Pablo Michael Week 100: Sorting Through My Voyages

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Sorting Through My Voyages

Sorting through my photographs captured from my college days, I am distraught by my lonely life. I lay flat on my back, staring at one picture taken when my partner at that time, Efrem, and I had a rendezvous with Jarrod and Sam, two male lovers who were friends of my partner, introduced through their professions. Jarrod and Sam lived on their small yacht docked in Morro Bay. We had driven down the coast to stay on their boat on a hot weekend in early May. As a college student, I was naïve to sailing on the ocean, but my partner accepted a weekend of sailing on the Pacific Ocean. I should have known I would be overwhelmed with their lifestyle, living on a boat, romantically spending their lives sailing, fishing and making love above the sometimes treacherous waters. They related stories when the ocean’s turbulence became so rough their vessel barely remained afloat.

When we arrived on Friday morning, Morro Bay shimmered like sheen of mirrored glass, brown Pelicans flying horizontally above. After I was introduced and our luggage stored below, we set sail over the calm, blue ocean. Jarrod and Sam, already wearing swim trunks, advised Efrem and me to go below to change into our swimsuits so we could enjoy the sun as we sailed north to the pier at Hearst Castle, where we would have lunch.

When we departed Morro Bay, Jarrod and Sam hoisted all the sails for the light breeze. I was amazed how fast the boat sailed over the low ebb of waves. But when we passed Port San Luis, the wind picked up speed. Two sails were lowered leaving one to speed the way to our destination. I was standing on the deck a short distance from the mast when a strong gale hit the lone sail and tipped the boat into a spin. I fell flat on my ass, cushioned only by my brief, nylon bikini Speedo. I looked up at the other guys when a wave surged over, washing Efrem next to me, both of us clutching the mast with all our strength. Jarrod steered the rudder while Sam attempted to control the steering wheel. With my back pinned to the deck, I felt the surge of a rogue wave and its accompanying ocean spray sweep over me. Jarrod, Sam, and Efrem laughed at my debacle because my Speedo clung to my ankles. The force of the wave swashing the deck had also lowered Jarrod’s and Sam’s baggy trunks past their thighs, revealing their masculine manhood. Efren’s swimsuit remained intact.

That photograph brought back pleasant memories, even though I was aware Efrem was studying their gay relationship as well as me, but I was more interested in the adventure of this weekend away from the urban metropolis where I resided, than worrying about his perceptions.

That night, our sleeping quarters were too close but for me to listen and envy the sounds outside our room when I went through the motions of sex with Efrem when he pounced on me. I heard the love machine across the galley where Jarrod and Sam were fucking just like us. I craved the romantic feast sizzling between Jarrod and Sam when I heard their moans and sighs. Hungering for them, I decided at that moment to leave Efrem behind to assimilate the statistics for his psychological research of gay men. I wanted no part of his study but only the romantic life Jarrod and Sam led.

Staring at the picture again, I realized this yacht ventured for different destinations that weekend while we explored the Pacific Coastline near Morro Bay. Jarrod and Sam sailed on a voyage of love bound by their carefree existence on the ocean. Efrem traveled through people to propel his psychological career. And I embarked on journeys in search of romantic adventures with other men.

I set the photograph down while thumbing through various pictures from the same era. Memories of past lovers drifted by, some pleasant to remember, others painful. I picked up another photograph of a landscape scene, I kept to remind me of a fantasy retreat, where I had hoped to live in my later years. When I decided to construct my life at a young age of eighteen, I created a place in my dreams, similar to this scene. Staring intently and scrutinizing the landscape, I barely visualize a cabin, where I planned to write stories from my life’s experiences. The mirage causes me to ask questions about the path of life I chose to walk with the various partners I loved. I see the rustic cabin where I would sit, writing about love. The setting doesn’t seem as appealing as when I was young. My soul is tarnished by disconnected communication of too many beautiful men who had passed, having shallow dreams. I didn’t want to venture into this solitude. What had I accomplished; who had I loved; and who had tried to love me? Understanding I never found this retreat during the many years of my voyages, I set the photograph down with the rest. Efrem probably wrote my epitaph. It’s best to leave this final image for my final resting place while I still have time to live like Jarrod and Sam.

