Not A Bad Day

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.

And so blows the winds of change

by Antram444

Jack flipped the collar of his coat up, shivering in the breeze. The steady drizzle of rain soaked through his jacket, permeating all it touched. He could barely recognize the once familiar streets. Even though only three years had passed, time stopped for no man, least of all for a man like him. The haunting light from the lamp posts illuminated no recognizable landmark. Frustrated, Jack ducked under a doorframe. He raised his arms, stretching and loosening tight muscles. The scent of juicy turkey and baked potatoes drifted from behind the door. He breathed deeply. His stomached growled in appreciation and his mouth watered. Food. Real food cooked by a family.

Food…

The smell brought back a lingering memory, one he wished he could forget, but couldn’t. Always present, always ready to slip back into focus when his attention wandered. Water trickled down his face, but not from the rain. Evalyn’s favorite food was turkey. She had cooked it every Christmas eve, even though Thanksgiving was only a month ago. It had been three years since Jack ate turkey. Three years to this day….

Jack watched Evalyn twirl in the fading Christmas Eve light. Her blonde curls bounced and her smile shined. Snowflakes graced her head. They had chosen a peculiar resting place, for not many things crowned her head that could compare in beauty. Evalyn skipped ahead of him, glancing back every so often. Her giggles floated back on the light breeze. She pivoted and skipped back to Jack. Her flushed face radiated happiness and youthfulness. Jack’s breath hitched as he gazed at her. This was love, that burning sensation in his chest.

“Jack? Will you run to the market and grab the turkey? I forgot to get it while I was there earlier.” Her eyes twinkled in the fading light.

She gave a girly pout. “Please?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice lest it cracked. Evalyn squealed with delight. She hopped up and down, clapping her hands. “Meet me back at the house, kay?” Without waiting for his answer, she spun, dancing away. Her skirts billowed around her as she glided. Gaily, she turned around and kissed her palm, throwing the kiss to the air. Jack’s mouth twitched into a smile as he caught it and pressed it to his face. She giggled and floated away.

*****

Jack balanced the brown bag on one knee while trying to open the apartment door. His key always jammed, and tonight was no exception.

“Evalyn, can you get the door?” Jack pounded on the wood. “Evalyn?” No response. Typical Evalyn, Jack thought, head always in the clouds, soaring and racing with the wind. She possessed a free soul. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if scientists ever proved the existence of fairies, she had some fay blood. Finally, the lock clicked and he turned the door. The lights were off. He groaned and groped around for the switch until he found it. The apartment warbled into existence. The light illuminated nothing. The bare apartment stared at him. Jack glanced around, confused. His large eyes took in everything and nothing. He turned his head. The light glinted off something on the table. He couldn’t see what it was from where he stood. He hesitated but slowly walked towards the shiny object. Something felt wrong. The object glinted in the light again. Something was very wrong.

The paper bag thudded to the floor. The object, the sparkly object, was a ring. A wedding ring. A piece of paper was rolled inside. His pale face showed confusion. After steadying his hand, Jack picked up the ring and slid the note out. “Sorry,” it read. “The winds of change have blown me elsewhere.” An arrow pointed to the other side. “P.S.: The turkey cooks for 2 hrs on 450.”. Jack flipped it over again. His eyes flicked back and forth across the paper, looking for a clue he had missed. Where was she? Where was she? Sweat dripped down his face and the stuffy air pressed down on him. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. The ring clattered to the floor, landing beside the cold bag.

Jack tore the apartment up, looking for a sign. He dashed to their room. Nothing. He pulled out all the drawers of the dresser. Hollow. He scrambled to the bathroom, tripping as he went. Empty. Jack sagged against the bathroom door, his hand pressed to his chest. He tried to keep his heart from spilling out, but the tears came nonetheless. His shoulders shook as he tried to suppress the sobs. Gone. Forsaken. He punched the wall. Pain flared into his hand, but dimmed in comparison. Jack pushed himself off the wall, scrambling. He raced out of the apartment. He flew down the stairs. “Evalyn!” He shrieked into the night air. “Evalyn!” The word came out chocked and broken. A whispered remnant. He sank to the wet ground, his feet unable to support his weight. The whole world heard his sobs as his heart crumbled into oblivion.

The smell of cooked turkey drifted to him. Three years from that Christmas Eve to this one, and nothing had changed. Jack lurched away from the doorway, desperate to get away from that haunting smell. The rain was preferable over that despicable scent. Jack shuffled along and the rain soaked everything. Nothing went untouched. Water slid down his face, but not all of it poured from the sky.

“Unwrapped”

by Mike Ermitage (mermitage)

The unraveled red bow on top of the present requested fixing but I couldn’t oblige. I considered it a minor miracle that the present made it a decade with its neat, fixed bow intact. Even the red streaming curly ribbon under the bow survived albeit lacking most of its original bounce. The once vibrant green paper had turned a pale version of itself and next to the other presents under the tree, it looked severely aged. I could rescue it from its degradation, I thought, by simply doing what my wife wanted me to do ten years ago. And if she were here… well, if only she were here. You never forget the details of the Christmas morning your wife died.

“Hello, Mr. Van der kiln, this is officer Hanritty.”

Silence.

“I have some bad news for you. Your wife was in a car accident. She, uh, well, she passed Mr. Van der kiln. I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“She’s at Southwest Community Hospital.”

