Hot flash!

by Julie Frayn on September 28, 2014 in  Flash Fiction,Writing

No, not the night sweat, strip in the middle of a board meeting kind. The hot flash fiction kind! This past Friday, we finally succeeded in breaking JD Mader‘s blog. For real – comments disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared again! Tough to get a true read of the exact number of comments but I think 280 was the highest count I saw. He entices us with “it’s only 2 minutes.” But in reality, it is hours. Because you want to read EVERY entry! They are that good.

Here are some of my recent entries from Friday’s past. Let me know what you think.

Summer snow

I push four inches of wet snow from the hood of my car and swear under my breath. No ladylike ‘darn’ or ‘fudge’ or ‘bother.’ Nope. A full-on fuck this shit I am done with winter already and guess what? It’s the eighth of September for Christ’s sake! I was bathed in SPF forty yesterday. What fresh hell is this bullshit?

Yeah, I don’t do ladylike.

I glance at my neighbour standing on his tiptoes to reach the top of his truck with the stupid over-sized tires. He is grinning and glancing my way. Maybe that wasn’t as under my breath as it should have been.

The drive is bizarre, still-green leaves laden with heavy globs, dragging the branches toward the ground. Like the saddest droopy eyes on the happiest of basset hounds. Limbs litter the sidewalks and roads. My little city is a broken, frozen Seussian landscape. Damn bi-polar weather. But it is beautiful.

Bed Check

Must have been about three in the morning. Almost an hour since last bed check. Every drip of water into the rusty sink and creak of cot in another cell made her eyes snap open. If she were home, she’d reach into the top drawer of her nightstand and snatch her vibrator from it. Crank it up until she writhed and called out and her hips bucked in perfect orgasm. She’d fall asleep with it still in her hand, resting on her thigh, thrumming against her skin. Sated. Spent.

That vibrator calmed her. Eased her worries. Kept her sane. Better than any flesh-and-blood man ever did. Ever could. Ever wanted to.

Vibrators don’t call you stupid whore. They don’t come home drunk, fuck your friends, or beat on your face until it’s a bloody pulp. Can’t poison them. But if you tried, they wouldn’t puke all over your carpet and shit their pants as they took their last pitiful breath. And when vibrators die, you just pop in new batteries.

The clacking of footsteps on concrete neared. The flashlight beam cut the darkness and blinded her.

“Bed check.”

Goody One Shoe

That fucking Adam Ant song ear-wormed its way into her subconscious. All it took was a few notes, that unmistakable guitar riff and those damn horns. What are those, trumpets? Taunts from her childhood reared up on their haunches and slapped her silly. “Goody two shoes! Goody two shoes!”

If only they could see her now. Sure, she still had one shoe firmly planted in good-girl ground, fertile with etiquette and kindness and prayer. But the other foot dangled over the pier and dipped into the evil pool. Evil with a purpose. Evil with a heart. Or at least, half a heart. And one goody shoe.

She slid the knife into his body one last time. He was already dead. That one was just for fun. What the justice system couldn’t deliver – she’d make good on. Every damn time.


Quote by Blake

No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.

William Blake

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