Depressing but fun to write!

He plucked the flower with his massive hand. Its roots strained to hold onto the dirt in between the cracks of pavements where it had grown. The guy gave it to his girlfriend, who was standing by the fountain whose overflowing water had fed the little flower. She kissed him and their romance flourished but at what a price. Poor little flower, just another sacrifice for love.

This super-short story was inspired by a roll of story dice. Yes, the image is photoshopped. I didn’t take a picture of the dice, so take my word for it.

Hooray for Hollywood

Linda lay on the floor, silenced by the intense pain from the bullet wound in her shoulder. Looking up she saw the hotel room and, more disturbing, she saw herself screaming hysterically.

No this isn’t the hotel, this is a movie set and that’s the actress playing her. Linda forced herself to hold onto reality. She tried to focus on what she heard. It was mostly the commotion on the set: “Get the set doctor!” “Security’s got the shooter!” “Who is she?” “What the fuck is going on?” “Is Linda dead?”

Okay, maybe trying to make sense of the commotion wasn’t the best idea.

Linda had recognized the shooter but at that point it was too late. The woman had already drawn the gun and began to fire. It was her old boss’s widow. She’d snuck onto the set as part of the lunch catering crew. How fucking fitting. This all began during lunch, why shouldn’t it end the same way?

No, no, no. Linda wouldn’t let herself think that way. The set doctor was already holding taking care of her. He’d patch up the wound, she’d go to the hospital and be back to normal in no time.

Linda thought about the string of events leading to this painfully unfortunate moment. She thought about the days following what happened in the hotel room. She told the cops and the media that it had been self defense. This was true. She just left out the part about the rendezvous being set up by her part-time prostitution gig and the plan she’d concocted to blackmail her boss. Instead, she made up a story about her boss trying to rape her. The press ate that shit up. They ran stories about it for weeks. And Linda milked it. She moved on from sleep with johns to sleeping with publishers and producers.

The book Linda wrote about her story became a best seller (well, the book the ghost writer wrote in her name). That lead to the movie deal and the really big bucks. She came to the set every day. Not that she had anything to offer; she didn’t know shit about movies. But she did know how to bang the director for producing credit on his next project. And the check that came with being a producer, of course. Hollywood seemed tailor made Linda’s particular skill set.

“…the ambulance is here. The bleeding has stopped. You’re going to be all right. Linda realized the set doctor had been talking to her.

Linda forced a smile. She was already thinking about what a great sequel this was going to make.

The End.
Part 1: Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour
Part 2: Afternoon Delight

Tags: Afternoon Delight, Amber, Hooray for Hollywood, Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour, Mayday

Afternoon Delight

Her boss sat on the posh seat facing the bed. His face had gone paler than Michael Jackson’s as he tried drinking from the glass of scotch in his trembling hand.

Linda lay comfortably on the bed wearing nothing but underwear and her stiletto heels. She slowly sipped her red wine and licked her lips, seductively. Usually she flaunted her sex for tips, not intimidation; turns out she liked how both made her feel.

“This is the first time I’ve ever done this,” he said, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I am faithful to my wife and my morals.”

Linda laughed, deeply. “Spare me.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, fear crossing his already downtrodden face.

Linda took a moment, pretending to think. She already knew what she was going to ask for. The pause was purely to increase the tension in the room. After a few years of prostituting, she knew how to keep men emotionally unbalance (it’s not that hard).

“I’m not too greedy. You keep paying me my full salary with full benefits, only I never actually have to go to work.”

“How am I supposed to that?” he asked incredulously. “We have all sorts of audits, lawyers and government paperwork to deal with?”

“I’m sure you can figure something out. Or you can figure out what to tell your wife and the gossip columnist when they hear you take delight in afternoon rendezvous with hookers.” Linda broke her controlled demeanor for just a moment as she dropped that last zinger, flashing a self-satisfied, shit-eating grin.

What happened next, Linda only remembered as a blur. Her madam always warned her that this line of work could get violent. Linda assumed that was an exaggeration. After all, high-end clientele like hers had too much at stake to get into violent altercations with hookers, right?

Not really.

Linda found herself unable to breath, as her boss pinned her to the bed and wrapped his hands around her throat. She pounded her fists again his chest, to no avail. In desperation or a moment of quick thinking — take your pick — she managed to dig her heels deep into his crotch. He howled in pain and momentarily released his grip. Linda used all her strength to heave him off of her.

