gtag.js

Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Haunted House







Hiking we found this haunted house. It is out in the woods. The property never had running water or electricity. The wife left thousands of personal items some years ago after the murders. They wait like artifacts praying for salvation. She left a note about some bear-ring-man who took her husband. The letter did not make a great deal of sense, but it mentions three times: do not sit in the swing,.
Notice the swing, it rocks and spins without anyone sitting in it. Do you think he was watching?

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Alone Into The City

City Flowering Tree Los Angeles 3/2012 copyright Caroline Gerardo



“Then he turned his back the way he had come, walking out of step with the others, and headed alone into the city.” Alec Nevala-Lee  The Icon Thief

 Alone After The Radiation

Daniel’s kick step carries him west, on 6th Street. His feet are bulky and elephant-like. In his grey dome, he marches without fear of ravens, coyotes and badgers. Instinct pulls him left on Bonnie Brae up towards the smoke. Another turtle with a XV3 tattoo painted on his shell scurries down on the steaming pavement. The round figure circles down the hill, away from Daniel.
“Got no problem with you vato-” The teen’s stumpy leg acts as a screen. The sounds of his feet rumble away. The echo makes a thick feeling in Daniel’s core.
Lowering his head into his shell, Daniel says nothing. He avoids being spotted by Lil Cycos lookouts on the top of the remains of The California Hotel. The 18th Street gang has taken over downtown and the westside Los Angeles. The Colombian 18th Street gang did not burn the hotel to the ground.


Daniel looks like a grey butternut squash lumbering up the grade. With his columnar legs, the enemy does not recognize Daniel as stranger, or homie. Daniel blends with the pavement as if invisible. He is nothing to them. Although it is a month after the first nuclear reactor blew, it is unsafe to be outside for long.
Daniel cannot let go the burning emotion of what occurred in his basement an hour ago. Laura’s blood saturated the beige carpet. The police will never arrive with a black zip up bag.


Gazing ahead, Daniel notices a flowering crab apple has dropped blushing petals on the concrete. He tastes one, testing if it is Indian Magic, Daniel's favorite type of blooming tree. The blossom is bitter and not edible. It is some other hybrid. He spits out the bud on the pavement, and the fuchsia tissue floats in his saliva. There on the pavement the fuchsia tissue of the flower floats in his saliva. It reminds Daniel of his mission.
Laura, my soul mate, is gone from the earth, murdered by the enemy.” Daniel shakes his head.
Laura and Daniel's original home was two miles away from the radiation spill. After the explosion there was rioting. They had to get away. Together the couple hiked fifty miles away from the San Onofre Coast to find a safer place to live. Daniel felt confident they could hide safely underground for a year if needed. Daniel had not counted on the enemy invading the darkness while he searched for water.
The Gila Monsta gang blocked off most of Pico Union by April 1st. Other gangs ruled the city. Then next the Fire Department refused to enter. By April 9th, the best the police could do was to load human bodies into the makeshift morgue. A wine storage building in Glendale served to hold the dead. By April 11th, the fatality rate was ninety five percent of the population.
Laura is gone from this earth.”  The only solution Daniel can muster is to battle with the perpetrators.
Daniel witnessed the two enemy ravens escape the crime scene. They left Laura's body bleeding on the floor in his home.

One perpetrator has an extended forehead, as if he abused steroids. This bad guy has a scar running from his left cheek two inches long. The dark skin exposes a pink keloid. The guy has prison-style jagged stitches running drawn in black and blue ink with the words “RIP Sucker” on his shoulder. The other dude Daniel knows as Smiley, a local pusher. Smiley runs some teens out of what once was a donut shop on Bonnie Brae. Smiley’s a little guy with a huge beak for a nose.
The front gate of Smiley’s place is metal-plated,  his nest is topped with barbed wire. Make shift concrete pylons, stolen from the freeway, are bolted to the sidewalk to provide cover. Plastic bottles of drain cleaner, hydrogen peroxide, and muriatic acid litter the curbside. The garbage is tossed out of the windows of Smiley's hideout.
“Hey man need some chunky?” A voice shouts from a vine-covered window.
Daniel does not look up. He steps with more confidence. Then he crosses the street towards the door. Crows are in the parking lot poking at Coke bottles. The soda bottles hold gasoline that was syphoned out of cars. Daniel does not even shrug at them. They nod him towards the door assuming he’s a buyer.
“Some stupid gopher tortoise,” the boys caw.
“What you think ya are Ninja Turtle?” They taunt Daniel, "Haw caw caw."
In normal times, the crows would be darting to passing cars. Today few vehicles can make it through the rubble.
Before Daniel knocks, the door swings wide, and a black figure speaking pidgin Spanish backs out. A sweet smell of lime and ammonia follows the raven. It is Smiley. Before Smiley can turn, Daniel wraps Smiley into a choke-hold with a metal shackle.
“Where’s your friend with the RIP scar?” Daniel insists from behind Smiley.
“What ‘ca mean?”
“Where is the RIP guy? You two broke into the basement of my loft on Venice Blvd.”
“You ‘betta let me go, there’s explosives.” Smiley says.