I close the album of photographs from my past, yearning to know more about the love shared between Jarrod and Sam. I listened to voices beckoning me. “Kiss me once, I might kiss you back. Kiss me twice; that might be a start. Kiss me thrice, who knows what the outcome will be. You were not a subject to be studied but only a man seeking a rendezvous with love and adventure like you did with us when we sailed on the yacht. Thrill seeker- yes. Voyeur yes, until you can find a better man to love.”

I decide to live another day. What dream should I pursue tonight? My photo album had the answer, even in my senior years. Love is available, if I look.

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Samantha Lee Week 100: Babylon

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Babylon

"Fi?"

I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and snuggled back into my mate's warmth.

"Fi?"

If I ignored him, maybe he'd go away. My rooms fast east, my windows always left clear to allow in the sun, and I wasn't warm enough for it to be after sunrise.

"Cat, come on, it's important."

If someone had died, I would have felt it and shared in the experience. If a threat was bearing down on us, I would have sensed it like church bells ringing in my head. If something had been destroyed, I very much doubt whatever it was needed to be replaced before morning.

Whatever it was could wait.

"This can't wait, Cat."

I buried my face in Khardeen's back. If I ignored him, he'd give up and go away. Sooner, hopefully, rather than later.

He groaned. "Guys? A little help? I'm not kidding here; this is important."

Dumitru sighed. Then sat up. "Lumina mea, your brother does not seem inclined to go away," he told me, his hand on my shoulder. "You will have to deal with his problem."

I groaned. I was positive if we'd all just ignored him a little longer, he'd have given up. My mate, bless him, was such a soft touch. Grumbling, I reached down to where Keeley's head rested on my hip and gently ran my fingers through his hair. He lifted his head, flashed me a grin, vanished, and reappeared fully clothed at the foot of the bed. Khardeen simply sighed and sat up.

I groaned again, more for emphasis this time than anything else. "What's so urgent, Rav?" I asked.

"The mortals," he began but I interrupted with another groan.

"You woke me up for mortals? Rav, whatever they've gotten themselves into, if it had anything to do with us, I'd already know about it. This is the first chance I've had to really sleep since...Keeley?"

"Five weeks ago," he supplied, "when you first came home but before your ascension."

I sat up and draped my arms around Khardeen's shoulders, pressing my cheek against his back. "Since then," I went on. "Let the mortals fend for themselves."

"Fionnuala, the mortals have accessed Babylon."

Something cold and hard gripped my heart and squeezed, turning my insides to ice. Babylon was a beautiful place. It was lush and green with hanging gardens shaped like hearts and diamonds and stars and clovers and rainbows. Fluffy, winged creatures slide gracefully through the air as men and women, their wings like shadows on their back, move about like shades through the candle-lit sky. It's...it's Poison Ivy's paradise inhabited by bird people.

Except for it being a hell dimension and its inhabitants being demons.

Not that the mortals would believe that. Lured by the beauty, the perfection, they would happily leave the door ajar between the realms, setting the demons free into the mortal realm. The mortal realm already had far too many demons running amok for my liking and those in Babylon weren't lower caste imps and devils; they were lords meant to conquer and rule. Once free, they'd kill and corrupt until there was nothing left but a world bent to their will and formed in their image.

And their image was really, really, really ugly, right down to the core.

"How many mortals passed through?" I asked.

"Six," Fiachra told me.

"How long ago?"

"Twenty-three minutes. They're a research team with three more back in the lab monitoring."

I tapped Khardeen's shoulder and he stood, offering me a hand to get to my own feet. I started pacing, thinking my options through.

"The mortals wouldn't go through a portal unless they had a way out. Rav? What is it?"

"They have remained in communication with their team in the lab. When the ones in Babylon are ready, the ones in the lab open the portal using trackers to isolate a location in Babylon."

