May Flasher Award

The Instructions on May 3rd were:
This is one of those items in the paper that make you wonder "What the ...?":
Mr. Jones, a law-abiding and church-going, upstanding member of a small mid-western community comes home from work one night and, while his wife and children are out, sets fire to his house before getting in his car and driving off into the sunset.
So, what the ... ?
In 1000 words or less. Jokers, deuces and any card with a face on it are wild. Other than that, usual Flasher rules apply.
And the winner is….

Guilty as Charged (by Roy)

“Can I have order?” The judge slammed his gavel. I glared at him.
Judge Samuel, my friend, my golf partner every Saturday morning. You don’t know your real friends. Margie squeezed my shoulder from her seat behind me. She’d come in crying again. I know she’s worried about the insurance money. The kids hated the motel, so they’re at her mother’s. I didn’t tell Margie my law partners fired me if I lost this case. I already lost the run off.
“This court recognizes Taylor Jones as counsel for defendant Taylor Jones.”
Judge Sam frowned at me and then at the court reporter Bee as she nodded. She took testimony like longhand but she was Mayor Tom Bradshaw’s aunt. The seven foot giant bailiff in the corner was his cousin. Even the judge’s sister married the mayor’s brother, so he went to the poker game Friday nights and I was never invited. I may have married outside the family, but I love my adorable five foot four blue eyed sweetie, even if she’s kind of, uh, spastic.
Henry Cataby, Mayor Tom’s cousin was prosecuting… me. I lost the “change of ADA” motion in chambers and Sam laughed at my motion for a change of venue.
“If it please the court…” The ADA aped for photos. The mayor, sitting a row behind the prosecution table, ran his election courtside, pin stripe suit, carnation in his lapel. He handed notes in a candid play for the camcorder as Henry pretended to care. The incumbent set me up somehow. He was desperate. I tied him and he lost his landslide, not enough family in town.
“ Bonnie Breen to the stand.” The town gossip knows everything about everyone, or makes it up. She’s not too believable.
***
Five witnesses, three questions on cross got past all the objections. Bonnie was devastating and the kid on the bicycle was a bad idea to cross examine. Old man Brad Simpson looked over to me, shook his forefinger at me, more than he usually shakes, and told the “truth as he saw it.” He knew the fire started in the kitchen and saw me come out of the front door, “like a bat outta hell and drove off into the sunset.” He then testified that my wife and kids were at the market, “My wife told me they were.” That was hearsay, but it was allowed. I looked like a fire starter.
Pastor Josiah Murphy of Evangel Temple told the judge he saw me at the QuikMart just about the time other testimony had firemen at the house. I went there from the office to buy a coke and a donut. He said he was surprised that I had become an arsonist. Even stricken, the remark was death to my defense.
***
Five years in a low security prison upstate. I’ll appeal, but without a change of venue… not a chance. Just three days to settle things. Sweep cinders into a dump truck?
The sheriff came busting into court, pushed his way to ADA Henry. I glanced at Margie, eyes red and swollen, but a question mark above her. I sure hope she plans to wait for me -- five years.
***
Margie’s in the motel, cleaning up, and we’re going out tonight for steak, not fast food, and not bread and water. What a day! When Margie and I went to Judge Sam’s chambers, all my so-called friends except Mayor Tom were there. Hank shook his head and looked down. “We’re sorry, but a miscarriage of justice has been done”
I remember I mumbled something.
“Hank,” the judge interrupted. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Ty, but you had no alibi, damn it.” He hit the table with his fist. Forgot his damn gavel.
The sheriff stood, face flushed so that his brownish red mustache resembled a dead caterpillar. “We got additional evidence -- that Bill Simpson was lying.“
I said, “What was your first clue?“ Saw light at the end of this tunnel.
“Bill wasn’t even at the market. He was at the motel having a nooner with Tom Bradshaw‘s teenage daughter, Flo…”
Margie gasped. I looked up to God with thanks.
“And the mayor went after him with a shotgun, but just beat him up a little.”
Judge Sam said, “the mayor admitted to the sheriff he paid off ol’ Bill to lie, and Bill did it to forge an alibi of his own, besides the money. Bill’s wife found out anyhow, town gossip, you know-”
Good old Bonnie.
The judge looked down and watched himself drum the table. “Anyhow, it seems the mayor is copping to campaign strategies that got out of hand. Prosecuting rape of a minor is more important. I guess there’s enough reasonable doubt now to reverse the decision. You‘re free to go.”
“Just like that?” came out of my mouth.
“Well, there’s more. We all decided, Bradshaw is out, so you’re our new mayor. Just take your office and we’ll make the whole mess go away.”
I looked at Margie. Can they do that? She grabbed a tissue from her purse and mopped tears. I was now the mayor. I got handshakes and apologies from everyone, though it just about killed Henry to do it. Called my law firm and told them I was cleared. They welcomed me back, but I hedged. Maybe I won’t work for those ungrateful jerks.
***
I called my insurance company on the cell, and they heard, told me the claim for the house would go through with no added hindrances. So we’d be looking for a new house right away. Everything had turned around good today. I was so happy until Margie decided to talk in the car.
“Honey, you remember the toaster?”
I nodded with fear of that intro -- “Well, I was making English muffins, and when they got caught, y’know…” Her pauses were loaded. “I used a butter knife, and sparks came out and I just yanked the cord out of the plug.”
I thought she meant socket. She didn’t. I told her to go on.
“That’s all. I didn’t want the toaster to blow up, so I put it on the stove where it was safe.”
The stove?
“Yeah, I blew out all the little flames in the burners a month ago. I was saving money not burning expensive gas. And it wouldn’t work after that, and you were busy with the campaign, so that’s why we did fast food all month.” She smiled with reddened eyes. Who could argue with that? Her mother can keep the kids a little while longer. As we head west into a perfectly good sunset I just refuse to dwell on that toaster -- and the damn plug I never rewired.

