Flash!fiction.
Oct. 19th, 2005 01:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kageotogiWe had to write flash fiction for Barkley's class in which we had to include a pop tart sitting on top of the television. The pop tart had to play a major part in the story. This is my cracked out uber-tired attempt. I apologize in advance; I'll probably rewrite it tomorrow.
Pop Tart
He was starting to go gray -- visibly gray -- and Chuck kind of liked it. It added some character to his mousy hair and lent him an air of intelligence and prestige. He bowed his head to eye the silver and to search for more with his fingertips. At last. Thirty years had done little to age him thus far -- perhaps these silver hairs were the key.
Chuck looked over and smiled at Samantha. "What do you think?" he asked her. "Does the gray suit me?"
Samantha ignored him and continued her bath. Her mouth was curved into a small smile, though, so Chuck took her silence as agreement.
"I thought so, too," he said. He gave his reflection a stupid grin and finished combing his hair, although he wasn't sure why he bothered; it was a Saturday and there wasn't exactly anyone around to impress. Except, perhaps, Samantha, but she was used to seeing him look unkempt and rumpled.
Samantha finished her bath and walked out, back into the master bedroom. She said something Chuck didn't quite catch, but he had a good idea of what it was.
"Breakfast," he said. "Right." Quickly finishing his usual morning routine, Chuck backed out from the bathroom, into the bedroom, down the hall, and to the kitchen. Samantha followed and peered around him while he opened the refrigerator.
The refrigerator was mostly empty; Chuck had meant to go out and do the grocery shopping the night before but he'd had to work late at the office and hadn't remembered to go out later. Samantha, of course, hadn't given it a thought one way or the other.
"There's milk," he suggested, reaching for the carton. "That's not quite a breakfast, but it's close." He didn't bother to wait for a reply from her; he got a glass from the cupboard. Both he and Samantha looked at the milk in disgust as it oozed rather than poured out of the carton. He even gagged a little and he tossed the carton of milk away, into the trash, and nearly threw the glass in after it. He patiently and disgustedly washed it instead. Bleck. How had they let the food just spoil like that?
He didn't even need to look at Samantha to know that she was giving him the 'this is your fault and, really, you need to fix it' look. They had been together for so long that he could practically read her mind.
"Sorry," he said. "Sorry." He looked around. "Well, there has to be something in this house to eat, right?"
Samantha just blinked at him and went to the living room. Chuck looked around the kitchen, through cabinets and drawers, and then followed her. She sat on the couch, staring at the television blankly. Chuck sat next to her.
"You're mad, aren't you?" he asked. Samantha didn't answer. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll get the groceries in a bit, I promise, just don't be mad."
Samantha kept her gaze on the television and then, having apparently spotted something interesting, she tilted her head to the side. Chuck followed her gaze.
"There's a pop tart on top of the television," he noted.
Samantha gave him a 'no, really?' look. Chuck ignored it expertly.
"I wonder how it got there."
Stretching a bit, Samantha yawned. She didn't care; she was still pretending to be mad about the milk.
Chuck considered the pop tart, wondering what had possessed him -- and it had to have been him, because Samantha never would have left a pop tart on top of the television under any circumstances -- to put a pop tart on the television. Maybe it had been an experiment: the television waves had probably gone up into the pop tart and, when he picked it up, he would see the image of Jesus in the rainbow sprinkles. He could sell it to a museum or a church and end up making millions.
Or maybe it would be edible. That would be okay, too.
"What do you think?" he asked Samantha.
Samantha brushed some blonde hair away from her ears and looked back at him with green eyes. She obviously didn't know, nor did she care. It had been left on top of the television and there was no telling how long it had been there; she wasn't about to touch it now, much less eat it.
Chuck frowned at the pop tart. "I'm going to try it," he decided.
Samantha gave him a look that said 'you must be joking' and left it at that. Chuck ignored her and got off the couch.
He prodded the pop tart, which was still half-in the silver foil wrapper. He didn't see any images of Jesus -- the foil had probably gotten in the way of the television waves -- and that made him feel a little better about wanting to eat it. He had the feeling it would have been some sort of sin to eat Jesus, pop tart or no.
Chuck examined the pop tart for a moment, trying to remember if he had left the thing there for any particular purpose, and, not thinking of a reason, tore off a corner and put it in his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. He smiled.
"It's not bad," he told Samantha, who was sitting on the couch and giving him a disgusted look. "You should try some."
Samantha hacked a little in her sad attempt at gagging.
Chuck rolled his eyes. "Fine then," he said. "Don't try it. I'll eat it myself and you can just stay hungry until later. See if I care."
Samantha ignored him.
Chuck took another bite of the pop tart, chewed, and swallowed. It went on like this for a long while before Samantha got up and left. Chuck started to call after her but did so with a hunk of pop tart in his mouth; it got caught in his windpipe and he began to choke. There was nothing he could do to save himself and, eventually, he turned blue, fell to the floor, and passed out.
Samantha returned to the room a long while later. She looked at Chuck's prone body, curled up next to it, swished her tail, and purred.
---end---
Right. I still have lots of work to do for tomorrow, but I'm tired. I'll rewrite my flash!fic and workshop the poems tomorrow. And, if I'm really lucky, I'll be able to study for my Neo-Lit, French, or Shakespeare quizzes, too.
