tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75368239961211476302024-02-08T11:25:50.905-08:00Flash Panecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-16196439231812976212014-01-12T17:07:00.001-08:002014-01-12T18:27:18.552-08:00Following Her Footsteps<br />
He had come to the beach to dig his own grave.<br />
<br />
<br />
It was early Monday morning, or late Sunday night depending on your perspective, and the sun was still sleeping somewhere below the horizon line. The seagulls ignored the fact he was overdressed for both the weather and the location as he wandered the edges of the waves.<br />
<br />
<br />
His shoes were getting soaked, but he did not notice. His body was on autopilot, heading for the spot just above lifeguard station 22.<br />
<br />
<br />
Even at his zombie pace, he reached the rocks in no time. He immediately fell to his knees, began digging with a child’s plastic shovel.<br />
<br />
<br />
By the time the sun opened its golden eye, his suit was soaked with sweat and salt water. His unkempt hair fell in his eyes, but did not deter him from task. Deeper and deeper he dug.<br />
<br />
<br />
When he had managed a hole about two feet deep, he stopped, removed his jacket. He sat down in the hole as if it were a welcoming recliner, smiling for the first time in a year. Slowly he began pushing the removed sand over his legs. He leaned back, continued covering his chest. When he could cover himself no further, he tucked his arms to his chest, still clinging to the tiny yellow toy.<br />
<br />
<br />
As he lay there, waiting for the tide to claim him, he remembered his daughter’s hands releasing that same handle before taking off into the water without warning. She had been seven and so sure of her ability to navigate the waves that she ignored her father’s warnings.<br />
<br />
<br />
He had only taken his eyes off her for a moment, but a moment was all it took. A small wave knocked her off balance. The following wave took her breath. The undertow had her before either of them could do anything.<br />
<br />
<br />
The lifeguard had been nowhere to be seen, probably off flirting with bikiniclad teenagers, while he rushed into the waves, desperately searching for a glimpse of her hand or hair. He saw neither.<br />
<br />
<br />
Her body had washed up hours later, miles down the beach. He knew this unforgiving beach would not hesitate to claim him as well.<br />
<br />
<br />
They found him hours later, still half buried. His face bloated from salty submersion, his hands still locked around the plastic shovel.<br />
<br />
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<i>A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. Find more about A.J. Huffman at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222. </i>ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-74771192375364497582013-07-07T12:00:00.002-07:002013-07-07T12:04:01.234-07:00The Plague Man
“I bring to you the seven tokens of the flesh to end the blight.”
<p>
The Plague Man knelt on the stone floor; his raven mask muffled the sound of his voice, red glass hid his eyes, while his black coat spread out behind him.
<p>
The old monastery was nearly abandoned. Only one remained to keep the copper pipes struggling to bring in clean air, free of disease, or to replace the broken glass on the stained windows. The rest had fallen to ruin, the gardens now nothing more than a graveyard.
<p>
Isaiah reached for them: blood, scales, bone, and claws, all carved from the monsters that brought the sickness.
<p>
The Plague Man stopped his hand. “Perform your rite Holy Man, but touch them not, or the seven devils will search for you instead.”
<p>
Had the man asked Isaiah the same only fourteen days past he could have--the plague would have ended right here and now.
<p>
“I cannot.” Isaiah replied, and hung his head in shame. “I gambled with the necromancer on the hill, and lost my soul. I had hoped…” Tears blurred his vision as he cut off what he had been about to say. What difference did it make what he had hoped? “I must now give him the tokens or my afterlife will be his to command.”
<p>
A specter's wail sounded in the distance, carried by the wind.
<p>
“The devils are near.” The Plague Man tilted his head in the perfect parody of the carrion eaters he resembled, listening. “I did as you asked thinking I had finally found the end.”
<p>
His cloak folded like wings against his body when he stepped aside, favoring the shadow of a pillar. Isaiah stared down at the tokens, seeing freedom from the plague ruined because of his folly. Because he thought there had been a way to convince the necromancer to destroy the demons.
<p>
“Tell me Plague Man, now that you have them could you not seek another holy man with these hidden away?”
<p>
“Not with seven devils at your door. My skill is not so great as that.”
<p>
The scratching and pounding announced their arrival; with howls to send the bravest intentions to dust with terror at what waited beyond the oaken door.
