Janet Flash: Classic Rock

by Michael Seese

Taking a bit of a hiatus from the media-crazy world around us, agent Janet Reid unplugged for a bit of a breather. Upon her return, she said:

I've gotten a LOT of reading done these past few weeks, and I'm planning a post with a  roundup of requests, queries etc. later in December.  In the meantime, let's have a flash fiction contest to celebrate the endurance of the snot green sofa (where I do my reading.)

So for last week's contest, we were asked to write a 100-word story using:

green
sofa
slack
squint
tea 

Starting with "sofa," I came up with "Classic Rock," a title I absolutely hate. But I didn't want the name of the story to give anything away.


"I can make you a star, sweetie. But first..."

"Whatever it takes," she teased, lying back on the sofa, flattening it.

"Cut!" I yelled.

"I simply can't work like this," Rex whined, throwing up his tiny arms.

I agree not everything had gone as planned. Indeed, this quintessential labor of love of mine appeared headed for divorce. On paper, it looked perfect; in reality, it's lacking a plot, competent actors, and passion.

"Perhaps I could lose weight," Vela offered.

Not before the asteroid hits, I thought. Some movies simply should not be made. Apparently "Jurassic Tart" is one of them.

There is a bit of an inside joke where. Whenever Janet is speaking of various literary genres, she'll say something like, "Mystery, romance, or dino porn." So I thought I would give her the latter. 

As of the time I wrote this, she had announced the finalists, but not the winner. Her comment about mine:

After I stop laughing, I will be able to tell you how much I love Michael Seese's pun-ch lines.

I'm looking forward to the final results.

 

 

Janet Flash: The Heretic

by Michael Seese

Ah, yes. Now I remember...

Two Fridays ago (October 23) literary agent Janet Reid posted the Get Back On Track Flash Fiction Contest, saying

This was one of those weeks I'd like to forget. I was down for the count for most of it, and have just now resurfaced to start digging around in my inbox.

She asked us to us

track
rant
couch
super
noise

in a 100-word story. I forget what had me so occupied Friday AND Saturday that I didn't write. I guess the muse was taking a holiday.

Then, Sunday morning, while driving to the Pittsburgh airport (about 90 minutes) I came up with "The Heretic," and brain wrote it (dictating, of course), stopping at a turnpike rest stop to clean it up and post it.

"The Heretic"

"Ouch. Could you try to be a little more careful with those nails!"

"Oh, all crucifixees complains about that," he said apologetically.

"How about that rack over there?"

"Actually, it's a Catherine Wheel."

"Learn something new every day."

"What do you think?"

I never was good with snap decisions.

"I don't know…"

"They do comes with a 100% money back guarantee."

"Super. I'll take them all.

Granted, it might be overkill. But with the family coming over for Thanksgiving, and the "rigged election" all they'll want to talk about, these little beauties should help keep the noise down.

It didn't win. But it did make the short list, with the comment, "Turkey Day at the Seese residence promises to be quite the day!"

And she's not far from wrong.

PS: I'm creating this post a few days before the election; hopefully, by the time you read it we'll all be relieved, and saying "President-elect Joe Biden." 

Janet Flash: Demons

by Michael Seese

Looking for "an infusion of flash fiction to get my mind off next Tuesday," literary agent Janet Reid offered us an unnamed flash fiction contest. Use:

croc
frock
mock
lock
swok

in a 100-word story. 

Since my Flash Friday effort occupied Friday, I had to wait until Saturday to write this one. And somehow, time got away from me. (Like that NEVER happens.)

Then, while waiting for my wife to get her Halloween costume ready (she went as a witch) the idea struck.  I wrote the first four paragraphs pretty quickly, and came up using "crockpoint" for "croc." Then we went to the party, and nothing happened for the rest of the night. Except for, you know, party stuff.

Luckily, aided by "Spring Ahead / FALL BACK," I gained an extra hour in the morning, and completed “Demons.”

