A Three-Uncle Job

It was a three-uncle job.

The first when she was a scrawny preteen, hunkered tightly over a football, having insisted naively she could play with the neighborhood boys who were older, beefier, infinitely careless about her person.

“Uncle,” she squealed, and he pulled them off her, yanking and tugging at the other boys’ belts and jackets until he reached her, sniffling at the bottom of the heap.

The second when she lost the last of her week’s worth of gas money at cards, never having mastered euchre, the secret of signaling to her partner, or the requisite game face.

“Uncle,” as she slammed the cards on the table with tinny bravura, before he graciously offered to give her a lift to school and work until payday because she was on his way and he liked the company during his commute.

The third when her tiny, sharp knuckles hit the back of the pub table after one, two, too-many tequilas slammed during his going-away party prompted arm wrestling dares.

“Uncle,” she cried, no, really cried, tears dribbling weakly down her cheeks, mistaken for symptoms of physical pain as she rubbed her bruised hand against her heart.

Three-uncles, and the job was done.

He loved her and he couldn't leave without her, wouldn't live without her.

_____
Copyright 2014 Femme Malheureuse
Submission to Revolver magazine online | WANTED flash fiction contest 
Prompt: First line mandatory; Rules: 300 words or less.
[Photo: Original by Will Foster (mazakar) via Flickr, modified for size and color]

L'eclipse amoureuse

If I lean out far enough off this balcony near the Champs-Élysées, I can see the Arc de Triomphe. It does not inspire a sensation of victory, though. Its carved limestone excess leaves me cold.

Across the street is a cafe where I can sit comfortably for hours, undisturbed by paparazzi. I take mild pleasure in this, until the waitstaff cast a Gallic eye upon me, a hint to be gone.

The streets feel like they do anywhere else in Europe, the signs are as cryptic as the people, though gutters are swept clean. Nowhere else will possess the same golden afternoon light, or a similar blend of fresh bread and bitter espresso in the morning.

A change of venue should have freed me to write as it has in the past. Paris’ scenery has inspired countless artists over a thousand years. But I struggle to do more than play my old standards, pulling them reluctantly from my guitar. No new words or notes emerge from my fingertips. I haven’t been able to write for months now.

Nights are worse. Roaming anonymously in the dark through the crowds in the Latin Quarter, lost at the base of Mont Michel, or watching the bateaux mouche slip by along the moonlit Seine, I am as blank as the empty linens flung back on my bed.

On the way to the theatre where I am booked, I find street art. I can make out the artists’ intent with my meager French. Praise here, a complaint there, and the acerbic commentary sketched in spray paint where the police were not some night past.

And there, scrawled in Parisian hand, worn by traffic,

Pour atteindre la lune,
il faut viser le soleil dans le nuit
mais "le soleil ni la lune ne peuvent se regarder en face."
Voila l'eclipse amoureuse.

Words are missing or distorted, and my interpretation of the remainder is weak at best. Some snippet from a Greek or French philosopher, I cannot say. Revelation lies in these broken bits like shards among an archaeological dig. Discovery dawns, blinding, as I reach for a pen and paper, and then my guitar.

The truth I found in Paris
You are my sun and moon.
You are my bliss.
Without you, I am in shadow.
A life in eclipse
Without you, I am hollow
It’s this I couldn’t face.
This truth I found in Paris
It’s you I miss.

If only I could sing to you tonight, ma chère. I will settle for tomorrow, before my flight aims home to you.
___________
Copyright 2014 Femme Malheureuse
AngstPlay FlashFic - Prompt 02-AUG-2014
Graphic: Unknown, via AngstPlay

Saturday

Her face was a question unvoiced, an eyebrow cocked as she passed the black-and-white image to her mother.

"Oh. He was a friend."

"Was?"

Silence pressed for an answer that reason wouldn't offer. The photo fluttered between clenched fingers as an answer formed.

"He died in an accident later the same later the same night—morning, really.”

“You remember this night? Ah—I probably wouldn’t forget a friend with such crazy hair.”

“He was a friend, and he died that night. That was the last picture of him, taken by my boyfriend on a Saturday evening at a favorite hangout.”

She took the photo back from her mother, on whose face some unnamed emotion lingered.

Only a knot between her greying brows hinted at more than neutral disinterest. The older woman adjusted her reading glasses, her face resuming placidity as she fingered through the shoebox of photos.

A cellphone chimed, causing her daughter to leap up to take the call in another room. Faint laughter suggested the younger woman was adequately preoccupied, allowing a hand graced with age spots to pull that one photo out of the box.

