supplicium post mortem

I live in a hip banlieu of Gotham. The hippest, in fact. Despite my kutting edj sexyouul predilections, I am nowhere near hip enough to live here. I moved here 15 years ago, when most of the hipsters were in grade school.

A few reasons I am not hip:

1. I have no tattoos. I do not like tattoos. I have no plans ever to get a tattoo.
2. I can’t wear giant wedge heels.
3. I refuse to pay $4.50 for some “eco” recycled paper towels when I can get Bounty at Costco.
4. I drink infrequently, do not party, rarely am out after 10 pm, never smoke, and dislike expensive coffee concoctions.
5. I do not fancy dudes.

Oh, the dudes.

They are the prototypical American man under 50. They were raised by women in divorced households. They think acceptable, fuzzy political thoughts. They are sensitive to women. How could I fail to fancy them?

Lissen: I do not like boys whose pants are falling down, who don’t wear belts properly, who don flip-flops off the beach or sports costume outside the gym or field. I do not like boys who have never made the acquaintance of a razor. I do not like boys who are six feet tall but think they’re still 12 (no roleplay in sight!), so dress like they did when they were twelve – in (now expensive) torn jeans, sneakers, and hoodies – and are far too cool to do such a grown up thing as shave (though I guess if they’re 12 they’re just, like, in denial of the stuff sprouting out of their face). I do not like dudes because they wouldn’t wear a good shirt and tie unless forced, and even then it wouldn’t fit properly. Dudes are not religious, heaven forfend, but they’re, like, spiritual. They’re into Buddha, cuz he’s all about non-attachment, and non-attachment is oh-so-sexy (not!). Dudes have horrible posture. Many of them are vegetarians or outright vegans, which just can’t be right in young, red-blooded males. Dudes call each other Man. They would never say Sir or Ma’am without irony. They’re not exactly sure what they want out of life…or anything…but they’re sure it won’t be, like, conventional, like they could never have a job where they had to wear a suit. They’re cool with everything and everyone (as long as it isn’t Republican), and omigosh you should see their playlists, man, some really awesome and eclectice shit in there.

There are so many reasons Dudes do not appeal to me, but this rant cannot continue all night. Dudes, go in peace. I do not seek you. I seek men. Real men. Dirty English schoolboys and their alteregos, gentlemen.

Kthxbai.

— So what do you make of the new boy, day two?

— Titchy one? Not much.

— Really?

— Haven’t had a chance, honestly. Second XI are driving me right round the bend.

— Ah.

— Clearly you’ve made something of him, though. Speak.

— Promising, we think.

— On or off the pitch?

— Both.

— Go on.

— We-ell…he gives off like he doesn’t know he’s born, but.

— Mettle?

— In spades, I’d wager. Had to umpire the Third this afternoon.

— Oh, and you suffered.

— Hideously! But as for yon tadpole, he’s a straight bat.

— Wake me in a year’s time.

— Should’ve seen his face when he was dismissed.

— Oh?

— Positively sulked. Scrumptious.

— Dear me. We can’t be doing with poor sports in this house.

— Certainly not.

— Where’s he now? At nets?

— Bound to be.

— Send him up. As he is. And before you think it, you can make yourself scarce.

— Glutton! If you’re going to get those flannels down, the least you can do is let me watch.

— Filthy boy. Impatient boy.

— Guilty.

— The flannels may or may not come down, but the only thing he’ll feel today is the sole of my slipper.

— Today.

— Vive hodie. Leave tomorrow to develop itself.

— Oh, the developments!

— Get out, you. Out.

Still exploring the local footpaths, she took a new route back from the river, one winding through trees along the quarry. Footsteps crunched behind her, and although dark would not fall for hours, she felt uneasy and crouched down to empty her shoe of sand.

A tall man strode down the footpath, wearing grey trousers, dress shoes, white billowy shirt, and a black-and-red striped tie. He nodded as he passed, purposeful.

A few minutes down the path, she glimpsed him at the edge of the quarry, trimming the leaves off a thin branch with a pocket knife, a bundle of clothing at his feet. Below, a boy her age treaded water, his voice echoing up the bank.

