#MWBB 3.13 : Call Me Satan

The Old Dominion University football game had not gone well for the home team. ODU lost by three touchdowns. If that wasn’t enough, their season became a lost cause when their quarterback got sacked, and wound up with a separated shoulder, and their best wide receiver went down with a torn ACL.

I sighed, “Gonna be a rough night.” I had the heads up display run pictures of 31 girlfriends and wives across the screen. I could have had the system pick one by random number, or I could have picked by closest to the social security number of the dead person I supposedly was, or the one matching the day of the month.

I looked at the eyes of each picture. One set caught my attention, “There’s my starting point.”

The armor plotted the shortest path to her residence. I didn’t bother with her name. According to the Norfolk Police Department’s computer records she was a domestic violence victim. That’s all I needed to know.

The car was waiting where I’d left it, in the parking lot, surrounded by countless others. It looked normal, like an old, cheap Toyota. The door would only open for me, and even then, only when my hand pulled the handle, and only if my hand still had a pulse. If someone borrowed my hand, the door wouldn’t open.

The computers managed the car’s audio system so it sounded like an old, cheap Toyota. I drove the car to the home of the victim, parked on the street a block away, and waited until I saw his car. Once he’d driven past, I exited my car, and walked into the shadows beside one of the buildings which lined the street. “Activate.”

I walked out of the shadows, knowing no one could see me, no one could hear me, my breathing, my footsteps, my pulse, were all silenced by the armor.

She lived in a one bedroom apartment on the third floor. The lights in the stairway, and hall were eyeball searing bright. “Security by illumination.” I waved at the video cameras in the hallway as I walked toward the victim’s apartment, then giggled at my joke. The video cameras couldn’t detect the armor. I could have stood in front of the camera and danced a jig, and no one would have known.

Of course, someone might wonder how an apartment door opened and closed by itself, but that wasn’t my problem. I stopped at the door, and used the sensors to see the apartments contents. The victim was prone on the apartment floor, the sensors recorded her physical condition. He’d struck her several times, according to the heat signature, her pulse, and blood flow. “Her condition?”

“Recommend requesting medical assistance.”

“Place the call.”

The armor called 911, reported our address, and requested medical assistance for the victim.

I didn’t bother opening the door. I went through it. No bruises for me, the armor took the beating. The male raced toward the door, then stopped when he realized no one was there. I kicked him in the groin, hard enough to lift him off the floor. He formed a little ball on the floor, so I rolled him into the nearest wall. By the time I finished, I’d added a concussion, three broken ribs, a separated shoulder, a broken arm, and four broken fingers on his right hand, to his list of injuries.

The armor reported the male was in a great deal of pain, but not at risk of death.

You can call me Satan. Call me evil. Call me violent, heartless, soulless, uncivilized. Call me whatever you want. I don’t care. I was there to fix things. Things the law, reason, the courts, the police, and society weren’t able to fix.

Invisible, I whispered in the male’s ear, “I’m Armor 17. I am the violence. And I’m watching you.”

When the medical assistance for the victim arrived, I walked away, back into the shadows of the building I’d started my walk from. “Off.” I walked out of the shadows, got into my car, and drove off, knowing there would be more violence in the days ahead.

Much more violence.

693 Words

And so goes year 3, week 13 (Week 3.13) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Call Me Satan” by Omnia. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.


#MWBB 3.07 : My Little Blue One

[Caution – Adult content. Read at your own risk.]

“Thank you, God, for that little blue pill,” Anthony silently prayed as he screwed another girl on the sofa in his apartment. “Because of that pill, I can do this.” He stroked for all he was worth, and enjoyed every stroke. He wanted more, so he started unbuttoning her shirt, “And it’s not like she’s a girl.” He opened her shirt, then fumbled with her bra until he got it pulled away. “She’s 22, maybe 23. She’s a grown woman.” He put his hands on her chest, then attacked her breasts with his mouth. “God, this is good!”

