Writing : Flash Me! NOVEMBER - WAR QUOTES

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TRADING GHOULS

Emerald, not her real name, saw the sun sitting like flames of fire between the buildings, squashed out an acid blondie  in the ash trey on the deck and heaved herself up. Only 10 minutes to get ready for work, and she needed to pluck chin hairs, shave underarms, shower. She did all that, and, wine goblet in hand, sipping red, pulled on black crotchles tights, tight black mini skirt, black tank top. Before she is ready the doorbell rings. 

"Goddamit," she hisses. " I told the mutherfucker ready at 6. It's fucking 5;30. He can fucking wait in the hall." 

The doorbell rings again. 

" One minute baby," she sing-songs, quickly icing a bottle of Chardonnay in a bucket, checking her cleavage in the mirror.  He might take her out, or maybe just fuck her here, do whatever he needed, and leave. Who knew what Leon had set up for her tonight. Emerald, not her real name, fiddles with th security latches then flings the door open.

"Trick or treat," chime a trio of kids, a mom rolling her eyes behind them.

"Oh," Emerald says

The ghost, vampire and a witch hold empty bags outstretched before her, smiling faces beaming up, the witch missing front teeth.

"We live down the hall," the Mom says, hitching a finger to the right. " The kids wanted to go a few places," she apologizes. Her hair is streaked black and blond, her face washed out. 

" Sure," Emerald says, of course, " I've got candy. Of course I do. it's Halloween. just step I side."

Emerald rumbles through her cabinets, looking stupidly behind bottles of whiskey for hidden candy she knew was not there. No candy.The best she has is a can of planters peanuts.  She returns from the kitchen wth the bottle.  

" Here," she says, holding the peanuts up triumphantly. 

"That's fine," the Mom smiles. The kids all take a handful and wave goodbye. "Thank Mam," the ghost says. "Happy Halloween"

Emerald closes the door behind them. The trick or treaters, she forgot about them. They only come out once a year, at sunset. Her jon will be here soon. He's here, one or another of them, every night, endless night after night.

Picking up the acid blondie, she lights up and sits on the deck, waiting for the jon, thinking about the washed-out Mom,  wishing she could trade her date for the ghost, the vampire and the witch. Wouldn't that be lovely? .

Edit

Very generally I see Literary as the same area as the "drama/drama-comedy" section in video stores, and the entertainment of the book has some cognitive/philosophical slant, however so subtle (that thing were critics would mention some mumbo jumbo on the "Human Condition.")

I need to come up with something for this. Want that SGJ book. Remind me.

Collectable (744 words)

Eyes shut, mouth a tight line I’m feigning sleep. Hoping maybe it’s enough.

Downstairs the muffled hum of the T.V and usually I’ll feel a little less alone. But tonight I hear them coming.

Light feet across the hallway, the slap of cheep plastic shoes.

How the night-light paints everything cool shades of blue makes my bedroom look underwater. I open my eyes, just to check. Standing around my bed, in a protective semi circle facing the door, are He-man, and Spiderman.

Batman in his black suit. Batman in his grey suit.

Darthvader, Chewbacca, Yoda.

The Joker and Skeletor.

Mumrah, Panthro, Donatello, Michelangelo and yeah, you get the idea. All these bad-boys armed to the teeth with their plastic detachable accessories and weapons, offering some kind of protection, some kind of hope. And don’t laugh, because I’m not some dumb little kid, I’m fourteen years old, and these aren’t toys, they’re collectables. My Dad, he’s always banging on about how if only he still had his Hornby trainsets we’d be rich, or at least rich-er. His matchbox cars. Muffin the Mule. Yadda, yadda, yadda. He’s always saying, “These things turn out to be worth a fortune, so bloody look after them, boy.”

The door’s pushed shut, properly shut, been checked three times and I’m figuring there’s no way they can get the door open. No way can they reach the handle with their short little arms and ridged joints.

Something hard pushes against the door, my breath wheezes out between clenched teeth.

Bangs again, harder this time.

Thud.

