As you are aware, only my brother has the authorization to bring someone back from the dead.

Second try:

“No, the man should have been an actor, but he has good enough taste that the women he picks are sensitive enough to not make a scene in front of the children. At least, not since one of the early ones. Our oldest was five, and she caught us at the mall. Huge scene in front of everyone. That was a bad one.”

I’m maneuvering around the flares, cursing at the black Suburban that’s riding my tail, when a smear of yellow catches my eye. My heart does a few hard thundering beats, like a stereo with the bass turned up way too high. I’m halfway into a pact with God before I realize that the crumpled yellow Mustang only partially visible from beneath the tractor-trailer can’t be Jenny’s, because Jenny’s car is in the shop, and Jenny is sitting right next to me. I turn to look at her. She’s become so relaxed that now she’s softly snoring.

http://www.swimmingkangaroo.com/newsletters/aug07.pdf (page 9)

–
Break Time. A flash story due out in a forthcoming anthology. Peace, Linda

From this story in Brain Harvest.

This one is about as close to a full penultimate paragraph as I ever get. Originally appeared in Everyday Weirdness, here: http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20090428/

Looking back, I shiver to think how low the window always was—how nothing but my own height kept me from realizing it. I’m glad I never knew. How easy would it have been, with better perspective, to climb onto the changing table, stretch out a tiny hand to unhook the latch, and open the window into the flames and lava and black germ-devils of my fears?

Fourth, enjoy your flying Mexican. Life is short and we all need to take delight where we can find it. A corollary to this is that you should learn to accept your lover’s special talents even if they’re annoying.

Full story first appeared in Exquisite Corpse:

http://www.corpse.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=234&Itemid=33

I began with thinking, and I ended up hearing, hearing something coming up through all those layers of soil, something that had sent out for skin and had the spiders come to clothe it, something that had been put together all wrong and was pushing its way up through the tibias of monkeys and the teeth of horses, something that was behind me now, right behind me. I turned off the light. It seems I had found what I was looking for.

First of all, congratulations on the two Hint pieces being published in The Los Angeles Review and Sententia. That is awesome! Thank you for paving the way for us Hint Fiction writers! Happy Birthday next week to Hint Fiction ~ you must be a proud papa.

This is from my flash fiction piece, “Victims of the Night,” which is on my blog. I responded to Daniel O’Shea’s “The Steve Weddle Memorial Airport” flash fiction challenge to create an 800 word piece that had something to do with an airport. The entire piece can be found here: http://j.mp/4nkGXZ

“‘Blood in’ — right, Wicked?” She stared into his cold, dark eyes that looked like portals to Hell. “Oh, and this is for killing my brother and injuring my father in a drive-by last year, you piece of shit. My mother died of a broken heart after you shot her only son,” she said, slicing his throat with the razor blade. “What was that you said? ‘Slice or be sliced’? I’d say that’s a buck fifty, easy. But you don’t have to worry about stitches, now do you?”