this made me get off my ass….
“But a man who procrastinates in his CHOOSING will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.”
From Hunter S. Thompson’s letter to a friend on the meaning of life. Amazingly written when our favorite literary anti-hero was a mere 22 years old.
The Florida Keys is sponsoring a Flash Fiction writing contest. The winner gets to spend 10 days writing in Ernest Hemingway’s study in Key West. I want to win. However, each writer can only submit one story, and it must be less than 500 words.
Here’s my first attempt.
“The Walk,” by Charlie Levine
The trail of blood started in the dirt, extended across the asphalt highway and slung back into the dirt. It was not a solid brushstroke, more like dribbles strung together. A crimson connect-the-dots. The puzzle extended to the toes of my worn leather boots. I hoped the caked dust may keep the blood from staining them, not that it would matter. I’m not afraid to wear blood on my sleeves, let alone my boots.
I followed the trail back into the woods, grateful no cars had seen me on the road. How awkward that’d have been, working so hard to go unnoticed can surely get you killed.
I was at home in the woods, among the leave-covered pathways and skimped down birch trees. I’d dressed for the November weather. A good thing as this chase may last till morning. The sun had already started its descent.
The bloodline stopped. I was close. Or I’d lost it.
I slid the ammunition into place with the bolt-action and brought the butt to my shoulder. Stepping quietly. I spun in a slow circle to see all sides.
No need to shoot.
She was dead, lying there with her tongue extended and slumped to the side. Three hours she ran. Three hours I followed.
I placed my hand on her still-warm neck and apologized for my wayward shot. It was not a clean kill, but the meat will fill us for months and the hides will be used for warmth.
How about some Q?
It’s Super Bowl time. A bittersweet day for me each and every year. Bitter because it marks the end of the season. But this year’s sweeter than ever because my beloved Denver Broncos have somehow clawed their way to the big dance.
If we win, and I’m praying our defense can slow down Cam Newton enough to let Peyton play (and throw it well, perhaps?), I will surely smile until next August. If we lose, I won’t watch Sports Center or the NFL network for months. The pain from our last Super Bowl performance was too great to see the media recap every moment several million times. That’s like being re-stabbed over and over after you actually lived through a stabbing.
As Americans, the Super Bowl marks the final foray for feasting like carnivorous savages on a Sunday afternoon. I usually bust out my Hobo Smoker and slow-cook some ribs or beer-can chicken. This year, NO! My wife, who loves to host a party, wanted to invite all of our friends, family and coworkers over to celebrate Denver’s appearance in the Super Bowl.
I want to watch the game with little to no disturbance.
“I’d rather watch the game in a dark room — by myself — than try to keep a smile on my face if some dipshit wants to make small talk while we go for it on fourth down.”
This is a big game and a big game deserves my full attention. I will be ordering take out: chicken wings, a pizza and there will be a bag of chips. Come over if you dare…