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| February 20, 2005 | FlashFiction.net Café. | Guidelines | ||
| You have somehow reached the old, original FLASHFICTION.NET web page. The
New site is here
The Café page in progress will turn out to be the main page, replacing this which will be linked for nostalgic and perhaps historic purposes. There will be no more daily "blogs" are whatevers from yours truly, as we move into the commerce portion of the project. Submissions keep pouring in, I wish I had the time to take immediate action but I don't. I can consider these for the next round but must see Issue One through to a complete storefront and marketing program. Surely you did not think we would put this up and live off one another as writers? While some writers have purchased mugs, and we are grateful -larger markets are in store. But good things take time. Recall we are ahead of schedule. I'm glued to this chair, fingers typing tirelessly, sleep the escape of failures and dreamers who never wake . . .forty-seven stories, forty-seven thousand mugs . . . .
February 19, 2005 Did you miss me yesterday? Perhaps did not even notice I was gone? I was. In bed most of the day, watching movies, drifting in and out of sleep resting either a nasty head cold or a flu that is being gifted freely here in Mobile. My rules of combat: if you're sick stand back at least four feet at all times and if you sneeze it had better be into a handkerchief or that's you standing even further back. Do not feel obliged to shake my hand I will feel your cordiality in "I have a cold so I won't shake your hand." Two movies of great interest, "Ray", the incredible story of Ray Charles, and "Leo," a dramatic story that portrays irony in a beautiful, poetic way. The lead character is a writer. Like life there's some violence, but love always prevails. I feel immensely better today and will dedicate a great deal of time to FlashFiction.net Café.. Life is good, right? We all face conflicts every day but through all still shines the inexplicable gift of existence. * * *
February 17, 2005 Mugs are shipping today to those who recently ordered, so you should have them by early next week at best, mid-week not at best. The peek-at-spring I boasted earlier this week is at this moment making her exit, curtseying to the rightful owner of the current Mobile season, winter. Speaking of Sharp Transformation, FlashFiction.net writer Anna McDougall has penned a fresh, moving display of such in her piece here:
Sharp Transformation
By Anna McDougall
Lying on her side she pulls at the pillows until they are stacked comfortably beneath
her head. He squirms and lets out another cry for milk. Pulling the babe closer cool
fingers caress the velvet of his back while his feet jab her belly. Blue eyes plead and
hands scrabble at her blouse. * * *
© 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved Anna McDougall, a new writer from Calgary, experiences life alongside her four sweet children. Occasionally, she jots these adventures down on paper. * * *
February 17, 2005 I have a penchant for uplifting fiction, and this flash by superwoman Patricia Koehler puts Wednesday back on course. Later today I should have her coffee mug on site! (Here's one version. There's also a version with lavender background. See end of story.)
To Fly Again A former journalist, Patricia (McFarland) Koehler lives in a strange world of
her own creation. She's a mild-mannered accountant by day, but devotes nights and weekends
to exposing the dark, light, and humorous secrets of the heart... be it human or
otherwise. Publications include "Take Out," a 69'er finalist in NFG, and
flash fiction stories and poetry in annual editions of Synapse, the print journal of the
University of Kansas Medical Center.
* * * Purchase
a SINGLE Coffee Mug with "To Fly Again" on it
February 15, 2005 In a city named Mobile, it seems anti-thesis to hear there is zero visibility this morning. Not to worry though it is only fog. The pea soup kind, not the brain kind. I'm sure we have the other type here but for some reason I can never see it. Maybe it's the fog. But fog withstanding it is going to give way to a spring like afternoon with temps in the 70's. My azalea are already showing little purple buds. When spring does make her belle entrance there will be millions of purple, pink, and white blooms, hoop skirts in reverse or so they look to me. Not that I would know about such things. Never mind. Flash Fiction! Here's a gem accepted from writer Katherine Grosjean. Do not read this story alone, at night, deep in the country or woods where wild creatures chatter, roam and like some of us, prey.
Hirudinea by Katherine Grosjean
I've been staring at him for hours, it seems. Body black, greased and shining. I wonder how he stays so moist, so focused, so driven. He never loosens his grip, but swells and recedes like a crestless wave. I didn't feel his mouth, with its fierce rows of razor sharp teeth, pierce my skin and spread wide for anchor. Even now, I can't feel his incessant sucking and tugging. His growth is imperceptible moment to moment, but he has doubled in size since I discovered him. His saliva is even now thinning my blood, keeping it flowing. My brother once told me that if I pull at him, his jaws would be ripped from his mouth and left in my body. I heard too that he would feed himself to death if left undisturbed. So it's time. If I don't do it now, the hole he made won't stop bleeding for hours. I wander to the kitchen to find a saltshaker. I pick a roomy chair in front of the window, where the late afternoon sun reflects gently off the lake. I cross my ankle over my knee again and lean in close, repulsed and excited at once. I hesitate for a heartbeat and then shake, sending a shower of salt down on him. His sleek skin reacts instantly, and he begins to writhe and dance with me, still anchored at the mouth. We're jiving, he and I. Another shake and he flips over, still attached. I can see pits where the salt granules have begun to burn and sear and dry. But his jaws remain flared and imbedded. He is at war with himself, needing at once to both feed and flee. Another shake, another spasm. Now he is in continuous motion, spiralling and convulsing, jerking and shrinking from the toxic rain. Jaws still flared and holding tight. Shake, shake. He finally releases and falls to the floor, onto the paper I had prepared. I take an alcohol-soaked swab and wipe it across the window he opened on my ankle. It stings and sears, and I remember my jive partner, now abandoned. I pick him up gingerly, paper and all, and place him on the table to witness his end. Someone should. For the first time, I can see his mouth, gaping and black, opening and closing in mute song, as he rolls and writhes in wild abandon. I want to see his teeth, but his motion, his death throes, won't allow this. I feel robbed somehow. I feel dirty. I feel mean. So I roll him up in the funnies, still squirming, and stuff him into the fireplace. I want a quick end to this gruesome afternoon, these hours of mutual need. I want him to stop dancing. * © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved * * * Katherine Grosjean lives and writes in rural Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in some very fine publications including McSweeney's, Snow Monkey, Literary Potpourri and Pig Iron Malt. She intends to keep her day job * * * Purchase a single coffee mug with the story "Hirudinea" on it.
February 14, 2005 Valentine's Day is for lovers so if you love and or are loved then I suggest you do some really heavy duty lovin' today it's your day. Me, I am currently unloved maybe because I simply love myself too much. Does this mean I have a big ego? Gosh, I hope so. If you are a writer why not write your own card, and if necessary send it electronically. Yahoo offers such a free service. Get on it before you lose your love. But first . . .make sure to stop by the prototype FlashFiction.net Café. A few coffee mugs are in the shop and can be ordered. Some have already ordered and helped locate glitches promptly fixed. The full-fledge Café will offer the ability to order multiple mugs to a shopping cart with minimal shipping charges. Currently you can only order one mug at a time. This will change soon. Really large orders will offer volume discount and marketing plans will include directing cafe and other business owners to the site for option to enhance their customer service ambience with stories by some really super writers. Hey, if you are the owner of a Starbucks and want to know now what FlashFiction.net can offer you email me: preston@bluecollar.org .And finally, if you are in the New York City area I envy you. I hope you will not miss the opportunity to see the art exhibit in Central park, The Gates. What an awesome project, an example of pure, true art. Today is Monday. What you do today will set the tone for the rest of your week. Do good and just shrug when people don't understand you. They will, give'em time. * * *
February 13, 2005 Great news. I have created a rough, prototype of the FlashFiction.net Café. Only 10 stories available for purchase on mugs at the moment, but we are considerably ahead of the official April 15, 2005 publication of the 47 accepted stories. There's still plenty of work to accomplish, but the prototype store with just a few items to start will help test the process and work out glitches. Remember, writers receive a royalty for each of their story mugs sold. ( $1.00 per MUG 11 and $2.00 per MORPHMUG.) Visit the Café. Order and/or or send your comments. Thanks for stopping by and again thank you to all the writers who participated in this venture. When Issue One is complete all 47 stories will be available on a variety of mugs by the single, multiple or case(s). Each story will be available for audio download and on a compilation CD.Perhaps even on radio. How's that for publishing? * * *
February 12, 2005 The Death of A Writer the magnitude of Arthur Miller makes this book we call life a little more sad today. In his later years Miller's work found the lights brighter on stages across the pond, where audiences buckle in and hold on for the realism the playwright reflects on the American experience. Sometimes you can write too good, get it so right you shame your audience into abandonment. In today's climate it is difficult to imagine a Miller resurgence on the stage here in America, but perhaps one day, when American youth become adults and come to their senses Miller will once again shine as he should. I know I will never forget his work, his contribution to literature and to the human and American experience. A rare voice and I understand a humble and warm man. * * *
On the homefront here in Mobile I received a note from a man I've never met but feel I know well because of his strong and steady presence in the Mobile arts scene. Charlie Smoke, of the Mobile Arts Council caught the New York Times article about FlashFiction.net and will share the news in a e-message he sends weekly to Council members. This makes me just as proud as the Times article because I am from Mobile and take great pride in how the city has continued to grow in the arts. Take a moment and visit their site - I did and was very impressed. * * * I have to say we have a lot of gorgeous days here and what a perfect one for getting things done. To my stable of writers cameras are flashing, buy links are sprouting like, well, sprouts and a coffee mug storefront is evolving. Should also get the last round of signed contracts ready for a Monday mailing. Write something special today. Who knows? Tomorrow the world might get it. * * *
February 11, 2005 Good morning. Thanks to all who are writing in response to the New York Times article. Some great ideas coming in, including additional venues for the coffee mugs. No, you do not have to be a cafe owner to purchase the mugs, and there will be no minimum purchase order. You will be able to view a picture of each mug, and read the published stories. If you do not have a PayPal account you will need one to order the mugs online. However, you can also purchase the mugs and pay by check or moneyorder- it will just take a bit longer. A rash of submissions have also come in and I will consider them for the second issue, this summer. If you do submit for the summer issue please note I may not get back to you for a month or two. Please read the guidelines - I do not accept multiple submissions or stories published elsewhere. Back to the stories accepted for issue one. I hope your Friday is a good one.