I hung up the phone without ever speaking a word. In retrospect, I knew something terrible happened to her before that phone rang. She went to the store to pick up another couple bottles of wine but too much time passed. I can think of a million things she could have been doing to hold her up - most of them involving the magazine rack at the grocery store - but I knew. I suppose others can testify that you develop a sixth sense about the people you truly love. Her last words to me were, “Found my keys! Love you.” At least I have that.

The funeral came and went and so did New Year’s. The presents slowly disappeared from under our fake pine until just one present remained surrounded by dozens of fake pine needles. Jenny had opened her present from me the night before because she was never able to wait until Christmas morning. I am stubborn, though, and always insist on opening presents on Christmas day. I nearly opened it immediately craving some connection to Jenny but then I worried it’d be my last connection. So, I saved it. It moved from apartment to apartment and now into my condo. It rested comfortably in a bag inside a box marked Xmas and made its annual appearance along with my sparse few other decorations. It visited attics and garage shelf space as well as apartment storage units. But it did so in style, occupying the safest spot away from all the items that seem to attach themselves to an individual, the crown jewel of the traveling refuse.

Every Christmas, I spend some time with the present, holding it and giving it a light shake. Sometimes, I pour a glass of red wine, extract my favorite pictures of Jenny, and travel back in time right there on my living room floor. This Christmas, however, is different. I am engaged to a wonderful new woman who laughs at my jokes and writes me notes on my foggy car windows. Silly, I know, for two mid-40 year olds to act, but liberating nonetheless. I will be married for a second time and I keep telling myself that this is how life goes. I do have the capacity to love again, I feel, even if that love manifests itself quite differently. My heart doesn’t leap with adoration this time around but instead warms with appreciation. We move into a new house in January and we’ll be sharing a Christmas tree next December. I’m not sure if our Christmas tree should hover above this present. I’m not sure if Jenny has a place there.

My favorite album from our time together is not from our wedding or from our honeymoon. We took a day trip once to a small lake front town completely on a whim. We swam in the lake, barbecued on a makeshift fire, and napped on a hammock. I look at those pictures now and I marvel at how young she looked. I have a favorite picture. Jenny is sitting on the edge of the hammock with her arms outstretched. I can feel her chestnut eyes staring back at me with her long arms seeming to reach out to hug me. Her favorite maroon sweater dotted with bits of fallen leaves.

I take a sip of wine and let it settle on the front of my tongue just as Jenny and I had learned all those years ago at that wine tasting class. I swallow and its bitterness touches my toes.

“Should I open your present to me, Jenny?”

I read the label on the present - To: My Wonderful Husband, From: Jenny!

A solitary tear splashes on the green paper with a whispered splish.

I clumsily tie the bow again and place it back under the tree. Not this Christmas. Not this Christmas.

A Game of Risk Chapter 1

by artemisx5

“Up there?” I asked, pointing up the ladder.

“Can you think of another way to get the crepe paper up?” replied Shawn.

“But I’m wearing a skirt,” I protested again.

“Your problem,” Shawn answered, and walked away with her clipboard.

“Can you think of another way to get the crepe paper up?” I muttered to myself as I mounted the ladder.

“Problems, Murphy?” My best friend, Jack, teased from the neighboring ladder.

“That girl is evil when she’s got the clipboard,” I whispered.

Jack snorted. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

I secured the end of my roll of crepe paper to the basket ball hoop, and started back down the ladder.

“Nice shorts, Gwen,” Jill—my other best friend—called up as she walked past.

“Thanks, Jill.”

“Whatcha got on?” Jack asked from a few rungs higher.

“My Little Pony,” I said, lifting the hem of my uniform skirt just enough to show off the romping horses on my boxer shorts. The only way to survive wearing a wool uniform skirt is to wear boxers underneath.

“Classy,” Jack nodded.

“And you?” I replied.

“Tazmanian Devil.” Jack tugged the waistband of his own boxer shorts out just slightly.

“Festive.”

“That doesn’t look like working!” Shawn’s voice sailed across the gym.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“Let’s get this over with.”

We slid their ladders across the floor to hang the rest of the paper. By the end of the rolls, we had developed a rhythm: I held both rolls and twisted them together as we walked to the next hanging spot, Jack climbed the ladder and taped up the decorations. Finally, the last of the roll was ready to go up. It came up just short of the Halloween banner on the wall. Jack came down and we eyed the display for a moment. I glanced over both shoulders.

“Let’s move the banner. She’ll never notice.” She was Shawn of course, self-appointed Social Director of Saints Agnes and Andrew High School.

“All right, quick.”

We hurried back up the ladders. I unhitched one end of the banner, and Jack the other. We attempted to slide it over, but it was clearly secured in the center as well. I eyed the distance between the ladders and decided to go for it.

“Here I come,” I announced and stretched out one foot. For a moment I was falling through thin air, then my foot caught the backside of Jack’s ladder. “Sweet!” I said, just before my ladder jarred slightly from the altered weight. I found myself doing the splits eight feet up two ladders.

“Grab the middle,” Jack said.

“Got it.” I freed the banner and Jack managed to slide it down to meet the crepe paper. We slapped our palms against the tape to keep it in place.

“All right, let’s get the heck out of here,” Jack started down his ladder, and I tried to shift my weight back to one ladder. I couldn’t move.

