High Noon
By Amanda Firefox
High Noon. The showdown we both knew was coming.
Fingers itch over my guns; one called Pain and other called Desire. Aim high, aim true.
Aim for the heart.
No one moves. Time seems to tense in the stale, dry heat. He winks. I stand my ground.
No way I’m going to back down.
Not this time.
Not this time.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
High Noon. The showdown we both knew was coming.
Fingers itch over my guns; one called Pain and other called Desire. Aim high, aim true.
Aim for the heart.
No one moves. Time seems to tense in the stale, dry heat. He winks. I stand my ground.
No way I’m going to back down.
Not this time.
Not this time.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
I Am More
By John Ogden
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Sculpted
By John Winslow
Nobody knows this, because it's never been done. Well, it's happened once. But compared to the uncountable other times unwittingly attempted, nobody knows this.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you played in the mud? It didn't begin this way, but eventually you started making little men. They dried in the hot summer sun as you quickly tried to finish them before it was too late. And when their forms were solid and brittle, you smiled at your tiny creations. In your eyes, they were perfect.
But they weren't. And as you grew older, and you made this pastime your occupation, and as your skill improved each year and your technique refined with every sculpture, you became more and more happy with your perfect little things. But they weren't.
A friendly gentleman in a crumbly suit once toiled day and night in his cramped one bedroom apartment to finish his sculpture. It had taken him a lifetime to acquire the rough hands he now used to roll the damp clay around into perfect little bits, attaching each perfect little feature onto the perfect little head. Scraping and rolling and kneading and slapping and cutting and poking, all these perfect little sections firmly placed onto the perfect sculpture.
Everyone tries to make their work absolutely perfect, but nobody knows what happens when you get it just right.
Nobody knows this, but Joe. Joe, the friendly suited one bedroom apartment fellow who gave his life to see what he was seeing now. And when his perfect creation breathed in for the first time, it was like it had sucked all the air out of the room.
And then it screamed, and Joe could not.
- - -
Here lies John Winslow. All he wanted to do was to dance on the Moon. Dammit John.
By John Winslow
Nobody knows this, because it's never been done. Well, it's happened once. But compared to the uncountable other times unwittingly attempted, nobody knows this.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you played in the mud? It didn't begin this way, but eventually you started making little men. They dried in the hot summer sun as you quickly tried to finish them before it was too late. And when their forms were solid and brittle, you smiled at your tiny creations. In your eyes, they were perfect.
But they weren't. And as you grew older, and you made this pastime your occupation, and as your skill improved each year and your technique refined with every sculpture, you became more and more happy with your perfect little things. But they weren't.
A friendly gentleman in a crumbly suit once toiled day and night in his cramped one bedroom apartment to finish his sculpture. It had taken him a lifetime to acquire the rough hands he now used to roll the damp clay around into perfect little bits, attaching each perfect little feature onto the perfect little head. Scraping and rolling and kneading and slapping and cutting and poking, all these perfect little sections firmly placed onto the perfect sculpture.
Everyone tries to make their work absolutely perfect, but nobody knows what happens when you get it just right.
Nobody knows this, but Joe. Joe, the friendly suited one bedroom apartment fellow who gave his life to see what he was seeing now. And when his perfect creation breathed in for the first time, it was like it had sucked all the air out of the room.
And then it screamed, and Joe could not.
- - -
Here lies John Winslow. All he wanted to do was to dance on the Moon. Dammit John.
An Email
By Roger Isaacson
An impossibility can by its definition not give a solution. It must contain an element of desire, and a factor that will not make that happen, most commonly a physical law.
In it's basic dissection we can see that an impossibility has two opposed factors that will hang in time unresolved.
Somewhere the impossible is possible. Pretty weird as it is impossible to start up with.
A social upbringing will teach us that impossibilities are non existent, and to ignore that the impossible is actually impossible. We can overcome an impossibility.
.....-"you can do it"
Well, that's not bad at all, but what that is telling us then is, that we, by assuming an impossibility is actually possible, and anyone can do it, ( if they really want it), we will in fact be able to break natural physical laws.
