Laundromat Fiction: Jett's Dream

Yesterday was laundry day! So that means more laundromat fiction, written from the actual laundromat. This one was really quick, so the story was also really quick, maybe a little weird. Oh well. I'd love some feedback if you have any thoughts. As always this series is very off-the-cuff fiction, with minimal editing. Here are other posts from the series. 

No one intrigued me more than Jett Donovan. He was honestly one of the hottest guys I’d ever seen, with that dark chocolate hair that swooped across his face like a frat boy. Only he countered it with the ruggedness of an actual man. He was so kind to everyone but he also seemed to care about one thing and one thing only: farming.

Perhaps it was his ambition to do something that not many young people, let alone a young person who didn’t have a farmer in the family, wanted to do. Maybe it was his blasé attitude about making actual friendships. Probably it was the fact that he didn’t pay that much attention to me that led to know with all my being that Jett was the guy for me. 

He was a man who knew about a lot of things, but the only way to get his attention was to ask him about the farm. A lot of girls did that, though, so I tried to come up with something a lot more flawless than my predecessors.

One day, I walked right up to Jett, wearing denim jeans cutoff mid-calf. They were tight as hell and made my otherwise small ass look awesome. I accompanied it with a red and black checkered flannel to pull off the most earthly vibe I could come up with, and then I led with this: “Jett, I got this project for my class, where we have to try something new and well, I was wondering if I could come live on your farm for a while?”

His facial expression didn’t do much. He just tilted his head so slightly I hardly would’ve noticed if I wasn’t waiting on such an important response that just flowed out of him as a simple, “OK.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but his nonchalant tone somehow gave me the impression he meant it.

The next week, I was unloading a small bag of things in Jett’s guest bedroom. He lived in a really simple, pleasant home. It was pretty old, I guess. Hardwood floors, white on the outside with red shutters. Sort of a cookie-cutter, fresh from the farm kind of house. The inside was pretty bachelor—no art, limited furniture—but it was clean.

I was Jett’s sidekick day in, day out that summer. We started our days collecting new chicken eggs, passed the time watering, planting, harvesting summer squash and tomatoes and ended the nights eating simple meals with whatever it was we gathered that day.

It took a few weeks, but I had Jett talking to me, even enjoying my company. About a month later I found myself sleeping in his room at night. Then, I just stayed.

Jett had always wanted to be a farmer. I guess the only thing I really wanted was Jett.

Photo from flickr.

—Holli Anne

Laundromat Fiction: What's with Friendship?

This weekend I did my laundry (finally), so naturally I have another Laundromat Fiction to share. If you didn't see my first post, laundromat fiction is the result of this strange urge I have to write fiction while I do my laundry (usually in a laundromat). This time was actually in a neighbors home, so that was a nice break!

Anyway, here's my unpolished, off-the-cuff story I wrote while laundry happened this week! As always, I'd love feedback and all that good stuff.

—Holli Anne

The girl wouldn't quit texting me, but hey, I didn't mind. I mean, I sort of minded, but the rest of me just enjoyed the attention.
At first anyway.
This godforsaken camp is the worst possible place I could be right now, so having a friend to distract me is pretty nice.
In a room full of peers wearing short shorts and baggy t-shirts—a trend I will never understand—this girl definitely stood out the most.
She wore these bright pink pants with strange yellow tassels that hung at the end. Describing it sounds hideous, but she actually pulled them off well. That was what I noticed more than anything, not that she had pink and yellow pants but that she was actually able to pull them off.
She wore them with a plain white shirt that was fitted. I decided to approach her because, the expression on her face looked about as excited as I felt to be here at this all girls camp my parents dragged me to.
"This should be fun. I'm Stephanie," she said as I approached her. It was sort of a backwards introduction and spoken with the utmost sarcasm. I knew I liked her.
"Brooke."
We started talking from there and decided to exchange numbers. I went to drop my things off in a room I was sharing with a really perky individual. Oh God.
My head was aching from the sound of her voice, almost before she even started really talking. And talking. And talking.
I was relieved when I saw a text from Stephanie. A distraction. An excuse.
I told my roommate I really had to take the call, even though it wasn't actually a phone call. I stepped outside and opened her message.
"My roommates killing my brain cells."
Ha, that was about right. "Same here."
"Wanna meet up by that lake outside?"
"Yeah. On the way."
We found one of those big mossy southern trees to sit in. We talked about just random things and it seemed we had a lot in common. Both our parents sent us here to get us to make more girl friends. Both of us were better at talking to guys. We hated sports. Loved books and art and other introverted things. Got by with average grades in school, less out of not knowing the subjects and more for just sheer defiance and boredom.
Nothing we said was really too deep. I didn't take this as one of those friendships that would last but it would do for the weekend. I wonder if this is what my parents had in mind when they wanted me to make more friends.
"Hey, we should tell our parents about each other so they are appeased we made a friend," I laughed. She, however, did not.
Her eyes sort of lit up in an oddly happy way and she nodded her head. At first a little slowly, but then she started picking up speed.
"I was pretty sure we could be real friends from here. Like best friends," her voice enthusiastic. It was off putting at best.
"I mean, yeah, that's what I meant. I mean, maybe not best friends yet. I don't really know you that well," I fumbled and tried to crack a smile. Is making friends really this hard for me?
She eventually told me she was joking, but there was a part of me that didn't really believe her. Once camp came to an end, my suspicions were confirmed.
Like I said, she wouldn't quit texting me. At first I was bored and so it was kind of nice and I responded. But then, geez, I had things to do, and I mean, every now and then it was fine, but she wanted to talk everyday.
I responded less and less, but she kept her speed going. She asked me to hangout with her one day, but since I wasn't really into the idea too much, I put her off another two weeks and then agreed to it.
I didn't have a half bad time either. Maybe I could be the friend making type after all. 

