Friday Flash Fiction: Mad Scientist

(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 7 June 2013:
You've always been close to your favorite uncle, the 'mad scientist,' even though no one in the family has head from him in a couple of years now. You're thrilled to get a note in the mail from him one day, even if it is short, and rather cryptic - asking you to come to his remote country home and lend a hand. You arrive, and as you are walking up the long, wooded pathway towards the house, you swear you see large shapes among the trees that don't look like any human or animal you've ever seen before....)

I'd forgotten how little there was in Tipton county other than farms. I hadn't been to Uncle Max's place for a couple of years at least. Finishing school then starting a job had kept me busy, and Max (no "Uncle", he hated that), wasn't one to use the phone. I'm not sure he even had one.

The short note he sent me mid-week didn't give any reminders of how to get to his place. He'd assume I'd find it as always. We had the closest relationship in the family by far. I'm not sure most of my relatives knew about this place, or cared. Mom got a note from him every so often, mainly just a paragraph or two letting her know he was still alive. She had a studied lack of interest in his projects.

I knew I was in the right part of the county, but not quite on auto-pilot. After doubling back once and trying a different road, I saw the mailbox labeled "M. Weiland". I turned into the drive. You couldn't see the house from here. My theory was that every tree in the county was planted on these few acres.

The drive opened up into a small parking area after a hundred feet; I parked my truck there. A path wide enough for an ATV ran through the woods for at least a hundred yards, then you were at the house, a well-preserved Victorian. As I crunched across the gravel toward the path, I looked for Marshall. Normally Max's dog would appear after I slammed the truck door, black and white against the greens and browns of the woods, curly tail wagging. No Marshall today, so I walked up the path alone.

But as I got deeper into the woods, I didn't feel alone. Not exactly threatened, but watched, studied. I walked faster and scanned left and right. Nothing for a while, then to my right I saw a shape moving. Not a bear (in Tipton county?), but larger and stranger. The glimpse I had before it disappeared seemed to show too many limbs and proportions that were all wrong.

I looked ahead and could just see the outline of the house. Glancing left, I saw an eyeball the size of a golf ball, on a stalk, sticking out in the path toward me. I must have jumped a foot in the air. The eye stalk whisked out of sight, and I sprinted for the house. To my right there was crashing in the brush that almost kept pace, but I was focused on the front door.

I saw Marshall through a window, watching me and barking. As I leapt onto onto the front porch and reached for the door knob, the door swung open. I tripped on the threshold and sprawled headlong in the entry way. Marshall charged, growling, then recognized me and started sniffing and licking. I rolled over to find Max looming overhead. He slammed the door shut and locked it.

"Peter! Thanks for coming out to help me."

I was starting to catch my breath. "It's Pete, Max, not Peter. And what the hell is out in the woods?"

"Enough with the Pete stuff, Peter. You're Peter to me, so drop it. Those creatures you saw are why I called. I need your help."

"It would have been nice to know about them beforehand. I would have brought a shotgun or something."

"I know, I know, I was in a hurry and forgot. But they haven't shown any aggression so far. And they do seem to know what weapons are, so better you weren't carrying one."

I was sitting up on the floor now, scratching Marshall behind the ears. "Your note just said you needed me to lend a hand. What's that all about?"

"I have some equipment that's malfunctioning. With your electronics degree, you can probably help me fix it. And you're a pretty good welder, too", Max said.

"Does this have to do with those things outside?"

"Of course. But I'll get to all that. Come on with me into the shop."

I stood up and followed Max and Marshall down the hall into what used to be a sitting room. Now it was full of tables and equipment around the perimeter, cables and power cords snaking this way and that. In the center of the room a cylindrical device sat on the floor. About four feet tall and three feet in diameter, knobs and lights surrounding a door in the center.

"Okay, Max, so where did those creatures come from?"

"Mail order."

"Mail order? What are you talking about?"

"Not mail order from here, silly. Mail order from another planet."

My brain was starting to hurt. "And I suppose it has to do with this gadget here?"

"Yup. It went well at first, once I built this machine and got the link established with Plerxes 11. The little guys were easy to care for. Of course, my friends on Plerxes didn't mention how large they'd get."

"So what's the problem now?"

"Well, I think I fried a circuit board and the link is down now. I built a new board, but still no luck. Plus, there's a support arm inside that broke. I'm hoping you can fix that."

"What happens if you can't get the link back up?", I asked.

"There's a certain food that's their favorite. It only grows on Plerxes 11, of course. If I can't get more, they might get unhappy with me. Or us", Max said.

"What exactly do you mean by 'unhappy'?"

"Let's not talk about that. Better to just get the machine fixed. How about rolling over that oscilloscope cart and we'll do some troubleshooting?"

I walked across the room and started back with the cart. As I did so, one of the windows grew dark in the corner of my eye. I turned and saw three eyes looking at me through the glass.


I rolled the cart faster.

Friday Flash Fiction: A Fish Tale

(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 31 May 2013:
I want to read a great fish tale! Be creative!)

It's hard to believe that just last week I slept with the fishes. I didn't think my gambling debt was that big a deal. Or the fact that I was late paying it back. But apparently Vinnie and his crew did. They caught up with me as I was walking out to my car with a pocket full of cash from a few hours at the blackjack table. I didn't even hear the car until it squealed to a stop behind me. I spun around as a few guys jumped out of the car and strode toward me.

