Jack Top #1 - "A Cicatricial Reminder" - 100 Words

I was sure I had purged my belly full of anger a few weeks ago.  Apparently not.

I decided to once again try my hand at some Flash Fiction when I found a blog run by an old Flash Fiction friend that offered up a weekly 100 word challenge based on the prompts she came up with.

I also decided that writing an upbeat happy 100 words would put me in just the right mood to walk down to the Town Hall and step into a voting booth.

Try as I might, I could not fashion anything warm and fuzzy, wry or humorous.  All I had floating around inside the cranial void were serious negative waves dude.

I was actually surprised.  I thought that some of my recent rants, posted and unposted , would have set me straight.

So my re-entry into Flash Fiction is dark, ........ yeah, not a pleasant tale.

Be forewarned and remember it is only a story.

Bedtime Story

Finish That Thought #2 - 33 – 499 words

Prompt - First sentence and special challenge words - Teddy Bear, President, heart, mastermind, cupcake, nightgown

“He hustled her away from the scene, even as more people were arriving to scope out the damage.”

“What happened then Granpa?”  Edie peeked out from under the top of her My Little Pony nightgown.

Granpa tucked the covers around her tiny body.   “Well, they ran down the back stairs and out into the alley behind the hotel.  TB……….”

“You mean Teddy Bear, right Granpa?”

“Yeah right child, I mean Teddy Bear, now hush and listen. …….. Uh, let’s see ….  Running down the stairs tuckered them right out.  So they stood in that alley, hearts pounding and chests heaving.  They didn’t know what to do. 

“The President said, ‘Okay mastermind, now what?’ ”

“Teddy Bear looked at her.  ‘Madam President, I do not know.  Let me check it out.’  Ever so slowly and super quietly, TB sneaked up the alley to the street. …”

Granpa looked at his granddaughter.  Her eyes were barely open.  She couldn’t last much longer.  He better wrap it up.

He smiled.   “So Teddy Bear looked out onto the street.  He signaled the President to come ahead.      Both of them peaked out.   There were Officer Barneys everywhere.  Some were running crime tape, while most were holding the gathering mob back.  One Barney was taking pictures and another was stretching on some crime scene latex gloves.”

Edie struggled to open her eyes wider.  “Just like CSI huh? ……… ”

Granpa looked down on his beautiful grandchild.  “Yes Edie, just like CSI. …… Anyway, what the Barneys were checking out horrified both of them.  There lay Cupcake frosting side down.  Her cherry smashed and cracked open, oozing red cherry juice into the sewer drain. ……. After a few moments, they decided it was best to beat feet the other way.”

Edie mumbled, “What then?”  She had just about had it.

“Well, the Barney taking pictures asked, ‘So Sarge, what do we call this one?  Need something for the report.’ ”

“ Sarge looked at him and said, ‘Hmm, … we found the poor slob near the sewer drain.   Let’s write it up as Suicide.’ “

Edie looked up at her grandfather and grinned.  “Granpa, you are so silly.”   Then she passed out.

Granpa eased himself to his feet.  As he left her room, he closed the door leaving it cracked open a tad, just like she liked it.  Downstairs he found his wife in the living room with a book in her hands.  She dropped the book to her lap and looked at him over her glasses.  “You didn’t tell the cupcake story again, did you?”

“Yeah, sure did.  Worked like a charm.  Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you were the one who threw Cupcake to her death.

Miss Piggy glared at her husband.  ” Hey now, she was trying to steal my girlish figure. …….. If I was still president, I’d…………”

“Yeah Yeah, you’d have the stuffing beat out of me. …….  blah blah blah.”  Teddy Bear headed into the kitchen for a beer.

The Loser

Velvet Verbosity *413 - Prompt ~ Robbed  - 100 words

The Loser

Standing at the bus stop in the cold rain.

Foul weather and melancholy, 

bring into sharp focus, a lifetime of pain.

The soul had suffered so many felonies, 

a thousand cuts of momentary shame.

Withdrawn and numb now, the shell still exists, 

while the essence and joy in life long ago floated away.

Was it the theft of a childhood, one drunken blow at a time?

Or rather school yard bullies and a brief hollow marriage 

that bears most of the blame?

