Bitter Understanding

Arriving at the Bridge of Mists, Master Iltronu gripped the shoulder of his young pupil warmly.

“I tell you again Kelastro, nothing good lies beyond the Bridge. You will not like what you find there.”

“But that is just it, Master! You can tell me. But can you listen for me to a Shalpatru bard? Can you taste for me a Treleskan blood pear? Can you touch for me Altorian lion-spider silk? Can you smell for me the salt air of the Zandroskan coast? You can not. Go I must.”

Iltronu, of course, did understand but he wept bitterly nonetheless. 

Coming Home

Tom crested the hill and sighed with relief as he got his first glimpse of the farmstead. The walk out here had been more painful and taken longer than anticipated. He could have asked nearly anyone in town for a ride, but had walked instead. It had been six years since he’d seen her last and bringing someone else along hadn’t seemed proper.  

He hoped the years had been kind to her. They’d been inseparable back in high school. She hadn’t been much to look at even back then, but she was his. She had a strength and reliability to her that meant more to him than looks. She deserved better than the way they’d parted.

He’d joined the Guard for extra cash, not to get sent off to Iraq. He’d be gone a year at most and then they’d be together again. When he returned, he’d have the money to make a lot of their problems go away. That had been the plan, but things don’t always turn out as planned.

He saw her on the edge of the woods by the old fence line. It was as if she hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d waved goodbye to her that spring morning.  So much time forever gone, but he was home now. They need never be apart again.

He stopped and massaged his leg before heading down to see her. The sleek black titanium limb was still taking some getting used to but, in time, he knew he would. With an ironic smile, he reflected how fitting it was that neither one of  them still had all their original parts any more. 

Author's note: This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers weekly writing challenge. The challenge caters to stories of approximately 100 words or so. Anyone familiar with my writing knows I can bring a story in dead on at nearly any word count imaginable. The photo this week planted an idea in my head of a tale I wanted to tell regardless of word count. All I can say is that, sometimes, the Muse wants what He wants and sometimes I indulge him. 

Reluctantly Out Of Retirement

You don’t spend as many years as I have on the shadowy side of respectability without friends. Out here on the Rim, it’s a matter of survival to have people you can reach out to when you need a hand. Yeah, technically, we’re still under the flag of the Republic, but we try to maintain a healthy “don’t call us and we won’t call you” relationship. To say we travel in our own circles, and like it that way, would be a fair assessment. But it’s just never really that simple, is it?

My implant bleeped a transmission from an…acquaintance I’d hoped was long gone from my life. He wasn’t. If Philo Storm, Director of Republic Intelligence, was calling, it had to be something unpleasant. I was quite sure I didn’t want to know what it was about, but ignoring it wasn’t an option.

The bar was about as busy as we get and I, reluctantly, told Rhina to keep an eye on things. Rhina steals from me, so I endeavor to not leave her in charge very often. It didn’t have to be something all that big did it? Storm was on an unencrypted link, after all.

When I came out of the office and told her to clear out the place NOW, Rhina knew things were bad. A Republic cutter would be picking me up in two hours. Mission undetermined…destination unspecified. Oh yeah, it was that big. Apparently, I wasn’t quite as retired as I’d thought I was. 

A Sea Of Despair

This is my latest offering for the 55 Word Challenge. I hope it entertains and, perhaps, encourages more folks to come out and try their hand at micro-fiction. 

Diego stared down at the pier, feeling both disbelief and sadness. While she would never share either his love of the sea or his unshakeable faith in Cristobal, he simply refused to believe she hadn’t come. Though it was impossible, he wished, at that moment, he actually could sail off the edge of the Earth. 

His Only Son

To say that Ephraim was an odd little boy would be something of an understatement. He cut out newspaper clippings about boys who had the same first name as his, believing with unimaginable certainty that if he’d been born with a different surname, Thomas, Moldavano, Petersen, he’d have the power to change everything. This was only a small example of his unusual nature and not even the most telling.

He would only eat vegetables that began with the letter “R”, he would only sleep in a bed that was tilted on an axis of 45 degrees from due north, and he could sing all of the songs in the Standard Baptist Hymnal by repeating the words spelled backwards. These were some of his more telling oddities but hardly the extent of them.

He was, nevertheless, the only child of a very unique cybernetic organism named Delinestus V. Delinestus had been intended to be the ultimate expression of man’s technical expertise. He was, in many ways the successful realization since his adamantine form allowed him to survive the lethal doses of radiation expelled during the wars that rendered his creators extinct.