“Jack, I’m stuck!” I whispered, laughing.

“You are not.”

“Yes, I am! I can’t get back.”

Jack appeared below me, looking up. I squawked, trying to cover my exposed boxers.

“Oh, relax. I’ve seen it before.”

“Not since we were five!” I protested.

“That’s what you think.”

“Get me down so I can smack you,” I hissed.

“All right, all right,” He tried pushing one of the ladders toward me, but the opposite one just pushed away.

“Aaahck! Stop it!” I pin wheeled my arms, trying to stay balanced. My shriek finally caught the attention of the other students in the gym. Jill immediately started laughing.

“Jill, shut up!” I hollered, not even needing to see my best friend to recognize her laugh.

“A little help here,” Jack called. Matt and Mark came to his aid. “Hold the ladders still.”

Jack appeared below me again and started up the ladder that held my left foot. He nearly toppled me as he got the right height.

“Careful!” I said, wobbling.

“Yeah, yeah.” He reached out and curled his hand around my waist, gripping the waistband of my skirt. I shuddered when his thumb tickled my skin. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Just get me down.”

With a grunt and a frightening moment of weightlessness, I was safe on one ladder again. The small crowd below clapped.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Just a little…stretched.” Actually, my thighs felt like jelly, but I didn’t need to share.

“Let’s get down.”

“’Kay.”

Jack left me clinging to the ladder while he climbed down first. I was working myself into an internal froth about the lack of chivalry as I climbed down, but as I stepped onto one of the last rungs, I felt Jack’s hands on my waist. He guided me to the floor and I disgusted myself with a little heart thump.

Here’s a secret: I am a hopeless romantic. I dream of being a tragic heroine, like in the classic romance novels. Give me a love song and I am lost. A romantic movie? Please; I will have the dialog memorized after one viewing. But, this is my little secret, because it would totally destroy my cool-girl reputation. I am supposed to be the girl you can count on for a sarcastic comment, a laugh at a dirty joke, and to always go along with a prank. So, I hide my secret moments of romantic thinking. Such as this one.

Jack and I have been neighbors since we were born. Literally. We have the same birthday. Jill lives around the corner of the same block. She is four months younger than Jack and I. She didn’t move into our neighborhood until she was eight, but we became friends right away. The three of us have always been like peas in a pod. I am absolutely against romantic thoughts about Jack. But, even he can inspire my hopeless heart. That’s how much of a sap I am. Disgusting, isn’t it?

Anyway, back to the story.

The small crowd assembled around us applauded when I was safe on the ground.

“What is going on over here?” Shawn demanded, pushing her way into the circle.

“Nothing, anymore.”

“You missed it.”

“Jack saved Gwen,” someone said.

Shawn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. We’re done here anyway.”

A small chorus of cheers rose up.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow at the dance.” Shawn did a quick turn and walked away without another word.

“Ugh, that girl!” Jill muttered when Shawn was out of earshot. She imitated Shawn’s purposeful walk, earning a few snickers.

“All right, who needs a ride?” Jack asked.

I put my hand up along with Jill, and three other people who live in our general direction.

“Let’s roll.”

When we hit the parking lot, I noticed the weather was decent for October. “Top down!”

Jill groaned, “My hair.”

“Oh please. Who are you trying to impress?” Jack said.

“You never know.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Jenny said.

“Fine.” Jill crossed her arms while the rest of us worked on securing the top of Jack’s ancient convertible down. As soon as we were done, she called, “Shotgun!.”

“Back seat!” Jenny said at the same time as her boyfriend, Eric. Eric climbed in over the side before anyone could open the door. He held out his arms and called, “Matt, I’m open!”

Matt, a rather huge athletic type, seemed to know what this meant, because he picked up Jenny—who shrieked—and tossed her up to Eric, who caught her easily. Jenny is a teeny little Vietnamese girl, but I have never considered her even remotely tossable. Boys are very strange. Matt jumped in after Jenny, leaving me with the undesirable seat in the middle of the front. Great.

We managed to squeeze in with all backpacks in tow, and Jack somehow managed to shift the car into gear around my knees.

Jill twisted sideways, squishing me further, to talk to the passengers in the back. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

“I’m going to be a fairy,” Jenny announced.

“Criminal,” Eric said.

“Interesting couple,” Jill said.

“He’s always a criminal,” Jenny elbowed Eric in the ribs.

“It’s comfortable!” he protested.

“What about you Matt?” Jill asked, eyelashes fluttering ever-so-slightly.

“Gag me,” I mumbled to Jack, who laughed. We loved to make fun of Jill more than almost anything. Since puberty, Jill has been boy crazy. I’m starting to think it’s chronic.

“A devil.”

“Ooh, I’m going to be an angel!” Jill practically jumped over the seat to tackle him.

“Oh brother,” Jack mumbled.

“What about you guys?” Jenny asked us.

“That’s top secret,” Jack replied.

“No it’s not,” I retorted.

“Just because you know doesn’t mean everybody has to,” Jack said.

“Oooh,” Jenny said, “now I’m intrigued.”

“I’m gonna tell,” I teased.

Jack let go of the wheel with one hand, and wrapped me into a headlock with his hand over my mouth. He had me so tight I couldn’t even open my mouth enough to lick his palm. That would have made him let go right away. I pulled at his hand, wheezing laughter through my nose.

