This post submitted for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
The interviews started promptly at 8 p.m. in Peet’s Café in Beverly Hills. Each interview scheduled to run from three to eight minutes.
It was now 9:30 p.m. and Kitty had already interviewed 17 potential dates. Feedback was expected from participants usually after one or two days. Numbers one thru sixteen were all losers. Charlie who never stopped talking about himself. Earl who resembled her uncle Phil. Jesus who was a boy toy and knew it. Yuck!
But then came George. Number 18! Not only was he good-looking but was a writer and a painter. Well that’s what he said anyway and she was getting damn tired going from table to table. A little nod of the head from her and he understood.
She never made it to table 19.
Submitted to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Joe had one final request that he wanted me to accomplish. Being his best friend I readily agreed.
I knew that Joe wanted to be cremated. That was no surprise. WHERE he wanted to be cremated was going to be an unexpected trip for me to the southwest. He wanted his ashes spread in a canyon near the New Mexico and Arizona border.
Three days after his death I found the canyon he had requested. I waited patiently for a few minutes so some tourist could get out of the way of my projected path. I saw the place at the top of a ridge that was perfect. What I did not see was the small rock that I tripped and stumbled on in the red dirt.
His ashes flew out of the urn and the wind took them west bound. Mission accomplished! Joe would have loved that send off.
Photo prompt is provided by Phylor
This post is written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Son of a bitch could have taken the car. Big fat BMW parked in that massive five car garage would have been a much better choice. If you ask me that is. Of course I’m only a horse and what do I know. Horse sense right? Don’t think so bucko! My jackwagon owners elevator doesn’t go to the top floor as they say.
And riding through a rain storm no less. Jeeze Louise give me a friggin break! At least he had the sense to take the saddle off me when he went inside to his fancy smantzy party. How long does he plan to stay in there and play coy with Ms. Karen. I know what he wants from her and it ain’t her hand.
Well hello Baltimore; he might just be in for a rough ride back to the old stable tonight. You think?
This post is written for FFfAW (Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers).
Photo Credit ===Yinglan
Alfred knew it was time to leave.
Eleven years in a dead end job was enough. He was still single. He rented an old house his uncle owned. In fact he lived next door to his uncle. The winters were getting unbearable. This, plus the fact he had taken two weeks vacation last February and spent it in Arizona. He realized he was a huge bore.
So on July 1st he held a going away party where three of his friends showed up to say goodby. His mother and father were invited but did not attend.
So he got everything he owned and rented a four by six trailer and headed to Tucson Arizona. Empty beer cans fell off the rear bumper of the trailer as he sped away on his new adventure.
This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Laura first noticed the color of the water had turned to a slight orange. Harold, her husband, then commented on the acid taste of the water. The local water company had just ended a contract with an adjoining city and had started to provide the city with drinking water from the local river.
Still, the guidance from city officials about the temporary water supply they switched to in 2014 — partly to save money — sounded assuring. In a notice sent to residents in July, city officials declared: “This is not an emergency. If a situation arises where the water is no longer safe to drink, you will be notified within 24 hours.”
Turning on the local news station the lead story was a study that found that children drinking the city water had blood lead levels seven times the CDC limits.
This post is written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Photo Provided by Etol Bagam
It wasn’t raining when she left the house. She really didn’t care what the weather was outside, she just had to leave to maintain her sanity.
She had stopped at Mr.Reddick’s hardware store and purchased the umbrella.
“Smart purchase Ms. Sara. Looks like you might need it pretty darn soon” said Mr. Reddick while not mentioning the bruises that covered her forehead and the swollen eye.
Nodding, she left the store and entered the trail that started just a few blocks away. He will never realize I’m gone for hours she thought. By that time I should reach the interstate. I have to trust someone. No family, no friends, except his drunken buddies. What could be worse.
The trail ended just ahead. She could see the highway now. Standing on a bridge overlooking it suddenly an old lyric floated through her foggy memory bank…
Well I’m running down the road trying to loosen
my load, got a world of trouble on my mind
lookin’ for a lover who won’t blow my
Well maybe not a lover but someone. Please just someone. The highway suddenly appeared much closer than before.
This post is written for “Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.”
photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com
From the outside the building seemed like a friendly neighborhood tavern. He was thirty miles into his weekly fifty mile bicycle ride and it was time for a break. He patted himself on his back for taking a new route and seeing new scenery.
Once inside the tavern he soon realized it was not quite what it seemed from the outside. Muscle bulging men and women were sitting at the bar with leather jackets indicating what motorcycle club they were associated with.
The ones closest to the door turned and looked at him with his skin tight cycling pants and helmet with glazed amusement on their faces.
A heavy set blond female with cigarette smoke following her approached him and ask “So Sonny, what type of bike to you ride. Harley, Honda, or Suzuki?”
Slowly backtracking toward the door he had come through he replied in a high-pitched voice, “A Trek.”