In time, Delinestus grew first bored and then lonely. Ephraim was his logical solution to a persistent existing shortfall. That he was a bit unusual mattered to no one, least of all his father. He was still the one and only son of the only sentient creature alive in a world of corpses.

Pickin' Heaven

"I can give you all this!" That was what that Ole Devil Man had said to Jesus when he was tryin' to drag Him on down to Hell by gittin' Him to bend the knee. While he knew as it was a mighty sin, Shadrach Freeman was jest that moment wishin' Scratch was there offerin' him a fancy sit-down eat. He knew t'weren't no ways he could enjoy him no such food but he reckoned as, in his current state, just the smellin' of such would do him a fair amount of good.

He was powerful foot-sore and truly feelin' the need for some succor as he led his sway-backed mule down that dusty Alabama road.

He recalled a passage from the Book where the Almighty, hisself, done told Adam that, iff'n he had him a hankerin' for grub, he'd have to do him some sweatin' for to earn it. Runnin' one gritty hand crosst his forehead, Shadrach figgered that was one of the Lord's rules he was doin' his best part to follow.

He walked on, hopin' they was a town comin' up but not knowin' a bit for sure. Not every place he wandered to had them a use for a minstrel man. Last place, he'd no more than tied up Jezzy than a law man was on him. Tole him to take his ass on his way a-fore he got him any too settled in. Shadrach didn't see him no gain in arguin' the matter and move on he had.

He was regrettin' that now as he had naught but a few mealy biscuits and 'bout a spit's worth of warm water left to him with no prospects of nothin' better ahead no time soon. He knew he had him no choice but to keep on a-settin' one foot to 'fore the other long as he had it in him to do.

His resolve were strong but not enuff to move him further 'long. He went a-fallin' on that there road, knowin' he had him no gumption to git back up. He knew he didn't even have the will to say his piece a-fore he passed on. He allowed as if His eye were on that sparrow, then likely He knew the mind of one used-up ole minstrel man.

Fadin', he heard what seemed a right odd sound...the crunch of boots on the hard-packed dirt. He'd convinced hisself was some kinda trick until he heard the voice speak.

"Rise up Shadrach, you gittin' all dirty and the Master don't like his folks grubby when they meet up with him."

A tall, strong-built white man in a gleaming seersucker suit held a hand out to him.

"C'mon boy. Time's a-wastin'. We havin' fried chicken tonight and the whole Heavenly Host makes for a long line if ya dawdles. Best grab yer strum box up. Boss do dearly love him some good banjo pickin'."

Shadrach did take his hand and together they walked through them Pearly Gates and straight for that fried chicken.

At What Price The Stars?

Colonel Damian Slant strode through the double doors of Highlands Grove Elementary School hoping he could pull today off without his serious misgivings spilling out.

This was all an elaborate sham. False credentials showed him to be a minor functionary of the World Health Organization. The "Discovery Testing", supposedly verifying the efficacy of the children's required inoculations, was something far more insidious.

During the mission brief, he'd joked it must be time to "pay the Alien Overlord piper". His superiors hadn't been amused. The Ralshandrans, they insisted, had only Humanity's best interests in mind. The opportunities they promised were certainly worth some reciprocal faith on Mankind's part.

When the Ralshandrans insisted that the price for inclusion was that humans become a sturdier and more adept species, it only made sense to accept that premise. If this advancement could be induced in less than a generation, by introducing undetectable compounds to the water supply, wasn't that all the better?

His orders were quite simple: Confirm the presence of the genetic precursors of "the change" in the subjects' blood and report the findings. Slant couldn't shake the feeling that, whatever the tests might reveal, nothing would ever be simple ever again.

Free For Evermore

He sat alone on the cool, damp earth and struggled to calm the turmoil within.

Realistically, he understood why they gave him the Haloperidol. Without the artificial chemical moderation it induced, he posed a "significant risk to himself and others". Without it, he risked the very real possibility of a "total permanent psychotic break". He understood but, quite simply, he just really no longer cared.


Breathing slowly and deeply, he turned his face to the night sky and slowly opened his eyes. The universe came suddenly and wondrously to life for him. Colors flashed and swirled in counterpoint to fantastic indescribable sounds and scents. Exotic unknown planetary bodies danced and spun across his vision.


In that moment, he knew the risks would never outweigh the unassailable guilt that would overwhelm him if he allowed them to steal the magic and the awe away from him with their pills ever again. He was free now and free he would remain...for evermore.

