Prose choice
Previous prose
Neil Weiner
Second to None
Chad, an aspiring author, sank into his easy chair and drifted into a
reverie.
He found himself, not in his apartment but in a dusty courthouse at the center
of a nameless small town. The kind of town with cracked sidewalks, sagging
porches, and secrets whispered over pie at the diner. Inside, four of his
secondary characters were holding court.
Jay, the informant, leaned on the prosecution table. “Chad, man, this whole
book’s a trite monstrosity. Amy, your golden-haired D.A., gets the verdict,
the headlines, the man. While the rest of us get stuck with cliché scripts
and no backstories.”
Minerva, pale and wired, added. “I’ve OD’d six times in this book.
That’s not a character arc, that’s malpractice. Instead of chasing
cartels, you could’ve written me a second chance.”
“Or a proper job,” added Preston Brightham III, lounging with disdain.
“I sell luxury sedans to corn-fed cowboys. Brilliant. And Detective Rachel
here. She’s a goddamn widow who lost her husband in a bust gone wrong. Yet
you have her fetching coffee for that insipid Detective Adam.”
Rachel rose from the bench in her judge’s robe. “I buried my husband in
this town. They buried the truth, too. You want noir, Chad? Start digging.”
***
Chad jolted awake. That courthouse… He used it in his novel. He’d based it
on the old county building in his hometown, where rumors once swirled about a
sheriff who vanished after threatening to expose corruption.
He opened his laptop.
New pages.
Adam led a failed raid. Shot dead. Rachel triggered explosives, burned the
cartel headquarters and drug lord to ash. Then she collapsed into Preston’s
arms in a steamy post-battle embrace.
Chad blinked. Had he written that?
That night, in Chad’s sleep, the characters reassembled, this time in the
courthouse basement.
Jay lit a cigarette. “Rachel got her redemption. Me and Minerva want
ours.”
Minerva screamed. “And Amy? Time the truth came out.”
***
Next morning, Chad scanned the pages, horrified and amazed.
Minerva was reborn, a public defender exposing town corruption one rigged case
at a time. Jay? A local hero. His wiretap work brought down half the town
council. The FBI dubbed him “The Whistleblower in Cowboy Boots.”
And Amy?
Turns out, the D.A. had been protecting a ring of powerful men. Jay caught her
fleeing with cartel cash.
There was no arrest.
Only gasoline.
A lighter.
Amy burned.
***
Chad’s novel won the Ellery King Award. Readers praised the gritty
authenticity in uncovering small-town secrets.
But in a corner of Chad’s mind—or maybe on the pages—the characters
gathered again.
Rachel pounded the judge’s gavel. “We don’t need Chad anymore. The
town’s ours.”
Jay grinned. “Let’s make it official.”
***
On a foggy backroad after a book signing, Chad’s vision blurred. His hands
fell from the wheel. The last thing he saw was the courthouse steeple rising
behind the trees.
Then impact.
Headlines called it a tragic loss.
But behind the scenes, the secondary characters began the sequel.
Alone.
Neil Weiner been published in a variety of professional journals and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a Portland Newspaper, AskDr.Neil.
Scott C. Holstad
Fifteen hours of processing time later, I was in my cell block and already two confrontations with Six Shooter, a massive Crip from the Compton/North Long Beach area, with a ‘tude. Early on he and his set surrounded me, two of them 187s like him. They made sure I knew if I stepped out of line, I wouldn’t be leaving while breathing. That didn’t go down with me very well. Some have said I have an attitude problem.
Rebecca Klassen
1) Liana vines are rooted in the earth and use trees to climb towards the canopy.
Mum sews in her armchair, the embroidery hoop in one hand like a tambourine as she plays it with cotton, the needle’s tempo remaining steady when Dad gets home from the pub again. I notice the root sprouting next to me from the carpet, curling around Mum’s ankles.
Luke Reilly on National Flash Fiction Day
The man is a master. Through livestreams and televisions and retinas, through a giant screen in the city centre, sixty million people have been watching his furrowed brows. Waiting for his fingernails to pick up a piece of clamshell or slate and place it on a gridded board.
Kayleigh Cassidy
Before I knew it, I was crying in front of my entire dance class. Thirty women and two men in neon active wear, staring at me as I tried to explain why I was late.
Meg Pokrass and Jeff Friedman (collaboration)
His guest from Scotland dawdled getting to the shower and by the time she arrived, it wasn’t there. Instead, there was a hologram of a shower, one that didn’t leak.
Hattie Logan
. . . There I was alone in the porters lodge, halfway through my morning coffee, black no sugar, when my walkie-talkie crackled into life.
It’s Bruce, the gardener “Mike, are you there? Stella’s just left her hideaway and is heading towards you” . . .
Cheryl Snell
Follow your room-mate and her boyfriend, but not so close that either one notices. Think shadow. Think Pink Panther. Plop down in the middle seat of three in the theater. Pretend you don’t hear your room-mate say “Do you mind?” Back at the apartment tell her you want to switch bedrooms. “I need the room with the door.” Because migraines.
Tom Ball
I, Shelly, said to Amos, “We live in a nightmare amusement park World, here on Moon Miranda!” He replied, “How did we ever come to this?” I said, “In my case, I was lured by the potential thrills of continuous action.” He said, “Me, too. And it’s a new World, so there were no ratings to go by.” I said, “There must be some way we can escape!” He said
Noel King
In the photo-booth Eva gets self conscious, blinking when the flash pops. “It’s not me,” she screams out loud as the photo pops out.