“Real mature, guys,” Jill said, but she was laughing too.

To my shock and horror, Jack managed to keep his hand over my mouth all the way to the corner where we dropped off Jenny, Matt and Eric. Matt and Eric lived around the corner from each other, and Jenny was headed over to Eric’s house.

“See you guys tomorrow,” Jenny called as they headed off.

“Impressive dedication, Evans,” Matt saluted Jack.

“Thank you,” Jack acknowledged with a nod. He maintained his death grip on my head until we were a block away.

I gasped when he let go. “Jerk!” and I gave him a good punch in the shoulder.

He laughed, but rubbed his shoulder.

“What is the big secret, anyway?” Jill asked.

“There isn’t one,” Jack said.

“Then what’s with the headlock?” I demanded.

“I thought it was funny.”

And for some reason, it struck me as funny then, too. I laughed hard enough to get my eyes watering, and Jack laughed right along with me.

“You guys are demented,” Jill declared when Jack rolled to a stop in front of her house.

“My neck totally hurts!” I laughed.

Jack broke into fresh giggles.

“Whatever,” Jill got out and slammed the door. “I’ll see you idiots later.”

I jerked my thumb in her direction. “She thinks we’re idiots.”

“She doesn’t get it,” Jack laughed.

He pulled into his own driveway. Within 30 seconds, my sister Efa was on our front porch.

“Hi! Hi Jack!” she waved.

“Your girlfriend’s here,” I whispered to Jack.

It was a well-known fact that Efa had a raging crush on Jack. She was only 13, and the poor child just could not grasp that a 17 year-old guy was not interested in her. Jack has a brother in Efa’s class, Brahm, but Efa thinks he’s “gross.” This is kind of true. But, in my experience, all 13 year-old boys are kind of gross. Maybe she’ll transfer her affections in a few years.

“Hi Efa,” Jack said.

She beamed at him. “I got the Killers CD you told me about.”

“Cool.”

I thought her face might split she smiled so big.

“I think mom’s looking for you, Ef,” I pointed to our mother’s face in the window. She was clearly just checking what had caused Efa to run outside, but it worked.

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Bye,” she waved again and went inside.

“Omigosh, Jack you’re so cool,” I gushed. “Can you tell me everything you like so I can go out and get it too?!”

“Ah leave her alone,” he said. “She’ll get over me…eventually.”

“Oh brother,” I sighed.

“Come over later,” Jack ignored me. “We still have a game of Risk going.”

“Oh whatever, I am clearly winning that game! I don’t know why you bother playing.” I poked him in the ribs. “Besides, you’ve probably been messing with my armies while I’m gone.”

“I haven’t touched them.”

This was true. He hadn’t touched them. We have this conversation all the time. We’ve had the same game of Risk going for over a year now.

“Okay, I’ll be over later.”

“See ya.”

After dinner, Efa and I watched the end of Moulin Rouge, which had been playing when I first got home. That movie has some great romantic moments, but the end always depresses me.

“That’s so beautiful,” Efa sighed.

“It’s too sad!” I protested. “Why does she have to die?”

“Their love wasn’t meant to be,” Efa answered, sounding way too wise.

“All right, I’m going to play Risk.” I got up.

“No fair!” she pouted.

“What’s your problem?”

“You always get to go over by Jack.”

“It’s no big deal. We’re just playing Risk.”

“You never play Risk. You probably just say that so you guys can be alone.” She jumped up on the couch, shouting over the back as I headed for the back door. “You probably just go over there to kiss him.”

“Okay, eww,” I said. “Ef, he’s my friend. That’s it. We like to hang out. There is no kissing.”

“Yeah, right.” She flopped onto the cushions again, disappearing from sight.

“See ya, kid.”

I cut through the yard and entered Jack’s house from the patio.

“Hey Brahm,” I greeted the Evans child that I could see at the computer in the family room.

“Hey.”

I stuck my head into the room. “Hi Mom and Dad,” I greeted Mr. and Mrs. Evans.

“Hi, honey,” Mrs. Evans waved.

“Hey girls,” I called to the sisters Zoe—age 12—and Annie—age 10—who were absorbed in something on TV. They each raised a hand, but didn’t look away from the screen. The fifth Evans child, Cassie was nowhere to be seen.

“Jack upstairs?”

“Yup. Who’s winning?” Dr. Evans asked.

“Me. Of course.”

“Am I ever getting my ottoman back?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“Probably not tonight,” I gave my standard answer.

“Give him hell,” Dr. Evans said.

“Yes, sir,” I saluted him. Dr. Evans had been a Marine for 10 years, and there is just something about him that demands respect. Both Dr. and Mrs. Evans are from the South originally, Mississippi I believe, and require their kids to be very respectful. All of the Evans kids are super polite and say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ when they talk to adults. It kind of makes me laugh.

I trooped upstairs to Jack’s room. The lights were off in the hall, but I knew the way by feel, smell or sound. I’d been finding my way here since I was about 5 years old. I popped the doorknob open and gave the door a swift kick.

“What up, J?” I adopted a ridiculous gansta stance as the door swung open.

