Tag Archives: forward motion

Flash Fiction Friday Story: Going Home

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Dog, lounge, Winter, Yard, Home

Spot watches the Winter back Yard

Spot hunkered down behind the Methodist Church out of the wind. The man would be coming out any minute and always brought half a sandwich to give her. This time of the year the sun set early, leaving her to a long, cold night.

She heard the door open. The light came on and the man stepped out. She’d given up trying to get inside. Spot remembered a time when she lived in a house. That was four winters ago after the summer she’d had puppies. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong but her people took the puppies away too soon. She remembered how much her teats hurt from the milk she had still been producing.

They’d called her into the car and Spot thought they’d forgiven her. They brought her here and after letting her out in a park, they got back in the car and didn’t let her in. She’d run after them but she was too slow and she watched the car drive away.

The man from the church walked toward her. “Here you go, girl.” He put the sandwich on a flat rock and backed off. She approached, tail wagging but keeping an eye on him as she gobbled the food. She’d tried to approach people at first. Boys threw rocks at her. People kicked her away from their front doors. Old ladies turned their hoses on her. Now she kept her distance. But this man didn’t yell or throw things. So she let him get near but not too close.

“We’re having a midnight service tonight, so don’t be afraid.”

Spot licked her chops and trotted to her bed under the tree after he drove away. She’d scratched together the needles to make a bed she could burrow into, curl up, and sleep out of sight. She felt safe there.

After awhile she woke to the sound of cars pulling into the church parking lot. Spot raised her head to sniff. It was cold and she didn’t smell any food so she curled up again. Soon the sound of the church organ escaped the building and Spot could hear the people singing. She dreamed of having a home again, a soft bed, and regular food.

She woke again to the sound of bells just as a small girl stroked her head. The dog leapt out of her bed, a snarl deep in her throat.

“Don’t be afraid, puppy,” the girl lisped. She sat on the needles and held out a cookie. “I brought you a present.”

Spot could smell the peanut butter. She loved peanut butter. The girl didn’t seem to be a threat and the cookie was tempting so she took a hesitant step toward the out stretched hand.

“That’s a good puppy,” the girl coo’d. “Santa is coming tonight and the baby Jesus says we have to be nice.”

Spot crept closer, a wary eye on the girl.

“You can have it. It’s good.”

The dog took the cookie gently from the child’s hand, her Labrador genes kicking in, and gulped it down.

“Good puppy.” She reached out to pet Spot’s head.

The dog jerked back but remembered how nice it was to be petted. She inched toward the girl.

“What a nice puppy.” The girl lightly stroked the dog’s head, scratching behind an ear.

Spot pushed her head into the girl’s hand, remembering the feeling.

The girl got up. “Come on, puppy. We’re having a Nativity. I’m a visitor to the manger. You can be my dog.” She stepped away.

Spot stayed.

She waved to the dog. “Come on, you can be in the nativity, too.”

Spot followed the girl into the church. It smelled of many people, wax, candle smoke and food long gone.

The girl led the dog down a hallway and through a door. Spot stayed close to the girl as she walked to the group in front of all the people. There were standing around a manger. A choir was behind them singing. The girl walked to the center of the group and waved the dog over. “Come on, puppy,” she whispered. “You can sit beside me.”

Slowly Spot moved beside the girl and sat down. The man who gave her food was in the pulpit behind them and he quietly spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a true Christmas miracle here with us tonight. Mandy has made friends with the dog who shelters here on our property. I’ve been trying for a year to make friends with this dog. And now, by the grace of God, she’s here, at our Nativity, proving the everlasting love of our Lord.”

The Nativity group stayed in place as the congregation broke into their next hymn. Spot lay down at Mandy’s feet. When the service was over, Mandy knelt down and hugged the dog.

Her parents walked over to her and the Minister came down from the pulpit. “Carolyn, Ted, thanks for coming tonight.” He shook hands with Ted.

“What about this dog, Pastor. Is it safe?”

“Oh yes,” the minister told them. She’s a nice dog. Can you take her in?”

Mandy looked up at her parents, eyes bright. “Oh please, Mom, Dad. She’s a good puppy. See!” The girl indicated the dog, head on paws. Spot’s ears perked.

“Well, she’s pretty dirty,” Carolyn said. “Where would she sleep?”

“With me,” Mandy chirped “In my room.”

The mother’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know about that, Mandy.”

“It’ll be alright, Carolyn,” her husband said. “You sure the dog is friendly?” He looked at the pastor.

“I’m sure. And it’s Christmas after all. What better time to show the love of God?”

Carolyn stared at the filthy dog. “Well, I guess a bath would improve the smell.” She looked into her daughter’s expectant face. “OK. I guess we’ll take her in.”

Mandy hugged Spot. “I’ll call her Grace.”

“A good name,” the pastor smiled.

They left the sanctuary, Grace trotting at Mandy’s heels. She was finally going home.

The End

997 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Merry Go Round Blog Tour: December and Where Are My Goals for 2014?

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Hit the Target, Grunge, Digital Art,

Hit the Target by ns-dante via www.deviantart.com

My list of goals for 2014, by the month, was extensive. Last year this time I went through the list as though I were reporting accomplishments to my commanding officer. This year, I’m going to be a little less obsessive-compulsive.

What’s been most important? I put six books up for sale. One every other month. This is the 2nd year in a row I’ve done that. Pretty good stat considering I just started writing in 2011.