Those cheekbones, those lips—so like her daughter’s. How could she ever forget him?
__________
Copyright © 2014 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Flash Fiction - Madi Merek dd. 22-FEB-2014
Word Prompt: Saturday | Photo prompt: origin unknown

Valentine

“I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

“That’s the last thing I expected from you, when you said you wanted to meet me after all this time.”

“The look in your eyes and in his that night has haunted me for so long.”

“How so? I don’t recall him at all from that night.”

“He was there when I answered the door to you, standing there with those lovely pink blooms and a Valentine’s Day card. He heard heard me turn you down.”

“Oh.”

“I never told you because I didn’t want to hurt your pride any more than I already had. We never really spoke openly again.”

“It’s okay, it’s been water over the dam. Others hurt me far more after that night.”

“We’ve all been hurt by life if we truly lived. My pain began that night.”

“Your profile suggested you weren’t with him any longer.”

“We’ve been done a long time. That night he looked so smug, arrogant, like he’d won at a game. It should have told me everything. I should have shown him the door.”

“And now?”

“I won’t screw up this Valentine’s Day. Come on over to my place.”

“My eyes look happy this time, yes?”
__________
Copyright © 2014 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 200
Originally submitted to Rebecca Grace Allen's Sinful Sunday Flash Fiction - Valentine's Day Edition 09-FEB-2014
Word Prompt: Valentine | Photo prompt: origin unknown

Obsession

“No way. You need a few more degrees rotation,” Bob said with authority, pointing to the picture.

Ben shrugged dejectedly. “Tried that. Just shuddered, wouldn’t turn over. Like she was close, but no joy.”

“Wait. Maybe it’s the oxygen level. She’s getting enough air?” Could have expected that feedback from Cameron; he was a runner and always aware of his lungs.

“Hmm—” Ben’s brow remained frozen with concern, unconvinced.

Tom was persuaded. “Yeah, I’m with Cam. Maybe more air, but maintain current rotation.”

“Hey, maybe increase pressure here, too. Easy, though. Too much and you’ll kill her progress,” said Stevie, gesturing lower with his finger. He’d been around the block a few times; he might actually know what he was talking about.

David, the gang’s youngest member, just nodded his head vigorously, like the fake dog in the car’s back window during a turn.

“Got it. Hold this position, more air, increase pressure slightly.” Ben’s face slowly resolved into firm resignation as he stood straight and tall, rolling up the glossy magazine they’d been pouring over.

Bob patted his back. “It’ll be okay, Ben, trust me. Don’t let this become an obsession. Eventually you’ll give Evie an orgasm.”

__________
Copyright © 2014 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 198
Originally submitted to Flash Fiction - Madi Merek dd. 26-JAN-2014
Word Prompt: obsession | Photo prompt: origin unknown

Shoes

He rubbed the leather gently, as if he held a small foot in his hands and not a shoe.

The toes were scuffed, though the soles were new and the heels unmarred.

With a stiff brush and an old rag, he worked in black polish until the leather gleamed softly, caressing the new-again footwear.

A young hand patted his shoulder, interrupting the reverie into which he had lapsed as he clutched the shoes.

"Grandpa?"

"These are yours now, sweetie. They're your size. They'll be perfect for your competition."

"They're lovely, thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, dear. Your grandmother would have wanted you to have them. They brought her luck when she danced competitively. Wear them for her. Wear them for me."

His granddaughter kissed his whiskery cheek and wrapped her arms around him.

"You still miss her after all this time?"

"Even after ten years, I still miss her. I haven't been able to dance without her."

“But you can dance with me now, Grandpa. I’m sure Grandma would want you to.”

He smiled as he stood and bowed to his partner.

“May I have this dance?”

_________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 190
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 38
Photo: dixie_law via Flickr | video prompt: This Dance by Garth Brooks via Veoh

Dance

Sweaty and hot, your hands gripped me at the prescribed places, like hands on a clock at three p.m.

We stumped slowly in a tightly defined but unmarked circle on the gymnasium floor, our bodies stiff and held apart though drawn together.

Feet struggling to avoid each other, we were pained not only by the foreign position but the oddness of our shoes.

Friends giggled at the periphery, happy and nervous for us, reflecting our feelings like the mirrored ball above.

Eyes darting here and there, we did not dare look at each other lest we break down and cry, or laugh about this strange new world.

But now, so many years later, we have become easy and free, unconstrained by the expectations of others.

