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Flash Fiction Review Group 2 (completed)
Mod
Question for the boss a.k.a. R:Would it be alright to post a link instead of the entire story (word count: 1756) in here? Mine has so many darn italics and I don't wanna add them all in with a bazillion html codes...
*curls into fetal position**sobs uncontrollably**giggles*
I'll do it, obviously. I'd just rather be lazy haha!
Big-squeezy-group-hugs,
Ann
I'm not worried about word/character count. I'm well under. But I totally see how that might get iffy with other people.Thanks, Mr Francis!
Mod
Mod
Mod
We are now seven. Note that all stories have to be posted to this topic by this Thursday (9/8/2016).
Let the Flashing begin. (Wait a minute. That didn't come out right.)
R.
The ExperimentThe main character tries to build a time machine
while the author experiments with second-person narration
Robby Charters
So, there you are, a failure before you even start, in a lose-lose situation. How did you get yourself into this mess to begin with? Oh, that's right, the I can do it thing. All that "I am a success -- I am a success..." all that talking into the mirror -- and who was your reflection to tell you you're an idiot? Next time, listen to someone who's got sense, like me.
Okay, so they say the I can do it thing is healthy. It builds the self-esteem -- as if you needed self-esteem -- it rallies your hidden reserves. Well, okay, maybe it does. So, run in a marathon! Climb Mt. Everest! Quit smoking -- well, okay, you don't smoke -- but, build a time machine? C'mon! Nobody's going to build a time machine.
Alright, so Albert Einstein said it's possible -- according to your professor. And I suppose you're Albert Einstein? Of course you're not! So why don't you just stuff the whole thing now and -- oh, that's right, you made a commitment.
The professor said you'd not only get an "A" for the course, but he'd recommend you for the professor's chair if you do it. He wasn't counting on anyone being as stupid as you, now, was he!
So, you did all your calculations, and my goodness! A maths formula that fills the whole blackboard! And it took you a good three days just to do one maths problem! Well, this had better work.
The equations are right, you said. It's a sure thing, you said. You were so sure about yourself that you skipped a vital exam just so you could do this. And now, where has that got you? What if one figure is wrong? What if there's one needle in that haystack that won't pull thread? You fail the course!
So, you've got it sure-fire -- or you've failed. Right now, you're as alive and dead as Schroedinger's cat!
And now you've got to see it through, or they'll call you a two-faced, unreliable schmuk. So better to go through with it and settle for being a failure, right? I told you it's a lose-lose situation. But, I guess there's no backing out now...
So Einstein, where do we start? That's right, frame dragging. A spinning black hole pulls time-space around with it, like a wooden spoon pulls at the cake batter and creates a whirlpool, and that's called frame dragging.
A black hole? The only black hole you have is in your head!
Well okay, so light also has mass, and if you can make light go around and round you'll get just a little bit of frame dragging.
Light goes in a straight line, but you can make it go around in circles by using fibre optics, or use mirrors. With fibre optics, you can make it go in a spiral. But what if you want it to be one continuous circle?
Ronald Mallet sent a message back in time using a spiral, but you want a closed loop, so you can can build up the strength of the particle beam by continuously shooting in more light. How do you shoot light into a fibre optic ring?
You'll use mirrors then. One of them has to be like a two-way mirror so the light can be shot in, while still reflecting it as it comes around. That's what they used for their beam splitting experiments. But with the mirrors, you don't exactly get a perfect circle. You'll get a triangle if you use three mirrors, a square with four, a pentagon with five and so on.
After all those calculations, you've decided you're going to use six mirrors, and use a 432 watt laser shooter. You've got that, and you've got a secondary spiral of fibre optics shooting a one-way 920.7 watt beam. And there's a bunch of other little gadgets, electrical pulsaters, cathodes, everything but the cat-in-the-lead-box.
It takes you a whole week to get it right. The mirrors have to be angled just so. If they're off by just one micron, the light goes veering off in a spiral towards the edge of the mirrors. You try this, you try that, but light gets away quickly -- at the speed of light. Albert Jones in the supply room lets you borrow some precision tuners that you attach to the mirrors. You spend all day tuning that. You know you've finally got it because the light just goes around in one continuous circle, getting brighter and brighter until you have to turn it off before you burn the house down. Then, the circle in the six mirrors just sort of fades away in a fraction of a second -- but just slow enough that you can actually see the fading. That look kinda cool! If only this were just a science fair project, and not the whole freak'n course!
Okay, so you've got the contraption all up with a small table at the centre. You've even figured out a way to make sure only the object goes back in time without taking a piece of the table with it. You've adjusted it for five minutes. And what are you going to send? A Charlie Brown figurine -- a McDonald's happy meal toy for gosh sake! Now, see how you are?
And what if your calculations are off, and next week they discover a cave man stuck in a glacier, and in his tote bag is a plastic Charlie Brown?
You've got the secondary spiral of fibre optics switched on, yes? Good. It's just like you to forget things.
Speaking of which, where is Charlie Brown anyway? On the book shelf in the bedroom. You better go to get it -- no, wait! There it is on the little table! You weren't supposed to put it there yet, it might... Hey! It just arrived from the future, didn't it! Wow!
So, you go get the original from the bedroom. And look! Now there you are with two identical plastic Charlie Brown toys, one from the bedroom and one from the future!
Now, all you have to do is ... er -- hey! Don't even think about it!
Don't tell me you're going to send the ceramic angel you got from your mother instead? No way! You'll cause a paradox in the time-space continuum!
Okay, so we only have Emmet Brown's word for that -- or Stephen Spielberg's, whatever -- and time-space doesn't work like that? Are you absolutely sure? Well, you'd better be.
Alright, have it your way. But if the whole universe hangs, like a cheap computer running Windows Vista, don't come crying to me!
Well then, take the angel figurine off the little table and put its double there. Okay?
There! You run the lasers for just a few seconds, the ceramic angel -- disappears! And you're left with just one.
Well, it's a good thing that you listened to me, and didn't substitute the Charlie Brown figurine for the ceramic angel, or you would have caused a time-space paradox!
And, you've done it! I always knew you had in you! Where would you be without my encouragement?
Caribbean SweatersIt’s Cold In Here
Ray and Marcia Didinger, recent retirees, rushed into the supermarket and out of the Caribbean sun. They were desperate to escape the heat, not to mention the heavy-on-the-strings strip mall bossa nova, blaring from the speakers outside.
Halfway down the freezer aisle, Ray said, “It’s freezing in here.”
