#FinishThatThought Week 2-37 : Florence

Florence was the most irritating person I had ever met. Was. That’s the key word there. That woman had been a tease for years. Like she relished torturing me, making me miserable, pointing out what I couldn’t have.

Oh, the countless times she leaned over my shoulder, her knockers right next to my eyeballs. How was I supposed to not see them? How was that suppose to not be distracting? I used to wake up at night from dreams of finally being able to touch them. Touch them and much more.

Casual Fridays were torture. She wore jeans. Painted on jeans. Oh, those legs, and those buns! And she walked around all day, those hips swaying, like a damn hypnotists watch. I kept telling myself, “Don’t look! Focus on your work!” But it was useless. I kept seeing her hips moving across my computer screen. I kept seeing those legs that went forever.

She always walked up behind me, put her arms around my neck, whispered in my ear, “Let’s do lunch.” Hell, I’d have eaten cardboard dipped in chalk just to sit across a table from her, and pray she leaned forward.

The worst days were when she wore the boots and the leggings. It was like those things weren’t there. They fit every curve of her, showed off every bit of her legs, hips, thighs, butt. I’d get home from work, and have to take a shower. A cold shower.

Everything would have been OK if she’d have followed through. If she’d have finished what she started. Instead, she always walked away. She bumped my hip in the hallway at least once a week. Her hip swung right into mine. “Oopsie!” She always looked at me with this smile and said, “Control yourself, big fella.”

Every Friday as we left work, she grabbed my hands, put her fingers between mine, gave me a peck on the cheek, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Florence tortured me for years. Anyone could see that. Always hinting. Always teasing. Always staying out of reach. Not anymore. I finally had enough of her torture. She won’t be irritating me anymore.

Just talking about her and the things she did to me have me all spun up. Made me all hot and bothered again. Those knockers I could never touch. Those hips, those legs, that mouth, those buns. Once they were out of my reach. Not anymore. Now, every time I remember the torture she put me through, I go to my basement. She’s there. Naked. And I can finally do all the things she never let me do. All the things she made me want to do.

445 Words

I wrote this for Week 2-37 (Year 2, week 37) of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.


#FinishThatThought Week 37 : The Basement

I knew I shouldn’t have opened the basement door. But, I’d never been one for doing what I should. I’d always done what I shouldn’t. So, I opened the door.

And stared at a black hole. It was like someone made a three-dimensional painting of black, outlined in pale blue that flickered, fading in and out. “Cool!” I thought. “I wonder where the light switch is.” I reached into the black, feeling for the inevitable light switch on the wall. I couldn’t find it.

I couldn’t find the wall.

I pulled my pocket flashlight out, turned it on, and shined it into the black. It didn’t do a thing. The beam hit the surface of the black, and vanished.

I remembered what Diana said when I told her I was spending the night in the Thompson house. “You know. The haunted one.”

“You’re an idiot.” Yep. Her exact words.

“You know what happens to people who stay there. You’ve read about it in the newspapers. The ones that come out alive babble about the basement door being a gateway to another universe.”

“You don’t believe that crap, do you?” I’d laughed. “It’s probably just an urban legend.”

“Of course not. But, something happens to the people who stay there. Something strange. You know that.”

We argued about my plan for hours. Until she finally made me promise I wouldn’t open the basement door. “I promise. I won’t open the door. OK?” It was a lie. But it was what she wanted.


She didn’t need to know I was going to explore that basement. I didn’t tell her.

I stood there, staring into the blackest black I’d ever seen. I stuck my hand into it, and my hand vanished. I could still feel lit. I could move my fingers, wave, make a fist. My hand was fine, even though I couldn’t see it.

I stuck my arm in, up to the elbow, and watched it vanish. I moved closer, until the black was between my elbow and shoulder. I bent my arm, and poked my fingers back into the room. I laughed as I wiggled my fingers. “What the heck, why not?” And I stepped into the black.

And fell on my face, hard. Everything was black. My ribs hurt, and I’d probably broke my nose. “Jesus!” I shifted, on the ground, got to my knees and stood up. I couldn’t see a thing. It was that dark. I waved my hand in front of my nose, and couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t see my watch to check the time, and my phone didn’t work at all. It wouldn’t even light up. I tried to find my way out, but couldn’t. I had no water, no food. I wondered long it takes to starve to death?

I heard one thing, a while back. The only thing I’ve heard. Diana. “I told you not to open the basement door.”

490 Words

I wrote this for Week 37 of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.