Alright, so I was going to write a short story in my usual style, you know, quick setup of a scenario or situation, two or three characters, then let the dialogue carry it through. As much as I love dialogue, I don’t want to get too rigid or worse, stale, so I’m trying this approach, since there’s something I’m trying to get at. I’ll write a short story about the short story I was going to write.
Title: What a Little Bit of Rain Can Do
Credit: written by
Author: Holly Verrit
Julie – Asian, late twenties, Jim’s wife
Jim – White, mid-thirties, Julie’s husband
Waiter – A waiter
Mario’s, a local Italian place.
This short one act play takes place closer to noon.
Right outside a public library, evening. Nancy standing by the entrance. Michael rushed out and bumped into Nancy.
“No, that was my bad.”
Michael started to leave.
“I just want my cup of coffee.”
Three steps out of the firm’s office–already he was interrupted.
“Harvey–I was just in the area and I wanted to hear your thoughts on the–”
“Bullshit you were in the area, Ronnie. I saw you jump the second you saw me. You were waiting for me.”
“Be that as it may–”
Harvey walked off. Ronnie chased after him.
a parody of advertisement, written by Amérique Nakamura
He looked out the window. He saw up to the horizon. He cursed under his breath.
Belmondo rushed out the room to the hall down the steps and into the kitchen and to Mrs. Franz.
She sat at the kitchen table. Legs crossed across the dusty surface. Feet up. Book in her hands.
Belmondo breathed heavy and said, “Mrs. Franz.”
The Fucking Consequences of Your Health and Salvation!
Anna Wang: A woman in her late thirties. Anarchist.
Marciel Karina: Her lawyer.
The following excerpt from ACT ONE takes place in an interrogation room.
–PREVUES OF COMING ATTRACTIONS–
The image fuzzy–warm and blurry with the edges bleeding. The sound warped. Cult-classic foreign flick Harajuku Blues on VHS. Subtitles provided.
–TAPE HICCUPS AND SKIP SKIP SKIPS–
The following is a translated, unpublished submission to the July 1977 edition of the French literary magazine La Crime. It’s author, Amérique Nakamura, is in hiding and wanted for crimes against the state, such as bombmaking and reading.
“No way, nuh uh. I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.”
Cafe Sharktooth, night. Booth in the back. Bustling. Becky and Sawyer. A banana split and a half-eaten pie and a cup of coffee between them. Rockabilly from a jukebox somewhere.
Sawyer popped out and lit yet another Gauloises and set it between her lips and then said, “Why the fuck not?”
The train sliced wind. Trees zipped past blurred. Eyes low- bored.
Opened when a woman sat across from him. Knitted sweater, white heart pattern popped against red. Pearl necklace. Tilted down, a smile under the wide brim hat. Gap between the teeth.
The woman said, “Good day.”
He said, “Better now.”