Third Time, Not the Charm!

The word of the week is STRIKE for the six-sentence story prompt by girlontheedge.  This week we will see the story of Conrad, an ex-con with really bad luck, who agreed to take his cousin to the corner store, and has come to seriously regret this decision.  It’s one of those, people see what they want kind of situations, and while I believe most of the “I was just there” defences are crap, some of them  are probably on the level…

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Conrad was standing in line at a seven-eleven, trying desperately not to break down in tears as his cousin held a gun to the cashier’s head, demanding all the money in the till.

He had no idea that this was what Joey had in mind when asking him for a ride, and since Joey had been the only one in his family to give him a shot after his second stint in prison, he hadn’t really been in a place to say no.

He wouldn’t have said no if he could though, his cousin was a good guy, clean cut, working class, and he was letting Conrad sleep on his couch until he got a job that paid enough to get a place on his own.

Of all the people in Conrad’s family, Joey was the last person he would have suspected to pull this kind of shit, but now he was here and there was a gun, and the sounds of sirens in the distance.

If it had been after his first arrest he would have been trying to talk Joey down, after all, murder in the commission of felony fell on all participants, and while he was not participating, Conrad had been around the block a few times now, he knew there wasn’t a snowballs chance in hell people would believe that he was just an innocent bystander.

It didn’t matter if Joey got away, or if he killed everyone here, this would be counted at Conrad’s third strike, he would be in for life, so he stood clutching a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, closed his eyes, and waited for it all to be over.

Over in a Flash

Hello, this week on The Writer’s Mess Weekly Friday Picture Prompt Challenge, I decided to take a stunningly lovely picture of a canyon and twist it into something dark and sad.  Follow Evan, an inexperienced hiker who took a weekend trip without knowing all the fact, and learns that water in the dessert is both a blessing and a curse.


Evan looked up at the smooth rock walls of the canyon, the blue gray of the storm building above, and thought it was a pretty nice place to die.

He didn’t want to die, but he was practical and knew he chances of getting rescued were low at this point.  He had been trapped in this canyon for four days, after being flushed in during a flash flood.  At the time he had considered himself lucky for not having drowned, after all, he had found the bodies of the three of other guys he went hiking with already.

The food and water from their packs had kept him going, and he thought that he could make it to a spot where he could climb out before his rations were gone, or he would be found.

Hope ran out about three hours after the water had, but he knew he still had at least another day before he died of dehydration.

Then the thunder started.

At first he thought it was a chopper, but as it grew louder, and the sky grew darker, he realized it wouldn’t be the dehydration that killed him.

He had barely managed to stay afloat the first time, in the best shape of his life.  Now, four days later he was tired, starving, and thirsty.  He wouldn’t have the strength to keep his head above water, and as the first drop of rain hit his cracked tongue, he knew that this was God being merciful.

Shredded

This weeks six-sentence story is a little sad, and surprisingly mundane. Based on the six-sentence story prompt of Confetti from Girlontheedge, this is the story of someone who has come to the realization that there is a little more to her projects being behind, and having to make a choice what in her life is more important.


Sharon took a deep breath in, held it for a count of four, and then let it out, as she took a moment before she assessed the damage.

Her projects were going to be late, that was a given, and as much as she would like to pretend it was an accident, it was quite clearly sabotage.

She had held the same schedule for three years, and each week without fail Gerry would contact her during her project block and start asking questions about something.

At first Sharon had thought it was a coincidence, that maybe that Gerry knew she would be on-line then, but the more progress she made, the more insistent the other woman had become with her need to discuss just a few things during these times.

As things started to work out for Sharon, Gerry stopped being the supportive friend who looked over her work, making small corrections to help it along, and started being the person who would tear up Sharon’s self esteem until all that remained was a pile of confetti.

Today she had to make a choice, THE choice, of what she wanted from her life, her friend or her passion projects, because it seemed like she no longer could keep them both, and it weighed heavy on her heart, it was so hard to make new friends…

The Perfectionist

I have to start with May the 4th be with you! This week’s six sentence story prompt by girlontheedge was CONTROL, and it got weird. What started with a perfectionist researcher being interrupted turned a little strange, and well it’s up to you if you want to interpret this as horror/fantasy or take it as a metaphor.


The sounds of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 came from a waterproof speaker mounted high in the corner of the lab, the only deviation in an otherwise textbook set-up.

The lab equipment was all stored as precisely as if it were a demo rather than a working lab, and the few samples being worked on were set up on an immaculate bench top, all labelled with perfectly legible capital letters, all spaced exactly one inch apart.

The scientist working on them also appeared picture ready, with nary a hair out of place as she methodically reviewed her data, making notations in her lab book with a precise print that almost looked typed, and only when she was sure that every detail had been captured did she move onto the next step in her procedure.

Then HE stepped into the lab, him in his open toed shoes, stopping the music, waving his hands as if he wasn’t surrounded by fragile equipment, and all hell broke loose when he finally made contact, her sense of control shattering along with the glassware.

She turned, snarling, her hair bursting from it’s tie as the strands turned to snakes ready to devour their prey, claws escaping through the tips of her gloves, and he barely had a chance to widen his eyes in horror before it was all over.

Three hours later the lab was back to it’s impeccable state, Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 drifted from the recently sterilised speaker as she stepped inside, freshly showered in a new lab-coat and gloves, she was ready to resume her work without interruption, and the only attention she gave to the now bulging biohazard bag was a note in her lab book to have it scheduled for removal when she was finished for the day.


Side note, going forward theses are moving to Wednesday’s and the Short Stories will be moving to Friday’s.