"You murdered my girl."
Daniel pushes Smiley forward. Smiley can barely speak with the chain tight on his throat.
“Last time or I gouge ya.” Daniel shows Smiley the horns on the breast of his shell.
“Second floor, right-”
Smiley's beak trembles. Daniel moves quickly. They struggle climbing the stairway. The slats no longer have a coat of paint. The lack of coating keeps the wood from creaking a warning.
“Open the door.” Daniel orders Smiley firmly.
“I can’t just – they’ll attack without the special knock.”
“Just open it.”
Daniel jerks it open after Smiley turns the knob. A raven is heating chemicals over a Bunson burner welded to carbon steel rods. The black figure reaches for a rifle. RIP raven points the gun but Smiley’s body is in front of Daniel. Daniel in his armor, looks into  RIP's bulging eyes. He throws Smiley towards the RIP, knocking RIP on his back. In one splat, RIP is impaled upon the welding acetylene torch and rebar.
“Crazy reptile, it’ll blow-” Smiley blurts.
Daniel pushes Smiley out the door. Smiley falls pulling a switchblade from the cuff of his feathers. Smiley lunges forward to slash Daniel. Daniel coils inward with a hiss sound. Then Daniel rams Smiley with his violent horns. The blow is not placed well enough to kill Smiley immediately. It only disables Smiley. Daniel scurries away, down the hallway.
“Stop dat guy-” Smiley coughs.
Daniel smashes through the window glass. Shards of iridescence spill towards the dumpster below. Daniel thuds upon the tin. Then he slides down the back alley. A hot ball of fire shoots out at Daniel, narrowly missing him as he lands on the awning, sliding to safety; just as his feet touch the ground, the entire second floor explodes. Daniel walks out alone into the city.


"Gone."


 
Daniel Survives the Apocalypse


Notes:
I tried something out of my norm. Instead of writing a genre story, a thriller as Alec Nevala-Lee's wonderful recent release, I used animals as the characters without revealing this to the reader upfront.  The photograph of the gopher tortoise is a pet turtle that I received from a rescue agency twenty eight years ago. His name is Soup. He was run over by a car (hit and run 29 years ago). An apocalyptic turtle you ask?

Turtles can live for a year without water. They burrow underground for at least half the year and can survive 140 degree temperatures. Their enemies are: ravens, badgers, gila monsters, coyotes and humans. 
Even though they look ancient and strange they are very social and friendly. Soup sleeps with our dogs.
I was thinking that San Onofre's recent leak and how this relates to my life and time. Not certain I trust the power company to tell us how much radiation escaped... Soup will out live me.

References to the 18th Street Gang are fictional the radiation leak is real.

Link to information about San Onofre's leak


For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, daily shorts challenged me with "The following is the last sentence of The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee. Write a story that begins with this sentence. 'Then he turned back the way he had come, walking out of step with the others, and headed alone into the city.'" and I challenged Sherree with "The Sheriff is at your door to take away your Golden Retriever."

Saturday, January 28, 2012

White Not Blue

"White Not Blue"
for iiChallenge 1/28/2012 written in 40 minutes


June moved to California with Albert, her husband, to chase after another job.

“This one in the aircraft plant-”

“Do we have to go?”

“This gig is better than house painting, leak detection or pest control.”

June spends the ten grand from Pappa’s estate to invest in the dream in California.

“It seems like a good idea at the time.”

