Fifteen minutes of love is only twenty bucks at the Springfield Flying J Truck Stop. She ran off from the place a few months back when the manager of the joint grew soft on her, but his business fell so slack so that he had to get her back, no matter the cost. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard for Pete to find her. She was only one exit down, at the Circle 10 Fuel and Fireworks.

Her name is Windy, and like a vacuum she sucks in the big rigs, giving her drivers not just the quick pump and go, but a warm shower afterwards too, and a bite of cherry pie at the counter. She truly loves those truckers, so she throws herself into the job, and in so doing she keeps those lonely men coming for miles around.

It was really all her fault, and Windy knew it. Like any good employee, she tried to be sweet to the boss, even to suck up a little, but when Pete started balling her out about laying down on the job, it made satisfying her customers extremely tricky. I mean, how can he tell her to shut her trap and get to work when getting to work required her to open it? Sheesh!

But all is well that ends well! As with any dispute of this type, the remedy is only a little give what you get. Pete gave Windy a healthy raise, Windy gave Pete a good tongue lashing, and everyone at The Flying J benefitted from the pair’s happy new working relationship. (Everyone except HR, that is.)

And so fifteen minutes of love is still only twenty bucks at the Flying J Truck Stop... but if you happen to get soft on Windy, she’ll make it hard on you!

He gazed her across the dinner table in the candlelight. She giggled, blushing and looking away, "Please, you've been staring at me all night." "I can't help it," he gushed, reaching to take her hand gently in his, "Every time I see you, you're more beautiful." She touched her reddened cheeks, "Aww, thank you." But she seemed to be distracted when she said it, almost saddened by his words.

"What is it," he asked, "I hope I haven't offended you." She quickly shook her head, "No! No, please. You have been so wonderful, and my time with you has been so amazing, and I... I can't lead you on like this." He took his hand away, concern written on his face, "Wh... what do you mean leading me on?" She began to tear up, but she steeled herself, "I have to tell you something about myself, but I'm afraid you won't love me anymore." He smiled at her, "My love... nothing could ever make me stop loving you."

She took a few deep breaths to steady herself them reached behind her head, unzipping the flesh suit. Her pretty brown curls were replaced with long antennae, red lips for dripping pincers, pink dress with a shiny black exoskeleton, and instead of her soft hands, she had eight skinny black legs. She refused to look at him, unwilling to witness his horror, "This is the real me. You say you'd love me no matter what, but how can anyone love me?"

He sat in silence then abrupdtly stood up from the table. He kneeled before her, taking her spiny leg, "I also have a hard truth to share with you, my love." He tore away his face to reveal a fanged Lovecraftian horror with jagged teeth, green and red slimy scales, jagged claws, and a barbed tail like a scorpian. She gasped at him, "But!... You!"

"I know," he whispered, "I am Drakthorian. Your people's sworn enemy. For millenia, the Drakthorians and V'lkj"ynian have battled bloody wars in space and time. Destroying worlds in their path. But, alas, I have fallen madly in love with you. On my life, I swear no harm will ever come to you. Will you... will you enslave this world with me? Would you rain hellfire and doom on this wretched planet and create a new species with me?" She took his extended maw in her spinned quills, "Yes, my love! I will! For all eternity!"

And so the once sworn enemies became the death of Earth together. Turned the waters red with blood, destroying world governments, and filling the air with ash and fire. Together, they had over a million doom spawn which ravaged the Earth and left no survivors, fleeing from their home planet to destroy planets of their own. But they both stayed on Earth, where they would always call their home, unconditionally in love until they both reduced to acid together watching the red sun explode like a billion fireflies.

Fourth Wall Time!

I started here four months ago on a whim and a meh, figuring what could I lose by randomly spewing text out on the Internet for strangers to read. The Challenges kept me going, luring me back with ideas that itched through my hands to my keyboard.

Then looking at the little dashboard I suddenly realized I have over 100 posts.

.....

I've never written this consistently before in my life. Even as a kid, scribbling unfinished stories without the drudge of a nine-to-five job, I never had this kind of productivity or follow-through. Granted, I'm not writing full length novels here I'm just spitting out little quips and poems. But damn.

100 little works in four months.

That's nearly one piece of writing a day when you draw them all out.

I've read more consistently too, checking on my phone when I can without getting lost in a major book plot or series. It helps break up my otherwise boring/stressful days as a menial wage slave. It also helps me appreciate how writing lights up our lives and highlights the little moments we all wish we could capture forever.

I'm not generally a fan of social media, but I'm giving this place a pass because it's really helped push me out of my writing drought while giving folks a chance to share their passion. I'm hoping it holds up to the test of time / Internet, and we'll see if in four more months I've got 100 more posts up or not.

Either way, thank you Prosers for the likes, the comments, the pieces, and the camaraderie.

It's been a joy of a ride.

If you have followed my posts then you may already be familiar with my dog Sherman. I have made little headway in teaching Sherman to read, but we are progressing in some other equally important subjects. For instance, Sherman drinks scotch. Blended scotch. Dewar’s. It’s not quite up to the well-aged, single malt stuff, but it is still higher toned than my father’s bourbon. And Sherman smokes. Marlboro lights, in a flip top box. Don’t roll your eyes! I have a picture! None of that generic, economical, South American tobacco for my buddy! He is a “Man’s Dog”, no doubt, who also enjoys college football and SEC Gameday, particularly when the University of Georgia’s “Uga” is in the mix. I could easily feel as old as I am, or older even, but for General Sherman keeping me young... that dog and his wonderful vices.