<p>
Before there could be any objection or thought, Isaiah reached out and touched each grisly item. He did not feel fear as he thought he would, but instead absolved.
<p>
“I swear to you, for the time you have bought me, when this is done I will free your soul.”
<p>
The Plague Man wrapped the tokens in a thick leather case, so as not to touch them again, and let them vanish into the folds of his coat.
<p>
"Thank you,” Isaiah whispered to the dark, never hearing or seeing the man disappear as the door shattered.
<p><p><p>
<i>A.J. Vasquez says, "Unfortunately, I’m not funny, and cruel to my subconscious creatures as I toy with their emotions in black and white."</i>ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-81244684686723245392013-05-11T07:32:00.000-07:002013-05-12T10:37:10.657-07:00Flushed With ExcitementI know that my grandson is trying to be helpful; he’s that sort of five year old who still wants to
learn to do things the right way. However, last night I just had to draw the line. I had to tell him
that we just don’t throw used toilet paper in the wastebasket. It’s just not done!<br />
<br />
I know! I know; it seems terrible to me too, but I’m nothing if not a sympathetic grandpa. So I
asked Te’Juan just why it was he was throwing the poopie -- his word, not mine -- the poopie
toilet paper in the wastebasket instead of into the toilet bowl. I should have known that he would
have a perfectly good and reasonable answer. He told me that he just didn’t want the toilet to
overflow on the floor. A few more probing questions and I began to understand.<br />
<br />
It seems that a few days previous to this Te’Juan had flushed this toilet and walked away,
presumably done with his business, so to speak. Well, it seems that he had used a more than
generous amount of toilet paper -- his mother had warned him to be really clean, so he really was
-- and the toilet clogged, backed up, overflowing on the floor. The poor little guy was corrected
and warned not to plug up the toilet again.<br />
<br />
Well, Te’Juan is nobody’s fool; he’s very intelligent -- takes after his grandfather. He knew that
when faced with conflicting requirements -- you know, like getting your butt clean but not
plugging up the toilet -- smart people, even smart little people, will come up with a solution. His
was to use the wastebasket. Now all of this was well and good and having heard the story I could
have had my inventive grandson back on the right track in no time at all, except for his
interfering grandma.<br />
<br />
It seems that my wife had eavesdropped on my toilet class with my grandson and she just
couldn’t contain herself. She had to point out that poop toilet paper in the wastebasket would
soon be covered with bugs and was, therefore, a very dirty thing to do. Stupid me; I just thought
it was dirty because it was poop! Anyway, she asked Te’Juan if he understood. He said not
really. She then reminded him of the dog poop in the backyard with the flies on it. He said he
remembered. She then asked if he wanted bugs in the wastebasket. He said that that would be
yucky -- again, his word. Smart kid!<br />
<br />
So now what? Well, every time that Te’Juan uses the toilet he immediately calls for management
-- that’s me, grandpa -- to oversee the flushing operation and to standby with the plunger, the
plumber’s helper. We haven’t needed it yet, but I guess it’s comforting to him to be so cautious.
Somehow this all seems tied back to grandma’s interference and I can’t help but think that I was
handling things better before she introduced bugs, dog poop and flies to the lesson.<br />
<br />
I’m certain that somewhere in this story there is a moral or life lesson, but for the life of me I’m
not certain what it could be. Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that sometimes our best intentions
overflow with unexpected results; or, maybe it’s that life is filled with choices: clean butt, clean
floor -- take your pick. Oh well, next time I’m just going to flush the toilet when grandma starts
to speak; I know what to do with poop.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (the hormonially-challenged) teacher. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large.</i><br />
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<br />ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-31140214239766596312013-05-04T07:03:00.000-07:002013-05-04T07:05:15.501-07:00Flood VictimWhile Arky sat leaning against the porch post, studying the raw sewage floating by, overhead a snake, coiled and ready, pondered a big mosquito that landed on the back of Arky’s neck.
<p>
Sookie, watching it all from the swing, put her knitting down in her lap and wondered out loud. “Arky, Hun, there was something in the paper this morning ‘bout the flood bringing in diseased skeeters. You think if a snake was to eat one of ‘em, it’d die from it? ”
<p>
“I reckon it would,” said Arky.
