FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 110: 12/21/12 FORECAST--HOT, WITH NO CHANCE OF RAIN..., EVER...

The prompt this week, coincident with yet another prediction of the end of the world, is to use some of the words we’ve been hearing a lot lately in our story.  They are:  End, apocalypse, fireballs, zombie, alignment, and famine.  The word count, fittingly enough, is 1,221.  Perfect.  I decided to have a bit of fun with this, and I hope you will enjoy.

HERE WE GO AGAIN

Oh no.  Have you seen the news?  Those wackos are at it again.  I’m not sure how this started, but I think someone made a comment like ‘gee, isn’t that a sign of the end of the world?’, and before you know it, the press jumped on it.  It’s on the news that our imminent apocalypse is on its way.  Well, I’ve got a news bulletin of my own.  I’m not falling for it this time.

Thing is, it isn’t just that once all the planets in our solar system are in perfect alignment, giant fireballs are supposed to shoot out of the sky.  It’s that those damn zombies are going to take over the whole shebang and be the only ones to survive it all.  Why should they have all the luck?

I remember a couple of times not too long ago when the end was supposed to occur, but the z-bombs got bumped because that prediction was way different.  I heard some were supposed to be taken up to something called Rapture and the rest would be left behind.  But the key word with that one was that it involved people.  I don’t consider those nasty dead things ‘people’ in any sense of the word.  Have you ever been up close and personal with one of them?  Well, I have and let me tell you, it’s no picnic.

Zombies aren’t like the rest of us by any means.  They don’t keep their places in very good order and they’re not divided up into family-type units.  A whole bunch of them just find a big building on the outskirts of a town and they all stay in there like some kind of weird cult.  They kidnap folks and bring them back to what they call home and all feed off the same sets of brains.  Okay, so they do share.  There is that.  But that’s the only positive comment I can make about them.

They don’t clean up around their place and once the bodies start piling up, the whole neighborhood goes straight to Hell.  There’s a rumor going around that if one of them bites a non-Z, then the bite-ee becomes one too.  Come on, people, where’s your common sense.  It doesn’t work that way.  Only vamps can pull that off, and even they don’t have much of a taste for that--please excuse the pun, because it creates competition.  I don’t mean for attention either.  It creates rivals for food.  Sustenance is tough enough for all of us to get our hands on, so if you’re, say, a dominant predictor, why clone yourself?  You’re only going to end up going hungry some night.  Get my drift?

Anyhow, back to this end of the world thing.  The wife and I tried to prepare for it each and every time it’s been announced.  The warnings throughout history have always been pretty precise too.  I mean, no exact time of day or anything since the world does operate on a lot of different time zones, but a specific date has always been announced.  I used to wonder how the time zone thing would work, but the way I see it is right after midnight on the day in question, whenever it’s right after midnight on the day in question, stuff starts to fold up and disappear.  If nothing happens at the place with the earliest time, then it’s just not happening.  I’ve lost a lot of sleep over that in years past, and this time, I’m not falling into that same trap.

I built this place way back in Harper’s Woods when we first got hitched and nobody ever bothers us.  I doubt anyone even knows we’re back here.  We live off the land pretty much so we don’t have to deal with the townsfolk at all.  They’re pretty clannish anyway; you know the type.  Everybody knows everybody and everybody is in everybody’s business.  That brings nothing but trouble right to your front door, so we stay out of all that nonsense.  The wife’s got quite a nice garden out back and I hunt up our meat.  We’ve got plenty of clean streams for water and a big clearing close by where we can get some sun here and there.  It’s all we need, but now our little paradise is being threatened yet again.

Channel 9 said after the fireworks start, all the oceans are going to heat up and boil over onto the land.  Whatever was in there is going to be deep fried and  the crops will get all soggy and you know what that means:  a shortage of food.  Famine, they‘re calling it.  There won’t be anything for anyone to eat, and that’s where the dead things come in.  They’re not big fans of Waldorf salads and BBQ spareribs.  The only thing they eat is brains.  Certainly not each other’s since I don’t believe they have one brain between them, but the story is that they will wander planet Earth, eating up the brains of all the humans and they will be the only creatures to survive.

Now, that sounds creepy and all, but think about it.  What happens when they run out of humans?  Then what, huh?  Nobody seems too concerned to find out the answer to that one.  That’s why I’m not going to get overly anxious about this latest zero hour crap.  Whoever started this stupid rumor that cycles around every so many years really didn’t think it through.  I’m going to keep on keeping on and let the dice roll how they roll.  If those mindless freaks try to cross my threshold, I’ve got my welcome mat all ready for them.