Marcia nodded and said, “It’s like jumping out of an oven and into an icebox. There should be a transition zone.”
“Maybe I’ll sue.”
“On what grounds?”
“Your Honor, it shook up my entire physiology, including my psyche. It felt like a system-wide concussion.
“Yeah, this is just wrong,” Marcia said.
More Muzak drifted over their heads: cool jazz at about three minutes a song. Rubbing salt into the wound.
Ray and Marcia asked to speak with the store manager, who came down from an upstairs room.
“It’s too cold. Can’t you turn the A/C down a little?” Ray said.
The young woman, who looked like she could still be in high school, said, “I don’t like it either. I’ve complained but nobody listens. Somebody in Atlanta decides.”
Marcia said, “I could use a sweater.”
“I think some of our customers could, too.”
Thus a great idea was born.
That evening they organized their business plan, Shark Tank-style. They used their self-assembled, 36-inch, round, sturdy rubber-wood kitchen table from Walmart—shipped in from the states—as their workspace and eschewed their usual evening of TV watching in favor of a more productive use of their time. Still, TV was a long-standing habit, so they left it on for comfort and perhaps company.
Ray said, “If we can solve a problem, we can start a business.” They liked the idea of having a little extra for bucket list dreams and grandchildren.
“It can’t be more than 45 degrees in there near the frozen foods. It's gotta be a health hazard without a sweater or a jacket of some kind,” Marcia said.
“We’d probably have to get the sweaters shipped from Miami. If we can get the supermarket to say yes to the idea of sweater rental . . . I’m sure we’d get quick proof of concept.”
“And we’d be performing a public service.”
“Yeah, and if it works, we might get the concession for the whole Caribbean. Hell, why not for all equatorial life?”
Entrepreneurs?
Unfortunately, corporate nixed the sweater rental idea right out of the box, doubtless missing a fine opportunity to boost revenue for all stores from Tortola to Trinidad and beyond.
More importantly, they missed a chance to better serve a frosty public. Surely such an innovative, paradigm-shifting concept like sweater rental would garner viral publicity for the first business to do it. It’d be like being the first company to put wheels on luggage.
Ray and Marcia refused to be defeated because a single store had said no.
So it was back to the drawing board. Surely her background in city services and his in running a small men’s clothing store would be of help?
“Arawak Foods is not the only game in town.” Marcia said.
“Yeah, why don’t we make the proposal to the department store? Or the furniture store? I understand that air-conditioning, as a technology, has really caught on.”
Marcia said, “Somebody will see the wisdom of our idea. Soon everybody will see the light.”
“For the ladies, maybe a patchwork quilted poncho. With images of cuddly cats, hot baths, or chocolates.”
“And for you guys, we can get standard sporty cardigans, maybe in a drab green or brown.”
“Oh, thanks for the variety.”
“You don’t complain about tuxedos.”
“What about a cool jacket with a flaming skull on the back? I think us guys would go for that.”
“Maybe later. Let’s first get our foot in the door.”
The Melanin Souvenir Shop was the first store tourists saw at port of call. It was situated in a sector dominated by orange roofs, as if the Howard Johnson Corporation had once owned the place, or maybe the country had, at one time, run out of everything but orange paint.
The shop manager wasn’t receptive to their plan. “It’s freakin’ Aruba. Endless summer. There’s not a sweater on the island, let alone a whole rackful of them.”
Ray said, “But it wouldn’t cost you a cent. We’d supply the sweaters, the racks, everything. We’ll even do the advertising and monitor the day-to-day rental operations. And we’ll give you a percentage of the action.”
“And who’s gonna pay for the insurance?”
“Insurance against what, itchiness?”
Persistence pays. Finally, the manager of a chilly, overly lemon-scented casino in Eagle Beach agreed to take the idea for a test drive, though he was worried that warmer patrons would start to relax more and make better decisions. For a casino, this could be bad for business.
The couple distributed orange and white leaflets with a before/after picture of a shivering, self-hugging older woman at a slot machine vs. the same lady snug and warm in an argyle pullover.
This attracted customers who appreciated the concern this particular casino had for their patrons’ health and welfare. Quite unlike the other establishments, who were callous and indifferent to their customers’ suffering.
Thus Caribbean Sweaters was born on the strength of the leaflets and a radio ad: THE CASINO THAT CARES.
But you cannot patent or trademark sweater use—nothing proprietary there—so the other gambling joints coldly copied the idea.
“They must be using their own sweaters,” Ray said.
“They look ratty. Where’d they get them?” Marcia said.
“They probably scraped up a few hidden in attics or basements.”
“At least we’ve helped some people stay warm.”
“Never mind that. We need to find a way to secure the trading rights, latch on to some multi-national business,” Ray said.
Try Again
So it was back to the supermarket, but this time with a new game plan.
They needed proof that some people were truly endangered by the cold: seniors, the infirm, and the small but solid percentage of residents with perpetually cold feet and other body parts.
Ray and Marcia approached a senior center and their staff, including their resident gerontologist. Surely he would know something about the plight of the perennially chilly.
A meeting was organized in the small auditorium, which doubled as a karaoke room. To get there, they had to pass through the glass-walled exercise room and its half-dozen treadmills, all in use. Temperature control was not good.
One gal, easily in her eighties, had wrapped herself in a bulky sweater and at least one scarf. (What, no ear muffs?)
At the meeting, she was first in line for the microphone, the doctor and the administrators behind an onstage table. She raised a fist: “If they think they can freeze us and we’ll just shut up and take it, they’ve got another thing coming.” Maybe they were being prepped for cryogenic preservation.
The gerontologist, Old Doc Horowitz, observed how the food store was simply too cold for older folks, medically speaking. The doctor set up—and was the first to sign—an Internet petition to support and promote the issue. But they needed a better slogan than Sweaters For Seniors, having rejected the catchier and possibly more promising Don't Let Cold Blue Veins Act In Vain.
Ray and Marcia brought the doctor to an arranged meeting with Arawak’s Caribbean district manager, Kevin Kelvin, held in an orange conference room at the Marriott Hotel near the golf course.
“Look, if we give in here, what’s next, discount pet food?” Kelvin giggled and Horowitz looked like he was ready to strangle him.
“Anyway, this is a private enterprise and it’s our decision.”
“But the human body is not built for an abrupt 50 degree change in temperature,” the doctor said. “It’s dangerous.”
“Really? Prove it. Prove that this isn’t just needless hysteria.”
Ray said, “Look, if you do this right, you can work it to your advantage, just like the casinos. People want a caring supermarket—or at least the appearance of one.”