"How many other labs are working on this? Have they pooled their research?"

"Seven labs total and they seem to have, yes."

Wonderful. "Right. Keeley, I need you and the others to go to the labs. I want every single piece of data destroyed; wipe every hard drive, burn every paper. I want every single employee from the janitorial staff up to the executives terminated. I want every family member, every friend, every contact to be located and their memories wiped so clean they'll need to relearn their own native tongues. Keeley, I want to go to the lab with the breach. Wait until the researchers come home and destroy them; rip their each and every molecule apart and then destroy those too. Do the same to all the equipment in that room. Be thorough, Keeley. I don't just want the door closed, I want it obliterated and any chance of a new one coming to be made beyond impossible."

I caught the look the men exchanged. It was deserved, but there was nothing I could do about it. Good of the many and all that.

Fiachra sighed. "What are you going to do, Cat?"

"Me? I'm going to go give the mortals a plausible excuse for why my people are about to destroy seven of their research labs, research and employees included. Should be easy. Come on; you get to help and play messenger. Tru?"

My mate shook his head. He was still in bed, the lucky lout, and had taken to leaning back against the pillows, tapping away at something on my tablet. "It will set the tone of your reign, lumina mea. This will be your first public action in the mortal realm. This will provide the mortals with the lens through which all your future words and actions will be seen."

"Are you saying not to do it?"

"No, a bad reputation is more easily overcome than demons. It is a sound plan which, if carried out correctly, will ensure the problem is remedied."

Keeley bristled. "If carried out correctly? If? In eight and a half centuries, have I yet to fail milady?"

Glancing up from the tablet, Dumitru quirked an eyebrow and gave Keeley a dry look. "You consider what happened after Lyr's death a success?"

Keeley growled. I went to him before he could lunge at my mate - he did have rather sharp claws, after all. Leaning my back against his chest, I took him by the wrists one at a time and crossed his arms over my hips. I gently stroked his forearms, calming him as one might an upset animal.

"Keeley, you know I've every confidence in you; I wouldn't trust you with this otherwise. Tru, leave Keeley be; you know he's more than excels in his duties. What exactly were you trying to say?"

Dumitru sighed. "What I was saying, lumina mea, was that whatever excuse you use had better be very, very good."

I choked back a laugh, a garbled half-cry escaping in spite of my efforts. I wasn't sure there was an excuse that good. Of course, the truth wasn't an option either; tell the mortals the truth and they would arrogantly think we exaggerated the danger.

Some days, getting out of bed just wasn't worth the hassle.

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Lizzie Koch Week 100: Conditional Love

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Conditional Love

Across from her bed, Kenzie watched the blur of the blades whirring round and round as they obstructed her view to the outside world. She lay still as cool air rolled over her, imagining laying on a beach with a cool sea breeze, soft golden sands between her toes and licking her lips to the taste of salt. It wasn’t hard to visualise even though it seemed a lifetime ago she was lying on a private strip of beach with Tate. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she looked at the white band around her finger where her ring used to be. They were still married . . . as far as she knew but who knew, really, in this new world where survival was now a day by day occurrence, and marriage a relic. She turned her attention back to the fan, it’s gentle hum soothing, the rotation of the blades almost hypnotic. What else was there to do in a room the size of a box, bare grey walls with only the bed and the fan. Kenzie had no idea of time, how many hours had passed since her capture.

The slide and clunk of the bold made Kenzie sit up. The heavy door swung open and a large man entered. She eyed him, noticing his weapons were holstered. He wasn’t expecting trouble and Kenzie wasn’t going to give the heavily tattooed man mountain any.

“Marshall wants to see you,” he said gruffly.

“Is Marshall going to give me some water?” Kenzie asked bitterly from a dry mouth.

“Just move!”



Kenzie left her cell followed by the walking bulk of art, their footsteps echoing through the long, empty hallway to a large lift. It travelled up and stopped with a jolt and the tattooed hand slung back the gate. Kenzie stepped out onto thick carpet. Fresh flowers perfumed the air. It was all from a past life, not belonging in the world Kenzie now knew and it riled her that someone could have so much, so much of something that wasn’t needed when people were dying of thirst, hunger and violence.



