How fast can you write a story? Hard to say, isn’t it.

Well, Shellie Tomlinson over on All Things Southern put me and the other two belles from Southernbelleview to the test last night, Live, while she hosted her weekly radio show.

Lisa Wingate, Julie Cantrell and I had 15 minutes to write a short, short piece from four writing prompts Shellie gave us and post them on All Things Southern Facebook.

Here were the four promote:

abandoned building
independent thinker
hospital gown
peppermint

She said Go! and off I went.

Thanks to Hubby who gave me the idea for a building by the river.

***

Jake Stoneburner walked through the shadows of the old downtown building. It’s been abandoned decades ago. Just sat rotting by the river, flooding every time a good rain washed the county clean.

He could do something with this place. He knew it. While his investors saw rot and ruin, he saw flashing lights and gleaming wood floors. He heard music and laughter. Saw a whole lot of pretty women.

He even had the perfect name for his evening establishment. Stoneburners.

Now if he’d convince his investors to pony up. Then win over the reluctant owner, Paul Wineskin, an old man, holding onto the for sentimental reasons, to let go of the deed.

The bang of a door behind him caused Jake to snap around. A women with wild, tangled blonde hair and fear in her blue eyes ran toward him wearing nothing but hospital gown.

“is he here?” She gripped his harm, her nails biting into his skin. Dirt streaked across her cheeks and she looked as if she’d been on a hard days run. But her skin bore the sweet perfurme of peppermint.

“Is who here?”

“Him?” Desperation laced her words and weighed down her tone.

“I’m the only him here, Miss –”

“You think I’m telling you my name?” She laughed. Not with merriment but with a certain dread. “For all I know you’re in cahoots with him.”

“Miss, do I need to call someone for you?”

“No! No…” She backed away, trembling. “You did it, didn’t you? You killed him.”

“Killed who?” Jake slipped his phone from his pocket. Time to dial 9-1-1.

“My father!”

“Your father? I don’t even know –”

“Paul Wineskin. You killed him.”

“Paul Wineskin is not dead.”

The sound of another door clapped, jerking Jake into a shadow. The woman swerved, shaking her fist at the possible intruder.

“Jake? It’s me, Dave. You called. I’m here. But I can’t see spending my money on this place.” He walked right past her.

“Yea, Dave, hey, this is… Paul Wineskin’s daughter.”

Dave looked over his shoulder. “Who?”

“Her.” Jake motioned to the woman still trembling, shaking. “Right there.”

“Dude,” Dave laughed. “What you been smoking? There’s no one there. Beside’s old Paul’s daughter had been dead for decades.”

***
I made a few small tweaks from the piece I posted yesterday on All Things Southern. But that’s what I came up with in 15 minutes.

Shellie invited people to read and vote on her Facebook page.

And I’m happy to say this little ditty won.

Yeah!

Enjoy