Flash Fiction Friday - October 2, 2009

4 views
Skip to first unread message

Ryan

unread,
Oct 1, 2009, 10:23:17 PM10/1/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Got a piece of flash fiction for this week? Post it here!

hilary slater lamont

unread,
Oct 1, 2009, 11:13:27 PM10/1/09
to flashfict...@googlegroups.com
The stew of it all was that she didn't know where to look. She had searched the whole house, wondered what era she's last re-located them, couldn't for the life of her remember seeing them in ages. But they had to show up somewhere! She went to sleep that night tense and frustrated at not having a single clue as to their whereabouts, but she was too exhausted to be able to deal with it then, and perhaps, she mused, the good night's sleep would help her. She might dream of the location, or at least not dream at all, but awake refreshed, calm, relaxed, and then the answer would come to her when she let her subconscious do the searching. 
And so she slept.
In the morning, she awoke with a start, as if she'd fallen back onto the mattress from a great height. She kind of loved when that happened. She had a milisecond of a glimpse of what it felt like to free-fall. Or maybe even to fly.
She lay back on the bed, waiting for that wonderful calm moment when her mind just thrust forth the answer she'd been waiting for, without so much as a quiver of emotion. She closed her eyes and dozed for perhaps 20 minutes, and then, suddenly, as if  in the eye of the storm or something, the calm came the answer was thrust forth, and there, as easy as anything, she knew. 
She bolted up out of bed, grabbed her slippers and housecoat, and raced down the back staircase. The old house creaked at the sudden motion of the joists.
She scrabbled around in the back kitchen, crawled under the back lower stairs and felt around in the old pantry. The light was so hard to find in here!
She found it at last, and blinked blindly as the little dank room filled with light. There on the shelf was the thing she'd been searching for for 3 days. Her ham and egg sandwich from breakfast last week! Needless to say, it smelled wonderful... well at least if you were a rat you might think so!
Hilary (1 hour early because I saw the posting and suddenly thought it was friday already, since tomorrow is a PD day !!) :D oops lol
:D


On Thu, Oct 1, 2009 at 10:23 PM, Ryan <ryanh...@gmail.com> wrote:

Got a piece of flash fiction for this week?  Post it here!




--
H i l a r y   S l a t e r
Sustainable Landscapes


hilary slater lamont

unread,
Oct 1, 2009, 11:14:43 PM10/1/09
to flashfict...@googlegroups.com
On Thu, Oct 1, 2009 at 11:13 PM, hilary slater lamont <hilary...@gmail.com> wrote:
The stew of it all was that she didn't know where to look. She had searched the whole house, wondered what era she's last re-located them, couldn't for the life of her remember seeing them in ages. But they had to show up somewhere! She went to sleep that night tense and frustrated at not having a single clue as to their whereabouts, but she was too exhausted to be able to deal with it then, and perhaps, she mused, the good night's sleep would help her. She might dream of the location, or at least not dream at all, but awake refreshed, calm, relaxed, and then the answer would come to her when she let her subconscious do the searching. 
And so she slept.
In the morning, she awoke with a start, as if she'd fallen back onto the mattress from a great height. She kind of loved when that happened. She had a milisecond of a glimpse of what it felt like to free-fall. Or maybe even to fly.
She lay back on the bed, waiting for that wonderful calm moment when her mind just thrust forth the answer she'd been waiting for, without so much as a quiver of emotion. She closed her eyes and dozed for perhaps 20 minutes, and then, suddenly, as if  in the eye of the storm or something, the calm came the answer was thrust forth, and there, as easy as anything, she knew. 
She bolted up out of bed, grabbed her slippers and housecoat, and raced down the back staircase. The old house creaked at the sudden motion of the joists.
She scrabbled around in the back kitchen, crawled under the back lower stairs and felt around in the old pantry. The light was so hard to find in here!
She found it at last, and blinked blindly as the little dank room filled with light. There on the shelf was the thing she'd been searching for for 3 days. Her ham and egg sandwiches from breakfast last week! Needless to say, they             
'smelled wonderful'... well at least if you were a rat you might think so!
 
Hilary (1 hour early because I saw the posting and suddenly thought it was friday already, since tomorrow is a PD day !!) :D oops lol
:D


On Thu, Oct 1, 2009 at 10:23 PM, Ryan <ryanh...@gmail.com> wrote:

Got a piece of flash fiction for this week?  Post it here!




