I entered a flash fiction contest on g+ for the Literary+ page. Here is my third entry. It had to contain one of two seed sentences. The first sentence in this story was one of those two. I went comedy where others were dramatic.
——–Silencing The Voices.———
The last shred of hope trickled through his broken mind…
“It’s never ‘nothing.’ What is it?”
Kind of… cliché, don’t you think?
“Bite me. It’s a first draft.”
Uh huh… Sure.
“Get back in your damn hole, you sonnafabitch.”
Since when does that work? I’m your inner critic. You can’t silence me. Oh, and you smell bad and girls don’t like you.
“Stick to the work, asshole.”
Right. The ‘work.’ It’s ass. How that for an opinion?
CONSIDER HOW A THREAD CAN TRICKLE.
“Oh great, the editor speaks. Can’t you wait until I actually have something to edit? I only have one line for Christ’s sake!”
EDITING IS CRUCIAL TO QUALITY. WITHOUT ME, YOU MAY AS WELL BE TWEETING.
“That’s enough out of both of you! I’m trying to work here!”
The last trickle…. ”Goddamnit! You guys fucked it all up! Now I’m going to be stuck on this sentence the whole damn afternoon!”
Hey, don’t blame me for your shortcomings. Not my fault if you’re inept.
“… I hate you both. Now let me work.”
…like a clock slowly running out of ticks.
AWKWARD SENTENCE. MIXED METAPHOR. ADVERB USE. AMBIGUOUS WORD, ‘TICKS.’ TRY winding downINSTEAD.
Ticks? Get some bug spray next time.
“You’re killing me, you know that?”
Oh, what are you going to do this time? Cry into your pillow about how bad a writer you are? Again?
RE-READ “THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE.”
And where’s your muse? Isn’t she supposed to bail you out? Why did you give her such big knockers anyway? Perv.
“What does it matter? She never puts out.”
Oh, I’m totally going to tell her you said that. And I’m going to make you feel guilty for it for at least two weeks! Speaking of guilty, rememember 12th grade? Heather Barnes only went down on you because she felt sorry for you. And you have a tiny dick.
“That’s it! You two asked for it.”
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“What I should have done from the beginning.”
The last shred of hope trickled through his broken mind… but the voices were still there. There was only one solution, one thing left to do.
Don’t you dare!
CONTROL – Z! CONTROL – Z!
The instruments were in place, his desk as precise as a surgeon’s table. Tumbler- check. Jack- check. Ice? Ice is for pussies.
This does brain damage you know! You’ll hate yourself in the morning and I’ll make sure!
You’re not helping!
The first rush of the whiskey punched the back of his throat like purifying fire.
The voices didn’t have a chance.
Whisky. The biblical cleanser.
You basssturd. I’ll git you fer dis. Hic!
I’M SLEEPY. SEE YOU TOMORROW.
Hope? He didn’t hope. Hope is for suckers.
A shit-eating grin peeled across the writer’s teeth.
“It’s time to go to work.”