"Spoiler" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com


This story is unique. An experiment from a dream I had this week. Hi-five to my muse. He gave me this, but on one condition: I had to write it backwards. So here is a story-written backwards. Enjoy - CC.


There’s a dull gleam to the moment you realize is your last.

Saturday Special Feature: Meet Marc Nash

You've read about him on Twitter. He even guises as a woman. This attracted my curiosity long ago, when I thought that Karen Dash was his wife! I browsed his site and found out that he does what I do, and that is character tweeting. He even has a book out: 
A,B & E


Meet Marc Nash. The man is a veritable vortex of mystery and talent, with stories that send you scurrying for the dictionary and yet drive you back for more.


I DMed him back a week or two ago and requested to do a proper interview to expose the process, a viewing of the pistons and gears in place, a vivisection of the man behind the woman, @ExisleMoll on Twitter:



How long have you been writing? Has it been easy? Is your family supportive?

To answer the last one first, my family are neither supportive nor unsupportive. They just let me get on with it and shake their heads bemusedly saying 'well thank goodness none of that stuff enters our home life'. I haven't told my wife or boys that I've dressed up as a nurse or a bachelorette, um mainly because it hasn't cropped up in conversation. My boys have seen my YouTube video readings done in balaclavas and other masks. They think it's cool to have a Dad that does things a bit different to most other fathers at school, but there again they wish I designed video games so they could be the first at school to have them... 
I've been writing seriously since college starting with plays, some 25 years now. I switched to novels when my twin boys came along and I couldn't hang out at theatres every night. Has it been easy? The words come easily, I'm always trying to catch up with my own material, writing around work and family, so that writer's block is never an issue for me. But it's been hard writing for 25 years virtually in a vacuum. By writing such idiosyncratic stuff, it's very hard to get the industry professionals interested, but by coming online and meeting a community of people I've been bolstered by the response that maybe I haven't been wasting my life up until now, that I could be on to something, however niche in scale it may be.

Where did you grow up? What was that like for you? Has it has any impact on your writing?

London. I have a love-hate relationship with my own nation, the things I cherish about our country and the things that make me foam at the mouth. Most of my writing reflects that in some ways, searching out notions of identity both for myself and my fellow countrymen, where I fit in with the norm and where I absolutely don't. Growing up I was an only child, so I had the twin impetuses of having to make my own entertainment which helped develop my imagination, but also that my parents included me when they had their friends over, so that I was always observing adult behaviour. Since one of my parents had an addiction, though not one where you take harmful things into your body, I got to see some pretty screwed up and broken examples of adulthood close up. 
I'm still trying to decide whether man is fundamentally an inherently flawed creature beyond much hope of redemption and reclamation, or whether we are all salvageable, only life circumstances often get in the way. It's essentially a very political question, but one again I probe in my writing.

Your writing stands out among the rest because of the mind-boggling diversity of your words. I find myself using the dictionary on more than a few pieces. Can you give me a little bit of your education/work background to share what leads you to this practice?

Although I had a high standard of education up to University level, I never read anything but comics until I was 14 years old and studied History rather than English Literature. To this day I've never read any Dickens, Hardy or any of the so called classics of the English literary canon. I do read a lot now though, but it's all contemporary. For my University degree I switched from History to politics and psychology which gave me all sorts of material which I still draw on. But the main thing about College was that I got to write in the first place, cos I was disillusioned with academia, but there were all these theatre stages and wannabe actors who would put on my plays. For work I've been really lucky, falling into both of the only two jobs that I've ever done since leaving College. 
I worked for 20 years in a cutting edge record store that allowed me to experience the counter-culture and recently moving into the world of journalism and freedom of expression all around the world. I have to say though, I'd drop either like a shot if writing ever got full-time, which I don't think is likely. 
The language thing? I just find words imprecise and slippery. More often than not they fail to convey the meaning they're supposed to do. My playwriting was a good education in what people really mean but fail to articulate in words.

What is your preferred genre to write in?

Oh dear, 'genre' is a word I refuse to acknowledge or attribute any validity to. I understand the need to know which shelves books are found in the store, but in an internet age, labelling things by genre just seems to diminish the work the way I see it. It's the same with blurbs, if I could distill the novel down to a strapline, then I wouldn't have bothered writing 65,000 words in the first place! I might make a distinction between fiction that is escapist and fiction that engages with reality, but even then there's plenty of readers who like to read both. But of the two, I veer towards the latter, though that doesn't mean I won't write 'fabulist' tales where a toy panda, a patch of wasteland, or a waterbed and quilt are the narrators...

Who is your intended audience (for your book and your Fridayflash)?

