Flash 500 by Nicole Pyles, Carrie K Sorensen (black authors fiction .txt) 📖

are you?"

 

"On Prewett Loop, about a mile past Highway 1."

 

"I'll send Smalls to pick you up—stay cool, we'll get you."

 

"Thanks."

 

"So, when you getting some new wheels? That turtle you drive needs to be permanently retired."

 

"Tru dat. So, how long's the party gonna last?"

 

"Jimmy says he'll keep it cranked all night."

 

"Good. I didn't want to miss the whole thing. What's everybody drinking?"

 

"The usual, but some dude brought some home brew—tastes like hair tonic so I'd avoid it."

 

"Thanks for the advice."

 

"Man, I wish you were here—this place is a zoo right now. The music they're playing is off the shelf!"

 

"Hey! I feel bad enough about the car…don't make it worse."

 

"Then I probably shouldn't tell you that Natalie's here, and she's looking lonely."

 

"Aw, man!"

 

"Sorry, sorry…my bad. That was cold, I know."

 

"Ah…so, did Natalie come by herself?"

 

"I think so, dude. What? You still got something for her?"

 

"Never stopped, man. I just wish…wish things were different."

 

"Why'd you guys stop going out?"

 

"It's complicated."

 

"What else you gonna do?"

 

"Good point."

 

"So, tell me man. What's the deal with you two?"

 

"Things were going pretty good. We were hanging out, like, every weekend. Then her brother died."

 

"Her brother died? You never told me that. Did we know him?"

 

"No, he was older—we never knew him. He was in Afghanistan. Their Humvee hit a landmine. Four soldiers died."

 

"Man, that sucks."

 

"Yeah, tell me about it. After that things kinda changed."

 

"How'd things change?"

 

"I don't know, and I don't think she even knew."

 

"So what'd you do?"

 

"I did a bunch of stupid stuff. I tried to buy her things—spent a ton of money. I even bought her a necklace."

 

"A necklace?"

 

"Yeah, and other stuff, but…I don't know…she just couldn't get past it."

 

"Well, she's still here, and pretty much by herself, as far as I can see."

 

"Do me a favor."

 

"What?"

 

"Go tell her that I'm coming and not to leave. I really want to talk to her and see how she's doing."

 

"Alright. I'll do it, but you owe me, man."

 

"You name it—whatever you want."

 

"How 'bout a necklace?"

 

 

About Scott Taylor

 

Scott William Taylor lives and writes in Utah. He grew up living on the side of a mountain and lives on that same mountain today, with his family and a dog that loves cheese. Scott is married, with four children. He received his undergraduate degree in Communications from the University of Utah and a Masters in English from Weber State University. Scott's story Little Boiler Girl was part of the steampunk anthology Mechanized Masterpieces published by Xchyler Publishing in April 2013. Scott is the creator and producer of A Page or Two Podcast. He also wrote the award-winning short film, Wrinkles. When not writing and working, Scott enjoys participating in community theater productions with his children. Follow Scott on Twitter @Hyggeman or at his author site: www.scottwilliamtaylor.com.

Week of 9/6/2012

Week of 9/6/2012

 

Photo courtesy of Carrie K Sorensen

 

 

Words Required

 

Fin

 

Vitamins

 

Trousers

 

Toothpick

 

Creeper

 

 

 

 

They Need an Older Brother by Tena Carr

 

Little Jimmy sat on a large rock by the river's edge, watching a creeper wave make it's way across the water's surface. He knew he was in trouble, that he had screwed up badly when he had gone into Old Lady Gloria's yard and cut a whole bunch of her roses to prove he had been there. He knew as he did it that it was wrong, but he couldn't very well be the laughing stock of the neighborhood could he? A group of neighbor boys, the youngest barely a year older than himself, had goaded him into doing it, saying that he was a "sissy" and a "scaredy cat" if he didn't. The "leader" of the group was the oldest of all the boys, but he was only a few years older than Jimmy himself. He always had a toothpick dangling from his mouth 'cause he thought it made him look like a tough guy.

 

Slowly, Jimmy turned his head to face his mother. His Gramma Mindy was always telling him that it was important to face up when one did something wrong and to take the consequences of their actions like a man. He had expected a long lecture about how what he had done was wrong and maybe even a spanking. Instead his mother had silently led the way to their "special spot" down by the river. It had been there special little place every since his dad had run off and left them for another woman just a few years older. They hadn't heard a word from him since. Sure Mom had brought his 2 younger twin brothers (Jason and Jeff) down to the river a number of times, but never to their "special spot." He had an older sister named Jenny also, but she was a lot older and was off at her last year of college. Jenny was dating a guy named Brian and they were suppose to be getting married soon.