The only one that can break physical laws would be God or perhaps one of his underlings, I don't know how far down on the heavenly pecking order you can go until the ability to break physical laws will again be impossible, but it works at least down to the rank of Saints and Archangels.
It wouldn't be too bad to be able to fix a crack in an engine block, just by wanting it to be fixed...poff...done. It for sure would save a lot of repair bills.
However, if we would start using Godly abilities, we would by religious teachings, immediately be told to not try to be like God.
-"Who do you think you are....God???"
Oh no ! ...we would be brought down immediately to the world where things are impossible again.
Therefore, mankind will be stuck in limbo between an aspiration to do the impossible, and a fear of doing the impossible.
Therefore the impossible will remain impossible, it is impossible to do something that in itself has a counter intention of why it can't be done.
Two stuck and opposed intentions will be an effective, healthy and prosperous apathy.
This is the exact reasons why recliners, beer and Superbowl were invented.
- - -
Roger Isaacson is Monty Python's father's, brother's, nephew's, cousin's, former roommate. He drives truck and does the Boogie Woogie like nobody's business.
By Roger Isaacson
An impossibility can by its definition not give a solution. It must contain an element of desire, and a factor that will not make that happen, most commonly a physical law.
In it's basic dissection we can see that an impossibility has two opposed factors that will hang in time unresolved.
Somewhere the impossible is possible. Pretty weird as it is impossible to start up with.
A social upbringing will teach us that impossibilities are non existent, and to ignore that the impossible is actually impossible. We can overcome an impossibility.
.....-"you can do it"
Well, that's not bad at all, but what that is telling us then is, that we, by assuming an impossibility is actually possible, and anyone can do it, ( if they really want it), we will in fact be able to break natural physical laws.
The only one that can break physical laws would be God or perhaps one of his underlings, I don't know how far down on the heavenly pecking order you can go until the ability to break physical laws will again be impossible, but it works at least down to the rank of Saints and Archangels.
It wouldn't be too bad to be able to fix a crack in an engine block, just by wanting it to be fixed...poff...done. It for sure would save a lot of repair bills.
However, if we would start using Godly abilities, we would by religious teachings, immediately be told to not try to be like God.
-"Who do you think you are....God???"
Oh no ! ...we would be brought down immediately to the world where things are impossible again.
Therefore, mankind will be stuck in limbo between an aspiration to do the impossible, and a fear of doing the impossible.
Therefore the impossible will remain impossible, it is impossible to do something that in itself has a counter intention of why it can't be done.
Two stuck and opposed intentions will be an effective, healthy and prosperous apathy.
This is the exact reasons why recliners, beer and Superbowl were invented.
- - -
Roger Isaacson is Monty Python's father's, brother's, nephew's, cousin's, former roommate. He drives truck and does the Boogie Woogie like nobody's business.
The Solace of Leda
By Amanda Firefox
Wings beating against my face, the warm smell of angels. The book pushes against my chest, bound tight with biting leather straps; the harness of my fate, the only reason I am alive. I open my eyes and a wash of sea emerald light fills me, blinds me, urges me to cry out. All around me, there is the throbbing sound of wings in flight, the mingling of high, thin air and the stifling closeness of feathers, of down and the arms of men engineered to fly. Lost in the middle of the pulsing, white swarm, I am helpless as they take me, one by one, my body both pinned and cushioned by the backs and arms of feathered forms. I am the vessel this swarm has chosen, the center of their cloud, the field in which the seeds of their future are sewn. When it is finished, when the last of the angels cries out in sweet release, I am discarded, dropped and left to fall into the aquamarine depths of the sky as the swarm flies on, but it is not my destiny to die. From the depths of my womb, there is a flash of light, a flicker of emerald as blinding as heaven, as the bosom of ether and air that enfolds me. I cry out as the pages of the book catch fire, as the straps of the harness snap and fall away, leaving only me, leaving only a body consumed by light, burning away to pure, aquamarine energy. In the same instant that my body becomes the sky, I feel the swarm of angels fade into the abyss, become their own light and burn on into the distances. The world delights softly in our electric rain, rich with infant smiles, and as the sky darkens at the edge of apocalypse, the fires of heaven thunder and flex, rejoicing.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
