tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69429509131791037872024-02-18T22:24:00.121-08:00Flash Fire 500Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-13356508434197369322011-03-14T06:17:00.000-07:002011-03-14T06:25:07.816-07:00Waterbed by Len Kuntz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">When the fire burned down our garage my sister could only ask about the waterbed. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">“You can’t burn a waterbed, can you?” she asked, her goggle eyes big as pucks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">She was mine alone to love, like a strange painting or the neighbor’s lonesome cat. Our father was always away. Our mother didn’t care for retards.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">The man who interviewed me didn’t work for the fire department and I could tell he thought I was the culprit because he charged forth in hot pursuit of a motive. I could have given him plenty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">The smell of a fire gets on something; it bores in and can’t ever really be removed. Rank skunk spray you can rid yourself, but fire, it smolders in the fabric forever.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">Jeanie was sis’s name but we changed it up, always with the letter J though: Jezebel, Janine, Jacqui, Junebug. She rather enjoyed the idea that she could become so many different people so easily.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">When my mother was at Mr. Taylor’s house comparing bird watching stories, Jeanie liked nothing more than to sneak up to my parent’s bedroom and flop about on the waterbed. She became a mermaid on that thing. A queen being ferried betwixt regal landscapes. A damsel on a raft. A silly girl, not so smart, who at least knew how to swim.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">When our parents divorced the first thing to go besides Pop was that waterbed. Mother stabbed it to death with an ice pick and later the carpet man spent the better part of a day fixing things, flooring-wise. He even carried the rubber mat out to the garage like some defeated sea creature slung over his shoulders.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">It’s in a safe place now. Jeanie and I step over it every morning on our way to school, me to mine and Jeanie to her special one. I tell her someday she’ll swim again and I think she believes me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">© 2011 *<i>Winner of the 2011 Contest</i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Len Kuntz lives in rural Washington. His work appears widely in print and online at such places as Juked, Cricket Online Review, Troubadour 21 </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">and also at <a href="http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com/">lenkuntz.blogspot.com</a>.</span></i></div></div>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-73947766950084370422011-01-17T10:38:00.000-08:002011-01-17T10:56:18.460-08:00Think Like A Mushroom by Steve Himmer<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*from <i>The Bee-Loud Glade</i>, Atticus Books 2011</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Early the next morning, I set out mushroom hunting. I lay on the ground where a cluster of orange-spotted white mushrooms huddled by the trunk of a tree, and I watched them for an hour or two, maybe longer, trying to imagine the way they might think. They didn’t move much, but I’m fairly sure I saw one of them grow; I saw it grow, or else I watched a mushroom move that wasn’t really a mushroom at all—if beehives and bird nests could be cameras and speakers, why not a microphone disguised as a mushroom? A few months earlier I might not have noticed a mushroom growing, but I’d become attuned to a slow-moving world. I’d definitely never noticed any growth in the wide range of mushrooms produced by Second Nature, companion pieces for bushes and trees and fake fallen logs and often just the right touch for a convincing lobby display.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I watched, and I waited, and I discovered that a growing mushroom likes to be dwarfed by something taller beside it, likes to live in that something’s long shadow. These particular mushrooms, the whitish ones with orange spots, depended on the tall, solid tree they’d grown against (I think it was a maple, because it dropped helicopters, and its leaves looked like the logo on bottles of pancake syrup) for its protection and shade and, I assumed, nutrients and water supply. Sometimes they were also half-covered by grasses and moss, close to concealed and easily missed by an eye not looking for them.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I learned a lot about mushrooms and their shy lives. I learned that they’re quick to cower and quick to hide, that they’re willing to keep quiet and small so long as they’re left to grow—not too tall! not so big!—in relative peace. They prefer dull, drab colors, colors that won’t grab attention, and the ones with bright tops, orange domes and red-speckled saucers, I guessed were more often than not only setting a trap to keep danger away from their less eye-catching kin. Those, I thought, were the mushrooms most likely to be poisonous—the ones that grabbed all the attention.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thinking like a mushroom came quickly to me, and it worked. In the first place I looked, brushing aside a soft curtain of moss and weeds, I found three perfect mushrooms crouched in the shadow of a large rock. They were so close they were practically—but not quite—touching each other, and as soon as I leaned close and disturbed the air around them my nostrils filled with the sweet scent of secrets, of wine cellars and old canning jars and the thrilling surprise of turning a stone to find a bustling community of potato bugs and millipedes thriving beneath. The excitement of life where it wasn’t expected.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">©2011</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Steve Himmer's novel THE BEE-LOUD GLADE, from which this piece is excerpted, will be published in April 2011. He edits the webjournal <a href="http://necessaryfiction.com/">Necessary Fiction</a>, and has a website at <a href="http://www.stevehimmer.com/">SteveHimmer.com</a>.</i></div>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-67375602436724047912011-01-06T13:06:00.000-08:002011-01-07T07:32:57.580-08:00Cartesian Doubt by Christy Crutchfield<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">One dead leaf became eight when Max crushed it in his hand. Students didn’t laugh when he said, “So Descartes walks into a bar.” Today, Max found his wrinkles in the window at his tenure meeting. He felt the sun reaching for his bald spot. And why would anyone invent this reality for himself? The bearded kids call his midterms unclear. “The bartender says, ‘Can I get you a drink?’” And who would invent Cate’s disappearance to another college? Cate who was grounding with her study of destruction and hurricanes and Florida, who traced the rifts in his fingernails and attributed them to inconsistent diet. The chalk snapping against the board during the class, though, that seemed invented. “Descartes says, ‘I think not.’” So she didn’t get tenure last year, so Florida now, but object permanency, she still exists: pontificate, vindicate, locate. And why not cancel class when the two pieces of chalk fall into your palm? They wouldn’t have fit together because the center turned to dust, yellow handprints settling in his corduroy. And sometimes it’s hard to remember to send to journals and sometimes it’s hard to remember to fix the coffee table. “And disappears.” Max curved his path to step on the driest leaves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">© 2011</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Christy Crutchfield writes and teaches in Western Mass. Her works have appeared in Mississippi Review, Necessary Fiction, PANK, Everyday Genius and others. She is an Associate Editor for Keyhole Magazine. Visit her at <a href="http://thehopelessmonster.blogspot.com/">http://thehopelessmonster.blogspot.com/</a></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-21476843211145223252010-12-24T09:42:00.000-08:002010-12-24T09:49:33.927-08:00WHEN AND IF THE BODY WAS by Eric Beeny<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Long ago, Dr. Coffin tried following home his where-to-begin road, littered with bread crumbs like phantoms held hostage in a haunted house who couldn’t pay Death the ransom. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Vultures with feathers like torn napkins were pecking at the crumbs’ ghost-sheets, trying to disrobe them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Dr. Coffin bent down, picked one of the phantom crumbs up, put it in his mouth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It was stale, as if it’d been dead a few days. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He wondered when and if the body was. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The vultures ravaged what little life left them, clawing each other’s napkins out over scraps of hostages. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One napkin floated in the air, in front of Dr. Coffin’s face.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He reached out, snatched it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Warm words fell out of his mouth and plopped on the ground.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He used the napkin to wipe his mouth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When he finally found home, ghosts were floating through the house like wet toilet paper. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">All the vultures had flown away—they couldn’t stand the smell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">©2010</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Eric Beeny is the author of THE DYING BLOOM (Pangur Ban Party, 2009), SNOWING FIREFLIES (Folded Word Press, 2010), OF CREATURES (Gold Wake Press, 2010), PSEUDO-MASOCHISM (Medulla Publishing, 2011), MILK LIKE A MELTED GHOST (Thumbscrews Press, 2011), and some other things. He blogs at Dead End on Progressive Ave. (<a href="http://ericbeeny.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://ericbeeny.blogspot.com</a>).</i></span></div>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-83494024595480286962010-12-14T08:08:00.000-08:002010-12-14T08:12:15.591-08:00ELEGY FOR SUMMER by Howie Good & Cynthia Gray<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">September speaks to you in tongues.<br />
It tells the truth. A droplet of blood on white tile,<br />
a sparrow singing in the airport atrium.<br />
No one ever questioned whether you'd arrive,<br />
only where you'd arrive and why.<br />
In September your purpose is obscured<br />
like a god whose name it's forbidden to utter.<br />
Quietly, the whole world asks for your devotion.<br />
You cleave to the mystical meaning of the numeral five,<br />
unfolding five fingers to reveal an empty hand.<br />
"Emptiness is but fullness turned inside out,"<br />
says the woman asking you for change<br />
as the wind starts blowing off the water.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">© 2010</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011). With Dale Wisely, he is the co-founder of the digital chapbook publisher White Knuckle Press, <a href="http://www.whiteknucklepress.com/" target="_blank">http://www.whiteknucklepress.<wbr></wbr>com</a><br />
<br />
Cynthia Gray has exhibited work at Sculpture Center, NY; the Institute of Contemporary Art, Philadelphia; The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; the Contemporary Arts Museum Houston; the Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago and other venues. She lives in Brooklyn and writes at<a href="http://collectiveexperience.org/" target="_blank"> collectiveexperience.org</a>.</span></i></div>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-80526747947446993202009-05-26T06:44:00.000-07:002009-05-26T15:54:02.871-07:00Out of Breath by Alexis Boddy-CotrutaThe two boys run. As fast as they possibly can. Trees all around, bobbing up and down with each stride. Breath falling back on their faces, blurring vision.<br /><br />Was...he?<br /><br />Yes...he was.<br /><br />How can you tell?<br /><br />I just can, OK.<br /><br />Slower now, as though distance from the scene gives less warrant for speed. A road. Cars shushing past in a long row of silver, blue, black, red. They will have to step out. Wave a hand, ask for help. They look at one another.<br /><br />The bigger one, the taller one, takes the lead. As he always does. As he always will do. Got to be in charge. Got to take the lead. He lifts one arm, waving it up and down like a parking barrier gone berserk. Cars slow but don't stop. He begins yelling.<br /><br />Hey.<br />Hey!<br />Help us!<br /><br />The other one, the smaller one, the skinnier one, joins in. They both jump up and down waving their hands. Scissor jumps. Just like gym class. A car pulls off the side of the road. Silver. A man gets out. He is older than their dad. That is the way they measure age. Constant referral back to their parents. He walks over. A woman sits in the car, purse under her chin.<br /><br />What's the matter here?<br /><br />There's a man, in the woods, he's dead.<br /><br />First time saying those words. They seem strange. As though he may be lying.<br /><br />An ambulance comes. Flashing beacons rebound off dark trees. A woman in overalls with a soothing voice and blankets.<br /><br />A car pulls up. A known car. Their Mum's car.<br /><br />My poor darlings.<br /><br />The smaller one begins to cry. That's OK. That's his prerogative as the smaller one. The bigger one is stoic. That is what he must do. Got to be in charge of everything.<br /><br />A trolley clattering out of the woods. A lump covered in a blanket. Same as the blankets wrapped around them. A red-faced man pushing it. Shaking his head at the woman with the soothing voice.<br /><br />The smell of decomposition drifts up their noses. Mingling with the scent of pine cones and mud.<br /><br />Mum pulls them close. Her perfume blots out the other smell for now. But it will return later. From now on the woods will always smell bad. Always that rancid aftertaste.<br /><br />Copyright 2009Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-58670386912646598202009-05-24T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-24T06:00:35.450-07:00Interview: Flash Fire 5 with J.S. GrausteinJ.S. Graustein knows how to get it done. She’s the managing editor of <a href="http://folded.wordpress.com/">Folded Word Press</a> (of which the equally ambitious Jessie Carty—<a href="http://www.youtube.com/shapeofabox">Shape of a Box</a>—is founding editor), and the creator and curator of the Twitter-zine phenoms <a href="http://twitter.com/picfic">PicFic</a> and <a href="http://folded.wordpress.com/form-reborn/">Form.Reborn</a>. All three of these endeavors, with rumors of a fourth in the works, bustle beneath the umbrella of <a href="http://folded.wordpress.com/">Folded Word Press</a>. The collaboration of these two artistic juggernauts (that reside on opposite coasts) is probably the biggest news of 2009, with the inception of the <span style="font-style:italic;">Flash Fire 5</span> a close second. But not only does J.S. Graustein edit, publish, and bend over backwards for her contributors, she also writes herself. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming <a href="http://flashfire500.blogspot.com/2009/05/seat-13c-flight-221-by-js-graustein.html">here</a> at <span style="font-style:italic;">Flash Fire 500</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Wamack: A Journal of the Arts</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Rattlesnake Review</span>. Take a peek at her <a href="http://jsgraustein.blogspot.com/">blog</a> for a complete listing. Despite her myriad responsibilities (have I mentioned she is a wife and a mother as well?) she found the time to take a crack at the <span style="font-weight:bold;">Flash Fire 5</span>…then she went back to work. <br /><br />1) <span style="font-weight:bold;">What's the most ridiculous thing you've worn when writing?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg837TpXSBzgf4dLCwS0EAMJcZ2dnIHQlrlJ5ZpOLAjNKeQg8y5_yo4sRNWIxAKMzBd6YuAGEP9RbjHD_4vrjT0SqOX_gfSuu1oiWxMoe2exBncQAaUNCJBikKK48PXJ3JFtOkFho0jmC0/s1600-h/3548790891_737ff0c094.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg837TpXSBzgf4dLCwS0EAMJcZ2dnIHQlrlJ5ZpOLAjNKeQg8y5_yo4sRNWIxAKMzBd6YuAGEP9RbjHD_4vrjT0SqOX_gfSuu1oiWxMoe2exBncQAaUNCJBikKK48PXJ3JFtOkFho0jmC0/s200/3548790891_737ff0c094.