Tag: Fiction

Getting lost

~ Christi ~ 9 Comments

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

He piggybacked both kids out of the pine forest, gnarled trees crouched like animals. He wiped his sweaty eyes on the baby’s head and panted in the thick air. He tiptoed past the wild goats so as not to alarm the children and tried not to panic when the horned beasts followed lazily behind. He lugged the kids past the last few straggly trees, relieved to see the parking lot a few yards ahead. He stumbled out onto the burning black lava field and into the excrutiating heartbreak one finds only when truly lost.

Some vacation, he thought.

 

This one’s a true story, slightly edited.

friday-fictioneers

Just a little trick

~ Christi ~ 5 Comments

Just a little bit of silliness to make up for yesterday’s post. Prepare yourself, it gets sexy at the end…

You drove, I lounged in the passenger seat. The weather defied your mood: It was sunny and unseasonably warm outside. I unrolled my window, you left yours up. “I’m glad we’re together like this,” I said sarcastically through your stony silence.

“Roll your window down,” I half-whined. “We’re getting that weird reverb.” You ignored me, kept driving.

I slipped off my sandals and put my bare feet up on the dashboard.

“Quit it,” you grumbled, trying to push my feet down. You swerved a little.

“Watch it,” I warned you, moving my feet out of your reach. “Hey, is it raining in there, or what?” I tapped your head with one finger. Nothing. “I think it is raining,” I took my own joke. “Driving rain,” I drum-rolled on my bare thighs. Still nothing. Jeez.

A minute passed. “Wanna play a game?” I asked even though I knew your answer would be no.

“No way,” you said.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll like it, I promise.” I tried to catch your eye but you were staring dead ahead, focusing on the road. I continued since I had nothing else to do. “Okay, so I read about this online. It’s some new thing. I’m gonna make you come without touching you. It’s like magic or something.” Nothing, not even a smile.

“Are you ready?” I tried not to get upset about your lack of interest. “Here goes.” I put my hands up to my head to show you I was concentrating, even though I felt your eyes glued to the road. I concentrated. I thought about you, even though you were right there next to me. You’d have never let me touch you, even if you weren’t driving.

I started at the top of your head, and slowly, very slowly, thought about moving downward. I felt chills on my own head, so I knew it was working. I thought about the back of your neck, with its little hairs, and the hairs on my own neck began to tingle. This was seriously hot. I thought lower, to your chest, and my own chest, well, perked up. I thought lower, to your belly, to the top of your jeans, and lower. By then I was tingling all over – everywhere – and I knew you were, too. I could feel you shifting in your seat, trying to stop the tingling, to release the pressure, to keep your focus on the road, but you couldn’t.

“Pull over,” I said. For once, you acknowledged me, and silently pulled over. Just like I thought, you didn’t reach for me. I knew it. I kept thinking, though. I thought really hard. Again and again. My panties were wet and I was burning up and the cool breeze through my window felt really good. I bet you wished you’d put your window down, but you were sort of frozen there, eyes half-closed, pretty much a sex zombie, just like I read you’d be. I concentrated some more, and you actually let out a small moan. Woo-hoo! I thought. It was totally working.

Okay, time to seal the deal, I thought. “Where do you want to come?” I asked. You tilted your head toward me but you didn’t answer. I could feel how bad you wanted it, which was really rare. I smiled again even though you could probably barely see me with your eyes almost closed. “Where?” I asked again, knowing that you wouldn’t tell me. “My boobs? My face?” I laughed like I was daring you, and I sort of laid down on your lap, against the steering wheel, facing you but barely touching you, really. It was all you needed. I laughed as you tried to jerk your hips toward my face. It was too late. Your jeans were already soaked through.

“I did it! I can’t believe that worked.” I grinned at you and you actually looked down into my face and touched my hair. I was so happy I almost cried.

A couple of minutes passed and we both straightened up and looked at your soaking wet jeans. “What the hell am I going to tell my mom?” you asked. I cracked up. “Wanna stop at the mall?” I suggested as if I just thought of it.

 

Number 8

~ Christi ~ 29 Comments

I’m telling you, I’m an organized guy. I work in a lab during the week and I keep things humming along on time. I keep a few stopwatches going constantly.

Sundays, though, Sundays I teach Zumba. Sundays I put on my wife-beater and sweats and I teach a bunch of moms Zumba. It’s a lot like the lab, you know? I’ve gotta have a plan. I choose the music, I decide the moves. I like it, you know?