The escort stopped outside a set of ornate oak doors, knocked gently and waited before the doors opened. “In you go,” he said. Taking a deep breath, Kenzie entered. “Mr Marshall, Sir, the prisoner, Kenzie.” He then left, firmly closing the doors.

“Kenzie! It’s been a long time. You’re looking good. I take it my guards have treated you well?”

“They haven’t hurt me if that’s what you mean.”

“You must be hungry. I’ve had lunch prepared.”

Kenzie looked over to a table, by a large window, laden with food, wine and jugs of water. “Are you expecting others to join us?”

“No, just us.” He smiled, just as Kenzie had remembered. He looked good; tanned, dressed in a clean, tailored suit, white shirt and shiny, black shoes.

“This would feed an entire camp Tate,” Kenzie said, ignoring his smile and the way her heart flipped.

“I’m sure it would but they’re terrorists and when they give themselves up, I will feed them.”

“I’m from one of those camps. Do you think I’m a terrorist?”

“Sit, eat and we’ll talk.”



Kenzie sat opposite Tate, her husband, now a complete stranger and her enemy and captor. She watched as he filled her glass with champagne then served up fine meats, salads, cheeses and bread before pouring a glass of iced water.

“Tuck in!” Kenzie didn’t need another invitation and gulped down the water, pouring another and finishing it just as quickly. Once her thirst was quenched, she started to eat. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten a proper meal, sitting at a table. Tate didn’t talk, instead, sipping his water as he watched Kenzie devour her food. Even with her face smothered in grease, she was still beautiful. Tate toyed with his ring.

“You still wear your wedding ring?” Kenzie asked, forgetting her mouthful.

“We are still married. I notice you don’t,” he said in an icy tone.

“It didn’t seem right. We’re on different sides. And you’ve had a bounty on me.”

“It seemed the only way to get to see you, face to face. You’ve been . . . evasive . . . and annoying to be honest.”

“What do you want Tate?”

“I want you to stop your acts against my companies.”

“That will happen if you share what you have. You have all this power, controlling the water supply for money is inhuman.”

“Someone has to control it, why not me? I was in the right place, had the finances, resources. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone far worse. What did you think was going to happen with rising temperatures and sea levels? Water is a commodity now and should be treated with care. Who knows when the next rainfall will be. Who knows when the water will run out?”



Tate got up and walked round the table. He took Kenzie’s hand, raising it to his lips, before leading her out onto the balcony. The air was stifling and Kenzie felt she would be sick, the combination of too much food and the stale air suffocating her. Tate still held her hand. “We were good together you know, Kenzie. Could still be good together.” He reached up a hand, gently sweeping away her hair, gliding down her cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered. His lips met hers; soft, tender and just how she remembered as he wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her into him.

Momentarily, Kenzie was taken back to better days filled with romance, tenderness and love, before panic, greed and power took over. She pulled back, pushing Tate away.

“You don’t want me? You don’t love me?” His pained expression was the first time Kenzie had seen the true Tate; the humanity in him wasn’t lost.

“I’ve always loved you and always will . . . but it doesn’t mean I like you or what you stand for. I will never agree to what you’re doing Tate. Can’t you see it’s wrong?”

“So you’re saying if I change, if I give up everything, if I share, you’ll come back?”

“Yes, ” she replied without hesitation which surprised her. But she still loved him, somewhere deep inside.

“And I thought love was supposed to be unconditional,” he said full of sarcasm. “Well, here’s my condition.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to kill me if I don’t agree? I don’t care. I’d rather die than spend another second in the company of a monster.”

“Let me finish. If you don’t come back, I’m not going to kill you. . . I’m going to kill them.” He pointed across the balcony where a large group was being marched in; women, children among the men. “They’re terrorists. Caught trespassing. You know the penalty for trespassing.” Kenzie saw the group being lined up and rifles aimed at them. “What’s it going to be?”

