15_minute_fic | Word #31

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Here is your word for the week!

Don't look at the word until you are ready to write. When your fifteen minutes are up and you have completed your ficlet, you may either post it as a response here, or post a link to the ficlet in your own journal. If posting on your own journal, please hide the prompt word in some way (ie. under an LJ-cut) in order to avoid spoiling it for others.

Today's word is: call

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Posted by (Anonymous)

Title:
Fandom/original: Original

Leona sauntered into the bathroom stall, push-up bra adjusted with rattily-laquered fingernails. The paint on each paper-thin nail was peeling and chipped, the cuticles surrounding dying for some moisture, and those long, delicate fingers - digits every piano teacher dreams for - were marked with obscene pink and putrid green marker stains. She'd stayed up all night drawing, smoking Virginia Slims, and listening to the same Red Hot Chili Peppers cd on repeat, rising every 33 minutes and 12 seconds to skip over tracks 11 and 12. The cd was scuffed from being carried around in her purse, then shoved in a desk drawer, then dropped on the sidewalk, so two songs had merged and scratched into two and became unintelligable.

She turned and shut the faded beige and black specked door behind her, stopping to gaze at the various messages on it. "JAMES TAKES IT IN THE ASS!" was written in red Sharpie chicken scratch next to blue Bic pen hearts with the initials "S + H" in them. In the upper left-hand corner, in a curly, girlish script, in what looked like a very fine black calligraphy pen, was "Call Leon Hudson, 599-741-".

An audible chuckle could be heard from that stall as she hiked up her skirt and perched on the lid, still re-reading her mis-spelled name and phone number as she urinated. Fucking bitch! she silently laughed. It had been almost eight months since Janie had died, but Leona could clearly and accurately recall the skinny black girl's threats to "destroy" her as if they had been tape recorded and re-played daily to ensure their rememberance.

It had taken only a few weeks of Janie's pranks, including the phone number incident, as well as several other nuiscanes, before Leona could take no more. With one more glance and a bitchy smirk tossed at her own phone number, the plump redhead yanked the door opened and walked to the sink. Absent mindedly washing her hands, she recalled that wet and windy night Janie's car crashed into a semi on the freeway outside town. The police found later that the silver 1993 Buick's brake lines had been snipped jaggedly but in two, probably with a small pair of pliars or kitchen scissors. The tiny ballet drop-out's body had sailed gracefully out the windshield, colliding with the back of the truck, before landing beautifully on the icy asphalt with the sounds of glass shattering substituting for applause.

That was Janie's final performance, and Leona was still disappointed over not seeing it from a closer view. With a toss of those rioutous auburn curls, the ends in desperate need of a trim, she shut off the sink and walked out, tiny droplets of water dripping from those disastrous fingers the only evidence of her presence that afternoon.