Bryan’s eyes were tinted red behind salty tears, and he could feel every part of his body pulse with the forceful pump of his heart racing to the point of explosion within his chest. Everything felt backwards with his mouth bone dry but his body covered in sweat, streams of the fluid cascading from his brow like tributaries of some great jungle river stretching to an unseen ocean.

Katie lay there on the bed feebly fighting against the arms restraining her. He watched in horror as the color drained from her face as if she were a chameleon blending into the tightly fitted white linen sheets, now stained thick and sticky in bright crimson.

He felt the French manicured tips of her fingernails pass beyond the borders of his skin into the hot flesh beneath. The pain should have been excruciating, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins dulled the sensation to nothing more than a mild irritation. He tightened his grip; her tiny bicep clamped within his right hand to the point that he swore her muscle had given way leaving only the bone to retain his grip.

Katie’s eyes stared up at Bryan from the bed. The didn’t simply lock onto his, they pierced through their glossy surface, passing beyond any recognition of self and into the realm of his soul where the rational mind couldn’t reach; that portion beyond the control of his consciousness and rationale where only those most intense of emotions were held; bone numbing fear and irrefutable love. They probed through that foreign place looking as he had never seen them before, a turbulent concoctive mixture of madness and sadness.

“Why,” Katie pleaded to him. “Why did you do this to me?” Her voice was feeble and raspy, choked by enduring such pain; pain she had never thought possible. In a sudden flash her eyes shifted from their search for humanity in his soul to weapons of blame and hatred. The glare became sharp as a razor and Bryan could feel them slashing into his very being with the relentlessness of a berserker. Her dulcet strains at speaking morphed into shrill shrieks of defiance as her body stiffened below him in defiance of her anguish.

“Let go of me you son-of *****!” she snapped as she writhed within his grip. “Don’t you dare touch me. Get your hands off me. You said I be fine. You said everything would be okay. YOU’RE A *** DAMNED LIAR!”

Bryan had always heard the first time would be the hardest. He expected the nausea, the feelings of dread, the need to turn and run away from the scenario would all be there. He just had to force himself through it till it was all over. Then it would all be okay, everything would be perfect again.

As he stared down at Katie’s writhing body his mind began to drift back as if riding an ebbing tide to when he had first met her. He knew she was the one; the perfect choice. She’d give him everything he needed. He thought about everything he had gone through with her. There were definitely those times when he was ready to let it all go. The fights, the harsh words, the threats all placed the seed of question in his mind of whether any of it was worth it. But none of that mattered anymore. Soon, it would all be over. Soon, he would be a new man.

Exhilaration filled Bryan with his new found resolve in the cumulative result of all his efforts. He bore down again, summoning up all of his physical and emotional strength for the climactic finish as Katie let out a howl that would make a banshee cringe. The screams energized Bryan, his eyes widening and his breathing becoming more of a slight spasm. A broad smile crossed his face as he continued to hold her down against every bit of strength she could offer to free herself of the incredible pain. The pitch of her wailing grew till he was sure any glass in the small room would surely shatter, but his anticipation only grew within him; fueling him, bypassing any hint of fatigue that attempted to interfere.

The sounds of Katie’s screams filled Bryan’s mind, rattling in his head like a trapped fly. His rapid and shallow breathing began to take its toll. The world around him became light and airy. He felt as though his skin had become tight and ice cold. His vision began to tunnel around him, growing bright in the center as his brain starved for precious oxygen. Realizing what was about to happen he drew in a deep breath, barely halting the oncoming loss of consciousness. His eyes shook in their sockets, disobeying his will to focus on the task at hand, to focus on Katie and her pain.

Then silence. No more screams. No more struggling. The body held in his grip went limp in submissive release. For a moment the entire world felt at complete peace as a sense of euphoria filled Bryan in a pulsing wave. Tears began to stream from his eyes, not of pain or sorrow, but tears of complete joy that the ordeal was done. The silence only lasted a fraction of a second before being replaced by the slightest raspy cough followed by the tiniest wailing cry.

“Congratulations, Bryan,” the doctor said as he laid a perfectly wrapped bundle of blankets into his arms. “It’s a boy.”

