Feast of Flash - Honorable Mention - Christopher Grant

You just have to love those Minnesotans. Hearty stock, they can take a punch from the cold and just as easily from a wise-ass mobster. Christopher Grant is the editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir, the premier Noir & Crime flash site on the web.

His story Happy Birthday, Honey was featured
here at Not From Here, Are You? in early October.

In the tradition of the Coen brothers (little known fact, Ethan was one grade ahead of me at St. Louis Park High) Chris lays a wallop on you today with this in your face FOF entry. I know you'll enjoy it!


WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR
by CHRISTOPHER GRANT

I'm thankful for the parades and the turkey and mashed potatoes and all the
food that my family and my wife Kathy's family bring over.

For the tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone groggy and want to go
to sleep. I know that scientists have said that it's the high amount of
carbs that put you to sleep but I prefer the simpler answer.

And I'm thankful for the football that occupies everyone's time after the
dinner's served at lunch.

I help Kathy bring the dishes into the kitchen and load the dishwasher. I
ask her if there's any more pie left. "Like you need more," she says,
half-joking. She pats my stomach. I grab her around the waist, pull her close
to me.

"Give me something else, then," I say and we kiss like we did the first
time, twenty years ago.

"In the fridge," Kathy says when we stop kissing.

I'm thankful that the call comes after I've left the kitchen and for the
words spoken on the other end of the phone. While I've been feeding my face,
Joey and Doug and Todd have been out hunting.

I go into the den and find Renee, my fourteen year-old daughter, curled up
on the sofa, listening to her iPod. She sees me, half-smiles and takes the
earbuds out of her ears. This is how she's been for the last year or so.
Withdrawn. They said that it could be like this and that it was normal, part
of the healing process.

"I have to go out for a little while," I say and Renee nods. "Don't worry
about anything, okay, sweetheart? Almost everyone is still here and they're
just a few feet away if you need anything."

Renee looks up at me with those eyes that melt my heart. I bend and kiss
her on the forehead.

"I'll be back soon. Tell Mom, okay?"

I'm thankful that I have a warm coat, boots, gloves and a hat. Minnesota
winters come on quick and stay longer than you wish, like a virus that you
just can't shake.

I give thanks when the car starts on the first try, that Doug is right
where he said he would be waiting and that he quit smoking two years ago.

He tells me to drive to the park. He says Joey and Todd will meet us there.

The park is deserted except for pine trees, swing sets, picnic tables and
duck ponds, already frozen over by the cold.

I give thanks when Joey and Todd pull into the space next to us five
minutes later. Despite the coat and the hat and the gloves, I'm freezing my nuts
off.

Joey's driving and Todd's in the backseat. When Todd gets out, he's not
alone. He hauls the bastard out of the car after him.

The bastard is naked, his wrists and ankles bound together by duct tape.
He has a duct tape gag, as well, wrapped from his mouth around to the back of
his head and back again multiple times. He's shaking, his body's reaction
out of his control. His skin has numerous red patches, a couple places
turning blue from exposure.

He looks different than he did two years ago, when he raped my daughter and
got off on the technicality that the warrant obtained did not include the
van that he raped Renee in and the cops searched it anyway.

Then, he had long, dark hair; now, he's bald.

The shiner ringing his left eye is fresh and I look at Todd. He shrugs and
I just shake my head.

Joey hands me a piece and Doug comes forward with a knife to cut the tape
around the bastard's wrists and ankles.

The bastard pisses himself, watching me check the clip of the gun, as Doug
cuts. Urine splashes on the pavement, ricochets and hits Doug's hands and
coat. He gets up quick and goes after the bastard. Todd, of all people,
stops him. "This is Pete's day," he says.

When the bastard finishes pissing, Doug finishes cutting. I say, "Run."
I'm thankful that I don't choke on a simple word.

Before he can get twenty yards from us, I raise the gun, take aim and fire.
In that split-second between raising the gun and aiming, I think about the
last two years, in fast forward.

Chelsea, Renee's best friend, pounding on the door, telling Kathy and me
about the man that took Renee. The call to the police, Kathy's voice frantic
and her hands shaking. I took the phone from her and tried to stay calm but
I know I failed.

I failed as a father.

