Micro

Felonious

“Assault, driving under the influence, hit and run, forgery, kidnapping, impersonating an officer, trespassing, conspiracy, grand larceny?” The booking officer looked at me over the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “It sounds like you had quite an evening, son. What do you have to say for yourself?” I just stared at his bushy grey mustache while he tapped his pen on the desk and waited for me to say something.

Should I say…

That the night was young and I wasn’t done yet, that I still had some felonies left to commit.

That I was innocent of the hit and run charge, but he forgot to mention the indecent exposure, piracy, and public nuisance.

That I thought he had a groovy mustache.

That I wasn’t sorry as I laugh like a super villain.

That I didn’t mean to, oops, my bad.

That I regret nothing.

That I regret it all.

Was there one single thing I could say that would make him understand?

What would you say?

NO TRESPASSING (by morserj on Flickr)

DP Daily Prompt: Break the Silence

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Family Reunion

Chauncy had slept with each of the three sisters and married two. He cheated on his first wife, the eldest, with her youngest sister, resulting in her impregnation. When his wife found out about their affair she filed for divorce, and ever since the two sisters never spoke. The middle sister, who had always been passed over for her two more attractive siblings, became enamored with Chauncy’s flirtatious advances, and they were wed before the ink on the divorce papers had even dried.

Between the three sisters Chauncy had fathered five children. He was their father and their uncle. They were cousins and half-siblings. These things get confusing, as is often the case with families, especially one so tangled up in itself.

Chauncy’s mother-in-law had died and the sisters would be together in the same room for the first time in years. The entire family had already gone into the church, but Chauncy loitered outside in the parking lot to smoke a cigarette and bolster his nerve. He wondered how it would pan out. Would all be forgotten and forgiven with kissing and hugging and what were we thinkings? Would his first wife make a scene like she always did, embarrassing everybody with her accusatory rants, calling the youngest sister a slut and a whore in front of the entire family? He envisioned the casket getting spilled into the aisle in the hair pulling scuffle, that the tragic reunion would be far more depressing than the actual funeral.

He stamped out his butt and made his way to the entrance, but discovered the door to the church locked tight. The sisters had decided that the best way to keep the peace during the service would be to exclude Chauncy altogether.

At least they could agree on something.

chicago- north center (by like, totally on Flickr)

The DP Daily Prompt: I can’t stay mad at you,

The DP Weekly Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction

 

Questions

Why are there always so many questions?

What happened? What were you trying to accomplish? What were you thinking? What are you going to do now? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you? Who do you think you are? What about the kids? What about Patches and Fluffy? Do you hate me? What did I do to you? How can you  live with yourself? Why are you such an asshole? Are you serious? Are you kidding? What are you, some kind of psychopath? Should I call the police? What do you mean you already did? What do you expect from me? Am I supposed to be a martyr for you? Would you do the same for me? Why are you crying? Do you even love me at all anymore? Where are you going?

Wait, where are you going?

Question mark (by the Italian voice)

now what

I’d like to talk about what.

What does what mean? What is a question. What is an action. What is that thing you can’t remember. What is what I’m trying to say. Do you know what I’m saying? That’s not what I meant.

What I meant was. . . What was I thinking? What is the point? What the bloody hell? What is supposed to happen? What’s the next step? What am I doing here? What can I do to help? WTF? What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done?

These are the kinds of whats I want. Now what are we going to do?

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? (by nolifebeforecoffee on Flickr)

Gunning Late

Doc Brody was late for the appointment, which had clearly been made for high noon. He had personally requested my promptness. “Don’t be late,” he’d said. How unprofessional. How inconsiderate. Was his time somehow more valuable?

What kind of self respecting outlaw shows up late for a gun fight anyway?

Six Gun City (by Carolinadoug on Flickr)

Written for the DP Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty

For this week’s challenge, you must write a fifty-word story. Not five thousand, not five hundred, but precisely fifty words.


See my other fifty word stories HERE.

Justice

Justice found Trujillo in the form of a posse. Shotguns, six shooters, extra rope. They followed the trail of bodies and broken hearts across the countryside.

The sheriff looked into his only eye and asked if Trujillo had any last words. He shook his enormous head.

The noose barely fit.

Get a Rope! (by mlhradio on Flickr)

Written for the DP Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty

For this week’s challenge, you must write a fifty-word story. Not five thousand, not five hundred, but precisely fifty words.