Welcome to the fifth edition of Friday Night Write! 
The Challenge
- 1 Song
- 48 Hours
- 500 Words
The Basics
- New prompt posts at 5pm pacific on Friday
- Listen to the music here
- Let it stir up a story
- Post your story (or story link) in the comment box below
- Comments will close at 5 pm pacific on Sunday
The Details
- 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.
- Remember: as we are still in our beta stage, there are no winners, judges, badges or prizes – but I’m happy to announce that (barring catastrophic meltdown) all that will change as of Friday, August 3!
Speical thanks to Stacy Hoytt for this week's song choice.
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 Beck stirs up!
Oh my god love this song…………great choice, got so much going on in my head for this, here’s hoping I can get a story done
My morning transfer was early today. I had only begun to mull my chances of promotion to Supply Chief, when a city bus pulled alongside the curb. The early commuters straggled into a line behind me. The girls stamped out their butts on the sidewalk. With a little bounce in my step (an early bus! today would be a go-getting day!), I kicked a bottle into the gutter, and cozied up to the door. The driver slid the door back and stood in it. I grunted in surprise. His frame filled the entrance; it pushed me back with its unexpectedness.
“Mister, just hold up,” he said under his breath. Louder, so the rest of the stray bunch could hear: “No buses into the civic center today. There’s been an incident. Just go home folks.”
The rest huddled into a semi-circle around the driver before I could push my way out. The hurried snatches of conversation were matched with a few gasps and at least one strangled cry.
The air hung crisply, preserving the puffs of my breath as they went in, out, in, out. The thoughts of my promotion washed up on some white-sanded shore. A Supply Chief needed to be in the office all day, every day. How else could one be responsible for the Supplies? The deviation of a single day would be noted in the work ledger in an orange pen. That orange mark would follow me forever. I threw my frustration away from me like a rock. It broke the waters, and sank out of sight.
That’s when I became sensible of my environs. My legs had taken me to an unfamiliar cafe and deposited me on a stool. The counter-top was pink formica with sagging chrome siding.
“Are you going to order or what?” A young man tapped his foot. “This ain’t a library.”
I ordered a cup of tea.
It came with little fanfare.
I didn’t touch it.
I was worrying a napkin to death when a flat-foreheaded woman thumped a phone book, still in its shrink-wrap, next to the cup. Tepid water sloshed across my hand. I yelped in surprise. She took the seat next to me.
“Don’t think it caustic of me to say so,” the woman drawled, as she stuck her forearm into her purse, like she was prospecting, “but you only livin’ half a life if you moaning and carrying on like that.”
I tore a corner off the napkin and wiped up the water. “I’d thank you not to get into my business.”
“You don’t know me!” she retorted, her cheeks drawing together like a used-up fish. She elbowed my cup out of her way and snapped for the waiter. “Hey, boy! Get me something nice. Don’t be makin’ out a receipt. I’m somebody in this town.”
The waiter tore up the ticket. A piece of paper floated down in front of me. 4.25$, cash only, Cards not accepted. And that was that.
I was a nobody.
So glad you came out again this week, Tracy! Terrific story. What strikes me about your fiction is that it is always brimming with such vivid imagery. Yes, I expect that from you because of the poetic cross-over, but the way it works in your fiction grabs me – it’s just so wonderfully rich!!
What a perfect rendition of this glimpse into this poor anxiety-ridden Supply-Chief-wannabe. It’s sad and real and bursting at the seams with freshness and originality. Some of the images you conjure are absolutely killer: “The thoughts of my promotion washed up on some white-sanded shore”; “a flat-foreheded woman”; “her cheeks drawing together like a used-up fish.” (That last one has me gasping with envy!)
Terrific job, Tracy.
Here’s my entry for this week.
http://www.jblearnstowrite.com/redemption-a-friday-night-write-post/
What Actually Gets Broken
Word Count: 476
Sam walked in to the Black Cat and found Gregory at the bar.
“Where is she?” he scanned the club.
“In the back booth, Sam I wouldn’t have called but…” he trailed off looking worried. Sam caught sight of Lucy sitting by herself smoking and staring at the wall.
Sam looked confused, “What has she been doing?”
“Nothing. Not drinking. Not talking. Not fighting. Nothing.”
Sam’s mouth compressed into a thin line.
“Bushmills and two glasses. No one bothers us.” Gregory nodded, handed over a bottle of black label and two shot glasses.
Sam walked over to Lucy’s booth set the bottle down in the middle, put a glass in front of her and one in front of him as he sat down. Her eyes focused slowly. A small frown creased between her eyes. Sam opened the bottle and poured. He picked his up and held it out to her, waiting.
Her mouth quirked just the tiniest bit, she knew he’d sit there waiting all night, with his glass raised, if that’s what it took. She picked hers up and held out to him. He tapped his to hers and said, “To doing what must be done whatever the price” and then tossed back the whiskey. She sucked in a surprised breath and then drank her shot.
The burn of the alcohol down her throat and into her stomach brought her back to herself fully for the first time in hours. She shook her head and huffed out another breath.
