Select Page

A Little Sliver of Nirvana

“A Little Sliver of Nirvana”

Another 20-minute effort, funkified with Photoshop

Another 20-minute effort, funkified with Photoshop

Wading through the sea of boozehounds and whores pressing flesh and passing money, an unending rolling tide of vice and greed, he settled in to the corner booth, the one with the well-worn center cushion seat and the uneven grooves in the grain where metal stiletto heels had tread for too many nights. He clicked the control pad beside his seat, prompting the silencing swish of the heavy velvet shroud, and sat back, closing his eyes in the dim dank, to wait.

A flutter of music – high winds with low brass, though more than that he couldn’t tell – made him breathe deep, the scent of soap and lilies filling his nose, erasing the thick stench of sweat and despair. And, looking up, now, he saw her: legs shifting, hips rolling, belly and breasts shining with some invisible light; arms swaying, hair swinging, lips and eyes focused on him, holding him in the trance of her magic-making for as long as they both could stand it, this little sliver of Nirvana.

Slowing at the whisper of the final chords, she frowned, reaching out to him – forbidden, but she’d never cared – to touch his face, when he grabbed her wrist with one hand and slapped the other on the space of table between them, around a treasured bundle of cash, and murmured, “Marry me, now?”

NewFSFBadge-1Today’s original fiction piece inspired by this week’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt, “CHARMED,” from Lillie McFerrin.

I wrote this entry on my morning commute on Friday, so it’s about 20 minutes’ worth of concentration and typing. I didn’t bother with any editing or refining. I’m not making any apologies for it, either. I’ve decided that, if a prompt doesn’t inspire an idea within 5 minutes, I let it pass. If I do get an idea but I can’t make it materialize properly in 30 minutes, I set it aside in my ever-growing “Random” folder. No offense intended to the folks posting these lovely prompts – or those participating more fully than I’m doing – but I want to concentrate on my larger writing goals. For me, this plan is a nice balance.

Do be sure to visit Lillie’s site for more Five Sentence Fiction submissions, though, and for other flash fiction goodness!

How do you balance between all the stories in your head?

The lost art of conversation. [FSF]

This week, Lillie McFerrin’s prompt for her Five Sentence Fiction challenge is “WORDS.”

I went a few different ways with this prompt, at first…though, my initial flash fiction idea – while based on a true story – pushed the vulgarity a bit too much than I like to do for a public challenge. So, this little vignette, taken from the early days of Fearless:

Orion startrails window

By AstroHurricane001 at en.wikipedia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

“The loss of artful conversation”

Stretched upon the sand, beneath a canopy of stars, with the rhythm of the rolling current nearby, the lads often turned reflective.

“I think,” Neville mused softly, “with all this technology, and the culture of instant messaging, mankind’s lost the skill of artful conversation, like the poetry that used to exist in the days of Shakespeare, or Milton: what happened to that, where’s all that gone?”

With his head laid in the pillow of Amber’s lap and soothed by both the sound of waves and the gentle drift of her fingers through his hair, Ross hummed, and murmured, “There might be something to that. But,” he added, his gaze finding Amber’s as he opened his eyes again, “for some things, I don’t think you need conversation.”

That settled the lads for a long minute, until Niall sniffed, and declared:

“I’m gonna bring back ‘rad.’”

I’ve spoken on this blog about making art with words before, so I don’t think it needs repeating. I do often wonder, as Neville does, if the immediacy of communication hasn’t taken away some power of words, though. When was the  last time we made efforts to write real letters, rather than emails, or instant messages on a phone?

Or, perhaps, I’m just waxing nostalgic, and that old power of lyricism in dialogue has been replaced by something else. What do you think? How do WORDS speak to you?

Relief and Shame

100 Word Challenge for Grown-Ups

I’m back to Julia’s 100-Word Challenges for Grown-Ups. This week, the prompt has a bit of an Easter theme to it:
…looking at all of that chocolate….
We’re not required to incorporate the exact phrase in this challenge’s 100 words, but I did, because it evokes such a vivid image. Maybe a bit too vivid, though?

Public domain image

Public domain image

“Relief and Shame”

The gift basket was a lovely gesture…but just looking at all of that chocolate made a tide of sick rumble up from her belly to the top of her throat, threatening with a rancid belch she barely caught in her palm in time.

She didn’t notice Wennie crouching beside her in the toilet, not until it was all over. “You want some water?”

Easing back against the wall, she nodded.

Wennie returned a moment later, glass in hand.