The clock mocked me.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Empty prescription bottles lay scattered across the floor, dwarfed by the equally exhausted vodka bottles.

"A crockpot," they always whispered as I would wander down the street, engaged in animated arguments with ghosts. 

Back, now, in my barren space, panic set in as my feet of rock began to sink in the quicksand, my descent aided by the Devil's claws dragging me under.  Once the Demon has woken, no lullaby will stuff that genie back in the bottles.

Resigned, I reached for my last resort, and drew back the hammer.

I'm not sure what dark place that came from. Perhaps the same fatalism Janet was feeling. 

Janet Flash: Where There's A Will....

by Michael Seese

My Flash Friday entry "Con Dolore" complete, I turned my attention to the "Nobody Moves to NYC for the Weather Flash Fiction Contest," brain-writing it during a lunchtime jog with the dog.

As Janet said:

We had about three weeks of the AC off but still warm enough to not need the heat. That changed a couple days ago, but the heat isn't on yet. So I'm wearing mittens, a hat, a scarf and my coat IN my apartment.

In the afternoon it's warmer outside than in. Soon enough, I'll be throwing open the windows cause the steam heat will turn this place into an oven. Every winter I understand why people move to Florida. Not that I'm moving to Florida but I get it.

Our words were:

cold
blue
shiver
sox (and yes, you MUST use this spelling. NO socks!)
fox


I wanted to use "sox" in a creative way, and came up with "It's Oxford." I originally imagined some tale of two bluebloods arguing about their college rivalry. 

But sometimes magic happens.  In this case, I came up with the sentence "But only saints resist the twist of a shiv," and the story took a turn from there.

Magic, part 2... After writing that, I said, "Hey, SHIVer is one of our words." 

Without further ado, I give you "Where There's A Will...."

"You graduated Cambridge, right?"

"It's Oxford," he said coldly, steely eyes bluer than his blood.
 

I knew full well the old fox was no Cantabrigian. But only saints resist the twist of a shiv.
 

"Erat quid demonsterdom."
 

"It's quod erat demonstrandum, you half-wit."
 

I mulled a few choice piss-and-vinegar comebacks. But why pile on bloke when he's in a bind?
 

"Look, mate, you're under the gun here."
 

"What do you want?"
 

"Just sign the will. Then you and the missus can go."
 

The ink not yet dry, I pushed the shiv in to its hilt.
 

Something no sinner can resist.

 

I have this scheduled to post a few minutes before Janet posts her daily blog, usually around 7:00. She may or may not have the results today. (It's usually weekend-activity dependent.)  So by the time you read this, it may (or may not) be a winner. 

 

Janet Flash: Fall-down Comedy

 

by Michael Seese

In a display of what I assume is mid-COVID ennui, literary agent Janet Reid proclaimed herself "so ready for the end of this week," and some "lollygagging."

That led to the (not officially named) "Lollygagger Contest." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(In case you don't recognize the image, that's the Lollygaggers scene from "Bull Durham.")

We needed to use the words:

loll
sprawl
snore
more
plot

in our 100-word story. 

I immediate thought about break "loll" into "LOL! (something). And I pretty quickly hit upon the idea of "Fall-down Comedy."

Nervous hands fumbling with the microphone, I thanked grace that owing to the venue, they couldn't see the fear sprawled across my face.
 

I cleared my throat.
 

"Good evening, folks. So... anyone here from out of town?"
 

Silence.
 

Apparently, irony doesn't translate well.
 

"I feel good. I've spent weeks training for this," I said, flexing my thumbs.  
 

More silence, the wickedest of marplots.
 

Then the heckling started.
 

"Could this be more boring?"
"I wish you could hear me snore."
"LOL! LOSER!"

I hastily switched off the phone, thus ending my first—and last—foray into the world of SMS stand-up.

Sometimes the serious ones resonate with her, and sometimes the funny ones do. We'll see what this week brings.

