Flash Frenzy Round 74

Posted: August 15, 2015 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

Welcome back, Flash Dogs. Flash Frenzy Round 74 is now underway, and Voima Oy is your esteemed judge.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao

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Comments
  1. Brett says:

    Blood Stains (360 words)
    @brett_milam

    Blood was a pesky substance. It had a way of lingering, even after being blasted with ammonia. It was especially troublesome to get out of a carpet — it had a way of permeating deep into the fibers. No matter, I thought, Paul was oblivious and it was unlikely he’d look in the trunk.

    Not that there was a body there anymore — I didn’t make it this long by being stupid — but that pesky blood. Fortunately, the ammonia was certainly good at one thing: covering up the iron smell.

    “Dennis, did you hear me? I’m thinking of buying a new set of clubs. I’ve had these old, rusty things for too damn long, but of course, Joyce would bust my ass…,” Paul said, going on and on about his stupid golf activities.

    See, like most men our age, Paul had retired and taken up golf. He couldn’t hit my head from where he was standing with a driver, but he had committed to it. He liked to come out here to the Sonoran desert and hit a few balls out to the cacti. And drag me along with him.

    It was better than staying inside the house to watch Dianne slowly lose her mind to dementia, I guess.

    I, on the other hand, could never retire. I mean, sure, I retired from the Ford factory a few years ago, but retire from what was in that trunk last night? You don’t retire from that.

    “Where’s your set, Dennis? I bet you have a great set, what, with that Ford pension you’re drawing down,” Paul said, with a laugh and a slap to my left shoulder.

    Paul took a step toward my trunk, so I took a step in front of him.

    “Oh, come on, are you one of those guys? I won’t touch ‘em, I just wanna look,” Paul said.

    I looked around.

    “Let me pop the trunk, then,” I said.

    I popped the trunk and reached inside the driver’s side window and grabbed the old Army knife I kept under my seat.

    Of course, I could explain away the leftover blood, but this way was more fun.

  2. Stella T says:

    @stellakateT
    327 words
    #Flashdog

    Christine

    I’d watched that film it had a girl’s name. The car was a killer. It just mowed everything down, guts and gore everywhere. I’d sat hiding my eyes behind a cushion. Johnny laughed at me saying I was missing the best bits and tried to wrestle the cushion from me. I ended up bruised on the floor, if I hadn’t moved quickly I would have had a real shiner of a black eye. Johnny called them play fights my social worker calls it assault but I wouldn’t press charges didn’t seem right he’s my boyfriend after all.

    My social worker says I need to work on my self esteem. I deserve better. Not sure about that, can’t see Prince Harry come knocking on my door any time now. I’d have nothing nice to wear and his dad wouldn’t want him going out with me Christine from the council estate.

    When Jason from up the road asked if I wanted to sit in his new American car I knew he meant something else but the car reminded me of the one in that film. I sat in the driver’s seat whilst his hands roamed over my body. If you squint your eyes a little bit he looks like Prince Harry, well he has ginger hair.

    The police were really nice to me. I was in shock the paramedics said. I’d started up the car. Jason was giving me a driving lesson but I didn’t realise it was an automatic. Put my foot down just as Johnny came around the corner. Guts and gore just like that film. The police weren’t too bothered that I didn’t have a provisional driving license more interested in the drug stash in the boot. Jason will be in prison a very long time. My social worker says I’ve been very lucky. No injuries, no charges. After Johnny’s funeral she’s going to help me enrol at college. She says I’m cleverer than I think.

  3. stephellis2013 says:

    The Perfect Moment

    359 words

    @el_Stevie
    #Flashdogs

    It’s dark in here. I don’t like the dark. He gave me a blanket and I buried myself in it. Pretended I was hibernating. But it’s too hot. He’s stopped the car and I can hear seagulls. He never let me out before. Will today be the day?

    I can see the sun! The sky is so blue.

    “There it is, mama. There it is!”

    The girl is my age, all freckles and happy sunshine; pulling eagerly at her mother’s hand while I lie there and watch.

    “The sea, mama.” She is pointing excitedly at the sapphire jewel.

    “Yes, sweetheart,” her mother says. “But you know the rules.”

    “Yes, mama. Never go in on my own.”

