A Randomly Generated Jacket Blurb

Writer's block?
Algorithm for the distraction.

The Heavy Paperweight

A Mystery
by Jack Bates

The small, cold town of Row holds a secret.
Shelly Hope has the perfect life working as a pharmacist in the city and hiking with her warm boyfriend, Mark Tupp.
However, when she finds a heavy paperweight in her cellar, she begins to realise that things are not quite as they seem in the Hope family.
A Sorghum Festival leaves Shelly with some startling questions about her past, and she sets off to dark Row to find some answers.
At first the people of Row are bright and cheerful. She is intrigued by the curiously tender pizza chef, Larry Forton. However, after he introduces her to hard opiods, Shelly slowly finds herself drawn into a web of murder, blackmail and perhaps, even theft.
Can Shelly resist the charms of Larry Forton and uncover the secret of the heavy paperweight before it's too late, or will her demise become yet another Row legend?

Auto Praise for The Heavy Paperweight

"Who wouldn't give up a life of hiking with their warm boyfriend to spend a little time with a curiously tender pizza chef?"

- The Daily Tale

"About as mysterious as finding a poo in a public toilet. However, The Heavy Paperweight does offer a valuable lesson about not getting into hard opiods."

- Enid Kibbler

"The only mystery, is why did I keep reading after page one?"

- Hit the Spoof

"I could do better."

- Zob Gloop

HUGE ANNOUNCEMENT!

Drum-roll please! We are thrilled to announce the contributors to the 2018 Bouchercon Anthology!

Patricia Abbott, "When Agnes Left Her House"
J.D.Allen, "The Unidentifieds"
Jack Bates, "The Fakahatchee Goonch"
Lawrence Block, untitled as yet (it's a surprise!)
Susanna Calkins, Author, "Postcard for the Dead"
Reed Farrel Coleman, "The Ending"
Angel Luis Colón, "Muscle Memory"
Hilary Davidson Books, "Mr. Bones"
Brendan DuBois, "Breakdown"
John Floyd, "Frontier Justice"
Barb Goffman, "The Case of the Missing Pot Roast"
Greg Herren, "Cold Beer No Flies"
Eleanor Cawood Jones, "All Accounted for at the Hooray for Hollywood Motel"
John D. MacDonald, "The Hangover"
Paul D. Marks "There's an Alligator in My Purse"
Craig Pittman, "How to Handle a Shovel"
Neil Plakcy's Books, "Southernmost Point"
Alex Segura, "Quarters for the Meter"
Debra Lattanzi Shutika, "Frozen Iguana"
Holly West Books, "The Best Laid Plans"
Michael Wiley, "Winner"

We are immensely grateful to everyone who submitted stories. We had a record number of submissions, and choosing from this embarrassment of riches was a monumental task (that's a real quote from our editor, Greg Herren!).

We'll have more news about the anthology (including the cover, which the images below are not...we just needed fun pictures for this post) soon--stay tuned!

Gumshoe/BGirl Day

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

October 18.

Gumshoe/B-Girl Day!

Have a party celebrating the cinematic release of The Maltese Falcon!

Take pictures!

A Couple of Flash Jabs

Shattered

photo by Brittnay LaMeau

A pair of fine flash jabs are here for your enjoyment. 

The first is from Seana Graham. Seana Graham is a book reviewer and blogger living in Santa Cruz,

California. She writes short stories and longer fiction when she can fit
them in. Her most recent story "The Rival" was published by  the online
FlashFlood Journal on this year's National Flash-Flood Fiction Day in
June.

The second comes from Morgan Boyd. Also from Santa Cruz, California. He lives there with his wife and two cats.  He enjoys reading and writing crime fiction and spending time outdoors.

Enjoy the reads and leave our two guests some feedback.

Black and White and Red All Over

by Seana Graham

Flores the doorman led George over to show him where the accident had
happened. There was glass on the floor and a viscous clotted red substance
oozing out all over.  George blanched.

“Hombre!” Flores said, clasping his shoulder. “It’s not what you think.
It’s jelly.” He bent over to read a scrap of label still clinging to the
jar. “Red currant.”

“I know what it is,” George said. “I hate the stuff.”

“Well, hate it all you want, but get it out of here before someone else
complains.” Flores glanced toward the entrance and then rushed back to
greet one of the residents.