Janet Flash: Toad Torture

by Michael Seese

So, here comes a flurry of flash...

After last week's "Particularly Diabolical" (later downgraded to merely diabolical) Flash Fiction Contest, Janet Reid upped the game with a SUPER Diabolical Flash Fiction Contest. We were challenged, under penalty of death, or something, to use:

cafeteria (Casual-T)
supine (C. Dan Castro)
chonky (Terri Lynn Coop)
vital (Lennon Faris)
toad-in-a-hole (Brigid)

in a 100-word story. Apparently, toad-in-the-hole is British cuisine, an oxymoron in and of itself. 

 

 

But I didn't know that, and didn't care, as I immediately locked onto the word with another idea in mind. 

 And so I give you "Toad Torture."

"Toad-in-a-hole." 

"I'm sorry. What?" 

"We cram a chonky toad into one of their holes. Like, a nostril. Or an ear. Or, my preferred cavit—" 

"A little extreme."

Some ideas deserve to die. And some ideas should be murdered. With malice.

"What if we let them pick the orifice? You know, cafeteria style."

"No!"

"Fine. Here's another. We tie them down, supine, get a frog—" 

"Thank you. I'll be in touch."

Three months, two days.

Three months, two days until I retire from my position as Minister Of Torture. Then I can return to my true calling as a literary agent.

 

I had wanted to end with "true calling as New York Times crossword puzzle editor," but the word count was just too much. And, I played to the audience.

It didn't win, though it made the long list, with the comment:

"And some ideas should be murdered. With malice."
I may have this printed on my business cards.

I knew she'd like that one. 

Tomorrow: The return of Flash Friday!

https://jetreidliterary.blogspot.com/2020/08/the-super-diabolical-flash-fiction.html

Janet Flash: Smelling Blood

by Michael Seese

It's August. It's hot. It's humid. (Though it's cooled off the past few days.) 

So agent Janet Reid lamented, "Nothing to be done but torment writers with a particularly diabolical flash fiction contest!"

So for this week's Particularly Diabolical Flash Fiction Contest, she asked us to use the words:

fopdoodle (a simpleton, or fool)
stickler 
Requin (French for shark)
timpani 
regale 

in a 100-word story. 

I imagined an old fool hunting a shark, and concocted fairly quickly "Smelling Blood."


The Franco-fopdoodle tottering on his barstool waved a cautionary half-finger as he regaled a raft of downtrodden sots.

"I tried to stick le requin, how you say, shark, with my harpoon. But she escaped, and now could be anywhere."

I snorted skepticism. 

"C'est vrai! Tell him, Timpani."

"It's Tiffani," she said, topping his scotch.

"Take care, mon ami. She is close. Watching. Waiting. Hoping to taste blood again."

"Sure, pal. Hey, honey," I said to Tiffani, "Another, please. Seriously, does anyone believe that guy's stories?"

"Lucky for me, almost no one," she said, flashing row upon row of razor teeth.


I'm pretty happy with it, though I wish I had said "pearly razors" instead of "razor teeth." 

The results are not yet in, so keep your fingers crossed. 

Janet Flash: (No) Escape

by Michael Seese

Just catching up from last week. 

For being chastised by a "Reider" for her use of or "less" rather than "fewer," Janet Reid challenged us to write a 100-word story using:

few
phew
flue
flew
tsk

I was trying to somehow break up flue into something like:

"I have the flu."
"Ewww!"

But then I realized that "flue" is contained within the word "affluent," and the third sentence basically fell into place. Though I had to think a while to come up with nePHEW.

And so I present "(No) Escape."
  

We're "lucky." We're alive. Yet it's killing me, knowing my nephew and I were among the affluent few who secured seats, and flew away from it.

As the inferno grew behind us, he turned to me.
 
"What about the people back there?"
 
"Gone," I said, with necessary pragmatism.
 
"Mom? Dad?"
 
"They caught the flight before us."
 
