Gimmie Fiction

I know, I know. It's been a long while since I've made any updates. A lot's been going on...and not a lot's been going on (how's that for cryptic?)

I may have gotten hooked on the short post format over @ Shorter Excerpts (see link to your right, click on it) and longer-form stuff has been forgotten. Also, it's not football season.

But I aim to return my original blog to "Regularly updated" status. For starters, here's a snippet of a longer-form bit of fiction that may form a complete and functional short story on its own:

A Malady Particular To This Generation (IV)
(Excerpt)

“Mike?”

“Yeah. Brooklyn?”

“Yeah.”

She was shorter in person than Mike thought she’d be. This had become a chronic issue for Mike. If pulled aside by some semi-officious statistician that dealt with height and asked what he thought the average 20-something female’s height would be, Mike would probably guess “at least 5’7.”

Brooklyn looked more or less exactly like her Facebook profile pictures: Short, reddish-brown hair (likely the red highlights were added in recently), clear, untan (but not pale) complexion.

Green eyes.

She had on one of those fancy belts that Mike thought looked like a curtain pull tied about the waist, jeans, and UNC blue blouse showing a teasing-but-not-taunting amount of cleavage.

Her only accessory was an iPhone, which she was somehow typing something on using only her left thumb.

“So, should we get some drinks?”

“Sure. I’ll have an appletini.”

”Scrubs fan?”

“What?”

“The show? Scrubs? Zach Braff? That guy from Office Space?”

“Oh. No. I just like them. Plus Scrubs is on opposite Grey’s so I can’t watch it.”

“Ok. Well I’ll be right back with the drinks.”

The whole time, Brooklyn’s thumb was going nuts on her iPhone.

Mike thought it a bit presumptuous to assume he was paying for the drinks, and wasn’t a huge fan of playing waiter with them—this was mainly the result of several dates in a row where all the women paid for their own drinks, and the most recent two seemed insulted and pissed off at the notion that Mike would pay for both. Now Mike’s “Golddigger Radar Antenna” was up, and he thought getting a draft PBR would be a good preventative tactic. That many folks can’t tell a lager from an ale from a pilsner, and any beer in a beer glass will look pretty similar—that didn’t enter his mind.

When he got to the booth Brooklyn had selected—her back to the wall, but somewhat secluded in the bar—she was still at the iPhone, but trying to keep it hidden. Could a person touch-type with a thumb?