I still haven’t 100% decided if this is a thing. But. I do enjoy the challenge of ruthlessly editing down to 100 words (I still get stuck on 115 every time. Is there some 115-word disease I should be tested for?)
Once again, I am responding to the Book Blogger’s Flash Fiction Foray Challenge. This week’s song immediately called to mind very specific imagery, and the story followed naturally from that, so… no. I cannot cut even one more word.
The piano sat silent in the corner of the darkened bar, tip bowl empty and polished. Teak floors had been swept and the last waitress stood watching her bartender polish eighteen feet of mahogany around the last drink and its owner, who’d long lost both his keys and the ability to keep his repetitive thoughts to himself.
Making one last attempt to see his bed before dawn, the bartender interrupted a chorus of “never seen it coming” to assure the customer, in soothing tones, “Hey, man. You know what they say. Everything works out in the end.”
Bleary eyes finally met the bartender’s in misery. “Is this what ‘working out’ looks like? Fuck working out!”