“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like that guy who shoots free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
Fat raindrops smashed into the sun-bleached pavement, hissing back into the air as steam almost as soon as they’d landed. The tops of palm trees were torn and tousled by successive gusts of wind as the afternoon thunderstorm tore through the hot Jamaican sky. Corrugated tin walls rattled and shook in protest as they were abused by the storm, shedding torrents of water that seeped across the the bar’s rough dirt floor.
Juanita’s beer stood where she’d abandoned it on the table. Carlos watched the droplets of condensation drip down the side, outlining the spots where her fingers had gripped the glass. His rucksack was packed, and he pulled it up onto the chair next to him to keep it dry.
It was probably the last he’d ever see of her, not counting the shattered necklace lying in the mud behind him. She’d missed his head, at least–for that he was grateful.
(prompt: Write the same scene three times, emphasizing first anger, then sadness, and finally happiness.)