Welcome to the third edition of Friday Night Write
Overview 
- 1 Song (see image right)
- 48 Hours (Friday @ 5pm to Sunday @ 5pm pacific)
- 500 Words
Details
- New prompt posts at 5pm pacific on Friday
- Listen to the music here
- Let it stir up a story
- Post your story in the comment box below
- Comments will close at 5 pm pacific on Sunday
The Fine Print
- The story does not have to contain any reference to the song.
- The music is merely the catalyst for your muse.
- The story you create is entirely your own and Sweet Banana Ink makes no claim to it.
- You are free to post your story on your own blog
SPECIAL THANKS to Christina Krieger for this weekend's musical selection! You can connect with her via her blog or on twitter.
Questions? Give us a holler via email (sweetbananaink@gmail.com) or twitter (@bullishink). We look forward to writing alongside you this weekend! Can't wait to see what stories The Fray stirs up!
Nice song choice!
Fantatic song choice!!!
My entry is posted on my blog, here: http://jdwenzel.com/shattered-friday-night-write-over-my-head/
Mine's over at http://www.jblearnstowrite.com/slipping-away-a-friday-night-write-post/
Carlo pulled back on the bolt and heard the bullet click into place. His sniper rifle rested perfectly against his shoulder. A natural extension of his body. Peering through the scope, his target moved right into the crosshairs. It was easy. Well, should have been easy.
Six months ago, Carlo was on a routine assassination. But on the flight home, he was seated next to the most enchanting woman he had ever met. Julia–Jules– as he would soon call her. Despite the little voice in Carlo's head, telling him his lifestyle was not conducive to romantic relationships, he couldn't stay away.
Jules had a way of bringing out the good in him; good he never knew he was capable of.
After two months he told her what he did for a living. And to his surprise, she did not run away. In the sixth month Carlo was ready to quit and leave with her.
However, even men like him had to answer to someone, and he was not as enthusiastic.
"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?" Carlo asked.
"There is one last target. If you complete this hit, you're free to go."
The next day, the all-too-familiar chime on his phone signaled an incoming target. Carlo had been sent the name and picture of the person he was demanded to kill. Carlo's hands shook for the first time since he took up this occupation. The picture was of his precious Jules. The phone rang shrilly and he answered it with a hoarse voice.
"Hello, Carlo. I trust you received your next target. Don't get any crazy ideas about running away together. There is nowhere on this earth out of my reach. Her death in that instance would be much more painful than a bullet from your rifle. Am I understood?"
"Yes," Carlo said.
"You have twenty four hours."
That brought him here, to this rooftop with his Jules in the crosshairs of his gun.
The bluetooth set in his ear beeped. He pressed the button and the same dreaded voice filled his head.
"Don't get cold feet, now. I am watching, and if you back out, I'll finish her… and you."
Helicopter blades thundered, and a moment later a chopper rose from behind him with a gunman sitting inside the open door.
"You have ten seconds."
Ten seconds. That was all she had left.
Nine. Could he really kill her?
Eight seconds left. He was in way over his head.
Seven. Maybe he could get to her in time.
There was a storm drain running down the side of the building that he could slide down.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
He was on the ground and running to her.
Two. "Jules, run!"
She saw him, but a moment too late.
The shot came from above his head, and she dropped to the ground before his eyes.
He had lost her.
Everyone's involved in her death would pay.
Carlo now had a new target.
YOWZA! I always like assassins in love…it's a great contradiction, or at least it seems so.
I love the count down effect. It adds suspense to the story. Also love how you smoothly placed one line of the song in the story. Nice job!
Just Like That – Razor Girl
“Really? You wanna have this fight in Miri’s laundry room during a party? What the hell is the matter with you Joe?” I start to push past him.
“I know you have the hots for her brother. Every time he’s around you flirt with him. I feel like a total ass while you spend all night talking to him about shit I have no interest in.”
This accusation is not new. Suddenly I feel so tired. It’s been two years of this same bullshit. It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t do, it doesn’t matter where we go or who I talk to or even if I remain silent. Somehow Joe will end up feeling insecure and inadequate and that will be my fault.