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338364933911124754" /></a><br />My swimsuit. No wait, you said "ridiculous" not "frightening." It would have to be my anti-mosquito gear. I love to take my journal along while exploring my in-laws' woods every summer. But sitting on a shaded granite boulder in July requires a Bug-Off cap (has a giant flap over the ears & neck), a yellow long-sleeved XXL men's fishing shirt, grungy jeans, and brown knee-high rubber boots. My daughter refuses to be seen with me in it, even by the ferns.<br /><br />2) <span style="font-weight:bold;">Who is your greatest writing influence?</span><br /><br />Madeleine L'Engle. She wrote for kids. She wrote for grown-ups. She wrote prose. She wrote poetry. And she wrote me a gentle letter when I sent her my gruesome poetry at sixteen. To this day, <span style="font-style:italic;">A Wrinkle in Time</span> evokes sensory flashes: beards, acoustic guitar, Velamints, pipe tobacco. I had a massive crush on the teacher that read it to us in 4th grade. Me-ow!<br /> <br />3) <span style="font-weight:bold;">Did you ever imagine you'd be doing an interview at an obscure ezine called Flash Fire 500 one day?</span><br /> <br />Depends on the universe. In the one my physical body inhabits while sending kids to school and walking to the grocery store? No. Never. But my mind warps in and out of four others. In one of them, I'm an arrogant man that can't believe it took this long.<br /> <br />4) <span style="font-weight:bold;">In terms of writing, where do you see yourself in 10 years?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin_1Ei-hUscXMzoE4mgGc-AbLSXqm4O-oU5TgNyHmR4UXMb2g-FB71cfZtDheTskDlfKQaYXkgf5o6JnmUNGtEchuV-PIviic8_E0jSxloVg4DFR8UYr1c-SMaJI0qCC2NqHKPQYfORU/s1600-h/3548790897_77a7061a21.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin_1Ei-hUscXMzoE4mgGc-AbLSXqm4O-oU5TgNyHmR4UXMb2g-FB71cfZtDheTskDlfKQaYXkgf5o6JnmUNGtEchuV-PIviic8_E0jSxloVg4DFR8UYr1c-SMaJI0qCC2NqHKPQYfORU/s200/3548790897_77a7061a21.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338365586172802530" /></a><br />Still supported by the same brilliant patron of the arts. He'll give me a grant to write for a year amongst the graves of my ancestors in Northamptonshire. I'll invite him to come along. Despite all propriety, we'll skip town together under cover of darkness and leave my newly-adult children to forage the garden for themselves.<br /> <br />5) <span style="font-weight:bold;">You crash a party out in the middle of nowhere. There are celebrities in each corner of the room, but you can only visit with one . Corner #1: Oprah. Corner #2: The Dalai Lama. Corner #3: Kermit the Frog. Corner #4: Dustin Diamond a.k.a Screech from "Saved by the Bell." Who do you talk to?</span><br /><br />First of all, I've never crashed a party in my life. I can't even force myself to attend when I'm invited. But if YOU dragged me there, it would have to be Kermit. First, I would ask him to absolve me of the horrible sins I committed against his kin while getting my biology degrees. Then I'd beg him for a kiss in hopes of some magical transformation. Miss Piggy can bite me.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-60204993261762389442009-05-22T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-22T06:08:50.529-07:00Fly on the Wall of a Serial Killing by Rebecca GaffronBody in a suitcase.<br /><br />Male. Female. It makes no difference. Young or old is irrelevant. Hopes and dreams are etched into the features. Potential lies crushed under unnaturally folded limbs. Intangible concepts can’t be killed, energy is neither created nor destroyed, but it’s all lost just the same.<br /><br />I feel the killer loitering nearby, relaxed. You make an easy victim. You are predictable. I know what you’re going to say before you open your mouth. I know it before you get out of bed in the morning. The hesitation. The second guesses and apologetic guilt. They might as well be bull’s eyes on your forehead.<br /><br />And I wonder — is there some perverse thrill in despair? Some sanctimonious reward in proving that things really are worse than they seem? Some instant of delight in the paralyzing fear that nothing you do will ever be enough? Or ever be right?<br /><br />“Enough of what? And right for whom?” I scream.<br /><br />Or maybe I just mutter it into the stagnant conversation hanging between us. But you don’t stir. My warning is lost on you. I stretch my wings and flutter away, out of the killer’s reach but suffering from your absence. Your choice to be absent.<br /><br />I leave the air heavy with clichés about lives not lived. There’s no room for one more. You wouldn’t hear it anyway, not now the killer is moving. You embrace this slow death with a sigh of relief, submitting to insecurity’s garrote without the slightest gurgle.<br /><br />Self-doubt leaves you lost, an empty shell.<br /><br />Another body in a suitcase.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Rebecca is a mother and sometimes writer who recently traded the rolling hills of Central Pennsylvania for a wind-swept barn in Britain. Occasionally people read her stories in journals like <span style="font-style:italic;">Pear Noir</span>,<span style="font-style:italic;"> Ink Sweat and Tears</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Camroc Press</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Salt River Review</span>, SNReview, & <span style="font-style:italic;">Colored Chalk</span>.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-20942820513520021062009-05-20T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-20T05:11:51.955-07:00A Suburban Story by Wayne ScheerJason had to make an unexpected stop at his house mid afternoon. He expected no one to be home. Instead, two cars lined the driveway so he had to park in the street.<br /><br />He felt his knees wobble as he approached the front door of his freshly-painted home. The white trim against the solid brick structure gave the appearance that solid citizens lived there, people who adhered to a conventional code. <br /><br />But he sensed something had gone terribly wrong. The black BMW in the driveway, which he knew belonged to Clarke Peters, who shared an office with Becky, was parked behind her mini-van. They were both supposed to be at work.<br /><br />Images of the past weekend with Clarke and Elise Peters flashed though his mind: Becky reaching out to grab a crumb from Clarke's shirt; the wives laughing at their husbands' idiosyncrasies. At the time, Jason thought nothing of it. Now, he fumed. <br /><br />The perfectly manicured lawn mocked him as he made his way to the front door.<br /><br />He tried suppressing images of Becky and Clarke together. He considered turning around and retreating to his office. Should he ring the bell to give them time to prepare? <br /><br />But why was he assuming the worst of his wife? He knew their marriage had been strained of late, particularly in the bedroom, but he never expected this. <br /><br />Standing motionless with his key in the lock, he made his decision and pushed open the door. What he saw surprised him even more than what he had feared.<br /><br />Becky and Elise sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. <br /><br />"Hi, honey," he said, trying to act nonchalant. "I thought you were working?"<br /><br />"Elise came by the office to bring Clarke something and we decided to play hooky." Becky smiled, first at Elise, and then at him.<br /><br />Kissing his wife, and exhaling for what seemed like the first time since he pulled up to his house, he said he needed a file from his office. On his way, he glanced towards the master bedroom and noticed the bed unmade. At first nothing unusual registered. Then, tangled amidst the sheets, he saw red panties he knew didn't belong to his wife. <br /><br />The wobbly knees returned.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Wayne Scheer has been locked in a room with his computer and pet turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories and essays, including, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Revealing Moments</span>, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at <a href="http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm">http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm</a>. Wayne can be contacted at <a href="mailto:wvscheer@aol.com">wvscheer@aol.com</a>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-14385935883476419692009-05-18T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-18T05:59:05.761-07:00When One Door Shuts… by Judith Kelly QuaemptsI sit in perfect, selfish solitude amid the wreckage of Robert's garden. In dappled light I view shorn heirloom roses, trampled Russian sage, massacred lavender.