Flash Fiction Friday - Purple Swirls and Orange Spots

Prompt: Essence of ______

Purple Swirls and Orange Spots

​

Cecily liked auras. She liked that they were sparkly and shiny. She liked all the different colors, and the ways they swirled and danced. She liked that she knew someone's mood just by the way their aura crackled.

And mostly she liked that she was the only one who could see them.

For all twelve years of her life, Cecily had been last. She was the last child in her family. The last to walk, the last to talk, the last to potty train, the last to read. In school, she was last in her class. Last to finish tests. Last to be promoted from primary school. Last to get a hit in softball, last to finish the mile run.

Last, last, last. Always last.

But none of Cecily's brothers and sisters could see auras. None of her classmates knew how passionately red they got, or that "green with jealousy" wasn't just a metaphor, or to never approach anyone who was ice blue. Even her parents and teachers didn't understand why they were drawn to someone with a sparkly aura or repelled from someone whose aura was turned in on itself.

But Cecily knew all that.

She just didn't know what to do with that knowledge.

So when the strange man in the park said, "You're full of purple swirls," to her, Cecily didn't keep walking like her parents' Stranger Danger videos had suggested she do. She gave him a considering look before replying, "Well, you're yellow with orange spots," partly because it was true and partly to see what he would say.

He smiled broadly, displaying every one of his white, straight teeth. "I thought so," he said. "But you can't see your own aura, you know."

"I know."

His smile got even bigger. "I thought you would know, too."

"So you see them too then?" Cecily asked because she was too excited to wait for him to get to the point.

"Of course I do. How else would have known about you?"

"You could be lying about me. I can't see it, remember?"

He looked like she had been particularly clever. "How about that boy on the swingset?" he asked, motioning with an open palm. Cecily thought that was much less rude than pointing.

"I see him," she said carefully.

"Bright yellow, with sparkles and a green swirl, right?"

Cecily felt like her whole face had split into a grin. "Yes! He's jealous because his mother won't let him go on the monkey bars, but he's having a good time on the swing too!"

"Clever girl," the man murmured. "There are others like us. Not many, but some. I know how to find them, if you want."

"Yes," Cecily gasped, then paused. "But... but I shouldn't go with you. I don't know you."

He considered that. "I'm Decker. Colin Decker."

"Cecily Brookside." She shook his proffered hand.

"What if I give you the address, Cecily Brookside?" Decker asked, digging in one of many pockets on his coat and drawing out a scrap of paper and a pen. "And you can decide when and if you want to come. There's always someone there. I'll tell them to expect you."

She took the paper from him. "I... okay." She bounced on her toes for a moment before adding, "Thank you."

"I hope you come," he told her honestly. "I think it could be just what you need." There was a faraway look in his eyes when he added, "I think you could be just what they need too."

And then he was gone. Not in a flash or a blink like some silly movie, but with a thumbing of his nose and a brisk walk, his aura swirling until it was a glowing, cheerful orange. Cecily looked at the address again. Tomorrow, she decided. I'll go see them tomorrow.

Flash Fiction Friday - Hi

Prompt: Chance

Hi

Her tongue darted out nervously to wet her lips, and she stared across the room with uncharacteristic determination. Her fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm against her thigh, and eventually one foot joined in, keeping the beat. When she realized what she was doing, she tamped it down furiously, blushing even though no one was paying attention to her.

You can do it, she coached herself. Just go over there. Introduce yourself. Say hi.

And then what? a malicious voice in her head sneered. Make small talk? Impress him with your comprehensive knowledge of quadratic equations? Wax poetic about the beauty of pi?

Shut up, she thought back angrily, then shook her head to clear away the ridiculous conversation. Great. Now I'm hearing voices.

She snuck another look at him, five and a half feet of stocky muscle and curly red hair that he kept running his fingers through endearingly. And even though she understood about pheromones and chemical reactions in her brain, her heartbeat quickened when his lips curled into that wide, easy smile.

Maybe he wouldn't think she was weird because she preferred to spend her days with numbers than with people. Maybe he wouldn't mind that relationships overwhelmed her and that he had to take it slow so she had time to adjust. Maybe he'd like it if she spent too long looking at his face because she was looking for patterns in the lines and pores.

Maybe, just maybe, he would be the one to understand.

