Random Flash Fiction: Miss Green

Hmm. Wanted to write some fiction tonight. Sat down and this kind of popped out. Not sure I’ll continue…but hey, it’s something. 

Hope everyone is having a great night, and happy writing!

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Miss Green

Her hair was the color of straw; in dreads and pulled up on the top of her head. I loved the way it looked heavy and woolly, like she was carrying some sort of burden that spoke of an adventurous spirit, a need to get a way and explore.

She wore an electric green top, and the jewelry on her nose and ears and hands were a metallic green. She looked like something electric and natural, like a cyborg-computer mixed into the natural environment; something that couldn’t be outdated or out-sourced.

I’d ventured into this club because my friends told me to. Go to The Hollow they told me, you’ll love it. “Eclectic,” another friend had said. “Eccentric,” said another.

I found it to be a place full of oddities – like me. I wasn’t in any position to judge, really. My shy, awkward persona seemed to melt well into the absurd: the guy wearing the golden tights and the black sparkly mask, the woman dressed in garb that looked nineteenth century, and the blonde with the silver bikini and chewbacca tattoo on her stomach. What guy couldn’t resist a woman who had an ode to one of the greatest movies on earth tattooed on her body?

I found Miss Cyborg-Green on the dance floor. She was dancing to a funky beat; something with all drums and a nasal groan. Every one else seemed to be talking or drinking – not the typical mixed drinks and beer, no – mostly ales and wine, and I saw someone drinking coffee.

The lights were dim, but not completely dark. There was an atmosphere of frivolity. If I blinked my eyes, I could lose myself in another world. I felt the magic, the otherness in the air and was certain that Miss Green was a person that I wanted to meet.

Flash Fiction: The Proposal

I write a lot of notes in my phone’s notebook. Grocery lists, dreams, story ideas, names, blog ideas…you get the picture.

Found this in my phone written about a year ago. I guess I was going to submit it somewhere, but had forgotten about.

Going back and reading my dreams, too, are a hoot, but I think that’s worthy of a post all on its own. Anyway, enjoy. 🙂


The Proposal

A man leans against his black SUV in the early morning chill and stares down at his burning hands. His girlfriend left him, or maybe she died; it doesn’t matter now.

He thinks it might matter when he can get back inside and finally warm his hands, but he can’t decide what to do. His thoughts are jumbled, and panic ignites in his chest. He fumbles with the door handle behind him and climbs back in the SUV, rubbing and blowing at his hands.

He eyes the velvety box sitting in the glove box, which has spilled open, papers sliding down to the mat on the passenger side floor. He calls 911 and starts to sob into the receiver.

“Fiance,” he gasps. “Floor. Not breathing.”

He relives the scene etched forever into his vision as he begins to describe what happened. Her collapsed body on the sofa, her arm dancing towards the floor. The other one pinned awkwardly underneath her chest. She could have been passed out from drink, she could have been drooling into the sofa cushions, but she wasn’t.

Yesterday, she had told him yes, but today doesn’t feel like an affirmation.

Later, they will tell him that a complication with her medications was the cause; a misuse of sleeping aids. It haunts him to think that maybe she couldn’t sleep because she wasn’t happy, or that maybe she was too happy and sleep wouldn’t come.

Either way the cold continued, and he could never warm his hands.

A Quick Thanks and Writing Prompt, “When I first told…”

Wow, thanks guys so much for your comments and insight on when to kill characters! It means a lot to me that you guys are reading and care enough to leave a few words or two.

I think the plan is to work on my story in the next few days and see what happens. I think I will write my character’s death and see how it works out for the story…and if it seems too much, and not at all fitting for the story, I can always go back and change it.

That’s something that I am still wrestling with…I shouldn’t expect something to be perfect from the get go, because nothing really is, so why should writing be like that? The great thing about first drafts…you can always go back and edit!

I think I’ll try something new for tonight, and do a quick writing prompt. Time to breathe deep, sit back, relax, and get to writing!

Hope everyone has a great night! Happy Writing!


Writing Prompt, “When I first told my family about ___ they didn’t believe me.”  (This one’s from The Pocket Muse, by Monica Wood.)

wpid-img_20150901_200812317.jpgWhen I first told my family about the aliens, they didn’t believe me.

“Aliens? Here? In this dinky town?” scoffed my sister. She rummaged around in her purse and pulled out some lipstick. “Please, Caddie, your imagination is too big for your own good.”