<p>
“Well then,” Sookie said, and she went back to her knitting.<p>
<p>
<i>Jerry H. Brown is a fiction writer living in Memphis, TN.</i>ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-35806824021471647122013-01-27T09:32:00.001-08:002013-01-27T09:32:32.991-08:00The Happiest Place<span style="font-size: small;">You park in a labyrinth. Do you have everything you need? Lock the doors. Level H, row nine. You are here. Cartoon Mark Twain. Animatronic Lincoln. Cartoon Thomas Paine. Cartoon Bob Dylan. Everyone wears a name-badge stating where they are from. Gregory from Los Angeles. Alcohol is forbidden on the premises. There are security cameras in the parking lot. Please keep your arms and legs inside of the tram at all times. Please do not climb the rocks. “On good days you can see clear out the park.” The lady next to you is foreign. She has waited in line for the tram; waited in state-wide gridlock; waited in line at the gas station—she has waited her whole life for this day. Everyone has. She cannot wait to pass the gates and wait further. Everyone who waits gets a turn. First-timers get badges. People with canes are provided with chairs: Everyone is in this together. There is always more than one line but both remain the same length and move at the same speed. The illusion of choice. Children must be taught how to behave while in line. Most are not. Old-timers say that the lines aren’t like they used to be. Get your “Waiting in line” expression on. True American food. Get your churros. Get your popcorn. Get your customized pretzels. Get your cartoon J.D. Salinger holding a nine dollar craft brew. Single-serving turkey legs. If you choke the next one’s on us! On good days you can see clear out the park. The fastest ride has the highest peak. Lockdown seating only. Three, two, one—zero to sixty in one second. Everyone grins. Then the drop. People scream. Get your scream time in. Everyone digs scream time. Dig your cartoon Michael Jackson singing through the speakers. Now the loop: grind your teeth pry open your eyes. It’s the happiest place. Everyone grimaces tumbling through the loop. Necks were misaligned; mistakes were made. If you open your eyes at the apex of the loop, if you turn your head towards the setting sun at the exact right moment you can see clear to the Pacific. Oh Beautiful for spacious skies. Better luck next time. Balloons within balloons. Plastic chains and plastic spoons. Get your “It was so worth the wait” face on. Got my souvenir cartoon John Lennon peace sign shot-glass. Whiskey’s in the car. Absolutely no cutting in line. Absolutely no flash photography. Parties of twelve or more will be charged eighteen percent gratuity. Get your novelty toothpicks and discount breath-mints. Everything you want. The illusion of abundance. Freedom isn’t free, nor happiness. Prices may vary. Come again soon! Freedom-Land. Annual pass holders save money in the long run. Chaos isn’t free. No one is frenzied, everyone is happy. Consumerism is such cliche. The happiest, happiest place on earth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Gregory Nordquist lives and writes in L.A, where he is either too hot or too cold.</i></span><br />
ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-23960244293563010942013-01-23T18:52:00.000-08:002013-01-23T18:52:32.558-08:00Family MannersBeyond the free-for-all approach to large family get-togethers for in-laws and outlaws, her family no longer has any manners at table. There is no formal prescription or proscription of actions surrounding holiday get-togethers, except for the one great shared meal each Thanksgiving. Rules apply then. Animosities must be held in abeyance. A hierarchy of age is instituted for serving and seating. The smallest children are banished to another room, at least to another table, usually a card table, or TV trays. Adults are left to their strained relationships, but everyone is expected to be on their best behavior: no discussion of politics, religion or sex, by tacit, mutual agreement. All three subjects, therefore, become focal points of riotous disagreement within the first few minutes. It had been her deepest hope that it would work this year, but she knew it might be doomed and had planned for it.<br />
<br />
She realizes one result of not allowing the youngest children at the main table will be their postponed acquisition of profanity until preschool. But the best result is that the children are not served from the turkey she prepared especially for the feuding adults from her own very special recipe.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Rick Hartwell believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.</i>ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-39331203556493337852012-12-31T10:30:00.000-08:002013-01-01T10:38:49.856-08:00Two More For Dinner<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Dinner went well until Mother swallowed too large a piece of turkey and, after a hurried but heartfelt thump on the back by Uncle Victor, ejected not only the lump of partially chewed meat but a proportion of her stomach contents as well. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald looked at his mother with some anxiety while Jennie, a napkin pressed over her nose and mouth, hurried to open a window. “Are you all right, mum?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“She's fine.” Oblivious to the smell of vomit, Victor returned to his plate, taking the opportunity to snag a second helping of roast potatoes. He nudged their mother with his elbow. “You're fine aren't you, Mum? The food was a bit richer than she's used to, that's all.” He speared a Brussels sprout and held it aloft. “Marvelous fare though, Jennie. Thanks for inviting us.