He’s still going when I tune back in, “…you know I don’t fit in here but you insist on hanging out with these people. They all think they’re better than me and my pack. Hell you think you’re better than me and my pack. YOU…a fucking genetic defect.”
And just like that I’m done. An effortless end, now to torch it.
I slam him against the wall with my blade at his throat, “I’d say we just broke up. You are now welcome to leave this party immediately.” We both know I can cut his throat before he can do much of anything and I’ll have him out on the street before he can heal it. Then things might get interesting.
“You fucking bitch. I knew you’d turn on me. Gabe told me I shouldn’t trust you.” He started to move when I heard someone open the door.
“Joe, the lady invited you to leave the party. I’d say it’s time you did that…or do you need help controlling yourself?” Sam Mchale, Miri’s brother and pack Alpha, tossed that insult at Joe like he was asking him if wanted another beer.
Joe froze, and then started to shake just a little. He dropped his eyes and mumbled something.
“Lucy I think Joe has calmed down now.” I stepped back quickly to get as far out of his reach as I could but kept my blade ready.
“Leave.” The cold angry command in Sam’s voice was pretty fucking scary, even to me. Joe damn near ran out of the room and apparently out of the house.
I slumped against the washer.
“Luce…”
“Don’t. Just…don’t Sam. I can’t take another ‘I told you so’ from you or Miri.” I stared at the floor.
Sam sighed, “No ‘I told you so’ Lucy. But you need to know something right here and right now.” He walked over to me and pulled my chin up to look him in the eye, “NO ONE in this pack thinks you are anything less than family. Don’t you ever doubt that.” He said it so fiercely, hot tears stung my eyes as I jerked my chin out of his hand and dropped my head to his chest.
Great story! Super intense! Is this part of a larger story? I would love to know more about what the characters can do. Nice job!
Thanks Christina. This actually started as a Flash piece over at Cara Michaels site. It keeps growing and developing. If your interested in the bits and pieces…
Here they are:
Razor Girl I
Razor Girl II
Razor Girl III
Thanks again.
I love the pacing of this… very crisp!
Thank you
My entry for Friday Night Write #3
Leaving Caer Dyffryn
Nothing broke dawn’s stillness as Tarran cinched up the ebony charger. The musty odor of horses and hay comforted him. He rested his head wearily against the beast’s neck, nonetheless determined be brave, in this one thing at least.
He never would have guessed that God would shatter his dreams, and on Saints Day of all things. That single turn of the sun had changed his destiny. He would remember its hours as if they were etched in his mind, like glyphs on stone, never to be forgotten no matter how many miles he put between himself and Caer Dyffryn. As he settled his saddlebags across the horse’s flank, yellow satin peeked out at him, reminding him of her and the hope that lay in ashes on the floor of his heart.
Torn from Gwen’s dress the day they had run through the woods like wild men all the way to the banks of the Ofgomaen, he stared at it now, his heart thrashing like a boar on the spear. Then he pushed it angrily from sight. That was the day he asked for the promise that had fallen so easily from her lips.
Then Steffan had returned from the Wars. A broken warrior, he had lost his right hand to the invaders. He could no longer serve the King. At first, Tarran was delighted to see him. He and his brother had been very close growing up. They all had: he and Steffan and Gwen, his father’s ward. They had done everything together. Never would you see Gwen’s golden locks without the two black-haired brothers in her wake.
Now, she was the chasm that had come between them, separating them when Tarran had been so sure nothing ever could. Gwen had not yet renounced her promise, but in the weeks that followed Steffan’s return, even Tarran could see something had changed. Her heart was drawn to his brother’s deformity as much as to his bravery. He was, after all, the rightful heir to Caer Dyffryn. Tarran was only second-born.
But Tarran loved her. He loved his brother. He could not forsake one for the other, nor choose between them. For days, he drowned in the emotions that swirled over his head like the cold waters of Ofgomaen, pulling him down into confusion and sorrow, until he realized, there was only one thing to do.
