“Quit your whining, you asked me to put it in.” He said.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were going to be so…” She trailed off.
“Forceful? Impressive? Noteworthy?” He said.
“Clumsy.” She said with a grimace. “There had to be an easier way.”
“Look, unless you wanted it to go in through the backdoor, this is the only way I know how to do it.” His voice peevish. “C’mon, my back’s about to fucking break here. Can we get a move on?”
“Fine.” She said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Ten sweaty, fucktastic minutes later…
“Finally!” She said, lying down and rubbing her thighs to ease muscles cramping from holding up so much weight. “That didn’t last as long as I worried. Do you want some money?”
“Your overwhelming gratitude is all the thanks I need.” He finished with a grunt, heaving his end up and then collapsing on the floor next to her. Panting, he rolled onto his side, adding. “And the next time you invite someone to help ‘move an organ in’, please be more specific.”
Every Friday, authors from around the world gather here to share their 100-words and offer constructive criticism and encouragement to each other. This creates a wonderful opportunity for free reading of very fresh fiction! Readers are encouraged to comment as well. The prompt is from Marie Gail Stratford For details, check out Rochelle Wisoff-Fields http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/12-september-2014/
Slapped together with much haste and little grace, I give you ALL SYSTEMS GO:
“Gimme another.” Bob slurs.
“Give it up, captain.” Joe says, resigned.
“The engine needs fuel.” Bob glowers, his eyes pickled in red-rimmed sockets. “Jesh one more.”
“You still owe for last night…if we survive that is.”
“It’s almost calibrated.” Bob squints blearily. “Give me a blue one.”
Sighing, Joe twists open a Blue Moon and hands it over.
At the brightly-colored wall of empties, Bob studies the pattern. Draining his beer, Bob then shoves the last bottle in.
The sub-light engines whine as they come alive.
“I’ll be damned.” Handing Bob another beer, Joe adds, “This one’s on the house!”
There is a house, hemmed by hundred-year-old forests. It sits wedged at the crack where the mountain and the trees argue about property lines; each takes a small step here or there, reclaiming what was lost. The crenellated highway cuts through and, playing referee, takes no sides. From the uppermost window you could see traffic zoom by. Only birds know this was once a palace of an impoverished people. Zigzag stairs dash haphazard footpaths—dizzying, transitory indecision leading nowhere. And flower pots wait at the end of the world for owners who are never coming home.