Extreme Writing Now » flash

Dying To Live

Alex Crabtree — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 18:28:43 +0000

Like Cracked Mirror, this piece of flash fiction was rejected for publication at one site. Of course I love this tale, but I can’t expect everyone to see it as I do.

The three editors who commented on it all said the same thing, that it begs to be expanded, which I find uncanny because I have toyed with this for quite a while in hopes in turning into a novel. The history of this begins with a metaphor exercise for an online workshop and may not find an end for quite some time…

Staring at the monitor, seeing the early morning clouds of midnight blue, glowing orange around the edges, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he realized his hopes and desires. A realization that took a few hundred years to reach and one woman to understand.

And now that woman was gone. Lovely Lilly was buried last night at midnight. Taken by the ravages of a mortal disease. Hollowed out by time. She was a delicate flower right up until her last gasp.

The neighbors all turned out for the somber event, and they paid tribute to Lilly with glow in the dark bandages, which were a sign that they were trying to keep memories of lovely Lilly alive by giving Henri a gift. Henri cried at that thought, but he knew his moment had come. Heartfelt gesture or not, he had to go.

Presently, as the sky on the monitor grew less dark and the orange grew a bit brighter, Henri grasped the ornate vial that hung about his neck gracefully at the hands of a delicate silver necklace. As a single tear traced a sad trail down his cheek, memories of a day not all that long ago came flooding back…

“Henri darling, your breakfast is ready,” Lilly’s voice came to him like a gentle spring wind. Her words danced on his eardrums and fell into his heart. Poetic images were one of the symptoms of love that he truly enjoyed.

“I’ll be right there dear.” He finished reading the passage in his book, a fanciful tale about, of all things, vampires, and set it on the nightstand. He smiled to himself when he thought how a literary license permits an author to invent far flung fantasies from facts an assault on the reader’s imagination.

Henri walked from his bedroom to the kitchen where Lilly had two place settings simply arranged at the table. As she walked towards him with a cup of coffee he watched her, because his heart gave him no choice. She held a beauty so rarely found. Her soft raven hair fell below the ridges of her shoulders and midway down the subtle lines of her breasts. Her smile was not sly or impish and did not stretch her face, but it was one of contentment, warmth and love. Her blue eyes sparkled in the shimmer of her smile. Yet, these weren’t the real reasons Henri loved her. She shared with him the incredible depths of her soul and a burning desire to be with him, to love him.

She set the coffee down and gently traced the outside of his left cheek with the back of her hand. He lightly took her hand and gave a slight tug that brought her lips to his. As they kissed, a sudden rush of joy came across him. When he slid his hand to her waist he had a flash image of what was hidden beneath the nightshirt, an image he had seen many times, the curve of her bare hip as it rose from her thigh and sloped to her waist.

“Good morning, sweet,” He uttered through her soft hair and into her ear.

“I love you,” She whispered into his shoulder.

He moved her so that he could look her in the eyes and said, “I love you too.”

Lilly separated herself from Henri and moved behind him where she stood and hung a gold chain around his neck. Bending down she whispered into his ear, “Just because.”

Henri looked at what struck his chest, just below his throat, and what he saw hanging from the chain was a beautifully crafted crystal vial, about twenty-five centimeters in length and nine centimeters around. The vial was adorned with a cap designed to look like two hearts that sealed the container and met to grab the chain. But, the contents of the vial grabbed his attention more than anything else. He knew without question that the fluid was blood.

“Lilly,” he spoke as she sat herself across from him, “I…uh…am without words.”

“It is a symbol of my life for you Love”, she gently smiled…

…Lilly was gone. She was the final act of the great stage play whose curtains were about to drop.

Henri had enough blood in the basement to live on for many decades; especially at the rate he’d been weaning himself from the dependency. This was all thanks to his loving neighbors. Neighbors who understood, accepted, and loved Henri because of Lilly. Lilly had showed them that he was trying not to be the monster that lived inside of him.

Lilly totally gave herself to Henri. She felt compassion and sadness for his soul; a soul that was littered with the many lives that perished at his trembling hands. She cried for him when he wasn’t looking. She accepted him for what he truly was.

She loved him.

