Writing : Flash Me! NOVEMBER - WAR QUOTES

@Fyhl:  Good job. I think I know her. 

David, I like the hell out of that. 

Hope you made it through.

The Couch 

​Dakota Taylor

The mushrooms kick in hard, fast. These babies are no joke. Straight to the point. 

The ceiling and floor are drifting away like an ocean current. The television: white noise, whirlpool of a billion angry honey bees. 

I can't talk. I'm dead. Just for a little while. 

My body is lead. I want to scream. I'm as thin as paper. 

Sarah gazes at me, in love. She feels herself, her knitted sweater, the color of Morning Glory flowers. 

"Steven..."

"Steven..."

"Steven..."

I laugh like a maniac. A rabid hyena. I don't answer her.

"What color is our couch?"

The vibes get wicked. My heart pounds so loud, I think it will deafen me. 

My face is contorted. Confused like a lost child. I stare at the couch. 

My palms are clammy. My organs: aware of themselves, sliding around like slugs. Fever.

We both stare at the couch. Were sitting on the floor, trying to hang on. Trying not to float away. 

The walls are breathing. The couch. The couch is...

"I...I don't know." 

Mock horror. We laugh. We cry. 

We hold each other. The honey bees keep humming. The couch--

Added a couple lines. Just for you Mr. Daniel.

FLASH!  Is that how this works?  I had a dream last night...

The Ocean

Fear and despair are the murders of the lost.  When you give up hope, you die.

The boat is sinking, and all the advice about unflinching optimism suddenly seems so funny.  Bobbing in my yellow raft, I’d tried to recall everything I’d ever heard about being lost at sea.  Rinsing the sails so they don’t cake with salt, using bits of your own thigh as bait for fishing, collecting dew.  But I have no sails.  I have no knife.   And soon, I will have no raft.

My legs dip into the water first, my upper body still supported by the remains of the neoprene raft.  I glance down, but can’t make out anything much below the surface.  The murky secrets of the ocean remain well hidden from sight. 

I’m too dehydrated to sweat.  My body is weak, but my thrashing heart races as I feel a solid thump against my leg.  I look down again.  I think I see a flickering shadow interlacing between my legs, but can’t be certain.  I swallow back thick salty phlegm and cast my eyes out to the waning horizon.  I am alone. 

Frantic energy fills my chest and spreads out to my limbs.  I feel it surging like electricity.  My fingers go rigid and my gasps are quick and shallow.  The muscles in my arms lock and quiver with hysteria.  I feel the slick caress of a nameless creature along my thigh and an involuntary shriek escapes my restricting throat.   Warm water inches up my chest as the tiny boat submerges completely. 

I want to cry, but the damn survivalist is still working inside my mind, telling me to tread water, focus, not waste energy.   You never know when salvation will come.

The slashing pain in my leg catches me off guard and I scream, but I’m already under water now, flailing down among the nameless. 
 

Avery just flashed us. 

Thanks.  Just thought I'd share a little.

@ Fritz

The votes for each winner had their own threads. If you search for Flash Me! on the forum search bar I'm sure you'll find them all. If I remember correctly there have been three votes so far.

@ Chester

No worries at all brother.  I think it is fucking awesome of you to send the book abroad.

Matt - I like it -

"You wouldn't understand."  Truth! 

Of course, if he knocks her up she will understand perfectly well. 

Some great stuff in March.  This is a short noir I've been kicking around for a couple of days, 680 words.

Skillet

The tires throw a mush of spent snow as the Caddy skids and straightens south through one red light and the next though no one should be pursuing for quite some time.

The girl's in the passenger seat cool as a cucumber, like she's just riding out the latest most boring day of her life. Her hands are jammed into the pockets of her coat--my coat--which is just material enough to cover all the soft naked bits beneath.

"He'll kill you," she says. Then she shakes a Fortuna Red from a soft pack and sets it between her lips.

I don't need her to tell me that any more than I need an ID to know she's too young to be smoking. I snatch the cigarette and pack with a right hand already swollen tight, and toss the whole lot out the window.

She swivels in the seat to study me. I squeeze the wheel and stare hard at the road, not wanting to know where the coat hem rises on her thigh.

"And those was your cigarettes," she says. She pops the glove compartment and pulls out a fresh pack of Dunhill's. "And this is his car." The glove snaps shut.

This is his car, she's his girlfriend, and I'm his bodyguard: three facts that seem as incongruous at the moment as a blizzard in Alabama, or its most ruthless citizen waking up two teeth short on the blood-slicked linoleum of a Crenshaw County Piggly Wiggly. But there it is.