It wasn’t just the jelly, though, George thought. It was the black and
white floor, the shattered glass. It was like one of those reenactments
you saw on television—the scene of the crime.
***
When they were teenagers, George and his pal Eddie used to meet up in the
evening, pick some stranger out and follow them. When they started, it was
just for laughs. Once they’d followed a rich guy and stolen his umbrella
while he was preoccupied with a phone call. Another time they’d followed a
young mother with too many kids and swooped up a package she’d dropped
without even noticing.  At first it was fun, but after awhile it was just
too tame.

Eddie was the best at picking out the old and vulnerable. At first it was
just bums—some derelict would buy a bottle of cheap booze at a bodega and
they’d follow him to wherever he settled down to drink it. Roll him when
he passed out. It was easy, but barely worth their time, or that’s how
Eddie saw it.

It was George who noticed that it wasn’t just the bums but the elderly who
also shopped at the little corner markets. He wondered at their lives,
holed up in those warrenlike apartments and only scurrying out now and
then to get a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, some canned soup. Pathetic,
yes, but pathetic didn’t necessarily mean poor. Sure, some were just
living from one Social Security check to the next, but a few would have
some real money on them. One old lady had a roll of bills wedged in the
bottom of her purse. George tried not to think how it might be her life
savings, but Eddie only laughed. How could anyone be such a damn fool as
to carry around so much cash?

One night as they were scoping out a corner grocery, they saw a little old
man bundled up in an enormous coat walk in. Eddie had keen eyes and nudged
George when the old guy paid. “That’s the one,” he said.

George didn’t like it somehow, even from the beginning. But he’d picked a
lousy target the night before, an old lady who was sprier than they
thought and who’d chased them down the street hurling abuse, so he had to
go along with it.

They were relieved to find that the guy lived in a building with no
doorman. There was just a small ugly foyer with black and white tile and a
further door you had to have a key to, which is what the man was
struggling with when they’d come up on him from behind. Eddie shoved him
forward into the door, a technique he’d developed or maybe seen on some TV
show. He was proud of it. This time, though, the old man was pushed into
his own shopping bag, which burst, spilling its contents on the floor. A
jar exploded against the ground and a shard flew up, puncturing the old
man’s neck. He looked at them with alarmed and yet still somehow docile
eyes (George would never forget their meekness) and then slid slowly to
the floor. George knelt down to help him, which was when he saw the label
on the jar. Boyer’s Red Currant Jelly.

“Are you some kind of freakin’ idiot?” Eddie screamed. “Come on!” And so
they’d run out into the street and left the guy. They never did find out
what happened to him. Didn’t dare.

***
George swept the glass up and began to swab the floor. The jelly was all
gone now but the floor still pooled with red tinged water.

Some stains never really do come out, he thought, and sighed as he wrung
out the mop before dipping it again into the bucket of now slightly dirty
soap suds.

####################################

Enology (The Study Of Wine)

8/19/15

By Morgan Boyd

Every minute or so, the tiny apartment filled with screams from the nearby rollercoaster.  Raymond came in the front door, and set a bottle of wine down on a cluttered coffee table. 

“Rothschild, 2009,” he said, reading the label.

            “Where’d you get that?”  George asked with a Coors Light in his hand as the bass from a car stereo down the street vibrated the walls.  “You heard from Henry?  We ain’t supposed to leave until we get word.”

            “I ain’t heard from Henry.  My sister texted me, and said her piece of shit husband Steve was beating on her.  I went over there to straighten him out, gave him a new perspective on how to treat a woman. After he came around to my point of view, I took this bottle off his hands as compensation for my troubles.”

            “You show him what for?  Slap him around?”

            “When I got there, Steve was standing in the front yard wearing a gi all ganked out on yayo.  When I came at him, he tried some karate bullshit, but I smashed his nose.  We ended up inside.  He landed a few punches, but it was just a matter of time before I got my hands on him, and made him apologized to my sister.  Apologies are important to me.  They show a level of humility that I can respect.  I recommend the lit match near the eyeball technique.  I find it gets results.”

            “I like to show guys a picture of their moms.  You don’t have to say much.  They get onboard real quick.  That’s how I get results.”

            “I don’t like bringing the moms into it.  I can’t respect that.  This place got a corkscrew?” Raymond asked as a series of rising sirens warned of some nearby peril.

