Three's Company
More Flash Fiction came in last week. Aplogies to the authors for posting them up so late. It's been a crazy week! So here are delicious little bites by Thaatchaayini, Jane Sunshine and Rafleesia. Oh, and the title of Jane's piece is named 'Untitled' because it doesn't have a title. :)
Smitha
By Thaatchaayini Kananatu
She stood in front of him, a golden goddess - shapely like a curvaceous Sarawakian clay vase, skin as creamy as rich coconut sweets - draped in delicate lavender silk. Her almond eyes watched him as he writhed nervously. With each flutter of her wing-like lashes, his heart skipped many beats.
Mesmerized by the sparkly diamond between her brows, matched only by green emerald pupils, Joe stood in a trance. She soothed him with Arabic prose. He eased. Her ebony hair flowed like a luxurious horsetail as she swooshed around the room like a fleeting nymph. On her silky drape, tiny mirrors shimmered like an embroidery of prism-dreams.
He garnered his scattered courage and reached out with trembling masculine arms, a sacred ochre string coiled around his wrist. Gingerly stroking her arms and holding her petite waist kindly, he whispered.
“Smitha.”
Somewhere, a mellow music played - embraced with the lament of violins and soft beats of a drum. Suddenly gaining momentum, staccatos becoming louder and obnoxious, graduating into accelerated drumbeats pounding like wild African tribes. Then, a rough mannish voice echoing.
“Joe!”
Smitha’s slender waist dissolved into a humid incense-filled smoke and reappeared a sari-clad tree trunk. Her smooth youthful face transformed into a wrinkled turmeric-yellow facade with an enormous red spot on a crinkled forehead. Her heavenly arms no longer draped around Joe’s neck like a luscious scarf; instead flabby short arms waved at him.
Joe shrieked like a sacrificial goat at a Kali temple.
“Do you know what the time is?” yelled the irate face.
Joe – trembling with aftershocks – opened his eyes wide to the rude awakening.
“Breakfast is ready,” said Joe’s mother.
As she closed the door behind her, a luscious figure reappeared. Smitha – flat - on a movie poster.
Untitled
By Jane Sunshine
By evening, she was in love again. Not quite but mostly yes. Let us meet all over again, she must tell him. The planets would have moved to new astrological signs and may bode better things for their destinies. Surely time will pocket the aching residue of all the bruises? She sat waiting.
He was tired. Striding up her limbs, he groped with clumsy familiarity. The cold beer and tobacco slithered down her spine as the lazy sensitivities of her skin stirred.
In a few hours, she will open the front door for the morning newspaper and start breakfast.
Mary Jane’s Shoes
By Rafleesia
Her red, red hair trailed behind her like the coloured streamers of a pom pom in mid celebration. She flew higher into the air. Up, up, up, the swing carried her.
Shrieks of laughter erupted as her white chubby thighs wobbled, her polka dotted skirt flapping up and down in sync with the motion of the swing. Shoes were kicked off gaily in upswing - red little jellies that sparkled like rubies in the sun landing at the edge of the garden where the mowed lawn ended and the great redwoods began.
She leaned her weight back so that her hair swept the ground like a broom. Knuckles white as she clutched the yellow painted metal chain that kept her head from scraping the bottom.
“Mommy! Mommy”, she laughed “Look at me!”
“Mary Jane!” Mommy answered from inside the candy-blue house. “Come in and wash your hands at once!”
Mary Jane, obedient to the very fibre of the silk ribbons in her hair waited slowly for the swing to slow its dance and before she herself danced into the house. Humming Pat A Cake as she went.
From beyond the trees, it watched silently with ragged breath. For that was what it had become. The soil underneath escaping with each rushed exhale.
It watched as the noises from the house receded, as Mary Jane washed her snowy white hands under the dripping tap in the bathroom at the front of the house. It reached out for the left sandal and slowly pulled it into the woods.
“Mary Jane! Where are your shoes?”
Mommy’s holler rang out loud and clear in the open as white fluffy slippers shuffled around the slabs that held the swing in place.
Mutterings and a big sigh and Mommy disappeared into the house again. Mission unaccomplished.