He had her walking the aisles bare-ass naked, some punishment: "Go on and wiggle it at the Wiggly if you need them to gawk so bad"--though I was on hand to ensure they did not. Two mop-headed college boys stood grinning until my approaching countenance saw them set a six of Pibb on the ground and hustle straight out the door, sharp kids they were.

The girl hit a dead end at the butcher's case and stood shivering, waiting for it to be over, but the Boss went right on hectoring, while I stood staring at the wrapped meats, dumb as a porkchop.

Somewhere in this wicked world, I knew, she had a mother and father, and they loved her more than anything, whether she knew it or not. Maybe her old man was a real piece of work, hard-headed and stone-edged. Maybe he didn't know a damned thing about raising up little girls. So he caged her with all his discipline and gruff, the only things he knew, until she felt she just couldn't take any more, couldn't breathe, and who could blame her for that? So she ran off, survived on the gifts God gave her until she found a sugar daddy to provide the rest, and that's when she'd learn the one burnt-black truth in all this blinding white falsity: slip out of the skillet and there's nothing to catch you but fire.

A switch flipped in my skull and at once every piece of meat in that case turned to cooking. My hips shifted and my right hand launched with a force rooted straight down through the core of the earth. The Boss landed limp, like a puddle of man poured from a carton. We left him there snoring; she in my coat, us in his car.

When we're ten miles gone I double check all the vents are sending warm air her way.

"You're just a big dumb sweetheart," the girl says. She lights a Dunhill and hands it to me. I take it and fill my lungs to bursting as she puts the pack away.

"All this white knight stuff is terribly romantic," she says, "but I regret to inform you you're old enough to be my father."

Now she's starting to get it, I think.

"And butt-ugly to boot."

I exhale. Her father would give his life to see his little girl come home safe; this is the only thing I know, as I steer us somewhere, through the freak falling beauty of an Alabama snow.

Not exactly for the Litreactor audience, more AARP, but here goes

A Youthful Moment

The weight gain happened mostly in her belly, breasts and face. Not surprising. Motivation to exercise is fleeting these days, and she makes such good pasta – penne with artichoke, angle hair with tomatoes and goat cheese. Longing for yummy food trumps weight loss every night. She knows she has put on pounds, but it is still a shock when Ella, stepping into the bathtub, catches a side-glance of her body in the mirror and feels flutters of panic.

“Oh my God I look pregnant,” she whispers to her mirror image. She grasps her belly , flabby – not firm like a pregnant one. “Surely not…” she thinks, but “what if?” and she smiles. She can’t contain the smile, and lets out a low but happy chuckle.

Dylan and Amy are both in college. She and Rob are nearly 50, done with kids. But she smiles. What if? Her smile brightens, and won’t go away. She might be pregnant! Just the thought changes the world, her view of herself and the possibilities. But it’s crazy!

“Honey,” she calls to Rob, who is in the kitchen and already dressed for work. “Come here.”

He makes his way to her.

“What’s up? “

“Do I look pregnant,” she says, standing before him naked, chemical-colored blond hair hanging around her shoulders. He thinks she’s lovely. The weight gain has not been as bad as that of most women her age, and he adores her face, her tall willowy self.

But viewing her naked body now, the possible truth hits him and he feels faint. Big and strong as he is, he sits on the edge of the bed to take in this news.

“Oh my God, you do. “

“ I haven’t had a period in months.”

“I know but you said that’s normal.You’re done with that.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m just saying what if? I mean if 10 years ago if this was happening it would be like…Yahoo.”

“ Oh Honey, don’t be pregnant,” he pleads, as if she can just say “ok.” “ I can’t do it all over again,” he explains. “ I just don’t see how. I mean it was great with the kids, but we are too old to start over.” He remembers working at the bank on four hours of sleep, the crying, the ear infections, endless doctor appointments.

Her throat tightens. “I’m probably not,” she says, turning away. “It’s probably menopause. I’ll go get a test. ” Even as she offers this, and pulls her sweats back on without having taken the bath, hot tears roll down her cheeks. She busies herself, brushes her hair, to avoid him.

How crazy to think she might be pregnant. She had no desire for another child until that moment – until the brief possibility. it’s crazy. She is too old. But still, for a moment it made her happy -- made her feel young again. If it’s another boy, she would name him after her father.

But as fast as the happiness welled , disappontemnt wipes it away. Be sensible, she thinks. You have hot flashes at night, stripping off pajamas and blankets all through the early-morning hours.

But for one moment – another baby! Another chance! But there would not be another baby. She is just fat, menopausal, hormones making her crazy – taking her on huge highs then dropping her hard. She will take a pregnancy test to be sure, then go on a diet.