A bullet to the brain will stop them cold and I’ve got enough ammo stashed to take out a whole platoon of them.  Did you know they’re terrified of fire?  Well, I do and I’ve got plenty of gasoline and matches stashed as well.  I have to tell you though, I’m not really too worried this time around.  Like I said, so many warnings, so many false alarms.  ’The boy who cried wolf’ and all.  Besides, I have to keep my cool and not scare the missus.  I’m the man of the house and her protector.  It wouldn’t do for me to start crouching in a corner and whining like a two year old, now, would it?

After all, I’ve faced many an adversity and I’ve made it this far.  The rest of my kind are still running loose in the world‘s forests, barely surviving, while I have a roof over my head and a hot meal on the table every night of the week.  Being a werewolf isn’t always a stroll down the lane, but when it comes right down to it, my claws and fangs have come in mighty handy at times.  I wouldn’t touch one of those decomposing scumbags with a stick, but the humans’ weapons should work just fine.

Well, looks like supper’s on.  Tonight’s veggie night.  The little woman says once a week we should go vegan.  After dinner, I’m going to doze off in front of the TV like always.  I’m not worried about an invasion of the walking dead any time soon.  Just as long as none of those clowns are carrying any silver…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 109: IF I HEAR ONE MORE FA, LA, LA, LA, LA...

The prompt this week was to write a story about a character that hates Christmas carols.  Bonus points if we include a character named ‘Carol’.  That made it extra fun!  Please enjoy my story about a fella who just can’t seem to get away from all that holiday cheer.

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS…

I’ve never minded being a shoe salesman.  I can’t stand people, but I don’t have to deal with them.  Not really.  I mean, it isn’t like a bartender or a hairdresser that the customers share their life story with.  Nobody tells their shoe salesman their deepest secrets.  I never even look at their faces because then I might have to make some kind of conversation.  I ask them what they’re looking for and most of the time, they shove a shoe from one of the displays in my face and quote a size.  Dealing only with their feet can be a challenge though at times, since there are some who haven’t changed their socks in maybe a month or two, but they’re pretty rare in the store I work at.  Mine is a high-end shop and the cheapest pair runs around $125, so we don’t get too many regular working class slobs coming to browse.

George Farland, the owner, never tries to engage any of his employees in conversation.  He posts the schedule in the break room, and drops our checks through the slot in our lockers.  When I got hired, after I filled out the application, he just nodded here and shook his head there and handed me a schedule with my name written in.  I couldn’t ask for a better boss.  There’s only one thing wrong with the guy and that’s his attitude toward Christmas.

In the 11 years I’ve worked here, we’ve never been open on Christmas Day.  On Christmas Eve though, we open at 6am and stay open until midnight, and for the entire day, Farland pipes those damn carols at full blast throughout the entire store.  Momentary relief from that horrific noise can’t even be found in the men’s room, where the music seems to bounce off every wall.  I even took up smoking so I could step out back every now and then, but my efforts to perfect that nasty habit went unrewarded when I discovered that speakers had been installed on the outside wall of the back entrance.  And I had bought a damn carton too…

Sitting in my flat wearing my earplugs on Christmas Day was the only time I was truly free from all those cutsie tunes all about bells jingling, snow flaking, and all that other crap.  Even going to the corner for a paper was an exercise in futility.  As hard as I tried to run the maze of Santas trying to rob me of my last dollar, there was always one who would step right out in front of me and block my way until I put something in their bucket.  Two years ago, I dropped in a pack of gum.  Last year, I did the same, only I had chewed it all first.  I wonder if they’ll ask me for something this year.

But now, even that last haven of peace and quiet has been stolen from me.  When I came in this morning, there was a note on my locker to come to the office.  When I walked in, there was a woman behind Farland’s desk, and not a hot one either.  She looked like she’d been run over by a semi more times than one could count.  I soon found out that I’d died and gone to hell.  Apparently, Farland had croaked, she was his kid, and was taking over the store.  We were now staying open 365 days a year, and on Christmas Day, we’d have some kids’ chorus in the store singing all day long.  And, if that wasn’t enough of a kick in the gut, she told me I didn’t have to call her Ms. Farland.  I could call her by her first name:  Carol.

Having to spend Christmas Day away from my earplugs was bad enough, but having to listen to a live bunch of runny nosed kiddies tra-la-laing all damn day was the last straw.  I swear, if I don’t get to spend even one day away from ho-ho’s and fa-la’s, I am going to go stark-raving cra…

Wait.  That’s the answer.  What I need to do is go stark-raving crazy before the store closes on Christmas Eve.  I’ll need to check, but I think the max they can lock somebody up against their will is 24 hours.  I’ll just make sure I sane up really fast on the morning of the 26th.  That way, the world will be done with all that damn music, at least for another year.  Right now, I’ve got to come up with a way to make my co-workers and especially, my new boss, believe I’ve got a lot of screws loose, and a nice quiet cell with padded walls and floors is just what I need.

