Sudden Flash
Satisfying Your Appetite For Yummy Bites of Micro Prose
One For the Ages
by James C. Clar
November 22, 1963
Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.
“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.
Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”
“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”
“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.
“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”
Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.
“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”
The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.
“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”
Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.
“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.
Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”
“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.
Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.
Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”
“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”
Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.
“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.
“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”
They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.
“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”
Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.
At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.
“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.
Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”
The two policemen turned away.
Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.
A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.
Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.
Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …
Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.
Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.
On the street below, chaos erupted.
Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.
“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.
Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.
Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.
“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”
Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.
November 22, 1963
Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.
“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.
Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”
“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”
“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.
“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”
Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.
“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”
The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.
“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”
Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.
“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.
Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”
“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.
Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.
Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”
“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”
Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.
“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.
“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”
They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.
“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”
Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.
At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.
“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.
Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”
The two policemen turned away.
Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.
A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.
Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.
Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …
Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.
Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.
On the street below, chaos erupted.
Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.
“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.
Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.
Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.
“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”
Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.
Muted
by William Cass
Late one night in a desolate foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So, I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William Cass has published over 380 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.
Late one night in a desolate foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So, I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.
William Cass has published over 380 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.
Standing Room Only
by William F. Smith
"Sorry you can't sit at your usual table today," tavern owner Jake McGinty told Patrick Murphy. "All my chairs were stolen last night, right under my big Irish nose. Can you believe it?"
"That I can," said Murphy, perched on the edge of a table. "I'm sure you'll want to tell me all about it."
"Friday, you know, is game night. So several regulars suggest musical chairs. It's rowdy great fun! Everyone stands up, one chair is taken away, and they all, including the waitresses, form a conga line weaving between the chairs and tables while I'm playing my accordion. When I stop the music, they all scramble to sit down. Anyone who can't find a seat is out, and has to stand around until the game's over. The chairs are removed one at a time until there's only two souls left and a single seat. When I stop playing, those two scuffle for it, 'cause the last one sitting wins the prize."
"So what happened to the chairs?"
"I was so busy with the accordion, I didn't notice. Later, someone tells me theye were passed out the door into a waiting van."
"But," Murphy objected, "there ought to be one chair left, the one the winner was sitting on. Haul it out and I'll use it."
McGinty grinned sheepishly. "I can't. The hooligans didn't get that one, but the winner took it home with her. It was the prize."
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
"Sorry you can't sit at your usual table today," tavern owner Jake McGinty told Patrick Murphy. "All my chairs were stolen last night, right under my big Irish nose. Can you believe it?"
"That I can," said Murphy, perched on the edge of a table. "I'm sure you'll want to tell me all about it."
"Friday, you know, is game night. So several regulars suggest musical chairs. It's rowdy great fun! Everyone stands up, one chair is taken away, and they all, including the waitresses, form a conga line weaving between the chairs and tables while I'm playing my accordion. When I stop the music, they all scramble to sit down. Anyone who can't find a seat is out, and has to stand around until the game's over. The chairs are removed one at a time until there's only two souls left and a single seat. When I stop playing, those two scuffle for it, 'cause the last one sitting wins the prize."
"So what happened to the chairs?"
"I was so busy with the accordion, I didn't notice. Later, someone tells me theye were passed out the door into a waiting van."
"But," Murphy objected, "there ought to be one chair left, the one the winner was sitting on. Haul it out and I'll use it."
McGinty grinned sheepishly. "I can't. The hooligans didn't get that one, but the winner took it home with her. It was the prize."
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
The Influencer
by Linda O'Grady
“You sure it looks OK, babe?”
“Gorgeous, babe. You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re getting the sunset? The waves? My hair?”
“Come on, babe, I know what I’m doing.”
“I know, babe. It’s, just, like, really important to the brand..."
“Maybe a step back, babe – really capture that dramatic windswept look.”
She wobbled slightly. “Like this?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“But can you still see the logo, babe?”
The twist of a stiletto. A shriek swallowed by the wind. A last flash of glossy blonde hair.
He switched off the camera and started walking back to town.
Finally, a hot meal.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Linda O’Grady is an Irish woman living in Bordeaux. When not busy with her day job, she can be found sampling wine, frolicking in the French countryside, and partaking in pub quizzes as la petite Irlandaise.
“You sure it looks OK, babe?”
“Gorgeous, babe. You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re getting the sunset? The waves? My hair?”
“Come on, babe, I know what I’m doing.”
“I know, babe. It’s, just, like, really important to the brand..."
“Maybe a step back, babe – really capture that dramatic windswept look.”
She wobbled slightly. “Like this?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“But can you still see the logo, babe?”
The twist of a stiletto. A shriek swallowed by the wind. A last flash of glossy blonde hair.
He switched off the camera and started walking back to town.
Finally, a hot meal.
Linda O’Grady is an Irish woman living in Bordeaux. When not busy with her day job, she can be found sampling wine, frolicking in the French countryside, and partaking in pub quizzes as la petite Irlandaise.
Hello, Nice Lady
by Nick di Carlo
Folks tell me you take in strays — one-eyed cat, three-legged dog, baby squirrel. So, when I see you leave the park, I follow. Struggle to keep up. Ain’t no spring chicken no more. And the limp’s real.
At last — reaching your back door, I drop onto your stoop.
Woof?
Meeeoooow?
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Nick Di Carlo, erstwhile poet and inveterate story writer, has been knocking about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities on east and west coasts, in prisons and wilderness areas. Read his work in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story.
Folks tell me you take in strays — one-eyed cat, three-legged dog, baby squirrel. So, when I see you leave the park, I follow. Struggle to keep up. Ain’t no spring chicken no more. And the limp’s real.
At last — reaching your back door, I drop onto your stoop.
Woof?
Meeeoooow?
Nick Di Carlo, erstwhile poet and inveterate story writer, has been knocking about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities on east and west coasts, in prisons and wilderness areas. Read his work in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story.
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