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

for snacking, and a map of some unknown place.

 

Before his Mom could stop him he was in the back yard waiting on his flight with Jamie. Michael's Mom threw him a blueberry Pop Tart and a wild strawberry Capri Sun as they boarded the plane. It wasn't exactly the breakfast of champions, but there were things more important that only Michael and Jamie knew about. The wheels of the plane hit the runway and before they knew it they were in the air defying gravity.

 

Seconds later the plane landed. The boys were climbing down the ramp and suddenly a blinding spotlight hit them in the face. Michael and Jamie squinted at each other and nodded in agreement that the only thing to do was to run through the light. Suddenly everything became dark and they fell on the other side of the light onto a wooden porch heavily shaded by trees. They picked themselves up and saw a blue door begging to be opened. They heard unfamiliar music from within. Their curiosity was running wild. Right as Michael reached to open the door he heard a familiar voice yell, "Flamenco Dancing! I can't dance! I can't even walk without tripping over my own feet."

 

Distracted from the voice, he turned away from the door and saw his Mom on her cell phone. They caught each other's eye in the distance and he noticed a plate of food in her hand and with the other she waved for him to come in for lunch.

 

 

About Cindy Cagle

 

Cindy is from Birmingham, Alabama. She is a sweet tea connoisseur, intellectually curious of all things, and the best aunt in the world according to her nieces and nephews. When she's not dressed in full costume trying to save the world Cindy spends her time creating short stories, daydreaming, hiking at Ruffner Mountain, or reading the next best book. You can visit her at www.thewoodenrollercoaster.blogspot.com.

 

 

 

 

Dancing for Vincente by Randy Lindsay

 

Mom and Dad wanted to see the great Vincente Montoya perform the Flamenco at the Druid's Retreat. They kept talking about how it was "a rare opportunity that few had the fortune to attend." That usually meant boring.

 

When the lights went out and the spotlight followed the dancer as he marched down the runway it looked as if this outing might not be as bad as most. Vincente swung his hands to his side and stomped his feet, making more noise than an entire room of kindergarteners. This would definitely be the guy to get if you had a bug problem at your house.

 

Then it was over. Watching the Flamenco hadn't been boring at all. Dad wanted to wait in the foyer and meet Vincente. Let him. There were better uses of time than standing around for the rest of the day hoping that Mr. Stomps would come out so that his fans could gush all over him. Yeech.

 

A trip to the bathroom turned into a stroll through the building and then outside where there was plenty of tempting mud. Straying off the path could only end in "tragedy" and there was really no need since a stone path led out to a strange hedge in the back.

 

The path ended in a green door that was set in the middle of the brush. It opened easily and revealed a beautiful garden inside. This was a perfect place to spend an hour, or so, while the parents sought an audience with the King of Dance.

 

All of the trees, flowers, and chirping birds belonged alongside elves and pixies. Those thoughts in turn led to images of fantastic creatures dancing in the middle of this green heaven.

 

Tap. Tap. Tippity-tap.

 

Unheard music inspired an impromptu dance.

 

Tap. Rappa-tap. Tippity-tap-tap.

 

Of all the ideas Mom and Dad had come up with over the years, this one had turned out to be the best.

 

The internal music stopped.

 

"Bravo." The voice of a man came from the entrance of the garden. It was deep and friendly. More importantly though, it was Vincente Montoya.

 

 

About Randy Lindsay

 

Randy is a native of Arizona. In his spare time he likes to play games with his children, fish, and conduct family history research. His stories have been published in Gentle Strength Quarterly, The City of the Gods: Mythic Tales, and Penumbra. Two more have been purchased for publication this year; one for the second City of the Gods anthology and the other for the Once Upon An Apocalypse anthology by Chaosium.

 

http://randylindsay.blogspot.com/

Week of 1/30/2013

Week of 1/30/2013

 

Photo courtesy of Carrie K Sorensen

 

 

Words Required

 

Bill

 

Chisel

 

Title

 

System

 

Bicycle

 

 

 

 

Summertime Dreaming by Krystal Wade

 

All I wanted to do was ride my bicycle, but the snow prevented me from stepping foot outdoors until I dressed in layers of warm clothes. I missed the sun, the energizing warmth on my head and skin. I missed the green on the trees and the sounds of spring peepers singing their evening songs.

 

Last night's storm system packed a powerful punch, blanketing the streets and lawns in a fresh layer of white powder. Ensuring I wouldn't see the blue sky for at least another day while the clouds lazily passed.

