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Friday, December 9, 2011

A Christmas Letter

Frequent Jabber AJ Hayes makes use of the epistolary form in his take on Flash Jab Challenge #8.

(Photo (c) Kim Britt Photography 2011)








A Christmas Letter
by AJ Hayes


My Dear Mrs. Hathaway,

Your letter touched me deeply and, because I agreed with you on what Christmas present would be the dearest to you, I went looking. I have quite a few more avenues of investigation open to me than the police and they paid off. If you will look upstairs you will find your daughter sleeping safely in her bed. She will have no memory of my visit of course.

I found her in an old house on the edge of town. I also found her abductor.

I'm sorry that I had to leave Katie's lovely shoes on the porch of that old house. After my reindeer got through with the kidnapper, they were just too messy to bring home.

Sincerely
S. Claus
Dec. 24th, 2011.

What Choice Did She Have?



Jim Harrington is one of two contributors to Flash Jab Challenge #8. His story is based upon the photo to the left.





((c) Kim Britt Photogrpahy 2011)






What Choice Did She Have?
by Jim Harrington


Elsabeth placed the sneakers on the windowsill every year when Winter's nip began to fade, hoping Erik would see them and return home. It'd been twelve years since he went out to play and was never seen again. All the sheriff found were the new shoes covered in mud.


It was the third time he'd gotten them dirty. The first time Elsabeth sent him to his room. The second time she spanked him with a hairbrush. She couldn't stand things being dirty.


Elsabeth stood at the bedroom window for a while, waiting for Erik to appear. When her back began to stiffen, she fingered a strand of purple-streaked brown hair from her eyes and turned to the girl with the muddy shoes.


She sat in a wooden chair, struggling against the ropes that held her tight. A ball gag kept her quiet. Elsabeth guessed she was about the same age as Erik, but with blonde hair. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with a college logo on it. A maroonish bump where the hammer had struck protruded from her forehead.


Elsabeth snorted. Not very lady-like clothes, she thought. She hadn't spoken since the girl showed up at the front door selling magazine subscriptions. Yanking the girl's hair, she finally said,


"Those shoes are expensive. You should be more careful with them so they last longer." She'd said the same thing to Erik many times. "Sending you to your room didn't stop you. Neither did spanking."


Elsabeth picked the knife off the table and rubbed it against the whetstone. The sound excited her, just as it had with Erik.


She ran the blade across her finger. Satisfied by the trickle of blood that oozed from the cut, she turned her attention to the recalcitrant girl.


"You could have a least said you were sorry," Elsabeth said.


The girl squirmed and screamed into the gag.


Elsabeth frowned and placed the tip of the knife against the girl's cheek. "You should have listened, Erik. You know I don't like you getting your sneakers muddy." She drew the point across the ashen skin. The girl lunged back, away from the blade. The chair's front legs rose off the rug. Elsabeth grabbed the girl's shirt and pulled her back. "Now, now," she said and waggled the knife in the girl's face, "Running away is no solution." She dragged the knife from the girl's hairline to the tip of her nose and then across her forehead, forming a cross. "God-fearing folks behave the best. Did you know that?" The girl's eyes widened, and tears streamed down her cheeks.


Elsabeth left the room and returned wearing a yellow slicker and drinking from a dark-colored glass. She cradled a roll of plastic in her armpit. The hand holding the knife hung at her side. She walked to the girl and held the glass out. The girl shook her head. Elsabeth shrugged.


"I wouldn't let you wear sweatshirts. Is that why you left, Erik?" She placed the glass on the table. "I guess I should have known you would start wearing stuff like that, since you refused to keep your shoes clean." She laid the knife next to the glass and unrolled the plastic. "And it makes me really angry that you disobeyed me over and over and over." She placed the plastic on the carpet around the chair. "I told you the last time what would happen if you didn't stop." She picked up the knife and tested the sharpness once again. "And you still wouldn't listen." Standing over the girl, her hand caressing the knife, she said, "And just like last time, you leave me no choice."