Anyone who wants something a bit different in what they read. People who like to be challenged, by ideas, by narrative form and by language and voice. The beauty of the internet is that any such readers can come back to a writer and start a conversation and a discussion about what they've just read with you, the writer. My writing seeks to engage with and interrogate the world we live in, to make connections and spin images that are maybe out of the everyday and ordinary. If that's your thing, I may just be a writer for you!

You have a book. A real book out there in the wild. What's it about?

The best vantage to look back on your own country is from exile. Karen Dash has fled her gangster husband in fear of her life and holed up in a Club 18-30 holiday resort in island Greece. Yet every day she is tormented by swathes of her country folk bringing home directly back to her as the British do when they go on holiday. They erect a local British 'Green Zone' of binge drinking, sex and violence and the local culture be damned. Meanwhile back in Britain, a nurse also has to sow up the victims of the same pleasure pursuits. How are the two women who have never met linked?


Thanks Marc for the opportunity (and the Dustin Hoffman-esque authorly picture!) to get to know you. All interested can purchase Marc's book here:


A, B & E - US Amazon
A, B & E - UK Amazon

Sample it first at Freado

Jailed #Fridayflash

Ice crusted the glass; white piled in small drifts around the wipers. The moon smiled at me from her gleam on the hood, but my headlights were dismal candles, mocked by the enshrouding mystery of early morning fog.

I felt something. Something there. A chill that snaked down my spine, blossoming in spider-pricked gooseflesh on my entirety. My fingers cowered in their leather gloves, nearly releasing the steering wheel. A stunning realization that I was not alone in the car. I was afraid to look.

Afraid I’d be right.

The fog divided by the hood wisped along the window. Ghosts of sky, weighed down with wet and white to blanket the earth of mortals. I summoned the courage to take a quick glance at the passenger seat.

Nothing, aside from silvered shadows diffused by the windshield. I took a shuddering breath. Switched on the heat. The car felt like a tomb.

Glanced in the rearview mirror. Nothing but darkness and my wild, staring eyes. Adrenalin surged through me, thrilling my muscles. I increased my speed to shorten the duration to the next town. I’d get out. Shake it off. Maybe get a motel room. I wasn’t as young as I used to be; I could drive for twenty-four hours back when I was twenty.

But not here. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—get out here. This was in-between land, this dazed cushion of damp down and beguiling muted colors.

I turned up the radio. Rich, mahogany tones of bass guitar and silken deep voices comforted me. The ice crept in from the outside. My breath was frozen and fell to my lap like snow. I dropped my gaze to my thighs. A flash of light. Thunder in my ears, trapped. Rushing.

It was dark then. Only the green dials gave approximation of where the dash could be. I felt disengaged. Wet. Before the window closed on my last breath, I finally saw him. He was there to meet me, only he couldn’t follow.

Then it was dark no more.

BeMused

Special Feature - Help This Austin Teacher Get Books!

Help this Austin teacher gather books for her students. Amazon features her picks on a School Book list. Take the time to pick out a book or two for the good of a high school student. Pick a book, any book. Select Jessica Beck at check-out for shipping address.

School book wish list

Special Feature "The Dream is Dead"

"Stiff" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: xandert from morguefile.com

She left me here. Ragged and weeping on the floor like a leaking faucet. Bats fly in a blurred tornado of red ears and beaded black eyes. Fingers twitch and face itches from the tiny haired feet of a spider.

"Petra" #Fridayflash

I first saw her when I went to the drive-in. The place had girls on roller skates and satin red shorts. Her hair was long, black, and straight. She had blue barrettes pinned above her ears, of which were festooned with an array of hoops and dangling crosses.


Her legs were perfect, except for a bruise on one knee. I accepted the ice-cream float she brought me, told her to keep the change and watched her backside as she glided away. On the radio "Just Like Heaven" filtered through the haze of cigarette smoke and the tinny music the drive-in played over the dented and rusted speakers above.


The next day I went back and ordered another float. She came out again, her icy blue eyes blinking in surprise when she obviously recognized me. She had a cut on her right cheekbone. A little thing, but I took it in observation and sipped on my drink thoughtfully when she glided away on those old-fashioned roller skates to serve another customer.

On the third day, I asked her for her name. She smiled. Her name tag said "Mindy" but I knew the deal with these places. I drew on my cigarette and gave her the best set of puppy dog eyes I could. My eyes drifted to her left upper arm. Three bruises, each the shadow of a large finger marred her perfection. She was almost milky white. The bruises attempted to sneak up under the hem of her sleeve. Her lip was pierced on the side. She toyed with the silver ring before answering.

"Petra," she said finally, like the answer to some great enigma and was gone, her long black ponytail streaming out behind her. Her wind was bubble gum and patchouli. I started the car, and parked in back. My float melted as I watched for hours. Customers came and went, and every so often I could see Petra. She was a diamond in a sea of river stones. I sipped on the root beer and vanilla ice cream mess and thought of her scent.