When he told his father, he claimed a more honorable reason than that he could not live near Gwen and his brother, no matter which way her favor fell. Now, as he led the charger to the road, he gazed back at his home. He hadn’t said goodbye because if one of them had bid him stay, he would have suffered this torment eternally. He could refuse them nothing, so much did he love them. So he would leave in silence, honor would be upheld, and (with any luck) he would not return from the battlefield that had claimed his brother’s hand.
497 words.
@rowanwolf66
That was a little bit of classic romantic tragedy very tightly woven. The yellow satin…a small torture he will keep with him.
Everything you write has such a wonderful sense of completeness. Your stories come together in ways both expected and unexpected and the effect is equally strong either way. This piece is no exception.
I was hoping to participate this week, but I really can't stand the Fray! I'll be back around next week.
He taps on the car window. “Open up. Come on. Don’t make me do the bad cop shtick.”
She rolls down the window a smidge. “Better than dumb cop.”
He squats so that his face is level with hers. “Nobody thinks you’re dumb, Cassidy.”
“What do you know, Jacobs? You’ve only been here two weeks.”
“Okay, maybe I don’t know anything about it, but if you let me into the car, I’ll listen to what you have to say before opening my mouth again.”
She nods. “Sure. Why not? It can only go horribly wrong.”
He hustles to the passenger door and gets in. “Thanks. I was starting to feel like a drowned rat out there.”
She looks out the driver side window, away from him. “Let’s get this over with. She and I were best friends. We shared a house. Vacationed together. Hell, we even had joint custody of a dog.”
He doesn’t say anything.
She looks over at him. “What? No snappy analysis?”
“I’m waiting for you to finish.”
She leans her skull against the headrest. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About her. About the situation. How could the department set me up as her partner, knowing she that she’d already killed a fellow officer? The situation was over my head but they sent me in blind anyway. The bastards waited for a friendship to develop and then told me to work with Internal Affairs or be cut loose. Just like that, my career threatened and two years of my life wasted.”
His voice is gentle as he says, “I’m sorry you had to go through it.”
She closes her eyes. “I don’t know if I can partner with you, Jacobs. I should opt out. That’s part of the package, you know. If I agree to keep everything confidential, they will quietly end my career while still maintaining my benefits.”
He puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t do it, Cassidy. Don’t opt out. You’re too damn good at what you do. I put in for a transfer to your unit hoping to work with you. Give me a chance, girl.”
“You’re out of luck, bud, because I’m all out of trust.”
“Ask me anything.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t want to know anything about you. That’s how it starts. You share stuff, you get close, and then you find out your partner is dirty as a two-dollar — ”
He interrupts. “I roughed up that guy on the kiddie porn bust. Department buried it but I was the one who broke his nose. I’ll tell you every speck of dirt on my record, but not until I have your word you’ll stay.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t got much faith in the human race right now and I’m sure as hell not up for sharing a house or a pet with you.”
He chuckles. “How about we start simple? Coffee and sea-monkeys?”
She rests her cheek on his shoulder. “Sounds pretty damn good, Jacobs.”
(498 words)
Sea monkeys…LOVE IT! Great sense of her weariness.
How can you not love a story with sea monkeys in it?!? Good banter and great pacing.
"It can only go horribly wrong" I love that line! You created great tension between the characters. I loved your story!
Here's my entry. Please be warned: it turned out much darker than I'd originally intended. Will also post on my blog later this evening.
Over My Head
Charity switched off the drill and took another swig of water. Frickin' boards were crooked. Again. She thought about removing the screws and starting again, but she'd already done that twice, and it was getting late to be drilling. One of the neighbours , probably that old bitch from across the hall with the pop eyes and those skinny little disapproving lips, would start bashing on the door and complaining, and she was so mad right now she didn't trust herself to do something with the drill they'd both regret.
No noise after ten. What kind of a stupid rule was that? It's not like any of the losers who lived there actually worked for a living. Pot heads, welfare scammers, penny ante drug dealers, old people who'd been too stupid to save their money so they could live out the last days of their miserable, arthritic lives somewhere better, that was the calibre of the residents of this shit-hole. That's why Charity had chosen it.
She stood back and surveyed her handywork. The boards were a little crooked, but they covered up the bathroom window just fine. The old pillow that Charity had placed between the boards and the window pane was visible through a couple of the gaps, but you wouldn't be able to see outside. Or inside. To be sure, she pulled the door closed and flipped the light switch. Beautiful. Not a hint of streetlight came through.
