#FlashFiction
By Glenda Reynolds
The Black Patriot
by Glenda reynolds
Nov. 2015
It was a time filled with much turmoil before the Revolutionary War. I was once a slave, purchased by the Smith family in Charleston, South Carolina. But Mr. Smith gave me my freedom. It was then that I chose to go by the name of Thomas Smith. There were other former slaves who chose to work the Smith plantation along side of me. In return we received a fair pay and a roof over our heads. We were free to come and go as we pleased. Many black folk in those days were not so fortunate. One man named Jamal was a slave at the Cooper plantation that bordered the Smith plantation. Mr. Cooper treated his slaves very badly. He took better care of his livestock than these people. Sometimes Jamal would tell me that both women and men would be beaten so badly at times that it took days for them to recover.
One evening I accompanied Mr. Smith into the local tavern. A soldier from the Continental Army was recruiting men to fight the British.
“I feel that it is my duty to serve my country, Mr. Smith,” I said as I watched him wipe the froth from his warm beer off his mustache. Smith set his mug down. He looked at me with those clear blue eyes.
“I wouldn’t fault you for serving at all. On the contrary, the family and I would be mighty proud of you!” Smith said as he placed his hand on my shoulder.
Just then we saw Mr. Cooper and Jamal approach the table of the recruiter.
“I would like to give you my slave Jamal to fight in the war,” said Mr. Cooper.
Jamal didn’t look very eager to be there, though he was submissive to his master’s wishes.
“Sign here please,” requested the recruiter.
“I can’t read or write,” replied Jamal.
“Just make your mark then.”
I stood up and walked to the recruiter and willingly signed my name. Cooper didn’t look impressed by my penmanship. Instead he looked at me with eyes filled with intense dislike. After that Cooper left the tavern, leaving Jamal in the hands of the soldier. He eventually came to sit with Mr. Smith and me.
Read the rest of the story here
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-black-patriot.html
~*****~
We Can Make the World Stop
By Glenda Reynolds
Dec. 2014
I don’t believe that I really get paid to do this, snickered Agent Rona Monroe to herself as she continued her surveillance of Nestor Arlovski’s activities next door. He was presently jogging on his treadmill as he listened to smooth jazz. She gave a new meaning to the term nosy neighbor. She knew everything about him from his silk shorts to his favorite music; his favorite foods to his social life. By day he was a professional dancer, by night a scientist of pandemic diseases. What she didn’t know was Arlovski’s reason for working with a terrorist group to create germ warfare with a super virus. He was a curiosity to her. She continued to study him.
Two weeks ago, Rona had been briefed at headquarters on a new biological weapon threat: the Red Death. This was a much faster acting disease than any in previous history. It caused the organs of the body to hemorrhage and shut down. The infected person’s eyes, ears and nose would begin to leak blood. Death came swiftly after these symptoms occurred. At that time she was assigned to spy on Nestor Arlovski.
Rona moved in next to Arlovski’s apartment. She managed to break into his apartment and plant cameras and microphones in every room. Later, she showed up at his door with brownies as a neighborly gesture. A smile crept on his face that was always unshaven. His dark eyes danced for joy. The brownies were much appreciated.
Read the Rest of the Story Here
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2014/12/we-can-make-world-stop-spy-vs-spy_1.html_
~*****~
Dying To Be Your Friend
by Glenda Reynolds
Oct. 2013
“Hi, my name is Timmy O’Malley. I ‘spose for an eight year old, I have some pretty tall tales to tell.” He pauses to lick some ice-cream which is melting down his cone and onto the sidewalk. “My gramps was an archeologist. He went all over the world digging up neat stuff. One day he brought a discovery home with him.” He pauses again to give his dog a taste of ice-cream. Timmy looks at you and then shakes his head as if to say you’re never going to belief this.
It was an overcast autumn day. Timmy was home alone. While he played with his favorite action figures in his bunk bed, he heard a noise in the attic above him. An investigation was warranted. He switched on the light at the base of the stairs and walked up. Although the light was dim, he knew right where to go beside the only window. Sure enough, there was a plump mouse with half of its body in a mouse trap. He would take care of that. He reached for an empty Coke bottle and beat the mouse in the head until he was satisfied that it was dead.
