#MWBB Week 2-30 : Man On The Run

Sunlight coming through the window, lighting up the room, woke me, plunging light beams through my eyes, into my brain. I covered my eyes, “Mother nature, you’re a bitch sometimes,” the words raced through the parts of my brain that still worked, “Turn out those lights!”

Morning had arrived. It was time to get up. I had to go. That’s when I noticed her. Her arm, and leg draped across me, her head on my shoulder. Not a stitch on. Both of us, starkers. “Oh, yeah. No I remember.” I looked at her blonde hair, “Julie.”

I untangled myself from her, staggered to the bathroom, relieved myself. It wasn’t my bathroom, wasn’t my apartment. I remembered we’d gone to her place. Mostly ‘cause I was too ripped to drive.

As I stared in the mirror, I remembered us getting naked, and doing everything. I mean everything. Every way. She wanted it all, and I was happy to do anything she wanted. It had been a fun night.

After a few minutes of memories, I headed back to the bedroom. Julia got up, and made her pit stop. She came back, and didn’t ask. She threw the covers off the bed, and planted her head between my legs. I watched her head move up and down. After a minute, she stopped. We rearranged, her on her hands and knees, me on my knees behind her. And I watched every stroke I made into her.

Yeah, I finished.

We showered, I let my fingers play. She gleefully rode them as the soap and water washed away. We wound up back on the bed, her on her back, humping my fingers, me sucking her tits. She peaked, then pulled me on top of her. I wound up on my knees, her legs over my shoulders, as I stroked. I watched every stroke, which made it better.

After I finished, we got dressed, raided a breakfast place, and she took me to my car. “Let’s do this again,” she said. “Tonight.” She kissed me. “OK?”

“I’ll do this every night you want me to.”

Julia. The fifth in a string of women. I wasn’t looking for a soul mate, a partner, a girlfriend. I was looking for a sex. And when things got serious, I’d run away. Move to another apartment. Change jobs if I had to. Change my phone number and email address. I’d escape her, and find another lay somewhere.

And another one after that. Hell, I’d fuck every woman I could find. Because it worked. It distracted me. Meant I didn’t have to remember her. Didn’t have to cry. Didn’t have to hurt.

Maya.

My Maya.

My heart, my soul, my life. Until the day she walked out. “I don’t love you any more.” That’s what the note said. “You’re not the same man I fell in love with.” She said I’d become stagnant, unchanging, dull and boring. She wanted more. She wanted someone who loved her, cared for her, didn’t treat her as a possession, a trophy.

She left.

So, I’d bang Julia for a while. A couple of weeks, or a month. Then, I’d leave. And find another woman to fuck. Then another.

No way was I ever gonna care for another person again. No way was I ever gonna hurt like that again.

Not after Maya.

558 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for Year 2, Week 30 (Week 2.30) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

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#MWBB Week 2.7 : Dear Diary

Friday, 02 May 2014.

I saw her again today. She’s everywhere I look. Everywhere I go. I can’t escape her, and I’m not sure I want to.

I looked. Hell, yeah, I looked. I mean, I don’t think I stared at her. But I looked. I always look. Can’t help it. Have to look at her. She’s beautiful.

Oh, I know she’s fake. Hair ain’t that color naturally. Snow white, except for the six inches at the end, which is sky blue. Hair doesn’t grow that color. She makes it that color. I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of hair. The way it reaches down past her shoulders. Never a single hair out-of-place.

That’s how my eyes find her. I see her hair first. And then, the rest of her. All her curves. I have to look. And I have to find something to occupy my hands, so they don’t want to reach out to touch her. Gods, the stupid things I’ve looked at to keep my hands occupied. I don’t need a $200 network router. Or a MacBook Pro. Or another HDMI cable. I don’t need a three-pound bag of apples, or a box of Grape Nuts cereal. Jesus. Stupid hands.

I can’t help it. I know. She has the best curves I’ve ever seen. She ain’t one of them stick women, like in the magazines. A bean post with bumps. That’s what they are. A skeleton, wrapped in skin, with boobs and an ass glued on. They all look like that. All of them. Except her.

