Do we know who we are? Do we think we know who the person sitting across from us is? What if it’s all a big lie? This Flash Fiction piece explores the fun of maybe…

Claude was in the “box”. He knew it was just a formality, because he had already confessed to Detective Robinson, the fact that he had killed his wife. The good Detective was just using the interrogation room for the recording of Claude’s confession.

Robinson sat across the table from Claude, pen in hand, “At what time did you kill your wife?”

“Last evening, at ten thirty.” Claude shifted slightly and adjusted his tie.

The well-built, black Detective took a sip of his water and continued, “Was there an argument beforehand?”

“Not an argument, just a minor disagreement.” Seeming to brush something from the sleeve of his expensive looking pinstriped suit, Claude went on, “She knew too much and was going to go public with it.”

“Knew too much about what?”

“My counterfeiting.”

Robinson sat back and rubbed his baldhead, “Counterfeiting?”

“Yes. It’s my life. My nature. It’s what I do best.” Claude sat erect, as if he were being asked a question in English class rather than being interviewed about a murder.

“What do you counterfeit? Money? Bonds?”

“Why everything, of course. It’s more of a lifestyle than a means to make a living. And, I employ no one else, because there are none who can live up to my standards.”

“I still don’t get it. Everything?”

“Yes. Money, bonds, certificates, passports….everything. You saw that 1969 Camaro in my driveway, right?”

“Yeah. Special edition, with the ‘vette engine. Correct.”

“Absolutely. Only three hundred and fifty were made. Worth over a hundred grand.” Claude smirked, “Mine is a fake. Built it myself. It would take a fairly extensive metallurgical examination to uncover it as bogus.” Claude’s slight body leaned forward a bit, “Even the way I murdered Sharon was replicated.”

“How so?”

“Three shots through a pillow, into her head. I saw it on one of those forensic science shows. I mimicked every detail. Even handcrafted an exact replica of the pillow used in the re-enactment.”

Robinson wiped a little sweat from his head as he began to feel that Claude was feeding him some kind of cock and bull story, “You said she knew too much, yet it seems that counterfeiting and forgery are what you thrive on. How could she not know?”

“Oh, she knew most of it,” Claude smiled. “In fact we got together because I forged her asshole of a boyfriend’s signature on an IRS check, so that she could cash it.”

“Well then, what constituted ‘too much’, in your eyes?”

“She found out that I had counterfeited our marriage license. This upset her so deeply that she was going to turn me over to you guys.”

“Damn,” Robinson uttered. “You’ve got quite a tale started here.”

“I assure you that it is all true, Detective.”

“Well Claude, I’m gonna have to read you your rights…..”

“Ummm……actually…..it’s Claudia. And I……I am…..a….well….a clone.”

Deeps furrows instantly fortified Robinson’s forehead, “What was that?”

Next Page

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

“In national news today, federal officials investigating last week’s suicide Dr. Gerald Dean, prominent genetic researcher, say they may have a link between millions of embezzled grant dollars and Dean’s gambling addiction…”

“Comair flight 449 for the Bahamas now boarding at Gate C.”  The announcement rang throughout the terminal. A man with a clean shaven head and a full beard lingered at the television a little longer, while other travelers grabbed their carry ons and started for Gate C. The bald man was starting to feel confident and almost euphoric. It looked like his plan was working. His picture had been in the news a lot in the past week, but now he had shaved his head, applied a fake beard, and added some girth by ingeniously taping the money to his body. All the while, no one seemed to give him a second look.

He then picked up his shoulder tote and moved towards the gate himself. Feeling lifted by the success of his grand scheme, he began to whistle.

“Gerald Dean?” The question made him instinctively look to where it had come from and stopped him in his tracks. When he turned to see who had said his name his high mood plummeted. Two men, who looked to be identical twins, in dark suits stood not six feet from him, one showing him an open bi-fold that identified him as F.B.I., and the other stepping forward asking the bald man to come with them.

