I was talking with one of my friends and she described something as a "hot mess". I've heard the phrase before, but I never thought about what it meant. In fact, I have no idea what it means. It's such a random, ambiguous phrase, I could probably come up with twenty different ideas of what a hot mess could be. Perfect.
I kind of love random, ambiguous phrases. About half the story ideas I come up with originated with me messing around with an ambiguous phrase. I always find them wonderful toys for creativity.
So here is your assignment (and mine as well): Create twenty different flash fictions, each one based on a different concept of the phrase "hot mess".
If you aren't sure what I mean by different concepts, consider the flowing images: a pile of fresh puke on the floor; two people in bed after having sex; a woman completely frazzled by all of the stressors in her life; three weeks worth of dirty laundry strewn about a room. I could easily see each of these scenes described as a hot mess. However, none of them have anything to do with each other.
The point of this writing exercise is to create (which is pretty much the point of all writing exercises). Play with words, think of their possibilities. Consider both literal and figurative meanings. Think about how many different ways we can use a given word or phrase. And most importantly, draw ideas and inspirations from the humdrum minutia of life, but not by merely imitating and copying it. Be aware of great ideas, as they are all around you. And remember to make use of them, too.
This is off the top of my head, but here is my first flash fiction for this exercise:
Hot Mess
I.
Liam lay in bed. The sheets were soaked from his sweat. The covers were ripped off of the bed and piled on top of his feet; if they were on his body, he would get too hot, but if his feet were exposed, they would freeze. His stomach tightened and gurgled. Liam couldn't tell if it needed food or not. He hadn't eaten for three days, but everything he tried to consume was rejected. He was tired, but restless. The only time he left his bed was to use the bathroom, but he had neither the strength nor the fortitude to do anything but lie down. His only option was to ride this wave until it died. . . or he did.
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Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteII.
"I have a really important question."
Stay cool. Don't hope. Don't start jumping and blushing, fanning the heat from your face.
"I figured you'd be the only one who can answer this."
Damn well better be, boy. But don't be a bitch. Simmer down, kill the spite.
"I wanted to know if--"
Ask it! Yes, dammit, yes to anything.
"--you knew which kind of lettuce was healthiest."
"Lettuce?"
"Yes."
"That's my line."
"What?"
Click.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteIII.
I sat at the table, hands resting on my lap, staring at the dish in front of me. Fried rice, meatloaf smothered in gravy, and potato pancakes. I could see the steam rise from the plate.
"My entire meal is brown," I said. "Shouldn't there be other colors of food?"
She set down a serving bowl and said there was nice, healthy, green zucchini to eat.
I opened the lid and saw more steaming brown. "I don't think that battered, fried zucchini counts as healthy or green."
"It's plenty green. Bite into it and you'll see it's there."
I pushed it away. I'd rather go to bed hungry.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteIV.
I try to kiss her but she's danced out of my reach. She sings to the radio, out of tune but soulful, the pan dipping up and down in her hand.
This is the only way she makes her eggs. A song and steps, the pan spun around, yolk spilling into white like bleary eyes refusing to wake. I tried to stop her a long time ago, but she turned up the radio, kept that pan gyrating until eggs hit the floor, the stove, my eye. So dance on. The song will end.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteV.
Brad lives in an efficiency apartment. He has one all-purpose room and two nooks (kitchen and toilet). As little room as there is to begin with it, there appears to be even less because of everything strewn and piled across the floor.
The few guests he has to come inside invariably tell him he should straighten up. Brad tells them that he will close his eyes and have his friend name any object they can find, no matter how much crap is on top of it. Those brave enough to dig into the piles indulge Brad on his challenge.
Brad wins. Brad always wins. He has created the ultimate filing system. He always throws things in the same place when he's done with them, so he always knows where to go to find it again. Of course, Brad is the only one who can use his system, but he doesn't care; he's the only one who lives there.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteSeis.
