One of the things I’ve decided to start doing just recently is writing up some little (little as in short, not little as in 8pt font) fiction pieces for good friends of mine as a birthday present. This is usually posted on their wall, usually works their birthday into it somewhere and is meant to be more of a gift than the obligatory “Happy Birthday” posts the asshole who hasn’t seen them since chemistry class a decade previously leaves.
I have done two so far. Since they’re more micro-fiction than compelling story or meaningless rant half-heartedly described as something with substance but reaching some mythical word count requirement I’ve pulled out of my ass, I’ll leave one here today, post one tomorrow on my “off” day and hopefully have something more enlightened or entertaining come Friday:
With a heavy sigh, he dropped down into the worn, beat-up leather seat that made its home behind his worn, beat-up mahogany desk. His feet were hauled up from the fading carpet to their familiar spot on the desktop, a pale yellow crescent mark beat into the surface where his heel had spent many a lazy afternoon.
Everything was where it should be. The small stack of thumbed-through leads that went nowhere on his left. The half-full bottle of vintage scotch on his right. The plaque that read, “Derek Chivers, Professional Dick” front and center. If he opened the bottom drawer, he would no doubt find a well-used glass, inexplicably dusty though he cleaned it almost daily.
But this day, this otherwise unremarkable Sunday with the phone quiet and the glass of his door undimmed by the body of a potential client – this day, there was an additional occupant to his desk’s top space. It was a simple piece of white paper, as unremarkable as the day, with a short message scrawled in small, rickety handwriting.
All it said was, “Happy birthday, dear friend. K.J.M.”
-AND WITH THAT, A MYSTERY WAS BORN. Or another 364 days of jack shit, Derek. For the rest of you, see you tomorrow!-