Literati!

Don’t you dare scroll through all this to find out who it is!  Claudia Barillas sent this to me in the wee small hours, and I am so grateful she is the one making enemies and not me!  Our contest Of Knights and Knaves  has been tough because [...]]]>

Literati!

Don’t you dare scroll through all this to find out who it is!  Claudia Barillas sent this to me in the wee small hours, and I am so grateful she is the one making enemies and not me!  Our contest Of Knights and Knaves  has been tough because of the stop-start nature and extended deadlines and blah blah blah that you all know about that started because our site was hacked.  We WILL make it good to all of you by announcing a new contest in a few days, and when that happens, I do hope you will help me build back the volume of visitors we were getting before we were assaulted from cyberspace.  The site needs to expand its core of regular contestants and commentators if it is to remain vibrant.

So here is what Claudia, aka Chuck has to say:

It was wonderful to see our writers spread out in the extra space granted by this contest.  It’s always amazing to see how outside of the box everyone can be even when confined by microscopic word counts, but sometimes claustrophobia sets in, and when that happens it’s nice to get a little breathing room, which is exactly what this contest provided. Even I couldn’t resist the lure of this prompt and word count, and you can find my non-entry under the pseudonym Eleanor Arby. (Get it? L.A. Noire RP?) Obviously, I never planned on picking myself, and I informed the judges who I was, but now let’s get on to those who did get picked, our Fantastic Four finalists.

Take Out by Michael Stang was very near to my heart, as I am a woman who is sometimes subject to unwanted advances. It was refreshing to read the straight-forward dialogue and watch Liu stick to her guns even in the face of (Bolo? Bozo?) Barth’s persistence.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 By Karla Onstott is an exciting romp through the most bizarre date to ever take place. (If anyone can top it with a date story of their own I’d love to hear it. Best David Hasslehoff came since the Spongebob Squarepants movie and worst date since my first one. I love that this story was not just about the date itself, but also the telling of it. Sometimes the only saving grace of a poor date is what a great story it makes.

What Is The Question? by Diane Cresswell is an endearing look at a pair of good friends with different ideas of what’s important in life. Mysterious messages, or looking good for a man who already likes you? Both characters present their cases through very entertaining dialogue with spot-on pop culture references. I wish I could meet the guy responsible for the very amusing physical reactions that open this fun piece.

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG by Sal Buttaci brings home the prize, setting up and executing a riveting tale of love, betrayal, and someone who needs to learn how to use chopsticks instead of her face for eating Chinese food.  Not a word is wasted, the climactic shoot-out over almost before you realize it’s happening, showing just how quick our guy is. And how quick he is to get over lost love with everyone’s favorite pick-me-up, chocolate.

Congratulations, Sal. Enjoy your prize and your judging duties. Thank you to all the participants, and I look forward to writing with you all again.

He'd be the God Father of the United States of America, if he was able instead of cain. The problem with a Mafia-type hit in a Chinese restaurant is that after an hour you feel like killing someone again.

Here is another look at Sal Buttaci’s winning entry:

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG

First I figured, Okay, wild goose chase, but that was my belly talking. I’d passed up the usual buttered bagels at the office, watched Hotcakes woof down hers, mine, and the third bagel always went to a finger shoot.

“So Crane finds love,” she said through luscious lips made sexier by the gloss of runaway butter. “Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is for suckers, Remember saying that?”

My belly growled again. I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit, pulled in a deep gray cloud of Chesterfield. Hotcakes drummed long typist’s fingers on her desk, waiting. Instead, hat and coat on, I headed for the House of Chang, an oriental diner off Brooklyn’s Boerum Street.

Johnny Chang, a pal from our old Woolworth’s Five & Dime days, had phoned me the day before. “Crane, she’s Jack Knife’s babe,” then in a true-blue Chinese accent, “Velly velly bad, Clane. Confucius say, ‘Flied lice good. Flied plivate eye not so good.’ ”

In one coat pocket I carried ivory chopsticks Chang had given me for luck. In the other pocket a special friend, loaded and ready, if what Johnny told me about Mandy was true.