--
H i l a r y   S l a t e r
Sustainable Landscapes


Sayer

unread,
Oct 1, 2009, 11:46:14 PM10/1/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Kilbraede.

The rain was falling in sheets, and the darkness almost impenetrable.
I couldn’t help reflecting on the irony of the situation. At any other
time I’d have thought it funny, but currently, I was much too
frightened to see the humour. Months of careful research and sacrifice
had brought me to this moment…to this place. I was never one for
bravery, but when they came, it forced even the most timid of us to
acts of daring.

We held our own at first, but once they’d managed to destroy the
churches, the tide turned and it was all we could do to avoid being
killed in the streets nightly. Many lost their faith, and still many
more joined them, choosing life over perpetual fear. But not I. They
had taken everything else, but they’d not have my faith. I would not
surrender. There had to be a way to fight them and I would find it.

At first, I thought it a myth. An old wives tale given new life by our
need for hope, but I kept hearing it, the details of the story
unchanged by each telling. There was hope. There was one who could
defeat them. One who could save us. The story was fantastic; of a time
when they had come before, of a time when they had been many, and of
those who had fought them. It was a story of one who had fallen, and
then made them regret the falling. That was to be my quest, to find
the fallen.

Information was at a premium, and there were transgressions I was
forced to endure, and lives I was forced to end, but I was fighting
for our continued survival. No price could be too great. I would have
time to mourn and reflect once we’d ground them under our heel…if I
were able to convince the fallen. I had crossed the continents in
search of this salvation and had heard nothing of home for months, but
I was resolute. Surely they would spread, making my mission necessary
regardless of the fate of my home. I must succeed.

I stood facing the building, the flickering streetlights causing the
shadows on the street to dance. The informant who had given me this
location had done so with my knife pressed against his throat, and I
hoped his information hadn’t been a parting joke.

I might be in as much danger from the fallen as I was from them, but
there was no choice. There was no other hope. As I removed my weapon
from its holster and started toward the entrance, something fluttered
in the darkness to my left, just out of sight. I tensed. I’d not be
denied this close to our salvation. I heard the flutter again and
caught movement out the corner of my eye. I broke into a run, hoping
to reach the door. They’d tracked me before, and each time I’d been
able to avoid the ambushes by outsmarting them, but they knew what I
was looking for and they were persistent. Just as my fingers were
about to close around the handle, an impact in the darkness threw me
backward into the street, sending my weapon clattering across the
asphalt. Before I could think, it was upon me, pinning me to the
ground by the throat and tearing at my clothes. I’d heard there were
sometimes other things they liked to do before killing us, but my
greatest concern was that I’d failed my quest. I’d failed in finding
our salvation.

Suddenly, something in the darkness hurled it free, and a stomach-
turning cry filled the air. Still gasping for breath, I was barely
able to sit up and through my blurred vision, I was able to make out
something else, something smaller, attacking my would-be assailant. It
was utterly silent as it swirled in the night and it moved so quickly
it seemed to dance between the raindrops. Each of my assailant’s
attacks were countered effortlessly, tearing sinew and splintering
bone. In one case, the offending appendage was simply torn away at the
joint and thrown aside. I’d never heard one of them scream, and I
almost pitied the creature as it was forcibly subdued.

What happened next though, sent me scrambling frantically for my
discarded weapon. For once my saviour had rendered the still screaming
attacker defenceless, I could swear I saw it lower its head and bite
him savagely in the throat.

It was one of them.

It wasn’t saving me, it was stealing food.

I managed to grasp the weapon and turned back, my hands wet and
fumbling with the trigger mechanism, only to find her already
crouching in front of me, her face inches away from mine.

She was literally as pale as chalk, far paler than any I’d ever seen
and her dark hair contrasted sharply with the crimson of her eyes in
the flickering light. Much of what she was wearing seemed to be bits
of ancient Scandinavian armour intermingled with fairly modern
clothing, and a lot of leather. She watched my face carefully for
several moments before speaking.

“I heard you were looking for me.”


