Archive | December, 2010

BLIGHTY-FLASHFICTION

19 Dec

BLIGHTY

C.R.JAMES 2010

 

          “Seems like a hundred years ago now, running down the High street with the rest of the lads, leap-frogging our way down to the recruiters station. The excitement and sense of impending adventure defining our life’s purpose. I remember men and women standing in the streets cheering, waving their miniature Union Jacks, every one a brother. There were no strangers in the town that day, everybody knew somebody who was joining up, or someone who had already joined; the king’s shilling making kith and kin of us all. But that was back then, back home in Blighty. That was when we were just playing at war, rehearsing at being soldiers, perfecting our bayonet lunges, parodying pain.”

          The shell arced across no-mans-land, high above the wire and into the sky, exploding above the trenches and drenching the subterranean world of the trench fighters in cold green light. Men shielded their eyes, putting a hand over one to protect their night vision, the way they had been taught at the depot, before shipping out to France.

           “God, how we used to complain. The sergeant had been right, we never had it so bloody good. The whining was never ending; the beds were either too hard, the food rotten, liberty on Fridays nights too short, the cost of a pint and the effort it took to kiss the pretty girls too much. Everything was a chore, an effort, everything took too bloody long. Life was for living and we were ready to live in the here and now, not the bloody future, not tomorrow, but now! We were ready; ready to shed our boyish ways and take up our manly responsibilities. Too eager by far to enjoy the warm beer at the bars, the frantic clinches in dark alleys, the jangle of shillings in our pockets; looking back of course it don’t seem so bad!

.

          The flare dangled in the sky, the dark trail of smoke clearly visible against its luminescence, drifting slowly to the ground, slipping through the air on the tiny parachute holding it aloft. As the flare fell the shadows became longer, the largess of no mans land reduced to pockets of pooled light and deep shadows. The flare fizzed as it extinguished itself in the puddled morass, the light still visible to the cycloptic watchers, the image burned deep into their retina.

         “But that was then, a  lifetime ago when basic training had been a game and Army issued passes meant weekend freedom; steam trains to distant nowheres to see friends and family before the great leap forward into France. God, that train took forever; stopping at every cattle call and whistle stop along the way! Took an age to cover the fifty miles from camp back to our village. We would play cards or chat up one of the lasses, anything to kill the boredom. Manys the time we would get off the train with a couple of extra quid in our pocket, lady luck having flashed her lovely smile. Wasn’t always the case though, and sometimes you would have to borrow a couple of shillings from father till payday with some old flannel about paying him back later.”

 

          Men who had remained still when the flare hung high began to move around the trench. It was dangerous to move about when the flares were lit, the briefest of movements eliciting the whine of bullets from the darkness beyond. Time had slowed down, life had come to a mud sucking halt, the joy of spring recruitment, now dead and buried in the fields of France. The young who had given up their youth, shambling like old ragged beggars as they shuffled out their existence in the shit where a day could last a week, a minute an entire lifetime.

          “You know what? Right now I could really go for a pint of warm beer. I often find myself between attacks and barrages sitting on that train, in my imagination of course…, back to our village, hoping that the journey back home takes just a little longer. Lounging back on those big horse hair cushions, no longer wishing life away, just enjoying the slow pull and push of steam, the corn in the fields, the smiles of the pretty girls.”

          Somewhere in the distance an anonymous machine gun opens up, the mechanical chatter sowing death and injury on a random trench filled with unknown faces. The bullets splashing mud and blood, the dead and dying dropping to the floor, the taste of muck in mouths, the smell of cordite in nostrils. Arse-clenching- piss-yourself-fear seizing those still able to remember better days.

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FEMME FATALE-FLASH FICTION

19 Dec

FEMME FATALE

Colin.r.james 2010

 

The cloud of hairspray mingled with the residual steam from the shower and condensed on the bathroom cabinet; the specter of passion red lips barely perceptible through the hand smeared glass. An aroma of expensive soap and beyond-advertized-expectation perfume hung in the air, energizing the senses, promising an evening of as yet unrequited pleasure.

The bedroom was lit with candles, incense and possibility. Although crumpled, the bed served adequately to showcase the little black dress, the seamed sheer stockings, six inch heels and silver necklace. Everything had been laid out perfectly in preparation of the evening to come. Mirrors had been flirted with, a fashion show of dresses and skirts paraded in front of its unforgiving eye. Backwards glances had been cast to judge figure hugging lingerie and long lacquered nails had fumbled with leather straps and dithered over ridiculously small jewelry clasps.