Johnny led us to my regular table, safe in the back of the diner, where we ordered, sipped piping-hot tea and played a volley of very small talk across the table.

A few feet away, in an alcove near the men’s room, pretty much hidden, I caught sight of two of Jack Knife’s goons playing mask games with their menus.

A setup? I’d picked The House of Chang. Mandy had invited an extra couple with guns. If she was Jack’s babe, I was that goose my belly was chasing. I was also New York’s star witness against the Knife. It made good survival sense for Jack to set me down horizontal.

I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what??? “DUCK, CRANE!”

I ducked to the sound of gunfire flashing Chang’s House. When it was over, Jack was out two shooters and his babe sat face down in a half-finished dish of “Happy Family.”

Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Plenty time to buy myself a box of Whitman Chocolates.

Good morning all!

I opened my pouch this morning, after the requisite cup of Yirgacheffe Region Ethiopian coffee, and found that Claudia Barillas, our judge for the contest Of Knights and Knaves, burned the midnight oil on our behalf.

AND THE WINNER IS:

a remarkable writer…

…and that’s [...]]]>

Good morning all!

I opened my pouch this morning, after the requisite cup of Yirgacheffe Region Ethiopian coffee, and found that Claudia Barillas, our judge for the contest Of Knights and Knaves, burned the midnight oil on our behalf.

Oh! The Tension!

AND THE WINNER IS:

a remarkable writer…

…and that’s all you get for now.  I’m going to wait til tonight to announce the winner, to allow our readers to speculate, and to give a little more airtime to the the finalists whose entries just appeared yesterday to get some feedback.

Check back tonight, California time (is there any other kind of time?)

I always appreciate the spring in an ad ovum story

Literati!   Our final finalist in our contest Of Knights and Knaves is Mike Stang. I wonder if he’d accept my appreciation, in Liu of a prize? (Bad Pun Alert!  Bad Pun Alert!–but you have to read his story to get it)  He apparently is, as my daughters with strong [...]]]>

Literati!   Our final finalist in our contest Of Knights and Knaves is Mike Stang. I wonder if he’d accept my appreciation, in Liu of a prize? (Bad Pun Alert!  Bad Pun Alert!–but you have to read his story to get it)  He apparently is, as my daughters with strong Asian features from their mother tell me “Enchanted by the Slanted”.  He is about to be dished–or is that dissed?  Oh well, that’s the way the cookie humbles.

Oh…and Literati!  This piece is rated soft X lower case for fowl language (Bad Pun Alert, Bad Pun Alert–again!)

Take Out

by Michael Stang

I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date.

“It said what???”

“Exactly… what.”

“Well I got to tell you Bolo, or whatever your name is, that should have been mine.

“What do you mean?”

“You have been hounding me for six months to go out, Christ I couldn’t breathe with the calls.  Okay, here we are, but for what?  This is just what I wanted to say to you tonight.  What is it you want from me?”

“Liu, I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.  I want to be with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet Bozo, is it Bozo?  Look, you and me, we are not going to happen!  Even that cookie is slapping your ass.”

“The message may mean something else entirely, you know.”

Liu seared over the rim of her Mi Tai expectantly.

“What if “what” is what do I have to give you, what kind of children will we have, what about our future?”

“What if the cookie is asking you to give the warehouse in China Town the combination to the national trust?  What?  Are you slow or something?  It’s a mistake, just like tonight.  Could you grab a waiter, I want my  twice cooked duck boxed.

“Great!  This is great.  You are going to leave.  Kiss me goodbye.  Well get this straight before you go.  The name is Barth, short for Bartholomew, Bartholomew Winslow in fact.  A grandson of Harold Winslow of the Hampton estates.  I hang a very successful shingle in midtown and enjoy the fruits of my labor.  I thought, perhaps, you might consider spending a little time on the island, and we could get to know each other.”