February 10, 2005 The New York Times has published a flash on FlashFiction.net, in the Technology section named Online Diary, by Lisa Napoli. I hope you will check it out. If you've read the article and happen to be a cafe owner interested in the FlashFiction Coffee Mugs, drop me a note - preston@bluecollar.org. Our online store will open very soon, where visitors will be able to order mugs imprinted with stories by writers from all over the globe - almost 50 writers total. Writers receive a handsome royalty every time a mug with their story is sold. . . from the files of I Bet You Didn't Know This . . the very first flash fiction story accepted by FlashFiction.net was by New Yorker Deborah Rosenblum. You can read her flash Swollen and Sticky here.
February 9, 2005 The list of accepted flash fiction stories has been updated, below. A few submissions have continued to trickle in but note: deadline for submissions was January 31, 2005 so I cannot consider any after that date. I am now busy proof-reading and getting stories ready for imprinting to coffee mugs. Goal is to get the FlashFiction.net Cafe open soon!
February 8, 2005 Bom dia. I'm late. Maybe you are tardy dropping by and we are even. Let's call a truce, come back tomorrow. Busy day - working. We're on schedule even if today is a little over-weight. Fat Tuesday they claim, & tomorrow ominous Ash Wednesday I don't even smoke.
February 7, 2005 Happy Monday all. I am publishing three more accepted stories today, one in each column. List of all accepted stories, below. Missing Plank by Lesley C. Weston There is nothing left for man here. No doors swing open to the dawn. No tractor moves to plow the fields into fertility. No cows sway, sleepy in the filtering shafts of morning light, shifting hooves, awaiting milking. No mare knickers, fogging the air with blowing breath. The cracks in the barn-planks will only widen. The windows will shatter inside damp swollen frames. The walls will peel, list and finally surrender to the earth. The weathervane will never be reset to point the way of freshening breezes. At the edge of the canvas, beneath the weight of the empty bucket, beneath the dry pool of spilled red paint, the grass is struggling toward the hard heat of the sun. Beneath the grass a creature digs, crawls and scratches towards its final moment. Silent hunters crouch and wait. Still as sentries, with keen and sneaky glances they watch. Only the hungry twitching of the young Tom's tail gives warning of their murderous intent. By the open door, eyes shielded from the light, the hunters blend into the mottled, flaking, boards. They hide in the shadows of the broken places. This desolate, orphaned place is now fully theirs. Oh, the unconscious eternity of them. At the first rustling, they do not flinch. They all know how this hunt is done, know the most intimate details of their terrain, of how and what it offers in their endless day. Most were born here, passed bloody and blind into the ripe straw in stalls or tumbled into faded blankets. Most will find their end here, in a raging fight for mating, from the cold where walls once stood, or in the jaws of something stronger. In their world the young, the fast, the strong survive. None will meet the knowing passage of old, crippling and solitary age. None will feel their world collapse around them. * * *© 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved
February 6, 2005 Stories accepted for the 2005 FlashFiction.net Audio and Imprinting Edition (CD's and Coffee Mugs): 1. Final Parting, Thea Atkinson 2.Sudden Cure, Nonnie Augustine 3. Human Sheath, James Bernard 4. Frost Killed the Patchouli, Preston Brady III 5. 14 Slips, Randall Brown 6. The Murmur of a Mermaid, Mark Budman 7. Mr Lucky, Misha Cahill 8. Astronaut, Don Capone 9. A Leaf Falls, Clara Chandler 10. Epiphany, Ginger Hamilton Caudill 11. In the Quiet, Lori Cossens 12. Jack McCoy, K. Cutter 13. Fog, Kevin Dolgin 14. Café, Tim Ereneta 15. The Vow, David Henry Fears 16. Uncertainties, Marie Fitzpatrick 17. Death Made Flesh, Marie Fitzpatrick 18. What I Can Only Tell The Dead, H.A. Fleming 19. Red Rocking Chairs, Michelle Garren Flye 20. Hirudinea, Katherine Grosjean 21. An Elegy for the Most Beautiful Girl, Marja Hagborg 22. Here, There Is Unrest, by Judd Hampton 23. Happily Ever Afterlife, Brenda Hubbard 24. First Star of the Night, Brenda Hubbard 25. My Lover is Classical, Debbie Ann Ice 26. The Dream, Beverly A. Jackson 27. Penumbra, Beverly A. Jackson 28. To Fly Again, Patricia Koehler 29. Sudden Suddenness or What Grace Paley Taught Me, Rita Alfonso LaBarbera 30. Sharp Transformation, Anna McDougall 31. Suzanne's Letter, Jean M. Medeiros 32. Out On the Street, Colleen Neumann 33. Salty Bay, Zan Nordlund 34. The Umbrella, Phil Pisani 35. Covered Faces, Phil Pisani 36. Swollen and Sticky, Deborah Rosenblum 37. Act Now, Jordan E. Rosenfeld 38. In My Smallness, Shelly R. Rich 39. White Threads, Phip Ross 40. The Wind That Spoke To Me, Julie Ann Shapiro 41. Edgar Called In Sick With Flu (Imagined He Had Cable) Anna Sidak 42. Dreaming of Flying, Robin Slick 43. Last Supper, Robin Slick 44. We, A. Sobel 45. Stealing Flowers, Maryanne Stahl 46. Fatima, Lydia Theys 47. Missing Plank, Lesley C. Weston Thank you to all who submitted nearly 150 submissions. I hope no one has been left out . . .let me know! This is a very busy task and a few mistakes will be made . . Email corrections to preston@bluecollar.org.
* * *
February 5, 2005 Happy Saturday night. It was a beautiful, warm sunny day in Mobile and I went for a long walk in the park. It's a great place to think ( or not) and keep the body fit. Tomorrow morning I will post the complete list of accepted stories, save perhaps one or two awaiting correspondence from writer. I may also have a preliminary way to open the FlashFiction Cafe while continuing to build it. This will not happen tomorrow - but soon. Someone inquired when all the stories would be published. I can only say they will be published a few per week but should all be there before the official publication date of April 15, 2005. Each story has to be imported into a graphics program for printing with special ink and then imprinted to coffee mugs. During this process they are also read again for errors. There's also the recording of each story for audio format. While I have some help this project is basically being carried out by 3 - that is, me. But stay in touch if you have any questions you can email preston@bluecollar.org.