"Hey, what's this?" I said.

"Shut up, moron", one of them, a massive blond guy in a sport jacket, said.

And with that they picked me up by arms and legs and threw me in the now-open trunk of their car. The duct tape on my wrists, ankles, and mouth kept me quiet. I sloshed around in the trunk as they drove for who knows how long. Probably not as long as it seemed. All that time I didn't feel panic so much as a cold dread that this was it. And that the "it" was not going to be quick or painless.

Finally the car squealed to a stop again and I heard doors open and slam as the trunk lid popped open. Rough hands hauled me out and dropped me on the pavement. The evening was windy, and I could hear water and ship's horns. The guys got a better grip on me, carried me to the edge of a pier, and dropped me again. I was bug-eyed and trying to communicate.

"Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!!", I said through the duct tape.

The blond guy gave me a twisted smile. "What? What? Speak up, I can't hear you." And he kicked me in the ribs, laughing along with the others.

Now they were wrapping heavy chain around me. The clinking of the chain was like footsteps marching me to my fate, the padlocks they snapped in place sounding like prison gates.

"Vinnie sends his regards. Sleep with the fishes, moron", Blondie said as they rolled me off the pier.

A couple of seconds of free-fall, then I hit the water with a huge splash, sinking fast. Who knows how deep it was, but I finally came to rest on the bottom. I couldn't see a thing other than the stars that were beginning to flash before my eyes. Just as I was starting to black out, I thought I saw lights, moving toward me.

Four scuba divers approached, one of them driving a sled of some kind. A gloved hand peeled the duct tape from my mouth and held a bubbling mask in place. I can't tell you how good that first breath felt! Another diver swam in close holding some sort of device. A hand turned my head away as light flashed from the diver, then the chains fell away. They loaded me onto the sled and strapped me on with my air tank, and we started a slow ascent from the bottom.

I couldn't see anything other than the divers' searchlights pointing this way and that. Eventually I glimpsed a structure, a wall maybe, and we passed beneath it. Now I could see light at the surface above us. A few more seconds of ascent, then we broke the surface in what appeared to be a man-made cavern. We floated over to the side of the pool where several people were standing. They rolled me off the sled onto concrete and cut the duct tape from my wrists and ankles.

I looked around, rubbing my wrists. The divers' scuba packs were labeled with "FBI". The five people standing around me were wearing badges and pistols.

"What the hell is this?", I asked, looking up at the woman nearest me.

"Just rest easy, sir. Agent Menendez will explain it all to you later."

I flopped on my back, exhausted. A minute later two men helped me to my feet and wrapped a blanket around me. We walked into a locker area with a shower to my left. Shirts, jeans, and underwear were folded and stacked on one of the benches.

"Go ahead and shower up, sir. There should be something over there that fits you well enough for now. Take your time."

They left; I stripped down and stumbled into the shower. The hot water felt almost as good as the first breath of air from the diver's tank, almost. I dressed myself from the stacks of clothes and was toweling my hair dry when a man walked in.

"I'm Special Agent Menendez", he said, shaking my hand. "You're Michael Stevens, correct?"

"Yeah, but how did you know that?"

"I'll get to that. Just want to check that you're feeling okay first."

"Yeah, I'm good. A lot better than I was, that's for sure. But where are we, exactly?"

"We're under the pier, actually", Menendez said. "When the pier was constructed they built this area we're in, then forgot about it. It's useful to us, and nobody knows about it."

"Are you guys all FBI?"

"Yes sir. We're building a case against Vinnie Marko, who you've obviously had trouble with. He likes to get rid of people by dumping them off the pier."

"I figured that out", I said with a small laugh.

"Yup, first hand", Menendez said, grinning. "We have a mole in his organization, so we know when he's going to do it. Then we have divers ready to attempt a rescue. We've succeeded most times. We're hoping a number of you will testify at some point in the future. We'll keep you safe regardless."


So, this is where I've lived for the last week. It takes a while to get processed for witness protection, but it's comfortable in the living quarters down here. I've met some of the other refugees before they scatter us with new identities. We have plenty of time to play cards. Not for real money, of course.

Friday Flash Fiction: What Happened?

(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 24 May 2013:
Fill in the blank to start your story. 
"Seven days ago, _______________. Now, no one will talk to me.")

Seven days ago, I booked a hotel room. Now no one will speak to me. Going to a hotel shouldn't be a big deal, right? But let me explain. Sometimes when I'm on a writing binge or have a looming deadline, I'll check into a hotel for a few days so I can concentrate. Only my assistant knows where I'm going, and she keeps the secret. The TV stays off, the wireless stays off, it's just me and my laptop.

So on Sunday afternoon I drove a couple of hours to the hotel and checked in. I hadn't been here before but it looked nice. My room had a view of the city instead of the interstate. The fitness room had a weight machine and an elliptical, enough for basic exercise. I ordered dinner in my room, showered up, and went to bed early.

Monday started off as I'd planned. I woke up early and wrote two chapters for my latest mystery novel. My main character, Flynn Benning, was solving a bank teller's death and finding out this was no ordinary bank. He was facing threats from all directions and I was trying to keep him alive for the next story. I ordered up breakfast and pecked on my laptop until noon. The staff brought me a sandwich for lunch, and I kept writing until mid-afternoon.

