UNDER CONSTRUCTION

The Aftermath

The bar was packed - absolutely packed - awaiting hizzoner Nicholas Urfé's final decision. The gamblers were wagering heavily on that judgement. Not on the outcome, mind you (although there was some action on that bet, too) but on whether Urfé would announce the results and give a brief explanation, or launch into an unending polemic before passing judgement. Popular sentiment said that Urfé couldn't clear his throat in under 300 words.

Ray finished adjusting the pH in the Fish Tank, zipped up, and began typing the following press release:

The two combatants stood facing one another as the dust settled. Each now had the stature and bearing of an Amazonian Goddess. Though no overtly physical blows had been dealt, both appeared somewhat bloodied and bruised for the experience. Somehow during the flurry of flashing and sparing back and forth, both women's attire had become mostly shredded and lay in piles of scraps and rags about their feet. Though their glorious manes of hair seemed not affected the women were coated in sweat. Their bodies flushed from the battle and glistening here and there in the bar's dim lighting.

Looking from the deep shadows of his corner, this unseen watcher had seen all and been most impressed at the variety and quality of the ammunition used in the combat. The taller woman, though seeming somewhat older and more haggard during the sparing before, combat was actually engaged, now seemed revitalized. The intensity and powers brought forth by both in the competition seemed to have restored the verve and zest to her, filling her hawklike visage with a vigor and youth not before apparent.

The smaller opponent seemed also to have been energized during the fracas.

The hair of both women, the white-gold tresses of the taller and the thick mane of fire of the shorter seemed to almost writhe about their heads with cascades of power, appearing more to float about their heads, rather than to rest upon their shoulders.

Long moments the two warriors stood facing one another as they returned from their places of mental battle and reasserted their presence in the mundane world. Both were grinning still and retained the mental lust for battle they had infused themselves with as the duel commenced. Yet the draw on their physical energies was obvious as well. The struggle, though primarily mental and creative had made itself known physically as well. You had simply to gaze upon the destruction of their attire. From the sharply tailored and natty pantsuit of the Selena creature to the hot pants and "Campers do it in the Woods" T-shirt of the shorter, there were nary two stitches remaining attached one to another on either of the subtly purring creatures.

So exhausted were the two from their valiant struggles that they seemed to slowly collapse into one another. Shrinking slowly together and supporting one another as they sank to their knees. Gazing into one another's eyes with newfound respect and some admiration they rested for long moments. Selena stroking the smaller woman's hair gently with her delicate long fingered hands.

For her part, Alexis used a bar towel and began cleaning the perspiration and bloodied streaks from the taller woman's body. Melting ice from her drink provided the cleansing moisture as she buffed at the thin streaks of blood. There were no visible wounds beneath. She continued buffing the alabaster skin lightly with extra strokes at the inner thighs and the valley 'tween her breasts.

Returning the favor, Selena added a little bourbon to the water she used for cleaning and brought her tongue into play at strategic points. Completed, she looked into the smaller woman's flushed features, though the flush seemed to be coming from another source now than before, and said, "That was exhilarating, and so much fun. You truly are a marvelous combatant."

"Why thank you." The flush about Alexis' skin increasing. "You're not so bad yourself. I really needed that!." Her grin suddenly turned devilish. "Now, though, I find I need something else even more ... could I interest you?"

"I think I'd quite like that," grinned the larger woman. Arm in arm the two excited women left the bar laughing, their nudity bothering neither a wit.

Looking upon the competition from mostly unbiased eyes, I am most pleased that "I" am not the one who must choose a winner twixt the two. The offerings of both were excellent and enjoyable beyond measure. Truly, were I to declare a winner hear, it would be all those who were treated to these wonderful flashes of inspired prose born within these gladiator's hearts and minds.

