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Category Archives: Fiction

Lust

“…and really, the only way that someone can score at this point is if the whole team sort of pulls their socks up and use the last bloody play they have. I mean, can you SEE these guys? It’s pathetic!” He clenched a fist and shook it at the screen.
“Oh, I totally agree. They suck. Just not the same this year,” she said, her eyes locked on to the muscular bulge of his arm.
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! You know, it’s my dream to go to London and watch these guys play,” he exhaled.
The core of her being tightened. He’d been droning on about football for the last 20 minutes. And all she’d had on her mind was footsie. His slightly bulky body, his hands, his lips…she couldn’t take her eyes, and mind, off them. She just needed to check one more thing out.
“Wow, London. I’ll tell you the quickest way to get a visa. Say you’ve got a secret Chicken Tikka Masala recipe,” she smiled and stuck her tongue out at him playfully.
He stuck his tongue out back in return. His long, lusciously pink tongue. Mission accomplished.
She tapped his arm lightly, using one finger to smooth over the forearm. “You know, I’ve been thinking. These guys are so…hot. It’s so weird, how infrequently we, you know, ordinary people, run into other people that we think are…hot. And well, when that happens, how do you sort of make everything..hotter?”
He tilted his head at her. “What do you mean, exactly?”
She smiled. “I mean…”, she waved her arms about. “Hot. You know. When someone is hot. Sexy. And you can’t take your eyes off them. Or your mind. And you keep thinking about what you’d like to do to them. Climb them like a fucking tree. You know? Push them against the wall and grind up against them. Or run your fingers through their hair. Kiss them. Suck their lip. Run your hands all over them. That. Kind of stuff. You know?” she finished, slightly breathless.
He was staring at her, mouth open. Then abruptly, he shut it. Looked around and leaned into her. “Dude.”
She leaned forward too. “Yes?” she husked.
He whispered, “Who told you?”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Who told me? Who told me what?”
He smiled, shaking his head, “Don’t play dumb dude. All that stuff you just said. Who told you I said all that?”
Her this-is-hopefully-sexy smile froze. “What?”
He exhaled. “Okay. Look, I know I got drunk last night at the office party and said that I was majorly lusting after the new intern, but she’s a kid. I can’t do all that stuff to her. She’s only 20 man!”
The smile morphed to this-is-not-happening-to-me….-again. She widened the smile, showing more teeth. “Right. No, you’re right. She is too young. Anyway, I think I can hear my phone ringing.”
She flounced back to her seat. Fuming. Himbos. What was the point?

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Posted by on February 10, 2015 in Fiction

 

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Spite

I watch you as you dial the phone.
I am filled with malevolence that seethes inside me like water bubbling over in a pot.

I am angry. I don’t want to go see my relatives either. But I must. I’ve agreed and I consider myself a man of my word. Even if you and your mother don’t think so. I am tired of making conversation. I am tired of making small talk. I just want to sit in front of the TV and look at transformers and Macaulay Culkin celebrating Christmas in a hotel.

You’re speaking woefully, as if the excuse you’re making is real. As if you really are being held back by an unnamed client. As if you’re not lying to have your own way. I loathe it when I have to lie for you. No matter how many times you point out the fact that I seem to lie effortlessly when it suits me, I dislike it immensely when I must do it for someone else.

You put down the phone, your face in smiles. “I’m free! I’m off the hook!” you squeal.
I try to stop my lips from moving but I can’t. I open my mouth, and the words, “Why are you so happy? If this is the way you want to conduct your life, then what can anyone do?”
You stop moving abruptly. I know I’ve hurt you, and I take some pleasure in it. Why should I suffer alone tonight? They’re your family too. It’s your duty to come. So what if they’re boring?

You look at me steadily. You are upset…but you’re trying to hide it. “If you say so Daddy,” you say and walk away.
I want to stop you but I won’t. I will my eyes back to the TV as you disappear past dining room.
I know this will be another thing you will remember for years and I will forget in an hour.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2015 in Fiction

 

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Death by inches

Monday
I walked up to her. “Hey. How are you?”
She said, “I’m fine.”
I looked at her. “Still in love with a married man?”
She smiled and corrected me, “No. Still having an affair with a married man.”
I smiled back and teased, “In the olden days, you’d have been pelted with stones.”
She looked at me. A beat later, she said “And tomatoes too.”
Our giggles made other people look up from their books.