It was much easier than I anticipated.  Three hours before close on Christmas Eve, I engaged in a bit of jumping up and down and a few twirls, talking non-stop to myself, and laughing out loud for no reason.  I soon had my new boss convinced I was so stressed out that maybe a couple days rest at Moorehaven, our local loony bin, was in order.  The orderlies strapped me to a gurney and we headed out.  You could hear a pin drop in my room--it was that quiet.  I slept like I’d never had before, and I looked forward to my Christmas breakfast of mashed potatoes with a tranquilizer mashed up in them.

I was waiting to be fed when Raul, one of my nurses, came in smiling from ear to ear, and got me all wrapped up in a straightjacket and sat me in a wheelchair.

“Mr. Tim, I have a big surprise for you.  On Christmas Day, we don’t keep our patients in their rooms.  They spend Christmas in the Day Room and have all their meals there.  And the best part?  St. Peter’s Choir will be in there singing carols all day long.  Isn’t that wonderful?  Mr. Tim?  Are you crying?”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 108: JUST WAIT. I ONLY NEED TO TURN THE LIGHTS ON AND OFF TWO MORE TIMES...

The prompt this week was to take a peek into the life of someone with a form of OCD and show how it plays into an event in their life.  The word limit was 1,500 words.

Several possible storylines ran through my mind until I remembered one I had done quite some time ago for F3.  The prompt on that occasion was a starter sentence, but my story focused on an individual whose life was quite regimented, and to say OCD was a big part of his life would be putting it mildly.  Since I feel this one slots in here quite nicely, I decided to resurrect my tale of compulsion and obsession.

ONE, TWO, THREE...

I stepped out into the frigid cold.  Instinctively, I cowered into the depths of my heavy coat, shoving bare hands deep into its pockets.  I couldn’t remember if I wiped down with my sleeve whatever I had touched, but there couldn’t have been that much.  After all, I was only inside a minute or two.  I was sure no one saw me, especially with this near-blizzard snowfall going on.  Most people are safe and warm at home on this dreadful night.  I would have been too if the evil man hadn’t taken it from me.  It was supposed to be mine.  I needed it to be mine.  But, he wouldn’t give it up, so I took it.  And now, it is.  Mine.  It wasn’t my fault, but I’m sure you know that.  If he had just given to me what was rightfully mine, I wouldn’t have had to follow him home to confront him about it.  He kept trying to push me back outside and saying he was going to call the police and have me arrested.  Arrested?  Me?  For what?  Taking what was meant to be mine to begin with?  No.  I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen.  He pushed me really hard against the wall by the door, and so I hit him in the head with the ashtray on the small table by his front door three--one, two, three times.  It was all his fault though, but I’m sure you know that.  When I got back to my flat, I took one last peek over my shoulder, but I hadn’t been followed.  I took it from my pants pocket, where it had been brought safely to its new home, and I placed it with the other two.  Then, they were three--one, two, three.

I should be calmer now, but I am not certain how to work my way through the events of today.  All should have been complete this evening, but the evil man almost ruined everything.  When I went out to the grocery this morning and I passed the novelty shop on the corner, I saw them and knew they had to be mine.  One was red, one was blue and one was green.  I went into the shop and I asked the man behind the counter how much he wanted for them all.  There were three--one, two, three of them, you see.  He told me they were the last of their kind and once he sold them, there would be no more.  He wanted $10 for the whole set because he told me that they play a little tune when you use them.  I told him I didn’t care about any little tune.  I just needed to have them all, but I didn’t have all of the $10.  I asked the man if I could get two of them and come back this evening for the other and he said that would be fine.  I was so excited.  I took the red one and the blue one home and put them on a stand I made for them and it was so sad because there was one empty place.  But not for long.

It had already begun to snow, but I needed to get the rest of the $10, so I locked up my flat with all three--one, two, three locks because you just never knew about people.  My landlady is the only one I ever allow in my flat to see all my sets, and she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone that I had them.  They are all such beautiful and perfect things.  Three--one, two, three in all of them.  I have china dolls.  I have pens and pencils.  I have mugs.  I have drinking glasses (although I would never drink out of them), and so many others.  All the same--all the last of their kind--all sets of three--one, two, three--all mine.  And one empty space.  So sad.

