Thursday, August 26, 2010


The 3WW words are abstain, halo, prayer. Play along one of these weeks. This inspires me to write at least one story a week, (as I flounder in my other wip) and keeps me involved in #fridayflash.


The halo screwed into his head, long rods held him rigid. He lay still, monitor beeping, diminished inside the sterile. A wave, a stumble, a one-in-a-million accident. His brother bent to kiss him, left the room. She would not leave.

They kissed on the couch, side by side, his body held her still. He was the first to probe. Good girls' fingers tent for prayer; good boys' fingers seek the eternal. She could not breathe. His mother glided. I'm not that kind of girl, she told the closed door.

"You have to leave. Visit for a few minutes, then go. Displaying your misery does not help my brother." Offended, she stayed. His touch created a devoted girlfriend; she did not know how to leave. Unconditional love's condition. Her halo hovered.

The hospital released him. One prayer answered. She could live inside her anticipation for their again, abstain from his tangible. Six months was not forever.

The doctor removed his halo. His blond hair screened the holes. In time, they would diminish. "I am free," he said. She drove him home, to his life. He kissed his fingers, touched her cheek. "You are too," he said. He shut the door, her freedom locked inside her rigid halo.

Thursday, August 12, 2010


This week's #fridayflash got about 20 rewrites but each one my friend Tim discarded and told me to stick with the original. So here's the original (almost), with maybe a name change, or two. 


A flutter at the base of her neck woke Katie. His hand cupped her breast; his body molded against hers. She offered a moan, felt his tongue-stud flick her shoulder. She focused on the poster, his only decoration. JULY 5TH in bold, his band red arrow third on the roster. The night Rise Records signed the band. The night they met...

...he had looked so hot, sweat glistening his hairless chest, black-tipped fingers flying as he humped his guitar. She had been jealous of the girls gyrating at him. After his set, he whispered insults about those sluts while his hand strummed her thigh. She gasped yes.

He had washed off his make-up, put on a life is good tee, plucked a ballad on his ukulele. He became vulnerable; he became Stone. He talked about the label rep, promised he'd stay humble. She found the bed, he found her moaning-spot...

...her current shriek cut off her memory-moan as Stone's chin slammed her shoulder blade and her head slammed the bunk wall. The driver's muffled sorry, pothole came from the front of the bus. "Forget this!" Katie said, "I've got to pee, anyways." She thrashed at the tangled Egyptian Cotton sheets, inadvertently kicked the HD screen. Her four-carat diamond snagged on the privacy curtain.

The band manager winked at her from the office/kitchen/dining room/general hang-out space. The bassist sprawled along a leather couch, his armpits darker than his tee. The keyboardist balanced a beer can on his chest.

Katie slid the bathroom door shut, but still heard, "Remember! TP in the wastebasket."


My 3WW for this week is short and sweet (excuse the cliche).


Jackson chewed the raw chicken, did not grimace once. Bethany could not believe he took the joke so seriously. All she wanted was for him to say, no, I won't do it. But Jackson never said no; at least not to her. He held hope, gripped it in his sweaty palm and wrung it breathless. She held hope too, but caressed it, nurtured it—her hope embodied his surrender. Love conquered nothing, except for ill-conceived notions of two-dimensional greeting-card sentiments. Jackson believed those dimensions—the remedy for unrequited love dwelt inside the definition of "unconditional." Her leverage became his demise. If only he could understand; love-sick did not want a cure.