As the three men walked towards the airport security office, Doctor Dean couldn’t help asking, “What tipped you guys off?”

One of the twins answered, “ Outside of an anonymous tip, it was dental records. You see, Dr. Dean, your clone had perfect teeth, while you on the other hand, have fillings.”

Standing just outside the departure gate cue area, a man wearing a pony-tailed blonde wig, watched as the two bookends escorted the bald man away. He began to smile as he watched his plan unfold. Gerald Dean knew that the arrest of the bald man would buy him enough time to land in Persia, where the promise of unlimited funding, uninhibited research, and more wealth than he could imagine awaited him.



© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Edgar exhausted himself on the truth, but the State saw a different truth.  So he found Jesus and accepted his fate.

He was served his last meal and made his final walk. He was determined not to shuffle, but to walk like a man.

Hooded, strapped in, and gathering the last remnants of courage, Edgar tapped his right foot, which signaled the priest. He could hear the recital of ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ and knew to brace himself when the father said the part about forgiveness of others. The warden knew that Edgar would be ready then and he could signal the executioner.

“Our Father who art in heaven…” teeth clenched, “…hallowed be thy name…thy kingdom come…” sweat glazing on forehead, “thy will be done…” fist clenched so hard that finger nails cut palms, “… on earth as it is in heaven…” eyes tightly shut, “…give us this day our daily bread…” uncontrollable trembling, “…and forgive…” a phone rang somewhere in the background.

The sounds of muffled chaos filtered through the black hood. The hood was removed and the priest bent to say, “Bless you son, you have been saved.”

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

This Flash Fiction piece is all about turning the table. Pursuing the pursuers.  Motives that began with revenge, but have transformed into a game of self-gratifying need.

In the end, we are left with the tough choice of whether or not to root for the Just.

The adrenalin reaction is waning quicker each time. This is the fifth, and already my excitement is just about spent. It’s been what, five or six minutes now and my breathing seems normal, my heart has quit beating against my breastbone, and my hands have quit sweating.

After the first one, I stayed awake all night. I suppose that it was due mostly to fear, but I remember that my body also felt electrified every time I recounted what I had done. Long after the fear subsided, I would tingle when I thought of how a life came to a sudden halt at my hands.

In fact, the original purpose of the killings is starting to become less of a priority than the excitement of the hunt. Alanis sang about hunting the hunter, but I don’t believe she knows how much fun it really can be. The lurking, laying in wait, setting the trap, and luring the supposed superior prey to its death. After all that work, the killing is like a grand prize, and I feel that I have earned each one of them. I mean, it isn’t like I am in complete safety when I play this game. There are those who are trying to snare me and put a stop to my fun, not to mention the fact that my prey is caught up in their own game filled with hidden motives.

Now the excitement is gone, even before my victim has quit bleeding. Look at the body, sprawled on the cheap carpet, next to the uncomfortable bed. In the stained curtain filtered neon light that body is so ugly, no will to flex muscles or suck the gut in to satisfy some lying self-image. The prize has withered away and already I feel the urge, no, the need, to hunt again.

What fun that would be, to do two in one night. Is it possible? There is a laptop set up on the desk, and it looks like it’s hooked-up and ready to surf. God, I can feel my pulse begin to rise again. I’m gonna try it.

This one will be purely for me. Something to totally satisfy my appetite. After this one though, I’ll get back to work for Maggie and Mom and Dad. Work to avenge my sister and my parents’ suicides when they saw what happened to Maggie in a hotel room like this.

“Welcome”, says the programmed voice. Yeah, welcome to my game.

Studly1 : Hi BrandyWine. Cum….er…..come here often?
BrandyWine : LOL….That’s a cheesy pick-up line
Studly1 : It wasn’t meant to be…..but…..
Studly1 : A/S/L
BrandyWine : 14/F/Xenia, Ohio
Studly1 : WOW! I’m in Bellbrook……I’m 19 and ALL male
BrandyWine : LOL……Really now….ALL male and that close…..hmmmmm….
Studly1 : I bet you gotta a boyfriend, as cute as you sound
BrandyWine: Actually, I just dumped my 5th guy in the last month and I could really use a hug.
Studly1 : awwwww……well…..your parents around?
BrandyWine : No….they’re away
Studly1 : How ‘bout we meet up somewhere?
BrandyWine : That’d be great. I know a guy who’d let us use his room……I don’t think he’d mind.

