A Short Story I KNOW You Will Love!

I have been very excited for today's post.

Recently, I had the chance to read this short story by Karen Wojcik Berner when she posted it on her popular blog, Bibliophilic Blather. This story, "Sheep Boy," had won an honorable mention in the short story contest at WOW! Women on Writing. Well, when I read it, I just had to ask Karen if she would share it for my FFD followers, and thankfully, she agreed. Because I know you're going to love this story and I'm going to stop talking now, but don't forget to read Karen's bio that follows, and learn about her book, A Whisper to a Scream.

Sheep Boy
By Karen Wojcik Berner

Okay. Mail the bills. Go to the bank. Get bread and milk, and, oh yeah, Brianna wanted more markers for school. Twenty minutes until the bus dropped the kids off. Just enough time to pick up a quick cappuccino.

"Hey, how are ya? Care to sample our new low-fat crumb cake? Not that you need it or anything."

Leah gave the kid a WTF look.

"No, I meant the low-fat part. You look pretty good to me."

Good save. He was cute, this kid, with his fuzzy white-guy 'fro all the college boys were sporting lately. She wanted to shear him. "I'll have a medium nonfat cappuccino, extra hot, please."

"Extra hot indeed." He smirked, then called out her order to a taller, skinnier fuzzy guy with a square Herman Munster head. Him, she had no desire to shear.

Drew had gone punk, not goth. What was wrong with her? Did she honestly think he would go all emo on her? When Leah was young, "goth" and "emo" did not exist, only jocks, preppies, nerds and stoners. She was beginning to feel more like her mother every day.

"What'll it be? Oh, hi. Nonfat cappuccino, right? Size?" Sheep Boy's grin was charming.

"Medium, please. Can I ask you something?"

He draped his hands over the cash register. "I'm all yours."

Leah shifted nervously. "Maybe you can help me understand something. My son recently went punk."

Sheep Boy's eyes lit up. "Awesome. Ramones. Green Day."

"Older bands?"

"Yeah, punk's punk. Wait, how old's your son?"

"Thirteen. He's in Junior High."

"No way." Sheep Boy threw his hands up and backed off the register, shaking his head. "There is no way you have a thirteen year old."

"Unfortunately there is." This did not look like calculated flattery for tips. This was a moment of true astonishment.

"Well, you sure don't look it. I mean, I knew you were older when you said 'son,' but I didn't think that old, no offense." He winked.

And so it began. The daily conversation. The oasis from her family's insanity. Her crush on Sheep Boy.

The cappuccino was waiting for her when she walked in. "Saw your van in the parking lot. How's your son?"

"He discovered 'Combat Rock' this week."

"Epic disc. Three-fifty-six, please."

Leah dug in her purse, remembering how old she was the first time she heard "London Calling." It was a lifetime ago. When everything was new. When there was electricity in the air. When music was...she chuckled to herself...epic. She handed him a five.

His hand touched hers briefly when giving her the change. Her face flushed. He did not look away. "So what are you up to tonight?"

Leah could not bring herself to recite the litany of monotonous chores awaiting her. "Not much. How about you?"

"My band is playing at Frankie's." Sheep Boy's eyes sparkled. "You should come. It's going to be awesome."

"Maybe." Leah scurried out of the coffee shop.


That night, Leah dreamt of being in the front row at Sheep Boy's concert.

"This song goes out to a very special lady." Taking her cheek gently, he tilted her face toward him and...

"Leah! Get up!" Her husband poked her. "Your alarm's been ringing for five minutes. Don't forget to pick up my suit from the dry cleaner. I need it for Thursday."


There were several people in line before her. Leah scanned behind the counter for Sheep Boy, but could not see him. Disappointed, she collected her cappuccino from Herman Munster and headed toward the door.

"Wait. Don't leave." Sheep Boy caught up to her. "I thought of you last night."

"What?"

"I heard 'Should I Stay or Should I Go?' on 'XRT while I was driving home, and I thought of you." He searched her face for a reaction.

He was taller than she thought, standing there before her, out from behind the counter. She wanted to say she thought of him often. Each time her husband came home pissed from work expecting dinner. Each time she drove the same neighborhood streets over and over transporting the kids from school to activities to friends'. Each time she closed her eyes at night.

"That's a great song." Leah looked down. "I gotta go."

Sheep Boy's face fell.

"Goodbye." She left, knowing she could never return.
_____

Karen Wojcik Berner is the author of A Whisper to a Scream, the first novel in the Bibliophiles series about the lives of the members of a suburban classics book club. It is available through amazon.com in paperback and e-versions, as well as for Nook e-readers.

She has been a writer/editor for 25 years, ten of which were spent in editing trade publications. A two-time Folio Magazine Ozzie Award for Excellence in Magazine Editorial and Design winner, her work also has appeared in The Chicago Tribune and countless regional newspapers and magazines.

She is currently working on her second book, How Long 'Til My Soul Gets it Right?, the second book on the Classic Book Club series.

To learn more about Karen, please visit www.KarenBerner.com.

Maybelle's Revenge and Other Short Stories by LB Gschwandtner

Okay fellow readers - what's better for weekend reading than a great collection of short stories?

Well, I've got just the thing for you!

I just finished this collection myself, and trust me, the stories make for fantastic reading. Of course, I am not only a huge fan of LB's writing, but also have co-authored the chick-lit novel, Foxy's Tale, with her, so I know she can write!

Looking for some afternoon entertainment? Get Maybelle's Revenge and Other Short Stories. You won't be disappointed.

DESCRIPTION:
A short story collection with an edge. Paranormal events, vengeful attacks, payback for past pain -- and lots of other quirky tidbits are the stuff of this collection, including a love stricken parrot and a town that takes on an electric glow. It’s all in here but, to start, there’s Maybelle's Revenge. And she is out to get some payback.

What people are saying:
This collection of stories is so much fun the pages practically turn themselves. The stories cover a wide range of subjects and have some wacky, unexpected protagonists - including Maybelle herself - but what they have in common is humor and readability. The stories are short, fast moving and go down like candy. A great choice for beach reading or taking the kids to the pool! -- Kim Wright Wiley

And now, an excerpt from the beginning of "Maybelle's Revenge":

At South Lake Living all the patients were sedated and in bed by eight-thirty, seven days a week. Except for the night aide who sat at the front desk watching a tiny TV, no one stirred until six when the morning staff came on duty and got everyone up to pee.
But not tonight. Tonight Maybelle palmed her pills.

Got them goddam pills right here. I’ll stuff them down her throat, she comes after me.
She slipped out of bed, stepped into her walking shoes and pulled up her knee highs. In the half darkness, as she reached out to the vinyl armchair they had placed next to her bed and plucked her cotton housedress off the arm, old lady DeFino opened her eyes.

“May?” She squinted from the bed across the room. Old lady DeFino couldn’t see past her own hand without her glasses. “Where you going?”

