Book Review

Posted on June 13, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

BOOK REVIEW:

Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories by Guy Hogan

Reviewed by Jan Harris

Associate Editor, Flash Me Magazine

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In “Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories,” Guy Hogan presents a series of short stories, and a novella, in a fresh, new, style of writing.

Compressionism, a style developed by Hogan himself, presents a story as a series of images, which can best be compared to a silent film. The stories are set in either the Vietnam War, or against the Pittsburgh college scene.

The very first story in the book, aptly named Genesis, presents Scott Delaney, a character who turns up again in later stories. He is an American Soldier, his helicopter under fire from the Viet Cong. As in all the stories, there is no exposition, the brief scene is told in a series of staccato sentences, which present the events and leaves the reader to interpret them.

“Scott looked out the porthole behind him. Now he could not see the landing zone. There were only trees everywhere. Suddenly they were in the trees. He was flung against the port hull. Everyone shouting. He was flung back against the starboard hull, except now it was the deck. Others fell on top of him, everyone shouting.”

This creates a fast paced, vivid story, which takes shape in front of the reader’s eyes, and which is all the more memorable for the absence of exposition. Hogan suggests that 1,000 words is a good length for a compressionist short story. There are certainly many examples of stories of this length and less in the book.

In just two pages, the Big 5-0 is the story of Nate Johnson on his 50th birthday. The story opens with a photograph of Nate as a young man – a soldier in South Vietnam – and than presents a series of images of him with his family. The skillful combination of these images with totally believable dialogue, gives the reader a compelling snapshot of Nate and his wife and children. The characters come to life in a way that is often not achieved in stories of much greater length.

Although many of the stories are very short, they seem much longer because much of the story is in the sub-text. These are stories that reward readers who like to think for themselves.

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Compressionism: The Pittsburgh Stories is only $6.00.  Download your copy in minutes.

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New Flash Fiction by T.M. Hobbs

Posted on July 31, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Yes, another writer has decided to showcase work in the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.  Why?  Because this magazine is the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the Internet.  Just look around at all the great flash fiction, articles and commentaries that are available to readers who appreciate good writing and writers who want to learn to write better.

Not only will I work with you to get your story into this magazine but I want your experience with The Gazette to help you get published in other magazines.  Let me be your editor.  Let me be your publisher.  Let me be your mentor.

Everyone can’t write flash fiction.  But if you want to write flash fiction, this magazine is for you.  Read and follow the submission guidelines and send me something.  It’s that easy.  Let’s have a relationship.  The Contest/Submissions tab is at the top of the page.

Now for our feature presentation.

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The Angel Of Ha Tihn

The days and nights blended together for me until I only saw black. The more we fought, the more I wanted it to stop.  I felt numb inside and I didn’t know what it was to be human anymore, or even worse, what it was to be a man. 

We had just come back from Laos after several days of heavy combat and were told  we had two days of R and R before going back.  I remember wandering through the streets in Ha Tihn looking at people as they tried to carry on with a somewhat normal life, if you could call it that.  

But their eyes held their stories, a brother shot while trying to escape the madness, a sister taken and not seen again, a child trained to do the unthinkable.  I didn=t want to see that right then.  The next few hours were mine and who knew, they might be my last on the wretched place we called earth.  

So I sat down on a crate near the marketplace and closed my eyes, listening to the jumbled tongues, speaking quickly with tiny voices, the sounds of bicycles speeding past, hitting every mud puddle in their wake, and the sifting sound of rice being measured out for sale.  

When I opened my eyes, everything was moving in slow motion and for a moment I thought I was already dead and this was just the passage through which I must travel to reach my final destination, then I saw her.  

Her long black hair was like silk in the night, black and shiny.  Her face was dark, but not as dark as those around her.  There was a beauty about her that made my breath hitch in my chest and I just stared.  The moment her eyes found mine, she too could not look away.  

