This story is a little bit different from the things I've been writing lately. The prompt for this week was "Once more with feeling." Here is my entry:


"Once more, with feeling," screamed Luther.

"I can't.” John turned away from the crying woman in front of him. “Please don't make me do this any more."

"I'm not making you do it. You have the right to turn me down,” said Luther. He smiled. “but you know what will happen."

Once more, John brought the whip up and then brought it crashing down on the woman's back.

"That's better. You're not so different from me."

"That’s where you’re wrong. I'm definitely better than you are," said John.

"How can you say tht you are better than I when you are the one who is torturing the poor woman?" said Luther. "So again—once more, with feeling."

"No, I refuse," said John.

"Take him to his cell,” said Luther with. He shrugged and picked up the whip. “I guess I'll have to finish the job."

As the guards dragged John to his cell, they heard a single gunshot.

"You bastard,” said John. “How could you do that? Then again, how could I?"

The guards threw him into his cell. Jose, his cell mate, was pacing the room. When John came in, he said, "How is my wife? Did you see her? Is she all right?"

John didn't know what to say. To tell his friend the truth, he would have to explain that he had chosen his own life, his family's lives over the life of Jose's wife. Could he be honest? In a half truth, he could say that she was all right when he saw her last. Which would be crueler?

The cell door opened once again. Two large men came in and grabbed Jose by the arms. As they dragged Jose out, he cried, "Long live the revolution!"

John threw himself on the filthy cot and sat, tears streaming  down his cheeks. Who was really at fault for Jose's wife's death? The easy answer was that Luther had pulled the trigger, even that Luther had forced him to beat her with the whip. But did the fact that he didn’t want to hurt anybody make it all right to do so?

Hours, maybe days later, the door opened again and Jose was thrown through the doorway.  His eyes looked vacant and his hands trembled. "They killed her, John," he cried. "They beat her with a whip like a dog and that bastard, Luther, tried to make me believe that you are the one who did it. I told him that I would never believe that. You and I are as close as brothers. You would never do anything to hurt a brother." Jose looked at John, and then broke eye contact to stare down at his own hands.

John took the rust-covered cup that held their water and tried to clean off the blood that covered Jose. Thankfully, Jose either fell asleep or passed out; John wasn’t sure which but the was grateful. He didn't know what to say to him. Telling him what had really happened would only make the poor man's pain worse.

When the opportunity to join the revolution had come, John had done so proudly. It was the moral thing to do; to fight for freedom. And three years ago John had considered himself a moral man. He wasn't so sure anymore. He had spent two years in the jungle, living off of what food he could capture, kill, or steal. He had eaten some disgusting things; things that would turn the average man's stomach. He had braved the spring rains, and the cold of winter, the scorching summers, and the separation from his family.

Those at the top of the heap had everything. The citizens of Rhodanthium were either very rich or very poor. If one had money and was willing to agree with Emperor Stefan at every turn, life could be good. The less one had, the more of it ended up going to the government. Taxes were highest for those who had least. And those who had the temerity to disagree with Stefan had no life at all. His second in command, Luther Montague, specialized in enforcing the Emperor's every whim. Those who disagreed face torture and death at his capable hands.

John lived in the small town of Quito and had originally not wanted to have anything to do with the revolution. His law practice allowed him to have a modest but comfortable life. Then in August of '97, Luther's death squad came into the town. They dragged the towns people into the square, separated the old people from the able bodied, and then executed the elderly.

The hands and ankles of the remaining men were tied together with plastic zip-ties and they were forced to lay on their stomach in the middle of the town square, next to the bleeding bodies of their elders. They were guarded by three men with machine guns while the rest of the death squad tortued and raped the women. John thanked God that his wife and child had gone that day to San Sebastian to visit relatives.

When morning came, John and the rest of the men, were transported by truck to a work camp in the mountains. He was forced to join the chain gang that was building new roads into the interior that would connect the mining camps up in the mountains to the cities down on the plains.

