Pink Bicycles

Together with "Bananarama" (kinda) and "Oh, Nancy," this is a flash fiction piece that takes a different look at well-known characters.  I'm working on some things at the moment--writing new stuff, editing old, goofing off on Tumblr--so accept this in the meantime :]

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Pink Bicycles

“Here, sugar.” 

She tossed the pack of Bicycle playing cards in his lap without so much as a glance.  He picked up the pack and immediately undid the cellophane wrapping, grinning at her back as she began unpacking her other purchases.  “Thanks, chère,” he said.  “You know, I’m always burning through these things.”

She tossed him a smirk over her shoulder and removed a glove.  “I know it.”

He flipped open the pack and took out the cards, flicking aside the two informational cards and the Jokers out of habit.  He grinned at the ace of spades, then turned the deck over in his hand.  He made a startled sound that made her turn back to face him.  He met her eye.  “These are pink,” he informed her.

“Fifteen cents of every purchase goes to support breast cancer research,” she replied.  “Read the packaging.”

“But…they’re pink.”  He picked the first card off the top of the deck and twirled it in his hand.  “I can’t use these.  I have a reputation, chère.”

“What’s it matter?  The money goes to a good cause.”  She crossed the room, pausing just long enough to peck him on the cheek.  She grinned at him.  “And, like you said, honey—you’re just gonna burn right through ‘em, anyhow.”

Bananarama

Happy Summer!  Also, possibly "In Bruges" fanfiction?  Oops.

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Bananarama

Ray turned down the radio and looked over at Chloe, his eyes wide with unfiltered shock.  “How can you not like Bananarama?” he demanded to know, pounding the beach blanket with his balled fist.  “It’s summer, for Christ’s sake.  This is summer music.  This is fun music.”

“It’s shit,” Chloe replied, shifting on the blanket.  “Pop music!  It’s nothing.”

 “‘Cruel Summer’ is a classic,” Ray argued.  “It was in The Karate Kid.”

  

She didn’t bother to look at him, or even to lift her sunglasses.  “Merde,” Chloe pronounced, with all the gravity of a death sentence.

 Ray scowled, waiting for further rebuttal.  When he got none, he turned the music back up and sang along for all he was worth.

All the Stars in Texas

Possibly to be submitted to my Fiction class?  I think so, yes.


Inspired mostly by Ludo's "All The Stars in Texas."  Also by a writing exercise in class that had us writing about divorce, which is always awesome.  I guess all I really did was name the characters.


One day, I'll dedicate this to Ludo.


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All the Stars in Texas

Texas Tom had robbed every bank between Chicago and NewOrleans.  He’d driven up and down hischunk of the world so many times that he thought he might just be king of itall.  He’d killed dozens of men, loved afew hundred women, and he’d probably left quite a few Tom Juniors floatingaimlessly around the American Midwest. But, so far, Tom only had one wife, and Maggie was the only thing in hislife that he couldn’t control.

History Repeats

Vampires and werewolves; oh joy!  I know, I know...but it was stuck in my head and it had to be written.  Enjoy!

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History Repeats

What fascinated Elsie Minor the most about Martin Bullen wasn’tthat he drank other people’s blood, or that he’d live forever.  Being with him meant that she, too, would beimmortal, but that wasn’t all that interesting, either.  She liked being your average, run-of-the-millwerewolf, and mortality had its perks. 

What most fascinated Elsie was the fact that she couldn’t readabout Martin Bullen in any textbook.  Shecouldn’t find his name on registers or confirm that what he said was true.  But why would he lie?  All he’d had to do was find himself in theright place at the right time, alone, with Elsie, trapped in the gloomy breakroom at the hospital, and, with a grin, he’d pulled her under his spell.  By his own admission, and she was willing totake his word for it, he hadn’t even had to use any of the tricks of hisspecies to win her over.  Elsie had towonder if she was truly that easy to read.

He’d started telling his story before she’d even revealed her loveof history.  If he was a con man (to behonest, he’d had centuries of practice), he was a damn good one, to be able torecognize such a personal trait so easily. But Elsie had learned, long ago, not to ask questions.  She liked to listen.  Martin didn’t mind doing all the talking.