<br /><br />Mother of God, I can’t believe the carnage.<br /><br />Only the birch escaped the slaughter and now tosses in the wind that passes through the sycamore that shades me from the morning sun.<br /><br />Robert retired last night at ten. I don’t know when he crept out here and murdered all his flowers.<br /><br />He must have hung himself soon after.<br /><br />I sit in perfect, selfish solitude, dreaming of a lap pool, where once was only garden.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Judith Kelly Quaempts lives and writes in rural eastern Oregon. A member of the <span style="font-style:italic;">Internet Writers Workshop</span>, her work has appeared in <span style="font-style:italic;">Camroc Press Review</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Drunk and Lonely Men</span>, and<span style="font-style:italic;"> T-Zero</span>.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-55441863834923064962009-05-15T16:58:00.000-07:002009-05-15T20:37:40.192-07:00Hanif Kureishi to the Rescue! by Harold PumiceousOn the 5th March 2099, three weeks before the ozonosphere suffocates the entire human race, citizens of the picturesque hamlet Buffock, East Woking will awake to a revolving UFO Pie – fourteen hectares in diameter and nineteen hectares in width – coming to land in meaty resplendence atop the Buffock Hills.<br /><br />The pie, constructed from an impenetrable puff pastry from the Planet Ginsters (constructed as a marketing campaign in 2089) comes to rest on the main hill, where it looms over the hamlet, blocking out the sun and casting a shadow over Surrey. From its vulvate centre, reinforced with a tungsten ‘meat’ cover, a shutter opens and begins cannoning the townsfolk.<br /><br />People flee their homes as flaming pies come blasting through their windows, igniting their front rooms, wounding their children and terrorising the vegetarians. These pie mortars, some of which are shaped more like dough balls, explode upon impact, splatting acidic pork meat from their floury cores, which blinds and intoxicates millions with its noxious pig rind extracts.<br /><br />In a bakery, two miles out of town, pie expert Gary Loomis gets a phone call from the Prime Minister. It turns out that he is the only man who can save the nation from total pie annihilation through his unparalleled knowledge of every pie ever baked and how to devour a pie in under two bites.<br /><br />Choppered into Buffock over the cover of darkness, Gary leaps onto the pie, where he slips on the pastry, falls into the centre and burns up like a meteorite in the sun. The pie takes off and advances on Shropshire. At this point, there is only one thing for it – the biggest mouth in the planet is called in to cool the surface.<br /><br />At dusk, the writer Hanif Kureishi is jettisoned into the sky and suctions his way across the pie face, finding the vulvate opening and blowing a whole bellyful of hot air into the centre. The pie swoops through the purple night sky, sending Hanif flying into Suffolk Arts Centre. Crashing into the Pennines, the pie explodes over the north of England, killing 34,000 people.<br /><br />Two weeks later, a day before the human race is obliterated through mass asphyxiation, the world unites in their respect for Hanif, who is awarded the keys to America, Russia and Europe, and later (by popular demand), the world.<br /><br />Lord bless Hanif.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Harold is an Edinburgh-based writing man. He nurses kumquats back to full health. If he disappeared, he would return a week later as a shop assistant in Poole (somewhere in England). Funnier bio information has been deleted at his request.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-4561711443863239392009-05-14T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-14T05:31:10.190-07:00Getting Off by Brandi WellsHe is inside me. It is a very standard thing to say. An overused description. Fucked, screwed, tapped, porked, dicked, stuck, jabbed, sexed. It doesn’t matter, except you know that we are having sex. You have a clear idea of a penis being inside a vagina. You understand the concept.<br /><br />Maybe I could describe it so you could picture it. I could tell you his cock is pierced and his pubic hair, unruly. His skin is dark tan or maybe light brown. And I have razor burn from trying to shave my bikini line. My hair is almost black against white-white skin. None of that is the point. It’s not important. Just forget it.<br /><br />The important part is I’m about to get off. It has nothing to do with his penis inside me. I can’t even feel that thing. What matters is the way his stomach, his fat roll, is rubbing against my clit every time he jabs, sticks, fucks, dicks me. I want to get off, but I’m disgusted at the way his stomach is rubbing me.<br /><br />Just before, the second before I am about to cum, he pulls out and splatters across my stomach. I slide out of bed, careful not to rub against the sheets. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror watching the gunk slide down my belly. Then I wipe it off with damp toilet paper.<br /><br />I close my eyes. Reach down. I feel sick. I vomit into the bathroom sink. I have to pull the stopper out and wipe the vomit off, a mixture of wine and hunks of chicken and broccoli. But at least I came.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Brandi Wells has a BA in Creative Writing and her fiction appears in or is forthcoming in <span style="font-style:italic;">elimae</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Pear Noir</span>,<span style="font-style:italic;"> Monkey Bicycle</span>,<span style="font-style:italic;"> Wigleaf</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Rumble</span>. She has a chapbook forthcoming as part the chapbook collective <span style="font-style:italic;">Fox Force 5</span>, which is being released by <span style="font-style:italic;">Paper Hero Press</span>. She blogs at <a href="http://brandiwells.blogspot.com/">http://brandiwells.blogspot.com/</a>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-1726631954250100402009-05-12T04:30:00.000-07:002009-05-12T05:12:05.509-07:00Susie Pancakes by xTxSusie Pancakes had a dream wherein she was flying. Thick black wings made of babies’ flesh erupted from her spinal column and grew to the size of pirate ship sails. From the dream world below, dream people thought her a giant black butterfly, her needle-sized body barely visible beneath the monstrous baby-meat wings. The dream people pointed while covering the eyes of their children.<br /><br />The flying went on into eternity…in the dream. So many ribbons of rivers…so many squares of green, squares of brown, clouds, buildings, and the quiet cold loneliness. The rotting death of newborns, strong on her back, keeping her airborne…alive, Susie Pancakes was forsaken.<br /><br />Over and over, Susie Pancakes willed the wings to take her to the ground, but they did not comply. Susie Pancakes longed for the touch of grass beneath her feet, the feeling of shoes on cracked pavement and the idea of gravity. <br /><br />Eventually Susie Pancakes became lucid in her dream, and willed herself awake. The room was dark and still. She sat upright, turned, and put her feet onto the floor. Finding gravity, Susie Pancakes walked the welcome safety of the floor to the kitchen, and proceeded to create warm stacks of her namesake.<br /><br />Lost in the familiar, the burnt crust of the dream shook loose and was lost.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: xTx has a forthcoming chapbook with <a href="http://notapunkrockpress.com/">nonpress</a>, and will be featured in the <a href="http://dogzplotnews.blogspot.com/2009/05/dogzplot-flash-fiction-anthology-2009.html?zx=7fdc7d5919188c2f">2009 Dogzplot Flash Fiction Anthology</a>. She blogs nonsense <a href="http://notimetosayit.blogspot.com/">here</a>. She thanks you for your time.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-9091954894222913352009-05-09T07:22:00.000-07:002009-05-10T18:51:28.024-07:00Interview: Flash Fire 5 with Christopher Allen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSCYLgBZyPYptb_Irg5JuniiDbhJOzluIu513aT0d0DlxCaqFHUS7rdyNzI2dLrhHPqEArk99lJ2iDG_vzkp37uKMbZL94zX5Yu8ZZotKJVOAaXSwMTgkiljq3Mmd3rY8D6jx3SWD_gs/s1600-h/Img0045.