I haven’t eaten in two days. Made a home for myself in this alley— newspaper for blankets, my shoulder bag as a pillow against the stoop to our apartment.
When he sees me like this, he’ll let me back in, I lie to keep myself warm at night.
The light at the end of my “tunnel,” the sounds of traffic, the voices of strangers frighten me.
But I must prove to myself that I can live…
This short, albeit rusty, piece of flash (I’ve been away too long) is brought to you by Monday’s One-Minute Fiction, a challenge that asks you to write a story in one minute, no more, no less, based on the prompt provided.
I struggled to squeeze everything I wanted to say into a minute, but maybe you had better luck with today’s B&W photo prompt…
I was never mad at her. How could I be? Mina was to become my wife in less than two weeks.
“You lying sonofabitch!”
I guess all women believe their miserable girlfriends over their fiancés. Apparently not getting piped in over a year makes you think clearer. Bitch Sherry. She has date with my sissy’s fist pretty soon. I don’t hit women.
I can’t help my sailor’s talk. I grew up in a house where fuck was used every other word. Pops damned everything he touched, including himself when he drove his ’96 Impala off the Jiminy Creek River Bridge with a Budweiser in his lap.
I woke up the next morning to Mina’s engagement ring left on my nightstand, half the closet empty. She even took my DeMarco Murray jersey — pre Philly debacle. She always did think that was hers.
Join Moral Mondays, a new weekly challenge to write a 100-word fable or story based on the moral/lesson provided in the prompt. This week’s moral: harsh words stir up anger
The last time everything fit in three duffles, Mack was moving in. We’d only been dating a few weeks. A little fast for my taste—I didn’t even know his middle name—but he’d just been evicted, and he needed a place to stay.
“That’s code for ‘my last girlfriend dumped me,’ ” my friend Roxy warned. “Those types of guys either live with their moms or their girlfriends.” She went on to lament that Plenty of Fish was the wrong website to find love. The men there were always begging for money.
But he was so incredibly attractive, and I didn’t mind spending $100 a week on groceries in the beginning, or that he was still between jobs after living with me for six months. I’d convinced myself that in this economy, it was tough to find employment that didn’t pay a measly $7 an hour for workers to break their backs over ungrateful customers.
When you’re terrified of being alone, you tend to ignore the warning signs of a deadbeat.
That was until I found Roxy’s thong in his laundry, and I tossed all he ever brought into our relationship in three duffle bags over the balcony and into the street.
word count: 191
Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner is a weekly challenge for writers to create a story in under 200 words using the provided photo prompt and introductory sentence as their ‘muse.’ Click the froggy icon to read other stories inspired by the photo and add your own.
She threw the ripped Steelers jacket, five pairs of $2oo Jordans, the PlayStation 3, two controllers, and all of the Call of Duty, Halo, and Madden video games into storage, not caring if the games popped from their cases, or if the game console cracked upon impact on the concrete, or if there were marks left on the shoes after being stuffed together in her tight truck on the way to their destination, or if the suede jacket was further ripped from her careless toss. She pulled the door to the storage locker shut and took her cellphone from her back pocket.
It went to voicemail after two rings. Seething into the phone, she said, “I’m sick of seeing your shit all over my house! It’s in storage. Oh, and you’re paying for it, asshole.” The fact that he’d ignored her call, infuriated her more. She made a snowball and threw it at the closed door.
Returning to her car, she noticed a sign across the street. Share An Idea.
“Never fuck a pot-selling high school dropout who secretly wants to fuck your baby sister,” she said in disgust. She got in the car and drove off, giving the storage locker the finger as she passed.
word count: 206
This is part of Sunday Photo Fiction: write a story in around 200 words using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.
He says I’m not the relationship type
because I have cold hands and feet,
the tips of my fingers and toes,
just under the nail,
a purple-blue tint.
A lack of blood flow, a lack of oxygen.
My heart beats to a different tune
opposite of the symphony he composes
for our love.
I’ll admit I can’t feel anything
when I touch him—
my senses numb to his warm affections.
“I love you” tastes like heated
mayonnaise on my tongue.
His kisses fail to thaw my icy lips,
frozen in a pout, unwilling to smile
to his presents and poems.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the meek
lover you desire of me,
but I don’t need a king to save my heart
and I’m too independent to let a man
be the key to my happiness.
Rebecca and Jeff sit in the gazebo overlooking the shallow stream. Jeff takes out his pick and strums a soft ballad on his guitar. Rebecca closes her eyes and sways with the music, humming and moving her hands with the waves of the stream below.
He picks up the tempo, strumming harder—a crescendo of notes falling into place. She twirls her head with the melody.
Suddenly, the music stops. She feels thin, dry lips against her own. She opens her eyes and looks into his.
“I wish you were older,” he says.
I wish you weren’t married,” she says.
word count: 100
Second time. I think I’m getting better at this! This is part of Friday Fictioneers. Click the froggy icon below to add your link and read others.