“But there were!” I insisted. “I just got done at the bank and I stepped out on the curb and there it was: this giant red flying saucer hovering over the clock tower on Church Street. I yelled, ‘holy crap! What is that!” and several people came running.”

“Were there police?” said my mother, who was standing at the counter, doing dishes. She didn’t seem too interested in the conversation. No, she looked tired. Like she always looked nowadays after her and Daddy split up.

“I think so,” I said, as I leaned against the kitchen counter next to her. My sister, Teresa, was sitting on a stool at the table in the center of the kitchen, and she was still reapplying her lipstick. “Terese, it looks fine, don’t you care at all about what I have to say? Aliens? Red saucer? End of the world?”

“Please,” she said, as she smacked her lips and emerged from behind her compact. “You’re just being dramatic. It’s probably some hoax, or someone from the city making a movie. You’re always making up little stories of yours, baby sister.”

“Just because I’m a writer, doesn’t mean I’m lying,” I pouted. “Mom, don’t you believe me?”

“Sure, honey,” said Mom with a tired smile and soapy pat.

“Don’t you guys want to hear what they look like?”

“You saw them?” said Terese with a raise of her eyebrows. She made a face. “Were there testicles?” She gasped and put her hands to her face and I knew she was making fun of me. “Laser beams?” she shrieked.

I grumbled as she stomped from the room in her heels, her laughter echoing around our drafty house. It seemed so empty nowadays.

“What’s Dad doing this weekend?” I asked Mom tentatively. I tried not to sound hopeful. Spring break started next week, and I wanted to see him before me and few friends left for vacation. And before I had to go back to classes and studying and more studying.

“I don’t know,” said Mom, “Why don’t you give him a call?”

“Have…you guys talked recently?”

Mom shrugged. “Here and there.”

“So, he’s not coming over for dinner anytime soon?”

Mom scrubbed a pan, although it didn’t really need anymore cleaning. “It was his choice to leave,” she said, I could barely hear her. “He knows where we are if he wants to find us.”

“I don’t think it’s like that–”

“Please honey, you don’t know what its like.”

I eyed my mother but she had that stern, impenetrable look on her face. Something that used to only be softened by Daddy’s laughter, and her babies. But we were all grown up now and Dad was gone.

“Are there really aliens about to run amok among us?” she asked when I didn’t say anything.

My smile was brief. “There was an art show in town today. Someone had painted a red saucer over church street, and the clock tower…it was a good likeness.”

Mom nodded and the smile almost reached her eyes. Almost. “Give your Dad a call, honey…you never know. But he doesn’t want to talk to me.”  She dried her hands on a towel, gave my arm a squeeze and then left the room.

I pulled the phone off the cradle on the kitchen counter, and dialed Dad’s new cell number.

He answered on the fifth ring. “Caddie? What’s up honey?”

“Hey Dad, guess what? I saw some aliens in town today…”

A bit of Flash Fiction: Fairytale World

Probably been marathoning a little bit too much Once Upon a Time today on Netflix. 😉 But when you don’t feel well, what else is there to do?

An old hag yelled at me today. Did I forget to mention she’s my boss? I imagine her as this crumpled type of creature with claws for fingers and eyes that glint with rage and blindness.

I was assaulted by the copy machine. She snatched those papers out of my hands so fast, she might have snapped her fingers…poof. Papers gone in a flash of magic.

Oh, if I were to have magic. What a glorious world this would be. What a glorious one I would live in. Still, a 9 to 5 isn’t some kind of torture chamber… Mostly.

Now, where would the prince charming fit in? I suppose the guy in marketing has some kind of charm. He did wink at me the other day. Or maybe there was something in his eye?

“Cindy!?”

I look up and there’s the old hag herself. Hands on her hip, glaring down at me. “Didn’t you get my email?” She says. She throws more papers on my desk. “This is the wrong report. I want the one I gave you yesterday.”

After a few, “Yes, ma’ams,” from me, she’s on her way.

I watch her in her gray skirt-suit as she storms away, her ridiculous black heels look like those crooked ones that witches always wear.
Huh, how appropriate. I imagine myself with a bow and arrow trained on her back. One released breath and twang she’s down for the count, never to terrorize anyone again.

Lucky for her, the phone rings. I pick it up without another thought. “Mrs. Applebaum’s office. How can I help you?”