The lights went out promptly at 11. The girls were picked up by husbands or boyfriends, or departed in a tiny, affordable battered cars. Petra stood alone at the end of the curb, before sitting down to open her little purse for a smoke. Something made her look in my direction; a blue Chevelle out by the Dumpster, blue smoke wavering in the wind. She rose to her feet and walked towards me.
 Photo credit: msquanna from morguefile.com


"I should call the cops," she said, standing just out of reach at my window, not looking at me.

"You should leave him," I said before flicking one of more than a dozen butts into the night breeze. We both watched the amber arc die in a hiss on the damp pavement.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You told me your name," I said, moving to take off my seatbelt.

"Don't--" she said, looking around us. "He'll be here soon."

"Good. Let him come." I got out of the car and towered over her diminutive figure. "Petra." I liked saying her name. I liked that the word meant her, in her soft white skin and icy blue eyes. I loved that she existed and stood her with me even though I scared her.

Rebel country music swelled in the distance, along with the unmistakable sound of a Flowmaster exhaust set. She blinked hard, one tear escaping inky lashes.

I went to the trunk, opened it, and loaded my rifle as a brown 4x4 Silverado pulled into the lot.

"Second-Sight" #Fridayflash

He’s hummin’ a little tune as his ears follow that clickety-clack of his walking stick . A white extension of his black self. Dark-leathery skin contrasts with the brilliant white stick, with them red stripes. His nostrils flare. Bertha has fresh pie waiting at the diner already. Coffee. The papery scent lettin’ him know the Sunday edition is waiting in his customary spot.

“Well howdy Nate, got your pie right here,” Bertha says, loud, because people think that blind people is deaf too, he don’t know. He nods and smiles at the sound because he don’t know if Bertha is a pretty missus or a miss or if she’s—

Blackberries. His nose fills up with berries and his hands fall to the table right where his fork and napkin sit because that’s where Bertha’s put them as long as he can remember. She always givin’ him the coffee for free. He tries to tell her sometimes it ain’t right but she laughs and takes his money and gives back the wrong change anyway.

Nate. He was born Nathaniel, but he’s been shortened to Nate, and now it just don’t matter anymore as long as they don’t call him late for his pie—supper—he’ll be just fine. The door jingles. Bertha changes it out every so often. Christmastime she has a set of sleigh bells and he smiles because sleigh bells just sound so pretty. So pretty.

Erma’s gone. Been gone for fifteen years. He still has the old house they shared, still talks to her sometimes just to have sound. He don’t like radio anymore really. It isn’t music. It just isn’t. He hangs up his hat where the old mirror used to be ‘til the night Darcy was born; Erma pulled it down during one of her contractions because it hurt so bad.

The pie settles a little off. He opens the refrigerator with the same creak it’s had for a decade or more since Darcy collapsed in front of it when her heart failed. She’s got a nice job somewhere in Chicago. Pacemaker saved her life.

Maalox is right there on the shelf and he takes a cold chalky swig. Closes the door. Turns to go up the stairs. Halfway up he pauses with a grunt. Leathery black hands let go. Everything is static. Static and hissin’, but it’s the rush of water and he opens his eyes.

Erma smiles down at him and he touches her glowing cheek. She’s just beautiful to look at.

"Bobby Jones" #Fridayflash

When I was fourteen, we was a family of moonshine runners. Daddy loaded the cars up with the crates and off we'd go, smoking cigarettes and trying to keep our hands off the goods, but there was many a night when we'd be hiding from the police and end up all alone with nothing but the 'shine to keep us company. Nights when we sat in dewy grass and traded tales, each bigger than the one before it, til we was sure it was clear to get back out on the road again.

Daddy souped up those black cars and fixed it so the brakelights wouldn't light up, giving the us runners a better advantage to get away since they weren't giving away where we was turning off at.


My brother Bobby knew all those backroads. He had to perch on the edge of his seat to reach the pedals the first year, then he sprouted right up with the rest of us and we couldn't call him lil' Bobby anymore.

The biggest scare I got was when I had to ride along with Bobby (before the growth-spurt even) and we was tearing down them skinny rutted roads like the Devil himself was after us. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning and Bobby was driving back full-throttle. The car was empty thank the Lord, else all those jugs be about broke but then we heard the car before we saw it and there was the law, on our tails trying to get us to stop. We passed a car on the right and there was mud and clipped grass flying through the air and Bobby’d laughed at me and just drove faster.

He revved that old Chevrolet up and we shot down that road like a black muddy bullet. Mailboxes knocked up against my door like bony knuckles and somebody's dog erupted in a fit of barking till the police behind us had to swerve hard to avoid hitting the stupid mutt.



