tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post2737842181379026315..comments2024-03-18T09:09:59.625-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Flash Fiction Contest!Janet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-78048501980558629512018-04-15T08:59:09.571-04:002018-04-15T08:59:09.571-04:00On the night the child was born the moon kissed th...On the night the child was born the moon kissed the sun in celebration. And the sun blushed into a shimmering ring of shards. The trickster did not know the difference between destruction and creation but he took the eclipse. That very night the blacksmith set the kiss into a locket. His paws trembled when the trickster laid the necklace on the little kit’s chest. He could not tell his son how many times the world would fall apart and remake itself, but this symbol of his joy would never fade. And that would be enough.Sherin Nicolehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06534766663397123868noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-72186208683185447432018-04-15T08:56:40.540-04:002018-04-15T08:56:40.540-04:00Smithy placed the stone on the grave, easing the s...Smithy placed the stone on the grave, easing the stone into place. "There, that does the trick," he mumbled, as the stone fell into place. He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. "Let's see if the old son of a bitch complains now." <br /><br />Smithy picked up his cane and limped to the bench. <br /><br />Sally trailed in his wake, tears streaming down her face. "It's not right, you know?"<br /><br />Smithy frowned, all the joy draining from his face. "Sorry, Sally. I know. It should have been me. I promise. I'll keep my paws to myself from now on."Ly Kessehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05934641232058610364noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-78859561771540088502018-04-15T08:56:31.957-04:002018-04-15T08:56:31.957-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Sherin Nicolehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06534766663397123868noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-40437932273543760152018-04-15T08:41:31.888-04:002018-04-15T08:41:31.888-04:00My head was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. F...My head was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Fired. Just another lousy break in my lousy life. <br /><br />I slumped down on the couch thinking how tricky it’ll be telling Sonny we’ve got to tighten the proverbial belt - nothing extra, especially no more fancy feasts. He walked in wearing arrogance like a custom-made coat. Oh, joy. <br /><br />As always, aloof as a rock, he began to lick one polydactyl paw. I began to cry. Suddenly, he jumped up on my lap and gave my chin a headbutt. His deep purr resonated straight through to my heart. I smiled through my tears. Melanie Sue Bowleshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11820711791019410116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-3612336016463898822018-04-15T08:17:46.227-04:002018-04-15T08:17:46.227-04:00Michael Johnson was one smart oxymoron. The jocks ...Michael Johnson was one smart oxymoron. The jocks played their tricks, even destroyed the science fair project he’d worked on all summer. And as Michael fought back tears, <i>they</i> called <i>him</i> a killjoy.<br /><br />He’d never beat them, but he could gain their respect. For although nobody knew, Michael was as athletically gifted as he was brainy.<br /><br />The amazed coach saved Michael for the bottom of the ninth in the big game. Ready to shine, Michael took his stance at the plate.<br /><br />Then he recognized the pitcher: James Smith, his similarly thinking archnemesis from the science fair circuit, and fellow southpaw.<br />Amy Johnsonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05324408700941398495noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-75717366008427504842018-04-15T08:09:01.955-04:002018-04-15T08:09:01.955-04:00Should I kill the boy on the bike?
Or the couple ...Should I kill the boy on the bike? <br />Or the couple crossing the street? <br />The boy's young, someone's son.<br />The couple's old, they've had a life. <br />What if the boy grows up and becomes a trickster, worse a rapist or killer? <br />What if the man's a surgeon saving lives, spreading joy; the woman a scientist on the brink of a discovery that'll help the world? <br />Pawl? <br />No one programmed me for this! <br /><br />*<br /><br />Mr. Smith, Tesla awarded you four million dollars. It won't bring your wife back, but perhaps there's some consolation knowing three lives were saved.<br />LynnRodzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10796099106913990163noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-36114299912237288492018-04-15T02:19:57.801-04:002018-04-15T02:19:57.801-04:00The joy of reading? More of a trick, an indiscerni...The joy of reading? More of a trick, an indiscernible riddle. <br />I’m a “fish in a tree,” like Einstein’s quote, unable to climb without paws. <br />No reason for me to speak up, right? Those fish get harpooned.<br />I graduate with a certificate instead of a diploma.