Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Contest Entry
I will master this blog thing and I will finish the shit that I start.
An entry into the weekly flash fiction contest hosted by The Chuck at www.terribleminds.com seems like a good place to start on my rehabilitation.
The premise was simple. He had a list of opening lines culled from the previous week's take and we picked one to write about. Go check out the contest listing to get the full skinny.
And here is my entry:
Graveyard Shift
by Terri Lynn Coop
It’s always midnight somewhere. And I'm likely working there. Being a night shift checkout clerk sucks. Being a pre-cog checker on graveyard is the parking garage two levels below sucks. People put their crap on my conveyor and I have to soak up the residual energy from their sweaty fingerprints.
Let me tell you, the witching hour doesn't get any weirder than at Walmart.
I already had a headache from the barrage of meth jones, unpaid child support, arrest warrants, and tinfoil-hat politics that had come through my checkstand when I saw the paper towels and waterless hand sanitizer hit my UPC scanner.
Someone with dry hands. A man after my own heart.
He looked straight. Crewcut with neat glasses and an uncreased trenchcoat. I liked him already. I swiped his items and was about to drop them in a bag when I saw the blaring newspaper headline in my head:
SIX DEAD IN WALMART SHOOTING. SUSPECT STILL AT LARGE.
Locking eyes, he knew and I knew. Ducking under my counter with the big neon 7 on the pole, I breathed a sigh of relief. That's when I remembered that Dustin was on break.
An entry into the weekly flash fiction contest hosted by The Chuck at www.terribleminds.com seems like a good place to start on my rehabilitation.
The premise was simple. He had a list of opening lines culled from the previous week's take and we picked one to write about. Go check out the contest listing to get the full skinny.
And here is my entry:
*****
Graveyard Shift
by Terri Lynn Coop
It’s always midnight somewhere. And I'm likely working there. Being a night shift checkout clerk sucks. Being a pre-cog checker on graveyard is the parking garage two levels below sucks. People put their crap on my conveyor and I have to soak up the residual energy from their sweaty fingerprints.
Let me tell you, the witching hour doesn't get any weirder than at Walmart.
I already had a headache from the barrage of meth jones, unpaid child support, arrest warrants, and tinfoil-hat politics that had come through my checkstand when I saw the paper towels and waterless hand sanitizer hit my UPC scanner.
Someone with dry hands. A man after my own heart.
He looked straight. Crewcut with neat glasses and an uncreased trenchcoat. I liked him already. I swiped his items and was about to drop them in a bag when I saw the blaring newspaper headline in my head:
SIX DEAD IN WALMART SHOOTING. SUSPECT STILL AT LARGE.
Locking eyes, he knew and I knew. Ducking under my counter with the big neon 7 on the pole, I breathed a sigh of relief. That's when I remembered that Dustin was on break.
*****
If you are a fan of flash fiction, the comments section on Chuck Wendig's blog post will contain links to all sorts of yummy evil. Have fun!
Comments