Today is Christi Floss’ Birthday and what follows is my gift (55 words of Flash Fiction) to her. Christi is a free spirited poet who owns Getting It Right where she unknowingly published one poem in particular, Breathing You, that …pinned me for reasons some of you may guess, and fewer will know.

Happiest of Birthdays Christi!

Fresh Air

“Air!” She gasped as her flight path sped upwards, “My sweet air.”

A tear marked her cheek as she glanced back at her cage. A tear for illusions she once knew, and for the freedom allowed by her muse and lover.

“I’m yours,” her scream filling the night air, “I am me- free to love.”

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

“REBELLION”
2200 A.D.

Journal entry 2210 A.D.

…… My days are numbered. I’ve come to realize this. Unless help arrives soon, I fear all is lost……

The year is 2210 and our planet is at war.. A war started by a Past president resurrected by science controlled by evil.
There are a few chosen warriors who stand and fight for the greater good. Longing for peace and to return Mother Earth to her former glory & beauty.

Stamor- Communictons Expert – can get a message to anyone anytime, anywhere.

Shocktra- killer with telekinetic powers & a shocking personality. Don’t break her heart you might get fried.

Hinge- entrance expert- the expert in getting into anything with a lock  & at getting into trouble.

Toro- Lots of muscle & fire power but not much brains overall nice guy with a big heart.

Relay- Driver-Top gear- Best  drive man around. once drove a Harley across the roof of the White House. You need transport he’s the man .

Chop Shop- Weapons & building expert- good with hands can build a weapon  out of any material at a moments notice.

And then there’s me … I’m the bitch that runs the show.. My aim is second to none. you cross me you die. I am simply Skye.

We are the Rebels…. the freedom fighters who want to make Mother Earth better for the children of the future. The goverment will fall. We shall continue the battle until the last one drops.

WE ARE REBELLION

© 2011, Skye Poet. All rights reserved.

Sam Spade, Phillip Marlow, Alexander Black, trench coats, fedoras, violence, and dames. Crime Noir is a literary genre made popular by the likes of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, and has survived since the genre’s pioneer Carroll John Daly’s story, Knights of the Open Palm was published in the June, 1923 issue of Black Mask magazine.

Daly’s main character in that story, Race Williams, became the model for many of the protagonists in fiction crime noir that have left bloody footprints and gasping bims since his first appearance. Williams’ sharp tongued, hardboiled, cold blooded, and shoot-first-don’t-give-a-damn-about-names attributes can be clearly seen in Chandler’s Phillip Marlow, Hammet’s Sam Spade, and Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.

But not all crime noir involves private eyes of eras gone by. Stieg Larsson’s wildly popular The Millennium Series, starring Lizabeth Salander as the main character, is considered crime noir, and Lizabeth is just a girl in a heap of trouble. Additionally, James Lee Burke and Richard Stark (a.k.a. Donald Westlake) are huge names in crime noir, and their main characters range from the on again/off again cop, David Robicheaux to the non-hero, professional thief, Parker.

What Is Crime Noir?

Buy Alexander Black for .99

To sum up almost all definitions of crime noir- the story must be dark, and treat violence and sex with the kid gloves off. In other words: fiction that makes us flinch.

In most cases, the protagonist is not a character instilled with socially accepted moral standards. Sam Spade and Phillip Marlow are known as anti-heroes- characters not above using unscrupulous methods to get the job done (entrapment, strong-arm tactics, and womanizing, Oh My!). And then there is Richard Stark’s most well known protagonist, Parker, a cold blooded thief who punches, bullies, and often shoots his way out of a soured caper so he doesn’t get pinched.

Also common in fiction crime noir are story lines where the central characters are somehow connected to a violent crime—-murder and armed robbery being the two biggies— and are forced to make a decision— should they seek help from the authorities, or should they attempt to untangle themselves using their own wits? Almost always, the decision falls on the latter side of the coin, providing opportunity after opportunity for the protagonist to dig themselves into a deeper hole.

Think Dr. Richard Kimble of The Fugitive.

Can Crime Noir Be Literary Genius?

