Tremble (August 30-Day Writing Contest)

In Fiction on August 22, 2012 at 6:36 AM

(18th in this challenge)

(inspired by the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest and my scriptophobia)

It was a dark and stormy night. I retrieved a defrosting fish stick from its box, used it to snoop the richness of the black pit of cocoa I’d made to submissify my nerves as dry wall sections of rain slammed into the windows. The glass trembled like an innocent girl being slapped around by her tyrannical, widowed farmer father who didn’t have a cow or horse or sheep to ride into town on (or sleigh, which is more suitable for winter in the geography of this story) so that he could buy himself some more Coca-Cola Zero (though he owned a viciously purple bicycle that was like a brother to him even though he’d been paraplegic since birth so it was more like a taunting brother, as useful as three strips of thin-ply toilet paper in a roofless outhouse in the middle of a high, naked meadow on this dark and stormy night at the penultimate instance of flood).   


Suddenly, a shot rang out inside the mansion, thickening the plot like a breaded coating. The maid screamed in a kind of belated reaction a minute later. I guess it took her a few seconds to realize the thunder was all outside. Then another shot, and the fish stick in my hand dove with Olympic gold medal pretty boy diver precision to nowhere particular. Maybe I’d felt a bullet fist-bump my ear, maybe the air-conditioning had fired its stealthy arrow of chill toward me from the vent above. Either way, I grabbed my cocoa and ducked.

A door slammed. “You no good fish stick hoarder!” some drama queen bemoaned. I cranked sixty degrees off my glutes, high enough to spy a buxom pirate appear on the horizon of my kitchen island. And she was spying the unburried treasure of fish sticks.

“You said I could have three,” I reasoned. She murdered the box with her glare.

“But I can tell by the color of your cocoa in the lightening light that you’ve had copious amounts.” She approached me with a thunder of heavy, overpriced booted footstep and the death penalty of her glare, as dangerous and cute as her pistol.

“But I bought you two other boxes,” I said. When I touched her hand, she sighed.

“But this was the box I wanted to marry in an ungodly dinner ceremony. But you knew that. But you don’t care. But you’d never know by the way you’ve wet your pants just now. But that pants wetting doesn’t fool me. But you knew that. But I won’t let any of this change my mind. But you’re going to give me those two boxes of fish sticks anyway.”

I cross-country ski across my albino marble to the cranky refrigerator, urine hurdling to the exterior of my pajama bottoms as if every droplet wanted a front row seat to the end of this story. I clasped them non-specifically, then pivoted to face her.

“But before you give them too me,” she said, shooting the maid who’d been hiding behind the kitchen door and trembling like an innocent girl being slapped around after suggesting her father try regular Coca-Cola instead. “That’s my way of telling you that I’m firing your maid. She’s been abominable and vegan.”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought that was just her face.”

I’m neither Bulwer-Lytton, L’Engle, or Snoopy. But I thought I’d try this first line out. Now hear a choir sound like a thunder storm:


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