By saying all of this I am not advocating smoking or drinking, especially if the preacher is nearby. In fact, I would discourage it in any other dog. What is good for General Sherman’s physical and mental well-beings would more than likely kill another dog, one with a weaker disposition (Yes, to my father’s mortal agony my dog is named after that Yankee general who burned Atlanta, but I am an evolved Southerner, so I saddled the dog with the name as a declaration of my pride in all of America, and not just in its lower half. Besides, isn’t it just like Father to complain about my innocent dog’s name-sake even as he sips on the General’s scotch?) I have another dog, as well. Josey Wales. Josey abstains from both tobacco and liquor, yet she and General Sherman somehow remain friends. Josey Wales is good, and she is undoubtedly smart (if a bit plain), but Josey only barks like any other dog, while Sherman... Sherman has a style!

Sherman also has a paper, a diploma, a piece of paper that states how very smart he is, but don’t believe everything you print off of the internet. That internet is full of lies. His damned paper ain’t worth the cartridge he wasted printing on it. To prove that, I will tell you that he used up the expensive color cartridge to print it, even though he is both color-blind, and black and white... literally. More proof that he is undeserving of any educational accolades.

I must go now. The bell is ringing. It is probably the “Amazon Prime” truck bringing Sherman’s new slippers. He finally found some that match his smoking jacket.

“Come Sherman, and bring your wallet!”

People in the village all cheered. It was time for another festive celebration. Time to honour and remember our loved ones in the beyond.

Ah, this was not an easy moment. A mix of joy that I was glad they were not in pain, or suffering any more. But also sadness, their physical presence was no more.

I walked a little further away from the crowds of folks. After finding a nice spot by the River of the ancestors; I sat by the edge of the water & pondered about how the circle of life.

A group of dark clouds gathered in the sky. Oh no! Don’t tell me someone had invited the rain makers to the celebration.

I sighed, and hardly noticed a stranger approach. He sat down right by my side.

Suddenly, I tried to get up and leave right away. If it was going to really pour, ’twas best for me to head home.

The stranger coughed & asked me where I was rushing to. I told him there was a storm coming. He smiled, and told me to settle back into my former position.

So, I quietly moved back to my comfortable spot by the river’s edge. He then handed me a cup of the locally brewed beer~ Chibwantu.

I stared at the cup in his left hand. With a gentle—slow motion, I held the cup and pulled it away from him.

He noticed that I didn’t swallow the sip I took. I looked at him and smiled.

‘‘Dont’ drink it if you don’t like it.’’

I shook my head and swallowed the Chibwantu. It was not as sweet as the one my Dad makes.

The stranger asked why I wasn’t part of the cheering over by the huts. I shrugged my shoulders.

‘‘Oh!’’ he exclaimed. ‘’You young ones think you know so much.

’‘‘When old people speak it is not because of the sweetness of words in our mouths; it is because we see something which you do not see.’’’

This man’s wisdom seemed somewhat familiar. I grinned. Er, I guess his spirit was still roaming about this earth.

He rose to his feet and fixed his glasses.

I rushed to get up, and tried to follow him. ‘‘Wait.’’ For an elderly person he sure did move at lightning speed.

He laughed at my bad attempt to keep up with him. Unbelievable it was him after all, I spotted his book- ‘Things Fall Apart’- in his hand.

I guess it was important for us to all gather together and remember the souls that were in the beyond. What a story this would be to tell. How I met Chinua Achebe! Well, maybe I’d tell folks it was just a dream. Wonder if they’d believe me if I said it wasn’t.

#Chibwantu.

Who is this strange fellow,

Half Impersonating Me?

With his crooked half-smile

I wonder, who can it be?

Not quite telling my jokes

Almost living my life

Fooling plenty of folks

And possessing my wife.

Who is this charlatan,

Half Impersonating Me?

With his half-knowing eyes

I wonder, what does he see?

Almost thinking my thoughts,

Not quite getting it right

Knowing all I was taught

But not possessing my fight.

Then I look in his eyes

And the shape of his stance

As I blink with surprise

Not believing the chance

That the charlatan fellow

Half Impersonating Me

Is only myself and not somebody strange

Now half living my life in a mind rearranged

It’s me I can see and not somebody else

Fooling them all, impersonating myself.

Neon lights illuminate her love for back alley life, broken bottles and discarded needles glittering like fallen stars across the pavement. Most nights, you can find her in a strung out stupor. She's floating with angels and wishing on the shattered, flickering constellations scattered beneath her.

#microwrite #miniflashfiction #twitterprompt

I often think, “What was I thinking?”

Followed by, “Why did I say it out loud?”

And ending with, “Wait, how did you interpret that as a good idea??? I was joking!”

This happened often in college, with open fires and late night bus trips, all inspired by poor pondering habits.

Be careful what you question out loud.

the writing process can be hard. I get inspired by odd things often at inconvient times. During serious moments or silent meetings i’ll often laugh about some scene i’m imagining. For example at a really boring, i guess, you’d call it dinner party i found myself penning in all the people around me in a scene. I guess they’ll never invite me again because as i explained the scene to my sister we couldn’t help but break into laughter. Not that quiet type of laughter but the boistorious one that makes people wonder if your laughing at them. It makes people ask questions that you can’t quite answer since the joke is most certainly on them. I live in a family of writers so it’s hard to develop your own process when you’re motivation has been your mom, your sister. You want to be like them but to write you have to find your own voice, become your own person. In writing for me at least there isn’t really a process it’s all about how i feel. Usually, though i turn on some music and get inspired by the melodic words and calming tunes. Nothing is quite as motivating or inspiring than turning on “The National,” and just starting to write something that I know, is going to be amazing. I think for me at least it’s important not to have a process if I did i feel like my writing would be generic and less passionate.