“Oh, so you think flashing millions of worth in front of my face changes anything?

“No, not at all.  I am not the creep you make me out to be.”

“Will there be anything else this evening?”

“Yeah, another Mi Tai.  Make it a double. And give the billionaire here a snifter of brandy or something.”

“Very well, madam.”

“Listen, Bart.”

“It’s Barth.”

“Whatever.  I thought of something else the cookie may have meant.”

“Yes?”

“What the fuck! You’re on.”

Michael Stang in China Town, after boxing the duck (the duck won)

********************************************************************************************************

And so, Literati, we now await what our judge, Claudia Barillas has to say about our four contestants.  Very, very quickly indeed after she sends me a winner, I will announce the lucky recipient of our kuhl trophy, and we can move on to our next contest.

Cheers!

thorn

Literati!

Those of you who have been counting realize that two of the four finalists have been posted–this makes three!  Diane raises an interesting point:  what the heck is a New York minute?  How does it differ from other minutes?  And that led me to a more profound pondering: [...]]]>

Literati!

Those of you who have been counting realize that two of the four finalists have been posted–this makes three!  Diane raises an interesting point:  what the heck is a New York minute?  How does it differ from other minutes?  And that led me to a more profound pondering: If you are keeping time with a Chinese water clock, is time more likely to evaporate?

A Rube Goldberg wet dream

But I digress (moi?).  Here is Diane’s timely entry into our contest Of Knights and Knaves.

What Is The Question?

by Diane Cresswell

My body lusted the moment my eyes sucked in his image.  My mouth dried up.  My heart stopped in mid-beat, on hold while the mind, body and eyes were attempting to take him all in.  Salivating came later once the mouth began to function again.  My girlfriend slapped my back causing the heart to restart its beating rhythm.  It was a NY minute that changed my life.

We were introduced bringing every clichéd thought to mind.  Could it be that I finally get to meet the man of my dreams?  Could it be that he’s single?  Could it be that he’s a nice person and not hung up on his looks?  Could he be real?

“Come on Miss Slobolicious!  Another date looms. We haven’t got all day, and none of your smart ass words either!”

“I don’t WANT to go.  I’m NOT getting dressed up like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman!  DOYOUHEARME??”

“Tell me again what the fortune cookie said.”

“I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date.  It said what???”

“That’s it?”

“Yaaaah that’s what it said – what???”

“What kind of fortune cookie asks what?”

“Don’t know – its so absurd.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing – he blanked also.

“Is it asking – what are you doing the rest of your life?  What time is it?  What’s happening?  What???”

“Ya I know – weird.  Maybe a Chinese fortune teller had a mental breakdown or ghosts trying to make contact.”

You’re joking right?  Demented Chinese fortune teller?  Ghostly contacts?  Girlfriend – you’re crazy. You’re not getting out of this shopping trip for your next date.”

But I don’t get it!”

Who the hell cares?  Why pay any attention to what it says on a stupid slip of paper inside a hooky pseudo cookie?  You have a second chance to go out with dreamiest man of the century.  He likes you and you’ve gotten past the first date.  Work with me here!

“NO seven inch heels, NO Lady Gaga designs, NO pencil thin model rejects, and NO makeup from Cirque du Soleil!  And NO over the top jewel bling that would make a dragon envious.  Got it fashionista?”

“Yada, yada.   Didja save the numbers?”

“What?”

Literati!  (that would be you…New to the site?  Rush Windblow already had dibs on Ditto Heads, and Stephen Cobert already has “Nation”…so you who believe in books with0ut crayons are “Literati!”

Sal Buttaci, that good Irishman, is a finalist in our contest Of Knights and Knaves.  The prompt that [...]]]>

Literati!  (that would be you…New to the site?  Rush Windblow already had dibs on Ditto Heads, and Stephen Cobert already has “Nation”…so you who believe in books with0ut crayons are “Literati!”

Sal Buttaci, that good Irishman, is a finalist in our contest Of Knights and Knaves.  The prompt that each finalist must use is embedded in the story:I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what???