Henri shut off the monitor and walked through the double foyer and out onto the front porch. He took a seat in what he knew was Lilly’s favorite chair, smiled, and pulled the vial from his neck. Just as the sun had edged to the top of the waning clouds, Henri emptied the contents of the vial into his mouth. He could feel the world come alive with him. The sun burst through and Henri watched the day burn away the shadows of night.

Staring full into the sun at last, and just before his life was leached completely away, Henri smiled and whispered, “Lilly, I love you.”

Little Cassie Saunders watched tearfully from her bedroom window. She knew Henri would do this. She knew there was no other way. She cried for weeks.

Twenty years later, Cassandra Saunders told the only lie she ever would in her life when she said that her best selling book, Dying To Live, was fiction.

Let’s Have Fun Writing | Practice

Alex Crabtree — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 17:00:13 +0000

Series Lets Have Fun Writing»

Far be it from me to stake any claim to being a writer with enough talent and skill to sit on a high throne and give sound writing tips, yet I believe that this site needs a weekly ‘Writing Tips’ column, so I am going to take up the yoke in hopes that WE all can learn something about creative writing without missing the whole point of having fun with our writing..

Sometimes I really do wish I had taken Drake University up on their grant deal they put on the table for me. The up side would have meant I would have had real, formal training in the craft of writing, most especially creative writing. Oh yeah, I might have graduated from the ‘hunt and peck’ typing technique I use today.

Then there would have been the downside: RULES!

Rules really should be respected when we write, but they shouldn’t be the first goal of our efforts. We shouldn’t be thinking about them as we write first drafts (oh, I know that even though we shouldn’t let them in, our own little prickish self editors sit on the edge of our efforts), no what we should be doing is writing the hell out of our lucid thoughts first and save the editing and rules for later drafts. This will always make your writing more electric and alive. Think of Dr. Frankenstein working feverishly trying to harness the lightning to bring his monster to life. Do you think he gave one damn that the rules state God is the only entity that gives life?

One of my all time favorite guests to appear on the EWNN radio show, Tara Masih, talked about an amazing class she was invited into as a guest lecturer. Tara teaches Flash Fiction on a regular basis and was given 50 minutes with the class of students that had no real knowledge of correct English practices. These were the kids from Misfit Island. But, Tara said at the end of 50 minutes with these kids, she had in her hands some of the best flash fiction she had ever read; bar none. The secret? Those kids didn’t feel restricted by rules they knew nothing about and wrote from their heart.

Of course, Tara did go onto say that the stories needed polishing, but they were damn good.

One of the best ways I know how to find your heart when you write is though a very ugly and unforgiving word; a word as vile as flossing. PRACTICE. There, I said it. If you write every day for at least 10 minutes, and I mean write without a goal, then eventually you’ll find it easier to put your all into anything you write for purpose.

Natalie Goldberg, author of the only real ‘How To Write’ manual you’ll ever need, Writing Down the Bones, tells us the best way is to grab a very fast pen, a handful of cheap notebooks, and write for 10 minutes every day. Don’t lift the pen, do not stop at GO, do not look at or think about what you are writing; just let it flow. Write like shit, she says, and don’t plan on using any of what you wrote; plan is the operative word here, because you may find some golden nuggets you don’t want to let go of.

Pick an object, color, emotion, memory…hell, anything to start writing about, and write your heart out. Write what you feel. Write your emotions. Bleed out for 10 minutes. Ask questions about what you choose to write about during practice and you make wonderful discoveries about the depth of your perception.

Personally, I don’t think you need to have a pen and paper, but I do think you need the 10 minutes of uninterrupted time, and that 10 minutes should be at the same time every day. This will give you a sense of commitment to your cause and after a while it becomes a routine; trust me.

So, this week’s tip from me; PRACTICE. If you have practiced, or are currently practicing, do you find that it truly helps with finding depth in your writing? What are your practice habits? Can’t get 10 minutes a day? How about 5, or even 3?

Please feel free to add or expand on any of this in the comments section below. Give this old hack a lesson or two.