She wet her lips again, then squared her shoulders, and forced her feet to move across the room, to where he was finally alone, pouring himself a drink. She sidled up next to him, and he looked at her. And he smiled.

She took a deep breath and smiled back. "Hi," she said.

Flash Fiction Friday - Hockey

Prompt: Three Reasons

Hockey

"Give me one good reason."

Mike glowered at me, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because I'm bigger than you, and I can beat you up."

I rolled my eyes and glared just as hard at him. "You wouldn't hit me. I'm your little sister. Try again."

"Because you'll get hurt playing street hockey. You're just a little kid."

"I'm the same age you were when you started playing with them!" I shot back. "And I'm just as big as you were too."

He made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like it was either a growl or a laugh. Probably a growl. "You are not!"

"Sure I am! Go ask Mom if you don't believe me."

He didn't move, except to ball his hands into fists. "Well... well, none of my friends want you to tag along with us!" he finally snapped.

For a second, even though I knew something he didn't know, I felt hurt by that. Mike and I were only two years apart, and we'd spent nearly every summer of my life hanging out together, sometimes with his friends, sometimes with mine. I'd always considered his friends to be my friends too.

Then I remembered the thing I knew. "Oh yeah?" I challenged, and for a second he looked smug. "Well, Charlie was the one who asked me to play, and he said JT and Danny want me to play too. He said they're inviting a new guy from school, and they need someone else to make the teams even. So there!"

Mike huffed angrily, then shoved a hockey stick at me. "Fine," he snapped. "But don't come crying to me if I hurt you trying to get to the puck."

"Fine," I agreed, shoving his helmet back at him, "as long as you don't either."

Flash Fiction Friday - Unpacking

Prompt: Where Will It Be Found?

Unpacking

With a grunt of exertion, Cade shoved the last box toward the back of the attic and used the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat out of his eyes.

"Everything alright up there?" Jeffrey called from the bottom of the ladder.

Cade's head poked through the opening so he could peer upside-down at the man whose belongings he was currently stacking next to his own. "Just about done. How's the kitchen looking?"

Jeffrey looked stricken. "It's a disaster. Did you not label a single box when you packed your apartment up?"

Cade couldn't help but grin. "It's more fun when it's a surprise."

Jeffrey's hands fluttered in the air for a minute as if he didn't have the words to properly contradict that statement. Cade's smile widened. "Besides," he added, ducking back into the attic for a second so he could spin his body around and descend the ladder, "you're cute when you can't find your apron."

Jeffrey gave him a half-hearted glare that morphed quickly into a pout. "Two weeks ago, you said I was cute while I was wearing the apron."

"Funny how that works."

Jeffrey was right, Cade decided, following him through the house. The kitchen was a disaster. But the bedroom was completely unpacked, and the living room had neat piles near the bookcases and entertainment center so Cade could put their books and movies away (because there was a system that Jeffrey just couldn't get the hang of, no matter how many times Cade explained it). The office was just a pile of boxes at this point, but they'd agreed to unpack that last.

"Come on," Cade said, flopping onto the couch they'd taken from his apartment that looked just right sitting next to the squishy armchair from Jeffrey's. "We can finish the rest tomorrow."

Jeffrey hesitated, dark eyes darting toward the kitchen door. "Come on," Cade insisted. "I promise I'll help you go through every one of those unlabeled boxes."

Jeffrey glanced at the door again, but followed Cade to the couch reluctantly. "No, you won't," he grumbled, twisting so he was leaning most of his body weight against Cade. "You'll do two boxes, and then you'll tell me you have to go sort the books."

"You never do it right."

"Your system is weird."

Cade laughed in a way that was more like a sigh, kissed the top of Jeffrey's head, and closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of Jeffrey's breathing lull him to sleep.

Flash Fiction Friday - Liar

Prompt: Can't Be

Liar

"Can't be."

"Says who?"

"Says... says me. That can't be true."

"Of course it can. Don't you trust me?"

"Not even one tiny bit, Tom Holden. You've been lying to me since we were six years old. Why the devil would I think you'd stop now?"

"Alright, so you've got your reasons not to. But I ain't lying to you. Swear it on my grandmother's grave."

"You'd sell out your own mama if you thought it'd help you get one over on me. I don't believe it one bit."

"Such suspicion in one so young. May God strike me dead if I'm lying."