            “To each his own,” George said, staring at his phone.  “Try the drawer in the kitchen.  Google says this Rothchild is worth seven thousand dollars.”

            “Steve’s lucky he’s wealthy, and can afford to beat on my sister,” Raymond said, coming back with the corkscrew.  “Let’s see what rich people wine tastes like.”

            Raymond uncorked the wine, and almost chugged it straight from the bottle.

            “Hold up,” George said.  “You’re supposed to let it breath, pour it in a glass, swirl it around, sip but don’t swallow, taste the aromatic flavors, and spit it out.  Didn’t Henry teach you nothing?  He loves that shit.”

            “Nah, we never talked grapes.  This place got glasses?”  Raymond said, setting the bottle on the coffee table before walking back to the kitchen to investigate.

            George grabbed the bottle, and put it to his nose.  It smelled disgusting.  All wine smelled like garbage to George.  Henry had taught him a thing or two about vino, but it still tasted like trash to George. He stared at the label, sipping his Coors Light, and wondering how something so stupid could cost so much?  On the bottom left hand corner of the label, George noticed something faintly written in pencil.  He looked closer, and saw a name.

            “Hey Raymond,” George asked, standing up and pulling out his gun. “Remember that job we did using the chainsaw haircut technique?”

            “Sure, the hippy,” Raymond said, holding a plastic cup in each hand.  “We got results.”

            “Back then you told me you didn’t have a sister,” George said as a car horn honked out on the street.

Flash Jab Challenge

Shattered

All right! 

Time to write!

It's the September Flash Jab Challenge!

Here are the requirements:

1) Stories must be based on the above picture taken by the fabulous Ms. Brittany LaMeau.(She should not appear in your story. I'm just giving her props for the pic.)

2) Maximum 750 words

3) Due date September 30, 2015

4) Email to jacktheauthor@gmail.com (Please do not post story in comments.)

5) Flash Jab reserves the right to refuse a story for ethical, moral, and religious reasons. These don't have to be cozy but there are limitations to what I'll run.

6) Minor editing may be done before posting.

7) There is no prize. This is writing for the sake of writing. Readers may comment.

Pausing for AJ

When I started Flash Jab I had a kind of idea it would be a website for flash fiction with a noir twist. There were a bunch of other ones out there. I knew I was moving into a crowded market place. I started it for a variety of reasons but mostly because when I retire from my day job, I wanted to have something to do.

Somewhere along the way I crossed paths with a guy named AJ Hayes. He may have been the first guy to ever submit to an open call. He quickly became a favorite here. Five of his pieces are archived. All you have to do is search the contributor's column to the right of this post. Each one resonates. He could really pack a punch in a few words.

I always enjoyed his comments to other contributors. In fact, if AJ posted I knew I had chosen a good set of flash jabs. I waited to see what constructive criticism he'd leave for veteran writers or newbies. The criticisms were never trite, never bogus. He could be both supportive and critical in a single response.

It's been a while since I posted here. It's been an even longer while since I put out a call for flash jabs. I checked on the last one several times just to see if there were any responses. I had chosen what I thought was a really good subject from a very talented photographer. I had gotten a mixed bag of flash jabs and I had posted what I thought were very solid stories.

One thing that was missing was the usual response from AJ.

A few weeks went by. The weeks become months. Still nothing from AJ. I figured he was working on something else or his attention was with a new website or project. One of the Yahoo groups he and I belonged to was no more. I didn't see him responding at the other one we had in common. We all get busy. I always assumed at some point he'd submit a piece for the next drabble or flash challenge or he would respond to someone's contribution.

I've always been under the impression social media shrank the world, made news sharing faster and more prevalent.

I was wrong.

Somehow I missed his passing last year. I feel awful about it and I never even met him outside of this virtual world. I never heard him speak. Never shook his hand or shared a soda pop with him. Yet I feel like I did have those experiences with him, that we did shoot the sh*t with our elbows on the bar, our feet on the rail, our voices loud and boisterous.

I miss his presence in these circles. And man, could that guy write.

AUTUMN DRABBLES

photo courtesy of Catherine Bertrand

 https://www.facebook.com/CMBArts

I asked.

You wrote.

Now read.

R U M O U R E D

~ by Absolutely*Kate

Came a time one night light flickered faster than sleet. White light. Easy to tell Good Guys from Bad Guys light. So I thought. So she thought.

