Writer Wednesday: Flash!

Because everything's more exciting with an exclamation mark at the end (sledgehammer! verrucas! antidisestablishmentarianism!), yes -- it's National Flash Fiction Day! All right, so only in the UK, officially -- but since I live in Ireland I don't have to listen to what the Queen says anyway, so she can't tell me not to write about flash fiction.

Jubilee, my arse!

Sorry, channeling Jim Royle for a moment (how apropos!). I like writing flash: when a long project gets stuck, often the best way to get unstuck is to write something short but complete. Clears the brain.

So here's my flash fiction you can read on line right now, hastily copied and pasted from the bibliography. All are a thousand words or less, so plenty of time to read one even in your busy schedule. How else would you celebrate? If you feel so moved, why not write a flash story in the comments or paste a link to one you've got up somewhere. Share the wealth -- even if it's only a bite. Some also come in easy listening audio form and some are -- gasp -- poetry. Others may contain language unsafe for gentle ears. You have been warned:



“Biscuits.” Flash fiction. Short Humour, May 2012. Also available at Postcard Shorts, May 2012.

“Bill is Dead.” Flash fiction. Pulp Metal Magazine, Spring 2012.

“Words.” Flash fiction/podcast. Dogcast 5: March 2012.

“Mandrake Anthrax.” Short story. A Twist of Noir, 14 Dec 2011.

“Soap Opera Digest.” Humour. Dragnet Magazine 2 (Jul 2011): 40-42.

“There was a Professor of English.” Poem. Asinine Poetry (Apr 2011). Also an AudioBoo.

“A Charming Situation.” Short story. Written for the Sherlocking fan site: now free on Scribd (Nov 2010).

 “The Last Ant.” Humour. Wild Violet 9.2 (2010).

“Rothko Red.” Audio version available at Soundcloud, also included in Dogcast 12.

“Wixey.” Flash fiction. Wild Violet 8.1 (2009).

“The Princess and Her Pig.” Poem. New Fairy Tales 1 (Oct 2008): 18-19. Soundcloud.

“Diva Soup." Soundcloud. 2008.

 “Corrections to the Rules of Fimble Fowl (for 3 players or 4).” Humor. Wild Violet 6.2 (2007).

When Little Joe the Krampus Met. Chapbook with The Joey Zone (Dec 2003). Soundcloud.

“The Eleventh Commandment.” Rictus 9 (Apr 1997).

And of course my very first publication, the one Clive Barker called, "full of fluent style and poetic dialogue" (swoon):

“Revelation.” The Official Clive Barker Page, www.clivebarker.com. Winner, MGM/United Artists/Clive Barker’s Lord of Illusions Short Story Contest, November 1995.

Now I have some postcards to read!

Flash Fiction Challenge: Zoo Story

Patti Abbott has challenged folks again on the topic of the zoo: here's mine with apologies to Edward Albee and William Shakespeare and Bruce Robinson as well. So there.
 

Zoo Story

"So, this is the place."

"This? Why?"

"I thought it would be dramatic."

"Dramatic? Why? Wolf howls make it dramatic?"

"Not exactly. That scene was filmed here."

"What scene?"

"From the movie, you know the one."

"No. You mean…no. Which one?"

"The funny one, with those two guys and the drinking and—it's very funny. You liked it."

"It's not coming to mind."

"But there's that scene where he quotes from Shakespeare."

"Who does?"

"Whatsisname…Grant."

"Cary Grant?"

"No, not Cary Grant. The other one."

"Hugh Grant?"

"No, whatsit—Richard! Richard A. Grant."

"Don't know him."

"You do! He was in that movie and in lots of other ones. Tall bloke, gaunt looking, theatrical. He was in the Spice Girls movie."

"What did he play?"

"I don't remember. Anyway that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"He was giving that speech from Shakespeare, right here, by the wolves."

"What speech?"

"Oh, you know the one."

"Obviously I don't. 'Wherefore art thou, Romeo?'"

"No, not that one. The one with 'quintessence of dirt' in it. Oh, you know, it's a famous one. Macbeth maybe."

"No, not ringing any bells."

"About the nature of man…"

"All the world's a stage?"

"No, not that. Oh, you know it—I can't remember now. It was raining down and he was reciting it to the wolves."

"Why to the wolves?"

"Because they were there. His friend had gone."

"What was his friend's name? Maybe that will remind me."

"I can't remember his name. I'm not sure the friend ever gets named."

