Saturday, August 7, 2010
4:18 AM | Posted by Lola Sharp | | Edit Post
Okay, first, let me say that it is 4 a.m, and we were at a beef & beer fundraiser all night. We got home very late, it's been a LONG, busy week, I'm exhausted, and I just threw this little flash fiction thing together minutes ago. Excuse the typos. I apologize. I don't have anything banked that isn't part of a novel (which I don't post). And if you knew how little sleep I've been surviving off of the last few weeks, you'd forgive me for this:
The damn dog woke me up at the crack of dawn. It was the first day I’d had off in weeks, and I needed more sleep. But duty called, so I pulled on some sweats, grabbed the leash and a plastic bag. She spun at my feet, eager.
“I'm not liking you right now, Maggie.”
She pulled me down the stairs and across the lot to our condo’s little park. I plopped on a bench while Maggie went about her sniffing for the sweet spot. Finally she got in position and as I reached for my baggie, I thought: I hope the neighbors aren’t watching this, because not only am I looking lovely in my sweats and bed-head, but there’s just nothing sexier than a girl scooping up a steaming bag of dog crap.
As I tied off my bag o’ doody, Maggie’s head snapped up. She went rigid, then barked at a man walking a dog. A man and dog I did not recognize. But then again, I hardly ever took Maggie out front to go potty; we almost always went out back. I didn't know all of the residents in the other buildings, so I wasn’t worried.
As Maggie and I started to leave, the man and his terrier changed course. He rushed towards us and smiled, his gray teeth gapped and crooked like old gravestones. His fleshy face reminded me of raw chicken cutlets and waxy chunks of dandruff were lodged in his stringy hair. My instinct said to get the hell out of there.
I started to pull on Maggie in earnest, but she was busy doing the butt-sniff dance with creepy guy's mutt.
“Cute little dog you got there.” White sticky spittle in the corners of his mouth, stretched like pulled taffy while he spoke. His fetid breath hit me like a sewer tank.
“Thanks…gotta go. Running late this morning.” I yanked Maggie and we ran back towards our building.
As I hit my stairs, I heard the man laugh.
The oft-overused cliche about the hairs rising on the back of your neck, it is so damn real. My neck prickled and my stomach did the plunge; click-clicking its way up, up to the free fall down, down.
After getting safely inside and locking the door, I looked out my window. He was standing there with a cigarette in his hand, looking up at me. Smiling.
- Lola Sharp
- My name is Lola. (I'm not a showgirl) Yes, L-O-L-A Lola. It's the least of my worries. Let's move on, shall we? This blog is mostly about my misadventures on the journey to publication and beyond. My passion for lush prose, quirky characters, art, music, literature, performing arts and anything creative will be a major theme here. This journey of mine will not always be pretty. Much like rubbernecking a train wreck, I know sometimes you just can't help but look at the carnage that is often my life. So strap on your neck brace, helmet and 5-point harness and come along for the ride! Licentia poetica.
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