20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- You Will Believe A Pig Can Fly!

By Brian Middleton, Jr.

Somehow,
a fast-food chain
should come from this...

It'd been a hard year for pig-farmers everywhere, my father included.  Bacon just wasn't in this year, it seemed. My pa, sick to damn death (his words, not mine) of rich folk buyin' frog legs and nothing else, set out to do something about it.  

He disappeared into the basement one night with a less than sane look in his eye. Three days later, he emerged, looking no more sane than when he had entered. All about him though, was the glow of victory. He was holding a syringe full of green liquid in his hand. "Let's go, son," he said, and walked out to the barn.

He stooped down and stuck the needle into a pregnant sow. "You'll see," Pa mumbled. "They'll all see."

A week later, Pa was proven right. A special piglet was born. He had all the fixings of a regular piglet, save for one thing: he had the legs of a frog! "Hot damn!," Pa exclaimed. "Giant frog legs!" He looked at the piglet and saw a cash cow in its place.  Pa an’ me, we’ve never seen eye to eye on just about everythin', so of course, the moment I laid eyes on that pig, I fell in love. I knew that I had to save him.

I headed into the basement, carrying the piglet under my arm.  It took me a few nights, but I came up with an idea. I took some measurements, and made a few sketches. It would take me a month to build the necessary parts, but I knew that I had struck gold with my idea. If it worked out, we would make more money than we would ever be able to spend. And Piggie would be saved!  


I started to build, all the while spreading the word: "You will believe a pig can fly!" No one knew what I meant, but I made sure to let them know, it’d be happening soon. “Look to the sky!” I told them. And they did. Soon, the whole town was abuzz with my slogan.   


-- 



Wonder what he meant by believing pigs could fly? Well, anyway, you'll have to buy a copy of the new edition of "20 in 5," to find out. Currently available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "You Will Believe A Pig Can Fly!" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- What Shall I Say To My Son...

By Dave MacPherson

Good parents worry
about their words
and deeds every day...

What shall I say to my son if I discovered he was going to travel back through time to the age of the dinosaurs for the sole purpose of stepping on a Jurassic Era butterfly so that all of history from that point on would be altered and he would get out of the calculus homework he was finding so difficult?

The first thing I will try to convey to him is my unwavering pride I have for him, because usually people contemplating time travel in order to destroy all of recorded history suffer from low self esteem and this seems to be a good moment to bolster his self image. Also, I will question how poorly he is mastering calculus if he can utilize the very fabric of time to aid in his plan. Einstein, Schroëdinger, Hawkins...none of them could travel back in time to squash a long ago butterfly. I will tell him that, “You, my son, can do what these giants could not and you should not worry about your calculus grade.”

If that does not suffice, I will point out the basic fallacy of such an intense interpretation of Chaos Theory. I will remind him that the world is large and time is long and it would take an immense disturbance to make even the tiniest ripple in the vast ocean of time. No matter how pretty the butterfly is, it is just an insignificant butterfly and its absence would change nothing. I will tell my son that even if he killed Hitler in 1930, the ever-moving tides of history and human nature would create another despot to create the very same Nazi Germany. All the same, only with slightly different color markings on its wings.

But if he insists even then with his plans, what shall I do? ...


--



What? What can a Father say to a Son? To read the finish of "What Shall I Say To My Son...," you'll have to purchase a copy of the new edition of "20 in 5." Currently available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "What Shall I Say To My Son..." along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- Letters

By Gil C. Schmidt

The paper trail
of lives and loves...

The first letter sped across the intervening space, tucked within canvas, the very day after they'd met. Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the county and arrived into eager hands. Words, tender and fragile as soap bubbles, were being shared.


Letters then flew and rode and were carted like butterflies on a gentle breeze, filling the summer days with yearnings and sighs, with new memories, new hopes and new fears of being forgotten. Fall went from butterflies to equally-colorful leaves, letters now probing and confiding, seeking deeper into the illusion for the reality of souls matched in the heavens.


The chills of winter blanketed the increasing ardor, wrapping it in the glow of its own contentment, incapable of dampening Love's flame. The eruption of Spring multiplied the letters, which then multiplied again into gilt-edged formal cards requesting a response s'il vous plait.


For a while, the letters ceased, but a distant war and a call to honor made the letters fly, sail and truck to lands filled with the hateful violence of inhumanity. Fears and the frequent touches of despair, even thoughts of death and tear-stained lines weighed the letters with realities best left unmet. A bootie, pink-edged, made one letter bulge and two hearts squeeze with the dread possibility of hopes and lives dashed forever.


But then letters, stiff, starched, serious soldierly letters said the time had come for the other letters to become unneeded and a flurry of letters, now tear-stained with joy, flew and raced to share the news, the plans, the changes and the future so bright and clear.
No letters for a few years, until a step up the proverbial corporate ladder made the letters reappear, from points north, south, east and west, all radiating inward and outward from a tiny hamlet that to one person was a universe and to the other an anchor that demanded to be raised. Questions became demands and accusations, words going past each other without regard to each other, speaking to themselves, hearing nothing but their own angst. The letters dwindled to postcards with perfunctory details, then one day, they stopped.


