Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – October 5, 2013

Theme / Genre: Cheese

Include: –

Words: 1,000

Social Media and
Cheese

I wait for the stragglers to fill the seats, chatting as
they arrive, carrying their pens and paper, some with coffee, some with a glass
of wine. The usual crowd are in, along
with some newer faces. Lilian sits with
the girls at the nearest table, all ready to heckle, given the chance. Theirs is a wine table.

Debbie’s aromatic herbal teas have attracted Bea and others to
the centre table. Ron, Ray and the other
lads are all sharing a joke at the back of the room. New faces introduce themselves to the regular
friendly bunch.

‘Good evening, everyone.
Shall we start,’ I stand and turn to my Smart Board.

‘Right you are, Prince Valiant.’

A name coined by Leelah, but it is Tonia who kicks off the
evening. Looks like it’s going to be a
fun night. Bringing up two graphic logos
that fill the screen, I turn to face the group.

‘Oh no,’ Etienne whispers, under his breath.

‘Facebook versus Twitter.’

The room falls silent for a second, as if all are hypnotised. A thorny subject, but as writers, another set
of tools that should be utilised. Some
do, some don’t, some don’t know how.

‘I love twitter,’ I begin.

‘I don’t understand it,’ says Sylvania. A feeling most of the group have; I need to
quash it.

‘That’s why I thought we could discuss it today; show you
what it’s all about, and how you can use it.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Neville’s voice, from the back.

So, how do I
explain this.

‘Right, first we have Facebook or as you guys say FB. I’ve recently gone back to FB, because most
of my new Autho friends hang out there. Although, I was really surprised nobody really
tweeted.’

‘FB is so much easier,’ Judith says.

‘Do you think so? Let
me try to explain.’

‘Simple terms please, no long wordage thingmees,’ Diane
adds.

‘Simple analogy, Cheese.’

The room falls silent, all but a whispering of “Cheese? Cheese?”.

‘Yep, cheese. Now
let’s get to the basic_’

‘In my state, Wisconsin, we are known as
“Cheeseheads”,’ Jed says.

‘Sweet dreams are made of cheese, …’

‘Thanks, Zap and Jed.
Let’s start with_’

‘From Abbaye de Belloc to Zanetti Parmigiano Reggiano there
are over 650 speciality cheeses from some 60 countries around the world you
know. I once attended a fascinating
lecture where tasting of the cheeses was paramount, really fascinating, and
tasty.’

‘Thanks, Bill, but I’m going to use only a few examples
today.’ Bill is a mindful of knowledge,
never fails to educate us all.

‘Some cheese, if you please, pretty please, some cheese,’ Shirley
narrates. ‘Have you any samples, Matt?’

‘No, I didn’t think we would_’

‘Cheddar Gorge’us,’ says Yvonne.

‘Yes, Jarlsberg, Quark, Camembert, many exist. Who here loves cheese, show hands, umm that’s
most I’d say. Well it’s like this,’ I
compose myself. ‘Facebook can be seen as
a mature blue-vein cheese, such as Stilton, whereas Twitter is a younger cheese
like, say, Feta.’

Peace, at last their all listening.

‘Stilton is a slower process, there’s no hurry, as FB. You post up some comments and people take their
time, comment or not, go back to their timeline in their own leisure, to check
out what friends have posted.

‘Feta is a faster
produced cheese, Twitter is quick. It’s
not what you’ve done; it’s what you’re doing, now. Don’t get me wrong, I like both these cheeses,
but at different times and in different ways, it’s the same with social media. The Stilton FB way is with a glass of wine,
feet up, a catch up with old friends.’

‘Glass of wine sounds good,’ Tonia says, looking around and
receiving nods of approval.

‘The Twitter Feta way is of the moment, see the latest news,
what people are doing, drop in, drop out.
Tweets are quick one-liners, you click through on links if you’re
interested, or let them pass by. As with
FB you can always go back, or revisit to see what friends had been doing.’

‘I think most are happy to stay with the wine,’ more nods of
approval.

