Flash Fiction Friday #2: Biting the Dust

Writing Song of the Day: “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen (obviously!)

Yay, it’s our second official Flash Fiction Friday event over at the Paper Hangover blog.

Here’s the deal — every week a different contributor is going to give you a writing prompt. Something to get the words flowing, get you thinking, and help hone your writing skills. Then, link your post in the comments over on Paper Hangover, and we’ll jump around and comment.
It’s meant to be fun. You can take the prompt seriously, or have a little fun with it. You’re choice. This week:

In 300 words or less, write a story beginning with the cliche, “Another one bites the dust.”

Okay, here’s my entry:
“Another one bites the dust.”

That’s what Marcus says each time he kills a zombie or alien or whatever supernatural being that’s trying to destroy the world. Of course, he’s playing with my Xbox 360. Marcus would be the first person dead in an ambush. He’s not very good at fighting or running or…anything, really. Been like that since 4th grade. Last one chosen to play kickball, except if I was the captain. But that was over 10 years ago—and I’m tired of being charitable.

I shoot a text to Chloe: Save Me!

“You want next?” His eyes are pasted on the TV screen. We never look at each other anymore. He wouldn’t even be here if my mom hadn’t invited him.

You two used to be so close. You should stay in touch, she told me. He makes the salt and pepper shakers dance with each other at lunch, I wanted to say. But we had a deal—an hour with Marcus, then off to Chloe’s party.
I shake my head, stab at the keys on my cell phone again.

The blaring music from the game stops and he shifts closer to me. Crap.

“Do you want to talk, Leah?” he asks.

Again, crap. “About what?” I peel my eyes away from my phone and glance at him.

He shrugs, his shoulders touching his earlobes. “Dunno. Anything?” He bites his lip. He does that when he’s nervous. Or he used to. I’m not sure anymore.
I shake my head again. “Are you almost done? I’m heading over to Chloe’s.”

He stares at me and it kind of burns. “Yeah. Sure thing.” He leans back and un-pauses the game. He doesn’t even make a sound when he decapitates one of the walking dead. Another one bites the dust.

Paper Hangover Flash Fiction Fridays: Attempt # 1

Writing Song of the Day: “Black Cat” by Janet Jackson

Happy Friday!

So, we don’t usually blog on Fridays… but that just might change because of Pam’s new excellent venture. She and her blog partners at Paper Hangover are challenging writers to come up with a Flash Fiction piece each week based on a given prompt.

How does it work?

1.) You get the prompt early in the week, write it, and then post it on your blog.
2.) Next, you link your FF piece to the Paper Hangover blog.
3.) From there, you visit others and leave comments on their fiction.

Simple enough, right?

This week’s prompt was to write a FF piece (no longer than 300 words) that starts with the line “That darn cat…”

So… here goes my 1st attempt at Flash Fiction. *fingers crossed*

FF Attempt # 1:
That darn cat.

I hated him from the moment Dad brought him home. To make me forget about Rick. This darn lazy cat, Chemo is supposed to take away my ache for Rick.

Darn cat. I can’t curse. Not even in my head. Dad will know. He said so. “Don’t even THINK about cursing. I’ll know, Alexis. I’ll know.”

So I don’t.

It’s not like I’m naïve, I mean, I’m freaking fifteen…but Dad is scary as sh—I mean, hell, I mean…he’s scary. He knew about Rick—even when I was trying to be sneaky. Once Dad knew, I never saw Rick again. It’s not like I didn’t try. I did. Rick is just gone. In his place I have the fat orange and white cat, Chemo. Dad named him. Said he would cure the cancer that Rick put in me.
I didn’t know I could fall so hard. My friends were mad, saying I chose him over them. Who wouldn’t? Rick was tall, muscular and majorly cute. He had a chiseled face just like the late, great Heath Ledger. Only thing missing was the accent.

And now I have no clue where he went. He could be in a detention home, in jail, or just locked away in his bedroom. I try not to think the worst. But after three weeks of no new texts or e-mails…I can only think that Dad’s done it again.

Just like when I really liked Jamal in eighth grade. He disappeared and Dad brought home one of those rescue dogs. He named her Penny, short for penicillin. She died in her sleep.

I coax Chemo until he brings his fat body to me. I stroke his fur.

Dad might have missed my message with Penny, but he’ll get it for sure this time.

There you have it…my demented take on the prompt: That darn cat… What do you think? Are you participating this week? If not, you MUST next week! Have a good weekend 😀