I’ve been studying the craft. I have a world building class, still in progress and a class on how to write a series, extended version that I have been taking from Holly Lisle. https://howtothinksideways.com/login/  I signed up to take the World Building class then the Series Extended class opened. I’ve been doing the latter and the poor world building class has suffered. I’ll correct it soon, I promise. I also am still struggling through the 2013 Two Year Novel course. I’m tracking the lessons as they come in but I’m woefully behind the curve. The story still isn’t written and most of this year’s lessons are about editing and publishing. I’m not throwing my hands up. My story isn’t bad, it’s just not what I envisioned. I add words to it whenever I get a free writing day and the need to get words on screen is too much to bear. I need to finish it as it’s planned then wait and let it rest. Somewhere out there is the story I actually wanted to tell. It’ll come to me.

I’ve been working on my social media program. Since I publish independently I must work my own advertising/marketing program. Some people think this is a sacrilege. I can only say this. If it isn’t a sacrilege for Stephen King, James Patterson, or Nora Roberts to use the full weight of their publishing houses to advertise their work, why is it a sacrilege for me to use Facebook, Twitter, or Google+ to advertise my work? Anyway. I keep plugging away at making my marketing effective. I’ve taken 2 classes in the last 2 years. This year’s class offered some more detailed instruction. Some of it has been interesting, some seems like spam, some may be useful. I plan on turning my wordpress blog into an actual website in 2015. So beware, there are changes coming.

I am working hard at writing. This is the most important thing to me since my marriage and my daughter’s birth. I want this to work and I want this to be professional. I’m making this claim publicly for the first time since I started writing. I don’t consider this to be a hobby. I’m serious. I’m working hard to improve my writing skills. I hope my followers will help me by participating when I offer chances to interact with me. I’m serious when I ask for your opinion. When I make an offer, take me up on it. It’s real. My goals? I want to be a professional author. Help me make it happen.
The Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour is sponsored by the website Forward Motion (http://www.fmwriters.com). The tour is you, the reader, travelling the world from author’s blog to author’s blog. There are all sorts of writers at all stages in their writing career, so there’s always something new and different to enjoy. If you want to get to know the nearly twenty other writers check out the rest of the tour at http://merrygoroundtour.blogspot.com!  Up next: Jean Schara

Flash Fiction Friday Story: Sunday Morning in December

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Yard Dog, Snow, Sculpture

Yard Dog and Snow by Randy Cockrell

I drafted this story in the middle of National Novel Writing Month. I had Johnny Cash’s song, Sunday Morning Going Down, rolling through my brain and this story just demanded to be written. There is the occasional swear word. You’ve been warned.

John rolled out of bed and landed on the floor, tangled in the sheet, on his hands and knees. He glared at the digital clock covered in cigarette ash. Eleven twelve. Damn. I’m gonna be late. His mouth tasted like the floor of the dive bar he frequented and his breath smelled worse. He struggled to his feet, fighting the stinking, sweat soaked sheet. He needed to be on time.

In the cubicle the apartment manager generously called a bathroom, John used his sprung toothbrush to hack at his teeth. Toothpaste was long gone and baking soda had never entered the apartment. Water would have to do. After looking at his bloodshot eyes and scraggly beard he splashed his face with water and with the last sliver of bar soap, scrubbed his face and dragged the year old razor over his face. He emerged from the bathroom, bits of toilet paper stuck to cuts on his sunken cheeks and chin.

He staggered to the broken chest of drawers. They were all open to some degree or other. None of them closed all the way. John suspected the dresser had been made in 1920 and experienced a life much like his own, broken and desperate. Not a single drawer held a clean shirt or clean anything for that matter. He rummaged through the pile of clothes kicked into the far corner of the room. From the middle of the pile he selected his cleanest dirty shirt. The clothes rack next to the pile held a hanger with two ties, dirty and dirtier. He picked the dirty one and hung it around his neck.

John stumbled down the stairs. He did not want to be late. On the way he stopped at a corner store and bought a travel size mouthwash. While walking along the sidewalk he bit off the safety plastic, unscrewed the top and swigged the alcohol tasting stuff into his mouth. He spit it into the gutter, ignoring the gasps and comments of the church-going passers-by.

Fuck them, he thought. He was going to see his only son. The wreaths on the lamp poles and silver garland in the shop windows were ignored. His son had called him, said he wanted to meet. John wasn’t going to miss that, no matter what.

The bank sign across the street said eleven fifty eight. John spit on his hands, smoothed his hair back and straightened his tie. Before he gripped the tavern door handle, he took a deep breath. His son said to meet him here, at noon. John opened the door and stepped inside.

It was a good old-fashioned bar. John could tell as soon as he took a breath. If it wasn’t 2014 there’d be sawdust on the floor. He looked around the dim room. Cool and inviting, there were only a few men in the room. Most sat at the bar, but one was in a booth. He walked to the booth.

“Jim?” he asked the guy.

The man looked up at him. This couldn’t be his son, he was too old. “No, I’m Sam.”

John shook his head and stared at the men at the bar. “Jim?” he called out. No one turned. He walked up to the bartender who was reading a paper. “I’m meeting my son, Jim. He been in yet?”

The bartender put down his paper and eyed John. “No, no one by that name today.”

John felt a flush of panic. It was noon. “I’m supposed to meet my son. Jim. Today.” He grasped the rounded wooden edge of the bar. “You haven’t seen him?”

