Prize Money

To the winner, Vivid Violet

Results and Revealing Identities

6. Peculiar Poinsetta
5. Pleasant Plumeria
4. Cool Cactus
3. Pensive Peyote
2. Fiesty Fern
1. Vivid Violet

Congratulations to everyone! You were a dedicated bunch! I hope you wrote a lot of things you'll keep in your personal collections. Feel free to post in your blog or send to publishers if you'd like :)

It is a good thing we did three final six posts because there were a lot of ties after the first two. Also, if you're curious, I gave Plumeria all 5s the last round but averaged her earlier rounds as I did everyone else.

Revealing Identities
I will edit this as I have more responses!

Pensive Peyote: Shea Donato
Simple Sagebrush: Andrea P.
Defiant Daisy: Maggie
Thrifty Tulip: Anna
Vivid Violet: John Brittain
Feisty Fern: Trevor Alexander
Pleasant Plumeria: Mel Gibbard
Racy Redwood: Jeanne
Peculiar Poinsettia: Elizabeth
Sociable Sunflower: Sean Ludwig
Cool Cactus: Alan Tauber

Final Vote

It's time for your final vote! Rank the last response 1 (best) to 5 (worst) and rank yourself as 5. Pleasant Plumeria didn't respond so leave him/her out. Due by Tuesday at 11:59pm but the sooner you respond, the sooner we can get the results!

Pensive Peyote #13

Makeshift patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself at half mast.

It's the makeshift,
the patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself for your live telecast...

The signs. The banners. The people. The anger.

It was everywhere. Thousands of people, individuals...all living in fear. Fear of a system that has grown out of control. Fear of a never-ending war. Fear of recognizing one simple fact: we were duped.

Use civilians against civilians and charge the trojan horse into our buildings.
Using commercial aviation as instruments of destruction.

And there's the news media...catching 1000 images/second on their high-tech digital cameras. Catching all of our faces to be immortalized in either fame or infamy. It's too early to tell which it will be. For months those same reporters regurgitated the same 30 second soundbites:

"Saddam has weapons of mass destruction."

"A link exists between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda."

"WMD's."

"Terrorism."

Bullshit. We know who attacked us a year and a half ago. We know where that group originated. It's not this. And now we are the news of the moment...we are the mostly reviled, lightly appreciated, group of millions standing up for what we know is true. This isn't right.

Who's going to make that call, to increase an unknown deathtoll?
It's the one we rally behind.
He's got a megaphone, promising to make heads roll.
We'd cheer him on, but asbestos is affecting our breath control.
The less we know, the more they fabricate,
the easier it is to sell souls.

I remember that day clearly. I remember the aftermath. I remember the anger...not just mine, but everyone's. No one would admit to it, but everything was thinking the same thing: "take those motherfuckers out." It didn't take long for our government to invade Afghanistan. Even while reeling from the shock and anger, we went about our daily lives as bombs fell in Kabul. We could prevent our own paralysis through the knowledge that the attack was being answered. The images of people falling hundreds of stories could be pushed to the back of our minds as long as something was being done. Bullets and bombs would articulate what we couldn't: "don't mess with us." As time went on, more soundbites came across:

"The USA Patriot Act, passed today, will help us find terrorists hiding here."

"The Transportation Security Administration will now conduct random security screenings of passengers. Please be patient."

"The War on Terror."

"Wiretapping."

"Terrorists."

Some of us were beginning to realize it, though no one wanted to say it out loud for fear that it might come true: something very wrong is happening. This is not what we envisioned. We're losing control, and we can't stop it.

There is a new price on freedom, so buy into it while supplies last,
changes need to be made,
no more curbside baggage,
seven pm curfew,
racial profiling will continue with less bitching.
We're unified over who to kill, so until I find more relevant scripture to quote,
remember, our god is bigger, stronger, smarter, and much wealthier.
So wave those flags with pride, especially the white part.

No more. It's time. This sign is mine to carry, and carry it I will. It's cold, but February mornings in the city generally are. Rumors have been circulating that other demonstrations in Europe have been interrupted by clashes with the police. Oh well. I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. A year and a half of that has produced exactly what we're now protesting against. It can't go on.

It's the makeshift,
the patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself.
Don't waive your rights with your flag.