It wasn’t long until he finished, and briefly collapsed on her. After a few moments, his pulse calmed a bit, and he got off her, went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. “I’ll have to try her again, on another day.” He smiled at himself in the mirror, “Maybe next time I’ll fuck her ass.” That thought excited him, “Yeah. I’ll do that next time.”

He finished pulling his clothes back on, then returned to the girl. She was still out, she hadn’t stirred at all. “I’ll never get over how well that powder works.” He remembered putting it in her water bottle while she wasn’t looking. Just a quick dump, and the power dissolved in a couple of seconds. It knocked her out. She’d done everything he wanted, and never batted an eye, never resisted, never struggled.

Anthony pulled out his smart phone and took a few pictures of her. He took pictures of her breasts. Then he spread her legs, and took pictures of her genitals. “More for my collection.” As a bonus to himself, he shoved his fingers in her. She never twitched. He smiled, and took pictures of his fingers inside her.

When he finished taking pictures, he pulled her bra back in place, buttoned her shirt, put her back in her underwear and pants. “Like nothing happened.” He raised her head and put a pillow under it, then covered her with a blanket. “Like nothing happened. Like it was all a dream.” He placed her shoes neatly by the side of the sofa, so she’d have no problem finding them if she woke during the night.

Then, Anthony went to his room. He downloaded the pictures from his phone to his computer where he added them to his collection. The added pictures brought his collection to seven girls. He liked to stare at the pictures, and fantasize about them begging him to fuck them. “Make it hard, and deep! More! More!” About them moaning with each stroke he made. About them saying things he wanted to hear, “Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass!”

He carefully shut down his computer, so she couldn’t check it when she woke. He did a hard reset on his phone to clear all the data. Then, he went to sleep. “She was a good fuck. It felt good to feel her from the inside.”

When he woke the next morning, she was already gone. She’d left a note. “I’m sorry I passed out.”

Anthony laughed, “I’m not. I’m plenty happy you did.”

Lust sat in the corner of the room watching Anthony, and quietly laughing. “Ah, the joys modern medicine, date rape drugs, and little blue pills.” He wondered how much havoc Anthony could cause before he inevitably got caught. He hoped it was much more. “Try for a redhead tonight, my man. Try for a redhead.”

As he headed to work, Anthony thought it would be nice if that night he could fuck the butt of a redhead.

Lust smiled, “That’s my boy!” He settled on the sofa for a nap, “Could be a fun night.”

622 Words

And so goes year 3, week 7 (Week 3.07) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “My Little Blue One” by Cowboy Mouth. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 3.06 : Serpents

Mai leaned closer to the mirror to get a better look at the ugly purple and black bruise around her eye. “Yeah, the gang at work is going to ask a lot of questions.” She smiled as she imagined the questions she’d get asked.

“What happened?”

“He hit me.”

“Oh, my God! Are you alright?”

“Compared to him, yes, I’m fine.”

She remembered the previous night, her 3rd date with Luke. He’d been OK through the first two, she’d even decided he was a pretty good kisser. But last night he decided he wanted more than she did. After a good, deep dish pizza, they’d gone to The Nightshade, for a drink or two, and to dance to live music.

The band had played well enough, mostly cover songs with good rhythm. They’d been danceable enough. She’d pulled Luke to the dance floor several times. He’d been fun to dance with, and she’d decided she liked to hug him.

He’d asked to come in when he brought her home, and since he’d been nice, she let him in. They put on a movie, and sat on the sofa. She pulled his arm around her shoulders, rested her head on his shoulder. She felt relaxed, happy.

Until he put his other hand on her thigh. He leaned in and kissed her, and his hand drifted up her leg. She’d stopped him, but he tried again. When that didn’t work, he’d moved his hand to her chest. She’s stopped him again. And again, he kept trying.

She got up, “Well, I need to get some sleep, I go to work tomorrow.”