“Tate! Please! They were just after water! They’re desperate! They have no money to pay your ridiculous prices! Water isn’t just for the rich! Please, don’t.”

“Only you have the power to stop it Kenzie. You’ll never want for anything, never feel thirsty again.” Her heart ached for the line of people, tears streaked her face as she trembled. Disbelief of what Tate was capable of filled her, confused her. “The clocks ticking, my men are trigger happy as you know.”



She wanted to fight, wanted to hit him, hurt him, even kill him for what he was doing to her, those people, the country.

“Tick . . . tock.”

“And they go free?”

“You have my word Kenzie as your friend, husband, lover.”

The silence was deafening as Kenzie took in his words, looking at the helpless row of people. Tate wanted her back as his wife in every sense of the word. For the lives of innocent people. Her nausea grew again.

“Tick . . . tock.”

“OK! You win! I’ll come back as your wife.”

“Excellent Mrs Marshall.” He lead her in, closing the doors behind them as the air conditioning clicked on, swathing them both in cool, fresh air. “I’ll give you a tour,” he said, draping an arm around her as they walked through the large oak doors, unable to hear his men opening fire.

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I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

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Ruth Long Week 99: Beachside

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Ruth Long’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Beachside

Summer rushes in

Ripe as peaches and young love

Loneliness is blue

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A reader by birth, paper-pusher by trade and novelist by design, story-telling in my passion. If you enjoyed reading today's story, please consider checking out my blog bullishink.com, joining my creative community sweetbananaink.com or participating in the madcap twitter fun @bullishink.

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Aleea Davidson Week 99: Wither

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice:

Title: Wither

Wither

. . . . . .

Part 2

The air carried a hint of chill, autumn knocking on late summer’s door in a persistent way. Swollen, violet-tinted clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain that was long overdue. The grass under Mara’s feet was parched and stiff as she crested the small hill, her heart in her throat with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

She’d debated long and hard with herself about coming. Two weeks’ worth of worry and stress that left her nails a bitten mess, nerves so frayed she’d found it hard to eat. The dress she’d put on this morning felt frighteningly baggy, and she was tired despite the small distance she’d travelled. The feel of the loose fabric against her skin was a reminder she needed to take better care of herself. The boys were counting on her.

She lengthened her stride, filled with renewed purpose. She was taking a huge risk coming here to meet the mystery man, but it was necessary. The vitamin D tablets he’d generously given her—and promised more of—had made a slight difference in both her brothers’ health. Just that morning, Teddy had told her his back hurt less, and Jeremy had played in the garden the previous night for over an hour, something he hadn’t done in months. They’d built a tent out of old blankets, pretending to be someplace far away, camping by a lake Mara had to describe because the boys had never seen one. They’d listened with such rapt attention it had hurt her heart, knowing they would never know firsthand the splendour of a sunset reflected in the surface of water. Never splash about in its cool depths on a hot afternoon, chasing the refractions of light that winked in and out like tiny stars.

As she neared the place where she’d last seen her benefactor, she slowed, working to catch her breath. It was vain and silly, but she didn’t want him to witness her huffing and puffing. She was so focused on that, and checking to make sure her dress wasn’t rumpled, she almost tripped over him.

He lay in the grass—one of his arms under his head as a makeshift pillow, the other, held upright—holding the book he’d stolen from her.

She’d forgotten about the blasted book. Warmth erupted in her cheeks as she witnessed anew the amorous couple splayed across the cover. He seemed rather engrossed, which made her wonder what chapter he was on. Remembering some of the steamy scenes, written with creative euphemisms, didn’t help at all with her embarrassment.

Flustered, she cleared her throat, and he had the audacity to hold up a finger in a wait-a-minute pose.

All Mara’s fear and stress vanished as indignation swallowed her up in a powerful surge. Time was a precious commodity, and every second she spent outside put her in danger. The heavy cloud cover often brought the government men out in droves. Wrapped in funny looking suits that protected them for short periods of time from the weaker UV rays, they waddled around like misplaced astronauts, searching for people like her.

