The Symbol of Civilization

He was proud to represent his nation at the first reestablished Olympics. Standing at the starting blocks he admired the sea of humanity that gathered to watch. His event would start the games that demonstrated that mankind was bigger than his hate for himself; that mankind had indeed clawed its way out of the dark days of war and ashes and that civilization would conquer chaos. He had been born long after the Year of Fire and the desolation of the seas. His sport had been reconstructed from pictures and old stories as one of the first Olympic sports.

The starter pistol fired. Clutching the burlap at his waist, he leapt forward in giant bounds, focusing on the goal, ignoring the athletes that fell, legs tangled in their sacks. He jumped ahead knowing they envied his bounding strength and grace. As he hopped near the finish line, he thought to himself, “This race is in the bag!”

Posted for Flash Friday vol2-#9
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Update: So honored to receive an honorable mention for this one!

Maintenance

The gate still squeaked, but barely. The old, stooped man swung it open and closed a few times to be sure. It wasn't much of a squeak but he would have to fix it. He’d been doing this year after year, fighting the elements to keep it right. Sighing, he set down the metal tool tray in the long weeds and knelt in front of the ancient wrought iron gate contemplating the hinges. The noon sun beat down on his shoulders mercilessly as the cicadas sang and rattled in the tree above the small family plot. A single ancient limestone marker shared the small square of earth with a stunted oak whose shade stopped selfishly at the very edge of the fence. Inside the metal border looked cool and inviting. Even the grass inside was short and green when the rest of the field was brown with thirsty weeds that hissed when there was a breeze. He swatted at a deer fly that landed on his neck.

Mother

Mother

The tiger was a statue. Only the very tip of his tail moved, tracing a complex loop in the air. The piercing yellow eyes fixed on the boy. He shot across the plain like bullet. The boy did not run, but fell to the ground kicking his feet into the chest of the beast. They tumbled together, rolling, violently, tossing dirt and grass into the air.

Clam Digging with Little Jon

Jon spent the morning in the hot sun digging clams on the island.  Maybe this trip would bring some happiness back.  Their life was a drab, joyless haze since the fever took their son.  He didn't fear the ghost stories about the island.  He came because of them.  Jon thought sorrowfully of digging with Little Jon on this same beach.

Excerpt from The Book

Posted for FlashFriday #50

Writing Prompt

The dark desert was still radiating heat from the day. The sand and rock still warmed through the soles of her shoes. The sun herself, not yet giving up defeat, lit the western hills like glowing embers. It was the time of day when the nocturnal creatures woke and began their search for food. Rustling of the brush and swishing sands were the only clue that these creatures had awakened.

Janet watched the rusted pickup truck that had carried her this far drive away, the roar of its gas engine making it obvious just how old it was. They were very concerned about leaving her out here all alone. “A little thing like you will be just a little snack for the coyotes”, the drivers wife scolded her.

“I’ll be fine. My friends are meeting me here within minutes. They might already be waiting for me”. Janet’s Spanish was good for conversation, but, she was definitely not fluent and she could tell by amused look on Mr. Driver’s face.

They left her here on what looked like a dirt road when the sun was up, but it now looked more like the middle of nowhere during late dusk. She waited until the red taillights had vanished in the distance and began jogging further down the road, the pack that Gray had left her bouncing roughly on her back.

“Another mile, and look for the crossroads.” She repeated Saul’s instructions silently to herself. By this time it was completely pitch black and the noises around her grew louder and more aggressive. The light from her headband LEDs was the only thing illuminating. The moon was taking it’s time getting high enough in the sky to light the path. She found the crossroad. Less of a road than the one she was on. She headed south, it was only another mile and she could see a speck of light in the distance already.

The Book

The book I've been working on for over a decade is almost done.  I've not spoken of it publicly before because I've always thought of it as a hobby.  I've shared very early copies of it with some family and friends and they've encouraged me strongly to get it out in the public.

I've been working with my editor Jill Oldham on and off for the last couple years as we've both had time to work on this hobby project.  I also have a friend @patrickrlaurent who's worked on some cover art with me.  This isn't the final form, but I thought I'd share the first draft  of the cover.  I may post some samples here as I get sections worked out.

When he woke up Saul expected to spend his day programming The World.  Instead, he discovers the young hacker he'd been chatting with only hours before is the latest victim of a serial killer.  Before the day is over, he will discover that he is not only the killer's next target, but he is also the FBI's prime suspect.  Saul's world begins to change in ways he never expected as he reaches out of his isolation for help.

Makeup!

“Cut!” the director shouted.  “That was horrible!  Where are the writers?  When I said I wanted more non-verbal communication, I wasn't talking about some kind of circus mind reading act!  Fix it!”  he barked as two disheveled men ran up to him during his fit.

“Sir?” The taller man asked hopelessly before the director could storm completely off the sound stage.  “Are we still limiting the number of spoken words for the whole movie?”

“Yes!  No leeway.  The movie is Two Hundred Words not Two Hundred and Seventy Six Words!”  The director completed his tantrum and left.

The men looked at each other sighing deeply in unison.  They had spent endless nights trying to tell this sad drama in an hour long screenplay with this ridiculous constraint.  “You think he’ll count French words?” the shorter man asked rhetorically.

“We've used up all the words in the finale. How are we supposed to explain that Mark is John’s long lost brother and that he had amnesia after a war injury or he would have been home to help with their dying father?”  The taller man complained.

“Oh!  We need a head wound.”  The shorter man was suddenly excited.  “Makeup!!” He yelled.

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Entry for Flash Firday #47
200 Words Exactly