Why not? James Lee Burke is often hailed as one of the genre’s masters with praise attached for his literary prowess. And it’s true- Burke’s tales are written beautifully with complex characters and stunning metaphors. His talent for laying down descriptions, putting the reader in the middle of wherever Burke dictates, is nearly unrivaled. This passage from The Glass Rainbow is a prime example of his talent as Dave Robicheaux describes a room he rented in Natchez, Mississippi:

…the ventilated storm shutters were slatted with a pink glow, as soft and filtered and cool in color as the spring sunrise can be in the Garden District, the courtyard outside touched with mist off the river, the pastel walls deep in shadow and stained with lichen above the flower beds, the walkways smelling of damp stone and the wild spearmint that grew in green clusters between the bricks. I could see the shadows of banana trees moving on the window screens, the humidity condensing and threading along the fronds, like living tissue. I could hear a ship’s horn blowing somewhere out on the river, a long hooting sound that was absorbed and muted inside the mist, thwarting its own purpose….The wood floor and the garish wallpaper and the rain spots on the ceiling belonged to another era, one that was outside of time and unheedful to the demands of commerce…

Even if Burke does deserve the praise he gets for his awesome ink, it is almost unfair because there have been authors in the genre equally talented. Where Burke is a master of painting almost surreal scenes taken from the reality of the Mississippi Delta, Richard Stark was a master at putting the reader in the taut mind of professional thief.

Parker—just Parker, no first name, no last name—was as hard as cold blue steel. But he didn’t operate without rhyme or reason; Stark let us in on his protagonist’s psyche and showed us how Parker logically evolved through the series of twenty-four novels. One Parker faithful made this observation:

And Stark…yes…moving words- active, eliciting emotion…and subtleties find their way between the lines. Like the poor beauty shop owner, how she died accidentally, how that guilt seeps in long enough to resonate within Parker’s psyche, and then..somehow…he let’s himself off the
hook..thereby letting you off the hook..

What is the common denominator that makes all memorable crime noir work? The same magic trick that all great authors have up their sleeves, no matter the genre— tension. The tool of champions is what has readers reaching for the a book when they should be doing something else, or turning one more page than they promised themselves they would.

In 1980, among the top fifteen U.S. fiction titles sold, seven belonged to Mickey Spillane— in spite of the fact his books were constantly crucified by literary critics who found the high content of violence and sex in his work to be distasteful. Mickey’s reaction:

Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar… If the public likes you, you’re good.

From the era of fedoras, trench coats, classy women who knew how to play, and acerbic gumshoes to modern themes involving abused girls and doctors trying to prove their innocence while running from the law, crime noir has proven over and over that it is a genre that can’t be plugged and sent to the big sleep.

Alexander Black operates below the surface of every day life. Some would call him a Cleaner, others a Fixer, but few would call him by his real name more than twice. Pledging allegiance to no one, he works on both sides of the law, performing the type of wet work that calls for molten steel in his veins, and a noble approach to justice before legal.

Additional information on Alexander Black can be found in the article Fiction Crime Star Alexander Black, at Squidoo.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Stina de Borinyone Angelica had been with me for quite some time now, it was a harmless thing really, well not really that harmless. And what harm their was, as usual was most definitely not in that way you might surmise. She was a young woman, a Valerian, tall, and lithe, almost waifish, with long dark black hair to her ankles, the back panel of which was a pale blue, which matched the color of her eyes, almost, but not quite precisely. She was fond (at least with me) of long black dresses, with high collars; the effect of which was to remind me of what was underneath, but to be respectful of who and what I was. Myself, well I was the poster boy for the average Irish Priest, which tended to make things even more curiouser as to how I should come upon such an alliance. But I have found that curious things happen for even more curiouser reasons. The only habit to which she had, a most irritating one, was to pop in and tap me on the shoulder at the quietest moment imaginable. If I was prone to be with pencils in my hand, I would have snapped several boxes by now. Even more irritating was, when she announced her imminent arrival by the release of the musky but terminally sweet phenerome from her gland, and didn’t arrive in the room for a good several seconds afterwards.

Such a day was today. Now you would think that by all I had described, I could figure out when she was to arrive by thinking of when it would be most annoying for her to do so. But, in deference to my sanity I had abandoned that box of reason long ago.