In the split-second it takes to line the bastard up and fire, I recall what
happened after we found Renee on the side of the road, her shirt in
tatters, her jeans and underwear missing. I recall the first night, when she won't
sleep, when none of us can. Kathy stayed with her and I tried to close my
eyes but every chance I got, I kept seeing the bastard, even though we had
never crossed paths. I envisioned what I was going to do to him.

As the bullet flies, in that split-second before it impacts in the back of
his skull, I rage against the memory of the phone call by the cop that told
me they had to release the bastard, due to their misstep. I remember
screaming into the receiver that I was going to kill the bastard.

And now I have. The sound of the gunshot echoes throughout the park.

We cut the tape off the bastard's face, or what's left of it, and drag him
from the asphalt into the three feet of snow that covers the grass of the
park. I give thanks for Minnesota winters as we bury him under the snow
between two pine trees.

Feast of Flash - Honarble Mention - Eric Beetner

Together with JB Kohl, Eric Beetner has just released One Too Many Blows to the Head, a gritty crime novel that tickles both noir and boxing fancies. A teller of stories from the street, Eric has a beaut here for his Honorable Mention entry into FOF.

Thankful
by Eric Beetner

I’d like to personally thank the inventor of the safety catch on handguns. The sweet silence hanging in the room when I thought for sure the barrel of my Remington would erupt in my face was a truly welcome sound.

I’d also like to thank my wife, Deborah, for saying no to my offer to take her to the shooting range after we got the gun. I would not, however, like to thank her for that look in her eye as she aimed the gun at my nose. The nose she used to tell me she liked. The one she used to trace over with her finger, feeling it rise and then slope down again over the bump that once allegedly gave me “character”.

I wouldn’t have thought she’d ever remember where we kept the gun. But she found it all right. Loaded it too. All in the walk-in closet at two thirty a.m. Me asleep like an idiot. An idiot still in love with his wife.

Signs? I saw no signs. Did she sharpen her nails while giving me the stink eye? No. Did she protest my advances for the monthly lovemaking? No. Keeping an even keel. Normalcy was her plan of attack.

When she told me about Claudia, how she’d fallen in love, her eyes opened to a new kind of intimacy, I was just grateful it wasn’t someone I knew. With a woman as attractive as Deborah, and someone as ordinary as me, it was always a risk. I worried she’d fall for someone at work, one of my brothers, a neighbor. My life before was one of constant vigilance on the lookout for possible suitors. I never even thought to fend off other women.

So fine, she was in love. Good for her. Can’t get married yet but after our twelve years I’d bet she was done with the institution anyway. But to try to kill me? Seems excessive.

Planned it out too. I have since learned about the gears already in motion between Deborah and Claudia. When I first showed up to Claudia’s apartment I just about gave her a heart attack. I told her about the safety. She wasn’t as impressed. She just started at my shoes.

My bloody shoes I should say.

I always keep them by the side of the bed and when Deborah fell, this is after I wrestled the gun away from her and shot her you understand, she landed on them. Wasn’t that hard either, getting the gun. She was so stumped by the fact that she was pulling and pulling on the trigger and nothing was happening that in one fluid motion my hand shot up and whipped the gun out of her grip, I flipped the safety off with my thumb and put the gun up under her chin and fired.

She fell off to my right and covered my shoes with her body. By the time I got up, got organized and got dressed she had leaked quite a bit. I set those shoes aside and let them dry out. They’re my favorites so I was reluctant to toss them out. Expensive too.

It took two days to piece together what made her do such a thing. I found out about Claudia, found the plane tickets. I found her other bank account. Seriously, just tell me you’re leaving. Jesus, what a lot of leg work for nothing.

I’m just glad I never tried to have an affair. Seems like too much work.

I’m happy I got to meet Claudia. I thought for a moment I might try to follow her for a while, learn more about her but then thought, fuck it. Why bother? What was I trying to hide?

I mean, other than Deborah’s body.

So I marched my dried blood shoes over there and told Claudia everything. She listened. What else could she do? I had the gun with me.

I’m so thankful she didn’t flip out and try to claw my eyes or kick me in the balls like I expected. I could see in her face she actually kind of respected me for my decisive action.

If I hadn’t been so calm and just so damn curious about it all, I think she liked that, I might have scared her off. As it was she softened slowly and just began to talk about it. I was genuinely interested. Still so damn confused by it. She said it was Deborah’s idea to kill me. Claudia just wanted to run away back to Brazil where she was from. The accent was amazing. I saw what Deborah liked about her. Smokin’ hot too. Belongs on Ipanema beach in a thong, not Boston in a parka.