He licked the finger he’d dared to raise up to her, then flipped the page, continuing to read like they had hours of leisure at their disposal. In a different time, where every minute she spent in daylight didn’t threaten her basic freedom, she might have found him amusing.

As it was, her temper snapped. She reached out and snagged the romance novel, tearing it from his clasp with enough force the page his thumb had been pressed upon ripped free and fluttered onto his chest.

He arched an eyebrow, raising his gaze to her. Those damnably attractive blue eyes had haunted a few too many of her dreams, and it pissed her off more.

Sitting up, he plucked the page off his chest, making a tsking sound. “I was at an interesting part,” he said, smoothing the paper down on his thigh like he was ironing out wrinkles. “I believe the muscular Rex was about to finally man up and tumble the luscious Miss Samantha into his bed. Or I hoped, anyway. Twelve chapters of unresolved sexual tension seems ridiculous to me.”

He rose fluidly to his feet, forcing her to notice how tall he was when she had to tilt her head back to glare at him.

“And what’s with all those scenes of them eating at cutesy outdoor cafes perched on terraces? If you ask me, a man should have the decency to escort a woman out for a proper meal in a nice restaurant before taking the kind of liberties Rex has.”

Not a fan of being mocked when it came to her choice in reading material, Mara felt her left eyelid twitch—a definite precursor to her losing her cool.

“Nobody forced you to read. If I recall correctly, you took this without asking. I wasn’t even finished with it yet!”

“No?”

“No!”

“Well, that’s a shame. I was hoping you’d tell me how it ends. I don’t think I can stomach another core clenching, melting kiss.”

“Why? Do you have something against kissing?”

He laughed. “Not at all. I think kissing is wonderful. I prefer a writer leave a little up to the imagination, though.”

He handed her the loose page, and she tucked it back into the novel without looking, too riled up to care about order.

“Well, for those of us who lack experience, imagination doesn’t get one very far,” she said, hotly. Realizing she had basically admitted to having never been kissed, Mara pretended interest in rubbing a raw spot on her cuticle. Irritation faded away, leaving her feeling awkward as seconds ticked by, neither of them speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and she dared to look at him again. His expression matched his softer tone as he offered her a tentative smile. “I was only teasing. I didn’t mean to offend. Can we start over?”

Mara knew she had to take a chance. She’d been without a friend in the world since her parents died. He’d given her the valuable supplements, and he showed up here today even though it was a risk to him, too. She managed a nod, and he extended his hand for her to shake.

“Hello, little nymph. I’m glad you came. My name is Glen.”

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 99: Night Train Part Ten

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Night Train Part Ten

Madeline grinned and hit the accelerator.

   “How many we got back there, chouette?” she drawled.

   I stuck my head out the window and took another look. Our pursuers sped up to keep pace.

   “Three. That I can see.”

   “Only three?”

   She sped up some more. The trees lining the side of the road became a shadowy blur in the fading light.

   “You know where you’re going?” I asked.

   “I got the water to my right,” she replied. “How hard could it be?”

   “You’ve also got the water to your left.”

   She took her eyes off the road long enough to glare at me.

   “Atlantic Ocean,” I growled, pointing to the right. Then I pointed to the left. “Chesapeake Bay.”

   “So it’s north or south then.”

   I laughed.

   “Sure, only you’ll run out of land if we go far enough south.”

   That got me a harder glare.

   “You sure picked a swell spot for your soul searching, Moe.”

   There wasn’t anything in that for me, so I let it go.

   “So you’re saying they’ll expect me to go north,” she mused.

   The convertible’s tires screeched as she turned the car around without bothering to slow down.

   Half of my ass detached from the seat. My face hit the window.

   Madeline righted the car and punched it. We barreled forward, right at our pursuers. I took the Colt out of my pocket.

   “What do you think you’re gonna do with that, chouette?”

   “I don’t know,” I grumbled. “It makes me feel better.”