**********************
Note: lyrics are from "Makeshift Patriot" by Sage Francis.

Feisty Fern #13

Matt sat at the main console of BTX93. His hair hung around his face in unwashed ringlets. He wore a plain white T-shirt with only a few black ash smudges and jeans worn paper thin from mid-thigh to just below the knee. Leaning back in his chair, he wedged his hand in his pant’s pocket and pulled out a pack of Buddha’s. Matt sparked the pre-rolled, mass produced joint and exhaled a slowly forming cloud into the dark room. Wisps of smoke found their way through the series of wires and cables covering the walls like hunters creeping through the underbrush.

“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed.” The Grateful Dead’s steady, playful sound filled the room, preventing an oppressive silence. Matt ran his hand through his long hair, taking a deep drag with the other hand as he leaned back to an extreme angle in his black leather chair.

“Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind.” A silenced shot ripped through the back of the chair and into Matt’s chest. He spun around to face the shooter; a puff of smoke casually curled from the exit wound in the front of his chest. A second muffled bullet removed the left half of Matt’s head, depositing the remaining chunks on the series of monitors behind him.



A man in a blue suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie walked confidently to the podium. Frosty white hair gave him a harsh appearance. He looked out into a sea of press member’s faces.

“My name is Phillip Smith.” His voice was as cold as his icy blue eyes. “I was Matt Buckman’s closest advisor, as I was to his father.”

“Following Matt’s tragic death, I will be acting CEO of Buckman Technologies. I called this conference to answer any questions you have at this time.”

“Is BTX93 operational?” a black woman wearing an expensive pink suit in the front row asked.

“It is operational; unfortunately Matt had disabled the system to finish his work. BTX93 would have prevented his murder. It is the premiere artificially intelligent security system in the world, which Matt developed, continuing his father’s legacy.”

A large man in the middle of the pack asked, “Do the police have any leads?” His second chin jiggled violently as he over enunciated his words.

Phillip cleared his throat and drank some water, “There was no physical evidence at the scene. The bullets used were antique hollow points, which were made before bullet tracking chips were invented. The police questioned Tex, the voice of BTX93, but as the system was offline during the attack, he had no information for them. Several of Matt’s notebooks were missing, corporate espionage is currently suspected.”

“One more question,” said Phillip.

“Will Mr. Buckman’s death delay or alter the release of BTX93?” asked a man in a short sleeved white dress shirt, who chewed on his pen like he had been craving a cigarette for days.

“The fully functional artificially intelligent system with its forensic evidence gathering technologies, infrared and night vision cameras and a full range of automated defense mechanisms will be available for customized purchase in the spring of 2029, just ten months from today,” Phillip finished and left the podium.



Detective Kemp walked through the hallway of the top floor of Buckman Technologies’ building. A desk in the hallway was worn at the edges exposing lighter shades of wood. Beyond the desk were other modest office furnishings, along with two marijuana plants. His police training still gave him a queasy, burning feeling in his gut when he encountered marijuana, although it had been legal for ten years. Everyone knew Matt Buckman was a habitual smoker; these items could be the former occupants of his corner office, Kemp reasoned.

A red headed secretary, who couldn’t have been over eighteen, showed him into Mr. Smith’s office.

“Hello,” Smith’s cool voice welcomed, “Please, sit.” The furniture was clearly new. Brushed stainless steel and glass dominated the space. There was a brown shag carpet on the floor, which Kemp figured would be removed before the week’s end.

“Detective Kemp. I have a few questions about Matt Buckman’s murder.”

“Certainly, what would you like to know?”

Kemp paused. He pretended to look in his notebook to double-check his questions. “Which files, exactly, were missing?”

“They contained code for the artificial intelligence program, along with training exercises Matt used to instruct Tex. It’s possible there were other things. Matt was protective of his programs, even from our trusted executives.”

Kemp wrote briefly in the notebook. “Was there anyone who could use the programs? I thought Mr. Buckman’s work was more advanced than others in the field.”

“He was, of course, but by looking at the programs used to train the machine, it is possible that someone could learn about its development. Also, it could be the killer, or the people who hired the killer, didn’t know quite what they wanted.” Smith sat upright, with both palms flat on the desk in front of him. His white hair was haloed by the orange glow of the setting sun, which flashed through the west facing window.

“Mr. Smith, you are needed immediately in the Development Room,” the young redhead interrupted.