“Wusses. Total wussery. Look, it’s just a nice, standard supermarket. Why must you complain?”
Marcia said, “For the same reason I’d complain if you threw me out into a Chicago winter without a jacket.”
“And we’re visionaries,” Ray said. “Like the first couple to invent the wheel. People will laugh at any new idea. They’ll say, ‘The wheel? Is that what you’re calling it? How’re you gonna patent it? There’s nothing proprietary there. And how’re you gonna scale it? And who’s gonna educate the public about its use?’”
“Look, a little cold air is low priority. Besides if we change it now, others will complain that it’s not as cold as it used to be. Younger folks in search of refuge from the heat. Anyway, worst case scenario, we’ll just turn up the thermostat. Any way you slice it, we don’t need your sweaters. Or your sanctimony.”
The doctor petitioned the government and indeed some health official did promise to look into their claim—right after dealing with the latest zika virus outbreak.
For the most part, legislators weren’t interested in the problem. One representative did relay their worries to the powers that be, only to return with the bald threat that if Ray and Marcia didn’t cease and desist their efforts they’d never shop in the store again. They’d be frozen out.
The Future
Another dead end. Or was it? There are infinitely many paths to the top of the mountain after all. Surely the future held the answer. One hundred years hence this whole thing would be solved.
Ray and Marcia sat around their table and discussed the future of body warmth.
Marcia said, “Maybe one day they’ll install a chip in your brain to control your body temperature. Maybe then we wouldn’t need sweaters, we’d just adjust automatically. Maybe you wouldn’t even need clothing, maybe not in a cold food store or even in the snow.”
Ray remembered reading about Himalayan meditators practicing kundalini yoga. Somehow, they were able to control their own body heat, perhaps through special breathing methods. It was even said they could melt snow with their nearly naked bodies.
Maybe that was the answer to the supermarket trap. Ray speculated: “People could be trained to warm up—maybe a quick round of alternate-nostril breathing while still in the car just before entering the market.”
Or, how about the Smart Sweater? The Discovery Channel had a story about clothing no thicker than your summer shirt where sensors would be woven into the fabric. Maybe one day these sensors would monitor and alter blood pressure, heart rate, maybe even body temperature, from a central station. (I'm frozen and I can't warm up!)
Ray said, “But how would an Average Joe get into that business? We’d have to tangle with Big Clothing.”
Maybe it would be easier to create whole environments that were temperature-controlled. You could have entire cities under a domed glass stadium, where it was a nice 70 degrees everywhere, indoors or outdoors. No need for air conditioning then, nor, alas, sweaters, unless one is making a fashion statement.
In the end, Ray and Marcia decided that even if they had found sponsorship for their original plan, things might not have been so peachy keen. Things can go wrong; even the most carefully constructed business plan can quickly implode.
“Don’t forget to turn in your sweater before you leave the store.” But a ninety-year-old gal insists that it’s her sweater and a foolish employee wrangles her out of it, wrenching her arm. Game over.
“You try to move the world a step forward and for what?” Ray said.
Marcia said, “We had a great idea. An original idea. That’s something.”
“You just watch. Somebody will come along and steal it.”
I AM DEVOTEE by Annie ArcaneDedicated to my lovely readers who really, reeeally dig their wounded heroes. Don't let anyone judge you. And if they do, I'll kick their butts! ♡
What I really wanted to do was jam the damn thing into his eye.
“Quit staring.”
Maybe I would just snap it in two and take out both of his pretty little eyeballs in one fell swoop.
“You’re being a creep again.”
Okay. What I really, really wanted to do was repeatedly stab his retinas to shit, throw my scalding hot coffee in his generically handsome face, and call it a night. But that would be a such waste of five dollars.
So instead, I twirled the wooden stir stick through my drink one last time before gently setting it down atop the napkin. “And you’re being a dickhead,” I countered calmly, raising my voice just enough for the next table over to hear. “Again.”
“He’s not even your type.”
I slapped my palm against the tabletop. It wasn’t that loud. I have really small hands. “Oh, and what exactly is my type?” My head whipped back and I narrowed my eyes at him. “You?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t make a scene,” he sighed in exasperation, climbing right up onto his high horse. “Just relax, will you?”
“Then just drop it, will you?” I hissed back through gritted teeth.
“You’re way out of his league, babe,” he continued with a self-righteous smirk. As if I was supposed to accept that as a compliment or something. “Just saying.”
“I’m not your babe.” I rolled my eyes. "And don’t start lecturing me on that socioeconomic bullshit again.”
“The guy has a mohawk,” he scoffed disdainfully. As if certain hairstyles were some sort of punishable crime against humanity.
“I think it adds character.”
“Character?” He chuckled, in the sarcastic way that only a well-seasoned douchebag with a stick shoved the entire way up his ass could chuckle. “He’s covered in tattoos, for fuck’s sake.”
Matching his smug smile with one of my own, I imitated a fainting spell and crooned, “Oh, I just love tattoos.”
100% true.
That earned me a less-than-civilized snort. “Since when?”
“Since I decided that I might convince him to show me exactly where all of his are,” I purred suggestively, taking great pleasure in the anger contorting dickhead’s modelesque features.
Slamming a fist down on the table, he stood up. It was pretty loud. He has really big hands.
“Jesus Christ, don’t make a scene,” I mimicked in my sweetest, most patronizing voice. “Just relax, will you?”
Dickhead simply stood there, towering over me in silence. He was either trying to be intimidating or was wracking his pea-sized brain for what to say next. Neither seemed to be working all that well for him.
“You’re embarrassing yourself right now,” I giggled quietly, craning my neck to look up at him with a satisfied grin. “Just saying.”
He started to vibrate. Like a frickin’ Rabbit Habit with brand new batteries. Not that he was ever getting anywhere near where I’d happily put a Rabbit Habit…
“You’re fucking insane,” he growled at last, the corner of his mouth curling up derisively, making an otherwise attractive face unbearably sickening to look at. “Do you really think he’ll still want in your pants after he finds out that you’re a fucking creep?”
Oh, wow.
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help myself. The irony was just too much to take. “Well, you already know that I’m a creep,” I reminded him cheekily. “And you still want in my pants.”
“Fuck you.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather not.” I shrugged nonchalantly, letting my eyes drift back to sexy tattoo guy. “I’d much rather fuck some of the sexiness over there.”
And that is the surefire way to get rid of any man. You don’t argue with him or yell. Being loud isn’t the key. Because you can’t possibly wage a volume war and expect to win against men. They kind of have us beat in the vocal cords department.
