Posts Tagged ‘#fridayflash’

#FridayFlash – Travails

November 5, 2010

In answer to the Weekly Writing Contest–this week’s prompt was “getting where you’re going”–over at Soft Copy Publishing, I wrote the following:


One of these days it’s going to happen. When the line of cars grinds to a painful halt, and the traffic reporter chirps out the depressing news that we’re sitting, or inching along, with no end in sight. When all around me other commuters slop coffee into their mouths, or sit back to finish the breakfast sandwich with less forward movement and more frustration. When the lights turn green, mocking us as we sit unmoving, winking maliciously their columned eyes.

It’s not as if I long for the desk, the work, the co-dependent paper and screen. The cheap radio that only gets one station of mediocre music played on an unchanging daily loop. The slightly burnt smell of solder and the murmur of broken English from the workroom.

I would rather be at home, but it’s farther behind than the office is ahead. And I need, I really need the little bathroom, all mine because I’m the only woman in the office. Where in solitude and privacy I can boke up my breakfast in peace.

Because every morning in this car, I dread the day I won’t make it. And I torment myself with images of throwing open the door and losing it on the pavement, with commuters all around audience to the joys of morning sickness. One of these days. Could be today.

#FridayFlash from Suicide Notes – #6: Jim

October 29, 2010

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project and was originally written by Richard B. Wood as part of a #5MinuteFiction challenge. He generously offered it to me for this project. I’ve tweaked it so that it fits the style of the other Notes, but the original story is Richard’s.

This is the end. I’ve got it right, I think.

I looked into this.

I made the decision and I did the research into how to get it done right.

I’m such a pussy, ‘cause I really don’t want to feel it.

There’s sleeping pills. But convulsions and vomiting… no thanks.

Hanging myself. Sounds painful…besides shitting myself while gasping for that last breath is too disgusting for words.

Drowning myself…well I don’t have the courage for that one either. Sucking in water in a blind panic for my last minute of life? No.

There were some exotic concoctions of drugs I could use…a la Jack Kevorkian…but I can’t get those without a medical license.

So, putting a high caliber pistol into my mouth and pulling the trigger is the ‘best way to go.’

I suppose there is such a thing. The best way to kill yourself.

And I got this pretty .357 Magnum. Silver. Like something from the old west. Seven days to get it. But what’s seven days to a law abiding no-chance taking pussy like me?

I tried to kiss Jimmy goodbye but he wanted to play lightsabers before bed. So I did. Then I kissed him and tucked him in.

Anna wanted me to tell her a story. The stories I always make up for her. It’s the only creative thing I’ve ever done in my life. I went on and on about a princess and a dragon, and my little girl clapped and laughed and squealed in all the right places. I kissed her for the last time.

I told Vickie I was going out.

Fuck you. That was her goodbye.

I don’t blame her.

I’ve always loved this park.

I’ve been here an hour now and still crying like the pussy I am.

I can’t do this. My babies will be devastated. But tomorrow, my soon-to-be-ex-wife and I were gonna tell the kids about the divorce. I can’t bear to think of the way they’ll…I just can’t face it.

She’ll get them anyway. After what I’ve done, I’ll be lucky to get even visitation rights.

Crying like a pussy.

I made this decision already. I’d rather remember them as I last saw them. Happy, playful and full of love for their dad.

Their smiles were the last good thing I saw.

Come to papa, .357.


James Michael Hanover, 42, of Masonboro, died January 2, 2010.

He was born August 22, 1967, a son of the late Abraham Herman Hanover and Tina Fay Hanover, who survives.

He is survived by his wife, Victoria Megan Hanover; a son and a daughter, James Michael Hanover, Jr. and Anna Leigh Hanover; and a sister, Julie Melissa Carter.

Services will be held at St. Peter Catholic Church.

#FridayFlash – Sex Scene: Mr. Necessary

October 15, 2010

Mr. Necessary first appeared in Sex Scene, available free on

No, oh god no please no please stop. Stop no I need you to stop please I don’t want it I don’t I don’t. Oh god don’t. Don’t, stop no don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t.

