I'll start:

""For Sale: TPM Cafe Reader Blogs. Priceless inventory of QUALITY writers' work and potential work. All offers considered; serious buyers only; offers should be tendered to: thereverendwendydavis@we'lltakeit!.com. Note: A commission of 6.66% will be due and payable to: [email protected].

You decide: A minimum of six, a maximum of 300.
Really looking forward to your entry.

100 WORDS (plus a line)

The five had embarked on a great episodic journey all the way to Superior, Wisconsin.

The four hundred miles had been grueling.

"But Dad, you must listen to me, I…"

"Mary Ellen, you must not speak unless spoken to when we take an important trip such as this," Mom responded.

"But!!! But!!!"

"ENOUGH OF THIS!"

Dad always had the last word. There were no ifs, ands or your butt would be sore for sure.

Mom leaned over to Dad and said something that made Dad laugh.

Seventy five miles later…

Mary Ellen knew it was risky but suddenly exclaimed:

"We left Kevin at the last gas stop."

Walking back to his home, inebriated, but not dead drunk. Turning a corner he saw movement in shadows. As he approached a teenage girl emerged, said “John Huff?”.

“Yes”.

“I’m Maria, your daughter.”

Staggering slightly, jaw dropping, he replied, “What?”.

“That night you went to see my mom, your first wife, the night before you signed the divorce papers…”.

“We made love…”.

“And me”.

She reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out a gun. He fell back. Fumbling for the 22 caliber pistol he always carried. His daughter fell to the ground with a cigarette pack in her hand.

100 words exactly

A bride, a groom -- plus mothers/fathers and a stepmother-of-the-bride ..... who turned up in Spandex: white see-thru, micro length Spandex that clearly revealed nipples affected by air-conditioning and an ice blue thong.

Was this a bold, in-your-face, competitive bridal allusion to "something old/something new/something borrowed/something blue"? 56

Bridal white: check. Something new? A stepmother half the age of her predecessor? Check. Something blue: check.

But what about something "old" and "borrowed"?

Ahhh, yes ..... The father-of-the-bride = a two/fer as something old AND at least arguably borrowed.....

Traditions die hard. Apparently.

(100 words, exactly.)

Too long I think, but anyway:
___________

The fishbowl’s glass was now so clouded, one could barely see through it. Fitz put it in the box along with the rest of the apartment’s flotsam.

No one could remember when Nagy had moved into the corner apartment. The room had an ample window but couldn’t be seen from the street. Fitz knew Nagy about as well as anyone in the building, which was not at all. So he had been surprised at the request.

“Professor Fitzgerald …,” Nagy coughed. Nagy knew Fitz taught at the Art Institute.

“… I’ve disposed of most of my things. After …please gather what is left, and burn it. It won’t be too long now.”

“Of course,” Fitz had managed.

“But please don’t take anything for yourself.”

Fitz resented that a bit. He was reliable.

The apartment was almost empty now. The last items fell into the box.

A certificate of completion: US Navy Surface Rescue Swimmer School, Jacksonville, Florida. A photo clipped to the certificate. It might have been Nagy.

A greeting card with the mark, “Les Jumeaux, Paris.” Illustrations on the card from Watteau that Fitz recognized: Gathering beside the Fountain of Neptune; The Timid Lover; The Embarkation for Cythera. Something written inside, but Fitz didn’t read it.

“He was good to his dog,” the landlady said.

Fitz had heard the dog barking sometimes, but had never seen it. He had also heard Nagy’s dreadful emphysematous coughing and gasping. He wondered what that must be like to suffocate.

Done. The landlady locked the door, and Fitz drove to the incinerator.

He put the box inside the incinerator and closed the door. Last one. Fitz lingered for a moment as he heard the rise of muffled pops and sizzles. They quickly subsided and were drowned in the low, even roar.

Fitz remembered himself and went out to the car. He was usually reliable, but late to pick up the twins at the pool. Leaning over the steering wheel, he glanced up through the windshield. Rain probably this evening. He turned the key, and drove away under the opaque sea of sky.