I needed a break; a workout would clear my head. I spent an hour in the fitness room alternating between the weight machine and the elliptical. No one else was in there, so I turned off the TV and worked up a good sweat. At one point I caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Looking out the interior window, I saw a woman walking past in the hall. She should have been on a red carpet somewhere. Tall and curvy, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, burgundy lipstick to match her dress, small gold cross on a necklace. She eyed me with a slim smile and was gone.

Something hurt. I figured out it was the leg press I had held when she appeared. Letting the weights down, I stepped over to the window and looked down the hall. Nobody. After one more round on the elliptical I huffed up the stairs to my room for a shower.

I considered the day's writing a success, and decided to celebrate by eating in the hotel's restaurant. My 6 oz fillet mignon and glass of merlot were perfect. When I returned to my room and opened the door, I caught a whiff of perfume. Tiptoeing further inside, I spotted a familiar-looking red dress on the floor. A little further, around the corner, I saw a woman in my bed. Face down, with flowing auburn hair. Not moving. I stepped up to the bed and shook her right shoulder; no response. I held two fingers to the side of her neck. No pulse.

I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. When I looked at the bed again, she was still there. I stumbled over to the phone on my desk and called downstairs. Within minutes police and hotel staff were at my door, and my room was now a crime scene.

The first detective on the scene pulled me aside to get a statement. He arched his brows when I said I had no idea who the woman was, just that I saw someone like her downstairs in the afternoon.

"So, you just came back up here after dinner, and there she was. Is that what you're saying?"

"That's right. I really don't know who she is or how she got here."

"Uh huh. Well, we think we know who she is. Hotels are where she usually meets her clients. But you're saying you don't know anything about that?"

"No. Not at all. And you're talking about a certain type of client, right?"

"Yep, she's a call girl, or was. In your room. Dead. You sure you don't have anything else to tell me?"

"No sir", I said. "I just drove over here to write for a few days, without all the usual distractions."

"Uh huh."

So that's how it started. Everything in my room was boxed up as evidence, and the hotel staff moved me to a new room for the night. I called my assistant and explained the situation, including my impounded car. She agreed to drive over and get me when the police would let me leave.

"Assuming you're not in jail", she said.

"I appreciate that vote of confidence, Leslie."

By the next morning the story was everywhere. Mystery novelist caught with dead prostitute in his hotel room. When will he be arrested? Has he done this before? How often does he hire call girls?

My publicist flew in and gave statements to the press. The police found drugs in the woman's system that didn't appear connected to me. My DNA sample was still being tested, though. I stayed at the hotel for another three days, spending most of those days in interviews with multiple detectives. Eventually they said I was free to go, for now.

By the end of the week I was back home, and I called a few friends and family to see about lunch, dinner, whatever. Everyone was unavailable. Leslie said she was taking the next week off.

So here I am, a pariah. For now. But I have a great idea for my next story.

The Write Practice: Life & Death

(Prompt from The Write Practice: writing about life & death)

Our new puppy jumped over Belle's back, then crowded up close to the old dog's snout. Griffin's butt was up in the air, tail wagging. He yipped at Belle, then hopped back, anticipating a response. With a soft, low growl, Belle lifted her head a couple of inches off the floor, then turned toward me as she settled back down. It looked like pleading.

Griffin yipped and crawled towards Belle again. "C'mere, Griff", I said, and he hopped up on the couch and into my lap. "Give the girl a break." He whipped around and licked my face.

Belle was the most patient dog we'd ever had. And still was, but at 15 and with the pain she seemed to have all the time, her threshold was lower than when she was young. Now she sighed and curled up a little, facing away from Griffin and me.

The pup took that as a challenge and coiled up to pounce. I held him back and rubbed behind his ears. "Enough, Griff!" I glanced at the clock, and blinked away the tear that was forming. Griffin was squirming to get out of my grasp, a fawn-colored bundle of energy.

I carried him into the next room and locked him in his crate. "You can chill out in here for a while, pal", I said. Amid yips of protest I walked back to Belle and sat on the floor next to her. I stroked her back, avoiding the lump that seemed even bigger today. Her black fur was just the right length and had always felt so good to me. She sighed again and nuzzled up close.

I checked my watch, then reached for the tissue box as more tears flowed. Sniffling, I said to her, "We had some great times, didn't we?" Griffin's yelps were getting louder and were accompanied by scratching now.

Feeling a tiny surge of strength inside me, I said, "Okay, girl, let's go for a drive." At the word "drive", Belle struggled to her feet and headed for the door, tail wagging. She'd always loved going anywhere in the truck. Still holding the tissue box, I picked up my keys and followed her into the garage.

I lifted Belle onto the front seat and got her settled. We backed out of the driveway then drove up to 21st Street, turning right towards the vet's office.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Mistake

(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 10 May 2013: "The Mistake". A child makes a simple mistake and it ends up shaping the rest of his or her life)


Jen got off the bus and ran up to the porch of her home. As she unlocked the front door, she could hear the phone ringing inside. She stepped inside and swung the door shut, forgetting to lock it. The phone was still ringing, and she trotted through the room into the kitchen to pick up the phone.

"Hey, Jen, it's me." Meaning Sandy, her best friend and fellow sixth-grader.