There’s a few that come every week, like I’m the one hope of escape from their boring lives. As if I’m their only way out. I like the regulars. The girl with the big boobs who always stands right up front – I like to make her shake em. I think about those tits all week and I think about new ways to make em bounce. I devise new moves for her while I wait on my stopwatches in the lab, yeah, I do.

My favorite Zumba girl is the one with no boobs and the skeleton eyes. She’s usually in the second row, over to the side, a little smile on her face the only clue. She always wears a running tank with an 8 on the back. Nobody even suspects the truth about us. She’s sure not giving anything away with those sad eyes of hers.

Zumba is hard as shit. Go ahead, laugh your ass off, I’ll wait. By the end of class, I’m usually wasted. All that fucking jumping around, hip grinding, jazz hands, all of it, it’s too much. My fine motor skills get shot. By the end of class, I can barely operate the buttons to shut off the music. I take my time while the girls wipe the sweat off their pretty faces.

“Hey, Danny, that was awesome,” the short brunette with nice boobs comes up to me.

“Thanks, girl,” I touch her shoulder blade so quick she doesn’t notice.

“I like the new moves,” laughs the blondie with the long legs.

“Yeah, you do,” I agree, eyeing her up and down.

Don’t laugh at me – this is how I remember them. I’m a scientist, remember? Everybody gets broken down. Names are too much trouble.

Skeleton girl stands off to the side, real cool, that little smile on her face. She never talks to anybody but me. I look in her direction and she gives me this sad little nod so I know it’s time.

“Bye, Mr. Danny!” the cute Asian girls say in unison and they hug me. Yes, they do. Mmm, I love their sweaty little bodies.

“See you next weekend, girls,” I say and before I get the words out of my mouth I see skeleton girl slipping out the door. I wait a minute so nobody sees me leave with her and then I head for the door.

“Bye, ladies! Have a hot week,” I call as I leave. May as well give the slowpoke fatties a thrill.

I jog down the steps to the family locker rooms with the private showers. I make a beeline for shower number 8. Our place. Number 8, which I’ve been envisioning all week, number 8 that I printed out real big and hung above my desk in the lab to remind myself, number 8, like a set of dark, sad skeleton eyes.

When I get there, the door is standing open, the number 8 hidden inside where I can’t see it. What the fuck? Skeleton girl is nowhere to be found. We had plans. I back out of the room and suddenly the kids’ screams are coming from fucking everywhere. I feel their hot, grimy little bodies crowding me.

“Hey, dude, are you using this room?” some dad with a dripping kid in tow asks me.

“Yes,” I answer. I walk back in to number 8, slam the door, lock it behind me, and jerk off into the sink while I think about wringing skeleton girl’s neck next week. Afterwards, I rinse off in the shower and then I leave, calm as can be.

I stop for breakfast and while I eat, I consider next week’s moves, minus the neck wringing. I promise, you don’t have to worry. I’ve got zero homicidal intent. I’m just a scientist-slash-Zumba-teacher. Through the clarity of retrospect, the obvious conclusion surfaced: Things don’t always turn out as planned.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bIfhJjMP2I

Movie night

~ Christi ~ 4 Comments

I wrote this for a friend. Sorry about the obnoxious purse comment, S.

Portia got her nails done right after work: long gel tips, hot pink, no art. She didn’t have the cash. Not since Sven had dumped her last week on the street corner in the rain, like she was some whore.

I’m not, Portia reassured herself as she dashed home to pick up supper before the movie. She sighed as she pulled her second to last Lean Cuisine out of the freezer, and she groaned when she saw that it was chicken with mushrooms and potatoes. They were all chicken with mushrooms now, Portia surmised. She tried not to be fatalist as she carefully dabbed the buttons on the microwave. Gotta protect the nails, she thought. They gotta last til I find a new guy, she rationalized.

Portia pulled the steaming Lean Cuisine out of the microwave, burning her wrist as she did. “Shit!” she screamed, even though Sven wasn’t there. No one to kiss it better, Portia thought sadly. She shook it off, wrapped the food in a towel, and tossed it into her large purse before heading out to the theater.

A girl’s gotta do something to keep her spirits up, Portia told herself as she made her way over to the multiplex. Gotta put yourself out there, girl, she thought. Portia knew she was right. She was a survivor.