I had no problems believing that we'd outrun them behind us but sweet baby Jesus, I clung to the seat, then the dash, trying to squirm away from my door when the branches screeched along the sides, and then half the tires dropped down into a rut and I peeked over the windowsill. Bobby grinned over at me and told me not to worry. That fender’d be there when we got back.

And somehow it was.

Bobby grew up to race cars, and me? Well I met a nice dame, we had some kids and I became a house painter. We split ways once we made up our minds, me opting for the safer family route and Bobby taking to the circuit making money driving in circles til he zigged when he should’ve zagged.

He found that he couldn't outrun the Devil for long.

Special Feature: Meet Pamila Payne

The very first time I came across Pamila Payne's website was after I was double-featured with her AT-THE-BIJOU. I was so impressed with the immersive stories and gritty noir (not to mention it's set in Texas at a ghostly motel) I had to know more. Somehow, she didn't find me to be a crazy; we actually have quite a bit in common. So when she agreed to an interview hosted at Mindspeak, you can imagine how delighted I was. 


Please, if you follow and enjoy my work, I can guarantee you will love hers.


After all, we write from the same vein. - Carrie












When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer? What was it like growing up for you?


Early, early childhood. I started sorting out how to read and write before I started school and pretended to write new parts for the bible to annoy my grampa. I developed a precocious sense of irreverence toward imposed religion. He was a minister and he read to me about god a lot. It was all up for debate as far as I was concerned. He also read me the newspapers and whatever was laying around because I would shut up and listen and not torment my gramma when he was reading to me. I was a typical maladjusted social retard right out of the gate. Other children were alien creatures, whose language and customs were indecipherable to me. I failed at assimilation. I turned to books for companionship and learning and never looked back. I started writing "serious" stories in high school when a sympathetic english teacher encouraged me.


Not to mention you have a famous brother. Can we mention him? (I'm a Nitzer Ebb fan)


He's a very private person. I will say that I adore him, he's an amazing artist and a very kind, loving brother to me. He's in Europe performing with the Ebb again right now.


I have to put off unnecessary things (like sleep) to get anything done for my stories. What is your work schedule like when you're writing? When you get really inspired what are your methods to capture those lines?


There is no rhyme or reason to my writing, I don't keep a schedule. Sometimes I write one sentence fragment at a time. Sometimes I'll stay home and binge write for hours and hours. If I don't have to go to work, I'll exist on tea and rye crackers spread with inappropriate condiments to avoid leaving the house. When the story is talking, I have to get it down wherever I am. This can be awkward at work. I've written parts of my novels and short stories on scratch paper, receipts, my arms. I've walked around muttering fragments under my breath over and over again to keep from forgetting them. Now I usually have my iPhone with me and can tap bits into that. It feels a little more civilized, but it still sucks when the inspiration is happening and I can't stop to just sit down and write properly.


Dealing with historical settings means accurate tidbits in your stories. How do you research for your writing?


I research like a dowser online. I look at vintage picture archives a lot. Pictures can really get me worked up. I watch old movies the way people turn on background music. I listen to radio theater and old radio shows. I really love recorded interviews and oral histories of real people so I can get a sense of how people spoke in the past. I read archived newspapers. I skip around doing keyword searches on google. I file everything away for future use. I'm a magpie.


Your writing is so well put-together. Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? If so, what are they?


You're already doing a stellar job, far as I can see. Maybe I'd give you the same advice I keep telling myself - you know you can really write, it's not a hobby, it's who you are. So do whatever it takes to make it your career. The clock never stops ticking, but we do...


I'm a huge collector/avid reader of non-fic/reference books. What kinds of books do you own/read?


I own a fair amount of nonfiction research books that I covet, but don't honestly use as much as I use the internet to look stuff up. I cleared out a lot of books the last time I moved. I keep certain novels and photography books that have personal meaning or are references. I hardly ever read paper books anymore because of the time commitment, I started listening to audiobooks years ago and have become a voracious listener instead. Audiobooks, and reading aloud have had a huge impact on my development as a writer. That's why I'm pursuing a career in narrating as well as writing. Mostly, I'm drawn to crime stories, mysteries that have unusual elements, pulpy or noir detective, darker fiction... surprised? In the last year I've been making it a point to buy paper books and read them with my eyes when someone I like online gets published. I'm reading Eric Beetner's One Too Many Blows to the Head right now. (It was practically written for me to love it - destined to become a new noir classic.) Also, I'm a Dickens fanatic. I continue to be comforted and inspired by Dickens.


The colors and noir-look of your website really caught my eye right off. Who did that gorgeous site of yours?


Hah. My barely serviceable googlephobic site is homemade by me. Angrily. I've developed a sort of road rage at my website. I was just screaming at my poor computer this morning. It's not the computer's fault. It's the evil software. One of these days I'm going to sort it out and do it properly. I haven't figured out how to get comment fields embedded. There's an email address connected though, and I'd love to hear from my visitors.