“Shhh.” Maybelle pulled the dress down and snapped the front closed. The dress had two big pockets in front. They bulged a little. She shuffled over to the door. “I’m goin’ out.”
“Whaddya mean you’re goin’ out? If you gotta go you’re supposed to call the night girl.”
“Shut up DeFino. Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I need my beauty rest.” She rolled over and started snoring almost immediately.

Yeah, you just sleep the rest of your life away, princess.

Maybelle’s plan was simple.

All I gotta do is sneak halfway down the hall, duck into the empty room by the fire stairs where that crazy Marinelli kid pulled the overhead light cord down and caved in the ceiling trying to hang herself last week. Nineteen years old and already nothing to live for. Not me.

She would make some racket by tossing a wastebasket against the steel fireproof door by the bathrooms at the end of the hall. Then out the front door while the night girl was investigating the noise. From there she could hitch a bus to town, get off at the stop two blocks from her house and walk the rest of the way. Simple. If she could just toss the wastebasket far enough.
She shuffled out the door and hugged the wall to keep steady.

Her plan went without a hitch. The night girl was slow witted. She even walked out the fireproof door to see if anyone was there. This gave Maybelle some extra time to lift a walker at the front door. She chose the new kind with wheels.

The night air was mild. That was the best part of living in Florida. The nights. Days were too hot for Maybelle. But Harold had insisted they sell everything and come down here. Whatever Harold wanted he always got. Forty-two years of Harold getting what he wanted. Now Lake Shore. He had put her there.

Maybelle reached into her pocket and pulled out bus fare. She sat on the bench and soon a bus pulled up.

“Need some help with your walker, Gramma?”

“Yes. That would be very nice of you, young man.” Maybelle smiled up at the bus driver.

I could club you with it you son of a snake.

Two blocks from her house she got off. The driver followed her down the steps holding the walker and set it up for her on the sidewalk.

“Thank you, young man.”

“You be good now, granny. Get yourself right home because these are mean streets after dark.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I lived here forty years and I seen plenty.” Maybelle took hold of the rubber coated walker handles and started rolling the two blocks toward her house. It was a lie. They had only come here five years ago.

Goddam lousy buses. Give me a pain up my butt.

It took a long time for her to push her way to the house. The lights were on in the living room. She could see the flicker of the TV against a wall in the den. There was a car in the driveway.
Is that my old Chevy? She rolled over closer to it. Yeah. He’s still driving my car. Used to take that car to the beach. Probably still has sand in the back seat. Took me to South Lake in that car. Wouldn’t let me drive.

Maybelle rubbed her arm remembering other hospital visits. The suspicious looks the doctors and nurses gave her. The questions, always the questions. And yet she never told. Not anyone. She still didn’t know why. Yes, sure, she was ashamed. But it was something else. She was waiting.
Now it was time.

She knew where he kept the gun.




LB Gschwandtner is a writer, magazine editor, artist, and co-owner, with her family, of an integrated media business. Her work has appeared in various journals including Del Sol Review. One of her prose poems has been included in an anthology called “Oil and Water and Other Things That Don't Mix,” a collection published to support victims of the BP oil spill in the Gulf. She has received awards for three different stories from the Writer's Digest Annual Competition in the mainstream literary category and the Lorian Hemingway short fiction competition, and was short listed for a Tom Howard Short Story Contest.

She also founded TheNovelette.com which offers free, themed, writing contests with prizes for emerging writers plus a blog where writers talk about their experiences in the publishing world. She has published three books, all available at Amazon.com & B&N.com: “The Naked Gardener,” “Page Truly and The Journey To Nearandfar,” and “Foxy's Tale.” And now the short story collection, “Maybelle’s Revenge.”

She’s an avid kayaker (touring) and grew up fishing in the Florida Keys. Here's a tidbit of interest. Her husband proposed on their first and only date and they were married five weeks later. They lived in Paris, France, for a time and now live on a tidal creek where they love watching Bald eagles soar past their windows. Email LB at foxystale@gmail.com. She’d love to hear from you.


Other books by LB:

The Year of the Mountain Lion by Maria E. Schneider

It's Friday again! I hope everyone will be having a wonderful, summer weekend.

I'm ultra-pleased today, to be introducing everyone to a short story, "The Year of the Mountain Lion," by Maria E. Schneider. I'm a big fan of Maria's work, so when she told me about this story being published by Darwin's Evolutions, I bought it and read it immediately. I have to tell you, this is an EXCELLENT story with action, suspense, and a great ending.

DESCRIPTION:
Cursed as a drought-bringer, Jolan lives a harsh life of nomadic exile in the desolate desert that surrounds her former home. Now, though, she is being hunted by those who have already cast her out for purposes she cannot fathom. Unfortunately for her pursuers, Jolan is not helpless and she is determined to survive.

A gripping short story by skilled author Maria Schneider that shares a powerful woman's refusal to surrender in the face of either nature or the society that abandoned her.

What readers are saying:
"Maria E. Schneider, Urban Fantasy and Cozy Mystery writer has taken a trip back to her roots with the short story, “Year of the Mountain Lion.” This story is one part of Darwin’s Evolutions, a short story magazine designed specifically for Kindle readers...The Year of the Mountain Lion” is chock full of self-realization, ethical quandaries, powerful friendships, lost chances and misguided use of power.” -- Boomtron.com

And now for an excerpt from "Year of the Mountain Lion" by Maria E. Schneider:

Jolan ran across the sand and stopped near the top of a gully, crouching. She glanced backwards, scanning the dry, gritty landscape. There wasn’t much time. They were very close now, and if she didn’t lose them soon, their arrows would have her heart.
She jumped and rolled, not away into the sandy center of the gully, but up against the base. From there, she used her agave swish to brush the sand where she had landed. The rolling marks barely showed, and she left them because there wasn’t time. The hunters might easily mistake the slight markings as those made by an animal anyway.
Her clan didn’t know the desert like she did. When they had abandoned her in the cliffs, blaming the lack of rain on her curse, she had learned to live on the scant water that trickled occasionally in the last, drying stream beds. She had learned to move deeper into the desert in the winter, living on even less water, finding it with the same curse that had gotten her cast out from her clan.

Keeping close to the crumbling sidewalls, Jolan headed for the red rock overhang. The harder ledges would give her some cover and the ability to run full out.

This was the third time her tribe had hunted her. Two seasons ago, her comfortable existence had been shattered when she looked down at a curious pattern in the sand. Jagged sticks formed a lightning bolt. Animal hide, representing thunder, was held down with pebbles. It took all her discipline to keep from scattering the pieces into the wind.

“Wat—” Out of habit, she had started to mutter the name of her people, but her voice was so disused, she uttered only a croaking whisper.

Could it be an enemy of the Watahal who chased her and not a tribe member?
No. Only someone from her clan would know that the lightning bolt with clouds was her old name: Taima, Thunder.