Room to roam

The prompt (posted by Steve on 14 May):
You wake up in a cell, a blank room with no window and very few features. You have no memory of who you are, or where you live or basically anything, so see everything through fresh eyes. You can relate what you see to the world in general, but not to your personal life.
Describe the cell.
The door is open. Go outside. You are in an indoor space you weren’t expecting. It has no connection at all with the cell. It is a total surprise. Describe it.
Go through it into another space. Again, it’s a total surprise, not connected in any way with to either of the previous. Describe it.
Go through it into an outside space. Again, the last place you’d expect to be. Describe it.
Go through the outside space to something surreal, something there should be no path through to (think ‘Being John Malkovitz’). Describe it.
In your descriptions try to give a sense of all four dimensions. Try to relate each space to the real world. Who would be there? What would they do there? What are the sounds, smells, tastes and textures associated with the space? What are its memories? Without knowing who you are, how does the space connect to you and what emotions does it inspire?
Come awake with a bump. It was only a dream. Only . . . you’re not who you thought you were, not even vaguely – where are you now?

Vee:
I awake from a strange dream, but then I think: Aren't all dreams strange? I mean, there I was, living inside a world that doesn't exist. With people and things and events that aren't real. I call that strange. Now why do I think that? Who the hell am I that my first thought on waking up is that all dreams are strange? And where am I, anyway? I open my eyes. I am alone. I am on a twin sized bed, with white sheets and a blue blanket and a single pillow. I sit up and notice a little night stand with a small lamp. I turn it on. I don't know if it's morning or night, because I have no windows. I laugh out loud, which is also strange. But the light shows me that my walls are daffodil yellow. Isn't that funny? I mean, I don't know where or who I am, but I have these cheery walls with two paintings of bright red and orange flowers hanging on yellow walls. The paintings are perfectly spaced. I would say about two inches apart. One hangs just a smidgen about the other. I stand up on one small flowered rug by the bed. The floor is red tile. I look down and see that I am wearing an ankle length gown of simple silk. A pale green thing, with matching slippers. Okay. Is there a bathroom around here? That thought makes me realize I am female. I'd better go look for a bathroom, right? Even more important, that bathroom had better have a mirror. Yea. I find a door. I open the door. I, a female of no known name and in no known place, open a wooden door. Good. I am making progress. Maybe a bathroom door? Hurray!!!! It is a bathroom. But no mirror. Maybe that is just as well. Maybe I don't want to see this unknown female. And it's not likely that my name is written on my forehead, is it? Besides, it would read backwards in a mirror, right? I don't know if I can read backwards writing anyway. Am I nuts? Do I care if I am nuts? Looking around me. Brilliant red walls stun my recently opened eyes. And a toilet with a gold plated seat? I shudder. A silver sink. No bath or shower. This is a bathroom with a bad taste problem. Needs an interior decorator. Why should I care? Who am I that I care about bathrooms with blazing sunset walls? At least I can pee. Oh, what an underappreciated thing it is to pee when you need to. Whew. Look, another door. Okay. I'll bite. Through the damned door. I'll do anything to get away from these claustrophobic red walls. Well well well. Look at this. Now we are getting somewhere. Tra la tra la. Now, seriously, of all the historic personages I would not like to know, this man would be at the top of the list. But here he is, sitting under a tall tree. A tall tree with gold and silver bells instead of leaves. I always suspected he was a show off. All that macho Viking business? Just a front. Wouldn't you know? Any, this guy is drinking from a horn-cup. Of course. Wouldn't have it any other way. "Hello, Bluetooth," I say. "Sacked any villages lately?" Harold Bluetooth grins at me. Sure enough. The tooth is blue. Snaggly, too. What the hell is Harold