Write Your Own Story

I’m starting something new here. I don’t know if this will be a regular feature or not. I’m experimenting. My new WIP is in a desert setting, in a town so small it only has a circuit judge, satellite post office, one police officer, one truck fire department, etc. You get the picture.

Here’s the challenge: Write your own flash fiction in kind of setting, any genre, 1000-2000 words. PLEASE: No erotica, no harm to children, no vulgarity. Send me a comment with a link to your story (I will not steal your idea) since I have no idea how to allow the posting here. If you would like me to share it I will re-blog. If you don’t want it shared, please tell me at the top of your post before you get into the story. Thanks and have a great day.

The Beard, The Ballerina, and the Bodies

This piece of writing is in response to the prompt from A Writer’s Path. This is my first attempt at out-of-the-box thinking.

I didn’t know that was a lipstick. It was a longish wand with a dark plastic cover on the tip. There were no markings on it. I thought it was a stylus. I tried to use it to turn on the remote control on the video screen. I needed to watch the ballerina act to see what we needed to do to improve the scene.

Needless to say, the lipstick didn’t work. When I used it to press the button on the remote, it broke. I threw both the lipstick and the remote across the room. Then my crazy co-worker walked in with a Abe Lincoln costume beard, picked up the remote and pressed the “on” button with his finger. I felt so stupid.

I wish that had been the end of my day, but that was just the morning. When I left for my lunch break I took the elevator down two floors to ground level and walked out the alley door. It’s closer to the hot dog stand I like. I was in a hurry and rounded the corner too quickly. I stumbled over a dumpster.

As I picked myself up, brushing the dirt off my pants, I almost hit my head on the sharp metal corner. I stepped back and looked at it. It wasn’t as tall as a garbage dumpster, and it was bright yellow, not black or green like most garbage dumpsters. I lifted the lid and peered inside.

No! It couldn’t be. Why would anyone put this outside? It was filled with mannequin arms, legs, torsos, wigs, and clothing. I forgot about lunch and went back inside the building to see if there was a business listed that would use these items.  Who knew? Maybe I could find a new job.

© April 10, 2015 by Aleta Kay. All rights reserved.


Where Is It? Where Is It? Where Is It?

There goes that human again, trying to write someone else’s story. See, that’s just wrong. It’s egotistical. Why can’t she ever think about someone else? Her husband is no better. He doesn’t write, but he doesn’t pay attention to me either. I feel so used and taken for granted.

Sometimes he goes for days without giving me any attention at all. Then when he needs me he can’t find me. Thursday was a prime example. He hadn’t paid any attention to me for three. whole. days. I mean, seriously?

Yesterday, which was Thursday, he gets up and starts asking his wife, “Where’s my razor?” She didn’t have a clue but she looked for me anyway. He was looking, too, but she’s the one who found me.

“Found it!” she gloated.

“Where was it?”

“On the shelf beside the bed.”

“You let me go to church last night without shaving,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something? I looked scruffy and felt really crummy.”

“Well, I don’t like to be a nag, and I’m not your mama. You knew we had church. It wasn’t a surprise. You dawdled all day.”

Did he clean me after he used me? No. I am so unappreciated. Don’t you feel sorry for me?