Conrad, after a long dry spell, issued his latest writing prompt:
“Write a flash fiction piece about someone who has finally arrived somewhere but is extremely late.“
I should mention the last writing prompt from Conrad precipitated a series of events that resulted in the short story in the previous post (The Fall of Angels). I am fairly certain this will not evolve into a 10,000 word short story, but you never know.
By E. J. D’Alise (Disperser)
Copyright March 2013
Justin looked at his rear view mirror. He had blown by that cop going at least 10 over the limit. He could not afford to get stopped, as he was already late. He watched, and his heart nearly skipped a beat as the cop car came to life, moved . . . and turned the other way.
He had gotten the call from his mom. “Come quick!” Her voice sounded hushed, as if she did not want anyone to hear her speak on the phone. “He’s here; he showed up unannounced. It getting ugly, and . . . I have to go!”
He had told his manager he had personal business to take care of, and had jumped in the car, peeling out of the parking lot. How could he explain? Who would understand?
“He” was his dad’s brother. As an uncle, he left a lot to be desired. Big guy, rough around the edges, and . . . well, he could overstep his bounds. Rather, he did not recognize any bounds.
Since Justin’s dad had died, there had been a number of incidents, each worse than the previous.
“Damn!” Justin punched the steering wheel, his anger and frustration showing through. Why today?
But Justin knew . . .
He pulled into the drive, narrowly avoiding his uncle’s car, and literally jumped out of the car, leaving the door open. Taking two at a time, he made short work of the stairs to the front door. There he paused. He could not hear anything. Was he too late?
He opened the door quietly, and walked in, avoiding the squeaky floorboard. He looked in the kitchen, and noticed the mess. “Damn, and double damn!” His whisper sounded loud in the quiet of the house.
Making his way to the living room, he saw his uncle, eyes closed, laying on the sofa, a dark red stain on his chest.
He looked at the small table in the corner. His mom stood there, a long knife in her hand. He took in the small detail of a red drop falling from its tip.
“Don’t worry, I saved you a piece.” She whispered. Lifting the corner of a napkin, she wiped the cherry juice from the knife by rubbing it atop the small piece of his birthday Cherry pie. He looked over as his uncle, sleeping on the sofa. The bastard had more than that on his shirt. Once again, he was too late.
- – - – - – - – The End- – - – - – - – - – - -
So, I had a lousy day, and don’t have the time to edit or pretty-up the piece. Suffice it to say it was a piece of cake to write, precisely because it is uncomplicated . . . and because it’s about pie.
If you enjoyed reading this story, please tell everyone you know. After all, why deprive your loved ones, your friends, and your work colleagues, of the joy associated with the discovery of these little gems?
BUT . . . If you did not enjoy reading it . . . well, you can’t always have your pie, and eat it too, so please; don’t tell anyone.
Please, if you are considering bestowing me some recognition beyond commenting below, refrain from doing so. I will decline nominations whereby one blogger bestows an award onto another blogger, or group of bloggers. I appreciate the intent behind it, but I would much prefer a comment thanking me for turning you away from a life of crime, religion, or making you a better person in some other way. That would actually mean something to me.
Should you still nominate me, I will strongly suspect you pulled my name at random, and that you are not, in fact, a reader of my blog. If you wish to know more, please read below.
Note: to those who may click on “like”, or rate the post; if you do not personally hear from me, know that I am sincerely appreciative, and I thank you for noticing what I do.
. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.