If there be a loser here at all, I'd say it was Gary, as Des and Souvie now had him hog tied on the table top. Souvie now used her glitter accent green nail polish to paint his eyebrows, the little flecks of silver and gold making his arching brow appear devilish indeed. Des had his shirt opened and had used an eyeliner to mark out a tic-tac-toe board across his stomach. She'd made her 'X' and was passing the pencil to Souvie for her turn.

Gary looked both miserable and happy for the attentive play, at once.

Thank you ladies for a most enjoyable session indeed. <g>

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

"Nope, sorry Ray. Your entry is nearly 800 words long. Disqualified," said Gary around the ball gag. "Nice try, though."

Suddenly, there was an enormous

and from a swirling cloud of ochre and salmon smoke, out strode The Judge, Urfé himself. He began to speak.

"'I hate stunt fiction,' is what I said to the librarian, the other day.

"'A stunt,' she responded, 'is nothing more than a formal conceit. And look what Borjes and Calvino managed to do with formal conceits...'

"Yes, yes. But a stunt is still a stunt."

The patrons listened raptly to Nicholas Urfé's every word as he continued, and continued, and continued.

"It's all a scam, of course. (I'm sorry. I'd thought you all knew that--that the whole duel thing was a put-on. Selena and Alexis love each other like sisters--no, wait, let's not go there--like the best of friends. Rather--for all their bluster--like those two post-colonial nabobs, Spin and the good Padre, who love each other like brothers. The insults were all hastily conceived out back, scribbled down on Post- It notes--you did note how Alexis would occasionally glance at the palm of her hand? How Selena would peer down at her cocktail napkin? All of it orchestrated to allow them the excuse of firing salvo after salvo of quickies at each other. [Women.] --It doesn't diminish your enjoyment of the show that I point this out, does it?)

"'Would you be the referee?' Selena asked me via email. 'It would mean ever so much. Of course, if you're too busy, there's a dozen others waiting in the wings...'

"How could I resist such an offer? What I'd neglected to take into account was the fact I'd actually have to judge the duel. Weigh the efforts of the one against the other and determine who, in the end, had 'won.' --Silly on the face of it, when the true winners of any such duel are we, the readers. So clap yourselves on the back, folks, and buy each other another round, huzzah! We won!

The special attention paid to the judge's every comment was revealed by that special glaze of attention in their eyes and the fact that noone immediately stirred to buy that next round. Later they would remember these words (or read them) and agree.

"(No. I'm not going to leave it at that. I'm not that weaselly, or cowardly, or unmindful of my reputation. But for God's sake, if you thought you were getting out of this without an epic post, full of plot twists, critical asides, recriminations and reverberations, self-referential snarks, and general tom-foolery, well. You haven't been paying attention. -- The aforementioned librarian and her spouse, who draws people in pervert suits, recently had an occasion to show myself and the Spouse the delightful flick 'All About Eve.' [We had somehow not yet gotten around to seeing it.] Much was made of the fact that I would--nay, must--take up the character of Addison DeWitt as an excelsior, a new paragon to add to my pantheon of well-dressed cads, well-spoken bounders, coldly brittle fops with jaundiced eyes. And--indeed--I did. ['He's James Bond quoting Byron, Don Juan with the original etchings, Jeeves with a hard-on,' someone once said of George Sanders, who won an Oscar for playing DeWitt. How could I possibly resist? --Or you, more to the point.] Allow me to quote the bastard himself at some little length--though really, you need to hear That Voice smearing these lines with a thin, chilly paste of oozaciously superior superciliousness:

"To those of you who do not read, attend the theater, listen to unsponsored radio programs or know anything of the world in which you live, it is perhaps necessary to introduce myself. My name is Addison DeWitt. My native habitat is the theater. In it I toil not, neither do I spin. I am a critic and commentator. I am essential to the theater--as ants to a picnic, as the boll weevil to a cotton field.

"(I mean, God! If ever there were a mission statement for me, it's 'To toil not, nor to spin.' Followed, perhaps, by the bit about ants and boll weevils. -- In that spirit, then, shall we? Take up these stories one by one, judge each round on its merits, tot up the points, crown the winner, pants the seconds, and move on?)"