The excitement had been building for weeks. This was an adventure for sure. How did a small town girl (well, not so much a girl, anymore)end up on a plane, flying across the country to meet someone she only knew in cyber space until this day? It had happened quickly. A casual offer to act as tour guide in the Big Apple, snatched up and run with. Her husband and children pretty much agreed she was nuts. Who was this person? What if all the stories about the crazies out there were true? She was about to find out.

100 words, exactly!

"Once upon a time there was a man"
He was born, lived for a while.
Then he died.
The End"

C

Me neither!!!!!!

Ha! Quinn! Flash fiction at its finest: all the elements in only fifty five words .... AND elements of ambiguity....
For example, when you say: "The way his scarf waved in the breeze... the way it swept his saliva invisibly back and away...." then one really must ask: was "it" the breeze? or was "it" Jabba's scarf ? that "swept his saliva invisibly back and away"? -;)

Strong imagery, either way. Excellent. Thanks.

Great ambiguity, Don Key -- I thought he was waiting for drugs. Lovely suspense and surprise. More please.

On all four she crawls to him. Her face between his legs she breaths in his musk. Licking his hand she climbs into his lap, her voice begging. He know what she wants.

To run through the woods. Swim in the stream. Chase the squirrels and rabbits. And if her Man doesn't notice maybe find some half rotten dead thing to roll in.

He goes to get his bike.

69 words

Your story of 69 words: short and oh so sweet. Lucky dog to have you, Oceankat.

Ding, ding, ding, ding...

Glenna was afraid of her new neighbor. He was pale but muscular, and never made eye contact. Secretive and keeping odd hours, this guy set off every alarm in her head.
His suitcase was the final giveaway - leather, continental-looking, and with Russian markings. She heard Russian sounding words coming through the thin walls that separated them. She was now convinced that he was a KGB informant in the witness protection program.

More important, she was convinced he knew she had figured out his secret. She hurried through the darkness to get to her apartment door. As she raced up the stairs, she saw him, waiting for her with a menacing look on his face.

She was too close to turn around and run, but she was still considering it when he said, in a very strong southern drawl, "Pardon me ma'am, do you have a phillips-head screwdriver I could borrow? I just got some luggage from a thrift shop and one of the clasps needs to be tightened.

Probably too long, but anyhoo

Brilliant, Reverend!

What a perfect example of Flash genre: you've given us a character we know a lot about by allusion; you've produced a storyline with requisite conflict and resolution AND you've got serious humor (is that an oxymoron?) going on.

Are the three words that put you over the limit "so sue me"? Ha!

;-)

Gary:
I agree with Jon below; yours is a real contender. About the unreality of the "real world" as we know it. It's difficult enough to move people, or cause them to think in one hundred words. You've done it in thirty.
As Jon said: "Ding, Ding, Ding." Thank you.

70? Really? Well, I'll try:

She was afraid of him. Her neighbor was pale but muscular; secretive, with eyes cast downwards and never speaking. Last night she saw him with a suitcase. It was leather, and had Russian-looking markings on it. She heard low, gutteral sounds through the thin wall between them.

He was a KGB agent in the Witness Protection Program, she felt certain. She was also sure that he knew that SHE knew. She raced through the darkness to her apartment door. But at the top of the stairs, his dark, bulky figure waited.

Should she run? Just as she turned, she heard a thick southern drawl, "Ma'am, do you have a screwdriver I could use? This luggage from the Thrift Shop needs a little repair."

I may not have gotten rid of all 70, but it is better!

What I would really like at one point is to have a group-written story. "Naked Came the Manatee," is a book written by several American authors, a chapter at a time. "Yeats is Dead" is one written by several English authors the same way. I am sure there are others. If we Get Our Blog Back (way to dis the teabagger's silly theme) it should be on the agenda. Thanks for this Wendy. I might chime in again if I ever get my ceiling sanded and painted.

For me, this is a REAL Labor Day!

The chicken waddled around the empty farmyard, scratching and kicking up dust, as was her wont.

She wondered where all the critters had got to. The empty barnyard had a sad, disused feel to it.

Turning clockwise 3 times, she closed her eyes and wished as hard as she could. A cloud passed over the sun.

The farmer came in from the field, noted with satisfaction the ducks paddling in the pond, the pig dozing in the sun, the cats and dogs warily circling the barn. He gently picked up the sleeping chicken and put her back in the coop.