We thought wrong. It’s a pisser when illumination screws with shadow-vision. Illusions? They’re more cracked up to be what they flicker to be. But when light beams its pompous prevail? Bloody hell. Get outta there!

Good thing we did. Why I’m tellin’ this tale. Vern Volt was an electrician with a spark to grind. Rumour was he crossed currents in 2-B so roomers were not to be. We pulled the plug on him.

SHOULDA KNOWN

~by John Clark

“Boy I could use some of that polar whatsit crap, but there's no way in hell I'll score any. Not a chance. Serves me right for hanging with a bunch of stoners all day. Knew it was a dumb idea. After the first hit, I kinda lost sight of the time. The gang blew town before this freezing crap hit. Can't blame them. Temperature's gotta be close to freezing and that damn wind is gonna knock me on my ass.”

Sadly not a soul was watching as sleet knocked the dazed Luna Moth from the lamp post and into oblivion.

SEE YOU TONIGHT

~by Lance Zarimba

The light glowed from his apartment window.  She could see it from across the street.

She knew he was home. The night's mist chilled her, and she pulled the trench coat tighter.

He told her she was his only one.

His silhouette filled the window, and then there were two. They embraced and kissed.

“My Mother is coming to visit. I can't see you tonight.”

Your Mother, my ass.

She headed to the front door of his building.

He would see her tonight.

Her hand clenched around the handle of the knife in her pocket.

He would see her now!

 THE ONLY LIGHT

~by Kaye George

He was drawn to the lone streetlamp like a moth to a flame. Most of the street lay in inky darkness. The rain had soaked through his hoodie and his jeans.

He turned his head to the windows overhead, the only ones that were lighted. The small head in the corner of the left one disappeared. Then reappeared.

The whiskey had addled his brain, or maybe it was the crack. He knocked on the door to see if she would let him in. Then he remembered. He had strangled her. How could she be looking out the window at him?

UNDER THE STREET LAMP

~by Carole Sojka

Crossing the square, I kept my head down, the sleet slashing me viciously. When I got near the house, lighted by the street lamp, something attracted my attention.   

A woman, dressed in black, leaned out of the open window on the third floor. If she jumped or fell, I knew she would die.

“Help me,” I heard. Then something dragged her back from the window.  I ran to the door and rang the bell. No response.

“Help,” I heard again, and something hurtled through the air and crashed at my feet. It was the body of the woman in black.

BEST SERVED COLD

– by Lucy Cameron

They said standing under the lamppost was a mistake, I’d be seen.

They missed the point.

I smile at his peeking shadow. The sleet dissolves on my skin. His brain whirls, racks through the past, searches for a younger version of my face.

From his slumber I’ll whisper, ‘Shhhh, don’t make a sound. You know you love it really.’

My nails will scratch his cheek, my breath burn his face. I’ll revel at my reflection in his black eyes as he did to me all those years ago. As he finished. And plunged in the knife. Not quite deep enough.

UNTITLED
- by Al P

Harry, barely five years old, fled from his mum's flat when she fetched the switch yet again. After a  breathless run in a pelting rain, he stopped and saw a blinding street lamp outside an apartment building. Squinting, he saw a huge helmeted English Bobbie standing watch. Harry thought the corner unit looked empty even though a light shone through it's window. But it was the next unit which confused him. That apartment showed a shadow sitting by the window. Harry couldn't decide if the shadow posed a threat or not. He was soaking wet. He stood there shivering, wishing he had brought a jacket and an umbrella.

About the Authors

Absolute Kate is just--- well--- absolute energy. Frantic comes to mind and that’s a bit of okay, okay?

John Clark is a librarian with an extensive mental health background. He lives in the 'other Maine', the one tourists never see, or avoid like the plague. When not writing or running a library, he reads, gardens and sells stuff for way too much money online.

Lance Zarimba lives in a haunted house that the man who invented Old Dutch potato chips built.  He wrote, Vacation Therapy, and three children's books: Oh No, Our Best Friend is a Zombie, Oh No, Our Best Friend is a Vampire, and Oh No, My Brother is Frankenstein’s Monster, and has over 100 short stories in print.