Not one patron moved to interrupt Nick from his mission. They hummed their concurrence with a breathy, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzz..."

But first, of course, a word as to form. I disdain stunts--as already noted--and, formal conceit or not, pretending to tell a complete story in 300 words or less is very much a stunt. One thinks of Name That Tune, or some other game show, Alexis and Selena standing before one of those absurd little podia with a buzzer on top, hands on the bumpers, as the smarmy commentator winks martindalishly at each of them--"Well, Selena, can YOU develop that theme with a meaty arc in 284 words?" -- And its weaknesses are apparent, even in a duel of this caliber: the dependence on oblique inference (almost to a snarky degree), the severely limited focus, the need to make up for a lack of thematic richness with a tinny overreliance on O. Henry-esque snap endings-- "

Heads snapped up at the sound of shattering glass!

"Hi, Nat," celia grinned. "No, just tired, he retorted.

celia, looking innocent, harrumphed, "So, 'pretending to tell a complete story in 300 words or less is very much a stunt?' Hrmmph! and we suppose haiku is little more than a blurb for a real poem?"

Behind his hand, Nick addressed celia alone, "No: haiku are haiku. It's not length that counts; it's pretending to be what you're not that sticks in the craw. Or at least, pretending to be what you're not and not getting away with it." Then he turned back to the bar. "Was that a beer bottle flung at my head?"

Someone held up the shattered remnants, label intact.

"Indeed, indeed it was," he observed. "And Coors Light, no less. Jesus. If you're going to fling bottles at me, could you pick something of a higher quality? Pabst Blue Ribbon, at the very least.

"Now. Where was I? Notes, notes--focus, O. Henry, maybe skip the bit about the dialogue bearing the brunt of what exposition can hastily be crammed into 300 words or less-- ah! To judge a writer's overall oeuvre by her ability to pull this sort of teasing stunt off with a grin and a flourish is rather like according a station's on-air identification jingle ('Double-you KAY en EX!' tolls the chorus, chipperly) the same weight as Sibelius's Fifth--which reminds me; I need a new recording of that, as Vladimir Ashkenazy does NOT know how to hold those final, heart-rending beats; he treats them as some sort of whoopee-cushion joke or something, terrible, simply terrible--hey!"

Another CRASH breaks the Judge's concentration.

"Okay, okay. Flinging a bottle of Bombay Sapphire (with a finger's worth left in the bottom, I note--thanks!), while more than adequately addressing the issue of quality, is rather more dangerous. --Those corners HURT."

celia smiled, throwing kisses at Nicholas. :) Nicholas smiled back, to let her know that air-borne kisses are much appreciated. Wolf-whistles, too.

"Where was I? Skip the bit about Thor's hammer not being able to swing in a bathroom this size, much less a dead cat--ah! That said--all of that said, mind--the fact that there is nonetheless a richness in approach and effect within these 14 little pieces, these 14 exercises, storylettes; the fact that Spin and Nat-- while partisan in their choices, and thus not to be trusted--selected as their all-time favorite flash fiction pieces stories that I myself would not name as the best of this particular batch, much less of all flash fiction pieces ever written (certainly, Spin has polished off some doozies in his time, and while it may perhaps be disingenuous to point to my own 'Sidewalks of New York' or 'Bugger this for a Lark' as better than average, it would be dishonest of me NOT to mention them in this discussion, and I value honesty rather more highly than ingenuity)-- well. This suggests that, though limited, stunt or not, flash fiction is nonetheless capable of a degree of aesthetic richness, a complexity of affect, an ambiguity between intent and effect that renders the conceit as one worthy of considered contemplation, and my own negative judgement of it mere prejudice rather than a defensible critical stance.

So.

Let's take a look at that first round, shall we?

There is another sudden shift in the attention level of the patrons, as elbows met ribs. Apparently, Urfé was about to address the actual duel.