The bartender folded his paper and glared. “Nope, no Jim.”

John walked down the row of men on stools, grabbing them and turning them so he could see their faces. He rushed back to the end of the bar where the bartender stood, hand under the bar top.
“Are you sure? I was supposed to meet him here. I’m John Delancy. He’s Jim. Jim Delancy.”

From the end of the bar an old man spoke. “Hey, Mike. Don’t you have a letter under there? I remember it.”

The bartender rubbed the two day rubble on his face. “Maybe. Let me look.” He rummaged under the bar for a minute until he pulled a small box out onto the bartop. “I may have something.” He shuffled the bits.  From the bottom he pulled up a tattered, dirty envelope. He peered at the writing. “It’s to John Delancy.”

John leaned forward. Hope and eagerness filled his face. “That’s me!”

“You got ID?”

Stunned, John hesitated. “Uh, yeah.” He fumbled his wallet out of his inner sport coat pocket. The coat was shiny with dirt and sweat. He unfolded his wallet and pulled out a driver’s license, fifteen years out of date, and handed it to the bartender. “That’s me! Right there.”

The bartender looked at it and handed over the envelope. John ripped it open and nearly tore the letter as he pulled it out. It took him a second to open it. He spread it out on the the bar and squinted at it in the dim light.

Pa.

I expected as much. You just couldn’t keep our appointment. I thought you might change. I hoped you might change, now that there’s a grandson. How stupid could I be? I give up. You’ll never change. We’ll get along without out you, we always have.

Jim

John read the letter again and again. He finally looked at the very top, it was dated December 12th, 2013. He slumped onto the nearest bar stool. His face sagged. “Bar keep.”

“Yeah,” the man called from the other end of the bar.

“Beer.”

 

The End

950 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here:http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: Fall Hike

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See Canyon Fall Hike by Randy Cockrell October 2014

See Canyon Fall Hike by Randy Cockrell October 2014

Jean Hays was doing what she came to Arizona for, hiking. The fall colors here were muted, for the most part. Yellow dominated the central mountains fall color scheme unless you hiked down into a canyon. Then, the hiker saw all the colors of an Eastern fall day. Fallen leaves rustled underfoot and the smell was pure autumn, dusty, leafy, and woodsy. The sky was cloudless and she didn’t have a name for the color, but only was seen in October.

Her hiking partner was her friend, Karen Carver. They’d first met when Jean joined the Hise County Fair board. Karen was a Superintendent at the fair in charge of Homemaking Arts. They’d hit it off right away. The Fair was over for the year. It was time to enjoy the countryside.

The stream bed they’d been following had a trickle of water in it. It caught the sky above and reflected that glorious blue. Red and yellow maple leaves floated along with the water. When they came to a small pool, Jean called a break. Karen slipped her pack from her back and pulled out a well used Girl Scout sit-upon.

“Looks like you’ve had that awhile,” Jean said when she saw Karen spread it on a fallen tree trunk.

“I have.” She sat down and pulled a granola bar from her pocket. “It was my daughter, Peggy’s. It’s still good, so I use it. I don’t know if she even remembers I still have it.” She looked at what Jean was pulling out of her pack. “What’s that?”

“I cut up a foam floating mat to fit in the back of my pack. It’s the perfect size, good protection from wet, cold,” she examined a snag on the trunk and moved down a few inches, “and sharp things.” She pulled a baggie of Sungold cherry tomatoes out of the pack. “The last of the garden cherrys, want some?” Jean held out the bag.

Karen took four and popped one in her mouth. “Oh my, those are so good.”

Jean pulled a water bottle from the pack outside pocket and drank. Her eyes focused on something on the opposite side of the pool. “That doesn’t look natural.”

She walked around the pool and scrambled part way up the canyon’s side to a tree. “It’s a duffle bag,” she called down to Karen. “It’s a big duffle.”

“Who’d carry a duffle bag on a hike?” Karen wondered.

Jean tugged at it. It came loose from where it had lodged against the tree and rolled down the slope. The rotten canvas, discolored and moldy, split open when it hit a rock. Jean slipped down the hill and looked inside. “Oh my, God.” She danced away from the bag, back around the pool and stood panting beside Karen, now standing.

“What’s wrong?”

Jean stared at the bag. “It’s a body.”

#

Two hours later Greyson Chief of Police Nick White was standing with the women while police officers, EMT’s and Search and Rescue people milled around the area. “Two bodies in two months, Ms. Hays. I think that’s a record.”

Jean shrugged, annoyed with him. She’d found a body at the fair in September and stirred the whole town up. What could she say? It wasn’t her fault.

“In fairness, Chief,” Karen interceded for her friend. “We were just enjoying the day.”

“Huh,” he grunted. He pointed up the side of the canyon were police officers were taking pictures and measurements. “So you just pulled on it, it rolled down hill, hit the rock and split open?”

“Yeah.” She looked up at the sky, still blue but now spoiled somehow. “I grabbed the left end of the bag, where it’s cleaner than the rest. My feet were slipping on the leaves so I didn’t have a lot of control over it.” Jean still wasn’t over how he’d treated her during the Fair murder. It was as though he thought she was a bubble head or something. His tone of voice irked her now.

The coroner called out. “We have ID in the bag, Chief.”

“What’s the name?”

“Anson Prentiss. License is from 2003, 42 years of age, 5 ft 11 inches. Address is in Greyson.”