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSCYLgBZyPYptb_Irg5JuniiDbhJOzluIu513aT0d0DlxCaqFHUS7rdyNzI2dLrhHPqEArk99lJ2iDG_vzkp37uKMbZL94zX5Yu8ZZotKJVOAaXSwMTgkiljq3Mmd3rY8D6jx3SWD_gs/s200/Img0045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333090845830813666" /></a><br />His name is Christopher Allen. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in <span style="font-style:italic;">Ruthless Peoples Magazine</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Flash Fire 500</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Chicken Soup for the Soul</span>. But don’t let his picture fool you. This disarming, charming, clean-shaven man is one of the most methodical, relentless, talented writers out there. We recently found him poised atop Mt. Everest conferring with his Sherpa about the best way to launch himself into the literary stratosphere. While we couldn’t hear the Sherpa’s response, the diamond eyes of Christopher Allen told us all we needed to know. <span style="font-style:italic;">Shiver</span>. Luckily, he took a few moments to answer <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Flash Fire 5</span> before continuing on his journey.<br /> <br />1) <span style="font-weight:bold;">What's the most ridiculous thing you've worn when writing?</span><br /> <br /> “Ridiculous” is relative. I’ve written naked of course (in bed, in the bathtub), but I think the most ridiculous thing I’ve worn while writing is the residue of forgotten shaving cream when I just had to get something written down before I forgot <span style="font-style:italic;">it</span>.<br /> <br /> 2) <span style="font-weight:bold;">Who is your greatest writing influence?</span><br /><br />Homer Simpson informs everything I do and believe; Bill Bryson, and the hundreds of writers on my shelves, influence me (which means I just steal things from them); the people standing next to me waiting for the bus inspire me. So: everything and everyone. But mainly Homer.<br /> <br />3)<span style="font-weight:bold;"> Did you ever imagine you'd be doing an interview at an obscure ezine called Flash Fire 500 one day?</span><br /><br />The obvious answer is “yes, of course”. I also imagined I’d be doing a second interview at a very well-known ezine called Flash Fire 500 (with a following of 2 million).<br /> <br />4) <span style="font-weight:bold;">In terms of writing, where do you see yourself in 10 years?</span><br /><br />Is “rich” a place? If it is, then I see myself there. At least somebody sees me there, right?<br /> <br />5) <span style="font-weight:bold;">You crash a party out in the middle of nowhere. There are celebrities in each corner of the room, but you can only visit with one . Corner #1: Oprah. Corner #2: The Dalai Lama. Corner #3: Kermit the Frog. Corner #4: Dustin Diamond a.k.a Screech from "Saved by the Bell." Who do you talk to?<br /></span><br />Why did I crash this party? I hate parties. I can only assume someone has a gun jammed into my left kidney, so I’ll have to ask <span style="font-style:italic;">him</span> which corner we need to visit. We confer. He says he wants an autograph from Dustin Diamond, but then I ask him if we can Google Dustin first because I don’t recognize him and I never watched <span style="font-style:italic;">Saved by the Bell</span>. We confer. Guy with the gun then says the Lama will do since I’ve seen <span style="font-style:italic;">Seven Years in Tibet </span>(despite Brad Pitt’s awful German accent) at least seven times. “But what about Oprah(’s Book Club)?? We went to the same elementary school in Nashville.” “Urban legend,” guy with the gun says and pokes me toward Jetsun Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tenzin Gyatso. At<span style="font-style:italic;"> least</span> seven times.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If you missed Christopher's <span style="font-weight:bold;">Flash Fire 500</span> contribution, you can read it <a href="http://flashfire500.blogspot.com/2009/03/readers-in-car-103-by-christopher-allen.html">here</a>.</span>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-45242933540571116362009-05-08T16:09:00.000-07:002009-05-09T05:40:34.950-07:00Night Moves by Barry BasdenThe big dog peed the bed, you say,<br />standing with your pillow in the<br />doorway to my room. Of course, you<br />can stay the night with me.<br /><br />The dogs are restless without your<br />body to press against. One curls<br />in the upholstered chair while the<br />other lies by the bed on the Mexican rug.<br /><br />Just after the grandmother clock<br />strikes two, the dogs leave; their<br />nails click on the tile and soon they<br />are barking at the French doors in<br /><br />the den--a cat or maybe some strange<br />night bird has invaded our back yard.<br />I feel the little dog lick my hand,<br />wanting me to let her out to chase<br /><br />away creatures of the night. I ignore<br />her but lie awake beside you and watch<br />something hover over us, suspended<br />on fetid wings in the still, dark air.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Barry Basden writes mostly short pieces. Some have been published in various online venues. Some have not.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-58655684454284373652009-05-07T06:35:00.000-07:002009-05-08T04:35:46.487-07:00shut up and eat by Steve CalamarsThe bathroom smells of toothpaste and green deodorant. Henry Rorschach is shirtless at the sink before work. He is wearing gray slacks and black shoes. His teeth are brushed and his face is clean.<br /><br />Henry opens the medicine cabinet above the sink. He removes shaving-cream and a straight-razor that belonged to his grandfather. He closes the cabinet and applies the shaving-cream.<br /><br />The bathroom door is open. He can hear his wife and four sons downstairs. His wife is packing their lunchboxes. His sons are eating cereal from ceramic bowls with metal spoons. The four boys are arguing and his wife repeatedly says, “Shut up and eat.”<br /><br />Henry opens the straight razor and wets the blade beneath the faucet. He looks in the mirror and pulls the blade up his neck, over his chin and up beneath his bottom lip. He examines the shave and wets the blade beneath the faucet. Henry pulls the blade across his cheeks and down above his top lip. He examines the completed shave and wets the blade again. He dries the blade on a bath towel and closes the razor. Henry sets it on the back of the toilet and rinses his face in the sink.<br /><br />He dries his skin and runs his hand across his face. He looks in the mirror and confirms a smooth shave. His job requires that he be neat and clean in appearance at all times. Henry is an assistant manager for a successful supermarket. He studies himself and believes that his employers will approve.<br /><br />A bowl breaks downstairs. <br /><br />“God dammit!” his wife says. <br /><br />Henry stops and looks down at the bathroom floor. <br /><br />“I told you to shut up and eat!” his wife says. “Now there’s shit all over the floor!” <br /><br />His sons are quiet. Henry can hear his wife cleaning the mess and lecturing the boys. He stands and stares at the soft pink tile of the bathroom floor.<br /><br />“Now shut up and finish your cereal!” his wife says. “You all have half-an-hour till the bus comes.” <br /><br />Henry walks over quietly and shuts the bathroom door. He locks the door and picks the straight razor back up.<br /><br />He opens the razor and wets the blade. He looks in the mirror and slightly tilts his head back. Henry pulls the blade and cuts his throat from ear-to-ear. He sets the razor in the sink and looks briefly at his face in the mirror.<br /><br />The floor <span style="font-style:italic;">shifts</span> and the room <span style="font-style:italic;">spins</span>. Henry staggers over to the bathtub and lies down inside. He looks up at the ceiling and hopes that one of his sons keeps the razor.