I really love your style with everything you write. Where can I find more work you've done?


Most of my readable online work is published or linked on my website and my blog.
I haven't submitted to lit mags nearly as much as I ought to. I'll do something about that.
I really like this one, "She Got Hers" at The Journal.
Six Sentences is where I got my start. There are some rare non-Bella Vista pieces here.
I'm also one of the mysterious Harbinger*33 authors, I'll have a few new pieces in that when it comes out.


As to getting published and/or finding an agent, I find this too is a strange alien process. Just when I think I've got a handle on it, the whole thing goes sideways. I suspect I'd be published and successful by now if I'd have just followed Stephen King's advice from his book, On Writing, and found myself a loving, supportive wife when I was young. Too late for that. I'm studying the phrase books and trying to learn the language as best I can. I can kind of manage a sort of pigeon query-speak at the moment. But I'm a lot like Slappy. I'll figure it out. I figure everything out eventually.


Everyone please check out Pamila's stunning work and leave some love in the comments section. Thanks for dropping by and supporting excellent writers.

"The Downside of 24-Hour Stores" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

New Project - Donations Requested!

See Christian Koch? That's MY friend. If you love film, please consider at least a $5 donation towards this production and claim appropriate rewards!

"Vicarious" #Fridayflash

A woman fell on the cracked sidewalk and chanced a glance behind her. The two shaded figures were gaining. With a sharp cry, she clawed to her feet again and fled. An ATM machine stood silent, waiting for customer to insert card. Her silhouette grazed over the glass lens of the camera. She turned a corner into the alleyway. The two figures gave close pursuit. Out of sight, her scream was cut short.

A man stood outside his house gazing up at the sky at the darkened hulks roaring overhead. His wife stood at the door halted by his harsh words. Great bellies seemed to drift overhead before the bay doors opened. He registered as a slight orange and red blip on the monitor screen before the blast.

A girl lay on her stomach over her bed, grinning into her webcam. Accented murmurs filtered from the screen. She smiled coyly before unbuttoning her blouse. The elderly woman next door was slowly mottling as her Pekinese caught and jerked strips of flesh. On the counter, her overly simplified cell phone rang. The gas stove never lit. The web camera image dissolved into a fit of static when the duplex exploded.

A business woman stepped onto the elevator downtown and selected a lower floor. She popped open her clutch to extract her lipstick, her eyes climbing towards the ceiling where the camera blinked, comforting her. She swallowed the lipstick and bit into her lip as the cable snapped and the car plunged ten stories into the garage. The doors bulged but wouldn't open.


Up in the sky, an old building stood defiant against the winds, swirling through broken glass to catch old scraps of paper and rustle tattered drapes. Curling wallpaper flaked to the moldy carpet. One room remained unaffected by time. A great bank of curved monitors, stacked artfully to form one solid wall of hundreds of changing images, and an eye to the world. Yellowed New World Order posters clung to the walls. Graphs of human violence in various locations of the globe highlighted with circled lettering.

Still seated, though it’d been long ago that his legs had last been strong, a man slumped in an overstuffed office chair. Every so often he moaned softly, gaping his toothless mouth. His grey tongue snaked out to flick dust off his lips.

Hordes of cockroaches and rats scurried along and over abandoned desks, skittering over the CRT monitors, three of which had ceased function. The figure jerked in his seat, shaking his fingers gently over the arms of his chair. Wires danced from his fingertips, and his eyes shifted under his sealed eyelids.

On the top left monitor, gunfire, sending a body to the ground.

His mouth pulled upwards in the semblance of a smile.

"Too Much Rope" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: seriousfun from morguefile.com




"Give any one species too much rope and they’ll fuck it up." – Roger Waters


It was one hell of a party. Laurie stood by the homemade punch with Don Rivers, the CEO of Fargo. Don was one of those guys you didn’t forget. He was so overdone with cosmetic surgery in his sixties that he made Kenny Rogers look mild in comparison. He baked his skin golden in the tanning bed and wore a silver-link watch with the brand name so curly it was illegible.

Laurie wore fuchsia lipstick, which made Stein grin. One night at the office, he had Laurie on all fours on his desk. She had the most gorgeous moan he’d ever heard on a woman, and could go for days. She loved the paddle and—

Don glared in his direction, and Stein ripped his gaze away.

Ice floated in his drink, watering down the Skyy Vodka someone’d slipped in it. If they meant to be stealthy, the blue bottle next to the gigantic punch bowl definitely served as a distinct warning. Besides, it unbalanced the fruity taste overpowering it and shifted it into a teenage slumber party concoction created by slipping shit out of dad’s liquor cabinet to impress friends. Stein rubbed his nose, and glanced back at Laurie. He took an extra few seconds to appreciate her long legs in that minidress and headed for the mens’ room.

