Speakeasy #146: Words Last

“My perspicacious perspective apprises me of your disapprobation at my dialectical preferences, Lacey.”

I sigh and glare at Shane. He looks exactly like you’d expect someone who said the previous sentence would: bowl-cut brown hair, thick rubber glasses complete with tape around the bridge, and a pocket protector with enough pens to outfit the proverbial infinite monkeys with enough writing implements to create Shakespeare.

“Huh?” I reply. They say brevity is the soul of wit.

They suck ’cause I don’t feel witty at all.

The stereotype displays the shit-eating grin that makes me wonder why I don’t let the wind from a soft whistle blow his ass down the block. “Are you cognizant of the intelligence that ‘huh’ prevails within virtually all the terrene vocabularies?”

“If you don’t want a girl to beat you up then I suggest you talk like a normal person.” I’m counting the blocks until we reach our street. We’re neighbors, and our moms are besties for life. I’ve let my mom know in no uncertain terms that she’ll disappear if certain photos of me and Shane taking a bath together as toddlers should ever surface.

“Pugilistic inclinations aside, shall you and the matriarch of your clan deign to grace us with your effervescent quintessence?”

Five, four, three, two, aaaannnd here comes the inhaler. Thorn Street, three blocks from school and two blocks until home. He’s like clockwork. A sad, wheezing clock that sounds like it’s on its last legs, but still he manages to sound cuckoo. “I have too much homework to come over tonight. Or any other night.”

Shane studies his shoes. He mutters something I think sounds like, “Don’t be like that, Lace.” For all I know it could have been, “Shut your stupid face.”

I honestly hope it’s the second one, but history leans toward the first. I remember him being more fun when we were younger. We’d play soccer, baseball, hide and seek, and bake mud-pies in pretend ovens.

Then his dickhead sperm-donor took off when we were in second grade, and Shane changed. I’d come over and he’d be buried in books. Comic, paperback, old, new, thesauruses, it didn’t matter. I should feel bad for him, but it’s been years.

He really needs to move on.

“Don’t pout, Shane. It demeans us both.” A red Camaro cruises past, and I wave at the driver, Allen Tomas. He glances at me. He glances at Shane. Then he bursts out laughing and zooms off.

My face burns with embarrassment.

My pace quickens, and Shane scurries after me. I can feel him pushing those ridiculous glasses up as sweat starts to slick his nose.

I break into a run, tired of his pathetic hanging around my neck. His gasps follow me, and he manages to make it to the front of my house without collapsing. “Well, that invigorating constitutional-“

“Shut-UP! God! Do you even know what you sound like? Why do you have to talk like that?” The words tumble out, and I try to grab them. The bastards slip through my fingers. “Do you know why nobody likes you? It’s because you sound like an asshole who thinks big words make him a big person.”

“No wonder your dad left.”

Oh, Jesus. Did I really just say that? I couldn’t get the hurt in his eyes from that one statement if I slapped him a thousand times while burning his books.

“Remember when he left?” His voice, empty of anything Shane, lashes me.

“I’m so sorry-” His lips press so hard they turn white. “When we got our mid-term report cards.”

“I was failing English.” His fists ball. “My…Dad saw my grade, and I saw the disappointment in his eyes. He muttered something about wishing I was smarter.”

“He left that night.”

God, please…make this stop. Send me to Hell, and I’ll go with a smile if you just make him forget my stupidity.

He keeps looking at me with those betrayed eyes. “I thought he left because I wasn’t smart enough.” He trudges past me and I can only watch. “I always hoped if I became smart enough, he might come back. Stupid, I know. But still…”

I manage to break free of my idiot’s paralysis. “I’m sorry, Shane! Listen, come over. We’ll do whatever you want. Please!”

He doesn’t say a word as he goes inside. “Goddamn his dad…”

I slump down on my steps. “…and Goddamn me too.”

I sat there and waited, but he never came back.

Word Count: 750

Speakeasy #146. The prompts: “I sat there and waited, but he never came back.” To be used as the last line. There is also a video prompt:

The rules:

  • Your post must be dated January 26, 2013, or later.
  • Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
  • Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
  • Your piece must include the following sentence as the LAST line: “I sat there and waited, but he never came back.
  • The Speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice, there’s no refund for your ticket.
  • Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.
  • The badge for your speakeasy #146 post is found in the sidebar. Add the code to the html view of your post before publishing.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Knights Riding Dinosaurs?

Stained Glass window on the old Town Hall in Dover. This building used to be Maison Dieu (house of God) when it was built in 1253. It was added to and added to, becoming a gaol, a hospital before becoming the Town Hall.  The stained glass is representative of the Cinque Ports.

Stained Glass window on the old Town Hall in Dover. This building used to be Maison Dieu (house of God) when it was built in 1253. It was added to and added to, becoming a gaol, a hospital before becoming the Town Hall.
The stained glass is representative of the Cinque Ports.

Rick stumbled when the Leono guard shoved him. Gabby, of the Tigro clan and fellow prisoner, snarled and tugged against the ropes binding her body to the firing-squad post. Terry slumped against his restraints, not-so-victim of a butt-stroke from an enraged Leoness after she caught the gist of his comment about her four nipples.

Rick took position against the purple-plank set aside for his demise. He closed his eyes as clawed hands wrapped him in his death-shroud.

A roar caused him to peek out of one eye. His jaw dropped. “Are…are those…knights riding dinosaurs?”

Gabby grinned, fangs gleaming. “It seems you shall meet your kinsmen after all.”

The ground rumbled as three lizards with solid bone domes trampled through the Leono village. A knight rode each monster, shields reflecting red bolts of energy back at the stupefied warriors.

The improbable combination stopped in front of the prisoners, and Rick winced as a sword flashed. His rescuer hauled him on the back of the pachycephalosaurus and headed out.

Terry, wakened by the commotion, called, “Kniggets? This world is awesome!”

“Python? Really?”

“If the hamster fits,” Terry said before a metal elbow knocked him unconscious again.

“Thanks for that,” Rick called.

Word Count: 200

Sunday Photo Fiction

The Seventh installment of the ongoing epic saga, Rolling Stoners, for Sunday Photo Fiction. Every week Al posts a photo for various writers to draw inspiration from. And every week I try to figure out a way to cram that photo prompt into this story somehow. Serendipity struck as I needed a way to rescue the “heroes” from doom (okay, two heroes and Terry), and knights fit the bill.

For you haibunophiles out there, Al’s starting a new challenge Tuesday: Haibun Thinking. Make sure to check it out!

Pachycephalosaurus (Bone-Head)

For those who may be unfamiliar with the end reference:

Hope you enjoy.

Happy Reading and Writing!

J. Milburn