I suppose we stayed like that for several minutes, both of us speaking words in our heads that only we could hear.  Then it happened.  My feet had me moving toward her until I stood just a few feet away.  

ADo you speak English?@ I asked, continuing to look into her eyesCeyes that were the color of warm coffee filled with cream.  She didn=t answer for a few moments, then she nodded and smiled.    

There we were; two people trapped in the midst of the chaos and ruin, but for those few moments everything else was gone.  I had no hatred of the place I was stuck in and she had no heartbreak over what her homeland had been reduced to.  We were but two souls meeting for the first time, somehow calming the other.  

AMy name is A=nh,@ she said softly, never looking away from me.  

AA=nh.  It means ray of light or light…..light ray,@ I said excitedly.  

I mused at the chances of me meeting someone, a young woman, in that God forsaken place whose name meant >light ray,= and marveled at how ironic that was when my whole world had become so black. 

AI=m Jack.  It=s nice to meet you.  Hey, do you want to get some coffee and talk for a while?@ I asked, hoping she wouldn=t think I was being too forward.  

AYes.  Yes, that would be nice, Jack.@  

So we walked away together, going for coffee like it was the most normal thing two people could do.  And for the next few hours, forty-eight to be exact, we were normal.  We talked about our families, the weather, the next celebration that would someday take place in Ha Tihn, and each other.  

By the end of those two daysCthe quiet in our storm, we had talked about everything we knew, so we just sat, holding hands and watching the sun set.  It=s gold and amber canvas was streaked with red and burnt orange plumes.   

She saved me that day, whether she knew it or not, and to this day, I never look at a sunset but what I see her eyes, the color of coffee with cream.  I never saw  A=nh again after that, but I often wonder if she was some sort of angel sent into the middle of hell to save one lone soldier.  I guess I=ll never know. 

The End 

Bio:  T.M. Hobbs lives in a small town in Northeast Texas.  She has discovered her voice through writing fiction and loves to do so as often as possible.  For her, writing is a way of traveling to places and times that would otherwise be impossible to touch and feel. 

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You may have seen the phrase “show don’t tell” in this flash fiction magazine.  I use it often.  It refers to a technique of writing flash fiction that is truly unique.  Don’t believe me?  It was unique enough to win me a K. LeRoy Irvis Fellowship in 2004 that paid for my MFA in fiction writing at the University of Pittsburgh that also included over $900 a month for three years.  That’s how unique “show don’t tell” is.  I estimate that fellowship was worth more than $60,000. 

I would like to share this unique writing technique with you.  If you appreciate innovative writing when you see it and you want to kick your own writing up to the next level, download your copy of my Ebook now.

The Ebook tab is at the top of the page.

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The Perfect Ebook For Serious Writers

Posted on July 30, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

I know that title is one hell of a claim.  But the Ebook that is available from the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette lives up to that claim.

Hello hello hello, all my brother and sister bloggers, writers and Flash Fiction Fanatics.  The Old Soldier is not going to steer you wrong.  If you want to kick your writing up to the next level, make an investment in yourself by downloading the best example of “show don’t tell” fiction available anywhere.  You will find stories of love and hurt, war and college.  No other Ebook allows you to live in stories like “show don’t tell” fiction does.

The Ebook tab is at the top of the page.  Download your copy now.

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New Flash Fiction by Dallas Woodburn

Posted on July 29, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

I have the work of a new guest writer for you to read. 

Hello hello hello, all my blogging and writing friends and my Flash Fiction Fanatics.  It’s the Old Soldier here with another edition of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.

One of the things that makes the magazine so dynamic is the constant showcasing of new writing talent.  If you are looking for a place to showcase your fiction, try The Gazette.  If you hit the target, your story will be up in a few days.  If you come close, I’ll work with you to get it in the magazine.  And if the story simply is not for The Gazette, I’ll let you know why so that you will have a better chance next time.  The Contest/Submissions guidelines tab is at the top of the page.