Next week we’ll talk about creative writing and how it means so much more than inventing interesting fiction.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Entries in this series:
Let’s Have Fun Writing | Practice
Let's Have Fun Writing | Defining Creative Writing
Let's Have Fun Writing | Kick Passive Ass With Active Voice
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Mighty Megaphor
Let's Have Fun Writing | Spike Those Verbs
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Art of Words
Let's Have Fun Writing | Color Swatches
Let's Have Fun Writing | Get Off Your Ass
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Name Game
Let's Have Fun Writing | Making the List
Let's Have Fun Writing | Those Slutty Adverbs
Let's Have Fun Writing | Sentenced To Life
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Five Years With Interest

Alex Crabtree — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 21:22:35 +0000

In this flash fiction piece I weave a tale of eventually paying the piper in currency inked with terror…

Beams of moonlight filtered in from the mostly cloaked windows and pierced her as she sat in the dark room, bound, gagged, and terrified. The wooden chair was cold against her thighs and the dirty cement floor uncomfortably raked her bare feet.

“I have been waiting for this dance for the five long years since you nearly took away my life.” His wet, hissing voice against her ear startled her and tears began to flow as she choked a scream against the leather gag.

She heard a growl and felt his leather duster brush her arm and leg when he stood up and walked out in front of her. Her eyes, wide with terror, only saw a quiet, dark silhouette against an even darker room.

Suddenly, he leaned in just enough for the dusty yellow shards of light to stripe his face. The one eye she was able to see was ablaze with rage, and she could see his shape heave with each breath he took. Trails of sweat ran down, in and out of the visible slices of his face. Fear was gripping her tighter with each heartbeat.

He held in a dirty fingerless glove clad hand, a 9mm Beretta. Suddenly he pointed it towards her and let loose several shots. A scream curdled in her throat as her eyes squeezed tight. Flinching as she felt every round pass her ear; heard every bullet hit the wall behind her. Urine started to pool in the chair, soaking her thin purple dress as the grit from the violently roiled air pressed against her face.

Quickly he was next to her, pressing the gun barrel’s end hard against her temple. As the intense, painful heat and sickening sweet smell of her own burning flesh seared her soul, she felt him lean in to snarl, “Bitch, it’s time you collect what you paid for five years ago.”

She nearly strangled on her on slobber as she felt the pressure of him slowly squeezing the trigger of the gun tightly pressed against the side of her head.

CLICK! And her bladder fully let loose.

No explosion, no more pain than the burn, or the terror that had her fully in its throes. She was sobbingly alive.

His beastly laughter as he stood erect in the moonbeams unnerved her even more as she pleaded with him through teary eyes. She was sure he was going to reload the gun and end it. In fact, somewhere deep inside of her quivering mind a scream came out, wanting him to stop the game and kill her.

He turned his head and exposed a perfectly round scar that he fingered when he said, “I have marked us both for your sin. Live with it as a reminder not to fuck with me or anyone else again.”

With that, he dropped the gun and walked past her. As his footfalls faded behind, she was left soaking in tears, sweat and urine, to be awash in the five years of guilt stemming from that night after the office party, the morning after embezzlement with his name wrongly all over it, and his suicide attempt. The guilt she was hiding from had finally snared her in its monstrous jaws.

In the end, she cried for him.

A Good Landing

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 13:22:10 +0000

This flash fiction submission explores the probability that no matter how good, or how lucky we are, we still need a little help…

Every landing you walk away from is a good one, Sam thought to himself as he limped away from the now burning Jenny. He didn’t even look back at the plane as it was planted nose first behind the barn as if it were some twisted, exotic tree. In fact, his only focus right now was Howard Hamm, the film director who asked Sam if he could dive just a little lower before pulling out, And ‘The Double H’ was standing squarely in Sam’s crosshairs.

“Was that low enough, you sunovabitch?” The rugged looking, one time World War One pilot punctuated the question with a hard right cross that sent the overweight, balding director flat on his back.

Without missing a step, Sam strode through the dew dampened pasture with long, purposeful steps towards his Ford; leaving a wake of gasps along the way as the production crew stumbled back out of his way. No one immediately went to the aid of the struck director because they were afraid the tall, broad man would flail again. What those who had no air combat experience didn’t understand was that Sam’s reaction was very controlled and tightly focused. He had but one adversary in this situation; there were no other targets. Do the job and get out is what kept him alive to this point, and every action was treated as a job.

