Merkin

Like an iceberg, so much of this fine story is hidden from view. We are left to conjecture these circumstances, with little success, until we realize that it is the present moment that is important, not the past. Spoiler Alert: Eight's optimism is what differentiates him from his siblings, and whether or not he is the successful outcome most like the Original perhaps does not really matter. What matters is Eight's own success at grasping at life, his own ability to see value. James Merkin

Cole has come up with a very big story built within a very small space that will leave you shaking your head in admiration. He's managed to pack multiple chapters' worth of plot and development into this short read without abusing the reader's sensibility or willingness to believe, although it's a close call, indeed. Framing the story with a rookie teacher's actions and observations gives us a jump start on understanding the situation, and then allows for some apt author-to-reader explanation at the end, but the real mastery is demonstrated by the ease with which Cole portrays both a complex backstory as well as lightning fast development of a relationship between two skittery boys, each with so much to lose from precipitous action. I found myself completely committed to these two wonderful characters and it was with real regret that I realized all-too-soon that their story was done. Read it here: Scurvy Dog James

It's easy to forget how much fun kid sports can actually be, if the parents and coaches can supress their own competitive lusts.James

The 'good old days' I recall were before antibiotics and most immunizations, and an excessive number of small children died every year before they ever had a chance to discover whether they were conservative, liberal, straight or gay. James

This has been around for a while but it's still worth a look.

Thanks very much for those uplifting words. I am so besotted with Flash Fiction as a writing form I just can't put it aside. It seems like the perfect medium for genuine audience involvement, since the reader is asked to contribute so much in response to the scanty hints and sparse development from the author. It becomes a truly joint undertaking, and any praise for the writer is also praise for the reader. James

Cutting Edge by Merkin "My God, is that you, Asher? We thought you were dead!" The short fat man stopped before the bench as people swirled through the huge lobby. The Johns Hopkins hospitals were known throughout the world, and all nationalities appeared to be represented in the crowds coming and going. The gaunt, sandy-haired man looked up from his newspaper. "It wasn't for want of trying," he said coldly. Benton sat heavily, wheezing. He put down his briefcase. "I had nothing to do with it, you know." "You were there, Benton," said Asher. He folded his newspaper and sat looking levelly at the other man. "But it was a tradition," Benton whined. "It was part of the initiation." "They put me out of the car with no clothes in the middle of the Connecticut countryside on the coldest night of the winter. It was a blizzard." "They were supposed to leave you a blanket." "Well, they didn't," Asher snarled. "Let's not mince words. Clarke did it because you all knew I was gay. He said so when they threw me out. 'Die, faggot!' is what they yelled when they drove away. I spent two weeks in the hospital and lost three toes." "I'm sorry," said Benton. His face reddened as he gasped for air. He coughed violently and swallowed. "You know, they found the car buried in the snow two days later. It had gone off the highway into a ravine. The bodies of both Clarke and Dennis were still inside, frozen stiff." "Good!" Asher hissed. "I wish you all had been killed." "We thought you?d been thrown clear. The police searched the entire area but by then the snow was so deep they couldn't find anything. You never came back." Asher got up and straightened his long white coat. "The moment I got out of the hospital I transferred. I finished school here at Hopkins," he said. Benton struggled to his feet. He gasped for breath. "They say I have tumors throughout my lungs. I'm here to consult with some high-powered cryosurgeon." "That would be me," said Asher. He turned and walked away. ______ This story was written for the 2011 New Year Flash Fiction anthology on the theme of 'Cold' at The Authors Haunt. The entries were limited to 500 words or less.