“Hey, check this out,” Jack said, ignoring my pose. He was under his loft on a beanbag, watching TV. Dr. Evans and my dad had built the loft when we were 10, I think. It used to hold a virtual city of Matchbox cars and Legos, but once we got to high school, the toys were cleared out and a mattress took their place. Now there was a small sitting area beneath it. The old, tiny TV was hooked up to a DVD player Jack had inherited from his grandfather when he had upgraded to an easier-to-use model. There was a huge green beanbag in front of the TV with easy access to the stereo and the old Playstation that had been replaced by a Playstation 2 in the family room a few Christmases ago. Apart from the usual bedroom furniture, there was an ottoman, confiscated from the living room to hold our Risk board at a comfortable height. The Risk board had actually started to gather dust where it sat in the corner. We hadn’t even rolled the dice in about two months, because we were forever getting distracted by something.

I flopped onto the beanbag beside Jack and looked at the screen. There was a black and white movie on.

“Young Frankenstein,” he announced.

“Nice!”

We watched in silence for a while, passing a bottle of water between us.

“Oh, by the way, you suck,” I told him at a commercial.

“Why?”

“My neck totally hurts from your headlock.”

He grinned at me. “That was awesome.”

“Like I said, you suck.”

He gave me a half-hearted, one-handed massage for a few seconds.

“Gee, thanks.”

The old movie ended, and we surfed channels for something more exciting. Jack found a more recent horror movie on one of the cable channels. “Oh, this is a good one,” he declared. He has a strong stomach for fear, apparently. I however, sat with my stomach in my throat.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, and I jumped. He laughed.

“You scared me!”

“Obviously.”

“What did you want?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Are we going to the dance together?”

“Hunh?”

He sighed. “This is my nonchalant way of asking if you have a date.”

“Oh. No. Why?”

“I don’t either, so are we going together?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, yeah. I just assumed we were. We are, aren’t we?” He’d never asked me to a dance before; it was just understood that we would be riding together. There had been a couple of dances that one of us had dates for over the years, but we’d still carpooled. He was making me nervous all of the sudden.

“Yeah, of course, forget it.”

“Okay.” After a moment I added, “Good.”

“Good.”

We fell into an awkward silence until Jack joked, “We’re gonna look funny together.”

“The cowboy and the princess?” I laughed.

“Rapunzel,” he corrected, giving my long ponytail a tug. “You’re such a girl.”

“I thought that’s what you liked about me.” I batted my eyes at him.

“Yeah, it’s a little uncomfortable sitting on the bean bag with Mike,” he said. I laughed at the idea.

He surveyed the room for a moment. “Someday we’ll have to finish that game.”

“We should at least dust it,” I agreed.

Ordinary Chapter 1

by jokrupinskiyahoocom

Evelyn Ashbrook was exactly one hour shy of seventeen, and she was waiting.

Underdressed in her yellow skirt and pink sandals, she couldn’t stand another minute of the solemnity that the occasion of her father’s death prescribed. It had been six months. She had grieved. She had cried. She had worn black at all the events her mother had held in his honor. She wouldn’t live that anguish any longer.

And yet here she was, again seated in the same rigid wing chair across from Lawrence Grey’s desk. The attorney’s office was modern and sleek. A mahogany desk gleamed from under several neatly stacked piles of documents and an array of Post-it notes. The room had the unmistakable feel of sophistication and class, and she found it surprisingly intimidating. The last time she was here she barely noticed the paint color, despite it being her favorite shade of green.

Mr. Grey had been the family’s attorney for as long as she could remember. She had always known him to be a decent man, so when he called her on her cell phone early yesterday morning, she had no reason to challenge his motivations.

But however strange it was that he had called her personally, even stranger was his request for a private audience. He had alluded to the fact that this was in reference to her father‘s wishes, but she didn’t like having to resort to subterfuge in order to come alone.

She rarely lied to her mother. She rarely lied to anyone for that matter. She figured all she had in this life was her name and her word. And if she was a liar, neither was worth anything.

But, of course, this was different. She sensed this meeting would transcend her philosophical principles of moral conduct. And besides, this wasn’t the first time she had been compelled to lie on her father’s bidding. His secrets were worth keeping. The ones she knew about, anyway.

But her mother hadn’t seemed to care that she was spending her Sunday with friends at the mall. As long as anyone in this backwater town didn’t recognize her used Jetta parked at the law office, she’d be fine. The only thing worse than lying, she imagined, was getting caught.

She shifted in the stiff chair and couldn’t decide where to place her hands. It was awkward to leave them folded so neatly on her lap — it felt too formal. She moved them to the arms of the chair, resting them lightly on the plush brown fabric. She quickly pulled them back again and snatched her purse from the floor. She cradled it in her lap, working the straps nervously with her fingers.

The door on her right came open abruptly and she jumped in her seat. Mr. Grey blew in gracefully, ever the quintessential lawyer, dressed in a power suit and black tie. He was carrying the classic combination-lock briefcase, leaving in his wake the scents of authority and aftershave, in that order.

He acknowledged Evelyn with an easy smile and ran a harried hand through his stylish salt and pepper hair. He reached his desk in three long strides and plopped the briefcase on top of the Post-it notes, sending a few gliding toward the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up.

Seating himself gracefully into the chair behind the massive desk, he wheeled it close enough to extend both arms across the table and clasp his hands together. He smiled again, as if to reassure her, and the action highlighted the gentle creases at the corners of his deep brown eyes.

