Freddy Bulls stands at Ninth and Haith before Breaks, a pool hall, weaving a quarter between long fingers. At a high-rise window, sundown cresting dirty Brownstones, an Irish kid named Tommy Lang eyes Freddy in the cross hairs of his scope. Ten blocks east, travelling 110 mph, Sup, this fresh Crip, races a red ’69 Impala toward the intersection. As Freddy’s bus slows, brakes hissing, a scrawny addict named Edgar Face asks for spare change. Freddy clutches his coin. An oil slick on the street shimmers a psychedelic dusk of violet and green as the bus door opens. Freddy boards.
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Ray Garza
18/9/2018 08:35:54 pm
Intriguing. Wanted to read some more. Hope it caught your attention. I learned with this story that you can tell a story without a plot - and darn if it doesn’t present a tale despite the incidental and random placement of the words. If you argue about the crafty arraignment of synchronicity, you’ve to accept that there is no such thing as accident. Most don’t get it, but I find it clever, like Will Rogers jumping in and out a spinning lasso. Fun story. Enjoy the variant interpretations.
Bobby Warner
22/9/2018 06:34:50 pm
Liked the way you tied the various parts together, Roy--showing that there is indeed no such thing as accident. Loved it! Glad to see you here with us on Friday Flash Fiction. Think you been here before, eh? And I hope to see you here again lots more! Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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