I want to start this Free-Write Friday with a shout-out to aspiring writer Jasmine Melancon, who was inspired by my posts to free-write her own flash fiction last Friday. Go follow this writer, poet, and music lover on Twitter for more about her!
I struggled this week to find an excerpt from my free-writing journal to share this week. I wrote one more excerpt from Hail, a couple of contemporary stories from prompts, and then started playing around with secondary characters from The Runaway Queen, writing back stories and possible prequel material. I’m not ready to share those, even though they were my favorites. Instead, I’m going to post one of the contemporary excerpts, which also happens to be the longest piece that I wrote this week. ((FYI, I’m rating it PG-13 because of some language.))
“This isn’t working anymore.”
It takes a moment for me to even hear the words. “Wait, what?” I finally look up at him across the table in the library. Our table. Is he breaking up with me at our table?
“Look, Mo,” he says, “I just . . .” I don’t jump in to save him. I don’t want to. I realize my mouth is gaping open and snap it shut. “I just need something else.”
“Something else?” An image flashes into my mind then, one that I had pushed down before, dismissed. An image of Kacie’s hand on his arm, her perfect white teeth exposed in a lovely, shit-eating grin. “Or someone else?” My AP English essay lies abandoned on the tabletop between us.
“It’s not like that,” he says.
I stare at him. We’ve been Mack and Mo since sixth grade, and this is where he ends it? Is he serious right now? I snap my notebook closed and my pen goes skittering across the floor. Neither of us moves to pick it up. I bend down and put the notebook in my bag.
“Mo, come on,” he says. He puts a hand on my arm and I shake it off. “It’s not like that,” he says again.
“Like what?” I hiss at him. I hate this feeling, the tightness in my chest, the static behind my eyes.
“It’s just – we want different things,” he says. I stop packing and look up at him, my bag in my lap.
“We’re fucking juniors,” I say. “What could we possibly want that’s so different?”
“You want . . .” He points to my bag and gestures to the library around us, empty at this time of night, which is the only way we’ve been able to get away with this.
“And you want Kacie Strong.” I stand up, swing my bag over my shoulder, and stalk away. Part of me thinks he’ll follow – he usually does. But this doesn’t feel like usual, and the other part of me knows that. The librarian, Mrs. Fitz, waves. I lift a hand to her and push through the doors to the dark parking lot.
What did you write this week? If you want to share on Free-Write Friday, you can post in the comments, or email me at email@example.com to be featured in the blog.
Until Monday! <3 Cassidy