Friday, July 26, 2019

Trash Talk - Short Story Friday

Short story Friday!  Today's story is from Anne Marie Andrus. Happy reading!

Trash Talk
by
Anne Marie Andrus


Gentle wisps of September breeze swirled through The Beach Haunt reminding Ajay of summer’s magic at the Jersey Shore. A single sharp gust warned him of the season to come. Flicking his eyes from the empty inbox on his smart phone to the televisions and back again, he zipped the collar of his sweatshirt up to his chin. Outside, his part-time cameraman wandered the abandoned boardwalk, puffing an electronic cigarette. 
“What can I get the master of local turmoil tonight?” A lady with blue hair and an enormous dolphin tattoo slapped the bar in front of him. “Earth to Ajay!” 
“Sorry, Gilda. I applied for a ton of newsroom jobs—they’re all playing possum. I’ll have ice water with a slice of lemon, please.”
“Freakin’ boring.” The bartender flashed a frown that rippled into a smile. “What’s really got you so distracted?” 
Ajay stared at the screens surrounding the bar. Dressed in a navy pinstriped suit, the global affairs correspondent flashed her perfect teeth and plunging cleavage.
“You know her?” Gilda sopped mystery liquid off the bar and squeezed the rag over a rubber mat. “Oooo…you do. How well?”
“I went to journalism school with her, that’s all.” Ajay chuckled. “Pretty much.”
“She’s living the life, that’s for sure.” 
“Chasing the dream.” Ajay pointed to the television and then to himself. “Eeeking out an existence.”
“Come on, you’ve turned YouTube tabloid commentary into a distinguished art form.” Gilda tapped her nails on a tequila bottle. She flashed the lace of her bra and leaned forward. “I’m sure your classmate had surgery. I’m just dying to know how much.”
“I’ll never tell. No swill.” Ajay pushed the cheap tequila away and winked. “Or l might…what else do you have?” 
Gilda jingled her keyring and fumbled through a hidden cabinet until she found a green and gold bottle. She puffed dust off the cap, poured a shot for each of them and then filled a third. 
Ajay waved the cloud of sand and ash away. “I’m not drinking all that again.”
“Just think about the parade of drunks you’re about to interview.”
“Sinking to new depths of stupidity every Sunday night, yet I still need to speak in coherent sentences.” Ajay grabbed the salt shaker and fished the lemon from his water. He licked the back of his hand before tapping out a healthy dash of salt. 
“One for me, one for you, plus the emergency ration.” Gilda grabbed a fresh lemon. “Here we go. Lick, slam, suck.”
Ajay followed her instructions, gagged and groaned. Outside, a bus boy dumped three huge bags of garbage on the corner, turned around and flashed him a thumbs-up. 
“My stage is awaits.” Ajay closed his eyes and drained the back-up shot. “I’ll make those network execs sorry.”
“Enough of this crap.” Gilda snagged the television remote and hit mute. “Go out and smash it.” 

Find Anne Marie Here:

Friday, July 19, 2019

Short Story Friday

It's that time again! Short Story Friday!

Today's story is from Christian Terry. This one is super short but packs a funny punch!

On the Campaign Trail
Christian Terry

The ringing of the phone echoed throughout the entire oval office.  President Hunter rocked back and forth in his chair.  His thumbs fidgeted as he twirled his campaign pencil in his hand. "Mr president, sir?" His secretary called out to him. "You need to answer the call sir." She said sternly. President Hunter had been thinking about this call since he made his decision to press the button earlier.  

  The decision that he made when word eventually got out to the public about it,  would leave a lasting impression on the minds of millions of his supporters. The president began to tremble at the thought as the phone continued to ring. His mind dove into the potential backlash of executing the order.   Images of this fateful day in various news columns.There would be riots and protest in the street. 

  His opponents would milk this in every debate. He would probably need to wear body armor at all times. The country would never be united when they found out what he had done. "Mister President?" Jocelyn the secretary asked. 

"I'm answering." President Hunter assured her as he fumbled with the phone. He then took a deep breath. " Hello?" He answered and he was met with silence.  "Hel...hello?" He said again this time he was met with a young squeaky male voice.  

  "Um hi, uh we received your order but I'm sorry we're out of pineapples for your pizza ." 

Oh thank goodness, Hunter thought to himself,  the pizza place didn't have pineapples. America would never know about this. "That's fine, my finger must've slipped on the order button on your site, I actually wanted cheese. Pineapple on pizza, that's pretty ridiculous. You might as well put chicken noodle soup on there, am I right?" He chuckled nervously. 

