Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Dimes and Dames

I had no idea so much trouble could be caused by one little dime.
But as I looked deep into the psychopaths eyes, those sharp green eyes, I knew I never wanted that dime so much.
He did, it was all he thought about.
I'm sitting here tied to this chair, almost awaiting execution as he dances about my chair with his top hat wobbling.
"The Dime, my dime, he stole my dime! Why, no one knows but the monkey."
I didn't know who the monkey he spoke often of was, but that monkey was the cause of his mental state.
"You," he said, nostrils flarring, "Are the cause of my problems, you sir, yes the monkey commands it."
He speaks of an incident two weeks ago of which I was doing nothing but minding my own business and walking down Oak street... ("Nah, ha, ha," says the crazy man on his toes, "Na, ha, ha, the dime is mine!")... when I saw a simple dime rolling on its side toward me.
And I picked it up.
I picked it up, and regretted it as I saw the black top hat and ragged cloak in hot persuit.
The man was holding a butcher knife.
"Yes," he says as he waves it in my face, his eyes dancing around his sockets, "Yes, Mine is the dime, the cow doesn't know how?"
My bonds seem to cut into the flesh of my arms, a dime and a nut.
What could be better?
And at the end when the police arrived and released me (which is a miracle, because few police are on Oak Street) they let him keep his dime.

More writing by this author

Blogs on This Site