By Brett Matthew West
Every summer the festival arrived on Sean's birthday. The boy raced between rides holding his mother's hand with cotton-candy stickiness.
He exclaimed, "Next year I'll be big enough to ride the roller coaster. I can't wait!"
365 days later his mother smelled the hot buttery popcorn and saw the bright lights glow. She stood alone by the Ferris wheel. Ashes sifted through her tear-stained fingers.
She almost heard Sean's laughs of glee as the wheel transported him to the sky.
| Author Notes | La Roue de Paris, by supergold, selected to complement my drabble. |
By Brett Matthew West
Tony placed his fingers around Mrytle's throat. The maneuver made her stiffen as the pressure built. Mrytle was helpless. She closed her eyes tight and feared the end was near. A pop, a crack, and the assault ended.
Tony asked, "Your headache any better?"
Mrytle smiled, "Thanks to you, doctor."
| Author Notes | Insects in the Garden, by MoonWillow, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
The senior citizen shuddered every time rain pellets struck his exposed skin. The bridge's overhang provided small covering from the vicious monsoon.
His gnarled and sore fingers tugged his tattered coat closer to his torso. Like the garment he wore, the old man's life hung by a threadbare balance. Death would be a welcomed relief.
Closing his eyes, he shivered from the frigidity and feared he'd find no warmth tonight.
From nowhere, a voice called above the shoddy shelter.
He opened his eyes and cried.
The outreach group worker climbed the steep, precipitous, hill. Soon, he rescued the ancient geriatric.
| Author Notes |
On the dark side of life, by cleo85, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece.
Should you wonder, the picture is not me. |
By Brett Matthew West
A sizzling campfire warmed Bob's terminally ill father as they shared family stories with Bob's young son.
The night stars above bore witness to the transfer of traditions from one generation to the next.
Bob's chest puffed up like an adder with pride at his son's undivided attention. The final tale came.
Bob discovered he was not his father's son.
| Author Notes | Summer Bliss, by TDtraditionalart, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
The tenacious "BRRRRING!" of the alarm rousted Stella. Her sleep that night was the best she could remember in eternity.
She knew the day would be fantastic. Every fiber of her being convinced her so. Stella smiled and changed her plans.
First would be breakfast at Tampini's for her favorite omelet. Suppertime, she'd feast on the gourmet cuisine at Antioch's Steak House.
Stella wanted to make the most of her life...before she offed herself.
| Author Notes | Fun with the Party Dawg!, by MKFlood, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
Maria tied her robe and switched on the bedroom light. Her six-year-old son trembled.
"It's okay, Ralphie," she assured him.
The boy whimpered, "Monster told me he's hungry."
"They don't feast on children."
"They eat big people!"
Maria's mouth agape, her eyes saucer-wide, she was yanked down under his bed.
| Author Notes | One Scary Night, by helvi2, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
Tom ate Lucky Charms from a human skull. He loathed people. Animals talked to him.
A man plummeted from a window. His head cracked open and his brains rushed out.
Tom's saw severed the head from the deceased's neck. He carried it to his apartment, filled it with milk and Lucky Charms.
Breakfast over, Tom placed the head on a shelf with nineteen others.
The next morning a Labrador stood beside Tom's bed and whispered, "Lucky Charms!"
Trance-like, Tom sprang up. His body ached. Tom cried an ocean of hot tears. He had to manifest his destiny with another hunt.
| Author Notes | st Patrick, by lillyxxmayxx, selected to complement my Flash Ficton piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
The spawn raced lickity-split onto the beach sand and scattered bread crumbs around him. Soon, gulls descended and feasted on the offered treat.
A few moments thereafter the demon nodded his head satisfied. His concoction worked well. He darted into the motel room, and left a trail of carrion behind him.
He fantasized who to try the potion on next.
| Author Notes | Night of the Monsters, by helvi2, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
World famous novelist Mary McGregor wrote her best story ever in the backseat of a Greyhound bus. The notions of her bestseller occupied her mind. A meandering narration, Mary wrote the saga on scrap paper full of words. The rollicking affair was a tale of high adventure.
Suddenly, the bus brakes squealed loud and it came to an unexpected stop. Surprised, Mary forgot her story on the seat and raced for the exit door.
Alas, there went her contest winner.
| Author Notes | Thanks avmurray for the use of your picture known as Time for waiting. |
By Brett Matthew West
There was a saw, its blade hocked part way through a hickory tree. The damn thing stuck.
It was frigid winter. The temperature much colder than expected. I wore no jacket. Cutting the tree warmed me, until now.
I trembled.
A voice taunted, "You're cold."
I agreed.
The voice assured me, "I can make you warm again."
"I'm listening," I replied.
"Shut your peepers," came the invitation.
I laid down on the frozen ground. Soon thereafter, I felt death's embrace.
| Author Notes | Rat face, by Sgoolsby, complements my posting. |
By Brett Matthew West
Huddled together everyone knelt silently. A firm finger over our mouths reminded us to stay quiet. Collectively, we held our breaths.