“It won’t take long, you know.” Luke wouldn’t take the hint.

“No. It’s time for you to leave.”

He’d grinned, grabbed her wrist, pulled her back to the sofa, put his hand on her chest, pushed her down. Mai pushed back. “Three dates. I deserve more.” He started trying to pin her to the sofa. “I want more.”

She scratched his face, her nails left a couple of trails. He’d growled in pain, and slapped her, open-handed, which hurt like hell. He worked a hand between her legs, and she kicked as wildly and hard as she could, letting her knees contact whatever they found. She swung at him, and left more trails on his face. He punched her, and got sloppy. She took advantage of the opening, and planted a knee in his crotch.

He bellowed and doubled over. She kicked him in the ribs, hard as she could. “I said no!” She kicked him in the ribs again.

Luke wound up gasping for breath on the floor. She opened her apartment door and screamed, “Get out!”

He’d limped away.

Mai cried a lot that night. She’d hoped Luke would be her friend, keep her company, go places with her. And with time maybe things would grow. But they hadn’t. “Why?” she stomped to her bedroom, “Why do all the guys want to fuck me? Is that all I am to them? Someone to fuck?”

She put on her pajamas, grabbed the ice cream, and put on her favorite fairy tale movie. She ate ice cream, sat on the sofa with her legs crossed, and a blanket pulled over her shoulders. “Why can’t I find a good man?”

She woke up to find the remains of the ice cream melted in the container, leaking on her coffee table. She staggered to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, “God, I look like hell!” She called out sick from work.

And there she was, looking at the bruise in the mirror. “I hope I crushed his nuts!” She pulled off her pajamas, turned on the shower and stepped in. The hot water on her neck and shoulders felt damn near perfect. She stayed in the shower until the water turned cold, then got out and dried

“Why are so many men such snakes?” It would take a few weeks, but she’d try dating someone again. “Maybe someday I’ll find a good one.”

Mai stretched out on her bed, hugged her pillow, and fell asleep, only to dream about men, and snakes.

689 Words

And so goes year 3, week 6 (Week 3.06) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Serpents” by Sharon Van Etten. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 3.05 : Rehab

Jaxson sat on his usual bar stool as he ended another day of existence on the miserable planet Earth in his usual way. Drinking himself to oblivion.

“It’s a good thing you live a couple blocks from here, and walk home every night.” Lexi was his bartender, at least he thought of her that way.

“Another one, Lexi. I can still remember what I did at work today.” Work had sucked, but it always sucked.

“Another fat white dude scream at you?”


Lexi laughed, shrugged, “White people. I tell you.”

Two years earlier was when the last of the three kids went to college, and he’d kissed another $60,000 bye-bye, and watched the day he could retire drift further toward the horizon.

A week after his baby girl started classes on the far side of the state his wife of 25 years told him, “Get out.” She’d had enough. The romance was long dead, the love too. She’d waited for the youngest to get out of the house, and then filed for divorce.

She got the house, of course. And the car, cats, and furniture.

He was too old to fight with her, so he moved out, and wound up in a single wide trailer in a park filled with Latinos on the edge of town. With plastic dishes, a pint-sized fridge, one TV (but no cable), a sofa, which served as his bed, and a tiny bathroom that consisted of a shower, a sink, and a toilet, all of which surrounded a 2 square foot slab of vinyl flooring.

Way he figured it, he was a quarter million in debt, and would have to work until he was 243 to pay it off.

Lexi’s was a gift from the universe, and he knew it. A bar a couple of blocks from the trailer park. She’d told him she opened it for the Latinos. “They got no place of their own.”

“You’re a good one, Lexi.”

She set another glass on the bar, “You keep telling me that.” She propped on her elbows, “You gonna listen to them? Get help somewhere? Dry out?”

Jaxson chugged half the glass, savored the burn in his throat, “Nope. Not going. Not getting help.”

“You that set on dying?”