No, I don’t think he’d have anything to say about it at all.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Friday, May 21st, 2010, we will be kicking off a new series here at Extreme Writing Now. The series, Building A Short Story, will explore the process of taking a piece of Micro-Fiction, in this case a 55 word fiction tale, and creating a fully functional short story.

Join Carrie and myself as we give you a blow by blow account of how our story, The Heart of the Hound goes through a wondrous transformation.

If you play along and mimic our steps, we will be glad to drop a link to your progress at the bottom of each post in the series. Wouldn’t that be fun?

Enjoy!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

For what ever reason, Flash Fiction works best for me when I write it on the spur of the moment. Her Blue Ribbon is exactly the type of stuff I write best as the energy is flowing form that lucid spur.

And this time I had some very talented help.

I was talking with Carrie White (inkserotica) when I suddenly branched and asked for a creative writing prompt. She blurted, “Write about a blue colored object.”

Five minutes later I came back and asked for help. I had 48 words.

Normally, I would have agonized hours, maybe even a day over those 7 elusive words, but with lovely Carrie’s help, we had a 55 word story in under 10 minutes.

She asked a few simple questions, maybe the most pivotal question was, “How does the ribbon feel in your hands?”, and before you know it, we were at 55 words neat.

The Blue Ribbon

She said she’d have a blue ribbon in her hair, and she did.

I saw her through the cafe window, so beautiful, so pristine.

She was my first, and I would be her only.

The long blue ribbon felt silky wrapped between my hands.

I’ve kept the ribbon so I’ll  always remember my first love.

I don’t always work on the spur of the moment, nor do I always drive to get a complete story in one sitting, but when it does happen, the energy feels erotic. I become entranced to the challenge, especially if it is 55 word fiction.

Carrie thinks I would have come to the solution in the end, maybe I would have, but having her guiding hand made the effort seem richer. Maybe I would have rushed the solution and ended up with something less.

Maybe not.

Do you ever unleash the spring and write it all out? Do you methodically plan each tale and plod your way through ? Or is there some mixture where you find the spur of the moment to be a sultry mistress you have to sneak away and visit from time to time?

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

How many times have you read a written post that someone says they are sorry they have let the blog go and promise they will pick it back up. Well, if you read on, you are about to read another.

I could write forever about excuses, but I really don’t want to do that because I feel it is more important to mention inspiration, and direction. But do know this, I have yearned to write here. The desire has burned inside of me, yet I couldn’t get here.

It has been a long six months, but the journey has been worth every step because along the way, I have learned much, met great folks, and enjoyed every second. And the best is yet to come.

There has been new inspiration, one that has been fluttering about the edge of my radar for nearly a year, and has only recently revealed itself to me. I am deeply moved, motivated, and rededicated to creating new art because of how this inspiration has taken root in my life. My eyes have been opened and my heart filled to the point that I have been given the kick in the ass to write again. Creatively and fully.

I am back.

There will be subtle changes here at Extreme Writing Now. Changes that won’t be easy to spot on the surface, but a transformation is going to take place that will help bring focus on writing, especially in the area of fiction.

There is no greater truth that the truth found in fiction. Every author speaks with their own voice. Every writer writes a little about themselves in each piece. Their tales are their life stories with a few factory options thrown in.

My truths often come out in twisted contrasts, maybe that is the turmoil that seethes deep inside of me, maybe I’m just a bit screwed up. Whatever the source of my truth, I always like the way it comes to paper, or digital.

Whatever my intentions are here, and whether they succeed or not, I hope you enjoy the trip!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.