Ahh, so fine as a story, Bwak. In structure, word count and, best of all, in comforting message. Thank you, very much.

Thank you for the format. It's interesting. Makes one cut out what isn't necessary, although the warm voices and smells coming from the farmhouse are there, as well. (That would be you non-barnyard critters)

=)

I like! I'll be in touch!

needless to say, I'm more Linus than Lucy. :-)

The adolescent alligator eyed Tess. Tess eyed the alligator. Fifteen feet apart. He, three feet long, weight unknown; she, though an uber intelligent tabby cat, dainty, weighing only 5 3/4 pounds.

Tess's human felt a Munch scream of despair coming on which increased when Hermione (sweet but no so smart gray tabby) and Harry (huge but slow ginger) came into view, slinking through the grass from either side as if entering stage left and right.

Tess, immobile, continued to mesmerize the alligator's attention. Hermione and Harry made eye contact and moved into flanking positions. (93)

Jesus, their human thought, the cats' own primal hunting instinct was so strong they were about to tag team an alligator.

Harry crouched and growled. Hermione crouched and growled. Tess stood her ground. The alligator, suddenly presented with three possibilities for lunch, apparently felt uncertain about which entree to select.

A hapless squirrel suddenly scampered between them. The cats instinctively tensed, ready to pounce on easier, known prey. The alligator, drawing the same conclusion, attacked with lightning speed, snapped the squirrel into his jaws, flipped around, and slipped quickly into the lagoon.

The cats sauntered back to the porch for naps. Their human scooped them up, one by one, and put them back inside. No more cat outings until hibernation season, she explained. The cats complained vigorously.

The ripples in the lagoon stilled. A pair of dragonflies and a butterfly danced over it.

Love it! I'm sure each kitty took complete credit.

This is kinda gruesome, but here goes...
(100 words)

To kill a pigeon

I spotted her from a distance, wandering around the park. People avoided her. But she was too pretty to be mad. I waited.

As she walked up I saw the bird. She was cradling it in her hands. A car had hit it, and it looked miserable. Dying dovey desperation.

She wanted someone to kill it. “Er, uhm, I’m not sure”. Aren’t there people for this? Filthy fucking dying bird. But she was pretty and pleading.

I grabbed its head. Gently. And twisted. It fluttered again.

Die, damn dying fuck.

I gripped hard. And ripped.

Hard.

Sorry old bird.

I know... Crap. Bwak is NOT going to be pleased...

Rubbing neck.

Yikes!!!

You would think, but no -- tiny Tess is the Alpha cat, mistress and director of all she surveys. The other two her minions: Harry has the nightshift, serving as the night watchman -- a duty he takes very seriously -- and Hermione is the housekeeper, designated to remind the human that feeding bowls need to be filled, water dishes replenished and clean linens provided on beds for luxuriant napping.

Well (blushes) thanks, Gary. Not sure it's beautiful, but as it happens, it is true.

Wonderful, C'Ville. Finally, a beneficial use for skunk spray. Has Penny patented it yet?

Jerry knew something was up when Kim came in--the way she came in. Her face was ashen in places, and her cheeks positively glowed a fierce red. Her walk was pointed straight towards Jerry and his pals.

"What's your order, cutie pie?" he said.

"I can't believe what you've told people--I didn't do any of that!!"

"Now, now." He glanced at his backup. "I haven't told anyone everything."

"Oh, really?" Her tone wasn't what he expected. "Why don't you tell your buddies what happened Tuesday after what your mom said. Weren't there tears?"

He was instantly storming towards her--which was exactly what she wanted. She, who used to be the neighborhood “quarterback sneak”. She who played soccer now. She, who had just been told. In one swift move he was in the air, landing on a table of sophomores, lunches skittering to the floor.

LOL, Wendy. A droll "tail of Pre-nup pups" ...

Thanks for the encouraging comments, Wendy. This is an interesting exercise in distilling the essence of a story, and I think I half-missed. You managed to find it nonetheless: it was indeed about that inner violence. I suppose context would have helped - I can't kill even spiders ordinarily. It has something to do with my mother's buddhism. So the pigeon thing was pretty horrendous.