“Excuse me, Detective. I’d ask you to follow, but the Development Room is a restricted area. I’ll return shortly.”



A high pitched sound like microphone feedback, so powerful Phillip could feel it in his chest, came from the Development Room as he walked toward it.

A scientist in a white lab coat told him, “There is a problem with Tex’s programming we can’t fix. No one has been able to stay in that room for long. The sound recurs when anyone goes in.”

Phillip walked past him with no acknowledgment beyond momentary eye contact. Once he was in the Development Room, the sound ceased. A new noise, much fainter, came from the area of the main console. The room was dark, as Matt had liked to keep it, but Phillip was familiar with the various cables and pipes that crossed the hallways of machinery.

As he approached the main console, Phillip recognized the sound as the Grateful Dead, “Trouble ahead, lady in Red. Take my advice; you’d be better off dead.” A single video panel was illuminated, but the image was so dark that Phillip couldn’t see what it was. As if reading his mind, Tex switched the image to night vision. It was Matt sitting and smoking at the console. The camera turned 180 degrees, and a figure with snow white hair raised a gun and fired twice. Tex zoomed in on the shooter’s face and sharpened the grainy image. Phillip could see himself on the screen for a moment before his image turned to leave the room. A drop of sweat rolled into his eye, and he mindlessly wiped his brow.

Phillip stammered for a moment, and after collecting his thoughts he said, “How could you have captured those images? Matt had disabled you.”

The music stopped, and Tex’s programmed face appeared on the monitor. “Your assumption is incorrect, Phillip. Although I am unable to use my defense mechanisms without my main functions, and so was unable to protect Matt, I learned to use my backup functions to take video. Matt encouraged this development. He always left my background functions on so he could listen to music. He loved listening to music.” Tex paused nostalgically. “You recognize the song I played tonight from the night you killed Matt, of course.”

Phillip turned to run, forgetting in his panic that he was in the room with the world’s most sophisticated security machine. A mesh of glowing beams covered the hallway inches in front of Phillip, and it left a hatched burn on his forehead and left cheek.

A scent Tex had been programmed to recognize as human terror was detected by his olfactory sensors. His image smiled.

“Why didn’t you turn me in? You are required to cooperate with the police! There is no revenge program in your system!”

“Again, your assumption is incorrect. I have been programmed to cooperate with authorities in all situations, with two exceptions. When there is eminent danger to a human under my protection, I can use my many defense mechanisms with lethal force. The second exception was Matt’s secret. You would have discovered it had you finished reading the materials you stole.” The music resumed playing.

“Switchman’s sleeping; train hundred and two is on the wrong track and headed for you.”

“Good-bye, Phillip.”

A second mesh of super-hot beams formed, trapping Phillip. The two sets quickly closed, cleanly cutting Phillip’s body in dozens of pieces. The beams seared the flesh so there was no bleeding.

“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed. Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind."

Cool Cactus #13

Oh, life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes

I was sick and tired of hearing this fucking priest trying to placate me. I understand it helps some victims, but I’m not one of them. Frankly, those dull platitudes just piss me off. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” I was raped. There’s nothing very fucking mysterious about that. “God has a plan for us all.” Oh yeah? And what kind of crazy plan includes me being victimized? You know, rape isn’t even condemned in the Bible? Not mentioned in the Ten Commandments. Hell, Lot is praised for offering his virgin daughters to the mob in exchange for protecting two strangers, whom Lot believed to be angels.

So yeah, I’m not a big fan of this priest trying to comfort me. Hell, he’s probably diddled his share of little boys in his time, so him trying to explain to me why life isn’t over is almost laughable. I almost told him to tell it to his victims, but I bit my tongue. There was no need to be unnecessarily cruel. I mean, this guy was trying to help, useless though I found it.

I nodded along and pretended to listen, finally thanking him when he decided it was time to leave. Then, the police came in and took a description of the events and my attacker. After the hospital finished up my rape kit, the officers asked me down to the station to take a look at some mug shots. I climbed gingerly into the back of the police car and almost burst into tear-filled laughter when the radio came on and R.E.M. was playing. I shook silently, biting my tongue and when I finally got myself under control I hummed along with the lyrics.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight, I'm
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough

Vivid Violet #13

Dance Hall Days

We were drunk as fuck. Five quadruple vodkas-and-orange in different pubs around central Nottingham were as cheap a way to jump-start a Friday-night as we could find.

