Sunday, August 26, 2012

In Search of a Dream

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

The experimental duck barks at the ersatz moon. He nods to his lab mate, the miniature wolf, signaling it is time to make their break. Outside the rising sun smiles, clouds streak the sky like linguine, trees whisper encouragement. The pair heads in different directions planning to rendezvous later. Their goal freedom. Their hope understanding.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

The Company Outing

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

Jason pressed a key and the software agent began to canvas Anna's hard drive. Whatever power it was that got her promoted over him had to be there. He stared out the window until he heard the computer chime. His mouth gaped when he saw the picture of him and Carlos in the computer room.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012


"They broke into my house. I can't stay here any longer."

My mother sat on the bed, hands shaking, water dribbling from her quivering lips onto her slip, her tattered dress on the floor, defeated.

"We have to wait for the police, Mom. I can't take you anywhere just yet."

A stranger looked at me. "Please, Shelly?"

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Wonderland Or Bust

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

Alice sat on the edge, her legs dangling in the void, the notebook page blank beside her. The flow of new words had stopped, leaving her stuck on the precipice--alone, remote. A bell beckoned from below, the sounds of a party wafted up the tunnel. Conflict without compromise kept of her from venturing further.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Just What the Neighborhood Needs, Another Wacko

I crouched behind a lilac bush and watched the horse gallop down the street and stop in front of my place. I hadn't received any mail for three days and wondered what was going on. I thought maybe kids were pranking me.

The rider wore a Stetson, chaps, and cowboy boots with silver inlays in the toes. His back was hunched, and he must have weighed 125 pounds stepping out of the tub. He rode a black stallion big enough to win a game of chicken with a bulldozer. His pants were AWOL.

"Hey, pardner," I said, as he reached down and opened my mailbox. "What the hell ya think you're doin'?" I didn't normally talk like this, and even odder I felt like spitting into a bucket.

He snatched my mail out of the box, rifled through it, and spurred the horse on to Fred's. I sauntered over--I'd never sauntered before either--and repeated my question. He looked at me like I was the one who belonged in the hoosegow. 

"Only advertisements." He looked at me and shrugged. "Same as you get every day."

We stared at each other for a moment and when I didn't respond, he reached down and opened Fred's box. The horse snorted and pounded the ground as if instructed to count to three. I took a step back.

"Well, it just ain't right--stealin' a man's mail," I said, my thumbs hooked in the waist of my jeans.

When I realized where my hands were, I lowered them and watched the rider take Fred's mail. It didn't look any more important than mine. Still…

I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't want to get into an argument with anybody, especially someone not wearing pants. I couldn't call the police. They'd ask lots of questions and make me write stuff down. I was too busy for that.

I looked up and spotted Fred waving at me through the window. I couldn't see him well enough, even squinting over my glasses, to know if he was waving me inside or telling me to get away. I knew he wouldn't come out until the guy left, then he'd blame me for his mail being stolen. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if Fred knew about the half-naked highwayman before I did.

I turned to see the rider put something back in Fred's mailbox. Without looking at me, he said, "Bill. I got enough of my own." He closed the box and picked up the reins.

"Well, tomorrow I'll be out here with a gun," I said. "So you better not come back." I realized my hands were at my sides as if I was reaching for a pair of holstered, pearl-handled beauties.

"Tomorrow's Sunday," he said and rode off to Edith Clanton's.

I watched him stop at two more boxes before I turned and headed into the setting sun, even though it was only two o'clock in the afternoon.