“Well, Evelyn, I should tell you that it is not my normal practice to meet with minors unaccompanied by a legal guardian, but in this case I felt obligated to make an exception. Your father adhered to interesting ideologies, I must say.” He templed his fingers and gazed pensively at his silver cufflinks.

A few seconds later he glanced up at her again, his face wearing an expression of concern. “So how’re you holding up, kiddo?”

Evelyn stared at her feet. How was she holding up? Lately it seemed like whenever she heard that question, or one like it, it was an inquiry of polite obligation — like some unwritten rule of etiquette deemed it necessary before a normal conversation could commence. She continually reminded herself that people were just trying to be nice, to show they cared. But the truth was, no one ever really expected an honest answer to that question. And no one really knew an appropriate response. How much more of it would she endure before it became appropriate to stop asking?

“Um, okay I guess. It’s been rough, but I’m getting through it.” She gave her stock answer as practiced as always, and timidly rubbed her arms as if warming herself from a chill. “Christopher’s been a big help, though. He always knows the right things to say. I really don’t know how I’d get along without him.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Grey replied, smiling. “I haven’t seen you around the house lately, and I was beginning to worry that the two of you were fighting. I remember the last fight you both got into — what was that, the fifth grade?”

“Oh yeah.” She relaxed a little with the memory and grinned. “Christopher got mad at me because I lent Katie Snyder the colored pencils that he bought for me with his allowance.” She laughed then and added, “Guess I deserved it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. My son can be a bit strong-willed at times.” He considered his words for a moment and recanted. “Maybe pig-headed would be a better term,” he said with a smirk.

“At times.” She laughed. “But I’m still grateful for his friendship. He’s like my other self.”

He contemplated that for a moment, and a vague expression passed quickly across face. Not quite worry, not quite regret. It was something in between. He sat back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on his lap.

“You know, Evelyn, despite our, uh…troubled relationship, I’ve always been very proud of my son. I wish he felt close enough to me to consider me a friend, but I know that the road behind us has made that difficult. I’m very grateful he has you to talk to, but I do hope you will not let our differences influence your trust in me.”

“Of course not, Mr. Grey. You were a dear friend to my father.” Well, that was true, anyway. And it was the only thing that reassured her at all about this meeting.

He looked at her appreciatively for a moment and then cleared his throat. “Okay, so, on to the business at hand.“ Opening his briefcase, he pulled out a small white envelope and placed it on the table in front of him. He clasped his briefcase closed again and set it on the floor next to his chair.

“Evelyn, when we met last, your mother and I discussed the appropriate execution of your father’s will and the sequence of actions to follow.” He picked up the envelope and tapped it absently on the desk. “But there was something that I was not at will to discuss at that time, and especially not with your mother present.”

She gave him a quizzical look. Her demeanor clearly expressed confusion, because Mr. Grey sat back in his chair and shrugged, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Your father’s orders.”

As if that explained anything.

“I don’t understand,” Evelyn began, perplexed. “Whatever else he had to say, why did it have to wait this long?”

“I’m not fully aware of the nature of the information, only that he had specific requests regarding its dissemination.” He held out the envelope to her encouragingly.

She reached across the desk and tentatively accepted it, noticing her father’s scrawled handwriting in black ink across the front.

Larry, please remit to my daughter exactly six months following my death.

~ John

She turned it over, examining the opposite side, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Curious, she began to open it. But she barely got a finger under the fold before Mr. Grey reached abruptly across the desk and grabbed her hand, nearly crushing the envelope within it.

She gasped, startled by his unexpected reaction. For a moment, she could do nothing else but stare at his large, white-knuckled fist gripping hers. She remained still, though her heart was thudding so loudly in her ears that she was amazed he didn’t seem to hear it.

He was instantly embarrassed and removed his hand from hers. He nervously smoothed his tie against his chest and seated himself once more in his chair.

“My apologies, Evelyn,” he began anxiously. “It’s just that your father — well, he was very clear that there were to be no witnesses to your examination of the letter.” He attempted to gather his composure, but traces of red still flushed his cheeks. “Including myself.”

“What? But that’s crazy.” She stared at him indignantly.

He knows something. Something big.

Suddenly, mere curiosity gave way to feelings she had been bottling up for months. Anger, because the last six months had made her an unwitting pawn in her father’s post-humus game of secrecy. Pain, because she felt that she must not have known him at all while he was living. And guilt, because this was the first time she had ever been truly angry at him.

“What on earth is going on here, Mr. Grey?” She stood up from her chair and tossed the envelope onto his desk. “If my father was involved in something so cloak-and-dagger that even you are afraid of its consequences, then what makes you think I want anything to do with it?” She spun around and walked toward the door, her eyes brimming with tears.

“No. Wait.” Mr. Grey had the envelope in his hands once more and followed her out the door. He glanced uneasily around him as he slipped it into her purse. “Read it. Please. He said it will explain everything.“ He paused again, lowering his voice. “Come see me when you understand. Good day, Evelyn.”

With that, he retreated to the security of his plush office and shut the door behind him.

Uncertain what she should do, she stood staring at the black vinyl lettering that spelled out his name on the frosted glass window.

***

Evelyn parked her car in the garage, grateful that her mother was still at her pottery class in town. She walked to the kitchen and scribbled out a note that she was going to take a walk. Margaret wouldn’t have to guess where. It was the same place she always went – the patch of woods that her father had cleared for her when she was a child. It was her private sanctuary.