There's nothing colder than the callous disregard exhibited by youth for the feelings of another. Camy very movingly shows us what cruel price can be exacted for honesty within the lockstep of schoolboy society. I think it may be time for those black belt skills to make their appearance. James

Like Gee, I waited, and waited, so I could read it all at once. I'd been burned before, reading Here's Looking At You, Kid chapter by chapter, fretting over each installment, waiting for the next revelation (you do revelations so well, Doug). I'd been lucky, earlier, to have discovered Gang of Five when it was fully posted, and I was blown away by its cleverness, its uniqueness. But I soon became convinced that Here's Looking At You, Kid was the work of a master craftsman, and despite fretting over the wait between chapters I read it avidly and sighed with relief and admiration when it reached its "perfect" outcome. Little did I know what was in store. Triptychs far exceeds my expectations, and I am in awe at the skill of its writer. This tale is wonderful in so many ways, but perhaps the most wonderful aspect of it for me is that it provides a whole new level of understanding to a storyline that I had believed to be already completed. I think one mark of a truly great story is the knowing, when you have finished reading it, that you will deeply miss the characters now that they are gone. I can only hope that that there is more to be said about them, and that Doug will not hesitate to say it. Soon. James

You've got it right, Bruin. The Steelers offensive line must have gobbled up a few too many turnovers, from the way they played.

By the wax of Hercule Poirot's mustache, a brilliant mystery brilliantly presented! I always did resent those pompous drawing room showdowns. James

Cute, indeed, but one wonders wistfully if the clean-shaven look will ever return. James

Two Trees is astonishing, lovely, and heartfelt. It is a great gift to us from Simon. While it might be fair to compare this work to Kipling's writing, I would never compare Simon Jimenez to Rudyard Kipling. Kipling the poet and story-teller is one thing. Kipling the social activist and father is another matter. Remember what he did to his son Jack. James

Am I wrong in thinking Stephanie appears to be the one in the driver's seat in this situation, aided and abetted by her mother? James

The imagination is a strange and wondrous thing, and appears to be unique to each of us in our use of it. How that should be is conclusively made clear in this delicious coming-of-age tale, "The Behold of the Eye" by Hal Duncan. Duncan?s lovely take on the work of a faery on behalf of his Behold first appeared online in Lone Star Stories, a no-longer published webzine for speculative fiction and poetry, and fortunately has gone on to wider circulation as part of the collection presented in Unplugged, The Web?s Best Sci-Fi & Fantasy: 2008 Download (Wyrm, 2009). If you missed it in either location I urge you to look at it now. This charming, readable fantasy will give you a whole new slant on how we cope with our fondest memories, our obsessions, and our desires. James

This is a story I first encountered on Dabeagle's site, and I've read it half-a-dozen times because I love it. Yet I'm afraid to start reading The Meaning of Living each time because it just blows me away. I know I'm going to have a long, pensive evening ahead when I finish it, a thoughtful evening while I examine and reexamine the issues and themes this story so wonderfully evokes. This story about a learning experience is a learning experience, and if I had my way I'd put The Meaning of Living on the required reading list in all of our public schools. James

This is an exquisitely wrought story delivering a wonderful sense of place, even for an outlander. I can smell the wet wool, hear the puck click, and feel my fingers getting stiff and raw. It skillfully comes full circle to make good on both the critical confrontation and the initiating birthday, so that by the end I sit back and say 'Why, of course!' Very satisfying. I especially admire Gee's extraordinary control behind the scenes to make it all work out. Now that we've learned all that Canadian vocabulary I hope Gee will deliver lots more lovely stories from the far North. James

Thank you, fellas. I'm truly grateful for these kind words from such capable writers and editors. (I may have come up short in this attempt to satisfy Cole's monstrous appetite for new thrills, but I refuse to admit defeat and shall strive to invent even more extraordinary and bizarre situations for his delectation. ) James