Ella examines her face in the mirror. She still looks young. A few lines around the mouth.She’s still pretty, even with the red eyes and no make-up. So why so empty?

“Honey,” Rob says, sensing this. “It’s okay if you’re pregnant. I love you.” He takes the brush and strokes her hair as they look at themselves in the mirror.

“It’s not that,” she chokes, turning toward him. “I didn’t know I wanted to be pregnant until I got the idea in my head that maybe….and now I want to be .But I don’t think I am. It makes no sense. "Her nose runs and she cries freely.

“Ah Honey, “ he says hugging her. “We have so much to look forward to. Last thing we need is a kid.”

“I know,” she says, sniffling. “I’ll go buy a test just so we won’t have to worry ” She tugs on a t-shirt and jacket and leaves. Rob breathes a sigh of relief. Surely she is not pregnant. This is another of her moods. Another child is not what they need.

He retreats to the internet to check a few things before work. He looks at vacation deals. Maybe a European cruise? Maybe one to Alaska? .

And by the way as I review this thread:

@MattF freaking LOVE that story.  Perfectly paced.  I want nothing more than to see where that car takes those two.  Extremely strong stuff.

@Cove didn't find that story AARP at all.  Really tense yet honest moment between a couple.  Enjoyed it alot!

@ Bill Tucker: Thanks, I really appreciate that. I sketched it as a seed for something longer, if I ever get to it...

Now 14 flavors in 14 days...Could March see 31? Will Chester Pane rue the day he upped the word count to 1,000?  Stay tuned for these answers and more, only right here on Flash Me!

I think the War contest sparked people to write for this. It was a way to take a break from the war story for a bit, but still have something to submit. Maybe that's why so many submissions in March. Plus it gets fun to submit to something. I don't know what to vote for.I have three favorites so far.

Funny and clever. I didn't read it that way unit you put it in quotes!  It's not what i meant!

@ cove. Nah. My ego says its because of me. And my ego is never wrong.... Ever
@utah. I think chasey lain did a movie on the 'fun to submit' theme a time or two

Haha. Haha.

Easy to Submit must be a writing thread somewhere.

@Conley, nice stuff! I really like your ending line.  Says alot in a few words, which is always the sign of good writing.  Well done!

I'm fucking drunk. I am going to write somehting now and see what comes out.

Amber
By Hetch Litman

I had to kill it. Sometimes situations dictate death, I’ve come to accept. It was not personal. It wasn’t like it was something muddle-headed like the color of her hair or the way her cunt might smell like iron, thick with mensttal blood when she walked past me. It was not something fatuous like the way her whore high heels clicked or the weight of her dress. No, it wasn't something puerile like her purple contact lenses or senseless like sheer stockings, and definitely not something immature like the shape of her hard jaw or the passive silhouette of her calf framed by brick buildings and water. There is always water, blue and soft. No, it was none of those petty or cheap reasons. It was much deeper and than that. More conspicuous. It was her throat. The Adams apple. Her cock.
Rewind sixteen minutes. Go back 3 shots of Rare Breed and a sterling silver pipe scoop of coke. Retract nine hundred and sixty seconds from this smoke charged bar stool and maybe it would not have had to come to this. Hey Honey how are you? Buy a lady a drink (voice Mellissa Etheride gruff, sexy) Canter, hop, hurdle or jerk a head in repose, flick a thumb and hitchhike, mindful of time and water, always mindful of water, rearward, plunge or pounce practically away from what has now to happen and the life of this asshole might have had a fucking chance. Practicality dictates some modicum of respect for life after all. But not this time. Not now. Never now. Never nows. Never this times.