Each time she found the sign, she trembled. Each time she took the old, worn piece of hide, torn from…she could not tell. Whoever followed left only rotted hide, likely desperate, likely out of water.

Leaving a few false trails and wandering in random circles, she had led the enemy away from water until they gave up the chase. Finding water was her forte and traveling her life. If she didn’t stay too long in any one place, her curse didn’t steal the rains for too long.

But the enemy got smarter. She had found the signs again this fall, including a few parched oak twigs from the valley, twigs that signified her new name, Jolan: Dead-Oaks. Part of the wood had been burned, a way of cursing her.

Over the seasons, the clan learned where she roamed: the plains, the mountains or the low hills. And they were close this time.

Her breath came hard as she ran under the protective rock outcrop and then out into the open, sun flashing into her eyes before steady steps took her under the next overhang.
She didn’t slow, even as she tossed her swish into a bundle of fallen rocks. It was nothing there, only a dried branch.

Better they chased her now, rather than in the northern mountains where she stayed after the spring melt. The heat of the desert would discourage them from hunting her for very long.

_________



Also available on NOOK

Maria E. Schneider is the author of the urban fantasy, Under Witch Moon as well as the Sedona O'Hala mystery series, not to mention other short story collections. You can learn more about Maria and her books at www.BearMountainBooks.com.

Other Books by Maria:

Ghost Plane and other Disturbing Tales by Suzanne Tyrpak

Did everyone have a Happy Fourth of July? I hope so!

We're back today after the holiday with a very cool short story from Suzanne Tyrpak's new release, Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales.

DESCRIPTION:
Take a ride on the Ghost Plane. Eleven twisted tales about life, love, and insanity. Eleven tales that explore the darker recesses. If you’re afraid to look too deeply in the mirror, read no further.

What this reader is saying:
I don't often review the books that I feature here at Fiction for Dessert, but as many readers here know, I'm a HUGE fan of short stories, so I asked Suzanne for an advance review copy.

Here's the review I posted on Amazon:

I just finished this collection of short stories by Suzanne Tyrpak and I give it an A+ for entertainment. There are eleven stories contained within three chapters - Airport Stories, Hot Flashes, and Gothica. The tales within each chapter have a specific feel to them and all exhibit Ms. Tyrpak's talent for writing and story telling. Once I sat down to read one story, I found I couldn't stop. If you think you don't enjoy horror, don't let that stop you from reading these stories! HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

Okay, so I don't want to keep you in suspense -- Suzanne has graciously offered to post one story from the collection. Enjoy!
_______

"Blue Angel"


There are a lot of ways to die at the airport.

I don’t mean in a crash or at the hands of terrorists. Other ways.

I work at this small airport in the Rocky Mountains. Been working here for years. I liked my job just fine, till the new boss showed up.

She’s got her favorites. Not me—newbies who do her bidding without question, even when it’s all screwed up or against airline policy—eighteen-year-olds who’ve never worked a job before and have no clue what’s what. She makes them supervisors, gives them weekends off, never writes them up for sleeping through a shift or pretending to be sick.

Meanwhile, she writes me up for nothing.

Maybe I didn’t smile right. Maybe I have an opinion. She tells me she wants, “cookie-cutter-agents.” That could only work for me, if I were the prototype.

I try to keep my mouth shut, but she’s always on me.

“Just because you’ve been here ten years doesn’t mean you know anything,” she announces in front of everyone at our station meeting. “You have no more authority than someone who’s been working here two weeks.”

Nice.

So people who got the job yesterday don’t listen to a word I say.

I see them loading suitcases wheels-down, so the bags are rolling off the cart, sliding around the cargo pit. I tell them to stack the big bags on the bottom, on their sides, handles facing out, then lay the smaller bags on top. But they don’t listen. When bags are jumbled in the pit, when the count is off and the Load Sheet doesn’t add up—when we get a hit with a delay—the boss yells at me. Suddenly, I’m a senior agent: responsible.

“I don’t like your attitude,” she says.

“What attitude?”

“Your tone of voice.”
I shut my mouth, don’t say a word.

But I’m always thinking.

They fly turbo-props into this airport, Dash-8s. Prop planes do well at this altitude, better than jets. Those propellers are powerful. They spin so fast that you can’t see them. It’s easy to forget they’re there.

Say you’re tired—which you always are, getting up at 3am and working a sixteen hour split-shift. Say the flight is running late and the pressure’s on. You’ve got to do a quick turn, get those passengers back to Denver in time for their connections. You’re in a rush. The captain hands you the release—the paperwork the FAA audits—the flight attendant closes the door, the engines rev, and the propellers start to spin, move so fast you see right through them. They kick out a lot of wind, rip the release out of your hand. You need those papers. So, without thinking, you chase them down and run right into the props.

Body parts and blood all over the ramp.

It happens.

I’ve almost done it once or twice.

Maybe you’ve never noticed me, working out on the ramp loading bags. We all wear uniforms and these florescent orange vests, so everybody looks the same. Sometimes, when I’m out here humping bags, breaking my back for less than I could make at McDonald’s, I get these thoughts.

About my boss.

When we’re short-handed and just the two of us are working—like tonight, for example—how hard would it be to push her into the propellers?

Accidents happen.

This guy I know fell out of the bucket when he was deicing. That glycol we spray the plane with is slick. And you’re spraying it in bad conditions, wind and snow blasting your face, trying to beat the clock and get the plane out before the holdover time expires. So there he was in a blizzard, way up in the bucket, spraying. No harness. Who has time to put on that straight-jacket? When you’re deicing, the person in the bucket is dependent on the driver of the truck. Ideally, the person in the bucket radios the driver, tells the driver where to go: along the fuselage, above the wing, around the tail. But things go wrong. Say the radio is broken. Say it’s snowing so hard the driver can barely see. Say the bucket slams into the wing. Maybe the driver hits the brakes too hard, and the bucket sways, tilts crazily. The person in the bucket slips in the glycol, can’t get a grip, slides out. If you’re wearing a harness you’ll hang there, dangling in the air. No harness, and you’re falling twenty feet or more onto the tarmac. This guy bashed his head. Never been the same.

Maybe he’s lucky. He got out before the new boss arrived.

She’s a piece of work. Mandoed me on my day off, even though she knew I had plans tonight. We’re short-staffed, and no wonder. Who in their right mind would work here? Tonight, it’s just the two of us.

There’s always electrocution.

The Ground Power Unit supplies power to the aircraft. We hook it up whenever a plane pulls into the gate. At night we leave the GPU running, so we have light for cleaning the cabin. One ramper brings in the plane, signaling with lighted wands, while the other ramper drives the tug attached to the GPU—this big silver generator. The driver hops out of the tug, unwinds the GPU’s electrical cord, unclips the panel in the aircraft and plugs the GPU into the prongs. Meanwhile, the other ramper waits until the plug is secure before switching on the power. Switch the power on too soon, and the jolt could kill the person plugging in the cord. Especially if the connection is faulty.

