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Fiction Friday #164
This week’s Fiction Friday prompt:
Use a McGuffin in your story.
McGuffin: An object or person in a movie that has no use other than to drive the narrative forward. (originally coined by Alfred Hitchcock)
examples: The Maltese Falcon in the movie of the same name; the suitcase in Pulp Fiction
This is a new one for me; I’ve never written anything like this before. And I must admit, writing a McGuffin into the story is harder than it seems. I didn’t know exactly what to do with it, but I gave it a whirl anyway.
A disheveled fourteen-year-old Kelly Martin sat on the curb at the corner of Fourteenth and Vine. She had a look about her; tender and young, yet experienced and mature. Her hair hanged in dreadlocks, peeking out from beneath her black hoodie, like Medusa trying to bear disguise and foray into the world of the mortals. The ends of each had been adorned with glass beads, very much resembling eyes, and very much creating the illusion of snake’s heads. Beneath the black hoodie she wore nothing more than a black lace bra she lifted from Victoria’s Secret down on Hollywood. The matching panties she wore beneath the tattered Levis she found in a Goodwill drop box a few months ago. Her fingernails were chewed to damn near nothing, and what was left of them sheltered dirt so black it looked like ink. She hadn’t bathed in weeks. As for her shoes, well I’ll just say another of Atlanta’s homeless went without the night of August fourth last year; she beat the man while he slept and stole them. Kelly Martin owned no socks. Instead she wrapped toilet paper from the public bathroom around her feet when she had opportunity.
She sat silently, watching the cars go by. No one spoke to her. No one even looked her way, not so much as a glance. From their periphery, she was only a shape – an obstacle in their paths to be maneuvered around. She wept.
She shifted her position and the large shooter marble that had unknowingly come to rest next to her thigh resumed its journey. It rolled a few feet and stopped undetected against the sole of the black loafers the man standing by the light pole was wearing.
He was a beautiful man. Donning a suit he proudly boasted costing him three thousand clams and loafers that ran him a thousand a piece, he stood erect, like a statue for all to be admired. Yet no one did. No one noticed the Adonis standing next to the light pole with the flowing blond hair. No one noticed his chiseled features or tanned skin, and no one noticed the air of importance and prestige that surrounded him. He too was nothing more to them than an obstacle to be avoided. Noting the time on the Movado on his left wrist, he sighed and looked onward into the cars speeding by on Fourteenth. He too wept.
The man we know as Kevin Corbeau felt a tingle in his leg and shifted his weight, ever slightly elevating the sole of his loafer from the sidewalk. The shooter again rolled away. This time it came to rest at the foot of one Kyle Marx.
Kyle looked every bit a mechanic; blue jump suit smeared with dirt and grease, heavy steel toed boots. There wasn’t anything special about him, no special story, no special features, unlike our Kelly and Kevin. And just the same as Kelly and Kevin, no one noticed him either. No one took note of the man in the blue jump suit. He wept as well.
The three of them wept, together, on the corner of Fourteenth and Vine. None of the trio noticed each other, yet they were feet apart. And they knew they were not alone.
Our dear, sweet Kelly silently arose, wiped the dirt from her buttocks, and stood tall as the seven o’clock bus approached. There they stood, our unfortunate trio, in a trance and staring straight ahead into nothing – weeping. The seven o’clock bus sped closer.
Their weeping ceased and smiles spread across their faces. One by one, they stepped from the curb into the path of the speeding bus.
When Kyle Marx’s foot left the sidewalk, its gentle nudge pushed the shooter on its way. It weaved its way in and out of the many feet, down the street and around the corner to Cincinnatti Boulevard where it came to rest against the shoe of a man leaning against a newspaper box.
He was a young man, barely twenty. He wore a flannel shirt, faded jeans and cowboy boots. A perfect Stetson adorned his head. In his hand he carried a guitar case.
He wept.
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9 Responses to "Fiction Friday #164"
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Recent Comments
- Marsha Loftis: I had a feeling things were not going to go as planned.
- ganymeder: Ewwwwwww! And here I was expecting a humorous twist! And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why you should...
- Sonia Lal: very interesting idea! But who was he?
- Louise Broadbent: Whew! What an idea – and what an ending! I really want to know who he thought the mannequin...
- Icy Sedgwick: It’s sad, but there’s such a sense of hope at the end.
I hate reading these things late, cause sometimes I feel like I’m just copying others’ comments. In this case I have to though. The description of Kelly was amazing, I could totally ‘see’ her. Although the other descriptions were good, Kelly’s was just brilliant.
Well done for using the prompt, I failed misierably this week – maybe once I read a few other people’s and understand a McGuffin a little more I’ll have a go.
NewToWritingGirl´s last [type] ..A Few Thoughts
Nice descriptive writing. I enjoyed the detailed description of Kelly. I was able to see a clear picture of her and the other two characters. The marble worked well to tie the three together. I like the sense of mystery and the fact that you leave your reader with a myriad of questions to answer for themselves.
Yeah it was a real tough prompt this week. I admire your take on the McGuffin, the marble is nicely enigmatic and surreal enough to make the reader scratch their head while the realistic descriptions help keep the story in touch with reality.
Jason Coggins´s last [type] ..Flash fiction 3
There is a great cinematic feel to this piece, almost like a music video, as we move from character to character. They are all people that we recognise and label and make judgements about and have preconceptions. Great descriptions of each character and weaving the continual thread with them.
Sometimes we let our preconceptions determine our interaction with other people.
Adam Byatt´s last [type] ..The Red Balloon and My Black Dog
Great descriptions, and great use of the marble to tie them all in. I liked the use of comparison and contrast — three very different, equally desperate people. Good job.
Shelli´s last [type] ..Break Out
I agree with Walt. The description of Kelly was vivid; I especially like the comparison to Medusa.
Overall, a very effective piece and good use of description. Maybe needs a little comment about the aftermath of their stepping off the curb. That chaos could bridge to the quiet ending as the shooter rolls away. Just a thought.
Good job.
I really liked Kelly… She shouldn’t step in front of buses though, she could get hurt
I wish I could see her hair… I bet it looked awesome! It’s sad that in this world a person can be right out there on the street, in the middle of a huge crowd of people… but no one will look them in the eye and see the tears running down their cheeks. And even if they did, no one offers comfort… they’re too worried to intrude… to busy to care… they feel awkward… That makes me sad.
Your first paragraph was fantastic. The story opened up in a way that was both very visual and gritty. The detail in which you described Kelly worked well in setting the groundwork for the remainder of the tale. Perhaps it was because I got so wrapped up in your first paragraph, but all of your other characters paled in comparison to the young girl.
The only part of your story that struck me as odd was the line “Their weeping ceased and smiles spread across their faces. One by one, they stepped from the curb into the path of the speeding bus.” Did they commit suicide together? If so, this is one freaky shooter marble and I want no parts of it.
I tried and tried to come up with a plot device for this prompt but failed miserably. You are right, this prompt was much harder than it seemed.
Well done
Walt´s last [type] ..Memoirs of an Assassin 4 – Ignorance is Bliss
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