The spoon dropped from my hand. “Is this a joke?” I ask.
“Joke would not be my word of choice… a whammy perhaps! Why, do you find it completely surprising?”
“Well, I kept trying to pacify myself that aloofness is an augury of boredom with the mundane. Was that illogical?”
“If you didn’t find the secret bank account and locked den ominous, then perhaps it was you who was not lucid through those years!”
I continued staring in incredulity at the photograph – My wife was leading the resistance.
Written to respond to Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #90 of a picture of a resistance, Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt, which is to write a story that contains or make reference to a joke of some kind, and a bunch of word prompts from The Daily Spur (photograph, illogical), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (pacify, ominous), Your Daily Word Prompt (choice, augury), Ragtag Daily Prompt (lucid, spoon), and Word of the Day Challenge (surprising).
Well, it’s obviously her, I’m not visually challenged, but she doesn’t look like her. She never used to laugh so much. She flicks her hair back giggling like a common harlot. That beautiful silky blond hair that I could still feel on my pillow. An egg blended with olive oil was how she nourished it. Disgusting weekly ritual that she would never stray from. Made the bathroom stink. No man wants to get back after a hard day’s work to that foul smell. Told her as much. She swore that she’d stopped, but I could always smell the rot.
A car whizzes by, and its light reflects off of her hair like a swath of fire. I quickly turn away, pulling my hat lower as I pretend to inspect the local merchandise. But I can’t look away for too long. My head starts buzzing and the speculation starts.
What does she see in him with his nifty clothes and fancy mop of hair? He sure doesn’t dress like an honest working man. One of those white-collar types, I suppose. Did she fuck him already? That’s all that he wants. That’s all they all want. Doesn’t she see it? How can she be so dumb! And the bitch takes out a restraining order on me. A man does not stalk his wife, he looks out for her. No damn piece of paper changes the fact that she’s my wife. Always was, always will be.
I note down his car number.
Written in response to Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge 89, using words from the prompts Word of the Day (stalk, order), Fandango’s One Word Challenge (merchandise), Your Daily Word Prompt (speculation), The Daily Spur (fire) and RagTag Daily Prompt (swath).
Have I heard the rumors? Of course. Do I believe them? Certainly not!
Forests dont comes alive at night!
If you ask me, it’s probably a rumour started and perpetuated by people looking to use the place for their own nefarious purposes. Now I’m told that there is a budding satanic cult that has started worshiping what they have nicknamed “The Fertility Trees.” Reviving some pagan rituals to con the increasing number of childless couples. “But you have to make them an offering that pleases them, else they will suck you in.” Last week a young couple was spotted going into the forest and were never seen again. The trees got them, was the deduction. Their families got together and spewed asinine vitriol at the forest and the cult.
My curiosity is piqued. It’s past midnight when I reach the famous trees.
As I shine my torch’s light upon them, I have to admit that they look rather fascinating… like a pair of erotic dancers in a film noir. There is nothing menacing or satanic about them. Contrarily, it all feels rather amorous. Almost as if I am interrupting something. Like I shouldn’t even be here.
I am compelled to run my hands over the enticing bends and curves. Strange. It feels surprisingly smooth. And soft. Like a woman’s derriere. Warm even. Soft and warm. I feel a pulse. Like a heartbeat. Another pulse. The pulse travels all the way down to my groin. We pulse in unison. I move closer. Her warmth suffuses me. I close my eyes in sensual pleasure. I am ready…