Finally a decision had been made, not that the decision couldn’t be altered and prerogative exercised! After the requisite amount of indecision over neckline and hem, there was just time enough for the necessary preening. The act before the act, the scene setting and chorus of a dance hall diva.

The dance had been announced weeks before. A new club, advertized in bold text and garish colors, was opening up in the high street and was the talk of the town. There hadn’t been a dance club since the Roxy had been burned down back in ‘76. Promises of chandeliered excellence and champagne decadence; finally somewhere to exercise permissive social intercourse and showcase ones inner celebrity.

 

 

The invitation had been accepted and the date finalized. After a week of furtive telephone conversations and car-parked rendezvous the mettle had been struck, the decision to go hammered out and carved in stone. Excitement had filled the days leading up to the Friday in question. An auspicious occasion at the end of any working week, however on this particular week, a scarlet lettered day indeed.

Plucked, preened shaved and quaffed the flower of womanhood stared back from the looking glass. Dark charcoaled eyes and rouged cheeks simpered back from behind caged lashes; Mary Kayed perfection with a hint of Avon class! Still glowing from the warmth of the shower, the touch of silk stockings against freshly shaved legs was electric. The rustle of the dress as it draped down over designer store panties; the cotton hem brushing naked thighs, circumferenced by fish-netted elegance. A Friday night princess in all but name, but a Friday night princess just the same.

Above the sound of the record player, the doorbell clarioned its impatient demand. A deft flick of the curtain revealed a shadowy figure outside the front door; smoke rising up from orange embers. The lights from the still running car were reflected in the rain puddled street, the exhaust gasses cascading across the cobbles, misting the road.

 It was time.

A week’s worth of trepidation expired; the moment was here, the moment was now. Turning back one last time to view his sleek silhouette in the mirror he smiled satisfied. This was going to be a night to remember.

The weather outside is frightful…..

14 Dec

 

Peter regretted the cold dip and the fact that his penis was gone forever….

 

The pounding of nails being hammered into wood is deafening as is the crash of shuttering windows and slamming doors. People run through streets dragging young children and infirm relatives behind them. Tasks of great importance go untended, and public works projects sit idle at the impending news.

¡Los ingleses vienen, los ingleses vienen! (gracias Paul!!)

That’s right the James family is going to San Diego!

Four days of sun, sand, and whatever else they have that begins with the letter S; plus all the other letters in between for that matter. A welcome break from the tropical heat of Phoenix, a sweet release from the burgeoning temperatures of mid-December sun shine. Whilst England struggles through the worst snow storm for decades and people croak shoveling snow in the mid-west, we continue to bask in sub-tropical temperatures. Some would say we have it made although to be honest here in Arizona we have to endure hardships too! The pool for instance is a little frosty and so there’s no swimming until at least the month of May. Who wants to jump into pool water that is less than 80C? To add to this we can no longer sit comfortably outside of an evening and are forced to wear a minimum of two t-shirts and possibly two socks as well. The number is of course arbitrary and dependent upon the fortitude of the individual concerned.

 Roger and Sebastian agreed there was nothing quite like snow-balls

 

Britain is expecting another eight inches of snow, plus sub-zero temperatures for the foreseeable future. Although potentially disastrous, one has to take into account the veracityof the British Meteorological Institute, and so realistically they are probably in for balmy weather with sunny showers! The last time they predicted the weather correctly was when they accidentally called for light rain just before Noah launched his ark. Although not indifferent to the freezing European temperatures, I am more concerned with the strength of the morning sun and adjust my shades accordingly. What is really alarming are the predicted deaths. Thousands of people are expected to perish during the coming cold snap, Siberian winter , ice age; choose your terminology. Britain hasn’t been this cold since the earlier 1960s and to be honest I am struggling to melt the icicles around my own heart so I can feel pity.

Tommy and Susan found out the  hard way that super-gluing their hands to the car was not as funny as it had first seemed…. 

 

Even now as I misspell, people are laying prostrate on beaches in California complaining that their drinks aren’t cold enough and that the ice is melting to0 quickly in their cocktails. Blazing sunshine is beating down on solar worshippers, blistering their bums and irradiating their flesh. Sounds like heaven to me. If there is a god then he is currently wintering in the south west of the U.S.