Portia put her movie ticket on Sven’s credit card. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me, Portia joked to herself. She sat near the back of the theater, plunking herself down next to an older man with a graying beard. Portia liked how strong his hand looked on his soda cup.

“Hi, there,” Portia flashed him a smile when she had gotten her jacket off. “I’m Portia.”

“Michael,” the older gentleman replied.

So far, so good, Portia thought as she opened her purse. Damn, the mushroom sauce had leaked out of the Lean Cuisine. Portia could have cried. Now her purse would smell like fucking Lean Cuisine for God knows how long. Portia actually felt tears welling up as she pulled out her fork.

“Here you go, young lady,” Michael handed her a neatly folded, clean, white handkerchief. “Don’t make a mess now,” Portia thought she detected a hint of a drawl. Oh, a real southern gentleman, she thought with glee, scarfing down her Lean Cuisine.

Fuck Sven, Portia thought. You can do better, girl. Portia gulped down her last few bites, eyeing the silly commercials on the screen, then she shoved her Lean Cuisine tray under the seat in front of her and kicked it away with the tip of her high-heeled boot.

“So, Michael,” Portia turned to her seat mate, “what do you do for a living?” Portia neatly folded the dirty handkerchief and tucked it into Michael’s jacket pocket with her hot pink manicured fingers. He looked surprised.

“A gentleman never discusses what he does for money,” Michael upbraided her with a frown. Portia was nonplussed. She slipped her pink manicured hand around his neck and trailed her fingers through his thick gray hair.

Portia liked this guy. She tossed her smelly purse a few seats away and cozied up for the movie. The lights were going down and Portia needed more Lean Cuisines. Fuck you, Sven, Portia thought as she laid her head on Michael’s shoulder. He smelled good, like fresh cut wood. See, Sven, Portia thought. I can do better.

Michael used a firm hand to push Portia’s coiffed blonde head off his shoulder and he stood above her in the dark theater. “Good night, young lady,” he said as he picked up his coat. “Enjoy the movie.” He made his way out of the theater as the movie began.

Damn it, thought Portia with a toss of her head. Not even a second glance? What a jerk. She reached for her purse as she surveyed the theater for better options. She eyed a youngish-looking, dark-haired hottie a few rows up and then let out a little scream when she found her purse was missing.

Portia stood up and shouted into the darkness. “I hope whoever stole my purse likes mushrooms!” Then she sashayed up a few rows and sat down next to the hottie.

“Hi, I’m Portia,” she smiled and offered him her pink-tipped fingers in the darkness. He slipped his buttery fingers around hers and pulled her hand down into his bucket of popcorn with a grunt.

Fuck you, Sven, Portia thought yet again, regretfully, before she shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Yum!” She whispered into the hottie’s ear as she laid her head on his shoulder. She had to think of those Lean Cuisines. And a new purse.

 

Part of something bigger

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

Driving into town for my Saturday errands, I saw the white fleck of her dress long before I made out what it was. It was a lovely morning, one of those first spring days that prove you’re a survivor, and overnight the trees have transformed themselves from a black and gnarled mess into a lush watercolor. I had the windows rolled down and the blossoms were blowing in and at first I thought her dress was just a fallen branch leaning against the tree. What a shame, I thought, feeling regret for the tree as I drove nearer. From about fifty meters away, I made out her hair. It hung in long brown locks against the front of her dress where her head was slumped. Not a branch, a girl, I realized and pressed the gas pedal harder, lurching the last few meters. I jerked the steering wheel as I pulled off next to her and I jumped out of the car.

I dashed over to her and sure enough she was a real girl, not a branch of petals, although I did find petals in her hair and clinging to her dress. She had been tied to the tree with a pale rope, on which I found a few birds resting. I shooed them away. She was bound hands and legs to the tree, and she slumped forward so her chin rested on her chest. She was lovely.

I paused a moment before I touched her, not wanting to disturb her. She looked indescribably peaceful. Finally, I drew two fingers through her hair and pressed them to her neck to check for a pulse. Her skin was the same temperature as the air and I felt no movement.

I removed my hand and wanted to go for help. I found I couldn’t move. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her, absorbing her. Time passed and finally I heard a car door slam behind me.

“Sir? Do you need some help, sir?” A kind voice said next to me. The woman was small, with short dark hair. She held a cell phone in her hand. “Sir, I’m calling for help right now,” she said earnestly. What a blessing she was, that woman. Who’s to say how long I would have stood there staring?