Here is Sal’s story about life in Changrala.  He has the good fortune to call it:

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG

by Sal Buttaci

First I figured, Okay, wild goose chase, but that was my belly talking. I’d passed up the usual buttered bagels at the office, watched Hotcakes woof down hers, mine, and the third bagel always went to a finger shoot.

“So Crane finds love,” she said through luscious lips made sexier by the gloss of runaway butter. “Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is for suckers, Remember saying that?”

My belly growled again. I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit, pulled in a deep gray cloud of Chesterfield. Hotcakes drummed long typist’s fingers on her desk, waiting. Instead, hat and coat on, I headed for the House of Chang, an oriental diner off Brooklyn’s Boerum Street.

Johnny Chang, a pal from our old Woolworth’s Five & Dime days, had phoned me the day before. “Crane, she’s Jack Knife’s babe,” then in a true-blue Chinese accent, “Velly velly bad, Clane. Confucius say, ‘Flied lice good. Flied plivate eye not so good.’ “

In one coat pocket I carried ivory chopsticks Chang had given me for luck. In the other pocket a special friend, loaded and ready, if what Johnny told me about Mandy was true.

Johnny led us to my regular table, safe in the back of the diner, where we ordered, sipped piping-hot tea and played a volley of very small talk across the table.

A few feet away, in an alcove near the men’s room, pretty much hidden, I caught sight of two of Jack Knife’s goons playing mask games with their menus.

A setup? I’d picked The House of Chang. Mandy had invited an extra couple with guns. If she was Jack’s babe, I was that goose my belly was chasing. I was also New York’s star witness against the Knife. It made good survival sense for Jack to set me down horizontal.

I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what??? “DUCK, CRANE!”

I ducked to the sound of gunfire flashing Chang’s House. When it was over, Jack was out two shooters and his babe sat face down in a half-finished dish of “Happy Family.”

Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Plenty time to buy myself a box of Whitman Chocolates.

This is your crane

#

BIO

Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widely.  He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. His poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences.

This is your crane on drugs

His latest collections of short-short fiction, Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts, are available in book and Kindle editions at  www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet

If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems

Is available at www.amazon.com/roosters-dont-crow-still-morning/dp/8182532698/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1321825150&sr=1-1-catcorr

He lives the happiest of lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.

And this is what happens when you rubber duckie the wrong way

Literati!

In spite of what you have been told, the title to Karla Onstott’s finalist entry in our contest Of Knights and Knaves is not the security code to the treasure room at The Word (we remain totally insecure), nor is it the ages of the women I have [...]]]>

Literati!

In spite of what you have been told, the title to Karla Onstott’s finalist entry in our contest Of Knights and Knaves is not the security code to the treasure room at The Word (we remain totally insecure), nor is it the ages of the women I have most recently dated.

The title instead aptly refers to the contest prompt, which is the first line of her entry.

After reading her soleful story, you will not doubt think she is a shoe-in to take the prize, and was worth all the Hassle.  And Karla informs me (I love informants!) that she composed this on her birthday!  So, Happy Birthday, Karla.  Nobody can hold a candle to you on Babe Watch.

I toetally get it

Here is

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42

By Karla Onstott         

“I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said, ‘what???’”

 “It said, ‘what?’”

“Well, actually it said, ‘what???’

“Did you show your date?”

“She glares at me and says, ‘You think that you can bring me here and insult me? You don’t even know me well enough, or my brother for that matter.”

“What?!”

“Then she throws her drink in my face.”

“Martini?”

“Bellini.”

“Then what happened?”

“I go into the men’s room to clean up. I hear a flush and turn around, and there he is. David Hasslehoff.”

“What?!”

“I know. So I say, ‘What up, Hoff?’ like a total douche. He says, ‘Obviously, your date’s drink all over your shirt.’”

“He saw that?”