How does one tell a boy he's an orphan at 12? That the world he's known is gone. That our new "home" also might be cinders. That radiation, starvation would be constant threats.
 
The bomb in my carry-on ensured I would not have to.

Janet Flash: A Deal With The Devil(s)

by Michael Seese

I just remembered I owed you my catch-up from the July 3 Janet Reid flash fiction contest. 

In this case, instead of prompt words, we were to use one (or more) of three prompt sentences, provided by blog followers (in a different contest, if memory serves).

"When you spot an orchid cactus at the grocery store, you bring it home." —Luralee

"Do the laundry or die!" —french sojourn

"Holy cow, that's a lot of empties." —nightmusic

That last one just spoke to me, though it took me a while to come up with the "A Deal With The Devil(s)."


The off-gray three-piece pinstripe, welded to his eternally hollow core, glummed through the door. 

"BUZZ!" blared the beleaguered buzzer.

"RED!" flashed the fidgety light.

"Negative!" called out the monitor, counting the days left until infinity. "Next."

Practiced smile plastered to her vacated visage, the pastel pantsuit waved involuntarily to imaginary followers in corporeal form as she lilted through the scanner.

"Another negative!"

"Holy cow, that's a lot of empties. I don't get it. Where are their souls?" asked the minion in red.

"My bad. And that's the last time I make a bulk deal with the Congress," muttered Satan. 


In hindsight, I'm not too happy with the last sentence. I wish I had written
"Holy cow, that's a lot of empties. I don't get it. Where are their souls?" asked the minion in red.

Satan sighed, singing the minion's fur. 

"My bad. That's the last time I make a bulk deal with the Congress." 

Oh well. I still made the long list.

Janet Flash: Currency Events

by Michael Seese

A few weeks back, agent Janet Reid posted a flash fiction contest that employed a prompt outside of her standard "use these 5 words" requirement. I entered, but didn't get a chance to post here, because of my busy mid-COVID life. I'll rectify that in a few days. 

Last Friday, she gave us another alt-contest.

After a recent blog entry showing a bear in someone's back yard, one of Janet's followers posted

I’m guessing this story didn’t run in the Flathead Beacon Police Blotter. With items like, “The golfer on the sixth green at a local course turned out to be a black bear,” it’s one of my favorite newsfeed subscriptions.

Janet thought it would be fun to have a contest asking us to write an item for Flathead Beacon Police Blotter. 

Being a former newsman and police beat reporter, I figured this was in my wheelhouse. But I couldn't find the inspiration Friday or Saturday. Then, with the 9:00 a.m. Sunday deadline looming, lying in bed at 7:30 I composed "Currency Events."


Local noted numismatist Penelope "Penny" Reed died yesterday in the parlor of her Roosevelt Avenue home. 

Police suspect foul play to be involved, as Ms. Reed’s body was discovered with 96 Morgan Dollars crammed into her mouth. No other weapons were found, as Ms. Reed was widely known to have an abnormal fear of hammers, baseball bats, tubas, and other blunt instruments. 

According to Police Chief Lincoln Nichols, "Clearly the killer understood the old adage. If you can't beat 'em, coin 'em."

Services will be held at the Washington and Jefferson Funeral Home.



The trick was to come up with the punchline, and then work my way back. 

Enjoy the rest of your hot, muggy (here, at least) Sunday.

Janet Flash: Eggasperation

by Michael Seese

With the world on lockdown, what is there to do? For some, re-discovering the joy of cooking is an option. Or learning something new about cooking, like "How To Boil Water." (Correctly, being the issue, I suppose.)

Super agent Janet Reid, an avowed lover of the 101 Things I Learned... series, decided to create a flash fiction contest to mark the Second Edition of 101 Things I Learned in Culinary School. (Ergo, the aforementioned boiling water reference.)