Now for our feature presentation.

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Quickly The World Blurs

Ted and Wren stay up late watching movies in his bedroom. Actually, they stay up late fooling around, the movie flickering shadows and sounds towards them from the hand-me-down television across the room. 

“It’s a nice TV,” Wren said the first time Ted ushered her into his bedroom. His roommate was passed out on the couch in the living room, the remnants of a Hungry Man frozen dinner on the coffee table. 

“It’s a piece of shit TV,” Ted said, but as he said it he patted the side of the television in an affectionate way, as if it were a mischievous but lovable dog. 

The television sits atop a plain wooden dresser, directly across from his bed. It is a double bed, covered with a shiny blue comforter that reminds Wren of a sleeping bag. To her it is a luxuriously large bed; she sleeps on a twin. 

That first night, they watched Caddyshack. She had never seen it before. She tried to pay attention until Ted turned towards her on the bed and she realized the movie wasn’t the point at all. 

They’ve watched Spinal Tap, Raiders of the Lost Arc, Zoolander, Spartacus, and A Fish Called Wanda, but she hasn’t really seen any of them. 

They fool around until eventually they fall asleep, curled up and breathing into each other’s faces. In the barren night hours she wakes to the DVD title menu playing the same thirty seconds of theme music on repeat, the movie itself long over. She asks him to drive her home. 

“Just stay over,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “C’mere, go back to sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep here,” she says. In her mind, there are two types of girls: the girls who sleep over and the girls who don’t. She is not a girl who sleeps over. 

“It’s just one night.” 

“My contact lenses are scratchy and I don’t have my case. Or my toothbrush.” 

Eventually, groaning and yawning and picking crust from his eyes, Ted yields to her as he always does, grabbing his tangle of keys from the dresser and switching off the television. On the drive home they are silent, like diffident strangers sharing a bus bench, though sometimes she rests her hand lightly on his leg, and when she does that his arm brushes against hers as he switches gears. He’s promised to teach her how to drive stick. She’s not sure he’d be a good teacher, though, so she hasn’t pressed it. 

The rain begins as he turns onto her street, droplets coalescing on the windshield. Quickly the world blurs. He switches on the wipers. When he pulls up in front of her apartment building, she leans over and gives him a quick kiss. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Drive home safe.” Opening the door and fleeing into the rain feels like a release of breath. 

In twelve days she will miss her period. In seven months they will be married; in eight months she will give birth to Marianne; in two years they will be divorced and her mother will say, I’m not gonna say I told you so, but I did. 

But for now, all she cares about is getting out of the rain. The key slips into the lock; the door opens. 4 a.m. Her roommates are all asleep. It feels like the apartment itself is sleeping. Wren slips off her shoes and takes out her painfully dry contacts. Crawling into her waiting sheets, she feels like an oyster nestled safely inside its shell. Within moments, she falls asleep.

The End

Bio: Dallas Woodburn is the author of two collections of short stories and a forthcoming novel. Her short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Arcadia Journal, Monkeybicycle, and The Newport Review, among others. She is the founder of Write On! For Literacy, a nonprofit organization that empowers youth through reading and writing.    http://www.writeonbooks.org/

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Download the Ebook that will take your reading pleasure and your writing skills to the next level.  The Ebook tab is at the top of the page.

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New Flash Fiction by Robert Davis

Posted on July 27, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

New flash fiction submissions are flooding into the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.

Hello hello hello, all my blogging and writing friends and my Flash Fiction Fanatics.  It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.  The Gazette is constantly on the look out for new flash fiction writing talent.  Now that The Gazette is making a name for itself, writers want to showcase their work here.  This is a good place to start your publishing career and it is a good place to extend your publishing career. 

I love working with writers, not only to get their stories into The Gazette but to help them use what they learn to publish in The Gazette to get them published in other publications, too.