Nick White sighed. “Not going to look good on our stats, two murders in one year.”

Jean’s right eyebrow raised. Karen whispered, “I’ll explain later.”

“OK, get him to the morgue. Give the address to Boles, he can go check it out.” He turned to Jean and Karen. “You’re free to go. We have your statements.”

The women pulled on their packs and hiked out the way they came in. “What do you think?” Jean asked her friend.

“Anson Prentiss doesn’t ring a bell. But you know Greyson has a lot of new people move in each year. Or he could have been a summer person. Who knows?”

“Do you know the address?” Jean asked.

Karen stopped in the middle of the trail and turned around to stare at her friend. “Seriously? After the last time? You want to get involved?”

“Sure, why not?” Jean’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “If only to annoy Chief White. The guy’s attitude bugs me.”

Karen rolled her eyes and turned to continue hiking. “Yeah, I know the address, well, sort of. It’s in the old part of town, on the northeast side. You really want to go there?”

“Why not? We can just drive by; we don’t have to knock on the door or anything.” She grinned even though Karen couldn’t see her. We solved the last murder, didn’t we? We’ll just look, I promise.”

That statement made Karen snort. Jean could see her shake her head. “OK, we’ll drive by. That’s it.”

“Hoo!” Jean whooped. “We can stop for ice cream afterward.”

 

The End

962 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: Near Miss

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Turkey by Randy Cockrell

Turkey by Randy Cockrell

Zalon and his wife, Willow, slaughtered the last turkey from their flock. As he cleaned the axe, Willow held the bird to the feather plucker. The rotating drum with flexible fingers pulled the feathers off quickly. He remembered the first time they used it. Willow had held the chicken too close and the machine pulled not only feathers, but skin and nearly pulled her hands into it.

Their son, Bai, was picking up feathers and stuffing them into a bag. Zalon planned on keeping some of them for his own projects but the rest would be sold. Several artists used the heritage breed turkey feathers for their art projects.

Willow dropped the plucked bird into a bucket of water to clean it. “Last one,” she said as she rinsed her hands. “I’ll keep this one for the feast.”

“How ya doin’, son?”

“Good, Daddy.” The boy held out his bag.

Zalon smiled. Bai had feathers in his hair and stuck to his clothing.

A big grin spread across his  five-year-old face. It was the first time he’d been allowed to help. “I’ve got lots of feathers.”

“Yes you do. Mommy and I are going to wrap and freeze these birds for this winter. You finish picking up the feathers.”

“OK, Daddy.”

Zalon watched Bai squat down to grab more feathers next to the plucking machine.

Willow pulled the turkey out of the bucket and patted it dry. “This one will feed a lot of people. I’m so looking forward to tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast. I haven’t seen my parents or your’s in a month.”

Zalon began wrapping the birds in plastic. “Me, too. It’ll be nice to just relax at a party for the afternoon.”

They finished wrapping the birds and began the process of carrying them into the house where the industrial-sized freezer was. It took several trips as they could only carry a couple of birds each at a time.

They were putting the last of the birds in the freezer when they heard a scream. Zalon was first out of the door and into the yard. There he saw Bai backed up against the plucking machine, a Bashnall, a green and gold lizard-looking creature found on Titan 3, was nosing around the bucket where Willow had been rinsing the turkeys.

Zalon whistled for King, his domestic wolf. “Get a gun, Willow.” He dashed toward the Bashnall. He wondered at a Bashnall so close by. The wolves had begun hunting the Bashnall four years ago. He hadn’t seen one this close to town in a long time. The Bashnall knocked over the bucket, water flowed across the ground. Not finding anything to eat there, the Bashnall turned to Bai, still holding the bag of feathers.

“Drop the bag,” Zalon called to his son.

The boy stood, white-faced and big eyed, staring at the approaching creature, the size of the family wolf. King raced around the corner of the barn and streaked for the Bashnall. Zalon reached the boy, pulled the sack from his hand and threw it at the lizard as he spun around to the rear of the machine, Bai in his arms.

King gave a low growl and launched at the lizard. The Bashnall screamed making Zalon’s blood run cold. The animals were in a tangle, dust and mud flew in the air as each one scrambled to kill the other. Zalon used their distraction to back away then circle around to the house. He met Willow halfway across the yard. He handed her the baby and took the gun. “Get inside,” he told her then moved toward the animals.

It was hard to get a shot. King was rolling over and over with the Bashnall, snarling as he tried to reach the creature’s throat. Zalon followed the pair as they rolled. He wanted to get a shot off before the lizard hurt the wolf. He had his chance when the two broke apart. King crouched for another attack as the Bashnall whirled around to face its attacker. Zalon fired his blaster, the beam passing closer to his wolf than he liked. Don’t move, boy, he thought. The beam hit the predator in the head. It stood for a second as King leapt. The wolf grabbed the creature by the throat and shook the animal. Ichor and gobs of lizard flew in every direction.

“Easy, boy.” Zalon approached the wolf. “You got him, boy. Let him go now.” The wolf gave the creature another shake then dropped it at Zalon’s feet. Zalon stroked the wolf’s head. “Good job, King. Good job.”

The wolf huffed then nosed the Bashnall. He pointed his nose at the sky and gave out a long howl. Zalon chuckled. “The same way I feel,” he told the wolf.

Willow came out, Bai in her arms. “That was close,” she said as she stared at the creature in the dirt.

“It was. I wonder why this one is so close to town?”