He engaged the lock and unrolled a baggie of white crystalline powder from his dinner jacket pocket. In the roll was a short straw and a razor blade.

“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Don said, his extra-white dental bleach job nearly blinding his date. Don had a way with women even though none of them could hardly stand to look at him. His wallet proved to be an aphrodisiac, and if that wasn’t enough, his penile pump made sure the lucky lady would never slip away unsatisfied. Laurie was fairly unchoosy about who was paying her car note. The big stiff one was merely a bonus in the situation.

“Let’s take a ride in the Beamer,” Don said, brushing his hand over Laurie’s. She jumped as if startled, and agreed eagerly. Being seen with the old codger in public was more humiliating at times than she could stand. Besides, he’d fuck her and leave her alone.

Stein emerged from the mens’ room, put back together nicely with a nice zing to his pace to boot. Don and Laurie were missing. He grit his teeth. Don made his moves like a cobra, and Stein figured it was about damn time somebody acted as the mongoose.

The parking garage shuddered in shadows as cars exited and entered the towering structure. Don popped the locks on the little tuna-blue Z3 Convertible and opened Laurie’s door for her. Her legs folded in, and she opened her tiny purse for a hair band. Don didn’t like the wind to mess up his hair, but he had a convertible. He often compromised by driving with the top down and the windows up, which Stein always felt was a douche bag trademark.

A long, low black car met Stein out of the garage elevator, and he got in. The earthen-dead scent of distressed leather rose up to meet him, smell of dead cow, his dad had always said. Yet dad always got those goddamn Mercedes with leather seats. If this was cow, Stein'd eat the steering wheel. The coke twisted in his veins, and he grinned at his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He pulled out of the parking space, just as he heard the Goodyears squeak on Don’s BMW.

Don drove fast after they’d broken out of the garage space, and Stein had to work to keep up. Then the damn car would slow down, and Stein would have to drop back to give his quarry a little more rope. He snickered at the memory of Roger Water’s song. It was after Pink Floyd had dethroned their rock-star egoist bassist. Something about rope and fucking shit up.

Out on the freeway the little convertible ahead of him rocketed away, opening up more lead. Stein cursed and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. His car, bless good ol’ Demonic steel, picked up the cues immediately, and within a few seconds he could see Don’s tail lights again. Instead of slowing to a content follow, Stein kept the pedal all the way down and sped up to run alongside the BMW.

Fuck Don. Fuck Laurie, that corporate whore. Stein sidled alongside the BMW. Don glanced, did a double take, and started shouting angrily at the tinted windows of the considerably larger sedan violating his space.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Stein heard faintly in the silent cockpit.

“Fucking lunatic! Get the fuck over!” Don shouted again and accelerated to lose the maniac that somehow decided he wanted to be in his lane while he was still in it. Stein sped up along with him. Don was rich, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d opted for the lower optioned model that gave him the looks, but had none of the horsepower. Had Don opted for the fucking Z4, he might’ve at least shaken Stein.

Don bared his teeth, white-blond hair whipping around his reddened face. Stein could see Laurie peering around Don, trying to see what’d pissed her date off so much. It was probably the most excitement she’d see all week until Don took that overseas trip to Japan. She never had fucked a Japanese man before. It was worth dealing with Don just for—

“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” Don screamed again. Stein cackled behind the deep tint and massive chrome grille of his ride. Yeah, he’d premeditated. Somehow he usually did. It was this kind of luck that kept him in business. Being Death had all kinds of perks.

They crossed over onto a bridge, and Stein jerked the wheel hard to the right.

"Ghost Host" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: o0o0xmods0o0o from morguefile.com

“You don't scare me, you don't scare me," I said

To whatever it was floating in the air above my bed

He knew that I'd understand

He was the ghost of a Texas ladies' man.”

The check-in desk was polished and immense. One clerk worked at this unholy hour. I signed my name, collected the key, and declined help with my bags. The elevator worked slowly, creeping skyward at a snail’s pace. I had a business conference in less than seven hours and was hoping for a bath before bed.

The penthouse suite was an upgraded offering to my executive suite. Seems that a conference was in town at the same time. The hotel’d accidentally booked my rooms. I acquiesced to the top-floor accommodation eagerly.

Everything seemed normal until I slipped into the bath. Though the water was steamy, the room grew cold to the point I could see my breath.

“It’s a good thing those bubbles are covering up that heavenly body,” a voice said from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, “I’d have trouble asking you out otherwise.”

“Who’s there?” I asked, sinking lower into my bath, up to my eyes. I had mace; it was unfortunately in my suitcase and therefore might as well been in the next state.

“It’s been awhile,” the voice said, yawning gently. “I can’t imagine what took you so long to get here.”

“Who are you?” I cried again. “Where are you?”

