Jim the Writer

a literary blog

Fiction

Home in No Time

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Late morning, driving home from an oil change, Griff was startled when a town appeared where he never knew there was a town. He braked sharply, then felt sheepish that he had and drove ahead to a McDonald’s parking lot. The asphalt was deep black and glittery, and the yellow lines glowed like neon. Griff let the car roll into a spot. He shifted into park. I’m not lost, he thought. I missed a turn. I found this town. You don’t find a town every day. He’d turn around, go back the way he came, be home in no time.

 

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Late morning with the sun blazing, on his way home from an oil change, Griff was startled when a town appeared where he never knew there was a town. He braked sharply, and then felt sheepish that he had.

He pulled into the roomy parking lot of a McDonald’s. The asphalt was smooth and dark, the yellow lines bright. Place must be new, Griff thought. He shifted the Buick into park, and sat there a moment. I’m not lost. I just missed a turn. Happen to anybody.

He’d go back the way he came.

He’d be home in no time.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #381 at Velvet Verbosity.

 

Timing is Everything

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Fellowes, carrying orders for the 3rd Division, stood in the sandy track, clutching the dispatch case against his side like a talisman. Across the field, smoke rose from a distant blue tree-line.

Small groups of men moved about the field. Fellowes started toward one group. All around him, dark shapes lay in the stubble. He avoided looking at them. He couldn’t avoid smelling them.

His way was blocked by a silent tangle of men and horses. At his feet was a kepi with a sky-blue clover leaf on its top.

Fellowes let out his breath.

He’d found the 3rd Division.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #380 at Velvet Verbosity.

The Tiny Shop of Hope

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She was a writer, working on a book about antique furniture restoration. Her research was a collection of disparate facts.

No theme, no center. Would it ever come together? Would anyone care if it did not? Aside from her publisher, of course, whose deadlines were scratched in granite.

She went on searching. It’s what you did. You went on. Today, she found herself in a two-light town west of the city, alone, standing at the threshold of a shop on a musty side street, her hand trembling as she reached for the knob, her heart full of something like hope.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #379 at Velvet Verbosity.

Ranson’s Beard

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poster: 100 words of fictionRanson’s beard was older than his daughter, the corporate attorney who’d moved to Oregon to get as far from him as North America allowed.

He wasn’t shaving without due consideration. He’d grown it the summer of Lillian’s pregnancy. He was teaching philosophy in Ohio, and working on his book. One day he stopped at a produce stand, and the be-whiskered farmer who sold him sweet corn provided the inspiration. Lillian never liked facial hair. Their divorce was as much about that as anything.

Ranson kept the beard all through his marriage to Samantha.

Now it was time for the razor.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #378 at Velvet Verbosity.

The Demon and the Friar

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On the last day of his journey, Friar Tom trudged along the river path, leading a donkey as hungry as he was. Ahead lay the ford, and beyond that, the easy trail to the village, his favorite inn, and food.

Tom stopped short at the river’s edge. On the far bank, a woman sat on a boulder. Her skin was silver, her dark hair cut like a boy’s.

“Demon,” Tom whispered.

Just a woman, said a voice in his head. Come forward, dear friar. You’re starving!

“No, I won’t.”

You will, though. Eventually.

Mute with hunger, Tom could only nod.

 

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #358 at Velvet Verbosity.

The Dive

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Here’s another excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel, which uses the word for this week’s 100 Word Challenge at Velvet Verbosity.

Zina came up, sputtering, gasping.

It was there! She’d gotten a glimpse of the passage’s dark mouth under the ledge. She could make it. If her calculations were correct, the passage would be short and lead into the cave.

She filled her lungs — once, twice — then dove again, driving herself down and forward. The water darkened around her. Ahead it was pure black. She swam on, down and then up. The walls were close around her. She banged a knee, an elbow, then panicked when her head struck rock.

She reached up, searching for an opening.

Her fingers touched air.