Saturday, December 21, 2013

Alas! The End is nigh!

I apologize for missing my post last weekend. I have a good excuse, though. Really. I was moving. Days of packing, three days to move and clean the old place, and still unpacking and stowing all my stuff, not to mention thigh muscles the consistency of raw hamburger from uncountable trips up those 21 steps to my new apartment, each one including boxes or other containers with my stuff in them, and with George Carlin's monologue about all our stuff running through my head. But, 'tis done now...well, all but a bit of unpacking and I'm in no rush to do that. I have no one to impress. I know I'm a slob and I've grown used to it.

Finally, though, comes the day when the last period is placed on this year's Flash Fiction Challenge. I'm pleased and honored to have seen so many wonderful stories. It took courage to rise to the challenge, but you did it. I congratulate and salute you. Now, just because the "official" challenge has ended doesn't mean you must stop writing these tiny tales. Nope, far from it. You are invited to keep on sending as many of your stories as you wish...and I promise to publish every one, provided it meets the original criteria for length and actually being a complete story. You're not required to write more, mind, but just in case some vagabond muse comes whispering her intrigues in your ear, you are welcome to tell the tale here.

This final (official) story, then, comes from Indiana's own Tracey Howard. And, oh, such a tragic tale of mystery it is, too. So, grab your favorite beverage, turn the lights down a bit, relax, and enter Tracey's world.

Another Saturday Gone
©2013, Tracey Howard 

Sitting at the bar, nursing my bad attitude and watching my housemate try to get something started with some guy he’d just met.  I heaved a heavy sigh—another Saturday night shot down.
“Hey, Baby, buy me a drink?”  A soft voice at my shoulder brought my attention back from the couples gyrating on the nearby dance floor.
Grabbing my pack of cigarettes, I pull one out and watch the smoke curl as I light it up. 
“Now, why would I do that?”
Turning towards the speaker, I am caught up in the greenest eyes I have ever seen, topped off by an unruly mop of curly auburn hair.
“Well, if not a drink then how about a light?”  She slides closer to me as I spark the lighter once again.
Cupping my hands, she looks deeply into my eyes with a warm smile and bends to the small flame.  I catch the slightest tease of her perfume as she sits back to lean on my shoulder.
“Sorry.  I’m not your type.”
There’s a magnetic sway in her hips as she walks away and I find I am wondering, just what is her type?
Dave Keith

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