Quietly attacking their ego is the key.
Egos are like Jenga. You simply have to remove that one strategic block near the bottom and the whole stash comes crashing down. The bigger the ego, the higher up the man sitting on top of it, and the further down he has to plummet once it’s deflated.
Given, it wasn’t the prettiest thing to watch, albeit entertaining. I mean, he sort of stormed out while throwing the male equivalent of a hissy fit. The whole thing was a bit contrived, really. Not to mention, he spilled my precious coffee during his melodramatic exit.
But hey, at least he was gone, right?
It took me three trips to clean up the mess left behind by dickhead. Okay, I could’ve easily done it in two trips, but sexy tattoo guy was situated next to the trash can. So I stretched it into three.
I literally spent the next ten minutes circling his personal space. Like a predator in the wild. Or a stalker in real life. Maybe dickhead had a valid point about the creep thing after all. I was going to get myself arrested.
Except he didn’t seem to notice me. Not even when I “accidently” bumped into his table. I didn’t do it gently either if the residual twinge stinging my hipbone was any indication.
It was highly disappointing.
Honestly, I was getting so desperate for ideas that the thought even crossed my mind to orchestrate a direct collision in order to gain his attention. Too bad he was tucked up against the wall, so I would’ve had to dive over the table and tackle him for that plan to work.
I seriously considered it, though.
And then, when I had just tossed my final handful of coffee-stained napkins into the trash and was hopelessly attempting to drum up any plausible excuse for a fourth visit…
“Why don’t you just ask?”
I froze and slowly turned toward him, wide-eyed.
His hands were cradled around a coffee cup, fingers laced together. Steam was gently rising up through a small hole in the plastic lid.
“I’m sorry.” I attempted to ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach and smiled politely, despite the fact that he still wasn’t looking at me. “Did you say something?”
His gaze remained downcast. He simply said, “T12.”
I must have misheard him. Or been daydreaming. Or hallucinating. “Pardon me?”
“Paraplegic,” he clarified in a matter-of-fact tone. Calm. Cool. Composed.
The deep hum of his voice sent a cascade of shivers down my spine.
“I crashed my motorbike doing a backflip I’d done a hundred times before.”
My mouth went dry in an instant. I grabbed onto the backrest of the empty chair for support because sure enough, my knees buckled beneath me.
He was all sorts of gorgeous up close. And deliciously covered in tattoos. Even sexier than he had looked from across the room. The I’ll-wait-for-you-to-get-out-of-prison-no-matter-how-long-it-takes kind of sexy.
He was the leaner type of muscle too. Sinewy. Dangerous. Like he’d been doing chin ups in a jail cell for God knows how long, and could wield a loaded gun with his eyes closed and both hands tied behind his back. Yeah, you heard me right.
A simple black t-shirt proudly showcased full sleeves adorned with awe-inspiring artwork, which seamlessly tapered off into the spaces between his knuckles. Intricately woven designs wrapped fluidly around his well-defined arms. They were a perfect canvas for the breathtaking scenery.
Skyscape. Trees. Foliage. Birds. So many birds.
An endless array of different species. All mid-flight. Completely free. Every last one.
His body was an avian sanctuary. He was an avian sanctuary.
A pack of swallows flew out from under his collar, sweeping gracefully around the column of his neck to nestle behind his ear. I wanted to follow their path with my lips, trace it with my tongue…
“T12 complete.”
Leaning forward onto his elbows, he finally peered up at me with the bluest eyes that I’d ever seen in my entire life. They were as clear as the perfect spring sky and as icy as the frigid air on the coldest day of winter.
“That’s what you wanted to know, right?”
I can’t remember if I answered him. Or if I even managed to nod.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I blinked. Frowned. Blinked again. “What?”
“The guy who was being an asshole to you earlier. Is he your boyfriend?”
I swear, I almost hugged him. I said almost. I’m not a creep. Instead, I shook my head. “No. That was just dickhead being an asshole.”
If he was amused, it didn’t show on his face. “You call him dickhead?”
“I call it like I see it.”
Nothing showed on his face. Stonewalled. “Sit.”
I slid down into the seat even before the monosyllabic directive had a chance to dissipate from the tip of his tongue. I could’ve sworn that he quirked an eyebrow. Ever so slightly. But it was probably just my imagination.
“So…” he began.
The words tumbled out of my mouth automatically, in a hurried rush of air, “I like your tattoos.”
“Thanks,” he replied casually, before countering with, “I like your necklace.”
My heart thrummed in my chest. “Thanks.”
Can it be? Is it possible? No, it’s not possible. What are the odds anyway? Like a million to one, right?
Gathering up every last ounce of courage that I could possibly muster, I whispered tentatively, “Do you know what it means?”
After an agonizing stretch of silence, he slowly began to nod, his arctic blue irises never once releasing me from their frozen depths.
The intensity was staggering. And mesmerizing. Like magic. Or a drug. A magical drug. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even blink, much less think. And I sure as hell couldn’t breathe.
Who can remember to breathe when you have somebody else staring into the deepest, darkest corner of your soul?
And then, just as I was about to pass out cold from a sheer lack of oxygen…
Sexy tattoo guy broke into the faintest hint of a smile, which coincidentally just happened to produce the world’s sexiest pair of dimples.
He was most certainly a magical drug and I was most definitely going to be a junkie. I could feel it happening already. The addiction had taken hold and I was powerless to stop it.
“I really like your necklace.”
The low, husky murmur of his voice tingled right down to the tips my toes. Among other places along the way. Reaching up, I fingered the cursive silver lettering that danced across my collarbone, suspended on a delicate sterling chain. It read…
Devotee.
Mod
The roar of a saber tooth cat interrupted Alice Trent's sleep. In truth, she had not slept all night once, since being assigned to Last Chance Station. Franklin told her the cat's scientific name, but she forgot. So Alice ran through the alphabet trying to remember its genus name, hoping that mnemonic process would bring back sleep before the name. It began with an "M". It started with a girl's name. "Meg" something. "Megan". "Megantereon". That was it. Succeeding in remembering its taxonomy, she failed her primary goal of boring herself to sleep.
Why had she volunteered for this duty? Eighteen months life span spent in the company of thirteen people just as lonely as she was. They were isolated in a backwater of time because of Schrodinger's Paradox. Two million years back was far enough before the evolution of Homo sapiens sapient to protect them from the effects of any time tampering. Like a seismograph, information trickling through the portal gave them telemetry on the pulse of time. Tiny bumps were okay. Just the normal fluctuation of key events as they mundanely unfolded.