I whispered, "Don't let it be our door!"
The nervous door handle jiggled.
Again, I whispered, "Not our door!"
Once more, the door handle moved. This time with gusto, then fell still. Eternal moments passed like seamless hours.
I murmured, "Someone has to halt this insanity!"
Shattering the eeriness, the announcement bell chimed, "ALL CLEAR! THE LOCKDOWN HAS ENDED!"
We breathed deep as I encouraged my young charges, "Okay, kids, everyone back to their desks. The drill is over."
| Author Notes | Learning, by VMarguarite, complements my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
A Nikon camera strapped around his neck, the ancient geezer didn't fit in our island getaway. He perched on the balcony, sipped coffee, and faked a glance at a colorful brochure. I could tell he couldn't care less about what he held in his hand. Fifteen minutes elapsed. He never once flipped the cover.
I brought him seafood bisque. We exchanged half-hearted pleasantries. I forced myself not to stare at the oblong scar on his cheek. I picked up my bus tub, but couldn't place him.
Then, it struck me. My car had crashed. This was the stranger who yanked me out just before the vehicle exploded. I raced back to his table.
GONE!
I moved his bowl. There was his tip and this note:
"Forever indebted to you. I was headed to murder my invalid wife. Saving your life brought me back to a proper perspective. Thanks to you we celebrated our thirty-fifth anniversary together."
Chills raced down my spine. The night I wrecked, I was headed to pole dance in a strip joint. His heroic gesture turned my life around.
I unfolded his tip. Two singles wrapped another thousand bucks. I turned away. Tears flooded down my face.
| Author Notes |
Thanks avmurray for the use of your picture you called Hungry?
Because a reviewer did not know what these two terms mean: -ancient geezer -- sometimes what younger people call older people -bus tub -- a tub restaurant servers and bussers place dirty dishes in when they clear tables |
By Brett Matthew West
Eighty-five-year-old Dapper Dan stood five feet and five inches tall. He, and his wife Clara, dined at their favorite local pizzeria restaurant.
Big-handed, the server stood 6'10".
Dan asked what sport the hustler played.
"The one you think," the young man responded, and what do you do, Shorty, jockey horses?"
(FYI: Should you be interested, I have created the Tips 'R Us writing club. Writing tips, events, and more will be available.)
| Author Notes | H=Horses created 10 April-18, by cakemp55, selected to complement my Flash. |
By Brett Matthew West
As he mucked the horses' stalls, Terry pledged he would take a long vacation to promote not only his ranch rise to fame as the top breeder in the industry, but to celebrate his fortieth birthday.
An unexpected BANG! ended those fantasies as the gun fell from his calloused hand.
| Author Notes | Wildfire & Blaze, by MoonWillow, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
The German Shepherd stood vigil over the fresh earthen plot.
It would be a couple short days before the undertaker buried another corpse.
His remains.
| Author Notes | Looking Onto The Valley, by alaskapat, selected to complement my Flash. |
By Brett Matthew West
Lake Eustis stood ten miles away from the cabin. Since Tom Snyder passed away the property became Sean's. The lake was the last place he'd seen the feeding frenzy monster.
Sean spread his deceased father's ashes into the churning water like chefs seasoned bland meals and said, "Dinner is served!"
| Author Notes | At The Lodge, by alaskapat, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
A graceful auburn-haired angel climbed aboard the southbound commuter tram. Paul looked up, his closed briefcase on his lap. He caught a glimpse of her presence as her foot landed on the top step. Attraction immediately flushed over Paul. She was precisely the woman he pictured spending the rest of his life with.
The woman scanned available seats all around the cabin before she plopped down beside Paul. Now, she was in his clear vision, not just his imagination for a brief spell. Paul should have opened his daily newspaper, the edition he enjoyed the most. The lady pulled out her cell phone and Paul stole a peek at what she listened to.
Curious, he asked himself, "Did that say...?"
She pulled out Grapes of Wrath, one of Paul's favorite books. There he was, next to his ideal woman. Paul knew if he did not speak the intense moment would forever haunt him. And, she would go from Miss Right to That Woman on the Tram.
Was the coward just going to sit there in stunned silence?
Paul tried to decide various methods to begin the conversation with the beauty. All his jumbled mind would offer were reasons why he shouldn't. He decided if the lady remained on the tram three more stops he'd get the nerve to speak to her.
Those stops arrived. Nothing emitted from Paul's mouth except a million internal insults of his silence.
Once again, the tram stopped.
Paul composed himself and began "Steinbeck's book...".
DING!
| Author Notes | Tramways, by Mr Jones, complements this piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
Mary helped her young son build castles in the sand. She glanced up and told Pam she would try out the surfing lessons they'd planned. Enshrouded in her wetsuit, Mary disappeared into the breakers.
For a while, Pam watched Mary as Tyler shaped another castle. One hour later, no Mary. Pam scanned the waves' crests for a clue.