I want to see fire but I only see smoke. The cloud thickens over the scrubby bushes, overlaps blue sky so it turns thick and gray as a thunderstorm night. I want that static pull. The way my skin pulled taut on summer days as I stood in the doorway under darkening sky. But today nothing is static. The valley erupts in sticks snapping like gunshots, in bursts of ash, in trees that fall without sound.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteYou two beautiful people make my hot mess of a life worth living.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteVIII.
Joey ran around the forest in early March. The snow was melting and the child amused himself by running up to piles and kicking the slushy piles apart. Joey saw a particularly large pile, kicked it with full force, and launched the hidden trashcan across the ground.
He had no idea why there would be a trashcan in the forest. He looked down and saw a large pile of mush. It smelled awful, but Joey's curiosity overpowered the stench. He saw an apple core and orange peels and grape stems, all shriveled up and brown. He poked at the pile and saw dead leaves and grass clippings under it.
Further poking revealed a treasure trove of worms bugs, and all things slimy and crawly. Joey marveled at all the critters, picking them up and seeing them wriggle around. It occurred to him that there were no bugs anywhere else on the ground. This pile of rotting garbage was like a warm jacket for them.
Joey picked up the trashcan and put it back where he found it. Now the bugs had a house again to stay warm for the rest of the winter. Joey returned to his own home for hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteNeun.
The rain pushes through the window, cascades down the wall and the floor and through all corners. It seeps mud-scars under the door. Heal us.
Our feet sink into the carpet, water at our ankles. We fill plastic bags with her books, bags, shoes, picture frames, glass vase, more shoes, parking tickets. Imagine a city walled by water. Imagine what they took.
I find a long rubber object that I want to make a phallic joke about, but don't. Instead I slap Bryan's ass with it.
"I think that's pathological," Bill says. "But not in a bad way."
Hot Mess
ReplyDeleteX.
I still don't understand bachelor parties. A group of my friends, half single and half married, abduct me and take me to a strip club. They have hard liquor and chicken wings for lunch.
The wings were so vile that I couldn't stand to smell them, let alone try to eat the meat and keep it down. I'm sure they simply didn't change the oil in the fryer for a week or two, but I swear it smelled just like roadkill.
As soon as I picked a wing up, I put it back down. It slipped out of my fingers (of course because I was holding it too tightly, afraid I would drop it) and bounced off the steam tray. I instinctively threw my hand out to catch it, but that made me knock a plate over, which spilled five other wing and a cup of hot sauce onto my pants.
My friends, who already seemed drunk but were probably just giddy, assured me it was no big deal and that they would make me feel a lot better real soon. They dragged me to a table and called over a girl, telling her I was getting married and needed one last hurrah.
One last hurrah? What does that even mean? I'm not going to have sex with her. Hell, I've done some freaky things with my fiancee. This is a woman wearing the equivalent to a bra and panties, dancing close to me and occasionally rubbing against me - again, neither my first nor last time.
Despite my protests, they sat me down, paid the girl, and she started her dance. It is so different from TV and movies, mostly because of being in the first person. I'm sitting and she's standing, so my eyes are at crotch level. After dancing around, leaning in and pulling back, she rips off her skirt and continues in a lacy thong. I can see how this would be hot, at least normally. But she has a single pubic hair sticking out. She obviously shaved and paid close attention; there was no stubble. So how did this sole hair remain?
She turned her back to me to continue her dance and I was glad to get a break from that line of thought. The girl had a tramp stamp. I wasn't too surprised, but I did notice that it was covering a mole on her lower back. I guess this was less revolting than the pube, but still not that sexy.
I couldn't help but think about my fiancee. If she had missed a hair while shaving I'd think nothing of it. If she had a mole on her back, I'd think it was cute. But on this stranger, it just wasn't. The girl was attractive, sure, but she meant nothing to me, so why do I want her grinding on my lap?
The dancer got off my lap and I noticed her butt was shiny and had a dot of orange on it. She lap danced on chicken grease and hot sauce. I just couldn't take this seriously anymore. I sat up and offered that one of my friends take a seat so I don't have too much fun. They eagerly took my place and I went to the bathroom to clean my lap and wait for this stupid thing to end.