There had never been a major event. Not in the sixteen year existence of Last Chance. That was not until the morning of Alice's thirty-second day on-station. Claxons went off. The sound of pounding feet echoed from the corridor outside her room, some feet bare and slapping, some shod in thumping soles and heels, and at least one in hissing slippers. Lights came on, flashed several times, and then steadied.
Alice joined that stampede to the portal room. She had avoided it, ever since coming through on her first day. Now there was no other option. It called to her like a Siren.
Franklin dove for the button on the counter to shut off the alarm's wail. Once it was quiet, he settled down into one of the chairs and checked the console. "We've got a hell of a spike here. It's centered around San Jose, California in the fall of 2113. I'll be able to be more specific in a few minutes. Oh, bollix. I thought that rang a bell. It has to be. It's Peter Zeist. Nothing else makes sense."
"You're kidding. Who'd go after the guy who made time travel possible? Wouldn't that create a paradox?" Mike Lenz plopped heavily into a chair next to Franklin.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Mike. We don't know that for certain."
"Which? That they're after Zeist or that a paradox would cause a rift in time?"
"Either. Both. No one's ever created a paradox before. So, it's just theories about what might happen. Maybe nature's more resilient than that. Who knows? In any case, we need to send someone to check it out. Who's up?" Franklin looked around the room.
Alice did not need to look at the duty list. This one was a cluster bomb with oak leaf trim. It had to be her. She asked herself a dozen times why she volunteered, while Marianne checked the list. Alice turned and walked to the transit suit locker, even before Marianne came back with the answer. Alice did not hear anything that was said after that. She could feel everyone's eyes laser etching into her back.
Even in the bulky transit suit, Alice still looked small and childlike in front of Franklin. He towered over her, gently resting his hands on her shoulders. Alice wished she could feel his hands through the suit. That would have been reassuring.
"Don't go overboard. We've never had an alert like this since the wild days of early time travel. It might not be significant. Just get all the information you can. If you think you're out of your depth, come back and we'll sort it out. We've all got faith in you. You can do this. Remember your training. Anything anachronistic could give you away."
"Yes, sir." Alice wished her voice sounded more confident. All sorts of scenarios ran through her head. Some where she turned the Earth into a charcoaled burrito and others where monkeys were left as the most sentient species on the planet.
Feeling like an automaton, she stepped into the portal's field. Timelike waves eddied about her. They were not visible but gave an eerie shimmer to everything around her. Alice could feel herself being pulled away as if a monstrous tide was drawing her out to sea. Panic rose in her chest, but she had been trained for this. It might be her first live mission but not her first time transit. She closed her eyes and waited for her mind to stop swirling.
And then she was gone.
The dumpster behind the library was not the most picturesque or pleasant place to materialize, but Alice appreciated the relative privacy while she stripped off the transit suit. Once off, it automatically sucked in its carbon fiber fabric into the size and appearance of a glove. Alice stuffed it into a pocket and double checked that all her period attire and accessories matched the customs of the time.
Now came the hard part. Somehow, she needed to identify the time interloper and figure out what he or she or it meant to disrupt. The time distortion had been localized to within a hundred meters of Alice's transit point. Behind and to the sides of the library seemed implausible sites. Bushes and single family homes had a low probability of affecting Zeist, since he did not live within the event perimeter. The library was the most likely epicenter.
Alice worked her way around the library to the front entrance. At first glance, it might have been a public building from any era, including her own. Then she recognized small details that betrayed its place in time.
There were a few hybrid automobiles in the parking lot. It would not be long before they were banned. Even now, it must be hard for their owners to find fuel. A public water fountain set in concrete and stone buttressed against the side of the building right beside the door. She resisted the urge to go over and push its button. With the massive droughts of the early twenty-third century, such wastes of water were relegated as hallmarks of nearly forgotten eras. The sign over the entrance was printed only in English. In Alice's time, all signage were required to include Symbolese. Conversations she overhead were peppered with words, idioms, and references that she needed to replay in her head to remember what they meant. People walking by wore clothes and hair styles that struck her as strange, although she had been prepped to look just like them. Alice continually reminded herself not to stare. That might be excused as the behavior of an out-of-towner but also might be recognized as that of an out-of-timer, too.
Inside the library, everything looked normal. Alice began to panic again. What if her quarry walked right past her? The interloper might be altering a nexus event in one of the small offices along the back wall, and Alice would never know. The enormity of how she might fail in her first mission grew like a volcanic bubble in her chest. She calmed herself and settled into a chair behind a small metal desk along the wall. Pretending to access the library system through her computer, she surreptitiously scanned the patrons, looking for a clue.
Time passed. It struck Alice as funny in an ironic way that she, a time traveler, felt the urgency of the passing of an hour. Then something caught her eye. That woman's shoe. The gold oval disk on its heel should not be there. Moebus Heels did not start using that emblem until well into the second half of the twenty-first century. Alice was not certain, but it was worth checking into. She followed the woman out the door.
The woman stopped. She turned toward the fountain and stared for a moment. Then she went over to it, pushed the button twice marveling at the water spout, pushed it again and took a drink, and then pushed it one more time fascinated with its functionality.
That convinced Alice.
She walked up behind the woman. "We need to talk."
Startled, the woman turned her attention from the water fountain to Alice. "I beg your pardon?"
"You had very poor training, didn't you? That expression won't come back into common usage for at least another 50 years. And your shoes. Who dressed you? Whoever it was, they sure didn't know much about this time. What do you have there?" Alice reached for the cloth bag on the woman's arm. That was when she attacked Alice.
Alice backpedaled, fending off the blows. The woman might have lacked proper preparation for acclimating to this era, but she was well schooled in a particularly aggressive martial art. Maybe Kempo? Alice knife-blocked a straight punch smoothly guiding it and her opponent past her. Off balance, the woman could not stop Alice from snatching the book from inside her bag. Alice kept the book in the woman's face, using her Aikido training to keep her opponent off balance and on the defensive. Suddenly, Alice dropped the book and caught the woman in a wrist lock, taking her to the ground.
Out of breath and suddenly conscious of the stares they were drawing from the library patrons, the two women sat on the grass of the slight hill next to the entrance. Alice laughed, and the other woman laughed back. Whether it was through nervousness or tension, their laughter resulted in head shakes and dirty looks rather than a call to the police.
Alice looked at the book, The Negative's Tale.
"Look at the dedication," the woman told her between gasps for air.