Between the morning job as a crossing guard and the night work at the nursing home, June has time to make meals for the children because Albert is gone. Albert went off on a new wanderlust.

June works at Aging Fountains home in Huntington Beach. When she applied for the position, she lied (just a little white one) marking that she had a Certified Nurse Assistant degree when in fact she had not taken any classes. June knows how to push an I.V., administer diabetes tests and check blood pressure. Skills she acquired caring for her father back in Crystal Springs. She misses the lazy evenings on the porch before Pappa died.

It is almost Christmas. California does not offer a season change; there is no blanket of snow. The lights in the lobby of the nursing home are the only sign of the season. Pine trees decorate the front of the apartment complex next to Aging Fountains. June takes it upon herself to cut stacks of the sappy needles to decorate the bare rooms at the nursing home. June parks her Chevy with the branches and the left over boxes of handmade tree ornaments from Mississippi near the service entrance of the building. The confier resin odors swell in the rear entry, blocking that of urine.

The last room in the hall is occupied by what looks to be a shriveled bobolink. In the electric hospital bed rests a lined buff body, dangling grey legs and piercing blue eyes.

They tell June, “John O’Grady in that room never speaks.”

“But he sits up?”

“That bird’s been in some kind of coma since 1977.”

“Can a person live that long in bed?”

“It’s the strangest thing. He can eat when spoon fed.”

“Anyone visit Mr. O’Grady?”

“Never, just gets a monthly check from John O’Grady signed by himself on the back  for $5000.”

“What does the home do with the money?”

“They sign it over and pay for his rent, and keep the rest in the slush fund.”

In her calico scrubs with the garnet rhinestone pin June turns the television on in John’s room to a station playing, “I’ll Have a Blue Christmas,” sung by Elvis Presley. June hums as she tapes the branches on John's bulletin board. She push pins some on the windowsill. Then June allocates ornaments from the box choosing the crystal angel to place in the center. Her back is to Mr. O’Grady as she looks up at the North Star to hide the tears in her eyes. June thinks of family back home.

Mr. O’Grady starts to sing, “And when that blue heartache starts hurtin'. You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white, But I'll have a blue, blue Christmas.”

“Mr. Presley is that really you?” June says startled.

The man with the cornflower eyes is silent. June tucks bleached covers around him kissing his forehead goodnight.


***


“I'd rather go on hearing your lies, than to go on living without you.”

Elvis Presley

Prompt from

http://www.runningforautism.com/

Tell a story that Ellis is in fact not dead from Kristen Doyle

Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, KristenDoyle challenged me with "Tell a story that Elvis is in fact not dead" and I challenged ChaosMandywith "Tell me about caring for your mother who had a stroke".



Notes:

Bobolinks are a native Mississippi lark like bird that eats insects and grains and has a long undulating flight.

The use of John O'Grady's name is fictional use and no reference to any real person.

Copyrights 2012 caroline gerardo for all short story and photographs reserved



I incorporated a bit of my own prompt to make it harder. I also used the prompt idea I gave to Chaos Mandy about caring for someone with a stroke. I haven't been a part of your group as much as I enjoy, busy finishing my next book. Please tell me what you think.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Wash Your Ramen


Outside the House of Noodles (Photograph Title)


“Why don’t you wash your Ramen?” Mei asks.


“Package doesn’t say to-” Helen pushes sandy bangs from her indigo eyes. Orange cellophane crackles her right leg glides slimmer than the left, “vermin factories motivate cleaning?”

“Grandmother claims noodles are wax covered.”

Steam rises smelling of auburn kelp.

“Hospital gowns carry pathogens,” Helen says.

“Did your homework?” Occupational Therapist is on the pocket of Mei’s uniform.

“Yes, Newport Coast past his old house rather than driving long way around.”

“How’d feel?”

“Dull ache, 366 days since the floozy.”

“Release from lies?”

“Yes, not confined inside, I’m kayaking again to spot fulmars.”

***
Abandoned (photograph title)

My response to Justin's video is not a literal translation. See my video below and links to Justin's acoustic version.