"Dance With Me," by Alexis; "La Jalousie," by Selena.

What we have here is a terribly appropriate beginning: a duel between the two classic archetypes of flash fiction, the situational sketch and the character sketch. Alexis gives us a bar, some music, a dance and a kiss; Selena, a singularly unpleasant individual deftly limned with a single fictive slice. But while "La Jalousie" does so deftly limn the character, and why she is what she is, she only is; nothing really, well, happens. And though it has the beautiful line "Three affairs, a Morse code: two shorts and a long..." that isn't enough to prevent the piece from feeling unsatisfying. The motor's revved, we're ready to go--but where?

"Dance With Me," on the other hand--well, we do indeed go somewhere, from point A to point B, and if we aren't at all sure where point B is, exactly, that's the whole point; neither is the narrator. Ambiguity and nuance and flirting that goes one step beyond--or does it?--all summed up with a heart-breaking kick in the last line that smacks not at all of O. Henry. One's only quibble is with the time-honored trope of dodging responsibility by "hearing" one's own voice say what it is one doesn't necessarily want to admit to herself as wanting to say--it's a dodge that's become a clumsy cliche, to put it bluntly. But this does not cripple the story, no, and if my judgment here is based more on formal concerns than overall quality-- both pieces are excellent, but I tend to prefer story sketches to character sketches--them's the breaks. (Also: men [who are straight, or at least gynophillic]: if you want to really impress the ladies on the dance floor, engage in some flirtatiously homoerotic dancing with another man. Perhaps with a friend, with whom you've worked out the basic details beforehand, though if it's someone you don't know all that well, but with whom you've flirted in the past, at a party, well, that works, too. Like a charm, in fact, unless you're in a bar in the backwoods of Michigan and a mutual friend comes up and hisses about how those guys over there with the mullets are STARING so maybe we'd all better, you know, GO.)

But that aside is neither here nor there. Point: Alexis. Moving on.

"Jumping," by Selena; "Clocktower," by Alexis.

Well, having begun with a duel of reliable warhorses, we now get jiggy with it. Selena with breathtaking confidence decides to blow almost a tenth of her total allowance on a children's jumprope rhyme; Alexis, disdaining the easy crowd-pleasers of sexy humor and clever flirtation, leaps straight for chilling menace with a jugular-clutching brio. But "Clocktower" misses its mark, somehow; while making starkly textual the inescapably sexual subtext of the lone nut in the clock tower is a bold move, there just isn't enough room for the lone nut in this clock tower to move beyond the nameless, faceless archetypal lone nuts we all have implanted in the clock towers of our various minds. Not quite; not quite.

When stacked against "Jumping," though, which--for my money--is one of the best pieces in this duel (it's between this and one other, which we'll get to in a minute), "Clocktower" falls from "not quite" to "I'm dreadfully sorry, please, try again." "Jumping" has a compelling situation, details that slam you there whether you want to be or not, and the rhythmic device of the jumprope rhyme, chugging the story forward-- style and substance, linked; it's impossible to imagine this one a word longer or shorter, brava, bravissima. Hats off. (And it never hurts to reference Avram Davidson when I'm judging, which Selena did, all unknowing or not. Cruel and capricious, I am, but at least my methods are transparent.)

Point: Selena. The game is tied.

"Ride," by Alexis; "Like a Woman," by Selena.

What IS it about cellos? You ever notice how, whenever there's a woman who's a classical musician in a movie or a TV show, she's always--I mean, ALWAYS, without friggin' fail--she's ALWAYS a cellist?

"Because we always like to see a woman straddling something," interrupted Shon. "Next question."

Which isn't so much what Selena's title is about; "Like a Woman," of course, is a snarky backhand to what Peter would have said had he not been so busy grinding Jane's resin into the floor. "How like a woman." (Female perfidy is up there with male desire in Selena's quiver of tropes, but if we get going down that road, we'd have to bring up Alexis's fondness for phalluses in crisis, so.) "Like a Woman" is, in the company we're keeping, not exceptional, but a good, solid piece, unpredictable, that forces every word to do double or triple duty, as good flashers must.

