tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post6073939938061925266..comments2024-03-18T09:09:59.625-04:00Comments on Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Here it is! Contest #100Janet Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00615380335938685231noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-33797637778816263212017-05-21T09:00:32.700-04:002017-05-21T09:00:32.700-04:00One murder. Three suspects. Zero alibis. And me.
T...One murder. Three suspects. Zero alibis. And me.<br />They were all there when the stubby bastard died.<br />The tall one, scarred, met my gaze with indifference. The other, nondescript except the obnoxious gold collar, avoided eye contact at all costs. And the slender fellow, a scapegrace in need of a trim, grinned. Discomforting. <br />“Wasn’t me,” they each said.<br />“Anyway, who put you in charge?” the Tall One asked.<br />Not my first rodeo, friends.<br />Apply some pressure; they scrambled, broke like fingers.<br />“Middle did it,” the small one finally squeaked.<br />“I’ll kill you!” Middle cried.<br />Thus solved the Murder of Thumb.PAHhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18150112855344551488noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-9209464382820013082017-05-21T08:43:54.605-04:002017-05-21T08:43:54.605-04:00Trouble walked through my door in the shape of a r...Trouble walked through my door in the shape of a redhead with getaway stems all the way up. <br />“You a P.I.?”<br />“Since the <b>forti</b>es.” <br />“It’s my husband. He’s messing around.”<br />“Spendin’ time in a flophouse or a skirt on the side?”<br />The dame flashed a rock the size of Gibraltar as she undid her dres<b>s’ cape. <br />“Grace</b>… but she’s not the problem. It’s her husband.”<br />I shoulda told her to <b>scram</b> but a broad like that would make the Pope forget his vows.<br />“He wants to <b>fin</b>ish off my Charlie.”<br />Her <b>gaze</b> was all business as she pointed the gun.AJ Blythehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04529233142099749005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-56430623685549238782017-05-21T08:37:57.690-04:002017-05-21T08:37:57.690-04:00It’s a boy.” The surgeon cuddled the wailing mongr...It’s a boy.” The surgeon cuddled the wailing mongrel, another jonesing newborn. Wiped his eyes.<br /><br />The doc hesitated, fretting. His digits were finned.<br /><br />“My baby.” The jittery mother reached for him. <br /><br />The surgeon placed him in her arms.<br /><br />A nurse came in. “There’s, um a… the father.”<br /><br />“Forti aint got no father.” The mother spat, remembering the lonely nine months after Ice scrammed. She cut her eyes to the baller framed in the door. <br /><br />“Ice, that you?” <br /><br />His scapegrace gaze was all love. “Hey ma, my seed got all his fingers?”<br />angie Brooksby-Arcangiolihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08000615140577512304noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-76861126844704670692017-05-21T08:25:04.856-04:002017-05-21T08:25:04.856-04:00Texting…
“You got us reservations?”
“Zelma’s comin...<i>Texting…<br />“You got us reservations?”<br />“Zelma’s coming, too?”<br />“We got married!”</i><br /><br />Gird your loins, honey. Your father married her.<br /><br />That meshu<b>ga Ze</b>lma? That floozy with a voice like <b>fin</b>gernails on a blackboard and the intellectual depth of spit? <br /><br /><i>“CONGRATS! Reservations at Beaufort <b>SC Ram</b>ada, 809 Port Republic St. FYI it’s BYOO-<b>fort i</b>n SC. Where are you?”<br />“Memphis. Can’t e<b>scape Grace</b>land!”</i><br /><br />Zelma’s touring Graceland.<br /><br />AGAIN? How am I supposed to be nice to her?<br /><br />Just think of your inheritance.<br /><br />...<br /><br />“Congratulations, you two! Look, honey, they brought us another Elvis painting. On VELVET!”<br /><br />“How <i>(inheritance)</i> lovely <i>(inheritance)</i>. Thanks, Dad… <i>(inheritance inheritance)</i> Zelma.”