This is a work of fiction.
fulmars refers to Fulmar Gulls :http://www.tsuru-bird.net/gulls2/ 
Top Ramen does not suggest washing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62i9Sodwp5o
Bon Iver
FLUME
written by Justin DeYarmond Edison Vernon

For Caroline Smailes fiction anthology: 100 words flash fiction responding to a utube video of a favorite song
for One in Four Charity
http://www.oneinfour.org.uk/

all rights to my words, photographs and video are reserved copyright © Caroline Gerardo 2012


 


Abandoned       (photograph title)

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Shadow's Murder at Connyland





Shadow’s
Murder
at Connyland



Rain on crystals of the chandelier.

The shards slip on my woolly sweater.

Oatmeal raisin as the smell of wet sheep.

Humans sell birdbaths with heaters.

Swiss partiers murdered Shadow,

by driving nails in her inner ear

pounded by careless lovers,

look away when striking,

ignore their emails.

Salt water freezes

at negative twenty-one.

A stranger carried my box of books

to the finish line for free with ice breath smile.

While you shrug off the shame of snowflakes so they won’t stain.

Can a dolphin thaw from the terror of methanphetamine in the tank?


Copyright © Caroline Gerardo 11/29/2011








Sunday, November 27, 2011

Turmeric Birthday Cake




Aspen Womb
Joy grows inside me.

20 years of Mom choices.

The back of the earrings lost.

The clapper located your keys.

Now I map my way.

Write your own plan well.

Unlimited by constraints of time,

the sieve between life and death.

The moment when golden light hits

Tuscan monstrosity across the canyon.

Don’t look that way-

Reach past the aspen grove dancing.

Fly upon that last single leaf towards ocean,

where slivers of seaweed touch shoulders as

swimming towards turmeric islands.


 I’ll pull if you need help.

On this birthday fly and touch the sun.

Copyright
©
 Caroline Gerardo all rights reserved for photographs, video, flash poetry and sound
For my daughter Blair's birthday 11/26/2011
©http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0064FOCZOCopyright All rights reserved Caroline Gerardo 11/26/2011

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Sean Quinn’s Gravestone Curse


utah2 005
Sean Quinn lost a fortune to fairies.
Ballyconnell is the same as America.
Dead frozen between bankruptcy or cliff edge
with a windsock for wings.
Dangles pumped air with no hands from a generator.
Dancing, deflated, with 15000 quid remaining.
Detergent under fingernails sticks to ideas.

Why fly on dandelion seed puffs?
When I am in motion I am fearless.
Damn now I don’t have the cash for children’s toys.
Do Lacrosse sticks cost $900, may as well be a divining rods,
Driving to magic places where water, oil and diamonds spring,
without using children’s arms as guinea pigs for mining.

Friday, October 28, 2011

Klout Poem


Klout weight down from 57.

Flabby Algorithm without Structure


We start with an initial state of empty.

A love affair needs to be elegant.

The dance for a girl is gamesome, watch your weigh.

Turning Complete System, input the information.

One partner builds from specs of dust here and there.

Some sparkle and vibrate beyond the sense of sight.

Others settle for crumbs.

Am I a coat in the closet?
A counterweight to you?

The sequence of operations spits out a magical score,

then suddenly everything about the other is devalued.

Between a hawk and a buzzard in twilight,

computed past that held back some secret in the iron ore.

Another wasp in the coreopsis, confused by the brilliant yellow mud.

Instead of eating the dirt Klout dusts her wings on the flowers.

The bees laugh at the silly creature.

The hummingbirds will kill a weak enemy

who repeats the same mistakes

No this time I won’t get crosslegged and

fluttered by drama of love’s wounding chest.
I don't care much about my score.
caroline gerardo
© copyright for photograph and poetry
all rights reserved we prosecute





Monday, October 17, 2011

You Can Do Anything


Photograph of my son Carson flying a plane.

October 2011 Carson is fifteen years old

You can do anything.

You can make anything.

Give children the gift of dreaming.

Boost their creative ideas.

Encourage making mistakes within boundaries.

Show them the value of daily hard work without preaching.

You can do anything.


Copyright Caroline Gerardo






Friday, October 14, 2011

Sparrow Sings for Michael Jackson


House Bird for Michael
All the jumbled stories about his life aside,
 remember this sleep never ends

The story, the Doctor,
made me think of you, not a bad song.

It is a nasal sparrow tsip whispering in the brush.

A ghost lives in the canyon.