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Er... You're welcome, Victor. I'm glad there's enough. Don didn't mention you were coming.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“I didn't know.” Donald scowled at his brother. “You never said you were visiting.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“It was a last minute decision.” Victor nudged the old woman again. “Wasn't it mum?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Last minute.” The old woman's movements were almost mechanical. Cut-stab-cut-stab-transfer to mouth-chew-swallow-repeat. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald pushed his plate away, searching for a topic of conversation. “So what made you come this year? Don't you usually go to Ludmilla's?” Ludmilla was their sister. She lived only a few miles from their mother's house in Norfolk. “Not that it isn't a nice change you came here, of course. I was just curious.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Ludmilla's got the exterminators in.” Victor speared a piece of roasted turnip, added a slice of sausage stuffing and steered both through the pool of cranberry jelly. “Someone complained about the rats.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Their mother's eyes flickered briefly. “Rats.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald nodded sagely. “Ah. She always had a problem with rats. Comes of living on the fens, I suppose.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“So they say.” Victor gave a snort of laughter. “Though the mud helps preserve the bodies.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Bodies?” Jennie turned from her street gazing. “What bodies?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Didn't I ever tell you, love? Ludmilla's a mortician. I'm sure I would have said.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“We've been married eleven years, Donald, and you've never mentioned it once.” Jennie's tone was as cold as the congealing gravy. “I think I'd have remembered, especially after Uncle Ron died . We had such a fuss trying to find someone willing to reassemble him after his accident.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“You should have asked, Don. Ludmilla would have been more than willing.” Victor gestured at her with his knife, mercifully devoid of content. “She's got a beautiful blanket stitch. She wins prizes for it.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald looked at their mother. She had, thankfully, cleaned up most of her plate and was reaching for the dish of turkey slices. There was a sudden noise from the region of her armpit, the sort of sound cloth makes when it rips down a seam. A bulge appeared in the sleeve of her dress. Victor looked alarmed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Have you torn your dress, love?” Jennie reached to push the plate of turkey closer to her mother in law but stopped in mid-action. “Donald? There's <i>something</i> on her sleeve.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald followed the line of her pointing finger, expecting but dreading what he saw. A single white maggot worked its way out of her cuff and dropped to the table, and where there was one, there were a hundred more. The bulge in her sleeve was wriggling. “Victor? I think you need to take mum for a comfort break.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“If you think so, Donald.” Victor stood, very deliberately placing one hand over her arm to prevent further escapes. “Come on mother. Let's get you sorted out. I told you not to eat so much.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Eat much. Eat.” Their mother grinned suddenly, her teeth yellow against the dark cavern of her mouth. “Food good.” Her elongated vowels were the sound of wind through a mausoleum.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Jennie's glad you enjoyed it.” Victor steered her out of the room.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Donald sighed. Jennie had a look of clouds before a thunderstorm. He reached across the table and picked up the stray maggot, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I should have told you this a long time ago, love, but our name hasn't always been shortened to 'Stein'...”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: small; line-height: 21px;"><i>Rachel Green juggles time between walking in the Derbyshire Dales and writing. She doesn't walk all that much.</i></span></div>
ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-64216995383255893902012-12-27T19:41:00.002-08:002012-12-27T19:41:19.006-08:00Submit!We have been unofficially open for submissions since May, but the official call for submissions is now up at the main web site.<br />
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Read the <a href="http://moonhollowpress.blogspot.com/2012/12/call-for-submissions-flash-pan.html" target="_blank">guidelines</a> and then <a href="https://moonhollowpress.submittable.com/submit" target="_blank">submit</a>!<br />
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We eagerly anticipate all the wonderful things you will send us. Even more, we look forward to all the new writers and new works we will publish! <br />
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ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7536823996121147630.post-13733812360612649642012-05-21T16:37:00.001-07:002012-05-21T16:38:14.910-07:00Welcome<span style="font-style: italic;">Flash Pan </span>will soon open for submissions.ecbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13884174050027125954noreply@blogger.com0