"What's up? Are you still coming over to do homework?", Jen said.

"Yeah, in a while. Mom has a couple of things for me to do first, though."

"Okay", Jen said, hearing a noise in the front room. "See you soon."

As she hung up, she heard something else in the front room. Sounded like the section of the floor that was always creaking. She walked through the kitchen doorway and froze. There was a man standing in the living room, looking at her. Dressed in jeans and a black hoodie, hood pulled up over his head. Strands of stringy dark hair peeking out around the hood. Coal black eyes and a slanted grin.
The man took a step toward Jen, hands coming out from his sides.

"C'mere, little girl. I won't hurt you if you do what I want."

Jen screamed and turned back into the kitchen, the man lurching forward behind her. She was almost through the other doorway when he grabbed her left arm. "C'mon, it'll be fun", he said.

Jen caught a whiff of him. Pungent, smoky, sweaty. Heat surged through her now, and her fear became something else. Training from a class at school flashed through her mind.

She spun around and threw a fist at the man's throat. He grunted and let go as his face started to redden. Those inky eyes were almost glowing with hate now. Jen had enough space between them, so she kicked as hard as she could between his legs. The man gasped and bent forward, hands moving to his crotch. She remembered something else from the class, then stepped forward and swung an elbow into his nose.

Jen darted across to the other counter and drew a carving knife from the block.

"Get out! Get out!"

The man turned and stumbled out of the kitchen. Jen followed, still yelling at him to leave. She held the knife ready but kept her distance. He didn't look back. Fumbling out the front door, he careened down the porch steps and across the street, one hand wiping blood from his face.

Jen slammed the door shut and locked it, breathing hard. After a pause she ran back into the kitchen, dropped the knife on the counter, and dialed 911. The dispatcher asked her a few questions and told her to stay on the line. Jen mumbled "Okay" as her limbs became heavy as anchors. She dropped the phone on the counter and collapsed to the floor.

--------------------------------------------

Jen stood in the reception area, in a sea of caps and gowns, blinking back tears. The bachelor's diploma she held had been hard won, but law school this fall would be a whole new challenge.

Her mom was standing close, pulling another tissue from her purse. Jen glanced at her dad. Was that some moisture in his eyes, too? A rare sight, although his smile was familiar and warm.

Two women approached. One was her counselor, Mary, who hugged her and said, "You did it!".

"Thank you so much, Mary", Jen replied. She had a brief vision of Mary's office, where she had spent so many hours over the last ten years. With a fierce hug she said, "I wouldn't have made it without you."

The second woman pressed close. Jen looked at her and said, "Julie! Thanks so much for coming!". Julie was a friend from the women's shelter where Jen had volunteered in high school and summers during college.

"Wouldn't have missed it", Julie said. "I'm so glad for your friendship. You're an inspiration to me."

Jen said, "So, when are we going to be coming to your graduation?"

"Oh, who knows?", Julie said, laughing. "It's baby steps, you know. I'm finally settled in a new place with the kids. I think my new company might pay for me to take some classes this fall."

"That's great! Do you talk to anyone from the shelter these days?"

"Yeah, every so often. They call to check on me once in a while. The last time I talked to Sarah, she said they're busy enough that they need more lawyers in town to help straighten out problems. Had you heard about that?"

Jen chuckled. "Yup, I'm working on it."

Friday Flash Fiction - "Crazy"

(FFF prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 25 Jan 2013: "Everyone said he was crazy. He never acted crazy around me until this one day I will never forget.")

I guess the circumstances just hadn’t been right for me to see it. Until now. Surveying the wreckage he had created in just a few moments, the stories my friends had told me about Joey had new meaning.

Joey and I had met at Starbucks, just a random thing. The Fender T-shirt caught my eye, and we got talking about music and our favorite bands. Turned out he fronted his own band with guitar and vocals. He told stories in such a funny way, mimicking different voices. If anyone enjoyed life, I guessed it was Joey.

I was there a week later with a couple of girlfriends, and in walked Joey. We said hi and talked for a few minutes. Sarah was giving me strange looks, so when Joey left I wanted to know why.

“You do know who that is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s Joey. Seems like a nice guy.”

“Well, you just watch yourself. There’s more than one Joey.”

What was that supposed to mean? Sure, Sarah was into the local music scene, but that didn’t make her an authority. I frowned at her then glanced at Maggie, who was nodding her head.

“Tell me more.”

So they did. These two had heard stories about Joey’s antics on stage with his band. Not anything they had seen themselves, but their sources swore it had happened. My gut felt weird and my skin felt prickly as they talked. Still, it just didn’t jibe with the guy I’d been talking to.

I saw Joey at Starbucks a few more times after that, almost a regular thing. He was always in a good mood and kept me laughing with his stories. The last time we met up there, he invited me to come see his band. Said it was a gig in a larger club than they usually played. If I went, I could watch them play from off-stage. Sounded like fun.

The night of the gig, I got to the club early and went in through a side door as Joey had said to. When I found him backstage, I hardly recognized him. He didn’t look like the typical Starbucks customer with all that makeup. That moody attitude was different, too. Maybe it was just nerves.

No, it was more than that. When they were into the third song of their set, something went wrong. I never figured out what it was, but Joey just went over the edge. Without warning he swept off his guitar, smashed it on the stage, then went after all the other equipment. Amps kicked over, cymbals flying, enough mayhem to make Pete Townshend proud.