To submit a story to The Gazette, just read and follow the submission guidelines.  The Contest/Submissions tab is at the top of the page.

Now for our feature presentation.

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Welcome Home, Tommy 

Meg set the table with her best dinnerware and flatware. She almost never had wine at dinner, but tonight opened a 1997 Château Lafitte to let it breathe as she awaited the birthday boy. She hoped he’d be in his Army khakis, showing off his sergeant stripes and combat medals. He was only six months out of high school when he signed up, a mere boy. Today she expected to see a man walk through the front door. He no doubt shaved every day, boyhood fuzz history.

She took out the camera from a bottom kitchen drawer, ready to snap his picture the second he entered the front door. Dinner chores finished, she went into the living room, sat down on the couch and leafed through the family album. Several shots at his five-year old birthday party, when he was six, seven, eight… Next she focused on Tommy’s high-school graduation picture, his long brown hair flopping over his face. Cute had turned into handsome.

She dozed off, dreamt about the reunion they were about to have. She cuddled him in the dream, nestled him tightly in her arms, same as the first day he came home from kindergarten when she smothered him with unending kisses and bear hugs. Fountains of tears flowed – from both of them.

When she woke, it was almost ten o’clock. “Tommy,” she called out, “did you sneak in while I was sleeping? Are you there? Stop playing games.” No answer. She realized she was alone. Tommy was late. Very late.

She went back into the dining room and put the albums away, gazed around the spacious room. She loved that dining room, though people always asked why she needed it. “How come you don’t sell this big house, Meg?” “Because I want Tommy to come home to a familiar setting – his home.” She felt strongly about it. He was born here. Raised here. And loved the house just as much as she did. He’ll be thrilled with a home-cooked meal in the big dining room – shrimp and steak and five-layer birthday cake – rather than in the cramped kitchen of a tiny strange apartment.

At midnight she took a sip of the wine – Here’s to you, Tommy – and started for bed, took longer than usual to get ready, hoping to hear the doorbell and Tommy shout, “I’m home, Mom.” The doorbell didn’t ring, phone also silent, and no “I’m home, Mom.” She climbed into bed, pulled the covers over her, but couldn’t sleep – just stared at the ceiling, counting sheep, counting shrimp, counting Tommys.

It didn’t upset her that he was late and hadn’t called. Same as last year. Meg wasn’t worried. He’d be home tomorrow. Or the day after. Surely for his next birthday.

The End
 

The above flash fiction is one of close to a dozen short stories Robert Davis has written. He  lives in Delray Beach, FL.

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Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.  Have it delivered to your inbox.  The free email mail subscription tab is at the top of the page.

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New Flash Fiction by CL Bledsoe

Posted on July 26, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Flash fiction submissions are pouring into the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette and I have another one for you today.

Hello hello hello, my brother and sister bloggers and writers and Flash Fiction Fanatics.  It’s the Old Soldier with another issue of the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.

I’m always looking to showcase new flash fiction writing talent.  If you would like to see your work in the PFFG, just read and follow the guidelines and submit a story.  I love working with writers and will work with you to get your story into the magazine.  Hopefully, your experience with the PFFG will also help you get published in other publications, too.  The Contest/Submissions tab is at the top of the page.

Now for our feature presentation.

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Foxes 

They came at night, while he was sleeping. He woke to their cries, just beyond the light leaking from the clock face by the bedroom window. It read 2:23. He thought the sound was a child, screaming, maybe one of the neighbors. He rose to search the house, but the noise was coming from outside. He went over to the window and peered out, but saw nothing, only heard the screaming which abruptly stopped.

At work, he forgot about the noise amidst the bustle and boredom of the day. On his drive back home, he thought of the movie he would watch on TV, the dinner he would eat, the book he’d read in bed. He pushed his work from his mind and settled into the happiness of pure escape, until the screams started, again, around 2:30 a.m., shocking him awake. This time, he found a flashlight and shone it out the window, revealing the sharp face of a red fox. It howled again, screeching like an infant being devoured, and ran off. Two other forms followed it.