John noticed that many of the guards were disappearing. It was whispered throughtt he camp that it was because of the snipers of the revolution. The revolutionaries had reached almost mythic stature. They were talked about as if they weren't human and some believed that the Emperor had spread the rumor of a revolution to give people hope so that he could dash it when he told them the truth.

Fortunately for John, he didn't have to wait for proof. On September fifteenth, a group of revolutionaries over-ran the labor camp, killed all of the guards and set John and the others free, telling them that they were free to go back to the home or to join the revolution.

The leader of the band, Jose, remembered John from a case that he had handled for Jose's mother. "This is the bravest man I know," Jose said. "He defended my mother against the government and actually won the case, despite the fact that they had put him on their list."

And so, John joined the revolution.

With Jose's strength and John's intelligence, they soon became the most-wanted of the revolutionaries.

Two years went by before John was able to contact his family. Not long afterward, they were captured. When John heard of their capture and tried to rescue them, he and Jose were captured as well.

The two men were put in the same cell within the royal dungeon. At first John was left alone and Jose was tortured. Every day he was taken from their cell. He would be gone for hours at a time and, when he came back, Jose’s face would be covered with bruises. After two weeks, John was brought to Luther's dungeon. "John," said Luther, "I'm not getting too far with your friend. Jose seems to be holding out. I want you to help me."

"Why in God's name would I help you?"

"Well, you could choose not to. However, if you refuse, your family will suffer. I am sure that you can withstand torture, you are a strong man, but what about your wife and son?"

John lunged forward. He would have beaten Luther to death. He was only stopped when three of the guards beat him to the ground. "I'll kill you," he cried.

Luther only laughed. “I suppose you can try, " he said, “but you really have only one choice, John. You can do what I tell you to my prisoners or you can choose to have me do it to your family."

And so, day after day, he honored his pact with the devil to protect his family. At first, he tortured only people he didn't know. That didn't make it right but it made it possible. Then he was forced to start on Jose's family. He didn't knonw what happened to Jose's daughter though Luther had assured him that, after the torture, she had been sent to entertain the troops.

When he was broght in to torture Jose's wife, he refused at first. Luther told him that he would have to torture Jose's wife but, if he told Jose, it would be a death sentence, not only for Jose's wife but for his own as well. He weighed the consequences of his actions and continued his pact with the devil.

When he heard the shot, he knew that Jose's wife had been killed and he wanted to tell him the truth and beg for forgiveness but truthfulness didn't outweigh the life of his own wife.

Saturday night, Jose's agony increased and he called John to his side. "John, listen, I know that I am dying and I don't have much time. Under my cot is a knife. I was going to try and kill Luther but I am not strong enough. You have to do it for me and I have to ask you for forgiveness. He made me promise not to tell because he would kill my wife. But I must die with a clear conscience. He told me that he would kill my wife if I didn't torture and two of the people I was responsible for were your son and your wife."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I killed them. I was forced to. I know you can't understand that. I know it isn't something that you would do. Please forgive me. And please, I beg you, kill Luther."

John heard the church bells ringing from outside the dungeon. It was Sunday morning. Jose had been quiet for hours. When John checked on him, he was already cold.

John got to his knees and rummaged under the cot. When he found the knife, he tucked it into the pocket of his ragged pants. John knew that Luther would bring him to his office and they would be alone.

When he was brought into the office. He was forced into the chair in front of Luther's desk. The guards left and they were alone. Luther got up and started around the desk to get closer to John. "I hear that your friend died last night. Do you know that he wasn't very brave? When faced with protecting himself and his family over you, he chose his family but that's not so unusual," he said as he bent down to look into John's face. "He was a coward like you."

John reached into his pocket, withdrew the knife and plunged it into Luther's throat. Luther fell to his knees, a crimson shower bathed them both as John said, "You tried to kill my spirit by using my feelings against me."