I tried to capture his song
but like Michael it
is threading a recording
through a telescope.

You might not care about
the sparrows facing extinction,
but it makes us sorrowful as
mist creeping over a protective glass.

It is coming soon.

I protect the nest.

It is only a house sparrow you think.

We miss the songs

I Want You Back,
 Never Can Say Goodbye,
And I’ll be There

A sparrow can understand

Twit twack calls,

Or a human if they care
Caroline Gerardo Copyright 2011





Thursday, October 13, 2011

Butterfly for a Dark Day






Put this in your underwear drawer.

Fold it up and make copy hidden with your tax return

next year and the year after place it in the prior year’s

to be read again.

For when you have a dark day.

This earth is a marvel.

Wake early before the sun trembles upon the horizon with hope.

You never know what she might drag with her.

It could be weather that blows from the north.

Count on her sense of humor to catch you.

Monarch butterflies come and munch upon the passiflora,

you recall the coral passion vines that grow rampant upon the tree fort.

The fruit is sweetest when slightly shriveled

on the days when the sun showed no kindness

she beat you with poverty, loss of love and cancer.

That wasn’t my worst day,

terrifying thought that you might give up hope, is fear.

Always tomorrow the tin man gets a heart,

you win publishers clearing house and they find a cure.

For today something miniscule

one butterfly lands near your core.

Say you are loved you have known great love you will have it again.

Open your hands when it comes,

risk everything not to pick off the magic on the wings.

My heart will be clapping saying Bravo.

Caroline Gerardo copyright © 2011




Monday, October 10, 2011

Ocean Inspiration Poem


Ocean Inspiration Poem

You

I know you my sons.

You can be anything.

You are able to fix everything but death.

All you need is a roadmap and hands.

Your fingers are strong, toss the Rubbermaid lid opener,

feel the struggle with my lungs when the waves overcome,

turn on the gas when you are tired,  find the kick,

Only mac n cheese the electricity is shut off.

You require a plan.

Two feet walk across the ocean.

Follow the sunset west, or the pelicans if you must.

"Get up," I say "Don’t die on me Mom."

"God I hate a quitter."

You can be anything.



copyright ©10/10/2011 Caroline Gerardo


 




Saturday, October 8, 2011

Thanksgiving Mourning Wing Sounds Poem




It is Thanksgiving in Canada,
there is an opposite season in the world.

October sunflowers return on the hillside in random rows.

Seedlings from my colossal variegated propped up blooms.

A cherry tomato gone wild is more elegant than Monsanto’s.

I was honest last Thanksgiving,
but he holds his own version story.

How long will the healing process take?

How should I know?

My life has an egg timer, there are three mouths to feed.

After years of caring, the heart does not want
 to let loose the guide rope so easy.

A hot air balloon unattached to the basket
mid-air mid-life wanting to stay connected.
Missing the sound of the girlies wings.

Pruning of my hybrid teas does not change
ramblings of climbers & stray hummingbirds.
I am happy in my soul.

I stopped filling the feeders,
 I gave up the trail with old haunts,
until my fingers bleed at the cuticles,
but still that sprout gets into my dreams.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

CM Punk Poem


CM PUNK

SXE

WWE stands for:

Warrior who wakes every day.

Get back up lift the weight of the world

Give the jumping hammerlock not paper flower excuses

folded over in accordion tissue by some pink couture
taffy singing a siren song.

Get back up, lift the weight of the world.

Sisyphus unafraid of the locker room’s smell,

dripping with joint pain he doesn’t take crap pills,

runs his hill straightedge full speed.

Face crowds who cheer for blood.

Easy when the money rolls in

 the body springboards off a clothesline.

Sail off the platform into burning stars,

a brown spider web, a foxhole,
a day in and day night grind.

Jump back the world needs a hero.





Sunday, September 25, 2011

Owl Morning Wish

Baby Owl Who Fell From Nest Rescued
Caroline Gerardo

 Black fog night,

Snug morning.

Our screech owl returns every end of September.

Walk barefoot pick up the teepee toilet paper,

he laughs with me,
about the muddy rye grass
between my toes.

Dinner at Mayur,
was that last night
or just yesterday?

I didn’t speak this time about locations
and smells that remind me of you.

Things bring me center into a happy past are ephemeral.

