Luck – Friday the 13th Flash Fiction

This is a 1000 word exercise in participation with Flash Fiction Friday on the blog Terrible Minds. If you would like to play, there is a new challenge every Friday (unless Chuck Wendig has another book dropping or a tea time barbie princess garden party with his Macro Monday bug friends)

“Spank yo momma, son.”

“That was poetry, man. Poetry! You come up with that one all by your self?”

“I said, ‘you’re momma,’ son!”

Wishbone turned every conversation into sex with my mom. To this day, I have no idea why. It’s disgusting for one. My mom is like a 300 pounds, and for two, she’s been dead for nearly a year. Shot during a routine traffic stop. No, it wasn’t one of those Michael Brown situations. Well, it was a Michael Brown situation, it’s just that the cop missed him and hit her. Which made the next moment really uncomfortable.

“Just take a look a this pistol,” Wishbone laughed as he cocked the hammer. “It’s like a cop pistol from back in the 1900’s, when you couldn’t drink no alcohol.”

Wishbone then proceeded to throw the gun up in the air into this half spin, half death-wish. Wishbone was not the smartest hamster on the wheel. Let’s just be honest. When he realized that the downward arc trajectory was about three feet away from him. He just stood there covering his balls.

So, I did the first thing that came to mind.

The sofa sat in such a position as to be a natural barrier between myself and the loaded antique. So, I dove behind it. It wasn’t a particularly hygienic sofa, nor was it comfortable. Neither was hitting the floor in the rushed manner that I had to. Normally, when I have to make a dive onto the ground to avoid being shot at: first, I have more time. You normally see these things coming. Second, I can control the arc of body as I transfer weight from my feet to my arms and legs. It’s like time slows down.

As my elbow pounded the hardwood floor, a) how this stupid mofo could afford hardwood, I don’t want to know, and b) which even though I guess you could say that I hit my funny bone, it wasn’t funny, some weird shit happened on my ‘health’ band.

All the ‘special’ school kids get a ‘health’ band. It’s standard issue for re-integration from “The Farm”. We are locked into these bands in the middle of our first month. These things report what we do, where we go, what we eat, when we poop. That’s why we call them our shit bits. It’s like a parole officer, only worse. People you can trick, you can lie to. They’re a complete hassle, but at least I’m on the outside again. And while I’m thinking about that, Wishbone is a wicked ass hat! He knows I can’t be within a half mile of a piece of metal the size of a gun. Damn!

Back to the weird shit. When my elbow hit the floor, something must have happened around the general wrist area because the shit bit popped open. It’s wasn’t broken or anything like that. The window where the screen is opened toward me, caught on its hinge, and there was this button. A light blue button. No writing, no lights, no flashing symbols, nothing.

To be honest, I wasn’t really thinking anything other than, “It must have happened for a reason, right? Wishbone throws a loaded gun into the air, I dive behind a sofa because I don’t want to get my eyeball shot out. I land on my weenus, damn near break my arm and then this thing opens up and there’s a button. Press the button!”

So that’s what I did. I pressed it.

I had to close my eyes after that because I’ve never seen anything like it. Shit just stopped. Like everything. I was the only thing moving. At first I didn’t notice. I just laid there waiting for the thing to hit, waiting for the bang, waiting to feel the hot pinch of a bullet after it blasted through this dumb-ass couch. It never happened. It was silent. Totally silent. I was down there for a full thirty seconds. Wishbone isn’t very tall, so I knew that the gun wasn’t still falling.

I peeked my head up and everything was like a statue. Wishbone was frozen. He wasn’t cold, but he wasn’t moving either. The gun just kind of hung in the air about a foot off the floor. Sure enough, it’ was going to rotate and land on the cocked hammer. What an idiot!

I reached for the gun and poked it with a pencil that was lying on the ground. What? I’ve never been stuck in time before. Seen it in movies, that’s how I knew what was happening. So, I took my shoe off and pressed it on the gun, all the way to the floor. It was like it was in water are something. It just floated as I applied pressure.

As I pressed the button again – that’s how you undo what you did, right? – I hesitated and walked back around to the other side of the couch. Well, after I had put a Webster’s dictionary about a foot above Wishbone’s head. I pressed the button again and pressed the window shut.

Bam!

That was the dictionary hitting Bone’s head.

“What the shit?”

That was Bone wondering how a dictionary hit him in the head.

I climbed up the back of the sofa and perched right over the side, my arms dangling down against the recline.

“Bone,” I smirked, “I gotta go.”

With that, I stood up, opened the door and walked out into the hallway. As I made the left turn toward the elevator, Sabrina was standing there waiting for it.

“Hey, Sabrina!”

She eyed me up and down, “Hey, Luck. You look different.”

“You look great.” I thought about pressing the button again and getting a better look, but something about that seemed wrong. Even for me.

“You found it, didn’t you?”

“Found what?’

“Don’t press it again, Luck. They’ll come for you”

“How do you…”

“Never mind. They’re already here.”

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