And then it was over, just as quickly. There was a stunned silence in the club for a few seconds, then a chorus of boos started rising from the crowd. Joey extended his arms in a mock salute and stalked off stage in my direction. I was frozen in place. As he went past he smiled at me, but his eyes looked unholy. That must be the other Joey.

Friday Flash Fiction - 29 Mar 2013

(Prompt from The One-Minute Writer: Write a love story. The love story must end badly. The story must contain, somewhere, references to bicycles, martinis, and / or cats.



They hardly broke eye contact at the restaurant. Until dinner arrived. Stephen was famished after the day's activities, and he talked through mouthfuls as he attacked his steak. Eve had been so lost in the conversation she hadn't paid attention to what Stephen ordered, but now she was focused on her soup and salad. Stephen hadn't thought much about her order, either, just figured she was eating light.

They had certainly burned enough calories today. The pair had met for an early morning walk with the birdwatching group that had been their introduction a few weeks ago. Following that, Eve had wanted to ride bicycles around town so Stephen could show her the locals' favorite places.

Biking had led to talking about rehab. Eve had moved here recently, taking a physical therapist job at the new orthopedic hospital. Stephen, with his love of skiing, had been a patient in such hospitals several times for repairs. He'd ended up dating his rehab therapist after the last two knee surgeries. Maybe things would work out better with Eve.

At one point during a riding break, Eve had showed Stephen some of her favorite techniques for getting full range of motion out of a post-surgery knee. Her touch was gentle, yet exciting. Stephen wondered if she could tell that his heart rate nearly doubled when she touched him. Her eyes were the richest blue, like that indigo bunting they'd seen this morning. He'd looked for an opportunity to pop the question.

Finally, in the late afternoon sun back at their cars, he'd gotten up his nerve.

"Hey, Eve, how about getting some dinner?"

"You mean, like this? We're kinda sweaty."

"No, silly, let's get cleaned up first, then I'll pick you up."

"Okay. Sounds great!"

They'd talked through the other details then parted ways. Now here they were at Stephen's favorite restaurant. The day had gone so well that after dessert, he decided to pop another question.

"Hey, Eve, um, how about going back to my place for some coffee or something?"

She hesitated, but not too long. "Okay. Just for a bit", she said with a smile.

They talked non-stop on the way over to Stephen's apartment, right up until they walked through the front door. That's when Eve let out a loud gasp.

"What's that on the floor?"

"That's my lion skin rug. My grandpa left it to me in his will. He brought it home from a safari".

Eve's voice went up an octave, "I can't believe you have that thing in here. That poor animal! It's like you're a party to its murder."

"Murder?"

Her arms were flailing now. "You know what I mean. These animals should be living free. It's just wrong to do this to them. I can't believe this."

Stephen remembered something from dinner. "So, does this have something to do with you eating just soup and salad earlier?"

"Yeah, I'm a vegan. What about it?" Her eyes got wide. "Did, did you really eat steak for dinner?", she said, trying to avoid a gag reflex.

Stephen realized he didn't know all about Eve. She made a motion toward the counter, then something whizzed past his head and exploded on the wall. Was that his favorite martini glass?

Now Eve was out the door and headed down the stairs. Stephen walked over and peered outside. He wanted to follow her and try to make up, but thought better of it. Could end up worse than the lion. And it was time to find a new birdwatching club, too.

Emotional Investment

From The Write Practice, prompt is about emotional investment (http://thewritepractice.com/what-is-the-emotional-investment-in-your-stories/)


I can't believe this is actually happening. I've just been invited to join the game, and that's a first. Some of the boys play football during recess. I often stand off to the side and watch, but today is different. Kevin looked over at me and asked if I wanted to play. Does this mean I'm part of his group now?

Kevin has intimidated me for a long time. Not that he's trying to. I'm not sure he's known I existed until today. Kevin has a loud, commanding voice. The leather-looking jacket he wears adds to his swagger. Wherever you see him at school, he's in charge. That's completely foreign to me, and it's scary.

But maybe that's changed now. I walk onto the field and try to find the right place. The trouble is, I've watched football on TV, but have never actually played it. Not even a pick-up game like this. Since I'm on Kevin's team, maybe he'll tell me what to do.

Time for the first play. The other boys must assume I know what I'm doing. Bad idea. Kevin is our quarterback, of course, and he's getting ready to take the snap. I've seen this move on TV where one of the players runs behind the quarterback, then down the field. I decide to do that.

Kevin gets the ball and the play starts. I make my move, doing that cool end-run thing I've seen. Except Kevin doesn't know I'm going to do that, and I run smack into him. Fumble. Somebody on the other team dives on the ball, and it's all my fault.

And then it's over. Kevin shouts at me to get out of the game. I'm dismissed. If I mattered to him at all for a minute or two, I certainly don't now. Walking off the field, crying, I feel a crushing emptiness. Recess is far from over, and I'm alone. I find a quiet spot near the school building and wait for it to end. I wish someone had seen what had happened, someone would tell me it's okay. There's none of that, though, like it never happened. I feel small and insignificant.

Friday Flash Fiction: Worst.Vacation. EVER.