Upon reaching his car, he saw sitting in the passenger seat the most beautiful woman he had ever met, Georgette Hamm. Just before he got in, Sam leaned down to the window and addressed the gorgeous redhead, “Hey there, doll. Taking a bit of a risk being here, aren’t ya?”

“Get in here ya big lunk,” Georgette playfully told Sam.

Sam jumped in the driver’s seat and started the car, slammed in gear and drove the two of them off. The old dirt road was full of character, which meant that no matter what speed the car traveled, Sam and Georgette were tossed around in their seats.

Once the car ambled around the last bend of the township route and was dumped out onto the smoother county road, Sam looked over at Howard Hamm’s wife and said, “Once again, isn’t this a bit risky? Suspicions will increase and ‘The Double H’ will surely find out.”

Georgette looked up at Sam with her huge brown eyes and said, “Don’t worry about that sugar, he already knows.”

Sam slammed on the brakes and looked hard at his pale skinned lover, “What do you mean he knows? Holy Christ, I put my life on the line for his damn movie. I mean I just now did it. In fact, he could have had me killed if he wanted….”

“Shhhhhh, lover. Did you enjoy punching him,” She batted her eyes at him.

“Well, no. Not exactly enjoyed it; that would mean it was personal. What I did wasn’t personal; it was just a reaction to being put in a near death situation. I guess it was a counter strike.” Sam was visibly shaken with the news that Georgette gave him.

“He almost did kill you. I was able to save you at the last moment,” She smiled at him.

Now, the big man was really wondering what was going on with his lover. Was she going nuts? He said to her, “What do you mean you saved me? You weren’t anywhere near the production crew.”

“I was able to put up just enough resistance on the throttle that you fell short of air speed enough to kill you on impact.” A somber tone crept into her voice as she continued, “Listen, Howard found out about us and killed me this morning. Took me out to the reservoir and strangled me. He left my body in the lake and no one would have ever suspected him. I am an angel…”

“What? An angel? You have gone crazy. In the first place, you ain’t dead, you are right here in front of…well, beside me. And then there’s the fact that we both committed adultery.”

“No, it’s true. I am an angel; I was given my wings right away to save you.” Georgette blinked once, then smiled as she continued, “Sam, I was destined to die inside. Being a Howard Hamm trophy would have eventually made me a zombie. I might have fallen prey to opium or worse, if it hadn’t been for your love.”

Then, with a single tear slowly working down her cheek, she pulled back at her collar and showed the deep red rope burns and bruising. She took Sam’s hand and made him feel fatal wound.

Shakily, Sam said, “Georgette, my sweet Georgette. I do love you; more than you will ever know.”

“Smiling, Georgette looked deep into Sam’s eyes and said, “No Sam, you are wrong. I know exactly how deep our love runs, and so does heaven. That’s why I am here. We both did our part to preserve our love and see justice come to an empty hearted killer.”

“Huh?”

“I knew you’d lash out at Howard, and I knew you’d do it regardless of who was watching. Now, many witnesses saw that and suspicions will rise. People will start to stick their noses in, especially after my body is found, and see that Howard clearly tried to kill you. It will all blow up in his face and he will be dealt with swiftly.”

“But…”

Delicately putting a finger over Sam’s lips, she continued, “I’ll be looking over you and you will know I love you, Sam.” She then stepped from the car, blew him a kiss, and then disappeared.

Publicity from ‘The Double H’ murder trial was so good for Sam, that he found it easy to locate financial backers for his successful flight school, Red Headed Angel Flight Training, and at the bottom of his business cards was the saying, “Every good landing needs a little help…”

An Angel Down | We Miss You

Alex Crabtree — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 17:01:02 +0000

This is my 55 word flash fiction tribute to our recently fallen Angel…

“Quit your sobbing,” the tinny voice rattled from the desktop intercom.

A sniffling voice, “We can’t, Charlie. She’s gone.”

“She may be gone, but she left you a charge. Each one of you has her twinkle in your eye. She will always be there. Now go celebrate her gift.”

The remaining Angels cheerfully descended upon us.

Ghost Stories | EWN Writing Contest

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 01:39:53 +0000

Halloween is here and we at Extreme Writing Now are going ghost hunting. Suit up and throw the switch on to the containment unit; we have ectoplasmic creatures to snare. That’s right; our next contest begins right about…NOW!