February 4, 2005 FlashFiction.net Cafe will feature two styles of coffee mugs : an 11 ounce white and an 11 ounce morph mug. The morph mug is either blue or black when cool, and turns white when hot to reveal the flash fiction story. Writers will receive a $1.00 royalty for each white mug sold and $2.00 royalty for each morph mug sold. The sale prices will be $10.00 and $15.00 (USD) respectively. Customers will be able to pay using Paypal, Visa or by check or money order. The Cafe is in progress, and should open this month. Thank you to everyone who submitted stories. A list of accepted stories will follow here soon. Meanwhile, here's an accepted story, by Misha Cahill, that I enjoy each time I read. It's one both happy and sad - a difficult combination to pull off in a time when too many things are either red or blue. Treat yourself to Mr Lucky. I think you will agree, he is.
Mr Lucky by Misha Cahill
I did love Mr Lucky; in retrospect it sounds stupid, but I felt a sort of melting feeling when he scrambled in over the windowsill. I'd seen his bleached orange and white body slinking around for several weeks after I first was admitted, but I didn't pluck up the courage to tempt him into my room until I was completely settled in. I put milk in one of the industrial issue white saucers we used -- they were easily replaceable -- and left it on the windowsill. The sun reflected so strongly off the china that the edges of the saucer were blurred. I rested on my pillow, a paper-thin piece of foam with a crinkly cover, and watched him leap up and drink. It was a Thursday afternoon, at 2'o'clock, when we were first caught together. Mr Lucky had curled up at my waist, the bones of his spine pressed into my stomach like small rocks, his chest vibrating as his heart beat. My psychiatric nurse, Rochelle, a nasty bitch with minutely kinked red hair that she pulled back into an explosively furry ponytail, burst in without knocking. She saw Mr Lucky on the bed. 'What are you doing?' she asked. I didn't know what to say. She gathered Mr Lucky up and dropped him out the window. She must have realised I'd resent it, because she added, 'Can't you see that you can't have a cat in here? It's unhygienic, for one thing.' Then she supervised me while I took the pill I'd missed in the morning. The two tiny blue pills rolled around in the paper cup as she handed it over. The following day, a workman installed a white metal stick on my windowframe. Now, my window ran over a ratchet on a black metal prong on the sill, so that it could only be pushed open five centimeters. While the ratchet was being installed, I walked down to the vending machine. Behind the sealed rubber door were cans of Coke, M&Ms and muesli bars, but the banana flavoured milk I'd fed to Mr Lucky was gone. I bought a coke, waited for it to fall down the metal slide to the bin at the bottom, and went back to my room. The next evening, I heard Mr Lucky outside. His ping-pong ball skull tapped against the aluminum window frame as he tried to push in through the narrow gap. He had the remains of a Snickers bar wrapper in his mouth. I could make out SNI- in red and white block letters. 'Come on, boy,' I said. By a combination of my pulling on his front legs and his twisting and writhing, he squeezed through the gap. Looking up at me from my mattress, he dropped the chocolate wrapper. The last quarter of a Snickers bar, melted, partly chewed, sat in the grimy foil on the sheet. I pressed my hands into the fur on his back, pushing down his spine. © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved * * *
February 3, 2005 You will not read anything witty, corny, not funny or funny from me today because I am in the workshop, immortalizing your flash fiction stories so the whole world can read you on a cup, can tip your story mouth ward. And should the unsuspecting reader find a dirty word in your story he cannot tear it to shreds, cannot with a bar of Lye soap scrub your word clean. He can break your words into shards and crumbs of ceramic, but should he do so he will have lost a valuable investment, will have turned his back on history and the arts and can only slither from the scene not a better person but rather one who does not like dirty words and wants to rid the world of them, i.e., a modern hero . . .ok, ok, enough of that already. Back to real work.
February 2, 2005 Happy Groundhog Day? Punxsutawney Phil just made a grand exit and saw his shadow. I don't like Phil. He can get lost. Don't come back next year. Bad groundhog. Oh well, perhaps this is good news for FlashFiction.net writers anxiously awaiting their stories on coffee mugs. An extended winter means no early rush to the beach, means I will be forced to stay in the workshop and make sure production stays on track. I hope to open the FlashFiction Cafe this month! So I gotta go NOW. Work to do. A complete list of accepted pieces here in a few days. * * *
February 1, 2005 Green scales glitter like emeralds. Talons gleam, poised like silverware beside a plate, blue tongue smooth wet bifurcated, ears like a bat, and oh-- the eyes: a reptile's icy indifference, a cat's cunning, a dolphin's spark. Oh, she's magnificent, wedged behind the counter serving up bagels and biscotti alongside the lattes the mochas the au laits. Now there's the sound of change from the till, no, it's the sound of her scales scraping against each other as she moves, musically, chin high, arms loose-- she's in a good mood today. She reaches up to grab a fresh bag of beans. Her neck arches, wings unfurl slightly, it's like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis-- you gasp-- you have never before seen anything so sexy. As a blackbird's song at dusk will evoke involuntary thoughts of you own mortality, so it is that the curving ripple beneath the scales of her back as she twists and flexes her wings makes you think of sex.... You can feel it, just there, in your throat-- desire, as your mouth imagines your tongue running under her chin along sleek, cold scales, a faint taste of persimmon and saltpeter, the scent of iron and earth surrounding you, and a great hissing of ancient breath. She turns with the bag of coffee beans, places it on the counter, and looks directly across the room to your eyes. And in that moment, a vision flashes in your mind, a vision of flame, of bone, of emeralds, and falling, endless falling. © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved The above is Café by Tim Ereneta,one of the flash pieces coming through the finish line this week, and rightfully accepted by FlashFiction.net. ( I might be blond and beautiful but I am not stupid.) The deadline for submissions has passed. Thank you to all who sent in stories. Over the next few days I will finish reading, and decide on the last stories to come in. A complete list of accepted will be announced here soon. Come back often for progress notes on the opening of FlashFiction.net Cafe, vocal recordings of accepted stories and around February 8 a link to a major newspaper story about FlashFiction.net. Happy Tuesday, the runt day of the week but still a day nonetheless. * * *
January 31, 2005 Happy Monday morning. Huge banks of clouds hang over Mobile. Rain promises on this mild new day, even if Mardi Gras does holler his presence so early this year I thought it was an extension of Christmas. Never fear though: my moonpies and beads are the flashes of life many fine writers tossed my way. Today is the deadline for submissions. If you wonder what is it this project seeks in a story - read down this column, read some of the stories already published here. Read the guidelines, to the right in column three. I welcome a last minute rush of submissions, and I appreciate all those received thus far. Don't let anyone keep you from having a great day.
January 30, 2005 Using Euclidean geometry formulas developed in Early Macedonia I estimate publication of said story in a day or two . . .
The above words, penned by one Preston Brady III on January 25, 2005, I would eat - except I now have a reason for my miscalculation. It seems Euclidean geometry was banned in Early Macedonia. They did not care at all for Euclid who before the age of calculators used to rip down trees and shave them into thin shards of paper with his bare hands. All to jot down the millions of geometric calculations spinning from his brainy brain . . . In my equation I failed to add a two week lead time, so the mysterious story about FlashFiction.net will appear . . .all together now . . in two weeks. If one could eat words, what would they taste like? Anyone?
Tomorrow is the deadline for submissions. From almost 100 I have accepted 35, and there are a few still simmering in the think about file. Coffee mugs are in production. Storefront is in progress. Audio recording underway. Complete list of accepted pieces will be announced here early next week. Congratulations to Francis Ford Coppola, who received from the President of Russia a Golden Eagle award for his contribution to cinema. Coppola was in Europe for the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. * * *
January 29, 2005 If your flash is published here it will also embark upon a journey unlike any your words have before . . .once permanently imprinted to ceramic coffee mugs your story will be bubble-wrapped and boxed for a trip to perhaps Australia or China, or simply to a cafe on 52nd street in New York. In its new home your flash will bond with a homo sapien - that's right, with a homo, sapien, who will not only read the story on numerous occasions, but will mindfully wash and polish your story so it continues to shine for future drinking's and readings. There will be no tattered pages or dusty bookshelves for your story, although in the environs of some it may sit abandoned in a clumsy sink or dishwasher, awaiting human intervention. And I might as well tell you now, in the hands of some your story may be introduced to a shot of Kuluah in the coffee or perhaps in Russia a toss of vodka and cream with the above. In any case, your flash will maintain its integrity, remain intact for inspiration or entertainment, for the pure joy of reading to experience anthers' take on these journeys we call life. So the call for submissions comes to a conclusion this weekend. The deadline January 31, 2005 looms in the very near distance, like a ring of tawdry Mardi Gras beads in the hands of an overzealous masquerader. The Guidelines Here, and down this column, quite extensively I might add, clues to the madness I seek. Have a magical weekend, your fortune cookie says "Next Stop, Putlizer Prize."