As he plunged the knife into Luther's chest, he said, "Just as you commanded, I'm doing it once more, with feeling."

This week's prompt for Brigit's Flame is Harmony. It follows neatly on the first two prompts for the month. In case you forgot or don't know, they were Beat and Flat. Strangely enough, although I thought that Harmony would be easy, every path I tried to take dead-ended. Until I hit on this one...


"Who has the potato peeler?"

"Me, Mommy," said five-year old Carrie. "I peeled the potatoes for you." On the long low folding table Kim's husband, Rob, had set up in the corner of the kitchen was a huge pile of potato scrapings and a pitiful pile of marble-sized potatoes.

"Oh, Carrie," cried Kim. "You--" and then she saw the excitement in the little girl's eyes. She was so proud of herself for helping her mother that the anger evaporated and all Kim could say was, "You did a great job, sweetie. Now why don't you go watch cartoons for a little while? Your cousins will be here soon."

"Yay!" cried Carrie. She turned and ran from the room.

When Carrie had gone, Kim rinsed the pieces in cold water and tossed them into a large pot.  "What am I going to do?" she said aloud. "There's not enough here for two people; what am I going to tell the other eighteen?"

"Does someone need potatoes?" Her husband, Rob's, cheerful voice made Kim spin around in time to see him come through the kitchen door carrying a ten-pound bag of spuds. Once she had finished kissing him, he said, "I saw what Carrie was up to, but I didn't have the heart to tell her she couldn't help so I just went out and bought these." He bowed low and presented the bag to Kim with a flourish.

The phone rang. "Is there anything I can bring?"

"No, Mom, we've got everything we need. Just bring Dad and a hearty appetite."

"So," said Rob as they sat together at the prep table, peeling potatoes, besides the great potato crisis of '08, is everything under control?"

Kim looked around. The turkey was in the oven, and the giblets simmering on the back burner. Pies cooled on the kitchen counter and the green bean casserole was ready to join the turkey in the oven. "I think so," replied Kim. "I can't believe that we're finally going to have Thanksgiving in our own home."

"Didn't I tell you when I proposed that together we'd make all of our dreams come true?"

"You did," said Kim. "But everybody says things like that. I--"

Rob leaned close and kissed Kim. Then he laughed and said, "Just how many proposals did you get that you know so much about it?"

"Just the one," she replied and kissed him back. Then she got up to baste the turkey.

Once the potatoes were on the stove, the organized chaos that Kim remembered from her childhood settled in. She stirred, she basted, and in her mind's eye she saw her own mother going through the same motions while Kim peeled potatoes, scraped carrots, and prepared the antipasto.

The doorbell rang precisely at noon. The table was set, the parade was in full swing on television, and the house smelled like home.

Rob's parents brought wine. They had barely had time to open the bottle before the doorbell rang again. Kim's parents, her two brothers, and Rob's sister all arrived in a group along with their spouses and children.  Everybody brought their favorite Thanksgiving Day flourish and the prep table was completely covered with dishes containing everything from creamed onions to nuts.

Suddenly the huge kitchen, Kim's pride and joy, seemed more crowded than the three by five-foot rectangle she had struggled with in their old apartment. "Everybody out," she cried. "This is my job and I can handle it all by myself."

Kim sipped at a glass of wine and listened to the sounds of a football game drifting in from the living room. "This isn't so hard," she thought. "I don't know what Mom was always complaining about."

But despite Kim's careful timing, the timer on the turkey popped up much sooner than she had expected. The gravy wasn't ready and the potatoes were still hard. The antipasto had been consumed to the last black olive and the sorbet was still mushy. As Kim frantically tried to stir the gravy, and to keep the casserole dishes circulating through the microwave she realized she had forgotten the biscuits.

She yanked open the oven door and surveyed the blackened remains of what should have been light, buttery biscuits. "Oh no," she cried as every smoke alarm in the house blared into life. Kim frantically waved a towel in the direction of the alarm. She couldn't escape the feeling that she was in the midst of a video game and the bad guys were winning. Kids screamed and covered their ears as the adults milled around uselessly.

