Monday, August 25, 2014

The Kids of Saint Anthony I-01 (Flash Fiction Friday...Belated)

 Good intentions are getting in the way a little too much with this one.

The whole purpose of flash-fiction is that it's supposed to keep you limber as a writer. My intention for Fridays is to tell a story with as little word count as possible.

This project is not turning out that way.

This project wants to find roots and grow. It doesn't want to be raised in a cage to be cut down early in its life. There are options I haven't found yet, possibilities yet to be discovered, characters not yet formed. There is something there, and it needs to be fleshed out.

Now, I realize the Friday entry is two days too late in posting, and for that I apologize immensely. I wanted this to be quick, but this is not turning into a one-off situation. This is the kind of thing where I need to pack a lunch. So, as a result, I will be posting sections of chapters as they come, while making room for the occasional challenge from prompts that I find. If you're as interested as I am to see where this story will go, please feel free to subscribe so you won't miss a thing.

Please enjoy.
Sorry so late.
Will do better.
Hugs and kisses.


~***~


"No, I won't be able to take a look at it until Monday. I'm with a client all weekend."


Rain spotted her windshield as she sat in her idling car in the parking lot, waiting for the clock in her dash to read 3:00. She would normally have this conversation on the road. Talking on the phone while driving was never her strong suit. She could never get the hang of it. Her phone would always slip from her cheek as she drove, and almost always the conversation would end abruptly as her newest sleek and stylish smartphone would wedge itself between the driver's seat and center console. This would happen repeatedly until she finally discovered Bluetooth and never leaves home without her earpiece.

"Yes, Richard, we've been over this. All weekend." Her voice remained as civil as it could be as she buried her forehead in the palm of her hand. The voice from the other end of the conversation was none too pleased to be reminded of what he should have remembered, and proceeds to make his opinions known about it. Without stopping. "Yes...YES we....I...Richard...Richard! Calm down. I've informed my lawyer and she'll be contacting you tomorrow, would that be okay?...Yes, Richard. Of course, I think of everything, why can't you?" With a single, purposeful tap to the earpiece, the conversation ended abruptly. Seat cushions would not have this day.

2:54. She turns off the engine, removes her earpiece and gathers up her paperwork in the front seat. Reports with typed information, handwritten affidavits, photos of the children, all neatly paper-clipped and placed securely in manila envelopes. She pauses before she clasps up her briefcase, as she normally does, to stare at an old photograph of a young girl with a sad face. It's the expression that all children give when they don't want their picture taken. She stands board straight and bored stiff just long enough for the flash to go off so she get out of that dress she thought was ugly and into her street clothes where she could feel normal. This photo is of her daughter on her ninth birthday. This photo was taken as she was just getting off a merry-go-round horse. This photo was taken 10 years ago. This photo was taken two weeks before she died.

2:58 as she shakes the rain from her lapels and throws the lanyard name tag around her neck that reads "Emily Mason-Wright, BSW". 2:59, the guard gives her a familiar nod, and buzzes her in.


~***~


©2014Anthony Payson/The Writers Bloc