So, I had set myself to cleaning and purifying the communion ware. A task I enjoyed with piety, joy, and a perhaps overly scrupulous precision. As if God would perhaps be able to notice from his throne way above, that little spot to the left which I had missed; or that it would matter in the glorious transformation of the wafer and the wine, to the body and blood of Christ. As if it would somehow prevent it, and wandering into an area which invaded Martin Luther and almost paralyzed him, cause me to drown in my own transgressions. And then the infernal tap happened and I whirled around still with the cup and polishing cloth in my hand, and absently pointed the whole thing in her direction and spoke.

“Do you?”

She wrinkled her nose just a noticeable fraction and then smiled.

“Take the Host. Perhaps it would be best if I answered another question. It would not kill me if I did. That is to your satisfaction?”

“Well not really, but I doubt if I am to get more.”

She nodded.

“Perhaps not…but it is time.”

“Time?”

“Surely you did not think my entire play with you was because of your looks!”

She laughed and I found that old Irish temper begin to start at the cheeks and work down, and then she laughed again, and it went away to that place where it goes in all of us, that imaginary drinking establishment with the tempers of the Irish world, sitting on their bar stools and having a pint waiting to be summoned again.

“Well I had wondered, yes.”

I fixed an imaginary problem with the back of my collar and looked up back at her.

“It is time that your question was answered then. Hold me.”

“Hold you?”

“Yes…it’s not like I’m going to break”, she switched to The Voice, the only time that she ever did so in my presence,”Hold me!”

I held her and she inched even if possibly much much closer, close enough to feel both of our heartbeats, and I also found myself in a near panic, quoting in my head from the Marriage Mass.

“What is to happen next?”

“Close your eyes.”

She said that, shifting back to her normal voice, and I closed my eyes and felt a sudden rush of wind, and in a moment I opened my eyes and…

I was in a billowy bright lit space, the confines of which could not be discerned, the height impossible to establish without some point of reference. I turned to what I thought would be front ways, and I saw a dapper dressed Frenchman, in a well made grey suit, tapping a cane on the ground and a top hat walking towards me. His clothes fit him perfectly and an even more impressive cravat filled the open space. Later on I would find out that it was the ever unstoppable Monsieur Rene Quivremont, the true nature of him never spoken or revealed. Still the inevitable question formed in my brain and I spoke.

“Are you God?”

He laughed, why is it that the members of the Host seem to laugh so much. Is the Universe, are we, really that amusing?

“Well I’m not not God. Let’s leave it that for now shall we.”

He tapped his cane and I reached back and found the most fortunate winged back chair for myself, a choice in furniture that was mirrored by the one sat in by The Gentleman.

“Why am I here?”

“Splendid. I do so like it when you Mortals choose to be direct.”

He clapped his hands in glee and it seemed as if a gold rimmed crystal goblet appeared in the air next to him, and he took a sip of it and set it back, and it just held in the air, and he spoke again.

“I’d give you some, but”, he gave me a slow wink and a smile,”you folks seem to have at least gotten that part right. Also (he coughs) this is a somewhat literal vintage and might not be up to your personal tastes. Oh yes, your question, bless me, but I seem to prattle on so. Shame you Mortals can’t return the favor in punishment when even I, find myself in need of it.”

“The question?”

“Yes, yes, why are you here. Couldn’t help but wonder why you didn’t ask where you were, perhaps that was next, that dratted free will, never can tell what you folks are up to next. Yes, the question. Well I wish I could visit all of my clergy, but that would be most impossible. Some would die before I ever would get a chance to get to them on the list. And that wouldn’t be fair now would it. Let’s just say I make a few selective picks every once and a while. And well Stina…you could say she is one of my Facilitators.”

“Are you the Devil?”

“I was once, and I was a tree, and a mountain, and a stream, and perhaps someday I shall be Fred. I always liked the name Fred. Now if I told you that I thought you were doing a particularly good job with my work, would that Irish pride overwhelm you?”

“It might.”

Rene smiled at me.

