Tag: fiction

Escape

This is my contribution—late—to the Carrot Ranch Literary Community blog challenge. As always, it’s 99 words, no more no less. The challenge is to write an escape. I’m trying to condense my novel-in-progress into 99 words. Let’s see how it goes.

Analog Recording System Broke Down. Now All Digital

She sat, shredding tissue in her lap, waiting for a counselor. Once he’d passed out, she’d tied her husband, spread-eagled, to their four-poster bed using two pairs of thigh-hi nylons. Then she beat him with his own belt—the buckle end. Bruises and abrasions on her own body still throbbed. The old ones made her skin a rainbow. He was a lawyer. Every time she’d tried to leave, he’d found a way to block her. If she could make them believe she was a danger to him, maybe they would check her in and save her life—and his.

Perched on the Highest Hill

  1. Billy Arnold wanted to see whatever marauders, land grabbers, and horse thieves came to his neighborhood before they arrived, so he perched on top of the highest hill he could find, building his soddy right at its peak.
  2. He could see ten miles in any direction from his hill, including his three brothers’ and his dad’s homes.
  3. He felt safe.
  4. Day by day, wind ripped at his clothes, filled his eyes with dust, and dried out his crops, but still he prospered.
  5. His wife couldn’t wait for a real, frame house and Billy wanted corrals and barns and granaries—so he borrowed money.
  6. Instead of land grabbers, he lost his place to bankers, BUT he homesteaded a new place in Oklahoma and struck oil.

No Party for Me

I must have been five, maybe six. My classmate had a Valentine’s Day party. She distributed invitations at school and my parents decided I should go. I had spent almost no time with children before starting kindergarten. Then I spent the year bringing home all the childhood diseases—measles, mumps, chicken pox, measles, and finally, bronchial pneumonia. I needed socialization. Dad took me to the house, but the girl’s parents wouldn’t let me in. I don’t remember my rejection, but my dad never forgot. I only know because I asked Mom years later why Dad so hated that family.

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Sea Mist

The waves looked soft as he peered through tropical rain. The island was only a ragged outline. Crawling down the rope netting into a landing craft, he watched it grow closer, more distinct. It would be his first combat. Would he stand up to it? Was he brave as he thought—hoped?  Somehow he knew he would survive, but what about the others? Weeks earlier, in the middle of the ocean, he’d looked through a light mist silvered by soft by moonlight and realized survival wasn’t enough.  Seeing the guy next to him fall—that’s what made him sick.

Aida

You’ve created a list of New Year’s resolutions for the coming year. They are helpful, practical, and attainable.  You are certain that you can finish them all rather quickly, but every time you try to tackle one, you hear a sweet little voice.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do what? What does that mean?”

You look around. There’s no one there, just a disembodied voice.

A couple of days later, you’re at your kitchen table, checking the employment ads. You’re looking for a new retail job. Maybe you can move up to management.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Where the hell are you? What do you want?” You search your house. There’s no one there.

You shrug and go on about your business. A week later, you’re boxing up all the soft drinks in your fridge, the hostess twinkies, and candy bars. You have to think before you add the chocolate. You grimace, but you’re going to lose ten pounds by taking the sweets out of your diet.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what, dammit? Who are you?” You dump the box in your dumpster—with emphasis.

You’re on your way to the fitness center, gym clothes packed in your bag. On the way to the car, you get the voice. You’re outside next to your car. There’s nowhere to hide, not a tree or a bush. Your patience is shot.

“What in the bloody hell do you want?”

You hear a chuckle. “Get real.”

“Get real?”

“Ten pounds?”

You’re still looking around for the voice. “It’s a place to start.”

“You can do better than that.”

“How much do you think I need to lose?” You open the passenger door and sit in the car, peering under the dash and into the back seat.

“I don’t think you need to lose weight.”

“What?”

“Is that the best you can do? Lost weight, exercise, change dead-end jobs. Is that all you want to do with your life??

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing if that’s all you want.”

“What should I want?”

“Beats me. You want to spend your life selling stuff?”

“What’s wrong with selling stuff?”

“I remember when you wanted to sing Aida. What’s stopping you?”

“What’s stopping me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into opera?”

“No. But you do. You want a New Year’s Resolution? Let’s get started.“

“What if I fail?”

“What if you don’t try?”