"Ride"--

I so wanted to like "Ride." For reasons beyond the obvious: it's a lovely set-up, a lovely situation, there are some lovely details here. But the oomph isn't quite oomphy enough; also, this one, of all of them, could, perhaps, have been best served by another pass through the word processor. The music needs to be brought out, the rhythms made more explicit. (If not the sex, no.)

Selena's polish, then, carries the day on this one. Point and advantage: Selena.

"Paternoster," by Selena; "Curse the Darkness," by Alexis.

Check it out! Another duel of sketches, character and situational. "Paternoster" is apparently Spin's favorite flash fiction piece ever; I'm not going to take the time to argue with him, as I agree insofar as it certainly doesn't suck. But it IS a character sketch, and suffers from the same problem as all other character sketches: we get a sense of who, and why, but not so much what: what do we do with this?

"Curse the Darkness," of course, gives us a honking big what as it hints darkly at who and why, and is another case of Alexis striking the jugular; wham! But again (and is this a limitation of the form? Is darkness something that can't be compressed so readily as humor? I don't think so, but) it doesn't quite make it. That, and the King-esque excess ("lit the tip of his hard-on," indeed) (though that's not so much an insult as you might think; I like King, more often than not) puts this one in the "So sorry" category, I'm afraid. A question of taste, perhaps, but what else is there?

Point: Selena. The game stands at 3-1 in her favor. Those partisans of Alexis may now begin biting their nails.

(And yes: this time the character sketch beat the situational. I never said I was consistent; I DID say I was capricious. Pay attention.)

"Lucky Dress," by Selena Jardine; "Missing the Mark," by Alexis.

Oh, Selena, Selena. "Lucky Dress" is a lovely idea, indeed. But considering how far Teresa could have gotten without it, as revealed in that momentary flashback, well- -the story is a bit put off-kilter by that. The dress loses its talismanic status. While I wish Teresa and Alan the best, the story itself falls short.

Alexis, though: "Missing the Mark," while not so ambitious, does what it set out to do, and quite well; we even, in the loosed shaft shot wild, have a touch of the old phallus in crisis you're so fond of. (Bit of a stretch, but so is most criticism.) Once again, then, we have a round in which the more mainstream trumps the more ambitious not so much through its own successes as the other's failures. But the important point is, it's Alexis who benefits this round: the game stands at 3-2, Selena, but Alexis is still very much in it.

Round six.

I'd been starting to worry: after strong, strong starts, both women had faltered. A little, but faltered. Efforts were not up to either's snuff. One wondered if the strain were starting to show.

Then we got round six.

Here's where the bells go off, the fireworks blow, the orchestra crashes into the take-no- prisoners finale, the chorus girls start high-kicking the can-can as the boys rip off those easy-rip pants, and nerve signals fire up and down your spine to signal the start of that inexorable climb up the hill to a really, really good come. Blam!

"That's Amore" is--"Jumping" aside--Selena Jardine at her finest: a character and a situation set out in perfectly chosen turns of phrase that put you there graciously, coolly, with enough panache left over to take an allusion and send it spinning through the story: "While she is standing at the kitchen sink, washing the ashtray, the moon catches her eye."

Take a moment and pay homage to that. We're far beyond trying to put a tent in your shorts or a puddle in your panties; this is sex and sexuality in service of Art: it's a high and mighty shiver we're after, here, and she nails it, boom.

If it were up against just about any other of Alexis's pieces in the duel, Selena would have walked away with a 4-2 decision and no need of a seventh round.

But it's up against "Dinner and Desert." Which, God help me, is the other knock-out in this duel; the one alluded to earlier.