"My first Thanksgiving is going to be ruined."

"Wait a minute," said Rob. "Don't you mean our first Thanksgiving?"

Moving quickly, Rob opened the back door and fanned the smoke out. Once the alarms stopped ringing, he herded the kids out of the room while Kim surveyed the damage. The turkey was all right, the potatoes were finally almost ready, and with all of the food they had, nobody would miss the biscuits. She went back to trying to get the gravy to thicken.

"All you have to do is add a little more flour," said Kim's mother. She gently moved Kim out of the way and drizzled a mixture of flour and water into the bubbling broth. "Go mash the potatoes."

"What can I do?" asked Rob's sister, Margaret. "You direct and we'll serve," she said when Kim hesitated.

In less time than it takes to describe it, everybody had found a job. By the time dinner was served, the chaos that had ensued with the smoke alarms had turned into a well-choreographed dance. Even without the biscuits, there was plenty of food for everybody there.

Kim took her place at Rob's right hand and sat watching her family pass around the plates. It was hard to hear because everybody was talking at once. The kids were fighting over who would get a drumstick, Rob's father was busy telling Kim's father the story of how he shot two deer with a single arrow; a story that Kim could have recited herself since he told it every year. The mothers were busy telling "can you top this" stories about Rob and Kim.

Rob leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Guess you won't be volunteering for this again in a hurry," he said softly.

"I guess you would be wrong. This is the best Thanksgiving ever. I just won't try to do it all myself next time." She gestured around the table at the rest of the family and then said, "This might sound like a lot of noise to you but--" she shrugged "--to me it's all sweet harmony."

This week the prompt is "Flat." My entry has nothing to do with the musical portion of the prompt but I think the story is a reasonable interpretation of the prompt anyway.


"The famous chef, James Beard always said that the only thing that will make a soufflé fall is if it knows you're afraid of it. That said, don't stir, fold," said Madame Giselle. "If you aren't gentle here, your soufflé is going to end up flatter than a pancake.

Amanda took a deep breath and focused on the bowl in front of her. "Fold," she reminded herself. But her hands were shaking. Her spoon made a musical clinking sound against the side of the bowl as she tried to gently fold the stream of melted chocolate into the frothy egg whites. French cooking was Amanda's specialty and she was good at it but no matter how much she tried, her soufflés always ended up flatter than a crepe.

"Face it, Amanda," said Heather as she surveyed the flattened soufflé, "maybe you need to find another specialty. A French chef who can't make a soufflé isn't much of a French chef."

"True," thought Amanda. "On the other hand, I can always leave the soufflés to my sous-chef."

She eyed Heather's perfectly risen soufflé. Taking this class with Madame Giselle had seemed to be the perfect idea until Heather showed up. No matter how well Amanda did, Heather always did just a little bit better. Even back in high school when the class was making cookies, Heather's had been perfectly shaped and the exactly the same shade of golden brown as the picture in the cook book while Amanda's had looked more like pale amoebas. Yet Amanda loved to cook while to Heather it was no more than a job. Amanda's food tasted amazing. Heather's cooking was delicious too but it also looked picture perfect every time as well.

Amanda dumped the unappetizing mess into the garbage and piled her dishes in the sink with the rest. Then she gathered up her notebook and purse and dashed for the car. She had just enough time to get to her meeting with Paul Jeffries. She tried to put the latest disaster out of her mind in order to focus on convincing Jeffries that investing his money in her proposed restaurant would be the best use of his funds.

"Let's see," said Jeffries. "you were a sous-chef under Charles Kohl and then under Sylvie Gaston, is that correct?"

"Yes," said Amanda. She was beginning to relax. They had gone over her entire proposal and he had seemed not only interested, but anxious to hear what she had to say. "I have been preparing for this all my adult life."

