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Story fragment - five dollar virgin whore

Despite daydreams I've only ever dabbled in writing, but Diacanu a guy at Wordforge got me off my fat bum (in a forum whch I'm supposed to moderate and curate no less!) to throw together a couple of fragments.

The challenge was to create one interconnected anthology based around this incident: A guy gets in his car, turns the ingnition, it explodes. Use that event from any point of view you want, in any chronology you want. Sequel, prequel, flashback, so long as the stories intersect at that moment.

As Diacanu pointed out this format was able to accomodate wildly different styles and sensibilities - nice. The first post was by Kyle and I used it to build my contributions:

Richard Marks walked out of the Olive Garden of Boise, Idaho. It was terribly disappointing. The neverending breadsticks were cold and the Capellini Pomodoro's extra-virgin olive oil was about as virgin as a five dollar whore in Georgia. His '89 Honda Civic would be as hot as a furnace, so even that had little solace. Richard got in his car, rolled down the windows, and turned the scratched key in the ignition.

The car exploded. Which really didn't help Richard's day any.

Across the street, an Aston Martin V12 Vanquish S rocketed out of the Toys 'R' Us parking lot, slid across six lanes of traffic, and tore towards Interstate 84. Antonio Valerio shifted into higher and higher gears, until he hit the uncompleted onramp. The sleek black automobile flew across the eight-lane freeway and into an empty parking lot. A briefcase was waiting for him.

My first fragment took as a starting point Kyle's phrase about the "virgin olive oil [...] as virgin as five dollar whore in Georgia". Well, why the hell shouldn't there be such a person!


Donna was glad she didn't have to keep the john off her as she gave him the handjob.

He didn't seem interested in her when he picked her up behind the deserted Lumber City drive-in, her regular beat on the weekend. This nondescript man in a nondescript sedan with Idaho plates. He hardly paid attention when she told him for only five bucks she would make him come, but only if that's as far as it went.

It's how she told herself she wasn't a ... wasn't a... she didn't even want to think the word. She wasn't... She couldn't be, if she still had her honor, right? And nobody had ever ... though a few had tried.

That's how she'd gotten the scar carved across her cheek, the messy trail from her ear to the tip of her right lip. She'd always been plain, she knew that, but before that night she used to ask for twenty.

Maybe I should have asked for twenty from this guy, she thought, the way he's ignoring me.

It was strange. As she'd unzipped his fly he'd picked up a cellphone, touched a speed-dial button and then just held the phone to his ear, not saying a word even after she heard that someone had picked up the call on the other end. He just gazed out the window at the broken movie screen down the hill, a hint of perspiration building up on his forehead. It was the summer heat. Or maybe his mounting excitement as she worked on him with increasing urgency.

What was that? The sound of something loud over the phone - a burst of static perhaps? There, finally: a gasp, and the release, a spatter of rancid wetness landing on the dashboard. Over the cell, an engine being gunned, wheels burning rubber into asphalt. She cleaned him up with the toilet paper she stole each day from the local diner.

For the first time he looked at her. He'd pocketed his cellphone. He had the most intense, unnaturally green eyes. Why hadn't she noticed that before?

He reached into his jacket and for a moment she was insanely, unexpectedly terrified. Then he tucked the C-note behind her ear, opened the door, and said, "I'll remember you."


Not even competent in the scheme of things, but at least this and the next piece were the first pieces of creative writing I did in a year.

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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on October 5, 2004 5:32 PM.

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