They return like the Scops Otus habit of sitting on my gazebo.

I wish I could put him in a cage and stroke his wings gently.

The tiny ring box you gave me with metal feet.

I’de open the lid when I need courage and hear the call.

Do owls eat turmeric at sunrise?






Dandelion Wishes

Sunrise
Note: Owl in photograph is baby found lost from his mother who was killed. With a broken wing and weak spirit my daughter brought him to a specialized vet who was able to repair the wing and rehydrate him. He needed special care every three hours. My daughter got up and fed him as a dutiful mommy. He was released months later and returns every Fall. He is not domesticated, he hunts and really does sit on the gazebo looking for mice and bunnies.
please check here for owl calls: http://www.owlpages.com/sounds/bubo-bulo-5.mp3/

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Thorny Terrorist Poem





Thorn Terrorist Poem
© copyright 2011
Caroline Gerardo



School project essay on 9-11:


My new father,

asks trust to move 3000 miles.

assures us of confidence,

and melts waxy covers.

My own father’s failings

are Grand Tetons of brutal betrayal in icy falls.

The last year trick or treat -

seventh grade, awkward in my cavernous skin.

Homemade costume Where the Wild Things.

My tail is real mink.

I rush mom for dinner, pillowcase and party.

She smiles.

Man impatient with her as well.

Only wanting my happiness mom let you fend,

-ten minutes, be right back, –your cruelty about her driving,

jealous your mom never carved pumpkins ghosts with thorns for hair.

You bark prickly again at her, she hits your BMW in the driveway,

no insurance, she writes a check for $9800,
money she didn’t have, 
50 year old cocktail waitress.

More bad advice from a terrorist.

The kitchen table with filament from above, glows on your words,

“family fidelity and your commitment to lead us,"– into hell.

Baby brother, no half’s, has your spacing in his shitty green eyes.

Will he go live in a bedouin tent and betray us?

Mom says not to talk to ourselves about past worries.

“Release superficial complaints speak to your heart held in gentle hands.”

I talk to myself in spiritual endeavor,

won't do any good to kill the man terrorist tonight.


copyright © Caroline Gerardo September 11 2011

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Time Machine, #IIChallenge - Northern Ireland

Ballyholme Short Story, Time Machine Caroline Gerardo






The do-over spirit arrives in Natalie’s room under a waxing gibbous moon.

“I’m sending you back to a moment in time where you may correct any error,” the ghost says.

Natalie is unable to move her limbs, terror climbs from her toes to her chest, but the pain does not waken her. She cannot roll over and pull the covers over her head.

“Go away, I’m not buying any magazines, ghost.”

The apparition is not lovely, her knotty pine hands touch the smile lines on Natalie’s cheek.

“I’m taking you back to points in your life,  twice you may change the tide of events, a time machine-”

“What do you think this is, a Christmas Carol?” Natalie says.

“No, trust me,” the phantom says.

“I’ve heard that line before, it never leads to good fortune-”

“It is 1980 and you are in Ballyholme, Ashley Gardens. Open your eyes Natalie back in time.”

“Oh, I know the stone façade of the flat- if I could shake myself awake, or put my feet on the floor,” Natalie says.

“Natalie you were in love, Robby does not know you were MI5.”


**

Back in the apartment, a slouching bed rests in the guest bedroom, like a rock swallowed by the sea. Fireplace ashes need clearing, the penetrating smell of soot consumes the confines. In the kitchen, a fit woman cranks the gas meter with twenty-five pence coins. This pays for the stove and hot water. She opens the window to allow the smell of salt air fill her heart. Robby is in the living room with his guitar. His brother Shaun and Michael Connelly (a rough and tumble punk with piercings and tattoos on his upper body) are speaking with sullen tones. Robby is six foot and lean, not as robust as his brother Shaun, the three of them make up the band Moondogs.

“He was such a fool to listen to his older brother, they should have stuck to punk music not politics, damn god and Ulster.”

“So - change what happened-” the spirit says.

They sent me there with instructions to infiltrate the Blacknecks. I was doing my job as military intelligence,” Natalie answers.

“Didn’t they tell you not to fall in love?”

“Yeah, but they also knew I was incapable of not caring, that and my abilities made me great.”

“Seems like you should’ve known with your code name-” the spirit stops.

