**This is my story for Patricia Abbott's flash fiction challenge (in short: have a redhead in a blue dress walk into a dining establishment while
Sweet Dreams is playing). Find a lot more (and better!) flashes
on her blog. Here's my YA flash for this challenge:**
Strapped
My best friend Josh and I were splitting a meal at Bo’s diner when she came in. The jukebox played a Eurhythmics song—
Sweet Dreams. Josh had already finished his half a burger, and now he was attacking his half of the fries. I had to hurry, or he’d steal mine.
“Dude, check her out,” Josh said, a sliver of hamburger bun hanging from the corner of his mouth. “She’s hot.”
Josh thought all women and girls were hot—even the ones that weren’t.
I followed his stare to see if I agreed. She had her back to me, which was long and narrow. Her dress was this bright electric blue, her red hair piled on her head in one of those messy updos that looked easy but probably involved a lot of skill.
“Earth to Evan.” Josh stole one of my fries.
“Hey.” I smacked his hand, but kept half an eye on the woman in the blue evening dress. It was five in the afternoon, at a cheap diner—she looked really out of place. I watched her lean on the counter, ask Bo the owner something. He pointed to the far end of the diner, by the bathrooms, to the jukebox.
“What’s a babe like that doing in this nasty hole?” Josh asked, licking the salt off his fingers. The food sucked, but Bo’s was the only place within walking distance that let us split a meal. Given that Josh and I were broke and fifteen, thus without transportation or funds to buy a meal each, Bo’s was our place.
The jukebox belted out the ending to another eighties song—Bo’s favorite decade—and the woman walked toward the phone. I caught a glimpse of her profile: straight nose, red lips, hair cascading down the rest of her face. Nice body profile, too.
“Nice rack, huh?” Josh said, as if he was reading my thoughts and interpreting them Josh-style.
I ate some fries, two at a time, dipping them in the watery generic ketchup Bo’s served. The woman went to the payphone, punched in some numbers, and dipped her head back as she took a breath.
Black mascara under her eyes, streaked by tears. Her eyes were red.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, reaching for more fries, but finding my plate empty.
Josh belched. “Women. Something’s always wrong.” He leaned back in the booth, stretching his chest like he always did after he ate.
The woman was waiting for someone to answer. She held on to the receiver with both hands, like it was her life raft. She listened, shook her head.
“You think she’s wearing a bra?” Josh leaned across the diner table. “Five bucks says no.”
“You don’t have five dollars,” I said, unable to take my eyes off her.
“Still.” Josh grinned. “If you had to bet.”
I looked, and couldn’t guess the answer to Josh’s question. The woman struck me as classy, nice, the kind that would wear a bra with her evening dress. “You need to get yourself some class, Josh. No girl will ever go out with you if all you care about is her underwear.”
“Three girlfriends, Evan.” Josh leaned back again and held up three fingers. “Versus your, uhm, zero?”
I looked away.
“I rest my case.” Josh looked smug.
“Alright,” I said, tossing five singles on the table. “I bet five bucks that she does.” I immediately felt guilty.
The woman had hung up the phone, and she was now standing near the jukebox, looking lost. And sad.
On impulse, I got up. I waited, leaned on the
It's always nice to see an old story find a new home, like a story I wrote a few years ago called Them. This was one of those flashes that came out of nowhere, turned out pretty cool, and saw print in Versal, a lit magazine based out of Amsterdam.
And now it's up at Sein und Werden, so check it out.
**The story below is part of a flash fiction challenge by some writer friends of mine, based on the people of Wal-Mart website. Check out Patricia Abbott’s blog for her story, and many others. Enjoy!**
Aubergine
By Fleur Bradley
She called me at two in the afternoon, on a Sunday, asking if I could give her a ride to Wal-Mart. I said sure. Before I could think. If I’d thought about it, I would have remembered my vow to stay away from Brianna. She was bad for me. But I picked her up, at her house, two on the dot, since that’s the kind of guy I am.
Brianna got into my car, said nothing. She wore one of those pajama pants, purple, printed with little japanamation panda bears doing deliriously happy cartwheels.
I put my car in drive, and watched the black cloud of doom I left behind in the rear view. “So,” I said, feeling like my father, “what do you need at Wal-Mart?”
Brianna shrugged. “Printer paper. Shampoo.”
I nodded. Pulled into traffic. Tried to think of something to say, but coming up short, as usual. We used to do this all the time, Brianna and I. She was fifteen, and I was a year older, with a license to drive us to Wal-Mart when we got bored. Get a 99 cent raspberry slushy at Subway on our way out. It never occurred to me that transportation was the only reason she hung out with me.
Until Evan. The Boyfriend, a black Ford F150 with tinted windows. Evan put an end to my chauffeur days, and I resolved (it was January first, so it seemed like a good time) to stop being Brianna’s errand boy. It was now June, and Evan had found McKenzie. So I was back on duty.
I parked my rusty Ford Escort, and I waited for the engine to stop sputtering. Brianna got out before I did. We walked up, sort of together, Brianna dragging her flip-flops on the asphalt. I got a basket, trailing behind. She had her curly brown hair piled on top of her head, and I wondered if it took her a long time to get it to look that nice.
“Let’s get the paper first,” she said without looking at me. The old greeter guy welcomed us.
In the office aisle, she grabbed a pack of paper, and tossed it in the basket. I had to grip the handles so I wouldn’t drop it. Brianna looked beaten. I followed her to Health and Beauty, trying not to slump under the weight of the value-pack of paper. Brianna walked ahead of me, down the shampoo aisle, where she lingered, studying the bottles, like it actually made a difference which one. Not that I cared. I enjoyed watching her profile, the way she mouthed the words as she read the bottles.
“O. M. G,” I heard someone whisper. I turned, and looked right at McKenzie. Blond hair, mocking glare—how do girls get so good at those? I tried to block Brianna from McKenzie’s evil stare, but it was too late. McKenzie’s clone friend’s eyes darted from her friend to Brianna, loving the drama of it all.
“Hi.” Brianna’s eyes dropped to McKenzie’s basket. She reached and grabbed the box with surprising speed. “Super-Easy Sun-kissed Blonde. Should’ve guessed it was fake.”
“Grow up. Some of us actually get dressed in the morning.” McKenzie’s eyes rolled over the outrageously happy pandas on Brianna’s pants. “Give me the box.”
Brianna stepped back, clutching the Super-Easy dye . “Come and get it,” she said and walked out of the aisle, leaving a fake-stunned McKenzie behind.
I followed Brianna, to the hair dye aisle, where she stood clutching the box of dye, crying. I walked up to her, slowly, not sure what a Sunday chauffeur was supposed to do in this type of situation. But then I did what felt right. I put the basket down and wrapped my arms around her. She sobbed, the box cutting through my shirt, biting into my skin. But I didn’t care. We sto
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This was really scary and such great pacing. You nailed the sucker.
Thanks, Patti! I'm off to read everyone else's stuff--I can't believe how many people joined in.
Oooh, so creepy. You rock!
I never quite got there. Like Deb I tend to want to write looong stories.
Maybe one day.
I'm the opposite, D.B.: short is easy, long is hard for me. Wish I had your narrative talent!
Very poignant. Reminds me a bit of Stewart O'Nan's The Night Country.
Thanks, Loren! I'll have to check out The Night Country...
This is a perfectly written chiller. Very, very good.
Cheers, Paul!
Loved both characterizations. Very real and all the more scary for it.