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. He received a B.A. in Philosophy from U.T-San Antonio and now works for UPS, loading trucks from 3am to 9am. When he is not working or sleeping, he writes (mainly prose). The stuff he writes can be found in <span style="font-style:italic;">bottle rockets</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Zygote in My Coffee</span>. He can be found in <a href="mailto:sccalamars@yahoo.com">sccalamars@yahoo.com</a>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-48762846483812398722009-05-03T10:28:00.000-07:002009-05-06T05:35:25.172-07:00The Day Nixon Resigned by Derek OsborneI was at a rock concert in Jersey City. Some promoter got the wonderful idea of staging a mini Woodstock at the old baseball stadium, down where Home Depot is now. Just the ride into that part of town was enough to kill any Love-Buzz portrayed on the flyers. The place was a death trap, with only one gate, and we mooed like cattle entering the tunnel, spreading out over the infield. The whole thing stank of crooked fire marshals and union carpenters.<br /><br />The stage was above home plate, the requisite wall of Marshall amps forming a menacing, heavy metal backdrop, not what I wanted from the Beach Boys and CSNY. Over by the right-field pole a guy in a lime-green leisure suit was hawking Orange Barrel Sunshine. <br /><br />“OB, man, OB.”<br /><br />“How much?”<br /><br />“Four bucks.”<br /><br />We bought enough for our group and everyone dropped. Pulling a bag of Qualudes from his pocket he said, “It’s speedy, bro, for later?”<br /><br />“Now you tell us.”<br /><br />“A Lincoln for five,” he offered.<br /><br />“There’s six of us.”<br /><br />“I can’t break the bag, bro.”<br /><br />The music was good. Mike Love kept saying if this were LA the girls would all have their tops off. One girl actually did get naked, but six guys had to play guard. It <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> Jersey City. When “The Boys” finished their set I went to find our iridescent friend to have a little chat, but he’d closed up shop. Suddenly, Steve Stills came running out on stage waving his arms.<br /><br />“Guess what?” he said, grabbing a mic, pausing to get our attention.<br /><br />Crosby also came out. Steve couldn’t see him, and just when he was about to announce the news, David ran up and ripped the mic from his hand.<br /><br />“Nixon’s resigned, man!”<br /><br />Crosby started a chant, <span style="font-style:italic;">No More</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">No War</span>. Steve just glared at him. I saw his fist get tight. People were going ballistic, hugging and chanting with tears in their eyes. When Steve looked out at the crowd and then back at Crosby, his fist began to relax. The others came out and the band launched into “Ohio”. The rest of the show was a bad acid blur.<br /><br />But later that night, under the harsh glare of the outfield towers, I stood in front of the stage and watched the clean-up crews working. I was strung-out and tired and sad. Under the awful white light the dilapidated stadium showed its age, the pre-packaged litter of love being swept into piles and burned. I had been fighting that man and the war for years; I couldn’t believe it was over. Up through the haze at the foot of the stage I saw Neil, hands in his jean pockets, surveying the carnage and shaking his head. He saw me and we both smiled, soldiers after the battle.<br /><br />“You live around here?”<br /><br />“’Bout an hour,” I said.<br /><br />He thought for a moment, looking out again at the fires.<br /><br />“Well, drive safe, man.”<br /><br />Even our heroes had nothing to say.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: The other night I watched Ron Howard’s Frost/Nixon. It brought up memories. Whether you fought that war, or the war against the war, the scars remain. Unlike today, we all knew people who died: some in the jungle, some on the streets, some, years later, long after anyone cared.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-80880399054164472692009-05-03T10:23:00.000-07:002009-05-05T05:10:18.941-07:00The Hit by Matt Tuckey“I left the back door unlocked,” said Barney. “As if things aren’t bad enough already. I fucking hate myself sometimes.”<br /><br />“Don’t say that,” said Chris.<br /><br />Chris was sick of this. He knew how coming down felt. They both knew there was no chance of finding the drugs now. <span style="font-style:italic;">But Barney is mourning as well</span>, he thought.<span style="font-style:italic;"> That must be hell</span>.<br /><br />“It was a jogger off the estate. Runs over the hill. Can’t miss him. You’ll get the usual sum.”<br /><br />Nodding, Chris reached over the inexplicably placed bottle of glue, inhaling the acrid fumes, and took the gun. “I’m sorry about your dad,” he said. “I liked him”.<br /><br />Barney held up a silencing hand, gazing down.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Well</span>, thought Chris. <span style="font-style:italic;">I tried</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">Barney had better pull himself together and lay off the drugs, otherwise someone will take his place. </span><br /><br />“Let’s get it over with,” Chris said.<br /><br />“Yeah,” Barney mumbled. “Let’s.”<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />On a hillside road, a black hoody covering his face, Chris shadowboxed to smother the fear.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What Jogger</span>? Chris thought. <span style="font-style:italic;">I know that estate like the back of my hand. Who could break into Barney’s house and steal a load of drugs, right from the heart of his living room? Something isn’t right. Well… it’s only murder…</span><br /><br />If he kept doing what he’d done before- keep schtump and claim ignorance- the police wouldn’t find him. Barney had always made sure of that.<br /><br />A heavy figure stomped up the hill. Although distant, amidst the birdsong from the adjacent field, the man’s wheezing was already audible.<br /><br />Chris jumped back into the tall, cloaking roadside grass. Inhaling deeply, he pulled out the Beretta. It seemed heavier than when he’d first picked it up.<br /><br />A full minute crawled around his watch before the panting man, soon to be nothing but a carcass, passed in front of his vision.<br /><br />Without hesitation, Chris lifted his arm out straight and pulled the trigger.<br /><br />The blast destroyed the countryside silence, and a hole appeared momentarily in the jogger’s hood. The body was thrown sideways to the ground, as if tackled by an invisible rugby player. A geyser of blood deflected off the inside of the hood, like a man holding his thumb over a tap. Spraying forth into the blinding sunlight, it landed with a smatter on the wide rural road.<br /><br />Chris released his breath. Another point of no return.<br /><br />He had to know.<br /><br />The rule is, you don’t go near them after the deed- but who was this jogger? Who had the balls?<br /><br />The blood hadn’t quite reached the corpse’s shoulder yet, so Chris toed over the weighty torso.<br /><br />Barney’s fear-etched mask grimaced back up at him.<br /><br />Chris collapsed backwards and vomited on the asphalt.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Matt is 26 and hails from Oldham, Greater Manchester. He is a graduate of the University of Salford. Originally writing The Hit as a screenplay when he was 16, he recently adapted it to flash fiction for Flash Fire 500. Matt is an administrator and trains in Mixed Martial Arts.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-63430381714478308872009-05-02T13:57:00.000-07:002009-05-04T05:45:37.520-07:00The Tortoise in the Hair by G. Arthur BrownPete Nevins bought the Fielding property in '48. It was all still farmland back then, you see. But Old Man Fielding hadn't been keeping it up at all, so Pete had to go around surveying all the outbuildings and pastures to make sure it was all up to snuff.<br /><br />Second day he was out on the southern end of the property and came across a plot of what appeared to be brownish grass growing. When he got up closer, it was real strange--too soft and real long. The ground around it was very pale and waxy. He cut off a big piece and got a closer look. Turned out to be hair. About a half acre of it. He went in there poking around, wondering why there was all that hair there, and he came across a big tortoise, almost as big as the Galapagos ones. He named it and took it home with him. Pete believed there was something special about that tortoise. Course, he went back and set fire to all that the hair, because that sort of thing just ain't natural.<br /><br />Pete told me, honest to God, that the first night he had that tortoise back home with him, he woke up the next morning bald. The damn thing had eaten off all his hair. So then Pete figured he'd strike up a deal with Clarence Magee, the barber. Everyday he was hauling home sacks brimming with hair to feed to that tortoise.