The Modern Age

This is built from a writing exercise we had to do in my Intermediate Fiction class a few weeks ago.  The professor handed out a bunch of wedding announcements from the New York Times and, based on the picture of the couple and the provided information, we had to write the scene in which their marriage crumbled.  I literally got the most pretentious-sounding couple in history, and I knew they looked the type to split up over something stupid on their honeymoon, so I wrote that.

Names have been changed to protect these people I've never met (and to protect myself from a lawsuit).  I don't remember their real names, so I can't Google them to see if they've split up yet.  My money's on yes, but I just hope they're both still happy.

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The Modern Age

The night before they were to leave Saint Tropez, Lauren dug her laptop out of her carry-on bag to check the news.  Three weeks of honeymoon bliss, ignoring the HD TV and limiting yourself to only a few, furtive glances at the cell, could be bad for business.  She logged into her email, skimmed a few notes and memos, but nothing seemed especially important.  No one had posted anything offensive, no scandals to cover up on the main page.  Her temp was doing a good job of holding down such a huge virtual fort—even if she hadn’t gone to Harvard, like Lauren had.

End of Days

Flash fiction about what happens between the gods of old when the world appears to be ending...again.

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End of Days

They had one of these Apocalypse scares once every few decades.  It was usually a false alarm—no mortal was that intuitive—but when the rumor mill started churning out Doomsday scenarios, the deities across all realms had to meet to discuss the possibility of The End.  They’d started renting out a boardroom at the United Nations Headquarters in Geneva a few years back and, despite the work to be done, it was usually a rather pleasant reunion.  No one was ever really worried about the Apocalypse.  And those that were found themselves breathing easier in the Alps.

Zeus was chosen to moderate the latest meeting.  “We all know why we’re here,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking his seat at the head of the table.  “The world is in peril.  Again.”

Conviction

“I’m just wondering why no one likes me.”  The man in orange shifted in his seat, settling back into his preferred pose—straight back, feet flat on the floor, hands clasped before him.  Like an idol awaiting worship, like an award on a mantle.  He coughed daintily into his clasped fist, then placed his hand back on the table with its partner.  “Excuse me.  I’m a good guy.  I read.  I like cats.  I want to see the world.  I was always good with girls – no stuttering phase, no fumbling for words.  Everyone always loved me.”


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...like what you've read?  Then head on over to the catharsis and finish it!  While you're there, read over all the other great work we have to offer.  I'm so thankful to be a part of such an awesome publication and a wonderful staff, and we could use all the support we can get!  


So, please!  Read a few stories, poems, or essays, and pass them along!  Pieces change every month, and every month has a new theme, so be sure to check back in April for a brand new batch of entertainment.

Snowstorm

Built off a writing exercise in my fiction class, possibly to be submitted in this revised form as my first piece of the semester for workshop!  I feel a little Stephen King-ish with this one, ha.  Enjoy the snow!

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Snowstorm

It had been snowing for weeks.  Night and day were distinguished only by the shifting shades of gray in the sky, the timed on and off of the orange streetlights overhead.  Schools were closed indefinitely and children celebrated in the streets for the first three days of the onslaught.  On the fourth day, the skies grew darker and the storm dumped an extra two feet of snow on top of the solid four-foot base.  That was when the parents started keeping the kids inside.

Devil's Trap

A little bit of self-mockery in this one - a love letter, if you will, to the teeming masses of Supernatural fans, who take things too far and leave no stone unturned.

Censure

The group "Censure" is not-so-loosely based on the hacktivist group Anonymous.  This is how I imagined my meeting with one of the members would go.  I wasn't sure about the story at first, but it's no as bad as I thought, upon second reading.  Enjoy :]

A Drabble

It's 4:30AM on New Year's Day and I'm still a little tipsy off of vodka shots and good conversation.  But the cold woke me up and your words keep me warm and I don't know what to say anymore.  That awkward moment when it's a new year and I'm the same old me.  I'm still drunk.  I'm in love with you.  It's the holidays and the memories and I probably shouldn't tell you that right now.  There are others, have been and will be, and I'll try.  But you're you and I can't ignore that any longer.  Break my heart; it means you care.

