Tagged by the Dawg;
Here are the instructions, not, I notice, followed by all: Find your twenty-third post. Pluck out your fifth sentence. Then–write a short fictional piece with the sentence as the first one in the piece. And tag five more people in the blogosphere.”
Write a short fiction piece????
23rd post, eh. Well, there’s no “fifth sentence”, but I’ll go ahead anyway.
We rode in silence.
The tall, slender woman who had pulled up beside my disabled car wasn’t threatening in any way, but something about her was – disconcerting. Her attire was unusual and clingy, though not the least provocative – dressed head to toe in black, the soft folds of cloth betraying thighs that were painfully thin.
Perhaps she was dressed for an occasion. A very strange occasion.
But beggers can’t be choosers and neither can hitchhikers. Hours earlier I had indulged the throaty purr of the old ‘Cuda as we accelerated out of a reduced speed zone, when the engine skipped a beat and erupted – the sound of a hundred billiard balls rattling violently inside a steel drum.
Thrown rod – right through the oilpan. Leather jacket scraping the snow, I slid out from under the car and looked down the road into the night. The northern lights crackled overhead while somewhere in the distance a coyote howled. The wind was getting up. The lights on the horizon were faint, no sign of a farmyard within walking distance. Behind me was 65 miles of open range.
I closed the hood and returned to the car. Reaching behind in the dark, I found the case of beer I’d picked up earlier in the evening. It was Misery Time. The way my luck was running, the best hope I had for rescue was to set bait for a bored Mountie with a open liquor violation quota to fill.
I awoke to a flicker of headlights. How long I’d slept I wasn’t sure, but it was cold. Frost patterns were gathering on the windshield when I opened the door, shivering, to wave the vehicle down.
It was good to be warm, but I wasn’t so sure it was good to be here. She had asked if I needed a ride, and would the next town do, and I replied in the affirmative. The door locks snapped open and I settled into the passenger seat. That was the last time she’d spoken.
I searched for an opening to say something. I was starting to wish I’d brought the ipod.
The minutes dragged on under the rolling tires. Snowflakes were beginning to swirl in the high beams. I slouched in the seat, content to be hypnotized.
“I sometimes walk around the neighborhood at night, just hoping to find someone to talk to. But I just end up coming home.”
Startled, I sat up a little. Well, she had a captive audience now. I glanced over to acknowledge that fact as she adjusted the mirror to examine herself. God, this woman was pale.
“I’m just like anyone. I cut and I bleed. And I embarass easily.”
I was starting to wish I’d brought the beer.
“Can I ask you something?
It was the first time she’d addressed me directlly. “Sure”, suddenly interested in the nail I’d broken scrambling around in the dark.
“Why can’t you share your bed? The most loving thing to do is to share your bed with someone. It’s very charming. It’s very sweet. It’s what the whole world should do. A most loving thing to do is to share your bed with – with someone. Why not? If you’re gonna be a pedophile, if you’re gonna be Jack the Ripper, if you’re gonna be a murderer, it’s not a good idea. That I’m not.”
The truck hurtled down the drifting road, into perpetual porcupine quills of reflected driving snow.
I was starting to wish I’d brought the tire iron.
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Here’s tagging;
Kathy Shaidle
The crew at Dust My Broom
Chris Selley
Publius
Jeff Goldstein
Oh bugger.
My 23rd post was 5 years ago… Will give it a shot.
That’ll keep me laughing all day.
The fiction bit was added to the meme (which goes back at least to the summer) by Mark Rayner (a ProgBlogger and novelist) at the skwib.
TB
Cerberus
Short Fiction Piece:
(1) Liberals cruise to stunning majority in Canadian elections under Paul Martin.
(2) Governor General Michaelle Jean clear victor over US Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice in televised debate. Lloyd Axworthy no comment.
(3) Waiting lists are good for you.
That last line brightened an otherwise bad day.
OK, here’s how I’m getting out of this one:
First, more or less the 30th post I ever blogged: a Guardian article from way back in 2000 (yes, 2000), about Muslim parents who wanted… wait for it… Piglet free Pooh books.
http://relapsedcatholic.blogspot.com/2000/11/pigs-are-unclean-so-muslims-want-pooh.html
Second: short fiction is not my genre. Please accept instead the first poem I ever wrote, back in the 80s, called “Contacts with Trotskyites”:
http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/shaidle/poem3.htm
Yes, I know that is an ugly picture. I look even worse now, thank you.