“I don’t know. But it’s dead now.” She kissed Bai on the forehead.

Zalon hugged them both. “Thankfully, King was here to help.”

Willow stroked the wolf’s head. “I think a bone will be in order for him tonight.”

 

The End

867 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: What’s It All About

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The Briefcase by ChaosBang via www.DeviantArt.com

The Briefcase by ChaosBang via www.DeviantArt.com

Carol juggled briefcase, purse, and paper cup of tea as she hurried through the convention center. She didn’t sleep well last night, a combination of strange bed, strange room and city street noise. The convention center was in the middle of the city. So of course, she fell asleep about 3AM.

She had to work her way through the crowds of people wandering between booths before their seminars started. Naturally, she thought. Three people were standing in front of her space when she arrived, all staring at the graphic on the back wall and looking around for help.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late.” She dumped her stuff on the chair in the corner and pulled open the cabinet sliding door. I don’t know why they give me a chair. I never get to sit in it. She pulled the candy dish of chocolate kisses out and with the other hand, the brochure stand and put them on the counter. “Thanks for stopping by.” She pasted on her brightest smile. “What can I do for you?”

Things slowed a little while the attendees were in class but that’s when the exhibitors went booth to booth. They checked out the competition and collected the freebies each booth had. Since she was alone at her company’s booth, she couldn’t walk around but occasionally a vendor rep would wander by or better yet, a company rep that was interested in buying her company’s product. She garnered four sales leads during the day.

After 5PM she put the candy and brochures away. It was time for the dinner and bar scene. She put extra business cards in her suit jacket pocket and headed for the hotel bar. She stopped in the restroom and freshened her makeup, brushed her hair and checked her teeth. I don’t know why I’m bothering, she thought. I haven’t had anything to eat since the free yogurt the venue provided since supper last night. I’m going to have to order an appetizer if the bar doesn’t set something out. Her stomach growled.

By 9PM she was exhausted and her feet felt like bloody stumps but she had eleven more leads. Carol slumped against the elevator wall on the ride to her floor. One more day, then I can go home. She massaged her temples, a hangover from the three glasses of pinot grigio was already forming. Drink more water tomorrow, she thought as she unlocked her room door.

After her shower she called home. “Hey, Honey.”

“Hi, Babe.” Rick’s voice sounded tired. “How ya doin’?”

“I got fifteen leads today. My feet feel like stumps. Otherwise I’m fine. Kids in bed I guess.”

“Yeah, they have half a day at school tomorrow then it’s Thanksgiving break.”

Carol sighed. I should have called them at five before I went to the bar. “That’s OK. I have a 4pm flight. I’ll be home about 10PM. Everything else OK?”

“Mandy and her best friend are fighting,” Rick told her. “And Nick scraped his knee when he wiped out on his skateboard this afternoon.

A wave of guilt swept over her. Mandy will be heartbroken. “Oh no, How’s Mandy doing?”

“She’s mad. I suspect you’ll get an earful at breakfast day after tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. We’ll talk it through. These things happen with ten year-old girls. And Nick?”

Rick laughed. “He has a big band aid on his knee. He can’t wait to go to school tomorrow and show it off.”

She sighed again. “Thank, Hon. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Kiss the kids for me.”

After he said good-night, she clicked off and sank back against the pillows. Hope I can sleep tonight. She turned out the light.

The next day she got to her booth on time but otherwise it was a repeat of the previous day. She confirmed eight of the leads from the night before and gathered six more by the end of the second day. That puts me ahead of the rest of the sales team for November, she thought as she packed the booth up. That pretty much makes me November’s lead sales rep. Nothing is going to happen between now and December unless someone gets very lucky.

On the taxi ride to the airport she stared out of the window at the grim industrial area they drove through. Looks like every other industrial area in any other city, she thought. Mystery warehouses, factories with pipes running all over and steam escaping. She took a deep breath. Carol was tired, tired physically and tired of the constant travel to cities she never really had a chance to see. She wondered why she was doing this.

It was closer to eleven at night than her estimated 10PM when she pulled onto her street. The leaves had fallen from the neighborhood trees in the three days she’d been gone.

Rick came out to the garage just as she opened the trunk. Carol rested her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. She inhaled his scent, warm and familiar, and immediately felt at home. He carried her suitcase into their bedroom while she checked on the kids. Nick was sprawled across his bed, blankets tangled around his little body. She pulled his extra blanket over him and kissed him on the forehead. In Mandy’s room Mandy whispered, “Mom?” as Carol kissed her head.

“Right here, Sweetie.”

“Becky isn’t my friend anymore.” He blue eyes looked up at her mother, full of sadness and betrayal.

“I heard. We’ll talk about it at breakfast, OK?”

The girl nodded and snuggled into her blankets. She was asleep again by the time Carol closed the door.

It’s good to be home, she thought as she stepped into her bedroom. I missed it. The deeper question of why she ever left would be considered another day.

 

 

The End

971 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: Lesson Learned

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Coming Home With Hope by John Tansey-d2yt708 via www.DeviantArt.com

Coming Home With Hope by John Tansey-d2yt708 via www.DeviantArt.com

Once upon a time there lived a great King. He had a son, Prince Alphonse and a daughter, Princess Julia. The Queen, Margaret, loved her children very much. King Archibald loved his children as well but held them to very high standards.