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January 28, 2005 Oh, to fly again! To feel myself
gliding on the currents, carried higher and higher by the breath of Mother God, then close
to the surface, skimming over the tops of trees, faster, over waves of salt water,
watching brother porpoise play. The call of the whales: I hear them in my dreams.
When I awaken, I realize I am bound to earth, bound to my time here--in reparation
for wrongs done in a past life? If I knew what the wrong was, I could make
reparations and then... from TO FLY AGAIN * * * and here's a glimpse of "Fog," by Kevin Dolgin, also to be published by FlashFiction.net: There he was, with a briefcase on his lap, a bald spot on his head, and the rigid plastic of his spectacles digging into his nose, as it always did. The train he was on bounced and wiggled and complained as it made its way along the tracks to a giant pen in London where all the people in the train would pour out to herd, then disperse, then walk a bit, sit down and collect their email. He had managed a seat by the window, across from an old lady with a Harrod’s bag that she had probably been using for years, and that seemed to contain knitting. He had only glanced at her, then had turned his head again to consider the houses going by. In the aisle between the seats people stood, bracing themselves as best they could. He saw a pair of legs, in dark stockings and high, but not too high heels. They were nice legs.
Deadline for submissions, Monday, January 31, 2005. Guidelines Here * * *
January 26, 2005 Flash Fiction Cafe will open here next month. Visitors will have the ability to view sample images of our story mugs, featuring the works of FlashFiction.net writers. Mugs can be ordered online and our writers will receive a royalty for each coffee mug sold. By April 15, 2005 audio downloads and CD's of all accepted flash fiction stories will be added to the Cafe. Response has been fantastic and I cannot enough sing the praises of Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope.com, where I found many superb writers from around the globe. The deadline for submissions is January 31, 2005, with guidelines to the right in column three. Read down this column for a good idea of what kind of stories are being sought. The latest accepted story is one named "Fog" by a Frenchman named Kevin Dolgin. It's Wednesday. We're almost there, if indeed there is a there there. * * *
January 25, 2005 Only six days left to look inside your episodic memory, comb the anatomy of your brain for a flash worthy of immortalization. If it appears I have been watching public television this morning then trust your judgement - I have. A dozen or so stories simmer in the To Read or Thinking In Progress File. I'm from Alabama and sometimes it takes a day or two to get a story. Have noticed a lack of sci-fi submissions. Unfortunately a few of the horror bits were heavy on the gore and light on the POEtics . . .NEWS . . .when I see the ink on the paper I will formally announce, but if you've heard rumors a major publication is doing a story on FlashFiction.net, you are a literary genius. Using Euclidean geometry formulas developed in Early Macedonia I estimate publication of said story in a day or two . . .good morning and thank you to Lydia Theys (whose story "Fatima" will be published here) for catching a homonymous typo in a story published on this very page . . And speaking of homonymous, I'd like to send a shout out to Sponge Bob Square Pants, on of my subconscious heroes . . .hey, do not let your little story remain just a flash in the pan. Send it to me. Read the guidelines to the right in column three, and down this column for ideas on what is being sought. * * * January 24, 2005 A Cold Monday Morning Plea for Sympathy: What a very tough job I have. Can I cry on your shoulder, or better yet, lift up that cliche and toss it to the breeze? Seriously, the labor of reading beautiful snippets of prose, intermingled with poetic vision, by writers from around the world is up here with catwalking and down there with coalmining. But somebody has to do it . . . (this is your cue for CHORUS OF MOANS). . . This morning I randomly selected a cup for coffee and what do you know, it had a story by Judd Hampton on it, his accepted piece "Here There Is Unrest." What a pleasant way to begin the day. Signed contracts are being mailed today to all those received as of Saturday, January 22, 2005. Some stories are passed on not due to quality but perhaps the story did not work for me. When I say in the rejection you can send another if you like, I really mean it . . .as long as you do so by January 31, 2005 - the deadline for this issue, and you read the guidelines, to the right in column three, and read down this column for more of my babble, for a clue to the madness of my method. Someone liked this so I will say it again: I demand that you have a brilliant day, and come back here often. I will and I do. * * *
Frost Killed the Patchouli by Preston Brady III It took some months before he realized one did not snap off the tiny branch of a rosemary bush to gather the herb, but rather held the stem straight with one hand and rubbed down the soft, sticky needles with the other. He would immediately smell his cupped hands and marvel at the strong, sweet pine scent of the magical herb. He wondered why everyone, the whole world was not rushing out with him, taking notice of rosemary, bringing her into their kitchens to make a fine pepper for their chicken dish or as just a dash over a fresh salad to give it an added dimension. And then he came upon the tarragon; it’s tall elongated leaves crispy green mixed with autumn brown even in the midst of a hot Alabama summer. "I like you too, tarragon. You are much stronger than rosemary so I use you sparingly. I will take a few of your leaves for later, will allow you to dry on a brown paper bag inside." Then came the familiar sound of the side door. "Frost, who are you talking too?" She was standing in a long flower dress, legs akimbo to equalize the weight of her hefty aging body. "Nobody mama, nobody." She shook her head and went back inside, closing the door so deliberately the creaking hinges caused Frost to shudder since he despised screeching, scratchy sounds. Now one of his strays had a leg hiked over the corner bunch of long-leaf parsley. All the cats seemed to like the spot for business, so he never scolded them away and allowed the parsley to grow without picking from it. Near the baby eucalyptus tree he planted stood a bush of white sage that had shot off like wild grass. He was proud of baby sage and often told him. "Your leaves shimmer like soft white green leather. I love you on steak and chopped fine on fresh whole potatoes." This afternoon he carefully plucked a half dozen leaves and added them to the rosemary and tarragon cupped in his hand. Now a butterfly was sucking nectar from the tiny purple flowers of his rosemary bush, and a blue jay glided by on its way to the branch-heavy white oak in their driveway. Frost was startled when something nudged his foot and he gasped at the gift one of the kee-kee’s had brought him: a little mouse, dangling by tail from the baby jaws of the fluffy calico. "You’re not going to eat it but you expect me too? Thank you Kee-Kee, for catching it but give it here, I need to put it in the garbage can." But kee-kee ran off with the fresh catch, not ready to surrender what it may have sensed would be wasted by the ungrateful master. From the road a white van with a simple logo on the side made its approach into the driveway. Frost heard the whine of the house door open, his mama wiping her hands on a soiled apron she wore over her flower dress. She looked at him, her head cocked to one side. This was her sad and guilty look. Frost knew it well. He raised up from the sage and moved his head from the approaching van to mama. "I know those people, mama. I know them . . .why mama? I don’t want to go back there." He could barely hear her reply. " . . .about that talking to plants and stuff . . .help, Frost . . . get well again . . ." she replied in fragments. He furtively placed the herbs in his jean pocket. Two male attendants led Frost into the van and he was buckled in next to a window. As they pulled out of the driveway he noticed for the first time a black plastic pot that had fallen off one of his plant tables. Lying on its side the stems of the plant were already beginning to dry, the once creamy green-yellow leaves were now knotted and brown. A tear then popped from his face and Frost whispered so the men would not hear, "I’m sorry, so sorry I forgot all about you."
©2004 by FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved * * * January 23, 2005 Congratulations to these writers, whose flash fiction stories were recently accepted for publication here: Patricia Koehler, "To Fly Again" Maryanne Stahl, "Stealing Flowers" David H. Fears, "The Vow" Randall Brown, "14 Slips" Shelly Rae Rich, "In My Smallness" Marie Fitzpatrick, "Uncertainties"
The deadline for submissions is January 31, 2005. Click HERE for the guidelines. Read down this column if you want to know what is being sought. Thank you to all who have so far submitted material. The response has been great.
