Months after I pleaded not guilty for parking a color caravan in front of my home, Bryce managed to do me in again. This time, he parked a sedan. The sedan was, too, colored, painted all over are places I wish to go even in this dreary colorless world. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I sighed as I faced the cops again. “It’s not mine! It’s his!” I quickly pointed at Bryce as he walked down the sidewalk. When he saw me pointing and the cops looking at him, he immediately turned back.
“Excuse me, sir.” One of the cops called after him. “Is that yours?” He asked nicely, pointing at the car. He shook his head and pointed at me.
Furious, I headed down the street, didn’t care I was in my pajamas and slippers. “Hey!” I snapped, “I don’t care you don’t like me but you will NOT frame me for this. Do you understand me?”
“Fine,” Bryce spat, “it’s mine, so what?”
I am participating in Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writer, where we write a piece between 100 and 150 words (more or less 25 words) in length inspired by the photo prompt above.
I recycled the characters from the story, “It’s not Mine.“