‘Twitter tweets are snapshots, the crumbly bits, click
through to get to the bigger blocks. You
can tweet as much, or as little, as you like; no one will mind. What they will want is interest. The Twitter timeline is so quick, it’s just
as well tweets are short, but the advantage is that you can ignore the
uninteresting and they’re gone; hopefully replaced with something that is
interesting.’

‘Why are there so many tweets saying the same thing,’
Maurice asks.

‘Retweeting yours or other tweets has the same result as
bumping on Autho, where little crumbs of cheese are flicked around the globe at
different times, for those who may have missed out on the nibbles.’

‘There doesn’t seem much substance, are you saying they open
up more.’

‘Exactly, Scott. The
best part about Twitter is the wealth of information. Each tweet you send should have a hashtag
associated with it, for easy retrieval.
Like this,’ I face the Smart Board and write.

“See my latest #flashfiction #writing on the #authonomy
forum.”

‘From this tweet people will find it if they search for,
flashfiction, or writing, or authonomy.
Some people have a Twitter Client, which they use to read tweets, and
set it to find certain tags as they are typed, this means others can find you
without having to follow you. Following
is equivalent to FB friends, but a lot more open.’

‘But what do you do with followers?’

‘The more interesting your tweets the more followers you’ll
get, the more followers you get that are interested in what you tweet about, or
ultimately write, the more potential buyers you will have for any cheesy books
you may have the fortune to publish.’

Silence again.

‘Sorry, did I say something wrong!’

Next week: Emmental Swiss cheese – the one with the holes
– we will reference writing: what you should leave out.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 27, 2013

Theme / Genre: Free For All

(Do not) Include: just, know, one, eyes, time [see previous post]

Words: 1,000

Screwdriver

‘You see this face, remember this face.’

He made the “watching you” move made famous by Robert De
Niro, two fingers pointing to his own bloodshot eyeballs followed by the same
two fingers pointing at the camera.

‘I’m watching you, you realise that don’t you, start running
you little motherfucker, I’m coming to get…’

The camera kept rolling, both the interviewer and the
operator were delighted with the confrontational anger, but someone in the
studio pulled the shot and the rest of the interview never aired.

‘Why did you say that?
What are you going to do? You’ll
not bring our son back, you, stupid, stupid …’ Jill, unable to finish her
words, anguish and feelings of ruination forbade her.

‘No, maybe not, but they’ll be scared shitless that I could
possibly be mental enough to come and find them. They’ll be looking behind their back for the
rest of their lives,’ John’s irate manner showing his bitterness and hatred
towards his son’s murderer. ‘A warning. That’s more than Tim had. That bastard can live-on in fear, Tim can’t,
he’s dead?’

Jill began to sob again; she had not really stopped these
past few days. Their only son; taken
from them by some thug, a moron, whom the TV described as a young adult; not
much older than Tim. Young adult she
thought, what a joke, there was nothing adult about taking an innocent life.

Nonetheless, it was John that Jill’s attention turned to,
she could see his grief twisting him inside out, actions verging on the childish,
words of vengeance, and try as she might, she didn’t have the strength to fight
against him.

‘Your face on the TV, what’s stopping them coming to get
you, John, you hadn’t thought about that had you.’

‘Bring it on!’ he said, still defiant. ‘I need fresh air, a walk to the park.’

‘Be careful, John, don’t go looking for trouble.’

‘I’m only going for a walk.’

Pulling on his jacket, Jill could see that he was lost. He
grabbed his keys and mobile from the table and disappeared out the door without
a word.

She was right, he hadn’t thought about it, in the heat of
the moment he’d become far too emotional, but he had to say something. Police had little information about the boy
and the public had not come forward with any more help. What could he do? His mind mulled over what the inspector had
said to him following the TV interview.

‘Mr Giddings, do you mind if I have a word,’ he had
asked.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Mr Giddings, I understand that this has not been easy
for you, or your family. This is all
very emotional, of course, we understand that, but I have to caution you about
your behaviour. He had sounded quite
serious. ”We will let it go, but you
really can’t incite any violence, or take the matter into your own hands, Mr
Giddings. We have a team working around
the clock on this tragedy and we WILL get to the bottom of who murdered your
son.

It was small recompense, he’d thought.