She squinted at him across the table, “How long have you known?”
“About 48 hours. Most of that time I’ve been looking for you.” He poured two more shots. “Call me crazy but I didn’t think to look for you in a strip club.” He sipped his drink.
She nodded grimly. “I followed him. To Cedar Key.” She drank the shot and then set the glass down very carefully and pressed both hands to the table. “I watched as he and his boys loaded a white box truck up with roughly 20 girls. None of them over the age of 19.”
Sam’s eyes flashed to pale blue then back to warm brown. He frowned and poured her another.
Lucy lit a cigarette, “You know that little shit Paul? I heard him telling them in Spanish that they were taking them to a training center so they could learn how to do their new jobs.”
Sam watched as her rage settled into cold bitter resolve. She looked him in the eye, “He’s been trying to break me down since I was a little kid. The only part of me he’s actually managed to break is my restraint. So yeah,” she picked up the bottle and poured Sam another shot and clinked the bottle to the glass, “here’s to doing what must be done, I’ll pay the price.”
Oh, yay! More Lucy! I’m so enjoying these snippets.I love her anger and her toughness and her passion, and, man, you do know how to tell a story. Can’t wait to read more.
So glad you continued this, I really feel all the anger from Lucy, this is really well written. Like Kern I can’t wait to see where we go from here.
Very, very well done. Makes me want to read more.
He stands against the back door of the corner store, shoulders hunched, snow dusting him.
A voice calls to him from across the street. “Come in out of the weather, Kelly.”
His boots leave inch deep impressions as he walks to the porch. “Your brother here?”
“No,” she says, pushing the screen door wide. “Have a cup of coffee with me?”
He nods, but pauses on the stoop. “You allergic to dogs, Grace?”
She smiles. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Got one with me. Don’t want to get you sick or nothing.”
She looks down the walk. “Where is it?”
He lifts a sleeping puppy out of his overcoat pocket. “Was in a cardboard box under the newspaper rack. Only one left alive of seven.”
She takes the puppy, snuggles it against her chest, and leads him into the kitchen.
He sits at the table and looks around the kitchen. Sparse but neat and clean. Delicious smell coming from the oven.
She hands him a mug and sits beside him at the table, her own mug in one hand, his puppy in the other. “Jason got into trouble soon as he came home. Couldn’t settle in. He’s doing six months. Been in two.”
His hands shake and coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug. “What happened while we were gone? We went off to fight for someone else’s freedom and come home to a country marked by apathy, self-interest and economic failure.”
“Problem is that while you were gone, you guys unconsciously built it up into something it’s not because you needed something to hold onto while you were out there. Least that’s what my brother says.”
“Maybe,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment. “Been home a month. Bout lost my temper and mind couples dozen times a day since. ”
She strokes the puppy’s ears. “You been to the veteran’s clinic?”
“So they can write me off as one more hopeless ptsd case? No, thank you.”
The thump and rumble of a stereo shatter the calm of the kitchen. He knocks the chair over in his hurry to get up.
A hard hand on his shoulder stops him. “Let it go. Happens every day. Neighbor cranks it up after work.”
He turns to her. “Trouble is, I don’t know how to stop reacting like that. I’m programmed to respond, contain, and eradicate.”
“You’re not responsible for anyone but yourself now, Kelly.”
“I got no plumb line for normal, no trust in humanity and no reason to care.”
She chuckles. “Five pounds of wiggling puppy seems like a good place to start.”
“Maybe. So are blue eyes and a smile. Enough to consider making an appointment at the clinic.”
Reaching for his hand, she says “You want to stay for dinner?”
“You know I do, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Man’s got to eat, doesn’t he?”
He opens his mouth to reply but finds his lips otherwise engaged.
- – - – - 494 words
Oh, you really do know how to set up a romance, don’t you? Bitter-sweet, sad, poignant, and a good solid nugget of hope to tie it all together. I love the line “I got no plumb line for normal.” Such an economical summary for what happens when a person’s mind and priorities are scrambled by war. Really enjoyed this, Ruth. And also? I want to join them for that delicious smelling dinner!
I love that this is mostly dialogue, I can really hear the back and forth, and underlying emotion. Great
Perfect emotion throughout. I’m a huge fan of lots and lots of dialogue, and this is fantastic!!
Very well done. Not what I was expecting and leads to so many possibilities with the ending. Nicely done.
My entry : http://stevenpaul-ashviper.blogspot.com/2012/07/friday-night-write-far-from-home.html
My FNW entry: http://lilliemcferrin.com/friday-night-write-far-from-home/
ok just posted my entry, you can find it here The Carnival
OK.. my entry is a wee bit late and is here…http://ajaroffireflies.blogspot.com/2012/07/farther-from-home-friday-night-write-5.html#.UAxtjbRPv0c
My entry is eating popcorn and painting its toenails over on my blog:
Far
And that’s all for this edition of Friday Night Write! Now it’s time for the fun part: reading and commenting on all the entries!!
Thank you to all who participated!
WOW…this was such an awesome week for posts. Great job everyone.