December 12, 2009

The Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction Challenge

You can find the challenge here

My step up to the plate can be found below:

My Airport

“What’d I tell you?” Mickey asked.

Jaime switched off the faucet and looked in the mirror. “It’s a big airport.”

“I know how big the airport is. That’s not what I asked.”

Jaime smirked, picked at a pimple on his jaw line just below his left ear, and said, “You told me to stay away from the airport.”

Mickey exhaled slowly and slid both his hands into his dark jeans. “And here the fuck you are.”

Jaime stood back and fussed with the frosted tips of his razored bangs. “Here the fuck I am.”

Mickey’s fist came out of his pocket, fingers all brass knuckle gleam. Jaime’s mouth O’ed. Mickey shoved him with his left and cracked him on the back of the head. Something exploded by Jaime’s eyes and he went down, clutching for anything to stay standing.

Mickey crushed the fingers clutching the sink rim. Jaime started to scream, but Mickey smothered it under his smooth palm, driving the blond head to the floor and unleashing another punch on the muscled abs beneath the tight, baby blue t-shirt.

“Now,” Mickey said, “my next punch…” He didn’t finish; just removed his hand and brushed Jaime’s big lips.

“No, please…”

“Just one more punch? Come on. It’ll improve your abilities.”


“What are you going to do?”

Jaime sniffled. “Get up—get up and walk out.”



Mickey raised his fist again, the brash knuckles smeared with scarlet.

“Because it’s your airport.”

Mickey helped Jaime up, handed him a paper towel and patted his ass on the way out.


Mickey followed the older man wearing the pressed suit into the bathroom. He sat his briefcase down on the white tile and stepped up to the urinal. Mickey paused for a moment before taking his place beside him.

He felt the man look over as he unzipped. Suit’s eyes quickly found a spot on the wall. Slowly, Mickey moved his foot over to the polished wingtips. The aged eyes found the gleam in Mickey’s blues.

Mickey pointed his chin to the closest stall.

To his stall.

It was his airport after all.

December 7, 2009

Strong Women

Bold is the starter sentence provided at Friday Flash Fiction. The rest is all me.

She was always threatening to punch someone in the face, but this time she meant it.

I didn’t pick up on it right off, being across the room at the jukebox; a real jukebox, the kind filled with little records and the mechanical arm pulling ‘em from the stack and dropping ‘em for a needle spin. I knew there’d be good stuff on there.

I was too busy looking for Copperhead Road to know exactly how it started. Pretty damn crowded in there and the jukebox was right next to the pool table and this short dude who musta been pregnant with a boy, cause he was carrying low, was smacking the balls around like it was a lonely Saturday night.

It was Saturday, by the way.

But first thing I heard was Tara’s voice screech, “Bitch, I will punch you in the goddamn face.”

It got quiet. I started jabbing faster. They didn’t have Copperhead Road, but they did have Guitar Town and my favorite Johnny Paycheck song. Was hoping to hear at least one before they started screaming and the goddamn night was ruined and I’d have to set at a table in the corner and pat her hand and buy her those damned drinks that cost eight bucks cause they’re all fru-fru and served in some weird glass.

Then the other chick made the mistake of her life. She called Tara the C-word. No one calls Tara the C-word.

I left the jukebox, but Tara was already power-heeling her way over to Claw-bangs. Arms held up like she was wading through water, Tara’s fake tits (ex-husband number two was still paying those off) lead the way.

“I’m gonna punch you in the face,” she said again.

Claw-bangs smirked and said, “C—“ I cornered the pool table, “U—“ side-stepped around the big-assed waitress like I was back playing High School ball, “N—“ tripped my way through a line of chairs, “T.”

And Tara punched her hard in the mouth.

This wasn’t no girl punch. It was a man punch. It hit Claw-bangs square on the mush. Knocked her clean out and she hit the floor hard.

I snatched Tara round the waist and hauled ass. Once I hit the parking lot, I let her down, pushed her into the truck and fired that 350 up.

We was about halfway home before we even talked about it. Talking about it, we both got a little…well…hot, you know. I mean it was a rush. A pretty damn big rush.

I pulled the truck over and next thing I know we were going at. Truthfully, it kept our marriage going and it opened up something inside me, I don’t think I ever want to put away.

I likes me some strong women.

That’s how it all begun, really. Going out. Finding new bars. Started trouble. And her punching people. Short chicks. Tall chicks. Thin chicks. Fat chicks. Young chicks. Old chicks.

Man, it was awesome.

Watching her workout on the heavy bag I bought her. Wailing away on it. Getting hot and sweaty. Shower sex and then cruising to town.

Sure helped with her mouth at home. It was like her firing a hard right cross square into sparkly lip-gloss, took all the bitch out of her at home.

You know, we was even talking about getting her some boxing lessons.

Until tonight.

I ain’t never seen a chick hit like that. You box? No? You should. Maybe take up MMA like that hot chick, Gina Carano?

What size are those arms, baby? Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? Tara’s gonna be at least a week in the hospital.

Tinseltown Benedictions

I have a new story up at The Darkest Before The Dawn.

But first:

Big thanks to Aldo for maintaining so many first rate sites, being an A-1 stand-up guy, and putting up with a couple of whiny e-mails from me about when he would be able to resume posting the accepted pieces.

Now, you can read Maiden’s Prayer for something a little quieter than my usual work.

If you like it, you may be in luck and get to see the main character again, relatively soon.

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