It matters little now, standing here in the rain.

What once was, is the present, nothing has changed.

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Image from Saustria

The Last Quilt

Velvet Verbosity - The prompt for 02/01/15 - 02/07/15 is QUILT – 100 words

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Aunt Helen sat in the Windsor chair.  With gnarled finger, she pointed to something and determined its destiny.  Sticky notes were applied.

“Quilting frame?’

“It goes with me.   Your uncle made it for me in 1954.”

 “You can barely grab a doorknob.  How are you going to use it?  Besides, your new apartment is too small.”

“It goes with me.”

Aunt Helen lay on her death bed, a twisted hand gripping Mark.  “There’s a package under the bed for you.”

After the funeral, Mark opened that package.  Inside was her last quilt.  Embroidered on one panel, the words, “FOR MARK”.

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Conquering Hero

This a piece I wrote for a flash fiction challenge.  I wrote it in memory of a friend who did not die in Vietnam.  He died because of Vietnam.

The original piece can be found at Last Line First
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His eyes were full of the things he had seen.  His mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down.  Memories caught in his craw and woke him sweating cold in the dread of his nights and left him staring into his darkness til Dawn’s early light.

Well meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats did what they could.  As it was with so many others, it did not work out.  Scarred and broken he was sent back to a homeland that would never be the same.  His innocence pooled bloody on too many foreign plains.  Feeling forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons, he sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin.  He could never forget his role in the pre-meditated chaos of Man killing Man in faraway lands.

One day he gave up, double hit China White, laid down, and he died.  Before his curtain closed, with one final sigh, the untold stories and nightmares at last said goodbye.  Our conquering hero had finally found his peace.
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Image courtesy of this site

Lying Truth - Indie Ink Challenge - 100 Words

Facts intermingled with conjecture and forgone conclusions cast Truth aside in favor of expedient knee jerked solutions.  Lost in a sea of deception, specious goals are massaged by lying hands, replacing Honesty with Truth’s ugly step sister, the Half Truth.

The Midway Squawkers and Snake Oil Salesmen insist and demand the Half  Truth into our lives hoping their deception lasts long enough for them to cash in their nickels and dimes. 

Assaulted long enough, we allow recent lies to become our New Truth. Delusion casts itself in stone and merry populations dance around it happy as if they had brains.

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For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sherree challenged me with "There's a world of difference between truth and facts.  Facts can obscure the truth.  Maya Angelou" and I challenged Catherine with "Water is the theme - either too much or too little - any setting"
_________________For Challenge week 1/6/12 to 1/13/12________________

Some Below the Fold Thoughts on the Piece

Along with the rules of the prompt, I usually write down snippets of thought pertaining to the story or essay I want to write.  I do this more often when I really have no idea of what I want to write.  I hope that by seeing these random thoughts that may or may not be connected to the prompt, a story will cross my mind.

I leave these snippets at the top to help remind me of what I might want to include.  For this challenge, I dutifully began a story, then stopped.  I kept coming back to Maya Angelou's quote and the phrases and words I had written down to jog me in the right direction.   Her quote was so concise and utterly complete, I thought I should try to be also.  Thus I decided to limit my effort this week to 100 words, a style of flash I really enjoy.  Regardless, this is what I came up with this week.

Chicago Likes Things Tidy - F3 Cycle 62

Flash Fiction Friday Challenge

Prompt: Write a story set in the 40′s or 50′s where the protagonist is addicted to something
Genre: Pulp Crime or Pulp Romance - I picked crime
Word Limit: 1,800 - Actually finished with 1794 words
Deadline:  Wednesday, January 11, 2012 at 9:00 pm EST

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Rip looked up the front of the five floor brownstone on East 173rd in the Bronx.  He looked at the slip of paper in his hand.  "Fifth Floor - back apt."  Then under it, “Ask for Gus”.  He looked again up the five floors, every window hanging wide open in respect to the brutal summer of 1943.  Rip pulled a grimy handkerchief out of his back pocket, removed his hat and wiped the running sweat from his forehead.  He took one more anguished look up and started climbing the steps.

