Friday, October 18, 2013

5 Minutes. Go!

It's FLASH FICTION FRIDAY again. Basically, all writers are invited to do a free write for five minutes in the comments section. It is definitely more fun when we have thirty people playing instead of five, so tell a friend (and have a lovely weekend from the folk at, ;)

I stand, watching the police officer as he methodically tickets a line of cars. The sun glints off the polyester creases of his uniform, badge bright, hair short and efficient. His shoes shine, too. And his cuffs. Look like they've never been used, those cuffs.

I wonder if I ever look as shiny and put together, but I know I don't. I don't look that efficient and shiny on my best day. On my best day, I might shave.

The sun is high in the sky, but the breeze is kind and soft. The type of weather where you just have time to register the thought: I'm a little warm. Then the gentle wind sweeps the heat away, dabbing and the sweat on your forehead. The damp spot between your shoulder blades.

The cop does not seem to notice the heat and I wonder at it. How much of my heat comes from inside. From pounding heart and repetitive jackhammer thoughts that bang, bang, bang, bang...

It starts me sweating more. I'm a little drunk and a little stoned and I smile at the cop and wave. And his look is everything. It is the look I give my daughter when she is acting childish. It is a look that says a real man can stand in a polyester suit and not sweat. I walk home with a clammy wetness coating my body. Sliding, slug like, hoping no one pours any more salt on me today. Beer? OK. It might kill me, but I'll take that risk.


  1. Finally, we make our way into the last room on the ward. Bill sweeps in first clearing away the bedside table and chair so I can guide the half scale, half ironing board bed scale weight into position. As Bill flattens and raises the hospital bed up to its full height I lower the flat table of the scale and explain the procedure we are about to do to the frightened little old lady who is busy trying to retain possession of her bedding as Bill attempts to calm her.
    Bill grabs two handfuls of sheets from the opposite side as I grab two handfuls over the board of the scale For a moment the frail lady with bird like features hovers suspended over her bed before we slide her over to the scale. I work frantically to slide the weight indicator to the left. 43 kilograms, There's not much to her and there will be a little less every day. This is life on 3 west, at least what remains of it.

  2. She reached up and turned on the floor lamp. Then she set down her knitting and crossed to the window, gazing out at the darkening landscape. "The days are getting shorter," she said to no one in particular; not even the cat paid her any heed.

    The days are getting shorter. She knew it was true in more ways than one. She glanced down at her hands. Were those freckles or age spots? When had she begun thinking of freckles as age spots, anyway? She rubbed the base of her thumb where it had lately begun to ache. Maybe she was overdoing the knitting. Maybe it was arthritis.

    Her mother used to complain about the aches and pains of getting older, and she would blithely respond, "Well, Mom, it beats the alternative." She had been joking at the time. It wasn't quite as funny now.

    1. Beautiful piece, Lynne. The tone is PERFECT - so delicate, but meaty. Thank you for playing.


  3. So I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich today, for my six year old son, and I thought about how back in the day people used to talk about, wait we're all adults here, right? So anyway, I was thinking about how people used to talk about how women would put peanut butter all over their pussies, and they would present their peanut butter pussy to their dog. Supposedly, I've never actually witnessed this event, or met a women who has admitted to doing this, but supposedly the dog will endlessly lick the peanut butter pussy, giving said women endless cunnilingus pleasure. Now I was thinking about this while spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread, and the hypochondriac in me started freaking out. It sounds so disgusting to have a dog liking any orifice, let alone a wet peanut butter pussy, I mean, there has to be hundreds, if not thousands, of communicable diseases that one could catch from allowing a dog to continuously lick an open orifice. And then the worst image arose in my degenerative chimpanzee mind. What if I put peanut butter on my dick? That didn't last long though, not only would I be completely grossed out from the mere thought of dog saliva on my schlong, but I would be scared that at any moment this animal licking my cock could decide to bite down and have a snack of my peanut butter penis. 


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