God help me, because "Dinner and Desert" is everything I profess to despise about a certain strain of porn: the romantic, lovey-dovey, touchy-feely happy ending strain. That strain which runs through some of the more syrupy oeuvres of writers hereabouts, though no names will be named. (That which treacles some of Dulcinea's pieces, say.)

But! Like the best of Dulcinea's pieces, "Dinner and Desert" doesn't turn tail and hide in cynicism or easy negativity. It bravely faces the challenge of fording all that treacle; it moves fearlessly beyond it, and gives us the simplest and most unexpected gift of all, of graceful joy and giddy giggles. Even if you see it coming, the sheer cheeky effrontery of the last line--an effortless pun, a PUN, for God's sake--reduces even this DeWitt acolyte to a cheek-bursting grin and a table- pounding huzzah. A gorgeously unexpected fade-away jumpshot at the buzzer, and Alexis ties the game at 3-3.

As with all the best rousing, bang-up endings, there is a curiously muted aftermath. Or, round seven.

"Cold Feet," by Alexis; "What Dreams May Come," by Selena.

Nat says "Cold Feet" is his all-time favorite. Again, de gustibus. There is a certain skit-like quality to this one: you see it as a piece of animation, perhaps, a black screen, two sets of eyeballs blinking and moving, charming voices rolling through droll line readings. --But the piece does seem to be a sketch of something else, and is all in service of a punch line, one that is not so well-integrated or so generous as that of "Dinner and Dessert." A black-out sketch, then. Brave, indeed, to have ended on so austere a note, but it is, perhaps, too austere.

"What Dreams May Come" is complex and messy and one isn't too sure of what to make of the other women he's heard from, or the last line and how it intersects with the dreams we're told about, but it makes you go back and re-read it to see what's really going on, what he'd expected to hear, perhaps, and it is, well, complex and messy.

Had I my druthers, I wouldn't be judging the duel on this point alone. But I don't, and I am, and really, everything else aside, it's been a hell of a ride. We can take the good with the bad and argue over the implications of this or that play till the cows come home, but I've got a responsibility to them and the rest of you to make a frickin' call already, so I will:

Point and game to Selena, 4- 3. But before we huzzah, a toast to Alexis: the red-headed girl kicked ass, and has blood under her fingernails. This was far from an easy victory.

Final notes: a total of 3,683 words were written by both. This color commentary is merely 3,461 words. So don't get snarky. Much. Also: someone want to sum it all up for the good Padre? Since his newsreader drops long posts, and all.

"Geeze, Nick, you're about as long winded as Jeff, Souvie sighed in relief. "When I read posts by you two I have to check my calendar to make sure I have a free hour. :-)"

"Bravo to the two ladies! I wish I had your courage, your stamina, and your Muse," Souvie grinned, thinking, I might be up for a bit of flashing myself.

"There are five shelves for each of the hexagon's walls; each shelf contains thirty-five books of uniform format; each book is of four hundred and ten pages; each page, of forty lines, each line of some eighty letters which are black in color. There are also letters on the spine of each book; these letters do not indicate or prefigure what the pages will say."

and one ring to rule them all, one ring to bind them--

Alexis swivveled her barstool. "First of all, yes. It was a set up. I love Selena. And, no. Do not ask for the pictures, you won't get them from me." Beside her, Nat called out, "Oi! Urfe! Pay attention this way. Lesbian thingy going on over here." Alexis continued, unphased, " Never in a billion years would I openly comment in a negative manner about anything Selena is or does." Nat made finger-down-throat motions and retching noises after muttering, "Oh, puke!" Alexis continued, "Ages ago (after she and I did first battle as the seconds in that now-infamous Spin/Urfe duel), I was warned by Spin, 'be ready. Selena's been flashing right and left and she's feeling her oats. Prepare to be challenged'."

Nat's head whipped around, a dazed expression on his face as he gazed up and down Selena's form. "She's feeling her what?"

"So, like the idiot I am, I decided to undercut her and steal the advantage of surprise and challenge her first (which I did, privately. Y'all didn't see that part, but I know that someone has the photographs).