Alphonse and Julia understood this. After all, they were the offspring of a great King. During the summer of Alphonse’s twenty-second year, he won the intra-Kingdom swordsmanship contest. A parade was held in his honor and the people cheered and cheered as he passed by. When Alphonse knelt before the King, his father, to receive the sash of accomplishment, the King held the sash high to the wild acclaim of the crowd. But when he placed the sash over his son’s head, the King whispered, “Your posta longas and thrusts were sloppy, son.” Alphonse bowed his head. His joy at winning was shattered.

That autumn, Julia competed against all of the maidens of the land in an archery competition. The princess out-performed all of the maidens by many points. A dinner was held in her honor. The King held her trophy aloft as she stood next to him and the crowd cheered and clapped. As he turned and handed it to her he whispered, “But you missed two bull’s eyes, my dear.” Julia took the trophy and held it up to the audience but her achievement felt like ashes in her mouth.

The next spring, Prince Alphonse declared he would have an adventure. He gathered a handful of trusted friends and galloped away. For a time carrier pigeons brought news but after a year, no news arrived.

The Queen grew sad but the King said, “He’s on an adventure. He’ll return soon covered in glory.”

The next year, just after her eighteenth birthday, Princess Julia declared, “I wish to sail to far off lands.” She gathered a handful of her friends who were also expert sailors, and they sailed away into the dawn at high tide.

The Queen wept every day. Both of her children were gone from her. The King said, “She’ll return covered in glory.”

A year, then two, then three passed by with no news. The Queen became melancholy. She stopped organizing balls and fairs. The King grew stricter. Nothing his councilors did was good enough. The people of the kingdom received stricter and stricter laws concerning quality, law, and production. He never smiled any more.

After five years the people, crushed under the restrictive laws began to rebel. Mud clods were hurled at the King when he rode through the streets. Lawlessness increased and the once nearly empty prisons filled to overflowing.

“What’s happening?” he cried out to the Queen one night in their apartments.

Queen Margaret looked up at him from her needlepoint. “It’s you. Nothing is good enough for you. You tighten the law until your subjects cannot make a move that’s within the law.”

“I’m looking out for them,” he shouted, red-faced. “I’m helping them improve.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “And now our children are gone and the people throw mud at you.”

He stared at her for a moment before his shoulders slumped. He pulled on his velvet robe and left the bedroom.

Two years later look-outs at the edge of the kingdom sent homing pigeons to the castle. Princess Julia’s ship was heading for home port.

The King and Queen hugged when they heard the news. The Queen began preparations for a welcome home ball. The tow of then stood on the castle ramparts most of everyday eager for the sight of the royal ship’s masts. When the ship was sighted, cannons boomed and church bells rang.

When the ship pulled into port, the King and Queen were waiting on the dock. They could scarcely breathe as the ropes were tied off and the gangway was lowered.

The Queen gasped when she saw not only Julia, but also Alphonse, step onto the gang plank and walk toward them. Tears flowed as she ran forward to hug them both as soon as they stepped on the dock. After many tears and kisses, the two siblings stepped toward their father. Before they could kneel, the King grabbed them both into a bear hug, tears in his eyes. “Forgive me, children. I was a fool.”

Julia and Alphonse traded looks of surprise. “No, Father,” Alphonse said as he clapped his father on the shoulder. “You have never been a fool.”

“We came because of the messages, Father.” Julia reached up to stroke her father’s face.

Queen Margaret’s eyes went wide.

“I’ve missed you both.” He held them at arm’s length, filling his eyes with the sight of them. “I was too hard on you. Too demanding.”

Julia hugged him tight. “We love you, Father. Your messages at every port said it all.”

That night at the ball to welcome them home the King made a speech. “Welcome home to Prince Alphonse and Princess Julia. They left home to escape my hard heart. I never took joy in their accomplishments – I just demanded more. When they left, I demanded more and more from my subjects. I’ve nearly brought my kingdom to ruin. I declare tomorrow a day of Thanksgiving. All laws passed since Julia sailed away will be rescinded. Anyone convicted of breaking those laws will be released. A feast will be held at the jousting grounds for the whole town.”

He held his arms wide and beamed at his family. “My children have returned.”

 

The End

913 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: Poltergeist

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Energy ball 001 by ISOStock via www.DeviantArt.com

Energy ball 001 by ISOStock via www.DeviantArt.com

“How do you do that?” my friend, Linda, asked from the front passenger seat.

“Do what?” I tapped my fingers on the wheel.

“Hit every red stop light? No wonder you’re always late.”

She didn’t know the half of it. “Just lucky, I guess.”

That morning was typical. The toaster burned the bread. The electric kettle wouldn’t boil water. The car starter just turned over until I got out, fiddled with the cable and knocked on the engine block three times. Bad cable you may say but I’ve replaced that cable five times in the last six months.

Anything electrical or electronic is a challenge. At home that night I lit a few candles and an oil lamp and sat down to read. I was half a chapter into the book when I could smell the ozone and hear the zz zz zz. “Come on out, don’t be shy,” I called as I marked my place and set the book on the coffee table.

They did, just like the night a year ago when my great-aunt, Emily, came over to see what I was talking about. We sat in the living room, the lights on, chatting about her bridge club when the lights went out with a huge crackle. Then we saw the little balls of sparks flew out of the kitchen and race around the room, dancing up and down the walls where hidden electrical lines were buried. At the end they drifted to me, circling my head, making the hair on my arms stand up. They raced up and down my body and when I raised my hands, palms up, several settled in each palm, sparkling like fireworks.