“Sir, can’t we discuss it?”

“Certainly,” said the man. “Out you get.”

She watched as the boy hoisted himself, naked, from the water. The man tucked his tie into his shirt, gripped the boy by the shoulder, bent him over the tree trunk, and applied the switch.

“You do not swim alone.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You do not swing from this rope.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. The boy yelped. “As previously discussed.” The man tightened his grip and continued.

Afterwards, he handed the boy a handkerchief and told him to dress. She dashed away before she was seen.

After supper that night, the Rector brought a visitor into the garden.

“Casey, say good-evening to Mr. Carrstairs, your summer tutor.”

She stood, trembling. He wore a jacket now, and a silk handkerchief. “I believe we’ve already met,” he said.

As it happens, I came upon this very spot on a footpath in sunny Shepperton this week (photo not local, obv). There was in fact a pile of apparently abandoned clothes by the broken rope-swing, but no-one else in sight. Been wondering about it ever since…

What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Check out the other writers this week:

• Rafi
• PapaTomLA

You know how it can take years to get a reference, or even realize there is one to get? Even at my advanced age (ahem), I can still be blown away by my ignorance. This Monday, exiting the British Museum (as you do when you’re in Englandland, and find to your appalled surprise that the reading room is closed until 2012!), I saw an ice-cream van. It looked like this, minus Rupert Grint, sadly.

So, finally, I got the joke. Lemme splain:

Back in the day (13 years + ago), Marky & I used to be friends with a venerable English m/m top called Mr. Penn. Mr. Penn was IRL a retired school teacher, in addition to being an encyclopedic top. We did a day of school with him on two occasions (once on April Fool’s Day – poor him!). Mr. Penn knew the score in every way, but of course we made fun of him when he was out of the room for his particular verbal tics, and his rather twee way of referring to some of his implements. He called his favorite cane Mr. Whippy. If you carry on with that, Hastings, you’ll have an appointment with Mr. Whippy! he’d threaten. Marky would snigger. The whole time I just thought this was some babyish nickname, plus I thought personifying one’s implements was gay. Now it turns out I was missing the point. Doh.

But speaking of Mr. Whippy, I would quite like to see Rupert bending over for Mr. Penn. He would  be made to improve his schoolwork and not drop out at 16, make movies, and buy ice-cream trucks. I still remember how to spell government after hearing Mr. Penn’s voice drum it into me (and into my bottom with his slipper). TGI works, kids!

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday. Come write a 250-word story (erotic? tgi oriented?). Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story in the comments below or on Twitter. Try to include the wildcards.

Last week my faithful, fellow 3F’ers produced some wildcards which got preempted, so here they are for this week. Thanks @papatomla @vanimp @worldofrafi.

• silk
• rope
• sand

Spread the word, and have fun!

She waited on the bench outside the Rector’s study. With summer, and with the bench in regular use again, he had ordered it moved outside, in the rose garden, next to his French windows. She thought there was probably some theological reason for this, but that was not the most compelling mystery to her just then. The sky was still bright. It felt odd to sit out-of-doors wearing pyjamas, dressing gown, and slippers.

She wondered if she should have taken the imposition – 300 lines for not having her report done – instead of the note home. She wasn’t sure what the Rector would have to say about it. Mr. Prior had always taken a light attitude to her shirking schoolwork, as he thought she took school far too seriously in general. The Rector had unusual views, but as this was her first docket home, who could guess?

She’d delivered it to him when he returned after evensong, and she thought it a poor sign that he’d frowned and told her to be waiting on the bench at bedtime. She was learning the names of some of the garden occupants; that tree, for instance, an ash. In Stalky, the implement of choice was something called a Ground Ash. If it had anything to do with this tree, it struck her as barbaric. The cane in the Rector’s hatstand was thin but stingy.

The French windows opened. He beckoned, face softer, lips pursed. She left the scented garden for the study.