Venture by Merkin "Can we go to the park, Grandpa?" "Do you think we can find it?" Adrian had come for the weekend, to babysit Timmy for his son and daughter-in-law. "Oh, yes. I know right where it is. We take the 15 bus. Can we? Can we?" Although he was nearly six and a big boy, Timmy found it hard not to beg when he wanted something. "It'll be a venture!" "I think you mean an 'adventure.' Does the park have swings?" "Oh, yes. And slides, and ducks, and a pond, and -- " "I think you've sold me, Timmy. But we'd better go now. It's afternoon already." The bus deposited them right at a busy corner entrance of the huge mid-city park. Timmy clutched his grandfather's hand and stared at all the activity. Some boys in tight jeans and wifebeaters were standing against the iron fence, smoking and talking. One boy with white streaks in his dark hair ran to the curb and leaned into the open window of a car that had pulled up. He waved to the others, opened the car door and slipped inside. The others laughed as the car drove away. Timmy tugged on Adrian's hand. "This way, Grandpa." At the swings Adrian soon got tired from pushing Timmy. He went to a nearby park bench and sat to watch as his grandson ran to the slides. The boy was inexhaustible. It had been a good idea to come to the park. The old man nodded and his eyes closed. Adrian"s eyes snapped open and he sat up, confused. Where was he? Then he remembered. Timmy! He looked around. The boy's jacket was beside him on the bench, but there was no sign of his grandson. Awkwardly he got to his feet. "Timmy? Timmy? Where are you, boy?" He looked around desperately. Where could he have gone? Keeping the bench in sight in case Timmy returned, the old man walked an increasingly larger circle through the playground equipment. This section of the park was quiet and nearly deserted. It was getting late and shadows were beginning to gather. The few children who had been playing when they arrived appeared to have left. My god, what if the boy had headed for the pond? Adrian didn't know what to do. He didn't even know where the pond was located, and if he left the bench and Timmy returned the boy wouldn't know where he was. Adrian was frantic with indecision. Off in the distance he saw three figures approaching. Thank goodness, maybe he could ask for help. But wait, could it be? The smaller figure in the center looked like his grandson. It was! Timmy dropped the hands of the two boys walking with him and ran toward his grandfather. Adrian knelt and hugged the boy. "Timmy! I've been so worried! Where did you go?" "I had to wee, Grandpa, and you were fast asleep, but I knew where to go, but then the bad man tried to get me to go into the smelly toilet with him and Chris and Trey stopped him and brought me back and -- " Adrian looked up at the two boys. They were wearing tight jeans and wifebeaters and looked familiar. "Boys, I'm so very grateful. I didn't know what to do or where to look, and you've saved Timmy from lord knows what..." Adrian's voice faltered. "We do know what." His voice harsh, the taller boy stared at the old man. "Little guys like Timmy shouldn't have to run around on their own, Grandpa." Adrian swallowed hard, and nodded. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I need to remember what comes first." He leaned his forehead against Timmy's and felt the boy kiss him on his cheek. When he looked up he saw the boys walking away. "Wait," called Adrian. "I'd like to thank you more adequately." The tall one turned and looked back at the old man and his grandson. "You keep that kid safe. That's thanks enough." He turned and the two boys walked on toward the park entrance at the corner. ______

Good advice from Cole, Ele.I think if we all had sense enough we all would rush to southern California. But that would probably tip it into the sea.James

Plato notwithstanding, when I was a teenager I discovered I did already know it all, and better than anyone else, especially my parents. A lot of teenagers appear to likewise contradict Plato's teaching. Now that I am more mature I find I am struggling to remember what day it is, and whether I have zipped up (although by watching the eyes of passers-by I sometimes can figure that one out). After years of searching for answers I believe I would have been better advised early on to have followed the path of the Buddha, rather than the rocky road left so mysteriously charted by the Greeks, paved with Roman good intentions, and sabotaged by the potholes, sinkholes, and washouts left for us to navigate by our successive Western 'civilizations.' I do not credit my schooling with what education I possess. James

I discovered early on that cats and Christmas trees are incompatible. Wrapped gifts, Christmas stockings, and decorations around the house are also. Makes for a furry but Spartan holiday.

Something else for our anti-immigration activists to worry about.

I, too, discovered this lovely, heartrending tale long ago. This is not my favorite holiday season, and 'Forever December' has become one of those stories I select to read every year to remind me that there can be an essential goodness available to mankind. James

Say, what's up with that dreadful camo, anyway? It's about time that the military got a little fashion sense, if it's going to recruit from our ten percent. Let's have tight riding britches, short jackets with a bit of flare, shiny brown boots nearly knee-hi... you get the picture. And bring back those little whips for officers, too.