tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post7028135398584753467..comments2024-03-18T09:09:59.625-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: How Now Meow flash fiction contest!Janet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-83770510721844839092018-03-11T09:09:57.448-04:002018-03-11T09:09:57.448-04:00(Minutes late but I had to post it even if ineligi...(Minutes late but I had to post it even if ineligible. )<br /><br />Anne is standing at Henry's bedside, bright, fresh and--whole. Head downcast in penitence. "My lord," she says, "my love."<br /><br />Henry's breath is taken, as ever, by her loveliness. Her heat. <br /><br />"You killed me," she says, flatly, expressionless as the clay tablets before Moses inscribed them with the Word. <br /><br />"It cannot be," Henry says. She must be an impostor, this unscarred girl. Yet his dog sleeps at the fireside, not even lifting its pug nose. Some watchdog.<br /><br />"It's no matter," she says, and opens her--<br /><br />Not eyes.<br /><br />Black pits. Bottomless. Hungry. Anne always made him feel she was starving for him.Lunahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01175944236443078712noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-76871503079839015582018-03-11T08:24:08.273-04:002018-03-11T08:24:08.273-04:00See, I been framed. I am a pug. This has all earma...See, I been framed. I am a pug. This has all earmarks of the Duchess. She would totally set that thumbs-wielding, pant-less wonder on fire to capture his soul. <br /><br />Yeah, his cats helped. Look Henry, I nap professionally. I couldn’t have done it. <br /><br />A cat move all the way. You know what I’m talking about. The queen. She did not like his pitch. And how long do you think she could afford to pay his tab? Let me tell you what. The Duchess is taking no chances. She is keeping that queen happy. Why? You do not need to know.<br />E.M. Goldsmithhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18387494005655553037noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-22503143135542302112018-03-11T07:58:05.594-04:002018-03-11T07:58:05.594-04:00I will not be defeated. My pugnacious spirit will...I will not be defeated. My pugnacious spirit will defeat these robotic creatures.<br /><br />For years, Writers changed lives by leaving their thoughts, dreams, and inspirations upon me. Their words fired hope, laughter, and tears into the minds of the young and old. <br /><br />My followers will miss my smell and roughness between their fingers. They know I will never die and need a recharge.<br /><br />Despite this ever growing technology world, I will never go out of style just like that song “Henry the Eight.” Watch out tablets. I am irreplaceable. I am timeless. I am a book. <br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18170680013342625332noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-10088479691258124002018-03-11T06:45:44.359-04:002018-03-11T06:45:44.359-04:00After moving a few months ago, Henry had started s...After moving a few months ago, Henry had started sleepwalking. Now it was getting worse. The day he woke curled in front of the fire, just about every hair he had singed, he went to see his doctor — but she directed him to a wreck of a colonial across town.<br />Outside, an old woman sat at a small table. “There, let’s see you up close.” Her scratchy voice was a command. <br />Henry was nervous— he couldn’t help it — but obeyed.<br />For a moment she studied him, then the pronouncement came.<br />“The curse of the werepug. It's struck again.”Demain et hierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03904996318424827559noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-39888544215300067142018-03-11T03:51:56.154-04:002018-03-11T03:51:56.154-04:00Publishing intern by day…
Black Panther by night!...Publishing intern by day… <br />Black Panther by night!<br />Who would ever suspect pitiful milquetoast Clay, always hiding under chairs and slinking about the office, afraid of water and pug dogs?<br />But when the sun went down and a tsunami of sin struck Gotham City…<br />Hiss! <br />Claw!<br />Me-ow!<br />No one could stop the Black Panther.<br /><br />So he’d play along until they fired him.<br />Purr. <br />Pretend to enjoy traipsing on tablets and cluttering keyboards. <br />Even reading queries, like the one he’d napped on today.<br />No O’Henry, that author, but still…<br />The Secret Life of Walter Kitty had distinct possibilities.