By Amanda Firefox
Wings beating against my face, the warm smell of angels. The book pushes against my chest, bound tight with biting leather straps; the harness of my fate, the only reason I am alive. I open my eyes and a wash of sea emerald light fills me, blinds me, urges me to cry out. All around me, there is the throbbing sound of wings in flight, the mingling of high, thin air and the stifling closeness of feathers, of down and the arms of men engineered to fly. Lost in the middle of the pulsing, white swarm, I am helpless as they take me, one by one, my body both pinned and cushioned by the backs and arms of feathered forms. I am the vessel this swarm has chosen, the center of their cloud, the field in which the seeds of their future are sewn. When it is finished, when the last of the angels cries out in sweet release, I am discarded, dropped and left to fall into the aquamarine depths of the sky as the swarm flies on, but it is not my destiny to die. From the depths of my womb, there is a flash of light, a flicker of emerald as blinding as heaven, as the bosom of ether and air that enfolds me. I cry out as the pages of the book catch fire, as the straps of the harness snap and fall away, leaving only me, leaving only a body consumed by light, burning away to pure, aquamarine energy. In the same instant that my body becomes the sky, I feel the swarm of angels fade into the abyss, become their own light and burn on into the distances. The world delights softly in our electric rain, rich with infant smiles, and as the sky darkens at the edge of apocalypse, the fires of heaven thunder and flex, rejoicing.
- - -
Amanda Firefox is a fiery little blue-eyed brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.
On Scar
By Brad Nelson
Hi, and welcome to OnScar. The owner of the automobile you are attempting to steal has requested activation of OnScar theft-deterrent protocol 789-346-528-ZULU.
Doors locked.
Seatbelt disengaged.
Steering wheel disengaged.
Remote navigation initiated.
Accelerator depressed.
55 mph attained.
The local police have been notified.
65 mph attained.
The local hospital has not.
75 mph attained.
An ambulance will not be necessary.
85 mph attained…
- - -
Brad Nelson is a former backyard samurai and blue jeans Zen master who spends most of his time now on the back porch with his pipe and a cup of coffee. He retired his sword and took up the pen after serving five years as an interrogator in the U.S. Army.
By Brad Nelson
Hi, and welcome to OnScar. The owner of the automobile you are attempting to steal has requested activation of OnScar theft-deterrent protocol 789-346-528-ZULU.
Doors locked.
Seatbelt disengaged.
Steering wheel disengaged.
Remote navigation initiated.
Accelerator depressed.
55 mph attained.
The local police have been notified.
65 mph attained.
The local hospital has not.
75 mph attained.
An ambulance will not be necessary.
85 mph attained…
- - -
Brad Nelson is a former backyard samurai and blue jeans Zen master who spends most of his time now on the back porch with his pipe and a cup of coffee. He retired his sword and took up the pen after serving five years as an interrogator in the U.S. Army.
What They Want,
Monday,
Or The Three Strangers You Nodded To On the Street
By Linda Sands
What Shelly Wants.
She wants to be the girl who slices his roast beef. She wants to be the one who teaches him the difference between Lacey Swiss and Buckeye . Shelly wants to spread mayo on his rye and add a side of chips. She wants to serve him in bed on a wicker tray.
But most of all, right now on this rainy Tuesday in May, she wants him to notice her behind the deli counter at Walmart even if she is wearing a white shower cap over her new haircut, even if she forgot to put on eyeliner and only now pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some natural color like they showed on last week’s Top Model.
She wants to slice his lunchmeat as thin as paper, then ring him up with a knuckle and seal his bag with her teeth.
What Max Wants.
He wants to go home and never think about her again. He wants someone to come in the night and smack him over the head with something round and hard so that the part of him that remembers how she smells like a meadow will forget. He wishes the movie about the place that can erase hurtful memories was true because he would be the first one in line on Monday morning with a pocketful of cash. He wants to believe in small dark places where no one can find you and he thinks maybe he can get there without a ticket, with just this bottle of pills that he stole from the pharmacy when the girl in the labcoat was talking to her boyfriend and the pharmacist had to chase her daughter down the crowded aisle.