<br />My tutor gives me a book about a gorilla in captivity;<br />the quote from George Eliot slowly loosens my self-loathing.<br />I pry my way out. Transmit her quote to my students.<br />Einsteins, all of them. Like me, with tools to climb. <br />“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”Karen McCoyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02640324898284007337noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-26123026590150881732018-04-15T02:17:02.505-04:002018-04-15T02:17:02.505-04:00I found her sprawled in a drug den. Mouth wide ope...I found her sprawled in a drug den. Mouth wide open. Her final scream.<br /><br />Welts, like cigarette burns, lined the arms’ dark blue veins. Nearby lay an empty syringe. The latest opioid, Joy, I assumed. Weird to be killed by something with your name.<br /><br />A shadow filled the doorway. Sunglasses. Suit. Earpiece. Like Neo’s Mr. Smith on steroids. He curled his paws into fists that could batter down the Capitol.<br /><br />The trick to surviving? Pound the solar plexus to knock the wind out. I dropped him like 300 pounds of potatoes. Handcuffed him. Called Joy’s son with the bad news.<br />C. Dan Castrohttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15648247329883078385noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-48156335715581162522018-04-15T00:52:48.737-04:002018-04-15T00:52:48.737-04:00“You pawning or selling?” the man on TV asks a guy...“You pawning or selling?” the man on TV asks a guy who’s just set down a pistol. Old-timey, like Yosemite Sam might use to blow a rabbit to smithereens. <br /><br />Mother sleeps. Used to, she’d crank up that bed and mock the whoevers peddling their whatnots square on. Then she’d ask for a Coke, some bacon—joys the son-of-a-bitch doctor (her words) ordered against. “When the day comes you’re headed for the chair, I’ll get you bacon.” I said this when I thought she would get better.<br /><br />The rabbit always lived, you know. Tricked that outlaw reaper every time.<br /><br />Tomorrow, bacon.Julie Dhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06262701537832739889noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-62271488811626016532018-04-15T00:14:34.154-04:002018-04-15T00:14:34.154-04:00“There is nothing to discuss. It is arranged.”
Fa...“There is nothing to discuss. It is arranged.”<br /><br />Father. Ever the killjoy.<br /><br />“Vikram is a nice boy,” Aunt Aditi said. “He plays violin.”<br /><br />“Bassoon,” I corrected.<br /><br />Aunt Aditi gasped. “He’s from the Woodwind family?”<br /><br />“Alas, he’s left-handed.”<br /><br />Father’s turn to gasp. “A Southpaw?”<br /><br />“On the other hand,” Aunt Aditi, the wordsmith, countered. “He loves your daughter.”<br /><br />“He writes me Punjabi poetry.” A tear, forced, trickled down my crimson cheek.<br /><br />Father understood the heart. He’d lost his one year ago when the woman he’d chosen passed. “It shall be,” he announced. “Arrange for me to meet this Vikram.”<br /><br />Father even smiled.<br />John Davis Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18020019400599228492noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-24981453358736740172018-04-14T23:01:14.318-04:002018-04-14T23:01:14.318-04:00Pawpaw had a trick knee. He also had a glass eye ...Pawpaw had a trick knee. He also had a glass eye that he would let us kids pass around. When he died, we fought over who got to keep it.<br /><br />It ended up with Mabel, whose son had a club foot. She washed it with Joy and tucked it away. But each Christmas, it inexplicably turned up in Cousin Davis’ stocking. Davis threatened to smash it to smithereens, claiming it was possessed. Mabel wouldn’t hear of it.<br /><br />We learned the truth four years later, when Davis was blinded in a hunting accident: Pawpaw’s eye was a true visionary.Just Janhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12546035917149403735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-38473988059177260122018-04-14T23:00:20.460-04:002018-04-14T23:00:20.460-04:00Hurrying through Petco’s doors, Joy glanced back t...Hurrying through Petco’s doors, Joy glanced back to where her nine-year-old son agreed to wait with the family dog.<br /><br />Pulling a lint coated Snausage from his pocket, Trevor sniffed it.<br /><br />Doctor Smith barked and hopped when Trevor circled it over his head.<br /><br />“You could get famous with a circus trick like that,” commented a swollen nosed man from his car.<br /><br />Hefting a bag of dog food, Joy stopped dead when she saw the empty bench. “Trevor!”<br /><br />A car suddenly accelerated through the lot. <br /><br />From the back window, Joy saw Doctor Smith’s paws pressing against the glass and Trevor waving.<br />Sierra Writers Conferencehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02658566315733798579noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-3014967103357422922018-04-14T22:55:59.161-04:002018-04-14T22:55:59.161-04:00