She sipped, the cold taste of relief sliding down her throat. And shame.

Wennie gave a tsk. “Have you told him, yet?”

I can’t be the only one who’s felt queasy in this situation. 😉

Did you partake in the chocolate challenge, this week? How did that taste to you?

“Enough to Last” [Five Sentence Fiction]

“Enough to Last”

Kiss, doodle

doodling Aral leads to this….

The high-pitched strains of concerto violins singing from the stereo in the corner. The slow-motion flutter of gossamer chiffon to the floor. The muted patter of raindrops against the window, tapping as though to be let in as witnesses to their dance.

He remembered them all, but, more than any other, the words breathed in his ear as she came and took him in her arms for the first time as had and held: “It’s always been you.”

He didn’t totally believe her, but the shine of love when he looked in her eyes could be enough to last him.

NewFSFBadge-1

I hadn’t planned on participating in any challenges this week, but last week’s free write must have jump-started something in my writing brain, because, after taking one look at Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt this week – “WHISPER” – this vignette came to me almost instantly, with only minuscule changes from the initial drafting.

I hope you, too, are enjoying freedom in your writing, as it’s a glorious feeling to have.

Did you participate in any writing challenges this week? What whisper was blown into your ear? Or, did you whisper something, yourself?

Again, for the First Time

I’ve had a long, tiring week of other people telling me what to do and how to do it, so I decided to make a fiction post strictly for myself. Luckily, Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday offered me a prompt that kept me from going completely off the rails. As it is, I’ve adhered only marginally to the confines of the prompt, which happens to be “Serendipity.”

Mature situations described below. Nothing graphic, but you should probably skip it if it’s not your cup of tea.

“Again, for the First Time”

Otto Mueller - Stehendes Liebespaar (klein) - ca1919

Stehendes Liebespaar, Otto Mueller [public domain image]


The warmth and comfort of his embrace soothed – the easy rhythm of his gentle snoring even more so – but it was nearly tea, and her belly fluttered a bit at the idea of doing something nice for him. So, easing out from beneath his arm, she scooted to the side of the bed and clambered from the blankets, reaching for her clothes.She dressed with quiet speed, but, turning back toward the bed while straightening her dress, she paused, to drink in the sight of him.

Even tousled and dozing, he was fine, a blond, bronzed demigod built lean, long, smooth, and strong. Just the thought of touching him – of him touching her – made her blood pound once more.

Maybe he was wicked, as Sam had warned. But, she’d never shied from risk. And maybe he wasn’t as refined as the boys who used to try to ply her with their stylish clothes and fancy cars. But, they’d never made her come.

Her nerves tingled at the memory, not even an hour old. He’d done it once. He could do it again. And again, and again, and again…!

She closed her eyes, but not looking didn’t stop her from remembering: the smell of the sea in his hair, the taste of it on his lips, the fine scratch of grains against her naked skin where their bodies came together.

When she’d first set foot in this tiny, unassuming village, she’d never dreamed she’d be standing here, flushed and eager for the touch of a man so unlike her norm. She’d wanted only simplicity after watching Mum wither, a fresh start someplace new. Maybe a pleasant distraction, if one presented itself. But not this stirring, this bubbling, this tremendous burst of feeling in her heart that threatened to turn her small and vulnerable again. Next, she’d be telling this beautiful beast she loved him –

Her belly quivered anew, and she opened her eyes. Her cheeks burned as she looked at him again.

Love.

Pulling her lip between her teeth, she stifled a foolish, girlish giggle.

But first, tea.

Coming off the tips of my fingers, this little moment is unrefined and mostly stream of consciousness. But, isn’t that what free writing is supposed to be all about? If not good, at least unfettered? I hope so. Because I don’t even know what good writing looks like, from me, any more.

I’ve spent so long in Ross’s head, examining one of the story’s moments from Amber’s point of view was a treat. She’s girly and a-flutter and I don’t care that she’s not breaking stereotypes or carrying a banner for the feminist revolution. I like her the way she is. Maybe because she’s me, and I’m tired of the sisterhood getting up in my face for wearing dresses that cling and heels that make my calves pop and enjoying the sensation of my husband’s hands on me in a playful grope.

I should probably end with a question, as I’m supposed to do with a blog post, leading you to comment and engage. But I wrote this for me and I only posted it to keep to my schedule. So, instead, I’ll end with a hope: that you are well, free of the pressures of work and rules, and able to indulge unhindered – just a bit – in your own private universe, at least for a little while.