Monthly Archives: October 2008

“Basement Slave”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Basement Slave



          Maybe evil had a face. Maybe it was the man Cynthia brought to her room, her office on the weekends, the motel—all the “private venues”—where this strange man with a face of shadows had his way with her: sex doll for masturbation aid. She bent over, she lay down, squatted, kneeled, crawled. She assumed every posture he desired; he covered her from head to foot in sperm; every orifice filled with his seed, even ears, nose, eyes. She submitted to the humiliation, the pain, the bizarre fantasies with food and ropes and bamboo and belts and lubricants. And she waited for his lust to subside.

          In time she felt his boredom, saw the look of disgust, cold indifference, perhaps a twinge of sympathy in his coal red eyes. And at last like a plague that fades slowly away like a malarial mist, his calls stopped.

          Her weekends returned as her own property, and evenings after work she got to read and listen to music, to shower and lie naked on the bed, the summer light softening over the rolling curves of her voluptuous body.

          And that was when Cynthia began to invoke his name as she performed autoerotic games on her body, the same kind of masturbations he liked, but now with the memory of him, his virtual body, naked before and behind and under her. And the truth was he was better now than ever because she had the best part of him, the enthusiasm of lust.

          Cynthia had her mythic sex slave; and lying there, legs spread in a generous V, she could hear him rising from hell itself on a rattling elevator just beneath her steaming bed.



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“Loretta’s Poetry Career”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Loretta’s Poetry Career



          Loretta stepped off the curb. Downtown traffic. Backwards. Not looking. She was killed immediately. The delivery truck trying to make the turn before the red-yellow still, meaning –“go” in Boston—she was gone. That quickly, poor thing. Literally, never knew what hit her. Top of her poetic prose publishing arc. Latest book a cultural breakwater—Raisins in the Looking Glass.  To those friends and admirers, a dozen or so devotees there on the corner of Crown and Sheffield…well, consensus was Loretta’s smile, triumphant after this final city reading…this backward step into eternity was as elegant a departure as typical as her sudden leaps of transcendence in her poems, stories and essays….she had reached her full powers and like a meteor arced the zenith with her glorious flame of truth and joy. As one friend from college days put it…she had no more to say on the downward slope. Her life arrowed up into infinity, going ahead, leading us always into unmapped terrain. The blow to her head knocked her soul clean free…The body surprisingly unmarked, no visible sign of trauma, stepping off into the Void, as a critic put it in Poetry Now, she achieved monistic unity with the unseen she had learned to gift us mortals ordinary, gravity bound. She was now in retrospect a kind of astral messenger, barely of this world by the end of her artistic journey.

          “I tell you…” she said in her last interview, “There is progress. We do learn and truth and beauty and freedom are ours. Poetry has taught me joy because of its essential transcendence of the world of linear tedium and chronic pain. Poetry has set me free from fear.”



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“Castle of Ambiguity”–from Difficult People

Castle of Ambiguity



          The landlady descended the stair with a heavy tread. Glasses clinked behind a door. Outside, leftovers from Saturday night on a tray. A clear warm sun fell through the window and warmed the casement, chair and bed. Old castle. Damp walls of ancient quarry stone, now snugly insulated. All the modern gadgets. Off-season rates.

          Glad to see you. Long drive up the coast? Rain and fog yesterday.

          Funny that odd old man on the cliff, he was swaying, hands over head. Like a signal to a boat out in the bay.

          Maybe. So much unknown, landlady says without a glance.

          Ambiguity. Filling the emptiness—the spaces between here and there. Course, ambiguity’s here and over there. Goodness. So much of life just little cars on tracks, go here, stop there. 3rd Street. All out.

          Imagine you’ve forgotten the address. Don’t know where your friend lives. Start with hunches. Narrow it down.

          Mystery and ambiguity are close bedfellows. Lovers? That’s confusing things.

          Try—hand in glove—something happens: you get off the bus on 3rd Street. March straight to your friend’s apartment in the city. Climb the stair. Knock.

          No answer.

          Odd. Should be here. Double-check number, yes, 4-C. Name…wait a minute…4C…but a different name. Entirely. Foreign looking. Maybe Greek. Something’s off. Outside you see you’ve got the wrong building. Easy enough…but the number you’ve been given, 34 3rd Avenue…wait, it doesn’t appear to exist. Street or Avenue?

          Crowds pass. You ask a local type. Scratch head. Don’t know. Maybe you copied it wrong. But no, they wrote the address on a slip of paper, hurriedly in the elevator descending to the street…Friday escape. Gone in a flash.

          Later now and all that. Standing there…lost and found. No phone number. Private listing. Might have played a trick. Regardless, after that…had to get away…out of the city…weekend in a castle of ambiguity.


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“Oblivion”–flash fiction, Difficult People




          The result was much the same. Richard “Dick” Lessing couldn’t change. Philanderer. Divorced at last, past middle age, still almost fit, he was long gone on a conquest of women, young and middle-aged.

          His ex wife Kayla was glad to split the money and so long…Dick Man. With Viagra, health food, steroids, working out, the man was unbelievably pumped and horny. He was a rabbit, a goat, a pig, a monster of the permanent hard on in search of pussy, anus, deep cleavage or inviting mouth…or if all else failed…Ms. Joyous Fucking Pussy Hand. The eternal teen…high school with a sweaty balding spot.

