3rd July Flasher - Irresistible Force by Steve

Blood lapped over his ankles and the moaning of the near-dead and death-craving echoed around the Chamber of Lindley Goff.
Xeganethar raised his dripping axe above his head and roared.
“Tis mine! The kingdom is conquered! The Orb of Zexon lies defenceless before me!”
His troop of dark minions bellowed their approval.
“Seven long years we have fought, through desert and swamp, through jungle and mountain, through fire and ice. Now, with the help of the mighty Kotar,” the axe flashed streams of gold to all points of the chamber, “and by the strength of our arms and the purity of our hearts, we have defeated the forces of evil. Zexon is ours!”
The cheer rocked the chamber. Even the glowing Orb in its platinum and were-metal cradle rattled with the force. Xeganethar waved his arm and advanced along the ancient stone bridge that led to the heart of the chamber and the Orb itself.
“Forward men! Forward friends! It is time to claim our reward. Tonight we feast!”
The dark minions cheered once more. They pounded forward, laughing and shrieking as they skidded on the gory remains of Prince Cardoff’s army. Here and there, sharp steel sliced groaning heads from twitching torsos, and a happier note filled the air.
Xeganethar had the Orb nearly within his grasp when a strange ticking sound attracted his attention. He halted abruptly, then raised his hand. His troops stopped in silence. Years of experience had conditioned them to obey without thinking. They dropped into wary stances, weapons unsheathed, and scanned their surrounding.
The noise came again.
“Tt, tt, tt, tt.”
Xeganethar’s great leonine head swung from side to side.
“Who dare enter this place? Reveal yourself or feel the force of Kotar!”
“Ha! Dim as ever, Xeganethar! If I don’t reveal myself, how are you ever going to cut me with your stupid little chopper?”
Xeganethar’s face purpled. “Ravay!” he screamed, “You filthy traitor! I thought I’d buried you for ever in the Slough of Dissemination!”
A pale figure in a purple robe and clutching a long staff slid from the shadows. Light flashed off dark eyes, but no smile filled his lips.
“Of course you did, simpleton. That’s what I wanted you to think. How else could I have been sure you’d clear the way to the Orb? With me around, persecution was the only thing on your mind.”
Behind Xeganethar, the troops began to mutter. He stilled them with another wave of his hand.
“I have never persecuted you. Your iniquitous deeds and foul dabblings brought your own downfall. You are the spawn of the devil himself and a blight upon the good name of our family. Now get out of my way. I have come to claim my rightful inheritance.”
“Oh, pish and tush. Always the heavy-handed arrogant. You don’t really think I came all this way just to make polite conversation, do you? No. I’ve come for the Orb. You have simply been my instrument, my tool in this quest. Now be off with you.”
Xenagethar slammed a foot to the ground. The ancient stones shook under the power of his mighty thews.
“Don’t play with me Ravay,” he cried, “the Orb is mine and there’s nothing you can do to stop me taking it. Forward, men!”
“Oh, no? We’ll see about that. Uh, men? Forward too, if you would be so kind.”
From the shadows behind Ravay, swarms of strange beasts, half man, half lizard, slithered to meet the forces of Xenagethar. In no time the Chamber of Lindley Goff echoed with the shouts and screams of battle once again as the fight raged around the septum of the Orb. At its centre, the figures of Xenagethar and Ravay faced each other, the power of the mythical axe Kotar offset perfectly by the bolts of raw force from Ravay’s staff; The Lady of The Mountains.
In less than the time a dragon takes to lay an egg, the two armies had reduced themselves to nothing. Only their leaders stood in the gore, panting from the exhaustion of battle.
“So,” Ravay said, “it’s just us then. Like the old days in the playground.”
“I beat you then, and I’ll beat you again.” Xenagethar roared in reply.
“Yes, you always were the gentlest of brothers. I so looked up to you.” Ravay’s small mouth twisted in a sneer, “Only I’m not so sickly now. Years of training at the Mage academy have prepared me for this very moment. My magic will defeat your brute force any time! Wake up, brother, it’s time to die.”
“Words mean nothing. Now you’ll taste the edge of my metal and regret you were ever of this world.” Xenagether lifted Kotar in both hands, summoning all his strength for a final blow as Ravay stepped forward, the Lady of The Mountains extended before him.
A delicate waft of jasmine filled the air and both brothers took a step back, heads darting in all directions.
“Oh, boys, boys. Will you never learn?” The voice sounded like eels sliding over and round each other in a barrel.
“Misteen?” The men said together. They turned and strained to see, peering into the shadows on all sides. Nothing.
They turned back. A figure stood before them; a preternaturally tall snake of a woman dressed in a red satin, ankle-length sheath with buttons down the front. Long black hair fell over her face, barely concealing sparkling blue and pouting red concupiscence. The Orb of Zexon nestled like a baby kitten in her hands.
“Boys,” she repeated, and laughed a high tinkling laugh that turned into a throaty growl, “you do make me laugh! All that huff and puff for nothing. When will it sink in? The Orb is mine. And when I want something, there is only one power in the world that counts for anything. It’s not physical strength nor magical prowess. It’s . . .”
Her smile spread as she began slowly to unbutton the front of her dress.
Xenagethar’s world wobbled and pulsed. He swayed and shook his head. A fizzing noise filled the air, followed by a pop, and everything turned black.
***
“Oh, crap!” Marty threw a sneaker at the screen and tossed the controller across the room. “This thing’s the pits.”
He gave the machine one more kick for luck, then yelled over his shoulder.
“Hey! Mom! I want a new Playstation for my birthday! This one’s totally bogus. It just crashed AGAIN.”
He listened for a moment.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s only three weeks away. I’m almost fourteen. What else am I supposed to do?”
A strong smell of jasmine surprized his nostrils. Something soft touched the back of his neck.
“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” a husky voice said.