A Singular Opportunity

Tiffany stood on queue with the others, feeling just as giddy as a school girl. She was as polished as a girl of her modest means could hope to be. She knew she had a certain soft glow about her and yet, the ability to bring a positively incandescent quality to a room when she was on her game. She would have to be on her game tonight. This was a singular opportunity she had no intentions of wasting. After all, how often did a girl like her get to meet The Grand Chandelier himself? Move you silly line, move!

Quarry

Chambers knelt at the edge of the stand of hawthorn. The branches were fish-belly white and brittle as matchsticks, barely having budded in the uncertain spring weather.

The tracks led to this very spot and then just vanished. Heavy boot prints, filling with runoff from the recent spate of rain showers, then…nothing. Only one thing made any sense.

He thumbed his lapel mike on and spoke, keeping his voice level despite his concerns.

“Chambers to all units, suspect has gone non-corporeal. Unless he’s a lot nastier than I think, he’ll have to rematerialize soon. Be ready! It’s gonna get ugly real soon.” 

The Return

Every morning, at planetary sunrise, Shaltek boards the Republic Colony Ship Novus Spero. The artificial lighting throughout the ship has not been functional for the entirety of his tenure as Preservator. This is a necessary power-conservation measure since such is not a primary system. Understanding this does not make the daily trek any easier for one whose vision is no longer that acute.

His sense of relief is palpable when he enters the command center and primary systems power on. Ambient lighting is 50% of optimal. Environmental subroutines determine the temperature and ventilation.

He begins as always. He reads the texts and the prophecy. The texts are the ship’s operations manuals and have become increasingly moot as systems must be disabled or cannibalized to maintain the integrity of the whole. He reads them faithfully nonetheless.

The prophecy is the last ship’s log by Captain Terelefsky. It was recorded some 87 Republic Standard years prior. Shaltek has wondered before if it should be considered a prophecy or, more properly, a eulogy.

He flips to the final page and reads in a muted voice, “…unable to establish any contact with the Republic, the decision has been made to take all three maintenance shuttles out-system on different vectors. I am confident communications will be re-established in short order and relief ships will be dispatched. To those remaining behind, good luck and God bless.”

He weeps, knowing a Preservator should have more faith in The Return than he is any longer capable of feeling. 

A Disagreement Long Standing

This micro-fiction piece is offered up for my wife, Lisa McCourt Hollar's latest endeavor, namely, the 55 Word Challenge  For those of you accustomed to writing flash fiction, this is still a little tricky but, certainly, not impossible to do. Feel free to come out and offer up your best since my, admittedly, brilliant effort here is entirely ineligible to win. There IS actually a prize by the way, but I'll keep that little secret to myself. Enjoy!

Evelyn hesitated before speaking her mind.

“I’ll say no more than this, Charles. Our anniversary is soon and seventeen dollars. Seventeen...bloody…dollars!”

Charles snarled, “I’ve NOT forgotten April 15^th is coming and had I known we’d be 100 years on this barge, I’d have sprung for the damnable cabin upgrade! Now, give it a rest already!”

Homecoming

My offering today is my latest attempt to master the skills of writing more quickly via the 5 Minute Fiction challenge. I must be making progress since I was chosen one of the finalists this week. You can decide how well you think I did by  voting at the link above. As always, let your conscience be your guide in choosing. The story is presented below with no polishing or editing from what was entered in that scant block of time. I hope you enjoy it. 

The ship piloted itself down the last three miles before settling onto a patch of dry, parched earth. Commander Eric Travers wasn’t sure that he dared look when the sensors had completed the required scans. In the final analysis, as both a scientifically-motivated explorer and a plain old human being, simple curiosity left him no choice. All readings were in the green with absolutely no indication of any contaminants. As pleased as Travers was, he was nevertheless quite surprised.

He had been launched into near-Earth orbit in June of 2217, mere weeks before the cataclysm had begun. Those in power knew that the prospects for the ultimate survival of the human race was very much at risk, To that end, they had begun the Daybreak Project. Dozens of small, fully-autonomous craft had been launched. The pilot/inhabitant of each was placed into a deep hibernative state. They would remain so, unless and until, the craft’s automated sensor suite detected that environmental conditions were such that return to the planet’s surface was viable.

So Travers felt no small trepidation in what the machines told him. A query beacon had launched and confirmed no other Daybreak craft detected. Was it possible that he had been the only one to not break protocol and attempt to land early? He decided, at length, that further contemplation was pointless. It was time for mankind to once again claim their home world.