By the time I got outside, it was already hard to see with the snow coming down so heavily.  Even though it was so cold, I decided to walk to the train station to get the rest of the money that I needed.  The train station was a long walk for me, but I was certain I would be able to get the rest of the money I needed there, especially today.  When the weather was bad, a lot more people were in the train station and they were all in such a hurry and not calm and it was easy for me to get some money.  Sometimes people would just give me money if I asked them for it after I explained that I needed it to complete a set of three--one, two, three.  Other times though, I had to take it from them because I needed it to complete my sets and they didn‘t understand.  When I got there this time, there were so many people, and they were all in such a hurry and running around.  No one was being very nice and I didn’t want to take the time to explain why I needed it, so I decided to just take it.  There was a woman on Track 9 standing by herself talking on one of those phones you can take out of your house and still talk.  I walked up behind her, pulled her purse off her arm and stabbed her three--one, two, three times with the nice sharp knife I take with me when I go out because you just never know about people.  When you do it from behind them, you don’t get any of their blood on your clothes, which is a good thing because then you’d have to take your coat off before you could go anywhere else, and I couldn’t do that.  I only had three--one, two, three coats on and there was no way I could have taken one off, but you already knew that.  I pushed her down onto the tracks and no one even noticed.  People never do when they are in such a hurry and running around.

I took her wallet and dropped her purse onto the tracks and went outside and saw that there would be enough money for me to get it.  I practically ran to the novelty shop and I was ready to get it so I could complete my set, but the evil man was in there and he already had it in his hand.  I told him he couldn’t have it and that it belonged to me and that the man behind the counter said he would keep it just for me.  But they both laughed at me, and the man behind the counter said whoever had the money could buy whatever he had.  I told him it wasn’t right.  I told him I already had the other two and now I had the money to get number three--one, two, three and he couldn’t let someone else take it.  The evil man told me he had already paid for it and I couldn’t have it and put it in his pocket and walked out of the store.  The man behind the counter came around to where I was standing and told me to get out of his store and not to bother him anymore.  I stabbed him three--one, two, three times with the same knife I stabbed the woman at the train station, but it wasn’t my fault, but you already know that.  I got some blood on me that time, but it was snowing so hard, you couldn’t really see it.  Besides, I had to go after the evil man.  He still had it.

I saw him walking and that was good because I always walk.  He turned down the next street and went up to one of the houses and I was right behind him.  After he unlocked the door and started to go inside, I went in right after him.  You already know what happened after I went in.  It wasn’t my fault, but you already knew that.

The longer the green one is where it belongs with the other two, the calmer I am beginning to feel.  All is never right with the world until there are three--one, two, three.  I am truly enjoying looking at my new yo-yos.  I wonder if someone else will be taking over the novelty shop soon.  I didn’t have to wait too long after the last time this happened…

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 107: DECEMBER--A MONTH OF MILESTONES

The prompt this week was to write a story about a character(s) life-changing event and include the following words:  December, blizzard, secret, clown, and doughnut.  The genre was open and the word limit was 1,500 words.  Please enjoy.

MIKEY

“I’ve got a secret, Mr. Tommy.”

Mikey resumed sweeping the floor behind the bar.  Tom Ellison had inherited the bar and restaurant five years ago when the previous owner was diagnosed with a terminal illness he’d never heard of.  No telethon for some, he thought, and no celebrity donating millions to find a cure.  Jack Gennaro had been a great boss and gave Tom his start.  He had taught Tom everything he knew about running a business and how to make every drink known to man.  When Jack died, the Mrs. told Tom the bar belonged to him, lock, stock and barrel, and she was off to Wisconsin to stay with her sister.  Tom made up his mind to return the favor, in a cosmic kind of way, by offering the opportunity for a better life to someone in need.  Mikey was his life’s good deed.

The kid showed up at the back door of Tom’s Place looking for a cheeseburger and a job.  Mikey produced a photo ID which put his age at 22 and showed an address four hundred plus miles west.  Mikey told him he was looking for somewhere to settle down.  He told Tom he wanted to learn to drive and buy a car and live like a real person.  Tom never pushed the kid for more information about his past; something told him to trust his gut and give this odd young man a chance.  His birth may have been 22 years ago, but Tom estimated Mikey’s mental capabilities and functional level at closer to 12 years of age.  But he was anxious to earn his own way and eager to learn, so Tom took him in.

Tom arranged for Mikey to rent a room at Mrs. Hastings’ Boarding House for $40.00 a week, for which he received a clean and safe place to sleep and two hot meals a day.  Tom paid him enough to make his rent plus a bit more so the boy could save for whatever future awaited him.  For the time being, his career was sweeping the inside of the bar and restaurant, making sure the parking lot was free of cigarette butts, and running whatever errands Tom felt he could handle.  In what seemed like no time at all, Mikey saved enough to purchase a car, and to Tom’s pleasant surprise, he had signed up for a drivers’ education course and passed with flying colors.  When Mikey took him for a drive through town as his first passenger, Tom felt like a proud father watching his son on his first bicycle ride without the training wheels.  Mikey was on his way to being able to live like a ‘real’ person.  That’s when things began to get peculiar.