January 20, 2005 It's winter. Most trees have shed their leaves. But for writer Clara Chandler, A Leaf Falls
T he whirs and beeps of life-sustaining machines no longer intrude on my consciousness. Nurses rustling past my door are ghosts from a distant memory. Warmth arrives as my daughter gently tucks in my blanket, protecting me from an omnipresent flow of cool air. Sounds are distant, mostly irrelevant now. At last my family recognizes and responds to infinitesimal signals –
the upward curve of my mouth, a tiny wrinkle appearing in my forehead, an escaping sigh. A
lifetime of hurt where words never sufficed has passed. Harsh feelings and
miscommunications were the patterns in the days when I longed to be understood. Now, when
I yearn to take my journey alone, people focus on every gesture and sound I make, and hold
me here. I’m a dried
leaf clinging to a dead branch, assaulted by a chilled wind. Release, I need release. My parents and grandparents attend me without words. They know I will come
with them when I can – when the living allow me to leave. Smiling, my ancestors wait
for me in the blazing sunlit corner of my room. Untiring arms reach out, extending an
invitation to join them. The wind nudges me again. This time I open my hand and let go. I glide away from the tree as the wind lifts me up. We dance, the wind and I, for a precious moment. If I plummet to the ground and am no more, this brief instant of freedom is worth it all. He sets me down gently beside family and friends. I am warm. ©2005 by FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved * * * Deadline for submissions: January 31, 2005. Guidelines to the right in column three>>>
January 19, 2005 Imagination teetering on the edge: Donald Trump and Mark Burnett present the idea of "The Apprentice" as a musical to Broadway and Broadway is roaring back yes! Rumors are already flying that if Conde Rice is not confirmed by the Senate, she might play the part of Omarosa. Donald will play himself, gleeful at the opportunity to sing out that famous two word phrase I can't mention here due to trademark restrictions. It's what your boss says to you when the novelty wears off . . .
Did I mention almost one hundred submissions have made their way to my mailbox? Everything is subjective, right? In this project I've looked for prose mixed with poetry, stimulates of imagination, stories of truth and snapshots of your take on a fragment of life. Although worthy of publication somewhere I have steered from the very dark, the F word ( coffee mugs and audio CDs find their way to many situations) stories overgrown with dialogue and endings plainly moralistic and trying to be so. But I am just one chap, one tiny grain of sand on a planet teeming with trillions. The deadline for submissions is January 31, 2005 and guidelines are found to the right, in column three. I demand that you have a brilliant day, and come back here often. I will and I do.
January 18, 2005 Treat yourself to "Salty Bay" an exquisite flash by Zan Norlund. Soon available in audio format and imprinted on FlashFiction.net Morph CoffeeMugs. The hard frost left us with an auburn blush against Salix-like horizons filled with puffs of steamy clouds. It proved to be a real frost, this time -- not just a hint of one, like before. It drizzled and a salty fog hung heavy over the bay. The whole thing smelled briny, and fresh, and invigorating – like I couldn't breathe deep enough or take enough of it in. I wanted to drink the air, to swallow it whole, to keep some of it there for another day when it would not be so delightful, when it would not be so fresh and so clean and when the beach would, instead be littered with soda cans, and with brightly colored umbrellas, and with little brown babies digging in the sand with their new yellow shovels and red plastic pails. But today. Today, it was magic. It was only the music of the ocean and the bite of the air and the symphony of the gulls winging overhead, singing for their breakfast. * * * We have a new logo and it will be available on T-Shirts and Tank Tops in the FlashFiction. Net Cafe when open, along with coffee mugs and Compact Discs featuring the works of FlashFiction.net writers. The deadline for submissions is looming, if you will. January 31, 2005. Guidelines to the right in column three. Read previous daily logs, below, for what's being sought. Thanks for stopping by, have a great day.
January 17, 2005 Ahhhhhhh. It's Monday, my favorite day of the bleak. Ever catch the SNL skit, "Debbie Downer"? Now every time I induce the negative I wonder . . .am I being Preston Pessimist? . . .hope not, enough of that going around . . whoops, there I go . . .writing, writing. Why stories are accepted or rejected . . Accepted stories have the look of being tended, weeded if you will. Rejected are sprinkled with,"I looked both up and down the street but I seemed not able to locate the bus stop." Accepted read, "No bus stop in sight." Can't use stories have too clear a beginning-middle-end, and recount an event in a style one might find in a popular digest. Accepted tickle imagination, dance with fresh language, chant or sing, even humming is good. Finally, accepted have been here and checked out the site. Well, keep'em coming the deadline is January 31, 2005. Guidelines to the right in column three. Previous logs below shed more light on what's being sought. Stories accepted list will be updated again soon along with other good news. Have a super week. Today in America is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. a good time to pause a moment and remember his dream, keep it in reach . . .
January 16, 2005 Yes it's Sunday. No, your eyes are just fine, that's me standing behind a virtual pulpit, teeming with opinion . . about the state of a brother art, the making and delivery of movies to an insatiable public. No one has seen less movies than I in the past three years. It's not a boycott, maybe it's lack of drive based on past experience. Sorry, Hollywood. I've already seen Independence Day, so why do you insist on selling it to me again under a dozen other names? Oh well, all this leads to the art of writing, the need for more voices heard, and that's what we intend to do here. Here's an excerpt from the imaginative writer/storyteller K. Cutter of Australia. "Jack McCoy" was recently accepted for publication here and like others will soon be seen and heard around the world. Jack McCoy, the lumberjack, woke to the crow of the rooster, pre-dawn, stumbled out of bed, turned on the kettle, buttered toast, made a thermos of instant coffee and one of soup, grabbed his axe off the banister and headed out into the trees, his forest of naked-ladies dancing to the music in his head. And those trees did look like naked ladies dancing. Their branches swayed above their tall slender trunks, dipping ever so often to caress their breast-like humps and bumps, shaking their bushy leaves of hair. Jack loved his forest of dancing trees, the only women in his life, the only femininity for miles. Women didn't live, where Jack lived. They lived in the city and suburbs, near culture and shopping complexes, not in the middle of nowhere like Jack.
January 15, 2005
Prototype FlashFiction.net Coffee Mugs have been created for the following writers, whose works have been accepted for publication and contracts received: Anna Sidak, "Edgar Called In Sick With Flue (Imagined He had Cable") Judd Hampton, "Here, There Is Unrest" Deborah Rosenblum, "Swollen and Sticky" Phil Pisani, "The Umbrella" Mark Budman, "The Murmur of a Mermaid" Beverly A. Jackson, "Penumbra" Lydia Fazio Theys, "Fatima" Debbie Ann Ice, "My Lover is Classical" Julie Ann Shapiro, "The Wind That Spoke To Me" Zan Nordlund, "Salty Bay" Marja Hasborg, "An Elegy for the Most Beautiful Girl" Donald Capone, "Astronaut" Here is an excerpt from "An Elegy for the Most Beautiful Girl" by Marja Hasborg: Anja, the girl with eyes blue like violets in the husk, lived across the street from us. Her gaze was fluttering shy, dancing around, avoiding contact like a butterfly. Her dark long hair framed her delicate china doll face, ran along her long curved neck, and fell down her narrow shoulders. Her body was long and slender, like a twig that could easily be broken. She was stunning, envied and desired. When she entered the room, everyone stepped aside, like Moses had parted the sea.
Writers, get your submissions in before the deadline, January 31, 2005. Read the guidelines to the right in column three, and read further down this column for daily entries and insight to what is being sought.
January 14, 2005 In this place, we lay deep roots. Here, the frost never completely disappears. Even in late August, the day the government men came, the frost could be found six feet below ground. But now in early winter, the river is dormant and snow buries everything but the blackened skeleton of our house. This many months later, smoke still rises from the ground. The fire is in the roots, smoldering . . . The above is an excerpt from "Here There is Unrest" by Judd Hampton. Judd's story is one of several recently accepted for publication. Tomorrow I will update the complete list of accepted pieces to date . . .remember the deadline for submissions is January 31, 2005. The guidelines are to the right, in column 3, and what is being sought chronicled daily, below . . .thank you to the writers who sent in their completed contracts, and to Zan for the nice WaterLily card . . .
January 13, 2005 Some years ago in a land called Oz - I mean San Francisco - a philosophy of art teacher made the following proclamation: "In order to be art it must be good, true and beautiful." I only found one flaw in that argument. The lack of universal agreement on what is good, true and beautiful. I received a final grade of "B" instead of "A" for that attitude. But I have since adjusted my mien, fired off a bunch more neural transmitters and concluded he was speaking directly to me. Therefore, continue to send me your good, true, beautiful flash fiction pieces. The guidelines are to the right in column three, and what exactly is being sought is expounded upon daily here, so read on. The deadline for submissions is still January 31, 2005. Thank you to all who have responded so far, and I suppose no thank you to those who have not? My last fortune cookie - a few days ago - indicated I am very persuasive. Somewhere in the world there is a cold,empty, lonely coffee cup yearning for your words. Submit, or live with the guilt the rest of your life . . .