I’m here in ops, sitting by the radio, waiting for the captain to call in range. The weather’s going down tonight, a slow-moving storm. My boss is in her office, pretending to push papers, but I know she’s on Facebook monitoring her friends. She sent me a friend request, but I ignored it. That pissed her off.

But everything I do annoys her.

She needs to chill.

I imagine her floating, face-down in a vat of blue juice.

Peaceful. Finally at rest.

Blue juice is what we call the lavatory fluid. It’s bright blue, more turquoise than the Caribbean. Chances are you haven’t given much thought to the toilets on a plane. Most people don’t. Maybe you think all that crap just gets magically flushed into some other universe. Well, someone has to dump it, and that someone is me. Every night I drag this cart up to the plane, unclip a panel, unscrew a cap, and attach the hose. Sounds easy, but it’s tricky. If the hose isn’t snug, or if some bozo up in Denver didn’t latch the cap right, the contents of the lav dumps all over the ramp, all over you: blue juice, clumps of toilet paper, all kinds of nastiness.

Happened to me twice one night. Instead of hooking up the hose, I got soaked in a shit-shower. Hazmat all over the tarmac, all over me.

I took it as a message from the universe.

My boss thinks it’s hilarious, started calling me The Blue Angel.

That got me thinking.

It doesn’t take much liquid to drown a person. People drown in bathtubs. They even drown in their own vomit.

She says I have an attitude, but I don’t think it’s bad. I think my attitude is great.

Gotta go. The plane is calling in.

You know what?

Tonight I really like this job.
________




Suzanne Tyrpak ran away from New York a long time ago to live in Colorado. She enjoys bike-riding, skiing, hiking and swimming--but she spends most of her free time writing or posting on the internet. She's had numerous jobs: actor, dancer, tarot reader, radio advertising exec, airline customer service. These jobs often provide inspiration for her stories--as does her insanity.

Suzanne's debut novel is Vestal Virgin, suspense set in ancient Rome, available as a trade paperback and in all eformats. Her collection of nine short stories Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction) is available on Kindle, Nook and Smashwords. J.A. Konrath calls it, "Pure comedic brilliance." Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales is available in all eformats. Scott Nicholson says, "Enter this circus and let Suzanne show you why horror is the greatest show on earth." You can learn more about Suzanne and her books at Who's Imagining All This?.

Other books by Suzanne Tyrpak:

Buy a Book, Support a Great Cause

A short while ago, when the news and images of the Japanese earthquake found its way into our homes through that same internet and on our TV screens, we watched bodies being recovered. We watched homes being swept away. Some of us shed tears, some were stunned, but we all wanted to do *something*, anything, something....

We wanted to reach out, to help.

But we're not wealthy, we're not trained in search, rescue or other emergency services. We have families and jobs that we can't just leave...

But we can write. We can edit and we can publish.

We are a group of talented writers and some of us have donated our words, someone donated a cover, some have donated time, some have donated editing skills, Ethics Trading has donated the publishing portal, and we have pulled together this ebook of a selection of our work.

While working on this project we realised that although Japan was the trigger and the inspiration, we wanted to establish an ongoing project to aid disaster relief and aid across the globe - so proceeds from sales of this project will be offered to Medecins Sans Frontieres, (Doctors without borders) to support the work they do.

Thank you for your support. It really does mean a lot.
Sarah Barnard,
Freelance Author and Publisher.

Stories and Contributing Authors:
1. Hands and Knees by Matt Posner
2. The Day the Earth Shook by Junying Kirk
3. Armageddon by J.E. Taylor
4. A Tooth Fairy Tale for a Tooth Changing Age by Mira Kolar-Brown
5. The Occupier by Tim Ellis
6. Kismet by Sibel Hodge
7. Hurting the One He Loved by Sydney S Strong
8. Creole and Carnations by Kristy Wilcox
9. Afternoon Traffic Jam by W.T. Hughes
10. A Mother's Tale of Fear by Julie Titus
11. Extinct by Kate Bowyer
12. The Game by Alex Knight
13. Homeless by Lia Fairchild
14. Alexis' Story by Jeremy Aldana
15. A Chemical Mystery by Pad. A
16. Who's There? By Kristina Jackson
17. Guitar God Numero Uno by Susan Helene Gottfried

With Love is a real mix of genres, a chocolate box of fiction talent.

For just $3.99, you can enjoy some wonderful fiction AND help others by supporting Doctors Without Borders.

Short Story: "Little Red Boots" by Karen Cantwell

I usually feature new authors with book excerpts on Mondays, here at Fiction for Dessert, but I am going to admit to falling down on the job a bit. I've been working hard on finishing the first draft of my next novel, and not spending any time finding authors to feature, so today, I hope you'll enjoy instead, a short story of mine, "Little Red Boots."

This story first appeared at www.TheNovelette.com where it won the Editor's Choice Award for their Flash Fiction Contest, themed "Beauty."

It's a particular favorite of mine, and I hope it will make you smile.

"Little Red Boots"

Geraldine Hinkle would be meeting her maker any day. The doctor said it could be weeks, but Geraldine knew better.

Leaning one frail hip against the wooden counter of Watson’s Western Wear, and rubbing a hand over her bald head, Geraldine didn’t think about dying.

“Can I hold one?” Her coarse voice was weak.

The lanky man behind the counter waited a few beats before responding. “Beauties, ain’t they? Hand crafted, ever inch. Three thousand dollar pair a boots right there.” He scratched his crotch.

“Are ya gonna let me hold one or are ya gonna just stand there all day playin’ with yer balls?”

The lanky man frowned. His long arm extended toward the shelf as he issued a warning. “Don’t think about runnin’ off with this. I got a gun.”

Geraldine’s spontaneous laugh quickly turned into a wet, spittle cough. That was the funniest thing she’d heard all week. Damn funny, this bony man.

By the time her coughing fit had subsided, the boot stood proudly on the counter. Geraldine picked it up with both hands, gently caressing the fine, silver snakeskin foot.

“That there’s the belly skin of a python come from Thailand.” The man nearly scratched his crotch again, but stopped mid-air. He scratched his left butt cheek instead.

Turning the boot on its side, Geraldine traced the intricate detail. Turquoise blue waves under a yellow sun stitched and painted on soft brown leather. She closed her eyes and remembered.
Waves crashing on hard sand. A young girl laughing. The laughing girl was running back and forth along the sand, her little red boots carrying her effortlessly. Her red skirt and vest fluttering with the wind. A tiny cowgirl frolicking on the shore as a coral sun dropped toward the sea like a colossal balloon pulled down by an invisible string. Sky the color of rainbow sherbet. Orange, pink, yellow.