    She casts her eyes down, works her foot disconsolately into the gravel. Her parents are busy with the picnic now. I spy the driver, her granddad, talking to the car park attendant.

    “I can go with you,” I whisper.

    Her eyes widen as she sees me. “I bet the water’s warm.”

    She looks towards her mother and then casts a longing gaze towards the sea. It’s so beautiful.

    “I am allowed to go if I have someone with me,” she murmurs.

    “Look how much fun everyone is having,” I say.

    She looks, sees smiling faces, hears the laughter. And that decides her.

    “Okay,” she says. “Come on.”

    And I leave my resting place and go with her into the water. Through her, I taste the salt, feel the ocean’s gentle kiss, sense the vastness and the freedom beyond. I want her to experience it, hold this perfect moment forever.

    So I guide her further out.

    She cries, suddenly frightened at the pull of the tide, the loss of sold ground beneath her feet.

    But I pull her into my embrace, soothe her fears and eventually her terror subsides and she is at peace.

    Now strong hands are pulling us out of the water. I see her mother screaming, father stunned, disbelieving, grandfather robotically putting their belongings in the boot. I am wrapped in my cocoon once more, back in the dark. He pauses and looks at my blanket. Does he remember me now?

    • Rebekah Postupak says:

      The creepiest line: “But I pull her into my embrace, soothe her fears and eventually her terror subsides and she is at peace.”

      Right up there with, “I’m your biggest fan.” Creepy McCreepy, Steph.

  4. Rebekah Postupak says:

    The Chevy

    The first time I saw him, he and my dad were haggling over the Chevy.

    “It’s for work,” he was saying. “I need something with a big trunk.”

    My dad eyed his bruised knuckles and cement-tinged shoes. “Everybody round here wants a big trunk. It’s all about big. Just ask Fatty over there, haha.”

    The man looked at me—everybody obeyed dad—but his smile was an odd mix of embarrassment and apology.

    He bought the car in the end, of course. They always did: my dad’s was the only used lot for fifty miles. Dad still crowed over the sale at supper.

    “See how good your old man is, Fatty? Still got it. Tell me if you know anybody as good as me.”

    “You’re good, Daddy.”

    “You bet I’m good. Not like these slick kids today, don’t know a carburetor from a crankshaft. Are you still eating? Good Lord, girl, you’re halfway to a sumo wrestler. Hand me your plate.”

    The second time I saw him, dad was slamming a hammer at the county fair.

    “This is how it’s done, morons,” dad said. Whack. Ding! Whack. Ding! “See how strong your old man is, Fatty?”

    “The strongest, Daddy.”

    “You bet I am. Hey, who gave you money for a corndog? Give it here. Heavens sake, people, look at this girl. Fifteen, and she’s a Winnebago.”

    He’d given it to me, slipped out from shadows to press coins, warm and reassuring, in my hand. I’d held on to them as long as I could, until the very last moment before familiar blackness crept in. Diabetes, they’d said. Quacks, said dad.

    The third time I saw him, he was rolling into our driveway.

    “Going hunting,” said dad. “Don’t eat the furniture while we’re gone, haha! Man, you ever seen a kid like mine, the size of a house? I should charge admission.”

    He watched my dad clamber into the front seat. He didn’t look at me at all.

    The fourth time I saw him, he stood alone at my doorstep.

    “I need another car with a big trunk,” he said.

    The laughter in his voice rumbled low and deep and free.

    360 words
    @postupak

  5. A V Laidlaw says:

    @AvLaidlaw
    359 Words

    Sometimes a Little Is Enough

    It hadn’t rained for five years when the ’57 Thunderbird drove into town with dust streaks across the doors and Elvis playing on the radio. It was driven by an Indian. Not Indian. American Native these days. Hell, she didn’t care if people changed their names. She’d done it enough times. Marilyn. Jezebel. Whatever the John wanted although the Johns didn’t want much anymore, not in this breathless heat.

    The car pulled up at the gas station.

    “No gas.” Cooper said.

    “I’m fine for gas. Could do with some water, though.” The driver took a ten dollar bill from his wallet.

    Cooper eyed the bill. “No water.”

    “It’s been a long drive. Pretty dry out there.”

    “We’re out.”