Even now, days later, I don’t know. I still can’t get that girl out of my mind. Just now she’s driving me to pick up a spool of jute at the hardware store and telling me to take it to the tree, now shedding its petals in favor of unfurling young electric green leaves. I don’t question. I press myself into her trunk and she ties me there with the rope.

When the kind woman finds me days later I can no longer hear her earnest voice. I’m inside the tree. I can only feel her dark eyes staring, rooted before me holding her useless cell phone and wondering what to do next.

 

My second submission for Tipsy Lit, on death and her limitations. I think death is contagious, what do you think?

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Crack house

~ Christi ~ 9 Comments
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Great Grandpa Yonie taught Gretchen to play mah jong and he taught her to find pictures in things but he never loved her. He liked her well enough, Gretchen knew, but she was never his favorite. “Your cousin Sam, now he’s a mensch,” Yonie liked to say whenever she stumbled over her tiles.

Years later, when Gretchen searched for Sam at the address Aunt Rachel had frantically scribbled on a scrap of paper, she noticed the interlocking stars on the grate. Stars of David, Gretchen could practically hear Yonie’s gravelly voice in her ear. A chill washed over her.

I know, this is a dark one. Can you do better?

friday-fictioneers

 

 

I’m a good father

~ Christi ~ 21 Comments

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Looks can be deceiving. I’m standing on the playground, a black jump rope stretched taught in my hands, and I see you look at me. Your eyes pause on my face and I watch the fear register on yours. You come closer and dart for your pretty little daughter. You snatch her off the see-saw where she sits next to my Sammy. She hasn’t done anything wrong but you yank her arm too hard. “Come on, sweetie,” you say too loudly and too sweetly, then you turn and glance at me again, smiling out of fear. I haven’t moved. I’m still holding the jump rope, standing there watching you judge me.

You pull your little daughter along behind you and high-tail it along the sidewalk like I’m after you. “No, Mama! You’re hurtin’ me,” your little darling cries in tow. I’m not after you. I’m just watching, tugging the jump rope even tighter. I grimace at you. You disgust me.

You probably don’t know what to think of me. You must think I’m somebody’s creepy uncle or worse, a stranger lurking here on the play lot. You want to dismiss me. You see me silhouetted dark against the sky, you take in that blue like pain, your eyes register the taughtness of the rope. You probably can’t actually do the math, what with your literature degree, you can’t balance out how much pleasure I take from the taught black rope in my hands. You just see the symbolism and rule out dad.

You don’t know much. You don’t know how much my Sammy likes it, after I’ve isolated him, after he jumps for me, after I’ve tied his hands behind his back with the jump rope. After we move together through the pain, you have no idea how much he likes my gentleness. You don’t know how I talk him through it: “You’re a good boy, Sammy. Yes, Sammy, you like this, don’t you. I love you, Sammy.” You don’t get to see him smile when I tickle him, no. It’s different than the smile you see on the see-saw. My Sammy has a special smile just for me and you can’t ever see it.

You don’t know the half of it. You think the rope in my hands is just an aberration, but you’re wrong. I’ve had this rope in my hands for how long now? Looks can be deceiving. Relationships are complicated. I watch you yank your little sweetie along by her arm as you dart away in fear and I smile.

“Come here, Sammy,” I call, the jump rope still taught in my hands. Don’t worry, it’s just a toy. “Be a good boy now,” I tell him. He always is.

Apparition

~ Christi ~ 10 Comments
Copyright Adam Ickes
Copyright Adam Ickes

Mike stood and watched them play from the boardwalk, the hot, rough wooden slats making his wound ache. He peered at them, admiring them despite the sun in his eyes.

Mike darted up the hot sand and scooped his baby daughter into his arms. He dashed into the soapy tide just far enough to wet his feet and soak her small body. His deep laughter drowned out her squeals.

Mike stood aching on the boardwalk and watched the scene before him, the young father dipping his laughing baby into the sea, and he wished he could wash away the years.

100 words for this week’s Friday Fictioneer’s challege. Why don’t you go ahead and give it a try?

friday-fictioneers

One cure for insomnia

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

I started with a jute rope, a treadmill, and an asshole named Depression. If you inspired me, thank you!

It was still pitch dark when Drew opened his eyes. No light escaped the edges of the dark drapes on the window, no sounds came from outside. Drew closed his eyes again and tried not to think. He did not think about sleep or about trying to heave himself out of bed. He did not think about yesterday and he did not think about today. He tried but failed to not think about her.