Spoke to relatives back home in England the other day that daren’t go out for fear of falling and breaking wind, a hip, or some other appendage. Cars remain locked in garages as snow is something that the islanders have never had to deal with in the past and so the notion of snow tires has never crossed their frost bitten minds. Although Christmas card idyllic, memories of Christmases of long, long ago are coming home to roost; a classic case of being careful for what you wish. The winter bitch-fest decrying the lack of snow at Christmas and the abject detestation of cold grey December days is a distant memory. Well there it is people! Fill thy boots with holly and race naked through the snow. Make hay while the sun doesn’t shine or something to that effect.

Upon emerging Pedro realized that they had dug the drugs tunnel a little too far…

 

I love reading the comments in the Daily Mail (the non-thinking man’s newspaper. www.dailymail.co.uk) from people who survived whichever catastrophe de jour that is being reported. The people who remember walking up hill to and from school in shoes made from barbed wire in total blackness in the middle of the day. True stories if you choose to believe the swarthy veterans who remember when it was colder than a witch’s tit, when the frost was emasculating brass monkeys and water was as hard as made in china steel. Invaluable advise such as wearing socks over your shoes to protect you from the elements , covering your body in whale grease to ward of the cold. I can just see myself headed off to Walgreens for a liter of whale grease and a pound of blubber; but there again maybe not.

The house-wife down hill ironing board olympic event was a huge success…

The BBC recycles useless information on how to survive the Blitz, cold, global warming, influx of Poles. (Check as appropriate.)Nameless faces quote auto queues in the hope of informing their frozen public.

And here is the weather for the next 24 hours…..

Lashings of snow and subzero temperatures are expected throughout the U.K, accompanied by freezing seas and searing Siberian winds. The public are advised to burn supplementary relatives and everything else they hold dear in order to keep warm. Citizens of Britain should be aware of falling frozen birds, and homeless people; who may be considered trip hazards once they freeze inside their plastic blankets. The government advises a stiff upper lip, some good old fashioned Britishness , a round of cheery war time music, and to remain calm when the air raid siren sounds.

We never had it so good.

 Bollocks!

Helsinki suffers this kind of weather every single year and yet the roads remain open, the airports fit for traffic and their public safe; a simple case of investing in what’s necessary. Funnily enough Finland doesn’t have any aircraft carrier groups, a nuclear deterrent or financial malfeasance. What is does have are some of the best schools, medical facilities and social services anywhere in the world.

“Yes but they’re socialists!” I hear you cry. “They’re taxed to high heaven and their government is in charge of everything.”

 Not so much when you consider that we have a situation in England where no matter what we vote for our choices have already been made for us. Another war of Empirical conquest or a system which actually produces satisfied citizens and snow free roads; so hard to choose!

 Svetlana’s  poor command of English had taken the ice-ho in ice-hockey to a different level…

 

I dither over my choice of shorts as no doubt being in San Diego for a couple of days I will have to fit in with the locals. Dark glasses, sombrero hast, Spanish accent and open toe sandals. Not a jar of whale grease in site.

 I am ready. San Diego lock up your bier kellers!

WHY SO SERIOUS….

13 Dec

TheJoker was finding the concept of Texas-hold-em perplexing…

 

The new faces wander into the factory, the glazed look of apprehension obvious behind safety-glassed eyes; expectation, trepidation etched on their foreheads. Some of them have waited for over a year to regain the status of working class, as opposed to the ignominious title of former employee of XYZ Corporation. Fortune has smiled on these lucky souls, who can now put away their bonbons, turn off the day time television and return to the world of work. The economy is down, the outlook is bleak, but at least for the moment they have pay checks. Handed a fresh ladder to climb the dizzying heights of professional success, they are eager to fulfill their contracts and appease their new masters

With the ailing economy many companies  closed their doors, turned off the power and silenced the machines. The profits being made, although listed in the billions of dollars, wasn’t enough to hold them open. The profit margined gluttony, all too thinly crayoned on wafer-thin balance sheets was a disappointment to both investors and corporate officers. The shrill clarions call for, bigger, better, and faster, still echoing in the empty spaces where men used to work.

The boys at the soup kitchen prayed it wouldn’t be chicken again….. 

 

“We need twice as much as yesterday, and half as much again tomorrow, shoulders to the wheel, noses to the grindstone, everybody pulling in the same direction…..”

Corporate greed is the name of the beast that is not only killing America but is strangling the international community and choking the global engine. Jobs which supported families and paid for American dreams shipped abroad, so that strangers in foreign lands, working  for a couple of dollars less, could profit from the new factories growing up in their once pristine back yards.