<br />Kittyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09868642232827730189noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-50142662224590757482017-05-21T08:20:24.171-04:002017-05-21T08:20:24.171-04:00We escape the perpetual growl of the tarmac and en...We escape the perpetual growl of the tarmac and enter the terminal. A crowd is gathered on the far side, its scapegraces weaving impatiently around the rope barrier. <br /><br />Eager to be reunited with my master, my feet scramble a bit on the tile floor. My mistress locates our overstuffed suitcase and wheels it toward customs. The three of us pass through without question. We hail a taxi. <br /><br />At our final destination, she pulls the suitcase behind the gazebo and grabs a shovel. With a quick pat and a comforting smile, she begins to dig. <br /><br />“Time to bury Daddy,” she says.Just Janhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12546035917149403735noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-89011817444842726772017-05-21T08:12:04.580-04:002017-05-21T08:12:04.580-04:00FIN appeared on the screen. It starred the Italian...FIN appeared on the screen. It starred the Italian heartthrob, Stefano Forti, and his ingénue. Julie Weathers, dressed in a sleeveless cape, graceful, doe-eyed, as any naive lass could be at 15. The story was, his fourth wife, Melanie Sue Bowles, introduced them when she caught the long gaze her third husband was giving Julie across the crowded room. He could scram for all Melanie cared, she was having a fling with the new director, Lennon Faris. His wife, Megan V was filming it all, not for Sundance, for divorce court. Her attorney told her, no words — show, don't tell.LynnRodzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10796099106913990163noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-85033642225544869932017-05-21T07:50:55.196-04:002017-05-21T07:50:55.196-04:00“WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST!”
We scrambled against ...“WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST!”<br /><br />We scrambled against time, scavenging for fortified food packets airdropped the night before. <br /><br />Boom! A mine. Gregor got careless. Shrapnel missed me; blood, not so much… <br /><br />I grabbed Gregor’s packet, handed it to Mary. We’d eat this week. <br /><br />“Narrow escape?” <br /><br />“Grace be upon us.” 9-year-old me mumbled.<br /><br />“His gaze be upon us,” corrected a man. Panic hit hard. How’d I missed the “MEN ENTERING NOW” klaxon? <br /><br />He leered. Mary bolted. He chased: her, the food, or both. <br /><br />Boom! Fine dirt and blood everywhere, again.<br /><br />I picked up the packet, made the sanctuary, ate alone.Stephen G Parkshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16627973901802634152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-80886800236477899912017-05-21T07:47:38.533-04:002017-05-21T07:47:38.533-04:00Like a sailor adrift, I gaze at my past for a brea...Like a sailor adrift, I gaze at my past for a break in the horizon. I search for the islands, not for the fins which devoured my dreams. From scapegrace to elder, memories bubble up and scramble for space on the surface of my personal sea. <br /><br />Even with intermittent storms, my journey has been relatively calm and joyous overall. <br />Therefore I stand firm against the wind, sure in the face of storms and thankful for the weatherman’s truth. <br />Truth?<br />Do I have confidence in forecasting?<br /><br />As my life raft drifts toward the shoals, I look ahead and wait with fortitude. <br />Carolynnwith2Nshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18394998702410764388noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-6485850496178675022017-05-21T04:31:37.812-04:002017-05-21T04:31:37.812-04:00Sir's 'cape' graces the corridors. Ini...Sir's 'cape' graces the corridors. Initially, he'd tried to correct them: 'Gown not cape!'<br />But their actions only grew crueller as they made him their subject to torment.<br /><br />Tonight, Sir's 'cape' is a black, billowing sail gliding past classrooms, turning bat to ascend the stone stairway. The boys, in their sleeping quarters, lie wakeful, little comfort in numbers; the haunted always alone. It finds the seam in their bedchamber door, pours itself through.<br />Not one boy able to avert his inner gaze from Sir's scrambled limbs when it leaves by the window to form a pall on the ground below.Marie McKayhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11405271051226910312noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-41784541323818762202017-05-21T04:19:11.645-04:002017-05-21T04:19:11.645-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Lawson Reinschhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13899535313517529749noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-75591082694959340142017-05-21T04:13:08.253-04:002017-05-21T04:13:08.253-04:00Fortissimo