 

Jimmy's mother stood facing him looking more sad than angry. "Jimmy, you know mom hasn't been feeling too well these past couple months don't you?" Jimmy fidgeted his fingers playing with a small hole in his trousers as he stared out at the fin of a small fish swimming around in the river. He had noticed that a lately mom hadn't been up and about to greet him (or his two twin brothers) as they got off the school bus just down the road from his house. In fact a lot of times when they got home Jimmy had been responsible for making a snack for his younger brothers and himself. Usually he just made them all peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but sometimes he made peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

 

Jimmy's mom sat down beside him on the rock. "I haven't told Jason and Jeff about this, only your sister Jenny knows because she's going to be taking care of you when I'm gone ....."

 

"Gone??" Jimmy asked, "Like on a trip or something"

 

"No, Sweetheart," his mom replied, "The reason I've been so tired lately is because I've been sick and there's nothing the doctors can do to make me better."

 

"Jenny has already agreed to take care of you guys, but Jason and Jeffrey are going to need an older brother to look out for them and help them remember to take their vitamins every day so they can grow bigger and stronger every day just like you are."

 

For a moment Jimmy stared silently out across the river, thinking about what his mother had just told him, then slowly he nodded his head. "I promise I'll try to do right," he said, "And mom, I'm sorry about what I did to Ms. Gloria's flowers."

 

"I know you are, sweetheart," his mom replied, "but I think it would be a good idea to go tell Ms. Gloria that."

 

 

About Tena Carr

 

I am a 41 year old wife and mother. I have one son who is eleven and going through those wonderful & adventurous tween-age years. My husband has an SCI (Spinal Cord Injury) and has been in a wheelchair since before we met. Before you go oohing and aaahing about what a saint I am, let me assure you that I have my moments of frustration and anger of having to constantly help out with something or another.

 

My main interest/passion is that which is related to Fire/EMS Service. At one point in my life I did take an EMT course and was state certified (in Oregon). I didn't keep current it with it however - a major regret of mine.

 

When I get the chance I also enjoy trying my hand (trying being the operative word) at blogging & writing (though I have yet to get that ramble around in my head down on paper).

 

http://jottingsandwritings.wordpress.com/

Week of 9/19/2012

Week of 9/19/2012

 

Photo courtesy of Shirl

 

 

Words Required

 

Dictionary

 

Ladder

 

Sparrow

 

Spinach

 

Café

 

 

 

 

Unnoticed by Leanne Sype

 

It's hard to imagine the dark space blanketed in dust and cobwebs sits only steps above the town's most popular café-- vibrant and alive with the buzzing chatter of young people drinking sugared espresso and talking about the latest movies and music. Their fancy digital devices snapping pictures, pinging friends, and lighting to life with each ring, I feel like I live within the bowels of a mechanical toy.

 

Back when I lived, this place was the old bookstore. It smelled not of organic spinach salads and hearty soups, but of paper and ink swirled together with the sandalwood candles Mrs. Mathaney used to light every day. The musty fragrance and cozy ambiance was inviting, warm, and comforting. This place embodied a different kind of life. Thousands of lives, really. The shelves were lined with tales of adventure, romance, and mystery. Each book held its own world told through vibrant language, woven together like the most beautiful cloth you've ever laid eyes upon. I would read book after book, wrapping myself up in the colorful stories of people and places far away and long ago. This was a place of quiet peace. A refuge away from reality.

 

I spent hours composing prose up in the attic. Mrs. Mathaney was like a grandmother to me, and one day she set up an old writing desk and rickety chair for me in the upper space. I am still confounded as to how she got it up the narrow wooden ladder. She encouraged me to write about my own world and to create new ones. There was a window right above my desk, round with four rectangular panels etched into the glass. As I leaned back in the chair one morning, pondering the next great American novel, I watched a sparrow land on the outside ledge of the dirty pane. I found myself imagining the freedom it must've felt being able to glide through the world and landing wherever it wanted to. I remember thinking, if I were a bird I would fly to all the wonderful places I had read about.

 

The sparrow became my muse as I wrote stories of the lands I would travel and the adventures I would experience. My characters became the people I dreamed of becoming—fearless and confident with their words, sure-footed and carefree in their actions, and known for their heroism. I poured my heart and imagination on to the pages, secretly hoping that someday someone somewhere would want to know my soul. No one ever asked. No one noticed.

 

I loved writing. The desk still sits up there in the dark with nothing but a dusty dictionary sitting upon it. My stories live inside the drawer with the broken handle. The building has new life, but for me