Ficlets

Anywhere But Here

Stu Bonneville was a washed up writer. A rather rotund man with a large proboscis, he wore clothes that were too tight for his expanding gut and wrote such pulpy trash that even the most desperate magazine would refuse to print it.

Fabrication and peddling were his forté. Lee had told him that if the Weekly World News had a position available, he would be a shoe-in.

A heavy breather, Stu often complained of his sinus issues in such graphic detail that Lee, who had seen many instances of death in many instances of decomposition, had to talk herself out of vomiting. When it got down to it, Lee disdained the man. Yet, somehow, he had managed to wedge himself into her life; an ever-present “tipster,” coming up with “leads” and “hot info.” Another thing she hated about him – his misuse of tacky, cockeyed writers’ slang.

Reluctantly, she agreed to a meeting.

Arriving at a local diner, Lee slid into one of the cold, hard Formica booths and ordered herself a cup of thick, muddy coffee.

She would need it.

View this story's 2 comments.