Where they’re all straight, she’s got curves. Graceful arcs. One part of her blends into another part, flows into another part. Every line, every arc, exactly what’s required. I’ve seen them all. The exquisite way her neck and shoulders blend, forming the perfect place to rest my hand. My fingers want to trace that curve. Feel the texture of her skin.

Her fingers. Lord. Her fingers. I have giant, crushing posts for fingers. Scars on them too. From the times I’ve drawn blood working in the yard, or on the house, or the car. I have ugly, utilitarian fingers.

Her fingers are everything mine aren’t. Slim, gentle, graceful. They look like they could carry roses, and not hurt them. Like they could heal a broken heart, gently stitching it back together. Never hurting it, always soothing its pain. My fingers want to slip between hers, and rest there. Find peace there. Find calm. Feel safe.

Yes, she has boobs. She’s a woman. But here’s aren’t overdone. She’s not all tits, and nothing else. Her’s are just right. That size between being not enough to notice, and “How does she keep from falling over?” The size I could rest my hands on. A perfect fit to the way my hands curve when I let them relax. I can’t help but see them. And I can’t help but know, there’s more to her. They’re just another part of her. They fit her. Like Mona Lisa’s smile.

She actually has hips. And a waist. I’ve watched her walk. The way her hips swing just enough left and right as she walks. Hypnotizing. The curves of her hips, and her buns. God. I can’t describe it. I’ve tried. I forget everything. Hell, I probably forget to breathe. I just watch her walk. I stare. I know it.

Yeah. I saw her again today. I hope I see her again tomorrow. Even though I’ll never talk to her. Never smile. Never say, “Hi.” She’s beautiful. A dream. A fantasy.

That one girl you can never have.

I think I’ll go to bed now. And bang the wife. And imagine it was her. Hey. What’s wrong with a little fantasy?

620 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for Year 2, Week 7 (Week 2.7) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

#MWBB Week 51 : Put Your Lights On

“You need to get more sleep at night,” she leaned forward, propping her head on her hands, her elbows on the restaurant table.

I sat there thinking, “Jesus, don’t say anything”, as I caught a good view right down the front of her shirt. Right between her knockers. The pattern of the lace on her pink bra revealed to my eyes. My fingers screaming, “Damn, I’d like to feel that lace!”, my mouth screaming, “Those sure would beat the hell out of a burger and fries!”, and my brain cells screaming, “She’ll slap your face across the room if you say or do anything related to what you’re eyeballs are drinking in!”

It was one of those views that you get. It’s there, but only for a few heartbeats. And you never forget it. And you sit up late at night, wishing you could sleep instead of wondering how her knockers taste, and if she’d be upset if you spent an hour letting your fingers explore the lace on her bra instead of exploring her.

“Yeah. I know.” I fell back to a safe answer. And safe behavior.

She reached across the table, her fingers lacing through mine. Every nerve cell in my hand screaming, “God! I’m in heaven!” while I tried to decide if I should let my fingers move, or remain frozen, like cut from stone. And my brain cells screamed at me, “find a way to acknowledge her action, but don’t give any hint how damn good it feels!” and I wound up with my hand softly holding hers, and my fingers screaming how much they wanted more, and my brain cells directing traffic again, “Behave, you slime! She’s concerned for your well-being. Maintain self-control.”

“What keeps you awake at night?” God, don’t look into her eyes! You look into her eyes, you get lost, and go stupid. And don’t look at her mouth either, ‘cause you’ll end up wondering what it tastes like, how it would feel to press her lips to yours, and to play exploratory games with tongues.

I stared at the table, then at our hands on the table, “I just don’t sleep well.”

“What do you think about?”

“Stuff.” I picked up my soda with my free hand, and took a big chug, big enough the carbonation caused my throat to burn, before I set it down. I even took the time to set the glass down softly, so it made no sound as it touched the table. And I kept my fingers on it, drinking in the cold of the ice filled glass.