          Kayla had finally had enough when she found his cache of rubbers in his home office, not even disguised. Then there was the ribbed condom floating in the guest room toilet. There hadn’t been any recent guests…but good grief, the Brazilian cleaning woman Elena?

          Elena had a nice ass, Dick admitted to Kayla, but Elena’s tits were too small for his taste. Kayla believed that bull until she found him humping Elena against the washing machine, both rocking to the rapid tempo of her precious Maytag on spin cycle.

          Of course she faced firing Elena, but that would hurt big time because Elena really was a very tidy housekeeper! But then came the damn-the-Dick crusher…Elena’s hair clip turned up under the sheets when Kayla decided to change the bed herself.

          And when she confronted Dick boy in his office, he was masturbating, groaning, pants around his ankles, having phone sex. Kayla burst in and slapped him and he began coming all over her legs and new shoes. She clipped Elena’s hairpin to his dick and marched out with a dramatic door slam.

          Even now somewhere out there Richard “The Dick” Lessing was fucking his brains out, happy in the oblivion of his climaxes. Kayla clucked, No envy wasted here.



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“I Digress”–flash fiction, Difficult People

I Digress



Dear Mr. Macadam,


          My bride and I are desirous of a comfy cottage in the country. I am getting to that mellow age where in the number of stairs, the slickness of slate walks and damp ample leaves and any obstruction shadowed by my city successful girth…I say, the time of life when quiet and domestic felicity are that happy mix unspoiled by too real of rustic complexities…jerking about power tools, staggering under an armful of kindling for “Ma” to start that breakfast fire. No, no, Mr. Macadam, my youthful bride…while many fleet of foot years lie before her dainty slippers, I see a short stumble to the orthopedic chair.

          In short, sir, the missus and I shall be motoring into your green country this weekend, and would very much like to inspect a selection of your properties appropriate for genteel pioneer living…something suited for the plutocrat and his concubine…child bride.  I joke here, sir, as I may assure you I share with you and yours the strongest adoration of solid middle class living, unpretentious, jolly simple…clarity in all things, strong healthy boundaries between folks. Rest assured your Odd Fellows and Lions and Optimists, and the other secret societies with their occult handshakes and to the death whispered passwords…need fear no violation of rural taboos here…no pagan blood sacrifices, no unnatural cross-species mating…

          Well, I digress…suffice to know we strain forward through the windshield of our motoring sedan…eager this Saturday to review your vast network of rustic abodes of bliss.



I.M. Wimsey, Ph.D.


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“One More Summer”–flash fiction, Difficult People

One More Summer

(Por Peter Tietjen, Amigo Viejo)



          The shadows had filled M. Grilot’s study by midday. They were not distinct as with a sun but the vague grays like a sea bottom in winter in a dark narrow cove, the rippled sands, the dull light of turbulent frigid sea water, the black charcoal lumps of rock that littered the bottom like failed creatures lost in a muddled survival race to nowhere. M. Grilot had locked up his money chest after breakfast. His hands were still cold after a shallow sleep. No respite he found from an uneasiness that had gripped him for the past months. The occasional mail from associates, the rarer visits from village friends, the winter was early and people were more withdrawn than normal falls. M. Grilot had begun to pray a bit more, which is to say that he actually was frightened enough now to beseech his guardian angels, saints, and anyone else higher up…please, he would at last manage, keep me safe, help me through this winter. It was an early cold, early freeze in September, snow mantle in late October…and all signs the descent into the deep freeze was a month in advance, suggesting, and here he felt the ache in his legs, the sciatica nerve burned by the hip bone, the knee crunched like inflamed cellophane, a winter descending from Polar ice caps…something worthy of an Eskimo. So, he prayed, halting, embarrassed, pathetic utterances…shameful contrition, fear-driven, an old man in his blue coat, heavy trousers and solid boots…sitting by the small fire in his study. No clear thoughts, no longer grand youthful ambitions, only the humbled white hairs of a tired old man clinging unreasonably to life…one more spring, one more summer, he whispered, hands clasped in the dim light from the window.



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“Dangerous Strangers”–flash fiction, Difficult People

Dangerous Strangers



          She didn’t like him around that much. She was married, but he fucked really good. They play acted. It got rough sometimes. Sometimes they took chances.

          It all began at work. She had a part-time job, and he was a salesman, in the office two or three times a week. The first time they kissed in the supply closet. Then they went for a drive and he found an old graveyard and fucked her in the woods behind these rich people’s mausoleum.

          Then they started fucking in the front seat of his Lincoln, she astride him, face to face. She came when a cock filled up her vagina. She had a great, perky ass. Her boobs were small but round and pert, no implants. She was small and he was big. She came in just a few strokes the first few times they fucked, so she learned to keep going, pumping on him till he exploded inside her. And then she started having multiple climaxes…screaming, gasping, massive comings, sweat pouring off her.

          When he started sneaking into her house, or when she went to his smelly bachelor apartment, things got rougher, more dangerous, and darker. She liked the little slaps, and she enjoyed whipping him while he twisted against the bed board, his hands tied with her silk scarves. His erect dick she beat as well…until sometimes he came, the pearly seed gushing off the head, her lips, tongue feeding off the bulging, purple mushroom.

          The wild sex escalated on and on in their affair until they were really dangerous, exhausted strangers… and then it was over. Simple as that.


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