Scott Skinner

“Find the bum” by Scott Skinner

Submitted to Contest #143

When Allan took his final inhale, the cherry on the joint burned to its cream-toned crutch, and ash-tainted air rushed to the back of his throat. The rank taste made him purse his lips and lap at his mouth like a dog. As his tongue flipped around his gums, it streaked across his teeth, where he thought he felt the ridges of decaying enamel. In between pinched fingers, he raised the joint in front of him for inspection, but he was downwind, near a smoky campfire, and things were challenging to see.Allan had the makings of what Sara wanted in ...

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“Beaver Fur Bowler” by Scott Skinner

Submitted to Contest #135

Tom Clanton’s daddy died in front of him when he was only thirteen years old. He was gunned down outside the Silver Dollar saloon in broad daylight for trying to prevent his wife from running away with an outlaw that had been feeding her opium for the last several months. The first bullet that hit his daddy sent him to the ground with such force that the dust nearly blocked Tom from seeing the second bullet tear through his daddy’s chest and kill him. The outlaw, Ben Philpot, left with the boy’s mother, and they were later killed by Blood In...

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“Old Enough” by Scott Skinner

The McCraney men lived in Missouri territory for as long as Henry could remember, which wasn’t his entire life, just the important part. Henry surmised that if something were worth knowing, he’d remember it, and if he couldn’t recall a year or more of his life, then it didn’t contain anything worth remembering. Until this point, due to Henry’s fear that his logic didn’t make no sense, he hadn’t told Pa this kind of thinking was how he kept the unknowns of his upbringing organized. Pa was a widower and a farmer, and to say he was a quiet man ...

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“The snow is black ” by Scott Skinner

The day my life changed forever, we were on the slopes. I remember running out of the lodge, my ski boots like anvils on my feet, my skis’ edges cutting into the folds of my hands, and the aluminum tips of my ski poles scraping icy concrete. Was I screaming bloody murder, or was the feeling of glass slashing my throat caused by my gasping for air? I’ve seen pigs get slaughtered; their violent squeal is the sound of death. I feel like on that day, on the steps of the lodge, at some point, I must have shrilled with the equivalent abandonment a...

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“Late to work” by Scott Skinner

When Jessica heard the annoying, familiar sound of gunshots and screams coming from the living room TV, she briefly wished that they weren’t a part of Dylan’s video game but that they were real and that Dylan would be dead. It was only a passing thought, and she was ashamed by it, but, dammit, when she discovered Dylan had finished off the last bit of coffee, she was furious. She wanted to storm into her daughter’s room and tell her that he couldn’t live with them any longer, but that would start a fight, and Jessica didn’t want to fight wit...

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“Tiger print” by Scott Skinner

Submitted to Contest #124

Matt was twelve, his brothers were eight, and the townhouse they played hide and seek in was four. Their father was the second owner of the still-considered-new, mostly concrete, three-story home, and this was the first time that the boys had the place to themselves. They were playing hide and seek because their dad didn’t have any toys at his house. He wasn’t the type of dad that tried to make his kids comfortable, but the brothers didn’t mind; they did more than make due. They were pleased that their father said he’d be away at the store f...

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“Off script” by Scott Skinner

The boy sat on a black painted stool next to a switchboard and a dozen wires that controlled the stage lights above him. He wore billowing velvet pants synched at the ankles, long white socks, and pointy black dress shoes. On top was a pirate shirt and a black vest, and fake gold necklaces adorned his beating chest. His face was powdered white, and a mustache curled at the ends painted his upper lip. On his head, he wore a black wig and a pirate hat. The wig’s ringlets bounced on his shoulders as he took sharp breaths. He was a nervous actor...

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“My wife's birthday” by Scott Skinner

Submitted to Contest #120

“Back in my day, we meditated when we were stoned, and we were stoned every day. Have you ever pictured a strawberry being inserted into the top of your head while you’re wearing those Kanye sunglasses? You know those glasses? The fence-looking white ones? I think that’s enlightenment. We can’t have Thanksgiving dinner here.”“What are you talking about?” “I don’t know, Diane! Can’t you see that? I just ate a bunch of mushrooms.” “Where did you get the mushrooms?”“You know where I got the mushrooms. Don’t ask me where I got them.”“D...

