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

Week of 7/4/2012

Week of 7/4/2012

 

Photo courtesy of Kristoffer Sorensen

 

 

Words Required

 

Froth

 

Sole

 

Gallery

 

Warship

 

Motorcycle

 

 

 

 

The Corner of Vine & 85th by Scott Taylor

 

The gallery of on-lookers told Stella and her partner Charlie that they were nearing the scene of the accident as the pair maneuvered the ambulance through the busy downtown streets. Faces on the spectators said it all. They were both horrified at the scene that lay before them, but relieved to hear the blaring sound of the ambulance's siren as it came to a stop at the corner of Vine and 85th.

 

"Oh hell," Stella groaned as the crowd parted and they spotted their victim, or what was left of him. "Looks bad."

 

"Yeah, nice way to start a shift, huh?" Charlie said as he parked the van and opened the door. The ambulance lights illuminated the trees across from where the accident took place. Clouds still hung low after depositing their liquid contents on a city in desperate need of a bath. But no amount of water could wash away the view that met these two public servants as they gathered their emergency medical kids and ran toward the single man lying at grotesque angles on the wet pavement.

 

Stella reached the doomed rider first and she knew any attempts to save a life were futile. Comfort would be the sole gift she could offer this man. She knelt at his side.

 

"Sir," Stella said with a mixture of reassurance and authority. "My name is Stella Johnson. I'm an EMT with the city. Please do not try to move. We're here to help." Stella watched the rider's chest under a ripped leather jacket rise and fall slowly and she heard raspy breaths emanate from the man's cracked helmet. He couldn't move, even if he wanted, Stella thought as blood from a compound fracture in his right leg formed a froth as it mixed with the rainwater being dragged by gravity toward the street's storm drain.

 

Charlie joined his partner and began to open his medical kit as gawkers hoped these two public officials could perform a miracle.

 

"What a mess," Charlie whispered so only Stella could hear. "Must have skidded in the rain and dumped his bike there," Charlie said as he motioned to the curb at the other side of the street. "You can see where the bike hit the lamppost then flipped." Charlie pointed to the mangled remains of something that was once a beautiful motorcycle. Stella could just make out what looked like a warship painted on the dented gas tank, the only thing left of the bike's custom paint job.

 

"He must have been flying," Charlie said. "Damn shame…"

 

As the two went to work, the rider tried moving his arm to his helmet. "Whoa, there," Stella said as she stopped the man from raising the plastic shield. "Let me do that." Stella slowly lifted the bloodied shield and saw his tired eyes. They did not meet hers, but stared off toward a light at the end of the street. Stella followed the man's gaze and wondered if he saw what she saw.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

A Sign by Yolanda Tong

 

I think I had completely lost my mind, for I don't even remember the events which have led me to this dark drab place so far away from anything normal.

 

Her death was so sudden, so instantly painful, and felt like a warship had blasted a cannon through my heart. I remember getting a phone call at work, and then my memory went blank. That was also the last time I saw colour. The stamp on my passport says I arrived here two weeks after her death. The Qantas ticket stub says I'm in Tokyo. I guess shock has a way of royally screwing a person up by taking over their mind, their body, and then waking them up sometime later in a whacky black and white foreign film.

 

We had lots of plans, and we were working our asses off to afford them. Plans to have kids, travel to Europe, and buy a cottage in the North part of the city. She wanted a country style kitchen and a little veggie patch out back. I wanted a decent sized garage so I could tinker with my motorcycle.

 

She was so pretty, always smiling and smelling like the ocean. She always dressed up nice, and never minded me going off and watching a footy game with my mates. She was going places too, her paintings of rainbows hung in galleries all over the country. I still can't believe she's gone, everything has gone so dark. She brought colour into my life. I'm so messed up right now, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Each day I question why Japan? And yet I don't leave.