“I suppose that is my punishment for letting somebody have the instruction book. Horrible mess that has become, and thankfully”, he made a motion as if washing his hands ,”I believe I have dealt with it quite well considering.”

He opened his hand and in it was a cigar, he offered it to me and I looked at him quizzically, and he shook his head, and I took it and lighted up, strangely finding my tools to do so within my hands reach.

“Who would have thought that if I gave you a plant, that you’d get the idea to put it in your mouth, and LIGHT IT!”

The Old Man almost fell off of his chair in his laughter, but righted himself.

“Ah but it can’t exactly hurt you here, now can it?”

I looked at him and smiled.

“Pretty good actually.”

“I like to think I had something to do with it. Although between you and me, a horrible habit, again somebody else’s instructions. Ah yes, there is that prattling again. Yes Priest, or Minister, or Reverend, or whatever it is you call yourself. Too bad I can’t make a revision and tell you just how unimportant what you call yourself is. Like I would get confused about it. But yes you are doing a good job. And please do continue onward. Being serious about this sort of thing, isn’t and shouldn’t be a crime, or something to be scoffed or mocked. Frankly I really wish there was a bit more, Kumbaya indeed! Standing out in the pouring rain to get closer to the divine. Who was the Moron who thought of that? But I think we’re done for now.”

“Will I remember any of this?”

“Yes and no.”

Rene made a little gesture of dismissal, almost as if he was talking to a child, but then again he was, remember. And I closed my eyes again.

And when I opened them again I was still impossibly and painfully close to Stina, and I broke the embrace. Perhaps I had passed out in Stina’s arms from the absolute fright of being in the arms of somebody else other than that which I had been joined to without end. But I looked into what had been a previously empty corner and found the chair I had just been apparently sitting in moments before, and to the side of it were two things; a wooden common cup, a greal of great heft, and what appeared to be a box of cigars with a note on top. I walked over and picked up the note and began to read it, Stina most annoyingly peeking over my right shoulder.

Thought you might enjoy these. Can’t say when I can give you another box, so be enjoyable with it but perhaps a bit sparing -The Tobacconist

I looked at Stina, oblivious to the goings on except for me, and I somewhat casual noticed that the Sexton’s shears had stopped, then I took a look around and noticed that everything had…STOPPED…simply stopped. Cars frozen in their travel, cyclists stuck in mid pump. Leaves floating in the air similar to what Rene’s cup had done. And I gathered my wits around me like a cloak, a very difficult thing for the Irish to do more often then not and spoke.

“Will you ever turn me?”

“No, as much as a certain part of me screams at me daily to do so. But, you are one of the “protected ones”, those set apart from the rest of Mortality. There are others, and Paul, the Uberbeing, is Leader of them all. Have you ever wondered what the strange birthmark on one of your arms meant?”

“I was curious yes, me mum even tried to rub it off when I was a lad.”

I grinned at her for a moment until she wrinkled her nose again, and coughed and betrayed a bit of a blush, as if those voices which were screaming in her head were starting to win their daily struggle.

“It is a Traveler’s Mark, another Race to which you may at some point be introduced to. It means “safe to approach and be near, but not to be harmed in any way“. I could turn you, and I, and the Family De Borinyone support you for the rest of all Days, but I more than likely would be subject to the Will of my Sister Camilla Sira, and she takes to the Rules and Orthodoxy sometimes I fear even more than Our Rene does.”

“Thank you.”

“Not to mention it would dilute the meaning of our little chats, and well if you truly became a Sympathetica of the Embraced, or a Full Valerian, you would never cease to exist until that day when perhaps all of us will Ascend and go Home.”

She sighed at the mention of the word “Home”, and even in their confines, I could not help but look and see their travel under the tight black of her front.

“I enjoy these chats as well, even if I act like a frightened rabbit sometimes.”

“Good, and I enjoy your company as well, even if it is a job that brings me here to this most curious place. But know this, not that I wish your Death at all, but all the Valerian and The Embraced, will mourn and weep at your passing…perhaps even the Six Parts of the Host of Heaven as well, the Seventh part being that which is Our Father. You have much to do for all of Us. I pray that you will have the time to complete it all. Never waver my…friend.”