He was starting to go gray -- visibly gray -- and Chuck kind of liked it. It added some character to his mousy hair and lent him an air of intelligence and prestige. He bowed his head to eye the silver and to search for more with his fingertips. At last. Thirty years had done little to age him thus far -- perhaps these silver hairs were the key.
Chuck looked over and smiled at Samantha. "What do you think?" he asked her. "Does the gray suit me?"
Samantha ignored him and continued her bath. Her mouth was curved into a small smile, though, so Chuck took her silence as agreement.
"I thought so, too," he said. He gave his reflection a stupid grin and finished combing his hair, although he wasn't sure why he bothered; it was a Saturday and there wasn't exactly anyone around to impress. Except, perhaps, Samantha, but she was used to seeing him look unkempt and rumpled.
Samantha finished her bath and walked out, back into the master bedroom. She said something Chuck didn't quite catch, but he had a good idea of what it was.
"Breakfast," he said. "Right." Quickly finishing his usual morning routine, Chuck backed out from the bathroom, into the bedroom, down the hall, and to the kitchen. Samantha followed and peered around him while he opened the refrigerator.
The refrigerator was mostly empty; Chuck had meant to go out and do the grocery shopping the night before but he'd had to work late at the office and hadn't remembered to go out later. Samantha, of course, hadn't given it a thought one way or the other.
"There's milk," he suggested, reaching for the carton. "That's not quite a breakfast, but it's close." He didn't bother to wait for a reply from her; he got a glass from the cupboard. Both he and Samantha looked at the milk in disgust as it oozed rather than poured out of the carton. He even gagged a little and he tossed the carton of milk away, into the trash, and nearly threw the glass in after it. He patiently and disgustedly washed it instead. Bleck. How had they let the food just spoil like that?
He didn't even need to look at Samantha to know that she was giving him the 'this is your fault and, really, you need to fix it' look. They had been together for so long that he could practically read her mind.
"Sorry," he said. "Sorry." He looked around. "Well, there has to be something in this house to eat, right?"
Samantha just blinked at him and went to the living room. Chuck looked around the kitchen, through cabinets and drawers, and then followed her. She sat on the couch, staring at the television blankly. Chuck sat next to her.
"You're mad, aren't you?" he asked. Samantha didn't answer. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll get the groceries in a bit, I promise, just don't be mad."
Samantha kept her gaze on the television and then, having apparently spotted something interesting, she tilted her head to the side. Chuck followed her gaze.
"There's a pop tart on top of the television," he noted.
Samantha gave him a 'no, really?' look. Chuck ignored it expertly.
"I wonder how it got there."
Stretching a bit, Samantha yawned. She didn't care; she was still pretending to be mad about the milk.
Chuck considered the pop tart, wondering what had possessed him -- and it had to have been him, because Samantha never would have left a pop tart on top of the television under any circumstances -- to put a pop tart on the television. Maybe it had been an experiment: the television waves had probably gone up into the pop tart and, when he picked it up, he would see the image of Jesus in the rainbow sprinkles. He could sell it to a museum or a church and end up making millions.
Or maybe it would be edible. That would be okay, too.
"What do you think?" he asked Samantha.
Samantha brushed some blonde hair away from her ears and looked back at him with green eyes. She obviously didn't know, nor did she care. It had been left on top of the television and there was no telling how long it had been there; she wasn't about to touch it now, much less eat it.
Chuck frowned at the pop tart. "I'm going to try it," he decided.
Samantha gave him a look that said 'you must be joking' and left it at that. Chuck ignored her and got off the couch.
He prodded the pop tart, which was still half-in the silver foil wrapper. He didn't see any images of Jesus -- the foil had probably gotten in the way of the television waves -- and that made him feel a little better about wanting to eat it. He had the feeling it would have been some sort of sin to eat Jesus, pop tart or no.
Chuck examined the pop tart for a moment, trying to remember if he had left the thing there for any particular purpose, and, not thinking of a reason, tore off a corner and put it in his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. He smiled.
"It's not bad," he told Samantha, who was sitting on the couch and giving him a disgusted look. "You should try some."
Samantha hacked a little in her sad attempt at gagging.
Chuck rolled his eyes. "Fine then," he said. "Don't try it. I'll eat it myself and you can just stay hungry until later. See if I care."
Samantha ignored him.
Chuck took another bite of the pop tart, chewed, and swallowed. It went on like this for a long while before Samantha got up and left. Chuck started to call after her but did so with a hunk of pop tart in his mouth; it got caught in his windpipe and he began to choke. There was nothing he could do to save himself and, eventually, he turned blue, fell to the floor, and passed out.
Samantha returned to the room a long while later. She looked at Chuck's prone body, curled up next to it, swished her tail, and purred.
Right. I still have lots of work to do for tomorrow, but I'm tired. I'll rewrite my flash!fic and workshop the poems tomorrow. And, if I'm really lucky, I'll be able to study for my Neo-Lit, French, or Shakespeare quizzes, too.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 12:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 10:59 am (UTC)But it seemed that Chuck's death was ... rushed? If it was a death. *nods* He should curse the poptart and blame it on the TV waves *nod*
Love it!
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 12:32 pm (UTC)ifwhen I rewrite it.no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 04:01 pm (UTC)Rewrote the death -- it's a little better now.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-19 11:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-20 12:04 am (UTC)