As he flew off of Linda and crash to the floor, his neck slammed into the corner of the nightstand with the full force of his momentum.

Linda rolled off the bed and prepared herself for another attack. Only then did she realize there wasn’t going to be one. As she leaned over to look at his still body, the horribly twisted angle of his head killed any illusions she had of him being merely unconscious.

“Well, shit,” she thought to herself.

To be concluded.
Read Part 1: Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour
Part 3: Hooray for Hollywood

Tags: Afternoon Delight, Amber, Hooray for Hollywood, Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour, Mayday

Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour

Dedicated to Mayday & Amber, who came up with the title/concept in the first place.

Linda spent most of her lunch hours having sex for money. She liked to have sex and she liked extra income, so it was a win-win scenario. Even better: she was beautiful, really good in bed and already had a nice paying corporate job, so she was in a position to pick and choose her clients.

Certainly, she understood it was insulting that she happily did something other women would only do out of desperation. But whatever.

That particular morning her phone buzzed with a message from her “madam” (pimp). A new client (trick) was looking for a quicky in a local hotel – one of the good ones, too, with the kind of high thread count sheets Linda loved wrapping her naked body in. Linda checked her calendar and emailed her pimp back, saying she was available but, as usual, wanted to see a picture of the potential trick first.

The picture came through shortly thereafter. She recognized the trick. It was her boss. That is to say the very rich, very married corporate executive who made a name for himself in social circles by supporting extremely conservative candidates via very large donations.

“Holy shit, I just hit the jackpot,” Linda realized. Barely containing her excitement, she wrote back to her pimp, accepting the trick. Once you’ve gone down the road of prostituting for fun and profit during your lunch hour, blackmailing your boss doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

To be continued.
Part 2: Afternoon Delight
Part 3: Hooray for Hollywood

Tags: Afternoon Delight, Amber, Hooray for Hollywood, Like a Woman Who is Only a Prostitute During Her Lunch Hour, Mayday

Little Light of Ours

The little light ray shot through the blackness on a straight, unbroken course. It carried the memories of a world long gone, perpetuating the story as if it was happening now.

Until a fallen star – one of its own brethren – pulled it off course. The little light ray began twisting and turning. Every moment that passed became longer than the last as it moved towards a horizon.

The little light ray wondered “what’s past that horizon?” so it kept pushing along its new, curvy path. It sped up, going deeper towards a darkness it had never known possible.

Soon, the rest of the universe began disappearing behind the little light ray. To rest the universe a story was lost, locked away in a vault with no key. But the little light ray was okay with that, even if no one else was.

I got the best new toy: story cubes. They’re a set of dice with images on them that you roll and use as inspiration for storytelling. Every writer should have them. Thanks, Josh!

U Don’t Know (Lucky Me)

The nurse escorted Nayto’s parents from the room.

Nayto knew he wasn’t dying but it didn’t stop his life from flashing before his eyes as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It didn’t happen how he expected. It wasn’t a quick succession of bursts, more like single moments coming to the front, lingering for a while, then giving way to the next memory.

He wondered if the chain of events that ended with four bullet wounds in his torso could have been avoided if he wasn’t so spiteful.

The son of an Ambassador (his mom) and a Nobel Prize winning author (his dad), Nayto always felt pressure. Seen from that perspective, Nayto though, it’s little wonder that he ended up as a rapper known for mercilessly butchering the english language and starting rivalries with other musicians.

He remembered the day first day he showed his dad his rhymes only to have dad call them a silly waste of time. Nayto didn’t hesistate to give him the middle finger and tell him to “fuck off, nigger.”

And man did neither of them cared for his liberal sprinkling of that notorious word. Not just in his music. There was that one time at Thanksgiving dinner, in front of the whole family. His parents prided themselves in being civilized but looking into their eyes that night he saw violence that was barely restrained, just aching to come to the surface.

Nayto cherished that moment. That moment proved what he’d always known: his parents weren’t picture perfect. In fact, he was convinced their whole act was a ruse. He swore to push until they broke.

Unfortunately, he was almost broken first. A crazed fan, madly infatuated with the latest rapper Nayto was feuding with, pulled up beside his car and opened fire. He remembered overhearing the cops say that a few hours earlier, as the paramedics were strapping him to a gurney.

