword.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/tuesdaytales-23-defiant/, the prompt was to use the word "defiant" along with a picture of a little girl with her arms crossed sitting on a bed with her back to the viewer.

Here is my tale:

She fled from the kitchen to her room, and as he followed, plate in hand, he saw her sitting on the bed with her arms folded.

“Britt, please, you need to eat this.  It’s all we have.”

She began to sob, burrowing her head in the blankets.

“Britt, if you don’t eat this, you’ll starve!”

She looked up at him for a moment, defiant, then shouted, “No, I won’t!”

“Please, honey!”

“But I can’t, Daddy!  I can’t!  They are people!”

“Yes, but it’s all we have.  Now eat this or it will spoil and I’ll have to go kill another!”

100 words

@rastrohman

1/9/2012 Flash Fiction Tales

From @WakefieldMahon and his #MotivationMonday challenge: http://www.wakefieldmahon.com/motivation-mondays.html, the prompt was to start with the line: “An ancient legend tells of a sword and stone, but this was something different.”

Here is my tale:

An ancient legend tells of a sword and stone, but this was something different. He knew that to achieve greatness he had to cast aside all doubts, seize the tools and weapons in his midst, and rise above his fears. Like King Arthur, he would soon sit upon his mighty throne, but first he had to master the skills that would make him great.

He pulled the helmet from his sweaty head, letting loose an abundance of black tousled hair, and placed it on the ground next to his mighty war hammer. He unfastened his cape, setting it neatly in the confines of the winged helmet. Finally he pulled off his chest piece and sat it delicately beside the rest of his gear.

He took a step up, inspecting the foreign surroundings with wavering confidence. He recognized some of the equipment and peripherals around him, but he was uncertain of their purpose. An oddly-shaped bell-like device with a short wooden handle. Another handled object shaped like a tear drop with long wiry bristles. He did not think he would need to utilize them, but their mere presence was discomforting.

He could do this. He would do this!

Lowering his pajama bottoms and training underpants, he sat upon his toilet seat adorned with images of Mighty Thor and Iron Man battling their enemies. Shouting out triumphantly for his Mommy or Daddy to help him tidy up, he was a proud warrior.

Adam had finally mastered the potty.

246 words
@rastrohman

 

 

And, from @CaraMichaels and her #MenageMonday challenge:  http://www.caramichaels.com/defiantlyliterate/2012/01/09/menagemonday-challenge-week-16/, the prompt was to use a picture of an older trike (3-wheeled motorcycle), the words “blame it on”, and the words “terminal moraine”.

Here is my tale:

“The Steelers are playing in Denver, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, not taking his eyes from his prized 72”, 1080p, 3D-enabled television screen. He’d been there all day, having watched the earlier game, drinking several cans of beer and wolfing down practically a whole bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and two luncheon meat sandwiches.

“Hey Hon, what would it take to get you to climb to the top of the Rocky Mountains?”

He turned to his wife, a curious look on his face. “Uhh, well, that’s a good question. Blame it on the Boy Scout in me, but I’d want at least a three-wheeled, motorized vehicle with plenty of storage compartments to navigate the terminal moraine at the bottom. You know, the rocks and boulders and stuff. Once I got past all of that, I’d have to have plenty of gear: climbing ropes, carabiners, rations and water for probably two weeks, probably a compass and a satellite phone. That’s quite an undertaking, you know? I could do it, though.”

He seemed satisfied with his answer, but his wife did not appear impressed.

“Well, that’s great,” she said. “So what would it take for you to carry out the garbage?”

200 words
@rastrohman