Tuesday
I sat down next to her. “Hey. What’s up?”
She said, “I’m fine. Still having an affair with a married man.”
I smiled. “Stones and tomatoes and potatoes.”
She looked at me. A beat later, she smiled, “Mmmmm, soup.”
Our laughter made the Dean come out to shush us.

Wednesday
She sat down and sighed. “We’re fighting. He won’t commit to me.”
I looked at her, unsure of what to say. “Um.”
She looked at me. “You must be so happy.”
I stared at her. “No, I’m not. Why would you say that?”
She looked at me, her mouth a grimace. “Because you’ve been judging me since this began.”
“No, I haven’t. I just don’t know how to react. I don’t think its right. But I would never judge you.”
She walked away, even before I’d finished.

Friday
I heard a cough. I turned.
She stood there. Slightly unsure. “Hi.”
I sat up. “Hi.”
She gestured. “May I join you?”
I picked up some books and put them to the side. “Yeah, of course. Please.”
She sat. “How’ve you been?”
I said “Good. Not bad. You?”
She said, “I’m good. We’re getting married. As soon as he divorces his wife.”
I struggled to keep my face expressionless. “Oh okay. Congratulations..?”
It was the first time I hadn’t known whether to say it as a statement or a question.
She smiled, “Thank you. I’ll catch you later.”

Saturday
We ran into each other in the corridor. “Hey!” “Hi!”
She clutched my hand. “Want to go and get some soup later?”
I looked at her, puzzled. “Soup?”
She smiled. “You know. Stones and tomatoes and potatoes.”
She laughed. I smiled back. I couldn’t laugh. I was almost afraid to laugh.

Sunday
I walked up to her. “Hey. How are you?”
She snarled, “I’m fine.”
I almost backed away. “Okay…um.”
She looked up at me. “Come here to judge me? You must have heard. He dumped me.”
I looked at her. My hand wanted to jump up and slam the table. “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry, I know this must upset you.”
She rose with a loud screech of her chair. “Don’t presume to know how I’m feeling! I’m NOT upset. Speak for yourself.”
Our voices made everyone else stare at us.

 
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Posted by on January 12, 2015 in Fiction

 

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Back to Black

“If I were single, I’d be pretty sad about now.”
140 characters? Try 140 emotions.
This is why you shouldn’t stalk your ex on Twitter. You find out suddenly, with no warning, that he’s not single any more. What? When did that happen? You’re still supposed to be mourning me, you bastard.
Who is she? Where is she? When did she…how did she…?

He’s dating someone. He’s. Dating. Someone. And I’m…not. Why?
Why am I single? Why isn’t someone tweeting about me? Is because I’m a nag, like he said? Or is it because of that jiggle of fat, that I hate?
It’s because you’re a horrible person.
What? Who said that?
Me.
Whose me?
Your brain.
You can talk?
Um, I’m in your head. So make that a horrible and stupid person.
I’m NOT stupid.
Okay. If you say so. Though frankly, I make all the decisions around here so I should know.
Okay….so, you’re telling me I’m a horrible person. And that’s why I’m single?
Yep.
Care to elaborate?
Sure. You’re a horrible, disgusting person. You’re selfish and your maggoty core is visible to anyone who sees you. You’re so low down, you’re disgusting. This is why you’re alone all the time. And when you do invited out, you complain about being alone. You’re a boring, ignorant bitch who knows nothing, does nothing and inspires nothing.

I…I. If you’re my brain, how can you be so mean to me? How can you think these thoughts?
I just do. And you’re stuck with me. I’m making the decision to sob for a few hours now. And post that, we’ll look at some more tweets.

But…maybe I should stop. And go to bed. Life still lies ahead of me. There’s still hope.
There is no hope for you. All hope and all light and everything good is over for you. Cry. Then I’ll think of something else to numb the pain.