The recipe called for us to use:

bread
chef
egg
knife
salt

in a 100-word short story. I wanted to split up chef, and tried ideas like "the leech effect." But I couldn't come up with anything around that, or other word combos. So finally, while walking the dog late Saturday night I came up with "eggsistential," and used that to write "Eggasperation."


Both my coffee cup and stomach effiercingly barren, I willed my eyes to force down the next stale morsel of "knowledge."

"Jean-Paul Salt, a close friend of Francis Bacon, examines man's true eggsistential dilemma in his classic work..."

My red pen adorned and scorned the top of the page with a scarlet letter F.

"Consider Occam's Butter Knife, a bread-and-grape-jelly example of…"

I rubbed my own bleary eyes, and dashed off a quick missive. 

Dear Dean HAMmond,
I would like to respectfully request that, going forward, the university schedule Philosophy 101 at some time other than 8:00 a.m.


How about you? What new skills are you learning these days?

Janet Flash: The Name Of The Game

by Michael Seese

So, how do we pass the time during these days of social isolation in the name of contagion containment? For many, reading is an escape.

(For me, it's writing and keeping the kids up to date on their homework.)

For literary Janet Reid, it's A LOT OF reading. As she said in her blog: 

I've read 18 Dick Francis novels in the last seven days. All of them were familiar friends and it was like taking a rest cure to dive back in. Reality just slipped away for four or five hours a night.

So from that book-binge came a contest. Craft a story using:

Banker
Risk
Forfeit
Proof
Nerve

I wanted to come up with a fun way to split "banker." Once I did, most of the story fell into place. And once I came up with the punchline, "The Name Of The Game" was done. 


Their furtive glances. The fidgets in cold folding metal chairs. Proof that they, like me, craved change. But they held their tongues, afraid to forfeit the silence, the anonymity.

"It's an open forum," I began. "Let's brainstorm."

"I spend my life feeding some monopoly. The electric company. The water works."

"I'm not cut out for surgery. I always touch a nerve during an operation." 

"We should ban KerPlunk! And Risk. They're Satan's tools."

Confusion overruled diplomacy.

"What are you people talking about?" I snapped.

KerPlunk Lady held up my flyer. 

Hmmm. 

Perhaps I erred in calling it simply "Game Changers."

How about you all? How are you spending your time these days?

Janet Flash: Words

by Michael Seese

To stave off the current world malaise, super agent Janet Reid decided to cheer us with a flash fiction contest.  In her own words, she needed to "wrap my head around the new reality, which we hope is temporary of course, and flailing about." 

To that end we had to incorporate:

froward (not a typo)
lathe
spring
bask
hash 

in a 100-word story.

"Froward," which I had to look up, means tending toward disobedience. I immediately had an image of a little boy, sitting in the Principal's office, awaiting punishing. And the rest of "Words" just jumped out.

My eight-year-old feet, well short of the floor, kicked only air as she talked about me in absentia, despite my presence.

"As has happened too often, his froward antics disrupted the class." Sister Scissor-Tongue liked big words. Even the ones she only pretended to know. "I question, and I'm certain you and Caleb ask, how he could be your offspring." 

I didn't even merit a name.

Clearly, she didn't grasp the ease with which sharp words can lathe a young soul. Shape it. Etch it.

Mar it.

I think of Sister Scissor-Tongue each and every time the needle finds vein.


I'm not sure from whence this darkness came. But I have to say, I'm rather fond of some of the language, specifically the opening sentence and the name "Sister Scissor-Tongue."

How about you? How are you coping with the new world order?

Janet Flash: Bard From Flying

by Michael Seese

Still giddy from reading not one, but two ARCs by author Allison Montclair, super agent Janet Reid created a contest with both books (The Right Sort Of Man and A Royal Affair) as the prize. 

 

Paying homage to the author and title, we were to craft a story using the words:

Mont
Clair
Royal
Affair
Spark

I wanted to use "Mont" in some form of "I'm on the..." I settled on the idea of being on a plane. At first, I had my antagonist be an old lady with knitting needles. Then I came up with the "punchline," and the rest fell into place. 