<br /><br />Claire Bobrowhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15666082441972111293noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-5345965629955513132018-03-11T03:38:56.688-04:002018-03-11T03:38:56.688-04:00Mama threw everything into the fire out back. Used...Mama threw everything into the fire out back. Used tissues and coughed on, s<b>pit</b> drooled pillowcases. The virus lived everywhere, she said. <br /><br />We slipped out at night and roamed for supplies, piled everything on the kitchen <b>table, t</b>hen scrubbed our hands in bleach.<br /><br />Never enough, though. Hunger gnawed at us like rats at the dum<b>p. Ug</b>ly, persistent hunger.<br /><br />Till we met Henry the Hoarder. Fifty, fat and fearful, but no match for Celeste. Eighteen going on Marilyn Monroe, she charmed the canned goods right out of him, eyes gleaming above her protective mask.<br /><br />Well fed, we withstood the 2018 pandemic.RosannaMhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06399732751877180737noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-11624442264930132322018-03-11T01:41:01.442-05:002018-03-11T01:41:01.442-05:00No news is often good, but I worried when I didn’t...No news is often good, but I worried when I didn’t hear from Henry. After all, I’d sent him off with my car, my credit card, and my pugnacious little sister. <br /><br />“She’s a spitfire,” he claimed, when he finally called. <br /><br />“Did she find the money yet?” Sometimes Henry had trouble staying on point.<br /><br />When they returned a week later, Henry shared, “We saw Elvis.”<br /><br />My sister squealed, “We got married!”<br /><br />That wasn’t in the script, but I was pretty sure it was on my tab. “Let’s celebrate,” I said. <br /><br />I buried them out back. What happens in Vegas, stays there.Just Janhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12546035917149403735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-37950247385597034392018-03-11T01:20:05.154-05:002018-03-11T01:20:05.154-05:00K-9 rounds up the usual suspects. Enters names int...K-9 rounds up the usual suspects. Enters names into her tablet.<br /><br />Jimmie Three Paws. Muttley Crue. Their leader, Great Catsby. And the new cat on the block, Fifty Shades of Clay. <br /><br />As an afterthought—the human, Mrs. Henry.<br /><br />“Start barking,” K-9 commands.<br /><br />“Heyyyy,” Catsby purrs.<br /><br />Hours later, pugnacious Chief stomps in. “Confession?”<br /><br />K-9 shakes her muzzle.<br /><br />“When’s this end?” Jimmie asks.<br /><br />Chief nods at Mrs. Henry. “Ain’t over till the cat lady sings.”<br /><br />“What’s the crime?” <br /><br />Clay thinks, <i>erecting a statue in a dog park.</i><br /><br />“Vandalism,” Chief spits.<br /><br />Jimmie shuffles three paws. Swallows. “I thought it was a fire hydrant.”<br />John Davis Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18020019400599228492noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-80550656696114147962018-03-10T23:24:27.161-05:002018-03-10T23:24:27.161-05:00First scotch, then rye.
Neither helps.
I take an...First scotch, then rye.<br /><br />Neither helps.<br /><br />I take another look at the note. The handwriting is still mine.<br /><br />I found it by the fireplace, a few crisp words announcing my intention to kill myself.<br /><br />The thought of dying is repugnant, but my other self must feel differently.<br /><br />I used to pity her suffering, now I despise her selfishness. I wish she would kill herself—if only she wouldn’t take me with her. I hope she knows that.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Pills lay spilled across the tabletop.<br /><br />I claw at the bottle. <i>What does the label say?</i><br /><br />Anti-psychotics.RKeelanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16761835094251669865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-22767029550588750292018-03-10T21:30:17.343-05:002018-03-10T21:30:17.343-05:00Henry was in a bad way. He was out pounding the pa...Henry was in a bad way. He was out pounding the pavement yet again—ducking in and out and looking for any clue of his elusive target. Where was Franny with that electronic tablet thingy she always carried in the pit of her oversized purse? He could use that GPS about now. <br />Time was running out. He had to find the target before a potential leak became an uncontrollable torrent. Turning the corner he spied the target dead ahead. Just in the nick of time, Henry the pug trotted over to the shiny, red fireplug and completed his mission.