“Cumaean,” Natalie sighs remembering the taste of chili-mac dinner that stormy night. “We were poor and the boys thought it exotic compared to potatoes.”

“You have the chance to run, to back away, change what happened-” the spirit offers Natalie an out.

“No. I locked away my abilities with my past. I still analyze; but I never write down dreams. Going back doesn’t change who I am," Natalie says.

“This was your first kill?”

“They planned to bomb Belfast Central Rail Station. The VBIED (Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device) was already in the trunk. I slashed the tires to stop them, figuring they couldn’t substitute another car in time. I called the car location in. Then they borrowed a van, I had to stop them.”

“Don’t shoot three boys, change the altercation-” the spirit taunts.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I lost a love for Queen and Country, but I saved many others. Take me away from the smell of the ocean it makes me regret and feel shame,.” Natalie says.

“Then I direct you Natalie to a time you recall well, it is recent history. Again choose to change the course of events, perhaps better your life.”

Natalie says, “I don’t want to play this game. I have regrets but I’ve made my road.”

“About a year ago, you were betrayed by your fiancé, and made a choice that perhaps was unwise.”

“I don’t regret the geriatric pregnancy. I'm not taking anything back,” Natalie says.

“The Doctors warned you, elevated blood pressure might kill you or cause a stroke.”

“One life is not better or more worthy than my life.”

“Your other children what will they do as orphans? Will Catholic guilt help?”

“I believe in love, and giving unconditional love,” Natalie says.

“But-” the spirit plays devil's advocate.

“No there is no but, point out all the people who have hurt me, those who lied, cheated me and my children. It doesn’t matter, I choose to love, to forgive, every day of my life.”

The ghost grows more white and translucent. Her voice is higher in tone as a child’s, “Natalie you have chosen to stay on this earth.”



**

The doctor removes the disposable gel foam pads and applies gummy candy to the paddle, “hit her again, the foam on the pads are not making a good connection.”

The Defibrillation depolarizes a critical mass of Natalie's heart muscle. The sound of the force punches the delivery room. Her body bounces, the arrhythmia stops, and normal sinus rhythm returns oxygen to Natalie’s cells.

“Welcome back little mother.”

http://indieink.org/writing-challenges/

This was written for the Indie Ink Writing Challenge 9/11/2011 based on
Disease prompt to happen upon a time machine and go back and change something. I thought about the prompt last night, and given the opportunity, there is little I would change, except to grant myself more time.

copyright Caroline Gerardo

Character of Natalie I am developing to start another novel- in early stages noodling - getting to know her.
I would appreciate input about: female character who was a spy now middle aged. Can you like her or is she cold? This female protagonist may have flash backs to this past later in the story.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

SEO Poets

Lust
open the safety SEO poetry
Scapegoat Review published my flash fiction piece:
Entropy.
 The Fall issue is out today.


poem online here
http://scapegoatreview.com/fall-2011/caroline-gerardo.html
If you are one of the writers and poets included in this issue, I invite you to chat on twitter. I found two perhaps of the fellow creatives but a number are not using twitter. I hope you join me in a spirit of fun and experimentation. I see Jillian Mukavetz @blackglassmoon and Gregory Crosby @monostich and I am not certain Kiely Sweatt is @poetrybrotheles

Twitter is a medium that can be flash fiction at its finest. Tweet your best shorts. We will find something new. I am using the hashtag: #poetlines – ( credit to Al Boudreau ) this will help us find each other and invite others to join. Post your links to Scapegoat Review or other sites where your work or writing that you find is great.




caroline gerard
Poem Rose Caroline Gerardo
My name on the header is spelled Caroline Gerard, and those who know me realize my maiden name is Caroline Gerardo. I suffer from name confusion. I use my initials when spoken to ( C. G.) since I was a child. I was married to Barbeau and used the Barbeau name as C. G. Barbeau for eighteen or more years. I also have been misnamed Carolyn and Caroline Gerard. I used Gerard to sound less ethnic- a blonde girl with an ethnic name, I am no longer afraid. 
I'm calling this post Poets Search Engine Optimization ( SEO ) because it was so difficult to find the fifteen plus poets in this issue. Poets make a million on Twitter too?
Copyright © Caroline Gerardo 2011