Cookie

I told him I was down in central booking. Again? he wanted to know. What now?

I need you to come down. Please.

This isn’t us anymore, Cookie. You can’t keep calling me every time you lose your shit.

So he left me there. Like everyone else had left me, so did he, and I didn’t think he ever would. I remembered the feeling in my chest the first time he put me behind the wheel. Him and his block headed brother ejected through the artificially lit glass door and were yelling at me to go before they touched the car. The adrenaline smelled like flop sweat and Jim Beam and burned the tiny hairs in my nose like gunpowder. Maybe it was powder.

We never got caught when I drove. You’re like a filly out of the gate, he’d tell me, and his breath was sour as his kisses were sweet.

After every take he’d push my face down on the hood of the Charger. My cheek grinding against the gritty prime, banging my hip bones into the grill, and he’d go till I screamed. Those were the best fucks. They became the only fucks I wanted.

I slept in holding that night. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

Flash Fiction – My Michaela

“You said your name was Mike.”

She smiled, her eyes large and soft and beautiful. She pulled out her license and showed it to me.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s Michaela.”

“What about everything else? How could you mislead me?” This is what heartbreak felt like. This tearing in the center of your body, like something enormous and very, very angry was trying to get out.

“Amy, I’m in love with you. Have been from the beginning. I’m sorry… everything I’ve ever said to you was truth. You’re the other half of my soul.”

 

December 15, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) explore the importance of a name within a story. It can be naming an experience, introducing an extraordinary name, or clarifying a name (who can forget Who’s on First). Go where the prompt leads.

Flash Fiction – Old Friend

We scrambled up the familiar trail, shale cascading from beneath him like marbles. We’d reach the summit to stand and gander. Such views from the rim. Cobalt skies and red rock and always a vulture making his lazy circles.

I dropped to the ground 100 yards from the top, his breath too labored. I waited while he recovered, my hand on his shoulder.

Once arrived, we stood. I turned to see him kneeling; before he went down I slid the Winchester from the leather scabbard. Thirty years of these rides. It was time. I owed him this much.

 

December 8, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write using the word gander as a verb. A gander is a male goose, yet the Old English etymology of the word suggests it was once gandra which described a waterbird with a long neck (like a crane). In 1912, it became the act of taking a long look. What is the long look your story or character is considering?

Flash Fiction – Wild Fire

It was the kind of kiss that started wild fires. He took her hand and held it with his in her lap. He leaned across the console. “Every touch is a promise,” he said, and his voice was soft and deep and warmed her like aged whisky. His lips brushed her nose, and she closed her eyes and instinctively tilted her head. How did she know to do that? It was not only their first kiss…

“But you’re not allowed,” he said, and the tip of his tongue brushed the cupid’s bow of her lip. “To fall.”

 

December 2, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something or someone not allowed. Maybe it’s about gender, race or other intolerance. Maybe it’s the cat who paws at the door, but not allowed inside. Maybe it’s a trail where dogs are not allowed. Go light, go dark, go where the prompt leads you.

Dead Thing

When I met him I was in that place. That place where you realize what you hold in your hands is already lifeless, you let it die, it’s too late. But still you hold it, cradle it gently as though you might break it. Break what is already broken.

“Put it down, Anna.”

I could only shake my head and attempt to hide tears that shamed me.

“You have to.”

“But I can’t.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“It feels like there is. I still feel it.”

“It is a phantom pain, my dear.”

Like when you lose a limb. A part of you that’s always been a part of you, and even though you know it’s gone you will always feel it aching or itching.

Then there is the question of what to do with your hands. Your hands have held this thing for so long, they don’t remember how to do anything else. Now they’re empty and awkward, and oddly useless.

“You fill them with something else,” he said.

“What? What do I fill them with? What they held only comes once in a lifetime. I’ll never hold it again.”

“It doesn’t have to be the same thing. It shouldn’t be the same thing.”

“Just anything?”

“Yes.”

“Will you give me something to fill them with?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in and his eyes were black. His tongue traced my lips before he engulfed me fully and I surrendered. I was ready to surrender.