Screams of terror arose as beachcombers scattered. Mary's lavender-striped surfboard floated by. A tombstone-grey dorsal fin followed.
| Author Notes | At the reef, by cleo85, selected to complement this story. |
By Brett Matthew West
My brother arrived in my hospice room on the evening I was supposed to die. Thirty-five long years had passed since I last saw him.
Slowly, I pushed the morphine drip button. We laughed about our boyhood misadventures until sleep overtook us. In the morning his hand still clutched mine.
| Author Notes | The New Hospital, by willie, complements this 50-Worder. |
By Brett Matthew West
To George's nearsighted eyes the brass-plated shower unit head resembled a poised and ready to strike cobra. He mistakenly hit the cold water tap in the dead of a frigid winter morning. Unprepared, the shower spit its icy venom directly in his face.
George shrieked bloody murder and leaped with the agility of a frightened mongoose. His shivering hand slithered towards the tap. Rapid circular motions followed. In a heartbeat the fatal attack ended.
Victorious, George exhalted in being safe.
| Author Notes | I am the King, by Mr Jones, complements this story. |
By Brett Matthew West
The senorita wandered aimlessly into the darkened alley. Carlton Atwood's sinister heart beat with anticipation. His beautiful, innocent, victim prime for the snatching, or so he thought.
She attacked him like a feral bobcat in heat! Her claws and teeth ripped his flesh apart.
"Humans are clueless!" She hissed ferociously.
| Author Notes | Becoming bobcat, by eileen0204, complements this story. |
By Brett Matthew West
The farmer tilled the ground. He turned the soil enough to eradicate weeds and pests. Seeding soon followed. Swept up in his labor, he churned past the plot's boundary into a rocky outcropping. An elm had recently been removed. The tiller struck a skull.
He proclaimed, "Possibly somebody's beloved pet."
The old sodbuster knew better. "Hello, Erma. We meet again. Your disappearance left me this homestead. I inherited the property when you abandoned our family. See where your cheating got you?"
The planted corn flourished. Fertilized and limed, with nutrient-rich compost added, their stalks grew strong in the light soil.
| Author Notes | Harvesting the wheat, by Lawrence g photos, selected to complement my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Mark's heart broke every time he stared at his newlywed wife's black and white photograph. He placed his prized possession deep in his pocket. His rifle locked and loaded, he leaned over the trench...waiting. They had been engaged in combat for nine ceaseless months since leaving boot camp and never knew if they would see the light of the next sunrise.
A Panzer rapidly approached. Deep inside, Mark realized the situation was impossible. An expert infantryman, he raced into the open field shooting for all he was worth. The tank returned fire. One round pierced Mark in the chest. The assault catapulted his body into midair.
Mark's best friend in the platoon dragged him into a ravine. A weakened Mark pointed to his pocket. Dave retrieved the photograph and placed the hidden treasure in Mark's outstretched hand.
Drawing his final breath, Mark clutched the picture to his blood-soaked chest.
| Author Notes |
Schwere Sowjetische Panzer, by Sean T Phelan, selected to complement my Flash Fiction story.
Sean T Phelan not a nit. He did not place a . after T, so neither did I. |
By Brett Matthew West
An incomplete portrait displayed on a lone easel.
The artiste thinks 'What she looks like is completely your decision.'
Matilda's face was full of expectations. She stared at her vivacious youth, and flawless features, upon the canvas.
The artiste asked, "What is a life unless its experiences are portrayed?"
He snarled to himself. "Highlight every blemish and each scar seen."
| Author Notes | Burning the Midnight Oil, by MoonWillow, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
Made upon his deathbed, Mark's father's request he wear his Army greens to his funeral was the closest the old man came to admitting how proud of his son he was.
The morphine drip increased. His father lapsed. Mark's last chance to hear him exclaim he loved him slipped away.
| Author Notes | Memorial Day 2013, by lynnkah, selected to complement my Flash Fiction piece. |
By Brett Matthew West
The hitman's body ached as Povo climbed off his Harley. The killer endured the lengthy journey for one reason. He must silence the myna bird forever.
The camarero at Matamoros's most influential and prominent cantina, Myna gathered the knowledge to cease marriages, lives and careers at will. He needed to be executed. The Colt in his pocket, with the silencer attached, opportunity presented itself to Povo.
Myna perched behind the bar. A shot rang out. Povo crashed to the floor.
"Gracias, amigo." Myna smiled.
Finishing his tequila blanco, a stranger seated at the end of the bar replied, "De nada."
| Author Notes |
Bonita Tequila, by avmurray, selected to complement my Flash piece.
camarero - Spanish slang for bartender. |
By Brett Matthew West
A moth buzzed around your skull before lighting on your right hand. You called the critter George. He flew off again and slammed into a closed windowpane. George knocked himself out. Investigating, you accidentally stepped down and crushed him. Saddened by his demise, it's arrivederci to your pet. Bye-bye, George.
| Author Notes | Like a Moth to a Flame, by MoonWillow, selected to complement my Dribble. |
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