1 March prompt from The One-Minute Writer (oneminutewriter.blogspot.com). Text of prompt from website: Write a very short story / scene in which your protaganist is on vacation. They lose their passport, and are arrested for something. Possibly they don't even speak the local language. Ruh-roh! Hilarity and calmity ensues.

I swear it was in my bag right before I got off the plane. When I got to the counter, though, no amount of rooting around in the bag would produce my passport. Not a good way to start off. The immigration agent frowned at me and muttered something under her breath. I couldn’t make it out, but I’m pretty sure it was swearing. She called another agent over. They had a rapid-fire conversation in their language, then the new guy escorted me down the hall to some offices.

An agent in there actually spoke English. Sort of. I explained my situation and that I wanted to speak with someone from the U.S. Embassy. He said he’d make the call, but getting help could take hours. Would I mind waiting in the room next to his office? Fair enough.

Once settled in the room, I started feeling shaky. This could ruin the whole trip! I needed a smoke. At least I had the pack I’d bought at O’Hare airport; it was probably worth about as much as a new passport. I lit up and started to relax.

But not for long. Soon three men in uniforms burst into the room and began shouting at me. What they were shouting, I don’t know. I stood up and started to reply. Okay, maybe I was shouting too. One of them gestured to a sign behind me. “No Fumar”. What was that? I turned back around and made a gesture of my own, and in the process I accidentally flung my cigarette right into the officer’s hair. That little fire didn’t take long to put out, but before I knew it I was on the floor in handcuffs.

I don’t think I’ve ever left an airport quicker when traveling. Wouldn’t recommend the procedure, though, with all the police officers, emotion, and general humiliation. The two officers kept an angry-sounding dialog going on the ride over to the jail. The officer riding shotgun kept patting his head and scowling at me. That patch of hair still smelled a little burnt, but didn’t look that bad. I thought all the hostility was a bit overdone.

Clang! The holding cell I was in now had four other occupants, and they didn’t look happy to see me. One of them, a huge guy with long, stringy black hair, stood up and walked toward me. I wondered if I could punch him hard enough to have any effect at all, since he probably had six inches and a hundred pounds on me. I was just starting to make a fist when he spoke.

“You wouldn’t happen to speak English, would you?”

I stared up at his face, barely able to see his eyes through the hair. Then it occurred to me I should speak.

“Um, yeah, I’m from Chicago. How come you’re in here?”

He explained that he was a bass player in a band that had come down here to play a few shows. A fellow bass player, how about that? At the hotel bar this evening there had been a slight misunderstanding about the tab, followed by yelling, threats, broken furniture, and his arrest. The band’s manager was trying to post bail, but it was taking forever. The police had his passport, anyway, so he wasn’t leaving the country soon. I kept wondering who had my passport, and where that embassy official was.

The other two detainees turned out to be more drunk than mean, and they didn’t bother us. I sat down with my new friend Ivan and we started comparing notes about our favorite bands. It turned out that we had much in common, down to the songs we knew. Ivan mentioned they had a show booked for the next night, and wondered if they’d have to cancel.

I’m not sure how much time had passed, but I heard the main lock-up door open down the hall. Soon a man with a jail guard escort stopped at our cell. He called my name and I walked over to the bars. Good news! My passport had been found on the airplane and was now at the embassy. The cigarette fracas was a little more delicate. It appeared that no charges would be filed, though. The police wanted to know where I was staying and for how long, but otherwise I was free to go.

Ivan came over as the guard was starting to unlock the cell door. He borrowed pen & paper from the embassy official and wrote out a name and phone number. That was the band’s manager, Ivan said, and I needed to call him right away. If Ivan couldn’t get out in time, maybe I could fill in for him at tomorrow’s show? If I wanted to, that is. And I did!

Walking out of the building, I thought perhaps this vacation wasn’t totally wrecked after all. That was before I discovered there was a polka convention at my hotel, with several accordion players in adjoining rooms practicing day and night. I shudder every time I think about it.

Friday Flash Fiction: What Happened?

2 Feb 2012

(Friday Flash Fiction, from The One Minute Writer (oneminutewriter.blogspot.com). Prompt: You're walking down the street on a beautiful day. Maybe doing some shopping, maybe hanging out with friends, maybe going to see someone you love, maybe doing nothing at all. Suddenly there is a loud noise... and it is the last thing you remember. Several hours later, you regain consciousness in a pile of tangled metal and broken concrete.

What happened?)

Groan. I can hardly move. There’s scarcely any light around me. Was daylight before, so how long has it been? I hear sounds of some kind, maybe machinery, maybe voices. It’s all a fog, so I can’t really tell.

I make slight movements to see what works. Neck seems okay, although sore. Both arms move, left wrist is throbbing but no sharp pain when I move it. Legs seem functional, no wait, right knee is definitely not okay.

Not finding any serious damage, I start looking and feeling further around me. It seems I’m enclosed more than trapped. There’s enough light that I can see a structure of sorts about two feet away, all around where I’m lying. Some of it looks like twisted metal, maybe those steel two-by-fours they use in buildings now. There are also some I-beams curving over me. I can see broken concrete piled around, further away. I seem to be in a cage that’s protected me from being crushed by the rubble.

Have to climb out of here if I can. There’s some kind of mechanical sound in the distance again, a truck or something going past? It sounds different, though. Might just be my ears, still murky but clearing a little. I slide over to the edge of my cage and feel around in the fading light. Right there, a section I can probably squeeze through.

