Friday, September 7, 2007

Flasher Bio: Comrade Kevin

A native of Alabama, Comrade Kevin is a proud member of the southern writing loyal opposition. He refuses to write stories about nature, coon dogs, plantations, wide sloping foreheads, pickin' and grinnin', Mee Maw's Cheese Straws, wicker brooms, mint julips, good country people, and open-air thrift markets. He believes that Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner are severely overrated. His hobbies include guitar, thinking deeply, and making sarcastic wise cracks.

He can be found at

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Flasher Bio: Easywriter

Easywriter blogs and blogs some more over at Writer's Blog her place for practicing descriptive writing and creating character sketches.

***Management Note: If your piece is featured, please send us a bio that we can post (to If you want, we can post your web address, as well.***

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

~The Education of Rita Marrow by Ann Walters~~Not Today by Easywriter~

It began with a walk on the beach, a course in the identification of apathy.

Rita had certainly been to the beach before. Her parents took her there every summer between the ages of six and fourteen. As she’d grown, so had her interests, from seashells to surfing to the fine lines made by young men’s damp fingers on her warm skin. And later, after a dozen years inland, after too many midwestern winters and steak dinners laced with fat and potatoes, she came back to the beach again.

It was all about the exotic then, the homoerotic taste of her own salty lips, stiff nipples under wet cloth. The way sand clings to a woman’s bikini bottom like an unidentified secret. Eight months with Jordan in a two room apartment were enough to convince Rita that she did not need another woman in her life.

And there followed years away from the beach. Years when houses and cars seemed important. When there was a husband and kids, a career that was on, off, on. All the things that Rita might have been slipped past her as easily as waves erasing a castle in the sand until finally, in her fifty-third year, Rita returned to the beach.

This time, Rita didn’t notice the shells half-buried in the sand or the supple bodies that surrounded her. She didn’t think about the grandchildren or the mortgage that was nearly paid. This time Rita saw him for the first time.

He was sitting on a concrete bench, shoeless, dirty. He’d been there all along. His form changed over the years, but as long as there had been a beach, he’d been there. Rita looked at his face, his matted hair. She touched the money folded in her pocket. She saw how he held his head high. He was not dejected, just forgotten. Rita stepped forward and offered him her empty hand.


And from Easywriter....
He was not young but neither was he old. Lost: the sea found him, tried to make him hers, but he would not have it choosing instead to sit by her side and listen to her cajole and rage in turn. Some day he may go to her, but not today.

~Untitled 24 by Comrade Kevin~

I have to hand it to her. She has some of the most unimaginative stationary known to God. Then again, she was never known for her good taste. I've received thank you notes with a passable reproduction of Dogs Playing Poker across the front.

Her visits abroad always produced a cross-section of the tacky and the banal.

While some would have purchased art prints or massive coffee table books, she purchased post-it notes in the shape of impressionist paintings. One memorable Christmas, I received a talking tape dispenser.

***Interesting how the autumnal scene can be interpreted. Gender divide?***

~Noun by Rion~

Man. Look. Woman. Comment. Money. Shout. Man. Eyes. Woman. Tear. Man. Door. Woman. Room. Pillow.
Phone. Appointment. Note. Subway. Smell. Gum. Stop. Diagnosis. Time. Eyes. Breath. Breathe.
Man. Bar. Beer. Beer. TV. Bowl. Peanuts. Stool. Mug. Napkin. Tip. Bathroom. Urinal. Foot. Tap. Towel. Trash. Game. Stool. Nudge. Trip. Mug. Fight. Blood.
Woman. Kitchen. Tomato. Bread. Pan. Spaghetti. Burner. Ring. Drain. Hand. Breath. Beat. Burn. Tears. Ice. Breathe.
Doorway. Man. Woman. Whisper. Hand. Heart.
***Pure nepotism***

~Pipes by Ann Walters~

It is best not to know her name, the color of her eyes, her favorite season. The ratio of muscle to fat beneath her naked skin. She would never tell how many rats she’s drowned or why the only language her dog understands is Russian. A set of functioning pipes are worth more to her. Her uncle told her that snow is an illusion created by too much faith. It’s better to think she wants it to be this way, with broken floor tiles, uninterrupted light from a bare bulb, her wrists reaching toward the sun. Ambition is often swallowed by necessity. It is best to imagine she has never dreamt in color.

~Sunlight by Comrade Kevin~

They lurch across the street, still slightly intoxicated, wearing darkly tinted sunglasses.

The city never sleeps, this much is true, but its manic pace does slow to a considerable degree after the last subway from uptown departs around three in the morning. I'm almost sad to see the sun rise because I enjoy the brief repose from honking horns and sidewalk conversation.
It's early morning in Manhattan and I've been sitting on this park bench now for almost an hour, chain-smoking, observing a worker in the processing of putting up an awning. My attention drifts from the worker to the remnants of the clubbing scene crossing the street in front of me, groaning at the approach of sunlight.
These are the hard core partying fanatics, who stand a good chance of being chemically dependent and slightly psychotic. Most of their peers departed for beds, houses, or apartments hours ago.
***We like: "[G]roaning at the approach of sunlight." By the way, we are going to start providing titles if you don't!***

~L'histoire by Rion~

Frozen on walls and ceilings, subjects pose still. There's the outlandish symmetry of the historical painter's eye. The different angle on physics. In this place, the modern teen enters as a sacrilege wearing an iPod garland around his neck.

Caught, but not restful, the subjects tumble forth in spirit: Napoleons and Marie Curies, legionnaires and milkmaids, knights and peasants and virgins holler at the noisy tour group familiarly, like their mothers would do were they present.

"Tuck that shirt in!"
"Pay attention!"
"Speak clearly, don't slouch."
"Live, explore, collide!"

Without noticing, the teens stumble around listening to audio tours: this tapestry, that jewel, this scupture, that javelin. Yeah.

Would they had a medium to channel the outrage of history ignored. She could give voice to the terrible message of captive time.

Would they had different ears than their fathers and mothers, and their parents fathers and mothers. But still they do not improve upon anything, each learning the same lessons again and again and again while history sighs.

***Shameless self promotion!***


***From the Management***

Greetings Flashers,

Thank you all for your avid participation. We want you to know, here in the management, that it is very difficult to choose a winner for each piece, so we don't stress too much about it. Please know that each and every effort is a little gem, a fragment of something unique, and that it is appreciated.

We get lots of hits from readers!

Keep writing! Remember, if we don't have a short bio from you, please send it to Also, if you want to title your work, remember to include it in your piece or email it.