2nd July Flasher - 3 POVs and a story by Vee

Incident: Art Exhibit
Three points of view:
Artist: I am Reginald MacDonald and I am one of the most successful portraitists in the country today.
Why, you may ask, am I so successful? I’ll tell you.
Every artist has his or her own distinctive style of painting. My own, honed after ten years of hard work and imagination, is to combine photographic honesty with abstract art. This may sound impossible, but I assure you it’s not. It may impossible for you; it’s not impossible for me.
You see, it’s all in the eyes. Eyes don’t lie. Noses and cheekbones and hairlines can mislead an artist about a person’s true character, but not the eyes. Many a lovely woman or distinguished man, blessed with high cheekbones and fine facial planes, is an interior bitch or bastard. But if he or she has great eyes, I know that person is worthy of my best work.
Therefore, I paint the eyes with obsessive honesty, and the rest of the face with abstract imagination.
I cleared a million dollars last year, after taxes.
Model: I am Rona Martin. I was, like, real happy, when my husband, Len, hired that stud muffin, Reginald MacDonald, to paint my portrait six months ago.
After all, I am the perfect model, being twenty-five years old and beautiful. Now don’t be shocked. I have always believed modesty is a form of lying. (Not that I haven’t been known to throw a lie or two around.)
I’m married to an older guy who is a banker. He is so rich that he can afford to hire expensive portrait painters.
I know Len didn’t marry me for my brains or sterling character; I guess it’s no secret that sixty-year old men are suckers for young blonde women who know how to flatter them. But I didn’t break up his marriage. It was over by the time I met him in California, where I was like, you know, a cocktail waitress and he was attending a convention.
Maybe I’m not madly in love with him. So sue me.
Husband: I am Len Martin, and I love my wife. That’s my present wife, Rona. My first wife, Buffy, divorced me three years ago due to an unfortunate incident that has nothing to do with this story. She was pretty enough, but felt entitled to everything she wanted, including me. She had no appreciation at all. Used to criticize me, day and night. Drove me nuts.
But Rona never criticizes or complains. And she doesn’t mind my gun collection, either.
Buffy bitched about having all those guns around all the time. See what I mean?
Story:
Newspaper Headline and Article:
LOCAL MAN SHOOTS PAINTING
One of Malden’s most influential citizens, banker Leonard Martin, was arrested last night while attending the opening of a new exhibit at ArtSmart, the prestigious art gallery on Smith Street. Mr. Martin was formally charged by the police with the willful destruction of property, valued at over twenty thousand dollars.
This morning, Mr. Martin was released on bail and is now at home awaiting further developments in the case. “I have no comment,” he told this reporter.
According to his lawyer, Samuel Adams, Mr. Martin will not issue a statement until the case is resolved.
Our art and film critic, Jane Rawlings, attended last night’s opening, and hoped to meet Mr. MacDonald in person. For this reason, she arrived early and intended to stay until closing.
According to Ms. Rawlings, Mr. and Mrs. Martin entered the gallery about 8:00 PM, and immediately sought out the artist. Then the couple, accompanied by MacDonald, went to view the centerpiece of the exhibit, a portrait of Mrs. Martin commissioned by Martin six months ago. It was the couple’s first glimpse of the painting, since the artist refuses to allow his models to see their portraits before opening night
Ms. Rawlings trailed them to the portrait. She noticed that Mr. Martin quickly became agitated upon studying the painting.
According to her, “The old guy turned as red as a whole can of beets!”
He then proceeded to threaten Mr. MacDonald with a raised fist, screaming, “How could you do this to my beautiful Rona?”
MacDonald, she said, simply looked perplexed.
Mr. Martin grabbed his wife’s arm and stalked out of the building. The gallery proprietor, Jack Hawkins, addressed the crowd, “I think Mr. Martin isn’t feeling well,” he said, “So let’s all go back to enjoying the evening.”
Ms. Rawlings then carefully observed the painting. She said, “You know, I am the president of the local Film Society. One of my favorite old movies is `Laura’. And the best way I can describe the painting of Ms. Rawlings is to say it’s an anti-Laura.”
This reporter is also a film buff and I knew immediately that she was referring to the old movie with Gene Tierney, in which a magnificent and life-like portrait of the main character is the central theme.
I asked Ms. Rawlings for more detail.
“Well, when you first look at the portrait of Mrs. Martin, you see a beautiful woman in a blue gown. Then, you realize one side of her face is out of whack with the other, you know? And her eyes were off kilter, too. And instead of pupils in her eyes, she had little dollar signs. It was unreal, but a fine portrait.”
In about a half an hour, Ms. Rawlings said, Mr. Martin returned to the gallery without his wife, but with a shotgun. Men and women scattered in every direction, and even dived under the wine and cheese table. Martin marched right up to his wife’s portrait, raised the shotgun and fired it. He shot the portrait right between the eyes.
According to Ms. Rawlings, “ The noise nearly blew my ears out. And the residue of gunpowder permeated the entire gallery, people started to gag. Then the security guards took the gun away from him, and he didn’t resist at all. Someone called the police and they took him away. He was as docile as a baby. It was one exciting evening.”
It is rumored that MacDonald has taken a trip to London, and will be gone for some two or three months, and is therefore not available for comment.