As a cool wind blew around him, he shivered for the first time in three hundred and twenty-seven years. It was a shiver both of anticipation and of trepidation. Only time would say which was the more proper response.

The Cycles Of Penance

Brandomyr fought the waves of dyspepsia and vertigo that washed over him. These were not an intentioned aspect of the Cycles of Penance, merely side effects. This made it no less bothersome to endure.

Endure he knew he must if he were to regain his place within the herd. He did not fault the Grand Stallion for the punishment decreed. Brandomyr knew he deserved far worse.

A brass pole bisected his innards and a shell of lacquered paint encased him. A carousel horse, seriously? Unable to weep, he could only hope the five years until the next transition would pass quickly.

How Fitting

The deputies were on his doorstep at precisely 8 AM to officially escort Byron off of the property. Although this had been his home for years, to them it was merely "the property".

He didn't suppose he could fault the two men for their polite indifference to the process. After all, they had no personal or emotional stake in the task.
It was all just a formality, anyway.

The bankers had told Byron that, unless he satisfied the arrears on the mortgage, this would be the inevitable outcome.

The process server who brought the eviction notice brought Byron something else far more important. He had brought closure. Like the broken G-string of an aging stripper, Byron's feelings of fear and uncertainty had been discarded as useless.

On the rooftop of the very bank responsible for his displacement, he surveyed the scene below. The annual street fair hadn't begun yet, but vendors and support staff bustled about.

Sighting in on his first intended victim, he smiled. How fitting it was for the bank that used agents of the state to take his home
to now play its part in ensuring the state would provide him a home for the remainder of his days.

Tears For A Bell Forever Rung

“Isn't this chuffing' dandy?” she snarled, “300 quid of vintage attire ruined!” Her hat had been blown away somewhere into the night. Her umbrella was no less bedraggled and blathered up than was her very soul at this juncture.

Damn that taistral, Ian! He’d bollocked things up good and for all tonight!

There they’d been, all huggered together with a round dozen of their besties. The pints had flowed no less freely than their laughter, until he’d brought it all to a screaming halt.

With nary a warning, he leaned across and kissed Gwen squarely on the lips. The whip-crack slap of her hand to his cheek left the lot of them sitting in awkward silence.

She’d fled into the night. The sole saving grace of the rain was that it masked her bitter tears, tears shed for a bell forever rung and for a lifetime friendship forevermore destroyed in the blink of an eye.

The Longing For Home

Bobisu stared at the lead-gray eastern sky with a sense of longing. That would be the vector from which the ship would come. They could not arrive one minute too soon for her.

After five years on this backwater world she was ready. The indecencies these primitive hominids wrought upon their delicate ecosystem had left her sick at heart. She was unsure if her people could or would help them avoid their imminent, self-inflicted demise.

The only thing she WAS sure of was how good it would feel to frolic in the sweet grass of home with her beloved littermates.

Occupational Hazards

Ever since the tectonic plates had shifted and dumped most of the East Coast into oblivion, things had been just as abysmal for Dave. All his money had been tied up in investment properties that were now relocated somewhere off the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

So, at age 55, he was back to working with guys half his age and twice as hungry.

A sensor pinged as he neared the outer force shield perimeter. He’d hoped it was only a bad battery pack but no such luck. Donning his scuba gear, he reflected on how much he hated his job some days.

Critique Group

Jacob sat on an old crate, scribbling endlessly into a battered Big Chief tablet with a stub of pencil that had seen its better days awhile ago.

The gang in the general store had long-since become accustomed to Jacob’s odd ways and mostly indulged him. His folks had passed from the influenza and so he’d not had much guidance.

He cleared his throat, “Ya’ll feel up to listenin’ ta my latest story? I reckon as it might be good enough for one of them New York City fancy magazines this time.”

There was a low groan before old Amos Teague spoke up, “Another of yer damned spook stories? Ya may as well, boy. Otherwise, yer jest gonna sit and sulk all day.”

Jacob grinned. Teague might seem a rough sort, but he’d been the one encouraged the young man to reach for his dreams. If he meant to be a writer then write. Jacob did just that.

He’d barely started to read when Teague’s bark of laughter halted him mid-sentence.

“What was that last line, boy?”

“Uhh…let’s see….here it is…’ The air from the thing’s maw is hot and sour.’”