The winner of the November 2010 Review Fuse Flash Fiction Contest is “Perception” by Michael Dillon (Review Fuse user mbdillon).

Second place is “Eight Minutes” by kimbrly and third place is “One Morning in a long Marriage ” by c1ickdrag.

Michael has given us permission to publish his winning pieces on our blog. Please check back later this week to read the winning flash fiction story.

Thank you all for participating. It was fun to read your entries and hard to pick the winners.

Jacob

This contest will open September 15, 2010.

Purpose: Have fun, enjoy the competition, and become a better author by participating in the peer critique process portion of this contest. Learn more about flash fiction.

Who Can Enter: This contest is open to all authors. All submissions must be posted and assigned critiques completed by November 30, 2010. Entries must be 1000 words or fewer. You may post additional stories to this site for critique, but only one story  will be eligible for the contest.

Subject Matter: Something creative and fresh. The flash fiction should adhere to our content policy.

Prizes: The winner of this contest will receive $100.

How to Enter: It’s pretty easy

1. Create a free account or sign in for existing members.
2. Upload your story; make sure you select “Flash Fiction Writing Contest” as the category.
3. Submit your work for peer critique.
4. Complete your assigned reviews. This is discussed more below.

Decisions: There will be 2 rounds of judging.

1. Authors from the Review Fuse staff will select the 3 best works for Round 2.
2. Of these 3 works selected, Review Fuse management will select the winning authors based on who gave the most detailed and well thought out critiques to their peer’s.

Entry Fee: There are no entry fees or purchases of any kind required to enter and win the contest. After you submit your work to the contest you will be required to complete assigned critiques of other authors (4 for free members and 2 for premium members). You will receive 3 critiques of your work in return. Those who do not complete their critiques will not be eligible to win the contest.

Rights: All stories remain the sole property of the author. After we have selected the winner we will seek permission from the author to publish the winning work on our blog. The author is under no obligation to allow this.

Notification: The prize winner will be notified by email on December 15, 2010. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on December 20, 2010.

He believes that copyright law, which was established in Great Britain in 1710, crippled the world of knowledge in the United Kingdom, but in Germany, where copyright law did not take hold until the mid-19th century, its absence created a climate in which knowledge spread rapidly.

In England, new discoveries were generally published in limited editions of at most 750 copies and sold at a price that often exceeded the weekly salary of an educated worker. In the few libraries that existed, the valuable volumes were chained to the shelves to protect them from potential thieves.

In Germany, publishers devised a form of publication still common today: issuing fancy editions for their wealthy customers and low-priced paperbacks for the masses. Thus, as described by a contemporary writer, “So many thousands of people in the most hidden corners of Germany, who could not have thought of buying books due to the expensive prices, have put together, little by little, a small library of reprints.”

Read the entire article…

The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.
— Maya Angelou

I could never do hands.
I can transfigure my chisel
Into a typewriter and speak a personal history
And sculpt the deep rivets of emotions
Round the eyes of dictators and devils,
Divas and demigods,
Fashioning life
From cold bronze and stone.
Or recreate the folds of gowns
That envelope sleeping nymphs,
While patterns, Klimt-like
Wreath the delicate tendrils of their hair.
But if I could emulate the warmth of a handshake,
The articulation of a hand raised and lowered
In debate
Like the ebb and flow of tides;
Or capture the vitriol of an obscene gesture…
I cannot conceive the corrugation of weather-worn knuckles
Bleached and tanned by an unforgiving sun.
Or the elegant ebony hand
Whose pale palms serve a contrast of colour
More pleasing than any canvas.
I only wish I could do hands.

Second place is “In the Moment” by cindyo and third place is “Deafening” by yellowedpages.

We will post the winners poems when we receive permission to do so.

Thank you all for participating. It was fun to read your entries and hard to pick the winners.

When people tell me I’ve kept them up all night, I feel like I’ve succeeded. — Sidney Sheldon

by Angela Davis (Review Fuse user AC)

It is Christmas Eve day and inconsiderate people cram my treatment schedule—ill-tempered people compelled to share their holiday negativity or those who lack personal hygiene decided to grace my table. This day is never ending. I’m more than ready for it to be over with.