Drew lay in bed with his eyes closed and tried to stop thinking about her. He opened one eye and eyed the clock. Damn, 3:47. He tried to think only happy things about her like back at the beginning. He thought about her face, her smile. He did not think about her voice. He did not think about her voice for four minutes, until he opened the other eye and peeked at the time. 3:51.

Her voice pinned him to the bed. Her sweet voice kept him immobile. Her voice, sharp as a Taser, made him weak, submissive. He thought about moving, about trying to move, and he found that he could only move his eyelid. The florescent red numbers did not lie. 3:55. He stopped trying not to think and gave in.

Drew, she called. Drew, open your eyes, Drew. Get up and look in the mirror, Drew. You are so hot, she murmured. Drew knew better. She was lying. Drew knew he was not hot, he was too damn heavy and too damn nothing to be hot. Her voice, melodic, paralyzed him. Only his eye could move to let that red light in. 3:59. He hated her.

At 4:00, Drew lept from the bed and yanked open the nightstand drawer. He pulled out the rope he had already tied just the way she told him to, and he found the jute knot comfortingly sturdy. He took out her rope and he hung it from the hook before he slipped on his sneakers and stepped onto his treadmill in the corner. He set the 30 percent grade just how she liked and stepped on. He slipped his head through her rope and he imagined her hands tightening it. He began walking.

By 4:03, the glaring red light from the clock snuffed out and Drew felt himself floating in complete blackness. She stood before him. Everything about her was perfect: her pale skin, her light hair, her smile. “Asshole,” Drew growled at her. She only smiled. Drew felt the corners of his mouth turn up as he reached for her.

Stayin alive

~ Christi ~ 27 Comments

Thanks so much for the love, Speakeasy readers and editors. I really appreciate the win!

I shoved the door way open to fit baby girl’s stroller through and damn it was hot. Hot like you just want to rip all your clothes off and squeeze into the ice cooler at Benny’s. Baby girl was only in a diaper but she started wailing right off with the sun in her eyes and all that heat cooking her.

The heat was nothing to me, not compared to the itching inside and that deep, deep ache knowing what I was about to do. Oh yeah, I knew it, I did. I kind of appreciated the sun and heat, you know? It got my mind off the itching.

We walked real slow to Benny’s, me pushing baby girl’s little stroller without a damn sun shade and her just wailing, crying so much you gotta think she knows where she’s headed. Babies know things, my grandmama used to say.

She was crying so much and sweating too, so she was wet all over like she just had a bath only I knew the truth. When we got to Benny’s, first thing I bought her a juice and stuck a straw inside even though she makes a mess with straws. She grabbed it and started slurping away like she used to do when she was on my tit way back before I got itchy again.

All the time I’m buying her damn juice and sticking that straw in so she can drink it, you know, I’m thinking about Quenty outside, with his bags of junk. I want some so bad, so bad damn it, right here before I go any farther with baby girl. I want it so bad my hands are shaking as I throw down the quarters on the counter for baby girl’s juice. No, I want to rip my fucking shirt off and scratch away the itching. I want to dig my fingernails into my skin until I’m bleeding and everyone is staring at me, even baby girl.

It’s okay. Soon it’ll be better.

Baby girl don’t look up from her juice as I slip Quenty my second to last $20. He slips me the junk and smiles at baby girl. “Hi there, beautiful,” he says all nice to her.

“Shut up, don’t you talk to her,” I swat him off her. It’s a good thing this is the last time.

I start walking again, the stuff in my pocket. Every so often I slip my hand in and run my fingers over it. Knowing it’s there makes it easier. If only I already had it, if only, I think again and again. It would be so easy if I weren’t so damn itchy. It would be so easy if I were already there.

Baby girl finishes her juice and quiets down. She looks real sleepy in her stroller, her eyes half closed against the sun, and so pretty. She’s real pretty, you know? She’s gonna find a new family real easy. They gonna love her better than me.

I see the station coming up ahead and don’t you know those firefighters got a party goin on? They got the hydrants on and water pouring out of the hoses full blast. They got some disco music blaring, talking about stayin alive. Kids everywhere. Being near it makes me want to tear my shirt off again. I want to scratch so bad. I stick my fingers in my pocket instead.

I push baby girl’s stroller right up to the water so she can get some of the spray on her.

“I love you, baby girl,” I kiss her little head. She’s asleep so she don’t have to see me go.

Her new people gonna get her a sun shade.