<br />Mike Hayshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06485884518411706201noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-86820595314746434312018-03-10T21:11:20.957-05:002018-03-10T21:11:20.957-05:00First, Henry dug himself a pit in the dirt floor. ...First, Henry dug himself a pit in the dirt floor. “Neighbors oughta thank me,” he grumbled to Pug the dog. Then flamelets licked the proffered newspapers—endangered now that everyone had tablets and phones—and gulped the rest of the nearby debris, snapping like the dog at dinner, but never satiated, more like the man. When the front room was ablaze, he and the dog headed for the kitchen… only the sliding glass door was boarded up. After pushing Pug out the dog door, Henry faced the fire and settled in to enjoy one last banquet.Barbara Lundhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05031635871739502352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-14355152118105357412018-03-10T20:37:32.440-05:002018-03-10T20:37:32.440-05:00“You do understand God’s reward for representing m...“You do understand God’s reward for representing me?” asked the Devil.<br /><br />Henry remembered the contract etched upon the stone tablet. “Something called . . . ‘Spiritual Disembowelment?’”<br /><br />“Decapitation. He’s always had a flair for drama.” The Devil’s grin was genial, his eyes pitiless. “Yet, here you are. Why should I trust you, counselor? Why not some repugnant schmuck from Hellfire, Brim & Stone? Those boys are winners. You saw OJ’s trial.”<br /><br />“Winning isn’t enough. You want the world on your side, the story changed.”<br /><br />The Devil leaned in. “And what do you want?”<br /><br />“To be the one who writes it.”StackAttackhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13778947857039567189noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-84623447603923960362018-03-10T20:04:40.584-05:002018-03-10T20:04:40.584-05:00“Stop the presses, Henry. I've been writing li...“Stop the presses, Henry. I've been writing like my pants are on fire and I've got the best entry for the contest.”<br /><br />“Well aren't you the pithy one, Henrietta.”<br /><br />“No, I mean it, Henry. STOP THE PRESSES!”<br /><br />“I'm not able to do that, Henrietta. You control the lever.”<br /><br />“What? Stop. Ugh! You're killing me.”<br /><br />“Is that what you want? Why didn't you say so in the beginning.”<br /><br />“Say what?”<br /><br />“That you want me to kill you.”<br /><br />“I never said that.”<br /><br />“Yes, my dear, you did.”<br /><br />BANG<br /><br />And another issue's laid to rest.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10301988968832350236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-70786972499040211282018-03-10T19:23:19.593-05:002018-03-10T19:23:19.593-05:00And the connection is, Victor "PUG" HENR...And the connection is, Victor "PUG" HENRY was the main character in The Winds Of War. He was a soldier in World War II, so he would have come under FIRE, and dug a PIT to stay safe. His medicine, he preferred in TABLET form, and... <br /><br />OK, I got nothin'.Michael Seesehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03694187657718931214noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-31167219244847080952018-03-10T19:15:14.520-05:002018-03-10T19:15:14.520-05:00Her tablet’s face scarred from an endless stream o...Her tablet’s face scarred from an endless stream of swipes left, Janet readied her emotional white flag yet again. "Gustav" signaled an end to the Gs. She pressed on. <br /><br />And then...<br /><br />Henry!<br /><br />Six feet even. Adorable pug nose. Cleft chin. Sandy hair. Clearly modeled on Brad Pitt. The brown eyes wouldn't do. "They <i>have</i> to be blue," she said to no one, her <i>de facto</i> companion of 25 years. The "Kids? Maybe" package seemed worth a few extra bucks.<br /><br />With a satisfied tap Janet submitted the order, lit a fire, poured two glasses of Cabernet, and waited for the delivery.Michael Seesehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03694187657718931214noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-22518856940189132732018-03-10T19:10:19.599-05:002018-03-10T19:10:19.599-05:009:22. Time for his daily dose of her. Hell with a ...9:22. Time for his daily dose of her. Hell with a side of eggs. <br /><br />The place has good home-fries. He likes them hot. Overdone, edgy. Exactly like her. <br /><br />Coffee’s blacker than tar, served up with a smirk. “Say when.”<br />A grin. “When. Rye, two sunny side up.”<br /><br />Ugly, left up. But he likes them that way. Split open and messy. He doesn’t know why.<br /><br />She retreats with a smile. He returns it, warmth without fire, his belly a pit.