Best taggy-thing ever
Now this is a blogging tag-up deal I can get behind: One takes the fifth sentence of one’s 23rd ever blog entry and uses it as the first sentence of a short fiction-type thinger. Thanks to Kate for tagging me….
Why do bloggers insist on playing these stupid tag games? Don’t they realize this is exactly the sort of thing that propagates the general public’s (read as: MSM followers) opinion that they’re all a bunch of jobless 20-somethings banging away on keyboards in their bedrooms. I like a chuckle just as much as the next person, but if you want someone to take you serious, you first have to act serious. Remember, you’re not only in the big show, you’re in the on-deck circle.
I suppose it’s time I ran the exploding Zerbisias gif again…..
“Why do bloggers insist on playing these stupid tag games?”
I agree. Insidious and vacuous handles such as My Cerebral Contusion Will Not Be Televised (unless I’m in a Tim Horton’s being hit with a PR-24 Tonfa)gain much more respect at traffic intersections.
Honk if you’re corny.
Next thing you know, the National News will cover Madonna and there will be crosswords and comic strips in the newspapers. Where will the frivolity all end?
“Where will the frivolity all end?”
Anderson Cooper 180, Tyra Banks in a fat suit, Kirstie Alley reuniting with Parker Stevenson, and Craig Oliver looking like Balok from the Corbomite Maneuver episode of the old Star Trek Series.
(Notice Craigster’s stunning visage on the video box edition of the Corbomite Maneuver episode)
http://homevideo.paramount.com/Catalog?cmd=display_product_page&release_id=990
Jonah Goldberg of NRO eat your Star Trek heart out.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/st/gallery/tos1/tosbalok.shtml
My bad. The BBC has a much more flattering picture
of Mr. Oliver here.
Geez, lighten up you two. lol
Never got my question answered but I sure got a good belly-laff outta my troll. …so I guess that does answer my question.
Touche Kate and Plato’s Stepchild !
Digging through my own archives, I’ve gotta say that:
doesn’t make for the best of short fiction opening lines.
Dont we get a lot of fiction from all those politicians and journailists? i mean the WEEKLY WORLD NEWS is more truthful then the NEW YORK TIMES
If you tell them that free trade is good and the export of jobs oversees is not only desirable, but necessary for the growth of an economy, they just shout something inane like “Voodoo economics!” and think they’ve somehow proven their point. But it’s when the zombies stagger towards your compound, the twigs snapping underfoot and the dogs howling, that you begin to suspect…what? That the brown tapwater mandated by NAFTA Chapter Eleven is affecting your senses? That all is not right in your stainless-steel, whiter-than-white, hi-tech universe? That your own have turned on you?
I goosed up Metallica and turned to my new bearded buddy in the next bunk.
“Joe!”
“What’s up?”
“Where the hell are we?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’ve counted. There aren’t any more countries to invade.”
“Come on. There’s always more countries to invade.”
“Seriously. I’ve been keeping score. Look…” I showed him the little book I kept under the mattress. All the countries listed in the CIA World Factbook, and if you can’t trust that, what can you trust? Every one of them checked off. Afghanistan through to Zimbabwe, The hard way. Reconstructing democracy out of the ruins. Making the world safe. Our way or the fucking highway.
Joe was quiet for a moment. “We got called in, we went into the big assembly hall, then…” He looked a little puzzled. “Mind’s a blank.”
“Mine too. Wanna take a walk?”
Joe and I headed down the centre of the rows of sleeping marines to the door. I pushed it open, quietly, and looked outside.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, looking at my face. It must have been quite a sight.
“Come and see for yourself,” I said, barely able to cough the words out.
(To be continued)
The Last Flamingo Hunt
I’ve been trying to let this slip under the wind but I see I’ve been double-tagged by Will Goodon and Small Dead Animals for this weird meme. The instructions read:
Find your twenty-third post. Pluck out your fifth sentence. Then–w…