Year of the Dog writing contest for October : )

Okay, you can choose to add on to any one of the following choices. They’ve been narrowed down to four stories. Next time they’ll be narrowed down to three. Don’t forget to include the preceding parts/chapters of the story when you post yours. This time you can write

EXACTLY 100 words

or

EXACTLY 200 words

* * * * * Story Number One * * * * *

Dat Buggah Ma Fadda

(Part 1)

“So what da buggah said?”

ma madda asked afta

ma fadda dropped me off.

“About what?”

“About what?” she said,

mocking me. “How about

what he promised fo pay

me in child support?

About what?

How about what he owes

me for trowing one brick

tru my windshield?”

She sat at the table looking

out da window, her eyes

neva looking at mine.

I always hated wen she

brought him up.

Even yeas afta, wen

I tot she wen foget him

longtime already, she

go, out of da blue,

“Dat buggah was one

real piece of shit

I tell you.”

(Part 2)

I neva saw ma fadda

trow da concrete brick

true da windshield of

ma madda’s cah

but was obvious wen

I wen come home from

school an wen see da

brick laying on her dash

dea must have been

plenny angah, plenny

violence fo lodge da brick

halfway true da glass.

Ma madda could do

dat to one man, drag

her finganails true da

chalkboard of his back.

She wen leave da brick

like dat for days an den

wen call all her friends

fo checkom out.

“Imagine driving around

town wit dat!” she would

say, an everyone

would laugh.

(Part 3)

When I was small

ma fadda moved us

to one small town fo

make one new life.

He really moved us

so he could be wit

his new fling.

Ma madda neva knew

til was too late.

Da night she found

out, she came home

smelling like cigarettes

and booze.

I could hear her

sobbing in her room.

I opened da door

and saw her laying

naked in bed, crying.

I wanted fo comfort

her but I neva knew

wat fo do since she

no mo clothes.

All I did was stand dea

quietly as she cried

herself to sleep.

* * * * * Story Number Two * * * * *

Nighthawks – Chapter 1

When you wish hard enough for something, you might get it. It was getting late, and I moved over to a barstool to tell her that I was in the mood for her. She looked at her watch, took my hand, turned it over, then rested her chin with her other hand and looked at me with a troubled look. I gave her a quizzical smile and asked if she was a palm reader and what did she find. She lit a cigarette and then took a long hard swallow of bourbon from a glass marred with lipstick and told me with a whiskey/cigarette voice what she read from my palm.

Nighthawks – Chapter 2

While waiting for her reply, the last call bell broke the silence, and the “leftovers” raised their brown stained fingers from the water-marked bar for one more. Downside the bar, a glassy-eyed strawberry blond with a scrambled egg hairdo gave me the once-over with a toothy smile, and for a moment, I thought this was my lucky night. In my excitement, I forgot about my future and stood up to check out tonight’s maybe. Before I took my leave, she held my arm tightly and whispered hoarsely in my ear, “My friend, you have no future – you used it up.”

Nighthawks – Chapter 3

Angry, I pulled away from her and looked down the bar for my safe bet laughing with another leftover. Turning to my palmist, I asked impolitely, “What do you mean ‘used up?’” She replied, “You married flowers.” I softened and said to her that I knew a place that would take us forever. “You can stay there- night is always for the taking – all you need is to pretend.” She shook her head no, and with that note, I boarded a teardrop and sailed away to another port on a visitor’s visa, with an expiration date for all to see.

* * * * * Story Number Three * * * * *

So What da Buggah Said?

(Part One)

“So what da buggah said?” Rudy the barber asks me.

“Some bullshit about Denise and Chris.”

I’m waiting for a haircut. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Christopher Andaya enter. He’s dark, looks real Hawaiian.

“Chris, whas’up?”

Suddenly he pulls a knife, comes at me. I grab my gun inside my jacket and shoot him three times, but instead of dying, he turns around and staggers outside. I follow.

I say, “Chris, you’re supposed to be dead already,” and boom, he goes down. I flip him over.

His face looks weird, his eyes all glassy, looking up at me like I’m God.

(Part Two):

“Hey, Chris. No ack. We bot’ know dis not no real gun. Don’ go Deadman’s Gulch on me.”

“You mean Old Pali Road?”

“Yeah, wotevahs. Wit’ one trunkload of pork.”

“An’ da cah when stall.”

“An’ no staht.”

“Bumebye dey trow away da pork.”

“Hey, if dey when turn da cah aroun’ an’ head’m back down da mountain . . .?”

“Not.”

“What?”

“Dey gif da peeg to somebody goin’ da uddah way.”

“To town?”

“Whatevahs.”

“K’den, bra. Bra, you doing OK?”

“Yeah, no. Nevah bettah.”

“Den gif back da gun.”

“Dis not no real gun.”

“Gif’m to me, Chris.”

“Firs’, da shiv.”

(Part Three)

I feel the warmth disappear, see the light. Where –

“You talk plenny kine when you asleep,” Rudy says.

I feel my face. Clean. This guy can handle a straight razor. “I fell asleep?”

“Yeah. You was talking all kine. Had someting about a Chris somebody. Someting about Denise. What’s wit all da guns an knives an shooting? Whas wit God? Tell me you not born again.”

“I . . . Rudy, I haven’t seen Denise for days. I don’t know where she is. You haven’t heard of Chris Andaya?”

“Oh, Chris Andaya. Scary. He get someting to do wit Denise?”

* * * * * Story Number Four * * * * *

Part One

When you wish for something hard enough, you just might get it. Then

comes the part about how hard you thought about what happens next, as

in being careful what you wish for. Jiminy Cricket says nothing about

which star you should wish upon, nor about possible evil consequences

of choosing poorly. How about the venerable first star I see tonight?

Does that imply a filter, a guarantee against bad choices and evil

consequences? Suppose you say you’re bored stiff and wish something

interesting would happen? By interesting you mean? Who cares? Nothing

could be worse than this. Let’s give it a shot: I really wish

something interesting would happen. Oh-oh.

Part Two

Wisharama in Wishitopia in G-flat minor

How old were you when you realized “I wish I knew” does not

necessarily mean you want to know?

What it more likely means is that you don’t want to take the time to

find out. Or it’s not worth knowing. Or you’re too lazy. Or . . .

Or maybe you do know but telling would take too dang long. Or you

don’t want us to know. Or . . .

How old are you, anyway? What makes any of this the least bit scary? (Isn’t it?)

I wish I knew. I wish, really wish, you’d think hard about it, then

let us all know.

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