Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Feed the Truck

Another writing exercise from Lissa.  We had to start with one of these two sentences:
1) Sofie couldn't sleep
2) She's crazy for fish.

Bonus points if we could work any of the following words into the story:
blue
pickup
wondering
seventy-seven
Mr. Greenley
chair



She's crazy for fish.  That 'ol blue pickup runs on it.  Some cars drink gas or biodiesel that smells like french fries, but this truck runs on fish.  Suits me just fine as I am an avid what-you-call angler.  My wife's always wonderin' when I'm gonna come home but as I done told her seventy-seven times, I gots to feed the truck.  And that requires a whole lot of anglin'.  And beer.  Anglin' on the weekend, anglin' at night, anglin' whenever I'm supposed to be looking for a second shift.  But there ain't no angles in that, just the cold, flat truth.  Ain't no jobs around these parts.  None that'll take a man what smells powerful of fish all day, anyway.  I hired on with a pizza delivery outfit for a spell but customers kept complainin' to Mr. Greenley (my bald-headed twit of a store manager) that they hadn't of ordered anchovies so why did their pepperonis and Hawaiians smell like goddamn fish?  That prick don't have no backbone like a real man so he just up and let me go.  That's what they call it: "let 'im go."  Like I was a fish too small to make a meal of, like I was nothing, so they tossed me back in the water and let me sink.  So now I just sit on a ratty old chair in my ratty old piece of shit boat and try to find that little fish and pull 'im up so he don't drown.  Don't think there's any hope for the poor bastard.  You see, he smells like fish.

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