I cried.

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Weight

I watched her as she ate, her fingers working steadily, plate to mouth, plate to mouth. Specks of spit flow on to her hands and I shuddered in disgust, slightly. How could she do this? Didn’t she know other people were watching?
How could she eat like that with someone else watching?

I looked away and ate the last of my bread. Stood up and took my plate to the sink.
I picked up the frying pan to soak it in the sink when she said, “Fry me another piece, please?”

Later, as I told the judge, the rage that consumed me was sudden, shocking and a little surprising.
I just stood there, my forearms itching suddenly, the blood there as if armed with knives.
I swung at her head. Her fat, disgusting head. And swung from the other side, after she screamed and clutched her head.
She slumped forward and I swung the pan from the top this time. With so much force.
“Here’s. Another. Piece. You. Fat. Disgusting. Bitch.” Thump. Thump. Slam. Thump. Thump.

I hit her fat, heavy head for all I could and then some. And then I soaked the pan, cleaned up the kitchen and put on a clean shirt and pants and walked out of the house, to the police station.

I explained everything, time and time over. About the only time I didn’t know what to say, was when the judge turned to me, pushing up his glasses and said, “But my dear, she was your twin sister. Your exact double. If she disgusted you so much, how do you live with yourself?”

 
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Posted by on November 6, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Nail against the blackboard

“So where do you want to go for lunch?” he asked.
I gritted my teeth.
Are there 50 ways to kill your lover? I could use them all, twice.

“I don’t know,” I said carefully, “Wherever you want is fine. You know I can’t choose and I hate making this kind of decision anyway.”
“Oh, so I have to be The Man in this relationship?”
“You are the man in this relationship.” Although you act like a boy, I added silently.

“C’mon babe. Just choose a place.”
“Fine. Let’s go to Wang Lee.”
“God, Chinese again! Don’t you get tired?”
“Okay, let’s go to La Italia.”
“Please babe. Seriously?”
I threw down my pen. “This is why I don’t like to choose. You ALWAYS do this. You ALWAYS DO this.”

The problem with fighting in a relationship is that there’s always one fight simmering underneath. And it’s a default setting.
That’s the one that goes from 0 to 100 in 5 seconds, even if it’s not a big deal. The street brawler in you, looking to bust shit up.

“God, why do you need to fly off the handle all the time? What’s your problem, we’re just talking for chrissakes!”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t have time to do this. “Okay, please, just pick a place ok? You know I’m okay with anything.”
“Right, you always SAY that and then you complain about there being no vegetarian options wherever we are.”

I stared at him. “That was once. At a STEAK place. You took me to a STEAK place and what was I supposed to eat?”
“Oh, please. You could have had the side salad. You could have had French fries.”

I looked away. And wondered how many miles further we’d be pushing this thing.
How many times must you hurt someone or watch them hurt you, till you walk away?
How many times must the relationship poke you in the ribs, for you to realise it’s dead?

 
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Posted by on October 18, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Craving

Tap tap tap tap tap.
You know that moment just before you pee? The urge to urinate, to just let go, gets strongest then right? Like your muscles are telling you, ‘Let go. You are not in control any more.’ The problem is the after. After you’ve let go, the shame follows.

I’d give anything to just be ashamed of peeing myself. I wish it were that simple. I wish my eyes didn’t go to that direction every 5 minutes. I’ve been trying to control myself, I really have. But. I. Just. Can’t. Seem. To. Stop. Thinking. About. It.

How good it would feel. How my spirits will lift, I’ll feel happy again. How I will lick that spoon dry.
I can be happy for some time. I can be not myself for some time. And everyone will like me, everyone will think I’m cool and everyone will want to be my friend.

Sometimes I wonder what it is I really crave. This or human contact. The knowing that there’s someone out there who thinks you’re great. Who will like you and know you for the person you are. Who doesn’t judge you by their own standards and lets you be.

My eyes are doing the sideways dance again. My fingers itch.
It’s going to be a long night.

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2014 in Fiction

 

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