    That was a straight lie. Cooper had plenty of water – she’d just a bought a bottle herself. But people round here didn’t like strangers much. Too many years without rain, the desert dust blowing through the streets, the shops boarded up because anyone with a couple of dollars had left long ago and left the town to sinners like her and Cooper.

    The man looked resigned. Maybe this had happened plenty of times before. She knew about that, the times she’d been turned away, heard the word “whore” whispered behind her back. There should be humanity even in the dust.

    “Hey.” She held out her bottle of water.

    He wanted to give her the ten dollars but she had taken enough money for what should be freely given. She was sick of the sin, the curse of heat and drought that had fallen over this town like one of the plagues from her dimly remembered Bible lessons.

    He sipped the water then handed the bottle back.

    “Take it all,” she said.

    “Sometimes a little is enough.”

    *

    Coyote pushes his foot down on the gas. One time the people would have danced for rain, but he liked to do it with style. “Hound Dog” on the radio. The needle creeping up to eighty-eight. The wings of the Thunderbird spread and turn into black storm clouds above the road. Lightning streaks and thunder roars as he guns the engine.
    And the rain falls.

  6. zevonesque says:

    Going Off-Road
    A.J. Walker

    The chrome polished to reflecting perfection, the raspberry soda paintwork pristine. The car was pure 50s flash – like Mike used to be.

    When it was parked people gravitated towards it. Stood next to it; got their picture taken with it. The car was the star. Who didn’t love its sleek futuristic lines, the shiny chrome, the paintwork, the dials and headlights. And boy those wings and tail lights – they were something else.

    “Mind if I take a look?” said the stranger. “Promise no fingers on the paintwork.”

    “Not at all friend. It’s a work of art. Needs to be looked at.”

    “Thanks, it is art. Beautiful. Here in the valley especially.”

    Mike looked across the salt flats through the haze to the spiky hills.

    “It’s beautifully stark here.”

    The man held his hand out to Mike who took it firmly.

    “Mike.”

    “Larry, nice to meet you Mike. What brings you to Death Valley? And don’t say the car did.”

    Mike smiled. Larry seemed his kind of guy.

    “Just always wanted to see it. Drive through it and soak in its dry majesty.”

    “In a cool car.”

    Mike nodded.

    “Yeah, in a cool car.”

    The silence returned. Mike realised the view point was empty now. Just him and his perfect car.

    He sat back into the white leather- glad he’d covered the driver’s seat with a towel.

    He turned the key and heard the grinding engine try to start. It took a good deal of trial and error with the accelerator pedal and much coarse language, but it got there; in a cloud of white smoke.

    The man at the show room said it was a dog that had just been prepared for the window. That it wasn’t made for the road. He’d said it could make ‘one last trip’ with a bit of luck and a following wind.

    That’s all Mike had wanted.

    He felt the car’s pain. Everyone admired it, not knowing what lay beneath the paintwork. It looked fine, good for many more years. But it was irredeemable.

    Cancer. Too late, too great. His best days a ghost of a memory.

    They died together, both smoking; Death Valley.

    (360 words)
    @zevonesque

    • stephellis2013 says:

      As soon as I saw the phrase ‘one last trip’, I knew the outlook was not good, confirmed by the car’s description – a metaphor for his own condition. Sad story well-told.

  7. Holly Geely says:

    Mid-Life Crisis
    @hollygeely
    144 words

    “Morning, Troy.”

    “Morning, Phil. Great car!”

    “I thought so too, but now I’m worried it’s my mid-life crisis.”

    “Oh? Why?”

    “Well, it’s a bit flashy for someone my age, isn’t it? Also I had a fling with a much younger woman last week.”

    “Nice.”

    “No, Troy. It’s not nice at all.”

    “Oh, come on. You’re not married. What’s the harm?”

    “I wasn’t married, but I am now. She was persuasive.”

    “Congrats! I should get you a present.”

    “We could use a toaster. But that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t need a sports car, or a wife, or the eight dogs, or the three mansions.”

    “What do you need, then?”

    “The money to pay for all of it. I lost big in the snail races, Troy. I lost real big.”

    “You’re an idiot, Phil.”

    “Yup. See you Friday, Troy. Bring the toaster.”

    • Looks like I wasn’t the only one who had witty banter in mind for those two guys. There were just so many ways to go with them. Too fun. Great story.