Deadlines

Jennifer Akers is a professional freelance writer, book and product reviewer, editor, and online entrepreneur. Her articles cover human interest, local events, family activities, social networking, writers’ resources, and online business. Her book reviews are published on MyShelf.com. More about the talented Jennifer Akers can be found at JENNIFERAKERS.COM

Jennifer is also a copywriter for other writers, individuals, and businesses. Her experience includes writing articles, website content, blog posts, newsletter content, press releases, sales letters, print flyers, and e-books.

Between now and midnight EST (-5 GMT) October 24^th, 2010, every member is invited to write a ghost story and post it here at EWN. Judging will be held between October 25^th and October 30^th with the winner announced on the EWNN radio show, October 31^st, 2010 at 6:30 p.m. EST (-5 GMT).

Entries

This will be a Flash Fiction contest with entries to be no more than 750 words and all ghost story themes (with the exception of explicit porn) will be accepted. Word count will be verified by the WordPress editor.

Select the category Writing Contests and sub-category Ghost Stories when you draft your post. For the duration of the contest, Contests will replace Authors Corner on the front page of the site.

All members are welcome to participate.

Winner

The winner will be determined a little different than other contests we have had in the past. For this contest, our own Jennifer Akers has graciously accepted an invite to judge all entries.

Up for grabs is a copy of Mickey Mills’ paranormal thriller, Haunting Injustice. Mickey will be the guest on our radio show on October 24^th, 2010.

If you are a member, join in on the fun. If you are not, what the heck are you waiting for? We’re free, we’re fun, and we’re delicious!

Strange Adventures Of Pulp Collectors

Bev Owens — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 13:00:22 +0000

Yes, some would call us strange and those of us involved in the world of collecting Pulp Fiction would agree that we do have some mighty fun adventures. So, Strange Adventures does describe a little about the world that we traverse in on a regular basis. Trolling around websites, hitting garage sales, flea markets, and antique shops is what many of us can be found doing in our spare time.

The Players:

First, I’ll let you in on the players involved in this Strange World. The population consists of Finders and Keepers for the most part. The roles can interchange from time to time with no penalties accumulated. Some stick to strictly finding these wonderful old pulp publications to sell to the Keepers. However, Keepers can be finders and finders can be keepers in this quirky world of old paper. I’ve heard tell a time or two that some died in the wool Finders get converted after seeing the light and quietly become Keepers of the best stuff. I call them Secret Keepers. They don’t want the other Keepers to know about their private stash…someone might try to persuade them to part with a treasure. Secretly, I can see some of these Secret Keepers standing in the dark with a flashlight drooling words like “Oh my PRECIOUS!” It could be the Secret Keepers are just a myth, we may never know for certain.

The World:

Finders and Keepers, otherwise known as collectors, live in an interesting world. They visit digital lands where they can find pieces to add to their collection. They sometimes travel to garage sales to sort through stacks of old magazines looking for a hidden treasure. It isn’t unusual to find them driving several hundred miles, on the premise of a vacation with the family, to a destination where there is a flea market or antique shop that is known to have some coveted old pulp rags to look through. Finders and Keepers will enter sizzling hot attics and damp basements when told that there are several old boxes of magazines they can look through. The world will sometimes take on a musty smell from the old paper having gotten damp. Finders and Keepers both know that they will have to be quite cautious in handling these old magazines, as sometimes the paper has gotten so brittle it will crumble as the pages are turned.

The Treasures:

Finders and Keepers, collectors, are looking for treasures in their Strange World. The treasures will be the wonderful old cheap magazines that can go back as far as 1896. Some will look for spectacular artwork from the covers. Many have particular artists that they search for. Margaret Brundage, a female artist, is quite popular. She did covers often of scantily clad damsels in distress for pulp fiction magazines like Weird Tales. The January 1936 issue of WT just sold in an auction for $37,343. (Boy, howdy, I would have loved to have been the Finder of that one!)

Another popular artist of pulp covers is Norman Saunders. His covers can be found on Eerie Mysteries, Wild West Weekly, and Saucy Movie Tales to name a few. At one time he was receiving $25 to $75 a pop for doing the cover for a pulp. A copy of his May 1951 Marvel Science recently sold for $50,787. L. Ron Hubbard was one of the authors in that issue.