Saturday, November 19, 2011

Flash Jab Challenge #8

Barely Worn

(Photo: (c) 2011 Kim Britt of Kim Britt Photography)


Due to a glitch in the newsletter, I've had to post the topic image for Flash Jab Challenge #8 here.



Here are the protocols:


1) Use above photo


2) 750 words or less


3) Please don't plagiarize


4) Get it back to me within the next two weeks or sooner


5) With the authors' permission, stories get posted at Flash Jab Fiction


6) This is a writer's exercise done for fun; no fees, no pay, just a byline and you keep the all rights. (Please notify me if you sell it so I can yank it from the blog.)


7) Embed the story in an email and shoot it to me at jacktheauthor@gmail.com (Bloody Knuckles reserves the right to post or not to post a story.)





















Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Flash Jab #7

Get Away

This month's response comes from frequent contributor AJ Hayes. I like the Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid slant, if Butch and Sundance did it all in heels and backwards.


Road Show
by AJ Hayes

"Hey Pete," Harry said.

Pete looked up from adjusting his black rhinestone bustier and rolled the CubaƱo Supremo to the left side of his mouth.

"Yeah?" He said, puffing smoke.

"Here. Get rid of that stubble. You look a fright."

Harry's Norelco spun through the air catching the sun.

Pete laughed and buzzed the shaver over his face. Adjusted the Streisand wig. Checked the belt on his M60. The 7.62 NATO caliber rounds glinted brassy bright.

"You ain't lookin' too good either, Miz Minelli. Those double Dees of yours are headed North and South at the same time," he said. "The kids make it over?"

Harry checked over his shoulder while he tightened the straps of his red lace bra. The wide, steel girder bridge behind him was empty.

"Over the crest and into the arms of the Feds . . . almost" He concentrated on getting the Crimson Passion #3 perfectly bowed on his lips. "Hear the trucks?" He slung the grenade launcher comfortably in his arms.

"Yeah. Fuckin' Cartel boys got here too quick. Kids got another hundred yards of bridge to cross before they hit the border. Damn." Pete settled the yellow vinyl mini skirt a bit lower on his hips. "Guess we gotta buy 'em some time."

Three military trucks blew a dust cloud at the far end of the bridge. All three disgorged heavily armed men.

"How many you figure, Liza?" Pete said.

Harry blew a strand of black hair out of his eyes. "Maybe sixty," he said. "Think we can hold 'em, Babs?"

"Sure. Maybe. I don't know." Pete yelled over the clatter-chatter of the machine gun. "Only promise me something?"

"What's that, sweetie?" Harry sent a couple of grenades arching into the blue sky, causing the running men to hit the deck.

"Next time we book a gig in Mexico, make sure it doesn't turn into cartels and thirty missing kids headed for bad times down south. Could ya do that for me, darlin'?"

"Sure," Harry said. "Wait a minute. It was you that booked --"

A mortar round exploded fifty yards short of the stalled getaway truck they were using for cover.

"We'd better boogie, Liza," Pete said.

Two more rounds dropped in behind them scattering steel slivers and bridge fragments into the air.

"Guess our exit stage left is out, Babs," Harry said. "But that means the kids are safe now." He nodded at the M60. "You got any ammo for that machine gun?"

"Nope," Pete said. "You?"

Harry checked his bandolier for grenades. "Nope," he said. "And I broke a friggin' nail too."

"Well," Pete said. "We always got these." He pulled off his Bad Girl Red Manolo Blahnicks and studied their ten inch spike heels. "Let's go shred us some bad guys."

Harry grinned. "Always leave 'em laughing," he said.






Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The One That Got Away- Flash Jab Challenge #6




AJ Hayes lives in a small town east of San Diego California. Nothing much happens there, so he makes up stuff that should. His stories and poems have been published in Pulp Ink (a noir anthology full of crackerjack writers edited by the heroic Chris Rhatigan and the suave Nigel Bird -- available now at Amazon. Com.) A Twist Of Noir, Eaten Alive, The Black Heart Noir Issue ( on sale at Amazon,Com also), Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Title Fights, Appolo's Lyre, Muck and Muse, Flash Shot, Bloody Knuckles, The Killing Pandemic and the upcoming anthology, Off The Record, edited by Luca Vestre.

After Ever
by AJ Hayes




They said his mama was a Voudoun princess, bride of Lord Legba. They said he was born in the middle of a crossroads corner in a howling midnight storm. They said all that, but I discounted their words because, after all, they were just alley kids in an orphanage jostling each other for scraps the white folks threw.





I wish I had listened. I took him home and raised him proper. I dressed him in sailor suits and read him bedtime stories every night. We were, in every way, a normal family.





Until, one night, I read him The Three Little Pigs and he went outside and blew our house down.

Flash Jab Challenge #6: Patricia Anthony

The One That Got Away- Flash Jab Challenge #6



Patricia Anthony and Stephanie Johns are psuedonyms of Pat Bates and Tony Lucchi when they are writing adult erotica. The two buddies have collaborated on screenplays under their real names over the years, winning writing awards from festivals and even garnering an option. Thier current project is a YA dystopian novella series currently under review.

Broken Contract

by Patricia Anthony and Stephanie Johns

“Those damn Rascals are killing us at the box office,” Max Harrison said. He pointed the butt end of his cigar into the face of his diminutive star. Maybe if Bobby Knapp had been an actual child he might have cried. Instead, Knapp slapped away the cigar hand.

“It ain’t my fault,” Knapp said. He winked at the young actress holding a script. She blushed and went back to reading.

“D’hell it ain’t, you little shit,” Max said. “I’m paying you twenty-five dollars a day to be Little Percy Mercy, the Wandering Orphan Boy. You aren’t Rudy Valentino.”

“I’m sick of playing a seven year old. I look like a Kewpie doll in this friggin’ sailor suit.”

“You’re three feet of nothing, Knapp, and you’re under contract. You think you’re going to play anything else except a wet-nosed brat you better write, direct, and produce it yourself.”

“Maybe that’s just what I’m gonna do,” Knapp said. He went over to the canvas chair next to the actress playing his nanny.

“What are you talking about, Bobby?”

“Got your attention now, eh, Maxie?”

“Come on, Bobby. Don’t yank my chains. You got the deal with Warners?”


Bobby flashed him his Percy Mercy grin of redemption; damned if he didn’t look like a Kewpie. “Warners is giving me carte blanche, Maxie. They bought my idea for a shorts series called Small Town Dick. I play the lead, Devin Smart, the gadabout private eye. I get final script approval, an associate producer credit, and ten percent of tickets nationwide.”

The cigar drooped in Max’s mouth. “When do you start?”

Knapp put a hand on the actress’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “Let’s just say ‘Seaside Sailor’ will be Percy Mercy’s swan song.”

No truer words had ever been spoken.

Knapp was a no-show the next morning and Max fumed. The cast and crew openly gossiped that Knapp had walked out on his end of the Wandering Orphan contract so that he could start sooner on Small Town Dick. The rumor mill had barely gotten a chance to grind when everyone heard a shriek from the shore.

Standing over what looked like a beached porpoise was the young actress from the day before. She trembled, her hands up over her mouth. They barely subdued her screams. Later, everyone agreed it was Max who led the charge.

“Isn’t that—I mean I think it’s—.” She couldn’t finish her thoughts. All she could do was point a shaky finger at the body.

Max knelt next to the figure and pulled off the seaweed.“It’s Bobby Knapp, the Wandering Orphan.” Max put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder and bowed his head. Behind him, the others bowed their heads.

Max looked up into the teary eyes of the cute young actress, too cute, actually, to have been with a slug like Knapp. Max shook his head. “We need to call the police. Someone go up to the lodge and call for the locals. Go on now, all of you head back.”