"If I had a nickel for every time you were supposed to drop down dead, I'd be a rich woman."

"Can't I say anything to make you believe me?"

"Nope. You can either prove it or shut your trap."

"Fine. Fine, I'll prove it to you. Come on down to the barn, and I'll show you."

"...okay. But if one of your brothers is there to put worms in my hair or drop something from the loft, I'll tan all of you, see if I don't."

"Please, Sherrilyn, give us some credit. We don't do that stuff anymore. We ain't little boys."

"You did it to Mable just last week, you big ol' liar! See why I can't trust a word you say?"

"Okay, okay. We won't do any of that. Just come in, come on. Hurry."

"..."

"See? See? I told ya."

"Well, I'll be. That's about the funniest thing I've ever seen. Tom Holden, that damned colt of yours is actually taking care of a litter of wild puppies in your barn."

Flash Fiction Friday - Perfect

Prompt: Shreds of Doubt

Perfect

WARNING: This flash fiction contains some adult language.

My hands are cold.

I don't know why that startles me so much, but I keep staring at them like I've never seen them before. They're practically numb with frigidity, and I'm surprised the fingernails aren't blue.

Something borrowed, something blue...

"Are you ready?" Kay asks me. She's grinning, beaming even. I glance quickly in the mirror. Well, at least one of us doesn't look like she's about to hurl her breakfast into the nearest toilet bowl.

Kay follows my gaze, and her smile twitches a little. "You alright?"

I try to nod, but it comes out as a shake. Negative.

"Nervous?"

"Oh God, what if I screw this up? What if he screws this up? What if we're totally and completely wrong for each other? What if we move in together and he realizes I hate doing dishes or I don't dust or I mix Lucky Charms and Cocoa Pebbles together for breakfast every morning? Or what if--"

"Debbie. Breathe." My mouth grinds to a halt, and I suck in air like it's the last time I'll ever do it. Kay nods patiently. "Good. Look, you two have been together for five years. It's not like you met yesterday. He already knows what you eat for breakfast and that you're a total shit at cleaning. You've spent nearly every night together for a year. If you were wrong for each other, you'd know by now."

I'm pacing a little, but the feeling is starting to return to my fingers. "Are you sure?" I ask anyway, even though relief has started to flood my chest.

"Would I let you marry my best friend if I wasn't?"

"I thought I was your best friend." I recite the line absent-mindedly. It's an old joke.

"You both are," she answers obediently. "That's what makes this so fucking perfect."

There's sincerity in the habitual words, and it gives me confidence. It is perfect. We are perfect.

I nod. "Yes," I tell her, and I square my shoulders towards the door, doubts banished. "Yes, it does."

Kay's beaming smile is back. "Then let's go get you married." And together we walk towards the aisle.

Flash Fiction Friday - Green-Eyed Monster

Prompt: Why Didn't It Happen To Me?

Green-Eyed Monster

Okay, I'll be honest. I get jealous easily. When something good happens to someone I know--be they friend, family, or foe--I think, "Why couldn't that be me? Why didn't that happen to me?"

So when Beth called me and told me she'd won the grant to do research in Spain for a month, I was thankful she couldn't see how green I turned. Sure, I said all the right words and, to some extent, I honestly meant them. But I also thought petty, angry things, about how I deserved it more and how her research wasn't really worth funding. To some extent, I honestly meant them too, but it was mostly just the jealousy speaking.

I helped her pack and even offered her a ride to the airport, trying to keep my demons from getting the upper hand on my better angels. Mostly I succeeded, even if I did have a few choice words for you, journal, late at night. But I saw Beth off with a smile on my face, the bitterness mostly eradicated.

Four hours later, we saw the news that her plane had gone down somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. There were no survivors.

Jealousy is a fickle beast. On a dime, you can go from, "Why not me?" to, "What if that were me?" But as I sat there at her funeral today, I kept thinking the same thought over and over.

Why didn't that happen to me?

Flash Fiction Friday - I Didn't Say a Word

Prompt: I Didn't Go There

I Didn't Say a Word

Warning: This flash fiction contains some adult language.

When Jada told me she thought Victor was cute, I didn't say a word.

When she told me they'd gone out for dinner and he'd paid for her meal, I didn't say a word.

When she told me he had a wife, I didn't say a word.

