November Writing Challenge Week 2, Fiction Fragments

Words of the outside world. International Flash Fiction Association. There is an association for everything.

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#8 Empty Basket, 228 words

Email from Rachel: Be sure to bring an empty basket. I’ll have lots of cuttings for you. Can’t wait to see you at dinner.

Response from me: Looking forward to it.

Basket? Who has baskets? Much less empty ones? I live in the world’s smallest NYC apartment. I have no empty space. Seriously, I store my socks in my shoes to save space in my minuscule dresser. Where am I going to put plants? I have one window. It gets no sun and doubles as my bookshelf.

I love my apartment. I wanted a central location. I did not want the house drama of roommates. Hence shoebox. It’s fine. I’m never home. No, really. That’s the point. I have given myself three years to get traction as an actor in New York. I shouldn’t be hanging around inside. I should be at showcases or waiting in line for same day tickets or at acting class.

That’s how I met Rachel. She’s a science fiction writer, which is pretty cool, who was taking an acting class to help her with her characters. Her personality makes me think we have friend potential but our life stages and location may be too different. I’m single and urban. She’s part of a couple who live far enough out of the city to have a garden that is big enough to spawn cuttings.

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Afterword

Influenced by MWF Seeking BFF: My Yearlong Search for a New Best Friend, Rachel Bertsche (Ballantine 2011, read as ebook)

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#9 Solo Date, 209 words

Creeakkkkk. Grunt.

Rachel’s head shot up. What was that noise? Since her housemate was a professional opera singer, Rachel was used to odd noises wafting out of the other bedroom. Generally, the noises where beautiful if weird. The strangest things qualified as vocal warm-ups, apparently. This noise was not melodious. This sounded like the world’s largest wooden door slowing swinging shut and then belching.

She got up to investigate.

The noise repeated as she stuck her head in the doorway.

Her housemate saw her, and said excitedly, ‘I got it. I got the date solo.”

This did not clear things up.

“It’s the new opera we are putting on. The setting is a caravan across the desert. Very atmospheric. Lots of low lighting and high spotlights for the moon. The songs are great. The olive overture. A raisin recitative. The tenor does a spice serenade. And, ta-da, I am doing the second act aria, also know as the date solo.”

“That’s fantastic …”

The noise repeated.

“… and that is?”

“Oh, when I sing, my character wants to be alone, so she leaves the tents, and walks off into the moonlight. Those are the camels. They do the chorus.”

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Afterword

Seriously. Do an Internet search on camel noises.

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#10 Morning Hike, 229 words, discounting 2 labels

10.1

“Greetings, boon companion. Are we ready to embark on our morning hike?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that. It’s 10 am and we are walking the dogs.”

“Exactly, my stalwart road comrade. We are venturing forth with our noble guardian animals by our sides.”

“You have a Basset Hound and I have a Chihuahua. The only thing they guard is lunch.”

“Ah, but inside they contain the spirit of all dogs, which is to secure the safely of their pack. Just as you my down-to-earth friend contain the lyrical imagination of the medieval bard, despite your insistence on being a semantic party-pooper.”

“Party-pooper? I think you dropped a stitch there.”

“Yeah, well. You try taking like Cortes on the peak in Darien. See how long you last.”

“Easy. Cortes was silent. At least according to Keats.”

“Rats. You’re right.”

“Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line, nor an English major when poetry is on the line.”

10.2

“Here it comes, the morning hike.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”

“Why not. It is before noon. we are about to gather in a huddle around the conference table. Our supervisor will chant nonsense syllables, and then heave a pile of work in a random direction. Some some poor soul will have to catch it and make a success out of it. Voila, morning hike.”

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Afterword

Two fragments because the first one announced that it was done after the last line.

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#11 Brave Choices, 221 words

Today, I have to make some Brave choices.

I think the Atlanta Braves baseball team is going to be my best choice to bolster the outfield of my fantasy baseball team. The Mariners are doing well, besides, I like Seattle, but I am already too concentrated in the both the American League and West coast teams. Need some National League/East Coast action.