The young actress gasped. Max studied her. “You should go, too, -- miss."

“Linda.” She flashed him a perky, inviting smile. “McBain.”

Max smiled back. “Linda. After all, you’re the one who found the body. The police will want to ask you questions.”

“Will there be reporters?”

“I imagine,” Max said.



Linda McBain puckered up a smile and turned to go. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. The Santa Anna wind caught her naturally red hair and lifted it off her bare shoulders and Max saw his next leading lady.

“He was a good man,” she said.

“He was indeed.”

Linda turned completely around to face him. Her breasts practically burst from behind her white halter with the red polka dots. “Funny, but you didn’t say as much last night.”

Max bit down a little harder on his cigar. He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You heard us discussing his contract.”

Linda McBain walked back to him. She ran a finger along his shirt. “What I heard was no one walks out on Maximilian Harrison. I think you should know, Mr. Harrison, I will never walk out on a contract or on you.”

He liked the ways her lips pouted when she said ‘you’. “He was alive when I left him, Miss McBain.”

“He wasn’t, but no one needs to know that, do they?” She gave him a wink before she went back to the lodge.

‘Oh yeah,’ he thought. ‘She’s gonna be a star.’









Sunday, October 2, 2011

Flash Jab #6

The One That Got Away



AJ Hayes lives in a small town east of San Diego California. Nothing much happens there, so he makes up stuff that should. His stories and poems have been published in Pulp Ink (a noir anthology full of crackerjack writers edited by the heroic Chris Rhatigan and the suave Nigel Bird -- available now at Amazon. Com.) A Twist Of Noir, Eaten Alive, The Black Heart Noir Issue ( on sale at Amazon,Com also), Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Title Fights, Appolo's Lyre, Muck and Muse, Flash Shot, Bloody Knuckles, The Killing Pandemic and the upcoming anthology, Off The Record, edited by Luca Vestre.



After Ever




by AJ Hayes



They said his mama was a Voudoun princess, bride of Lord Legba. They said he was born in the middle of a crossroads corner in a howling midnight storm. They said all that, but I discounted their words because, after all, they were just alley kids in an orphanage jostling each other for scraps the white folks threw.




I wish I had listened. I took him home and raised him proper. I dressed him in sailor suits and read him bedtime stories every night. We were, in every way, a normal family.



Until, one night, I read him The Three Little Pigs and he went outside and blew our house down.


(c) 2011 AJ Hayes

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Flash Jab #5



Flash Jab Challenge #5 comes to Bloody Knuckles from our good friend Jim Harrington who, as he said in his submission, skipped the the first 690 words and cut to the chase.








The Posse

by Jim Harrington

Every able-bodied male in the county volunteered to help find the Andrews boy. He was the second child to disappear in the past four months.

I neglected to tell the men two things: I'd already found his body, and I didn't have a suspect. I would have, though, when the killer tried to steer his group away from the gorge by the Franklin farm.





Flash Jab #5


"Suspects"

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Flash Jab Challenge #5

Suspects





Due to a glitch in the newsletter, I've had to post the topic image for Flash Jab Challenge #5 here.



Here are the protocols:

1) Use above photo

2) 750 words or less

3) Please don't plagiarize

4) Get it back to me within the next two weeks or sooner

5) With the authors' permission, stories get posted at Flash Jab Fiction

6) This is a writer's exercise done for fun; no fees, no pay, just a byline and you keep the all rights. (Please notify me if you sell it so I can yank it from the blog.)

7) Embed the story in an email and shoot it to me at jacktheauthor@gmail.com




(Bloody Knuckles reserves the right to post or not to post a story.)