What a day.

One minute, I'm on the plane, fingernails etching trenches into the armrests of 22B. The next, I'm sweating in a Turkish prison.

A little éclaircissement...

Despite my fear of flying, I booked a midsummer dream vacation to Rome. All was copacetic, until some fancy-pants parked his royal attitude in 22C and pulled out a quill pen the size of a javelin. I freaked, and slapped his shiny pate with a partially eaten Twixt Bard.

And to think, the whole affair could have been avoided had I remembered Shakespeare's words.

22B, or not 22B: that is the question.


I have to say, I'm quite proud of myself for working Shakespeare and Airplane! into the same 100-word story. 

Janet Flash: "Clowning Around"

by Michael Seese

Boy, it's been a while since I've done ANYTHING here. But, you know.... Christmas. Then a three-week bout with illness. Then buying a new car. Not to mention that family thing.

But to celebrate February (NOT FebYOOary) Janet gave us another contest to commemorate Barbara Poelle's wonderful new book Funny You Should Ask. Our mission. To write 100 words using:

fierce
funny
first
flare
fervent

I had a busy day Friday AND Saturday, but managed to squeak out "Clowning Around."


"The first rule of clownage. Be funny," Tooty said, pulling a rubber chicken, and a live chicken, from his roadside-flare red hair disaster.

"Be funny. Got it."

I scribbled fervently, capturing his words of fooldom on a page torn from Clowning For Dummies, aka the Bible Of Buffoonery. Being that today was my first day on the job, I couldn't make an ass of my... The point being, competition for these gigs is fierce. Guys literally fall over themselves to snag one.

"Okay, what's the second rule?"

"Be unpredictable," Tooty said, delivering my diploma via a pie to the face.


I'm not 100% happy with the ending, but I ran out of energy long about 1:40 Sunday, when I posted it. We'll see what Janet thinks tomorrow.

Janet Flash: Ashes To Ashes

by Michael Seese

(Finally all caught up.) 

Speaking with clients around the country, Janet Reid gets to hear about everyone else's weather. So when someone from Flint, Michigan said it snowed last Wednesday (a week ago) she devised the "It Snowed In Flint On Wednesday Flash Fiction Contest."

Of course, it snowed in Cleveland on Halloween.

We had to use

Fires
Hail
Sortie
Breach
HEAT

in a 100-word story. I had trouble finding the idea, but then wrote most of "Ashes To Ashes," while driving to retrieve my son from a friend's house.


Hailee shivered, ignoring the heat the fading fire seemed intent on bestowing upon her, and the vulturous onlookers. She fought to not hear their whispers.

Abusive jerk.

He's just the sort I expected would do something like this.

Helen left him. Why didn't the girl?

She stifled a sob, reaching for the nearest hand.

"You OK?" Sheriff Burdett asked, gently squeezing back, returning a small dose of comfort.

"I'll manage."

"Any idea where your father might be?"

"No. Probably somewhere he'll never be found," Hailee said, burying her other hand, the one still scented of gasoline, deep into her pocket.


A different kind of chill...

Janet Flash: Lies

by Michael Seese

(Somehow, I drafted this, but never hit the "publish" button. Ooops!) 

I've had quite the dry spell lately in the Janet Reid flash fiction contests. I can't remember the last time I even sniffed the winner's circle. Maybe this will be different...

Gushing about The Spaces Between Us by Stacia Tolman, a "delicious new novel," Janet built a contest around the words:

space
between
fair
bank
holt

A "holt," per Merriam-Webster, is a "small woods."

I wanted to build something off that word. Ideas like "alcohol tolerance" and "alcohol taste" came to mind. But then I hit upon the combo I ultimately used, and "Lies" fell into place. 

(To the tune of nearly 200 words. Thank goodness for my magic red pen.)


I remember the night we met.

He spied me, all irresistible, across the bar. Like a shot, the space between us disappeared.
 