Only five more minutes left to endure the unbearable ache in my hands and the kink in my neck that shoots bullets to my brain. Five minutes until I can cover the client’s exposed body, wash my hands and leave for home. The countdown begins—I persist until the end.

“Okay, Mrs. Jones. How are you feeling?” I flash my most pleasant smile.

“Wonderful. I could go home and take a nap.” Mrs. Jones stretches on the table.

“I’m glad you feel better. Please remember to do your exercises and stretches this time. Drink plenty of water and I’ll see you next week.”

Finally free! Free to go soak my weary body in a hot bath. Six hours of massage a day is far too many to suffer through. Today, in particular, is difficult with clients who refuse to care for themselves on their own. No matter how many times they are told, they never do their homework. Yet, they wonder why they’re in pain. Go figure.

I rush through the office to gather my things.

Karen, the caffeine-driven medical assistant, steps in front of me. “Sue…Are you in a hurry?” she asks.

“Uhh, yeah.” Afraid to inquire why, I smile and maneuver around her toward my things.

“I have a favor to ask.” She grabs my arm and drags me into an empty exam room.

“What’s up?” Not that I really want to know.

“I kinda told this woman out front that you’d be able to work on her son. He’s in a lot of pain and needs a massage.” She justifiably braces herself for my response.

“Karen! I can’t believe you did that to me. I hurt…I’ve had a long day…I want to go home. What were you thinking?” How dare her schedule someone without asking me.

“He has MS,” she whispers.

Great! Guilt. Now how am I going to say no?

I sigh. “Okay. Give me the file.” I snatch the file from her hands and walk out to the waiting room.

Sitting across the room is a stout woman reading a book to a small fragile boy with fingers and arms curled close to his chest, skin pale as snow. Although his body is sickly and small, he has a glow about him. His soul radiates through his eyes, ever smiling.

I clear the irritating lump in my throat that tends to rise when inspiration sparks or when an invisible dagger smashes through my heart. “Mark? Are you ready for your massage?” I smile at the precious child.

Mark looks up at his mother.

“It will be okay honey. I promise it won’t hurt.” The mother stands to help her boy to his feet.

He stands with legs that don’t want to cooperate and begins his slow trek, one step at a time, leaning against his mother for support.

I wait.

Finally, he enters the treatment room.

“That was awesome Mark! My name is Sue. I’m going to give you a massage today. Have you ever had a massage before?” I ask.

He looks up at his mom with big brown eyes.

“Not a professional massage,” she says. “He has been in so much pain lately and is very sensitive to touch. Even clothes rubbing against his skin causes him pain. My sister suggested that a massage may help him.”

Little Mark doesn’t look so convinced.

I sit down on the table. “How old are you?” I ask.

“Eight.”

“Are you scared?”

He nods.

“There is no need to be scared…okay? I will touch very lightly and you can tell me if you like it or not. If it hurts too much, we will stop. Okay?”

He nods.

“I’m going to step out for a moment and I want you to take your clothes off but be sure to leave some shorts on. You can then get under this sheet on the table. Okay?”

“Okay.”

When I enter the room again, Mark is curled up in a ball under the sheet. His mother sits in the corner.

I dim the lights and turn calming music on.

Using plenty of lotion, I ever so gently begin my work on Mark’s legs. Little by little he uncurls himself, becoming more comfortable.

While working on his back, a loud gurgle startles me. I pause and look for reassurance in his mother. She looks as unsure as I am, but when Mark doesn’t protest, I continue cautiously.

“Oh, that’s nice.” He says.

The mother’s face becomes flush and she bites her lip.

The lump in my throat returns as I fight back the burning in my eyes. This sweet little boy warms my heart.

“Do you like that, Mark?” His mother’s voice crackles.

“Oh yes. It feels nice.” His face beams. He giggles.

The mother loses her battle—tears stream down her face. She looks directly into my eyes and whispers: “Thank you.”

I nod, knowing that if I spoke, I too would be a sobbing mess.

Mark turns his head toward me and hands me his disfigured arm. “Can you rub here now?”

I nod.

No longer do my hands hurt. The kink in my neck isn’t really that horrible. And my day? Well, it’s not so bad after all. This may be the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received.