The name of the game was treason, and it had more...<br />The name of the game was treason, and it had more pawns than spaces on a chessboard. Some of the players were less sophisticated; their strategic style more closely resembled checkers than the former. But they enjoyed playing, despite the lack of skill. The trick was seeing how far they could go without being caught. <br /><br />They selected one of their own, the wordsmith, to record their intentions. It was a long game that lasted years. However, regardless of the numerous crimes against them, they won. <br /><br />And that, my children, is how the United States came to be. Mallory Lovehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16282261391938135052noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-29832646521222993722018-04-14T22:41:47.426-04:002018-04-14T22:41:47.426-04:00I sprawl across a subway bench, struggling to make...I sprawl across a subway bench, struggling to make sense of the droning metal voice, to figure out which station is coming up.<br /><br />Moscow’s subway isn’t the cleanest place to live, but it’s warm during the cold, joyless winter.<br /><br />I’m getting too old for begging. Too feral, too dangerous. That’s why I need to learn the scents and sounds of the stations. It’s tricky, but their lessons are my future.<br /><br />The subway slows.<br /><br />I hop off the bench, pad to the narrow chasm.<br /><br />I thrill to the scent of Spicy-station-with-warm-draft and lift a paw onto the platform.<br /><br />I’m learning.RKeelanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16761835094251669865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-66018151806788388812018-04-14T22:25:03.478-04:002018-04-14T22:25:03.478-04:00I was a locksmith so breaking into houses is easy....I was a locksmith so breaking into houses is easy. The trick is choosing the right one. We’re cold and hungry so I pick a lonely two story colonial.<br /><br />I’m on the run since my family was torn apart, and the only joy I get these days comes from my son. I need to protect him because he’s too young to understand.<br /> <br />Something paws at the front door, and I hold a hand over my son’s shivering mouth.<br /> <br />She found us, but she’s not my wife anymore. Aggressive and disheveled she lunges toward us. The infection spread fast.<br />Will MacPhailhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05586481255297618388noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-34318944375769119152018-04-14T22:08:33.353-04:002018-04-14T22:08:33.353-04:00I am not the smith who forged the sword or the sol...I am not the smith who forged the sword or the soldier who wielded it. <br />I am the wound that festers. <br />There is no reason. <br />Stop your infernal wailing. <br />I was not brought on by the whisky. <br />By all means, have another sip. <br />Or two.<br /><br />Ignore the crap awful sound your spine makes when it breaks. <br />Neat trick. <br />You will not enjoy this. <br />Your head twisting around like a top. <br />No, no. This is not a lovely day for an exorcism. <br />It’s better if you don’t struggle. <br />Open up, here I come. <br /><br />I will make a writer of you yet.E.M. Goldsmithhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18387494005655553037noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-80493007700990142042018-04-14T21:56:50.375-04:002018-04-14T21:56:50.375-04:00Drawn by joyous laughter coming from his office, C...Drawn by joyous laughter coming from his office, Colin Smith found his son and the cat sitting at his computer.<br /><br />"Dad, I taught her a new trick. Watch!"<br /><br />The cat extended a paw, pressed the keyboard.<br /><br />"She loves the <i>whoosh</i> sound of Send."<br /><br />Colin looked closer, recognized his email account, the "query drafts" folder open-- dread clenched his gut.<br /><br />"You've been busy, so we're helping with queries."<br /><br />"NOOOOOO!"<br /><br />Colin jolted awake, sweaty, panicked. <br /><br /><i>Just a dream.</i><br /><br />Horrid cliché. Sweet relief.<br /><br />He saw her then, sitting on his nightstand, tail flicking. She extended a paw-- and slowly, decisively, pressed it down.<br /><br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-21096111805359141242018-04-14T21:53:10.061-04:002018-04-14T21:53:10.061-04:00Tuesday afternoon, Sonny Smith met Joy and me at t...Tuesday afternoon, Sonny Smith met Joy and me at the Roan Library to pick our gang name. I thought up 'The Roan Langers,' Joy wanted ‘The Joy Schmucks’ Club,' and Smith, a southpaw with a trick knee, didn't care. <br /><br />I said, whaddaya call a gang with no name? And Joy said, whaddaya call a gang with no plan? And Smith said: “The defendants.” <br /><br />Joy warbled ‘Jailhouse Rock’-- and Smith joined in with the clearest tenor this side of young Elvis. <br /><br />We decided to start a band instead: ‘The OK Chorale.’ <br /><br />Joy says if anyone pays us, it’ll still be robbery.MelSavranskyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03917897217765196343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-30345860828901638642018-04-14T20:25:25.546-04:002018-04-14T20:25:25.546-04:00Smith Jamison, best-selling crime novelist and clo...Smith Jamison, best-selling crime novelist and closet serial killer, pointed a gun at Joy's head. "Swallow the right pill, you live. Choose wrong, you die. Don't choose, I shoot you."<br /><br />"But, I can't swallow pills."