January 12, 2005 The FlashFiction.net project is moving not on but actually ahead of schedule. This is a result of my sustained belief in it, and the strong response from writers, many excellent and seasoned pensters from the Z site. Stories on coffee mugs is receiving an astounding yes, so as signed contracts come back from accepted writers, mugs are already being produced. If I can keep up this pace, immediately following the January 31, 2005 deadline for submissions, a FlashFiction Coffee Mug Catalog should be available to the public here for download and in hardcopy in . . February? I am still sticking to the April 15, 2005 release date for the audio CD of selected works. Guidelines for submissions are in column 3> > > > > If you want to know what kind of work is being sought, read previous daily logs, below . . .
January 11, 2005 From the betweenbrain of heaven - honey-oozed from a biscuited sky - out of negative space around oak leaf, through spider lace - I reveal myself, unfurl, defog - hair dripping, breasts spangled with contradictions, a dun-colored counterpart tottering in circular glee, drunk on freedom, yearning for a name. . . . The above an excerpt from "Penumbra," by Beverly A. Jackson, recently accepted for publication by FlashFiction.net and poetry that will certainly bring life to an otherwise lifeless coffee mug. Keep the submissions coming in. The deadline is January 31, 2005. If you are new to the site please read down this column, to earlier posts for what is being sought! The guidelines, however, reside to my right over in column three>>>>>>>>>>>>>
January 10, 2005 Modern life has become one year-round holiday. It makes sense: people are happiest when frolicking, shopping, joyizing in the spirit of celebration. A roll of Christmas wrapping paper stares at me from across the room even as Mardi Gras stumbles into Mobile, New Orleans and now many other cities in the country. At a department store yesterday: heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, lest we forget Valentine's Day will soon be upon us. Maybe it's a well-planned conspiracy to extricate green and plastic from my wallet. It seems to be working. Speaking of work, have you prepared you little masterpiece for consideration here at FlashFiction.net, on coffee mugs ( see below) and audio CD and download? If not, there's still time. The deadline is January 31, 2005. Guidelines in column three > > > > > > >
January 9, 2005
* * * People listen to entirely too much music. As writers we understand they need additional ways to warm their souls, shimmy their feet,rock their bottoms . . they need stories to nourish their imaginations, words that stimulate those parts of their brains dangerously dormant from underexposure to literary morsels such as you will find here. Inspiration is on the way. Your flash fiction stories in audio format. Sometime after the January 31, 2005 submission deadline but before April 15, 2005 they will find solace here, and through our other web sites, and also here: DownloadStory.com, when it is constructed . . . Submissions have increased and remember ask yourself . . .is this flash fiction piece worthy of being read many times over on the surface of a coffee mug? . . .is it good enough to cause a person to press the play button again and even again? If so, please read further down this column for an idea of what is being sought, and the guidelines over in column three>>>> I will update the list of accepted flash stories soon . . .
January 8, 2005 Afternoon . . .I've uploaded an audio portion of "Frost Killed the Patchouli," the format is MP3. The full text version is in column 2, middle section >>>>>>> FROST KILLED THE PATCHOULI MP3, 2.62 MB * * * It's Saturday, a warm, rainy morning in Mobile, but neither heat nor rain shall slow the progress of FlashFiction.net submissions, coffee mug production, audio production, storefront construction and whatever rewards the days' end may offer. This morning however, for breakfast we intend to have something Swollen and Sticky - an accepted flash story by New Yorker Deborah Rosenblum that is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. * * * Submissions are coming in at a quicker pace . . .I was a little disappointed in a group that arrived yesterday from several writers, some well-published . . it made me think they were not coming here and reading the daily posts, for a feel of what is being sought . . I hate sending rejection letters as much as I hate receiving them . . but I have made it clear, several times . . mix of prose with poetry, and do not email me that you are not a poet - one cannot successfully write fiction and not have some of the poet blood in him. Remember, these stories are being read for audio versions. They must sound good ( or great!) and not just be a clever story using plain English with a beginning, middle and end. The deadline is still January 31, 2005. A few more were accepted recently and writers names will be added in coming days. . .Guidelines in column three> > > > > > > > >
January 7, 2005 Congratulations to these writers whose flash fiction stories have been accepted for publication here, other web sites in our chain, in the first audio release of Flash Fiction and even on coffee mugs that morph from a dark color to white, revealing their flash story: Mark Budman, "The Murmur of a Mermaid" Donald Capone, "Astronaut" Marja Hagborg, "An Elegy for the Most Beautiful Girl" Judd Hampton, "Here, There Is Unrest" Debbie Ann Ice, "My Lover is Classical" Beverly A. Jackson, "Penumbra" Phil Pisani, "The Umbrella" Deborah Rosenblum, "Swollen and Sticky" Julie Shapiro, "The Wind That Spoke To Me" Anna Sidak, "Edgar Called in Sick With Flu (Imagined He had Cable)" Lydia Theys, "Fatima" * * *
Even before the deadline for submissions - January 31, 2005 - we will begin recording the accepted pieces in the studio, and imprinting them to coffee mugs for the upcoming storefront and catalog. Publication date is April 15, 2005. The guidelines are in column three>>>>>> Please read earlier entries (below) for information on what I am looking for in this collection. . .also, strictly no simultaneous submissions. Please do not send me work that is under consideration by any other publisher, person, organization, etc.
January 6, 2005 "I'll have a cappuccino and a dash of flash fiction please." Could your Lilliputian magnum opus end up on cafe tables across the globe? Yes. Which is why every word counts in flash fiction. More acceptance letters went out last night, to those who heeded the call for poetry mixed with prose, who packed epic tales into tight, powerful paragraphs, who stirred the reader's imagination to a destination where instead of a stop sign there was one reading YES. January 31, 2005 is still the deadline. Guidelines in column 3>>>>>>>>>
January 5, 2005 Judd Hampton's "Here, There is Unrest" has been accepted for inclusion in the first FlashFiction.net issue. Judd hails from Alberta, Canada and has twice been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Three other writers were sent acceptance letters yesterday. Submissions are being accepted through January 31, 2005 and there are no submission fees. Writers receive 50% royalties and will not only see their work here and other web sites but will hear their fiction in audio CD, DVD, MP3 formats and imprinted on flashfiction.net coffee-tea mugs which morph from a dark color to white, revealing their stories. Additional venues are in progress . . .Guidelines in column 3 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>
January 4, 2005 A story that stimulates imagination through poetry and suggestion are words of art being sought here for the first FlashFiction.net collection. Such pieces have made their way through the submissions, more announcements about authors to follow soon. Stories other than my own will also follow, pending signed agreements with writers. Here there are no submission fees, writers will receive 50% royalties and will hear their work in audio format and perhaps see their work imprinted on such things as coffee mugs ( see sample below.) The deadline for submissions is January 31, 2005.
January 3, 2005 Congratulations and thank you to Deborah Rosenblum, whose flash piece "Swollen and Sticky" will be published here and included on the first FlashFiction.net audio CD/DVD and MP3 download collection . . . Another excellent and incredibly short piece came in this morning . . .the writer portrays in a mere 208 words a moving story having all the elements of a much longer story. Great work, Judd - an acceptance notice is on the way. . . Here is a sample of a FlashFiction Mug that will bear the fruits of writers published here and be available for purchase. The first image shows the mug after it is filled with hot water. The mug changes from a dark color to white to reveal the published work ( shown in second image.) Click on images for larger version.
Submissions being accepted through January 31, 2005. Guidelines in column three>>>>>>>>>>>>
January 2, 2005 Did I mention a radio deal for the first FlashFiction.net collection? It's all part of our Literature for the Masses program. Would also like to incorporate flash into video games . . if they will not come to you, go to them . . . Should be posting stories by other writers here in coming days . .
I have nervously typed in zoetrope.com a few times this weekend after finding a notice the site is down. . .although membership has always been free there, I would happily pay an annual fee to remain a member . . .
Please submit more flash pieces here . . .the guidelines in column three>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
January 1, 2005 Is it the world changing or your perception as you grow older or both? Get your wits about you and send in more flash stories. In this genre the excuse of time has not an ounce of weight. We need the inspiration of poetic vision, fresh expression and character, stories which do and live, unpropped by the easy route of explanation or telling. An ending is only clever if it glides onto the tarmac. We are allergic to formula conclusions with too many sprinkles of morality. The deadline for submissions: January 31, 2005. The guidelines in column three>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
December 31, 2004 Salutations, and wishes for a healthy & safe New Year to those writers who recently emailed submissions. Most came from Zoetrope writers, a writing building filled with the magic and generosity of Francis Ford Coppola and Company. Zoetrope has freely provided writers around the world with a place unlike any other on the planet, where writers meet and share their work and receive in most cases structured, extremely helpful feedback from their peers. I should be emailing a few more acceptance letters today, along with a contract guaranteeing the writers half of any profit made from their work. And now it's time I suppose for a press release, and firm dates so this project will have the strength of framework, a skeleton upon which the meat must cling (that's weird but a keeper?)
