Friday, September 27, 2013

Sleepy Town Drama

Flash!Friday Challenge hosted by

Rebekah Postupak

Word limit: 150 word story (a leaping 5-word leeway) based on the photo prompt.

Child. Photo by Alexis/El Caminante

"Wyndal!  Would ya look at that!" "See  I told ya!  Every year!  It's the same damn thing!  Those big rigs pull into town, bringing their grubby things and their grubbier food!  People comin; from God knows where, women half; naked!  Kids yellin', and the men! Don't even get me started on the men.  Most; without even two knickels to rub together.  I mean, God Almighty, why a strong wind coulda blown that kid clean outta sight."

He looks over to Wyndal.  "Wyndal?  You listenin to me!?"

Wendell's unintelligible mumble around a mouthful of food, accompanies an offhanded gesture with his fork.  All the while, nodding his head, before refocusing on the sampling of the bazaar's offerings.

"Is that slop, really that good?  His stomach rumbles loudly, and he begins patting his pockets.  Before, sheepishly turning to Wendell.  "Mind lendin me a couple bucks, figure I might as well try one a dem plates."

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The Price of Knowledge?

Here's what you're going to do:
You're going to write an unfinished story.
Around 1000 words that leads to a cliffhanger of some kind.
Then, next week, we'll pick up in part two --
Where someone else may write the end of your story.
You're writing, in a sense, to entice another writer to want to complete the second half of your tale. To answer the cliffhanger, to be the one who saves the day, solves the mystery.
The above was the challenge put forth by Chuck Wendig at his blog Terribleminds

The loud creak of the traffic worn floorboards caused him to wince at each of his surreptitious steps. Nevertheless, he glided to the back of the hall and paused at the base of the flaking white staircase.  A wan light,  spilled forth from the lone room at the staircase's summit.  Goosebumps raised  on his skin, while the hair on his body began to lift towards the light's source.  Soren breathed deeply, his steps quick and sure, as he ascended to the entry way.  He repeated the two questions he would be allotted, to himself over and over.  A half-snap caused him to flinch as his weight pressed down upon the top step.

Immediately, his gaze lifted from the worn landing, to the room just a few feet away.   He knocked on the door jamb and the light within the room began to pulsate at the rhythm of the knock.  Not for the first time, the thought of the price of knowledge he hoped to attain, crossed his mind.  His gaze found the source of the unnatural light and his mouth went dry, as he beheld the supple, naked form of the woman known simply as Mistress.

And although the weaselly proprietor at the bar on the edge of the docks had described the scene before him, shock still registered through his psyche, that the light filling the room, emanated from Mistress herself.  While, his last employ as the mussel in a brothel, allowed him to count many, the number of naked women he had seen.  Mistress attracted his attention in a manner unlike anything he had experienced.  His gaze fell to her round, plump breasts, which appeared incongruous with her taut, flat abdomen, and lent her a lascivious character.  The pale beauty of her face reminded him of the 'Fairy by Sophie Anderson'.

Rumor had it, that any man would gladly pay her price for knowledge, though none would disclose the sum of that price.  Whatever she charged, it obviously had not been invested in her surroundings.  The interior of the room appeared unimpressive, dominated by an aged dresser with bare patches accompanied by a chipped gold-enameled cast iron stand with an Oval Victorian Vanity Table Mirror perched atop it.  The bed she sat upon had seen better days, it's mattress warped and curved.  No linens wrapped nor draped its form but, the mattress looked pristine. Yet, she appeared almost regal, perched atop its rumpled surface.  She gave the impression, that she Reclined on furs and silks.  And her languid manner, combined with the pulsating light, relaxed him in a way he would not have thought possible.

"Do come in and be at ease." purred her voice into the silence.

 The voice's seductive quality, compelled his feet to move forward, its lilting French accent held a hint of a plea.

The moment his boot touched the shabby scatter rug at the entrance to the room, the visage of Mistress loomed large.  It dominated his entire vision, yet unfocused objects skittered to and fro at the edge of his vision.

"You have questions, yes?'  A brief pause, then she beckoned him closer to the bed.

From his perspective, he stood bedside already.  But, his mind longed to obey, so, he leaned as far forward as he possibly could.

"You know the price?'

Her eyelashes batted languorously.

Mistress's black, shiny, long-point nailed fingers moved to caress his face.  At the instance of their touch, he could once again see the entire room.  Only now, the room possessed double the floor space and every inch of walls, floor and ceiling held mirrors of all shapes and sizes.  As he shifted his gaze about the room, amazed that Triangular, rectangular, trapezoidal, and shard-like pieces now covered every surface.  He realized he no longer felt Mistress's prickly caress and instantly whipped his head back to the side, in her perceived direction.

The disbelief on his own visage stared back at him.  Accompanied by at least eight Mistress's legs that he could see, stepping forth from some of the largest mirror sections.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

#5 Owe money to some very bad people - Flash Fiction Challenge

The following flash fiction story is in response to a Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge held by author Chuck Wendig   through his blog 'TERRIBLEMINDS'


As the "crack" of his backhand slap reverberates from the dingy yellowish tile covered walls. Instinctively, I flinch, losing my sweaty, trembling grip on the handle of the borrowed roscoe.  A loud pop!  Chaos ensues, filling the air with the commotions of: the clanking of dishes, high pitched sobs, curses, and a dull thud!

"What the ..."

"Yo, Poindexter, what you...."

"Oh ..."

Heart racing, I tear my eyes away from the enlarging wet Rorschach blot on the front of the pants of the weeping cook. Two straight weeks of armed robberies, heists and murders, have my already raw nerves beyond their breaking point.  Furtively, I search for the source of the thud.  Finding my query, stills the breath in my chest.  How did

"Yo, you shot..."

"Do you have any idea..."

The incessant ringing in my ears, prevents me from full comprehension of what is taking place around me. At this moment I realize I'm on my knees and unconsciously reach out my hand to the six foot metal dish rack to aid me in standing.  Ironic, that such a grimy kitchen, has such nice dish racks.  Who cleans them I wonder and why not clean the rest of the place.  I take no notice of the crimson ink spot staining my right knee.

The stinging slap to my face, startles my shaking form back to reality, as I careen into a shiny metal counter, scattering dishes and utensils.  My body jerks reflexively at the cacophony made by each shattering soiled plate, as it hits the grease smeared floor.  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, desperately trying to cling to my sanity, while, searching my tired mind for any kind of solution.

Finally, I meet the gaze of my assailant, the cousin of the man lying in a puddle of his blood.  I flinch from his gaze, my eyes tracking to the only area currently unoccupied by the living.  He looks funny laying there, almost looks like he's winking.  Only he's not winking, a trick of the shabby overhead lighting, shades the near empty eye socket in a manner conducive to winking.

"The debt you owe Perch, is nothin gainst what my uncle gonna demand for this here!  You hear'n me college boy?  I'm thinkin I should kill you myself but, I'm thinkin my uncle is gonna get real personal wich you like"

I look over to my childhood friend, the one who had gotten me into this mess I was in, in  the first place.  He averts his eyes, wearing an odd look of shame and relief.  I begin to laugh, weakly at first, with a sound to rival that of soft sobs or weeping.  My laughter gains volume and strength, I lunge wrapping both my hands around Chance's throat.  My legs fold underneath me, before I hear the loud pop, my hand grasps the right side of his shirt weakly, in a desperate attempt to stay upright.  I taste the bitter salt of my tears, as I crash to the floor, the smell of too may times used grease thick in my nostrils as the world fades to nothing.