Bluetooth, fierce Viking King from centuries ago, doing in a gold and silver garden? Shouldn't he be in Vahalla or someplace like that? I also see loads of flowers growing out of old viking ships. Females running around with swords, shrieking about warriors and lovers. Not exactly what you call music. In fact, I would call it caterwallering. Nice word, that. I realize that there's not a man in sight, aside from old Harold Bluetooth. "Hello, love," Says Bluetooth. "Here, have a drink and a bite.' Not on your life, Buster, I think. God only knows what kind of germs this character is carrying. Just look at the cheese they eat. Limburger! I would rather drink my own bathwater. And he has a huge platter of cheeses, too. I mean, I don't like to be rude to anybody, but honestly, a person can only take so much. Give me hell, if you must, but spare me the limburger-meade combo. I am outta here fast. I run past a huge oak tree, with real leaves. Good sign. Oh, it's much better in this real garden. Quiet. Little yellow birds twitting. Soft air, the sound of a distant tide gently rising and falling, in and out. Gentle sun, sky of such a pale blue-gray I think of my mother's eyes. Just that color. Oh, mother. My mother has been dead for a long time. My father too. How do I know that? The sadness overwhelms me. For heaven's sake, a person should know who she is. I mean, what if I am someone important or something? Worse yet, what if I'm not? I sit down on the silky grass. Close my eyes. Then joy replaces sadness. It's okay. It really is okay. I open my eyes. Son of a gun. It was only a dream. Or was it a dream within a dream? Or....

Jack
weakly prompt warning extream sillyness

As I forced myself awake I was alarmed only by the loop dream. Someone I couldn’t see was choking me. Every time I went back to sleep it was the same damn thing. Something must be wrong, my subconscious is telling me something’s wrong and I should get up.. But, am I awake?
This place is so dim the only light is coming from underneath that door and the tiny window way up there. The ceiling is so high I can’t see it but I know it’s there somewhere. The smell in here is ghastly. Stale tobacco, mold, B.O. and the unmistakable scent of fresh blood. As I rose up to check the door I stumbled over something heavy cold and very dead. I lunged my shoulder at the door only to have it give with no resistance and leave me sprawling upon a mountain of silk pillows.
Someone in another room is playing music. Light beautiful dance music, perhaps just a flute a harp and a small drum. People in there are dancing and clapping too. Woman are laughing and men are cheering. This room in bedecked with fine silk from the drapes to the linens on the massive round bed that centers the room. Perfume is so prevalent you can’t sense the burning oil of the torches surrounding the room. A finely woven and massive Persian rug covers the entire floor. I can’t stand it any longer I must see where that music is coming from it’s so intoxicating.
That’s odd I felt sure the music was coming from here. There is no music here, no women, nothing but typewriters and monkeys. The place is a mess, the monkeys are alternating between typing and picking up feces to hurl at each other. Apparently one of them has actually written something and it appears to be some kind of speech giving a list of reasons for going to war with Iraq. I have to get out of hear this is worse than the loop dream.
Thank god I’m out of that place but what kind of place is this? It’s freezing here and the wind is fierce. The snow is so thick I can hardly see my hand in front of me. I can hear chanting and a meditation bell. Every so often the snow lets up enough so I can see a circle of monks praying around what looks like a large statue of Buddha. I’m trying to find shelter but instead I’ve fallen off a tall cliff.
As I hurtle downward I realize that I can see ground approaching and that I had better unfurl my wings. Funny, I don’t remember them being there before but they seem so natural. As I settle upon a large t-pot tree it offers me a cup of tea that tastes like fish. I look more closely and realize there’s a carp floating quite dead in the middle of the cup. The tree is quite apologetic and offers me a fresh cup and a bit of biscuit but by now I’ve had enough and curl in the fire for a nice cozy nap