My body weeps because my heart cannot. ...Fortissimo<br />My body weeps because my heart cannot. It pulses euphoric. My shoulders grow lighter with each kilometer. On the 10th, I leave behind my addictions of caution and loneliness. (Unlock closed spaces, grasp helping hands). On the 20th, I hear my fears laugh behind my back. I ignore their chants of compliance and contempt. I want to scramble through the 30th, leave behind my immature scapegrace of a father; his disappointment, apathy. (Forgiveness is hard). The 40th is easier as I shed my past. (Breathe, breathe again). I gaze, beyond the last two kilometers. Dawn has finally arrived.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07614257866641990844noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-35594980024002156352017-05-21T03:03:47.055-04:002017-05-21T03:03:47.055-04:00
Grace grew up in the cold shadows of her parents ...<br />Grace grew up in the cold shadows of her parents fractured marriage. A beaten down house that blended in an urban gray landscape. Grace wisely chose experience over education. <br /><br />She caught her man with the innocent gaze that promised more than his age could deliver. <br /><br />Fortified with liquid courage he asked. “Would you share my bed for a million dollars?” <br /><br />Her hand reddened his face. “How dare you?”<br /><br />He scrambled, and apologized quickly. <br /><br />Grace knew the age-old tale of the starlet and the wealthy man. <br />“Do I look like some common….?” <br /><br />She never finished her sentence. <br /><br />Matrimonially, neither did he. <br />french sojournhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14262858704848580714noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-40784865309653210192017-05-21T01:25:06.273-04:002017-05-21T01:25:06.273-04:00‘Call yourself a copy editor? What is this?’
‘May...‘Call yourself a copy editor? What is this?’<br /><br />‘Maybe I missed a few things.’<br /><br />‘More than a few. Give me that pen.’<br /><br />‘The deer was not fixed in a haze but in the hunter’s gaze.<br /><br />The disciplining procedure for the scapegrace was to lock him in a scrum, not lose him in a Texas scramble.<br /><br />I said four tins of chicken noodle soup for team fortification not fornication!<br /><br />Now get back to work and finish the job properly so we can tell the author she has a story worth publishing.’Alvahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03327917194872093544noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-91755580873424646922017-05-21T00:07:38.936-04:002017-05-21T00:07:38.936-04:00Jim held the door, sent her flowers. Even brought ...Jim held the door, sent her flowers. Even brought her coffee. But Grace never responded. Asked her out once. Her answer: “Scram.”<br /><br />“Anything for your attention,” he said. “I’d tug on Superman’s cape, Grace. Just give a sign.” Saying it all fortissimo, letting the world know his admiration. <br /><br />She ignored him.<br /><br />Grace’s twin, Gwen, visited one weekend. Fell under Jim’s gaze. <br /><br />“He completes me. We leave for New York tomorrow.”<br /><br />Suddenly, Grace desperately wanted the man.<br /><br />“Revenge is sweeter than you ever were,” Jim said.<br /><br />Gwen shook her finger. “Don’t mess around with Jim! We’re gonna make marvelous music together.”<br />John Davis Frainhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18020019400599228492noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-40467264273254976352017-05-21T00:06:40.069-04:002017-05-21T00:06:40.069-04:00I will not beg a zebra mussel for forgiveness.