I spotted him across the club. He looked OK, maybe handsome. Not that it mattered, anything better than repulsive would do. My pride nagged at me and I decided not to settle for less than cute. Anyway, if Don heard about this—which was not the point—it would really suck if the guy had been a dog.

I watched him a little longer and, yeah, he was definitely cute. He would do.

This was not about Don. It wasn’t. Well, it wasn’t for Don at least. I wasn’t trying to pay him back for leaving me for that blonde bitch. I wasn’t trying to make him jealous or show him I was desirable. Don would probably never hear about this. It wasn’t one of our regular clubs. I wasn’t likely to see anyone we knew.

This was for me. I wanted to be rid of him. I wanted someone to screw me until I couldn’t see straight. Pound every thought of Don out of my head, wipe his caresses off my body. I needed to be fucked.

The guy across the way saw me looking at him. I swear they can smell it, a girl who’s willing, or at least considering being willing. Really anything north of adamantly opposed. He turned his head and yelled something to his friends and started to cross the dance floor.

In the flashing lights I could see his hair was brown and I was glad. I hoped he had brown eyes too and his name was something like John or Michael. Something forgettable.

I was standing at the bar and he came over to stand in front of me. He leaned against the bar on one elbow the way they do in the movies, and apparently in real life too. He smiled at me, smarmy and confident and suddenly I felt a stab of revulsion and thought no, I don’t want to do this. But he leaned in and put his mouth to my ear and yelled “What’s your name?”

I love to have my ears kissed. He hadn’t kissed my ear but his lips had brushed against them just enough, silent promises of kisses and maybe his tongue and oh god how I wanted it.


He was still leaning close, and with my mouth against his ear, maybe he’d heard me over the painful throb of the bass and the music.

He leaned back and smiled again. Maybe he realized he’d smiled like an asshole the first time or maybe it was just chance but that time his smile was kinda nice.

“Wanna dance?” he yelled.

I shook my head and leaned in. “No. I wanna get out of here.”

He pulled back, probably quicker than he meant to, and a shit-eating grin spread across his face. That look of I’m-gettin-some that every guy gets when they know they’re in and they probably none of them realize they’re doing it.

My gut twisted with nausea and for a minute I couldn’t stand this guy. But he slipped an arm around my waist and I went.

He cast a look back at his friends and mouthed something, but I didn’t care what. Outside he was leading me toward the parking lot but I stopped him.


Before he could say anything I reached up and kissed him. His lips were soft and plump. Not firm like Don’s. I met his tongue and melted into a long, deep kiss. Don had kissed like a donkey licking your face and I needed tonight’s guy, this whoever, to kiss me like I’d been dying to be kissed for the four years that having Don was enough for the face-licking kissing not to matter.

His tongue was velvety and glided against mine, the way I remembered from before Don, and I made a noise that was something like a whimper but more like a sob.

Whatever he made of that he put both arms around my waist and pulled me against him with his hard-on shoved into my abdomen. My breasts tingled in response and that sort of back arching you don’t even do on purpose that pressed my breasts harder against him, my nipples aching to be touched. But this wasn’t where we needed to be and I pulled back. The kiss had been a test and he’d passed.

I took his hand and pulled him toward the parking lot. He got the message well enough and caught up with me. He steered me toward the passenger door of his car. One of those sleek little things that guys get because they’re too practical to get a sports car or too broke. He opened the door for me and I was impressed in a distracted way. He was either trying to guarantee his action for tonight or he genuinely had those old-fashioned manners. Whichever. I didn’t care.

There were some papers on the floor near my feet and I looked away as fast as I could. Not for any virtuous reason. I was just overwhelmingly glad all of a sudden that he hadn’t noticed—or hadn’t cared—that I hadn’t asked his name. I didn’t want to know.

The rest of Mr. Necessary and twelve other shorts can be found in Sex Scene, available free on

#FridayFlash from Creative Copy Challenge

October 8, 2010

Every now and again I get a chance to play along with the Creative Copy Challenge Shane Arthur puts on every Monday and Thursday. I managed to squeak one in yesterday and, as usual, it was very challenging and lots of fun. This week’s words are in bold:

It was the summer that did it everytime.