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

House Fire by Katt Dunsmore

Tonya "Katt" Dunsmore is an American short story writer and illustrator. Her stories and essays have appeared in Crime and Suspense Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, Flashshots, Mouth Full of Bullets, Associated Content, Silver Moon Magazine, and Bewildering Stories, and in the anthologies, The EX-Factor: Justified Endings to Bad Exes (Koboca Publishing, 2006) and Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 (Pill Hill Press, 2011). Her illustrations and graphics have appeared in several publications and the internet. For more information about her art work, you can contact Katt at hawkzkatt@aol.com.

Katt is married to her beloved husband, Dinny, and they have three children: Kitra, John, and Thomas. They make their home in northern South Carolina with their Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix, Briscoe, and their feline companion, Sixx.

House Fire

By Katt Dunsmore

Jerry watched from a distance as the black bloom of smoke rose against the overcast sky. He could almost see the firemen in their bright yellow gear rushing around with hoses and axes, trying to put out the fire and save whoever might be within the blazing inferno. He could hear sirens screaming as ambulances came rushing to render aid to those who might need it. He could imagine the police officers holding back the neighbors as they came out to watch the house burn. News crews would be on the way to catch the drama for the 6 o’clock news.

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson would rush home from work to find their home in flames, gutted by fire, all of their belongings ruined by smoke and water. Some lucky photographer from the newspaper would catch Mrs. Thompson sobbing and would have an award winning front page photo. Mr. Thompson would catch her as she collapsed against him in grief. He might even cry himself.

Arson investigators would crawl through the wreckage of the Thompson house while they tried to find out what had caused the fatal fire. Ultimately they would decide that Bobby, the Thompsons’ 12 year old son, had been playing with matches in the garage when the fire got away from him. Sadly, Bobby wouldn’t have been able to get out in time to save himself.

Bobby would never steal his army men again.

© Copyright 2011 Tonya D Dunsmore. All rights reserved.





Distant Fire


Flash Jab #4

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Members Only by Andrew Waters

Flash Jab Challenge #3 was written by Andrew Waters, a nonprofit manager in Salisbury, North Carolina, with a two-pack habit and an unhealthy Raymond Chandler fixation. He is the editor of On Jordan’s Stormy Banks: Georgia Slave Narratives, published by John F. Blair, Publisher. Job well done, Andrew!

Members Only
by Andrew Waters
Isaac snuck out of the condo where his older cousins played video games and headed for the beach, through the opening in the dunes. He walked past the sign that said, “Guests and Members of the Dunes Resort Only.” Afternoon thunderstorms had passed but the beach was still empty. Not even Dusty, the Dunes’ beloved umbrella man had returned to his post. But the boy from the day before, the one with the metal detector was waiting for him.
The only other person around was the man who sold drinks from a cooler attached to his bike. He was rinsing his cooler in the faucet where Dunes’ guests washed their feet. The sight of the boy startled him. The day before Isaac spent an hour following him around, hoping for a turn with the metal detector. About the same time the kid told him to “get the fuck away from him,” Isaac sensed the detector didn’t even work.
“Guess what?” the kid asked. He was a few years older than Isaac, maybe twelve or thirteen.
Isaac resisted the urge to run away. Something about the kid scared him. “What.”
“I saw Dusty ripping people off yesterday. He was taking wallets and shit. You should tell somebody.”
This was unimaginable. During his family’s two decades of vacationing at the Dunes, Dusty was the one constant, a mythological figure in family lore. Yet the kid seemed confident in his accusation. Isaac said, “OK,” and turned to walk back to the condo, eager to get away.

He struggled with this secret knowledge and kept to himself for the rest of the day. No one noticed. He was here with his Aunt Sheila and Uncle Roger because his parents were staying home this summer to “work things out.” His aunt and uncle spent their days under the beach umbrella, getting drunk, while their sons, Jason and Andy, both high schoolers, played video games in the condo, rarely giving Isaac a turn. But word spread through the resort that several thefts had occurred, and the next morning, Roger realized cash was missing from his wallet. Isaac told Andy he thought Dusty was the thief, and within the hour, Roger, his breath already smelling of beer, was forcefully leading Isaac back to the condo.
“Did you see Dusty taking my money?” Roger asked. Isaac was scared by the aggression in his uncle’s voice. He sensed telling about the boy with the metal detector would only make him angrier.
The police came and escorted Dusty off the beach. The next day Andy told Isaac they searched Dusty’s car and apartment but found nothing. “How could you do that to Dusty?” his cousin lamented. “After all he’s done for our family.” Uncle Roger wouldn’t even speak to Isaac for the rest of the trip.