I got ahead of myself a little and started imagining she and I using those tickets, running away. It’s a very appealing thought. Would I kill for it? Doubtful. Makes you think though.

Kinda forgot she was a lesbian. When she caught the drift of what I was implying she balked. Recoiled really. That didn’t feel good.

She saw her opening. Ran right through it. Came out with a knife I hadn’t seen her palming. That Latin passion raging in her eyes. Athletic too, the way she came at me. I had to react quickly.

I was so glad I didn’t have to struggle with the safety.

Feast of Flash - Honorable Mention - Hazar Worth

Hazar Worth is the pseudonym of a most creative and unconventional writer. His recent piece, Hosting, at Metazen is amazing.

Always pushing boundaries, this entry into the FOF is no exception. Let go of any inhibitions you have for just a moment and enjoy his tale of thankfulness.

Not Today
by Hazar Worth


He heard the gun's lightning bark. The pain in his left shoulder was real, and woke him from his sleep.

His nude body held a secret scent that contained the degrees and richness of private memories, written and recorded on the burning temples of papers cast to an eager fireplace.

'I wasn't borned knowing much more than what I have chosen to know....'

That was the first line from her poem. Her voice was a calm cadence untouched by the taxes of sentiments, remorse, and regret. The cellphone on the night-stand murmured and hummed to get his attention.

'Yes', his voice confirmed to the caller.

'Yes...of course. Everything will be covered as discussed. Yes. Alright.'

He carried the cellphone into her bathroom. His mind was going over the details, and the non-essentials.

'I was taught about lust by the stormy harvest of my gay brother's lover.'

His nude body stood in front of the full-length wall's waterless ice. His fingers touching the raised wound on his left shoulder. He was highly recommended, he was the consummate professional. But he met her. But he looked too long at her features. But he listened to her. He listened to her voice reading her poetry. He listened to her when she asked him for a kiss....

'I was told once that only the brave sought a cutting edge to worship, and defend.....'

He put the cellphone down near her sink. His fingers wanted to hold something that belonged to her. Didn't matter how long she owned it; didn't matter how much she had to pay for it; didn't matter how insignificant it might appear from a distance, from close up, from head on. He wanted to just feel her lingering there on his finger-tips.

'The world rushes at you with faces you might choose to remember later on...'

In his dream, she was sitting underneath a large and perfect tree. There was a river and across the river, there was a family of five. In the sky, he remembered seeing an airplane that made no noise at all but moved across the sky, low enough for him to recognize the letters that was underneath the airplane's body.

'I didn't want to drive him home until we got back to his place....'

He was dressed in a double-knitted, deep grey policeman's uniform but he wore this oversized white cowboy's hat. He stood perfectly still as if he was an omnipotent God that had no reason no purpose

And no identity but to remain always Omnipotent.

'A line of coke, a big cock, and we fucked until I couldn't cum...'

The dog's name was Spartacus. A pure white, oversized mixed dogs from at least several different breeds. He heard the owner's command and witnessed Spartacus' defiant nature. From where he stood, he could feel the ground underneath his feet shake, shudder, and worry as Spartacus started to gain stronger and stronger momentum towards her.

She was too busy writing in her notebook. She was too spellbound by the mysteries of her thoughts, and thinkings..

'At the end, people can't make you want to mend. No more than they can make you laugh...'

He yelled at Spartacus but couldn't move. He had enough time to remember his handgun, and he drew the gun quick enough to hit Spartacus' head but not quick enough to save her face from being tore apart and tore from her skull.

Her face that he had touched over and over again. Her face that read him her poetry; her face that asked him to take her into her bedroom; her face that wanted him to kiss her lips, taste her mouth, feel her tongue, feel her around him like two serpents climbing through the tropical vines of their moans and urgent yearnings.....


Her mascara felt like a stolen fruit from some farmer's field. But the delight didn't reach his senses or charged his bloods. He pikced up the cellphone, and his nude body returned to the bedroom. A faint scent greeted him as he stood at the foot of the bed to look at her.

His eyes saw the syringe he placed on the night-stand. He would bag and dispose of the syringe immediately. That was his procedure: disposal of the weapon and then the body. Expeience was his only teacher, and teacher, and lover. Everythingelse was unnecessary....until he had met her.