Kaye George, national bestselling and multiple-award-winning mystery writer, writes several series: Imogene Duckworthy, Cressa Carraway (Barking Rain Press), People of the Wind (Untreed Reads), and, as Janet Cantrell, Fat Cat (Berkley Prime Crime cozies). Her short stories appear in anthologies and magazines as well as her own collection, A Patchwork of Stories. Her reviews run in Suspense Magazine. She lives in Knoxville, TN.

http://kayegeorge.com/

Carole Sojka was a law office administrator before she started writing mysteries, the first of which is now available on Amazon.

Lucy Cameron lives in Scotland, enjoys writing, red wine and cheese - in any order. 

AUTUMN DRABBLE CHALLENGE

photo courtesy of Catherine Bertrand

 https://www.facebook.com/CMBArts

Guidelines:

1) Pieces must be 100 words exactly (not including title) and are to be based on the above picture.

2) Submit it to me at jacktheauthor@gmail.com by 11:59:59 pm October 15.

3) Selected drabbles will appear here

Summer Drabbles 2014

Below are the responses to Flash Jabs summer Drabble challenge. A drabble is a story that is exactly 100 words (not including the title.) Each drabble was based on the same photograph.

Shadows

Birthday Afternoon Dilemma

Colin’s shadow mirrored his movement as he passed the decaying wall. 
It reminded him of another, seven hundred miles away. His cousin and best friend's 
names were etched in its shiny black granite. What was it about walls anyhow? 
Did they keep you in or keep the world out?

He shrugged; it was too complicated for him to figure out. 
This was his daughter's birthday and if he was late, Norma would squeeze him for extra support as usual. 

No way did he want to disappoint a three year old. He waved goodbye to his shadow and hurried on.

-John Clark

Senior Games

We sat on the porch of Harmony House rocking, and drinking iced tea. Bertram
pointed to a shadow on the wall across the street and said, "Like clouds,
you can see different things in shadows.

 "Let's try the shadow behind that man at the bus stop."

I said okay; the others thought it was silly.

Bertram said. "It's a man carrying a box with an arrow through his neck."

Before I could go the man fell over and I could see someone had shot an
arrow through his neck.

"Good guess," Bertram said, backing into the home with a bow.

-Paul Beckman

Hot Summer Nights

I had a wife named Maria.  Our red sedan entered the intersection on green.  Robert Green was drunk.  His blue pickup entered the intersection on red.  Maria died that hot summer night.  Robert Green went to prison.  I went to a different kind of prison.  Robert Green educated himself.  I intoxicated myself.  Robert Green was paroled and found a wife named Sarah.  I had a wife named Maria.  On a hot summer night, Robert Green left his window unlocked.  The shades were drawn and my silhouette materialized among the shadows of branches.  Now Robert Green has no wife named Sarah.

- Morgan Boyd


Untitled 

Raymond Brown's friends had disappeared and he was walking alone now with his head down, dragging his heavy sack behind him. Raising his eyes, he peered at a sudden gigantic shadow which stretched across the street and climbed half-way up the back of a house. How menacing that dark figure looked. He grabbed his phone and snapped a picture. Checking the photo, a big smile spread across his face. How menacing that dark figure looked. Wait until everybody saw all his candy, and the awesome shadow which made his Batman costume look ten feet tall. This was going to be the best Halloween ever!   

-Al Parrot

The Colour of Shadows 

The boy wonders what it would be like if shadows had colour. Would angry shadows be red? Happy shadows yellow? Would a shadow cast in spring be fresh and green? He forgets himself for a moment and smiles.

His father’s shadow looms up the wall, crisper in sunlight. The boy does not need to see the restraints to know they are there. 

‘Come out come out wherever you are, I can see you.’ Father’s voice echoes off the brickwork. The boy’s smile dries, sticks his upper lip to his teeth.

If shadows had colour his father’s would still be black. 

-Lucy Cameron

SUMMER DRABBLE

Shadows

What? 

Summer is almost here?

All that time on your hands.

What to do? What to do...

How about writing a Drabble?

The rules for the challenge are simple:

 1)100 words exactly (not including title)

2) Use this picture as the inspiration for you piece

3) Submit to me at jacktheauthor@gmail.com before 11:59:59 pm on June 1

4) There's no money involved. 

5) Drabbles chosen will be posted on or around June 2

6) You keep all rights and allow me to post your piece for the world to read.

7) If you later find another market, I will remove your story

February Drabbles

I asked. You answered. Here the responses to the first Drabble challenge of 2014. The 100 word stories were based on a photo from my friend, Sarah Bevan.