Mikey began to disappear for two or three days at a time.  His rent was always paid, but he would pack a light bag, fill his gas tank and take off.  He always let Tom know when he would be back, but never provided any details about where he’d been.  Tom knew Mikey may present the appearance of a mature adult; however, mentally and emotionally, he was still a child, so he was concerned Mikey might get himself into trouble.  He tried to get Mikey to tell him where he went on his excursions and who he might be hooking up with, but Mikey would never tell him.  Now this business about him having a secret?  Something wasn’t right and Tom was determined to find out what was going on with this young man who had, over the years, become his only family.

“Mikey, you were gone longer this time than any other, and I’m worried.  For one thing, you are a great driver, but it’s December, and one day we get a few flakes, and the next, we could have a blizzard.  The roads are dangerous out there.  The world is dangerous out there too, and you never tell me where you’re going or staying.  Tell me this secret of yours.  If all is well, I’ll be happy for you, but if not, I’ll do what I can to help.  You know you can trust me.”

Mikey leaned his broom against the back door frame and went up front to sit at the bar.  Tom hoped this was a sign he was ready to talk.

“I‘ll tell you my secret, Mr. Tommy.  I wouldn‘t have a secret from you.  My secret is about my mommy.  I lost her long ago.”

Tom didn’t want to upset Mikey, but it was hard not to visibly react with sympathy, and he gave Mikey a quick hug.  He wondered how old he had been when his mother passed away.

“It‘s okay, Mr. Tommy.  One morning when I got up, mommy wasn‘t there.  That‘s how I lost her.”

With that explanation, Tom wanted to put his fist through the wall.  What kind of so-called mother abandons her child?

“We moved around a lot and she brought home lots of daddies for me.  They all were gone by morning, and mommy said it was because I was bad, so I tried to be the goodest I could be.  When I was eleven, a carnival came, and mommy said if I was the best I could be, maybe the clown man would come home with us and be my forever daddy.  I didn’t like the clown man very much because he smelled funny and stuck a needle in between his toes sometimes, but mommy said some big people did that to feel better.  Funny, huh?  If I wanted to feel better, I ate a doughnut--cream-filled with sprinkles on top.”

Tom had never met Mikey’s mother, and she was fortunate for that.  He couldn’t remember ever being that angry.

“Anyhow, the clown man stayed with us for some days, then one morning, they were both gone.  She left a note wishing me luck.  I never knew where she and the clown man went, but I made up my mind I was going to find her so I could ask her why they didn’t take me with them.  I made her and the clown man eggs and toast every morning and rinsed out the needle he stuck between his toes.  I don’t know how I could have been any gooder.

“See, now that I have a nice bed and I can drive my own car and live like a real person, I go out and drive around some days and look for her.  Each time, I go farer and farer, but nobody knew who she was.  But, three days ago, I did it, Mr. Tommy.  I found her.  It was by accident even.  She was one of those ladies who gives you coffee at a diner a long way from here.  She said the clown man ran away with some other mommy, but it was okay.  She found a man who sells vacuum cleaners that made her laugh and so she was staying with him.  I told her we needed to have a long talk.  Some guy in a movie I saw had a long talk with his mother and then everything was okay.”

Tom wished he could jump up and down and cheer for Mikey, but he didn‘t want to look like he was ready to be fitted for a straight-jacket, so he simply nodded and smiled.  All his other accomplishments were grand indeed, but this?  Searching for, and finding, his mother who had abandoned him, and having the courage to seek answers to the traumatic events of his childhood with the hope of attaining some type of resolution were signs of a maturity in Mikey that Tom had never believed was there.  He swelled with pride and served Mikey his first bottle of beer.

“Mikey,” he said, “I can’t begin to tell you how impressed I am with the man you are.  Confronting your mother was probably the biggest thing you’ve ever done in your life, but it will help you move forward and be able to live your life free of that burden.”

He raised his bottle and tapped Mikey’s with it.

“Here’s to you, Mikey.  Why don’t you take tomorrow off and have some fun.”

Mikey was happy he told Mr. Tommy about finding mommy.  He had never had a beer before and he was really liking it.  Maybe he’d go up to the Multiplex tomorrow afternoon and see one of the scary movies they had playing.  He liked scary movies.  First though,  he’d have to head over to the landfill off I-95 to use their compactor.  Then on to Mr. Phil’s Suds and Rinse to give his car a good scrubbing.  He hoped those scented soaps would get rid of the smell in his trunk.  By the fourth day, mommy‘s body will probably smell it up even worse.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 106: SEVEN DAYS

Prompt:  Write a story about a character who has seven days.  What your character needs to do within that period of time is up to you.  Start something?  Finish something?  Obtain something?  Get rid of something?  Remember though, that good, bad, or indifferent, everything has consequences.  Make sure you include what will happen if they try to stretch those seven days to eight.

