Friday, August 16, 2013

3 minutes. Go.

Here's the deal. Free write for three minutes. Put what you write in the comment section. We'll have a flash fiction train in no time. ;)

I have had someone ask me about it. You're not the first. Usually, I can tell when it's about to happen and I throw them out on their ass. You seem like a nice lady, so I'll pretend I didn't hear you. The thing is, there are some things you don't poke at. You just don't. People got places like that everywhere. Inside and out. And no one likes to have their shit poked. I understand, you don't know and people are curious. Like I said, you seem like a nice lady. Let's just forget about it. If I think of something really intrusive to ask you, I'll let you know. Don't get all defensive. It makes it worse. Life is full of drama and bullshit. My drama is my drama, and you can march your fancy-shoe bitch ass back uptown. We don't need you here. We especially don't need no goddamn questions.


  1. Susan pulled the yellow rain slicker tighter across her chest. While it kept out most of the rain, the wind seemed unperturbed by the plastic coated fabric and cut right through it. She looked at Mort in his black leather duster, and thought, It doesn’t seem to bother him any. He did say that eventually such things as hot and cold will stop bothering me.
    Squinting through the rain, Susan spotted their objective. He was a large man. Even sitting on the bench he looked to be at least six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. Susan bit her lip as she contemplated why she and Mort were on the pier.
    “Grim says he’s out of chances?” Susan asked Mort one more time.
    “That’s why we’re here,” Mort replied evenly. “Are you ready?”
    “I’m ready,” Susan said.
    Holding the paper coffee cup steady in her hand, Susan walked up to the man and said, “Hi. I work in the snack bar and saw you sitting out here and thought you could use a cup of coffee.”
    The man turned his head just enough to see Susan out of the corner of his eye. “I didn’t order no coffee.”
    “It’s on the house,” Susan said. “Things are kind of slow right now,” she added, holding her hand up to the rain.
    “Fine,” the man said, taking the cup. He lifted the lid and took a tentative sip. “Not bad. Now leave me alone and let me fish.”
    Susan never understood why anyone would want to fish on a cold miserable night like that, but by the time she and Mort disappeared into the pier house, the fish had one less fisherman to worry about.

  2. "No goddamn questions?!" Cheryl hissed, losing her rag with the man who but a moment ago had been flattery incarnate. "I have loads of goddamn questions for you. Like why does this coffee taste like all my rainy tomorrows landed in a sea of mud, eh, rat face? Does being rude to customers really get you off?"
    Spitting her chewing gun on to the shiny white surface of the counter, Cheryl pushed it around with the tips of her blue-painted fingers, squishing it while looking the man straight in the eyes. "I'm imagining this is you," she added with a scowl, before turning sharply, her heels clattering towards the exit.
    "Lady, don't I even get a tip?" the barman called out after her.
    Cheryl stopped, turned slowly and gazed at him one last time. "Yeah, kiss my ass - in your dreams!"

  3. From Donna Dillon-Truckenbrod

    "Do I know you?" You would think after three centuries of hearing her say these words, that I would be immune to their sting. Still I hoped, that just once in the many lives that she has lived thus far, her soul would recognize mine and the spell would break. But I just smile and introduce myself once again to my lover, my soul mate, all while knowing that her days in this life are numbered and I will be left to search for her in the next.

  4. Greggor glared at his cousin and lifted the 7-inch knife from the leather sheath at his waist.

    "Aren't you a funny fella? Do you think you'll get close enough to stick me?" Ben stepped to the side of the truck.

    Malevolent laughter filled the warehouse. "I don't need to move from this spot."

    "Is that right? How do you..."

    Greggor raised his left hand above his head and swung with the precision of a major league pitcher.

    "That's how."

    Ben grabbed his chest, groaned and fell against the truck.

  5. Jt Sather:

    So there I was, tending bar at Cory's Bluff on south Main street. It wasn't the most savory part of town, if you ya know what I mean. It was directly across the street from a trailer park. Friday night, music pumping, and the place was packed with tailer-billies. The owner of the joint stopped in with his pretty little thing, and commenced to partying. Just after midnight, a fight broke out in the parking lot. I was stuck behind the bar, and only came out to bounce if trouble brewed INSIDE the bar. If it was outside, I didn't give a shit. Well the owner didn't want to see a scuffle on his property, so he ventured out to put an end to it. One left hook, and he was flat of his ass. His little girly jumped into the melee, and without warning, a beer bottle came raining down on the top of her head, knocking her out and cutting a nice gash in her scalp. I got word of this, and came flying over the bar and charged out the back door, baseball bat in hand. By the time I got to the scene, everyone had dispersed and all I could do was scrape the couple off of the pavement. She had to take an ambulance ride to get about twenty-five stitches or more. The next day when I arrived for work, me and the manager discussed the prior nights events, and I had an epiphany. I grabbed a big piece of cardboard and a marker and made a sign for the front door. When the manager went to the door and read it, he laughed his ass off. It was simple, and to the point. TWO TOOTH MINIMUM

  6. Think, don’t think, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s the reason the words stick in my fingertips, why they don’t march out like the good little soldiers I’ve trained them to be. Too much process gets them tangled up along the way. I want them to be perfect. They want to be ugly and mean and gnarled like old tree roots, like rusting metal dripping after a rainstorm, like the expression on a girl’s face when you step on her brand new shoes or tell her that new haircut looks like the hind end of a dog. The words want to say everything while saying nothing, while whispering out the tail end spray of a can of paint, a can of pain, written on the side of the archway over the road. They want to whisper in your ear and beckon you forward with a glint in their eyes. Come to me, reader, come over here and let me tell you a story.

  7. She asked what was wrong and he couldn’t tell her, because then she’d know and it would be all over. The fun they’d had all summer, the evenings they’d stayed out late and made wishes on fireflies and bets on falling stars, it would be gone, and they’d be called too old for that kid stuff, their parents would fill their lives with serious activities and they’d never have another day like this, an afternoon tip-toeing across fallen logs on the creek, daring each other to jump in the freezing cold lake in the old abandoned mine, roasting marshmallows by the fire and telling ghost stories into the night. Her mother would say that nice girls didn’t chase after boys or skin their knees climbing trees; his mother might say that he should spend more time on his schoolwork. He couldn’t tell her that he wished to be the one she’d kissed first instead of that jock who didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t tell her any of that, so he just said that he’d thought of a funny joke and when he asked her what it was, he said the first dopey one that came to mind, something stupid his father had told him, and that was the last thing he remembered when he fell asleep that night, her laughter in his ears.


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