“Yeah.” He would have smiled, but didn’t remember how, “Gonna drink myself to oblivion. Then let them bastards collect on that debt!”

“You’re a sick bastard, Jaxson, you know that.”

It was 0100 hours when he staggered to the toilet in his trailer and puked. Puking didn’t bother him so much. The blood he coughed up every morning, that bothered him.

“Not going to rehab. Going to drink myself to death.” He stretched out on his sofa, still wearing his clothes. “Then let them bastards collect that debt!” He passed out.

That night, he had the same dream he always had. The one where he wondered why he was still alive, and why the universe wouldn’t let him die.

490 Words

And so goes year 3, week 5 (Week 3.05) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 3.03 : Moshka

“I’d kill the bitch again, you know! I would!” Robert screamed through the bars of the cell at the pussy-whipped guards. “She got me fired!” Robert slammed his forearm into the bars, “So I shot her ass!”

Jailed for rape and murder. That was going to look good on his résumé. That’s what everyone would say. No one would say the truth. Framed by a whore, so he shot her. Of course no one would say that. They’d all side with that bitch.

Hell, he was a man! If a woman looked good, he told her she looked good. It’s what guys did. If she had boobs he wanted to see, he told her he wanted to see them. Nothing wrong with that. He was being honest, like his parents taught him.

Asking questions was curiosity on his part. “I don’t see any lines, do you wear thongs?” Curiosity, nothing more. Some days she had more cleavage than others. “One of those miracle bra things?” Curiousity was natural, wasn’t it?

He tried being helpful too, like when she wore a dress. “You have great legs. Why don’t you wear something a bit shorter, show off your legs more?” Constructive suggestions, that’s all. “Men go stupid around boobs. Show them off a bit, and they’ll give you everything you ask for.” Nothing sexist at all. He wasn’t harassing her. He was trying to help her.

He even tried being friendly, “I’m going to lunch, wanna come? I’ll buy.” She always declined. “Why do you never go to lunch with me?” She never answered.

He’d even tried being polite. “Women like flowers and candy, right? So, I left a flower on her desk once. And some chocolate once. What’s wrong with that?”

The boss called him to the office more than once. “Robert, you have to stop harassing Penny.”

“But, I’m not harassing her.”

“According to her, you are.”

They made him watch this stupid video about what sexual harassment in the workplace was. Made him take a test after the video. He got every question right, passed that stupid test. Proved he knew what harassment was.

“What’s wrong with telling her she looks pretty today?”

“Nothing wrong with telling her that, Robert.” The bos shook his head. “It’s how you say it. With that leer in your eyes and how you stare at her boobs.”

The meetings became more frequent. Turned out the bitch was filing sexual harassment reports against him. “He keeps asking what kind of underwear I wear. If I have on a push-up bra. Telling me I should wear shorter skirts.” There was more. “He keeps asking me out. He won’t take no for an answer.” And more. “He stares at me. Watches me all the time. Like he’s stalking me.” And it all ended with, “I can’t work with him. I don’t feel safe around him.”

After several months of her lies, several months of the boss talking with him, telling him to leave her alone, the company fired him. They didn’t let him resign. They fired him, and listed the reason as sexual harassment.

She got him fired! Cost him his job!

That little bitch!

So, hell yes. He went to his truck, got his gun, and waited. He followed her home, snuck in. Finally did what he’d always wanted to with her. Found out she didn’t wear a thong, and her bra was not one of those sexy lace things like in the pictures on his computer. No, just plain underwear.

But he finally got to touch her boobs. While he was at it, he screwed her. Like he’d always fantasized about doing. That’d teach her to get him fire.

Then he shot her. Stuffed the gun barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. “It’s what she deserved! She ruined my life! Got me fired!”

Life was so fucking unfair! God! He didn’t deserve any of this shit!