“Oh, yeah. He asks me what happened, and so I tell him and show him the fortune. He reads it over, then he leans in and says, ‘Do you know the secret to life, my friend? It’s knowing that when life makes its own lemonade despite only having grapefruit, you need to just roll with it.’ Then he takes off his left shoe and tells me to hold it for him, he will be right back.”

“What?!”

“It was a Ferragamo, what was I going to do? So here I am holding this shoe for about 10 minutes when the door bursts open, and it’s these two guys in identical suits and dark glasses.”

“The Men in Black??”

“Yeah. They ask me if I am holding David Hasselhoff’s shoe. I tell them they can have it. One guy says, ‘Wrong answer!’ and tazes me with some blinky thing. I’m lying there, and the same guy picks up the fortune that had fallen out on the floor. He reads it, then he gets all teary and picks me up, apologizing, ‘Sorry, Mr. Ambassador.’ And just like that, they’re gone.”

“Whaat?!”

“Then I come back to the table, and the bill was taken care of.”

“The Hoff?”

“No. The owner of the restaurant. Said he had a batch of messed-up fortune cookies and felt bad enough to pay for those of us who got them.”

“Well, they can ruin a perfectly good meal.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Karla (the one with the long hair) and the editor-in-chief four blocks from The Word

Before changing her name to launch a budding movie career, Karla Onstott was booked as an intern at The Word.. .Here she is seen speed reading War and Peace.

Literati!

We have selected four finalists for our contest Of Knights and Knaves.  Claudia Barillas selected one, as did Gary Clark and Derek Thompson. The fourth was selected ramdumbly from the scrotum that is well hung from the ceiling of The Word, lowered for just such occasions.

Our finalists [...]]]>

Literati!

We have selected four finalists for our contest Of Knights and Knaves.  Claudia Barillas selected one, as did Gary Clark and Derek Thompson. The fourth was selected ramdumbly from the scrotum that is well hung from the ceiling of The Word, lowered for just such occasions.

Our finalists have until midnight, January 31rst to create a story exactly 366 words–one for each day of the year–and the prompt is:

“I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what???”

Finalists will be judged on the submission for this prompt only, not the story that got them into the finals.

Oh…and the finalists are:

Michael Stang

Karla Onstat

Diane Cresswell

Sal Buttaci

Well is that a gun in his hand or is he just happy to be me?

Start your enzymes!

Literati!

I am pleased (relieved, overjoyed,ecstatic) that–as far as I can determine–all entries to Of Knights and Knaves have been posted.  If you submitted an entry and did not see it on line, please let me know and I will see  it gets posted.  It was a lark, and [...]]]>

Literati!

I am pleased (relieved, overjoyed,ecstatic) that–as far as I can determine–all entries to Of Knights and Knaves have been posted.  If you submitted an entry and did not see it on line, please let me know and I will see  it gets posted.  It was a lark, and Thorn? He might choose words more darefully for the next contest.

We were plagued, as you have oft heard my lament, over the last few months with technical difficulties, hackings and so on.  Let’s just hope that they have all been purged, leaving no mark and corny sight.

We have had minimal entries into this contest, and as a result, we will have four finalists instead of six. One will be picked by Claudia Barillas, who won our previous contest, one by Derek, one by Gary, and one at random, drawn out of the the bull scrotum.

Each finalist will be given an entirely new prompt, and minimal time to produce the goods.

Here is the prompt for you to start thinking about:  “I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what???”  Exactly 366 words.

Finalists will be announced tomorrow, and have til midnight, January 31 to submit their entry.

Petrified camel hoof discovered at the beach near The Word

…and panders to the editors-in-briefs!

Here is his second entry into our contest Of Knights and Knaves, the contest that required the writer to use the line or create one that sounds similar to “It was a dark and stormy night.”

All right Sal…No fair pandaring to the editors-in-briefs! [...]]]>

…and panders to the editors-in-briefs!

Free-lance editor Calvin deKlein's to join our staff, apparently having one of his own

Here is his second entry into our contest Of Knights and Knaves, the contest that required the writer to use the line or create one that sounds similar to “It was a dark and stormy night.”