Globalism at the end of the street; who could have thunk it?

 

The new company car was proving a bitch to handle through the corners… 

 

As the workers of the 21st Century close the door on their new houses, step into their fresh-from-the-garage automobiles, and drink the $5 dollar coffee that used to cost 30 cents, they thank their traditional deities and think no more about it. After all aren’t they deserving, aren’t they blessed, aren’t they the chosen ones? Opening their own doors to a sleaker, sexier, brighter futures they unwittingly slam the door in the faces of what used to be great industrial nations. Lands of milk and honey where everything was possible; where stamped in America, made in England, Detroit Diesel and Sheffield Steel meant something. No longer comrades; the clouds of austerity are upon us.

 Ben had chosen to ignore the shouts of “Get a room!”

 

We see the houses in our streets with for sale signs, overgrown with weeds. Furniture which used to be cherished and dusted on a regular basis standing in deserted driveways. Bright shiny fabrics and gleaming not-made-in-this-country alloys tarnished and fading in the Arizona sun. Whole neighborhoods where nobody lives, where countless homes stand empty; an abandoned city stranded on an island of unemployment and Governmental apathy.

“Well if you don’t like it you can write to your representative, your member of parliament, your President or your Prime Minister!” Forlorn words addressed and mailed in tear stained envelopes, paid for with stamps bearing American flags and Queens’s heads; emblems of empire and Postindustrial greatness. The worker may be down but he certainly isn’t out. The pride which used to have us congregating in the street with our flags, standing up when they played the national anthem, clutching our hearts when they raised the flag is still there.

 

 So what to do? Accumulate more guns; buy more ammunition and bigger safes from Costco to store them in? Stock up on food supplies for the day we hope will never come? Sit around in groups and discuss the obvious which appears to be patently unobvious to the oblivious who walk amongst us?

We few, we brave few, we band of brothers?

Like a movement of troops through a First World War trench I see the new faces, shake their hands and forget their names. A fresh infusion of blood, more fodder for the guns. Extra bodies to support capital investment, insuring that this year will be better than the last; our best year ever!  New attendees for weekly meetings for the exposition of ever ascending graphs and the extension of  corporate handshakes; cost, availability, yields and productivity, synonyms for corporate hegemony. 

The new faces take their place among the old, and we idle in our own thoughts. We remember the names of colleagues past and rejoice in their memory. At the same time accepting the changing of the guard, the influx of new recruits; food for powder!

The lights of the I-10 whizz past me as I proceed on my journey home, random thoughts racing through my head after another day in the bowels of the corporate machine. Like stokers aboard the R.M.S TITANIC, shoveling coal from bin to bin, we struggle to insure that the fires of corporate avarice burn ever brighter. Just one more shovelful will be enough comrades, just one more shovel…..

Bill’s final wish of being buried in his favorite train was proving troublesome….

It’s all Greek to me…

12 Dec

 

After White Christmas Bing decided to do the politically correct thing….

 

Back in the car and racing to work its sing-along-a-Bing-time! Christmas songs of Christmases past assault my ears as I concentrate on getting there in one piece. Last night was a fantastic. Good food, good beer and excellent company. Stuffed to the gills with Greek fare I involuntarily gurgle and pop as my stomach sloshes to the after effects of last night’s liquid refreshment. Got to love Bing Crosby, as despite the years he’s still hanging in there. Of course David Bowie helped a little; immortalizing him in The Little Drummer Boy video back in the dark days of the 1980’s, but for a balding, cardigan wearing, pipe smoking, dead guy it’s amazing how popular he still is….although peculiarly only around this time of year.

The Greek restaurant we go to  is always frequented by dead beats. Good for nothing seniors in their 60’s and 70s with their cropped grey hair and their slightly sweaty designer golf clothes. Hanging around on golfing greens and the corners of bars with their work shy cohorts, idling their time away whilst the rest of us slave our arses off trying to scratch a crust. It’s aright for them living out their twilight years in luxury retirement communities playing with their balls all day and chasing septuagenarian tail. What kinds of example are they giving to contemporary youth with their devil may care attitudes and their flippant diversions? One would think at their age they would know a little better. Clearly their slip into recitative delinquency is what is helping to drive the economic malaise.

Bored with naked-scrabble, the coffin dodgers decided to run a train on old Ma Johnson! 