A man swooped up from behind the laughing girl and threw her high into the air. “Who’s mah little hedgehog?” he said catching her in his strong, safe arms. The laughing girl laughed harder.

“Geri is, Daddy! Geri!”

Geraldine’s sides hurt with the remembering.

Her heart ached with the longing. The rainbow sherbet sunset and little red boots.

Geraldine had lived a long, hard life, drinkin’ way too much drink and smokin’ way too much smoke. Good memories – they were far and few between.

The lanky man blew a hard breath, waking Geraldine from her reverie.

“I’ll take ‘em.” She smiled.

The man scratched his five o’clock shadow. “You got three thousand dollars, lady?”

Geraldine coughed into her elbow before answering. “First, I wanna thank ya fer callin’ me a lady. Been a long time since someone’s been so kind. Second off . . .” she pulled a wad of bills out of her jeans pocket. “. . . money – you can’t take it with ya, like they say. But these boots, they can go with me to the grave. I’d like to wear ‘em now, if you don’t mind.”

With his bony fingers, the man counted the bills. When he was satisfied, he put the other boot on the counter then watched as she slipped each boot on like a knife slicin’ into warm butter.

Invigorated with energy she hadn’t felt in weeks, Geraldine slapped the counter and hooted, “Hot damn! Like they was made for mah feet!”

A hint of a smile on his pointed face, the man held up the wad of money as he slid his way to the cash register. “This here’s over four thousand dollars. I’d say you got some change comin’.”
The shop door opened, triggering a tiny bell. A small girl bounded in followed by her mother who tried to grab a chubby hand before it could break something.

Seeing the girl, Geraldine turned to the man. “You got little red boots?”

“Eh?”

“Fer girls. Little red cowgirl boots. Maybe a skirt and vest too?”

“Yeh. We got somethin’ like that.”

“See that girl gets the sweetest little cowgirl suit and boots she desires. Same for every little girl that walks through those doors until the money’s gone.”

“That’s a kindly gesture.”

She shrugged. “Maybe they’ll bring her good memories when she needs ‘em.”

Geraldine’s boots clopped on the wooden floors as she left Watson’s Western Wear. She looked up at the sign above the door that said, Come Back Now, Y’Hear?

With a laugh and a cough, she answered, “Not in this body, I ain’t.”
____________________

If you write Flash Fiction, or have ever thought about it, check out the Writing Contest at The Novelette. They post your story, and winners receive a $25.00 Amazon Gift Certificate.

Giveaway Wednesday: The Chronicles of Marr-nia

Okay - I'm getting into the swing of Giveaway Wednesdays again!

Today I'm giving away 8 free KINDLE copies of THE CHRONICLES OF MARR-NIA, SHORT STORIES STARRING BARBARA MARR

THE CHRONICLES OF MARR-NIA contains four Barbara Marr short stories that are fun, funny, and sometimes touching, if I do say so myself. Plus, I give you two bonus shorts that are not Barbara Marr short stories -- just stories that I am particularly proud of.

So if you would like your free KINDLE copy of this short story collection, leave a comment to this post to that effect ALONG WITH YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS so I can send your gift. Don't worry, I don't keep a mailing list - I only use it to send your free book through Amazon.

So start leaving those comments! The first 8 people to do so will get their copy soon.

Author Interview: Drabble and Short Story Writer, Michael Crane

I have a confession to make: I have a dark sense of humor.

And of course, it's no secret I love great writing.

So when I met author Michael Crane at a reader's and writer's forum at Amazon, I just had to have him at Fiction for Dessert to talk about and share some of his DRABBLES.

What's a DRABBLE?

I'll let him tell you . . .


K: Welcome to Fiction for Dessert, Michael. I’m excited that you are here sharing some of your 100 word shorts with my readers.

M: Thanks so much, Karen! I’m honored to be here.

K: How long have you been writing 100 word short stories?

M: Actually, I just started to write them back in October. I had never attempted them before then. I’ve done short-shorts before, but nothing like this. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m so shocked by how well LESSONS AND OTHER MORBID DRABBLES is doing.

K: Why 100 words?

M: There was an online contest awhile back on Kindleboards where you had to write a story using only 55 words, if I’m not mistaken. The title didn’t count, so long as it wasn’t very long. I participated and had a blast. It was a challenge, but it was so much fun. The great thing about a story being that short is that it doesn’t overstay its welcome. That’s always a fear of mine. That a story will go on for too long.

When I mentioned that I took part in the contest, Mary McDonald (author of NO GOOD DEED) asked me if I ever tried to write a drabble, which is a story that is only 100 words long. I never did, but I have read a couple of them. Mainly, from David McAfee’s excellent collection, THE LAKE AND 17 OTHER STORIES. I was really intrigued by the idea, so I wanted to try it out. With it being October at the time, I thought I would do horror, sticking to a Halloween theme. I thought I’d only be able to come up with one or two, and then I’d put them up on Smashwords for free… but to my surprise, I couldn’t stop myself once I started! I was having way too much fun writing them.

I figured if I could get at least 25 done, then that would make a good collection to put up on Amazon. Of course, I worked on this very quickly since I wanted to get it done before Halloween. This was all done within a month, miraculously. It was a crunch, but I pulled it off. It was thrilling to write something that was completely different from what I normally write. It’s one of the exciting things about being a writer. Trying out new things, see what works and what doesn’t. LESSONS worked, Thank God.

K: I love these stories – they are darkly humorous. I know you write other short stories as well – are they all on the dark side, or do you write different types of fiction?

M: Thanks, Karen! It means a lot coming from you. I do tend to write dark stories, but usually they’re focused on human drama. I love to write slice-of-life type stories. Raymond Carver and Richard Yates were HUGE influences on me. I just love to take an ordinary situation and see how the characters react to it. My short story collection IN DECLINE mostly deals with tragic stories about everyday things—addiction, heartbreak, lies etc. I still try to add a bit of humor to them, as well. But LESSONS is a completely different beast. I’ve never written anything like it. Think that’s why I was nervous when I first published it—and then overwhelmed by the praises and success of it.

And that’s why I decided to do a follow-up: LESSONS II: ANOTHER MORBID DRABBLE COLLECTION. I was a bit hesitant to do it at first. I was afraid people wouldn’t like it as much as the first one, but that’s a risk you have to take as a writer. My love will always be writing about human drama, but I can’t deny that I’ve stumbled onto something new for me. The 100-word stories have worked for me so far, so I can’t turn my back on them.

I’m also proud to be a part of two short story anthologies/collections. My drabble, “Apology” from LESSONS appeared in David McAfee’s A POUND OF FLASH. A completely new short story of mine also appeared in A LAND OF ASH by David Dalglish, and I’m featured with a bunch of insanely talented authors. That story was fun to do, because it was going back to my roots with human drama, much like with IN DECLINE.

