Her

Her hair was soft and always smelled faintly of mango. My hair was short and smelled like bleach and Tres Flores. We lived in a small world and these things were important. Moreso than the jet black eyes. I swear she never blinked. More than the scar on my shoulder. I used to tell people it was a bullet wound. Truth was, most of my wounds were on the inside.

She was one big, fucking walking sore. Her pores screamed pain into the atmosphere. Her skin was slick and grey and terrifying. So, I often closed my eyes and wondered how Mangos grow.

I had more bad habits than money, and she gave me a run for mine. There was a Chevron station near my house that sold beer and she had her Dad's Chevron card. He looked the other way. But not when he met me. I've never met a man who wanted me to fuck his daughter less. I took pills and chased them with wine at the dinner table and when he asked me about it, I just laughed.

You look back into the prism and it all fucking makes sense. You have to understand. I lived in a room full of milk crates and empties. I looked out my window at the Mission Library. Homeless people shit on my steps and the dudes who sold weed there gave me a handful every time I came home. A mansion in Dallas was not my scene. Dallas is not my scene, mansion or not.

I don't know if I wanted them to like me or hate me or if I even cared. I don't remember. I remember bits. I remember trying to figure out how I was going to explain the empty case of beer in her brother's room when we'd already been drunk. Nice of the kid to let me stay in his room. Good place to drink apparently. Twelve beers chasing drunken dehydration.

It was the fucking Dexedrine more than anything else. Twenty of those fucking things and alcohol bounces off you. Forcefield shit.

The whole thing makes me sad. It's like one of those books that is so predictable that you can't stop reading it. You know your cues. You'll know when to laugh, cry, lament, and hate the bad guy. It will all be laid out for the taking.

2 minutes. GO!

So, all you gotta do is throw down your two minutes in the comments section of the old blog. No pressure, no competition, play as many times as you like... it's a party. ;)

Wake up. Dust off the brain. Is it getting dustier? Probably. You need to get rid of the guilt, too. It's not a guilt about anything specific. Just a feeling that you're doing things wrong. You need to do them right. Or you need to go get the paint scraper and get under those layers. Remove the guilt one firm stroke at a time. That sounds dirty, but I don't have time to fix it. And, really, that's about the most accurate summation of my life I've ever come up with. Put it on my tombstone. Life: It's dirty, but you don't have time to fix it.

I Got Reasons

You know what I fucking hate? When they're about to fucking get it, you know? I mean, some clients clam up. Most people, though, it's 'I got a baby' or 'I take care of my Grandma'. Like I give a fuck if some motherfucker's got a Grandma. Like ... oh shit, this bitch might have relatives and endeavors and dreams and shit. And my motherfucking ass was too stupid ... that's the part that fucking kills me ... I'm too stupid to think that in my line of work some of my clients might have families. Or might race midgets for the blind on the weekend or some shit. Like it never it occurred to me. And I'm ... what? I'm supposed to be like 'yo, this one time it's cool, but stay out of trouble, son' and ruffle a motherfucker's hair or some shit? That's the part that kills me. And sometimes you just fucking do it, you know, quick. But, sometimes, I like to explain it. Like 'it don't matter if you're my long lost brother ... it don't matter if there's a Jesus cause this shit don't concern him ... it don't matter if I'm dying and you got the cure for cancer. It's done already.'  I watch 'em crawl and beg and it actually makes me feel sick, sometimes. Now, most of the time I just do it quick. Killing is easy. It's that fucking thirty seconds before the boom.

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.

Want

Crystal clutched her shoulder, blood seeping through slender spaces her fingers left on the soft, sanguine skin. She could not look away from the blood, but her periphery revealed much. George had put the gun down and was pacing. Her ears still rang from the shot, but she could hear him muttering to himself. Something about justice. He kept using the word "fair". She wondered momentarily if he knew what it meant. She almost chuckled, but the smell of blood and gunpowder dictated 'smirk' instead.

"George, you fucking asshole. I'm gonna die."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I shot you in the shoulder."

Crystal took a deep breath and tried to move. No way.

"George, listen to me. It doesn't matter where you shot me if I bleed to death. You gotta take me to the hospital. Just drop me at the ER. I won't say shit."

He cocked his head to the side. It was a habit he had. Crystal had always called him 'the parrot' behind his back.

"Why the fuck would I take you to the hospital?"

"'Cause you fucking shot me! Because they can stop me from dying. Are you fucking mental?"

"I'm not taking you to the hospital."

"Why, George? What the fuck are you doing? What do you want?"

He cocked his head again and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Crystal was beginning to feel faint. None of it mattered anymore.

"What do I want? I wanted to fucking love you, bitch!"

"Then why didn't you?"

"I tried."

"You didn't try hard enough."

George walked into the kitchen and she could hear the ice cubes kiss the glass before he drowned them in gin. Fucking think, Crystal! She was fading, but there was time. But that was the joke. It had always been fading, and there had never been enough time. She could no longer see, but she could hear him. He was right in front of her.

"How could I have tried harder? Tell me..."