Dale gazed stupidly at the bloody mary in his hand, looking more like a bloodbath than a drink. Disillusioned and depressed, he considered for a moment, dropping the glass and letting its shattered remains grant the real peace that the alcohol never would.

Sasha fixed her steely gaze on him and spat, “Again? You’re a miserable waste of space, you know that?”


She huffed, settling back into her chair—the Debutante of Dram’s Corner–with all the sanctimonious poise of a competent bully.

Dale didn’t bother to look at her, having seen her attempt at badass posturing enough times to picture it quite clearly on the concrete between his feet.

“So you’re just going to sit here, then? Do nothing?” she said.

“That’s the plan.”

“I told her. I told her you were worthless and a waste of her time. That’s what she gets for not listening to me. Serves her right.” Sasha sniggered and smiled viciously.

“You’re not going to stay here, you know,” she said.

As if Dale had ever doubted her niggardly sororal affections.

“So where are you going?”

He shrugged, and thought how the gesture was a fitting dénouement for every relationship he got into and out of; for his whole life, really.

The radio from inside was playing Aerosmith. “Chase you all the way to the stairway, honey. Kiss your sassafras.” Dale whispered along with the refrain.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, ignoring him.


“When are you leaving?”

Dale set his glass down on the concrete patio and without taking his eyes off of it, raised his foot and stomped down hard, shattering it.

“Right now.”

#FridayFlash – Whimsy with Wonderful Words

September 17, 2010

I wrote this for my son’s fourth grade class.

It is well known, throughout all of the elementary schools, that there is no greater group, no grander gathering of germinating potential for glory, than the fourth graders of Mrs. Hewett’s class.

One sultry September in a school by the sea, one class of these clever, cunning children crafted a conquest, the tale of which teases my tongue and titillates terrific tittering wherever it is told.

A great evil eclipsed the earnest, eager students in the form of a burgeoning black-hole breakfasting on their books! Their humble yet hardy teacher, Mrs. Hewett, fought heroically to protect their hoard of handsome holders of knowledge, magic, and time itself. But, alas, she was dealt a devastating defeat and the dear books disappeared.

So she dispatched the daring darlings to discover the books, now scattered across the land.

Hanna and Haden had a harrowing hit from the fearsome beast guarding great heaps of books, but the valiant victors vanquished him

Kameron kicked the… kelp of the great sea monster defending the domain of a dastardly devil who had found the first several books and was frantic to keep them. While Julia juggled jellyfish and jousting swordfish, Kameron crushed him.

Bren battled bears and brawny beasts bent on borrowing barrels of the precious books. Ryan revealed their real plan to requisition and retain the riches. Rejecting their ransom demands, Ryan, with the help of the pernicious Powell Palmer pounded the plotting predators.

Dylan dodged danger and demonstrated dramatic acts of deliverance so that Lauren and Logan might linger in the lee of the lodge of a lion who was lapping lazily at the luscious words. Their loud and loquacious distractions assisted and abetted Alex in absconding with the adored assortment of knowledge and amusement.

William Walker walked willingly into winter’s white waves of withering cold so that Christina might cozen and confuse a capricious captor of their coveted compilation in the form of a wyvern the children whittled into whimpering waste.

Madison and Molysha metted out massive measures of mighty retribution on the mangy monster who guarded most of the materials. Noah did not niggle over their normally nascent ability to negate the nastiness of the noisome, noxious nether-beast and nattered noisy praise when they caught it.

The sapped but successful students stumbled Southward in their sojourn to the simple, soothing seriousness of study and stimulation with their hard-won hardbacks. Mrs. Hewett was heartily happy at their hale and healthy condition and pleased that they were in possession of the precious property.

With exclamations of delight, she decided to deem them diligent disciples of laudable learning, and gave them A’s for the rest of the year.

Aren’t words wonderful?