“Ew gross!” he exclaimed as he tossed the bottle haphazardly.
He heard the crashing of glass when the bottle struck an old family photo that was framed. He ran over to inspect the damage.
Read the Rest of the Story Here
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2013/10/october-short-story-dying-to-be-your.html
by Glenda Reynolds
Oct. 2013
“Hi, my name is Timmy O’Malley. I ‘spose for an eight year old, I have some pretty tall tales to tell.” He pauses to lick some ice-cream which is melting down his cone and onto the sidewalk. “My gramps was an archeologist. He went all over the world digging up neat stuff. One day he brought a discovery home with him.” He pauses again to give his dog a taste of ice-cream. Timmy looks at you and then shakes his head as if to say you’re never going to belief this.
It was an overcast autumn day. Timmy was home alone. While he played with his favorite action figures in his bunk bed, he heard a noise in the attic above him. An investigation was warranted. He switched on the light at the base of the stairs and walked up. Although the light was dim, he knew right where to go beside the only window. Sure enough, there was a plump mouse with half of its body in a mouse trap. He would take care of that. He reached for an empty Coke bottle and beat the mouse in the head until he was satisfied that it was dead.
“Ew gross!” he exclaimed as he tossed the bottle haphazardly.
He heard the crashing of glass when the bottle struck an old family photo that was framed. He ran over to inspect the damage.
Read the Rest of the Story Here
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2013/10/october-short-story-dying-to-be-your.html
~*****~
Honoring Our Vets - a Thanksgiving Story
By Glenda Reynolds
Nov. 2014
I hear a splash in the water which rouses me from my sleep as I lay sprawled out on the back porch. What a beautiful, tranquil autumn day. The big fish must be feasting on little bait fish. The ripples travel the length of the bayou, splashing against tupelo and cypress trees. At least I wasn’t having bad dreams, fueled by memories of my military service in a foreign hot land. The humans call it Afghanistan. I call it hot-as-hell-with-no-doggy-bone-land.
They say that I am the best breed for military operations that involved parachuting out of military planes, secret operations, and sniffing out IEDs. I’m a Belgian Malinois which some humans mistake me for a regular German shepherd. My fine, wiry coat is a more universal color with black shading to my face; this sets me apart from that breed. We are also lighter and stubbier. I heard that there are some Malinois dogs that guard what the humans call the White House. If it’s true, it’s because crazy humans can sneak in there too easily. They finally got wise to my kind.
My handler and my beloved master is Gene LaBlanc. We served together in Afghanistan. We used to play find-the-tennis-ball games in the early days of my training. Next I found things that were scented with explosive materials. Soon all of those games stopped. I was only finding the scents, and I was good at it. But there was always a slight chance that I could miss one. It was just such a time that I missed one that my master was injured very badly. He lost one of his legs above the knee. A helicopter took him far away to heal. He would later petition the military to adopt me into his home.
Read the rest of the story here -
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2014/11/honoring-our-vets-thanksgiving-short.html
~*****~
Diary of the Unborn
By Glenda Reynolds
Aug. 2015
I was conceived in the city of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of America’s freedom, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It is a city rich in history, full of historical landmarks, places where events occurred that helped shape our nation. The people there boast that everyone is considered a brother – “outsiders will never understand”. It is a place where people can get their favorite food which some consider to be a cheesesteak hoagie, soft pretzel and a Tastykake. I wonder if someday I’ll have the pleasure of walking the streets of Philly and enjoying these delicious foods. Like many big cities, there are rich neighborhoods and a lot of poor ones. As with many big cities there are many problems that happen: crime, drug use, teen pregnancy, and people who prey on or abuse other people. There are unfortunate ones who fall through the cracks of society. My story is not unique, but it is worth telling.
My first conscious thoughts are of my own heartbeat and that of my mother’s. Does she know that I’m here? Does she know the potential I have of the man I can become? Someone big and strong to lead others, who makes a difference in the world, or does something as simple as hold her in my arms.
Read the rest of the story here -
http://glendareynolds.blogspot.com/2015/08/diary-of-unborn.html
~*****~