Natalia

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 9:40:07 AM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
~~RECIPE FOR LOVE~~

INGREDIENTS
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, once around the pan in a slow
stream
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 shallots, minced
• 1 cup vodka
• 1 cup chicken stock
• 1 can crushed tomatoes (32 ounces)
• Coarse salt and pepper
• 16 ounces pasta, such as penne rigate
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 20 leaves fresh basil, shredded or torn
Serve with:
• Crusty bread, for passing

Heat a large skillet over moderate heat. Add oil, butter, garlic and
shallots. Gently sauté shallots for 3 to 5 minutes to develop their
sweetness. Add vodka to the pan (3 turns around the pan in a steady
stream will equal about 1 cup). Reduce vodka by half, this will take 2
or 3 minutes. Add chicken stock, tomatoes. Bring sauce to a bubble and
reduce heat to simmer. Season with salt and pepper.
While sauce simmers, cook pasta in salted boiling water until cooked
to al dente (with a bite to it). While pasta cooks, prepare your salad
or other side dishes.
Stir cream into sauce. When sauce returns to a bubble, remove it from
heat. Drain pasta. Toss hot pasta with sauce and basil leaves. Pass
pasta with crusty bread.*




It was that recipe that made her fall in love with him. She still
liked to look at it from time to time, to remember the dream of it--
the fantasy of that first night.

Two years after her husband had left her for the pretty blonde dental
hygienist, the seed that was her loneliness had grown into a tree
whose shadow she lived in daily--until one morning when she found she
no longer took comfort from its shade.

"What do I have to lose?" she said, with a laugh, to a friend that
day.

"Meet your Match: A Match Made in Heaven!" proclaimed the site, but
the repetition and play on clichés did nothing to encourage her. At
first she debated each question at length. Some (Would you describe
yourself as introverted?) were easy to answer while others (If you
were a part of a pineapple, which part would you be?) perplexed her.
After a while, she clicked responses without thinking, without even
reading the question in its entirety. If she happened to catch a
mistake, she often didn't alter it--for reasons which alternated
between skepticism and fatalism.

When she bit her lip, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and clicked
"finish", she nearly passed out. Almost immediately, her matches
started flowing in. Caroline skimmed the matches, eliminating the ones
with the more unsavory words or pictures. Of the ones that remained,
most were so formulaic that she passed over them too, their printed
words devolving into "blah blah blah" in her mind's ear.

Just when Caroline had given up hope of finding anyone worthwhile to
"wink" at (wink? she thought, Seriously? I'm supposed to "wink" at men
that interest me? Maybe it should be "honk". How crude!), his profile
caught her eye. Oh, he was attractive, but it wasn't his photo that
captured her.

Instead of writing about himself (as most self-centered men seemed to
enjoy on this site), he'd posted a recipe. What a strange thing to do,
she thought as she tapped "print" repeatedly.

In the car, for the first time in years, she found herself excited for
dinner.

At the grocery store, Caroline searched for the ingredients with
relish, pausing each time she saw someone plucking the same items off
the shelves to wonder if she had seen the same profile, and was
preparing the same dinner. Somehow, it made her feel far less alone.

In her kitchen, sautéing seemed sensual; turning simmering into
boiling was almost climatic. And eating it did things to her pallet
she hadn't thought possible.

By the time Caroline had finished savouring the last bite, she was a
little surprised to find herself thoroughly in love. Only that, after
all, could have made her rush to her computer before even clearing the
table or washing the dishes.

Scanning all the supposed heavenly-made matches, she desperately
looked for her love, "Cooking4U". Caroline could scarcely wait to
"wink" at him, to tell him how much she had enjoyed dinner, to find
out his real name, to meet him in person. If he was anything like the
pasta, she thought, she really had found her match. Visions of a
spokeswoman-future flooded her thoughts. She could see an image of
herself with her handsome new husband, and a quote, "I met my match,
and you can too!"...or something more original, some clever play on
words that would melt the hearts of naysayers and bring love to the
searching.

Oh yes, months later, she could remember the fantasy of it all, could
still taste it on her tongue. It wasn't unlike her first marriage.
Perhaps it always started that way, before diminishing into reality.
Maybe there was a biological reason for it; there usually was for such
things. Or maybe the heart was simply funnel-shaped, closing off until
but a trickle might escape into it.