“Pardon me ma’am,” the voice drawled, “I’m just haunting this suite for eternity is all.”

“Haunt?” The hotel brochure featured a 24-hour gym and available massage, not an ectoplasmic roommate for every suite rented. Especially one with a Texas drawl. I wanted to stand, but if he was looking…

“Could you look away then?”

“I could, but why would I want to? You’re the choicest woman I’ve seen in years.”

Unbidden, a smile threatened my lips. “Really?”

“Scout’s honor ma’am.”

“You’re obviously a ghost of good taste.”

A good-natured chuckle. “As long as we’re on the subject of taste—”

“What about taste? I’m not giving you anything.” I said as defiantly as I could, to the voice that was probably completely in my head as a result of two hours’ sleep in the past three days. That was it. It was all a hallucination. I might even be still asleep on the plane.

“I was wondering if you could play a Hank Williams record.”

“Oh. I don’t have any Hank Williams.”

“Have room service send you up a record then.”

“We haven’t met properly,” I faltered, “I’m Jessica.”

“Benjamin ma’am. About that record.”

“I have something better. But you have to promise not to look at me while I set it up.”

He promised, and so I stood, snatched a towel from the stack next to the tub, wrapped it around me, and went straight to my bag. My iHome was one of my favorite gadgets aside from my iPhone. I plugged in the speaker dock, set my phone in the cradle and tapped the iTunes app.

“Any particular song?”

“Ladies’ choice,” was the disembodied answer. I made my selection.

“I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” poured out of the tiny speakers. At first I heard nothing, until there was a sniffle. Then my ghastly guest started blubbering.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said. “It was playing while I drank myself to death. And once you hear a song, it gets stuck in your head and keeps you awake.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, with an exaggerated yawn. “Anything else before I go to sleep? You’ll need to leave the bedroom you know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your sleep ma’am.”

I bought all of the albums I could find of Hank Williams on iTunes. And plugged the iHome in out in the kitchen.

"Come Together" #Fridayflash

"The Casket Crew: Folds" #Fridayflash

The Writer and Crooked Fang

"Eulogy" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: kingofcoleslaw from morguefile.com


Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men. - Herodotus

It rained that day. Damp earth mixed with silvered tears from heaven; drops slithering over the skin of our raised umbrellas to form mud. The red-clayed result fell inwards beneath the hovering casket adorned with a shield of white lilies. Eulogy was cited. Family muttered and sniffled behind black-gloved hands. The breeze collected around ladies’ stockinged ankles and felt up their fluttering mourning dresses. Their heels sank into the muck around this receiving hole that would take him in for eternity. We stood sentinel to a lifeless shell; we stood as wraiths in the storm.


Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From earth we came, to earth we return. Amen.


Two of us stayed behind. She was pale as moonstone, delicate as ivory. Eyes of jade, lips curved and soft as velvet pillows. She held an umbrella. I did not. I stood there, shoulders hunched, sopping with wet and grief at words left unsaid. Her approach elicited no response from me. She offered her umbrella. Blood filled my mouth; I bit my tongue to prevent a lash-out. How dare she be kind to me?


The only time before that I’d seen her was in the passenger side of my father’s car.

Featured on American Week

See this picture? It was the first surprise I received from Cathy Olliffe. She followed it up with the most most touching tribute I've ever received. It came out of the blue, and blew me away. See? I'm a writer. I know phoenetiks. Enough of silliness. Please, if you haven't visited her blog, do so. Here's the tribute:

Carrie Clevenger - You Oughta Know

"Ruth" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com


I remember my very first best friend. Her name was Ruth Smudrick. She was a lady ensconced behind her son's house in a pale burgundy trailer home. I discovered her one day at the same time I discovered her roses. We hit it off and after my parents approved of my visits, I would go see her almost every day. These were quiet times, when kids were pushed outdoors in the morning and didn't come home til it was very nearly dark. In time, I felt a love for this woman like my own grandmother, and learned how many different kinds of roses there really were in the world.

I remember the inside of her house like it was yesterday: dark, cool‑the gentle hum of the window unit as it ran non-stop. She played old-time radio and made fig preserves from our tree that grew on the property line between our yard and theirs.

Her son was flashy and drove a big black Lincoln. Shiny, with leather interior. I got to sit in it once. It was brand new, just like everything else behind their grand white two-story home. But Ruth's house was a modest place, everything in its place: a small table with two metal chairs predating the atomic age, a recliner that she said belonged to her husband. He was in Heaven, she said.

"There isn't a heaven like that," I said. "People wait, like the elders at church teach us." I was raised Jehovah's Witness, and they didn't believe in going to heaven, except for 144,000 people. Mom says those were the old ones, like Ruth maybe. She didn't know.