All right Sal…No fair pandaring to the editors-in-briefs! It’s not like you’re running for president…

Sal Buttaci eats shoots and leaves

NEW AMERICA

by

Sal Buttaci

Major Lewison with the corporal’s help attached the hefty sweeper to the grill of his 2118 Afford, then Lewison soft-footed in slo-drive while the corporal ran the battery lights.

The major chomped down on a Cuban, thick dark smoke seething out of his clenched teeth. He looked menacing.

“Classified,” Lewison said. “Not for us to know. We’re in a warehouse. That should tell you something. The last history books told about treasures hidden in warehouses. ‘bout as common as New Presidents telling the Army what new war to shove off to.”

From outside the sweeper Moore asked, “History books, Sir?”

Lewison laughed so hard he damn near choked on a rush of cigar steam burning down his throat. Moore waited, his gloved hands directing the strong battery light beams as the sweeper inched forward.

“Corporal, you sure are young! November 2076, long before you was born, New President Huang Saunders declared martial law, then by executive action dismantled Congress. “The American people have grown weary“––Saunder’s words, not mine––“with do-nothing politicos. They want decisive leadership, not spineless vote counters more loyal to pork-barrel barons than to their constituents.”

“Saunders was the first. Years ago when you wasn’t even a dust mote swirling in a world of possibilities. Saunders, grandson of a former Chinese Maoist Leader, replaced Communism here with Runaway Capitalism. In no time China owned America! Goodbye, land of the free and home of the brave. That was the old America you never knew, Son.”

“Sir, what are history books?”

The major shook his head, perhaps wishing away memories, stomped his foot on the brake, and waved his hand over the engine key to kill the sweeper. He motioned for the corporal. Moore hopped in.

“The past,” began the old major, “the past and everything worth telling about it was called ‘history.’ Get it? ‘His story,’ story of mankind. We was the last to see them books, along with every other book that either opposed New America’s big capitalism or was apathetic to it. Them nonpolitical books, them works of fiction so damn entertaining they freed us from new realities and allowed us to live vicariously through made-up characters we come to love. We read them in books and then we sat in theaters watching their stories unfold on the giant silver screen.”

The corporal’s face flashed confusion.

“Hey, this is all over your head, Son. What I’m saying is, Huang Saunders pronounced our democracy, our republic, one more dictatorship for the history books, ‘cept he also ordered an end to the electronic age of computers and phones and  dictated a policy of book burning the world’s never seen. Oh, we had them burnings in the past, but brave word lovers they’d hide books, then when the winds of change blew out the burning cauldrons, them books reappeared and the presses they’d run again. But before Saunders died in ‘06, he handpicked Philip Chang the New President. Nobody, not even the brave, would dare conceal a book from his fiery band of Pyrocrats. One thing to be brave but who’s gonna risk the lives of entire families for this one act of treason?”

Major Lewison lit another Cuban.

“This cigar? You know why it’s called a Cuban?” The corporal shrugged. “Once there was an island named Cuba where cigar makers rolled the best there was, but Saunders  nuked the island, and gave a New American cigar the name “Cuban.” Never was a   dictator without a mean sense of humor!”

In all the sweeps he’d done with the major, Corporal Moore never heard Lewison speak more than a handful of words. Moore ran the battery lights in search of something written. Lewison ran the sweeper with its tactile eye detector and its magnetic bristles that delved down beneath the stone floors of the warehouses where foolhardy concealers might’ve imbedded written words. He liked the major, but what nonsense he talked! Well, he was old. And if what he was telling him was true about history books, it was a sure thing Lewison was not at liberty to discuss it. As for his own job of shedding light, literally, on hidden writings, he had personally never found any. He wondered what they would look like? Writings? On what the major called ‘paper’?

Lewison puffed dark smoke out the window to his left, away from the corporal.