She'd still make the pasta, of course, it was too good not to. Not for
herself, but for others, and then afterwards, when her friends and
family would drone on at length about how amazing it was, she'd
readily hand over the recipe. When they'd ask where she'd come across
it, though, Caroline's lips would curve into a bitter-sweet smile.
That was the one secret she'd never tell, the one story she'd keep to
herself. After all, she'd die before letting anyone know she'd fallen
in love with an ad for a cookbook.



*Recipe passed along to me years ago by a friend; original source
unknown

oilsdragon

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 9:48:38 AM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Natalia - I think I saw that ending coming, but it was terrific
nonetheless! :D I really enjoyed it. Some of your phrasings here are
beautifully done.

AlleyCat34

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 11:29:15 AM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
After three month of writers block, thanks to Ryans prompt THE CAT IS
BACK! Enjoy!


Title: The Stew
WC: 631

The stew smelled wonderful. She thought as she stood there looking
around her kitchen to see that everything was in order.

It had been a long year for her. She had gotten married to a man she
loved and moved to another city to follow him when he got himself a
job in another state. She had left her family and friends behind. As
much as everyone had promised her that they would keep in touch they
had slowly drifted away. Even her family had drifted more than she
would have liked.

'Not that they had ever been all that close to begin with.' she
thought as she stirred the stew again and felt the baby kick.

That was the other thing. The baby.

It hadn’t been her idea, but when she had had so much trouble finding
work when they moved here that her husband had thought it was the
perfect time to start a family.

No career to get in the way, he had said.

She hadn’t really had an option in the end. After all he was the one
who brought in all the money, he was the one who gave her everything.
It was the least she could do for him. It was her duty as a wife, to
give him a child.

He had wanted a son. He said in his family sons were always born
first. It was a big deal to him. And so she tried, but in the end
again she had had no option.

When the doctors told them that it was a girl he had not been happy.
He had insisted that the doctor had made a mistake. He demanded
another test, much to the doctors dismay, and when he was shown that
there was no mistaking it he had not talked to her for over a week.

It had been the longest week of her life. She had had no one to talk
to. Even a phone call from her mother had done nothing to ease the
loneliness in her heart. But she couldn’t tell her mother what had
happened. Her mother was one of those stand by your man people, who
believed that husbands could do no wrong.

As the months passed her husband had done nothing to make it up to
her. He spent more and more time away from the house, saying it was
because he had to work late. But she wasn’t born yesterday. She might
have been stupid, but not so much so that she missed the smell of
perfume on his clothes, the lipstick on his collar or the late night
phone calls from some woman.

No, stupid she was not and when she confronted him, he had told her
that if she hadn’t become a fat cow and pushed him away that he
wouldn’t have had to turn to another woman to fill his needs.

It was always HER fault. Never his. Even their little girl who was not
even born yet was her fault. Even when he called her names it was HER
fault. That’s what he said anyways.

She on the other hand had had enough, and was going to set things
straight. That was why she had made his favorite stew tonight. He was
actually home in time for dinner for that reason alone.

After she had served the stew and brought it out to him in the living
room where he sat in HIS reclining chair, she stood there beside him,
waiting on him to start eating it.

“This smells good for once. Did you do something different?” He asked
taking a huge spoonful and stuffing it into his mouth.

She just shook her head and smiled.

He was right, for once he was right. The stew smelled wonderful.

hilary slater lamont

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 1:56:27 PM10/2/09
to flashfict...@googlegroups.com
great stories all round everyone!! :D
hil

Cliff Stornel

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 5:31:51 PM10/2/09
to flashfict...@googlegroups.com
Here is a link to my Flash Fiction Friday http://bit.ly/2iItYm

enjoy.

