Sunday, December 30, 2007


This was from a writing prompt I did with Leslee at Barnes & Noble. She always asks me to come up with a prompt, and I hadn't a clue, so it ended up being the word "fork". I have no problem with one word prompts, but she hates them and gave me stink-eye. When I wrote this, I realize that people die in most of my stories (or whole planets, as the case may be).

Once again, this one is weird (when are they not?) I went again with a short, rapid sentence structure, but I think it is too simple here.


Boom! The kitchen exploded. Dust burst through the cracks between the window casings and the walls. A small fire began to burn where Alison had stood stirring the goop in the pot with a fork. Her left pinky had shot across the room and impaled a grease covered picture of a French rooster. The fingertip poked out at an angle that accentuated the rooster's comb.

The explosion woke up Buster who was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, basking in the wan glow of an episode of "The Price is Right" that Alison DVR'd the previous morning. Buster's ears were ringing, his tongue was bleeding a bit where he bit down on it, and he was disoriented. He began to smell bacon.

The audience on the TV groaned as a Plinko chip popped out of the Plinko board and fell on the waxy white studio floor.

Buster began to salivate. He stretched his hairy legs against the worn pink afghan covering the sofa. He liked the texture - the purl knit was soothing against his skin. The bacon was beginning to drive him nuts, but a headache was setting in and he didn't want to move much. He wanted Alison to turn off the TV. It gave off too much light. Buster rolled over and nestled his head in a green velvet pillow. He let out a long, relaxing fart. He was beginning to fall asleep again.

Crash! The front door burst open sending shards of cheap wood all over the living room. Buster sat up instantly against the protest of his elderly backbone. Five men dressed in yellow and black with helmets charged through carrying a hose. They ran towards the kitchen and crouched in a line. The first man yelled out something and a few seconds later the hose grew pregnant with water. The sound was deafening again. Kitchen utensils clattered around the room. A minute later it was over, water beginning to pool back into the living room. The firemen scooped up the empty hose and began to file out. None of them noticed Buster staring at them.

Buster yawned. He turned around, punching the sofa with his toes in a slow dance. He flopped down. He slept again.

1 comment:

Beithar said...

You've got to love cats. So aloof.

Still. His royal majesty's going to be pretty upset come dinner time.