I never buy a drink for someone whos name I don’t know. “Amber comes the reply.Hi Amber, I’m Chuck. What are you drinking?”
To be fair his lipstick ring tattoos  the base of my cock isnt a bad color. Some kind of Saint Germain or Speak Louder or perhaps a politely pink. It Actually brings out the cream in my helmet and the cherry in my shaft.  The blood from his busted incisors, though, (a stike from my commonplace, nude knee), sticks to my sack as I hold his head under truculent blue toilet water, (a cinematographers dream shot to be sure) frothing and determined to escape the bowl.
"Hey honey, how are you? Buy a mother fucker a drink?" I ask genuinely concerned as my eyes drink in the quite feminine ass and my right hand, disguised as a fist connects with his kidneys. A hundred bubbles thank me in vivid, television commercial blue as this things lung or two purge air. Before the meat dies, I let it breath. I gather the real long hair toward my chin, give it breath, and whisper in its ear. “You made me do this.”
My cum coated its mouth before I found the worm in its pants. Being raised by a single mother and not a father killed this asshole. Think about it. Wellsian music gets higher in the register and more pronounced. Louder and more articulated. Now, wait. Just wait. Wait there, secure in your pajamas, head on your pillow . Just wait. Do you hear that? Those are screams. Lucky for me the band, babyland, has not stopped playing. Hopefully no one has to jack off, you’d be surprised how many people jack off in a club bathroom. I wouldn’t sit on the seats if I were you. That or piss and then no one else has to die.
Maybe I can beat the demons out of this cocksucker. This faggot has gone hopefully vegetable. Sure, He'll get an outpouring of support from the community and maybe the radio left and mayhap I'll be demonized. It's just the way of the world today. It sort of gives me superpowers though, but only if it's dead. Alive its a liberal talking piece, a martyr, something to worship and pray too. An ad in a national magazine or on NPR. Something for big city men to cry openly about on the TV, showing their feminine side. the same side that sucked my cock and I rebuke that in the name of Jesus
I've pulled the hand dryer from the wall. Don’t fret I didn’t hurt anything. It was a few paultry drywalls screws and a cumful of glue. I say out loud  I've never understood them. Give me a dry domestic single ply, rough, hand towel anyday. "Amber, Isn't that what you said your name was? Thanks for the blow job." I looked at it's satisfactory bitch ass again and brought the dryer down on it's head. Again. Again. Again. 

Grey pasta of brains mingled with deep red Pollock swatches of thick blood find my shoes and stroke my cheeks. I’d be mad if it wasn’t so attractive. I’d be concerned if it didn’t get me hard. Erections, after all dictate time spent. I’d be sedate if it wasn’t such a trustworthy friend. bone fragments sing falsetto and I orgasm. I think the future might smile lightly on my hands and feet that thrust kicks deep into the ribs, water, again, splashing and dancing making me smile large and in charge.
I check out its cock. I wonder if it was always that small or if female hormones made it shrivel, balls small and sack empty. From behind, head smashed in the bowl the asshole looks that same as a girls. I think of sex operations and turing scrotums inside out to make a slot and if this one had been post op how I might have fucked that slot unknowingly and it would still be breathing. I would feel pity, I think, if it lived in that precise moment. Just maybe, I think, the water might absolve it. At that moment, I biblically look to the future.
Later, in prepared remarks, written not to antagonize the jury, I am certain I will conveniently explain  I didn't remember any of this. That day God will love God fearing men. Tonight, He loves Amber.

The End.

Lover's Rock

By Brandon Marnier

It had been a long week. Two affairs, and the discovery of seven lies about said affairs led to what was happening now. She was naked on their bed, gorgeous as always, but quiet and distant. She was thinking, about what he had done, what he had lied about. She was thinking about how much it hurt, but still she never let the pain show. She turned off. She turned off and sat there on their bed, waiting for something, anything that would break this dream of hers. If she could just wake up this wouldn’t be happening.

Secrets are kept and lies are told so often that they sound like the truth. The words that come out of his mouth sound honest but never are and that’s why she is sitting there quietly. He had hurt her, deeply, yet he did nothing to try and make up for his mistake. There was no apologies and there was no begging or groveling, which she desperately wanted him to do.

He sat there with her in comfortable silence, listening to the rain hit the window. He knew that he should apologize, that he should be on his knees begging her not to leave, but he knew that this would happen again and that it would hurt worse the next time his secrets were discovered. She looked at him, her eyes empty and dull. He knew what she wanted to say. He knew what she was thinking. Why did you do it? He wanted to answer but the truth would hurt and telling another lie was out of the question.

They stared at each other in their comfortable silence, knowing exactly where their relationship was headed, knowing that ending things would destroy one and breathe life into the other. She would go on to become a successful lawyer without him dragging her down and causing endless pain and distractions. He would become suicidal and drink himself to death within a year. His future was grim, but her future was bright.

She realized she was naked then, she remembered how excited she was to surprise him when he came home and realized how one voice message on their answering machine destroyed everything. She wished his lies were true. She put her clothes on and left. She’d be back soon to get her things but for now she needed to be alone. He sat there on the bed as she put her clothes on and when he heard their front door shut, he knew it was over. She was leaving.

Um....that was creepy, it kinda made me wanna do this...

@aleinsoul77

man, that's a great one. You can see where the stuntman missed the center and hit the frame. Perfect.

I reckon you are on with your toughest call yet, Chester matey, trying to whittle down all the March posts into five for a vote. Best of luck. It is going to be a good one.