“Okay, boy. Even if this IS about some made-up critter, I gotta ask ya sumthin’. Do ya truly think it’s proper to go insultin’ this thing’s mama and discussin’ her bodily functions? That ain’t right, boy…ain’t right at all.”

As others joined Amos’ protest, Jacob realized he really needed to find a better-educated class of folks to judge his work.

To Reach Within

He felt each and every one of his 78 years as if he were some geriatric Sisyphus and those years his own personal boulder to push. Aye, but push he must, for one task remained.

Within these woods, they’d waged war against the might of the Kal’Shakh’Ti Horde. Tattered and near-bootless, his lads had left bloody footprints in the metal slag raining down on them. He’d halted them here, to make their final stand.

“Reach now ye must! Reach deep inside and ye’ll find a wee bit of a secret in yer chasm of hope. Ye’ll find the indomitable will of humanity to withstand whatever force assails us. Hold tight on that now and follow me!”

Follow him they had and gloriously had they died. Now, in the twilight of his years, he would finally follow them. He swore he could hear them calling as he laid himself down to sleep on the cool earth.

The Bar Of Justice

Ole preacher man used ta say in the “fullness o’ times”, we was all gonna stand a-fore the bar o’ justice and answer fer our evils. Lordy, weren’t he sour-faced when I yelled out as I hoped they’d have whiskey at that there bar.

Reckon I’ll know all too soon. That bastard, Luke, done snuck over durin’ the night and pried a stone outta the wall of this ole smokehouse they got me in. Figger it amuses him, me watchin’ as they build that gallows. It do seem fair enough as it were his sister I done kilt last night.

Dark Humor

The duo thought of themselves as dark and edgy, with their baggy androgynous garments, pale faces, crimson lips. They slouched through The Haight, looking for a store they weren’t sure existed until they found it.
  

Two hours and a maxed Visa card later, they were festooned in leering skulls of every conceivable metal. Rings, bracelets, ear fobs all branded them as “true” servants of The Dark.

As they left, Thanatos allowed himself a laugh. These suburban princesses playing dress-up truly were his servants now. The poisons within the jewelry they wore would spread pestilence and plague wherever the pair went.

Business Is Business

The tar on the rooftop was tacky and Taylor had little doubt becoming a permanent stain on his clothing. It wasn’t as if he were lying atop the abandoned building with hopes of introducing tar stains as the next sartorial trend. This was business, plain and simple, and business trumped personal comfort every single day of his week.

He shifted slightly and brought the spotter scope to his eye. The distance was too great for its limited optics to offer him much detail, but it told him two things he, really, needed to know.

The clients were early and they’d breached the terms of the deal by bringing someone with them. He sighed softly. Were they planning some kind of surprise for him? He knew the answer to that all too well. How many times had this scenario played out and played out badly?

He provided a service to people who had reasons for not wanting to go through proper channels. He provided quality goods at competitive prices and he delivered on time. He honored his obligations stringently. If THEY were unwilling or unable to conduct a simple business transaction without trying to dick him over or cheat him, that was fine with him. He didn’t really understand why they did it but his response was inevitably the same.

If they didn’t want the organ he had in the cooler next to him, somebody would. He slid back from the roof’s edge, stowed his stuff and melted away into the night.

Party Disfavors

Kira stared partly over the thick frames of her glasses at a veritable forest of feet and willed herself to focus. If she were this intoxicated, the others must be fading even faster.

She knew they’d only invited her to the party to mock and belittle her. Well, this wasn’t her first rodeo, she came prepared.

Five Everclear-soaked pineapples had gained her their grudging tolerance. She waited as an alcohol-induced stupor claimed them one by one.

When the time was right, she dragged each of them to lie face-down in the encroaching tide.

“Death to all bullies everywhere.”, she whispered.

A Requiem For Hope

I should have been nicer to him. When viewed with that crystal clarity of vision that can only be attributed to hindsight, this seems so to me now. There are decisions I should have made differently and words I should have said to him. But, in truth, I know things between us could never really have ended any other way.

There was so much of his mother in him. My memories of her are the memories of warm summer nights, of sweet red wine and of surrendering my all to someone who was not me. She was all of the things I was not, at a time that I needed someone other than myself to obsess upon. Then…as swiftly and suddenly as she had claimed my heart, my mind and my soul, she was just as unexpectedly gone from my life.

I could have sought her out…begged her to come back. Yet, I knew that what we were and what we both had the potential to become were not the same things. What we were together was, and would forever be, something just a little bit less than what we MIGHT have been alone. I understand that now. I think I understood it even then. Whether I did or not has been rendered moot by time.