Ah, I suppose there’s always another day.

50 Word Stories: Turmoil

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I think I took this when super storm sandy happened.

Water fell in torrents. What a perfect end to a stormy night. Rain poured down the gutter, my face fell with it. I looked down at my speckled blue rain coat, and flicked the dark drops from my shoulders. Tomorrow will be a new day. Today, I’ll bury the hatchet.

Writing Prompt #12: Write a story that consists mostly of dialogue

“So then Robbie told me that he caught this giant lobster, and it practically took his arm off.”

“What’d he do with it?”

A shrug from the man across the lunch table from me. “Dunno.” He picked at some chicken in his teeth. “Cooked it up–No. That one he threw back.”

Rafael has been regaling me with tales of fishing with his cousin in Maine. In the last fifteen minutes, I’ve learned that people in Maine talk funny, chowdah is the tits, and don’t stick your face in front of a lobster. Specifically, its claws.

“What’d you do this weekend?” He asks me.

I shrug. “Went to the park. Worked out. Got a pizza.”

“Your life is so boring, dude.”

I shrug again but its more like a wince. “Daniella left, you know. Again.”

“Why you wasting your time with her? Get a new one.” He juggles his hands in front of his chest knowingly. Our co-worker, Jane, makes an appalled face.

I bite back a laugh. “Naw, man…I don’t think Merlin would approve.” Merlin’s my five-year old rottweiler who’s part human and part dog-child all wrapped into one-hundred and thirty pounds of goofball; but mostly he just hogs the covers.

“I think I have a cousin, you can meet,” says Rafael.

“I hope it’s not Robert.”

Chicken goes down the wrong way, and comes flying out across the table. “You’re gonna kill me, man.” Another cough. “It’s Ashley. You know, bright-blond, kinda slutty?”

I grunt. “What happened to Sarah?”

“Oh, she got married last year. Met some guy in Vegas. I told her not to, but she said he bought her some kind of leopard-printed dress that matched her ring…and well, she said her new man’s got style.”

“He rich?” asks Jane. Rafael gives her an odd look, like he forgot she was there, eating her PB&J.

“Yeah, where you been?”

“Any kids?” I ask.

“Twins. Cute, too, although you wouldn’t think it, cause her new husband, some kind of Antoniohe’s got a dog’s face, dude. Guess you can be ugly when you’re rich.”

“That’s not very nice,” says Jane.

For some reason, I immediately feel sorry for her. She gets up from the table and  slumps from the room.

“What’s her problem?” says Rafael.

I shrug. “Bad weekend, I guess. ” But my eyes are still on the open door of the break room.

I get up then without thought. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Rafael looks up at me, startled and then he looks down at his paper plate and realizes he’s already eaten his chicken and he’s spilled his rice all over the table.

“You’re such a slob, man.”

He laughs as he swipes rice into the trash. “Wait up, will you?”

But I pretend I don’t hear him as I walk purposely from the room. I can hear him calling to me from down the hallway.

“Oh! And there’s also my cousin Mary-Patrice…”

 

In Which, Somebody Dreams

000_0010She sat at her desk and drummed her fingers across the keyboard. Seven more days of this, she thought. Seven more days until she could surround herself in sun tan lotion and sand. Already she could hear the sound of the gulls and the waves lapping at the shore. Soon, she would stand in the surf and let the water wash over her ankles, sinking. Sinking and relaxing. Isn’t that what vacation was all about it?

Sinking her paycheck…but sinking…no, absorbing all the sun, waves, blue sky and soft comforter that she could stand. That time in the morning where you relish in the fact that there’s no place to be. No work, no appointments, no commitments whatsoever. Just the promise she’ll make to herself when she stretches her toes out of the covers and reaches her arms up over her head. Soon it’ll be the time to relax, to slough off the bruises of a long day, and the scourge of human emotions. Soon. But not yet. Not yet.

Some Non-Fiction: Today’s Observation, a Conversation at the Lunch Table

I’ve been listening to David Sedaris’ Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls, at work for the last few days. His book is a collection of essays about his life and some short stories. For some reason, it inspired me to try a little bit of non-fiction writing. I do need to record more of what I do, and the conversations I have on a given basis. Mr. Sedaris apparently writes too much in his journal, or so he confesses.

Non-fiction isn’t always easy for me. I don’t know if writing about your life, and the people in it is easier for some – but for me, I have to hold onto the little bit of friends I have. So it is difficult for me to just let go. Being a writer is about writing truth…and I worry too much about what people think.