K: As my readers know, I’m a huge fan of short fiction both to read and to write. What particular challenges do you find in writing short stories?

M: I don’t find them as challenging as writing a full length novel. As I mentioned before, one of my biggest fears is that a story will somehow outstay its welcome. Sometimes the execution can be the biggest obstacle. You can have a great idea, but it means nothing if you can’t execute it properly.

The real challenge of short stories and short story collections is selling them. Surprisingly, a lot of people don’t like to read them. That’s something I’ve learned. I can understand. I think people want something that’s longer. I’m the opposite. I have such a short attention span that short stories are the best for me to read. It’s hard for me to commit to a novel at times. Even if it’s good!

K: Is there a novel in your future?

M: Right now, I am working on a novella, although the drabbles have kind of gotten in the way. But that’s not a bad thing. You have to go with what’s working at the moment. The novella I’m working on is GOODMAN’S BAD DAY. It’s something I’ve been working on for years. I never got around to finishing it when I was at college, so after I discovered eBook indie publishing, I ended up completely re-writing what I had. I’m close to finishing the first draft, but as I said, I get easily distracted!

K: Thank you so much, Michael, for stopping by Fiction for Dessert and for sharing your “drabbles.” I’m a big fan of your work. Maybe you’ll stop by again sometime and share a bit of a short story?

M: It’d be my pleasure, Karen! You know how to get in touch with me. I doubt you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming! This has been a real honor, and I’m glad I was able to entertain you with my writing. I love it when I hear positive feedback from readers, and to receive it from a fellow author makes me very happy.

Michael has been gracious enough to share a few of his DRABBLES from both collections. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!

BEDTIME

“There isn’t a monster under your bed,” Daddy says.
“Is so.”
“Bradley, I’m not going to let you stay up late because you’re making up stories about monsters and whatnot,” he says, folding his arms and frowning.
“Look under there, and if there isn’t a monster I’ll go to sleep.”
Daddy laughs and shakes his head. “Fine. If that’ll make you feel better.” He gets down on his knees and sticks his head underneath my bed.
Then there’s a scream and a loud chomping noise. I see the color red spill on the floor…
Daddy doesn’t have a head anymore.

APOLOGY

Chucky gave his mother the evil eye as he sat on the bed. His arms were folded and he gave a wicked scowl.
“Sweetie, I know you’re mad at me,” she said.
He huffed and his eyebrows became one.
“You’re right to be mad. I’m mad at myself, too. I hope you can forgive me.”
Chucky said nothing as he continued to stare. His lips closed tightly, forming a straight line.
“I swear, next time you tell me there’s a monster in your closet, I’ll believe you.”
He looked down at the stump, where his right leg used to be.

DETENTION

Joseph’s arm hurt from writing, Ms. Elroy is not a monster a hundred times on the chalkboard. He tried to stretch, but he only felt pain.
Old Ms. Elroy and her funny glasses stared at him. “Have we learned our lesson?”
“Yes.”
“And that is?”
“That you’re not a monster?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I go home now?” he asked.
She gave an answer by growing yellow, sharp fangs. Her eyes became blood-red.
“Go?” she hissed. “But you’ll miss the fun!”


GUEST

“Help! Let me in, Dan!”
I open the door and see that George’s eyes are all big and wide, like he’s seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong?”
“Billy and his goons are chasing me! Might’ve called them a few names or something. I need shelter!”
I let him in and look outside for a moment to see if they’re around, but there isn’t anybody out there. Were they hiding?
It’s after I close the door that I feel sharp teeth biting into my neck.
The last thing I hear George say is, “Sorry, Danny. Needed you to invite me in somehow.”

FOOLISH

His wife was screaming about zombies. How retarded was that?
“There’s no such thing, Ellen. Calm the hell down.”
“They’re here! They’re on their way here!” she screamed as she gripped his arm, with her nails digging into his flesh.
“Ouch, goddammit! You’ve watched too many horror movies. They aren’t real.”
“But I saw one!” she shouted. Her nails dug deeper into his arm.
He shook her off. “Probably some homeless bum. Trust me, there ain’t no zombies.”
Cliff thought his wife was bat-shit crazy. That is, until she turned into one.
Now, he doesn’t do much thinking at all.
__________

Michael Crane is an indie author and scribbler of inane babble that can sometimes end up as stories. He went to Columbia College Chicago where he earned a BA in Fiction Writing. He is the author of IN DECLINE and LESSONS AND OTHER MORBID DRABBLES, and he also might've written two books while he was in high school, but he refuses to own up to them and that's why they aren't included on this page. His work has appeared in A POUND OF FLASH by David McAfee, and A LAND OF ASH by David Dalglish. He lives in Illinois and is always trying to work on something new, unless he's battling stupid writer's block.

Some of his favorite writers are Raymond Carver, Richard Yates, Kurt Vonnegut, Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis and Hunter S. Thompson. You can learn more about his works by visiting his AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE.

I have also had the pleasure of reading some of Michael's short stories from his other collections and recommend them highly as I am truly a fan!















Other works by Michael Crane:

Author Interview: Short Story Writer, Barb Goffman

As many of you know, I am a huge fan of the short story. As a writer, they are a challenge to produce and as a reader . . well, it's like having a little piece of fiction for dessert. :-)

That's why I'm very excited to be sharing an interview today with two-time Agatha-nominated mystery short story writer, Barb Goffman:

K: Welcome to Fiction for Dessert, Barb. I appreciate you taking the time to do this interview.

B: Thanks, Karen! It’s always fun to talk about short mystery fiction.

K: Your website says you are a mystery writer focusing on the short story medium. When did you first start writing short stories?

B: It was in the spring of 2004. I had recently attended the Sleuthfest mystery conference, where my beautiful diamond and sapphire ring was lost (stolen!). I’d stupidly left it beside a public bathroom sink at the conference hotel, and by the time I realized it fifteen minutes later, the ring was gone. My public pleas for the ring’s return went unanswered. When I heard a call for short stories for Chesapeake Crimes II, I realized this was my chance at catharsis – I wrote a story in which I killed the thief!

K: What, specifically attracts you to short story writing?

B: I used to be a daily newspaper reporter, and starting and finishing writing projects in short order is in my blood. Writing a novel could take months or longer (especially if you work full time, as I do). With short stories, I can get an idea and sit down and in a few hours, or a few days, have a good first draft of the story completed. That’s very appealing. With shorts, I also get to spend time with different characters and different settings. I enjoy the variety.

K: Where do you find inspiration for your stories?

B: I’m often motivated by revenge. When you have a bad guy that you feel really deserved his (or her) just desserts in real life and didn’t get them, it can be so satisfying to make it happen on paper. My second short story published, “Compulsive Bubba,” was inspired by a woman I knew growing up. Her husband cheated on her. She deserved better. While “Bubba” is fictional, I feel I got some justice for her in the story.

