Sorry.... (a flash fiction contest I entered)
I entered a little bit of a flash fiction contest today. Meredith Barnes, a literary agent said that in 100 words or less (!), contestants had to write a bit of fiction with the ending line "I felt sorry, after that, but still I couldn’t bring myself to cross the room."
I had to edit out some of it for the purposes of the contest (I mean, 100 words, jeez... it's like 1/5 of a twitter post or something), but here's what I came up with:
“So one of you told that damned vegetarian...”
“Vegan,” Kim interrupted without glancing from his Blackberry. Kim made me ill, smug little fuck, right hand man, right hand job man.
“...that fucking vegan about the goat incident. Now my face is all over the front page of the fucking Huffington Post looking like that Satanic priest from Indiana Jones. The one with the hearts.”
“It’s a Thugee priest, sir.”
“People don’t elect thugees for President. They don't trust thugees. If you people can’t show loyalty now, if you aren’t ready to pledge your first born baby and swear on your mother's grave that you believe in me and this cause we support, Kim will escort you out now. No hard feelings. We're all gentlemen here. Just step by the door and Kim will lead you all downstairs.”
We looked at each other, then the ground. I mean, who was going to admit to telling the reporter. I thought about her pale eyes, the hemp Amnesty international T-shirt, the chipped front tooth. With that tiny little cheap hand recorder and all her earnest questions. I felt so bad for her with her lefty causes and her flat chest. And she gave such a shitty blow job. Her career as a citizen journalist wasn't going to go far. How many of us here knew that? More than just me. I was certain of that.
Of course... Yeah, of course, I felt sorry, after that, but still I couldn’t bring myself to cross the room.
I had to edit out some of it for the purposes of the contest (I mean, 100 words, jeez... it's like 1/5 of a twitter post or something), but here's what I came up with:
“So one of you told that damned vegetarian...”
“Vegan,” Kim interrupted without glancing from his Blackberry. Kim made me ill, smug little fuck, right hand man, right hand job man.
“...that fucking vegan about the goat incident. Now my face is all over the front page of the fucking Huffington Post looking like that Satanic priest from Indiana Jones. The one with the hearts.”
“It’s a Thugee priest, sir.”
“People don’t elect thugees for President. They don't trust thugees. If you people can’t show loyalty now, if you aren’t ready to pledge your first born baby and swear on your mother's grave that you believe in me and this cause we support, Kim will escort you out now. No hard feelings. We're all gentlemen here. Just step by the door and Kim will lead you all downstairs.”
We looked at each other, then the ground. I mean, who was going to admit to telling the reporter. I thought about her pale eyes, the hemp Amnesty international T-shirt, the chipped front tooth. With that tiny little cheap hand recorder and all her earnest questions. I felt so bad for her with her lefty causes and her flat chest. And she gave such a shitty blow job. Her career as a citizen journalist wasn't going to go far. How many of us here knew that? More than just me. I was certain of that.
Of course... Yeah, of course, I felt sorry, after that, but still I couldn’t bring myself to cross the room.
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