I’m not sure why, but three of my last four flash fiction stories have prominently featured guns.
I’m not particularly into guns. I don’t own one. I don’t even know much about them.
But few things deliver savage violence like a bullet. Especially one to the head – another commonality.
This one was difficult to cap at 100 words. I can see the scene vividly. There are a ton of details I left out of the final draft. I may have to go back and add some meat and bones to this skeleton.
The prompt is (betcha can’t guess…) from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘emulate’, ‘spaghetti’, and ‘weak’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
“It means imitate,” I said.
Carlos had a toothpick in his mouth, a gun in his waistband, and a lot of stupid shit in his head.
“I ain’t emulating no one.”
Music drifted into the alley.
“You should be emulating a man who pays his debts.”
He shrugged. “Why? Ricky ain’t got nothin’ but weak bitches. Do I look worried?”
See what I mean? Stupid.
I moved faster than he could think, whipping the Desert Eagle out of my coat and kissing him three times. Hard. In the face.
Pop, pop, pop.
“No,” I said. “You look like spaghetti.”