The July Winner - Family Dates by AJ

I met your father in front of the Coliseum in Rome. No. That’s not right. It was the Eiffel Tower, or maybe Big Ben. Oh, what’s the difference? Anyway. It was love at first sight. All it took was a single glance between us. We realized we were meant for each other. The rest is history.
Of course you can’t tell by looking at us now, but we made such a handsome couple. Both of us barely out of our teens, your father still had a full head of hair, mine was long and blond, silky as cat fur, only wavy. No, not curly. That happened later, much later, when it turned gray as well.
He was a lieutenant, in the Marines. Attached to the embassy. I worked in the foreign office. After our first chance meeting, we were forever running into each other at the various functions I was made to attend. Kismet, I say. That’s a Turkish word that means fate drew us together.
In no time we began spending every free minute together. Your father asked me to marry him within weeks. He couldn’t wait to go state-side. That’s why we had the civil ceremony. The consul married us in an intimate ceremony with just our closest friends, because we planned to throw a huge bash once we made it over. Somehow that never happened. Too busy making a home for ourselves I guess. Anyway. We were so in love, we forgot all about the celebration until the time for it had passed, and you girls were old enough that it just didn’t seem right anymore.
It’s one of the few regrets I have now. That and the dreadful mistakes they made with the dates on the marriage license. Back in those days they didn’t have computers of course. But, imagine, six whole years!
*** It’s such a romantic story, isn’t it? Mom, Dad, in Cannes, on a hot summer’s day. I wonder if they went to the film festival. They must have, don’t you think? I mean, from the pictures they both look so glamorous. Dad in his uniform standing tall, Mom in that flowered print sitting with her back turned glancing coyly, at the camera as though she’d been caught off guard and hadn’t wanted to be photographed. You know what a ham she is, and how proud of her looks she’s always been. Its’ almost as though she wanted us to think she had something to hide!
Aunt Sally told me they kept their own council until long after you were born. Mom’s English wasn’t very good – that is hard to imagine, isn’t it? Makes you wonder what sort of job she held that didn’t require her to be fluent. Liaison, most likely. In those days women weren’t expected to hold responsible positions. Just to look good and act pleasant was enough to get by on. Okay. So maybe she had to flirt a little. But show me a woman who says she hasn’t used her wiles to get what she wanted, and I’ll give you three-to-one odds she’s not much to look at. If you ask me, I’d rather be – like Mom – a woman who has the choice of using them or not. I mean, wouldn’t you rather be a pretty face, with a brain to make it pay, than an ugly one who has to scheme to gain access to even the most basic pleasures in life?
The dates? Oh I don’t know why you keep bringing them up. If she’s told us once, she’s told us a hundred times. The clerk at the registrar’s office mistook a six for a zero. I’m ample proof of that, aren’t I? You don’t think they’d have transcribed two dates wrong, now do you? You know what I think? I think they’re keeping something from us. I think the reason the early part of their marriage is such a mystery is because of Dad. I’m almost certain they had to marry in haste, secretly, because of him. Don’t tell him I said so, but my theory is that Mom and Dad weren’t in the same place at the same time by accident. I think Dad was there specifically to keep an eye on her, because Dad – get this – was a spy! What do you think of that?!
*** Years ago, when Mom was still alive, and my sister and I did more than just exchange Christmas cards, I used to have this urge to blow the whole thing open, cut through the lies and legends that kept us all in chains, the truth festering like so many boils beneath everyone’s very thin skin, threatening to erupt at every tricky turn.
I dreamed of taking my sister by the shoulders and shaking some sense into her, of putting all the cards – the family records – on the table, so to speak, and getting my mother to show her hand, no trumps, no joker, no hidden aces up her sleeve that suddenly appear as if by magic to even out the deal.