I also like a good challenge. If you ask me to simply write a short story, I might come up with something. But if you ask me to write a short story with a particular theme (like murder at the holidays), my creative juices are quickly off and running. I have a friend who once bet me I couldn’t kill someone with jelly. I can’t pass that up. So you can be sure that at some point, you’ll see a story from me with jelly as the murder weapon.

K: You’re a two time Agatha nominee! Can you tell my readers about the Agatha Award and the nomination process?


B: The Agatha Awards, named after Agatha Christie, are fan-based awards given out each spring at the Malice Domestic mystery convention. Being nominated is an incredible honor because it means that readers in the mystery community really appreciated your work.

Anyone who registers for the Malice Domestic convention before the end of a calendar year is eligible to submit their choices for Agatha nominees. (Best novel, best first novel, best short story, best non-fiction book, and best children’s novel of the year that just ended – all mysteries, of course.) The Agatha committee tallies up all the submissions, ensures they meet the Agatha Award guidelines, and then the five (usually) submissions with the most nominations are officially nominated in February of each year. (It’s actually a little more complicated than this, but that’s the gist.) The winners are announced at the Malice convention, which is held at the end of April/early May. Anyone who attends the convention is eligible to vote for the winners.


K: Do you have a favorite story or possibly a favorite character?

B: It’s hard to pick among your babies, but I think I actually do. My newest story out is “Biscuits, Carats, and Gravy,” from the anthology The Killer Wore Cranberry. In this story, my main character, Dotty, is hosting Thanksgiving, as usual. But this year, she learns that an airhead will be joining the family, and that airhead will be getting her deceased mother’s engagement ring. That’s simply unacceptable to Dotty, so she comes up with a plan to stop it that involves some horrible gravy. I love Dotty because she’s smart and snarky and devious and funny. When the call for this anthology came out, the publisher said it wanted humorous stories involving Thanksgiving foods. I love writing humor, and I think it really worked in this story.

Here’s a little excerpt:

We have three big Thanksgiving traditions in my family. Everyone gathers at my house. We all hold hands when we give thanks. And we all avoid my big sister Agnes’s gravy like the plague.
Unfortunately, I can never dodge it entirely.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dotty,” Agnes said, click-clacking into my kitchen, holding out her gravy container as if it held gold. More like mold, if this year’s version resembled last year’s. And every year’s before that.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Agnes.” I pecked her on the cheek as she handed off her creation. I set it down next to my silver gravy boat. My poor boat that everyone passed around the table each year, never actually pouring anything from it. Not that you could. Agnes used so much flour, the gravy practically stood up on its own.

“You want me to use the lower oven again this year, Dotty?” asked my brother-in-law, Fred, carrying in Agnes’s turkey.

Someone should have told that man years ago that just because it’s Thanksgiving, he doesn’t have to wear a bright orange sweater with a turkey on it. Nonetheless the same sweater. Every year.


K: I like that! Do any of your characters appear in more than one story?


B: All of my stories have been stand-alones, but I enjoyed writing about Dotty and her family so much, I might try to come up with some more stories about them.


K: At the end, I will list the anthologies in which you appear and where readers can purchase them, but would you mind talking about one of the most recent – Murder to Mil-Spec and the charity it benefits?


B: Thanks for asking about Murder to Mil-Spec. It’s especially timely because Veterans Day is later this week, and the publisher is donating all of its profits from the anthology to veterans’ charity Homes For Our Troops. HFOT helps severely disabled veterans who have returned from Iraq and Afghanistan. Unfortunately, these veterans sometimes need their homes retrofitted so they can use them (with an elevator, wider doors, etc.) Or they need an entirely new home built. HFOT does that for them. It’s a wonderful organization.

Murder to Mil-Spec contains 12 short stories all involving the military – the characters are either veterans or current soldiers. My story, “An Officer and a Gentleman’s Agreement,” involves a veteran with a deadly secret who threatens a powerful general’s career. The story spans from West Point in 1972 to northern Virginia today. Anyone who enjoys reading about the military should like my story (I hope!) as well as all the others in this book.

Everyone who lives in the Washington, D.C. area has the opportunity to meet three of the authors in this book. On the evening of December 7th (Pearl Harbor Day), I’ll be appearing at the Reston Regional Library with my fellow authors Charles Schaeffer and Elizabeth Zelvin, talking about this anthology.


K: What advice would you give new writers looking to break into the world of short story writing?

B: Read, read, read. Write, write, write. The more I read, the more I learn from other authors. Simply reading different types of writing helps an author because good writing seeps into the soul and influences you. And then, of course, you need to practice your craft. Come up with an idea, write the very best story you can, then revise and revise. Write on a regular basis (daily is best) because it keeps your skills sharpened. Join a writing group you trust – other authors who will give you honest and helpful comments on your work. Keep your eyes out for markets, and remember that this is a hard industry. If you get a rejection, buck up and submit that story somewhere else. My story that was nominated for the Agatha earlier this year, “The Worst Noel,” was rejected by the first two places I submitted it. After each rejection, I embarked on major revisions. The third version worked out pretty well.

K: Thank you so much for stopping by my blog and talking about your work!


B: Thank you, Karen, for this opportunity. I’ve really enjoyed it.





These are a few of the collections where you can find Barb's stories. For more on Barb Goffman and her writing, check out her website at Barb Goffman.com.

Also, remember that proceeds from Murder to Mil-Spec go to an AMAZING cause to support our veterans, so if you want to remember them in a VERY special way this week, consider purchasing the collection. For every book sold from this site over the next week, I will personally donate another $5.00 to Homes For Our Troops.

As always, thank you for stopping by and for following my blog!

Short Story Contest WINNER! "The Shake Down" by Janel Gradowski

"The Shake Down"
By Janel Gradowski

Celeste studied the little boy. Blonde hair framed his face in sweaty tendrils. It was the middle of summer and the house had no air conditioning. There wasn’t even a fan in the sweltering room, but he was tangled up in a tattered blue quilt, pulled tight around him like a cocoon. She touched the quilt and sensed that it brought him comfort, reminded him of a different time and place.

She moved closer to the tropical fish nightlight, trying to figure out what the small white chunk she found under his pillow was made of. It wasn’t a tooth, not like the real tooth she found under his pillow last night. Celeste closed her fingers around the jagged nugget and concentrated. It was a piece of grout from between the bathroom tiles. The little guy must have been so happy with the silver dollar she left him that he decided to try for another.

“You’d better pay up, missy, or you’ll be real sorry.”

Celeste spun around. Her wings chattered from fright and magical glitter swirled around the room, turning it into a snow globe. There was a disheveled woman leaning against the door frame. She squinted one eye shut and used the other eye to aim a pistol at Celeste.

The stench of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol filled the room. Celeste was prepared for curious children, trying to catch the Tooth Fairy in action. Although there had been a few close calls with paranoid parents looking for intruders she had never been discovered by an adult, much less one with a gun.