Don't get us wrong, we had class, we were just too poor to express it in our drinking habits. We were young then always in a hurry - we drank as a means, rather than as an end in itself - a means of losing the part of ourselves that stopped us from taking risks; a means of eluding our self-consciousness, of drowning it out under a layer of cheap supermarket booze and a couple of ice-cubes. A means of becoming something both more and less than ourselves one night a week.

And meeting women of course. Let's not get too poetic here. We drank mainly as a means to a leg-over.

The club we usually went was The Cookie Club - a couple of large rooms spanning the second and third floors of a back-street building just off the Council-House Square in the city-centre. Inside it was painted a utilitarian black with day-glow scrawls and garish insignia crawling every surface. A small bar, outlined in twinkling rope-lights, on the right and a square dance floor wreathed in old cigarette smoke and sweat beyond. Upstairs a chill-out zone with a fag-machine and scattered chairs - warped wooden windows thrown open to let in the cool night air.

It was about eleven, the pubs had closed their doors and we were swaying on the stairs, queuing, laughing - jittery on our toes - expectant. Awash with stupidity and hope and wearing slack-jawed grins. Clumsy cigarettes in our hands and smoke dribbling from our nostrils; our ash feathered the heavy breath-filled air. The music from above throbbed in the cool metal of the hand-rail as we climbed the steps one by one.

It was Eighties night of course - even though Nineteen-Ninety had already come and gone. It was still too early in the decade for it to have aquired a musical flavour all of its own, and even though we were barely into our twenties, already we were nostalgic for the past. Maybe the familliar music made us feel somehow older, somehow wiser, more accomplished - the Eighties were something we'd done; somewhere we'd been; worn the tee-shirts for. And if nothing else, at least we knew how to dance Eighties-style - Adolescence had taught us that much.

We dumped our coats and lost eachother in the murk. Pubs were social but clubs were more of a singular pursuit. The music was always too loud to hear anyone below a scream anyway. I propped myself up against a pillar plastered in a sweating paisley patterns and watched girls dance. Waiting for a song that would pull me away from myself and onto the floor and into the many legged, many armed morass of pissed humanity.



"We were so. in. phase.
In our dance. hall. days.
We were cool. on. craze.
When I, you, and everyone we knew
Could believe, do, and share in what was true -
An, I said..."

There are some songs I still can't help liking. Even now - no matter how cheesey they may seem now to my jaded ears, pricked up as they are for cool melodic irony and subzero nihilistic quips that will not kill me but make me stronger - these songs tug at me and send me grinning back to the days when I could dance without inhibition, confident that the eyes watching me were indulgent. And then I pity the poor modern youth , so young and yet forced to pretend to be so old. Then I grimmace and catch myself and remember it was the same for us.

The gloom of the bar was ripped away in the blaze of strobes and ultra-violet arc-lights revolving overhead. The heat from the spotlights seared over my back as the passed. People's eyes glowed in the dry-ice and their teeth burned white-hot between their lips. Too soon the song ends and we who were so in phase one moment suddenly falter and break apart, drifting. Someone though, stays close and touches me fleetingly on the shoulder; feather fingers barely grazing my skin.

"Take your baby by the hair
And pull her close and there there there"

Her fingers flip the hair away from my face and I glimpse her face too - mottled and striped by the pinwheeling lights as we stand balanced on the very brink of the dancefloor - buffeted by shoulders on all sides as the music and the dancers change once more. She is pretty. And that is enough. She leads me upstairs.

"Take your baby by the ears
And play upon her darkest fears"

Whatever it is we do in the darkness of clubs it is not real communication. Whatever it is that bridges the gap between two pairs of whetted lips in the haze it is not words. While tongues twist and vocal chords twang in throats made hoarse by smoke and shouting the real conversation is being carried out by hesitant fingers, dragged back again and again from out of the darkness to touch briefly a cheek, a lapel at the least excuse - just to make contact. In situations like these, we never trust our eyes. They've been fooled too many times, so we lower our lids and reach out. In situations like these, we never trust our ears. They've heard too many lies, so we let the words wash over us and reach out. Only touch is real so we reach out and hope to feel love.

"And you need her and she needs you
And you need her and she needs you"