Badass Bitch

this is an excerpt from an unfinished project about a reporter who becomes infatuated with a female detective who is caught in the middle of a media shit-storm

“Sometimes,” she exhaled second hand Marlboro into the air, “It is easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission”.

“So, are you saying it’s okay to do what you did?” He asked, pen hovering over his small notepad.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I did? Think about what it is you may be accusing me of, and think about what you would have done in the same situation, I mean really think about it. Would you have stood there and said or done nothing? Stand there with your jaw on the ground and your tail between your legs? Waiting for it to be over, just praying they didn’t notice you standing there, as you tried to sink into the wallpaper pattern? Is that what you would have done if you had those bastards in clear view and they didn’t know you were there? If you had a rifle in your hands and they didn’t see you there? If you knew you could take them all out, wouldn’t you?” She looked at him, pretending to wait for an answer she knew he wouldn’t give, then took another long drag and stood up, smashing the butt in the ashtray in a way that let him know the interview was without a doubt, over.

For a moment, he considered apologizing, or asking for just five more minutes, but she turned and walked away, pulling her shoulder length hair into a pony tail, and not looking back. He had to admit, in an almost scary way, she was very pretty. He sat in her dimly lit sitting room a moment longer before deciding to show him self out. The rest of the evening he couldn’t help but think about what she had said. He realized that most likely, in his line of work, he wouldn’t be in any situation where he had a loaded weapon in his hand and a group of vile criminals in front of him, much less “know” he could take them all out. He was, however fascinated, she had been so deep undercover and done it so well, that she had managed to be carrying a loaded weapon in Mikhail’s command center. No one thought twice about it, no on wondered why she wasn’t at the meeting she had supposedly come for. And why? He figured she was sleeping with Mikhail, maybe she told him she loved him, while she spent hours in his home, collecting evidence and plotting a way to arrest him. Then the thought occurred to him—was she plotting his arrest? Or was it his death she had wanted all along? After all, Mikhail’s thugs never thought to ask why she had her rifle on her that night, but he had to wonder, why did she have it?

Definition of awkward.

this is written from a prompt in a book I picked up. Hope you enjoy, its off the wall>

It was hot. It was the kind of hot that actually made her feel hot, even after all these years on the job. She was using her "work voice", throaty and sexy, and she couldn't help licking her lips as this man, deep voiced and calm talked to her like she had never heard.

And to say she had never heard anything like it before was saying something. She had heard it all, callers who wanted to put in her butt, callers that wanted her to put something in their butt, callers who liked to lick women's feet, a regular caller who would have her talk about licking his teeth and touching them with her fingers as he breathed heavy and slow, then jerking and shallow as he finished his task.

She heard herself say something she had never said before, either. Something stupid. Something bad. "I want to meet you", she said, "Where do you live?"

"I want to meet you too," the voice said, sounding oddly shaky. "I live on West Hyatt Street".

She lived on West Hyatt Street...but she wasn't that stupid, she wouldn't tell this guy where she lived. When he spoke again his voice broke, and she heard something familiar. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The more he spoke, the more uncomfortable she got.

"Do I know you?" she asked. Like if she did the guy would know, she wasn't using her "real" voice.

The man didn't answer.

"I do know you! Oh my God..." she said in her real voice, "Oh my God," she sobbed.

"Mom?! Oh fuck!"

Dialtone.

Smoke in the snowfall

He stood on the sidewalk, a hand in his pocket, smoking a cigarette with nothing to shield him from the cold but a thin, black button down shirt. A random passerby may have mistaken him for the angel of death, dressed all in black, dark, spiky hair and face as pale as the snow that had fallen around him. He didn’t shiver from the cold, but his hand shook the slightest little bit as he brought the cigarette to his mouth again. He knew, no matter how long he stood there, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked, he wasn’t going to shake the feeling of fear that sat in his stomach like a two ton rock anytime soon. Shortly after this realization he puked.

He didn’t know how long he had stood there, smoking Marlboro after Marlboro, trying to get his head on straight, but at some point, he must have decided to walk. He ended up in a dingy bathroom with one of those buzzing fluorescent lights that wouldn’t stop flickering, in some bar far from the main party scene. The cold water was running and he splashed his face with water three times before he noticed the flecks of blood on his hands. Her blood. He puked again. As he scrubbed his hands and fought his body’s urge to dry heave, he wondered if anyone had seen him standing there in the snow, puking? If they had, did they notice the blood?

He looked at his face in the mirror. Any of the “boyish cuteness” she had loved so much about him was gone now. His eyes were bloodshot and looked like they were going to bulge out of his head. His skin had lost so much color he thought he may be able to trace the veins through the thin mask. Haggard didn’t begin to cover the way he looked right now, or the feelings running through his body. Everyone had always said he was “cool, calm and collected” even at the worst of times, he figured that had gotten him this far tonight, but he had a feeling that wasn’t going to last long.

Brotherly love.

a sampling of my "flash" fiction.

"If we have this conversation, it is going to end badly for you. I mean that." The way he said it, so cool, so calm, sent shivers down his brother's spine.

"I-" he started, his heart jumping to his throat and choking his words. "I'm sorry, Bill," his eyes were glistening with tears. Bill didn't seem to notice. In fact, Bill hadn't looked at him once since he stepped into the room.

"I said I don't want to talk about this, period. Now go."

He stood, staring at his older brother. His brother he had looked up to, loved, taken the fall for time and time again. And still, a grown man, he wanted what he had always wanted from Bill, acceptance. He swallowed hard, no tears fell. "Bill," he said, almost as coolly and calmly as his brother had just spoken to him, "I'm sorry shit got so fucked up. I am." He raised the gun, centering it on the back of his brother's head, "But for this, I am not".

He felt no joy at the sight of his brother's lifeless body slumped face against the wall. But no pain, either.

Jude's Confession

This is an excerpt from my current project, "Saint Impossible". Here, the character, Jude, is retelling the events that led to him breaking away from the Neo-Nazi Skinhead gang he had been a part of since age 12.

We pick up in the middle of the tale, Jude's guitar teacher, a black man, is being beaten violently by the guys he considered his "crew". He has just stolen a gun from the holster of the ring leader....



I screamed for them to fucking stop, I screamed for them to stop or I’d shoot them all, Jimmy and Tommy must have been as shocked as I was that I was doing it, because they just let him drop to the floor, I kept the gun pointed right at Benny’s head. I motioned for Mr. Blockwood to come with me, and he crawled to me, barely able to pull himself to his feet. The three of them just stood there, it was like they had forgotten I had never even held a gun, forgotten that they were supposed to be telling me what to do. I turned and half-drug Mr. Blockwood to the door. I knew it was over, I knew I could never go back, I knew they’d come looking for me, but at that moment, I didn’t give a shit, I just wanted to get the fuck out of there, I had totally lost my mind. That’s when it happened.

I heard two gunshots, it didn’t even register what they were, when Mr. Blockwood fell to the floor, I looked at him, actually wondering what had happened, then the second bullet hit, it went through me, through me. I felt it hit my back and rip through my stomach and as I fell, I saw Mr. Blockwood’s face, or what was left of it, they had shot him in the back of the head, it was something out of a horror movie. His face was shattered, caved in, blood everywhere, as I hit the floor, I puked.