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Monthly Archives: March 2011

Doors

Flash Fiction 8 – Word Prompt – Cab

I walked up the dingy hotel hallway. Stopping before room 110, I rang the bell.
He opened the door, shirtless.One corner of my mouth quirked in a smile. He smiled back at me and pulled me into the room.
Shutting the door, he backed me into it. And cradling my ass in his hands, yanked my feet off the floor and around his waist.
His fingers crept around from my ass – and delved inside my cunt.
“Oh good. You’re wet,” he said smugly.
“That tends to happen when people order me to strap on a vibrator in the morning.” I shot back, my head slamming against the door as his fingers found my clitoris.
“Well, you disobeyed me. You took it off.”
“I had a meeting. With the VP. I’m submissive, not insane.”
We both grinned. “I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole,” he said.
I rolled my hips against his, closing whatever millimetre of space there was. “How handy. You have one here.”
“Cheap shot. I’ve been thinking about you thinking about me,” he said, pressing into me.
i slid my fingers down, unbuttoning his fly. “You were thinking about me? I’m so flattered.”
“Let me flatter you some more,” he smiled.

An hour later, I walked out of out the hotel, slightly sore, leaving him asleep.
Almost immediately, my phone rang. I flipped it open and helloed into it.
“Are you there? I’m a minute away.”
“I’m here,” I said, reaching the curb, just as a cab pulled up. I opened the door and slid in.
Turning, I said “Hi! How was your day”
My husband smiled. “Boring as usual. How was your presentation?”
“Applauded as usual. Flattering as usual.” I smirked.
He peered back at the disappearing hotel. “Why do they pick such seedy hotels?”
“It IS recession time darling.”
He scooted closer to me. And gently touching my shoulder, slid his hand up my thigh. “Want to be flattered some more?”
I closed my eyes and thought of that door. And other doors before. And felt my insides melt.
My husband smiled. “Thank God we’re going home.”
“Yeah. Thank God.” I smiled and looked out the window. I’d need to schedule another presentation really soon.

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Cynophobia

Flash Fiction 7 – Word Prompt – Toothpaste

I’m sitting in the shower cubicle crying my eyes out. I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck, I’m so stuck, there’s no escape. And there’s nothing I can do. Oh God.
I stuff more of the towel into my mouth, even though I have to reuse it tomorrow. If he ever finds out, he’ll scream at me some more.
The dog is pawing at the door. I hate it, I hate it so much and I can’t show it because otherwise he’ll make me sleep next to it. I hiccup into the towel but the tears don’t stop.
I shouldn’t have said anything about the dog. I should have learned my lesson the last time when I said it smelled and he made the dog roll about in my underwear. And then made me wear it the next day.
I shouldn’t have said the dog’s breath stank. I shouldn’t have.
I should have started to beg when he got up and dragged me by my hair to the bathroom.
I should have petted the dog, said I’m sorry when he put the dog’s toothpaste on my brush and started to make me brush my teeth.
I stuff more of the towel in my mouth, trying to blot out the taste. I MUST remember not to criticize the dog. Please God, let the dog die. PLEASE.

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Boundaries

Flash Fiction 6 – Word Prompt – Denmark

Kavita pushed the door open. And took a deep breath.
The cold air-conditioned air welcomed her as the punishing tendrils of heat clung desperately to her.
She walked into the office, stopped at her desk and put her bag, her glasses, her umbrella, her phone and her mp3 player down on her little table.
The Black Eyed Peas stopped asking where the love was. And the ringing of phones took over.
Picking up her bottle she walked to the beverage dispenser and water cooler. Filling her bottle, she punched in the code for an elaichi tea.
The other members of her team were already here.
With a deep breath, she tried to swallow the feelings of dislike, panic and despair that ebbed and flowed through each work day.
She was beginning to hate the work she had to do. She already disliked her team mates. And she couldn’t do anything about anything because the rent had to be paid.
Once again, she wondered why she hadn’t chosen another career. Or why she was one of the few women she knew, unmarried and unsettled at 29. Why couldn’t she have met and married someone and been in some exotic place in Europe called Zaftig or something? Or America? Or Denmark?
Shaking her head, she tried to mentally dislodge herself from Self-pity Mountain and headed towards the team’s cabin.
Six people in a space that measured 10×10.
Excluding her now, five people. Five people who came from a different strata of society and consequently behaved and talked differently. Who often didn’t realize that they were crossing lines invisible to them, but florescent to Kavita and people she’d known till now.
Five people, of whom two sang at the tops of their voices. Really badly.
Five people she’d met for the first time in her life, just under two months ago.
Five people who’d driven her to make up stupid excuses and move out of the cabin, into a cul de sac outside.
Five people she already couldn’t stand.
Not for the first time, she wondered if it was her. If she was a misanthrope. If she’d die alone and bitter, because she’d been a choosy bitch who couldn’t shut up all her life.
She shook her head again. It was becoming a nervous tic. A habit whenever she found herself resorting to whenever she started descending that dark slope of depression.