 

Instead of daydreaming all morning, I donned my coat and headed outside to chisel ice off my car's windshield. I had work to do. Bill collectors to pay. Traffic to navigate. And there would be a ton of that. Always.

 

Snow crunched under the weight of my boots as I plodded to my Jetta. I unlocked the doors, then dug around the glove box for my scraper. Service receipts. Owner's Manual. Insurance cards. What's this? Why is my title in here?

 

Ugh. I had to get better with organization.

 

Ahh. Finally. I grabbed the purple and clear plastic ice machete and hacked away at the glass while the heater warmed the inside. Once I was satisfied I'd be able to see, I wiped my hands and went back in the house to grab my purse and coffee.

 

My husband greeted me in the family room, still in his pajamas, wiping sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

 

Same thing I do every morning, Pinky: Taking over the world. "Going to work."

 

He laughed and walked to the kitchen, straight to the coffee pot, then poured me a nice hot mug full. "Do you know what today is?"

 

"Monday."

 

Nodding, he held the coffee out to me. "Yes. That's right. But it's something else, as well. Think about it."

 

The man was off his rocker. Totally looney. "I'm going to be late! Tell me the rest of this joke later."

 

"Fine, but when you get to work and remember it's Martin Luther King's Day, don't say I didn't try to warn you that the office would be empty."

 

Sigh. Maybe today would be a good day to get organized. I ran out and turned off my car, removed the umpteen million layers I wore, and went back to daydreaming about the sun.

 

Summer would be here soon enough. Right?

 

 

About Krystal Wade

 

Krystal Wade can be found in the sluglines outside Washington D.C. every morning, Monday through Friday. With coffee in hand, iPod plugged in, and strangers--who sometimes snore, smell, or have incredibly bad gas--sitting next to her, she zones out and thinks of fantastical worlds for you and me to read. How else can she cope with a fifty mile commute?

 

Good thing she has her husband and three kids to go home to. They keep her sane.

 

www.krystal-wade.com

 

 

 

 

Oh, Edward by Scott Taylor

 

"Gina! There's snow on the satellite dish!" William yelled at his wife who took the advantage of a college football game to escape from her husband for a few hours and cozy up (for the third time…) to Volume One of Stephanie Meyer's world of teenagers, werewolves, angst, love, and redemption.

 

"Well, Bill! Go outside and brush it off!" Gina answered back, matching her spouse's tone, volume, and emotional timber. "Use that invention of yours," Gina said. The housewife enamored with young adult literature heard her husband get off the couch in a quest to re-establish communication from the game being played in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, beamed to a satellite 275 miles above the surface of the earth, then down to their home in Hannibal, Missouri.

 

William cursed as he rose from the couch and stomped through the kitchen. He moves pretty fast when he wants to, Gina thought as Meyer's words transported her to a world of arboreal wonder. "That dish system is worse than cable!" William's screamed, as he slammed the door to the garage.

 

Gina knew William's string of obscenities would likely continue once he entered the garage and tried to find his homemade satellite cleaning implement stashed somewhere in the clutter. Swear words, muffled through the rather thin walls separating the home from the garage, proved Gina right.

 

As she tried again to lose herself in the pages of Ms. Meyer's story (the title of which is known worldwide…) Gina heard a crash coming from inside the garage. After a moment of silence, William's profanity began with renewed vigor. If the silence continued, Gina knew her husband was hurt; his resumed tirade told his wife that he was unharmed. Gina next heard the sound of objects being thrown about…a box, a garden hose (maybe…), the bicycle William just had to have but has never rode. That thing must have been buried good, Gina thought as the sound of items becoming airborne continued.

 

"Must have found it," Gina said to herself as she turned yet another page and heard the sound of the garage door opening. William didn't like being outside, especially in the cold. He'll get that dish cleaned and he'll be back soon. Oh Edward…, Gina thought as a printed page gently fell upon one previously read.

 

As Edward wooed Bella Gina heard the garage door close, the scraper-thing tossed back into another heap, and the door from the garage to the kitchen open. Her husband had slain the beast—humanity triumphed once again over the cruelness of nature. The wife heard her husband make his way to the couch.

 

"You get it cleared off?" Gina asked, her tone exactly matching her indifference.

 

"Yeah," William said as his excess settled into the overburdened furniture. "The snow froze on the dish so I had to chisel it off. "Damn dish! It's worse than cable!"

 

"That's nice, dear," his wife responded. Oh, Edward… Gina thought again.

 

 

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.