“I do try not to, and when I do my wife usually looks me into reality.”

Stina laughed again and looked at me.

“She must be a beautiful woman indeed, and if I can be forgiven, a most generous Woman indeed to be with the likes of you. But I find I must now be going, in about five minutes your Sexton will be coming around the corner. Please for my sake…”, she leaned over and gave me the smallest of kisses on the cheek, or was it merely a wisp of a touch,” do try to come out with a satisfactory explanation as to why you’re standing out in the middle of the lawn.”

“When will you be back?”

“How can I, when I don’t exist, I was never here, we never spoke.”

She began to fade, and soon like the Cheshire, only her scent, still particularly annoying, remained.

I thought for a moment, then heard the sound of the shears again, and looked and saw the world, my world, my tiny corner of the Universe, going back to its usual whirling dervish of existence. Pity most of them would never know peace, real Peace…ah but then again, that’s why I am here after all.

The End

© 2011, housevalerian. All rights reserved.

I looked out from a balcony at one of the edges of Heaven, a curious thing, how can a thing of infinite Nature have an end. The truth, as always, especially if spoken in First Tongue, is incredibly simple. All things have an end, it’s just that some of them can’t be reached from a beginning.

I am Tira Greylake, Angel of Heaven, and one of the Grey Angels or Spydahr. We exist in that area between the Dark and The Light, between Heaven and Hell, although we are “assigned” as the placeholders to insure that there is always a balance of Angels and Demons; a perfect equality. Kill a Demon and one of us is sent to Hell, Kill an Angel and we are sent Home. Turn a Mortal into a Demon or kill a Demon, and we are rendered to the Dark. Kill a Angel and we return to the Light. So you see the futility of the former Prince of Heaven, and yet it still goes on…The Darkness still goes on…and on…and on.

And so we get to the Vampire Ascension, a complicated affair, for 3.5 million Angels became Demons by their involvement in The Great Revolt; and 10,000 years later; it was 3.5 million no more, for the elusive Valerian, an unanticipated occurrence added some to the ranks of Heaven, and some to the ranks of Hell.

Still I turned back to the Infinite, staying in woman form for it seemed to please me more, and to bring a certain warmth to my being that being a Man, simply was not to be grasped, my buds being more pronounced, and that between my legs morphing, and soon a familiar smell wafted from my arch, a hunger which food would not quench. I smiled and looked at my hands and to the power which was held in the slender fingers, and walked as slowly as I could to my Mistress Cassila, or simply the Angel Judgement.

For I had been summoned by her, and wishing to find Wisdom had tarried at the Balcony, hoping to find resolution there, but in the end, Wisdom would wait, and the sound of my tiny footfalls, seemed to echo within my ears as a deafening sound without solace.

© 2011, housevalerian. All rights reserved.

Happy Birthday to one of the best Twitter pals out there. Mary (@NanaMary05) is a retired Navy Nurse who didn’t check her heart with the service- she is golden and ROCKS!

Mary- enjoy this 55 word flash fiction story and enjoy the day!

Under the din of the O.C., Karen leaned in, “The blood, latex, gurneys, and those poor boys.”

Mary smiled, “It’s because we care that we put those nightmares away- so we can help their friends tomorrow.” She then winked towards two handsome officers at the bar and said, “Right now, it’s time for Operation PORKSWORD.”

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

“…One of the most little known aspects of Heaven is the presence of a “bridge” of sorts that was created after the Treaty that ended The Great Revolt, and the reasons for which will become more readily apparent as you go on…”

An undefined space bridging a gap between Heaven and the Underrealm or Hell, the end points of which, except that which appears to be a solid portal, are lost in the billowing of the infinite.

In the center is a massive two pan balance on each pan of which rests an equally large bound volume, the leather cover of which is closed. To the left side of it is a slowly curving deep stair, at the top of which is a small platform and a stone seat.

On the seat is a young Archangel, in a long flowing robe of pure white and a hood which is down, of curious guise and similar to that of the Spydahr, in that it is extremely difficult to determine exactly at any given moment just what sex it is. The face changes, and the figure seems to broaden slightly as if breasts were budding, but then just as quickly on second look see, they seem to vanish, the Archangel Judgement.