    • Geoff Holme says:

      I’m working my way backwards through the entries and now I’m beginning to get jealous… This is the sort of stuff that I like to do, but 144 words, Holly?! Really funny! love that last sentence – “Bring the toaster.” 😀

  8. Say What?
    Word Count: 163
    @RealMommaRamble

    “Do you remember that time, Mac?”

    “What’s that now?”

    “That time…”

    “The Time? It’s almost six o’clock.”

    “No, Mac, that time back in ’61?”

    “61? No I’m 79, same age as you. You gettin’ forgetful, man?”

    “No. No. 1961. Being here just reminded me of your 25th birthday. We were on the beach and we saw that shark…”

    “Shark? Where? We better go tell that lifeguard over there. Beaches aren’t like they used to be. Ain’t nobody can swim without fear of sharks invadin’…”

    “Mac, what are you ranting about? I’m trying to reminisce about that good ol’ days.”

    “Old age? Who you callin’ old? Speak for yourself. I still fell like I’m 50!”

    “I think you’re going senile.”

    “Who you callin’ senile, ya old fart!”

    “How did you hear that muttering when you can’t even hear when I’m shouting?”

    “What? Speak up, I can’t hear ya, Bernie.”

    “Oh, never mind. Go on home, Mac.”

    “Same time tomorrow?”

    “Same time tomorrow, ya crazy loon.”

    “Yup, see ya soon.”

  9. Pattyann McCarthy says:

    @PattyannMc
    WC: 357

    Moved under the Moon

    It’s been a long while since George went to Seaside Heights in New Jersey. After Maria died three months ago, he had no desire to go anywhere, let alone to their favorite vacation spot. He and his wife practically grew up there with every other weekend trips from Philly. Her dad was a whiz at building beach buggies to ride over sand dunes on Island Beach, the angler’s side of the coastline, and it was here, on the boards, they met as young children.

    Leaning against his old Marlin, his favorite fisherman cap covering his baldpate and a cigarette between arthritic yellowed fingers, he stared out over the tumultuous ocean. The distant sounds of laughter floating on the winds from the Boardwalk reached his memories. The scent of creosote-soaked boards, familiar and comforting, stung his nostrils. Sounds of the spinning wheels for games of chance, a hammer clicking off the pegs, and squeals from winners made him melancholy. Coasters clickity climbing steep tracks, calliope music from the Merry-Go-Round, and scents of sausage hoagies brought him back to his childhood . . .

    He stood a long while thinking about his Maria. How vibrant and alive she was. He recalled the sound of her laughter just last year, as their coaster car climbed the track of the Mouse, whipping them out over the sea and her screams as they catapulted down steep inclines. A sad smile creased his ancient lips.

    He thought he might take one last ride, sitting in the same seat they first met, when the ride attendant forced them to share a car. Who knew that chance encounter would last a beautiful lifetime. They couldn’t get enough of this place, or each other. It was the one place they could still be children and came as often as they could. It seemed only fitting that this is where Maria should find her final rest.

    The moon climbed from below the water and rose high in the midnight heavens, alighting the twinkling stars. He waded out to the edge of the shelf holding her urn and bid her a final farewell, as her ashes became one with the sea.

  10. Daniel Finkel says:

    The Mythical City of Zerzura
    WC: 360

    The car had given out a few miles back, sputtering to a halt in a blaze of golden dust, and so Peter Travers had been forced to walk. His glasses were soon fogged with sweat, and his square tunic baked under the African sun, but what did any of that matter, considering the place he was headed?

    “The mythical city of Zerzura,” he had written on his blog, The Annals of a Modern Archaeologist, “lost to time, but soon to be discovered!” And of his twenty followers, fifteen had liked the post. He could see it all now, even as he walked – the broad red country, the blazing rock, the parched valley, and in its center a cool, marble paradise, bursting with pomegranates and tropical plants, resplendent with the splashes of children and the sound of many bells. The City of Dionysus. The Oasis of the Little Birds. The last fortress of the crusaders, buried for seven centuries in the depths of the Sahara.

    He crested a hill, and there it was, round and white and beautiful, with its gates thrown open. Crying for joy, he ran forward, arms stretched wide as if to embrace this glorious vision. The gatekeeper, a young, fair-haired, blue-eyed man, watched him approach with amusement.

    “Mr. Travers?” he asked, when Peter reached him.