Another machine moving out there, outside? Not sure where I am, exactly, so it’s hard to tell what’s inside and out. This time, along with the sound of machinery, there’s a pounding I can feel reverberating through the ground. Almost like heavy footsteps. Too heavy.

Now I’m outside the cage and climbing up a pile of concrete toward an opening where there’s more light. It seems a bluish twilight, but not entirely natural. The day was so beautiful earlier when I walking to that new guitar shop downtown. It was early afternoon then, but who knows what time it is now. I feel my wrist: no watch. I pat my jeans pocket and find no cell phone either. My knee is complaining but still works.

Another ten feet and I’m at a larger opening. I can see the street now. It’s dark enough that streetlights should be on, but it still appears to be twilight with something extra. I have this urge to get out onto the sidewalk, but something else in my mind holds me back.

Just then I hear another one of those machines, pounding toward me from up the street. It comes into view, and my blood freezes. Looks like a mech straight out of a video game, but this is no game. It’s shining a bluish searchlight this way and that as it stomps past, shuddering the ground with each step. I can’t see who or what is operating it, but I have a lingering dread as the sound and vibration fade.

Staying in here seems a bad option. The building has to be unstable, and might collapse at any moment. But getting caught out there seems much worse. I’m mulling over what to do when yet another one of them stalks down the street. The blue searchlight swings over toward me. 

Character has "genre savvy"

16 Jan 2013
(from The Write Practice (thewritepractice.com): prompt is to write story with a character who has "genre savvy")

Malone ran from her car over to the victim. A quick look at the bullet wound and it was clear the murder weapon was a .45 handgun, just like in the other shooting. She knew this because, well, detectives were just good like that. Hearing footsteps off to her left, she looked over and saw a large man, dressed all in black, pounding around the corner of a building. That had to be the perp.

Sprinting to the corner took no effort at all, even in heels. Malone skidded to a stop in front of what turned out to be the opening of a dark alley. Well, not that dark, since alleys like this were always nicely lit. A shot rang out. Malone didn’t flinch. The first shot always missed. Making good use of the long pause between shots, she darted behind a dumpster just as the second shot ricocheted past.

She heard footsteps again, coming closer. Crouched and ready to spring, she waited for the guy to step around the dumpster. There he was, just within range. Malone lunged at him and knocked the gun out of his hand. The weapon slid conveniently out of reach, and now it was time for all that Krav Maga training to pay off.

They started raining deadly blows on each other. Punches, kicks, elbows, whatever. Malone smiled grimly as the fighting continued. She knew they could keep this up all evening with only fat lips and bloody noses to show for it. Except for that last kick to her knee, which laid her out flat on her back. Oops. He picked up the pistol and aimed it at her. Double oops.

Before shooting, though, the man launched into a description of how carefully he’d planned his crimes, how smart he was, all the usual stuff. Malone heard a car squealing to a stop down the street. That had to be her partner coming to the rescue. Heading toward this alley, which was obviously the right one due to its nice lighting. She grinned at her attacker as he kept talking. Plenty of time.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Confession

5 Jan 2013

(Friday Flash Fiction on The One-Minute Writer (oneminutewriter.blogspot.com). Prompt is “The Confession":

You relax into your seat, book in hand, as your plane takes off. The stranger sitting next to you fidgets - he has seemed unusually nervous. A few moments later, you feel his hand on your arm. You turn to see his eyes pleading with you.

"I'm not supposed to speak to anyone," he begins, "But I have to clear my conscience.")

My eyes narrowed and I started feeling tense also. “Why do you need to clear your conscience?”

“I’ve started something that’s spinning out of control, and it’s eating me up.” He went on to explain he was a CPA who managed investments for a number of wealthy families. He had tried to boost one account’s returns with a risky move that didn’t work out. It was easy enough to cover that with money from another account, but soon he was shuffling money all around to make the books look okay. With the recent drop in the stock market, it was unraveling.

“I think at least one of the families has, you know, connections”, he said. “I’m meeting my attorney in Chicago this afternoon. I don’t think anyone is on to me yet, at least I hope not. He thinks we might be able to work something out. Said not to talk about it, but it’s killing me. I just wanted to tell someone that I never meant any harm. I’ll make things right if I can.”

I smiled and patted his arm, noticing the contrast between my red nails and his light blue dress shirt. He relaxed a bit, although his brow was nearly dripping with sweat.

“You know, it’s usually best owning up to things. I admire you for trying to make it right. I’m sure it’ll work out OK.”

Wiping his brow, he glanced at the small gold cross I was wearing and seemed to relax further. “You think so?”

“Yup. Positive.”

“Well, thanks for listening.” He leaned away toward the window and closed his eyes.

I put my paperback in the bag and pulled out my laptop instead. Connecting to the Gogo wireless took a couple of minutes. Once into my Gmail account, I sent a carefully worded message to a colleague in Chicago, then closed up the laptop and put it away.

I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes. We’d grab this guy at the airport.

Words on Wednesdays - "Toxic"

3 Jan 2013

(from The Write Practice (thewritepractice.com), “words on Wednesdays”. This week's word: toxic)

Arriving home from work, Susan saw the TV had been left on again. Looked like an interview with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Good thing the Toxic Twins had cleaned themselves up years ago, or they wouldn’t be sitting on that couch.

