I used bits and pieces of all the prompts for Friday. I might be busy tomorrow, I got people and dogs coming in
Write an ironic thank you note.
Write a flash about a dinner party anecdote.
Write a flash about a game played in the dark.
Write a flash about a road trip.
scissors, polished, lucid
fire escape, bust, flat tire
boneless chicken, Christmas, heap
sundown, beach, bonfire
tequila, vodka, oak
moonlight, anachronistic, Amanda
You couldn’t just have a drink with Amanda; she was an alchemist, she could turn tequila into a game in the dark. Don’t get me wrong, I like that in a girl, it’s just that every now and again I expect to win that game, when you wake up more than once retching from your own stench and Bitch written in lipstick across your ass … I don’t know how to finish that. Once should be enough.
It’s not like popping black beauty’s or eating Dexi’s like tic tacs was any better. We were watching the sunset in El Segundo, sitting around a bonfire these golden surfer boys had lit back up by the winter burm. LA county had security along the 101, and the burm was like a windbreak and hid the fire from the road. She whispered something in a kids ear, palmed something, and pulled me along by the elastic of my swimsuit.
“What?” “We’re going on a road trip.”
You couldn’t say no to her, and, at the time, I was proud to be her boneless chicken filet; those surfer boys thought their Colorado kool aid was going to get her out of her bikini. I might lose every game in the dark, but at least I get to play. She scanned the hoopdees in the lot, found the kids ride on the first shot. I don’t know what she said to get the keys and I didn’t ask. It was Amanda; could have been anything. The hoopdee had three bald tires and a donut, one of those short distance spares. The rear passenger tire blew a hundred yards from the border. We walked.
Customs flicked us a bit of shit, Amanda laid down her beach bag, put her hands against the wall, spread her feet and arched her ass. The guard blushed and let us through. Border towns all smell the same; Tijuana, however, smells like all of them left to compost and moistened with piss.
She took me straight to a bar as though she knew where she was going. I only caught part of the quick low Spanish to the lady behind the bar; Dos, maybe Deus, muerte, give or take a vowel , mescal.
“You get us a couple dead god shots?” I asked.
She laughed. It wasn’t the last time I saw her, I black out, I probably saw her somewhere in between, I just don’t remember. I came too in the side car of a fifties Indian, whining and choking fourth gear on the northern outskirts of Cancun. The driver smiled a dusty gap toothed smile, she was 75 is she was a day; her pipe was shooting embers over the top of a cracked windjammer.
“How ya feeling?” she shouted, letting go her clutch hand to hold the pipe, a yellowed thumb over the embers.
“Fine” I said.
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