The next day, he researched foxes. All around him, people typed in cubicles. The noise of it, the garish colors, made his head hurt, which was strange; he’d been working in offices like this most of his adult life. He tried to read the screen, but the sharp pain in his forehead made it difficult. That afternoon, he tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t concentrate. He napped instead and ate a light dinner. Still, when they woke him that night, it was a surprise. He went to the window again and watched their hazy forms move through the darkness. Three of them. What he’d read made it seem odd that three of them would stick together. Maybe it was a family—maybe a mother and two cubs. He wondered if they lived nearby, but couldn’t imagine where. The interstate was a couple blocks away. All around, it seemed as though there were nothing but streets and buildings. Still, maybe there was some outpost of nature not far away; what did he know. He hadn’t really paid attention to much outside of his apartment in quite a while.

The next afternoon, he napped again, and this time, he slept lightly. Every branch scraping against the roof woke him. He dozed; time passed like a skipping record, and he sat bolt upright several times only to concentrate on the sound of nothing. The next morning, his alarm woke him and he stumbled out into his day, all the while, wondering why they hadn’t returned.

The next night, he woke again around 2:30. There was no sound. It was perfectly quiet except for the noise of traffic, which he suddenly disliked. He wished it was quiet, so he could hear. He wished he knew more about them. He lay listening for a long while, the image of the whitish face, the red fur, rising in his mind.

The End

Bio: CL Bledsoe is the author of two poetry collections, _____(Want/Need) and Anthem. A short story collection, Naming the Animals, was just published by Mary Celeste Press. His story, “Leaving the Garden,” was selected as a Notable Story of 2008 for Story South’s Million Writer’s Award.

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Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.  Have it delivered right to your inbox.  The free email subscription tab is at the top of the page.  Take a moment and take out your subscription right now.

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New Flash Fiction by Phil Richardson

Posted on July 25, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

It is my great pleasure to introduce to the readers of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette a short story from a new guest writer.

Hello hello hello, my brother and sister bloggers and writers.  Welcome to a new edition of the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.  Look at all the great links, flash fiction stories, articles and commentaries that the PFFG offers it’s readership.

And if you are a flash fiction writer, I want to publish you.  Just click on the Contest/Submissions tab at the top of the page, read and follow the guidelines and I will work with you to get your story into PFFG.

And I will continue to work with you to improve your writing skills so that not only will you have a better chance to see your work in the PFFG, but that you will also have a better chance of seeing your work in other publications, too.  You can’t beat that with a stick.

Now for our feature presentation.

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Seatmates 

I sat in the narrow seat of the commercial jet and tried to ignore the man sitting next to me. This was difficult as his body bulged over the armrest forcing me to keep my elbows pulled against my chest so I would not touch him. 

The stale smell of cigarette smoke seemed to hang about him like a cloud on a mountain, and sweat dripped from his face in streams. I had already endured three hours of his presence and we still had hours of flight time left before we reached New York. 

“I don’t like to fly,” he muttered. 

I didn’t reply, hoping he would get the hint. 

“I’m not just scared,” he continued. “I don’t like to fly.” 

“Well, it’s the only way we can get to Europe these days.” 

“I’d take a ship if they moved faster. Planes are fast, but they frighten me. 

Thinking I might shut him up, I replied, “You should be scared. This kind of plane crashes all the time. I’m an engineer and I know this model is the worst.” 

A drop of sweat fell from his bulbous nose. 

“You know this?” he asked. 

“They’re keeping it quiet,” I said getting into the story. “I wouldn’t be on this flight, but my mother-in-law broke her leg and it was the only flight I could get. To tell the truth, I’m really scared.” 

He tried to turn in my direction, but was wedged tightly in his seat. “I don’t like this at all,” he wheezed. “God, I wish I had a cigarette.” 