From below comes Rene Quivremont, who crosses to before the scales and Judgement, absent-mindedly moistening “her” lips, and for the moment deciding to stay as a Woman, frowns and cautiously goes down the steps and stops before the dapper looking old man who is her Boss.

“YOU never stopped here!”

© 2011, housevalerian. All rights reserved.

Aibell

This short fiction piece is an alternative history/alternative present story I wrote as a birthday gift for someone very dear to me. Happy Bearthday, Petunia!

What a glorious day, she thought as she stopped on her porch long enough to look out over the city. The same sun that warmed her face also exposed glimpses of clay tile roofs, hillside shops, glistening solar panels, wind turbines, and the construction site for the new Galway dew collection facility- all ordinarily hidden by the lush green trees during the fertile season. The sunlight danced across the water of the bay, the sky was the color of a robin’s egg, and the birds all sang a sweet song. Her heart was lifted.

She smiled as she looked at the bottom of the hill and saw three students from her Hellenic Art Appreciation class as they lingered on her lawn. No doubt they were still discussing why the Cycladic Idols, created as grave offerings, gave proof that the pre-Greek society had at least some form of primitive religion.

Grasping the Aibell pendant hanging around her neck, she kissed it and gave a quick prayer of thanks to the goddess. Life was too blessed not thank her deity.

Before turning to enter her home, she reached into a hidden pocket of her robe and brought out her personal assistant. The small, lightweight device came to life in the sunlight and she whisked her index finger over the screen and tapped one of the icons. Inside her dwelling, a solar power motor came to life, a vegetable oil pump was driven, small hydraulic cylinders energized, louvers swung open, and the day’s light was let in and reflected to strategic locations—her desk, the counseling area, the alter, the shrine— inside the dwelling that was more than a home.

Today was the day she was to trek across the city to the O’Leary homestead and bless the family’s bean patch. Mrs. O’Leary was with child, their third, and the family was praying for an abundant crop to sell off at the summer markets. She had other pressing business to attend to before she left for the O’Leary place- namely compose an unrelated to the calling email.

Once inside the vast open area of her home, she almost skipped over to her computer. Most priests/priestesses kept all aspects of their practice segregated; walled offices, shrines in foyers, dark and secret altars, consultation rooms- but not Aingeal; no, she loved the unfettered, non-barricaded way she practiced; even if it ran against the grain of tradition. Everything she did as a Druid was in the open, and no whispers were needed.

But, she did have her secrets; secrets on a much purer level than her religious dedication. She was reminded of this when the computer came alive and she began to compose an email-

Subject: Now look what you have done…

Body: …you have gone and done it, mister. My feet are restless for want of dance and…

At that precise moment, the large wooden front door opened, she didn’t hear it open, but the flood of sunlight caught her immediate attention, she looked up and saw the darkened silhouette of a large man she would recognize if she was blind.

She sprang from her chair, gathered her robe up, and ran to the man. Jumping and wrapping her herself around him, the side of her head buried in his chest, “How do you DO that, Vermundr? How do you magically appear when my thoughts grow heavy with you?”

“Now missy, careful of the goods,” The short haired Northman laughed.

Aingeal dismounted, stood back, and held her arms akimbo, “Are you suggesting that my winter weight is enough to hurt you? If so, your eyesight is failing and you have much to learn about speaking to the ladies.”

With a hearty laugh, “Don’t let misunderstandings lead you down the wrong path, my love.” Vermundr reached inside is wolf-fur cloak and produced a small wooden sculpture, “Happy Birthday.”

Her breath caught, and then shaking from glee, “You remembered.”

“How could I forget your birthday?”

“Not so much that.” A playful smile captured her lips, “But this,” she said as she held up the sculpture that he gave her.

“Well, now THAT was easier to remember. I was intrigued that such a delicate rose could actually be enamored by a thorn of the past. Those were bloody and violent times for your people.”

