Flash Fiction Challenge
A friend of mine turned me on to a Flash Fiction Challenge - the Mid Week Blues-Buster @ thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com. The writing prompt was Santana's song "Put your lights On" and, well, here's what came of it.
"Under the Neon Sign by the Stairs Up to te Bar Above Margarita’s"
by
James Patrick Lockett
"Hey buddy, spare a buck?”
I didn’t look up, just dug deep into the pocket where I used to keep my keys. The single dollar bill looked grey in the green light of the neon sign. It felt heavy like old cloth. I stuffed it back down and said “No.”
“Oh com’on, all I need. . .”
I looked up this time. My eyes met his and he stopped as if the reflection of green neon in my eyes spelled - Shut the Fuck Up – instead of s’atiragraM.
"I said no.” My weight relaxed back into the wrought iron security door of the stairwell. Some bluesy guitar chord dangled from the bar room above Margarita’s and for a moment – only a moment – I felt the urge to swing back and forth on the gate, in time to the music. My fingers moved the gate three inches both directions. It creaked.
“Hey,” I said, feeling the ink of my tattoo move up my arm, a grip warning me not to do what I was about to do. “What you need is to go home.”
“Funny,” said the hobo, beggar, residentially challenged – whatever the PC word of the day was.
“I’m serious.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t essactly got a home.”
“You did,” I said. “And you need to go there NOW.” I closed my eyes, fighting back against the darkness. “They’re there and they’re going to take her if you’re not there to stop them.”
“What the hell you. . .”
I couldn’t explain it if I wanted to. The tat that used to not be there, tightened it’s grip. None of it scared me anymore. It just happened . . .
“Amy. Your daughter. She needs you. . . NOW!” Even in the green light, I could see his face go white. He was still running when he turned a corner and I lost sight of him. My arm felt better as I drew my hand from my pocket. My fingers rubbed back and forth across the heavy hundred dollar bill. Like I said, I can’t explain it. The song ended, I think it was Santana and I could hear the cue ball as it rolled down the felt tapping its target, the number six ball, I think. Or maybe, it was just the light.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the gate.
Copyright 2014. James Patrick Lockett. All Rights Reserved.
"Under the Neon Sign by the Stairs Up to te Bar Above Margarita’s"
by
James Patrick Lockett
"Hey buddy, spare a buck?”
I didn’t look up, just dug deep into the pocket where I used to keep my keys. The single dollar bill looked grey in the green light of the neon sign. It felt heavy like old cloth. I stuffed it back down and said “No.”
“Oh com’on, all I need. . .”
I looked up this time. My eyes met his and he stopped as if the reflection of green neon in my eyes spelled - Shut the Fuck Up – instead of s’atiragraM.
"I said no.” My weight relaxed back into the wrought iron security door of the stairwell. Some bluesy guitar chord dangled from the bar room above Margarita’s and for a moment – only a moment – I felt the urge to swing back and forth on the gate, in time to the music. My fingers moved the gate three inches both directions. It creaked.
“Hey,” I said, feeling the ink of my tattoo move up my arm, a grip warning me not to do what I was about to do. “What you need is to go home.”
“Funny,” said the hobo, beggar, residentially challenged – whatever the PC word of the day was.
“I’m serious.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t essactly got a home.”
“You did,” I said. “And you need to go there NOW.” I closed my eyes, fighting back against the darkness. “They’re there and they’re going to take her if you’re not there to stop them.”
“What the hell you. . .”
I couldn’t explain it if I wanted to. The tat that used to not be there, tightened it’s grip. None of it scared me anymore. It just happened . . .
“Amy. Your daughter. She needs you. . . NOW!” Even in the green light, I could see his face go white. He was still running when he turned a corner and I lost sight of him. My arm felt better as I drew my hand from my pocket. My fingers rubbed back and forth across the heavy hundred dollar bill. Like I said, I can’t explain it. The song ended, I think it was Santana and I could hear the cue ball as it rolled down the felt tapping its target, the number six ball, I think. Or maybe, it was just the light.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the gate.
Copyright 2014. James Patrick Lockett. All Rights Reserved.
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