She took a deep breath and said, "The location is perfect, the time is just right, and there's a real need for a good restaurant in this area."

Paul Jeffries stared at her for nearly a minute before he replied. "You're not the only one interested in the property, you know. I have another proposal that I'm considering." When she started to reply, he held up one hand to stop her. "I must say that I'm leaning towards your proposal. You show such real passion for the project that I have no doubt you will be successful."

"When will you decide?"

He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. "I have a proposal for you. The Iron Chef competition is coming up next month. Are you participating?"

"I hadn't planned to--"

"Sign up," said Jeffries abruptly. "I'll have your competitor do the same. I'll even give you both the entry fee. If one of you wins, you'll win my support as well."

"But what if neither of us wins?"

"Well, if you're as good as you say you are, that shouldn't be a problem. And if one of you isn't good enough to win," he continued, "I guess I'll have to find another way to spend my money."

As Amanda shook hands with Jeffries, she said, "Mr. Jeffries, can you tell me who the other person is?"

"I don't see why not," he replied. "It's Heather Conklin."

"It figures," thought Amanda. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother."

On the way home from her meeting, she pulled into the parking lot of the empty restaurant and sat staring at the building for nearly an hour. She could clearly visualize the way it would look. Soft blue shutters against the white clapboards, and a bright red front door. "La Porte Rouge" seemed the perfect name for a fine French restaurant.

It had seemed like such a sure thing. That is, until she heard Heather was interested. Despite their occasional rivalry over the years, Amanda had never really considered that she and Heather were competitors. Yet now they certainly were. It made her wonder if Heather had known the truth when they were in class that afternoon.

The days between Amanda's meeting with Paul Jeffries and the first day of the competition passed quickly. Amanda spent so much time practicing that even her best friend Cheryl groaned when she saw her coming with a plate full of food. "Look, 'Manda," Cheryl finally said to her, "I've gained five pounds in the last two days."

"But I've got to practice. Everything depends on my winning this contest."

"I know, but you're the best cook I've ever known. I don't know why you're obsessing so."

"Because I'll never forgive myself if Heather beats me because I'm not prepared."

"You're prepared already," said Cheryl. "Just remember that you can do this," she said as she dropped Amanda off at the side entrance to the theater where the competition was to be held.

Once she was in her "kitchen" on the vast stage, Amanda began to feel more confident. Just the fact that Heather looked slightly pale and more than a little sick to her stomach made Amanda feel better about the situation. She sailed through the first three rounds. She made scallops with lemon butter, the perfect light appetizer and followed it up with grilled quail over long grained rice. The quail was perfectly browned and the orange-plum sauce she drizzled over it added just the perfect grace notes to the symphonic blend of tastes.

By the time she got to the final round, the dessert, she was ahead on points and was beginning to have visions of herself holding up the prize trophy, of opening day at La Porte Rouge, and the happy ever after she had been looking forward to since she was thirteen years old and discovered the thrill of cooking.

"For the final round of the competition, each contestant will select a slip of paper from the box that is being passed around. Each of the papers in the box," continued the announcer, "has the name of a dessert dish on it."

Amanda looked around. Of the ten cooks who had started the competition, only three were left; Amanda, Heather, and some guy that Amanda had never seen before. Each took a piece of paper out of the box. Amanda held her breath as she unfolded the paper slowly. There, in black letters that seemed to float on the white surface of the page, were the two words that would decide her fate. "Crème caramel?" muttered Amanda. "At least I have a chance."

Amanda began melting the sugar in a small saucepan. She spared a glance and saw that Heather was separating eggs into a bowl. Her expression was smug and she seemed completely relaxed.

In less time than seemed to possible, two perfect desserts were lined up on the tasting table, waiting for the judges' decision. Amanda's crème caramel, or flan, looked smooth and creamy and the caramel topping was the exact shade of gold that it should be. The man, his name tag said George, placed a chocolate torte next to Amanda's flan. Then Heather carefully placed her own entry next to the others.