When she told me they'd slept together, I didn't say a word.

When she told me he was going to leave his wife for her, I didn't say a word.

When she called him a bastard for not leaving his wife (and his wife a bitch for "holding him hostage"), I didn't say a word.

When she said she should stop seeing him but went back for more, I didn't say a word.

But when she finally told me Victor had dumped her, that he wanted to fix things his wife, I leaned forward, looked her in the eyes, and said, "That's because he's always loved me more than he ever wanted to fuck you."

And then I walked away.

Flash Fiction Friday - Late Spring Fall

Prompt: Candy Apple Red

Late Spring Fall

Red was Diane's favorite color, so when they threw the party, Marty insisted everything be red. Red balloons, red flowers, red decorations, even red icing on the cake.

Red bike, red blood, red cross, red signs in the hospital.

He enlisted the help of all the guys on the football team to turn Diane's backyard into a fall festival in late spring because he knew autumn was her favorite season. Bryan Fitzpatrick--who was a stellar baker--made apple, cherry, and pumpkin pies, and Gallagher Murphy got his rich uncle to fly in all kinds of fall vegetables from somewhere in South America where they were growing fresh.

When it really had been autumn, Diane had been a month into her coma with no sign of coming out of it. She'd missed the whole season.

Marty called it a Welcome Home party. Diane called it a Thank God You're Alive party.

Over a hundred kids from school flooded the backyard on the day they finally released Diane from the hospital, and she cried when she saw them all. They came up to her one by one, hugging her and telling her how much they'd missed her, bringing her food and drinks before she even asked and pushing her around the yard in her new wheelchair so she could see everything Marty and his friends had done.

Later, Diane told Marty that she she was pretty sure at least half those people hadn't even known her name before the accident.

When it was over and everyone was gone, Diane kissed Marty and told him it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. She pressed one of the red flowers in a book of poetry that she hardly ever read.

When she found the flower fifteen years later, it was still the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, and she still cried at the memory.

Flash Fiction Friday - Blankets

Prompt: Suitably warm

Blankets

The heat had shut off in the middle of the night again. Katherine poked her head out from the pile of blankets and felt her nose freeze almost immediately. She yanked the covers over her head again and tried to ignore the alarm ringing on the other side of the room.

"You know," Tristan's voice was so warm she thawed a little listening to him, "you should probably talk to your landlord about this."

He snapped the alarm off and slid back into the bed. Katherine gasped as his chilled skin came into contact with hers. "Get away!" she yelped. "Why would you go out there without clothes?"

He waggled his eyebrows, surprising a laugh out of her. "Can't you warm me up, darling?"

But Katherine jerked away as he moved closer again. "No. No, I can't."

Another guy might have been annoyed or at the very least sobered. Tristan just smirked and yanked the covers until he was rolled up like a burrito--and Katherine's bare behind was exposed. She yelped again and tried to yank them back, which started a war for the covers, which rolled Katherine right back into Tristan's arms.

"You did that on purpose," she grumbled, though by this point he was quite warm, so she was actually kind of pleased to be pressed up against him.

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did too," he agreed, and he kissed her so hotly she completely forgot she was supposed to be cold.

Flash Fiction Friday - 6/1/12

"I know immature is your middle name, but what's mine?"

Lucky's smile was roguish, and that made it dangerous. I took a step back and pretended to mull it over, all the while checking for escape routes.

Three. One out the backdoor, one out the front, and one out the window.

"Trouble," I told him, trying to match his grin with one of my own. By the way his lips stretched farther, I decided I'd failed.

Or he just liked his nickname.

"Besides," I continued, not giving him time to respond, "how am I immature?"

"Please." Lucky snorted. "You've been playing games with me since we met. A mature woman would just give me a straight yes or no answer, so I can move on with my life either way."

My jaw dropped. "I already told you no! You don't want a straight yes or no answer! You want to keep playing the game!" "I'm hurt by that."

"You're epitomized by that."

"Ooh, a four-syllable word. Think you're better than me now?"

I couldn't even sputter out an answer to that, and he laughed. "Moira Bentley, at a loss for words? I'm shocked."

"You're an ass!"

He laughed again. "And you're easy to wind up. Maybe you'd be better at this if you could keep your cool. Or is it just me that riles you up?"