Read the other folks writing this week:

• PapaTomLA
• Vanimp
• Rafi

Kids!  Writing from a public pc at the Shepperton Public Library. Gives new appreciation for NSFW, ha ha. I don’t really dare to twitter lest I scare off the OAPs hunt-and-pecking next to me. I apparently have 45 minutes left. There are many good things about Englandland, but first gripes:

1. The internets are locked up over here. I found one cafe near Covent Garden with free wifi, but nothing else. Here in the suburbs, they look at you like you’re speaking Greek when you ask about it. When you open up your laptop somewhere to see if you can mooch off anyone’s wifi, you find that everyone has wireless, but it’s all locked up. This would surely be so that your neighbor in Surrey doesn’t…hack into your pc? It’s just not like this where I come from, even in rural US. So I’ve had interwebs withdrawal.
2. This keyboard has a foreign layout, starting with the @ key which is not above the 3. Slows typing down, reducing efficiency of 60 minutes pre-booked (yesterday) free library time.

OK, some good things about Englandland:

1. Gardens. Everyone has beautiful front gardens, even on the most unprepossessing street. It smells like roses here.
2. Footpaths. We just don’t have this in the US, the ability to walk freely through countryside. Like UK internets, a lot of land in the US is locked up under private ownership. Here you can be right by a motorway, even hearing it, and still be walking down a tree-covered footpath, smelling nature. I miss my dogs!
3. Jam donuts. Even gourmet expat places in the US don’t do them like Englandland, and certainly not as simply, ubiquitously, and economically.
4. LUSH. Less expensive than home, and newer products we don’t have.
5. Roundabouts. Why don’t we have more of these at home instead of the awful blight of stop signs and unnecessary traffic lights? Traffic just flows better with them.
6. M&S sandwich container design – you zip it open and it lies flat like a little tray.
7. Theater ticket prices. I saw Oliver with Rowan Atkinson on Wednesday. Cast of hundreds. Fun. I’m glad I saw him do the role, but to be honest, I was slightly bored by his shtick in places.

the local pub

In other news, I’m driving on the left & shifting with my left hand, successfully so far. Yesterday I had a terrific time walking around Windsor & Eton with @adelehaze. Tonight, off to Somerset for a family weekend, which will hopefully not be too suffocating & hopefully include some walking in Dartmoor.

Because I managed to get this library slot, I posted wildcards for Flash Fiction Friday. Sorry I didn’t get to take words from other people this week – not possible logistically. I’m going to try to post my entry from my mother-in-law’s dialup, if it still works.

I’m trying to find things to enjoy here, and I did enjoy my afternoon in Windsor yesterday. Otherwise, though, I have been disappointed to discover that the world over here is just as empty as the world at home. And, amazingly, M is not here. He wasn’t waiting for me at the airport. He wasn’t that guy who looked like him from behind on the Hungerford Footbridge. And I don’t think he’s going to be waiting for me at his mother’s house.

Seeing Oliver was the kind of thing he would have taken casey to do. During other trips (and sometimes for other trips), he took casey to the revival of Another Country, His Dark Materials (all one day), and The Secret Garden. So, even though we had no appetite for anything (including breakfast, which literally was like dust – those psalm writers knew what they were saying), TL went and bought tickets (in the center, row E) so casey could see everything up close like she likes to. Also, this was a nostalgic experience since I’ve been in the show four times in my life, plus my first novel featured it heavily. To me it represents the joy of children’s theater, pure playing, and (since my first boyfriend played Oliver) the pure niceness & excitement of first romantic affections. So when the overture started, I teared up. However, I got over this and enjoyed the first half.

At the interval in England, people come into the auditorium and sell you little ice-creams. So we queued up and bought casey an ice-cream because that is what you do in England, and it’s what RP always did. She didn’t feel like it, but we got it anyway, not even begrudging the £3.20 price, because RP always bought it for her, and we thought she should have it.

So there we were, in the middle of a crowded, lit matinee auditorium, eating vanilla ice-cream with the little plastic spoon, and casey was so in (where are the quotation marks on this keyboard?), meaning so fully present in me, and it was like RP really had bought her the ice-cream, except he hadn’t, or had he, from the grave? We’d bought it with the £5 note that was in his wallet when he died. And then she/I/we… my hands were trembling like they did the day he died, and I felt nauseous, and tears were streaming down my face though I was trying as hard as possible not to break into full-scale sobbing in public. Casey couldn’t finish the ice-cream. We threw half of it away. People sort of understand grief, I think, but I’m not sure how many people can grasp having an attack of grief through different parts of your personality.

