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LAST TEN FLASHSHOTS
"What I want to know is: why do the power stations still work? There's nothin' fueling them, yet all 'round Ireland the power flows," says a stout man, standing at the bar. He takes a deep swig of dark brown ale and raises his glass to the room. "Fairies," I answer. All the patrons of my pub roar with laughter, all but the small man in the back. He's slumped over a scarred wooden table littered with empty pint glasses. He looks up from under the peaked hat he wears cocked over his eyes and shoots me a warning glare. Julia is a half-British Californian living in Oregon with her dog of equally mixed origins. She infrequently posts stories and other information about her writing career at www.juliascottdouglas.com. Copyright Julia Scott-Douglas
GROUND
PIG Bif had a hard time holding a straight face as he watched the crowd collect for the annual appearance of Naragansett Ned, New England's famed groundhog. Mayor Hodgson blabbed about the groundhog's mound - it had been a sacred site to the local Indians who had placed a terrible taboo on it. The lecture ended when hot chunks of groundhog and clods of dirt filled the air. No one was seriously hurt (except Ned) but the mound was split open. "Now that's a 'ground' hog!" The screaming started as Yg'an'l'nac, the Great Old One's hog-shaped head, rose from the opened mound… Grayson What collects second editions of first novels though he'd never turn away a good fifth. Copyright Grayson What
THROUGH
AN EYE SO BLIND The third sweep of his lens brings her into view. Focus. She is small, reed-thin; close-cropped hair like a boy, yet her eyes, her mouth . . .. Quietly she disrobes, folds, stacks. No modesty required at pier's end on this wind-deprived November eve: not even a grainy scattering of moonlight filtering down from above. Full aperture, high ISO; yet he can barely see her as she shinnies down, legs gripping pilings then piercing water, ripples blossoming. His submerged beauty emerges, hideous wings unfurled. Shutter release, image captured. She hears, bristles, glistening fangs bared. Wings flutter, screams resound. Image released. Ethan Swage is a New Jersey-based writer, artist, and photographer whose work has appeared in Flashshot, Appollo's Lyre, Eclectic Flash, Blink/Ink, The Linnet's Wings, Liquid Imagination, DiddleDog, Staccato Fiction, Flashes In The Dark, Weirdyear, Six Sentences, 50 to 1, Everyday Weirdness, and The Legendary. Copyright
© Ethan Swage
DAY
TRIP The driver of the hearse told the head mechanic at the 24/7 custom auto shop, "By dawn tomorrow I want a retractable sunroof installed that will align with the front end of the coffin." "I can do that, but I'm curious. What's that sticking out of the top of the casket and what's it for?" "It's a periscope with special lenses that keep out ultraviolet rays. My client wants to go sightseeing." "Who on earth is your customer?" the mechanic wondered. "A
vampire with insomnia---ever since the daredevil expo opened, she's been on a
steady diet of adrenaline junkies." John H. Dromey has had a byline in over one-hundred different publications. In addition to having a mini-mystery published in Woman's World, he's had flash fiction and short stories published online at Liquid Imagination, three minute plastic, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of print anthologies. Copyright
© John H. Dromey
WHERE'S
YOUR JINGLE BELLS NOW? January 30th. The temperature was -30 and snow fell despite the chill. "I blame you idiots," growled Uncle Sal. "I don't follow, Uncle," said nephew Fred. "With your 'Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow' crap in December. Well, it snowed. Are you happy? Where's your damned 'Jingle Bells' now?" Fred grinned despite his uncle's complaints. "You really think it makes any difference, Uncle?" Fred had taken his uncle in. Sal was rich. He could have afforded an army of nurses. But Fred insisted. The next week, Fred was heard often to hum "The Funeral March" to himself. Tray Cleaner is a pseudonym chosen because it describes his day job. Copyright © Tray Cleaner
INVISIBLE "And the murderer of Belinda Glamoureuse is --" said the Belgain detective. "--our Miss Saxon." "But how Inspector Parrot?" "Quite simply, mon ami. She used her invisibility. Miss Saxon is well acquainted with how men look at her but do not. This was the motive of the crime. Jealousy. In a room filled with forty gorgeous models, who would see Miss Saxon? Nobody noticed her give Belinda the pointed drink. You'll get plenty of men looking at you now." And Parrot was right. Miss Saxon refused the hood when they hanged her. She watched them all and she smiled. Agiffah Crissee is an English writer who is married to the archaeologist, Max Marshmallow. Copyright
© Agiffah Crissee
THE
GIANT EYEBALL "We were looking for a place to grow weed, in Mississippi, in the middle of nowhere, of course," Roger pauses for effect, "and then we see this giant eyeball, right there in the middle of the sky." "An eyeball?" I'm nursing a hangover, feeling suspicious about this eyeball story. "Wait, I didn't get to the weird part of it yet." Roger splashes Crystal onto his scrambled eggs. "The funny thing is, we all saw it. Peter and Bonnie and Moriarty and me." "Yeah, so." "One by one they forgot about the eyeball. I'm the only one who remembers it." Sara Jacobelli was an editor and regular contributor to the now defunct zine The Dagger and a newspaper reporter for the Anderson Valley Advertiser. She has published both fiction and nonfiction in various small publications such as the Mendocino Environmental Center Newsletter and Implosion. Copyright © Sara Jacobelli
Whether the land was sinking from overpopulation or the ocean was rising as a result of climate change, the outcome would surely be the same. The Islanders were doomed unless they did something to save themselves. The industrious inhabitants of the atoll constructed a humongous raft. "Traditionally, seagoing vessels are considered to be feminine," their leader said. "Let's call her Hope." "Always
looking on the bright side, eh?" one of his less sycophantic aides commented.
"Optimistic right to the very end." John H. Dromey has had a byline in over one-hundred different publications. In addition to having a mini-mystery published in Woman's World, he's had flash fiction and short stories published online at Liquid Imagination, three minute plastic, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of print anthologies. Copyright
© John H. Dromey
PULLING
UP STAKES Jerrod spent the morning packing his bags in his parents' brownstone. They were upset that he was leaving, but not nearly as upset as they were going to be after he was gone. He had spent the past week quietly unearthing his grandfather, the bloodsucker Mom and Dad had staked in his sleep, and then buried in their basement. This evening, Jerrod finally dislodged the jagged stake. Grandpa's eyes sprang wide; his shrieks were deafening. He reached out, pressed fingertips to Jerrod's pristine neck. "I see you waited," Grandpa said. "For what?" Jerrod asked. Grandpa smiled. Jerrold's screams were deafening. Ethan Swage is a New Jersey-based writer, artist, and photographer whose work has appeared in Flashshot, Appollo's Lyre, Eclectic Flash, Blink/Ink, The Linnet's Wings, Liquid Imagination, DiddleDog, Staccato Fiction, Flashes In The Dark, Weirdyear, Six Sentences, 50 to 1, Everyday Weirdness, and The Legendary. Copyright
Ethan Swage
DOWN
BY THE SEA WHERE THE DINOSAURS ROAM Dara of the Sea People had lived her whole life in the Interior World. But she had fallen in love with Jordan Bradley, the handsome young explorer from a world outside Pal-u-dar. He was taking her there in his strange Iron Machine. Things only went South when Dara, who had known darkness only in caves, struck her flint stone on the metal support to light a torch, igniting the free oxygen in the cab… Bradley had only one thought before the explosion killed them. I would have been better with that captive dinosaur I was planning to bring instead-- Norman Bean is a pseudonym of Edna Rhys Burrows. The publisher mistakenly corrected it when Edna had intended it to read "Norma Tive". Copyright Edna Rhys Burrows |