654 Words

And so goes year 3, week 3 (Week 3.03) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Moshka” by Vas. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB Week 3.02 : A Forest

They left Rose at the northern edge of the Black Mountains with her hands and feet tied so she couldn’t walk. Her father never looked back. The other men nodded, and patted him on the back, and spoke of how it was best for everyone.

Rose sat with her hands tied behind her, and her ankles bound. She pulled her knees in, and wished she could figure out how to untie the ropes. “This is not what I wanted for my birthday party.” Her tummy growled, and her head hurt.

She watched the sun move through the sky, the clouds come and go, and birds as they flew by. She leaned back, and stared at the sky. “I hope Daddy comes back soon, and feeds me, and takes me home.”

It was hard, but Rose rolled to the top of the hill she was on. She sat up, and looked around. In one direction, the hills grew bigger and turned into mountains with black tops. To either side of her were hills. She’d never been so far from home she couldn’t see it. But she couldn’t see it anywhere. Her father, and the others were gone too. She couldn’t see them anywhere.

In the opposite direction from the mountains, the hills grew smaller, and she saw a big forest a long way off. It looked better than the mountains behind her. She rolled to her knees, and then managed to stand.

She started hopping toward the forest. She fell over a few times, but she got the hang of it, and before long was hopping along. It kept her busy, so she didn’t think about being hungry, or thirsty, or alone.

When it got dark, Rose sat down. Something was horribly wrong. “Why isn’t Daddy coming to get me?”

Rose cried. “This isn’t what I wanted for my birthday.” It was getting cold and her feet and hands hurt from being tied together. She was thirsty, and hungry. And scared. She heard noises. Scraping, rustling, chirping, popping, clicking, scratching noises. She cried, and cried. “Why did you leave me here, Daddy? Why?”

That’s when she saw the fairy. The fairy with a broken wing. That fairy smiled, “Did they leave you here? Alone?”

Rose nodded, “My Daddy left me here.” She wanted to wipe the tears from her cheeks and rub her tired eyes. “He told me to never talk to strangers.”

“Oh,” the fairy smiled and sat on the ground. “Is he coming back?”

Rose wanted to say yes. To jump up and down and say, “He’s coming back for me!” But her father hadn’t come back all day. He and the others had gone away. They’d left her, and somehow she knew, “He’s not coming back, is he?”

“Oh, little one,” the fairy frowned, “I’m so sorry.” The fairy held her and she cried for a long time.

When Rose stopped crying, the fairy untied Rose, then helped her clean up. The fairy even had clean clothes for Rose. “Look at you! Such a pretty girl!” Then, the fairy pulled a jar of water from her bag, and let Rose drink all she wanted.

Rose wasn’t afraid of the fairy anymore. The fairy held out her hand, “You need someplace to sleep, don’t you?”

Rose nodded.

“My name is Mystica. I live near here, in the forest, with my daughters, Sunshine, Musica, and Dream.” She held her hand out for Rose to take. “What’s your name?”


“What a pretty name!”

Rose took Mystica’s hand. “I have an extra house you can stay in. And lots to eat. If you want to visit.”

Rose nodded, “OK.”

Mystica picked Rose up, carried her on her arm and stepped forward. Rose blinked. The hills were gone. They were beside a lake in the middle of a forest. Three other girls were playing by the edge of the lake. Mystica put Rose down. The other girls rushed over, and hugged her, and welcomed here. Before long, all four of them were playing.

Mystica smiled. She’d found Rose in time. Another child with the gift of wild magic was safe.

683 Words

Welcome to year 3, week 2 (Week 3.02) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “A Forest” by The Cure. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB Week 3.01 : Freedom

You, with your job.
Your house.
Your cars.
Your children.
You do not see
Or understand.

You go to work five days a week.
Through endless weeks.
And months.
And years.
In a job you hate.
A job which slowly nibbles away
Your very soul.

Until there’s nothing left.

You know the truth.
Buried under all the lies you’ve told yourself.
The pictures you painted of success.
Of the American Dream.
A dream the tells you how to live.
What to think.
And what to dream.