Thud.

They’re building momentum. The poster on the back of my door quivers, but it’s okay, because any minute Mom will come to the bottom of the stairs and shout up, she’ll tell me to stop banging and for-God’s-sake go to sleep.

Any minute.

Downstairs, the T.V laughs.

Last night seven silent assassins with beautifully maintained hair crept into my bedroom, towards my collection. Frozen in the pretence of sleep I watched as they took Han Solo and wrenched his legs off one by one. Han Solo in carbonite, now a broken heap, now nothing but limbs.  Nothing but worthless.

Bitches.

See, I know where they sleep, I know where they play-dead during the day. And this morning, while my family ate breakfast, I took one, held her face down against the carpet and yanked fistfuls of strawberry blonde hair from her scalp. Turned her over and she was still smiling, trying to seduce me, her lashes fluttered up and down over lifeless eyes.

“Nice try doll-face.” 

My palms sweating, wrapped around the silver of Dad’s Zippo lighter, itchy trigger fingering the button. Her glassy eyed stare reflected the flame, reflected the hate, until a sloppy eyelid slid down to mask it. A fury of amber and her face sagged into a hot sticky mess. I smothered the embers and kicked her ‘til she was far underneath my bed.

The shadows under my door shift, regrouping. The air is suffocating in cold sweat, the silence encompassing. Pyjamas sticking to damp skin, I’m rabbit in the headlights frozen. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe, even. My heart’s an accelerated bomb tick-ticking, about to explode.

The brass coloured handle depresses halfway down then springs back up as little hands struggles to grip it. They must have found some way to reach. The latch doesn’t move enough to open the door.

Oh save me Batman, He-man, God.

The handle depresses again, this time the latch clicks free, the door inches open. My stomach folds over, I fart and a trickle of piss escapes pooling around my butt cheeks. They’re coming straight for me, stumbling on their ridged legs across the carpet, knocking aside all my heroes and villains. All my hope. The blue of the nightlight paints them dead.

My eyes shut tight they’re on the bed now, passing my feet, my trembling legs. Climbing onto my chest.

I peep between the lashes of half closed eyes.

Sally stands over me, all porcelain and Victorian silk. Her hair thick black curls under a pale straw bonnet, the pride of my Mother’s collection. The others catch up, crowding around my face.

“Wait—” The moment my mouth opens a smaller doll lunges forward, forcing her head in, stretching my lips wide. With every breath I’m gagging, choking on nylon hair. Sally leans over me, Dads lighter in her small hands.

My fear concaved, perfectly reflected in those lifeless glass eyes.
 

She is female...and what do you mean taking shots? 

oh

then yes to both, more than likely. 

"verbally assaulting an enemy."

You shoulda taken your out. 

geez

okay, no, it's Friday.  Go in peace, my friend.  All is well.  You can sleep easy tonight. 

why do i see this last line of comments suddenly changing in content sometime between 5:00 and 12:00 central time tonight?

Still nine days left of October...

Bump.

Stop going so easy on me folks. We can get a few more stories in for this, can't we?

I think it prudent to cut this short and get the poll up before war gets rolling

just an idea for the powers that be (wicked) to consider. 

Im good either way

Ditto to what Sean said.

I like that idea, Fritz.  I think the various aspects of this website should promote each other like that, and this seems a perfect time to do so.

Okay, so it's not exactly Halloween-related, but inspired by the topic, nonetheless...it's been awhile since I've actually participated in something like this, so I'm kind of nervous, but meh. Here's goes nothing:

The Darkness and the Light

     The pull-out couch in the basement is my only refuge for nights like these. One too many drinks, one too many memories. The thunder outside only serves to remind me of ordnance and the rain is reminiscent of shrapnel on a tin roof.
     I know what I should do. I should grab a lighthearted book, watch a comedy, put some soothing music through some headphones. I should try and calm myself instead of retreating to to the basement like the grizzled, broken man I have become. But I don’t.
     I don’t because Stokes can’t. I don’t because Sarge can’t. I don’t because I can while so many of my buddies rot in the ground and their girls had to mourn them and their parents had to bury them and some of the boy’s from back then are stuck in hospitals for the rest of their lives drooling away their dignity or shitting it out into a bag.
     And what was the honorable thing I did to be spared? What holy mission am I supposed to be on to justify my blessed few scars?
So instead of what I should do, I pour another finger or two of scotch. Maybe three. I don’t really keep count.
     I sit on the edge of the white and orange striped bed and wait, head in hand, for the memories. Visions of Fox and Howie and Junior as they are choppered off to inevitably die in a military hospital. All the while the rest of us trying to tell ourselves that they’ll be back in the fight in a month. Flashbacks of a little girl, third degree burns all over her body, screaming and bleeding in my arms. A “mercy killing” they had called it. And finally, a montage of me, screaming and bleeding and shitting myself, hiding or running or killing so I could survive. So I could go home. So I could live.
     Before I know it, I’m weeping. My shoulders hunched over and shaking, and though I’m silent it feels like it might wake the dead.
     A hand rubs my back. A pair of soft lips lingers on the side of my head, and I can feel the slight vibration of my wife’s throat as she hums a lullaby to calm my brain. Her other hand rests on my knee and the bed gives only slightly under her weight.
     “We made such beautiful children, didn’t we?” she whispers, now laying her head on my shoulder. “One day they will grow up to brighten the world, and maybe even completely change it.”
     The veil over my eyes stitched together by the horrors of war lifts away, just like that, with the sound of her voice. Reels of dress up, playing house, and birthday parties replace the images of violence and fear. The two princesses asleep upstairs, my charges. My purpose.
     Though they have never been truly violent, though they have never experienced the fight or even seen me at my weakest, my family has been my guardians. They beat back the demons of war, keep the hopelessness at bay. It doesn’t matter that they do it while they sleep. It doesn’t matter that I need them mostly at night.
     “They already have,” I say, kissing her back. “And you certainly still do.”

Ml Nicky,

I like this take alot. I often read or hear stories about how something like that can never be soothed or conditioned away. And I'm sure it can't entirely, but the take that loved ones can make it better to the degree that it can be better is alot more soothing than all the stories that end up with the struggling veteran who pushes everything away and shuts everyone out. I'm not sure which holds more truth but I like the way you handled it here.

Im really pushing it Martin. I think I'll make the deadline.  I had to work this morning and I have to go in for a few hours tomorrow. Hopefully I can finish by tomorow night and revise a couple days and pop it in at the 11th hour

That's a good point. I hammered my last one out in like 20 min, but then it was more like a charcter development than a complete story. Lot's of fun though.

The story I'm working on now I'm actually using to practice my editing skills for war. I don't mind if I don't win the flash, I'm just really trying to teach myself how to write better storries no matter the length.

A warning though - I find sometimes over editing and over thinking can harm a good flash. Not always, of course, there are always exceptions, but in my experience at least, the best flash can come in, well... a flash.

Absolutely true. The flash smackdown I won, my piece was a single draft written in about 10 minutes. This one for Flash Me! I wrote in about 20, but had to edit down to the max word count, which took another 10-15. I've been told my best stuff comes when I don't over think.

Go, JR!!

@Nicky Really lovely, and thanks for tackling a difficult topic that's too little discussed. My man works for the V.A. and volunteers at the V.A. hospital; his dad, Sarge, served 2 tours in Vietnam in the USMC and struggles daily. Supporting troops doesn't stop when it gets home, in fact, that's often when it needs to start.

Spelling note (cause I'm like that): what you mean is "ordnance"

Just to throw my two cents in here.  Flashes work better in a flash - like da man Martin said... And after you can decide to either widen or wittle...  Love me some flash - always good times.

i will post by Tuesday or not post at all...I had an idea which has made itself expand into something much larger (which is pretty cool in it's own right) but I have another idea I'm going to put to paper tonight.  So yeah, cool by me!

The devil has all the good tunes after all.

There might be some WAR related fun planned ;-)