Category Archives: Menage Monday
This is my entry for Week 40 of Cara Michaels’ Menage Monday flash fiction challenge. The photographic prompt was a street scene with structures all lit up in purple.
As Good a Reason As Any
“I don’t remember so much… purple,” he said as she led him down the boulevard. The pipes and tubing of some sort of factory were lit up in garish colors. “How long did you say I was out?”
“Ten days. I found you in that alley there.”
The clothes he had on didn’t fit. And he had no idea who the woman was. He’d been trying to place her all day.
Red hair. Tattoos. Ripped jeans and half a shirt. Nothing. No recognition at all.
“You kept repeating, ‘survive this’,” she said.
They stopped in a bus shelter so he could rest.
“I don’t feel like I belong here.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t,” she replied. “Maybe you’re here for a reason.”
Screeching tires and gunfire drowned out her answer.
Bullets tore into him as he forced her down beneath him.
She turned him over as the SUV peeled out.
He was leaking sauce and already felt the chill. He tried to speak but could only whisper.
She held his hand and leaned in to hear him.
“This is as good a reason as any,” he said.
This was where it all started… my first piece of flash fiction, written for Cara Michaels’ weekly Menage Monday challenge (200 words, three prompts in incorporate into a story). It won the challenge for that week.
“Boy,” I said, “you picked the wrong day to Evel Knievel a bridge.”
The red pickup rocked on its perch but wasn’t going anywhere. Ricky had that thing wedged in but good. He was sprawled out in the bed, bleeding from a dozen cuts suffered when he flew out the back of the cab.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“No, Ricky. It didn’t.”
He shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t all busted up. “Guys gotta go where he’s gotta go.”
I holstered my gun and leaned on the truck. He was cornered. The bridge jump was his last shot.
We both watched the ferry make distance over the still water.
Ricky groaned and tried to straighten up.
“Hurts like hell, huh?” I asked him.
He took another long look at the ferry before answering.
“You have no idea, Bob. None. All I wanted…. was… it would’ve been so good.”
“You know, Rick,” I said. “There are only two tragedies in life; one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.”
He looked up at me. “Rolling Stones?”
He shrugged and spat up a little blood.
“Who the fuck is Oscar Wilde?”
This was written for the Menage Monday flash fiction contest at http://www.caramichaels.com
Menage Monday challenges entrants to create an original work of fiction, 200 words or less, based on three prompts; a photographic prompt, a specific phrase that must appear in the story, and a thematic prompt. Today’s thematic prompt was ‘werewolf story’.
I came to like I always did the morning after a full moon.
Naked. Nauseas. Covered in cuts and scratches. My joints hurt and it was a fight to keep my head clear while wolf senses reverted to the oblivious state of humanity.
It was always the same– the change, a night I couldn’t remember, and waking up near a pile of bones in the hollow I’d made my home away from home.
I blinked and looked around for Emily. She should have been there.
There was a rustling off to my left and there was just enough wolf in me to catch her scent.
She stepped out from behind a bush and buttoned her jeans as she walked over to me.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said.
“You were quite the animal last night. Woof.”
“How do you feel?”
“A little sick to my stomach.”
She reached into her pack and tossed me some overalls.
“Not surprised. You had some bad Mexican last night. Straight. No chaser.”
“Anyone I know?”
“One of the Cholo brothers. Very bad man. The survivor’s barking mad.”
“Barking mad,” I said. “That’s funny.”
This was written for Cara Michaels’ Menage Monday flash fiction contest. 200 word limit & 3 writing prompts; a photo, a phrase that must appear in the story, and a thematic prompt.
The Camp Knox Hotel was a first rate place for a hit.
The manager changed the carpets and painted the walls, no questions asked.
Joey and I stood outside room 107.
“You’re sure she’s alone in there?” asked Joey.
“I hate killin’ dames.” He pulled his gun and kicked.
The room was empty of everything but furniture.
Joey took two steps towards the bathroom.
I took two steps and blew a hole in Joey’s head.
“Come on out,” I said.
A blond woman in jeans and a tight white sweater walked out of the bathroom.
She looked at the body and then at me.
“What’s the catch, Tommy?”
“No catch. Just split.”
She made for the door. “Why?”
“He killed my brother. Didn’t think I knew but I knew.”
I said nothing. Didn’t have to.
She caressed my cheek with the back of her hand. “You can’t ever go home again, Tommy. You better get twice as gone as me. I stole. You killed.”
“I’m sorry, Tommy.”
I thought she was gonna kiss me but she ducked out the door and disappeared into the dusk.
I sat down to wait for the cleaning crew.
Vince slapped the cuffs on me and threw me in his jeep’s passenger seat. He winked and hopped in behind the wheel and we lit out for the Two Sisters.
The Two Sisters were this pair of scraggly little trees in front of a low, rocky hill in the middle of the desert, so named for two Apache girls murdered on that spot by the cavalry.
“How are you, Jonny?” asked Vince as we bounced along under the late afternoon sun.
“I’m hot, Vince. Real hot.”
He laughed. “We’re in the desert! What’d you expect?”
“You say, ‘but it’s a dry heat’, and I’ll beat you to death, cuffs or no cuffs.”
I stole his line so he just nodded and drove.
We got there just before sunset.
I was lying in a heap between the Two Sisters and I could feel the change tingling in my blood.
The full moon would be up soon.
“These cuffs ain’t gonna hold me,” I said to Vince. “You’re gonna die. Just like your brother.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Dont say I didn’t warn you.”
I woke up naked under the Two Sisters.
What happens when you fuck up a job for the devil?
You end up in the back of a pink stretch limo listening to show tunes and playing a game of chance with the big man himself. Win or die scenario.
It’s not normal but that’s how it is.
You gotta beat the devil at his own game– a drinking contest.
Did I mention that Old Scratch is immune to the effects of alcohol?
“Gonna hate to lose you, JT,” he says.
He laughs and opens up the wet bar.
“Pick our poison, JT.”
I take a good long look and that’s when I see it.
It’s dusty but it’s there. I dig it out and hand it over.
His grin vanishes and his hands start shaking.
He rips the cap off the bottle and sniffs. He looks at the Zima and back at me.
His shoulders droop. “Can’t do it.”
I snatch the bottle, drain it, and fight to keep it down.
“You win,” he growls. “Get the fuck out of my limo.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Walk of fame, baby. I’m alive.