Flash Fiction: “Representative”
For those of you who don't check out TypeTrigger very often, or have never been there, you really should. I can't say enough good things about the site and the community there.
If you really don't want to head over there and check out the stories I've written, or all of the other great writing, here's the latest bit of flash I did, in response to the prompt "representative."
Representative
"I am a representative of the Poppledop Gang," the pudgy blond boy told me, "and this is a list of our demands." He was standing at my door wearing an ill-fitting little suit and waving a clipboard under my nose like it was a weapon. I had no idea who he was or what he wanted, but it was kind of cute.
"Demands?" I asked him. "But you haven't given me any reason to listen to them yet!"
"Oh," said the boy, apparently caught off guard. "Sorry, I should have said that first." He looked down at his clipboard. "Ok, we, the Poppledop Gang, have taken your cat, and also your dog, and if you do not submit to our demands, we will put them both in a cage and you will never see them again!"
"Oh dear!" I said, very sweetly. "My cat and my dog are best friends! How could their good relationship possibly last if they are forced to spend time together?"
"And there will also be a badger in the cage," he told me.
That was an unexpected wrinkle. "Where did you get a badger?" I asked.
"Don't believe me?" he threatened. "Here are our demands. 1) Free ice cream for all gang members, in perpetuity. 2) Private use of your backyard for Poppledop Gang business, no questions asked. 3) We get to rename your pets whatever we want."
"Uh huh," I said sarcastically. "Yeah, sure, I'll agree to that."
"Oh good!" said the boy. "Can I have some ice cream?"
"No." I closed the door and went to look for my pets. I couldn't find them.
An hour later there was a knock at my door. I still have no idea where they found that badger.
An Excerpt from “Feel-Good”
Haven't downloaded my latest mini-book, Feel-Good, yet? You should! It's free reading, and if the opinions of previous readers count for anything, it's good reading, too.
If you need a bit more incentive, here's an excerpt from Hands-On, the short story that anchors the collection. Enjoy!
Excerpt From Hands-On
He was waiting for me on the beach below Dallas Road. Like a good animal rights hippie, he was dressed entirely in synthetic fabrics and was munching on a carrot stick. As I crossed the sand and logs that separated us, I saw a seagull swoop down and perch on a rock fifteen feet away from him, eyeing his food. He watched it like a cornered dog. For someone who apparently cared so much about wildlife, he didn't appear to have an especially close connection with it.
He was still staring nervously at the seagull when I said, "Hello."
He jumped. "Oh!"
I extended my hand. "Shawn Scott."
He had a handshake like wilted celery. "Um, Sunrise McCrery."
I handed him a folder. "Here's your team. We had some extra manpower, so we upgraded you to a team of four at no extra charge."
His hands were shaking slightly as he opened the folder and flipped through the papers, but there was a determined glint in his eyes. He really wanted to free this tiger. I waited for a few minutes as he scanned through the information I'd given him.
"Um?" he said.
"You have a question?"
He cleared his throat. "I, um, I realize this may be an odd request..."
"We get plenty of those," I assured him.
"This, um, the Baconmancer..."
One of Ian's stupid nicknames. It had begun as a way to keep our guys' real names a secret, and turned into an outlet for Innis's juvenile sense of humour. "What about him?" I said. "It's all in there. He makes bacon appear out of thin air, cooked any way you like. It's good bacon."
"Um, I'm sure it is, for people who like that sort of thing." He put enough vehemence into those words to scare away the seagull, which had hopped closer and had been just about to snag a chunk of carrot. "But you see, I'm a vegan, and I'm not sure, um, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable working with, um, a pig murderer, you see."
"Oh, don't worry at all," I reassured him. "He's never hurt a pig in his life. I'm completely serious when I say his bacon appears out of thin air. It's... call it synthetic bacon, if it helps. Besides, he doesn't eat the stuff, either. A lifetime of overexposure to bacon has turned him into a vegetarian."