Randilin

Ryan

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 5:38:48 PM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
This one feels a little unfinished, but I've run out of time to edit
it, so it's going to have to be good enough :o)

"The Family Stew"

The stew smelled wonderful. Talchek had always been proud of her
stew; the recipe had been in her family for generations, and she did
her best to honour their memory by always preparing it as well as she
could.
She was preparing to taste the stew, just as the door of her cottage
was torn open, and then slammed shut just as quickly. She could tell,
from the nature of the slam, that it was her husband, Grinchek, rather
than an intruder, so she made no motion towards the entrance of the
cottage.
Sure enough, a moment later Grinchek stomped into the kitchen. As
soon as her husband entered the room, Talchek could smell the
persimoon wine on his breath – he had clearly fallen in with that
ornery crowd from the market on his way home from work, which always
left him drunk and confrontational.
“Is that stew again?” Grinchek bellowed.
“You know very well that it is,” Talchek replied as she put her
wooden spoon into the pot and started to stir. “It's Remembrance
weekend, and you know I like to cook this stew to remember my
ancestors.”
“You make that stew all the time,” Grinchek snarled. “I haven't
spent the past eight years climbing my way up the necromancy
department of the goblin king's court just to have frakking stew for
dinner all the time! We're successful – we should eat like it.”
In an eye blink Talchek whipped the spoon out of the pot and was
pointing it between her husband's beady eyes. “Don't you dare insult
my family stew,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don't care how
successful of a goblin you are, that's stew's all I have left of my
family. Insult it and you insult me, and you don't want to do that.”
Grinchek gulped. Before he could respond, however, another voice
boomed into the kitchen. “I don't see what you're so upset about,”
the voice said. “That recipe you're using isn't really the same as
the one I passed down, so there's no real connection at all.”
Grinchek and Talchek looked at where the voice was coming from; a
ghostly shape of an aged goblin popped into view as they did.
“Great-aunt Minichek?” Talchek said, shocked. “Is that really you?”
“Of course it's me, child,” the old ghost said, floating over to the
stove and staring into the pot. “Really, though, child, artificial
unicorn horn? Why not just dig up my grave and kick my corpse?”
Tal blushed. “I didn't really think it would make a difference,” she
said meekly, as if she were once again a hatchling being bounced on
Minichek's knee.
“Wouldn't make a difference?” Minicheck said angrily. “It makes all
the difference! How's an artificial horn going to have any magic in
it?”
Minichek concentrated, using her ghostly abilities to levitate the
jar of allspell that Talchek kept in her spice rack. “We can still
rescue it, I think,” she said in a mournful voice.
“Oh, lighten up, you old biddy,” came another voice. Before this one
even popped into visibility, Talchek could already recognize the voice
of her grandmother.
“Sinchek, don't meddle,” Minichek said without looking up. “We're
trying to fix this girl's meal here. It's no wonder the poor thing's
husband's cheating on her with that pixie at his work.”
“WHAT?!?” Talchek said, turning to Grinchek. It was now his turn to
start to turn red from embarrassment. She knew, right away, that what
her great-aunt had said was true.
“Oh dear, look what I've gone and done,” Minichek said.
“I don't believe you!” Sinchek said, her ghostly hands going firmly
to her hips. “How can you so callously break that news to this poor,
emotionally defenseless girl! Mini, we're not supposed to tell the
living things like that. Ghostly privilege.”
“Oh, and yet she's allowed to go around with that retched stew and
call it mine?” Minichek said. “I think not, my dear.”
The three of them – Minichek, Sinchek, and Grinchek – all started to
yell at each other about the stew, the pixie, and “poor, defenseless”
Talchek, who quickly got enough. Picking up the pot of stew, she
upturned it, dropping both stew and pot on Grinchek's head. “Enough!”
she yelled out. “I'm going to get a pizza.”
And she did.

Christine Love

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 8:53:07 PM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Honestly, this probably should've been a short story instead. I'm
doing it an injustice with this length.
----

Making Amends After the War

My name is Jennifer Tracy. I didn't know John all that well, but...
well, let me start from the beginning.
I managed to escape from the Earthian Empire in 12 BW, when I was
barely more than a kid. It was everything I could do just to pay the
my way out; my father had been conscripted and killed years before,
leaving my perpetually absent brother the breadwinner for my mother.
Not that they would've followed me, they never had the same fear of
the Empire as me, never found the rounding up of undesirables as
distressing. So I ran away, spending everything I had to get away,
even if meant leaving my family behind. I thought I'd be safe in my
new home; Corella was a neutral colony! Who could possibly imagine us
being invaded?