After they drifted away and disappeared Aunt Emily took a breath. “Poltergeist, that’s interesting. Can you control them?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me but from that point on that’s how I spent my evenings, learning to control my little electrical poltergeist. I’m getting pretty good. Most nights I let them come out when they want to. Some nights though, I call them. It was tough at first. I had no idea how to start. It turns out it’s a feeling, a need or desire. Once I mastered that, I began working on sending them to different parts of the room. Their reward is that I call them to me and let them swarm. Cuddle time, I call it. It doesn’t hurt, I feel energized, actually.

Recently I’ve been working on getting them to do actual work. They’ll turn on my lamp for me now when I ask. A week ago I was home, practicing with the poltergeist, when I heard the back door open. A shot of adrenaline surged through me. The little balls of sparks flew around the room in what I could only call a panic. “Who is it?” I rose from my chair.

Something glass hit the floor of the kitchen. The poltergeist shot toward the kitchen door and hovered there. I crept to the door jam and peeked around the corner. The light from the sparking dimly lit the room. A guy was standing in the middle of the floor, glass shards sparkled at his feet. The light from his flashlight hit me in the face. “Get in here,” he growled.

He had a knit balaclava over his head but his eyes were visible. They were wide. I can just imagine what I looked like with balls of sparks flying all around my head. He waved me into the kitchen with the hand that held a bag. “The lights were off. I didn’t think anyone was home. Sit in that chair.”

I slowly moved to the chair next to the kitchen table, pulled it out and sat down. The poltergeist were still with me.

“What is that?” He pointed the flashlight at the balls of sparks. Fear tinged his voice.

“I have poltergeist.”

He took two steps toward me, glass crunched under his feet. “Don’t be smart.” He batted at one that flew close to him.

“It’s true.” I stared him down. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Shut up.” He raised his flashlight and pointed it at me. “Where’s your cash.”

“My purse is on the cupboard,” I pointed to my right.

He crunched across the floor and dumped it on the counter. He ignored everything but the wallet. After he opened it he dug out my cash. “Seriously, twelve bucks?”

“Sorry, didn’t know you were coming.”

“Don’t be wise.” He pulled my credit card out of my wallet and turned to me. “This all you got?”

“Yeah. How many do I need?”

A few of the poltergeist swarmed over the credit card the guy was still holding up. That was going to ruin the magnetic strip on the card but I wasn’t going to tell him. He jerked his hand away and batted at the sparks with the flashlight.

More of the poltergeist flew over and swarmed the flashlight which went out. The guy batted furiously at the sparks. That caused all the rest of them to swarm him, up and down, round and round. I could see him in their light, whirling around and around, swearing. He began to choke and grab at his chest. The flashlight fell to the floor with a crash and rolled under the table. The would-be robber sank to the floor, groaning and gasping for breath.

I got up and went to my landline and dialed 911. “I have a robber in my house. It looks like he’s having a heart attack.”

Ten minutes later, the cops, then the ambulance were at the front door. I’d turned the lights on and encouraged the poltergeist to disappear. The cops took a statement; the EMT’s took the body. Heart attack, they told the cops.

After they left, I swept up the broken and crushed glass. The poltergeist came back out to play. I can think of several ways my friends could be useful.

 

The End

996 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Flash Fiction Friday: Day Ghosts

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Red Sky by Randy Cockrell

Red Sky by Randy Cockrell

The summer sun still spread its fingers of light down my street. I hesitated in the doorway of my apartment building. I needed to get to work but I wanted to wait until the sun was gone from the sky.

The building super moved past me with a barrel of trash for the dumpster. He eyed me as he passed. I nodded. He viewed me with suspicion because I wanted the basement apartment on the north side of the building. “No one wants that apartment, why do you want it?”

I shrugged. “I work nights. I like it dark while I sleep during the day.”

He eyed me then too. “OK, but don’t come back in a month looking for a place on the top floor.”

I promised. I’d never ask for a place on the top floor. I love October. The days are noticeably shorter. I have more time to move around the city without sunlight. I know, most people want to be out in the sun. Not me. And before you ask, no, I’m not a vampire. Those are a myth. My problem is ghosts.

The sun’s last rays lingered but I had to go. I stepped out into the street and looked both ways. I didn’t see anything but I never do when I take this chance. I was nineteen when it first happened. I was leaving the college library after an all afternoon session. All I could think about was getting to the student union and filling a tray with a burger and fries. I was half a block from the Union when a cold shudder swept through me. I stopped dead on the sidewalk and felt as though I was going to vomit. I pushed hair out of my face with a shaky hand. I didn’t have time to be sick. I swallowed and looked around. There were a lot of kids but no one was paying any attention to me. I started on my way and was overcome again with that feeling of ice and doom. I made it to a bush, just loosing its yellowed leaves to the recent frost before I hurled into it. A couple of passing girls giggled. I blushed.

I turned around and headed for my dorm room. Hungry or not, I needed to lie down. I had three more attacks before I made it inside to rest. My mom called me three days later. “Have you been feeling all right, sweetie?”

“Yeah, I must have some bug.” My voice was weak, days of chills and vomiting had taken a toll.

The line was silent for a moment. “When do you get sick?”

“Outside, every time I try to go to class or to the cafeteria, I just lose it.”

She didn’t say anything. I thought the connection had been lost. “Mom?”

“Um, I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You remember your grandmother Winston? Never went out in the daylight?”

