This name is a phantom more solid than my self. It appears;
I fade to let it speak. It sings; eyes closed, I sway, enraptured.
Not “I” or “We”
but “Abby’s back.”
A haunting returned – let me be possessed.
Showing posts with label microstory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label microstory. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Saturday, September 19, 2009
3F#21 : Holiday
from Patty's A Creative Spanked Wife. I can't believe it took me this long to find this site. Great artwork! I won't even mind if you go check out her gallery before reading my story. This drawing is called "Pirate Bride." Note the ropes! Fantastic.It's been a while since I participated in Flash Fiction Friday, so I figured I was due for another go round. This week, the wildcard words were "libretto," "Ophiucus," and "sweat." I exceeded the 250-word limit, but I've been editing out one word at a time for 45 minutes, so at 297 words, this is as close as it's going to get. And yes, the holiday referenced is real and is today. Follow the link!
"Arrr. Would you rather be tied to the mast or walk the plank when we get home, yeh scurvy wench?"
I grinned. "You know I'd rather be tied up than take a walk any day." We were lying on our backs, watching the night sky after picnicking and making out like teenagers. It had been a long time since I felt this happy. Even the mosquitoes, drawn to our sweat on this Indian Summer night, didn't bother me.
"No, no. You're supposed to say it like a pirate. It's September nineteenth!" Will shook his head.
"Now you'll have to be flogged as well."
Giggling, I remembered. "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! Who came up with that?"
Will pointed at the sky, unusually clear and full of stars. "Those guys."
"I poured you one too many glasses of grog, didn't I?"
"No, no. The constellations. Hercules, with his powerful palms. Ophiuchus, with his feisty snake. Orion, with his great big belt. They all really like flogging, so they made a holiday for it."
"Talk Like A Pirate Day is actually a holiday for pirate-style spanking?" I was going to get hiccups from laughing so much.
He shrugged. "When we get home, I could dig out the old libretto from my high school production of Pirates of Penzance. We could have a sing-a-long instead."
I turned my head towards him. "Avast, me hearty," I whispered. "You know I can't sing."
He laughed. "Well, blow me down. Let's get that pirate booty in gear."
"Aye, aye, Captain." I sat up to pack the remains of the picnic. My eyes flickered upwards. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of firm hands, a feisty snake and a great big belt tonight. I couldn't have been happier.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
FFF: Even White Boys Got to Shout
I failed at 250 words this week. Is anyone surprised? Lots of house and yardwork to do today, so I decided to post a too long story rather than try to edit it back or write a new shorter one. I managed to include 4 out of 6 wildcards.
Paul was still in the shower when his cell phone began to ring. I was lying in bed, watching grey wisps of early morning cloud part to reveal pure blue sky. Any New Englander, born and raised, knew what that sky meant. Summer had arrived in full force, and with it, humidity. In two days, that sky would be clouded over again, pregnant with the season's first thunderstorm. I had already begun to feel the tickle of summer sweat on the backs of my knees and the insides of my elbows. Paul's thin cotton sheet clung to me as I grabbed his phone from the nightstand and looked at the caller ID.
"Becky calling," the screen announced. I collapsed back onto the bed and fumed, mentally reviewing every woman I knew Paul talked to. By the time Paul walked into the bedroom, hair wet and dressed only in a towel around his waist, I had worked myself into a jealous panic. "Who the hell is Becky?" I demanded. "Why is she calling you so early? Why don't I know about her?"
Paul cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at me, frowning. "Seriously?"
"Of course seriously! Who is she?"
"I don't believe this," Paul muttered, reaching for the rough leather belt he kept looped through a dresser drawer handle. "Roll over. You are being ridiculous."
The sight of him nearly naked, belt in hand, had made me more wet than the onset of humidity, so I did as I was told. Immediately, the belt whipped across my bare bottom. I clutched my pillow but didn't cry out. The belt struck again and it stung like hell, but I was still upset and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. He continued to punish me, belting harder, trying to make me react. By the end of two dozen strokes, I was quietly sobbing against the pillow. My backside burned but I resisted reaching back to rub it. I sobbed louder, out of relief, when he rubbed my sore flesh for me.
"Baby," he began soothingly, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. "I love this ass." He squeezed my right cheek, making me squirm. "But you know I can't help but check out other asses when they pass me on the street. It's my nature." I nodded my head. That had never bothered me. I did the same thing. "Well, Tom likes asses too. We have a code when we're out and want to tell the other one to take a look at someone's butt. You know what it is?"
"No," I grumbled, not sure what Paul's best friend had to know with some random girl calling at seven in the morning.
"We say to each other, 'Oh my God, Becky.' Do you know why?"
The phrase was familiar. He smacked my tender backside twice, once on each cheek. "Come on. You know why."
All my anger dissipated into laughter as I realized what was going on. Becky wasn't a random girl, it was Tom, programmed into Paul's cell phone as an homage to Sir Mix A Lot's classic 1992 hip-hop ode to big butts everywhere, "Baby Got Back."
Paul and I looked at each other and simultaneously quoted the opening line of the song. "Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt." He stood up, grabbing belt again and folding it into a loop as he did so. "Well, what do you say? Do you want another dozen before I hit the road?"
I wiggled my own big butt and grinned. "You know I do."