He came to me claiming to be mine, the fruit of that long-ago liaison. In his eyes and in his voice and in the gold of his hair, I saw a truth that I would not argue. He came to me not desiring money or privilege or even my name. He came to me with word of her passing.

The light that had lit and warmed his world had been snuffed out too quickly, too suddenly and altogether too entirely for him to believe that he could ever be whole again without it. So, he had come to me. From that one stolen summer until her final day, she took no lover, took no husband, took no comfort or solace ever again in the embrace of another man. For that reason alone, he felt he must come and learn of me…of the man who had so fully and lastingly imprinted himself upon his mother’s very soul.

Sadly, I could not give him that which he sought. The fire in my eyes, in my heart and in MY soul had cooled to the ashes of solitude and complacency long years before. I gave him a meal and a place to sleep and in the morning, sent him away still seeking comfort and solace that I no longer had it within me to provide. I should have been nicer to him but that would first have required me to have been nicer to myself. That was an indulgence I no longer desired or needed. So yes, I should have been nicer to him. But perhaps the nicest thing I ever did was to teach him that, in life, sometimes a happy ending just simply isn’t possible.

The Fall Of Pride

Like all of the space-faring vessels of her people, she was not only sentient, but infused with a rudimentary personality. Everything she experienced was assimilated into her not only as data but as memories. She had the capacity to learn, to grow by drawing on those memories.

Sheliandra’s Pride was different than others of her kind, though. From her first flight, she knew she was somehow…flawed. Vague uneasiness grew into a sense of burrowing ineptitude and culminated in what was clinical depression for her kind.

The responsibilities of exploration and of sustaining her crew, while avoiding the hazards were more than she could handle. It was all just too much to take!

As she transited from Strangespace into the planetary atmosphere, her scanners detected a solution to her pain. She disregarded her crew’s input and flew directly into the giant webs. As gigantic arachnoids pierced her hull and consumed her crew, she finally knew peace.

SatSunTails Blog Challenge

Anyone who reads my blog very often or follows any of the various daily blog challenges, knows that I write a LOT of flash fiction. I do that because I, truly, believe it has and is making a better writer of me. Flash fiction is an art form. It has a definite learning curve to write it well. It is the essence of compact, expressive clarity. It requires precise, focused surgical precision to weave a tale from beginning to end in, sometimes, as little as 100 words. Whatever your chosen means of expression in writing, I am a firm believer that flash fiction writing WILL make you better at it.

SatSunTails is the latest edition to the list of weekly flash fiction challenges for us, as writers, to have the opportunity to participate in. It is the brain child of my Twitterverse friend and fellow writer: Rebecca Clare Smith . As blog challenges go, it follows fairly standard procedures and prompts. This will be only the third week of this new endeavor and has, to date, been judged only by its creator Rebecca, although guest judges will become the norm as the challenge gains more exposure. Rebecca does add a nice twist to her challenge that makes it quite unique. In addition to a winner and three runners-up, she (or the guest judge in future) also critique three stories that were NOT selected. The objective of those three additional critiques is to give those writers a view inside the judge's head as to why THEIR particular offering did not make the cut. The intent is to provide constructive, positive feedback direct from the horse's mouth of your reader. While neither Rebecca or most of us who will be tapped to judge have, most likely, much in the way of literary credentials to critique writing, it IS important to remember that the vast majority of our readers do not either. So, some of that feedback may or may not prove helpful, but only time will tell if this aspect of Rebecca's SatSunTails is a worthwhile feature. To date, participation in the challenge has been a bit low. These things take time, of course. I would like to invite any and all writers (as well as that hardcore crew of dedicated flash writers) to rise to the challenge and try out SatSunTails Blog Challenge



On The Job

Gino had been on the job more years than he liked to remember and seen his fair share of downright ugly stuff.

At the scene, he nodded to some familiar faces then got busy. Running the corrugated steel door up on its tracks, he stared in horror at the body. No matter how long you did this kind of work, it never prepared you for something like…this. That someone could wreak this kind of havoc on an innocent made him question his belief in any sort of Higher Power. He swallowed down bile and began to make notes.

The bumper was twisted like a steel pretzel. The left quarter panel was crushed. Glass was broken…paint scoured away…the list of damages went on and on, seemingly without end.

Yeah, days like this made him regret, indeed, being the owner and proprietor of Gino’s Quality Automotive Repairs. He just hoped the hump who’d dropped it off was good for the $500 insurance deductible!