Flash Jab Fiction is written by fans of pulp and speculative fiction. It is a no pay, no fee, writing-for-the-sake-of-writing type of gig. The stories are usually tough and raw and come from some of the bloodiest knuckles of the hardest punching crime fiction writers around today.

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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.