Cheryl, from Beaverton Evening Writers, wrote about a challenge to write a piece of 200 word flash fiction on her blog. The original post is on Rachael Harrie's blog. And here's my attempt:
The door swung open.Word count courtesy of Microsoft Word 2002 SP3 -- take it up with Uncle Bill if you count other than 200 words.
“Come to Mama,” she moaned. “I need more of your sweet, creamy satisfaction. Melt in my mouth, lover.”
He was silent, but I heard, “I’ve got what you need. Don’t I always take care of you?” So smooth.
When would I ever learn? She told me she would stop: yesterday, last week, for my birthday. But it was always the same. A day went by and she’d have to have it. Problems at work and she couldn’t get enough. A long commute and she’d stop on the corner to score.
Twain said giving up smoking was the easiest thing he ever did: he did it a thousand of times. She made him out to be an amateur.
I’ve tried to get her help: twelve step programs, rehab clinics, even threatened and cajoled. It’s been useless: useless as a critic without an audience.
“It’s me or him.” My voice was strong, but my eyes were weak. “Choose. Now.”
“What’s your problem? I can handle it.” She laughed. At me. “It’s not like I’ve got a real problem!”
He said nothing. What a cad; bury him I will. Someday.
I turned and walked away.
The door swung shut.