"Never will I learn.

[There followed a long silence in which she was not contradicted] [possibly due to Nat holding up a palm for silence.]

"Seven stories. It started out as three, then expanded to four, then somehow we both agreed to seven (yes, we're both highly influenced by our seconds. Blame it on them).

"Anyway, push came to shove (and no, I'm not passing out the picture of the pushing or shoving either, you'll have to bribe the Good Doctor and the Darling Padre for those), and we did it. And we were both exhausted.

"When I'm coaching competitive soccer I tell my teams that the games they should look forward to are not the ones being played against the weaker teams. Those games are the easy ones- -no challenges. You don't learn or grow from those matches.

"No. The matches that we should look forward to, the matches that we should relish, are those being played against the opponents that we *know* are stronger. Those are the games that make us work. Those are the games that make us sweat. Those are the games that make us grow. Those are the games of which we dream. That's what doing a duel with Selena is like.

"I wish I could say that I disagreed with Urfé's conclusions, but I don't. Selena ran me ragged at each round. She pushed me and pulled me and forced me to work that much harder. Thank you, Dear Selena. If I wore a hat, it would be tipped to you. Will you settle instead for me removing my bra in your honor?

"However, even bigger thanks go to our Seconds. Without them, none of this would be possible. Talk about being pushed and pulled and prodded and bullied. There's a reason I asked Nat to be my Second (okay, there are several reasons, but most of them will be heard only in confession). Nat is absolutely brilliant when it comes to finding something worth saving in a story and helping me perform CPR.

"One more thing about going above and beyond. Urfe, Urfe, Urfe. Could we have asked for more? Well, yes. We could have, but why would we? He gave us all a detailed analysis of WHY things worked and why (sigh) they didn't. Whether we all agree or not (and for those who disagree, let me know and I *might* be able to find a picture or two of those previously mentioned snapshots to share), the time and effort our esteemed judge put in our game was far above anything expected. Thank you, Good Sir.

"Know what? This was fun. A lot of fun. And writing should be fun. In fact, it's the most fun I've had writing anything in a very long time.

"Thank you Spin and Selena and Urfe and Nat. And, I'll replenish the peanut supply in the gallery if it needs it (who would have thunk I'd actually get a compliment on a pun?).

"(Notice how I politely refrained from pointing out that Selena was the Second for Urfe in his last duel? Mighty mature of me, I think.)

Selena swiveled her barstool to face the patrons. "So I'm just sitting there, minding my own business (well, no, but it sounds good), and Alexis says, 'How about a duel?' And because I am flattered out of my mind," she continues despite Nat's finger-in-throat and retching noises, "that such a good writer and lovely person would issue such an invitation, I chirp, 'Sure!' (None of you know this [and I am morally certain that I ought not to say it in public, but honesty demands it of me] I Cannot Say No. [Especially to Alexis.])

"But I ought at least to have thought it through.

"Ten exhausting days later, I have gone through the wringer. My charming and lovely co-duellist has kept me shivering on the tips of my toes, waiting to see what the next day's installment will bring, and whether what I have to offer can match it. Reading her flashes was like picking up beach glass, and not knowing whether or not it would cut your palm. Marvelous, wicked, silky. Thank you, Alexis. You made me do better than I otherwise would have done.

"And as Alexis says, even more thanks to my Insatiable Second, DrSpin, who has demanded both more and better from me than I knew I had. He told me when I had something and also (firmly) when I didn't, and cut and cut and cut, and I watched a creaking nightmare pull together into a tight little honey of a piece. Thank you, Doctor. Seven pieces, at your instigation. Remind me who the vampire is around here?

"And finally, thank you, thank you, to our judge, who waded in with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the top three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned and that particular look of indrawn concentration on his face that he gets when-- Oh. Sorry. Was I saying something? Anyway. Who waded in with his shirtsleeves rolled up and made sense of the fray. Thank you, Nicholas.