Well, we all know too well how history unfolded, and over a dozen
years later, I was as shocked as anyone when the Empire invaded. It
wasn't for a whole year that I joined the resistance, after my dear
friend was... well... it wasn't for a whole year that I joined the
resistance. I'd run once before. But I was a grown adult now! I
wouldn't run, and I wouldn't just stand by and starve, or watch
everyone around me disappear in the night. No, I'd take up the good
fight! I'd kill some Whiteshirts, I'd wear a beret and take up a nom
de guerre, I'd blow up anyone who collaborated and steal bread and
butter from the fascist pigs! I'd be the pinnacle of the fucking
resistance!

And... well, that's exactly what I did.

A few months later, I'd found myself ordered to set up a bomb at a
small clothier's shop that was supplying the occupation with uniforms.
So in the middle of the night, well past curfew, I broke into the
shop, setting the timer on the bomb and leaving it in the back. I was
sneaking out of the broken window, and had almost made it around the
corner, when I bumped into him.
He was tall, incredibly handsome-- and of course, a fucking
Whiteshirt. My eyes shot down to his pistol, and when I glanced from
that, to the obviously broken window, I was sure that I was dead. I'd
be just one more of those people who disappeared in the middle of the
night. I looked at his rank patch; Patrolman. Well, his shirt might've
been clean then, but he was guaranteed a promotion for this kill.

"It's awfully late to be out, miss," he said to me. I didn't have
anything to say, there wasn't anything that would help. But he
continued: "There's a report of a rebel running around. You better get
home before you run into trouble."

And then he just walked away! My pounding heart practically skipped a
beat; was that I wink I saw? Well, needless to say, I wasted no time
getting back, and sure enough, the bomb went off that night. I was
shocked; they must have accidentally recruited a good man into the
Whiteshirts!

The next time I saw him, it was in a cafe in the middle of the day.
I'd just gotten passed a missive, orders to kill some collaborator at
a certain time and place; five minutes after my contact left, I was
just about to do the same, when four Whiteshirts burst in, holding my
contact prisoner. He was terrified, but he didn't look at me not once,
even while the commander was shouting for him to identify who he'd
been here to see. Among the Whiteshirts was the one who'd saved me,
John; a Lieutenant rank now, and when they searched us all, he was the
one to check my bag. And once again, he looked the other way! He
reported that I had nothing. I continued to be taken aback by this
amazing Whiteshirt with a heart.

I'd thought of him all the time, even up to two weeks before the
liberation of Corella. There'd been a series of bloody crackdowns;
churches set ablaze with whole parishes inside just for being suspect
of harbouring the resistance. We had them scared, but too scared. We
needed to strike at their heart.

So I was in the front of an armed assault on the City Commander's
office. My men blasted their way in, while I made my entrance from the
third storey window; I was quick, killing the guards with a stolen
grenade. I burst into the office, and there he was. The man who'd
saved me before, he'd risen the ranks to City Commander. He had his
pistol drawn, and I had mine, and over the radio on his desk, I could
hear the shouts of his officers and the sound of gunfire.

"Why... why?" was all I could ask myself. He just stood there, a
gentle look in his eyes; how could this be?

"What are you waiting for?" he asked.

"No...," I said, staring at the man who'd saved me, that I had managed
to fall for, both in spite of his evil uniform. "I can't do it. You're
a good man... you've been my best ally. But... how could you...?"

"I've had my orders, and you have yours. But I'll never be able to
explain it to my superiors if we both walk out alive," he said. He put
down his gun; accepting his fate. "So do it!"

And so I did.

It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what I'd done. The
one I was living with brought me a newspaper, excitedly, pointing out
the headline proudly. "You got him, that's amazing! What a blow!"

I just stared at the headline, in horror, as suddenly, it all made
sense. It announced what I'd done, how I'd killed the man who'd saved
me, who really had loved me: "BRUTAL TERRORIST ATTACK MURDERS CITY
COMMANDER TRACY."

Rest in peace, John Tracy. You were a good man-- and a good brother.

Sayer

unread,
Oct 2, 2009, 9:16:05 PM10/2/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
I declare no injustice done. None at all.

mazzz_in_Leeds

unread,
Oct 3, 2009, 11:48:34 AM10/3/09
to Flash Fiction Fridays
Mine for this week (Puma and Jaguar Save the Planet) can be found
here:
http://mazzz-in-leeds.blogspot.com/2009/10/puma-and-jaguar-save-planet.html
Reply all
Reply to author
Forward
0 new messages