<br /><br />He picks up his fork. Waits for his eggs. In the meantime, he fills up on his redhead waiting table two.Timothy Lowehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07514224628760035696noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-28609808859339252532018-03-10T17:51:32.935-05:002018-03-10T17:51:32.935-05:00Henry slid a finger over his raised scar covered b...Henry slid a finger over his raised scar covered by the rose tattoo. Pretty white lies hid cheap ugly truths. But he wasn't one for pity, giving or receiving. The eyes of the girl across the table though told a different story.<br />She stared at his arm.<br />"Was in a house fire," Henry explained.<br />She continued to stare. <br />"Nature likes to leave her mark," he joked.<br />She grasped his hand with one of hers, squeezing it. She rolled up her long sleeve shirt with the other. Cigarette burns dotted her skin. <br />She gave a sad smile.<br />"So do people."Mallory Lovehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16282261391938135052noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-47943183671359233542018-03-10T17:49:47.293-05:002018-03-10T17:49:47.293-05:00The tablets lay in Henry’s palm; one red, one blue...The <b>tablet</b>s lay in <b>Henry</b>’s palm; one red, one blue. He’d always chosen red - honesty over oblivion. A hard choice; harder every day. <br /><br />Swallowed, it would burn <b>fire</b>; the first bite of seemingly unending pain. His choice. Feeding Hell Wolves; more honest than babysitting fat, Earth <b>Pug</b>s.<br />Right?<br /><br />Every day, he’d be ushered to the <b>pit</b>s. The slavering creatures would bay, eager to feast. Mouthful after mouthful; seemingly unending agony. But honest agony. Right?<br /><br />He frowned. The blue pill, today. Oblivion, over honesty. <br /><br />It burned fire going down. His keeper entered, grinning maniacally, as the Hell Wolves started baying.<br />Kae Ridwynhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10356868531870405990noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-2842164649223080192018-03-10T17:43:09.199-05:002018-03-10T17:43:09.199-05:00Dear Liza,
There's a hole in my bucket.
Henry
...Dear Liza,<br />There's a hole in my bucket.<br />Henry<br /><br />Dear Henry,<br />I'll fix it. Swing by the stable tonight.<br />Liza<br /><br />Liza,<br />I'm not driving a leaky bucket through atmo, babe.<br />Come to my hab.<br />Henry<br /><br />Don't "babe" me, you repugnant bastard. That was one time only.<br />No house calls.<br />Liza<br /><br />Such a spitfire! Love that about you. Among other... qualities. Me<i>ow</i>.<br />I'll saunter over.<br />Hengry for More<br /><br />Yee-ech. Offer retracted. You come at your peril.<br />L<br /><br /><br />Dear Liza,<br />There's a hole in my spleen. You'll hear from my lawyers.<br />Henry<br /><br />Dear Henry,<br />It matches your bucket. Go to hell.<br />LizaNate Wilsonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09690171790664252309noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-51365763423147513882018-03-10T17:21:44.939-05:002018-03-10T17:21:44.939-05:00How has my life been reduced to dumpster diving? A...How has my life been reduced to dumpster diving? A pit of despair.<br /><br />My ears perk as Fire the pug and his gang enter the alley. Maybe they won't sniff me out.<br /><br />No such luck. They growl and charge.<br /><br />I explode out of the muck, splaying it everywhere. At the sidewalk, humans cringe out of my way.<br /><br />I glance back and…Smash! into a teenage girl.<br /><br />She shuts her tablet and picks me up. She's brave.<br /><br />"Perfect! You're just what I need. What's your name?"<br /><br />"Clay." Now drop me and run.<br /><br />She smiles. "I knew you were special. Call me Henry."<br />Tara Tylerhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07587802105993889515noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-33672389678532610972018-03-10T17:06:03.363-05:002018-03-10T17:06:03.363-05:00He was only two. That's what I think of, when ...He was only two. That's what I think of, when I miss Henry.<br />He was too young for a tablet. He should have been beside me, holding a marshmallow stick over the pit with his mama's careful hands on his. It was his first time camping.<br />He whined for it and I thought he'd be safer in the tent anyway, mesmerized by a screen. I thought I wouldn't have to watch him.<br />I thought far from the fire meant safe.<br />Why did he go down to the water?<br />Why did our pug know he was gone before I did?trust.your.capehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12321711626791676648noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-85854519000914037022018-03-10T16:53:08.548-05:002018-03-10T16:53:08.548-05:00A war hero, like his Grandpa Henry.