Anyway, the point is, I am trying to challenge myself to try something new. I do not write enough about my life, and that is a shame. As boring as it is, there’s got to be some gem amongst the stones, right? Right?  Ahaha. Here goes.


 A conversation at the lunch table.

“Someone stole my carrots!” I look down into my lunch bag at the lonely tub of hummus. It stares back at me blankly, smudgy, feeling like old cement.

“Well that’s just great!” I say as I shove my lunch away. “Now I have nothing to eat my hummas with.” The last part is said with a bit of a whine. If its one thing that pisses me off, it’s going hungry.

I look up to a stare from my fellow co-workers. The woman next to me gets an uncertain look. “Someone stole my soda once.”

“Seems unlikely,” says another woman, her hair is grey, long, down her back. “I mean, if it was a bag of chips…”

“At least you have pasta,” says another.  A young woman, who reads graphic novels and writes in a journal covered with cartoon characters. “I have this,” and she gestures towards a microwave pizza she bought in the vending machine. It’s one of those french bread kinds, that are usually better in an oven.

“How it is?” I ask, already a bit skeptical.

She shrugs. “It’s not as crunchy as I thought it would be.”

I respond with a thoughtful, “that’s too bad,” and make my way out of the break room. One thing I do like about my job: the people I work with. There are other things that leave much to be desired. A clean floor would be nice, for one.

“I suppose I could have left it on the counter…” I mumble a bit disappointed, turning the dial on my lock to shove my purse away in my locker. “But it sounded so much better being stolen. Other than me just being forgetful. You know, I was late to work this morning.”

The older woman with the long hair laughs. “And that’s your story and you’re sticking to it!”

“You’re darn right.”

I watch her head back up the stairs, back to work. Back to the monotony and a desk that smells like dust and sometimes burnt coffee. I’ll sometimes prop my folder up on my desk, to keep the computer from blowing hot air on my face. For some reason, this gives me a weird sense of victory. I suppose there is pleasure in the little things in life. Like I’ve beat the system. Like who cares if the computer may over-heat, at least my face is cool.

Back to work…back to work…

When I get home, I am hungry and tired, and I find a bag of carrot sticks sitting propped up against the microwave. I wave a fruit fly away.

“Think they’re still good?” I mutter, as I inspect the orange skin, that now looks dried and crackley, like they’ve been in the desert doing some serious time and not lounging serenely on my counter all day in an empty apartment.

My boyfriend gives a deep chuckle from the next room. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

I scrunch up my nose and laugh as I put them in the refrigerator, feeling suddenly like a little kid and then shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. How silly I was to think people would actually steal healthy food. Crunching carrots on the sly, isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Unless there’s some kind of crazed vegetarian out there, just ready to go postal.

I’m starting to think I should be on the look out for Bug’s Bunny. I’ve tried the “What’s up, dock?” thing to Michael while munching on a carrot before. He doesn’t find it attractive.

Ah, next time I suppose.

 

Flash Fiction: Smooth, Dark, World

Eh, just looking for some inspiration. Something different to write. Here goes…nothin’. Been having a hard time prioritizing my writing time again. This is something I definitely need to get into the swing of again. Found this writing prompt online via google. It was supposed to be for a poem, but suddenly I found myself in a fiction mood. 🙂


Writing Prompt: Write using all of the following words: smooth, soothe, work, dark…

It was a smooth, dark, night. A world full of purple and black. A night that touched the skin, and felt like velvet, a world that kissed and made promises.

He stood outside of the nightclub and held my hand. Across the street, the wind blew restlessly through the green trees in the small park. His eyes were wide and purple as they looked down at mine. I knew he had contacts in. I knew the diamond stud in his ear wasn’t real.

“Babe,” he said, as he held my hand. “Babe, I just need to focus on my career, on my work right now.”

I felt my stomach plummet. Suddenly, the street lights that tipped our shadows across the street, felt too-bright and intrusive. I stared up at him. Was his hair pink? Maybe blue? I batted at something that twinkled by his head.

I felt his grip tighten, or was he pulling me closer? “You’re drunk off your ass,” he said. “What else did you take? Acid?”

One didn’t need to take acid to discover how musical his voice was not. He enunciated something to me. I watched his soft mouth open wide and then purse together. Like a fish. Huh, fish lips. Fish gills. Fish and chips!