A.J.
Replicant cells

Hmmm. Warm and cozy in here. I like it. Muted reds, light reaching in faintly, just enough to see my hands waving slowly before my eyes. Hey, a thumb. Bet it tastes and feels good to stick that in my mouth as I let myself be soothed by the rhythmic sound that echoes the beat of my heart, unless it’s the other way round? Funny. I don’t know who or where I am, but I could stay in here forever. Got everything I need right here. So what if I don’t know my name. Don’t have to answer to anyone but myself.
Hell’s bells. Here I go. I’m getting sucked down through an unbelievably narrow canal. Hey wait! I can’t fir through there, not in a million years. Stop pushing me. No. I’m not moving. I was fine where I was. And who knows what awaits me. Christ, I feel like the walls are closing in on me. And yuck, what a mess. This is gross. It’s sticky and there’s this sickly-sweet smell that makes me gag. I really don’t want to open my mouth anymore, not ever. Go through there? Forget it. Got a bad feeling about this. I’m going back up. I don’t like the looks or feel of this. In fact there’s not a thing I like about it at all. Much too high a price to pay just so I can get my own name.
Aaaaaargghhh. Glurglgglglglgllllll. Whhhhhhhhhhhh. Scrxxxccrrrrchhhhh. Aaaaaaaaaa……
This...had...... better be... a dream. Or a nightmare is more like it. Where the heck am I? Somebody should be handing out sunglasses at the entrance – or is it exit? Close the window for Pete’s sake. I know there’s got to be one open somewhere. The draft in here feels like there’s a hurricane building. Only it’s so damn bright out here. I’d shield my eyes if I could, but now those little hands of mine won’t do a thing I tell them. They just sort of wave around helplessly, like they’re defective or something. Maybe the wiring’s faulty. Got to get that fixed, and in a hurry – I’m not one of your patient types.
Hey you, over there. Stop sticking your fingers in my ears, nose and throat – I mean it, I don’t know what you were doing with those rubber gloves of yours, but they taste awful. And send for someone to look into this problem I’m having with my hands – and my feet too come to think of it – right away. My name? Just look it up on the chart over there. I don’t know what it is yet.
Who are those two cheesy-faced people staring down at me? From the expressions on their faces I’d say they don’t know their own names anymore. Maybe they both got hit on the head recently. Or they’re drunk. Yeah, that’s it. Must be, they're just not making any sense. Oohing and aahing all over the place, cute this, adorable that, all wide-eyed and smiley, vying for the attentions of someone by the name of Zoe.
Zoe? Zoe!!?? What happened to “Arthur”. Hey wait a minute, you’ve made a mistake here. You can’t do this to me!

(and last but not least)
Roy
Who am I?