<br /><br />But I never liked it. Gave me the willies. Course, I was just a little boy then, you understand. One day as I was passing by on the way to the swim hole I saw that tortoise crawling around in Pete's front yard, trying to get close enough to one of the cats to eat its hair. I ain't never seen a hair-eater up close, and I wasn't about to touch the thing, but I crept up real close and kind of prodded it with my stick. Well, it burst like a damn bubble, got oily film all over the footpath. Nothing left but slime, not even a shell. Pete was out front at the time digging holes for fence posts, and he saw what had happened and ran up screaming his head off. He wouldn't shut up about that tortoise. He blamed me for its popping. I went up to the man, grabbed the spade out of his hands, and hit him upside the head. That shut him up real good. What else was I supposed to do?<br /><br />I think I was already back home sipping lemonade when they found me and brought me here. Course, I was a kid, you have to understand. They couldn't do the things to me they really wanted to.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: G. Arthur Brown is unable to be biographied for reasons literary science has yet to explain.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-72344340228393576662009-05-02T13:52:00.000-07:002009-05-03T08:56:57.507-07:00Seat 13C, Flight 221 by J.S. GrausteinJolted by adrenaline with each dip, she grips both arm rests as the wheels grind into the belly of the Airbus. Her swollen cheek aches with the change in cabin pressure, but she smiles anyway. <span style="font-style:italic;">I'm free</span>.<br /><br />Then she feels the knocking under her feet. Through her shoes. She looks around. No one is tapping feet or dropping large-print novels. She readjusts her bruised rib cage, then tries reading <span style="font-style:italic;">People</span> to escape her shredded nerves during the bumpy ascent.<br /><br />But again she feels knocking. Different this time. More insistent. She asks 13B if he feels anything. He shakes his head and apologizes. She shoves her hands into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, wraps her fingers around the plastic bottle of tranquilizers, and rubs her thumb along the worn-soft label. <span style="font-style:italic;">That last dose should have been enough</span>.<br /><br />Yet she still feels it, under the ball of her right foot. Frantic knocking, pummeling the underside of the deck plate. She presses her arches into the vibrations, pays six dollars for a thimbleful of red wine, then glides to sleep before the captain snuffs out the seat belt light.<br /><br />13B rouses her and retrieves her carry-on from the overhead bin. She struggles to pull it to the baggage claim and decides that pushing hurts less. At the carousel, her oversized Samsonite is the last one to emerge from the black-flap curtain. She wonders why she waited. <span style="font-style:italic;">I don't need anything in it</span>.<br /><br />At the exit, she looks back to see her bag jiggle past a group of Korean businessmen. A familiar fist—his fist—pokes out from the zipper, blue and stiff. And still.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: When J. S. Graustein isn't writing, she plays Managing Editor at <a href="http://folded.wordpress.com/">Folded Word Press</a>. Her path to the writing life is best expressed in mathematical terms:<br /><br />w = [e - (h + m)] / OED<br /><br />Having trouble solving for w? You'll find clues at <a href="http://jsgraustein.blogspot.com/">http://jsgraustein.blogspot.com</a>.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-40081525830926851192009-04-30T07:13:00.000-07:002009-04-30T21:23:25.794-07:00Interview: Flash Fire 5 with xTxShe goes by the name of <span style="font-weight:bold;">xTx</span>. You’ve probably seen her roaming the hallways of the underground literary scene. Her work has appeared in <span style="font-style:italic;">Thieves Jargon</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Zygote in my Coffee</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Mourning Silence</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Flash Fire 500</span>, among many others. Visit her <a href="http://notimetosayit.blogspot.com/">website</a> for a complete listing. Like the Liz Phair of old, xTx is building her Queendom with blunt and brutal honesty, and an unapologetic attitude that commands respect. Also like Liz Phair, she possesses an endearing vulnerability that doesn’t take away from the rawness, but makes it more appetizing. We recently sat down with xTx for the first of a new interview series, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Flash Fire 5</span>. We hope she doesn’t mind the Liz Phair comparisons. <br /><br />1) <span style="font-weight:bold;">What's the most ridiculous thing you've worn when writing? <br /> </span><br />Because I don’t think being naked save for underpants is ridiculous, it would have to be fluorescent lime green knee-length tights and a gigantic white t-shirt with a picture of the Elvis postage stamp on the front or this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzvEMauGD6MM3myQ__jnmVM4ZfJRx9bSr5t_MQSyV2E4lruH9PGgnrbr4OClPq0ZIGRgO4dqlOqEnv5QZot2Q-Y8sMa8ZB6zgms_CIXDdHS9eautmYSCBD_XOVTj1k52aPQjj0vTksdRs/s1600-h/halloween+05+010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzvEMauGD6MM3myQ__jnmVM4ZfJRx9bSr5t_MQSyV2E4lruH9PGgnrbr4OClPq0ZIGRgO4dqlOqEnv5QZot2Q-Y8sMa8ZB6zgms_CIXDdHS9eautmYSCBD_XOVTj1k52aPQjj0vTksdRs/s200/halloween+05+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330489371228868754" /></a><br />2) <span style="font-weight:bold;">Who is your greatest writing influence?</span><br /> <br />My greatest writing influence is every book I’ve ever read, every song I’ve ever sung, every brown eyed boy with low slung jeans, shirtless, with that muscular front “V” pointing its way to paradise, every pulpy pink bit of road kill scattered across battered blacktop, every crying bloodied child, every gang bang porn ever made, Jeff Buckley, my father’s raping fingers, alcohol and failure.<br /> <br />Sorry, that was more than one.<br /> <br />3) <span style="font-weight:bold;">Did you ever imagine you'd be doing an interview at an obscure ezine called Flash Fire 500 one day? </span><br /> <br />I did. Like Jim Carrey, I too, in my youth, wrote a check to myself for a million dollars thus using the not-yet-known principles of The Secret to secure my fame and fortune. Except instead of a million dollar check, it was a note to myself on a piece of salami shaped notepaper from the deli where my mom worked that said something about being interviewed by FF500, and the words: turkey, everything, Dutch Crunch, extra mayo.<br /> <br />It’s been in my jewelry box since 1984.<br /> <br />4) <span style="font-weight:bold;">In terms of writing, where do you see yourself in 10 years?</span><br /><br />I see myself going ‘public’ with my identity because one of my longtime readers who has made successful inroads into the publishing industry will want to make my blog into a novel. It will then get picked up as a movie. My only contractual stipulation…besides the 33 million dollar payout…will be to handle the casting couch. But that’s okay, all male actors will be told, in advance, that they will have to have sex with ‘the old lady’ and they will be fine with it because it’s a chance at stardom.<br /> <br />Sometimes I will audition 2 or 3 actors at a time. <br /> <br />5) <span style="font-weight:bold;">You crash a party out in the middle of nowhere. There are celebrities in each corner of the room, but you can only visit with one . Corner #1: Oprah. Corner #2: The Dalai Lama. Corner #3: Kermit the Frog. Corner #4: Dustin Diamond a.k.a Screech from "Saved by the Bell." Who do you talk to?</span><br /> <br />It’s a toss up between Oprah and the Dalai Lama. Wait, could I kick Screech in the balls before I talk to anyone?Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-6028184513665157152009-04-24T19:50:00.000-07:002009-04-30T12:58:44.257-07:00Yellow Liquids by E. WilliamsonThe dried bones of the mushrooms sat in a plastic bag, crumpled mouse remains from the crusted pellets of owls. They were like something a child would find lying under a tree: harmless, dead, and Earthy. <br /><br />Dan’s parents were on vacation, and his sister had rented a copy of some old movie starring this band from England called Pink Floyd. At first, they wouldn’t even go down my throat, but someone handed me a big plastic cup of pineapple juice. Chew, chew, chew..swallow, swallow.