Since Afghan...A war hero, like his Grandpa Henry. <br /><br />Since Afghanistan, he’s only seen life <br />through a gun lens. <br /><br />Repugnant windows of pain. <br /><br />Buddies shattered with bombs.<br /><br />Bloodied children dying at his hand. <br /><br />His life spared. Why? <br /><br />Anti-depressant tablets don’t help. <br /><br />The Pathway Home sounds promising. A way out. <br /><br />Worked for grandpa, anyway.<br /><br />The GI money expires. He’ll need to cover his own housing. <br /><br />Without a job, because who would hire a murderer?<br /><br />Pathway? More like inauthentic hospitality. <br /><br />Police and fire crews arrive at the blockaded building. <br /><br />Henry, his body armor, and Veterans’ Home hostages lay among the dead.Karen McCoyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02640324898284007337noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-5696910243663890412018-03-10T16:43:53.655-05:002018-03-10T16:43:53.655-05:00“He was shot with MY Martini-Henry rifle?” Robert ...“He was shot with MY Martini-Henry rifle?” Robert Herbert III asked. Not whether Thomas Clay was okay. I shrugged slightly, head aching.<br /><br />“A rifle’s missing from Clay’s collection. Cubby’s labeled ‘M-H Mk2.’” I’d learned of the men’s dispute.<br /><br />“It’s mine, detective. I want it back.” Ironic. I wanted him talking. And not. Four tablets of aspirin in the acid pit of my stomach did nothing for my hangover.<br /><br />“Found a .577 Snider cartridge. Near your home.” A lie. I’d brushed up on old British firearms.<br /><br />“Bull!” the pugnacious man growled. But a flicker of concern crossed his face.C. Dan Castrohttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15648247329883078385noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-6072586136388927172018-03-10T16:03:57.520-05:002018-03-10T16:03:57.520-05:00Henry saw himself through her eyes, repugnant, a s...<b>Henry</b> saw himself through her eyes, re<b>pug</b>nant, a s<b>pit</b> of nothing. The matchmaker had brought them together, their parents had approved and both families had gathered in self-satisfied celebration. He had given her everything … wealth, status … and she had yielded nothing in return, continued to look down on him, her heart remaining a dead zone where he longed for <b>fire</b>. He had to laugh at that, no<b>t able t</b>o talk her round, he’d shut her up instead. His Corpse Bride. Silent. Obedient. The life partner he’d always wanted.<br /><br />Steph Ellishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02353775819602714643noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-14714930008805537532018-03-10T15:04:15.266-05:002018-03-10T15:04:15.266-05:00Me staring at iPad: “Dang, this one’s hard. Not a...Me staring at iPad: “Dang, this one’s hard. Not able to put these words together at all. Reinforcement time! Guys?”<br />Henrietta bobs fluffy yellow head. “Mom’s the Little Red Hen. Rye’s my specialty, not riddles.” <br />Purple stegosaurus blubbers. “I’m in the hole of despair over this! Can’t help it!”<br />Sloth frowns. “Don’t add fuel to the flame, mate. If I read it s-u-p-e-r s-l-o-w, we’ll catch some clue?” <br />The little pekingese sits up. “Ug. Always overthinking things. It’s clearly just another way to torment writers.” <br />Me: “Gotta be obvious...”<br />[Basic live footage from my brain when problem solving after work.]<br />Lennon Farishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03570629350169504234noreply@blogger.com