I’m dead. The room is all white, a blinding white. The walls are there but I can’t touch them. My arms go right through them like pushing through water. Strange, I have no idea why I’m here, where here is, or who… I am. Who am I? My thoughts are there, but no memories. I’ve been brainwashed. This is the enemy’s torture chamber.
I’m not dead, but I have no name. The room grows dark. A ray of light pours down onto the couch beside me and a small man materializes. He says he is Ego. He laughs a joyous sound, embraces me with the love in his eyes. Ego stands up, three feet tall, about forty pounds, clothed in a one piece white sheer knit tube, covering him from his neck to his ankles. He fades. I can now see through him, but, at last thought, he's solid. He touches my arm and disappears. I miss him already, because I’m again alone and don’t know me enough to keep me company. But this one memory of Ego remains.
I must be dead, because the room has turned red and flames appeared in a circle around me. A red man smaller than Ego materializes and laughs at me, points to me and just haw-haws. It’s not a joyous laugh, but mean and sinister. I don’t know him but I don’t like him. He has bad breath and isn’t at all friendly. When he stands up the flames get higher and soon reach the ceiling, which I notice are now storm clouds. Lghtning jumps between them. The red man points up and loud thunderbolts come down. One bolt hits my couch. I feel the current surging through my body like I were shaken a million times a second. He is gone and I am not sorry. I’d rather be alone than shocked senseless.
A lovely child, she must be about six years old, appears before me. She holds a wand of pure gold, and it sparkles and makes a trail of luminescence as she waves it over me; I’m showered with the embers that fall. She smiles brightly, nods to me and beckons that I follow her. I come to a very small door, about two feet tall, just big enough for me to crawl through. She walks into the doorway and disappears. I scrunch up and suck wind. I crawl into the doorway. The room disappears and I’m in a huge dark room that isn’t a room. It is space.
It has been hours, days, years since I floated away into the blackness of space, still without a clue who I am. The stars wink at me and planets and suns stand before me and all around. I can turn any direction but have no sense of motion. Maybe everything else is moving and I’m stationary. I don’t know. I’m again lonely and open my mouth to call for help, but nothing comes out. Or maybe it did and I can’t hear myself. The planet ahead is enlarging, or it’s getting closer. Or I’m getting closer to it. I see a future apart from my wanderings.
I am dead. I crashed into treetops and fell thirty feet to a grassy knoll. I hear birds chirping and see all sorts of creatures standing there over me. I can’t speak or move, so I probably broke my neck and lay paralyzed. I see a small pine box a few feet away. Two creatures pick up the box and carry it towards me. They scoop me up and throw me into the box like last night’s garbage. The lid is hammered in place, and I am in darkness. I feel the jerky movement, then move downward. I hear thuds on top of the lid and it grows darker and colder. I open my mouth and nothing escapes.
I am again alive. With new-found energy I pushed my head into a crevice in the lid and rose up through the dirt to the light. I see vegetation beside me, green and yellow. Flowers surround me, golden yellow and red, pink and purple, blue and orange. The wind plays on my face, but my arms and legs are still in the ground. I don’t know anything except that I don’t feel alone anymore. I don’t feel anything except that I belong here.
I am not dead but I’m dying. Slowly day by day I feel life flowing out of me. My face feels like it’s withering under the warm sun, drawing in and wrinkling. The wind is harsh on my body and the ground has become cold and hardened. Creatures stop by me and look. Some try to pull me out of the ground, but they quickly withdraw their appendages when something hurts them. I have no appendages for defense, so someone is protecting me as I approach death.
I lay withered and outcast. The place is damp. Piles of bodies lay on top and beside me and none of us can speak or move. Twelve creatures roam around me and push long faces into the piles. They consume the piles with a low rumble and a crunching sound. I am soon destined to be the food for these creatures. I welcome death.
I flow out into a heap, white and warm. A creature transports me to a place where I am poured out and spun violently and thrown from the spinning wheel against a wall and fall into a large pool. I become the pool. My whiteness melts into the whiteness of others. A cool wind from another place seizes the former warmth and soothes us. We float with no effort into a deep vessel and are trapped inside. Motion and coolness in the dark please us and then all is quiet.
I am not lonely and cannot die. I know I will become a part of another and live on. The day will come when all of me is consumed, but I can’t fear it. It makes me part of the greater good.
I now know who I am.