Paul was still in the shower when his cell phone began to ring. I was lying in bed, watching grey wisps of early morning cloud part to reveal pure blue sky. Any New Englander, born and raised, knew what that sky meant. Summer had arrived in full force, and with it, humidity. In two days, that sky would be clouded over again, pregnant with the season's first thunderstorm. I had already begun to feel the tickle of summer sweat on the backs of my knees and the insides of my elbows. Paul's thin cotton sheet clung to me as I grabbed his phone from the nightstand and looked at the caller ID.
"Becky calling," the screen announced. I collapsed back onto the bed and fumed, mentally reviewing every woman I knew Paul talked to. By the time Paul walked into the bedroom, hair wet and dressed only in a towel around his waist, I had worked myself into a jealous panic. "Who the hell is Becky?" I demanded. "Why is she calling you so early? Why don't I know about her?"
Paul cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at me, frowning. "Seriously?"
"Of course seriously! Who is she?"
"I don't believe this," Paul muttered, reaching for the rough leather belt he kept looped through a dresser drawer handle. "Roll over. You are being ridiculous."
The sight of him nearly naked, belt in hand, had made me more wet than the onset of humidity, so I did as I was told. Immediately, the belt whipped across my bare bottom. I clutched my pillow but didn't cry out. The belt struck again and it stung like hell, but I was still upset and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. He continued to punish me, belting harder, trying to make me react. By the end of two dozen strokes, I was quietly sobbing against the pillow. My backside burned but I resisted reaching back to rub it. I sobbed louder, out of relief, when he rubbed my sore flesh for me.
"Baby," he began soothingly, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. "I love this ass." He squeezed my right cheek, making me squirm. "But you know I can't help but check out other asses when they pass me on the street. It's my nature." I nodded my head. That had never bothered me. I did the same thing. "Well, Tom likes asses too. We have a code when we're out and want to tell the other one to take a look at someone's butt. You know what it is?"
"No," I grumbled, not sure what Paul's best friend had to know with some random girl calling at seven in the morning.
"We say to each other, 'Oh my God, Becky.' Do you know why?"
The phrase was familiar. He smacked my tender backside twice, once on each cheek. "Come on. You know why."
All my anger dissipated into laughter as I realized what was going on. Becky wasn't a random girl, it was Tom, programmed into Paul's cell phone as an homage to Sir Mix A Lot's classic 1992 hip-hop ode to big butts everywhere, "Baby Got Back."
Paul and I looked at each other and simultaneously quoted the opening line of the song. "Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt." He stood up, grabbing belt again and folding it into a loop as he did so. "Well, what do you say? Do you want another dozen before I hit the road?"
I wiggled my own big butt and grinned. "You know I do."
A still from the video for Sir Mix A Lot's "Baby Got Back"
Saturday, May 2, 2009
250 Word Story Challenge
Yesterday on Twitter, @CaseyDamnMorgan, @SpankinResource, and I decided to challenge each other to write a 250 word story. There were only two rules:
1) Post the story by 6pm PST Saturday night. (That gave us approximately 25 hours.)
2) Try to include the wildcard words or phrases that we each submitted. The words chose were as follows: "green willow," "loose thread," and "hairbrush."
The rest was up to us. A few others got in on the challenge as we created it. I'll post links to them as I learn of the postings. Visit the blogs listed at the end of this post to see other challenge submissions.
The following is my own submission, based on a dream I had a year ago about Pandora telling me she'd "dreamed about the linden tree again." The story, as stories do, took a different direction than I was expecting, and it's quite difficult to tell a whole story in 250 words. It's more like trying to write a poem in sentences. Still, I think I'm happy with the result, and am interested to see how the others do, and whether we make this a regular event.
1) Post the story by 6pm PST Saturday night. (That gave us approximately 25 hours.)
2) Try to include the wildcard words or phrases that we each submitted. The words chose were as follows: "green willow," "loose thread," and "hairbrush."
The rest was up to us. A few others got in on the challenge as we created it. I'll post links to them as I learn of the postings. Visit the blogs listed at the end of this post to see other challenge submissions.
The following is my own submission, based on a dream I had a year ago about Pandora telling me she'd "dreamed about the linden tree again." The story, as stories do, took a different direction than I was expecting, and it's quite difficult to tell a whole story in 250 words. It's more like trying to write a poem in sentences. Still, I think I'm happy with the result, and am interested to see how the others do, and whether we make this a regular event.
Liese told me her dream as soon as she woke beside me, even though I was still half asleep. She pressed against me, stroking my night-matted hair, one bare leg draped over my thighs, her foot tucked under my calf. She whispered:
"It was the linden tree in bloom again, Marie. The flowers should have been white, but they were violet, like this," she touched the amethyst birthstone I always wore on a silver chain around my neck, "or like this." She reached back to touch the backs of her thighs, which I knew still bore plum stripes from the caning she'd received at the hands of her other lover.
The first time I saw her marked like that, I felt sick to my stomach. Her obvious pain tugged at the strings of my heart and found a loose thread. I unraveled, that first time she stood naked and truly bared before me.
"Your hair," she said then, grabbing a hairbrush from the bedside table and beginning to brush the knots from my tangled mess. "Anyway, I was lying under it, holding tendrils of green willow, waiting for you and Aaron to join me. Aaron had promised to whip me with them. You'd promised to braid them into my hair. Wind rushed the tree, raining me with petals. I knew neither of you were coming."
I wondered how long I had before she told me she was leaving us both. One more dream? I remained silent and prayed for two.
Visit these writers' blogs for more 240-250 word story challenge entries. (I think a Twitter typo somewhere along the way turned it into 240 words for half the participants, but that's ok.)
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