Alice opened the book. The dedication read, "To Alfred Bester who inspired me to think with other minds and to Dr. Ronald Mallett whose dreams of time may take us to the stars."
"That book is total fiction, but it's based on the real science of Mallett's work on time travel. The Negative's Tale never really got any notice. That's one of the few hard copies ever printed. But reading it as a boy inspires Zeist's life work in developing practical time displacement technology."
"So you were trying to prevent him from reading it?" Alice stood up and walked over to the automated book return inset into the outside wall of the library.
"No. Just delay it. It's available online. He'll find it eventually. So why are you here?"
"To stop you from disrupting time," Alice replied.
The woman laughed.
"What's so funny, now?" Alice pressed the button to open the book return slot.
The woman propped herself up on an elbow. "I wouldn't return that book, if I were you. If you'd asked me why I'm here, I'd have given you the same answer you gave me."
Mod
30th of October, 1938: the day of the CBS radio broadcast of ‘War of the Worlds’
It’d just turned 10:00pm, eastern time. The streets of Grover’s Mill were filling with people panicking over a series of news bulletins that’d been broadcast between the hours of 8 and 9pm, warning of alien attacks taking place all over the world. I took no stock in the ramblings of mad men. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been warned, that what they’d been listening to was a work of fiction, nothing else. They’d been told countless times during the broadcast, that it wasn’t real. Still they chose to create mass hysteria, as they ran through the streets, waving their arms frantically in the air, shouting "The aliens are coming!" over and over.
I found the whole scene highly amusing, trying to stifle a laugh as I passed by. I mean, how gullible can some people be? To believe in symbiotic creatures from Mars, coming to our little planet, and trying to occupy us. It was a ridiculous notion: one I took great pleasure in dismissing straight away. It didn’t matter how many times I heard it, I still didn’t believe that there was life on Mars. And with that thought in mind, I carried on with my nightly constitutional, removing my head from the game for a few moments, taking in the same surroundings I'd done every night. Maybe, in hindsight, it wasn’t such a good idea going through the cemetery that night, not with so many crazies’ out and about. The moon cast eerie shadows over the gravestones, giving me goose bumps, forcing me to hurry, as the bitter night chill snapped at my face.
I climbed through the hole in the wall, the other side of the cemetery, and headed in the direction of home, almost going full circle. The sky was clear of any clouds. I could see every constellation in all their glory, shining down on me, as I stared up at Ursa Major. My concentration was suddenly broken. I spied a shooting star in the corner of my eye. I hadn’t seen one in a while, and this one was a doozy, larger than life and pretty full on. I watched and waited for it to disintegrate into the atmosphere, but for some strange reason, it carried on burning, hurtling towards the Earth’s surface. That’s no shooting star. Could it be that I was wrong all along, and there was life beyond planet Earth? I let my curiosity lead the way, as I followed the descending streak.
My heart began to race as I kept an eye on, what appeared to be, a fiery, egg-shaped vessel heading towards Grover’s Mill. With wide-eyed terror, I realised that the object was heading straight for my street. I ran as fast as I could, keeping my eyes locked on the flaming object's trajectory. I suddenly realised that all the kooks and crazies, weren’t so kooky and crazy as I first thought. And what was supposed to have been a radio play, read by a twenty-one-year-old actor, by the name of Orson Wells, was actually a reality. Orson Wells was not a name that I was familiar with, but he'd managed to convince the majority of Grover’s Mill, that the threat was real, and now, I too, was beginning to believe that Alien lifeforms existed.
I rounded the corner and watched, as the ball of flame made its final, speedy descent, which was then followed by a crashing, shattering sound, followed by a billow of smoke. I knew that whatever it’d hit, was now a pile of rubble. How could it not be otherwise? I turned into my street, only to have my worst fears realised. I placed my hand over my mouth in horror, as I looked upon the object, and the pile of rubble where my home once stood.
A few minutes passed, and more bewildered, frightened people had been drawn to the object, which stood around 100 square feet in size. Suddenly, the top of the vast mass began to unscrew, groaning and scraping as it slowly twisted open. With a clang, the top fell to the ground, followed by a plume of steam. The silence was deafening. We all waited for something to happen, and then it did. What looked like a periscope, slowly ascended from the steam, swivelling its head this way and that. It appeared to be scoping its surroundings. Scoping us. A strange glow started to manifest as the machine rose higher, vacating its holding cell, letting out a piercing, deafening screech, which began to cause me a lot of discomfort, perforating my ear drums, and everyone else’s. Was this to be our end? I was beginning to think so.
The Alien machine had completely detached from the belly of the beast, and began to buzz into action. Laser beams shooting in all directions, vaporising anybody that stood in its way, indiscriminately, mercilessly. Was I next? I was going to make sure I wasn’t. I started to run back towards the cemetery, but it would seem that I wasn’t fast enough. I felt the Alien being’s ray start eating into my skin, disintegrating my flesh and bones. Suddenly, I felt nothing, the burning had stopped, and I’d been spared from the ray’s penetrating beam, but I didn’t know why. I truly thought I was a goner, and then I woke up, startled by the seemingly familiar voice of Orson Wells. The broadcast of the War of the Worlds had only just begun.
The End
Mod
The review schedule has been published in the initial post of this topic. Note that a Free-for-All round has been added for additional fun.
R.
Mod
I give this wonderful, heart warming little gem, a big fat, juicy 5*.
It was a very well written story, not a word out of sync. The dialogue was well conceived, and also made me chuckle, especially the interaction between the main character, and dickhead XD. The thing I loved about the story was the fact that there were no prejudices, as regards to the fact the eye candy was a paraplegic. I think it made her want him even more in the end.
I liked everything about this story, and disliked nothing.
Well done, Annie!
Mod
I give this story a rating of 5*
The narrative sucked me in straight away. I do like a good time travel yarn, and this hits the spot. Again, the dialogue was sound, and it flowed well.
The story centres around Alice Trent, who sent back in time to prevent a paradox from occurring. It's her first mission, and she worries that she can't pull it off. There is a nice little twist at the end of this story, as it would appear that the person Alice was sent to find, was there for essentially, the same reason. That's if I haven't misread it hahaha.
Clever.
Mod
Review of "The Experiment"by Robbie
The paradoxes of the time travel story. If you alter the past will it change the present? Can you go back in time and meet yourself? Why doesn't a trip to the future mean you get old and disappear?
The paradoxes of second-person narration. Is it really first person with an ironic aura? Is the narrator addressing another character within the story? Is the author (or is it the narrator) addressing the audience and bringing them into the story?