You, with your job.
Take your headache pills each day.
To numb the aching in your head.
An ache that always starts
Once you get to work.
One you never have on weekends.
Or holidays.
But every day at work.
And you never wonder why.

You sit at a desk five days a week.
Wishing you were somewhere else.
Belittling yourself.
“You have work to do, damn-it!”
“Get your lazy ass together!”
“Do your fucking job!”

You know the truth.
It tries to speak to you at night.
On those long, sleepless nights.
When you toss, and turn.
And stare at the ceiling,
In the darkness.

There’s nothing wrong.
This is how things are.
How they will always be.
How they’ve always been.
You’re a grown up.
You have a good job.
It pays well.

Anyone would love to have your job!
Anyone would love to make
The money you make.
Hell, the benefits alone would make the job
Worth any misery for some folks.

Everyone knows that.

You know that.

As you stay up late at night.
Studying for that test next week.
That certification test.
The one you have to take.
Have to pass.
To keep the job you have.

It doesn’t matter how you feel.
It never has.
The truth lies trapped inside you.
You dare not let it out.

Because you can’t afford
To lose your job.

Remember the times you wanted to scream?
To call the boss an idiot.
“You don’t know what the fuck you talking about!”
“That can’t be done!”
“You want it when?”

You never did.
Never said a thing.
You ground your teeth together.
Until your jaw ached.
That ceramic crown on your molar,
The one on the top left.
You know how you got that.
That tooth cracked under the stress.

You know the truth.
Somewhere deep inside.
Pretending you are free to do
Anything you want.
Knowing you’ll do anything you have to do
To keep the job you have.

Swallow your pride.
Do what you’re told.
Be where you’re told.
And be there when you’re told to.
Wear this.
Not that.
Shave every day.
And wear business clothes.
After all.
You have to look the part
Of a professional.

All you are is a little cog.
In a big machine.
And if you break.
If you don’t do your part.
You’re easily replaced.

For the truth you’ve buried
In the ground.
With your heart and soul.
Is something you’ve always known.
And can never talk about.

The people you work for.
The job you’ll do anything to keep.
The life you’ve worked so hard to have.
The wife and kids.
The house,
The cars,
The yard.

That life is who you are.
It’s all that’s left of you.
It owns you.
You have no freedom left.
And all you’re dreams have died.

So, lie awake in bed each night.
And wonder why you cannot sleep.
And wash your pain pills down each morning
With an ocean of caffeine.

And lie to yourself.
Until the truth is gone.
And you believe once more.
You’re free.

And everything’s exactly
Like that dream you had.
So many years ago.

620 Words

Welcome to year 3, week 1 (Week 3.01) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Freedom” by Anthony Hamilton and Elayna Boynton. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 2.52 : Eminence Front

I stared at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why, for some reason I couldn’t look away. I think it was my eyes that did it. Empty eyes, glazed over and lifeless. There was nothing in them.

I wasn’t supposed to stare at myself, wasn’t supposed to stop and look in the mirror. I made myself put the razor down, looked in the mirror to make sure I’d shaved properly, and hadn’t missed any places. I was getting ready for work. To be safe, I combed my hair again, even though I knew it would not stay in place.

And I saw those eyes again.

I practically growled, “Enough! Get ready.” It was time for work. I grabbed my black tie, buttoned the top button on my shirt, and tied that sucker on, joking about how it was a modern-day hangman’s noose.

Those damned, empty, lifeless eyes were still in the mirror, looking at me. I didn’t have time for them. I walked away.

By the time I got to the car, empty briefcase in hand, it was show time. Wave at the neighbor getting in his car. “Pretty day, ain’t it?”


“Have a good one.”

“You too.”

I didn’t break the speed limit in the neighborhood. I stopped at all the stop signs, waved at people walking their dogs, slowed down for any school busses, and swung wide around the kids at bus stops. It was the right thing to do.