    “That’s right,” Peter said, astonished. “How do you know my name?”

    “We’ve been reading your blog,” the gatekeeper replied. “We were hoping you would make it here. Please come in.”

    And taking his arm, he guided him inside.

    There was a Kinkos on the main street of the city. Next to it stood a KFC, a McDonald’s, and an AT&T store.

    “But . . .” stammered Peter. “But what about the glass temples, and the flocks of cattle, and – and the gardens of sweet-smelling pomegranates?”

    “That was a long time ago,” the guard replied. “It’s the 21st century, you know. We have to stay relevant. Come along. The governor has dinner waiting for you at the embassy.”

    That night, Peter Travers dined on strip steaks and Pinot Grigio, and when he woke in the morning, it was to the smell of waffles.

  11. Crimes of Conversation

    Kerry’s there, gloved arms folded, as Jack pulls in, waiting. Killing the engine, he gets out, reaching for her black clad legs – automatic. She’s slightly out of reach, leaning against her own parked car. Jack’s arm suspends itself, hovering. “Hey,” he says.

    “Hey, yourself,” she replies. Then, “You’re late.”

    “Took a bit, tonight,” Jack says.

    “Clearly.” Kerry’s dark eyebrows arch.

    “Babe,” Jack says, reaching again.

    “We’ve a job to do,” Kerry says, shaking her head. “Or have you forgotten?”

    “Later,” Jack replies. “Crime can wait a while, can’t it?”

    “They get theirs once you’ve got yours?” Kerry asks. “That it? Priorities, much?”

    “You used to like it. Love it, even,” Jack says.

    Kerry sniffs. “Careful. Crediting yourself a little too much there. Understandable, I guess.” Her reddened lips purse, pouting. “Leather on leather. Classy. Creaks like hell.”

    “Spandex’d be better?” Jack asks, grinning.

    “You’d know,” Kerry replies quickly, words clipped.

    Jack frowns, his eyes meeting the woman’s briefly, before they lower themselves towards the tarmac. His right foot taps and swivels, as he watches it.

    “Mid-life,” Kerry says, holding up a finger, before continuing. “Younger model.” She holds up a second. “So far, so cliché. You always were predictable – without the precognition, even.” She shrugs, briefly – a wry smile touching her lips, before it fades. Her grey eyes watch the man’s intently. “Ms not so Invisible. Couldn’t quite hide the perfume, could you?”

    Jack is silent for a moment. “Can we fix it?” he asks.

    “We?” Kerry asks. “What’s that? We’ve been business only, carrying on with no carrying on for – how long now? Can you remember?” She pauses, breathing quickly. “Well, can you? Christ, I can’t.”

    “What will we do?”

    “Ask Ms Invisible,” Kerry says. “She’s been spotted now. Plus, there’s plenty of injustice to go about, isn’t there? You don’t have to go far to spot it.” Kerry turns away, before swivelling to face Jack again. She glances into his eyes. “We were good once,” she says. “Proper partners. Did some good. Not anymore. Time to retire us.”

    “Maybe it could be again,” Jack says, looking back at her.

    “No,” Kerry says. “I don’t think so, somehow.”

    (360 words)

    @FallIntoFiction

  12. Sonya says:

    U-Turn Down Memory Lane

    He catches a glimpse of lemon yellow tail-fins and chrome and thinks of Grandad.
    Most of his early memories have a mythical quality – they’ve always been there but he’s never quite certain any of it happened. That time Grandad took him out in his car, though, he remembers every detail of it.
    ‘I like your finny car.’
    ‘You have it when I die, then.’
    Grandad died one day before his fifth birthday. He was sent to the children’s home and never saw his Caddy again.
    How many lemon yellow Cadillacs can there be in this country?
    He makes a U-turn.

    (100 words)
    @_supersonya

  13. 58 CADDY, LIMITED EDITION

    Brian S Creek
    354 words
    @BrianSCreek
    #FlashDog

    Carl stepped out of his car and looked over the ’58 Cadillac in the space next door.

    “Nice,” he said to his best friend of forty-three years.

    “Thanks,” said Jake.

    “Daisy know you’ve bought it?”

    “What do you think?”

    “What do I think? You’d be divorced quick as a flash if she found out you had an extra pink slip in your wallet, is what I think.”

