Sunday, March 4, 2012

"Walk A Mile" - flash fiction

 Okay I admit it. I am a literary coward. Last week's Plotto prompt was too daunting a task. I just didn't have the heart to write about boxing. So I took the coward's way out and convinced myself I didn't have the time to write one for it. HA! 500 words? You always have time for that.

So obviously I didn't enter last week. So what do I have for you today? I realized that I started my postings with week 2. To correct that, here is my very first attempt at a PLOTTO story. I think we all can agree I get better.

That Week’s Prompt:
{A} a needy person picks up two pairs of cast-off shoes, one pair discarded by a clergyman, and the other pair by a man of reckless nature and “shady” reputation.

My story:

The Next Mile
by Bill Bibo Jr

Every day the world walked past Jonathon with little notice. That was fine. He didn't need but occasional acknowledgment, and then only in the form of dollars and cents.

Pastor Dean approached and Jonathon nudged his cup. The change inside rattled. It was never much, but most days it was enough. The preacher walked on without looking in Jonathon's direction.

A cherry red Camaro parked at the edge of the street. A kid, big hair and a bigger tattoo, got out and ran around to the passenger's side. He helped a young girl out. She was pregnant, moving slow and awkward. The kid held her arm gently and guided her toward the clinic across the street. They passed Jonathon and the kid dropped a dollar in the cup.

"Thanks," Jonathon said. "And good luck. To you both."

The kid smiled and nodded as they moved to cross the street.

"Wait," a voice shouted.

The couple turned to see Pastor Dean, his face vivid red and bulging in anger, march up and block their way.

Pastor Dean shook his finger down at the girl's belly. "Fornicating like rats in the street. How dare you flaunt your evil ways in this good town. You are damned."

"Please, we are just our way to see the doctor. The baby is almost here. Move out of the way."

A spasm shook the girl and she fell to her knees.

"Pastor, please. The baby is almost here. Move aside," the kid said helping the girl to stand.

Pastor Dean looked to heaven. "The Lord loves everyone but helps those that offer their praise to him. Sinners and fornicators shall be damned for all eternity."

The kid reached to a back and pulled out a knife.

"Go," he said to his girl. "Go to the doctor. I will join you in a minute."

She ran to the clinic door and looked back once before going inside.

"You are damned. You cannot be saved. God's love is grand. He will forgive me for I am one in His love."

A gun appeared in Pastor Dean's hand. Two shots fired. The kid was dead before his face hit the street.

Day after day, Pastor Dean never saw Jonathon sitting in the park as he walked by to his church. Jonathon was invisible. He never saw Jonathon walk up to him, a brick in his hand.

Jonathon knelt over the unconscious body of the Pastor and removed his shoes. He took off the shoes from the kid.

"It's like the good pastor said, God loves everyone," he told the lifeless body, "but the way I see it even God has to lose his patience now and then."

Jonathon took Pastor Dean's right foot and slid one of the sneakers on. He did the same with the other shoe.

"Walk a mile, Pastor," Jonathon said.

He tucked the Pastor's shoes under his arm and walked to the clinic to call the police.

the end

Just so you know, only a few minutes before posting this I sent off my story for week 5. It's not about boxing.
The Week’s Prompt:
{B} receives, in a mysterious manner, a photograph, not of herself but of someone greatly resembling her.

If you care to join me, more info at the Tin House blog,
You have until 2 PM (noon pacific time) on Monday.

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