Plodding up the stairs, Rip considered why criminals always set up shop in the dumbest of places.  Here was a stand alone five story walk up and the flounder not only deals his drugs here but also runs his counterfeit gas ration card operation on the fifth floor.  Just what kind of brainiac was this clown anyway?  No way out but down these stairs or some rickety steel fire escape out back that may or may not be safe to even let the cat out on.  Gasping and red faced, Rip finally reached the fifth floor.  He wondered if he’d be able to get some free smack along with the fake ration cards he was there to pick up.  

On the landing Rip collected himself.  He took a moment to re-wipe his brow, pull up his britches, and run his right hand up under his left pit to make sure his gun was still there.  Rip performed this unconscious ritual every time he was involved in criminal activities in a new location or meeting with someone he did not know.  This visit would entail both. With a final few tugs readjusting his crotch, he headed down the dim hallway to the back apartment.

Turn Left and Look Up - Indie Ink Challenge

Avery hated the cold.  He hated being broke worse.  That he didn't have to worry about rent, food, or even clothes had nothing to do with it.   Avery did not like owning empty pockets.  When his agent called with a photo shoot involving ski wear, he jumped on it.  The gig paid eight grand and he got a free weekend in Vail.  He grabbed his ready bag, left a note for Marta Sugar Mama and headed to Miami International for the last flight to Denver.  

Avery never considered that women found him attractive and men envied him until he had dropped out of high school ten years ago and hitch hiked from Buffalo to the Big Apple.  He had no plan or idea of what he was going to do.  All he knew was whatever it was wasn't going to be done in Buffalo.  That first night he was hit on by two different gay blades and one older woman at a bar near Times Square.  He went home with the woman.  Three weeks later he was still massaging her feet and her libido, only he was doing it in Palm Beach.  He had finally left the hated cold behind him.

Dreams Do Come True

"Keep me in the loop."  Arthur rang off and went back to studying the recent siesmic report.  He noted with some satisfaction the intensity of the after shocks seemed to be fading  and were fewer and farther between since the last report two hours ago.  Well, that was some good news.  Maybe now he could catch some sleep. The worst was over.

~*~

Mrs Kildane, Arthur's mother, was a seasoned survivor of earthquakes.  She experienced her first as a child living in the San Fernando area in 1961.  She was ready for this one.  The first tremor drove her outside and away from the five story building she and her husband of 40 years were living in.  She made sure to not use the elevator.  Good thing too, she could hear people trapped somewhere near the third floor.   Holding her "Important Box" she hit Sixth Street just as the second and much larger tremor hit the Mission Bay neighborhood in San Francisco.  The shock knocked her off her feet cracking her left hip.  Her husband was still out somewhere running errands.

Rudy - Indie Ink Challenge

Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago.  His behavior like his uniform was always spotless.  His smile was always quick and pleasant.  And his ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast.   He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.

Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role.  Rudy refused.   More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station.  Rudy would not budge.  This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.

Compatible

Flash Fiction Friday - Cycle #60

Caleb Winters sat in his wheel chair on a dock that crudely interrupted the flat calm of Harpshead Pond.  His presence and the dock the only proof Mankind even knew of this peaceful place.  A loon cried off to his left and dragonflies swarmed in manic flight wolfing down mosquitoes foolish enough to be out and about.  Caleb spotted his bobber begin to bounce.

Caleb's fishing pole was stuck in the rod holder Harold had zip tied to his chair a week earlier.   Learning to fish with one hand had been difficult, but over the last seven days he came up with a system and yesterday he finally caught his limit. One more now and he would reach his limit today also.  He pulled the rod out and yanked hard setting the hook.  He immediately returned the pole in the holder to brace it.  Awkwardly he began to reel the line in.  

Whatever was on Caleb's line was bigger than any fish living in this pond.  His rod tip dipped hard with each crank of the reel.  Caleb stopped.  Could it be one of those lake trout Harold boasted about?  Called them togue or something like that.  He was often not sure what Harold was saying.  His thick Maine accent frequently a foreign language to Caleb’s New York City ears.

Caleb brought the rod back up with a sharp tug.  Nothing.  He moved the pole one way, then another.  Again nothing. 

"Damn!  Another snagged line. ....... Harold!......... HAROLD!..........My damn line's snagged again."