A few months later, one large letter, papers folded over carelessly, wrapping within them the words that signaled the end of any more letters, of any more words between these two. The papers, minus a few pages, were returned swiftly, slashingly, finally.


Four months passed.


A tiny letter, scrawled with crayon and kisses, made its journey. Held in trembling hands for an hour, receiving a drop of plumbed sadness before resting on a sleeping chest. Its response delighted tiny hands, and then every day, sometimes twice a day, crayon, pencil and even watercolor, like butterflies new to flight, wended their path across a landscape changed: the hamlet that felt like an anchor now seemed like a world, one that gave a soul purpose.
A small letter reached out, not to tiny hands, but to a tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, a spark burned where once a fire kindled. For days...nothing. Then, from words, from many words, from what could have once been too many words, but were now not enough, the answer whispered like a wave...maybe.


More words, many more words than were ever used, flowed from a heart torn by its own failings. Words of apology amidst lines of regret and sorrow, words that recognized that the shared had been so much more than the perceived, that what the heart had was so much more than what the eyes could have ever seen. The folly of blindness mixed with yearnings and sighs, with memories and hopes and fears of being forgotten, the passion of long ago barely restrained by the most powerful new hope.


Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the land and arrived to eager, tearful hands that, it now said, would never need to receive another letter again.


--



Announcing February 2012 Edition of "20 in 5"


We hope you enjoyed this FREE article from Volume III of our monthly ebook, "20 in 5." Go purchase a copy right now at  Smashwords to enjoy 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- Freeze Tag With Jack

By Dave MacPherson

Some kids just play mean...

Even then, I didn’t like freeze tag. It is a baby’s game. Pretending to be frozen after being tagged got old fast. We used to play real games: touch football, softball, or even volleyball when the park workers remembered to put up the net. But that year, around the time school started again, all anyone wanted to play was freeze tag.

It was because of the new kid, Jack. He didn’t go to our school. Maybe he wasn’t even from our development. He just showed up to play. He was small and blonde. Very blonde. Like white.


Jack was the master of being It. When he froze you, you stayed froze. Really frozen. You couldn’t move. Your joint and muscles would rust and there you would stay until the game was over. When he tagged all of us, and he always did, then we would all be able to move again. If he tagged you in mid-leap, you would crash to the ground, still stuck in the same position when he touched you.


I hated it. If we were going to do freeze tag, it should be in the normal way. If I was going to be frozen, I wanted to be immobile by my own power, by willing myself to not move. I didn’t need the help of something beyond my grasp.


One day in October, I went up to Jack before the game started. I said to him, “Hey, you know for this game, can’t you not freeze us for real? Can’t we just pretend to be frozen?”


Jack looked at me with his blue eyes and said, ...


--



What? What does Jack say? To read the finish of "Freeze Tag With Jack," you'll have to purchase a copy of the new edition of "20 in 5." Currently available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "Freeze Tag With Jack" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- Four More Words

By Gil C. Schmidt

Words can be so hard
to come by, sometimes.

“Would you like a refill?”


I’d forgotten where I was. When I looked up, the waitress was a different one. Finally. After the long wait, I was nervous. “Uh, yes. Please.” I didn’t really want the coffee. I think she knew that. In fact, I know she did.


She filled the cup with steamy ink and walked away, her stride slow and steady. I thought about her face, the near-smile it showed when she offered me the coffee, the deep blue of her eyes like a summer lake. I put too much sugar in the ink and had run out of cream, so I drank slowly, barely tasting the darkish brew.


She returned. I saw tiny lines around her eyes and a redness in them that I hadn’t noticed before, a tightness around her mouth that spoke of things best left unsaid, a kind of heaviness in her walk that seemed new. “Been here long?” she asked, her voice low in the pre-dawn softness.


I nodded, my eyes on the table. “Very much so.” I felt her smooth her apron with her hands, her body shifting to face me. I looked up, searching for kind eyes. “My girl just….left...”


--



What? What happens next? To read the finish of "Four More Words," you'll have to purchase a copy of the new edition of "20 in 5." Currently available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "Four More Words" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- See And Understand

By Brian Middleton, Jr.

We know superheroes
are not perfect, right?

I've seen this moment a thousand times in my dreams, he thinks, and his heart skips a proud beat in his chest. It is a surreal moment for the hero known as Foresight. All of his life he has had dreams of the future. All of them, save one, has been a warning of some kind, steering him away from heartache or disaster. But the first dream that he ever had, and the one that has been most persistent ever since, has always gone like this:


He sees himself, as if in a movie, and he is running down the hallway, all by his lonesome. He has left his super-powered companions behind for he has seen the face of The Pensive Death, and he has decided to capture him. The Pensive Death is the most dangerous and notorious of criminals, and has been for as long as anyone can remember.  The hero sees himself round the corner, and then sees the look on his face become one of righteous determination. The Pensive Death attacks, and Foresight dodges. The hero lands a blow to the villain's stomach, and then to his face. The evil man falls to the ground, weak from some unknown sickness. Foresight grabs the villain by the front of his shirt and lifts him off of the floor. The Pensive Death reaches up and touches the hero's head for a moment, and then falls limp. Dead. Defeated by Foresight.