PRESS RELEASE FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE December 31, 2004
MOBILE,AL- FlashFiction.net announced dates today for submissions to be included in an audio release of collected works on DVD and CD, as well as other digital media. Pieces will also be published on the FlashFiction.net and affiliated web sites which include long established Audiohouse.com. Says Preston Brady III, owner of the web sites, "I see flash fiction as a union between the short story and poetry.But however one views it, clearly flash fiction - short-short stories - will play a much larger role in exposing literature to a fast-paced public." Brady envisions plans of "flashing" fiction to the public in unobtrusive but new ways. "It's not "force" fiction," he claims. "It's discovering a void where there should be words, and making those words happen." He also cautions. "Do not as a writer be lulled into irresponsible writing just because the length is much shorter. In some ways flash fiction requires more work than a short story. In flash fiction every word really does count."
FlashFiction.net will accept entries by email and postal mail through January 31, 2005. First publication date is set for April 15, 2005. Submission guidelines and additional details are available at http://www.flashfiction.net
December 30, 2004 One cannot be a human, alive today and not feel the sorrow and grief resulting from the Asia tidal wave. Tragedy of this magnitude causes deep thought about the purpose of life and the sometimes overwhelming power of nature. I hope relief efforts stay focused and do not get lost in the red tape of governments. Probably too large and unrealistic of a wish. One web site/organization I believe does a good job of helping is thehungersite.com
December 29, 2004 Two important dates to announce here soon . . .Closing Date for submissions to be included in the first collective issue of FlashFiction.net audio DVD and CD's. And . . the release date of the aforementioned issue . . Contracts (Agreements) are prepared and being sent to writers whose works have been selected for publication on the first release. As Agreements are completed and returned, writers works will appear here first. STILL NEED more submissions. See guidelines on this page, to the right>>>>>>>>>>>>>
* * Spanish, French and Portuguese language submissions are also being considered. Please provide English translation if possible, though not required . . (We have http://poema.com pointing to this site . . .)
December 28, 2004 My thought for the moment . . .to try to be normal is to fight yourself, to hide who you are for the appearance of others, a sad affair, a charade. Hey - another flash fiction piece was accepted today. Details to follow soon. Still seeking more, for publication. Submit or forever remain in obscurity. - - - - - - -
December 27, 2004 I have a habit of writing. If you are in doubt read the next flash, "Dead Ringer for Tom Cruise." >>>>>>>>
December 26, 2004 It is Sunday so I add a second story of my own . . .Frost Killed the Patchouli
December 25, 2004 Today I worked on a piece which I call The Auction. 451 words, and answered a few emails from other writers interested in flashfiction.net project. Also acquired http://escribir.org to point here for expansion to Spanish entries More about the project . . . some of the stories selected for publication here will be included in digital audio versions I plan to make available in certain markets . . including Audiohouse.com writers will be paid royalties based upon licensing of the stories - still to be decided. So . . send me a few of your very best unpublished, not being shopped pieces but please go over the submission guidelines > > > > > > > first.
December 24, 2004 Hello, this is the first day for FlashFiction.net! It is a new project which I hope will grow into something promising for many of us. In case you didn't know, flash fiction is a very short piece, usually not more than a thousand words - a genre that is catching on in the so-called modern world because of its brevity. I first caught a glimpse of the genre over at Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope.com web site, where I have been a member since 2000.Before you dismiss flash fiction, read some pieces - give it a chance. Actually, it can be very challenging to create a good or great story in so few words. Some writers may think it is a quick easy way to produce fiction and perhaps get a little notoriety and/or cash, but I warn you - a great deal of thought must still go into a short short piece, to make it publishable. Having said this I invite you to submit your own work for publication here. If accepted your work may also be published through other projects I am involved in. Once I have enough accepted submissions they will be published here. Please read column three for submission guidelines. ( I will also discuss royalty payment plans with writers who submissions are accepted here for publication.)
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Uncertainties by Marie Fitzpatrick I dreamed a thrill. A kaleidoscopic
thrill of wonder and bewilderment. I tripped into a world of being, sensuous and
emotional. I heard my heartbeat, echo a mantra of love as the c-o-l-o-u-r-s
dripped-swirled-circled, indigos-reds- yellows-greens, bleed into a rainbow. They
stretched and pulsed, inveigled and cajoled, beckoning to me. Prisms of light, darted
through their rich texture, as they attacked my senses. * * *© 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved
The Umbrella by Phil Pisani
She wanted to reach out and tear off one of the numbers just to pretend she had the means to make the call and ask to see the place. But she refrained. Instead she scanned the wall from top to bottom right to left and when she was sure she read every notice, every number, she began again. It killed time. She liked killing time. She figured the more she killed the closer she came to the end. But when she scanned it the first time she thought she noticed something. Something familiar. As she hit the middle of the wall she stopped. That was it. The description and address was like finding something lost - Two bedroom, kitchen with stove, bath, small sitting room – on Generala Dorokhova. It was their old home, she knew it! She closed her eyes and thought back to the days when life was fun and worth living, her husband smiling and playing with their two sons in the small room between the beds. It was small, especially when the kids grew into men. Maybe that was why they left so fast. What makes something like that end, she thought to herself, her eyes opening staring back up at the wall, the cold wet sending a shiver through her bones? It was warm back then and bright. Now there is nothing but cold and gray. The rain picked up and came in from the east so she tilted her umbrella to ward it off as her thoughts continued. She felt the end coming when her sons went off to war and never returned. She turned to prayer, her husband turned to booze. It was shortly after this he lost his job and disappeared. She tried finding work but no one wanted an old lady with no experience. She watched the home die. First the warmth and the comfortable smells evaporated like warm rain on parched earth. Then the house slowly lost its life, withered away like the last days of a spring flower. First, the heat was shut off, then the lights and then the eviction. She packed up what she could and tried finding a place with the few rubles she saved but there was nothing. Nothing. She tried the shelters but they were cruel to her there so she survived from place to place day to day depending on the chill and the cold hoping she would find her sons, even maybe her husband. But she found nothing and then her prayers stopped. The rain came harder, pounding heavy on the umbrella she found lying next to her one morning, in an alley after a rainstorm that lasted through the night. It became her friend, her only friend these days, this large, worn black umbrella. She tightly gripped the heavy plastic curved handle to keep it from blowing away. In the sun she cradled it to her body and in the rain and snow it cradled her. The pounding stopped above and she peeked from underneath the ribs finding the street and saw white snowflakes gliding to the ground. She breathed in and the cold air burned at her lungs sending a sharp pain to her heart. It would not be long. She took one last look at the notice and read Generala Dorokhova. Yes, it was her old home, she felt it, knew it intuitively. She reached for the tag and pulled it placing it carefully in the pocket of her coat, while pulling the central pole of the umbrella to her shoulder for added support. Then she turned and walked towards the metro where she decided her friend and she would spend the night. © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved
by Deborah Rosenblum The rain pours down, beating tattoos on roofs and driving everyone crazy. It beats a rhythm in people’s heads. Only a drummer could love this rain. It beads on earth too dry and packed to turn to mud. Water collects in puddles and ponds, and lakes that block roads and drown the dead plants. Sarah hates it. Sarah’s mother checks in on her. Maybe she is afraid her daughter will run headlong into the humid night and disappear, or worse, drag some new sort of trouble back. Busy. Busy hands are happy hands. “You could help with the dishes. Do you want to do some dishes?” “I don’t feel well.” Sarah’s mother says, “A little activity could be just the thing for you. Just what the doctor ordered.” Sarah holds a bottle of coke to her forehead. It is one of the glass bottles, reminiscent of maybe her mother’s girlhood, not her own. Sarah grew up weaned on plastic. The glass is cold, colder than plastic could ever be. It feels good. In the summer, when the air is too hot to breathe and her skin gets sticky from sweat, and the river shrinks like a shy girl, Sarah likes to dance. She had special outfits she wears with skirts that make a swoosh as they swish around her body. She dances until her body is mottled with dust and mud and skin washed clean by streams of perspiration. Sarah dances like some people pray. She dances and the stomping of her feet assures her she is really alive. Last summer she went with Tim to the river’s edge. Mud squished between their toes as they walked the thin line that marked the river’s receding hairline. Never side by side, first one would lead then the other. He led her, steered her along until they ended up in the high dry reeds, where he covered her. A ring mars the table with the telephone. The ring is a memory of tall glasses of tea, dressed in a suit of condensation. And the ring is the reminder of days where the hot air burned lungs and coated them in dust and a glass of tea was a companion at the seat by the table where the phone that never rang sits. Sarah does not dance in the rain. She dances only in dust, to the percussion of the dry rustle of a special skirt and her drumming feet. The river climbs its banks and encroaches like a fat lady on the bus; that swollen bed of tears invites no snakelike movements of Sarah’s swelling hips and ankles. © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved
Dead Ringer for Tom Cruise by Preston Brady III
He sniffed his own armpits, one at a time of course. Like Molly Shannon on SNL except his sniffs were a lucid mannerism, just one of several making up the handsome being of Taylor Cruger.