<br /><br />Jamison sighed. He should just shoot her. "It's easy." He fake swallowed a pill then sipped her water. "Now choose!"<br /><br />Joy swallowed the red pill.<br /><br />Jamison stiffened.<br /><br />Joy swallowed the blue pill.<br /><br />Jamison pawed the table.<br /><br />Joy smiled. "Forgot, didn't you? The water's poison, not the pills."<br /><br />Jamison gurgled. "How did-"<br /><br />"I'm your biggezt fan, sicko. You used that trick in your first novel."<br /><br /><br /> Barbarahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15769803733067838372noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-88412523308026093672018-04-14T20:15:04.139-04:002018-04-14T20:15:04.139-04:00Her son pummeled his way to the top of the boxing ...Her son pummeled his way to the top of the boxing world, smashing his opponents’ noses—and egos–to smithereens with his trick left and a lightening right. He was a southpaw, a joy to watch in the ring, which he circled like a blood-thirsty beast hunting its prey.<br /><br />He bobbed. He weaved. He fell, like all boxers do. One knockout too many. One warning too few.<br /><br />Her son was a southpaw, but he uses both hands to drink from a sippy cup. Even so, the liquid trembles. She feeds him with her left hand. Momma’s a southpaw, too.<br />Jennifer Delozierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06050055272502746342noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-58134243599653123812018-04-14T19:37:42.122-04:002018-04-14T19:37:42.122-04:00Smuggling the monkey’s paw from the Smithsonian wa...Smuggling the monkey’s paw from the Smithsonian wasn’t as tricky as separating the paw from the monkey first, without being detected. <br /><br />To be accurate, it was a chimp. A special chimp—Enos, the second primate in space. <br /><br />Every second that passed, I imagined my capture. <i>What’s the federal charge for amputating and stealing a dead primate’s appendage?</i> <br /><br />When I presented the old woman with the paw, she lifted the curse she’d put on me, as agreed. <br /><br />“Why did you need that particular paw?” <br /><br />“Go away!” She whispered something to the paw, then cackled with joy and squinted into her telescope.Rickhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02217146559894535747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-17842601395909266672018-04-14T18:55:46.103-04:002018-04-14T18:55:46.103-04:00A paw tap on my cheek sparks no joy. Followed by a...A paw tap on my cheek sparks no joy. Followed by a cold nose under my chin <br /><br />and finally, a direct landing on my midsection.<br /><br />Jack, son of Puck, that sly old trickster, more poodle than golden.<br /><br />Yesterday Jack found the remnants of a human hand in the old smithy.<br /><br />What would he find today?<br />Margaret S. Hamiltonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07979191318652199350noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-8298654191260329612018-04-14T18:33:04.254-04:002018-04-14T18:33:04.254-04:00shoeless and pain free
joys son pawed the smithys ...shoeless and pain free<br />joys son pawed the smithys head<br />trick executed <br /><br />(I know it's not a story, but I wanted to play. Unfortunately, I am in the mood to write bad senryu. 😁)Loulymarhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08207873356644644510noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-78530616593269449282018-04-14T17:51:41.343-04:002018-04-14T17:51:41.343-04:00Jonathan woke up in the barn. Blood trickled down ...Jonathan woke up in the barn. Blood trickled down his face.<br /><br />"Don't move or I'll blow yer guts out."<br /><br />"Mitch, is that you?"<br /><br />"You know'd I weren't gunna let you hitch up with Joy."<br /><br />"I love your sister. Don't you want her to be happy?"<br /><br />"Not with the likes of you. Paw'd roll over in his grave iffin I let one of you Smith boys make off with his only daughter."<br /><br />"Mitch, it's time we sons end the feud of our fathers."<br /><br />"Naw, it's time I ended you."<br /><br />BOOM!<br /><br />Blood splatters the wall.<br /><br />"It's over. Let's go Jonathan," Joy said.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12903806334357035131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-51211294184495686542018-04-14T17:29:19.609-04:002018-04-14T17:29:19.609-04:00“I don’t enjoy delivering news like this.”
“Of c...“I don’t enjoy delivering news like this.” <br /><br />“Of course not, officer.” <br /><br />“Bad enough when your boy torched that rickety gazebo, but this time he’s blown city hall to smithereens.” <br /><br />She nodded.<br /><br />“Don’t take it personal, but that kid is the spawn of Satan.” <br /><br />She smiled gently, a flicker of fire in her eye.<br /><br />“Not at all.”<br /><br />“We had witnesses—“<br /><br />“If you’ll hold on just one moment. I’ll fetch my husband from the basement.”<br /><br />He eyeballed her exit.<br /><br />Finally that kid is gonna get what’s comin to him, he thought, as the scent of sulfur wafted from the basement door.<br />Gypmarhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10023108950501721303noreply@blogger.com