Heading upstairs, she stopped by Brian’s room and knocked. Could he even hear that over the music?

“Yeah?”. Apparently he could.

She opened the door and was greeted by a power chord assault from…   Toxic Holocaust? That’s whose poster was on the wall, anyway. “So, are you going to cut the grass before it gets dark?”

Brian spun his chair around and gave her that snarling dog look. “I’ll do it in a while, okay?”

“Okay”, she said while retreating back into the hallway. Hmmm, he’d mentioned borrowing the car this evening. Maybe that wouldn’t work out so well.

Moving down the hall past Melissa’s room, she heard music again. Was that Britney Spears? Yup, “Toxic”. Susan thought she’d gotten that tune out of her head for good, but now it was back.

Downstairs, the TV now had a news alert about a toxic waste spill out east somewhere. She turned off the TV. Between work and home, “toxic” aptly described the day. Susan wished she could jump in the DeLorean, go back to this morning, and start over!

Using a cliche in an unusual way

31 Dec 2012
(prompt from The Write Practice (thewritepractice.com) on using a cliche in an unusual way. I chose the "one shot left" idea that turns up in so many movies, with a twist)

There were two of them, and I had only one shot left. She was about 100 feet away, a little to my left. He was off to my right about the same distance. If either of them spotted me, I could be in trouble. At least they were upwind and facing away from me, less likely to hear me creeping closer. I decided to go after him since he was the bigger challenge. Still had to keep an eye on her, though, in case she doubled back and sounded the alarm after spotting me.

The afternoon was getting late, but there was still enough time to get this done before they could slip away in the dusk. The sun was behind me as I faced east. Easier for me to see them, blinding for them if they looked my way.

They moved up the slope a little further. I walked in a crouch up to the next tree, trying to keep them in view while not stepping on noise makers. They moved up again and she disappeared over the crest of the hill. The shot would soon be ideal, so I sneaked up to the next tree. Wouldn’t get better than this today.

Looking through the lens, I zoomed in and lined up the shot. Just then he was standing on the crest and the light was perfect. Click! That was calendar material. Startled by the shutter, the buck trotted off down the other side of the hill. I retreated back down my side. My editor was sure to be pleased with this photo, which meant some timely cash to pay the bills. I swore to myself that next time I’d take more film, or maybe it was time to think about one of those digital cameras my grandkids kept talking about.

Avoiding being a bipolar writer

1 Jan 2013

(Based on prompt from “14 Prompts” ebook by Joe Bunting. He's also the keeper of a fabulous site called thewritepractice.com; you can get the ebook there. Prompt is based on avoiding being a bipolar writer. I chose tactic of writing by hand for 30 minutes. Original version is typed up below and now legible.)

State finals, Biggest game yet for our team. Largest crowd, too. We’re not used to getting much interest beyond the usual fans and families. It’s been growing, though, especially after we won the first tournament round and it seemed we had a chance to go all the way.

That sectional game, though, we barely squeaked it out. When it went into overtime I just didn’t know if we could keep up the energy. It was strange, though. Once we started playing in OT and kept the score about even, my fatigue dropped away and I could focus on just that part of the game. Seemed the rest of the guys felt the same way, a shared bond that we could win if we kept our heads and kept up the pressure. Also seemed the other team sensed our grit, and the OT period steadily shifted our way. I knew we were staying ahead, but a win wasn’t certain and I couldn’t let up. The final buzzer was more like an alarm clock. The joy of winning was huge.

This is the state finals, though. All eyes are on this game, not just one of several games. I don’t like all that scrutiny. I just want to play hard and well. This feels almost like my first varsity game, with all the nerves and uncertainty. Coach was great then, before the first game. He told me that I had the basic skills or else I wouldn’t be on the team. I’d learn something new each game, so I should just play as well as I could that game, then do the same in the next one with my increased skill. That advice has served me well these last few seasons.

That’s what I’m going to do this time also. It’s just another game. The outcome isn’t life or death. Our team has what it takes to win, or we wouldn’t be here. All I can do about the outcome is just play my best. It’s like that game mid-season where I hit two freethrows to win the game. They were trying so hard to distract and intimidate me, yet somehow I blocked it out for those few seconds and sunk both of them. They were just freethrows in that moment, and I had shot hundreds before.

That’s how it is for this game, too. We know how to do this, and we can’t let the “bigness” of the game be a distraction. If we play hard and lose, life will go on. I’m not expecting that to happen, but it could. Several of us have some rituals we do before each game, a certain order of suiting up, warming up, taking care of those last-minute things. I’m going to do exactly that stuff this time also, no more or less.

I’m not the most vocal guy on the team, not the captain or anything. Some of the others do seem to watch what I do, though. Maybe this time they’ll see my methodical prop as usual and keep their nerves in check. Not that I don’t have a case of the nerves. Far from it. I’ve never played in front of this many people. Yet it’s still only a basketball game, and I’ll only make things worse for the team by getting rattled. Jim was an inspiration to me my first year on the varsity squad. He didn’t say that much but was always squared away. He always got the job done, too, no matter how much pressure. That’s going to be me tonight: a workmanlike player getting it done. If we all are that way and keep unrelenting pressure on the other guys, we might just be state champions tomorrow.