After the show, we roamed around London for a long time, and eventually made it back to the footbridge by the Embankment. Walking down that big street that leads to it, mostly empty, we had to sit down on a bench and sob – because the world here, the world everywhere, was empty without him. Other people seemed perfectly able to enjoy it, but I just couldn’t. Can’t. In Wuthering Heights, Cathy says (melodramatically) that without Heathcliff, the universe would be a mighty stranger. With me, it’s the other way around: I’m the one who has become the mighty stranger.

Still – unfortunately – we breathe in and out.

And still – fortunately – England is beautiful and full of roses in June, daylight lasts until past 10pm, there are good and nice people into tgi here and elsewhere, and jam donuts can be bought in the shops. So…

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday. Come write a 250-word story (erotic? tgi oriented?). Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story in the comments below or on Twitter. Try to include the wildcards.

This week’s wildcards:

• rose
• impose (ing/ition, etc)
• ash

Spread the word, and have fun!

—First time?

—Not the first time feeling like hell, thanks.

—Mind you don’t let Matron hear you talk that way, or she’ll wash out your mouth as well.

—What do you mean, as well?

—Oh, dear. You haven’t heard of Matron’s soapy water, then?

—What about it?

—Ha. You’ll see. She’ll be getting it ready right now. That’s why she makes you wear a nightshirt.

—For a sponge bath?

—Are you green as a newt in absolutely everything? No, don’t answer. Just prepare yourself for a thorough, and I mean thorough washout.

—I don’t know what you mean, but it’s low to rag someone in the San.

—Who’s ragging? It’s her favorite remedy, for more or less everyth—Shh, back to bed! See what she’s got on the trolley?

—What’s that tube for?

—Oh, you’ll see. Will you see. Good luck, newt.

I’m off to Englandland, kids. I don’t know what kind of internet access I’ll be able to have over there. Yes, I know the interwebs exist across the pond, but it seems that free wifi might not be very common in stingy-old-England. Lots of places seem to have the attitude: you can mooch our wifi, but only if you pay us £5 per day, or per hour. I am trying hard not to get wound up about money and prices, but it’s a real challenge because a) I have so little discretionary $; b) I normally live in the absolute thriftiest way possible, cooking at home, cutting my cellphone, riding my bike, never travelling more than 2 hours away, turning off lights, fixing everything I can myself, rarely going out, etc.; c) It’s tough to be a traveler at the mercy of the local economy, in this case the UK, which features a trifecta of resentful service, appallingly high prices/poor value (even if the exchange rate were 1 dollar to the pound), and a meanness towards customers. I am reminded of the last time I was there and got a chicken salad sandwich at a small (empty) cafe in Somerset. When I got it (dry chicken, dry bread, lettuce), I asked nicely if I could possibly have a little mayonnaise on the bread. I was told I could have mayonnaise on the side for 15p. Because, you know, it would absolutely put them out of business if they were to go around dispensing a tablespoonful of condiment to every customer who had the Oliver-Twist-like arrogance to ask for it. Besides which, it would only encourage people to ask for what they really want – and if people did that, then – Shock! – well, the country would go to Hell in a hand-basket because people would stop whinging and actually do something about their complaints.

But let me not get started. Anyway, the small-empty-mean cafe in Somerset probably had to gouge on the mayonnaise because they’d been forced to to shell out tens of thousands of pounds for health-and-safety appraisals, equality training, local tax, council tax, refuse collection, national tax, European Parliament tax, and carbon offset fees – and all that in the month of January alone. They probably aren’t even in business today. We shall see when we go visit Mrs. RP.

OK, rant over. To my UK friends – *hugs*!

Suffice to say, I may be able to log on and host Flash Fiction Friday, or I may not. Either way, I’m sure that somehow the blogsphere will get on without me.