No response.  Caleb sat in his chair fuming.  What was the use of hired help if they were never there when he needed them.  Caleb sighed, tried to calm down using those relaxation techniques that flexible filly at the hospital tried to teach him.  No good.  He continued to rant.

Several minutes later a man stepped out of the camp nestled in the tall pines some 75 feet up from  the dock.  He wore a bloodstained white apron and was wiping his hands on a dishrag.  He looked down towards the dock.  The afternoon sun had dropped far enough he had to raise his hand to his forehead to block out its intensity.   He saw Caleb.

"Caleb!  Did you call?"

Caleb turned in his chair as far as he could.  Over his shoulder, "Yeah, where the Hell have you been?  My line's been snagged for an hour.  Get down here and fix it."  Harold rolled his eyes. Caleb's ranting followed him as he turned and walked back into the cottage to locate the tackle box. 

"What the Hell have you been doing Harold?  You got blood all over your apron."

Kneeling down next to Caleb rifling around the tackle box looking for another hook and leader Harold spoke. "Been cleaning all them damn fish you been catching.  You ever gonna eat any?  If not, I know a family that would appreciate the fresh fish."

"I don't eat seafood, you know that.  Just toss it out."

Harold found the leader and hook and stood up.

"Toss perfectly good filets?  No sir I won't do it.  I'll drop em off for  Millie and her brood on my way to town."   Harold bent over and reached for the last bobber in the top tray of the tackle box.  "You keep snagging something in the same spot.  Ferchrisakes, try casting somewhere else.  Think all I have to do is babysit you?"

Caleb opened his mouth and quickly closed it.  He opened it again.  "Just fix the line dammit, It's almost sundown.  One more fish and I hit my limit again.  Never thought I'd enjoy wrestling fish out of the water.  You know I hate seafood dontcha?"

"Yeah Caleb, you just told me.  You hate eatin fish, but you love catchin them.  I'll sleep in comfort tonight knowin that.  Thanks."

Caleb looked at Harold again.  His eyes became slits.  "What bug crawled up your ass?" 

Harold straightened up.  His back complained, his knees screamed.  He was getting too old for this nursing shit. 

"Well, I'll tell ya Caleb.  It was you.  You crawled up my ass.  You’ve done nothing but piss and moan since the day I rolled you out of the van.  First it was the mosquitoes.  They were eatin you alive.  Then you didn't like how the bug spray made your skin all greasy and shit.  We get past that and after the first night all you did was complain about how noisy it was here.  Trees rustling, loons crying, ....Ferchrisakes Caleb we just come up from Manhattan.  You think this place is noisy after living there that last 50 years....And while I'm at it, what the Hell were you thinkin when you bought this place? .......  Spent five million dollars and for what?  I know, I know, you wanted your own retreat, your quiet place to escape Humanity.  Well goddammit, then retreat and shut the fuck up."

"Caleb's eyes were no longer slits, they were bug eyed open.  Oddly speechless, he took a moment to gather himself.  Finally, "Well now, I guess you can pack up your things and we'll be done with each other.  No employee of mine shows me disrespect."

Harold did not say anything.  He reached out and grabbed the snagged line.  He cut it loose and attached the new bobber, leader and hook.   When he was done he threaded the hook through the fattest worm left in the small bowl next to Caleb's wheel chair.  He handed the rod to Caleb. 

 “Here you contrary ole fart, fixed.  Now fish and leave me the Hell alone."  Harold walked back up the dock and headed for the camp.

Caleb spun his chair around and watched Harold's back disappear into the cottage. He smiled.  The two of them had been together for 20 years now ever since the plane crash and the round the clock care Caleb needed from then on.  He loved that old Mainer, he really did.  But what he loved the most was pissin him off.
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The challenge was created at "Flash Fiction Friday"  - "Write a story using the weather, a town, something to eat, and a song.".

I did not hit the prompts very well, but I did finish it inside the word limit.  My first draft was over 1300 words.  I kept nibbling and condensing until I had 1000 words exactly.

Not hitting the prompts cleanly bothers me some, but finally punching out some fiction again, well, that more than makes up for it.

I'll be back.