I wondered if he'd go away if I ignored him. Sometimes guys did, but Lucky seemed just persistent enough to take it as a further challenge. So instead I gave him an order he couldn't refuse, "Leave me alone, Lucky."

Defiance crept into his eyes, but the compulsion was already in place, too strong for him to resist. "That was low," he said, face clenching as he struggled against his body's desires.

I shrugged, trying not to reflect how much it cost me to put him in this position. "Maybe now you'll remember that I always have the upper hand."

Hurt flickered across his face. "Yeah," he said, disappointment evident in his voice and posture and everything. "I won't make the mistake of forgetting again, your Majesty."

I hated the way he called me that.

I kept my face neutral as I cocked an eyebrow at him, and his shoulders slumped in resignation. "For how long?" he asked, looking at his shoes.

"Three days." Enough for a slap on the wrist and a reminder that we weren't equals, no matter what he thought.

"Yes, ma'am."

I let him stay just long enough to make sure my backup guard was in place, and when he was gone, I slumped into a chair and put my head in my hands. "Can I get you anything, your Majesty?" the guard asked, respectful and polite, exactly the way he was supposed to be.

"No. Thank you."

"Of course."

And he resumed his post. No banter or side comments, no flirting, no jokes.

A professional.

Just what I wanted.

Flash Fiction Friday - 5/4/12

It's the finest meal she's ever tasted. If only she knew what's in it.

She supposes it doesn't matter. The prince has made her a meal. She wouldn't have turned it down even if it had proven to be seaweed and horse fat, but the fact that it turned out to be delicious is a nice benefit.

She tries not to appear nervous to him, though she is. In return, he tries not to appear powerful to her, though he most definitely is. Powerful enough to destroy her if she doesn't do what he says.

"I want you to like me, you know," he says after a minute.

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Won't it be easier for you if you do?"

"It does not need to be easy for me," she answers, "as long as you are satisfied."

He frowns. Surely she has not done something to displease him so quickly.

Then he sighs. "It feels like I'm forcing you to do this."

"You are," she says, then bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood.

His eyes dance with laughter. "You should speak your mind," he says when he notices her blush. "I want you to speak your mind."

She thinks he might be different because no one has ever said that to her before. She wants to test it. "You are forcing me," she says again, slower. "You and my father. And I will, because that's what he's asked of me, but I don't have to like it."

The prince looks sad, and she's struck by a sudden desire to fix it. "Can you be convinced otherwise?" he finally asks.

Her breath catches a little. "Perhaps," she says before she can stop herself.

She wonders if he may not be so bad to be wed to after all.

X is for Xylophone (Flash Fiction Friday - 4/27/12)

This picture may be some other bell instrument, like vibes or something. I'm not a percussionist, and I don't know all the differences.

So... turns out xenophile didn't mean what I thought it did, and I lost my X word. Then I thought about stealing Leigh Covington's X-Men post, but I decided against it. Then I flipped through the dictionary looking for random X words. Then I decided on xylophone.

*This story is fiction. Any likeness to events occurring in other marching bands are entirely coincidental (in other words, we never bullied the xylophone player in my marching band. A good rule of thumb is never tick off someone who carries small mallets).

Have you ever been a xylophone player in the marching band? Talk about the loser of the losers. You don’t even march! Me, I stand in the middle of the field, marking time and pounding out the same eight notes over and over because no one cared enough to write a real xylophone part. Not that anyone can hear me because we’re too poor to afford a sound system. And not that anyone’s looking at me when there’s a chick with a flaming baton right by the bleachers.

Well, they did tell me when I got into high school that I’d be uncool if I joined marching band. On the bright note, I might as well be invisible to the rest of the school. So at least I don’t get shoved in a locker like the tuba player (and, seriously, seeing a 5’8”, 200-pound guy get squished into one of those tiny lockers is like watching someone try to shove water back in a sink).

On the not-so-bright note, the other band geeks give me a hard time instead. None of them are crude enough to try shoving me in a locker (some of them could do it though; marching while carrying a baritone saxophone gives you muscles, dude), but they have their own ways of bullying. Catty comments, frank discussions about my not-so-prolific sex life, things like that. Stupid stuff.

I asked the director if I could switch to a different drum. You know, the kind you carry. But he told me the xylophone is a very important part of the band, and I should be proud to play it.