"A bravura performance, yes. Good man," winked Nat.

"In other words, and being particular as I am about thank-you notes:

"Thank you for having me, Alexis and Spin and Nat and Urf�. I had a lovely time."

Father ignatius, unable to help himself begins to Smooooch! fumble grope! Had he kept his eyes open, he might not have done it to poor hapless Ray, who had approached to shake hands.

Tesseract was suddenly alert. "Alexis and Spin and Nat and Urf� had you?:) Any pictures? Did somebody at least take notes?" Whipping around and waggling a finger in Conjugate's face in his very best 'Nyaah, Nyahh mode, he gloated, "I beat you, Conjugate."

Alexis cleared her throat. "Apparently someone here didn't read my response. Not only did I discuss the pictures, I even told you how you might just be able to get a set of your own. And about beating Conjugate, now, of course, it's our turn to ask. Did you take pictures?"

"Flash duels are much, much more fun than you think," Selena said, ignoring the finger Tesseract was giving Conjugate.

"8x10 glossies, framed or unframed, may or may not be available for sale at Selena's House of Discretion."

Alexis nodded. "Good grief, what does it take to get people to read something of mine around here?"

"Make it interesting in some way," sneared Nat.

"Ah, good Father. Continue with such cruel words and we'll just see if I get on my knees during my next confession."

"A sexy title?" wondered Denny. "Like maybe, Flashing for Fun and Combat?"

"It's funny, said Shon. "I thought Selena's last story would sink her. I must have read it six times and I still couldn't figure out who the daughter belonged to. I guess I was lacking in my reader interface that day. I found it amusing that Nicholas was just as confused and that was the reason he gave it the point. Lesson to be learned? -it is better to be perplexing because readers will just assume they aren't smart enough to appreciate the genius. <g>

"My dear, dear Shon," Urfé intoned unctuously, "while I will cop to having found Selena's last (somewhat) confusing, I will not cop to having been as confused as you evidently were; Tamara is clearly identified as 'their daughter.' --I feel it necessary to point this out, as you are in some danger of walking away having learned the wrong lesson...

"Otherwise: hear, hear."

Shon raised a glass to that. "I thought it was a great duel," he added. "I loved Clocktower, Jumping Rope and Dinner and Dessert. I wasn't crazy about how bitter some of the stories got but that's just a personal thing. I do know one thing, Selena and Alexis made it look so easy I wanted to join in and write some meaningful Flashes myself. Writers that inspire other writers should be kept and treasured."

Mat raised a stein. "I enjoyed reading all the stories. Great job, Alexis and Selena."

To the others, he admitted, "Had I been a judge I think I would have scored it four to two in favor of Selena, with one round (the fifth) being too close to call. My favorite story by Alexis was her first, Dance with Me. My favorite by Selena was her second, Jumping."

Acknowledgements

It's never too early to acknowledge the key participants.

Alexis Siefert, and Selena Jardine, our duelists, are both Award- winning authors.

Selena's second, DrSpin (Neil Anthony) and Father Ignatius, Alexis' Second are award-winners of even longer standing, and sometime mentors to new authors of sufficient talent to catch their attention.

His Honor Nicholas Urfé is yet another award-winner. Does anyone see a trend here?

Even the "peanut gallery" is a veritable "Who's Who" of ASSD.

{SOUVIE} and {Desdmona} mad their presence well known, and Des's The FISH TANK got several mentions. Oosh and Jordan Shelbourne chimed in as well, and if Shon Richards had gotten his way, this would have been "Mudslingers 2002." Even Uther Pendragon made a cameo appearance. There was also, Ray, Tesseract, Vinnie, Conjugate, and Mat.

Your humble host, Gary Jordan, is an award- making author, pleased and proud at being permitted to bring these stories and this event to you in this format. All of the material presented is available through the Google Groups Search Engine at ASSD - but it was a pleasure to gather it into one location for you.