“Let’s get back to work, “ he ordered in a gruff voice Moore was accustomed to. Friendly talk was over. Moore would don his dark goggles again, set the battery lights at high intensity, and resume searching. While he did so, Major Lewison restarted the sweeper and then, minutes later, jammed on the brake when the young corporal all at once cried out so raucously Lewison thought the sharp bristles had stabbed him.

“Major! Major! I found something! Under a stone the sweeper raised up.”

Lewison threw open the driver’s door and, racing towards the grill where the sweeper was whirring down towards silence, he saw the corporal kneeling beside an upturned warehouse stone, a torn sheet of paper in his trembling gloved hands.

“What the hell is it, Son?”

“Major, I don’t know.”

The sheet resembled a winged living thing. It fluttered in the corporal’s hand.

Major Lewison knelt on one knee beside him. He took the paper. Corporal Moore looked from sheet to Lewison’s moving lips. Was it possible? he wondered. An actual piece of writing? And Lewison wondered too. After nearly fifty years since the Book Burnings began, after the first and the present New Presidents declared a “Paper-free America,” we find this?

There wasn’t much left of it. Something perhaps meant to introduce the pages that followed, but still it was real. It had survived the pyrocratic raids of two lifelong administrations.

Lewison had no clue exactly what he should say to the young light bearer who had accompanied him these several years on so many sweeps like this one.

“You were moving your lips. Major. Your eyes shifted from left to right a few times. What is this thing?”

“ ‘It was a Clark and Thorn e-write,’ ” it says here. I can’t figure what the hell that means,” said the major. “Could be the start of a story. Whatever else on the sheet’s worn away and blurry as hell. I can’t make it out.”

“Who’s Clark and Thorn?”

“Damned if I know. Two spinners of history maybe. Two fiction writers entertaining Old America.”

“What do we do with it?” asked Corporal Moore. “Hand it over to the Pyrocrats? To New President Chang? What do we do, Sir?”

The major removed from his blue army coat pocket another of those misnamed cigars. He let his teeth clamp down on it like a vise, made a toothy smile reminiscent of Old America President Teddy he remembered reading about before America lost its Big Stick. From the same pocket Lewison found his book of matches. First he lit the cigar, then set fire to the sheet of paper.

Both watched it dwindle into a curling brown leaf and then, in cinders, blow into the dank warehouse air.

...Close

...but no cigar

Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widely.  He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. His poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences.

A former English instructor at a local community college and middle-school teacher in New Jersey, he retired in 2007 to devote himself to full-time writing.

Flashing My Shorts and 200 Shorts, published by All Things That Matter Press, are available in book and Kindle editions at

www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet

His new book, If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems (Cyber-Wit Publications) is available at

www.amazon.com/roosters-dont-crow-still-morning/dp/8182532698/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1321825150&sr=1-1-catcorr

He lives happily ever after with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.

Literati!

Mercifully, our much protracted contest Of Knights and Knaves is coming to a close.  We have a few more entries that made it under the wire, including this one by Janet Klise, which she calls:

Charlie’s Flight of Fancy

by Janet Klise

“Where did the boy find that [...]]]>

Literati!

Janet Klise encourages interns at The Word to reach dithering heights

Mercifully, our much protracted contest Of Knights and Knaves is coming to a close.  We have a few more entries that made it under the wire, including this one by Janet Klise, which she calls:

Charlie’s Flight of Fancy

by Janet Klise

“Where did the boy find that kite-thing anyways, Ellie? It’s made of rawhide, looks like, but it has pieces of snake skin all over it.”

“Oh, my God… What was he thinking?”

“I thought it would fly, Mom.”

“I apologize for the abrupt manner of my deputy, Mrs. Brandt, but there are questions we must ask. I know how hard this must be for you.”

“It’s a dank and snarly kite for sure, and huge, anyways. The boy–”

“I think I know where it came from. From a trunk of Gramps’ stuff in the basement of the old farmhouse.”

“Mom! That’s a secret. Just me and Gramps know about it.”

“And who is Gramps, Ma’am?”

“Gramps? He was rather eccentric…”

“He was crazier than shit, Ellie.”