Proud. Like I’m freaking Mozart making a piano sound like God’s own song.

Hell, I’ll be proud if I can just get through the rest of this year.

S is for Flash Fiction... Saturday?

In all the hubbub surrounding yesterday's URL redirection thing, I completely forgot about Flash Fiction Friday. I was on a hot streak today, editing Capitoline Hill (I plan to have it ready to send to beta readers tomorrow), so I decided to go with a snippet from my MG novel, Angels, especially since I won't get to post anything about it during the A-Z Challenge. I'm only on chapter 6, so it's still pretty early, but I'm liking the way it's turning out so far.

Short plot summary:

Zachary Taylor Middle School has an infestation of demons, and Mallory Shea is the only one who can see them. Well, Mallory and about 500 guardian angels, that is.

And here's a little snippet:

Did I think that real demons were going to show up at the eighth grade dance at Zachary Taylor Middle School? No, not really. And judging by my classmates’ reactions, everyone seemed really excited about the angels and demons theme. Girls were already starting to plan their costumes.

So I plastered on a big smile when Veronica glanced my way. Oh, and in case you were wondering, Veronica doesn’t know about my secret. She also doesn’t know she has a guardian angel. A pretty ugly one, actually, but I wouldn’t tell her that. If I were ever to tell her anything about this. She’s nice though, the angel. Iona. And she really loves Veronica, so I couldn’t ask for anyone better to guard my friend.

“What do you think?” Veronica asked as we walked back to Micah, standing awkwardly on the outskirts of the crowd. “Should we go as angels or demons? If we go as angels, we’ll be considered goody-goodies. But if we go as demons, everyone will thing we’re sluts.”

Micah made a face. “I hate that word,” he whined, but Veronica ignored him. Veronica usually ignored him. She wanted to be cool, and Micah was definitely not cool.

Behind her, Garwin made a face at me and made a little halo with his hands over his head. I barely resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that no one else would get it. “I think I’ll be an angel,” I said, and Garwin shot me a thumbs-up, complete with a goofy little dance that almost had me giggling again. He was a comedian, my angel. “I’d rather be a goody-goody than a slut.”

L is for Lessons Learned (Flash Fiction Friday - 4/13/12)

Today's flash fiction is brought to you by the letter... L (and Carrie Underwood)!

She’d made a lot of mistakes. She knew that. And even when she was clinging (desperately, hopelessly, horribly) to the notion that most of the mistakes were his, she knew she held some blame too. And maybe her blame was worse. Deep down, she’d always known that someday he was going to screw up and hurt her. But he never would have expected it of her.

The fall off a pedestal hurt more when she was that high off the ground.

Their last screaming match had ended with both of them crying. “I can’t do this anymore!” she’d tried to shout, though it only came out as a whisper.

“I can be better,” he’d pleaded.

But she’d shook her head, tentative at first, then harder and more certain than ever before. “You say that every time. And then you make me feel like shit all over again.” Her nose had burned from the tears, and she’d had to swallow a knot in her throat before she could continue. “I don’t want to feel like shit anymore.”

“Just give me another chance.”

She’d hesitated, and maybe he’d known he’d won then. But he hadn’t smile, not even when she’d said, “One more chance.” She’d held up one finger and shook it. “One more. Then never again.”

He would do it again, she knew. And again, she’d cry. Again, a small part of her would break. Again, she’d find a way to hate herself.

Maybe next time she’d learn her lesson.

I sort-of-kind-of thought of the theme for this one while I was listening to a Carrie Underwood song on the way home from work. "Lessons Learned" is one of the most inspirational songs to me (it's not nearly as dark as this flash fic). It's all about learning from your mistakes and keeping your life moving even if you have some regrets. Take a listen if you've got some time:

Happy Friday the 13th!

F is for Flash Fiction Friday - 4/6/12

Like I said a few days ago, this first week of A-Z blogging worked out perfectly. So F is for Flash Fiction, and here's one for you. Claire Legrand has been posting a lot about The West Wing on Twitter and her blog, so between that and the Republican primary race, I've been thinking a lot about politics. This story reminds me a little of Primary Colors for some reason. Hope you enjoy.

“Listen, I just don’t care. Get it done, and get it done now.”