I loved to hear her talk. She was like a magnet for me. She wore flowered dresses and black orthopedic shoes. She said the white ones got dirty too easy. She kept sales brochures around, and wore an id bracelet that said she had diabetes. She made sugary treats, because I liked them, and I came nearly every day.

Then one day, dad brought home a big, big truck with the ominous "U-HAUL" emblazoned on the sides. Mom told me to tell Ruth goodbye, and that we would come visit. I hugged Ruth and cried. She always smelled good and her hair was always curled. She went into her bedroom, the room I never saw before. I followed her and saw pictures of her husband. I saw pictures of her flashy son when he was still just a kid. She opened an ancient oak trunk and pulled out a carefully-wrapped package. It was a quilt. She said she'd made it from scraps collected over a few years. It was warm, and she wanted me to have it.

I got in the big truck with dad and we drove away, the monster burdened with our house-full of things. Mom and I visited her at her house once, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't just me and Ruth and mom kept telling me not to touch Ruth's things, when before Ruth let me touch her knickknacks as long as I didn't break them.

I wanted to visit again, but mom got a phone call. Ruth was in the hospital. Mom stopped at the store and I picked out some nice orange flowers. They weren't marigolds, but it was the closest thing I could find.

The lady in the bed didn't look quite as plump as Ruth had been. I gave her the flowers and recognized her by her smile. We hugged again, careful not to pull the tubes from her arms. It was the last time I ever saw her.

I hope she made it to heaven.

"Night Life" #Fridayflash

"Pale Horse" #Fridayflash

This was what came to mind tonight as I prepped to write something incredibly insightful. A heroin addict sometimes doesn't measure just right, then again it's a vicious drug and will change potency in your body at any given time. I've never done heroin but have lost people I cared about...if reading about that disturbs you, look away. Else, welcome to my improv thought process. 






I’m breathing and shutting the door behind me. Neighbor downstairs is shouting at his girl again and somewhere there’s a bird chirruping and

—I gotta find it. The bathroom sink is a fucking mess and I should’ve started the wash.

There it is. Oh sweet heaven you. I hid you and nobody found you, not even that girl, what the hell was her name

—oh yeah. Shelia. Shelia is some girl, man but I gotta think straight. Think straight.

There’s pain where there shouldn’t be and I’m digging, digging because I need. Need. Alcohol wipes above the kitchen sink over the pile of dirty dishes. Goddamnit she should've at least done those. I think I said I would.

—Found it.

I gotta make sure I hit the vein, you know. Gotta pull the needle out just a little and look for those blisters, Man those blisters take fucking forever to go away and burn. A little blood baby. Yeah. Just a little.

Just a little.

There’s roses on the walls; I don’t know why man. Stupid tv and and aww man. Yeah.

This shit is gonna rock me so hard. Gonna go back to that Circle K in a little bit and score some smokes before…what was her name...gets home. Yeah. I gotta girl. I gotta girl and she loves me. Wait a minute, just a little more. Heaven ain’t like this. Maybe that Either place, wow man…

I feel like I’m gonna just float away and hey baby. Hey baby. She looks at me and screams. Groceries on the floor by my head. How did I get here? I was taking a piss and…

Oh baby. Don’t cry. I don’t know your name but I’m alright, just let me get up and

—Shit. Man I’m messed up. So messed up.

I love you too baby. Can’t you hear me? I’m talking

—aww damn.

I think I fucked up.

"Fast Folly" #Fridayflash

I had a tail on the way to my apartment from the office one night.

A black-cherry Mustang in my rearview, twisting through traffic like a head-lit cobra snake, looming there. I cut a quick right, wheels cutting into the pavement when I gunned the engine. It was a strange sensation to see it there: the distance kept immaculate but intimidating.

My mind raced, spinning through all the names of those who would like to get a piece of me, and well there were a few. There was my crazy bitch of an ex-wife, my last girlfriend; her new boyfriend.

The feeder sprouted into view and I darted up on the freeway. The Mustang followed, sunset ablaze in the windshield reflection, giving it the appearance of being on fire.

I let the window down to get some air and heard it. It had a low growl, except when I sped up and then it'd snarl with unbidden power. I sped past a line of slower-moving traffic, cutting in-between a Winnebago and a diesel F-250 to hit the inside lane, where the road was wide open.

I stomped down on the gas, and watched the speedometer climb. The Mustang responded in turn until I surmised we were doing close to 100.

A low-flying bird came across the highway, but I hit it before I could even respond. The body exploded into a blizzard of inky feathers; deep carmine red splattered over the expanse of my windshield.

I couldn't see.

The steering wheel ripped itself from my grip, my tires screaming before I did as a semi-hauler disintegrated the front half of my Volvo.

Safest cars in the world, and that's why I survived.

The Mustang passed, and kept going without the slightest lapse in speed as I sat there agape, the dash pinned against the knees I could no longer feel.