Th...I will not be<b>g a ze</b>bra mussel for forgiveness.<br /><br />The beastly bivalves take over our lake and starve thousands, yet we're supposed to be grateful for cleaner water? No. I'm done paying.<br /><br />Someone needs to take down this mollu<b>sc a peg.<br /><br />"Race</b> is a social construct," I say.<br /><br />"Don't care. Apologize or owe triple the algae tomorrow."<br /><br />"Stripes aside, we're not so different, you and I."<br /><br />"Don't try to appeal to--"<br /><br />"Except you're small."<br /><br />"Careful..."<br /><br />"And small-minded."<br /><br />"Ooh, you're dead, Clam. <b>Fin</b>ished."<br /><br />"Not yet."<br /><br />With great ef<b>fort, I</b> dig in and drag myself directly at the infernal mollu<b>sc. Ram</b>ming speed!Nate Wilsonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/09690171790664252309noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-73160422482076483932017-05-21T00:01:55.186-04:002017-05-21T00:01:55.186-04:00Her head poked in, gaze full of questions. Apparen...Her head poked in, gaze full of questions. Apparently I’d stolen her fort.<br />“I’m sorry. Scram,” my voice weak with cold. <br />The dog whined, then squirmed in, warming the air enough to silence my aching, chattering teeth. I slept. Dreamed of panting, then whining, growling, biting.<br />Not a dream. “Ow, ouch.” I was too weak to pull away. <br />Barking. Angry. Harsh. She struggled to leave, kicking my stomach, turning to bark in my face. Voices approaching.<br />“Yo, Scapegrace! Easy. What’d you find? A—Dad? Dad!! It’s a kid.“<br />Bright light, the dog just whining now. Hands reaching in.<br />Fading out…<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02694333358894726440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-75888096027313236142017-05-20T23:14:26.675-04:002017-05-20T23:14:26.675-04:00Every morning I escape grace and wake in an unfami...Every morning I escape grace and wake in an unfamiliar bed.<br /><br />There's a woman next to me. We're lying side-by-side like two corpses in a double-wide coffin.<br /><br />I have no idea who she is.<br /><br />She's old, but beautiful. I probably know her. I hope I do.<br /><br />Her gaze is on me.<br /><br />I try to ignore the fortissimo beat of my heart, scrambling for something to say, something to ease the worry in her eyes.<br /><br />I know I'm supposed to recognize her, but I don't.<br /><br />I'm supposed to know her name, but I don't.<br /><br />"Good morning, Dear. I love you."RKeelanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16761835094251669865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-65430862489874703212017-05-20T23:04:31.531-04:002017-05-20T23:04:31.531-04:00You can't escape Grace, they told me. You’re m...You can't escape Grace, they told me. You’re made for each other.<br /><br />It was good. Could hear the church organ blaring fortissimo, smell the flowers.<br /><br />I left. Town, her, everything I knew. Mad scramble out west without a plan or clue.<br /><br />On my back, on a woven blanket in cold Nevada desert, I gazed at the stars and found them mute. I found no answers.<br /><br />I found out I missed her.<br /><br />Came back chastened and ready, but I missed her.<br /><br />I bring flowers to the stone every day.<br /><br />Can’t escape Grace, they said.<br /><br />They were wrong.Same Ghosthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05048773871558771184noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-67930547580560713352017-05-20T22:19:59.141-04:002017-05-20T22:19:59.141-04:00I showed him my heartsick gaze, vowed to abandon m...I showed him my heartsick gaze, vowed to abandon my scapegrace ways. From beneath demure faux lashes I promised to scram when he wants space, never Forti the truth, never answer a fin “nothing” when a great white “something” lurks. <br /><br />So he married me.<br /><br />Now he follows me everywhere. Every week-a-versary’s another (suffocating) bouquet of roses, every meal’s a (tacky) candlelit banquet, every email’s a (clichéd) Petrarchan sonnet, and even simple grocery lists are now obscured by swarms of his (immature) x’s and o’s.<br /><br />Dammit. <br /><br />Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit.<br /><br />Dammit. Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-91297573885298773402017-05-20T22:08:02.802-04:002017-05-20T22:08:02.802-04:00A scrambling of memories clawed at the beggar with...A scrambling of memories clawed at the beggar with all life denied him. Here at the gates at the end of night, the beggar found the thief who had been crucified next to him.<br /><br />“I meant to escape gracefully, but every life owes a death.” The thief sought absolution of something unseen. The humble wood gate opened. “Beggar, come with me.”