He twisted his mouth up as he thought it over. "I see," he said. "Well, I suppose he will be fairly useful for, um, for luring the target out of its cage, um, I suppose."
"A keen tactical insight."
He perked up a bit at the compliment.
"I'll have the group meet you at midnight along the highway to Sooke," I continued. "The spot is marked out on a map in the folder. As far as their abilities go, use them in whatever way seems necessary. If nothing else, they'll do what they're told, and they can do their share of heavy lifting. Well, except for AFO. His arms tend to come off sometimes."
"Um?"
"Don't worry; he can reattach them. But it's a hassle. Best to let him drive or something, I'd say."
"Oh, right."
"If you have any trouble, give me a call. You know my number."
I turned and walked back to my car.
Read the rest of Hands-On by downloading Feel-Good.
Flash Fiction: What the Budapestians Do
I asked people who have Liked my Facebook "writer" page to suggest prompts that I could use to write flash fiction to post here. I got the following prompt from my brother, Jordan:
"When in Budapest, do as the Budapestians do."
Here's a story based on that.
What the Budapestians Do
Image by dadotres, used under Creative Commons.
He had been in Europe for a month, wandering, exploring, hopping trains like a hobo. Searching for himself.
So far he'd found plenty of old architecture that made him feel small, a variety of local beers and wines that made him feel big, and a painting of Hitler with pink bunny ears.
These were different worlds, in many ways, cultures that felt so different on the ground than they looked in the pages of a book. You couldn't move through these places simply as a tourist, smiling and watching and marveling at all the things that were so unlike your own home, where everything was done the "normal" way. Here in the streets, the pubs, and the hostels, what caught his attention were not novelties, but realities. The French were not Parisians; the Germans were not Berliners; the Dutch were not Nederlanders: they were people. They worked real jobs, saved up real money, and were excited about real entertainment. They helped when they could, laughed when you told a joke, and bled when they were cut.
He hadn't yet "found himself" amidst all the helping and laughing and bleeding, but what he had discovered was that in Budapest, just like anywhere else, if you cut someone as a joke, they tend not to laugh, and they aren't likely to be very helpful afterwards, either.
It's a small world, but in the end, aren't we really all alike?
Hope you liked it, little brother. Stay out of trouble!
Flash Fiction: Living the Dream
Since it's been taking me a bit longer than I hoped to get Feel-Good ready for release, here's a story I just wrote at Six-Minute Story to hopefully hold you over for a bit. It's called Living the Dream.
Image by Andreas Solberg, used under Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
Bobby had lived in his imagination as a child. Within the universe of his mind, he was an action hero, an iron-willed daredevil. He could meet any challenge, snatch victory from the jaws of any defeat, bravely pull off any stunt.
Now that he was older, he was learning more and more that he would probably never trade tracer bullets with South American guerillas, or infiltrate the secret Appalachian hideout of a band of communist child kidnappers, or balance on the hood of a car, guns blazing, while pursuing Somalian bank thief pirates across a perilous frozen lake.
But maybe, just maybe, he could still live those dreams through his words.
“Dirt to Dirt” – A Twitter-based Poetry Experiment
Twitter is great.
This afternoon I decided I wanted to try writing a crowd-sourced poem. So I introduced the concept on Twitter:
It went great. Here's the result of the first ever (that I know of) "#chainpoem." I've added the Twitter names of the author of each line, linked to their tweets.
Dirt to Dirt
When I was a boy, I enjoyed eating worms (@TimSevenhuysen)
Their dirt coating looked like chocolate spread (@LorGraham)
On my tongue I enjoyed their wiggles and squirms (@maryhutson)
And I'd wonder "Is this what I'll taste when I'm dead?" (@ConceptCrucible)
Thank you to everyone who participated!
Special People
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Special people have special problems.
Losing Freight
Losing Freight is a serialized sci-fi novel where you get to vote on what happens next at the end of every page.
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