Frank Kelly Freas is one of my favorites. He started out doing inside illustrations for some of the less popular pulps and eventually worked his way up to Astounding Science Fiction which was a goal for many of the Sci Fi artists as this pulp was printed with a little better paper. He later became the cover artist for Mad Magazine from 1955 to 1962. He was also an official NASA artist with his posters now hanging in the Smithsonian.

Hugh J Ward illustrated many covers of pulps. His August 1936 issue of Spicy Mystery with a brunette in a pink two piece outfit being held captive to a bullseye with an arrow in her hair just sold in auction for…are you ready? $143,400!

Granted, not all Finders and Keepers come across pulps with this kind of value. We love the art though and there is always the chance that we just might stumble across something really special. Most of us feel that “the fun is in the hunt” anyway.

Many of the Keepers are not just interested in the cover art. Some find treasure in the authors included inside and collect solely for those purposes. They may collect Paul S. Powers stories. Powers is the grandfather of Laurie Powers who will be our guest this week on EWNN. Authors of a variety of genres are collected. L. Ron Hubbard, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and many others are coveted for their short stories, novelettes, and serials contained between the covers of these old Pulp Fiction magazines.

My Role:

Some of you may know, many of you might not, and still others will care less; but my role is mostly of a Finder in this Strange World of Pulp Collectors. My day job is that of an Ephemera Specialist in the Antiques World. Ephemera is a fancy word for old paper and Pulp magazines fall into that section of antiques and collectibles. Ephemera is something that was meant to have a short use and then tossed away. I’m mostly a Finder but do cross over to Keeper from time to time when something really awesome crosses my path.

Please tune in Sunday, August 22, 2010 at 6:30 PM (Eastern) to hear Laurie Powers interviewed about Pulp Fiction and her role in this wonderful world of collecting at EWNN.

EWNN On Air ~ Episode 2 Featuring Tara Masih

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 16:00:05 +0000

Sunday, August 1st, at EWNN we are welcoming a special guest, author Tara Masih. Tara is a flash fiction author who is highly regarded as on of the genré’s best producers, and her latest compilation, Where The Dog Star Never Glows, is a high testament to that.

Tara’s website can be visited at Tara Masih, and some of her stellar work can be read at Tara’s Stories. Read up and join in! Show time is 6:30 EST (-5 GMT).

Also featured on the show will be a reading by Karen. Karen has chosen Tara’s story, Catalpa, to be the subject of one of her melodic treatments.

Of course, Bev Owens, my co-host, will be on hand to give us updates and insights to the commune affectionately known as Extreme Writing Now. On hand will also be the peanut gallery in the chat room.

Why not spend the fastest 30 minutes on radio with some of your new old friends at EWNN? Hang out in the chat room, or call in to the show. You will be glad you did.

Weekly Round Up at Extreme Writing Now ~ July 11 2010 thru July 17 2010

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 22:00:12 +0000

This Past Week at Extreme Writing Now

Flash Fiction

The Long Road Home (Part 5)

The Eye Of The Dragon ~ 55 Spoken Words

The Long Road Home (Part 4)

Looking Back At Norman

The Long Road Home (Part 3)

The Long Road Home (Continued)

Bird on a Wire

Veil of Destruction

The Long Road Home

Sudden Cure For An Irritation

Memoirs

The Red Treasure ~ Food Memoir

The Bouncing Ball – Remembering Sound

The Undefinable Sound

Pardon Me, You’re Addressing an Ornamental Ear

Remembering Sound and Food

The Bleached Crimson Nightgown ~ Remembering Red

Man Oh Man

Exercise 2 – Remembering Red

Series

The Long Road Home (Part 5)

The Long Road Home (Part 4)

The Long Road Home (Continued)

The Long Road Home

Sudden Cure For An Irritation

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 15:11:14 +0000

“….or maybe it’s the alternator.” The ‘butinski’ continued to ramble, spewing his expertise all over Rocko and Vinnie as they tried to fix their sedan.

After an hour of listening to the grating know-it-all, Rocko went to the trunk and returned with an aluminum bat.

“You guys play Softball?”

“Nah, just hardball.” Answered Rocko.

WHACK!

Read other great 55 word fiction and other tales as they are spun at EWN’s Author\’s Corner.