CP

In the alcove of the smoke-infested Medusa, over the din of mid-90s rock and pole-dancing Swedes, I had to let the prince down easy.  His hand on my chest, both of mine on his shoulders, I pulled away and let him kiss my cheek, my neck, my hair.  "I can't do this," I yelled in his ear, competing with Hoobastank for the prince's attention.  "I know this usually works out for you - I mean, I figure - but I don't do this."  He didn't stop, weakening my resolve.  I hardly heard myself mumble a pitiful, "I'm sorry," around his lips on my own.

Oh, Nancy

I don't entirely know what this is.  But I like it.  228 words.

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She folded her arms over her chest and one hand twitched, missing something.  She put all her weight on her bad hip before she could remember the years of falling down followed by surgery, winced, and immediately hid the pain.  No weakness – no mercy.  The picture would have been complete with a magnifying glass, a little more titan sheen to her graying hair.

“So,” she said.  “That’s it then.”

I shifted from foot to foot, like I was twenty again and being told off by my girlfriend.  Old habits die hard.  “That’s it,” I agreed, unsure what else she wanted to hear.  I wouldn’t look at her.

“Seventy years, Ned?  Seventy?  And you don’t have a word to say about any of it?”

“I guess we’re just…”  I took a breath, let it out.  “I guess we’re just going our separate ways.”

Her hand clenched around the imaginary handle and she raised the fist, as if about to strike me down with her wrath.  I left in a hurry, unable to say another word to assuage her.  There were no words.  There was nothing I could say or do to sum up our years together, nor to explain why it was time we part ways.

I could only thank my good Nickerson family fortune that I hadn’t had the guts to tangle with Nancy Drew in her prime.

These Feet

To be published in the Castle's literary magazine, The Black Swan!

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These feet have been blistered, burned, frozen, and beaten, but they have never let me down.  These feet are calloused and scared, cracked and worn, and I wear them as a badge for my bravery.  These feet have scraped the bottom of too many pools to count and been thrown into the air by the angry surge of the Atlantic Ocean.  These feet have been bullied and bloodied, but they have endured enough and they know that they deserve a real pedicure every now and again.  These feet have climbed to the tops of towers and belfries, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and stood in Lac Léman in Geneva.  These feet itch and stink – itch for movement, stink of victorious sweat in sensible shoes.  These feet have irregularly cut toenails and bumps and scars and aches and pains that tell the story of my travels and survivals.  These feet have braved hot sand and rain puddles.  These feet stretch and bend, kneaded under tired fingers, before the throbbing in the darkness of another dreamless night.  These feet carry me on walking tours and through museums; they’ve touched marble and stone and grass the world over.  These feet have carried me to my dreams, screaming in agony but never backing down.  These feet are ugly and tough and ruined, and they have never faltered.  These feet luxuriate in damp boots and wool blankets alike.  These feet will never let me stop moving.

For You

If I can just be social for the next three years, I can get my degree and then go live in my cabin in the middle of the woods.  And I'll never make another social faux pas or ruin another friendship again.  I'll write, and I'll run into the city (in disguise) to get my fill of the hustle and bustle and midsummer humidity I once so loved.  I'll answer my fan mail and sometimes see the people who matter, the ones that still care, the few I managed not to alienate.  There aren't many.  There will be no more arguments, no more pressure, no more personal conversations, in your face, when I make everything worse or let someone down.  I'll answer only to myself (and a publisher).  And I won't ever have to hear that tone in your voice again, the one that says I've failed, tells me how I've hurt you, recounts every one of my missteps.  The phone will never ring and you, you will never be on the other end of the line, waiting for me to redeem myself.  I'll live alone - perhaps a possum and some mix tapes - and I'll live without fear.  I won't suffer lose or pain, because I love to lose myself and I'll never again be near the people I hurt, unable to hurt myself be reliving their pain.  I'll remove myself to save them, to save you, mostly to save myself, because I'm selfish and cold and what have I done?  I won't ever see your face again, which should count as punishment enough for me, for all I've done.  I'll spend a lifetime in nothing, which is better than despair.  Better than the look on your face when I said, "I'm sorry," and all you heard was goodbye.

A Long, Lonely Time

Still trying to decide if this should be expanded to include some of the other little glimpses into a doomed relationship, or if there's enough here to let it stand on its own.  Read and debate for yourself, then fill me in. 