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“Only one busy day a year” by Scott Skinner

My Dad could be a mean orange thing. He often ranted about life’s misgivings in the corner of the garage where we lived, complaining that, contrary to what we’d been told, the other side is not filled with full moons and bats. He didn’t enjoy the passive nature of a candy basket’s being, and the inherent emptiness destroyed him. All my Dad wanted was for it to be Halloween every day. My Mom and I did our best to cheer him, but there’s no denying that he went through an exceptionally vicious version of the oft-heard sophomore slump. In his wo...

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“The Broken Foreigner” by Scott Skinner

It was a crow’s tail before midnight on Jinhui Rd. And I was on one of my binges again (earlier in the day, I’d watched the Dark Knight and taken down a dozen White Russian’s). I was on my ¥3,250 moped, swerving in and out of traffic entering the city’s Red-light district. The Luniz, an Oakland rap duo popular in the Mid ’90s, was slapping through my earphones, and the mix of booze, braggadocios raps, and the seedy underbelly of the city made me feel adventurous and unstoppable like Batman. In reality, I was a drunk, lonely Bay Area kid fuel...

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“Throwing Apples” by Scott Skinner

I was upset that I had acne, so I threw an apple at the back of my girlfriend's head. On impact with the asphalt, the fruit's skin shredded to pieces, and the core skipped a few times like a stone on still water. It came to a complete stop a few feet in front of her, and after she realized what I'd tried to do, she stopped too. When she turned around to look at me, I saw my shame reflected in her eyes.  The moment made my seventeen-year-old self even more enraged, and I would have screamed and cussed at her like I had been doing in the ...

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“All it takes” by Scott Skinner

I sing,  "With each drop Drop Drop I think of you. With each Drop Drop Drop I think of you. With each drop, drop, drop Every drop, Drop Drop With each drop, drop, drop It's only you." And I haven't drunk for nine years, but I think tonight's a good night to relapse.  The rainwater on the top of my Audi's moonroof holds a hundred irregular spheres that jiggle with the bumps in the road, which I should be paying more attention to. I took a picture of the water bulbs once, then pinched and widened my fingers on my phone's screen to ...

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“Better this way ” by Scott Skinner

My father was bald. The kind of bald that litters the top of a man's skull with sunspots and leaves an incomplete tire of hair around the sides and back of their head. It's the kind of bald that's given to pathetic men. The kind of bald that tricks pathetic men into thinking they have enough hair to take to the barbershop. My father was pathetic, but he knew he didn't belong at the barbershop, so he cut his hair himself when he needed a trim.  "I'm saving all this damn money on haircuts. You can clean the fucking bathroom."  He'd t...

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“Mirage Problems” by Scott Skinner

The four-door Mitsubishi Mirage that Carl rented for he and Georgina's excursion to Dave's wedding reminded him of the go-karts he'd drive as a kid at Boomer's in Livermore. The sound the Mitsubishi's door made when he slammed it shut brought him back to the sound the go-karts made when he'd ram them into the corners of the quarter-mile track; thin metal on thin metal. It was a cheap sound, like flicking the tip of your fingernail against an empty coke can.  The pinging made him wonder what the car's safety rating was and if Georgina wi...

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“The Urge” by Scott Skinner

When I feel sexy, I imagine strawberries falling from the sky and hitting me in the face. Deep red and plump, I tingle at the thought of them raining on me. Some bounce off my forehead; others graze my nose or roll down my cheek. They're soft yet firm. If I could catch one in my mouth and bite down, it would burst with juices, which would cause the sweet nectar to dribble down my chin and give my moist tongue a job to do.   I'll tell you how to get turned on: a wet and wild cantaloupe. Wash that baby nice and good, then pat it...

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