    Jake laughed, brushing a speck of dirt off the Caddy’s roof.

    “So I gotta ask, buddy,” said Carl, gazing out across the expanse of desert that bordered the mall’s parking lot. “Why d’you call me out here?”

    “Because you’re my best friend and I need to tell you something.”

    “That’s why Mr Bell invented the telephone.”

    “If only it were that simple. No, seeing is believing, my friend. Seeing is believing.”

    “Well colour me intrigued.”

    “Get in,” said Jake. “We need to go for a drive.”

    Five minutes later and the Caddy with its two passengers was cruising through town

    “You remember the old days, Carl?” said Jake. “You remember what this place used to look like?”

    “Sure I do.”

    “Ain’t what it used to be, right?”

    “That’s’ for sure. Not many of the original locals left, if memory serves.”

    “Place is missing its soul.”

    “That’s a little deep, buddy, but I get your point.”

    “Hey, do me a favour. Switch on the radio, tune it to 79.5.”

    Carl leaned forward and turned the dial on the old time stereo. Fuzz, station, fuzz, station. He levelled it on 79.5 to find it was an old school fifties station. And that’s when Carl felt his skin tingle.

    He sat back, looked around, and his stomach dropped.

    “What the hell?”

    The road was the same; they were still on Freemont. And the time of day hadn’t changed; still a beautiful, sunny, middle of the afternoon.

    But the people, the signs, the cars, the shops.

    “What the hell?” said Carl, taking it all in and arguing with it all on the inside. “Is this, is this the good old days?”

    Jake smiled. “And that’s why I bought this ’58 Caddy”.

    • Geoff Holme says:

      Love this, Brian! You pack so much detail into the story, yet you still have space for repetition of phrases in natural-sounding banter between buddies, as well as snappy one-liners like “That’s why Mr Bell invented the telephone.” and “Well colour me intrigued.” (Maybe color would have been the more appropriate spelling here, but that’s me being picky as usual. 🙂 )

      Who needs a DeLorean when you can have a ’58 Caddy, Limited Edition? Mint!

      • Thanks Geoff. I rolled that around for a bit, but it was late and I hadn’t paid attention to UK vs US for the rest so decided to let the authors dictionary over-rule.

        PS – The ‘Mr Bell line’ was my favourite (or is that favorite?).

  14. Geoff Holme says:

    @GeoffHolme
    #FlashDogs
    Word Count: 353

    Only Make Believe

    June 3rd 1947

    Drove through New Mexico on my way back home. Mile after mind-numbing mile of arroyos and distant mesas, in relentless heat, never seeing another soul. Decided to break the monotony by stopping off to see my second cousin, Jesse. Hadn’t seen him in years, so I hoped he was still foreman on the same farm.

    Seemed a good idea at the time, but I’d completely forgotten how much Jesse resembles the title character in the book I’m reading – “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” – a meek and ineffectual man who lives in a vivid fantasy world.

    As I pulled up alongside a pickup truck, I glanced in my rear view mirror, happy to see Jesse emerge from the nearby cabin. Since I needed to walk a spell, we took coffee as he showed me round the farm. On the way back, I asked how he’d been since our last meeting.

    His face altered and he became more animated. He began to tell me how he had been a pilot in the war and had received five Air Medals for shooting down enemy planes. He said that later, after he had returned home, he had called on his many years’ experience as an ER medic to perform an emergency operation to remove the lower leg of a farmhand who had been trapped under an overturned tractor.

    As we approached my car, I pointed out that I had heard that he had been rejected for army service, and I knew he had always had a pathological fear of hospitals. His features crumpled and his whole body seemed to shrink. I felt really bad that I had called him on his daydreams. We stood a while looking into the vast open spaces and I told him that I envied him for what he had: a healthy, outdoor life in an unspoilt landscape.

    “You joshin’ me?” he said. “You live in the big city, with skyscrapers ‘n’ whatnot. Thousands o’ people with busy, varied lifestyles; always ambulance sirens blarin’ ‘n’ cop cars chasin’ villains. Shoot! Aint nuthin’ interestin’ ever happen out here in Roswell.”

  15. […] This flash fiction story was written for Flash Frenzy Round 74. […]

  16. […] (written for Flash Frenzy, round 74) […]

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