This is a response to the Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challange this week. He wanted us to pick four words, and from there, use them to write some flash fiction. I like doing these challenges and sharing them with other people on the internet, I feel like it truly helps me hone in on my craft. Plus, it helps me forget about the other things I have been working on, and we all know how nice that can be.
For last week’s challenge, I wrote a story about a battle between centaurs and the Amazonians. It was freaking amazing.
I recently finished reading “No Country For Old Men” by Cormac McCarthy, and found the dialogue to be amazing. I loved how free and self-centered the characters felt to me. I guess when an author doesn’t use quotation marks, like in No Country For Old Men, it makes me think of all the characters as self-centered because all the words someone says to them are taken as though they were already written in their mind. Stange concept.
Here is what I got for Chuck’s challenge this week:
The old sleeze had died. Jerome took a big bite of his juicy burger, let the juices flow down his cheeks, as he watched the waitress bounce from table to table filling up people’s coffee.
No one ever knew what that guy did either. He got away with it.
Jerome had come into town and stayed at a local motel. He didn’t know any of the senators friends, but he was invited to the funeral. His connections to the senator wasn’t one a person brags about. No one ever would proclaim outloud what they did.
Senator McCarthy was the perfect candidate for the position. Every month, he sent Jerome the checks to keep funding the giant marajuana plantation on142 Sycamore Drive, a large three-story house on the other side of town, and in return, Jerome sent him back a big wad of cash through U.S. mail.
Senator McCarthy had been in the business for decades. No one would ever believe it either. However, the old sleeze was dead now anyway. So what did it matter?
Jerome and him even went to Amsterdam together. They smoked blunt and joint after joint after joint in the coffeeshops in the red light district. Like was said before, no one would have ever suspected Senator McCarthy.
In return, McCarthy got hefty campaign donations that came in white envelopes sent to his poltical office. Every day a grand or two was sent to the office.
But now he was dead. Something felt a lot less free now.
I like this just being simple and sweet. I do see some interesting characters I can carve out of this too.