 There was a long pause before the pizza guy replied. "Um...so yeah, that'll be twenty bucks even."  

"That's fine, have a great day. " Hunter said slamming the phone down on its base. He was relieved but couldn't help but wonder what might have been if his pizza had pineapples. 

Instagram: author_christian-terry
Twitter: @christerry4000

Friday, July 12, 2019

Short Story Friday - Vicky Holt

Welcome to Short Story Friday!
Today's story comes from Author, Vicky Holt. Enjoy!
~~~

“Come here, kitten,” the Senator said with a glint in his eye. “I need your help with this spreadsheet converter.”
Uh huh. I knew exactly what he needed help with, and it had nothing to do with my customized software application. But it was the price I had to pay. For now.
“What is it, Senator Blake?” I sashayed to his desk and leaned over his shoulder, staring at his laptop screen. “Blinking out on you again?”
There was nothing wrong with his software. He poked a thick finger at the touchscreen, blurring the liquid display where he pointed. I noted the numbers on the spreadsheet, just a jumble of inconsequential figures, but his hand up the back of my thigh demanded my focus.
I swallowed the razor in my throat and licked my lips.
“You’re treading dangerous waters, Senator,” I said. I leaned closer, so the essence of my perfume penetrated his nose. “These numbers don’t make any sense.”
He squeezed my thigh under my skirt and rumbled in his throat.
I continued. “Would you like me to refill your mug?”
I was a software developer intern, not a damned secretary, but I was so close to winning this tennis match.
“I’m not thirsty, kitten,” he said. “Just hungry.”
I stood up, letting my arm brush against his shoulder. “That’s too bad, because I brewed some coffee just for you.”
I presented my mug to him, the press of my red lipstick forming a crescent on the rim. “Taste it.”
His wolfish grin sent acid straight to my gut. I grinned in spite of it. He kept eye contact while placing his flappy lips on my lipstick mark.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…the mug dropped, bonking off Senator Blake’s fat thigh, and spilling black coffee all over his trousers and office chair. It rolled until the handle stopped its inertia.
“Senator Blake!” I screamed. I dialed the emergency number and shouted again, all while moving his body to the floor so that I could perform CPR.
That’s how the paramedics found me, and they took over.
“I don’t know what happened,” I cried. “He has an appointment in fifteen minutes!” My emotional blather continued until I was ushered into the HR offices.
“We’re so sorry,” the HR person told me from her desk. “We’ll move you to a different department. Do you need to take the rest of the day off?”
I sniffled and took her offered tissue. “That’s probably for the best,” I said. She told me to come back the next day and which department to report to. “Thanks.”
It could have been any department; it wasn’t important. The computer virus had already been planted, and my empire was about to triumph.



Instagram: lovevickyholt
Twitter: @LoveVickyHolt

Thursday, July 11, 2019

I (One) (War of Roses Book 3)

IT'S HERE!

The last installment of Lana Sky's War of Roses trilogy has arrived. As you guys know, I worship at the altar of all things written by Lana Sky. Her books are fast-paced, intriguing, disturbing, and surprising. 
And of all these things, I (One) is the cream of the crop.




WHEN DESIRE BECOMES DEVOTION…

As the secrets surrounding the Winthorp and Mafiya war come to light, Ellen and Mischa are forced to trust each other or risk losing themselves to the turmoil. 

But war comes with a terrible cost... 

And as new enemies and old lies begin to crawl from the wreckage, they must find a way to break the cycle... 

Or let the violence consume them, once and for all.


Friday, July 5, 2019

Office Intrigue in the Future - Short Story Friday


It's hot! You need a short story!

Today's fun story comes from author, Elizabeth Lemons.

Enjoy!




OFFICE INTRIGUE IN THE FUTURE

a short story by Elizabeth Lemons
5 JULY 2019

 WORDS TO USE:  
time travel, trousers, supervise, identity, 
mustard, kitchen, successfully, law, fly, tooth

Picture, if you will, a futuristic hub of legal counseling and representation.  It is the year 2050, and our scene begins in a very posh, upscale law office that is located in the Plutonian Upper Galaxy, inside the central super dome which holds inside the prestigious legal firm known as DEWEY, SCREWEM, and HOWE.

If you are equipped with just a bit of imagination and I-GGPS (inter-galactic GPS) for precise time travel expedience, perhaps you can imagine true masters of the Universe as they daily gather around the water cooler-tablet dispenser, wearing the latest in expensive spacesuits, trendily colored in purples, cobalt blues, or mustard golds. They are complete boring-ass clones of one another, there is no speck of personal identity amongst their entire gathering.  

