I wrote the following short story for a contest in a private writers’ group I’m part of. I won. Victory is especially sweet, considering all my opponents were real writers of the highest order.

The theme was “Quarter,” so that’s the piece's title. Enjoy.

Quarter

“The quarter flew through the air flipping like an Olympic gymnast and landed perfectly in the palm of her hand. Heads. Destiny had spoken. As all doubt dispelled from her mind, she carefully put the coin back in her secret pocket and started walking with purpose.

Exuding main character energy, the woman arrived at the French Quarter at 19:15. Just before the rush. Up in the sky, the sun was losing the battle and the night was eating the world. In the streets, a jazz band moved their equipment from a run-down van to a tiny bar in a corner. That’s where she was going.

The woman sat at the bar, ordered a pecan pie and a glass of wine, asked for the menu, and carefully studied it. In an hour, half of New Orleans would be there for dinner. Her order arrived, she cut the tiny circular pie in four pieces, and ate the bite-size first quarter. Exquisite. In a parallel universe, she was eating a tiramisú at Da’ Vincenzo.

The quarter’s only rule was to never use it to make important decisions. If the crossroad in front of her raised her stress levels and affected her life in a real way, she analyzed the situation for days. If it merely caused discomfort, she flipped the coin and was done with it.

The quarter flew through the air once again. Tails. The woman sipped her wine and ordered jambalaya.”