<br /><br /> “He said it was finished,” the beggar said. He gazed upon peaceful green fields and saw emptiness. He expected fortifications of gold. Lust for glittering riches and revenge filled him, and he turned his back on morning’s first light.<br />E.M. Goldsmithhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18387494005655553037noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-56089145046361482182017-05-20T21:54:18.319-04:002017-05-20T21:54:18.319-04:00Iris hiked with her husband and two fine boys on h...Iris hiked with her husband and two fine boys on her fortieth birthday. While belting out “The Happy Wanderer,” she collapsed into a patch of nettles alongside the trail and never woke up. The autopsy revealed a previously undiagnosed heart condition.<br /><br />Rick hikes Cape Grace every year on her birthday. It hurts, but it hurts more not to. Today he gazes across the Columbia River Gorge and squints at the brilliance of the sun on the water. He thought he would jump. But the light is so beautiful. When he slips at the edge, he scrambles for a foothold.<br />Gypmarhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10023108950501721303noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-27579222018161181602017-05-20T21:53:09.317-04:002017-05-20T21:53:09.317-04:00"Her hundredth client! I can't believe sh..."Her hundredth client! I can't believe she's letting us come. You're sure we're invited?"<br /><br />"I'm sure. But listen, about that-"<br /><br />"That's the scotch? Let's cram a quick swig. She won't notice it's open. We can fortify our hope! Maybe it'll be us someday."<br /><br />"Us? See-"<br /><br />"Well, you're too much of a scapegrace. If you buckle down, maybe in ten years, but I'm ready now. I'm just closer to finishing this race and you gotta narrow your gaze, laser like, you know? Ugh, what kind of scotch is this?"<br /><br />"The kind a scapegrace buys for her new agent."<br /><br />katiehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05167978830347777260noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-63502909793115519242017-05-20T21:24:55.576-04:002017-05-20T21:24:55.576-04:00Tim’s knotted hair and dirtied knees made him an u...Tim’s knotted hair and dirtied knees made him an unlikely adoption. Probably why he couldn't resist the muddy stray puppy shivering outside a fire e<b>scape: Grace</b>ling. He called her Ling for short. <br /><br /><b>Scram</b>bled eggs were her favorite, and he sneaked them from the orphanage kitchen until Lunchlady Gerta caught him, her <b>gaze</b> wrought, wrinkled, suspicious. <br /><br />Ling languished in the pound while Tim was relegated to a juvenile detention facility. Boy and dog eventually disappeared amid <b>fin</b>e print and red tape. <br /><br />Years later, Gerta opened the city’s first no-kill animal shelter within the orphanage walls. <b>For Ti</b>m, she said.Karen McCoyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02640324898284007337noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-90200287900082342472017-05-20T20:45:02.985-04:002017-05-20T20:45:02.985-04:00Scrambled eggs with bacon and pancakes were served...Scrambled eggs with bacon and pancakes were served in the gazebo. My fortieth birthday, I just wanted to escape gracefully from this day. Four decades and nothing to show for it, infinitely unbearable. No career, no children, no husband. Although, I once had a man.<br /><br />Vacationing, I was humiliated watching him ogle bikini-clad girls, then kiss one. His excuse of alcohol indulgence, lame. Underwater on our diving expedition, I swiftly slashed his arm with a knife. Sharks have an insatiable hunger. Eating machines ripping flesh and limbs as they devour their prey. The sharks were fulfilled. And so was I.<br />Gingermollymarilynhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15684318210445109786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17040756.post-38008146788591888412017-05-20T20:41:56.523-04:002017-05-20T20:41:56.523-04:00By moonlight, Yap, Mop and Tiddle gazed over the r...By moonlight, Yap, Mop and Tiddle <b>gaze</b>d over the room. As usual, everything was there, but not in order. The discord hurt their heads. Quickly, they put everything back. Except...<br /><br />On the hearth, much to their horror, lay three pairs of shoes, brand new.<br /><br />Tiddle groaned. "They can't remain here. They ruin the aesthetics."<br /><br />"Look," cried Mop. "You <b>fin</b>ds they fit<b>s. Cram</b>s yer feets in."<br /><br />"Perfect." Yan slipped on the shoes. "<b>For 'ti</b>s noble of man, to work and to give..."<br /><br />They made their e<b>scape. Grace</b> settled once more upon a room in order. No more, no less.Her Grace, Heidi, the Duchess of Knealehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17818060864422019573noreply@blogger.com