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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
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ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED NINETY TWO             June 4, 2004
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A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE
By Wesley Lambert
 
“No!” Parkes shrieked. “Get away from me!”
 
The chimeras lurked outside the door. He heard snuffling and gnashing teeth. Their sterile odor seeped inside.
 
Dashing for the bedroom, he stormed the closet, hefting a ball bat.
 
Parkes returned to the foyer. His heart crashed timpani in his ears.
 
They’ll peel me like an orange, snap my bones and slurp the marrow from the splinters.
 
Click.
 
Claws scrabbling at the lock.
 
The door gaped. Creatures stumped toward him, talons extended.
 
He whimpered, swinging the bat.
 
Stumbled.
 
Fell.
 
* * * *
 
Parkes’ screaming drew the neighbors. They watched men in white coats restrain him on a gurney, load him into a waiting van, and drive away.
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Wesley Lambert gets a weekend pass once a month, but he always returns to his padded room.  Reach him with comments at Socialcons1@aol.com.
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© 2004  Wesley Lambert
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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED NINETY ONE             June 3, 2004
A SHORT THREAD
By Jack Schrader

It was just a small, short thread sticking out of the hem of the tablecloth. I gave it a tug and it came off easily. I was pleased, because I am a neat person.

Then I noticed an odd thing. My tablecloth was slowly unraveling. Then the heap of thread started to turn to dust. The table then began to crumble. Soon the walls and ceiling followed. Dust and debris started to fall on me.

As the walls crumbled away, I saw a slow wave moving out across the lawn. The grass, flowers, trees, sidewalks, and streets crumbled to dust. What had I done?

Then my feet began to itch…

Jack Schrader is a self-styled underfinanced Renaissance man--artist, musician, and writer. He lives in Vancouver, WA, with wife Esther and an ancient cat.

© 2004  Jack Schrader
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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED NINETY             June 2, 2004
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PIECES
By Jerry Schatz

The smell of formaldehyde would have been unbearable if I'd been a nose. But I wasn't, I was a kidney.  I'd been a whole man once. Now my home was a numbered bottle in the crime lab. As I considered my fate, a technician brought in a new bottle and placed it next to mine. It was an ear, and I sensed it was an organ I knew. By God, it was Priscilla! Unmistakable--that curled-in lobe. How many years had it been? Do I hear violins?
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Jerry writes humor, flash fiction, longer fiction, and articles. His work has appeared in The Green Tricycle, Laughter Loaf, The Muse Apprentice Guild, and FlashFictionFlash online newsletter.
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© 2004  Jerry Schatz

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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED EIGHTY NINE             June 1, 2004
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THE DOLPHINS
By Phillip Good

The dolphins frolic among the surfers, amusing some, annoying others.

I swoop out over the lip of a wave, hang ten, do everything the boys do.

Did you see me Victor?

Ignoring me, he shouts, "One let me pat him on the head."

Every day, fewer boys come with their boards and there are more of the gray shapes.  I'm still the only girl.

The dolphin with the crooked fin, White Spot, brushes by me.  We mount the next wave together, but I lose my balance, pearl, am lost in a sea of foam.

When I rise, Victor has disappeared.
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Phillip Good can be found at  http://mysite.verizon.net/res7sf1o/Author.htm
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© 2004  Phillip Good

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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED EIGHTY EIGHT             May 31, 2004
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BLACKOUT
By Brian Rosenberger

            His fingers had the texture of raisins. He turned the faucet off, dried his hands, and returned to his cubicle. He was among the first arrivals, responsible for opening the outer gate for morning deliveries. He powered on the computer and realized he didn't remember the drive in, only the on ramp and the parking lot. The space between was completely blank. Miles lost. Not the first time either. He thumbed the dial for news. After the traffic update and weather, there was a report of yet another hit and run, a disabled driver turned fatality. He started typing in numbers, the news already forgotten.
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When he is not clowning around funeral homes throughout the Midwest, giving mourners a reason to smile through their tears, Brian Rosenberger publishes Decompositions. More grins and giggles than a freshly dug grave.
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© 2004  Brian Rosenberger

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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED EIGHTY SEVEN             May 30, 2004
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A WEEK IN EXILE
By Jade Walker

Seven days ago, I ran over a turtle. Now no one will talk to me.

I was listening to Aretha Franklin, and demanding respect from other drivers. I didn't notice the small-shelled creature crossing the road at a poured molasses pace.

The sound of its stony shell cracking under the weight of my tires set my teeth on edge. Horrified, I felt the animal's carcass bounce against the undercarriage of my car.

After the moment of shock passed, I pulled over to see the accidental carnage. The remains were broken and bloody, a sharp-edge pulp that vaguely resembled the town's former mascot.
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Jade Walker is the editor of Siren Song Magazine and writes The Blog of Death and Jaded Writings. She's also the former overnight editor/producer of The New York Times on the Web.
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© 2004  Jade Walker
 

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FLASHSHOT
Daily Genre Flash Fiction
==================================================
ISSUE FIVE HUNDRED EIGHTY SIX             May 29, 2004
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TORTURE ROOM
By Yolanda Sfetsos

“I can’t do this!”  She yelled, the pain tearing through her entire body.

“It’s okay.”  He said hopelessly holding her hand tight.  There was nothing he could do to ease her agony.

They’d both gotten themselves into this mess, but she was the one being tormented for hours; torn at the very seams.

“Come on, just a little more.”  Someone else was with them in this torture room.

With all her might, she prayed that this burst of strength would be the last needed for the excruciating pain to cease.

“Congratulations Lydia,” The other person suddenly appeared.  “It’s a girl!”
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Yolanda Sfetsos lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and daughter. Writing is the best and only escape for her mind…
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© 2004  Yolanda Sfetsos

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