Bing breaks into melodious whistling which I try to emulate unsuccessfully, managing instead to spill my coffee and soak the inside of the wind screen with spittle. Now I can no longer see the road as it’s like driving through a rain storm, and my crotch is on fire from the burning liquid. I never thought that Bing would be able to reach the parts that other crooners have never reached. I glow in all the wrong places and reflect on my growing fondness for the man. I forget the whistling and decide to hum along instead. Seems like a safer bet;  as evidenced by the darkening stain on my trousers, the danger has passed.

 

Clearly the operation to rectify Charlene’s hair-lip had not been a success…

 

Yesterday morning I did a window cleaning Job for another one of society’s malingerers. Some retired guy with nothing better to do than start a relationship with a younger working woman. Of all the nerve; talk about slapping the world in the face with a wet sloth! All of these unemployable previously employed just sitting around at home hooking up over the internet; posting their pics, show casing their best side, carefully cropping out walkers and wheel chairs. With re-trodden mouths, updated hairlines and the addition of Viagra and vitamin supplements some of these Lotharios are twice the men they once were.

Although Dorris looked great with her new dentures in, Dan couldn’t take his eyes off her bazooms….

 

The customer had the audacity to brag about his involvement in a gambling ring. How twice a week he sets up tables at diverse locations to tempt invited guests into enjoying a game of cards or a spin of the wheel; the slippery slope to addiction, only one red or black square away. Clearly there is some kind of unsavory shadow network operating from behind the gates of retirement communities all across Phoenix. Bands of aged delinquents forming companies; hiring themselves out for Casino nights at corporate get- too-gethers. Not satisfied with just sitting at home and enjoying their retirement they have to force themselves on the still slaving masses with their financially profitable scams. Continuing to function as useful members of society whilst supplementing their nest eggs and feathering their fixed incomes.

 

Back in the early days Bing sucked pipe for wooden nickles…..

Finally Bing shuts up, but not without one final plaintive whistle. My crotch is now growing cold and I yearn for the Christmases of yore and a seat near the fire; spilled coffee and soaked blue jeans are not exactly the sticky and sweet I enjoy. Destination reached and car parked, I step out of the vehicle only to have the icy Arizonan wind whip through my nether regions, quickly transforming them into polar regions. I head for the entrance looking like an incontinent zombie, dreaming of the day when I too will be a corrupter of youth; wasting my time playing in the sun and drinking the cellars of the world dry. Jealousy is a terrible thing and I have retirement envy burning through my veins as I reflect on the week ahead. Uninvited, Bing pops back into my head,however I quickly resign the old bastard to the wheelie bin of subconscious. Last thing I need at this time of the morning is some happy-go-lucky senior citizen telling me how good life can be.

And years to go before I sleep……

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH….

8 Dec

 

True to his lyrics Mr.Ferry was a jealous bitch….

  

I’m not a bitter man and unlike Mr. Ferry I am not a jealous guy. I can live my life without the interference of others and without interfering with them. It’s just that sometimes when the pressure is on and we forget who we really are, cruel Mother Nature plays her tricks and instinct kicks in. Simply put, I am just a simple soul living a peaceful life with no thought given to anyone except myself and my family. Why then is it that time and again my mortal meanderings are so rudely interrupted? Be it in the car, at the supermarket, while waiting in line for a book of stamps. Random acts of thoughtless self-enrichment by complete strangers whilst fulfilling quotidian acts.

 

Did I mention my wife does Yoda? 

 

Yoda’s multi colored pole was popular with the ladies…

Anyway back to the original train of thought. COSTCO, that battlefield of life, that Serengeti of modern American living, where one has to struggle through the corpulent, the obese and the gargantuan, is a good example of what I am talking about. An ensemble of mountainous starving flesh, congregated by the watering holes of consumerism; hundreds of pounds of quivering mass, herded together around the freebee stations. Not content with a month’s worth of cheese in their shopping carts and enough pinto beans to feed a small South American republic they desire more, and are prepared to do whatever it takes to get it. Never was so much consumed by so few to the aghast of so many!

 (Sounds like a Winston Churchill speech!!)

It must be the essence of beans or the whiff of bacon which first startles the herd and sends them romping off to some distant corner of the store to consume whatever it is that needs to be consumed. It’s certainly not the mating instinct as the dolly birds who give away the tasty teasers, who are at least in their early sixties, are hardly in prime condition to help proliferate the species. Like a BBC nature program one can watch the flock fall and swoop as it homes in on latitudes more advantageous to life. Clearly it is the feeding frenzy and the herd mentality which are to blame, causing them to forget their civilized precepts, despite their better instincts, to do what it is they do.