"You are a conglomeration of strange habits," his mother Ester Cruger announced, and no one else in the room disagreed. "I can’t help it. It’s me. It’s who I am," he would laugh, and tug at an ear lobe until it seemed he might twist it off the side of his head. But then his disarming smile, the bright shiny white teeth and Tom Cruise resemblance immediately caused the observer to wash away the odd physical displays of the young athlete. Whichever girlfriend he had at the moment would cling to his arm a bit shy under the spotlight of the Cruger parents and siblings, and perhaps giggle and shrug as if to say hey, I guess it goes with the territory. And what a vast territory! Even his own family members could be momentarily surprised by some new habit in his repertoire. Like the bright sunny spring day he was at bat for his local team the Mobile Crickets, playing against the rough and tough Creola Bulls. There was a smattering of family members and fans in the bleachers and Taylor had just approached the batting plate when a new mannerism revealed itself for all present to observe. He quite simply put one of his hands down the front of his baseball pants and into his skivvies, and left it there for what seemed an eternity to some. Now everyone was used to the antics of baseball players, but this freeze-frame hand-down-pants routine was causing sustained discomfort among all present. Ester Cruger suddenly had a horrid thought she tried to share with her husband Kyle. "What - if he . . " she stuttered. "What if he what, woman?" Kyle Cruger was not as concerned about the situation as his wife. "The boy probably just has a mean itch. I’ve been there.." "No – no. I know he’s going to do it . . ." Ester cried.. "Do what?" Kyle whined. "Take your damn hand out of ya pants Cruger!" hollered one of his teammates. Ester stood and wiggled her arms and stomped her feet. "He’s going to smell his hand! I know he is!" On that remark heads swiveled in her direction and some in the crowd stood as if preparing to seek shelter. "He damn well better not," retorted Kyle. "I can take the underarm sniffing and ear tugging but no son of mine is going to smell his own privates. No way." But he did. Taylor Cruger finally and slowly removed his hand from inside his pants and rubbed it slightly more than briefly against his nose before re-gripping the bat and warming up his swing. The pitcher seemed unsure what to do but true to instinct he thew a hard, fast one at the batter who swung furiously, making direct contact with the ball plummeting it over the field of players and out of the park. As he cruised into home plate to make the run official, Taylor took a few whiffs of his underarms and tugged at his earlobes. He even slid his hand back down the old baseball pants but with all the hooting and hollering from his team and fans, no one seemed to care, except for a new girl in the park who elbowed her female companion and said, "He’s cute. I think he is a dead ringer for Tom Cruise. What’s his name?" ©2004-2005 by FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved
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Jack McCoy by K. Cutter
Jack McCoy, the lumberjack, woke to the crow of the rooster, pre-dawn, stumbled out of bed, turned on the kettle, buttered toast, made a thermos of instant coffee and one of soup, grabbed his axe off the banister and headed out into the trees, his forest of naked-ladies dancing to the music in his head. And those trees did look like naked ladies dancing. Their branches swayed above their tall slender trunks, dipping ever so often to caress their breast-like humps and bumps, shaking their bushy leaves of hair. Jack loved his forest of dancing trees, the only women in his life, the only femininity for miles. Women didn't live, where Jack lived. They lived in the city and suburbs, near culture and shopping complexes, not in the middle of nowhere like Jack. Jack could barely remember the human female form, not to mention the act of female giving and receiving. Sex to Jack, for as long as his memory, had been chopping down those naked lady trees. The paleness of his Irish descent shone through his sun burnt skin, which matched the red tufts of hair springing out from under his cap in clusters of curls, as he cleared the land, making room for the sugar cane. Oh, the thrill of the power, the dominance, the manliness, as his strong arms whipped the axe into their very beings, penetrating the solidness of their bodies, sending them eternally to their knees. Jack sure did love chopping down those trees. Well, all except for one—the bushiest tree on the land, clothed and chaste in her compound leaves and conservative branches. Jack wasn't sure what kind of tree she was, only that she was an Australian native and was tall and sturdy, sensible and kind. Not to mention those beautiful smelling flowers. Jack called her "Lorraine," and sat with her in the afternoon. "Lorraine," he sighed and chocked himself between her roots prodding above the ground. "Oh Lorraine," he sighed and rested his head against her stable body. "I chopped down five trees this morning, and three of them were big, real big. It doesn't bother you that I chop down other trees, does it? 'Cause even if it did, I don't know if I could stop. I'd never chop you down, though. You're special, you know? You keep giving me shade and somewhere to rest, and I won't chop you down. I couldn't anyway, Lorraine, even if you was naked like the others. I just don’t see you that way." Lorraine shook a gust of flowers that landed in Jack's lap. He grabbed them by the handful and stroked them over his flushed cheeks, caressing and smelling. "I knew you'd understand," he said. "I love you so much, Lorraine. I don't know what I'd do with out you." Blowing gently, she rattled her branches. More flowers fell, and she whispered the sough of wind in Jack's ear, sending fire down his spine. * * *© 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved K. Cutter lives in Australia with a houseful of accident-prone males. She is a professional aspiring wordsmith—NOT a stay-at-home-mom. In her spare time, she swims, recycles rejection letters into beautiful stationary, and makes trips to ER. She once flew a plane. * * *
white threads by phip ross © 2005 FlashFiction.net All Rights Reserved * * * Submission Guidelines for FlashFiction.net. NOTE: Call for submissions closed for the first issue January 31, 2005. 1. All submissions must be the original UNPUBLISHED work of the individual submitting the work. 2. The submission cannot be a section of or extraction of a larger, published work, or work currently being considered by others. Please keep submissions between 150 and 1,000 words. 3. No simultaneous submissions, i.e., the submission cannot be under consideration by any other individual, organization, publisher, etc. 4. Submissions can be emailed or mailed. If mailed DO NOT send original copies. I cannot be responsible for loss of your mailed material. You agree to this if you send me any submissions by mail. Also, material will not be returned. 5. If emailed the flash fiction must be COPIED and PASTED into the BODY of the email. No attachments are ever opened - they are automatically deleted by the server so I never even see them. 6. If I want to consider publishing a submission I will contact you by email within 30 days of submission - probably sooner, depends of the volume of submissions and my schedule . . 7. That's it for now! See bottom of this page for email and address. But who am I? here's a brief bio . .
Preston Brady III is a 47 year old writer, artist, musician and webmaster from Mobile, Alabama. He lived for 14 years in San Francisco, Calif. where he wrote three years for a monthly newspaper,The Tenderloin Times. He enjoys world travel and counts among his favorite destinations Costa Rica, Thailand, Russia and Mexico. He is co-owner of the music production company Audiohouse Productions, which also features an online music download store, and President of the non-profit organization BlueCollar.org, a free job resume listing site founded in 2001. He was a story nominator for issue four of Zoetrope's All-Story Extra monthly publication and has been a steady writer since age 18. For a few years he was a member of the symphonic metal band Psychotic Episode, who produced two albums signed with the Internet's first ever virtual record label, Nordic Records. The band also covered Tommy James & Shondell's Crimson & Clover, available for free download at Audiohouse.com. Preston also enjoys working outside, tending to his garden of over 200 culinary and medicinal herbs.
Mail Submissions: FlashFiction.net, PO Box 851241, Mobile, AL 36685 email: Preston@bluecollar.org SUBJECT LINE MUST READ: FlashFiction Submission |