I bristled at the tone in his voice, but there was nothing I could say. He was the campaign manager, and I was nothing but a lowly intern. It didn’t matter to anyone else that I had an IQ of over 150 and I was a chess grandmaster. It didn’t matter that I could out-strategize Bobby freaking Fischer. Here, I was the low man on the totem pole.

Buckley’s strategy was stupid, plain and simple. But a hundred years ago, he’d gotten some dark horse candidate elected President out of Who-Gives-a-Damn, Maine, and now he was hailed as the campaign hero of the 21st century. After all, who cared that he’d won less than 12% of the elections since then?

So I had 100,000 copies made of our candidate’s brochure, which was complete with his high school prom picture and a testimonial from the guy who owned the corner store when he’d been a kid. Buckley insisted this would “humanize” him, make him more relatable to the common man. That was bullshit, of course. Our candidate was an inheritance millionaire out of Orange County, California. The only thing that would make him relatable to the common man was if the common man suddenly won the lottery.

Like I said, I’m the low man on the totem pole, so no one listens to me. But Buckley’s going to wish he had when we lose by 20 points or more.

Flash Fiction Friday - 3/30/12

Shh, it's still Friday for many people. Why should I be penalized just because I live on the east coast?

Anyway, I had a critique session with K.S. Lewis tonight that last until after midnight, so I didn't get to put this up earlier. I'm feeling kind of punchy this week, so I decided to use a snippet from a previous finished work, Peter James, aka The-Novel-We-Speak-Not-Of. I've been toying with the idea of rewriting it lately. That project is pretty far down my list of priorities, but you never know (that, and I didn't want to put up anything that I might actually try to get published).

Peter James is about five kids (and their babysitter) who discover a tunnel to a secret land in their basement. Kind of like Narnia meets Peter Pan. This conversation happens just after they get back the first time.

“We need to talk about rules,” he declared.

“There are rules?” Nicky whined.

“Of course,” Peter replied. “All the best games have rules.”

That was true enough, so nobody bothered to argue with him. “What are the rules?” Ed asked.

Peter looked like he was thinking really hard for a minute. “Rule number one: no one but the six of us can know about Eversea.”

“What about Mommy and Daddy?” Charlie asked.

Pete bit his lip before he answered. “We can tell Mom and Dad. But they can't come in. It's for kids only.”

“Yay!” Nicky cheered, clapping.

“Sadie's not a kid,” Edwin argued.

“Sadie doesn't count.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Sadie said, setting the oven timer for 25 minutes and walking back to the table.

“You know what I mean,” he huffed.

“Why no adults?” Ed asked.

Peter looked like he wanted to hit him, but he didn't. “Because,” he said like he was speaking to a two-year-old, “it's our place. Only we're allowed there. It's where you go when you're really sad or really happy or really angry, and there's no one there who'll tell you to clean your room or eat your broccoli. In fact, there's no broccoli there at all. It's just kid stuff, all the time.”

Flash Fiction Friday - 3/23/12

Sorry, guys, I haven't been the best blogger this week. I had a lot to do at work, and I've been feeling a little creatively tapped. I'm hoping that spending this weekend really plotting out some of Defenders (and maybe even editing Rosetta) will help get me back on track. It feels pretty messy and disjointed, and it's making it hard for me to write it when I don't know what's going to happen next. I didn't even take a swing at hitting my word count yesterday, so I've got almost 1600 more words to write before Monday to keep me on goal.

But anyway, this is Flash Fiction Friday, not Tobi Whines Friday. And this flash fiction is a possible future scene from Defenders (depending on how the story goes). Hope you enjoy.

He knew he was in trouble. His chest ached where the sword had pierced it, and no amount of fairy magic could heal a gash like this.

Yeah, black magic was a bitch like that.

Still, he forced himself to his feet and summoned the remainder of his strength. He might be dying, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

She was only about a hundred feet away—though it may as well have been a hundred miles to his battered body—and he staggered to her just as she threw a Trip Spell at her opponent. He fell back, head smashing against a rock, and didn’t rise again.

“You’re getting better,” he grunted, and she whirled to look at him, face falling when she saw his bloody shirt.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“You always did have a way of pointing out the obvious.”

She glared at him, fierce. He liked her fire, even if it would get her killed someday. “I’ll be fine,” he lied, and she didn’t believe him.