"In the whole movie? No one ever says, 'Hey whatsyername, answer that phone' or something like that?"

"No. I mean, I'm pretty sure. The film's from his point of view. They go see the uncle and he gives them the cottage and they go on holiday."

"Oh, yeah, I kind of remember that one."

"Anyway he has that speech—"

"He does? Or the other one?"

"The other one, all right. But he gives that speech at the end of the movie and his only audience is the wolves and it's very significant."

"Why?"

"Well, because he goes on to be a great actor and you can see it in that moment. It's the beginning of better things."

"Oh."

"So I thought it would be appropriate—"

"What's the speech again?"

"It's about man's place in the world, the sky above, the ground below and how grand it all is. Quintessence of dirt."

"What does that mean anyway?"

"Like the epitome of dirt, I guess."

"Wouldn't that be a bad thing though?"

"No, not really—I think you're missing the point. It's poetry like."

"But it must mean something. If you're the epitome of dirt, you're still dirt."

"But don't you see—I mean, it's Shakespeare. Poetry."

"Ironic, you mean?"

"Well, not necessarily ironic but poetic. What's the word? Metaphor."

"Metaphor? That's when you compare things?"

"Sort of."

"So, what? The wolves respond to metaphor? Oi, wolves! Metaphorse for me."

"You're thinking metamorphoses. That's changing."

"Evolving. What would wolves evolve into?"

"Don't change the subject."

"What was the subject? This stupid movie?"

"It's not the movie, it's the speech."

"What about it anyway? You can't even remember what Shakespeare it's from."

"The play isn't important."

"The play's the thing—isn't that Shakespeare too?"

"Probably. But what I was saying—"

"Every famous quote comes from Shakespeare, doesn't it? Why is that?"

"I don't know. But the speech—"

"All the world's a stage, the play's the thing, the face that launched a thousand ships…"

"Yeah, but what I wanted to say—"

"Are they all from Hamlet? No some must be from comedies. Wait, Hamlet—that's the one. It comes from there."

"What does?"

"Your speech."

"Right, that's it. I'm sure it is. And the reason I—"

"Lots of good ones come from that play—isn't it bad luck to say the name? 'Bare bodkin': we always had a giggle at that one in school."

"Look, I wanted to say—"

"And there's a joke about privates, too. Miss, we'd say, could you read that part again, we didn't understand it. Hilarious!"

"Never mind that. I was talking about—"

"Do you suppose writers do that on purpose? Put in jokes like that?"

"I don't know. I don't care."

"What was that?"

"What?"

"That little box you threw into the pen."

"Nothing."

"Look, that wolf is trying to eat it. What is it?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Let's go have a drink."

"You're funny today."

"Yeah. Maybe Shakespeare wrote me."

"Ha, that's funny. So what was that box?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Scarry Night: Miss Lonely Heart

This is a flash piece for a challenge put up by the ever resourceful Patti Abbott: for the rest of the entries pop on over to her blog. The link was the line "I really don't mind the scars."

She seemed so small at the big table, a drink with the palest hint of green beaded with sweat next to the flickering candle. His heart swelled. He knew he wouldn’t tell her—at least not that night—that the emotion flooding his ventricles was protectiveness. She was so self-sufficient, what with her little candy shop and her scrupulously kept accounts.

He had seen them—and her—when he first figured out the clues. Her username ("candyheart") and her avatar (the gift-wrapped 1lb dark chocolate truffle box) added to her "self-employed" designation and a few casually dropped references to the chocolate trade. You didn't have to be Sam Spade to connect the dots.

"Tabitha?" He added the question mark to his voice in order to play the part of the uncertain swain.

She smiled. "It's you." Her hand thrust out awkwardly and he enclosed it in his large paw, feeling a surge of satisfaction that felt so primal, so right. It took all his strength not to enfold her in his arms at once. Calm down, you've got a lifetime.

The drink, she explained, was zubrowka, a kind of Polish vodka with some sort of grass in it. Normally he'd find such a thing unhygienic, but because it was her drink, he got one, too. The cold bite of that first sip sealed the night for him. He didn't usually drink but there was something so clean about the taste, he knew it was a sign.

Talk came easily, just as it had online. Over the flank steak Tabitha confessed, "I still think of you in my head as Number 7." The pink blush on her cheeks did something to his insides. They churned like hot taffy.

"It's not actually Number 7. It's Double O seven," he corrected her. "It's from a movie—actually a series of movies." The vodka made him feel expansive, he forgave her misunderstanding easily.

Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "When you said it out loud, I remembered at once. James Band!"

"Bond."

She smiled. "That's the one!"

The bloody red of the steak as she popped it in her mouth increased the warmth he felt from her nearness and the drink and the night. "I have something to show you," he said feeling the heat a little too much on his brow.

"I know," she said, smiling yet, though her eyes grew serious.

He looked over his shoulder to assure himself no one else in the room was paying them any attention, then began to unbutton his shirt. For a moment, he hesitated, then pulled back the crisp linen to reveal the long welts across his chest.

Tabitha reached up her tiny hand to touch his skin. It was electric. He thought her tiny nails, varnished an innocent pink, somehow made the slender fingers even more delicately beautiful.

"I really don't mind the scars," she murmured, turning her bright eyes back to her plate, a crimson flush rising up the back of her neck—visible even in the dim light of the restaurant. It foretold a sensuous nature.

"May I walk you home," he asked, his voice catching slightly as he slipped the raincoat over her small shoulders.

"Of course." Her bright eyes promised so much. Surely the path to her home would have some quiet corner where he could test that promise and take that little girl into his arms. When they crossed Pine at the corner and she pointed off toward Yates, he knew the right place.

"Can we step in here a moment?" He gestured to narrow behind the Chinese restaurant. His heart leapt into his throat. "I-I wanted to kiss you. I didn't know how to ask."

"Shhh," she said and took him by the hand. They walked into the passage and she turned her bright eyes up to him.

"You're so lovely, Tabitha." He rested his big hands on her shoulders. "So very lovely."

"And you're so delicious, Number 7," she said with a smile, her white teeth glinting in the dark.

"Double O seven," he chuckled.

"No, Number 7," she corrected him as her mouth dropped open and she sunk her teeth into his chest, tearing away a gaping hole in the flesh as he clanged back against the rubbish bin. Her grin transfixed him as she wiped the blood across her face and it dripped onto the raincoat. Quick as a lightning bolt she struck again, cracking ribs and growling. Then he saw it was his heart in her teeth, blood still furiously pumping out of it in all directions.

"I love you, Tabitha."

She popped the heart out her mouth with one tiny hand, bouncing it up and down as if weighing it. "I know, dear, I know."

Purposeful

I started out the day purposefully: I got a needed oil change, ran to the store and then came to campus. There things began to bog down a bit, not only because there was a lot of email to get to and a call from the Dean but then there was the printer not working. I haven't bought new ink for my printer at home, so I've generally relied on the printer here on campus. When we got new printers and a whole new print admin system, I was the only one who never had a problem printing. Everyone else was screaming for blood because of course they decided to change the system at the beginning of the semester. So I've taken advantage of the one colleague in the building to have him print a couple of emergency things and will hope the Mac guy gets around to me soon.

Yes, we have one person in IT who's competent in Macs. We have (last I knew) over 200 Macs on campus. And you wonder why our last Mac person quit to go to Skidmore where she has fewer headaches and more pay... oh, that's right. No wonder at all.

You can catch up with the latest episode in La Ronde, the round robin story started by Patti Abbot. Today's installment (#10 already!) is "It's Raining Down in Texas" by Graham Powell. Amazing turns this narrative has taken: now in Texas.

Kit Marlowe's The Mangrove Legacy will be available from All Romance Ebooks on December 15th! You can get The Big Splash there now (as well as at Noble Romance and Amazon).

21st Century Gothic will be printed on my birthday :-) though it won't be available until 2011.

I just got word that my presentation "Bringing a Medieval Woman to Life" (about writing a play on the life of Christina of Markyate) got accepted for the Great Writing Conference in London next June. Looking forward to that. I'm also considering a conference in Akureyri, Iceland as well. We shall see. Yeah, don't remind me of that note which says "Just say no!" I am (on the whole) doing less. Well, less of some things. Combining things, too, seems helpful (work that does double duty). But yeah, it remains the case that there is so little time, and so much to do!

Publication: Wixey

My flash fiction piece "Wixey" will be coming out in Wild Violet. The story is inspired by the many horror stories that inevitably come up at MLA, the most stressful conference for people in languages and literature because it's where the job interviews are done. It's a short piece, but it came together quite satisfyingly nonetheless.

Wild Violet has also published a couple of other pieces by me: "Corrections to the Rules of Fimble Fowl (for 3 players or 4)" and "Me and Margery Kempe." I think it's safe to say that editor Alyce Wilson appreciates my particular sense of humour.