Once I got to the main road, I moved with the traffic. So what if the traffic did 55 in a 45 zone? It was how things were. “Don’t think. Don’t be different. Follow the rules of the road.” That included riding the ass of the idiot in front of me who wouldn’t get the fuck out-of-the-way. Crawling along. Stupid ass hole. “Add gas! What the fuck’s wrong with you!” First chance I got, I floored it, got around his ass, and left him way behind. Yeah, he caught up at the next stop light, but I didn’t care, ‘cause I was in front of him. He wasn’t in my way anymore.

When I got to work, the first thing anyone said to me was, “Hi, how are you today?”.

I answered, “I’m good,” as expected.

At my desk I pulled my bottle of naproxen out, popped the top on my Coke, and had two pills and a long chug of soda, just to cut off the headache I knew was coming. I hate my job. I know that. It sucks. But, it fucking pays the bills, so I suck it up, and work. It doesn’t matter how I feel about it. It’s a job. It’s supposed to suck.

At 1130, Helen walked up, “Lunch time!” The best part of the work day. Lunch. A bunch of us guys, and Helen. She’s always the center of attention too. Not that I mind. She’s a lot easier on the eyes than George, or Henry. Or any of the rest of them. It’s an hour we get to escape from work. We get to laugh. We get to have fun.

Then we go back to hell.

That day I was working on the design of the DVD labels. How to properly label at DVD made using the computer system. I had to draw a sample DVD label. God, I hate that. “How’s this look?” No one cared how it looked, but we’re pros, so they said, “Move this here. Add this. Use this font. Make this in bold.” Make it look professional. Took all afternoon to tune that sucker up.

And when I got home that night, those damned empty, lifeless eyes were still in the mirror.

Yeah. Life sucks. So what. It’s how it is. How it’s always been. How it’ll always be.

The next morning I stared at myself in the mirror and felt better. Those empty, lifeless eyes were still there. It was what I expected. It was normal.

It was time to get ready for work.

It was show time.

673 Words

Welcome to year 2, week 52 (Week 2.52) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “Eminence Front” by The Who. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 2.51 : The Thrill Is Gone

Jerry sat on his sofa every night waiting for her to go to sleep. She went upstairs about nine. She usually went upstairs between eight and nine most nights. He usually stays up till eleven, or midnight. Just to make sure she’s asleep when he gets to bed.

Sometimes Jerry wondered when it all started. When he stopped going to bed when she did. When she stopped asking him to come to bed. When he started wearing pajamas every night, even though she sent to bed naked.

“Used to be different,” he remembered. “Yeah. Used to be different.”

He remembered the first night, before they got married, when he woke up at stupid o’clock and she was on top of him. “Are we doing what I think we’re doing?” She hadn’t said anything, just kept moving.

Before they got married, they spent nights together at her house, in her bed. Hell, they spent whole weeks of nights together. Always at her house, always in her bed. Never in his apartment. But he didn’t care.

After they got married she got experimental. She started trying more positions, and more types of activity. Over the years, they’d tried everything, including oral and anal. They tried sex on the stairs, and in the shower. On the sofa, in the kitchen. Even in the middle of the night, with no lights on, and the curtains open. It was OK to experiment, since they were married. They could have all the sex they wanted. And they did.

After the kids were born, they didn’t experiment as much. As the kids grew older, the fun nights grew less frequent. When the oldest went to college, things pretty much stopped.

Jerry sat on his sofa and remembered what it was like. When she put her head between his legs. Or when he stood by the bed with her on her hands and knees. He used to watch every stroke. That was part of the fun for him. Watching.

But, those days were gone. And Jerry wasn’t like the guys he worked with. All of them divorced their wives and had married younger women. Women still interested in sex. If that’s what they wanted, Jerry was OK with that. But he wondered why they slept with women the same age as their daughters. “That just ain’t right, is it.”