Genre:  Any would be a nice fit here.

Word Limit:  1,000 words.

I thought I'd share seven days in the life of a fella named Joey and his best friend Harv.  Please enjoy.

SEVEN DAYS

Day 1

“Harv, you have to help me.  I’m in deep trouble.”

My best friend, Harvey Hanover, had given me a tip on a pony named California Cutie, who was a sure thing to win today’s first race, but did I listen to my buddy’s advice?  Oh no.  I decided to get clever and take the word of a weird little bald guy who hangs out down at the track.  He seemed so sure Fun Fest would come in first.  Harv’s tip paid on the win, and Fun Fest did cross the finish line.  Unfortunately, it was an hour and a half after all the others came across.

“Joey, what’s wrong?  You didn’t fall for one of those hustlers down at the track again, did you?”

Harv knows me like the back of his hand.  If only it were that simple…

“Harv, I couldn’t get my stake from Mothball Mo.  He got locked up in County for 30 days.  Something about stealing a doughnut and then jaywalking with it.  I needed the cash right away, so I got it from Seven Day Sammy.  Thing is, I won‘t be able to pay back the five grand I owe him within the week.”

“In that case, I only have one question.”  Harvey’s always got my best interest at heart.  “Which suit would you prefer I wear at your funeral--the dark blue or the black?”

I need to come up with a plan.  I know.  I’ll hit that market that just opened on the South Side.  It’s always packed and the owner’s 100 years old.  Easy peasy.

Day 2

“Joey, what happened to you?”

Who knew the old man kept a baseball bat behind the counter and that when he was younger, he had been a first round pick of a major league baseball team.  Fielding talent may fade with time, but apparently, the power behind the swing of your bat doesn’t.

“I’ve got it under control, Harv.  Doc says the arm cast will be off in a few weeks and I should be able to walk without the limp after a couple of days.  I now know how to get the cash.  I’ll do a home invade uptown and hock the take.”

Day 3

“Joey, why is your neck all bandaged up?”

Who knew rich folks kept dogs as big as grizzlies as pets?  And, isn’t it illegal not to have one of those ‘Beware of Killer Dog’ signs on your door?

“Harv, I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to take down one of those old biddies on her way home from Bingo night.  They win big bucks there and one of their handbags ought to get me all I need.”

Day 4

“Joey, How’d you lose your top front teeth, and why is your face swollen up like a cantaloupe?”

When the old lady knocked me to the ground with her purse, I asked her if she was carrying rocks.  She confirmed there were indeed rocks in there and asked me if I’d like another shot.  I respectfully declined.

“Harv, I’m going to have to go big-time.  I’m taking down the armored truck that delivers the mattress factory’s payroll.  It isn’t like there’s real guards.  It’s only Bobby from the neighborhood driving, and he pulls into the alley for a smoke with his window open before he hands over the cash.  I won’t even need any bullets in the gun.”

Day 5

“Joey, why are you on crutches and what’s that lump on the bottom of your left leg?”

I was embarrassed to confess that the lump was my foot.  I never had Bobby figured to act like some super-hero when he had a gun stuck right up in his face.  Before I could get ‘hand over the money bags’ out of my mouth, he had started the van and backed up right over my entire foot with the driver’s side’s 26” tire.

“Harv, No more Mr. Nice Guy.  I’m heading on over to Northwest Federal and taking what I need right out of their safe.  I’ll take them all by surprise.  Who’s going to suspect a fella on crutches?”

Day 6

“Harv, you’re never going to believe my luck.  I went to the bank and they were pretty busy, so I got in line.  There was a young lady ahead of me that withdrew five big bills, all in cash.  Said her daddy was treating her to a shopping spree because she was getting good grades over at the community college.  I followed her out, pulled her between the bank and the bakery and grabbed the cash.  She was crying and all, but I didn’t hurt her any.  I just told her to sit down on the sidewalk and count to 30 so I would have time to get down to the bus stop to catch the number 18 downtown.  You know, it’s pretty slow going still on these crutches.  But, now I’ve got Seven Day Sammy’s money and tomorrow morning, I’ll be paying him off.”

“Joey, that’s terrific.  Listen, text me after you’re done with Sammy and we’ll go grab a bite at Dantino‘s.  My treat.”

Harv knows that’s my favorite place to celebrate when stuff goes right.  I’m going to order double desserts.

Day 7

“…and this twenty makes five thousand.  Sammy, I want you to know how much I appreciate your giving me that loan.  I’m probably done with the horses for awhile though since my luck doesn’t seem to be too good at the track.”