Lying flat on her back against the mossy earth, she stared pensively up through the twisted branches of the hemlocks and maples. Her wavy brown hair had become tangled with weeds and fallen leaves, but she didn’t care. This was where she had come after the accident. And where she had come every day since then. It kept her centered.

There had once been a tree fort here that they built together, but she made her dad take it down when she was nine because she had become convinced that there were “tree people” living in it. He had laughed at her and she refused to talk to him for a day and a half after that. But looking back, it did seem like a childish daydream.

She examined once again the seemingly sacrosanct, yet completely nondescript envelope Mr. Grey had given her. She analyzed the handwriting. It was clearly her father’s. His left-handedness gave it a unique slant, with smudges of ink here and there where his hand pushed across the words he had just written.

She closed her eyes and tried to recall a memory. As time went by, it became more and more difficult to produce his image at will.

This time he was in the attic, seated at the nineteenth century roll-top desk that used to be his grandmother’s. He sat hunched over, as usual, despite her mother’s constant admonitions about poor posture. His black brows were furrowed in concentration, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Why he always chose to write in their humid, non-air-conditioned attic was beyond her.

His glasses were halfway down his nose, but that made no matter to him. When he wrote, it was a feverish scratching at the paper, a flurry of cursive and shorthand that rarely got transcribed into more legible forms. Most often, the lined yellow paper would go into a file labeled “Theories/New Research.” The file would then get locked away into in his oak cabinet, in a drawer marked with masking tape and red ink: Private.

She squeezed her eyes tighter. No. Then she opened them quickly. No more tears.

She held the envelope out as far as her arms would reach. The last of the day’s sunlight illuminated its corners, revealing the folded pages within, and the shadow of handwritten words upon them.

She stared at it for a long moment. Once this letter was opened, there would be no turning back. Whatever was inside would change everything — she judged that from Mr. Grey’s reaction. All the secrets, all the forbidden things her father had kept so well hidden — would they be revealed? Did she really want to know?

She dropped her arms to her belly and inhaled deeply, her lungs turning crisp with the chill. Autumn had fallen quietly over the New England landscape, trading the aromas of wild onions and blackberry for those of pine and harvest. It was the time of year when the days were still warm, but the evening air quickly turned cold and damp with the receding sun. She loved everything about October in Connecticut. She especially loved this forest when the soil became lush and wet, and its darkness held such a contrast to the colorful foliage of the woodlands.

The forest’s edge lined the perimeter of her family’s five-acre home, and it was relatively easy to disappear from society whenever she chose. Waldgrave was a small town, too small if anyone asked her. Granted, she knew nothing different — she had been born and raised here — but the collective mindset of the town’s 4,900 residents was just so…provincial.

Her father had called it “neighborly.” She called it nosy and narrow-minded.

He was good at that, though — shielding her with euphemisms, buffering her against the intolerable daily gossip. Given that her mother enjoyed her fair share of the rumor mill, conversations at the dinner table had become nearly painful. She missed her father’s carefully interjected comments about her mother’s latest book club title, or some other subject-changing topic. Often he would talk about his newest investigative report for the Waldgrave Courier-Post, which she was always grateful for, as it limited the opportunity for idle chitchat. He would throw her an inconspicuous grin and wink while asking her to pass the rolls.

If nothing else, he protected her too much. Until now.

She sighed and made a conscious effort to gather her courage. Well, Evie, she told herself, using the nickname that her father had given her, it’s vain for the coward to flee.

She carefully slipped a finger under the fold and began to tear at the edge. She made a small opening in the corner and brought it to her eye like a telescope, as if cheating would somehow absolve her from any real involvement.

Oh, this is ridiculous. Just open the stupid thing.

She sat up and leaned against the massive oak at her back. She took a breath and held it as she ripped off the end of the envelope in one swift, reckless motion. Holding the torn piece in her right hand, she paused and looked around expectantly. What, no terrifying beasts? No atomic bomb?

She sniffed. Of course not. Mr. Grey had some serious issues.

She reached inside and slid her fingers along the ridges of the folded paper. It didn’t have the same feel as the legal paper her father always used. This was coarser, like parchment. She began to pull it out when a rustling of leaves to her left caused her to stiffen. She turned her head in the direction of the noise, scanning the trees and brush around her.

Nothing.

Probably a deer. She put her attention back on the strange paper inside the envelope and tugged at it, easing it out carefully.

Another rustling, closer than before, got her attention once more. She froze and listened again.

A few leaves blew over each other in the distance, then fell silent. She looked ahead. A few more leaves, less distant, lifted and swirled and scattered along the ground. Soon, the swirling motion took on a linear direction – like a path being made by an invisible force. As if something were moving in her direction, kicking up leaves in its wake. But…there wasn’t anything there.

This wasn’t a natural event — it wasn’t an erratic shift in the wind, or the scurrying of a small animal. Something in the air changed, and the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She often got this same feeling just before a thunderstorm. There was a charge around her, and it was growing stronger with each passing second.

Someone — something — was coming.

The leaves began swirling more quickly, moving closer. She scrambled backward in surprise, the papers in her fist getting soiled as she dug her wrists into the ground for leverage. The invisible presence moved toward her with undeniable purpose, the whirling motion of leaves and dirt coming at her like a storm — and then stopping abruptly at her feet. A small gust of wind blew her hair over her shoulders and sprayed dust in her eyes. She blinked, instinctively covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.