I do wish they would change the name. Cleveland managed it. Washington managed it. Dartmouth College managed it. How can hanging onto outdated social troupes be good for business? It would be the right thing to do in any case, but it seems so simple when you have all – or almost all – of the nouns in the English language to chose from. Diamondbacks is a terrific name. Personally, I’d love to see the Atlanta Tree Frogs as a team name. They are the state amphibian of Georgia. I doubt that is going to happen.

The funny thing is I didn’t even like baseball. What I like is statistics. I have been know to design spreadsheets for fun. And winning. I really like winning. Turns out I am really, really good at predicting outcomes based on a limited data stream.

It does mean I have to go to games, occasionally. At least the players are worth looking at.

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#12 Old Photograph, 203 words

It was an old photograph.

She shook it gently.

Nothing happened.

Yup. It was old alright. No words. No music. Forget having a pop-up hologram display. It just lay inert on the table.

She’d have to find another way to ID the photo. It was of two people, one female-presenting, one male-presenting, standing in front of a red car. She squinted. Two doors visible, on this side, which meant it qualified as a four-door. Beyond that, she had no clue. She’d have to get a car restorer to help with they type of car. With luck, they would also be able to tell her the year, or least the decade.

What was it with people in the past and their cars? These two posed in front of it as if the car was a member of the family. Given how much time, money, and social space used to be devoted to cars, maybe it was allocated a place in the domestic hierarchy. She’d read several sociology papers on the phenomenon. She still didn’t understand it. File that as glad I didn’t live back then.

On to the clothes. A costume designer could help her there.

Meanwhile, she would concentrate on determining the location.

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#13 Broken Clock, 233 words

“We’ll meet at the Broken Clock.”

“In the town square? That one was working when I went past this morning.”

“The Broken Clock is a pub. The serve breakfast and dinner. So, it’s right …

“I get it. It’s right twice a day. Cute. Is the food any good?”

“Actually it is. Plus you’ll like the decor. It’s all clocks and clock widgets. Very steampunk.”

“Hmmm. I do like clocks but you know how I feel about steampunk.”

“I assure you that the decor was all correctly sourced. No repairable clocks nor watches were injured in the creation of the pub. They’ve even developed a bit of a sideline in the collectible clock subculture. Lots of connections with repair shops and collectors all over the world.”

“Okay. That strikes me as a good idea. You might even say that I’m geared up for it.”

“Groan. I brought this on myself, didn’t I?”

Jokes aside, the Broken Clock was a successful business, despite breakfast and dinner being two very different beasts. The breakfast crew was short order cooks, a baker, and wait staff who remembered how you liked your coffee. Dinner at the Broken Clock was about good food and inviting atmosphere. No rush to turn tables. Wanna stay and chill all evening. Go for it and please remember to tip your servers. Why be in a hurry? After all, the clock is broken.

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Afterword

Typed one-handed on the 13th. Go me! [Cursewords!]

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#14 Open Book, 0 words 208 words

I smiled at her. “I am an open book.”

She slit her eyes at me. “You realize that means we only see the two-page spread that you chose to show and the rest is a mystery.”

I smiled wider. “Exactly.”

Drat. I was going to have to watch this one. She was too clever. I modeled my best innocent cherub expression. “Why would I keep secrets from you? That would be counterproductive.

Her suspicious look did not lessen. “Oh, I don’t know. Greed. Misplaced chivalry. Proving you are the smartest dog at the pound.”

Double drat. At least one of those reasons was true. This is why I don’t like working with other people. I never knew how much to tell them. They got in the way of my process. They had ideas of their own.

Plans were already in motion. Plans for the immediate crisis. Plans for failure. Regardless of what the dude said, failure was always a possibility. Plans for victory, which were not always as straightforward as one might hope. Even with success, eventually the friendliest allies would begin to look around and wonder how best to position themselves in the post-crisis environment.

Now was the time for action, not for rewriting the policy paper.

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Afterword

Yesterday’s output may have been due to adrenaline.

Hat tip to emotional support husband for convincing me to get the day’s words done after I had retired from the field. Are they a story? No. Do they makes sense? Shrug. Are the 200 fictitious words? Yes. Go me!

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[November Writing Challenge Week 1, Fiction Fragments] project explanation & days 1 thru 7.

Onwards!
Katherine