As far back as my mind will go, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t wonder how little, if any, of what my mother said was based on fact. For one thing, the story was different every time she told it. And it wasn’t just the dates on the marriage license either. I don’t know how she did it, but Mom managed to get hers and Dady’s date of birth changed. She must have put on a grand performance for that one, feminine wiles, sleight of hand and a little baksheesh too. Who knows. Maybe outright blackmail as well. I wouldn’t put it past her. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Behind her agreeable, accommodating and demure façade, our mother was one heck of a determined female for whom the end always justified the means.
Here’s the gist of it, as far as I can tell: Just after the war, Mom and Dad met over in Europe. He’d just been demobilized, was just touring the countryside when he came upon my mother on her parents’ farm. Maybe they fell in love, maybe not. Maybe they just jumped in the sack on a whim and they both had to live with the consequences. That would have been me. Mom got pregnant and decided to keep the baby. Me. Not for ethical, moral reasons. As currency, a foreign exchange. I’ll say at least that for my father. When he found out – after she got pregnant, but before they married – that she’d already had a child by another man, he didn’t run for the hills. He kept his word and brought her over. He stayed with her long enough for her to get a permanent green card. He made a down-payment on our house, waited for me to start school and my mother to finish. I’m not a hundred percent certain about the dates, but I think Mom was already working at the insurance company where she met my step-father. Some time around then, Dad vanished, disappeared into the sunset, and we haven’t heard from him since. My mother had to fight tooth and nail to get the papers straightened out in order to marry again. I can’t really say I blame her. For all I know he walked off a cliff when he left us. Figuratively speaking of course. Dad wasn’t known for his bravery.
***
Harold P. Elmo, 96, A Man of Many Lives, Is Dead
By Fiona J. Purt Published: July 12, 2006 in the NYT
Correction Appended
Harold P. Elmo, a little-known self-inventor, died in Davis, Calif., on June 30. He was 86.
The cause was complications of a hip fracture, according to the University of California, Davis, but his present wife claims he died of a ruptured conscience.
Dr. Olmo served on the Davis board of the C.I.A. (the California Institute of Aeronautics) from 1961, contributing vastly to its development and rising to become its C.E.O, a position he held until his retirement in 1987, at which time he was already a very wealthy man. He continued to hold an informal role there until shortly before his death.
He first came to California in 1956 claiming he had amnesia and exhibiting signs of severe confusion. At times he appeared certain that in the place he left behind, a family awaited him. At others he swore he’d been a loner and a drifter all his life.
He married Vivian Elmo, the nurse at the hospital where he was taken in, and whose name he subsequently assumed legally. He was kind to animals and children, though he and Mrs Elmo had none of their own.
On his death bed he finally revealed the details about his past, naming a previous wife he’d never formally divorced, and one or perhaps two daughters; the details were still unclear at the writing of this notice, though a discrepancy in the dates of their births seemed to indicate that the older of the two may not have been his biological offspring.
Mrs Elmo declared her wish to share the estate of her husband with his children from the previous marriage, the mother of whom had long since passed away.
Correction: July 13, 2006
An obituary yesterday about Harold Elmo, a former C.IA. C.E.O., misstated his age. He may really have been 92 years old, or so the records held by his first family attest.

July Flasher - Posted by Jack

Create an incident with at least three characters is it. It can be with or without dialogue tell the story from the POV of three different characters involved. Extra points for conflicting facts and characters in denial. Now tell the real story of what actually happened from a third person (narrator) POV. WC of each POV 500-1000 words.