First Attempt - Angela

Not completely sure what I'm doing, but so far it hasn't made any objections. So I thought I'd chuck up an old story and see how that works:

ANGELA

Angela strides between the racks of clothing heading for the make-up counter. A ribbon of Gala de Dia follows her like a devoted puppy. Small children stop to stare, thumbs edging into slack mouths. Scowling wives elbow and prod husbands, keen to regain fickle attention. Angela smiles her perfect smile and nods graciously at her audience, a vision in white and gold caught in the spotlight of their adoration.

Nearing her goal, Angela flicks heavy curls aside and adjusts the tiny pill-box hat just so much before entering the killing zone. The waiting shark-pack slowly circles its territory, unsure whether prey or predator approaches. Red claws tap Morse warning signals on autumn colour charts. Plucked nostrils twitch, sampling the air for weak spots - last year’s fragrance, or, heaven forbid, body odour. Stiletto eyes scan and probe, seeking lipstick smudge or foundation build-up.

Angela is unconcerned. She has the purity of youth on her side. Her meat is too fresh for the feast, her presentation, flawless. She coos happily at the uneasy masks.

“Hullo! I’m Angela! Would you be so kind as to direct me in the direction of the floor-manager’s office? That would be ever so kind.”

Pointed traffic-lights of vermilion, scarlet and fuchsia indicate the far corner of the room, past hosiery and night-wear. Angela flashes amethyst-eyed gratitude, teetering momentarily and laughing as she adjusts her course. Lurking behind dressing gowns she finds a door in the plaster-board wall. She runs a candy-pink nail along gold writing.

“Mrs. Myers. That’s her!” She taps on the corrugated glass twice, then once more for luck. A blur rises inside and moves towards the door.

The woman is in her forties. Tall and friendly in appearance, her face creases into a puzzled frown as she stands, holding the door open.

“Can I be of some assistance?”

“Mrs. Myers?” The woman nods and Angela giggles, “Yes, of course you’re Mrs. Myers. That’s what it says on the door, doesn’t it. I’m Angela.”

“Angela?”

“Yes, Angela.”

“Uh, yes, that’s very nice miss, but what exactly do you want with me?”

Angela shrieks and covers her mouth with happy embarrassment.

“Oh, I am just so-o-o stupid sometimes. I thought they’d told you, but obviously they haven’t. I am so-o-o sorry. I’m Angela Withers. They sent me up from human resources. I’m the new hygiene operative. Duh, forget my own head if it wasn’t, you know.”

The woman lifts the tortoiseshell glasses hanging from her neck and inspects Angela. She takes in the faux-Chanel suit, the PVC disco boots and the shell clasp-purse on its snake chain.

“You’d better come in. You know, you’re not exactly dressed how I’d expect a cleaner to dress.”

“Well, you know, I did think about maybe a little denim shirt knotted under my boobs, and possibly high-cut jeans and a bandana.” Angela admires the uncluttered simplicity of the tiny office, but feels the chair may be a little unhygienic, so remains standing as Mrs. Myers closes the door. “But then again, I thought, what if I have to stand in for somebody who’s sick or ill or just off. It wouldn’t look right, would it? And anyway, there’s bound to be some kind of uniform, yes?”

“Well yes there is.” Mrs. Myers indicates a shapeless brown and white checked thing hanging next to the filing cabinet. Angela follows her finger and bites her lip.

“Ewww.”

“But why would you think you’d have to stand in for someone?”

“Yes, well, the way I see it - please sit down, don’t mind me, I’m just so very excited about having this opportunity and can’t wait to get started - but like I said, the way I see it is you’ll never get on unless you’re prepared, and my mum always told me that starting at the bottom the only way up is up, if you see what I mean and anyway you never know when somebody’s going to get the flu or get stuck at Malaga airport and I’m really keen to do well and it’s an opportunity, isn’t it.”

Mrs. Myers sits down hard in her chair. “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

“Oh, I so knew you’d agree. I’m going to be so happy here, and we’re going to be the very, very best of friends.”

Angela spins, arms out, eyes to the heavens. The dingy room blazes with white and gold light.

What are we doing here?

In another cyberspot, we work at honing our writing skills with weekly prompts, monthly "Flasher of the Month" contests. Until now there was nothing to be won . At last we have something to hope for: getting posted here. (Best we can come up with so far - it is something.)

We'll evolve, just watch.