After three hams, a field of potatos and several oxen; Janet still had room for ice cream.

 

Did I mention that this Yoda chap likes different positions? Sounds to me like he’s an accomplished lover as some of them appear to be quite complicated. In fact strenuous to the degree that they take years of practice to perfect. I am therefore forced to accept that my wife’s philanderings may endure for some time.

It’s the same COSTCO mentality that one sees on the I-10. For mile after mile warnings for lane closure or traffic diversion are clearly visible; red and white barriers that effectively constrict the roads, forcing the traffic closer together and so enabling the commute. Cops stationed at every intersection, flashing red and blue lights helping to guide us safely home. A fairly simple case of traffic control and yet there is always one of those COSTCO bastards that’s cocks it up for everybody else!

Blinded by their sense of self-worth, and possibly even by their urge to return to COSTCO in the off chance that they are giving away Hanukkah hams, they wait until the last second to pull into the only available lane. You’ve seen them; always at the very end of the line, their indicators flashing, the pleading puppy dogs looks in their eyes. “Please, please let me in. I have to get home to my loving fat bastard of a husband and my starving sub-Saharan children.”

Since his divorce Mr. Yamamoto had discovered that his weekly shopping had decreased significantly…

Well screw them and their wilder beast mentality, I will not be moved. No matter how far you edge your SUV into my line I will not yield. Us Brits are made of stronger stuff! Did we not endure forty years of Nazi bombing, Viking naval attacks, a plague of Poles and Sir Paul McCartney? I swear to you on the death bed of my great Aunty George, placid as I am, I can only be pushed so far.

So Yoda, whom my wife apparently adores, has his own private studio, where she sneaks off to twice a week. It’s not the physical thing that bothers me, it’s the temerity of the little green wrinkly bastard demanding twelve dollars per session! I mean she is pretty bare faced about the whole thing. Dresses up in her leggings, and one of her little slinky sporty outfits. Grabs her water and her towel and then tells me she is in for a really hot session! The bare faced effrontery of it all! She can count herself lucky that it’s only six of the deadly sins I enjoy and not the seventh.

I’m stood in the aisles of Cosco looking through rack upon rack of tinned food. It’s as though the U.S.S Carl Vinson has just unloaded its disaster relief cargo and the survivors are stocking up before the aftershocks hit the city. Stood there with the family I see starving sumo wrestlers pushing frail octogenarians out of the way in order to grab the last five gallons of olive oil. (Double pack of course, because we are talking economic purchases. Your COSTCO shopper is a savvy shopper!)

 I see one of the afflicted heading towards me, determination set on his chubby face. There is only me and my cart between him and sixty cans of Chef Boyardee. Do I yield no, do I bend no, do I hold my hands up and quake in fear?  Never!

 

Luckily the Pilsbury dough-boy was still able to find employment after puberty..

 

 Using the skills I have honed on my multi-various journeys on the I-10 I hold my ground; gripping the handle of my cart firmly as I watch him huff and puff the final inches. His cart hits mine, and thanks to Newton’s third law, rebounds just as quickly. The cart hurtles back, his packet of 5000 fish sticks flies out of the trolley and lands on the floor next to his selection of 450 chicken pot pies. I stand tall and look down at my floored aggressor, gather my family around me and move on to the next aisle. Do not mess with a motorway veteran; you will lose every time.

Cuckolded by a small Martian from a galaxy far-far-away is one thing, but for her to lie to me about his name is another. All the signs are there, it’s obvious what’s going on, I am not blind! She begs and pleads with me but I do not relent. Yoda or Yoga; I don’t care to know what his name is!

 

 Even though she had conquered the complexities of Yoga, putting on her socks was still a problem…

 

I quite like the way my wife looks after one of those sweaty sessions and so I say do your worst Yoda, Yoga or whatever your name is? She might be yours for two hours a week but she knows which side her bread is buttered on.

 I laugh in your diminutive direction.

 What do you think you are going to achieve? I reap the benefits, while you my friend must endure those long lonely waiting hours praying for Wednesday and Friday to come around. You may impress her with your downward dog but lashings of savoir faire and an English accent will win out every time. No match for my Albion wit you are!

The girl is mine Yoda….the girl is mine.

Having spent weeks perfecting the letter A, Mary was a little worried about the letter Q…. 

Your daily dose of nastiness….

8 Dec

Check out the latest flash fiction story, NASTY.

You can find it under the FLASHFICTION header.

Enjoy.