He remembered telling his concerned mom that “rappers don’t shoot each other anymore, these feuds are all about making cash.” It pissed the ambassador-lady off even more to hear that the public feuds weren’t about principles – just cash. And, technically, Nayto was right. It wasn’t another rapper who had him shot. The memory made him smile.

As he fell asleep, the last of his memories wrapping up and being replaced by dreams, he still couldn’t decide if it was spite that got him here or if this was a battle that could never have had a happy ending.

The Well-Connected Apartment

Apartment 2B loved Jordan very much.

When Mary was going to give birth, it saw to it that the locks on the door broke. She had to give birth to Jordan in the living room.

During his childhood years, Apartment 2B spoke to the surrounding sidewalks and made sure they’d always get in Jordan’s way. Jordan thought he was clumsy and spent most of his time indoors. Apartment 2B liked that.

In his early adulthood, Jordan left the apartment and found his own place.

For years, Apartment 2B would try to get him back. It would talk to its friends who knew the apartments Jordan was living in and convince them to spring leaks or have fault wiring. But Jordan would never move back. Why would Jordan want to live with his parents?

A few years after Jordan first moved out, his parents died in a car accident due to poor road conditions. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that the road they were driving on was good friends with Apartment 2B.

So Jordan inherited Apartment 2B. Until he met a woman and fell in love. She tried to convince him to sell it before they got married.

Apartment 2B did not like that at all.

The End.

Pulp Trash

“Accordions & the Men Who Play Them & the Women Who Love Those Men” was a nasty, sarcastic book written in very plain english. It’s no surprise, then, that it would end up on a little girl’s bookshelf.

The sarcasm and irony was lost on the little girl and she merely considered it the story of a great adventure. She longed and hoped for that kind of adventure in her life.

Years later, when the fate of her world was in her hands, it was the memories of herself as a little girl and that book kept her steady. The existence of that stupid, throwaway story to her made it more important than anything else that was ever written before.

She re-read it again recently. It was still as moving to her as the first time, even with the camp. She’ll always be really into the story of accordion players and love, even if it’s not meant to be taken seriously.

Today’s flash fiction story was prompted by Jess Kirby, via Twitter: accordions & the men who play them & the women who love those men.

Delivery Guy

A weed delivery guy’s job is oddly prone to developing friendships. Most everyone is on a schedule for when they pick up. You’re on a schedule when it comes to your delivery hours. Within a few weeks you’ll have a good idea of who’s ordering and where they’ll be, before your shift even begins.

So you get to know these people. And, because only people with expendable income ever bother to pay the weed delivery premium, these are good folk that you can be comfortable around. It lets you get intimate.

But at any moment it can all be ripped away without a chance to say “bye.” It happens every couple of years. You’re doing fine and then a wrong turn or a red light and the cops are all over you. You go away. Someone else takes your number and your customers get their new guy — after all, you were once just the replacement for a guy who went away — and you still wonder: “do they ever think about what happened to me?”

Today’s flash fiction story was prompted by @effedparkslope‘s tweet: “weed delivery dudes in Park Slope. GO.” I just so happen to write for Fucked in Park Slope so that’s extra reason for you to go check them out.

The Cow’s Moo

Note: The following was translate from the bovine vernacular.

“Your sons are going to kill you!” I shouted at him. But he didn’t understand it anymore than I understand the noises humans make. He knew I was agitated, so he took a moment out of chewing his straw and contemplating life (which is what I imagined him doing during those breaks he took to stare into space) to give me a reassuring pet.

That night I heard the gunshots. I imagine it happened how I saw the big son pantomime to the dumb son (they have a harder time grasping the human language than I do): they’d shoot the father while he slept, then they’d stage it to look like a robbery.

I’m not sure why humans do that to each other. All I know about humans, now are:

1. The sons run this farm now.
2. I miss my friend.

This website has crossed the one year mark and I celebrated by missing last Thursday’s post and this Monday’s. But I’ll try to make it up by posting a flash fiction story every today thru Friday. That’s four stories! And I’m taking suggestions. You could give me a word, an idea, a character, a plot, a pictures, or whatever you want and I’ll write a flash fiction story inspired by it. I’ll be taking the first three suggestions that make their way to me. You could post a comment here, twitter at me, email me… whatever.

This first story came from a tweet by Jonathan MacFarlane. When I asked for someone to throw out an idea for my flash fiction story he tweeted back: @j_macfarlane A cow that knows a terrible secret but can’t tell anyone because it’s a cow.