The notion of doing one’s own individual  “thing” unfortunately died tragically over thirty years ago in an Earthly city called New Orleans when a priestly dude called Dr. John exited human existence and vacated the great Blue Ball, taking with him all his mystical and voodoo-y powers of human exclusiveness. Since earth is no more, he and all other musicians, artists of all types, chefs, and writers (now eternally converted to their astral mo-jo selves) have been sent to daily rule in the Misfit Realm on Planet Funky. Untouched, unbothered and still unaccountable, these artistic Uniques, to this very day,  continue to create amongst mellow hippie vibes, bathed forever in the scents of patchouli, surrounded by fresh icedrop sky flowers, and are forever content in a secreted place located remotely far from the Galactic Daily Grind.

So, the unspoken rule of the Undulating Universe these days is to simply fit it and make no intrusive waves of any kind.  Unseen and unheard is the accepted best policy. Aloft here in the Galaxy, making fortunes off the misfortunes of others, are each of our attorneys, who dress and accessorize his or her own ensembles with prerequisite “men-in-black” sunglasses which hide emotion and permit planetary apperation.   Heartless, blood-sucking attorneys, just the same in today’s time, as in days of old. Only concerned with the bottom line and filling their pockets. These lawful gods and goddesses of destruction daily wake inside their personal pristine monotone and meteoric dwelling pods, and stare into stardust mirrors, purchased illegally, (they “know” someone) on the bootleg market, completely enthralled with how their own “personal flare for justice” will surely successfully save the solar system from foreboding doom that is sure to come.  Then, just before they fly from home dome back to another work day, they usually flash a fake smile at themselves as a gold tooth sparkles back at them from the looking glass. “Ding!”

They have forgotten what happened on Earth when their precedents attempted to do the same.  

Between the dull-roar hours of 10am and 11am SST (Stardust Standard Time), a daily work meeting convenes in the Conference Room/Kitchen at this place of prestige on weekdays other than Friday.  On this particular morning, a Tuesday, several of the lawyers have grabbed a bagel tablet or two, cream cheese tablets, with coffee pastilles, and some of the younger suits chose Taco tablets because Taco Tuesday still remains a thing, even in modern times.  It is more than fine to consume a couple of jumbo Margarita tablets for the purpose of washing down the combo pills of chips and salsa. Alcoholism and DUI’s are a thing of the long-ago past, and now a person can consume anything without fear of disease, weight-gain or other stigma.  They sit in an oval circle, around a pellucid table, with an actual live view of the Aurora Borealis surrounding them through the crystal-clear outer wall. Many an intended thought has been forever lost in that kaleidoscopic abyss of starry gas and neon colour.

A particular tall attorney whose job it is to supervise the group (some think he resembles the earthly actor known as Will Smith) calls the work meeting to order.  Beside him sits his assistant, Atreya. He clears his throat and begins, “Good morning, team. Glad you all found some nourishment. I know you all have a busy day ahead, so we will jump right into things on our agenda." Felbar gestures towards the pad of notation known by today’s techies as a Warrior Z that lay on the floating invisible table before him.  

“Atreya has just completed our evidence room inventory and she has reported back to me that a sensitive object is missing from its secure housing.  Is there any reason that one of you might have relocated the evidence ID’ed as item # ERTH-69-VMP for an ongoing case? I can’t imagine what that might be."  

Not a sound can be heard in the room.  Felbar continues with a smirk. “OK, alright...or possibly maybe one of you has borrowed it for your own personal naughty role-playing use (he winks) and are now afraid of reprimand should you get caught returning this item?”  Non-response continues to prevail, except for the shuffling of one of the attorneys boots on the floor. Each of the legal eagles who sit gathered around the stardeck table begin to look everywhere but at their leader, Felbar. Some fidget, some pretend to be thinking, some look from one lawyer to the next or at their fingernails, desperately trying to guess who is to blame.

After what seems like light years of uncomfortable silence, one of the younger and newest attorneys (normally they ignore her at all cost) raises her left hand up in an acknowledgment wave.  “Look, I know I am new here and I admit, I have just begun to take my “better-than-human” conversion meds which I agreed to do upon hiring, and so you may or may not believe me when I tell you about something that I have witnessed.  But, I swear, it is absolutely true.” Felbar casts his intense gaze onto the woman who looks both eager and simultaneously scared.  

“Do tell”, Felbar encourages her.

“Well, a few weeks ago, I was assigned a pro-bono case with one of the FUNKS, from Planet Funky, the artsy types. It was not a greatly desired case, you know,  but I agreed to listen, due, naturally to my inexperience, and also, you know, with being expected to learn and work my way up (you know, without standard pay, as all entry-levels do who are learning the legal ropes),”  she stammers.