The title is also tentative; it's a line from the song "Unchained Melody" :]

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A Long, Lonely Time

When they separate in 1966, she won’t be able to cry.  She won’t allow her self-pity to swallow her whole, nor will she allow the open stares of her friends and neighbors to anger or shame her.  She won’t look at their baby boy, the one she’d brought into the world just three months before the inevitable end of their relationship.  She won’t think back on the good times, the romance, the months and months and months of bliss that should have really warned her of the incomparable heartache to come.

Geneva Wren will only be able to think of the rain.

Driving in the Dark

I have no idea what's going on here.  Inspired by watching The Matrix and then driving my dad to the train station on a foggy night.

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Happily Ever After

Happily Ever After  

Lou dragged James out to the courtyard to shake some sense into him.  He trailed along behind like a puppet on broken strings, stumbling almost drunkenly to keep up with her and seemingly unaware of the damage he’d done.  Once in the shadows of her favorite poplar trees, far from the prying eyes of the other party guests, Lou paused to take hold of James’ shoulders and literally shook him.

“Are you insane?” she demanded to know, though she obviously had her own ideas on the subject.  “You’re throwing your life away!”

“So getting married ruins your life?” James shot back.  He shrugged her off.  “Then why the hell are you doing it?”

“Your brother and I – ”

“You and my brother are bloody idiots, same as everyone else here.”

Lou reached out to him again, only to be rebuked, none too gently.  “You don’t mean that.  You’re not thinking clearly, Jamsey.”

“Don’t call me that!” he barked, shoving her so roughly she stumbled in her fancy ball gown.  He felt sorry the minute he did it – God, she looked beautiful – but there was no turning back after this night.  He fought to reach some semblance of calm, then exhaled slowly.  “Adi’s good enough for me.  We work well enough.  Why shouldn’t she be my wife?”

“I…I just…”  Lou pursed her lips, willing him to look at her.  He wouldn’t.  There was a laundry list of reasons, the same reasons his father would be throwing at him soon enough.  Adrienne was tawdry.  Adrienne was loose.  Adrienne was a bad influence.  But Lou could almost overlook all that, if she thought James actually loved her enough to make that kind of commitment.  She sat heavily on a nearby stone bench, the cold seeping through the taffeta princess gown, and decided upon, “Adi was just never the kind of girl I pictured you marrying.”

“Oh, yeah?  Me neither,” he replied, snide.  “I always thought – always hoped – I’d find someone…”  He shook his head and turned back towards the party lights, letting the meaning linger between them.  He’d made it clear enough over the last few years, after he’d broken free of his awkward teen years, after he’d come to realize what a jerk his brother had been and how wonderful Louisa always was and certainly always would be.

“James,” she sighed, and she could say no more.  They both shivered at the sound of his name on her lips.

You May Kiss the Bride?

For fun and laughs.  Inspired by a real conversation (unfortunately).  This one's for you, Roomie!


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You May Kiss the Bride?

There came a time in my life when I found myself married to my roommate.  He wasn’t an immigrant trying to keep his green card.  He wasn’t running from the law.  He wasn’t the love of my life.  In all truth, he wasn’t a “he” at all.  Her name was Kelsey, and we’d been friends since ninth grade AP Biology.

I wasn’t in love with her and, as far as I know, she hid no secret passions for me.  We had gotten close over panicked phone calls about chemistry homework, over food runs and the school musical and shared friends.  When the time came for all of us to go our separate ways, Kelsey and I didn’t.  We both went to a small liberal arts college in the middle of Boston, pursuing our dreams and pledging to keep each other motivated along the way.

It was just at the end of the spring semester of our freshmen year when, unceremoniously, Kelsey and I decided we would wed.  Our school only allowed seniors to move into off-campus housing, but we were both already fed up with dorm life.  Underclassmen could move into their own apartments if they fit one of only a few exceptions.  One was to join the military.  Another was to have a psychiatrist declare you unfit to live in the dorms anymore.  Another was to be married.

Smack

Rated mature for drug use, language, and adult situations.  If "adult situations" means arguing with your on-again, off-again significant other about who's the worse drug user.

Marleybone is my tiny, fictional, New Mexico town that will probably be the center of either a series of short stories and vignettes or a novel (I'm leaning towards the latter at the moment, but we'll see).  Shauna's the same that shows up in the flash fiction piece "Fantasies"; you can get the gist of her relationship with Beau from "Love Songs."

I love constructive criticism - so do your worst!