And no, I have no memory of the girl after that. I think she was as horrified as I was...

Six word version:
Gentle soul kills as tender mercy.

Don't lose touch, Obey. See you at Posterous?

Thanks for accepting the challenge, CT. You're welcome. (And "your welcome.")

Gold stars for:
Strong character description derived allusively by voice.
Suspense built through tantalizing allusion to future events.
Paired structural framing and an elegance in phrasing at beginning and end with "the glow of millions of pixels reflected from his skin" teamed with "his ebony hands reflecting the monitor's light."

But -- your word count is off. For a 69-word entry, you are 13 over the limit; for a 55 word entry, you're over by 27.
You are man who likes precision. I have faith in your ability to cut to fit the format. Which will it be? And therefore what words will you cut?

Yet again he snapped his fingers. Yet again she followed him, but this time, with a pitchfork.

Zip: I'm so glad you're here. I feel real respect for you.

Two admiring thoughts:
1)There is power and poetry in the phrases "wiped the back of his spade against his denim trousers" and "Lisa stepped out holding two yellow dandelions wrapped in blue twine and a popsicle stick."

2)Yours is a classic father/daughter story, beautifully told, with a wry twist at the end in the species identity of Minnow.

However, if I counted correctly, you're five words over. It's worth cutting; you're a contender.

Your story would have been wonderful paired with Obey's in placement. So it's too bad the threads can't be re-arranged.

Sidenote: Where will we be able to read you, during the hiatus?

Awh now -- don't disappoint me, CT. You've got some fiction talent; don't make this about one-ups-man-ship, eh?

She paused as she sent the needle through the pink satin yet again. She had turned up the hem just the right amount, and by god, she was going to make it right! She didn't want another tangle that would force her to cut it yet again and start anew, when there was so little left on the spool.

She just didn't want this thread to run out.

It's not. It's about following the rules.

At very least, you could have acknowledged I did subscribe to your rules as laid out, my southern belle.

As far as the "contest", just like the Olympics, it wouldn't be fair to have a pro compete with the amateurs (and I used those words in the strictest literal sense).

Yes, I hear the "Ding, ding, ding" I anticipated.

But -- your standards are as high as they are fair, and you are a superb editor.... So. What 12 words can you add to hit the 55 model? Or what 26 words can you add for the Drabble Award?

Or -- to make it really challenging, because I know you can do it, effortlessly or almost, what 37 words can you delete and say the same thing?

I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT.

I missed this earlier today, Don Key. Thank you. "Fleas: Adam had 'em."
How I will miss this collaborative sensibility. Where can you be read, during the hiatus?

Jon: hours have gone by. Do you think I did not notice that you have not submitted a Flash of your own? I know you can do it.
Just do it. 'K?

So. You are a black (ebon in the literary sense) professional (as compared to the amateur sense) writer of ....? whom we would recognize, instantly, "if only we knew." And that person has a long history, despite being young, of dealing professionally with movers and shakers in the military/industrial/political world.
You are too young to be Colin Powell -- he would not be so condescending, I suspect -- so, I'll bite -- you the hell are you? No one of this description comes to mind.

Only six minutes left and therefore not enough time to carefully consider this entry, Moat, which I know to be a metaphor of real meaning about our circumstance. I see the allusions but need to read and think more carefully about what you have written.

I have admired you since the day you wrote your blog about "fear of the other." That blog was a "one of" that I will remember, always.

Thank you for being here. Where may you be read, hereafter?

Thank you, Josh Marshall, for affecting the lives of so many by providing a venue in which people could be themselves, without censure, building confidence and camaraderie. Best wishes for the future of TPM.

It's a one pixel pitchfork.

ahahahahahhhah

Ahhhhhhhhhhh dreaming Birds!!

Hey, I was going to let it stand as a work of fiction! You outed yourself! Hahaha!

Yes, if you can believe it, we will be getting together in Oct. Flight booked and I'm literally counting the days! We are going to paint the Big Apple bright red!

Is replying equivalent to harassing? It is fun to call someone stupid who disagrees with you, but it doesn't make you smart, or even smarter than they are.

Continue on your bitter journey, D