Sammy was getting ready to show me out when his daughter peeked in the den.  She ran to her daddy, pointed at me, and told him all about how I stole her shopping spree.  Funny how some kids don’t look a thing like their parents.

I pulled out my cell and texted Harv.  I told him to go with the dark blue since it had always been my favorite.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 105: GIVING THANKS

The prompt was to write a story that takes place on Thanksgiving Day, but EXCLUDE the following words:  Turkey, stuffing, football, parade, family.  The genre was open and the word limit was 1,000 words.

I thought it would be simple to leave out those particular words, but after doing a search, I found that I had used several of them more than once.  So, a few drafts later, I offer you my holiday tale.

BEST INTENTIONS

I can’t believe they all showed up.  I sent each one the same letter notifying them of my release from prison, and extending an invitation to join me at my home on Thanksgiving Day for a meal and some conversation.  Considering our history, I never would have believed it was possible for us all to be in the same room together, much less sitting around the same table.

There was one time, however, when we were all together:  the courtroom during my trial.  The District Attorney spoke of the brutality of my crimes, and the fact that I had never shown any remorse.  What did he expect?  Was I supposed to weep openly while I was in the holding cell, or wait until the trial and burst into tears every time I was escorted in or out?  It’s true that I’ve never said I was sorry to any of the involved parties, but my attorney advised me to keep my mouth shut, so that’s what I did.  Then, they complain when I don’t approach my victims’ relatives to give them a hug.  Makes no sense.

I killed four people that week, and their relatives had some to court each and every day to listen as each nail was driven into my coffin.  They sat and listened while the Medical Examiner testified as to the intense suffering each victim endured prior to their death.  I was never sure how he expected to get people to believe that since I’d shot them all.  For your information, I didn’t shoot them in the eye, then the hand, and that type of thing to drag it out.  I shot them all in the head straightaway and they dropped like a block of cement.  Not one of them thrashed around or struggled.  They were there; they went down.  What intense suffering was he talking about?  I will tell you though, when he was done, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.  He was good.  Really.

The prosecution had sought the death penalty since all of them had been killed for something as petty as a few dollars.  First, I inflict intense suffering, then killing them had become a petty affair.  The jury looked confused, and I was glad my attorney was one of the best at refocusing juries and directing a bit of sympathy toward the convicted.  He let me testify, even though most say that’s a big mistake, but I had been prepared very well.  I want you to know that I didn’t lie about anything while I was up there.

I told the court I had lost my job, and how my wife had taken every cent of our small savings and sold all our stuff to a junk dealer to get enough cash so she could hop a train with her boyfriend.  On top of all that, she had been holding back the rent money to give herself a bigger stake, so after she left, I ended up getting evicted.  There I was, on the street, with nothing but the clothes on my back.  Was I bitter?  You’d better believe it.  Was I desperate?  Incredibly.  I had no one I could turn to for help and nowhere to sleep.  There was no light at the end of my tunnel.  The only way that I could see to get myself back on my feet was to jack up a few people who looked like they wouldn’t miss a few bucks, get my hands on some cash, get a roof over my head, find any kind of job for the time being, and begin again.  It seemed reasonable at the time.

Those I chose were all well-dressed, clean and sober.  Ideal vics, right?  Who knew the four people in this world that I pick to rob were willing to die for the couple of bucks in their wallets?  Tom Gerrod had $12 in his pocket.  Marcy McLaughlin had $19.84 in her handbag, Gillian Pensomme had $9.15 in her change purse and William Envoroy, the daring wild man of the bunch had a whole $25 stuck in his shoe.  Envoroy had walked from his apartment to the corner news stand to pick up a paper and some gum.  Who puts their money in their shoe to get a paper and some gum?  He fought like Hell for it too, kicking me and all.  The fella who owned the stand ran away to get a cop while this idiot was yelling and fighting a guy with a gun in his face for a lousy $25.  What’s wrong with people these days?

The verdict was guilty, but with the tear-jerking impact statements from the Widow Gerrod, the Widower McLaughlin, Gillian P.’s older brother and Envoroy’s elderly mom, begging the court to show me mercy, I got sentenced to 15 to life.  With time served and overcrowding, I was out in six and a half, ready to dig in and try to make another go at life.  So, here I am, with the four of them, great food on the table, and the note cards for my speech.

Envoroy’s mom inflicted the first wound.  Hard to believe a lady in her 90s could drive a knife in all the way to the handle.  Gillian’s brother threw the bowl of hot gravy in my face and hit me over the head with the poker from my own fireplace.  It looked like the Widow and Widower were working as a tag team, the way they alternated punching and twisting.  I tried to explain I had invited them all to give thanks for being given a second chance and to offer them my apology for taking the lives of their loved ones, but the world got darker with each wound until it all went black.