   “Whatever gets you through the night, honey,” she said, tightening her grip on the wheel. “Hold on.”

   The driver of the lead car chasing us held it steady.

   Harvey Hendin headlines swam around in my head.

   Big City Gangster Ends His Days As Maryland Roadkill.

   Madeline inhaled, then let the air out of the side of her mouth, as the distance between her breezer and our pursuers vanished.

   I could just make out two round, pale faces in the front seat of the other car, with all four eyes wide open with panic.

   Madeline cruised toward them.

   The driver of the lead car broke. He threw the wheel all the way to the right, sending his vehicle bouncing across the road. Tires burst as the car skidded to a stop on the shoulder.

   The other two drivers followed suit.

   Madeline blew right through as the Marylanders seethed at us from wherever their cars had ended up.

   I looked back. One of them was still after us.

   “Down to one,” I said.

   She nodded.

   “Round two.”

   She turned the car around again. I felt the suspension buckling beneath us as she came out of the spin and made for the oncoming car at top speed.

   The driver didn’t even try to be brave. He swerved well before Madeline would have crashed into him. Tires squealed as he tried and failed to pull out of his panicked maneuver. The car raced across the shoulder, ending up front-end down in the roadside ditch.

   Madeline threw her head back and cackled. She cackled some more as we passed the broken-down Marylanders again, then continued north up the coast.

   I let myself breathe.

   “You’re out of your mind,” I said, putting my gun back in my pocket. “You know that, right?”

   She hit me with a smile that made me feel like a young boy getting his first taste of leg.

   “Yeah, but you love that about me.”

   I couldn’t argue with that, so I didn’t.

   We rode in silence for the next few miles. Madeline watched the road. I stuck my head out my window and stared into the distance behind us. All I saw was asphalt and a blackening blue sky.

   The rumble of an engine-- maybe an echo of Madeline’s, maybe something else-- got and held my attention.

   “Those boys come back for more?” asked Madeline.

   “I’m not sure.”

   She kept on going.

   I spotted the cars when they came over the rise.

   “Looks like two of them,” I said.

   She didn’t say anything. Not at first. We covered another mile, then she hit the brakes and let fly with some very unladylike Cajun.

   I pulled my head in and turned around.

   Bright lights shone out ahead of us, filling both lanes of the country road.

   Madeline took her foot off the brake and started forward at a slow speed.

   “That’s what I think it is, isn’t it, Moe?”

   “Just as long as you think it’s a roadblock.”

   “If you’ve got a plan, chouette, now’s the time to tell me about it.”

   I glanced out back. The two cars chugged along, closing the distance between us.

   “There’s one good thing,” I mused. “They can’t shoot at us without risking hitting their pals with the lights.”

   “Are we runnin’ it or what?” she demanded.

   “Give me a second,” I growled.

   I took thirty seconds, long enough for the roadblock to come into view.

   It looked like the entire local law enforcement community-- all seven of them-- turned out to stop us. Seven sheriff’s department cars sat parked behind a wooden barrier, all lit by a set of search lights. I counted a dozen uniformed officers behind the barrier. Eleven of them held rifles. The twelfth, the sheriff himself, stood with his arms folded across his chest.

   “Moe?”

   I thought about crashing through. The cars didn’t bother me. The rifles did.

   “I guess we’re going to find out what they have to say.”

   She looked at me sideways.

   “I didn’t come down here to kill cops, Madeline.”

   “Who said anything about killing cops?”

   “How else do you think we’re getting past that roadblock?”

   She opened her mouth to reply, shut it, then trained her eyes forward. She rolled the breezer to a stop in front of the barrier.

   The sheriff came around and leaned in my window.

   “Evening, Sheriff,” I said.

   He stared at me, eyes cold and still. His face was close enough for me to see the red spot on his forehead where his hat chafed.

   “Having some trouble there, Mr. Malloy?”

   “Sure am. A bunch of folks tried to run us off the road back there. Might want to look into it.”

   He chuckled, a low, humorless rasp.

