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 (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @sandy_radbabe @ButchtasticKyle @JohnBaku, whose tweets unwittingly supplied the wildcards.
Spread the word, and have fun!
Sometimes Casey wanted to break things, punch people, kick. Not in response to anything particular, but when the pressure built, fury like shaken soda against all reasonableness and courtesy.
School had reconvened for Michaelmas, James boarding, Casey at the local parish school. Days were busy, and boring. She procrastinated.
James came for an exeat that Saturday. Having looked forward to it, Casey found the afternoon deflated, like so many nice things in the having. James beat her twice at Scrabble. He spoke of rugby.
She went into the kitchen, leaned against the sink, and gazed out gray window at the rain. “I’d like Mr. Prior back now, please,” she whispered. “And Marky. They’ve been gone long enough.”
The window did not answer. She bit the edge of her tongue and returned to the drawing room via the letter table, where she used a blood-red pencil to insert an H in the crest adorning the Rector’s correspondence box. in God we tHrust
“Where’s the lemonade?” James demanded. She said nothing, but set on him with fists and feet. He took the blows, not turning, not fighting back, permitting the struggle to do with them what it would, until Casey felt herself torn from him by the Rector’s hands.
“What on earth!” the Rector exclaimed.
James squinted where she had punched him, issuing an excuse, rote and haiku-like. The Rector constrained her in his arms until she quieted. James looked at her as if he could apply first aid with his eyes.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
Read the other folks writing this week:
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 (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @nakedrafi @papatomla @naughtyabby, whose tweets unwittingly supplied the wildcards.
Spread the word, and have fun!
The dreams don’t stop. Neither does the hope that he’ll be upstairs when I come in the door, that I’ll hear his footsteps clumping along the floorboards and down the spiral stairs. It will be such a relief, as it always is when he comes home. Like stepping into air conditioning from a brutal, New York summer.
People don’t talk about him as much as they used to. Everyone else seems to have repaired the colossal tear in the matrix that his disappearance caused. His job has been filled. It is no longer tasteful to think on him.
I cannot tell you… I cannot tell you—anything. I know…I know. Everyone has part of their life which is now in the past. I am no different from any single person still walking this planet. I don’t like the word unfair. But how come I have to keep living when he didn’t?
The card I gave him on our last anniversary is still in the bedside drawer that used to be his, its message a kind of steganography:
xoxoxo me
h&l&nt & tc4mh, l&h ohbb uhc, h-h, & ont4cdm b/c sagg.
I asked him if he understood, and he read the whole thing confidently aloud: hugs and love and nice things, and the cane for marky, long and hard on his bare bottom, ha-ha, and only nice things for casey because she’s a good girl.
There is no one to talk to this way anymore. Even the dogs don’t get it.
God, help me.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
This really was a bumper crop for 3F. Don’t know if it is fall industriousness or the thrill of a hard challenge, but these writers deserve a big hand (won’t say what kind or where) or at the very least nice comments on their blogs. Read on, Macduff!
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 (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @nakedrafi @papatomla @travisking.
Spread the word, and have fun!
James, it turned out, was a dirty English schoolboy. He got his hands switched when the housekeeper caught him “being foul” behind the chicken coops. Their tutor had been more than usually annoyed. He’d hauled James in by the ear and shut the door loudly behind them. With the housekeeper in the corridor, Casey had not dared to listen, but James later confessed that Carstairs had made it clear that while “solitary congress” could be overlooked, scandalizing ladies by performing it in public places could not. The switch was sore, James said, exceedingly sore across the palms, applied with force; still, he claimed to have gone straight from the schoolroom to the lavatory to finish his wank. “I’m Ophiuchus, I am,” James bragged. When Casey demanded to see this snake of his, he surprised her by obliging. His willy was attractive, clean if sweaty, and uncut. Friendly.
Sometimes she would sneak into his room at night and stand by the side of his bed. He’d put his willy away, scootch over, raise the covers, and then put his arms around her from behind. Sometimes she cried, but it didn’t stop him hugging her. He wasn’t Marky, but when the hug reservoirs were so catastrophically low, any hug felt like rain after drought. Sometimes in an attempt to cheer her up, he’d whisper bits of The Mikado libretto, to sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock, his striped palms around her elbows, knees behind hers, breath on her cheek.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
You should have heard the bellyaching this week about the wildcards. All we have to say is: Suck it up, buttercup; hard words will continue until morale improves!
Read other folks tuff enuf to write this week:
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 (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @nakedrafi and @travisking.
Spread the word, and have fun!
Casey was turning nine, and at each birthday, memory grew fuzzy. If she had once been fifteen, or thirteen, or ten, recollections carried no more authority than a dream. Even if she protested (I’m eleven!), Mr. Prior dismissed such wishful thinking: Don’t be ridiculous. Casey is nine, full stop.
Now that she was nine, Mr. Prior said, she would be old enough for the cane. Only the junior cane, and only if she was very naughty.
I’m not naughty. I’m good! But I don’t care. And anyway, at least I’m too old —
She was not too old, he’d interrupt, for anything. Not too old to have her temperature taken that way, not too old for That Thing, not too old to be put across his knee, and not too old to sit on it afterwards.
Mr. Prior would never be in league with her false maturity, he told her, any more than he would condone her false modesty, false niceness, false anything.
She didn’t see why he bothered so much. He had his real kid to care about, his real kid to buy birthday presents for. Not her.
This notion made its way down the pike almost as often as I’m-too-old, and Mr. Prior afforded it about the same respect. You are my real kid; I love you as if you were my own. He would hold her, at times wiggling, until she gave up, gave out, gave in. Surrendered to a birthday, again nine, again his, still loved.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
Read other folks writing this week:
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 (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. Thanks this week to @nettagyrl and @travisking.
Spread the word, and have fun!
Louis was a senior when I was a sophomore. His were the first male lips that kissed mine. Ok, it was onstage in Cinderella, but we did have to hold it for twelve bongs of the clock. At the first rehearsal I was so scared that I kept bursting into giggles and flinching away when the kiss came. He tried to put me at ease. His lips were chapped. He never tried to open his mouth. On closing night, I started to like it.
We both skipped lunch every day to do homework in the library. In reality we talked, anything and everything, his navy blue eyes as open as the sea. I wanted to feel those chapped lips again, but he was dating a girl called Koozie. No one understood. He was smarter than anyone in our high-school of 4000. She, apparently, was a ditz. He told me things he’d never told anyone – about his brother’s mental illness, about his longing to live as a monk back in time on Lindisfarne, painting illuminated manuscripts in the scriptorium, the world cut off in a tidal cloister, ocean lapping at the pebbles, chant de-rattling his nerves. I picked at the stitching of my LeSportSac purse and exercised restraint, day after day. He liked me, lots. He could undress before me in that library as with no one. I had the mind and the heart to match him, but Koozie was the girl he wanted to kiss. I was doomed to Just Friends.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
Read other folks writing this week:
A stern note: I have noticed that several people [cough, cdm] have grown slothful in their ways and have begun regularly to abuse the deadline for Flash Fiction Friday, as generous as it is. This will never do. Be advised, therefore, that as from next week, late entries for 3f will incur automatic whacking. No exceptions! [cough - casey!]