“Happy Thanksgiving, dear friends,” Mrs. Tom Gerrod said.  “Now, that real justice has been done, let’s eat.”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 104: WORDS, WORDS, AND MORE WORDS

The prompt this time was aimed at celebrating this month of words, and to add a select few to our title, our story, or both.  The words are:  Gunshot, train, mime, balcony, monkey, rain.  Quite the delightfully bizarre grouping.  The genre’s open, and the count is not to exceed 900 words.  Hope you enjoy my crazy little tale about a guy just trying to do his job.

PAY DAY

It’s quite a mess outside this evening.  There was rain and thunder a few nights ago when this all began too.  My employer, let’s call him Mr. D, asked me to retrieve an item that a former employee, let’s call him Mr. Andy Body-Will-Never-Be-Recovered, had stolen from him.  Mr. D funneled his earnings through several small legitimate businesses and then kept the laundered cash in a small out-of-town bank’s lockbox.  It had been Andy’s job to deposit the cash on a weekly basis and return the key, along with a statement of the box’s balance.

This week, however, Andy decided he’d keep the deposit and the contents of the box for himself.  He wouldn’t go straight to the bank because Mr. D would have someone waiting for him.  No.  He’d have a partner, someone none of us knew, to slip the key to who would obtain the money.  The only way I’d be able to get the key back would be find him and take it from him directly or from whoever he passed it to.  Mr. D. got word Andy had purchased a ticket on a train to Frisco and wouldn’t let any of the porters take his bag.  The stolen deposit and key had to be in there.  All I had to do was go and get it.  Oh, and also make sure his body would never be recovered.  There’s that too.

I made it to the station in plenty of time and saw Andy with a small group of people waiting to board.  They were all laughing, and I peeked through the crowd to see what was happening, and that’s when I saw the mime.  And his monkey.  What kind of mime uses a monkey in his routine and how would he train it?  The monkey moved through the crowd touching and hugging while the mime did that climbing-out-of-a-box thing.  Creepy.  Both of them.  I went to my seat in the last car.

The depot was jam-packed when we arrived and I almost lost sight of Andy, but he was again with a group looking into a corner by one of the concession stands.  Another mime with a monkey?  This one was all touchy-feely too.  I noticed Andy made his way to the Men’s with his satchel.  Timing is everything.

Evidently no one else had the urge so it was only Andy and me.  He got pale when he recognized me and offered me a third of what he said was probably in the millions by now.  No one heard the gunshot I delivered between his eyes.  That silencer I picked up for a song on E-Bay worked like a charm.  Along with a couple of shirts and some cheap cologne, his bag only held a couple packs of hundreds.  The key was in a zippered pants pocket.  I figured his partner would be watching for the bag, so I put the cash in my money belt and slid the key in my suit jacket’s inside pocket.  Safe and sound.

I slept most of the way back, dreaming of how happy Mr. D was going to be when I showed up with his money and the key to all that cash.  I’m sure he had plenty more in accounts out of the country, but you never know when you’ll need to get your hands on quick cash for emergencies.  Unexpected stuff comes up, you know?

Why is it the return part of a trip never seems as long as the going part?  Probably because the going part contains uncertainty and the return part contains success.  I’m not going to let anything spoil my mood today, not even that damn mime with the monkey by one of the exits.  Kids were throwing pennies and getting hugs.  Kind of cute in a gross sort of way.  I suppose everybody’s got to make a living, so I threw down a quarter.  That monkey ran right up my leg and gave me the biggest squeeze.  The mime smiled.  That wasn’t cute in any sort of way.  I grabbed a cab and headed for Mr. D’s.  Tapped my inside pocket where I’d stashed the key.  Uh-oh…

The Boss Man was sitting behind his desk waiting for me; well, for the key, to be exact.  I told him about everything that had happened.  I knew he’d understand.  After all, sometimes, the dog really does chew up your homework, and like today, the monkey of the last mime really did pick my pocket.  Who knew Andy had so many brothers waiting at each stop for him to try to slip their trained ape the key?  Mr. D didn’t laugh right away.  It takes some folks a bit longer to see the humor in a situation.  Give or take a half hour and the big guy smiled and told me he had a couple of surprises for me:  Some new footwear and a brief vacation.  How cool is he?

So, here I sit, waiting to be fitted for my new shoes.  I’m told they’re going to be made from quick-dry cement though.  Mr. D also promised to have one of his crew assist me with taking a header off the balcony at his cliff-side beach house.  He’s got a beautiful view; the ocean’s just a dot from way up there.  I wonder if I should mention that I don’t know how to swim…