One of the things that has lagged, as I slowly try to get back in the habit of writing, is fiction.
I don't know why.
Twice winning runner-up in the Mysterious Photo flash fiction contest in the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine has inspired me. Still, the fact that the magazine has not published a printed magazine since February has diminished that source of inspiration.
To hopefully re-inspire, I am going back to a writing exercise that I have used on here several times - the InspireMe app that brings up three random words to build a flash story around.
So, here we go!
Court, Key, Substance
"Don't be late for your court date," Wally warned. "They could throw your junk back into the trunk!" I think Wally meant county lockup, but I wasn't always sure with Wally. He wasn't always clear, but he was the best lawyer I could afford. Which was free, as we were childhood chums.
"The key to your freedom is your confession," the coppers had urged. They lied. What a surprise! Now I had to recant and hope for the best.
I wasn't late, but I'm not sure it helped much. Despite Wally's inept description of the substance of the case, there was a book, and the Judge tossed it at me.
Well, heckers. I guess I should have never thrown a cream pie at the Mayor.
Tail, Pass, Class
Barky wagged his tail as I prepared to enter the school bus. How could I leave while my precious black lab puppy was urging me to stay? How could I pass up spending the day with my beautiful, playful buddy?
"In or out, kiddo?" the bus driver urged. "C'mon, I ain't got all day!"
My best friend, Wally, shouted from an open bus window, "You have to go, Daz! We got that big test in Mrs. Comer's English class! It's a quarter of the final grade!"
I coughed spectacularly, bent down as if a big ol' barf was coming. The bus driver pulled back in horror, slamming the bus door.
"Sorry, Wally! I'll just have to make it up later!"
Barky and I retreated up the dirt driveway to our farmhouse. Some days were too valuable to waste sitting in a stuffy classroom.
Colony, Represent, Plastic
He planted the flag on the beach with dramatic flourish. "I hereby, in the name of the Queen of Pazoria, declare this island a colony of her Majesty, to forewith forever to be known as Rojeci Island!'
The native watching this was slightly miffed. "I'm sorry, Sir, whoever you are. You do realize that this island nation is already occupied?"
The Admiral, Sir Wallace Beery, looked down at the short native, sniffed, and said, with great regal disdain, "Who...are...you?"
The native puffed up, standing firm. "I am Dazman, and I represent the peoples of this island. We have been here for millennia, and categorically reject your impertinent colonization!"
"Do you?" roared the Admiral. "I reject your ignorant nativism! Don't you realize what advances we can bring to you?"
"What? Like plastic?" queried Dazman, pointing to the plastic skiffs that bore the Pazorian Navy's advance team. "Plastic just poisons and ruins the environment, don't you know?"
"You reject all advances. I've had enough of this nonsense!" warned Sir Beery. "Take aim, men!"
"Well, we don't reject all advances," assured Dazman. "For instance, we are very keen on catapults."
Before the Pazorians could fire, rocks rained down on them.
Thus ended the foreign occupation of the short-lived reign of Rojeci Island.
Well, anyhoo, it's a start.

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