'I always wanted to feel thankful for living. Not thankful for being so blessed; not thankful for the 'good things' that happened to me; not 'lucky' for the things I had. I always wanted to feel thankful for living. I asked for nothing more. Not back then, and not for today.'

For a moment, he stood as still as he did in his dream. The weight of her mascara held him from sinking, and made him remember the promise he had kept for her.

Feast Of Flash Honorable Mention - Aleathia Drehmer

Fans of the NOT know that Aleathia Drehmer is one of my favorite writers. Her talents are so diverse and she writes with such strength no matter what style whether it be prose, verse or short fiction. Her latest project, Durable Goods, is a subscription based micro-zine that features poetry in your mailbox every month. Here is her essay based entry for FOF:


Dialogue in the Dark
By Aleathia Drehmer


“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn whatever state I am in, therein to be content." - Helen Keller

I was posed the idea of thankfulness by a friend and it seemed like an easy thing to think about, but it took me some time to really decide what I was most thankful for. I have so many great things in my life and I do my best to appreciate them all. I think I am guilty of forgetting the basics though. We walk around as a general population all across this land hearing and seeing and smelling and touching everything around us. We take these senses for granted. We were born with them. They have not failed us except with their understood decreases in time. We never think about losing them.

This year I had the opportunity to attend an exhibit in Atlanta, GA called “Dialogue in the Dark”. I had an opportunity to face my biggest fear. I had an opportunity to realize just how lucky I really am. This exhibit took me into total darkness. Though I knew what I was getting into, I was not whole-heartedly prepared for it. My existence was entrusted to a blind person who would lead me around five different real life settings. They didn’t hold my hand. No one held their hand in their dark world. I was given a cane and the other gifts I was born with that I took for granted.

I could smell the fear on every person when I went blind. Each of us with our eyes open and straining hoping beyond hope that we could see something. There is a panic that happens when you lose a sense. Sounds are too loud. Depth perception goes out the window you can no longer see. The mind paralyzes the body and the heart races the 100 yard dash. People are panting. Canes skitter across the ground frantic to find a clue. The blind woman calls to the group. “Come to the sound of my voice”. She sounds a million miles away and there is a collective silence that happens when she speaks. She is our only way out of here. There is no turning back and that simple notion was just as scary as not being able to see.

Somehow, I found my way through the outdoor park setting without falling into the river as I went over the bridge. My entire body on fire with tension and the need to sob rife within me. All the while thoughts like: what if I could never see my daughter’s face again…..I would never get to see another sunset…..and will I remember how to smile if I don’t know what it looks like? all ran through my head. I felt small and insignificant at having misused the power of sight for so long. Had I really seen all the things in the world in the proper light? Had I appreciated every single moment my eyes gathered pictures and made memories out of them? I knew the answers to those questions and I was disappointed with myself.

When I got to the other side of the bridge, the voice of the blind woman asked for someone to lead the group and all breathing stopped, until suddenly in this abyss, I heard my own voice rise up from my chest saying “I will do it”. Sighs of relief pushed through me from all directions. Invisible signs of the cross going across each of their chests. For once in their lives this was something they didn’t want to be first at.

I took this blindness by the horns. I gripped my cane and closed my eyes and adjusted to this new world that had always been there. I thought about Helen Keller, who shared a birthday with me, and how she never even had the chance to enjoy the visual wonders of the world around her, but she persevered and became a writer and a teacher. She was the first deaf/blind woman to ever graduate from college. She stood up to the challenge and lived her life just as good, or better, as anyone.

I went through the rest of the scenarios at the head of the line, forging through the darkness and finally learning to just close my eyes and feel everything around me. I found that when my fingers or my ears recognized something my memory would recall it as an image. I could see my own imagination.

I stepped into the light a humble person. I stepped into the light a new woman. I stepped into the light thankful I could see it again. This was one conversation I would always remember and cherish.

Aleathia Drehmer 2009

Feast of Flash - Honorable Mention - Kim Perzy Urig

Kim Urig is a renaissance woman. She is someone who can't sit still and has many writing projects going on at all times. She has several websites/blogs, but Lifted On Eagle's Wings is her latest and features some good spirited viewpoints and dialogue. Nonfiction is her primary game so today's write has a distinct personal essay spin. Here is her entry:


Run, Don't Walk
by Kim Perzy Urig

1997 was an eventful year in my life. My husband went to Australia for six weeks on business. I wanted to join him, but was pregnant with our second child and was nervous being away from our doctor for so long. Our first child was premature, so my fears seemed well founded.