“Yeah? Kinda strange. Only went to night mass, that kind of thing.”

“Well, she was cursed.”

I had to digest that information for a minute. “Cursed, like a gypsy curse? There’s no such thing.”

“There is. Look. I’ll drive up. It’ll be dinner time when I get there. You stay inside and rest. I’ll come and get you.”

I felt better by the time she came. It was dark when we left the dorm. She took me to a nice place and I tore into a medium rare steak, baked potato and green beans. Over dessert I opened the discussion. “So tell me about the curse.”

She sipped Pinot Noir. “She was about your age and told me when you were a baby. I never paid any attention to her activities, it all seemed normal to me. She did everything after sunset. I thought that’s what everyone did. As a teen she’d made fun of some old woman on Main Street. The woman glared at her and said, “Laugh now, young one. See how you like living in the dark. This is for you and your’s every other generation for three generations.” Then she spit on the sidewalk at your grandmother’s feet.”

I resisted the urge to lick the inside of the crème brulee cup. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I know. But the symptoms you’re experiencing are the same as hers. Ghosts, she told me, can’t be seen well in the light. They were attracted to her and swarmed her. At night, they left her alone.”

My fingers flipped the licked clean spoon over and over on the white tablecloth. “You expect me to believe that? I can’t go out during the day because I’m being swarmed by ghosts?”

She nodded.

It’s been six years. Mom was right. I can’t see them, but they’re there and if a ray of sun is around, they’ll swarm me. I haven’t told my fiancé yet. I’m not sure how to do that. I round a corner and step into the last of the sunshine. I’m washed in cold air and it feels as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. What’s left of my late lunch comes up as I hurl against the wall of the building next to me. The sun drops behind the horizon and the cold disappears. I dig a tissue out of my pocket and wipe my mouth. A wino on a nearby bench asks if I’m OK.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Must have been bad food.”

“Gotta watch that, Miss. Those diners, they don’t care, just keep serving the old stuff up.”

“Thanks,” I tell him and wobble away.

No, I’m not sure how my fiancé is going to take this at all.

Writing Platform? Do I have One?

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Phoebe at Park by Randy Cockrell

Phoebe at Park by Randy Cockrell

When I saw this month’s topic, to be honest, I was baffled. I didn’t know what that meant. So, being a modern woman I went to the internet to get some help. I stumbled on http://www.be-a-better-writer.com/writing-platform.html and checked out the definition there. Here’s the first paragraph on their page.

“Having a writing platform means that you have an audience, and that you have some vehicle in place to reach that audience when you have books to sell. This platform is as important to those not yet published as it is to established writers.”

Oh! Yeah, how am I contacting people, selling books, putting my name out there? Good question. The site offers thirteen things you should or could do to create a rounded “platform”. If you’re interested in what they suggest, check out the site. However, we get all of this same information right here on Forward Motion. Here are a few of the things I do.

Aside from writing the next book, which is the number one suggestion, I started a blog. One day I’ll turn it into a regular website but for now, until I start earning money from my books, the blog does much of what a website will do for me. It forces me to write to my audience on a regular basis. I’ve settled on two days per week, Monday and Friday. Friday’s are for a flash fiction piece. It tends to be a little rough. After all, I’m putting out a story a week! But that regularity helps me be consistent. Don’t think I gained a lot of readers right off the bat, it took a long time and I still have fewer than 500. Monday posts are for getting to know me. I share news about my garden, my writing, my family, my hobbies. I’ve focused my blog on my readers, not other authors. You won’t find author tips there but you may find a recipe to use the abundance of your garden.

I have business cards for my writing. That’s another suggestion. When I mention that I’m an author, people want to take a look at what I’m writing. A business card makes it easy. I use the cover of my most recent book as the graphic and usually print ten or so at a time with my facebook page and blog page listed so people can find me. When do I buy business cards? See the next paragraph.

To get more exposure, do an author signing, or a reading at the local library, or give a presentation to a local group. An author signing can be at a book store, the local library or in my case, a local craft fair. I made sure I had plenty of professional looking business cards made up, they cost about $10, and I had a postcard made as a give away at my table. It’s good to offer a little something extra to those that buy your book. And it’s nice to have something with your info on it to give those who look interested but don’t buy right that minute.

Another thing I’ve done is help other authors. I had a lot of help in my path to learn how to be an author. Now, I feel confident enough to help other authors. Being generous with my knowledge helps others and who do you think they’ll mention to their readers when they talk about how they became successful? This is a good place to mention that you can use your website or blog platform to help authors advertise their books. Give them a platform or give them a review. It’s all good.

There are a lot of other ways to add to your writer’s platform. Some I have the time and competence to do, others I’ve not tried yet. If you’re a reader, how do you feel about going to your favorite author’s website? If you’re an author, what do you do to build your writer’s platform? Feel free to leave a comment in the comment box below.

About the picture above. I was looking for a picture of puzzlement. I didn’t find any I liked but I did come across this picture of a little chihuahua I know, Phoebe. It was so cute I had to use it.

The Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour is sponsored by the website Forward Motion (http://www.fmwriters.com). The tour is you, the reader, travelling the world from author’s blog to author’s blog. There are all sorts of writers at all stages in their writing career, so there’s always something new and different to enjoy. If you want to get to know the nearly twenty other writers check out the rest of the tour at http://merrygoroundtour.blogspot.com!  Up next: Jean Schara!