Read. Enjoy. Leave some support in the comments.

Distance 

(c) 2014 Sarah Bevan

Lot’s wife turned to salt when she looked back on Sodom. Once, Ellie thought the farm was Sodom, or some other unimaginable place where all that was good and just fell to evil men. John was the devil encased in overalls and farmer charm. Blood streaked overalls; the neighbors thought chicken or pig, never wife, scarred beneath the dress.

Two angels descended last night with ski-masks, their swords pump action. They didn’t come to rescue her, but the rescue of Lot’s wife wasn’t the point. They told her not to look back.

She looked back. She didn’t turn to salt.

-Liam McSweeny

Liam Sweeny is an author and disaster relief volunteer from Upstate NY.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 Jennifer prayed this was the right farm.  They all looked alike. Three hours of walking already and more hours to return home.  She had to see Frank, but didn't realize his farm was so distant. She was hungry and already getting tired. Her feet ached. The trip was more arduous and colder than expected, and she was wearing thin flats, a long dress and light sweater. Drawing closer, she recognized Frank's battered pickup truck. Striding to the farm house and removing her sweater to show him his unborn daughter, Jennifer removed her gun from her shoulder bag and rang the bell.

-Al Parrot

Al Parrott is a retired phys. ed. teacher whose first goal is to have a short story published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

_________________________________________________________________________________

From a distance, the farm looked perfect. Waving grass glittered in the sunlight. She watched a meadowlark take flight, a silhouette against the sky. The beat of its wings matched the beat of her racing heart. She followed its flight until it reached the trees. “Freedom,” she whispered. That was what she wanted. The wind carried the smell of cows and manure to her nostrils. She looked down to the milking barn and saw her mother and father slogging buckets through the mud. “No turning back,” she said, “I’ve got to go now.” And she turned back toward her car.

-Jennifer Beatty

Jennifer Beatty lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband and three kids.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Halfway down the hill she took her shoes off. The hurt in her heart made the blisters pale in comparison. She sat on a weather-beaten log and stared down at the farm, not really seeing anything. She was too busy reliving their last conversation. It had been so brief, confusing and unexpected she wondered whether she'd been hallucinating. 1500 miles lay between this terrible pain and home where she could hide until the ache faded to numbness. Getting here had seemed so full of anticipation, but now, she was faced with reality. The magic was gone, and so was he.

-John Clark

John R. Clark is a Maine librarian, book reviewer and author of YA fiction and short crime stories.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Belinda paused to stare at the distant farm buildings, a refuge she hoped. The ad requested a nanny to take care of three young children. His wife a victim of cancer, he couldn’t run the farm and raise the kids alone.

The sounds of laughter put a smile on Belinda’s face. The smell of dormant fields and the bleats of sheep greeted her from afar. It seemed the perfect place to hide, to escape her own father. She inhaled a deep breath, let it out, and continued toward her new home, the gun in her purse adding to her confidence.

-Jim  Harrington

Jim is a father who never required the services of a nanny—thank goodness. Read more of his stories at http://jpharrington.blogspot.com/

________________________________________________________________________________

She’d been working on her G.E.D. in prison before they let her out. It was

just a way to pass the time. That’s how she’d learned about Zeno’s

Paradox, though, the one that said you could never get to your destination

because how could you cross the infinitude of points that came before it?

Later mathematicians came up with their own solutions to the problem. But

as she finally crossed that last short distance to the house where she’d

killed her stepfather (though pleading self-defense), Janna hoped that

somehow the old Greek philosopher had been right about it all along.

­­-Seana Graham

Seana Graham lives in Santa Cruz, California, where she writes blogs,

book reviews and, just occasionally, a short story or two.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"Looking Forward"
by John Weagly

            

She dyed her hair the color of wheat before she returned to the farm.

            

The homestead looked so small from the hill, smaller than when she'd disappeared.

            

Would they remember her?  Was five years too long?  Did they think she was dead?  The golden hair might help, they'd called her their "golden-haired girl" when they looked at photos from when she was born.

            

She hadn't understood them, and they couldn't comprehend her.  At that chaotic teenage time it's a common tale.  Running away to the city had seemed the only release.

            

Now returning home seemed the only salvation.

Drabble Challenge #1

Distance

The rules for the challenge are simple:

 1)100 words exactly

2) Use this picture as the inspiration for you piece

3) Submit to me at jacktheauthor@gmail.com before 11:59:59 pm on February 28.