Felbar interjects, “yes, yes, we know."  

“Well, yes,” Aurora continues, “and so I spent some time one afternoon discussing this rather weak case which, to me, sounded like something unfounded, as if it were from a long-lost memory from Earth.  A middle-aged couple came to me, wanting me to somehow help their daughter. They claimed she had been kidnapped, been violated and then, subsequently had a child. Because of this vicious accosting. I know we are to forward any of these old-school crime cases down to Legal Aid for Ancient Grieviances.  Rape, kidnapping and children being born outside of ideal two-partner marriages are forbidden here in our modern world, I know this, but, well...as I said, they came here from Planet Funk. And, well, ugh, you know, they still have IDEAS about ways and means from older times on that planet. You know what I am speaking of... Basically, I just listened, recorded their concerns, and told them I would investigate and get back with them."  Aurora is practically out of breath after venting her tale.

Felbar holds his face with the fingers of his right hand as he thoughtfully responds.  “And this has to do exactly WHAT with the missing evidence?”

Aurora sighs.  “I don’t exactly know."

Felbar rolls his eyes.  “Please don’t waste our time, Aurora."

“Look, all I can say is they came, and they said they thought a..,um...well,  sir, they actually believed that a vampire had taken their daughter, the father was absolutely convinced that this was true.  He thought someone had to be protecting this vampire and any others, and was vehement in that he would do whatever he could to stop this from ever happening again to any other young woman, or man, I guess.  I suppose, under these horrific circumstances, that any father would. I am not saying this so-called vampire-person took the evidence for sure, but doesn’t it seem like it’s possible he might be the one who did?”  

“Alright, Aurora.”, Feldar says soothingly.  “Thank you for your ...," he smiled, "insight."  “Since we have no actual proof at this time, let’s table this for now, and move onto the next item on our agen---”

Actual giggles are heard around the table.  No one believes that any of the past-known supposed fictional “mythical monsters” have outlived the downfall of Earth.  Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, even mermaids have not been seen nor heard of in over half a century and are now, by most intelligent beings, deemed extinct.  There have been absolutely no sightings, nor reportings or any reason at all to believe that they have somehow followed humans into the future, into space. It is believed that they all remained and consequently perished long ago on the vast, empty, lifeless, dry and brown tundra...Earth. 

A lawyer called Taurean speaks with a bemused tone.  “Where would they be hiding, the bloodsuckers? Here we have no cemeteries, certainly no coffins! We have no haunted houses, we have no blood banks any more.  This is laughable, just so archaic!” No sympathy appears from anyone towards the possibility of Aurora’s sincere supposition. 

“But, wait!  Please listen, Sir! Even I know what # ERTH-69-VMP is! It is a vampire hunting box, a kit complete with holy water and stakes!  Who else would want it, for that matter, how in the world would this client who came to see me even KNOW about this kit’s survival?  If these and other creatures don’t exist, sir, then why in the stars would we have retained such an exhibit as evidence? Sir, why are you not taking this seriously?  We need to call in experts, we need to try to find this father, before he snaps! He might remove his monitoring collar and attempt to capture this violator all on his own!  What if he IS right? And what if he has decided to take things into his own hands, to hunt and kill? Sir, what if there really IS a vampire situation in the current Plutonian Galaxy?”  Aurora practically shouts in her enthusiasm to help solve the case of the missing evidence.

Feldar, always the fearless leader, looks at Aurora,  He slowly makes visual eye contact with each of his look-alike attorneys still sitting around the floating table. They express nothing, reveal nothing, and basically are just drones of protocol, now filled up and sanctified with salsa and coffee.  Feldar turns to his ever-by-his-side assistant Atreya and he asks, “tell us, Atreya, exactly why do you think the missing item that was contained in this forever hidden-away trove has our Aurora so unhinged with fear?” 

He looks at Atreya, then he turns his eyes towards the room full of attorneys, whose eyes were now like lasers, glowing a bright red.  Feldar charmingly smiles. It is at that precise moment two very prominent, sharp fangs are revealed from inside Feldar’s mouth. You can hear the clicking..first from Atreya’s mouth, then from each lawyer as each of their fangs dropped and popped and who now hungrily stare at this tender young solicitor.

Aurora faints.  

And thus, another daily gathering of the Inter-Galactic Plutonian Upper Galaxy law firm known as DEWEY,  SCREWEM and HOWE dismisses their morning legal duties and proceeds to convene into their favorite activity of the day.  What some people might call a Power Lunch.


THE END