Laundromat Fiction: Chasing a Weird Dream

I've mentioned before how a change of environment can do wonders for some creative inspiration. Normally, when I'm feeling this way, I make my way over to a coffee shop or a park if it's a nice day. 

But sometime while in college, I first got the insane urge to go to a laundromat and write fiction. I never actually did it because I lived in a house with a washer and dryer, and well, I never got up the nerve to be that creepy laundromat loiter. The insane urge never went away, to the point that this became a legit dream of mine. 

Well, now, I'm proud to say our new home doesn't have a washer and dryer, and we have to go to the laundromat to wash our clothes. Dream. Come. True.

It may seem silly, but it actually makes me pretty pleased. 

Another big dream I have is to publish a book, but I have to be real about something: I'm scared to show people my fiction. 

Since Almost There is all about living your dreams and overcoming fears, I decided to start this here Laundromat Fiction series. The concept is simple: I'll publish short stories I write while doing my laundry (most likely in a laundromat). 

These short stories will be pieces, unlike my book, that I don't spend much time proofreading, polishing or over thinking in anyway. Honest feedback is most welcomed!

The subjects won't always revolve around the literal laundromat, but since this is the first one, it seemed fitting. 

Hope to hear what you think!

—Holli Anne

I can’t seem to break my stare away from that gaudy neon sign flashing, one letter at a time, “O-P-E-N.”
There are probably 100 washers and dryers at this Coin Star Laundromat, and part of me wonders if there’s ever a time of day that even half of them are in use. Its seclusion is what attracted me to this particular place.I have actually never stepped foot in a laundromat before, and might I mention, I’m slightly impressed with the way a building as old, dirty, ugly and rundown can smell so damn good. Especially considering there are a total of four people in here now, one really old attendant working on a crossword puzzle or something like that. And three Hispanics, only one of whom I think is actually doing laundry.
I scan the place for a washer as far away from the crowd as possible, which isn’t exactly difficult to do. I find a nice dark corner that looks like the perfect place to wash these blasted clothes.
I’m not exactly looking to make friends while I’m here, especially considering my outfit of choice: my boyfriends button up shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both of which I found in my car. I make a mental note to carry better outfit selections in my car, as I receive a few awkward stares from the big crowd.
When I remember why I’m here, though, I cut myself a little slack. I mean I didn’t exactly plan on killing a man tonight. If I had prepared for such an occasion, maybe I wouldn’t have worn my favorite pair of jeans and that purple sweater mom gave me. In fact, not having planned for this occasion might make me less of a villain than if I had.Either way, I had one mission here tonight: wash my outfit so I can return home in the same clothes I had on when I left tonight, hopefully blood free. I drop my clothes in one of the commercial washers, praying to God no one notices how few of them there are, then have to walk across the joint to purchase soap and make change. I hear snickers from the peanut gallery, but I pretend to not notice.They probably wouldn’t be laughing if they had known what I had just done.
“Hi, can I make some change with you?”
“Machine’s over there in the corner,” the attendant lashes back at me from behind her godawful coffee breath, without even looking away once from her puzzle.
Well, excuse me. I was slightly offended before realizing it might be a good thing if she doesn’t look too closely at my face. If anyone does catch on, well, I don’t know how they would end up here questioning people, but you never really know I guess.
I don’t think I’ll be caught, though. While this may have been my first kill, I’d often contemplated murder—how I’d do it, you know, if I ever needed to. Everyone does, right?Anyway, tonight, when my little sister told me what that bastard had done to her, there was really no other choice. The police didn’t believe her, but I knew my sister, and well, that douche had to go.
I didn’t intend on killing him at first. I was planning to just corner him outside that pizza shop and kick his ass a little. You know, just scare him off. It’s not that I was bigger, but I knew if he didn’t see me coming, and I hit him with just the right amount of force, overpowering him in the beginning, I’d have him where I’d need him. When I saw him, though, well, I guess I got carried away. I snuck up right behind him, stabbed him in just the right spot, pulled the knife out and ran. His blood splattered all over me, but no one was around to hear or see anything. I left him there for someone to find, probably some poor jogger on his morning run tomorrow.Maybe its just adrenaline, but I don’t feel sad about what I’ve done. I keep picturing that arrogant smirk he had seemingly painted across his face in the ally. Before he knew what was coming, anyway. As I watch my clothes spin, I imagine the blood on my hands washing right away with it. If only I could stop staring at that damned blinking sign, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad place to spend an hour.