Besides, it took energy to wake up in the middle of the night for that sort of thing, and he’d rather sleep. He knew, after enough times, it all became the same. Everything felt the same. All the new, all the excitement, had worn off.

The thrill was gone.

Around eleven-thirty that night, Jerry felt tired enough to go to sleep. He wandered upstairs, changed into his pajamas, and climbed into bed. The covers felt good. After a few minutes, she stirred, pulled his arm out, and snuggled in, her head on his shoulder.

Jerry smiled. The thrill might be gone, but the comfort and the trust of having her as his friend and companion more than made up for that.

511 Words

This is my entry for Year 2, Week 51 (Week 2.51) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “The Thrill Is Gone” by B. B. King. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB Week 2.27 : A Tale Of Greed – Waiting On A Dream

It was 3 AM on a Monday morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for nearly 3 hours, but Beverly was wide awake. She listened carefully to Lawrence as he snored to make certain he was sleeping. Once she knew he was in dreamland, she slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe and house shoes, and slipped out of the bedroom.

“Thank God the bastard’s asleep,” she headed toward the shower. She closed the door to the room, locked it, slipped off the house shoes, then let the robe slip off her shoulders to the ground. She studied herself in the mirror. Her breasts were still good, not sagging yet. Her stomach was still flat. Even after the two kids. Her legs were still lean, no dimples of fat, not muscle-bound.

“I’m still a sexy bitch,” she smiled. “Gotta stay that way.”

She turned on the shower, turned the hot water up, she wanted a hot shower to wash away the feel and smell of him. The more soap, the more suds, the better. “The things I have to put up with.” She wished she could wash him out of her brain cells, her memories. Instead, she had to deal with the memory of having sex with him.

Sex she didn’t want to have. God, it was awful to suck him off. Awful to let him get behind her, and bang away. Awful to have to moan, and groan, and pretend it turned her on.

The hot water felt good on the back of her neck and shoulders. She tipped her head back, into the water, let it soak into her hair. Her favorite shampoo made such a rich lather. It cleaned her hair so thoroughly, left it feeling so alive. As she washed the lather out, she held her head under the running water, let it flow down her back.

“Another day I’ll take a nap while the kids are at school, and he’s at work.”

Him at work. That’s what it was all about. Keeping him happy. Keeping him at work. Keeping him making money. The more money, the better. Beverly needed money to buy the things she wanted. Her phone, her car, her clothes. It all cost money.

And he made plenty of it.

She’d worked hard to find him. Harder to get him to marry her. Harder to keep him. All she wanted, really, was his money. She didn’t really want him. Or his offspring. Boys. Brats. Just like their father.

So, she had to screw him a few times a week? That wasn’t so bad. He always passed out after he finished. She always waited while he made his run to the bathroom where he pissed, then washed himself. “I wish I could wash everything away as easily as he can.”

She checked the clock on the bathroom wall. “Damn.” It was time to dry off, get back in her robe, head downstairs, and start breakfast for fatty and his boys. She knew not to put anything on under the robe. It was all part of keeping him happy. Keeping him at work. Keeping him making money. More money. For her.

It wouldn’t be long before she could afford that dress she wanted. All silk. God, the way it felt when she ran her fingertips across the material in the store. Another month, and she’d have enough to buy it.

As she feared, just inside the front door he had to kiss her goodbye and let his fingers find their way between her legs. “The things I put up with to get what I want,” she thought as visions of that dress danced in her head.

Greed stood in the corner of the room and laughed. He loved every minute of the torture Beverly put herself through every day. Just to collect a few meaningless trinkets. “That old saying’s so true, dear. You can’t take it with you when you die.”

He whispered in Lawrence’s ear, “God, you should really fuck her face tonight.”

Then he laughed for hours, because he knew, Beverly would do whatever it took to get the next item on her list. Why, she’d even sell her soul.

695 Words

This is my entry for Year 2, Week 27 (Week 2.27) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.