Friday Fiction: character development

This post is in response to a prompt from {W}rite of Passage, an online writing group that posts weekly challenges, this week's being Character. I want to stress that this is a work of fiction, so if any of you see yourselves in this, it's just your insecurities (or narcissism) talking. ;)

Edited to add: and because I had to get a glass of wine or two in me before working up the courage to step out of my public writing comfort zone (I haven't tried to write fiction in over a decade -- or longer!), I am going to link this up with the Half-Drunk Challenge at Momalom, a writing challenge to try something a little more daring, a little less comfortable, a little more challenging for yourself in your public writing. So here it is.

And be kind -- I haven't tried my hand at fiction in over a decade. (But it sure was fun!) Ok, here goes:

A Mess

He folds the greasy circle of cardboard and crams it in on top of crumpled Kleenex and banana peels, cinching the handles before heaving the bag out of the can.

“Shit!”

Plastic bags and cans spill to the linoleum, splattering his feet with forgotten swigs of rootbeer.

“Dammit,” he says, scraping the bottom of his foot against his Wranglers, tiny shards of Doritos sticking between his toes and crumbling to the ground.

Sighing, he bends and creaks, knees to the linoleum, grabbing trash and shoving it into a new bag.

“Get outta here,” he says, shoving away the old black lab. The dog keeps nosing the Hostess wrappers, knowing he’ll never follow through. He never does.

He swings the trash bag out the back door, plopping it on the porch when he realizes the bin is still out at the curb.

“Hey Joe!” chirps the woman next door, heading in from the backyard with a baby on her hip.

“Hey,” he shrugs, before ducking inside. She acts nice, but she’s a real bitch. Never lets her husband out. They think no one can hear them fighting, but on a street this tight, you can’t flush the can without the whole neighborhood knowing.

He settles into the recliner and flips the channel. He can’t take the news anymore. They’re all corporate shills and blowhards. Might as well turn on the game instead.

He lifts the footrest, and the old chair groans and cracks, sounding like he feels. The phone rings, startling him as he cracks open a rootbeer, sloshing the sticky mess and soaking his t-shirt.

He reaches for the phone, sopping up his shirt with the corduroy armrest cover. Incoming call…Mom. He tosses the phone aside and lets it go to voicemail.

He doesn’t have the energy to deal with her tonight, to tell her again that he’s not coming on Sunday. That he has a life and doesn’t need the company every weekend. Besides, those dinners are always so awkward. His parents were easier to deal with when he was drinking. Without the social lubricant, they're smothering.

The old lab noses against his hand, dangling over the edge of the chair.

He scratches the sweet spot, just behind the ears. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’re the only pal I got.”

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Be sure to check out the other posts written by {W}rite of Passage participants (list below) or click over for the list of Half-Drunk entries at Momalom.