"Well, better her than me," thought Amanda.

Heather's soufflé looked slightly lopsided and Heather didn't look too good either. As Amanda watched, she bit her lip and tried to turn the dish so that the best side would be facing out towards the audience.

The judges, a slender, neatly dressed man and a short, nearly round woman, started with the Flan. He neatly scooped a bit of the confection with the tip of a spoon and placed it in his mouth. Amanda could tell from the blissful look on his face that he had enjoyed it. Pausing only long enough to take a sip of water, he moved on to the torte.  The woman followed suit. She tasted the Flan and then smiled and licked her lips. Before taking her sip of water, she took another tiny taste of the Flan.

Amanda watched the man's face as he tasted the torte. This time he was clearly disappointed. He made a face, as though he had tasted something sour and then rinsed his mouth again. His companion didn't look any happier. She looked back at the Flan with a longing expression on her face.

Amanda held her breath as the judges moved on to Heather's soufflé.

"Ms. Conklin," said the man, "I'm afraid your soufflé has fallen."

Amanda nearly laughed aloud as she realized that the man was right. Heather's soufflé was as flat as any Amanda had produced herself. The two judges walked away from the table without bothering to taste Heather's entry.

Amanda had to bite hard on her tongue to keep from reminding Heather that a French chef who can't make a soufflé isn't much of a French chef.

It didn't take long for the judges to fill out their forms and make their decision.

"That was the best Flan I've tasted in a long time," said the woman as she handed Amanda the over-sized prize check. "Congratulations."

Heather was already gone by the time Paul Jeffries made his way onto the stage to add his congratulations and to confirm his support for La Porte Rouge.

On opening day, Amanda proudly served her prize-winning recipes to her guests. Near the end of the evening, Amanda left the kitchen to enjoy her own meal in the corner of the restaurant. For dessert, she served her special guests a perfectly risen soufflé courtesy of her sous-chef, Heather.

The prompt for the first week of February for Brigit's Flame is "Beat" The following story is not fiction...


Sometimes when you look at a piece of music on paper, it seems like a mass of unrelated squiggles. Then you sit down and play the music and it all flows into an integrated whole, a whole that almost always greater than the individual pieces from which it is made. Our lives are like that too. When it is happening, all the incidents seem unrelated but when you look back, they line up like the beats of a measure. For example...

My father was a musician. Actually he was a drummer. You know what they say about drummers? They become drummers so they can hang around with musicians.

My mother was a pianist; a good one.

In the early 1950s my father stopped being a drummer and started being a radio DJ. He was hired to manage the radio station in a small town about two hours northwest of New York City. Since the station was a new station, they had a contest. The winner would get to sing on the radio for three nights.

The contest winner was best friends with my mother's piano teacher and he asked her to accompany him.

She thought it would be a good idea to give her two best pupils a chance to perform as well, so my mother and her best friend were each assigned to play on  one of the three nights.

On the first night, my mother walked into the studio. My father watched as she sat down at the piano, took a sheet of music she had never seen before and proceeded to play it. He was impressed. He liked the way she played.

"Hello, Mary Ellen," he said.

"I'm not Mary Ellen," my mother replied. "My name is Patricia."

"Well, Patricia," said my father, "how would you like to have your own radio show?"

In the flurry of excitement over the performance, the conversation was never finished. When the show was over, my mother left the station and headed back to town. In the car, she told my grandmother about this guy who had tried such an obvious line on her. They laughed about it.

Back at the radio station, my father was looking for my mother. When he realized she was gone, he sent his assistant running after her. When my grandmother saw someone chasing after her waving his arms frantically, she stopped.

"You've got to--come--back," he panted. "Mr.--Governale--really wants to offer you a radio show."

I don't know how long my mother's radio show lasted, but she played piano on the radio twice a week. In a way, I suppose Dad's offer was a "line" too. They started dating and two years later they married. Four years after that, they had me. And the beat goes on.