She walked into the cabin and Anand, the head choir leader, a guy who sang along to Atif Aslam songs, smiled at her with a leer. Despite being married, he made it a point to check out and comment on every woman.
This was the problem. Every time she met men like this, and that was practically every day, she’d thank God she wasn’t married. Maybe God was taking her too seriously?
She stretched her mouth in a rictus of a smile at him. And stood behind him to see the final artwork of a layout.
Anand sniffed. Took a deep breath. “Hey is that your deo that smells this good?”
Kavita grimaced at the back of his head. She’d used it so as to not recoil from her own body at the end of a long train ride. But she wasn’t too happy about having it commented on by Krude and the Gang.
She “hmmm”ed at him, hoping he’d shut up.
No such luck.
“Girls always spend money on expensive deos and all and then smell nice. Guys don’t have all that,” Anand grumbled.
She’s expected it. He had a constant litany against girls, against expensive products he considered out of his reach and slightly against her because just as she realized they were from a different class, a different mindset, so did they realize that about her.
She nodded, not willing to be drawn into the conversation.
“Is this unisex?” He asked her.
She shook her head, confused. How could a floral perfume be unisex?
He lifted his hand and sniffed his armpit. Lingeringly.
She shot up and left the room. And retreated to the security of her nook. It was practically in the aisle. It had no privacy. But no one sang shitty songs there. She sat and booted her machine. And started her day as usual. By wondering when she’d be getting out of there.

 

 
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Posted by on March 21, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Spat

Flash Fiction 5 – Word Prompt – Tomato Purée

Every time I see his clothes lying on the floor, the blood rushes to my head. WHY can’t he put this things away?
This is the THIRD time this bloody week! What is WRONG with him? Does he LIKE pissing me off?
I stomp out to the living room and throw his BLOODY pants at his face.
He grimaces in pain when the belt buckle hits him. And snarling, jumps out of his seat.
“Are you out of your MIND?” he screams.
I shriek back. “In the HAMPER, in THE HAMPER, IN THE HAMPER! PUT YOUR GODDAMN CLOTHES  IN THE HAMPER!”
He slaps me, hard. My head whips around to the side, and my hands fumble for purchase against the sideboard.
My fingers touch something cold. The brass dish his bitch of a mother gave me for my birthday.
Teeth bared in a smile, I lift the dish. And throw it, sharp edge out at him.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and ducks. But he’s too late. It catches him square on the temple.
He’s knocked sideways by the force. He rises. And his temple is bleeding.
I’ve pushed him too far. He’s pushed me too far.
I take a step back. He’s stronger than me.
He snarls, growls like an animal on the hunt.
I turn on my heel and run towards the kitchen. Towards safety. Towards sharp knives and peelers.

On my way, I pull his prized statue of some naked whore on the ground, shattering it.
His howl echoes past me as I run into the kitchen.
I grab a knife and holding it behind me, I hide behind the protruding cupboard. He stalks in. And I slam the cupboard door on his hand.
He yells in fury. In pain. In madness.

Coming towards me, he pins me to the counter.
I bare my teeth again, stomach heaving, gasping for air, and with all my strength, teeth gritted, jam the butcher knife I’ve been holding into his ribs.
The breath is expelled out of him. He can’t believe it.
He looks at me. I look back at him.
For a second, a split second, we wonder what happened to us.
Then the pain hits him.
“YOU BITCH!”
Screaming continuously, he shoves me backwards on to the counter, forcing me down, my head banging the window ledge that looks out on to the neighbour’s kitchen.
I feel something in my back give way, my other hand scrambling on the counter tops at my side.
I look up and see the top of the pressure cooker coming my way.
The first time, it bursts my left eye.
The second time, my cheek.
I turn the knife in his side even harder, my pinned feet kick out in survival – catching him in his knee.

By the fifth time the pressure cooker lid comes down, I’m no longer counting.
He slides off my twitching body, on to the floor, where he continues his own grotesque twitching.

———

Later, Robert glances at the neighbour’s window while helping his wife in the kitchen.
“What’s that red stuff on their window?” he asks his wife.
“Probably tomato purée. She’s not very tidy when cooking,” his wife sniffs and goes back to scrubbing the potatoes.

 
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Posted by on March 15, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Sniffle

Flash Fiction 4 – Word Prompt Virus

She sat up in bed, conscious of a heavy head. A slow, cold wet trickle on her upper lip. She sighed tiredly. Another cold. She could feel it starting. She was catching one almost every fortnight now. And fever too. Maybe the miscarriage had weakened her immune system.

Every time the cold got worse, she spent the night almost crying because of her sinuses. And her husband would go sleep on the sofa, with a wooden expression. Guiltily, she got out of bed as quietly as possible and started to rummage in her cupboard for tissues. She refused to use handkerchiefs anymore. Not finding any, she shut the wardrobe door. And winced as it shut with a snap.

In bed, her husband turned over. He pulled the blanket closer to his face, shutting out the cold AC air he always insisted on. And wondered when he’d muster the courage to tell her about the affair. The prostitutes. The tests. The doctors. And finally, the virus.

 
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Posted by on March 7, 2011 in Fiction

 

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Spam

(Female) Friend’s spambox has a mail regarding “Get the large penis you always wanted.”

Friend: Wow. I should reply to that.
Me: Um. You want a penis? That’s quite a lifestyle change.
Friend: Oh it’s for me? Hah! I thought it came attached with a man.

 

 

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