What was I supposed to say? “I think about the things my body feels. And the things it wants to feel. About everything my fingers touch. My fingers never shut up. They feel the damn air as it moves past them. I can brush them endlessly, for hours, against velvet or terry cloth. And just be oblivious to everything else.”

“Maybe you should talk to a doctor about it.” Damn her and her eyes. Blue, no less. Blue eyes. And there I was, staring right into them.

My brain cells screamed, “Look away! Look away!” But I couldn’t. Any more than I could forget that view of her pink bra, and the valley between her knockers. And if I did manage to look away, I’d it wouldn’t make any difference, ‘cause I’d have spent hours that night staring at the ceiling of my room, remembering the exact shade of blue, and what it felt like when I finally slipped up and looked.

I managed to break away, and look at the table again. Then at my soda. “Maybe.”

And my brain cells screamed at me, “Find a way to get through this, and get back to work, so everything becomes safe again!”

Then I answered, “But I think it’s just a phase. The time of year. It comes and goes.”

That’s when she let go of my hand. And my fingers cried. They howled like little boys do when you take away their favorite thing. And she sat back up, and I caught one last glimpse of her chest.

And the world was safe again.

687 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for week 51 of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

That Wasn’t Really The Worst Of It

“You’re still finding your way, aren’t you?”

I laughed. That question was all Shelly.

“Tom, I’m serious.”

I made a point of looking into her soft, green eyes, so she’d understand I was paying attention to her. Of course, I liked looking into her eyes. I sometimes wished I could just stare into them. I knew I’d get lost in them, forgetting everything, including time. And just stare. But I didn’t want to disturb her, so I quickly looked away. “Yes.”

Shelly shook her head, and ran a hand through her long, brunette hair. I found myself wishing it was my hand, so I could feel the texture of her hair, so I put my hands down on the table. As I did, I realized my eyes were studying her. The way her hair fell across one shoulder. The line of her neck, and the way it curved so gently into her shoulder. Her lips. For the thousandth time I wondered how they tasted. How it would feel to press my lips to hers. I forced myself to look at my hands.

“Tom, another person would have gone back to work by now.”

I shook my head. It was my turn to smile, so I put the best smile I knew how to make on my face, “I’m not normal. You know that.”

I dared to glance at her eyes again, and wished I hadn’t. I could see the confusion, and the sorrow there. “But you had a good job. You were successful. You had a career.” Shelly put her hands on top of mine.

Gods, what a feeling. I wanted to close my eyes, and listen to everything my hands were telling me. I wanted to memorize the feel of her hands, on top of mine. Her graceful fingers on top my hands, her palms resting on my fingers. I knew I’d remember the feel of her touch, of her hands on mine, for weeks, every time I closed my eyes and thought of her.

“Tom,” her eyes locked on to mine, “It’s been three years since this all started.”

Gods, how I knew that! Three years since I came apart. Three years since my life burned to the ground. My career ended then. I’d worked a part-time job since then. I’d stopped looking for another job.

I tried to look away from her eyes. I couldn’t. I wanted to talk, I did. But all I could see was the concern, and the sadness leaking from those pools of green. I fought desperately to say anything, and I managed to whisper, “I can’t go back.” I tried so hard to smile then. And I failed. “I can’t go back.”

I wanted to tell her I knew she felt I’d come apart. Collapsed. Fallen to pieces. I knew what had happened to me made her sad. And I knew she didn’t understand anything that I’d been through. I knew she didn’t understand the life journey I was on. I knew she never would.

All I could do was smile.

She pulled her hair back over her shoulders. She did that when she tried to think through something.

“I can’t return to the world that nearly killed me.”

“Then find a different job. Don’t let your skills go to waste. Don’t let life pass you by.” Her eyes had that look people give each other when they know what they’re talking about. I know those looks exist. But I don’t know what they mean. I didn’t understand what she was saying at all. It was like she asking me to go back in time, three years. And become the person I’d been.