"I can do to you things you've only dreamed of," I cooed.
 
"I don't know," he stammered, unsure of whether he actually was unsure. "I've never..."
 
I love "virgins." They're money in the bank.
 
I touched his lips.
 
He was mine.
 
Our affair deepened. He introduced me to his friends. Even a few coworkers. Discreetly.
 
"Don't worry," I assured him. "You can end this anytime."
 
But that's just the alcohol talking.
 
And when I talk, I always lie.


I'm very happy with this one. Let's just say I'll carry a "glass half full" attitude through the weekend.

Catching Up Janet Flash: What's In A Name

by Michael Seese

I had a busy few weeks, so I didn't get a chance to post this...

In late October, Janet decided to "thwart the Fort" by devising the "It's A Scary Flash Fiction contest."

Use john, nick, drew, ward, mike in a 100-word story. But to answer the "Forti Challenge," they could not be used as names. I started with breaking "mike" into "from IKEA." And the rest of "What’s In A Name?" fell into place.


I had to jimmy the lock to get out of the john. The day cascaded donhill from there. The wallyswitch sizzled, frizzling my hair. The clothes rod bent awkwardly, almost pierceing my heart. Frankly, if I had a nickel for every disaster du jour, I'd be rich. Awash in cash.

"This is billshit," I said, nerves frayed, neally tripping down the rickety parallel-challenged stairs.

My hindsight, full of regret, re-read the ad.

"Easy assembly! Illustrated instructions!"

Yeah, in Swedish.

I should've paid attentian to the lonely inner voice telling me I'd rew the day I purchased my house from IKEA.



By my count, there are 26 boy's names. Can you find them all? 

Janet Flash: Victory

by Michael Seese

No doubt still heady following a recent, highly alliterative, winning entry by Rebekah Postupak, Janet cooked up the F-it Flash Fiction Writing Contest.

Cobble a 100-word story out of:

fort
forte
forty
forti
fiend


I wanted to write something that incorporated word play, but sometimes the muse has other ideas. And he/she/it decided on "Victory."

She awoke to war drums, her temples on fire. The last bastion, the sanctified fortress that the doctors called her skull had been breached. Their drugs, the ones she'd used for temporary relief, had lost their magic. Their ability to fortify her soul. The forty-year siege finally had taken its toll, and Faith watched, helpless, as the demons, goblins, and fiends poured in unchecked.

"Time to execute the plan," she whispered.
 
Outside the window, victory beckoned.
 
Twenty floors down.
 
"What's that expression about losing the battle, but winning the war?" Faith said to the night air, at last tasting triumph.

The winner allegedly will be announced tomorrow. Fingers and eyes crossed.

Janet Flash: Bondage, James Bondage

by Michael Seese

"A new wrinkle in flash fiction! I've been pulling out my hair with homophones recently, so time to get some use out of the damn things." So sayeth Janet Reid. As such, for this week's flash fiction contest, we had to use:


chic
sheik
praise
prays
preys 

And the Steve Forti torture words (Janet's torture, mainly) pain, pane

I was trying to come up with something that really played with the words. But when I hit on the way to split up "sheik," the rest fell into place, resulting in "Bondage, James Bondage.)


"You put up a valiant fight," I said.

"Lofty praise coming from a prey so… manhandacled."
 
Mangled malaprop aside, I couldn't argue. I've had better Saturday evenings cuffed to a chair.
 
"She's not coming, is she?" I knew the answer. But I needed his vanity to betray him. "You'd best pray she's unharmed. So, where is she?"
 
"The rain in Spain stays mainly...."
 
Spain! No doubt on his yacht, that floating pan-European phallic symbol. Now to roast this chicken.
 
"Speaking of prayers," he slobbered, moving in for the kill, unprepared for the flamethrower stashed in my cravat.
 
On to Barcelona.

No word on the winner yet, so my fingers remain crossed. (And they're starting to cramp.)