Life's Little Laughs

Written in under ten minutes as an exercise is flash fiction and free writing.

Jake, once told by a bully that he was too little to play basketball, even though he was actually tall for his age, decided one day to see what it would be like if he did in fact play basketball, for he had never tried because of his insecurity. His mother warned him that the sport could be dangerous, not to mention tiresome, time consuming, and would only result in being in better shape and, maybe, more confidence. Nevertheless, Jake tried out for the team, succeeded in being the first freshman to get on it in nearly six years, and played his first game in early February.

As luck would have it, the very same bully had chosen to play on the opposing team, even though he was no better equipped to be a sportsman, being a little overweight and with bad depth perception (he later needed eye surgery because his glasses, which he refused to wear, did not fix the problem).

The stadium was packed, as was the custom for all early season games, and the excitement was at a fever pitch. Jake was handed the ball and he raced with it down the court, dodging teammates and opponents alike. As he stopped at an appropriate distance, he looked around himself briefly, noticing the once proud bully wheezing heavily and sweating profusely. Jake jumped, threw the ball, and it sunk with a definitive "swish" sound, proving to everyone that not only was he capable of playing basketball, but that he was destined to become the greatest player the school had ever seen.

The bully, who Jake had once remarked would make a very interesting male stripper to a very interesting female crowd, by a strange twist of fate, dropped out of the sport soon after the first game and pursued a life of erotic dancing.

Untitled: Part 10 [EDITED]

Ralph put his hand on the doorknob and Leon fired. The bullet ricocheted off the metal door and Ralph immediately backed off, flattening himself against the adjoining wall, just out of Leon's sight.

"I hoped I was ahead of you," Ralph said.

"Just barely," Leon replied, keeping his gun ready and attention at full. "You make one move toward the door and I won't miss."

"I believe you," Ralph replied. "I'll have to turn around."

"There's no way out," Leon countered. "You give up now and come easily and I'll make sure you get some sort of amnesty."

"That's very reassuring."

"It's the most you're gonna get."

Silence.

Leon, sweating, shifted his position, attempting to get a better view on the situation. He heard no noise from below him, no sign of Ralph staying put or attempting an escape.

"What's going on down there?" Leon asked.

"Oh...just mulling it over," Ralph replied after a moment. Quietly, Leon pushed the vent open with the front of his gun. "Don't forget how easily your friend fell."

"Or how quickly he got back up," Leon said.

Ralph laughed slightly and seemed to relax. "You don't even know what you're doing here, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then explain to me why you have no idea what I'm doing here."

"I know enough about you to not be tricked again."

"Then I have nothing more to say." Leon craned his neck into a new position, searching for any visual. After another second he heard a door open and shut. Without thinking, he kicked the panel open and fell to the ground. He groaned in pain as he landed, but still managed to do a quick 360 of the room. It was empty.

He ran for the inside door which Ralph had presumably left through. Not expecting any resistance, he was unprepared for it to be locked. After several attempts, he concluded Ralph had damaged the mechanism and that he'd have to take the vent back out. Walking to the outside door to lock it, he wished for some way to contact Milo to tell him what happened. Not knowing any way to do that, he resigned himself to finish his task by contacting the mainland.

With the last door to the outside locked, he jumped back into the vent and continued in what he hoped was the right direction.

Recent Activity

Time was, I could sit down at a computer and the ideas would just flow through my hands, into the keyboard, and before I knew it, I would have a story. It wouldn't always be well written, but the ideas would be there and it would be finished.

Can't seem to do that these days. My serial story on this site is lagging, apologies. Plus I'm losing inspiration for the play I'm co-writing. My script idea I came up with several months ago is stale.

But I have generated more ideas, as is want to happen. It's a film noir screenplay. It opens with a man driving down a lonely road, being followed, with a dying girl in his backseat. He's the narrator. It flashbacks to how he met the girl and what lead them to the present situation (details still unknown).

I think I started writing something else, as well. Ideas keep coming and going. But lately I work too much to properly write.

This isn't really a good post, but it's related to what this blog is about.

WEEKS, Pt. 1

Conceived while driving to work last week.

MONDAY

I hate Mondays. A lot of people say that, and I’m sure they mean it. But I don’t just hate the first day of the week. I hate Mondays. If the day was taken out of the calendar and Tuesday became the first day of the work week, I wouldn’t hate it as much. I just plain hate Mondays.

And this Monday started out no different from the rest. I woke up and cursed the alarm clock with its increasingly loud buzzer. I keep it across the room to force me up. After a quick yawn and stretch, I did the treadmill for thirty minutes while watching the morning news: more of the same. Breakfast was cereal with sliced bananas and strawberries. I try to keep healthy.

The commute is the last temptation of man. Those who can resist its rage-inducing atmosphere are stronger than I.

In the rear view mirror I spot that lights I knew would catch up to me eventually. It was a trooper on his moped. He signaled with his hand to pull over. I turned up the radio for one defiant moment, then shut it off and pull to the curb.