We spin and whirl like doves at dusk, comforted and comfortable in the dance that is us.
_________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 143
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 37
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Knifed

She appeared unaware of his presence; he’d finally snuck up on her.

He stalked up behind her, pressing a sudden kiss to her bare shoulder.

No sign of surprise betrayed her; the knife continued rhythmically through the carrot before her.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to disturb a woman wielding a knife?”

“Hmph. What’s for dinner?”

Snick-snick-snick continued the blade along the maple board.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to ask a woman that question upon arrival?”

“Hmm. Fine. Must be that time of the month.”

As if the earth had suddenly shifted and risen up to meet his head, he found himself flat on his back. Snick-snick went the knives which pierced the floor on either side of his head, just missing his ears.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to say that to a woman?”

Sweat broke out on his lip as she peered into the mirror-finish of the butcher’s knife, checking the arch of her brow as she waited.

“I’m sorry, dear. Let me start over, please? Did you have a nice day? And can I help you with dinner?”

“That’s better. Please set the table.”

Shouldn’t have married a knife-thrower, he thought once again.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 200
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 34
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Lonely

He hadn’t seen her in a year — not since the last conference.

Kindred spirits, they met often at industry events, sitting together during boring keynotes, snickering softly while joking sotto voce about the speakers.

Invariably she would lean closely as she spoke, whispering into his ear, her lips touching the finest hairs on the skin of his earlobe, sending tickling ripples of heat down to his crotch.

They’d traded emails and phone calls afterward, chatting about business and their personal lives.

A week ago her calls and emails stopped; was something wrong?

He missed her horribly. Though virtual, the place she filled in him ached even though he’d never been able to do more than shake her hand.

Her name was still on the attendees list, though. He’d seek her out at registration.

And there she was, still beautiful, offering a hesitant smile over the sign-in table when their eyes met.

He scribbled hastily as she sidled up to him, ripping the sticker off its backing, slapping it on his lapel at her eye level.

Hello, I’m quite lonely without you, it read.

“Not anymore,” she whispered in his ear as she flung her arms around his neck.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 199 (as submitted, 200)
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 33
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Lust

The poet Rumi said, “Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.”

I recite this line over and over in my head as you writhe and wait for me to finish these photos before we join our flesh.

You are in my lens as I aim the camera upon your form.

You are in my eye as you return my hungry gaze.

You are in my heart as I focus upon the tear forming at the corner of your eye.

You were in me long before we met, and I in you.

You perfect me now in our joining, soft meeting firm, sweet melting sharp.

Your image reveals what I am inside, the part of me that has always been you and yours.

Though I cannot fully satisfy my lust for you while I’m away, I capture your lusciousness here in my lens before embedding the taste of you on my tongue, the perfume of you in my nose, and feel of you on my skin.

I’ll be reminded by these photos of the man I can be, made better by you.

I’ll recall the better man I have become, the one in love with you.

________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 47 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: lust

Hi Hello

No segue eased him into her life, merely an abrupt switching of the line as the help desk engaged different departments.

 “And now we turn over the month-end migration to local support in Seattle. Chicago project management will stay on to assist.”

 A click and then just the two of them, keeping each other company.

 Software chugged, hard drives churned, creating grey data snow while his deep-as-night voice kept her company during the longest hours.

With a click Manila cut in as dawn approached; Chicago was gone until next month.

But then emails arrived, asking first about business. Then about Seattle; questions unfinished from last month-end were re-asked and answered.

She couldn’t imagine a month-end without hearing his voice.

 Until suddenly it wasn’t him. She was heartsick; he was the only thing that made the lonely midnight shift bearable during those long, dark hours.

 She debated about finding another job as she eked through her shift.

 This was the last month-end I’ll work, she thought as she shut her office and entered the foyer.

 “Hi,” said a familiar voice with a Chicago accent.

 “Hello,” she smiled, realizing only now that she had much to look forward to before next month-end.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 200
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 30
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Waves

I hear your voice, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes your words are clear like the starlit sky. Sometimes they are inky-dark like the autumn ocean at high tide.

I dreamt of you, swimming with the current. Your smile beckoned whitely, your flesh gleaming wondrous as my name wet your lips.

I am powerless to resist as you call to me. No more than the sea can fend off the moon’s perigee can I muster the strength to pull away.

I cannot help myself, wading into the waves which held you aloft one time too few. Every joy I ever had was in your arms, and to that happy place I long to return.

I float beneath indifferent clouds, waiting for the moment when the heavens will part. Water then will wash away the susurrus veil that separates us, once and for all.

