Winner October 2008 The Crappy $5 Tim Horton's Gift Card of Writing Prowess™

 

This Meeting's Prompt

A man or woman wakes up in the middle of nowhere with a guitar, a hangover and a tattoo.

 

800 words or less

 

Oh, gods, what was I drinking last night?

 

He groaned as he reached consciousness. He was on his back. He hated sleeping on his back. He tried to roll, and fresh waves of pain coursed through his head.

 

He vaguely felt another source of pain, and tried to open his eyes. Big mistake. The harsh light of the moon felt like the glare of the sun. He paused to take stock.

 

What the hell happened?

 

He remembered… not much. There was a blonde. No, scratch that. There were two blondes. Sisters? Something about a dare. A dancing mouse? That had to be a hallucination. Right?

 

His eyes shot open, and he shot upright, only to fall back again as even more pain hammered against his skull. Bad idea. Try it again.

 

This time, he opened his eyes very slowly, and tried to look around without moving his head. He was outside. Okay. That was a good place to start. He didn't think he was naked. Always good. What was that, in the corner of his eye? Was that a guitar? What the hell was a guitar doing… wherever he was?

 

A pulling sensation on his left arm reminded him that it wasn't just his head causing him problems. He worked to bring it up to look at it. There was a rather large and slightly bloody bandage on his forearm. Had he managed to injure himself?

 

No. Now he remembered.

 

How did they talk me into doing this? Oh, yeah. Blondes. I hate blondes.

 

He slowly reached over with his other hand and started to peel the bandage off. The pulling hairs distracted him from the reduced pounding of his brain, for which he was extremely grateful.

 

Bandage gone, he dared to look at his arm. Was that mermaid on fire? What the hell?

 

That was part of the dare, he remembered.

 

"Come on, just one more drink!"

 

"Please, for me?"

 

"Just one more!"

 

"You know what would be fun?"

 

"Ooh, good idea!"

 

He hated blondes.

 

Where had that guitar come from?

 

For that matter, where was he?

 

He sat up, slowly this time, and tried to get a better look around. He was in the middle of a field. In the distance, he could see a house and… barn? Okay, so a farm of some sort. He could work with that.

 

He checked himself next. Fully clothed, like he had thought. That was good. He had been afraid, even after his initial evaluation, that he would be missing something: shirt, pants, something. He even still had his watch and wallet. What was he doing out here?

 

"Have you ever heard of cow tipping?"

 

Oh, gods. He was never going to live this down if any of his friends heard about it.

 

He took a moment to snicker. Cows. Heard. Herd.

 

I must still be a little drunk.

 

That guitar was bugging him.

 

What happened to the blondes?

 

He slowly staggered to his feet, and got a better look around. He could see, on the horizon, moving lights. A road. Excellent. He really wanted to get back home. He took a step.

 

Sickening squish.

 

I really don't want to look down.

 

He looked down.

 

He hated blondes.

 

He shook his leg, trying to get rid of the steaming cow pie on his shoe. The soft glow of the moon overhead barely showed it on the ground. He would have to be careful where he walked.

 

He lowered his leg, and looked around again.

 

I have no idea how I got here. I'm not entirely sure I want to. I just want to get home, get to bed, and forget tonight ever happened.

 

He took a step, and paused.

 

I hope they got home okay.

 

He started walking toward the far-off road. He stopped, turned around. He walked back.

 

What the hell. I'm taking the damn guitar.

 

He grabbed the instrument, turned again, and began to walk.

 

In the barn, a cow mooed softly.

 

END