He wants the time to pass so that the hands on the clock will be in perfect alignment and then he will know that wanting to be dead is enough, there will be nothing else to want. No answers, no smiles, no happy gestures, no yearnings no false starts, no feelings of inadequacy – the words alone make him want to forget he can hear, he can read, he can breathe.
More than wanting to forget, he wants to be forgotten.
What Sam Wants.
He wants to forget he’s a she. He wants to buy flannel shirts and baggy jeans and pay with man hands.
He wants the men to nod as they pass or not notice him at all. He wants the girl at the register to offer to help him choose dress socks. He wants someone to measure his inseam. He wants to stand in the store and hold the door for beautiful women. He wants to buy a hat he can tip, a handkerchief he can lend, a rubber cock he can slip inside his underwear and adjust.
He wants to feel the things men feel. Passion as rage. Honor as duty. Sex as power. Love as whatever love is supposed to feel like when you fill a doorway.
He wants to give more than he gets and he wants to get as good as he gives. He wants to feel your eyes on his ass when he walks out the door then turn and catch you staring.
- - -
( part of a larger body of work, 21 sections of flash- told in triplets)
I drank with Daniel Grandbois in a big hotel in Manhattan one night after I stalked Amy Hempel. Danny Pants sent me music, Hempel got a restraining order. My writing is everywhere, even on some walls in Switzerland. I have an agent, and I didn't even have to sleep with him.
Monday,
Or The Three Strangers You Nodded To On the Street
By Linda Sands
What Shelly Wants.
She wants to be the girl who slices his roast beef. She wants to be the one who teaches him the difference between Lacey Swiss and Buckeye . Shelly wants to spread mayo on his rye and add a side of chips. She wants to serve him in bed on a wicker tray.
But most of all, right now on this rainy Tuesday in May, she wants him to notice her behind the deli counter at Walmart even if she is wearing a white shower cap over her new haircut, even if she forgot to put on eyeliner and only now pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some natural color like they showed on last week’s Top Model.
She wants to slice his lunchmeat as thin as paper, then ring him up with a knuckle and seal his bag with her teeth.
What Max Wants.
He wants to go home and never think about her again. He wants someone to come in the night and smack him over the head with something round and hard so that the part of him that remembers how she smells like a meadow will forget. He wishes the movie about the place that can erase hurtful memories was true because he would be the first one in line on Monday morning with a pocketful of cash. He wants to believe in small dark places where no one can find you and he thinks maybe he can get there without a ticket, with just this bottle of pills that he stole from the pharmacy when the girl in the labcoat was talking to her boyfriend and the pharmacist had to chase her daughter down the crowded aisle.
He wants the time to pass so that the hands on the clock will be in perfect alignment and then he will know that wanting to be dead is enough, there will be nothing else to want. No answers, no smiles, no happy gestures, no yearnings no false starts, no feelings of inadequacy – the words alone make him want to forget he can hear, he can read, he can breathe.
More than wanting to forget, he wants to be forgotten.
What Sam Wants.
He wants to forget he’s a she. He wants to buy flannel shirts and baggy jeans and pay with man hands.
He wants the men to nod as they pass or not notice him at all. He wants the girl at the register to offer to help him choose dress socks. He wants someone to measure his inseam. He wants to stand in the store and hold the door for beautiful women. He wants to buy a hat he can tip, a handkerchief he can lend, a rubber cock he can slip inside his underwear and adjust.
He wants to feel the things men feel. Passion as rage. Honor as duty. Sex as power. Love as whatever love is supposed to feel like when you fill a doorway.
He wants to give more than he gets and he wants to get as good as he gives. He wants to feel your eyes on his ass when he walks out the door then turn and catch you staring.
- - -
( part of a larger body of work, 21 sections of flash- told in triplets)
I drank with Daniel Grandbois in a big hotel in Manhattan one night after I stalked Amy Hempel. Danny Pants sent me music, Hempel got a restraining order. My writing is everywhere, even on some walls in Switzerland. I have an agent, and I didn't even have to sleep with him.