I still saw Aaron’s face. The dejection, the heartbreak… it would haunt me forever. I couldn’t be with him and couldn’t remember how to be without him. All I knew was I couldn’t be the reason he ended his marriage. I wouldn’t be a homewrecker. I closed my eyes at night, and a grief not my own filled my ears. I would get up and drink. The honeyed whiskey burned all the way down, but it dulled the wailing.

I pulled back. “Will you stay?”

“Of course.” He wrapped me in his arms and I wished he would never leave. He would. By morning he would be gone, leaving me with the memories of caresses that only lit deeper fires, kisses that fanned them, and the brand of his mouth on my skin.

Leaving me alone with this dead thing in my hands.

Mr. Poole

She never left them because they didn’t have enough money, or they couldn’t get it up or they chewed with their mouth open. She didn’t fall out of love when they looked at other women or tracked mud and shit through the house. She didn’t foster resentment over things like halitosis or dirty socks or internet porn addictions.

She wasn’t like that.

The women who knew her chastised her for putting up with those things. They were all divorced or single or feminists, though. She always wondered about that. If you know so much about relationships and men, why aren’t men falling over themselves to be with you? But it never mattered, her opinion.

He was different, though. His name was Ethan Poole. He was short and warm, round and funny, and had a pleasantly handsome face. And last night, he’d ‘failed her.’ Or that’s what he said. She had simply smiled and kissed his face and put his hand on her breast while she finished what he’d started. Afterwards, he’d held her close and breathed into her neck and said he thought he might love her.

She’d been honest with him about her track record. She thought it made him nervous. But she told him all those things, and had left it at that, that none of those were reasons in her book to give up on someone you loved.

“What if I can never satisfy you again?”

She’d told him not to be ridiculous. Not to put such a narrow definition on satisfaction.

“I think men and women are very different,” he said thoughtfully. She agreed.

This morning, she stood at the sink, her hands in the dishwater, and she heard him come in, felt him come close, felt his arms come around her. He teased her neck, from earlobe to nape, with his lips and tongue, and she involuntarily melted against him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the basin.

Then his hands were on her breasts, squeezing, pinching, stroking, pulling. She moaned and rocked her head back on his shoulder. “You like that?” he whispered in her ear.

One hand traveled downward, beneath the elastic band of her pajama bottoms, and his fingers were quick to find her, to slide almost roughly, without preamble, against her clit. Just like he’d watched her do a hundred times. He worked her hard and fast, his mouth still on her neck, and his other hand still fondling her tits. Her breathing grew shallower as she reached for the climax he was offering, and then his fingers were sliding in deep, pressing forward, and he was whispering, “Come for me, Beautiful.”

She exploded, felt the sweet release as she filled his palm with fluid, felt it run down her legs, heard his murmured approval while he held her there, too weak to stand on her own. And when she’d reclaimed her voice, while he took a towel and cleaned her up and kissed her mouth with such tenderness, she said to him, “This is why I’ll never leave you, Mr. Poole.”

510 wds

FFM 2015 Day 5

Familiar

When the rain started the sun was still shining. It had the feeling of a bright, sunny day. Steam rose off the pavement, and the music from the carousel continued its cheerful round. But there were no children.

I walked down the center of the street, a street lined by tidy, cookie-cutter houses and barren of cars or people. Water ran down my forearms, tickling like racing little bugs. Had I lived here once? Did I live here now?

When she stepped from the grass alley formed by two of the neat houses, I couldn’t say I was surprised. Nor was I surprised that the carousel stopped, and the only sounds were my soft sneakers on the wet pavement, and the staccato patter of falling water all round. She fell into step beside me.

We walked up the street in silence. Then her hand slipped inside mine. I squeezed with familiarity, or out of habit… I’m not sure which. I wondered where the cars were, on a summer Sunday afternoon, where the children were. Where the terrier who always threatened to eat my shoelaces was. I wanted to ask her, but words and sounds seemed inappropriate, irreverent.

The rain grew heavier, and the sun disappeared. The striking drops no longer caressed, but stung. I felt her body move in against mine, and I instinctively pulled her in and sheltered her beneath one arm. Our heads low, our steps quick, we turned up the nearest drive and sought shelter beneath the overhang of the garage eave.