Water's Edge
Flash Jab Challenge #3

Isaac missed his mother and father. He missed his home. His aunt, at least, still fed him, but even she avoided him outside of this basic requirement. Two days later, their last day of vacation, he asked her if he could go for a walk. She said yes without looking at him.
He wandered east, toward the beach town in the distance. He walked and walked, past the resorts and high-rise condos, past the luxury beach homes, to a section of run-down motels, tiny beach shacks crammed onto small lots, a smattering of mobile homes. The crowd here was rougher, what his mother would call “blue collar,” sitting in their own chairs or stretched out on tiny towels in the sand. There he saw the boy, sitting in the wet sand in cut-off jeans, almost directly in his path at the edge of the tide. “Why did you lie to me?” Isaac asked. “You made me get Dusty in trouble.”
The boy stared at him blankly for a moment, then with recognition, laughed cruelly. “Look who it is,” he sneered, then added, “Members only on this beach rich boy. Get the fuck out of here.”
Isaac heard another laugh and looked up to find the man who sold drinks sitting a few feet away staring at him. “You heard what he said. Members only here,” the man said. Isaac felt fear mixing with desperation. The man and the boy were still staring at him, menacing him with their eyes. He wished he could fly away, back to his parents, his house. Instead he turned and began the long trudge back to the Dunes, shimmering white in the far distance.

(c) 2011 Andrew Waters

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire by Jim Harrington

Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His recent stories have appeared in Flashshot, A Twist of Noir, The Short Humour Site, Dark Valentine, Flash Fiction Offensive, and others. Jim's Six Questions For blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.”

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
by Jim Harrington

Johnny and I sat in these windows everyday after school, like a pair of twin tabbies. We started when we were six, watching the other kids play stickball, and kickball, and flag football in the street. We couldn’t join them. Dad said we weren’t to go outside until he got home from work. He didn’t give us a reason, but we knew it was because mom got hit by a delivery truck while jaywalking and talking on her cellphone.

We ate snacks--Ritz crackers, or Wheat Thins, or dried fruit--as Mrs. Browning walked her yappy Yorkie, Lady Gladys. Mr. Jameson would wave on his way to the lobby to deliver the mail. Ratty Ron--that’s what we called him--played his taped-up saxophone on the corner. He wasn't very good, but a few folks dropped money into the hat lying uninterested by his feet.

We were on the seventh floor and the windows didn’t open, so we took turns having a conversation with each one of them. We agreed we didn’t like Mrs. Browning much, nor Lady Gladys. They both walked with their noses in the air and ignored everyone else, including us.

One Wednesday afternoon, when we were ten, a firetruck, it’s siren screaming for blocks, came to a halt across the street. Six firemen in black and yellow coats and hats--three in the cab and three on the back--jumped off the truck and rushed through the door, almost knocking over a girl who dad ordered us to stay away from because she was a hooker. There was smoke coming out of Mrs. Browning’s apartment. We noticed it, but didn’t call 911. We just waited to see what would happen. The only fireman wearing a white hat stared up at us. We moved away from the windows, afraid he might come and ask us questions. We didn’t want him to know what we knew.

Johnny brought some crack home from school on our sixteenth birthday. I told him he was crazy and that I wouldn't try it, but he called me a chicken. The walls started changing shapes, and then I saw the delivery truck that killed mom. I pushed it. Once. Twice. A third time. The truck crashed through the window. Shards of glass flew beside it in slow motion. I stuck my head outside, saw the truck lying on its back on the sidewalk, its legs bent at odd angles, and smiled. Dad would be proud of me.