A new scent lingered in the air — it was so familiar. She knew that smell, but from where? It was sweet, yet woodsy, like honeysuckle and wet pine needles. The aroma of it made her nostalgic for something that was just out of her memory‘s reach.

She remained frozen where she sat, not necessarily by fear, but more by some strange, uncharacteristic defiance that began to pulse through her. What on earth did she have to fear now? The worst had already happened. Why should she live so tormented by the past? By the unknown?

No. She was through with that.

She dropped her hands from her face and squinted out at the nothingness in front of her. Standing up with a new determination, she faced the unseen presence. It was there, directly across her, emitting an electricity that was impossible not to feel. She gingerly stretched a hand out in front of her, struck with a desire to touch the air around it, to see if she would strike something solid.

As she did, there was a sudden jolt of movement and the stirring of leaves underfoot. She brought her hand back quickly in astonishment.

And then she grinned. Was it possible? Had she surprised it?

Oh, yes, she was done with fear.

* * *

Kearne Blackstone stood staring at Evelyn in disbelief. She must have been about seven years old the last time he had seen her. And a good thing, too, because right now he wanted to wring her pretty little neck. She had been a thorn in his side back then, and it seemed the tradition would continue.

Really? Was she grinning at him? How smug. He had half a mind to try out his newly acquired magic on her right now. She just might enjoy spending a few hours liberated from the burden of free will. He raised a hand toward her, palm up and fingers outstretched. What did the pitiable old faerie say just after he had rendered him powerless? Oh yes – be careful on whom you choose to use compulsion. Some were immune, and the whole thing could backfire.

Well, he’d take his chances.

It was so familiar, the surge of energy that rushed from his chest to his limbs to his head. Every spell pulsed like an electrical storm under his skin. His extended arm began to tremble with the current, an evanescent haze of cold blue creeping in an aura down his body. He could contain it for a while, but there came a point when it would no longer be his power to bear. The forces would culminate in an existence of their own, then strike out against the objective with a strength unequal to anything a common fey might conjure. He was gifted, and it came with a price.

Suddenly he thought of John Ashbrook. A terrible price to be gifted, indeed. Indecision flickered across his face, his cheeks burning with the heat of his blood. He struggled against the power, putting forth more effort than seemed necessary to recall a spell of his own creation. The haze around him began to fade and recoil as he slowly lowered his arm to his side. The blood drained from his face, and he blew out a sigh.

Using compulsion on her might provide some comic relief to this insufferable servitude, but it certainly wouldn‘t help matters. He was here and he was a man of his word, if nothing else.

And there was no use getting himself in trouble again.

Stupid bloody girl. She had no idea what he was capable of. No idea what she had just gotten herself into.

But she carried the Summons. There was nothing he could do about that. He was bound by faerie law to protect her. And if it was necessary for him to make an appearance, who knew what was about to be unleashed.

Hell, what had hegotten himself into?

Chapter One of Estaroth by EstarothAvestas is the winner of the book first chapter writing contest.

Ordinary by jokrupinskiyahoocom is second place and A Game of Risk by artemisx5 is third place.

We have been given permission to publish Chapter One of Estaroth and Ordinary on our blog. These two chapters will appear later this week.

*See all of our writing contests

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 December 31, 2009. 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: A holiday theme. Any holiday will do. The flash fiction should adhere to our content policy.

Prizes: The winner of this contest will receive $50.

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 3 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 January 9, 2010. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on January 11, 2010.

*See all of our writing contests

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

Who Can Enter: This contest is open to all authors. All submissions must be posted and assigned critiques completed by October 31, 2009. Stories must be 3000 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: You choose. Please adhere to our content policy.

Prizes: The winner of this contest will receive $50.

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 “Short Story 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 November 7, 2009. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on November 9, 2009.

Really I Can Do That? You can continue to work on and edit your story after it has been submitted. All entries will be frozen when the contest ends. We will judge the latest revision of your story. You only required to submit your story for critique once.

*See all of our writing contests

Purpose: Have fun, enjoy the competition, and become a better poet by participating in our peer critique process for this contest.

Who Can Enter: This contest is open to all poets. All submissions must be posted and assigned critiques completed by September 25, 2009. Poems must be 50 lines or fewer. You may post additional poems to this site for critique, but only one poem will be eligible for this contest.

Subject Matter: Open, you choose. The poem 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 poem; make sure you select “Poetry Contest (Open Theme) as the category.
3. Submit your poem for peer critique.
4. Complete your assigned reviews, this is discussed more below.

Decisions: There will be 3 rounds of judging.

1. Authors from the Review Fuse staff will select the 10 best poems for Round 2.
2. Of these 10 poems, Review Fuse management will select the 5 authors who gave the most detailed and well thought out critiques of their peer’s poetry for Round 3.
3. The winner will then be selected by 3 creative writing and poetry professors.

• Find out more about what our judges think great poetry is.

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

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

Notification: The prize winner will be notified by email on October 3, 2009. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on October 5, 2009.

*See all of our writing contests

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 July 31, 2009. Stories 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: You choose. 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 August 8, 2009. We will announce the prize winner on our blog on August 10, 2009.