Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Flash Fiction Challenge #5

First things first. Take a look over at Gordon's Blog for the week 4 winner.

Now, onto week 5!

The rules are very simple: we give you a prompt and you write 500 words or less.

You can write in any style that you wish; just be sure to use the prompt, keep it under 500 words, write it in English, and ensure it's completely made up (this is a flash fiction challenge after all).

Next week Gordon and I will post links to the pieces we liked the best and will probably do a shout out on Twitter to those folks if they so desire. After a few months we'll compile a list of our favourites and we'll get the Internet to vote. The winner will win stuff (to be determined, but we're sure they'll love it).

Now, without further ado we present this week's prompt (be sure to use it in your submission):

"Look, officer, I swear when I left the bar I was wearing pants."

Use the comments below to submit your work. You can submit anonymously, but if you don't leave us an email address or something you can't win.

Have fun!

~ Andrew & Gordon

2 comments:

  1. Sounds like fun Andrew - count me in!

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  2. Sheriff Branson of Claypot flicked his cigarette as he leaned on the hardware store’s peeling storefront. Up the street was Jerry's Bar, the town’s local dive where Jerry, the owner and barkeep, knew all the regulars by name including One-leg Joe, the harmless town drunk.

    This very same One-leg Joe staggered in the sweltering Nevada sunlight drunk as a skunk. But, that wasn’t all. Branson sighed, sucked on his cigarette, and dropped it near his foot so he could scuff it into the cement. One-leg Joe was naked as the day he was born, fish-white skin stretched over ribs and tattooed to kingdom come with blue, blurred ink. He had a peg for his left leg- -the end of a chair leg- -that stumped in the dirt and was attached with a self-made leather strap. His other leg was a spindle of sinew.

    Branson crossed the cracked sidewalk. “Joe? Joe, can I talk with you?”

    “Look, ossifer, I swear when I left the bar I was wearin pants,” Joe slurred, stumbling toward Branson, his arms pin-wheeling. “I dunno know wha happened, ossifer. Some’un musta stoled from me. Can’t turst no un. No un.”

    Branson caught One-leg Joe to steady him. “Right, Joe.” He had to train his eyes to Joe’s shriveled, unshaven face to avoid the sight of…the gonads. “I think you better come with me.”

    Joe allowed Branson to maneuver him around the corner of the bar where Jerry waited with a folded shirt and jeans. Together they managed to put Joe back into his clothes, much to half-garbled protests and stumbles and cursing. Sweat coursed down the three men’s faces.

    “You’d think after fighting in a war and losing a limb, he’d be better compensated,” Jerry muttered. He buttoned up Joe’s shirt, his large fingers gentle and efficient. “Pisses me off he’s got no one to look after him, living in that shithole trailer in the middle of nowhere. They’ve got no goddamn right to do this to someone.”

    Branson said nothing, but flipped his police cap to fit it snug on Joe’s balding head. Much longer in this sun would scramble his brains.

    “I’ll take him to the jail, let him sleep it off,” Branson said. “Thanks for the call, Jer.”

    “Yep. Gotta take care of our community.”

    “Ha. You mean save the innocents from a sight too horrific for words.” Branson slid One-leg Joe’s arm around his neck. “Don’t want the Lady’s Church Society to catch wind.”

    Jerry chuckled. “We’d have ladies swooning all over the place. I better get back to bar duty.” He stepped into the back door.

    “Thanks again, Jer.” Branson adjusted the limp body hanging from his neck. “Okay, Joe. One foot in front of the other.”

    He tucked Joe closer to walk the three blocks to the jail. Joe’s head lolled, but he was cooperative as he always was.

    “Yur a good’un, ossifer,” Joe whispered. “A good’un.”

    Email: miss_greene83@yahoo.com

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