The police came. They took me to the hospital and one of them waited in my room until I could talk to him. Dad was there, too. The policeman asked him to leave, but dad refused. That’s when the officer told us about Mrs. Browning seeing me push Johnny out the window.

“The bitch is lying,” I screamed. “She never liked us.”

Dad laid his hand on my arm. I continued to yell until a nurse came in and gave me a shot.

I got home about an hour ago. Dad had to go back to work, but he asked his sister, Aunt Jessie, to stay with me. She hadn't arrived by the time he left, but that was okay. I needed to decide how I was going to make Mrs. Browning tell the truth, and what I would do to her if she didn't. Her and Lady Gladys.

I asked Johnny, and he said a smoke bomb wouldn't do this time. It needed to be a real fire. I perched by the window and waited for Mrs. Browning and Lady Gladys to finish their late morning walk. Our new plan wouldn't be any fun if the two of them weren't home.
---
(c) 2011 Jim Harrington



Windows

(Topic for Flash Jab Challenge #2)





Thursday, June 2, 2011

Promises by AJ Hayes

Promsies by AJ Hayes was this month's entry from the first ever Flash Bang Challenge at my newsletter, Bloody Knuckles. The topic was a picture of the 1940s era bathing beauty located in older post here at the Hard Nosed Sleuth. The prose is down right sinister. Enjoy. I did! (The story originally appeared at the Hard Nosed Sleuth.)

 
I saw her first on the terrace next to mine at the Biltmore. She was reclining on an Adirondack chaise, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, long legs burnished by the winter sun. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I snapped her picture with my Speed Graphic, worried that the sharp click and fast whirr of the shutter would wake her. But she slept on. She was perfection.

That night I saw her in the bar and bought her a drink. She was vivacious and even prettier than I had thought. During the course of the evening I learned that she was from back East and, like most of the pretty girls in Los Angeles, desperately trying to get into the movies. "Just a break, "she said. "Just one little break."

I smiled at her over my martini and told her I thought I had a part for her. Two parts, actually. A dual role. One that could make her famous overnight.

"Like Lana Turner?" she asked, her eyes bright with laughter.

"Even more famous than that," I said. "A hundred years from now, no one will remember Lana. But everyone will remember you."

"Promise?" She asked.

"Promise." I answered.

The barbiturate I'd slipped in her drink hit her pretty hard so I had to half carry her out of the bar. No one noticed. The L.A. of nineteen-forty-seven was a wide open town, filled with post-war celebration and excess.

I took her to my studio in the valley. In those days it was an empty, desolate place where they used to shoot westerns and jungle movies. The only habitations were widely scattered ranches and a couple of movie star estates hidden behind high fences and thick hedges.

She partially woke just as I finished suspending her. Her hair barely brushed the sawdust covered floor of the old barn I used for my art. Even upside down she was beautiful.

Her voice was slow and slurred when she asked what I was doing.

I didn't bother saying anything. She got the idea when I made my first cut. Her screams were as bright as her laughter.

I had an advantage back then. To the cops I was just another free lance photographer scuttling around the city. Hanging on and hoping for the shot that would take me to the big leagues. Not worth noticing. Invisible.

I took her from the trunk of my car, arranged her properly on the vacant lot and shot my photos. Then I waited for dawn to bring the first sirens. When they came I raced to my paper and stunned the morning editor with the first pictures of my creation. He stopped the presses and featured them on the front page, above the fold, under screaming seventy-two point headlines.

I kept my promises to her. She did play in two parts. Well, her carefully separated body did anyhow. And she is more famous than Lana Turner ever was.

I still have the photograph of her on that hotel terrace. I look at it almost every day. She was beautiful then and she is beautiful now. None of my other works compare.
(c) AJ Hayes 2011

Bathing Beauty
(Source for Flash Jab Challenge #1)