The house fell silent again. A cloven hoof closed over the right shoe and pulled it into the ominous blackness, its pink laces clutching desperately at each blade of grass as it trailed past in graceful finale.
Smitha
By Thaatchaayini Kananatu
She stood in front of him, a golden goddess - shapely like a curvaceous Sarawakian clay vase, skin as creamy as rich coconut sweets - draped in delicate lavender silk. Her almond eyes watched him as he writhed nervously. With each flutter of her wing-like lashes, his heart skipped many beats.
Mesmerized by the sparkly diamond between her brows, matched only by green emerald pupils, Joe stood in a trance. She soothed him with Arabic prose. He eased. Her ebony hair flowed like a luxurious horsetail as she swooshed around the room like a fleeting nymph. On her silky drape, tiny mirrors shimmered like an embroidery of prism-dreams.
He garnered his scattered courage and reached out with trembling masculine arms, a sacred ochre string coiled around his wrist. Gingerly stroking her arms and holding her petite waist kindly, he whispered.
“Smitha.”
Somewhere, a mellow music played - embraced with the lament of violins and soft beats of a drum. Suddenly gaining momentum, staccatos becoming louder and obnoxious, graduating into accelerated drumbeats pounding like wild African tribes. Then, a rough mannish voice echoing.
“Joe!”
Smitha’s slender waist dissolved into a humid incense-filled smoke and reappeared a sari-clad tree trunk. Her smooth youthful face transformed into a wrinkled turmeric-yellow facade with an enormous red spot on a crinkled forehead. Her heavenly arms no longer draped around Joe’s neck like a luscious scarf; instead flabby short arms waved at him.
Joe shrieked like a sacrificial goat at a Kali temple.
“Do you know what the time is?” yelled the irate face.
Joe – trembling with aftershocks – opened his eyes wide to the rude awakening.
“Breakfast is ready,” said Joe’s mother.
As she closed the door behind her, a luscious figure reappeared. Smitha – flat - on a movie poster.
Untitled
By Jane Sunshine
By evening, she was in love again. Not quite but mostly yes. Let us meet all over again, she must tell him. The planets would have moved to new astrological signs and may bode better things for their destinies. Surely time will pocket the aching residue of all the bruises? She sat waiting.
He was tired. Striding up her limbs, he groped with clumsy familiarity. The cold beer and tobacco slithered down her spine as the lazy sensitivities of her skin stirred.
In a few hours, she will open the front door for the morning newspaper and start breakfast.
Mary Jane’s Shoes
By Rafleesia
Her red, red hair trailed behind her like the coloured streamers of a pom pom in mid celebration. She flew higher into the air. Up, up, up, the swing carried her.
Shrieks of laughter erupted as her white chubby thighs wobbled, her polka dotted skirt flapping up and down in sync with the motion of the swing. Shoes were kicked off gaily in upswing - red little jellies that sparkled like rubies in the sun landing at the edge of the garden where the mowed lawn ended and the great redwoods began.
She leaned her weight back so that her hair swept the ground like a broom. Knuckles white as she clutched the yellow painted metal chain that kept her head from scraping the bottom.
“Mommy! Mommy”, she laughed “Look at me!”
“Mary Jane!” Mommy answered from inside the candy-blue house. “Come in and wash your hands at once!”
Mary Jane, obedient to the very fibre of the silk ribbons in her hair waited slowly for the swing to slow its dance and before she herself danced into the house. Humming Pat A Cake as she went.
From beyond the trees, it watched silently with ragged breath. For that was what it had become. The soil underneath escaping with each rushed exhale.
It watched as the noises from the house receded, as Mary Jane washed her snowy white hands under the dripping tap in the bathroom at the front of the house. It reached out for the left sandal and slowly pulled it into the woods.
“Mary Jane! Where are your shoes?”
Mommy’s holler rang out loud and clear in the open as white fluffy slippers shuffled around the slabs that held the swing in place.
Mutterings and a big sigh and Mommy disappeared into the house again. Mission unaccomplished.
The house fell silent again. A cloven hoof closed over the right shoe and pulled it into the ominous blackness, its pink laces clutching desperately at each blade of grass as it trailed past in graceful finale.
posted by starlight at 10:17 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home