“Fish and chips?” He slapped my face. “Wake up!”

I stumbled back from him, moment gone. “I don’t need to wake up,” I blubbered as I touched at the blood coming down my nose. It was the drugs that made me weepy. It was the world that was taken away. It was the magic that had filled my head, and then was dumped out onto the street, useless, had lost its sparkle.

His skin was too pale anyway. His hair too black and greasy. He needed to focus on his music, right. Focus on a new pair of tits, and an ass that fit his hand better. Boy, I sure knew how to pick them.

I stumbled across the street.

“Adriene!” He called to my back. I ignored his grave voice. The wind that blew music through the trees was calling me. The smell of something new and fresh and not forgotten called me, soothed me.

The moon came alive on my face, then. The light that managed to trickle down into the city, lit all of the trees and the benches and the large grey stones next to the park’s entrance in a gray-blue light.

It was the fairies calling me. The fairies and soft green grass and a ground that fit just right. I imagined myself curling into the long grass, the tickle of wild flowers next to my face, and then I was doing just that. I was in the grass and in the dirt and I would lay there forever and never wake up.

Never wake up.

Flash Fiction: Testimony of Johnathan Lawrence, Murder Trial #4565

Um, I’m not really sure what happened here. I felt the pressure to write something new tonight, as I don’t want to disappoint those that have been looking for something new from me each night, but also because I really need to push myself to write everyday.

And when I push myself, I really do seem to surprise myself. Nothing is perfect, but it sure is entertaining sometimes. I also might be watching reruns of Bones tonight…which might act as some accidental inspiration. 😉

Happy Weekend everyone!


The Testimony of Johnathan Lawrence, Murder Trial #4565.

She’s got that look that she’s been used too many times. Like her face would have dried up, if she didn’t keep applying make up. Maybe last week she had a someone, maybe it was yesterday. What’s the term they use for women who have…let me say…”been around the bend?”

wpid-img_20150419_180345483.jpgAh, she had her uses I suppose. Her hair was that smooth, silky black, her eyes wounded, her lips pouty. I loved the way she chewed them when she was speaking to me. As if every word next out of that sticky, pink mouth was going to say something holy –  something worthy of remembering. She didn’t really have a sense of humor. It took her a while to get to the point. Or maybe that’s just because she thought too much about the answer. Thinks that maybe saying the wrong thing will get her hit again. Just how it happened when she was ten, just how it happened when she first slept with her ex-boyfriend.

[The first lawyer asks the witness] Did you hit her John?

No! I didn’t hit her! What kind of jackass do you think I am? I just like it when she did what she does. You know…down there. God, the magic of a woman’s mouth. You know, I liked it when she got real slippery…would giggle like a little girl. [Someone clears their throat. Probably the lawyer]. Huh. So that’s why she looked so wounded. You’d think she’d have figured out that’s not the way to be. Turns a man off, you know? I guess all the hitting made her stupid. She sure was nice to look at, though.

What was the name she gave me? Hell, if I remember. Anita? No, Laura? Yes, Laura. Laura Tippleton. She told me that she liked to go downtown sometimes at Midnight. That’s where they would find her. You know…her “conquests.” [Witness laughs]. That’s where she found me.

[The second lawyer, this one female asks:] Did she like to go down to the river?

Well, I guess. Maybe she would skip rocks or something like that. Fish. You know, she used to say if you look at the surface of the water long enough you could see the future, I just thought she got hit in the head too many times.

[The first lawyer looks up from the table where he sits next to a young man; a greasy young man who is hand cuffed and wears an orange jump suit.]

[The female lawyer asks] Do you think she saw anything in the river?

[The witness on the stand looks puzzled. He rubs at the grizzle on his face. Adjusts his red cap with oil-stained fingers.]

[The judge begs him to answer the question.]

[The witness’s eyes cross and his mouth works, then pauses, and then he speaks.] I guess not then, huh? Because that’s where they found her, isn’t? Hell, you never know the finality of life until it is staring you in the face. Plum, staring you in the face. Would have been nice of the river to tell her that. Maybe they wouldn’t have found her like they did. I wish I could have told her that. I, well…I’m sorry I couldn’t remember her name.

[The female lawyer gives him a long, hard look, but it is not completely unkind. Her eyes glance, just once over to the judge. She speaks.]   No further questions.