__________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 

Words: 141

Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 28

Photo prompt: origin unknown | Audio prompt: Gregory and the Hawk's Boats and Birds.

Poker

“Surely you understood when the first hand was dealt this was a risk.”

“That you would cheat and wear more clothing? No, I really hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He took another sip of his drink as he contemplated the silken skin of her rounded bottom parked on the green baize of the gaming table.

“Cheat? Me? As if you have any room to talk. Your less-than-subtle signals to your friends to fold was hardly above board.”

“Well. They’re gone. You should thank me for the favor.”

“Thank you? Whatever for?”

“They won’t be here to witness my capitulation to your superior gamesmanship, love.”

“Yes, there is that. I’d like to collect my prize now, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, please do.” Utterly bereft of clothing, the loser leaned back in his chair, revealing his aroused interest to her view.

She stood, pulling the corset’s laces slowly, teasing his erection with the trailing ends.

He could take no more; he pressed her back onto the table, pushing himself deeply into her warmth again and again. Her legs around him, chips and cards flew as she came and he followed.

“I won,” she sighed.

Sated, he smirked. “Me too.”
__________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 200
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 42 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: tease
Awarded Honorable Mention

Sunset

“I’m so glad we had a great afternoon on the water. You’re a pretty good sailor.” He stood and offered his left hand to her to help her up to her feet. His grip was warm and firm until he released her hand, clinging to her only by his pinky. He leaned in and placed a soft, teasing peck at the corner of her mouth.

Clear brown eyes widened with surprise as gently arched eyebrows rose toward her hairline.  Her mouth sagged open just a bit, her lips trembled. She could say nothing, gazing back into his eyes, feeling scared yet moved.

"And it looks like it will be a great evening, too." He smiled more widely as he pulled her by their joined pinky fingers down the deck stairs and away over the dune.

"Yes, red sky at night, a sailor’s delight," she said softly, looking from the dark water toward tree line along the beach. Her knees were shaking; once again, her powers of sentient speech had failed her in his presence.

This summer was going to rock her world, she thought, not yet ready to admit to herself that he’d already rocked it and hard.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 198
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 27
Photo prompt: origin unknown

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.
_________
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...
_________
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

Sparks

Sparks fly as the lamp meets the floor. The preternatural surviving light casts up, not down. We disregard the glittering broken glass, our hunger seeking another shattering force in the cotton-muffled quiet.

We cleave ourselves like twin sets of inverted contrasting shades, poised before blending, paused but a moment, then stirred.

Your breasts are shadows engulfing my face as I search like a babe in the night to suckle. I feast rapaciously upon your inky skin as your nether-mouth makes its meal of my willing flesh.

Fingers clutch evening-ripe fruit as dusk-imbued thrusts churn our pleasure. Shadowed wine melds with savory meat, twain mixed into ebon-hued desserts of desire.

Our palms palpate shaded silk, tongues taste luscious lux, all racing toward a black hole limned by seconds between breaths. Benighted gasps delineate proximity with their ravening pace toward an unlit destination on a darkling horizon.

We launch ourselves finally into blinding honeyed light, an explosion within uniting us at the point where we become brightened breathless one.

Fed and sated, we descend as if from twilight clouds. Though separate once more, we are joined in the glistening darkness of completion where sweet sleep awaits our arrival at night-colored doors.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 38 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: sparks

Pearl Necklace

They replaced recollections of a food-poisoned wedding night with a do-over: fine dining dressed in wedding attire, a limo ride home.

Tonight he carried her across the threshold instead of joining her at the hospital.

They were needy after recovery, work, and celebratory preparations. By the time he kicked the door closed behind them, they wanted each other—immediately.

She clutched at him, afraid to be parted again, her hunger urging her on.

Her dress fell away as he clawed at her fastenings. No fancy corset this time; she learned the hard way it meant little. In his desperate scrabbling to bare her flesh, he broke her pearl necklace.

“So sorr—”

“No. Don’t apologize.” She pressed her lips to his to stop his words, stepping out of the gown to kneel down upon it.

“But—”

She stopped his words again, with her warm, eager mouth, working his turgid member with her lips and tongue in rapid strokes.

“Love, I’m so close—”

She pulled away, using her hands to finish him. looking into his desire-heavy eyes as he moaned through his release.

“There. A new necklace.” She smiled, craning her neck to the side, to show her now-relaxed husband her handiwork.

________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse Words: 199 Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 37 via Rebecca Grace Allen Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: pearl necklace