<br /><br />Nothing…..<br /><br />Draped over a couch in their family room, I counted the large knots in the wood paneling. Furious scolding emitted from the gaping mouths of looming cartoon figures, and a face watched from the center of each brown ripple. Forty-six..Forty-seven..<br /><br />They seemed like a lot..too many. Their loudness hurt my ears, so I retreated to the living room.<br /><br />I sat with a deafening crinkle on the plastic seat cover, and immediately had to excuse myself because I was sitting on someone’s lap. In fact all the chairs were suddenly full, and I had to apologize to everyone in the room, which worried me because I knew the room was empty.<br /><br />Suddenly, I was afraid, not so much of the strangeness of the situation, but of the idea that the pressure I was feeling in my bladder would somehow result in my urinating on myself in front of all these people.<br /><br />I almost wept with relief when I made it to the toilet, only to realize that I had forgotten to pull down my underwear. Now, the fabric of my jeans rested unbearably against my bare crotch.<br /><br />My body wandered outside into that strange, hot Santa Ana wind and across the street to an elementary school where it laid down on the inky cement of the basketball court and soaked in the leftover warmth from the familiar blacktop.<br /><br />And that’s where the boy found me, and in his awkward boy-like way, he tried to help by talking about all the things he thought girls liked. And every rainbow, heart and unicorn was as clear as day across the night sky. Hours, days, or maybe weeks later, I sat up and in great guttural heaves projected acidic yellow liquid through my mouth and nose.<br /><br />That helped.<br /><br />And eventually my eyes fell back into seeing in just one dimension, and I could no longer hear my heart crashing in my ears.<br /><br />But for some reason, I decided to share a bed with my friend Dan, and the last thing I remember were the jealous eyes of the boy as we shut the door to the bedroom.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: E. Williamson spends her free time avoiding emus, marionettes, and super glue. She lives in Massachusetts, and this is her first published piece. You can find her at <a href="http://pinkmonkeychatter.blogspot.com">http://pinkmonkeychatter.blogspot.com</a>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-69666331650354752582009-04-20T08:29:00.000-07:002009-04-20T08:34:56.885-07:00Inertia by Adam MooradShe wraps her legs around my legs and makes herself stretch<br />Now I’m on my face with her arm pressing my skull into soil, or something<br />I’m suffocating<br />Her dog brings its ball back<br />She licks its face<br />Her tongue presses against mine and I can taste what we are<br />One of us coughs<br />We’re so awkward and we think about stopping<br />She’s on her knees careening<br />I throw the dog its ball<br />I string from myself<br />I hear her laughing<br />I ask what she’s laughing at<br />She laughs louder<br />I ask her if she laughing at me<br />She coughs and says at something else<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Adam’s writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in <span style="font-style:italic;">Underground Voices</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Titular</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">DOGZPLOT</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Thieves Jargon</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Pear Noir!</span> He lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing. Find him here: <a href="http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com/ ">http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com/ </a>Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-67768727454083866502009-04-18T12:53:00.000-07:002009-04-18T12:56:13.328-07:00Abilify: A Warning Letter by Anne RettenbergThat once good doctor of years past<br />got something now to cure you fast.<br />Pharma rep gave him a pen,<br />free samples, buffet lunch, but when<br />he writes a script for your psychosis<br />it might not match your diagnosis.<br />It’s the drug Big Pharma’s selling;<br />that’s a fact doc won’t be telling.<br /><br />A drug was made for schizophrenia;<br />it might not fix all that’s been eatin’ ya<br />if you’re in a bad depression.<br />But don’t you know it’s a recession?<br />Big Pharma’s got to make some money;<br />so what if the pill makes you feel funny?<br />They said those feelings go away--<br />but some effects are here to stay:<br />There’s that Tardive dyskinesia--<br />comes from meds for schizophrenia.<br />Then there’s the deadly NMS.<br />There’s even more they could confess:<br />Weight gain leads to funny things<br />like diabetic sugar swings.<br /><br />You weren’t even hearing voices.<br />Were you given all the choices?<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Anne Rettenberg is a psychotherapist and occasional poet in New York City, where there is ample material for both pursuits.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6942950913179103787.post-22613762187990570482009-04-16T15:47:00.000-07:002009-04-17T19:33:54.375-07:00My Second Life by Doug McIntireI awoke on a cold barren floor. As I looked around, the place was familiar. There was no furniture except an old couch with no cushions and bare springs poking through. The linoleum had been pulled up from the floor in pieces, exposing the hard wood beneath.<br /><br />I couldn’t remember how I had come to this place, but I had been here for as long as I could remember. And now it was time to leave. The food was gone and without food, I would be dead.<br /><br />I briefly considered that being dead might not be so bad. As long as I didn’t become one of <span style="font-style:italic;">them</span>. But everyone becomes one of them when they die. I thought about torching this rat trap and standing here, burning down with the building. Then I couldn’t ever become one of them.<br /><br />But I didn’t. I inspected the windows. They were boarded up to keep the dead ones out. The boards were in place, all except one. It had come loose on one end. Luckily they hadn’t found it, or they would’ve gotten in.<br /><br />It didn’t matter now. I peeked out the grimy window. I couldn’t see any of them so I picked up a crowbar and pried the boards from the window. Once completed, I traded the crowbar for a rifle, opened the window and stepped out. It was the first time I’d been outside in…how long had it been? I couldn’t remember.<br /><br />It was a small town, one that looked like a scene from the old west. I didn’t know where that thought came from, but that wasn’t an unusual occurrence these days.<br /><br />I didn’t dwell. I knew I didn’t have much time. They were slow moving, but they would keep coming if they saw me. Shooting them would slow them further, but bullets couldn’t kill them. They were already dead.<br /><br />I began walking, heading up the empty street. I was hungry. Hungrier than I could ever remember being.<br /><br />I thought about looking for food in one of the other buildings. But they could be hiding in there, waiting for me. If food was in there, it was not for me.<br /><br />As I walked, I saw the others come out to watch me. It was them. The dead ones. I couldn’t understand why they weren’t ambling toward me. They just stood in the doorways and shadows, watching me pass. Something about them had changed.<br /><br />It was somehow significant. The thought nagged me, but it was distant, hard to reach, hard to wrap my mind around. It required too much effort.<br /><br />I pushed the thought away and replaced it with one of my own. As they stood watching and I continued walking, all I could think about was finding food.<br /><br />Food.<br /><br />Copyright 2009<br /><br />Author's Bio: Doug McIntire is a central Texas author of speculative fiction. When he’s not writing, he enjoys riding his motorcycle and spending time with his wife and two children. You can find out about him and his writing at <a href="http://www.DougMcIntire.com">www.DougMcIntire.com</a>.Editor Scratchy and Editor Itchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995374471606734200noreply@blogger.com