”We probably shouldn’t be talking about crashes, but a pilot friend of mine told me it was important to listen for a certain sound–most of the crashes happen after the crew hears something resembling a door slamming.” 

“A door slamming? I think I heard something like that a little while ago,” he said tugging at his shirt collar. 

Of course you did, stupid!  We’re sitting close to the restroom. 

“You heard it?” I said. “That’s really bad!  I’m worried. I just hope we can land before anything happens.” 

“What could happen? You know about these things, what could happen?” His breath came in gasps and he clutched the armrest with a bare-knuckle grip. 

“The wings might fall off. It’s happened before. We land in a few hours, though–maybe we’ll be all right.” 

He didn’t reply–he was struggling to reach the button to call the flight attendant. His face turned bright red as he tried to undo his seat belt and the wheezing got louder. Maybe I had gone too far. 

“Can I help you?” I said. 

He made a gurgling noise and slumped over in the seat–his body threatening to break the seat belt that constrained him. 

This didn’t look good. I punched my call button and a flight attendant scurried down the aisle to our seats. 

“I think he’s fainted,” I said. 

She reached over and touched him, but he didn’t respond. I was beginning to notice a fetid odor. 

She felt his pulse and then hurried back to the front of the plane. 

I knew I smelled an odor. 

She returned with the chief flight attendant who felt the man’s pulse and shook her head. “He’s dead,” she whispered to her co-worker. “We can’t let the other passengers find out. We’re five hours from any airport. 

“Can’t you move him someplace,” I said. “I can’t sit next to a smelly dead man for an hour.” 

“Sir,” the chief flight attendant said, “Keep your voice down. We don’t want a panic.” 

“I am panicking,” I said. “Can you cover him or something? Can’t you move me to another seat? 

“There are no other seats and we don’t have any blankets left and, besides, you can’t get out.” 

She was right. There was no way I was going to crawl over the dead body sitting next to me. 

The plane lurched slightly and his body shifted so his head fell onto my shoulder. I tried to shove him back, but I couldn’t move him. 

“Sir,” the flight attendant said softly. “If you can just keep quiet and cooperate all this can be fixed when we land. Meanwhile, would you like a complimentary drink or peanuts?” 

The End
 

Bio: Phil Richardson lives and writes in Athens, Ohio.  Two of his stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Fiction.  His work has appeared in print journals, in on-line magazines, and in eighteen anthologies. 

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Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.  Have each issue delivered to your inbox.  The free email subscription tab is at the top of the page.  Take out your free subscription right now.

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Happiness Is A Published Short Story

Posted on July 24, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Sure you could publish yourself.  But that doesn’t prove anything.  It’s when someone else takes the time to read your story and then puts in the time and work to publish your story that you know you’ve accomplished something.

Hello hello hello, my brother and sister bloggers and writers.  It’s the Old Soldier here with another edition of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.

Self-publication is so easy today.  That’s part of the beauty of the internet.  But if you really want to know if your writing has reached a certain level of polish, there is nothing like being published in a magazine with a history and with a reputation for a certain level of writing excellence.

The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette is always looking to showcase new flash fiction writing talent.

To make a submission, just go to the top of the page and click on the Contest/Submissions tab and follow the simple guidelines.

Helping Writers Write Better

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New Flash Fiction by Grace Jefferson

Posted on July 23, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

I have a disturbing story for you today from one of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette‘s guest writers.  The magazine is always on the look out for new writing talent.  The submission guidelines are easy to follow and every flash fiction story that is accepted for publication is automatically entered into the writing contest which has a $30.00 cash award.

I will work with every writer to help that writer improve his or her writing skills so that not only will the writer feel more confident submitting to the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, but that writer will develop the writing skills and confidence to be successful in submitting to other publications, too.

And now for our feature presentation.