 

Day after day well into the night for weeks I walked the grey streets alone, numb, wondering, stumbling, passing one concrete building after another, uncaring which way I went, often getting so lost I would sit down on a bench and cry. I stopped all that walking last week though, or was it the week before? The soles in my shoes started cracking so I walked into a shoe store and learned my Australian feet are too big for Japanese shoes. So I went back to my dodgey closet sized hotel, lay down on the hard futon and went to sleep. I feel like I slept for two weeks. I've been such a zombie. I need to snap out of this and get my sh*t together.

 

The weirdest thing happened to me yesterday. I walked into this Irish pub sometime in the morning, one with a sign on street level, but was actually located in a windowless basement. A soccer game was airing on a big screen TV in the centre of the pub. I sat in a dark corner and tried to pay attention but I could barely focus. The pub was mostly empty save for a few older foreign blokes, and a couple of Japanese men in black suits. So I ordered another frothy beer and willed the drunkenness to come take away the pain.

 

There was this guy sitting not far away. He had long white hair tied back in a ponytail. He saw me, picked up his lunch and sat down in front of me. I was not in the mood for company, but there was something about this mans face. Was it the lines, the odd grey colour, or the fact that he was a foreigner like me? I couldn't quite figure it out. I decided to humour him. He said his name was Jim, came from the UK. He bought me another beer, and that seemed to loosen me up a bit.

 

For the first time since she died, I actually remember talking about it. Once I started talking, the words started tumbling out. I told him about the car accident, how I found myself here and don't even remember arriving. I told him how broken I am, how I can't seem to live without her, and now she's gone forever and taken all the colour in this world with her.

 

Jim sat back and listened, then when I was done talking he said, "Tom, what you need is a sign, a sign that she's not gone, she's still here with you, just not physically. You need to get your life back together, you need to start moving on and you won't be able to without a sign."

 

"You really believe that?" I asked.

 

"I do!" Jim said. "The sign is different for everyone, it has meaning to you, and only you, and you'll know it when you see it. Go on, ask for it, call to her in your mind, tell her to send you a sign."

 

I looked at him still a little unsure. "Go on, give it a go, come on!" coaxed Jim. I decided I had nothing to lose. I closed my eyes and I said in my mind "Babe, if you can hear me, send me a sign that you are not gone for ever, and that I'll be ok."

 

Jim had to go but I sat in that pub until the game was over. I climbed up the steps into the bright afternoon light. The ground was glistening like diamonds in the sun. It must have just rained. I turned the corner onto a bigger street, looked up and stopped dead in my tracks. There ahead arched over the street was the most beautiful rainbow I had ever seen. After having seen so much darkness, the colours were stunning.

 

 

About Yolanda Tong

 

Yolanda Tong is originally from Canada, but travelled extensively before finally settling in Melbourne, Australia at the base of the Dandenong mountains. She is inspired by nature, driven by emotion, and loves to write about all that is sensed but not seen.

Week of 7/11/2012

Week of 7/11/2012

 

Photo courtesy of Jose Maria Minarro Vivancos

 

 

Words Required

 

North

 

Gutter

 

Padlock

 

Herald

 

Sky

 

 

 

 

Escape by Heather Musk

 

Marina sat on her bed, awaiting the arrival of her father. He would be here soon with the car, ready to take her to the church. She stood up and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress he'd chosen was pretty she supposed. She wouldn't have picked it herself but she was never allowed to make these decisions anyway; it wouldn't have mattered either way what she'd wanted. The simple white cotton dress clung to her body as she swung this way and that, flowing around her feet. She had to arrange her hair herself, a single flower pinning it up on one side, away from her face. She hoped it met with their approval.

 

She turned to the window now, wondering how things would have been different if she'd managed her escape. No way to know now, the padlock and bars made sure she wasn't going anywhere.

 

She heard her father's footsteps on the stairs, across the landing and then they paused outside her room. The key turned in the lock and the door swung open gently. 'Ready