Hunter: a flash fiction critique
So here’s Hunter. I was a bit surprised at what the prompt words brought out – it’s a bit rougher than I expected. It’s 239 words, just under the 250 word contest limit. Can you guess what the prompt words were? Sweat beads on the drum, catching on my fingers, coating them in rough animal smell. “It’s deer,” the dealer tells me, ”from hunters in the north. They don’t waste nothin’, them hunters. Deer means meat for summer, jerky for winter, an’ leather...
Read MoreCrow-Skin
Published April 30, 2000, SFWP.org He thinks I am my mother. I hear it in his voice. I feel it in the way he fingers my hair. Her hair. I know I look like her. We have the same blue eyes, the same thick flaxen hair. It was comforting, after she died. Looking in the mirror was almost like looking at her. Now, I hate it. I hate the way his eyes follow me, undress me. I hate the quaver in his councilors voices, insistent, but not insistent...
Read MoreFat
Act One, Scene One SCENE An upscale cafe. Hardwood tables are scattered about. Each table has a small vase filled with seasonal flowers. Tables are half full. It is around 4 pm in the afternoon. As the curtain rises, two women, CASSANDRA and JENNIFER, are seated at a table slightly to the left of centre. Both are well coiffed and dressed in designer jeans, tops, and heels. JENNIFER is thin, but not waif-ish, while CASSANDRA is a middling weight, voluptuous but not fat. Each is on her second...
Read MoreA Fool and her Money
“Thirteen twenty-five.” “Thirteen twenty-five!” “Yes. One triple-grande-decaf-no-fat-no-water-half-half-syrup-soy-white-coconut-cappucino and a fruit salad and an piece of the pumpkin loaf.” “What, do you charge by the syllable now?” “No, ma’am. If we charged fifty cents per syllable, it’d be twelve fifty for the drink and another three dollars for the food to bring you to fifteen fifty. Really, when you think about it, thirteen twenty-five is quite a steal!” “Look at...
Read MoreLobsters
“You know I hate this sort of place.” “You hate every sort of place.” “No. I don’t. I only hate the sort of place you bring me too.” “They’re just lobsters. It’s not like they have a purpose.” “Everything has a purpose.” “Not lobsters. Lobsters eat, lobsters get eaten. That’s it.” “How many?” “Two.” “Right this way.” “Look at them! Just look at them! They’re so sad. Binding their claws like that is just cruel!” “Listening to you is just...
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