This piece is short enough and funny enough that my inability to resolve the above paradoxes with anything close to Euclidean certainty receded in importance.
Instead, the possibly plausible detailing of a time-travel experiment along with the narrators playful awareness of his? (or someone's) trials and tribulations (both scientific and personal) kept me interested and entertained.
There are two experiments in this story. One for time travel, one for using second-person. And they both succeed. (Well, sort of.)
Five Stars
Review of "The Hysteria was Real" by L.N.This is a well-executed story with a plausible ending. The story revisits the "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast of 1938 and offers an extra layer of craziness to this real-life historical incident.
Simulations (theatrical and otherwise) and auto-suggestion (spinning your own wheels, turning craziness into craziness squared) are only two explanations for belief without foundation. And these two may be central to all suspensions of disbelief, including the ability to fall into a story and accepts it as something true.
This story is built on a third explanation for the acceptance of false realities.
It also seems to suggest a fourth tantalizing possibility: the events might actually take place one day . . . no time better (for the well-advised, traveling extra-terrestrial) than under the cover of a fake broadcast. (Don't be stupid. That's not an alien, it's just one of those Hollywood simulations.)
Could use a little editing, nothing major though.
Four Stars
Steve wrote: "Review of "The Experiment"by Robbie
The paradoxes of the time travel story. If you alter the past will it change the present? Can you go back in time and meet yourself? Why doesn't a trip to the ..."
Thank you. I realise that this sort of narration probably wouldn't work in anything longer than a flash fiction. It would probably get very tiresome.
Mod
Consider that instead of dovetailing into the ending you chose, you could have the same buildup and end with the different ending--that fourth possibility I mentioned. I wonder if anyone has written that story yet.
Mod
Some define flash fiction as no more than 99 words. Here's one version of the story in question.Dupes. Idiots.Just how gullible do you have to be to think a stupid radio show is an actual report on an exobiological takeover of the world?
Hey, Heads up! It's a dramatic show. But even if it were a news show, what moron would take it seriously?
But wait, who you callin' a moron? If they're smart enough to traverse great distances, they could use a radio show to invade--under the cover of darkness, the literal and the figurative kinds.
“Take me to your leader.”
Whoops. I stand corrected.
Mod
Quick Review of "The Trap" by Francis.The story situation feels real. Good physical setup. Motivations, emotional and logical, solid.
Good old fashioned brotherly competitiveness and a romantic triangle working their magic.
Tension successfully built and sustained. But is the ending and its release of tension anti-climactic?
The girls closing reaction, after hours of suffering, may be questioned. So too the final seeming casualness of the brothers might be challenged. However one might view the closing as believable in light of the fluid ethics of all three players.
Are there alternative endings? Sure, but this one does seem to cohere.
Four Stars
Quick Review of "Dedicated Time" by R.Very well-written short story with a touch of mystery at the end, suggesting a sequel. Or maybe this is really the opening of a longer piece.
One can question the story's time travel success alongside its admitted general ignorance of time travel paradoxes or theory. Perhaps time travel is more of an experimental science.
And it was nice to see this type of tale centered in an individual consciousness rather than on the slam-bang, action packed science and technology of it (though this too is present). But if the story should continue . . . .
Four Stars
Mod
I loved the fact that this story was told in the 2nd person POV. It worked in this case, very well, i'd say. I haven't seen anything written like this before, and it was quite refreshing.
The story was centred around time travel, and the MC trying to develop a time machine, thinking of all the pro's and con's of carrying out such a plan.
It was a well conceived, and well narrated story, and for that reason, I give it 5*
Mod
The main character tries to build a time machine
while the author experiments with second-person narration
Robby Charters
So, there you are, a failure before you even start, in a..."
Flash Stars Rating System:
Structure: star
Storytelling: star
Writing: star
Characters: star
Twist: 1/2 star
Total: 4 1/2 stars
I was a little concerned, when I saw that this story was going to be written in the second person. That is unusual for a good reason; it often does not work. In this case, it made sense and actually added to the story and the twist.
Even holograms -- which do not require as precise alignments as described in the story -- require special attention to stabilizing the fixtures. A car driving down the street can shake a table inside enough to throw the exposure off. So I think that this story would benefit from some consideration for that issue. Maybe special gimbaled tables equipped with specially designed gyroscopes to keep it steady down to the micron.
It was a little unbelievable that someone would be able to "home brew" a time machine, but, since this was written largely tongue-in-cheek, that hardly matters.
These issues aside, the story reads well. The characters (speaker and subject) are well enough drawn to keep the reader interested. The twist is nicely presented if a little predictable.
Mod
This is a time travel story that is based on the familiar plot of time-guardians or time patrols. The fact that this plot has been done before, do..."
In response to the quibbles:
1. "Schrodinger's Paradox" applies in that, like the cat, the state of the time travelers transported to a time prior to other incidents of time travel remains undetermined until it is examined. It is a common issue in time travel stories, how the disruption of time affects the time traveler. This was my interpretation of how.
3 & 4. Actually the agent's intentions were implied, but it may have been too subtle. Early on, Franklin mentions "the wild days of early time travel". This was meant to imply that there had been some problems then. By delaying the development of time displacement technology, the agent intended to put the development where her people believed it belonged, at a later time when people would be more ready to use it responsibly. There is no way for Alice or the agent to know whether either of them comes from a distorted timeline or not.
The ending is intended to be a "Lady or the Tiger" kind of ending, leaving it to the reader to ponder Alice's dilemma.
R.
Mod
First Round Review: The Trap, by Francis MontIt’s short, simple and gets the point across, which is what flash fiction does. It’s a story from three points of view. None of them really know the other two like they think they do, so they’re feeling their way about guided by their assumptions regarding each-other’s world. But they learn…
Five Stars
Second Round Review: I Am Devotee, by Annie ArcaneShe dispenses with Mr. Wrong, gaining immense satisfaction from the exchange, and then finds Mr. Right a few tables over. I suspect she’s also discovered what her own tastes are in a man. However, I’m just a bit confused about the significance of “devotee”.
Four Stars
Free For All Review: L.N.’s War of the Worlds scenariosIt’s genuine flash fiction, meaning it’s not just an ultra-condensed short story. We start off sure of what it is we see and hear – the mass hysteria that surrounded the Orsen Wells broadcast; and then the unexpected happens; then the punch line, leaving us wondering if we ever were sure of anything after all.
Five Stars
Mod
L.N. Now that..."