   “Why don’t you follow us, Mr. Malloy? You and me have things to discuss.”

   “We do?”

   He straightened up.

   “I’m only gonna ask you the one time,” he said. “And while I’m at it, how’ ‘bout handing over any weapons you’ve got on you?”

   I stared him down for as long as honor required, then nodded and gave him the Colt.

   “Good choice, son.”

   He signaled for his men to remove the barrier, then he climbed into his vehicle.

   The Sheriff led us off the main road and down a narrow lane that cut through the trees on the Bay side. Two deputies followed behind us.

   Night took hold while we drove. Gray clouds obscured the moon, blanketing everything in pale gray darkness.

   We stopped in front of a cabin. An honest to God log cabin. Trees ringed the thing in on three sides. The foliage was thin enough for me to see what little moonlight there was reflected on the surface of the water behind the cabin.

   The sheriff’s deputies got us out of Madeline’s car, then ushered us inside.

   The place was dark and, from the sound and feel of it, entirely unfurnished. Our footsteps on the hardwood floor echoed around empty rooms as we were led toward the back.

   They deposited us in a sun room, off what I assumed was the kitchen. A sliding glass door afforded us a great view of the lake.

   The sheriff came into the room, pointing at the deputies.

   “Go find a couple of chairs,” he ordered.

   “Wouldn’t mind some coffee,” I murmured.

   Madeline squeezed my hand in the darkness.

   “I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Got some official business to attend to. We’ll talk when I get back.”

   The two deputies brought in a couple of cheap folding chairs and put them out for us.

   “Don’t do anything stupid, fella,” said one of them-- the blond one with the lazy eye and big chin.

   “Stupid? Me?”

   Madeline and I sat down to wait for the sheriff to return.

   The deputy pointed at the sliding door.

   “Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

   “What are we gonna do?” I shot back. “Swim for it?”

   He socked me in the shoulder-- the one that had recently housed a bullet. It took all I had not to slide out of the chair.

   “You know,” he said, “I don’t think you need to bother telling anyone you’re from New York.”

   They left us alone in the room.

   Madeline leaned in and put her arm around my shoulders.

   “I hope you know what you’re doing, chouette.”

   “Me too, baby. Me too.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Michela Walters Week 99: Precious Moments

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Michela Walters’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Precious Moments

Her upturned face was lit up in multicolor hues as the finale to the fireworks display exploded in the sky.

And to me she never looked more lovely.

When her doctor said she had mere months to live, she dug in her heels and decided she wasn’t going to just let a diagnosis put her in the ground without a fight. Her expiration date had been exceeded twice over now, and we celebrated every extra week she was still among us.

Cassidy’s nurses had deemed her the miracle patient, as the experimental treatment had worked even better than their best outcome during their phase one trial. Her success meant the doctors wanted to poke and prod her to find out what made her type of cancer so special and so receptive to this particular chemo cocktail. I could see the bruises beneath her eyes, revealing how exhausted she was even if she’d never admit it. She smiled and allowed the doctors to inconvenience her all in the name of science.

“If this can help even one person, I have to let them try. It will be worth all my suffering if someone else doesn’t have to,” she explained when I asked if she really wanted to be their poster child, slash guinea pig for the study.

Sitting on the tattered tartan plaid blanket in the town park, she seemed at peace and was even able to cross off another thing on her list of things to do before she dies. Who knew experiencing fireworks in the park could be such a milestone.

As I sat watching her wonderment instead of the show, I couldn’t help but wish I could give her more memories and experiences like today. She tried to reassure me she wanted to live each moment as if it was her last, instead of hoping and wishing for things she knew she wouldn’t have the strength to do. With her request, I tried to be satisfied with her present to me of more time. I’ve learned to cherish every minute I spent with her, no matter how insignificant.

I was the recipient of the most precious gift I hadn’t known I’d wished for.

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Michela Walters is a wife, mother and book enthusiast. She is currently attempting her hand at writing her first romantic fiction novella. You can read her other stories on her blog: michelawalters.wordpress.com

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