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Stranger Danger
The man with the remote-controlled airplane was at the park again. He smiled at Elsie Hamilton as usual, in a way that reminded her of other children her age.
 
“Is he retarded?” Robert asked her one day, while playing possum from the horizontal ladder.
 
“No!” she exclaimed with exasperation.
 
“I’m just sayin’,” said Robert, using the expression his older brother often did. He pulled himself up and righted himself then dropped to his feet, facing the other way. Over his shoulder he chimed: “He’s your boyfriend, anyway.”
 
He broke into a premeditated run on “anyway” as Elsie threw a left hook into the air. She heard him laughing all the way to the merry-go-round.
She walked over to the man on the bench, a smile beatifying the loveliness of her face.  She would be a heart-breaker in a few years, thought Peter as he sat on the bench.  In a way, she was now.
 
He let her fly the plane whenever she came over. She knew his name was Peter, she knew he had no kids of his own. She knew he was smart.She didn’t tell anyone any of these things. She knew too he was awkward with other adults; she didn’t know the word awkward yet but grasped the concept. She was smart, too.
 
“Come on, Elsie.” Her father’s voice fell like a water-balloon of shame into the open space between them, and Elsie, drenched, obeyed, standing up and taking his hand. Peter found himself caught in the accusing spotlight of Daddy’s glare. His smile and eyes widened without his own volition, like a plea, and Mr. Hamilton shook his head and grunted in disgust as he turned away. He led his daughter to their car parked behind the hedges at the edge of the park.
 
“He never does anything wrong, exactly,” Lucy, their neighbor, assured the exhausted widower she often helped by taking Elsie along with her son Robert to the park in the afternoon while Mr. Hamilton was still at work. “He’s just a little strange.” She shrugged as if to say, what-can-you-do.
 
“What did I tell you about talking to grown-ups like that,” Mr.Hamilton spoke without inflection as he buckled Elsie in the car.
 
“Don’t,” she sniffled.
 
“That’s right.” He placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the tremble starting. “Do I ask much of you, baby?”
 
“No, Daddy.”  A tear rolled down her cheek.
 
“People out there don’t understand anything,” he continued in a monotone, as much to himself as her. “And if they take you away from me, it will be very bad for both of us.” She could feel him begin to tremble next to her as well.
 
“Yes, Daddy,” she said.  But no matter how many times he made her repeat the words, she sounded as though she were miles and miles away.
 
The End  

Grace Jefferson is a complex energy pattern, transiting through plutonian life dynamics with support from Jupiter in Cancer. She is supposedly a resident of Minnesota

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Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.  Get all the great flash fiction stories, articles, commentaries and links delivered right to your inbox.  The free email subscription tab is at the top of the page.  Take out your subscription now.

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The Flash Fiction Revolution Has Begun

Posted on July 22, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

Mission Statement

The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette endeavors to be a resource for bloggers and writers and to provide great flash fiction entertainment for readers.

At the same time, the magazine will work with creative writers to help them acquire the writing skills and confidence to successfully publish their short stories not only in the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, but in other publications, too.

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Don’t miss a single issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet.  Take out your free email subscription, today. 

The subscription tab is at the top of the page.  Join the flash fiction revolution.

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This Is How To Keep Your Readers Reading

Posted on July 21, 2010 by pittsburghflashfictiongazette

I’m showcasing a link today that will give every blogger and writer a greater insight into maintaining the interest of your readers.

Hello hello hello, it’s the Old Soldier here with another issue of the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction magazine on the internet today.  Guy Hogan is my name and flash fiction is my game.  If you love to read and to write the very short story, this blog is for you.

I always like to encourage everyone to take out a free subscription to the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette.  You have nothing to lose and great commentaries, flash fiction stories, articles on blogging and writing to gain.

Take a moment to subscribe.  The free email subscription tab is at the top of the page.  Then come back to the Home page and read How Good Writers Keep Readers Reading.

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