“OK,” Celeste whispered, “I’ll just put the silver dollar under his pillow and be on my way.”

“One dollar isn’t going to do it tonight, honey,” the woman waggled the gun, “Make it ten bucks.”

“Fine, whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me or your son.”

Celeste pulled ten silver dollars out of her pouch and slid them under the boy’s pillow. He wiggled and sighed as the coins jingled, but didn’t wake up.

“There you go.”

“Now get lost,” the woman motioned toward the window with the gun, “And he ain’t my son.”

A smacking sound registered with Celeste as she summoned the magic to transport herself back to the magical realm. The little boy was sucking his thumb, seeking more comfort. She vowed to help him.

The next day Celeste wasn’t surprised to see the little boy’s name on her schedule again. She did some research before starting her rounds. His name was Cody and the surly woman really wasn’t his mother. She was his Aunt Pam. His father died in Iraq and his mother was in Florida looking for a job. She left Cody with her former sister-in-law because she had no other choice. Both sets of grandparents passed away years ago and there were no other relatives in the area.

Celeste shook her head and added an extra handful of coins to her stash. Extorting the Tooth Fairy, taking money that should be going to children, was rotten. She had no respect for the aunt. The gun was another matter. Her magic could save her from a bullet, but she couldn’t protect the little boy.

That night a pebble was under Cody’s pillow. The charade kept up night after night. Celeste found tiny wads of paper, a kernel of popcorn, miniature marshmallows and a chunk of hardened gum to be exchanged for an ever-increasing amount of money.

No matter how many times it happened, the gun nonchalantly pointed at her unnerved Celeste. Instead of sweating, she produced the iridescent glitter. When Pam switched out the pistol for a shotgun the glitter accumulated in the corners of Cody’s room and sparkling drifts formed around the trucks and action figures scattered on the floor.

“I want fifty bucks tonight, you over-sized dragon fly.”

Pam had the shotgun leveled at Celeste’s heart. The unkempt woman burped and wavered back and forth, finally leaning on the door frame for support. The gun barrel dipped toward Cody.

“I am nothing like a common insect!” Celeste’s wings fluttered and continued to pick up speed until they were a blur. The entire room vibrated from the sound. She knew she didn’t have the beautiful butterfly-style wings of some of the other fairies, but she wasn’t a google-eyed dragonfly.

Pam blinked as miniature fireworks filled the room. She had never seen the pint-sized fairy disappear like that. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and counted the money. Enough to buy cigarettes and some top-shelf vodka tomorrow.

The next night there was a little ball of damp toilet paper under Cody’s pillow. Celeste didn’t want to touch it, afraid of what had been used to moisten the paper. She took a deep breath and smiled when she heard the floorboards creak in the hallway.

“Throw another five bucks in. I have a hot date tomorrow.” Pam licked her lips and smiled. “Need to buy a new dress.”

“What was that?” Celeste asked. She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the nausea that was gripping her stomach. Pam’s teeth were a nasty, decayed mess. “Didn’t you hear that?”

“Stop messing around and put the money . . . "

The unmistakable sound of breaking glass came from another room. Pam spun around and brought the shotgun to her shoulder, pointing the barrel down the hallway.

“You had better leave the money or you and Cody will pay.”

She disappeared down the hallway. Celeste hurried to the boy’s bedside. Glowing, blue balls of magic formed on her palms. She gently placed them over Cody’s ears, shielding him from the sounds.

A gunshot, then an anguished moan. Another shotgun blast followed by a thud that shook the walls of the little bedroom. A coloring book page that had been taped on the wall fluttered to the floor. A high-pitched scream that made Celeste, and probably most of the dogs in a half-mile radius, wince. Then silence. An inky shadow passed across the doorway.

Celeste started making the phone calls. First to Cody’s unsuspecting mother, then to the police. The little boy’s nightmare was over and he would soon be reunited with his loving mother. Unfortunately for Pam, her nightmare had just begun. She should have known better. It wasn’t wise to mess with a friend of the Boogey Man.

____________

Janel Gradowski has her own AMAZING blog, Janel's Jumble, where you can read some of her other works. Pop on over and have a look-see!

Thank you to everyone who entered this latest contest at Fiction For Dessert. The stories were all amazing, and I hope writers will keep an eye out for my next Flash Fiction Contest.

"What the Leaves Won't Hold" (Part 7) by Leslie Brown

I am so pleased to be featuring a flash fiction piece today, from a wonderful writer and previous contestant in one of my flash fiction contests. I have no doubts that you will love this story as much as I do.

"What the Leaves Won't Hold" (Part 7) by Leslie Brown

I heard the thunder rumbling somewhere far away. I hadn't put much faith in the rains actually wetting the patches of dirt that dotted what used to be a lush and thriving garden. "What are we doing?" I wasn't sure if I said that out loud. I thought it had come out as a whisper, but it could have just been a loud thought. I said those words to myself so much I couldn't be sure anymore whether they came out.

"Life is too short." Was that your voice or mine? I knew you must be feeling the same cold rush of time blow past your face. How could you not? "We'll have her for less time now than we have had until this point." That was me. That one I couldn't keep in.

I walked outside to see how far away the dark clouds were. I could feel the temperature dip and the wind tousle my hair as the first drops fell. "It's a shame, not knowing what you should know in the first place. No one understands until it's over." You always made sense. A loud crack of thunder, a flash of lightning, and the skies opened. I thought the porch would keep us dry, but the rain poured in sideways soaking us both.

"When you're in it, you're not aware of everything sliding past you. You just laugh and go on like it will be that way forever. Then, one day you look at the faces of these people and realize they've changed. Everything is different and you've got nothing to show for the passing time."

A pause in the downpour effectively caused a lull in the conversation. It was the deep breath before the plunge.

"What are we doing?" It didn't matter who said it anymore. The fact that it was being said at all was enough.

The rain was all but gone now. It wasn’t enough to do much good for very long. My eyes burned as I watched your mouth form the words, but all I could hear were a few droplets the silver maple beside our house clung to as it reluctantly gave up and let them fall.
_______

Leslie M. Brown lives in Richmond, VA where she is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction. She is currently moonlighting as a mother of two, keeper of the peace, domestic engineer and ruler of a partnership. She loves both the beach and Chuck E. Cheese. In addition to her blog,Letters to Punkin,Leslie is beginning her second blog on sustainable living, where she will divulge every facet of working with institutions of higher learning to create alternative energy sources on her fifty acres of land in rural Virginia.

Taming the Hulk in audio format!

The UK website, Short Bread Stories has just published my Barbara Marr short story, Taming the Hulk, in audio format and I have to say, I think the actress did a Marr-velous job! I'm really so pleased.

I hope you'll pop over and give it a listen: Taming the Hulk.

For writers: I love this site - a great way to get your stories out there.