Charity switched the light back on and grinned at her reflection in the cheap mirror, and her reflection grinned back at her, wobbly and distorted. “You go, girl,” she said to herself with a wink, pulling the package of Export As out of the top pocket of her coveralls. “Go ahead, have a smoke. You've earned it.”
Charity inhaled deeply, exhaled three perfect rings of smoke that lifted and separated and disappeared as they collided with the mattress-lined walls. That had been a treat, getting those matresses cut into sections and screwing them over the ceiling, floors and walls. Just three or four more pieces to fit into place, one over the window that she'd just boarded up, the others against the wall where the sink and toilet had stood before she'd liberated them from their moorings. She wondered if she should remove the mirrored cabinet, too, and decided, yes. Best to be safe.
Pinching out the cigarette, Charity tucked it into the left front pocket of her coveralls to join the thirteen other butts that waited there for a more satisfactory disposal. She peered around the door toward the living room. Lovely. Stephen was trussed up nice and tidy like a stack of old newspapers, still out cold. Amazing what half a bottle of benzos followed by a good whack to the head with a two by four could do.
Stupid bastard, she thought. Thought we were friends. Try to rip off my grow op, will you?
Forgot to include the word count–excluding title, it's 491 words.
I love it when my Kern works dark horror. Well done you!!
Nice and dark. Funny enough I was just trying to remember the name of Export A's yesterday. So thanks for that.
Dark is beautiful in my book. Nicely done.
Working on a blog but for now you'll have to read it here…
I punched the alarm clock across the room when it went off. I was done fucking around with the snooze button.
The Fray bleated at me, muffled by the pile of laundry the clock landed in.
I had to make it stop, which meant getting my ass out of bed.
After picking the shattered remnants of the alarm clock out of the bottom of my foot I pulled off a ten minute shower and shave combo and made it out the door before first light.
The street was empty when I climbed into the Towncar and got it started.
The Fray bleated at me on the radio. I cycled through the stations but couldn't get away from that fucking song.
I counted to ten and convinced myself to go with it because I couldn't take the silence and I stepped on the gas pedal. I had work to do.
The rain started up barely five miles out of town. The Towncar was fishtailing all over the road and I groaned inside every time I heard the load in the trunk shifting.
Had to be done, I told myself. Simple case of self-preservation. Them or you.
By the time I made fifty miles on the highway I believed that it was all for the greater good and that I was ready for some steak and eggs.
I hit the truck stop just off of exit 28. The rain just wouldn't let up and it soaked me in the seven steps from my spot to the front door.
It was warm in the truck stop and the smell of coffee had me singing hallelujahs but it all turned to shit before my ass even hit the stool at the counter.
The Fray began bleating at me out of the juke box.
Over my head, they kept on singing.
Now, once you can't do anything about. Twice? Still could be chalked up to coincidence. Three times in the space of two hours? That's the universe trying to tell you something via emo pop.
I pushed the steak and eggs around my plate for a while but couldn't eat much. The rain wasn't letting up any so I gave up waiting and got back on the road.
The girl at the cash register was singing that fucking Fray song.
The rain got even harder as I pulled out of the parking lot and merged back onto the highway. I was not looking forward to this job in the rain. At least the ground would be softened up.
When that Fray song came on yet again I closed my eyes and cursed.
When I opened them I just about had a heart attack.
Three men were sitting in the back seat of the Towncar. Three men who should have been lying dead in the trunk.
The one in the middle shot me a grin full of shattered teeth.
“You're in over your head, boy,” he said. “It's our turn now.”
Doh! 497 words!
@JTsuruoka
An undespected ending. Creepy. Love the tension of the repeating song. That's one of those Twilight Zone things I fear.
I agree with Miss Bliss. There was great tension from the song coming back into the story time and again. Like that you went this route! Really enjoyed it.
That's it for this edition of Friday Night Write!! Thanks to all who participated!! Now the real fun begins: the reading. Please take the time to leave comments on the entries!!
Thank you!!