I'm not saying anything, but I might try to do one of these every day to get going. Just trying to sneak up on it. This microfiction is inspired by the tweet "Instead of showing me, they just told me where to go. Fake wood paneling."

I didn't even know if the film existed anymore. I had heard rumors, and when Lars Ellsworth from the Herald mentioned to me that he knew a guy at the police station who was cousins with the man who shot it, I was interested. We arranged a meeting on a Saturday. Lars would pick me up at 9 and we'd drive to the south side to this house somewhere in Parkview.

"Don't bring the camera," Lars said when I got in the car.
"I'm not," I said.

The air outside was cold, but inside the car I had to take off my overcoat. The violent glare of parked cars assaulted us in the enclosed space. The further south we drove, the shorter the houses became. They seemed to sink into the earth here, deflated by years of neglect. The brick walls grew darker, but the bright blue sky seemed oblivious. A woman with curlers in her hair was walking her dog. She stared as she crossed in front of us.

We arrived and two men met us on the steps. Instead of showing me, they just told me where to go. Fake wood paneling. A narrow stair case. Down, down, down. We got to the bottom and I froze. Not only was there a whole wall of film canisters, but there on the table, in a single pool of light from above, was a rifle that looked exactly like the murder weapon.

I just had so much fun writing that last micro fiction piece that I'm back to write another. (And because it's required for class.) Oh, did that sound sarcastic? It wasn't meant to! The tweet that inspired this story is "If i ever got a chance to go to the moon, i would go for the month of december."

It was two in the afternoon and I was called up to the registers again for cashier assistance. Why on earth does anyone go shopping at this time on a Sunday, I thought. I turned the corner and saw that the lines were all the way back to the jewelry counter. "What the fuck?" said Rob, my articulate co-worker. I met him where cosmetics join stationary, and we stood there a moment, just staring at the absurd veneer of suburban consumerism. He was wearing a name tag that said "Dick" and his red polo shirt was untucked from his khaki pants. What he lacked in tact he made up for in honesty. "I'm going down to the express lanes," I said. "I gochu," he replied, heading for register 13.

After ringing up a sagging woman in yoga pants buying 10,000 double A batteries and an armful of lean cuisines, I had a man who wore a tie and leaned in when he talked. "It's for my daughter," he volunteered, smiling. I looked down at the conveyer and picked up a box emblazoned "Moon Scapez! Create your own world!"

"Aww that's nice," I said, and he relaxed his shoulders. But as he fumbled for his Visa, I added "If I ever got a chance to go to the moon, I would go for the month of December."

"And why's that?" he asked. I gazed down toward register 13 where a cluster of red shirts had gathered around a stout woman pointing wildly at a Fisher-Price Mickey Mouse Hot Dog Dancer. I surrendered. "Did you want a gift receipt?"

This is the first micro fiction piece I've ever written. The goal was to produce something less than 250 words an include a "tweet" from my twitter feed. I used the following tweet: "Is it so hard to clean off your car?"

Roy was lying on the backseat but hadn't stirred for hours. We were driving north on some highway on the way to Ithaca. I don't remember the number, and I don't think we knew it at the time, either. All the road signs were frozen over, coated with ice. We were pretty much driving blind, but Walter had found a big truck to square up behind. Just stay in his tracks I thought. When we came to a railroad crossing, the truck (a dump truck as it was, probably filled with salt) made a right and left us idling at the crossroads, wondering what to do. Walter eased on the gas, we spun for half a second, and then grabbed a patch of unfrozen snow, hurling us over the tracks. I noticed a gas station. It was like noticing the light through a keyhole in a dark room. At first, the room is invisible. Then, the limitations of architecture become apparent and light leaks in where it cannot be denied entrance. "Let's go in and ask them," I said.

I knew then we weren't going to get Roy to his show in time to play. We pulled out behind a minivan just as a sheet of ice slid off its roof and smashed into a million pieces right in front of our bumper. "Jesus!" Walt said. "Is it so hard to clean off your car? Gonna get us killed!" By that time, I knew Roy was probably already dead.

This piece was inspired by my twitter feed, my own personal driving adventures, and the story of Hank Williams' death.