This is the moment that inspired me to be a hero, he thinks to himself. Were it not for the dream, I might have been something perfectly reasonable. Like an accountant. Or a dentist, he thinks with a chuckle. Not some costumed superhero, he thinks, although in truth, he is excited. This will gain me the respect of men like Captain Strong and The Vigilant Protector. He reaches down to pick the villain up by the front of his shirt, just like in his dream. I must have a look at his face, he thinks. 


He looks into the villain's eyes and sees ...


--



What? What does he see? To read the finish of "See And Understand," you'll have to purchase a copy of the new edition of "20 in 5." Currently available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "See And Understand" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.

20 In 5 -- Vol. III -- The Only Pure One

By Gil C. Schmidt

One person makes a difference
more often than not.

The town was a festering sore on the face of the earth. A strung-out, ramshackle, decaying plot of ravaged coast, bordered by a gray fetid ocean to the west and pockmarked mountains everywhere else. A sweltering swamp in summer, a frigid ice hell in winter, the town had no name. It merited none.


Several thousand lost souls crammed the town’s hovels; how many was a matter of conjecture and deadly bets. Thieves and murderers rubbed rags with pimps and whores, all of them hunted by grifters and conmen, so many of whom were women. Blood caked the gutters in the filthy streets; blood also stained the lower walls of every wretched building, both inside and out. Gangs came together in the flash of a knife and broke up even faster. The dead were dragged by former comrades or enemies to be tossed over the ocean-side ridge, bodies smashing to the rocks below. The demon fish fed well and often.


Money changed hands by death as often as by chance, but in both ways more often than by choice. The many seldom slept, unless watched over by others for whom the favor would be returned upon awaking. The food stank, but filled the gnawing bellies that crawled into town and lost the courage to crawl out again. No one was called friend and trust was a word long forgotten.


Except…


The tall gaunt man wore a robe of soft gray, his doeskin boots stained badly but intact. He walked quietly, his hands in full view, the gray robe cinched at the waist by a length of knotted white rope with no sheath or scabbard in sight. His long steel-gray hair was tied back in a tail that ended between his wide shoulders. His eyes were sad. A poet, long-dead, once called them “The eyes that yearn.” Since the night that poet died with his new song’s notes barely faded, the tall gaunt man was known as Yearner.


Yearner was a beggar. The beggar. He walked the muck-encrusted streets with long steps, stopping on occasion to ask for a coin. Many pulled knives or swords or sticks at his approach and these were known as recent arrivals; their passage through the town was watched with greed and lust. Some turned and entered dark doorways or simply walked away faster than the Yearner. These were known as the new-dead or the longers, those who had stayed long in the town. The few who gave coins were known as fools.


But the days became weeks, seasons changed and the Yearner remained, a quiet presence in the mayhem. He seldom spoke, except to thank a coingiver. He nodded politely at any inquiry or threat, and when cold steel was pressed upon his skin, he would remain quiet until the weapon was sheathed, either by the holder or the holder’s killer. For over time, the poet’s name for the beggar began to change in the pustulent town, and the Yearner was given the sobriquet of The Pure One, and as another set of seasons changed, he became The Only Pure One.


He no longer begged much, for coins were quietly placed in his hands by stealthy passers-by. Sometimes a small loaf of fresh-baked bread was given to him, wrapped in warm cloth, the riches of a dozen deaths in this pustule of a town. The Only Pure One was noticed by all; in this ravaged hellhole of lost hope, he was cared for. He was, probably or improbably, loved.


One gray summer day, a bravo swaggered into the muddy street, heavy sword at his side. A newcomer with his face wind-burned by the mountain’s high, exposed passes. His clothes were tattered finery and his temper was hot. The Only Pure One walked up to the bravo and reached out his hand. With fluid motion of long practice, the bravo slammed his sword through The Only Pure One’s chest. The bravo’s laughter was full of satisfaction as the Yearner’s blood flowed to mingle with the town’s past.


The crowd gathered quickly, shocked, stunned, paralyzed by what could have been just another death. Then, a trickle of thoughts became a stream, and then a flood: The Only Pure One had given much, but he had also received so very much… And thus began the bloodiest battle of all, until the town was left empty to only wind and waves.



--

Announcing February 2012 Edition of "20 in 5"


We hope you enjoyed this FREE article from Volume III of our monthly ebook, "20 in 5." Go purchase a copy right now at  Smashwords to enjoy 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.