Vermundr and Aingeal had been strolling through the open markets of Galway during an unusually beautiful late autumn day last year when she spotted the statue at the booth of the woodcarver Rooney. She was immediately smitten with that minute carving of Vercingetorix extending the head of Julius Caesar, the Roman general he defeated at the Battle of Alesia; a victory that lead to Gaelic dominance over most of Europe.

Aingeal loved the history of her people, and she craved artworks that held scenes and people of that history- but unless she received such work through barter for prayers, rites, and blessings, her coffers wouldn’t allow for purchases of those types of luxuries.

With an impish gleam in her green eyes, “Well, sir; YOUR people have had a bloody past AND apparently are continuing that tradition in the present.” Her tone turned somber, “How bad is the situation in New Valhalla?”

With a heavy sigh, Vermundr replied, “Those damn colonists still don’t understand the vice of greed. They continue to act as though the vast distance from the throne gives them imprimatur to grab everything they can without consideration of the Balance, and the aboriginals grow tenser as each day passes, because they fear the King’s grip on the colonists is weakening by the moment.” Another sigh, “Not much has changed for the good. We seem to be on another burgeoning crisis.”

Biting her lip, and caressing the scar above his left eye, Aingeal asked with concern, “Will you be returning to New Valhalla?”

Gathering her into his chest and kissing the top of her head, Vermundr answered, “No. That service is a young man’s folly and I am closer to days filled with the hunt and long nights at the hearth. A life filled with the serenity of love- that’s where I am headed.”

A single tear of joy trailed down her cheek, and with hope she asked into his tunic, “Will you be staying here tonight?”

An eternity passed before he answered, “I can’t. I have to deliver a new saga to the drunken bastard Alrekr. My epic is part of a new program designed to rally the citizens around his throne.” He drew her even tighter to his chest, “My ship leaves tonight.”

But Aingeal knew the truth. The truth pounded deep in his chest- at his core. Vermundr wanted nothing more in the world than to stay with her. She knew that he wanted her with him at his hearth. She also knew he tortured himself by protecting her from the torment created in the fight between dedication to her calling and the primal yearning to be a woman- a lover; his lover.

More tears trudged down her cheeks.

He relaxed his hug enough to hold her away so that he could gently brush the tears from her cheek. His fingers tenderly traced her face and into her raven hair where he cupped the back of her, bent down and kissed her forehead. Softly, he whispered, “Amarách.”

She looked at him with teary eyes, but had no words.

After long moments, he released her and said, “There will be a day that will be the last I leave, but that day is not today,” she could see the sadness in his tired eyes. “I must go.” He then turned and her hand reached to his back- her fingers slowly trailing downwards as he moved away from her.

He whistled a familiar tune all the way to her porch, where he stopped and sang out, “Day-iay-iay.” And away he ambled down the stairs to the street; whistling the entire way.

Aingeal leaned against the door frame and watched as the Northman stood on his rented sol-ped, looked up at her, and blew a kiss. She returned the kiss and waved to him until he and the small vehicle whirred away, disappearing under the canopy of Galway.

Drying the tears with her robe, she went back to her computer, placed the carving on her desk, and continued the email. She decided to delete the body and replace it with-

Body: Amarách.

Petunia is a charter member, and very welcome presence at Extreme Writing Now- but there’s more! Known as @gogreenbeans on Twitter, she also runs a kick ass social network for the Greenie Meanies in the world. If you are an eco-ninja and looking for a place to kick it with some really exceptional green minded folks, check out Are You A Green Bean Too.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Happy Birthday, @jkewell! Kacy is one of my closest Twitter friends, so I wrote this flash fiction piece as my gift to her…

Lost, floating, bobbing, and bouncing- off of elbows, knees, and… what the heck was THAT? He wanted to cry out, “I want my mommy!” But all he could do was squeak.

“There’s my ducky!” Reaching past Theresa, and around Mary, Kacy scooped him up.

He squeaked when she said, “You’ll always be my rubber ducky.”

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Twice Missed is the first piece of flash fiction I have written in a couple of weeks. This one was influenced by a string of Philip K. Dick tales I recently read.Felt good to saddle up once again…

A rainy night in late March, the Appalachian Mountains, a shallow and dank cave, Harry and his parents. The three of them were huddled over a fire that was small and short on providing real warmth, but sometimes perception is everything as they felt like they were warmer, even as the cold dirt floor tugged at their fantasies about heat.

