Shooting Stars

"I hate Nicholas Sparks. Sappy soap opera stuff."

"Me too. My mom watches movies based on his books while eating ice cream and sobbing like a baby. I just don't get his stuff."

"At least she gets the ice cream part right," he said as he licked the cone she'd prepared for him. His familiar pink tongue traced down one side and up the other over the cold vanilla and chocolate.

Her own cone dripped onto her bare thigh; she gasped and jumped at the surprise of cold meeting warm in the dark on the deck. He laughed and ran his finger over her skin to wipe up a taste of her strawberry ice cream off her warm flesh.

He slurped the sweet-tartness off his finger before leaning over and kissing her cool lips tasting of berries and cream.

Would it ever be like this again, she wondered.

Years later she thought of that night, when fireflies flitted by in the midnight blue over their heads like shooting stars.

She took a bite of her strawberry ice cream before muting the Nicholas Sparks movie, as sweet-tartness melded with the bitterness of salty tears on her tongue.
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Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 196
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 26 
Prompt: Excerpt, The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks

Opposite

The laundry is folded and carefully put away, towels neatly stacked.

The pantry is full and organized, labels facing outward.

The doors are locked, the sashes tightly fastened.

The curtains are pulled, neat and tidy in appearance from the street.

The carpets are swept, clear oak floors gleam.

The photo frames are square, nothing unwanted remains.

The bed is made, sheet and blanket flat and straight.

The note is written, left in plain sight.

The door is open, the entry clear for flight.

The heart is broken, only departure will stem the pain.

The message left: Baby, I'm leaving here.

_________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 100 
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 25 
Video prompt: Biffo Clyro, "Opposite", via YouTube.com

Dark City

The city was in a state of mild ache. Roads swollen with traffic, vehicles discharged into the surrounding suburbs, their occupants fleeing the pervasive affliction.

Characterized first by the dull pain, then by irritation, the remaining citoyens argued the merits of starving or feeding this unnamed sickness, though no curative answer existed between these extremes.

Suburbs mutated into exurbs as the illness spread, contagion following the city-dwellers like a miasma of misery as they trailed off into the big boxed strip malls along disease-ferrying highways.

The metropolis was in a state of mild recovery. Streets echoed with pigeons’ cries as the temperature cooled, storefronts returned to glossy health as the first of many gunshots rang out in the farthest points away from the city.

The mountains and oceans’ waves were in a state of mild ache...
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Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 136
Originally submitted to Revolver arts and culture magazine. 
prompt: The city was in a state of mild ache.
photo: Dark City by sciencesque via Flickr.

Bait

I am a vain man. I mark my body irrevocably with beautiful art to enhance my tight, well-trained flesh.

I am a suggestible man. I yield, caving into his appeal to my vanity, promising photos of my latest ink.

I am a tempted man. I take the bait when he asks to kiss me, running his lips and tongue along my skin, licking the furring that trails below my waistband.

I am a hungry man. I throw myself at him as if starved, nipping along the warm flesh of his ribs, biting at the salt-sweet skin of neck.

I am an eager man. I can’t remove our jeans fast enough, tearing at his zipper and my fly as he continues to photograph my eagerness.

I am a throbbing man. I grasp his cock and mine in between us, feeling the pulsing of our blood as I stroke us in unison.

I am a desperate man. I bite at the foil on the condom, slop wildly with lubricant as I kiss along his raspy jawline, stretching and stroking him beneath me.

I am a buried man. I am home, balls deep in him as we match each other’s frenzied pleasure.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 39 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: bait