There was a flash, and a roar, and her lips were on mine. Her hands cupping my neck and face, her tongue demanding entrance. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. I could never say no to this one. My hands gripped her buttocks and pulled her into my already throbbing cock. Her moan was all I needed to hear. I flipped her around and she braced her hands on the wobbly garage door. I kicked her feet apart, lowered her pants, and ran my cold wet hands up under her shirt while I thrust into her.

I felt the familiarity of her climax, the deliciously predictable nature of her spasms and the way she moved her hips against me. I didn’t stop. I kept fucking her, fucked her right through it and into the next one, until I felt her sway, then I put my arms around her and held her up while I came. And after I came. That was the best part, holding her and listening to her breathe, listening to the soft, satisfied little noises she made while she came down. I felt us running together, out of her, down my balls, and that was delicious, too.

When I woke, I was staring at a whitewashed tile ceiling with its ugly brown water stain directly over me. And the water dripped on my face, slowly, over and over. I’d like to get out of the way, but when I tell myself to move, nothing happens. The beeping comes back in like carousel music, except it’s not beeping anymore. It’s one shrill flat noise. I think about her, and still feel our fucking trickling over my balls. My Marjorie. I didn’t want to be here without her anyway.

544 wds

FFM 2015 Day 4

That Moment

There’s always that moment, right before the world ends. One of quiet clarity where you see your heart beat and hear the electricity crackling along your skin. When the taste of blood and fear are distant memories even while they lurk near the surface.

She had just said, “I can’t believe I forgot to pick up toilet paper.”

He pumped one last time, the sweat running from beneath his receding hairline, his forearms cording with the effort. “That should do it,” he gasped as he struggled to stand.

She smiled and lit a cigarette. “You did that like an old pro, Jer.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “A man of many hidden talents.”

It was as he bent to retrieve the tire iron that her line of sight, momentarily unobstructed, encompassed the swerving minivan with an impossible trajectory. There was no time. Only time to see her heart beat and feel the hairs on her forearms rise in front of the electricity crackling along her skin.

 

167 wds

FFM 2015 Day 2

Dangerous Wishes

They spoke of the future while immersed in a past like a tangle of kudzu vine, spoke of it as though it were around the next corner.

Be careful what you wish for.

He watched the sun, like a red poker chip, fall into Ontario, and listened to the hum of the city behind him. The lap of water. Gulls. Sirens. Her laugh.

It was what longing tasted like.

Her.

He turned and pulled her close. This had been their dream. “I’m not letting you go,” he whispered. He bent his head and kissed the tape covering her mouth.

Be careful what you wish for.

 

105 wds

FFM 2015 Day 1

I am a Writer

I’ve come to a pretty serious conclusion. It’s been a while in coming, but I had to be certain I wasn’t reacting emotionally to some shit that’s been going on. Turns out I’m not, or if I am, it’s the way it’s going to go and I need to deal with it, or be eaten alive by it.

I’m done with book promotion. Yes, my book (and those future volumes I have in mind to publish) will still be available for sale. But after the past six months of pushing, I got no push left. Yes, I wanted to enjoy some moderate success. I wanted to get my name out there, my words in front of as many people as possible. Yes, I wanted to make a little money. Why? Because, I love to write. I wanted to help my family by solving some of the stresses caused by never having quite enough. I was never looking to be rich and famous.

So I promoted. Here. On Twitter. In ‘Real Life.’ And I’ve netted about $20. I’m not being sarcastic, I am saying I am fucking proud of that. I’m a published author. This is success, the way I define it.

However, the book promotion, the seeking out reviewers, the being fucked over by Amazon, all this stuff, has not only discouraged and exhausted me, it’s taken away any time I had to actually create. Which is why I blog. I blog so I can share those little things I create, with an audience who cares.

On reviewing: I would love to have reviews written by anyone who feels so moved. And if you will send it to me directly, I will continue to grow the Review section of TDNC. I may even come up with a form to make it easy for those who feel compelled to share their opinions. And they don’t have to be positive (though I won’t post anything mean or nasty – my space, my rules 😉 ) Simply honest. The invitation is there, for any who are interested.

I’m a writer. Not a big publishing house. I will continue to do what I’m passionate about, and continue to share it with whoever will listen. And if I sell a book now and then? I’ll go buy myself a coffee and celebrate.

Friday Flash returns tomorrow! I hope to see you there.

Love,
Felicity