“John, I can’t let him go. He is my son.” Margaret’s wet eyes pleaded with her husband as she faced him.

Taking his wife by the shoulders and looking her square in the eyes John said, “Margaret, it has been ten years, and we are slowing down. Every day brings us closer to peril because the Feds are closing in on us and before long we will be caught.” His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw tightened. “You know the ramifications of being apprehended while attempting to flee; we’ll be tagged as treasonous…”

…Because the automaton population grew rapidly, not only in numbers but also intelligence, the human population, at least those that didn’t own simulations, became extensively paranoid because of the difficulty in telling humans and machines apart. The fire to put an end to full blown, life like automatons had gasoline thrown on it by the Shelby County Catastrophe.

A group of the living machines in Shelby County, Ohio, were updated with the latest gaming software by their teen aged owners. After a few short days of gaming, the machines banded together and set about to stimulate their war game coated pleasure circuits by going on a killing spree.

The death toll stopped at 3,317, some of those victims died as a result of friendly fire when the U.S. Army Rangers fought the automatons.

Immediately, the American government enacted the Shelby Automaton Eradication Law requiring that all the qualified machines to be handed over to authorities for disposal. Refusal to turn over automatons meant charges of treason…

“…I am getting too old to run any longer. I want to live out the rest of life in peace and cling onto the beautiful memories from before the accident.”

A tear trailed down Margaret’s cheek. “John, are you saying there have been no good memories in the last twenty years? None worth dwelling on?”

Suddenly feeling the chill of the wet cave, John answered, “The last twenty years are filled with false memories. Only the ones before the accident are real. Margaret, he was five, I should never have fallen prey to my grief. I should have let it go and never bought into the Re-Live Corporation promise. Hell, I really couldn’t afford it. And I certainly couldn’t afford the constant upgrades; that’s why you keep treating him like he is five years old.”

“How could you do this, John? Forget about what you are doing to me, think about Harry. How can you give up on him? He is your son too.”

“Margaret, in many ways he is more my son than he is yours.” John took a deep breath. “Harry and I have discussed this and he agrees that we should quit running. He is okay with my decision.”

Margaret’s eyes widened as she jerked free of her husband’s grip to spin and look at Harry as he sat on the cave floor. “Is this true, Harry? Do you want to go through with this? I don’t think you understand.”

Looking up at his mother, Harry closed his eyes and slowly nodded yes. This shocked Margaret and she went stiff as if to absorb the dreadful revelation.

John saw this as the perfect opportunity, so he slipped the .38 from his coat pocket, held the barrel to the base of Margaret’s head and pulled the trigger. The lead slug ripped the synthetic skin and exploded through the CPU of the Margaret unit, splattering the cave wall with coolant. Margaret jolted, twitched, half spun, and then crumpled to the cave floor like someone tossed down a pile of dirty laundry.

Harry and John both had loud ringing in their ears, but they could also hear the last of the compressed air hiss from the dying Margaret. The unit was expiring.

Once his eyes readjusted to the under lit cave, Harry stood and went to his father. “Are you okay, Dad?”

Putting an arm around his son, John answered, “It wasn’t easy to do, son. I am shaken now, and maybe a little regretful. But it is done.”

“Dad, you know there was no telling what she would have done. Those mother instinct circuits and programs were pretty old and primal. Twenty years of learning from that loop could have made her very dangerous, especially if we would’ve been cornered. And hell, after you told her and she was staring at me, I could swear a trapped animal look came over her face. I think she was going to try and kill you.”

“Oh well Harry. We can now live free and build new memories. Although,” he looked down at the broken machine, “I will miss your mother once again.”

Philip K. Dick may be the greatest American author you don’t know about, but you can bet you have heard of a movie or two that was created from his work. Blade Runner, Total Recall, Imposter, and many others are joined this year by the award winning indie film Radio Free Albermuth, a movie that is sure to be true to the vision of Philip K. Dick as the talented creators are not only fans of his work, but also know that he was a literary genius.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.