“Now Bill.”

“Now Ellie. He was my father. Gramps was Charles Brandt, the first, Sheriff, but Gramps is what everybody called him. He was 20 years older than my mother and he’s been 20 years dead. Died when I was ten, but he was gone all the time when I was a kid. He was a Carney, a magic act. I didn’t really ever know him.”

“Geez, I didn’t ever before either, Dad.”

“Our little Charlie was named after him…”

“I couldn’t even tell you what Gramps looked like, Sheriff.”

“I know what Gramps looks like — white beard, brown eyes, lots of wrinkles. He’s a crusty old guy, but real nice. Geez Louise, the only thing I had before was the name Gramps on the trunk.”

“Anything unusual in your son’s habits lately, Ma’am? Sir?”

“Well, I did hear some of his prayers last night. The little shit was praying for it to be windy.”

“Poor little boy. He was so sick this morning… He couldn’t even go to church with us, poor little lamb. We go to the Church of the Living Redeemer. The one on Cleveland Street. He liked it there.”

“Not!”

“Was he all right, Ma’am? I mean, no trouble at school?  No psychological issues? Was he being bullied, Mrs. Brandt? We need to know the facts.”

“Yeah, bullied. That’s a big bad deal. Now-days, anyways. Huh, Sheriff.”

“No, no. He was fine. We had only the normal kid things going on. He’s a good kid. Was… Oh, my God…”

“No disrespect, Mrs. Brandt, but he spent a lot of time in that old basement working on that crazy thing. And he managed to keep it from both of you. Could there be any other secrets he might have kept from you?”

“Yeah, I wanted to fly.”

“What secrets could he have, Sheriff? He’s only… He was ten.”

“What else was in that old trunk, Bill? Any weapons? Knives? A gun?”

“Oh shit no. Just old junk, if I remember right. And dead snakes. We can take a look at it if you need to, Sheriff.”

“That would be good. It might give us something concrete to work on. We don’t like dealing in suppositions, you know. Matter of fact, my deputy here can get some good photos of the trunk and its contents in a bit.”

“There was a taxidermy white rabbit in that trunk, Sheriff, stuffed in an old screwed-up black felt hat…”

“Yeah, I know. I almost puked when I found it, Dad. Geez. See, I pulled it out of that hat face first, and its face was missing a lot of fur and the skin was pulled back from the eye sockets. And those big front choppers scared the shit out of me. Sorry, Mom… Now he’s my favorite. I named him Buns.”

“It’s all right to cry, Mrs. Brandt. Just take your time.”

“I spread out the kite pieces in a pattern all over the basement floor. I had a plan. I had my wood glue and Dad’s upholstery needles and thread. You’d be proud how I did it, Dad. I wanted Gramps to like it too.”

“Dammit! He must have been in that damp old basement forever… Why didn’t he just let go of the goddamn kite?”

“Now Bill.”

“It looks like he staged that monster here at the top of the knoll. A good wind was

blowin’. It must-ah been perfect for flying a kite, anyways.”

“It was destiny. Buns and Gramps said so too.”

“He was always such a little shit for his age… He looks so small, laying there all twisted up.”

“I remember the wings kept hitting me in the face. They kept cutting my face… Geez, it hurt.”

“I called the coroner. He should be here any time now.”

“All right, Sheriff.”

“I was scared. Geez Louise, the more blood I saw and the more I looked at Bun’s eyes, the scareder I got. It hurt bad.”

“Who found him here?”

“I did. He wasn’t in his bed when we got home from church, so I went looking for him. I found him, bless his heart… Then Bill found the both of us.”

“I found them about an hour ago, Sheriff. Shit. I didn’t even recognize him… His face all torn up like that… But I could tell by his clothes it was Charlie.”

“Oh, my God. Look at him, Bill… Poor little guy. All that blood… ”

“I apologize, Ma’am. My deputy will get a blanket and cover him.”

“Oh, my God… That was my little Charlie’s face…”

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