Hi Francis, I've had a little tinker with it. I think it is at a stage where you can read it.
Mod
I'd have to dissagree with Francis regarding NB's story. Going into the story without realising it was a dream adds to the "now what?" effect at the end, when we realise that the first part of the dream accurately described what we know actually happened.
Mod
That seems to be the story of my life at the moment. People either love my work, or they hate it...and I really do care about my writing =).
Mod
Checking in.I'm not dead. Just busy. Shall get to this tomorrow. Scout's honor.
Hugsss,
Ann
Mod
30th of October, 1938: the day of the CBS radio broadcast of ‘War of the Worlds’
It’d just turned 10:00pm, eastern time. The streets of Grover’s Mill were filling with peopl..."
Flash Stars Rating System:
Structure: star
Storytelling: star
Writing: 1/2 star
Characters: 1/2 star
Twist: star
Total: 4 stars
This is an interesting twist on the alien invasion scare theme with a little bit of clairvoyance thrown in for good measure. The writing was pretty good, although I personally felt that contractions were used a little too much. Occasionally, I had to go back and reread portions of sentences to understand them. The first person narrative suited the story well.
My super duper late (sorry!) review of Caribbean Sweaters by Mr Steve Ross...What I really dug:
The writing style was simple, snappy, and succinct. Just the way I like it. With the attention span of a gnat, my eyeballs get all glazed over with wordy stuff. Mr Ross kept me reading...
*fist bump*
I also enjoyed the pacing and how it came full-circle (wrong word but I know what I mean haha) at the end with the old woman. Very cheeky. And clever.
What I wasn't feeling:
There was quite a bit of telling and while I realize it was necessary considering the brevity, I kinda wished there was a smidgen more showing.
I'm totally a feels type of person, especially when it comes to short stories. I wanna make an instant connection, whether it be the characters, concept, whatever. I didn't feel that compelling "pull" but again, it still kept my attention sooo...
*high fives*
My rating: ⭑⭑⭑⭑⭒
Awesome job!!
L.N. wrote: "Here's my review for 'I AM DEVOTEE' by Annie Arcaine:I give this wonderful, heart warming little gem, a big fat, juicy 5*."
Eeek! *blushes* Thank you so much, LN!!
Robby wrote: "I’m just a bit confused about the significance of “devotee”."
Oops. No one would know that, eh? Haha!
It's just the legit term for someone who finds physically disabled people to be da bomb diggity ^_~
Hugs,
Ann
DISCLAIMER: I don't actually talk like that in real life. I'm professional. And grown-up. I swear...
I'll be back tomorrow with a proper review of The Trap by Francis Mont but just had to say...My rating: ⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
Review of "The Truth" by Francis [Flash Fiction 1 Group]The year is 2016 or 16 or -4016 and a man is suspicious of his wife. If only there was a way to know for sure. Maybe the future holds the answer, some kind of scientific miracle. But wait, the future is now!
Getting to the truth and technological progress have something in common: there's usually a dark side—a price to be paid. These classic themes are played out in this story in which the author creates at least three convincing characters in a short space.
One minor (and correctable) deficit is a wordiness intent on explaining too much instead of sometimes allowing the reader to participate and make inferences. For example, I think the story would be improved by simply cutting these sentences.
(1) Masters could barely control his jealousy.
(2) Dr. Arthur Spencer was growing desperate.
(3) Anna Masters was unhappy.
And the opening sentence, “John Masters was torn between love and hate for his wife,” might be combined with the second sentence to read: “John Masters and his wife disagreed on everything.”
Four Stars
Francis wrote: "...and he is holding his breath, his head slowly turning blue...! (:-o"LOL
I already said the important part but lemme say it again...
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑ ^_~
What I really dug:
Well-thought out. Perfectly paced. And punchy. Oh-so-punchy. Yeah, this one was right up my alley!
There was so freakin' much packed into this story and not a single extraneous line. The plot and delivery were great. Not overdone. Just enough to make me nod and say, "Go on, pleeease." The characters were quite developed, especially considering the brevity of the piece.
And the ending? I adored the ending! It's like this huge build-up and all this tension and you're on the edge of your seat and then...
*smirks*
What I wasn't feeling:
*blank stare*
*crickets chirp in the distance*
*tumbleweed blows by*
Loved this bugger! Gonna stop rambling now haha! Thanks so much for sharing, Mr Francis!!
Hugs,
Ann
EDIT: Can't type. Sorry!
EDIT #2: Just wanted to say that even though you know nothing's gonna blow up partway through, it still maintained this "stress situation" atmosphere till the very end. Umm. That's a compliment. 100%. Okay. Stopping now.
TYVM for letting me know, good sir! I'll definitely take a peek!!Hugsss,
Ann
Genre Specific Review Groups
Authors mentioned in this topic
Annie Arcane (other topics)L.N. Denison (other topics)
Robby Charters (other topics)
Francis Mont (other topics)
Steve Ross (other topics)
More...
This is Flash Fiction review group 2. (The maximum size is 2,000 words. It will work a bit differently from other review groups.) As with other review groups, you will be expected to read and give an honest review of the works assigned to you. Assignments will be made after the group sign-up has filled.
On the first day, each author will post his or her Flash Fiction in a comment here. (Comments are limited to 12,000 characters, which will act as a de facto word count limit. If the story cannot be fit within a comment, then it is too long to be considered Flash Fiction.) By the second day, a schedule of reviews will be published here. Each participant will read the assigned work and post his or her review as a reply to the comment containing the story.
All stories must be posted by the end of the day on Thursday (September 8, 2016).
A new feature of this Flash Review group is that after the two rounds of scheduled reviews, we will have a Free-for-All round. Read any stories you like. Review any stories you read that you feel like reviewing.
THE AUTHORS ARE:
1 Annie Arcane
2 R. Leib
3 Francis Mont
4 Steve Ross
5 Robby Charters
6 L.N. Denison
ORDER OF REVIEW:
September 12 to September 13
Annie Arcane reviews Steve Ross
R. Leib reviews Robby Charters
Francis Mont reviews R. Leib
Steve Ross reviews L.N. Denison
Robby Charters reviews Francis Mont
L.N. Denison reviews Annie Arcane
September 14 to September 15
Annie Arcane reviews Francis Mont
R. Leib reviews Steve Ross
Francis Mont reviews L.N. Denison
Steve Ross reviews Robby Charters
Robby Charters reviews Annie Arcane
L.N. Denison reviews R. Leib
September 16 to September 19
Free-for-All