Instead, I stayed stateside and supervised the construction of a new home. Our new home was unfinished when our other home sold. I moved into a hotel room. I was not particularly thankful at all. Living in a cheap hotel, 5 months pregnant, a 20 month old, and our worldly possessions stacked to the ceiling in the garage of an unfinished home put a young mom in a state of distress, not gratitude.

I bemoaned my lot. Like a petulant child, I vowed to take action against those responsible for my distress. However, by the time my husband returned, the house was finished and we moved in. The wind in my angry sail dissipated. Nevertheless, I still was without appreciation.

The builder messed up the laundry room, the woodwork trim was wrong; the fireplace was not working properly and there were cracks in my floor tile. He wanted to charge us to take down the dead trees, but cleared away live ones during his sloppy building. Our basement flooded because they did not install the sump pump correctly. I had a plethora of reasons to be ungrateful. My list of complaints grew exponentially along with my increasingly pregnant belly. In fact, the floor salesman had the nerve to suggest hormones caused my dissatisfaction. Then the builder dared to explain that his crew was used to working on much higher end homes, and so perhaps that was why they overlooked some details. My ire peaked.

I met a few of my new neighbors, and we commiserated about the horror of building a home. Meanwhile, our builder went bankrupt. Apparently, he did not build enough of those higher end homes. Ours was the last home he actually finished. Several of my neighbors had walls without any innards on their homes. We formed a class action suit. We put monies into escrow. We feigned gratitude at the roofs over our heads, but truly, we complained more about the unfinished work.

My stomach grew with my discontent. I met more neighbors.

I discovered the expression “new house, new baby” had legitimacy. Two of my other neighbors were also pregnant. We celebrated our growing bellies together and found yet another reason to commiserate while our husbands drank beer.

Our due dates were only a few months apart, I think we had October, December and February. For one lady, it was her first child, for me my second, for the other, it was her last child. We all anticipated our growing families with excitement.

Babies one and two arrived, while we waited for baby number three. The mother received a frightening diagnosis of breast cancer, which grew quickly with the pregnancy. The doctors wanted to deliver the baby early so that they could start aggressive cancer treatment as soon as the baby was born.

Our newly formed neighborhood organized a dinner brigade. We took turns making meals for the family. I am sure that we had not crossed into gratitude yet, but we did have a bit of misplaced guilt. Whatever we could do never felt like enough. It just was not fair. Period.

Her baby was born; the mother started treatment. The family of the first new baby moved away, but my child and hers grew up together. We gave our daughters the same name. The mother silently fought her battle, to the point that we really did not know one way or the other how she was doing. We assumed she would be okay because she was young and had a charmed life in a lovely new home.

The summer they were four, her and I spent hours at our neighborhood pool trying to get our girls to swim. They were more content to strut around the pool like ducks, quacking, “I’m Maddy, no, I’m Maddie,” with their little blow up swimmer arms flapping.

My friend and I laughed. I tried not to stare at the scars on her chest or her thin hair. She looked beautiful and vibrant. She would beat this thing. We laughed some more.

School started and our kids were all in different classes. Our busy lives took over. That fall, we had a girls’ night in the neighborhood, to play a silly dice game called Bunco. My friend won every game that night. A month later, the cancer had rapidly spread to her spine. Hospice came in. She died that February, on her 38th birthday. Her baby girl just turned five.

During her illness, my friend worried how families less fortunate could possibly manage such a horrific illness. Her husband set up a foundation in her name and that August, held a golf outing to benefit the foundation. It rained the entire day. We smirked because our friend hated golf. We imagined her looking down from heaven saying, “Why golf?”

Another neighbor organized a Turkey Dash 5K on Thanksgiving morning. I have worked it as a volunteer and my family has run it. It has taken me since 2003, almost 7 years, to be thankful.

This year, I will run (most of the time) the 5K. I have never done anything athletic in my life. I have no letters in sports, no physical accomplishments to trumpet. However, this year, I will say I completed a 5K.

I am thankful that I have my life where I can watch my babies grow up, where I can set goals and achieve them. I am thankful that I have a flawed house but good neighbors. I am mostly thankful for the place I call home.