She let it go anyway. “They have us surrounded,” she said. “And there are a hell of a lot of them.”

“Where’s your backup?” he asked, looking for her teammates.

“They’re here. Not far. They’re waiting for my signal, but I don’t… I…” She hesitated, then pushed on even though the words seemed painful. “I don’t have a strategy for this.”

He nodded. “You’re in luck. I do.”

She looked heartbreakingly hopeful, and he had a moment to remember that she was really a kid still. “You think we can take them all?”

“No,” he said. His realism made her face fall, though she hid it behind determination.

“Of course we can,” she argued, and it was a struggle not to laugh, even though that would have hurt his wound.

“The best you can hope for is to delay them until more backup arrives. But that,” he continued before she could interrupt, “we can do.”

He watched the conflict flicker across her face before she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Where do we start?”

Flash Fiction Friday - 3/16/12 (and a plug)

OK, plug first. My friend Jeanne Donnelly just published her book, Soul Mates (A different kind of Love Story), on Amazon.

After a tragic death on mean city streets, a woman meets God and begs him to let her reincarnate to bring the heavenly message of unconditional love to the world. Follow the adventure when she is tossed back to earth as one of the smallest dogs on the planet.

She's a fantastic writer, and you should go check it out.

And now for your regularly scheduled (St. Patrick's Day) flash fiction. I don't really know how I feel about this one, so I welcome your critiques.

Jace pounded back his drink and slammed the glass on the bar, silently signaling for another. He made a face at the green shot the bartender pushed toward him but drank it anyway. He could get just as drunk with a green drink as an amber one.

From what he understood about St. Patrick’s Day, that’s all it was about anyway.

The bartender wasn’t moving fast enough, so he took a hit off the flask he’d snuck in, the one that was laced with a little more than whiskey. He felt the familiar rush that was half-adrenaline, half-chemical.

He’d had ten months clean.

He took another furious swig. He’d only gotten clean for her. If she didn’t want him anymore, then who cared if he had a few pills anyway?

Someone sat on the stool next to him. Jace ignored the short, stocky girl who leaned over him to get the bartender’s attention, but he couldn’t ignore her slow Southern drawl. “Where are you from?” he asked reluctantly, and she grinned when she heard his own accent.

“Georgia. You?”

“South Carolina.”

“What are you doing in this big bad city?”

He huffed a bitter laugh and said, “Followed a girl up here. Stupid me.”

“So did I.” Off his look, she laughed and said, “My sister. We’re on a road trip.”

“Cool.” The drugs were starting to loosen him up. “She around here too?”

The girl waved a hand behind her. “Somewhere.”

He glanced around, then took another hit off the flask. Then he smiled, his best, most charming smile, and said, “You wanna go somewhere too?”

She laughed. “We just met!”

He flushed a little. “I meant just to talk. Someplace quieter. I’m not looking to start anything.”

She looked him up and down before shrugging and sliding off the stool. “I could probably take you anyway,” she said with a smile.

No, Jace thought as he handed her the flash so she could take a healthy drink, you really can’t.

Have a happy and safe St. Patrick's Day!

Flash Fiction Friday - 3/9/12

This is my entry for Rachael Harrie's Second Campaigner Challenge. The prompt I chose was this picture:

I went with the 200 word flash fiction, which is also in a genre I don't normally write (Contemporary Romance).

His breath was warm on my cheek as he leaned over my shoulder. “That looks like a screensaver,” he said after a minute. “You know, the kind with the swirls?”

I turned slightly to glare at him, realizing belatedly how close he was. Too close for “just friends.”

“Well, it’s not.”

He shrugged amiably. “Okay,” he said.

I pushed back, exaggerating my anger so I’d have an excuse to get away from those eyes. “I can’t believe you’d reduce beautiful art to a screensaver.”

His lips—perfect, full lips—quirked into a half-smile. “Sure you can,” he argued. “I do it all the time.”

“You can be impossible.”

He smile widened, and he slid closer again. He had to know how much I still wanted him. “Yes,” he breathed, hovering over me, hands resting on the arms of the chair. I tried not to squirm. “I can.”

And then he kissed me, and even though I knew all the reasons we shouldn’t be together, I just couldn’t care when he was holding me that close and making me feel that good.

So even though I knew it would probably kill me, I kissed him and let myself fall again.