"Fuck you, George."

"How...?"

She felt a slight surge of energy, followed by a pain so immense that it had a color. Deep, opaque.

"You want to know how? You could have stopped thinking about yourself for five minutes. You could have not fucking shot me. You could have been a decent person. But you're not. You're an asshole. And a stupid one at that."

"Call me an asshole again..."

"And what, asshole, you'll kill me? I'm dying, motherfucker. You failed. You didn't want to kill me, but you fucked up. Like you fucked up our relationship. Like you've fucked everything up for your whole life. You want to know why I married you? I felt sorry for you. And I felt worthless. I felt like I deserved your pathetic ass. Maybe I did."

There was silence for a minute or so. Enough time for Crystal to reflect. She would never pick up her dry cleaning. They would never know why. She could feel her mind shutting off.

"Pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Huh?"

"My fucking dry cleaning, can you pick it up after I die?"

"You're not going to die."

"I am dying, you idiot. You can see the blood, right?"

"Don't die...please...I..."

"Don't say you're sorry. Whatever you do, don't say you're sorry."

"But I love you."

"Then pick up the fucking dry cleaning."

"Crystal..."

"You don't know what love is, George. You think it's about possession and absolute loyalty. You never wanted a wife. You wanted a female reflection of yourself. But I'm not like you. I never was."

"Tell me. Tell me what to do."

There was no response, and he grabbed her shoulders, slumped her against the wall. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes were opalescent. Beautiful eyes. She'd always had such beautiful eyes. He realized that she would never speak again, but he knew what she would have wanted.

His hands shook as he tried to hold the gun backwards, thumb awkward on the trigger. He could see her side of it. She had never seen his. He was willing to give it all up. So they could be together. He heard a pounding on the door as he worked the barrel between his gritty teeth.

The evening paper...

The sound of soft classical music and the flumping of the evening newspaper leaked under the doorway, subtle, omniscient, haunting. She could picture him in his leather chair. She could see the highball glass in his hand. She wondered if it was full. She wondered if he was still holding it at a proper angle or if drops of scotch were staining her carpet. She tried to picture his eyes, dark circles, flecks of purple and green. She wondered if they were still open. If they were drooping. She did not open the door until she heard the distinctive thump of thick glass on thicker carpet.

He was out cold. The glass rested where she knew it would be. The paper still hung from one hand. His other hand was on his gut. She said his name, but he did not move. She shook him, but the only reward was a loosening of vapors. Body odor and scotch and the stench of the newsroom. She slapped him, hard, and he glamped onward, eyelids fluttering.

"I fucking hate you."

She whispered it. Like you would whisper into a lover's ear. She didn't want anyone to hear. She didn't understand it herself. It wasn't anything he did. It was the things he didn't do. The things he'd promised and never delivered.

She felt a wave of rage overtake her. She grasped the bottle of scotch by the neck and had her first drink in years ... as much as she could choke down - liquid fire...cleansing fire. It was electric. Her brain smirked. She poured the rest of the bottle over his head, matting the grey hair to his swollen skull. She was starting to feel it. She felt cold, calm. She'd forgotten how good it was.

"You piece of shit. Big man. You may be a big man at work, but you're nothing here. You're fucking furniture."

She laughed. She stepped forward and slapped him again. Harder, this time. He stirred briefly, but then his head settled, cheek mottled red against his starched white oxford. She laughed. She went into the kitchen to look for something. A marker. Ketchup. Tin foil. Something. Something she could use to fuck with the big, sleeping bear.

She did not realize she had been looking for the butcher's knife until it was in her hand.

3 minutes. Go!

(OK, a lot of people have asked. Basically, every Friday everyone who wants to is invited to drop three minutes of verbiage in the comments. Easy.) ;)

I'm gonna put it in the mail and that's that. No stress. The USPS has bigger fish to fry. You said you wanted your pound of flesh, so it's coming. I apologize if the package drips a bit. I did put it in several freezer bags. But those things never work.

I wish we could have found a simpler solution. But, then again, I'm still trying to stop the bleeding and running out of time.

You'll have it soon. The post office doesn't fuck around. I have to figure out what I'm going to say when they ask if there is anything hazardous in the package. It doesn't seem like something dangerous to me, but that sucker fucked you up. Now you can call me heartless and I won't even mind. Ain't it grand?

3 Minutes. Go!

Shit, and I even started late. Ain't that the way it goes. Slam the gate, but not on your toes. I look to the ceiling and hope to see a spider crawling. They inspire me. Kindred spirits or some shit. I scuttle and hide in dark places, too. The sound of a truck hemoragging outside isn't helping. There are so many things that don't help. I think I should return to the sucker hole. The fishing place in my mind where it is always 75 degrees and sunny. Light breeze. Yeah, I'll live there. I'll round up all my spider friends and we'll go hunting. I'll hunt for bluegill. They can keep the mosquitos scared.

Now, the time has come for us to say goodbye. Swing your partner round and round. Then fall. Get up. Drink. Repeat. It's a fucking hoe-down.