There's no money involved. Stories chosen will be posted here.

Summer Drabbles

I asked. You responded. Sit back, read, and leave some praise!

The Oldest Ent

by Kaye George

The first sign was a slight twinge of pain at the core of his being. Then he noticed hordes of strange insects crawling up his trunk. He was used to the usual bugs, but these ate voraciously and nonstop.

 High winds came, and drenching, life-giving rain. But the insects kept coming.

 One day he realized that his core was gone, eaten away, nothing left of it. He peered down the length of his body through his glasses. The axe men were here.

 First, the yellow painted X. Then the chainsaws. Finally, he became a stump. They left him his glasses.

Kaye George, Guppy president, two-time Agatha Nominee/
Imogene Duckworthy Mystery series/
EINE KLEINE MURDER, now out!/
DEATH IN THE TIME OF ICE, coming in June from Untreed Reads/

FAT CAT cozy series, writing as Janet Cantrell, coming 2014/
http://kayegeorge.com/

Upon Reflection

by  John R. Clark

The jay thought the shiny thing on the fence post was his. Scolding skreaks battered my ears as I picked up the sadly familiar glasses. The last time I'd seen them, they had been perched on Uncle Jake's nose while I read over the biopsy report. When I finished, I knew what would happen, but not when.

After he'd been absent for three days, I headed to the lower pasture, his favorite part of the family farm, gut roiling because of the missing shotgun.

“Changed my mind, I can't go ugly.”

I smiled sadly and took him home to die.

John Clark, YA and mystery author is a Maine librarian who blogs regularly on the Maine Crime Writer's website.

  

S.H.C.

by Darren Sant

The press did their usual lazy job and simply called it S.H.C. The truth is no one knew where Joel disappeared to. Crazy theories spread through the neighborhood like fleas on a cat. Yes, he'd just been jilted at the altar. Yes, the woodland lodge he called home had been abandoned with the door ajar and Kenny Rogers playing.

But the best that Ford County Sheriff's Department could come up with when they found a just a pair of glasses and some smoking hiking boots? Well it had to be Spontaneous Human Combustion, didn't it?

http://www.darrensant-writer.yolasite.com

Street Justice

By Wayne Zurl

Jamal Willie Walker raped and murdered a six-year-old girl.

We traced him to a tenement in Brownsville.

I kicked in the door and my partner covered the room. As it swung open, Walker grabbed an automatic from the dinette table.

“Two against one,” I said. “No matter what you’re dead.”

“Whoa, Man. No trouble here.”

He raised his hands, still holding the pistol. Light reflected from his eyeglasses.

“Paul,” I said, “Go outside. Make sure those uniforms cover the fire escape. The window’s open.”

“What?”

“Close the door.”

Fifteen seconds later. “You burned that girl with a cigarette. Sayonara, sport.”

Wayne Zurl writes the popular Sam Jenkins crime stories for Mind Wings Audio.

Brother’s Keeper

By Katt Dunsmore

Marty leaned on his shovel, shoved his glasses up on his forehead, and wiped his face with a sweat stained bandana. Looking around, he shoved the bandana into his back pocket and started to dig.

Later, Marty stood waist deep in the hole he’d dug.

“I think this is good enough,” he said, and climbed out of the hole. He stepped over to a nearby tree trunk, took off his glasses, and set them down.

A moment later, a shot rang out. There was a thud.

Marty began to fill in the hole. He hated cleaning up after his brother.

© Copyright 2013 Tonya D Dunsmore. All rights reserved.

Katt Dunsmore is a Native American short story author, and an illustrator. You can find her on facebook and twitter.

Vergence

by Scott Dingley

I got old young.

Inheriting the farm after my folks died, I made my first trip back in years. By the edge of the corn field, I found my grandfather's eyeglasses in the dust.

The lenses dull, spidery.

I wrapped the wire arms around my ears.

Lost focus...

Visions: the man who wore these, bitter and violent; dad hiding out in the corn.

I hid too, ‘til dark. In the mirror, even with the eyeglasses discarded again, the old man stares back.

This happened yesterday. I been here ever since, never getting around to selling the place like I planned.

Scott Dingley is a London-based writer with a few novellas under his belt as well as some short fiction published by A Twist of Noir, Near to the Knuckle and 101 Fiction.