rivercrow

I’ll be honest. I loathe fiction. So when my friend Doug shoved me into a corner again (figuratively speaking–more like he wiggled a paper cup of cappuccino at me so hard the froth spilled across his fingers) and demanded that I write some fiction, my usual response was to laugh him off.

But he’s a persistent cuss. Twice my age and less willing to let me off the hook than some crazy fool in an ancient boat. It was his struggle, and he landed the fish one morning as we groused about employment prospects.

“Alright,” I said, shoving damp crumbles of biscotti around an institutional white plate at Borders and purposely avoiding his gaze. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Doug leaned back and set down the dangerous cup of fancy joe. “I just don’t think you’re cut out to be a playwright. You haven’t seen a play in over twenty years.”

“True.” I glanced sideways at him. Yeah–the damned smug grin of the angler with a prize catch. “But I wouldn’t expect too much. And you’re likely to get written in.”

“I should have made that a requirement.”

My turn to chuckle. “I have a penchant for sentence fragments and a bad memory for punctuation. You’re liable to get some e.e. cummings version of a bad Hemingway run through Plath.”

He pushed himself out of his chair, picked up his plastic bag of library books, and towered over me. “I’ll take my chances. Now, I need to make some calls.” He gestured at the empty cup, dirty plates, stack of unbought books. “Mind taking care of that?”

I shrugged. “I have my own too, no prob. I’ll get some written tonight. Later.”

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