I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t become that empty shell again. I couldn’t become what she wanted me to. I couldn’t be bound, or defined, by a career, by a job. I couldn’t be how people wanted. I couldn’t be what they wanted.

“It’s like you’ve given up.”

I wished then, she could see my soul. See the tears my soul shed then. I wanted to explain everything to her. Tell her I hadn’t given up. I’d awakened. Come alive. Stepped beyond the walls of the life she lived in. Walls she couldn’t even see. And that wasn’t really the worst of it. The worst was she believed I no longer cared. All I could do was stare into her green eyes and try not to drown in them. All I could do was feel her hands on mine, and try not to cry tears of joy at the exquisite feelings coming from my hands.

All I could do was whisper, “I haven’t. I’ll find something.”

“When?”

“When I find what I’m looking for.”

I knew I’d never get to taste her lips. I knew I’d never get to run my fingers through her hair. I knew I’d never get to lose myself in her eyes. I knew she’d do what everyone else had done.

She’d walk away. And never look back, believing I would never recover from what had happened.

She’d never understand.

I was outside the world she lived within.


Author’s Note : Sometimes, the constraints of a flash fiction challenge just get in the way. Sometimes, I have to cut away too much of a story to fit into the straitjacket of a word limit. This is one of those times. I wrote the original version of this story, and then cut it to ribbons, to fit it into the 250 word limit for #ThursThreads. (That version is here.)

This time, I had to go back, and rework the story, adding in things I’d had to cut away, filling in the missing parts of the tale. Hope you like the extended version.

Mark.

Have You Forgotten?

Why do you say
There is no hope?
Why do you act
So doomed?
As if the world had ended.
Or will end soon.

Don’t you understand?
Don’t you see the truth?

Each day of life we get
Is a gift.
Each heartbeat.
Each breath.

Why do you give up
On the future?
On the unknown?
On what hasn’t happened yet?
Do you really know
What is to come?
Do you know
What each day will bring?
Can you see
Ahead in time?

How do you know
The Earth will not quake today?
A gigantic wave
Won’t wash the oceanfront away?
Someone else
Won’t plow their car
Into the side of yours today.

How do you know
This won’t be
Your last day?

Yet you sit there.
Doing nothing.
Not living at all.
Not smiling.
Not laughing.
Not feeling the breeze
Flow past the fingers
Of your hands.
Not feeling the warmth
Of the heat
Within your house.

Not thanking God above
That your heat beats.
That you aren’t
Hooked to a machine
Just to stay alive.

You don’t see the flowers.
You don’t see the clouds
Floating in the sky.
You don’t see the trees
Along the ground.

It’s as if your blind
To everything around.
Everything life gives to you.
Each day.

Even when you know
It doesn’t have to give you
Another day at all.

Why do you stay inside.
Wishing.
Dreaming.
For the days of glory
Long past now?
When you were happy.
When you didn’t have a worry
In the world.

Why do you sit there
And wish
Those days would return?
When you know they can’t.
You know there’s no way
To turn back the clock.
And yet you wish
Things could just be the same
As they were in the days
When you were happy.
When you smiled.
When you laughed.

When the world was a place
You wanted to live in?

Why don’t you want
To be alive right now?

Have you forgotten
The simple joy
Of each breath you take?
Have you forgotten
That you have food to eat
Every day?
More than you need.
More even than you want.
So that you throw food away?

When you know
You could be that person
You saw just yesterday.
The one on the corner.
Dressed in rags.
Outside in the cold.
Without a coat.
Holding up that cardboard sign.
“Will work for food.”

And you sit there
And complain
About your horrible life?
You call that person
With that sign
A failure.
“His kind are what’s wrong
With the world today!”

And your Jesus said,
“The poor will always be here.”

And yet you say,
“Hide them from me!
I don’t want to know
Such people exist!
It spoils my view
Of the world that I live in!”

And you hear the words
Of that song you heard
On the radio
From years ago,
“Get a job,
You fucking slob.”

And you drive away.

Have you really forgotten
The gift you have been given
By life
Every day?