The walk was unadventurous, or was it simply his state of
mind, only focused on some sort of vendetta.
What would he say to the boy should he meet him? Should he carry a weapon or something?

It was late, the park quite, a few dog walkers passed him,
and he barely acknowledged them; wrapped up in his own little world.

A twig cracked ahead of him, followed by rustling leaves and
a figure jumped out from the hedgerow.

‘Well, if isn’t the man from the TV.’

John looked around; they were alone.

‘What’d you say, “Run you little motherfucka,” or somethin’
like that.’

The boy was about nineteen, John guessed, he had a detached
demeanour, typical bully material. Dirty
jeans, leather jacket, and long limp hair to match. This is my son’s killer.

‘Well?’

John hadn’t been listening.

‘I said you’re the mofo and now I’m gonna stick you like I
done to your kid.’

There was something in the boy’s hand, metal.

‘A screwdriver, you killed my son with a screwdriver.’

‘Yeah, need to stick it harder, don’t ya.’

The boy lunged forward, John, caught sight of his diluted
drugged pupils, full of anger. The shank
of the tool was coming for him.

He side-stepped, a reflex action from learning self-defence
as a youngster, the boys arm passed by, John grabbed it and turned into
him. He forced the arm downwards, then
with clenched fist and a protruding joint of his middle finger he pressed hard
into the back of the lad’s hand. The
pressure grinding against the metacarpals, the boy released the screwdriver in
an instant. John pushed the arm away,
transfixed he picked up his son’s murder weapon.

The moment’s lack of concentration allowed the boy to trip
John up, sending him over, off the path and onto the dry sun-scorched grass.

‘You cheeky old git,’ the boy now towered down at him. John
caught off guard, laid in a defenceless position and was unable to stop the
sudden kick placed right into his face.
A crack and his whole body arced backwards, in shocking pain, nose
cracked, he felt the warmth of blood running down his face.

He turned to look at his attacker. The pain, anger, and
frustration flared up inside him, like a boxer’s fist he was up out of nowhere,
leaping at his laughing enemy, screwdriver in hand.

Surprised, but seemingly in control, the boy stepped back,
he knew from John’s position he would not reach far enough to do any damage.

John had a different idea, he thrust forward and with all
his might, the screwdriver came down hard, piercing the canvas of the boy’s
converse, straight through his foot, the rubber soul and four inches into the
hard ground beneath.

The boy yelped aloud.
Dogs barked. The boy wasn’t going
anywhere, John rested, took out his phone and called 999.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 20, 2013

Theme / Genre: Free For All

Include: –

Words: 703

The Battle of Trafalgar

The stripy black and white top with leather jeans
combination would attract anyone’s attention.
Sat at the counter in full view of other imbibers and smokers, one sees not
alone, another girl of similar age impinging her space.

The pair, perched atop of tall bar stools and chatting aloud
over the room’s din, nurse two glasses of white wine. At home in each other’s company, indirect
friends through a close relative, and neither suffering from a lack of
Blarney’s “gift of the gab”.

The future observer arrives, notices the stripes, and orders
a pint. Ensconced, away from the bar, in
an open people-watching corner table, one observes the new arrival, checking
his watch and sipping his pint, all whilst occasionally glancing over to the
two girls.

A shy character, long-haired and goatee adorned, with a
diffident manner, his body language betrays his lack of confidence. Yet, the little boy lost, is attractive to
some, and an appropriately placed barfly-on-the-wall would sense a certain female
interest growing in defence to a companion’s suggestion, and cajolement, for
other entertainment.

Another fidgety check of the watch, interpretively showing a
sign of disappointment, the desired impromptu meeting would not be happening; further
clarified by gulping the last dregs of a pint glass. Nevertheless, to leave when the hint of an
alternative dalliance could exist would be a loss and defeat by insecurity,
better to aim for more Dutch courage and purchase another beer.

Naturally, aware of each other’s presence, no eye contact occurs
at the bar. Returning for a few more
sips, the need to relieve the bladder follows, unsurprisingly, and the long
walk of shame from the solitary sitting position at an empty table for four is
inevitable.

The return walk is no better, perhaps worse as a passing
acquaintance acknowledges and confers with the loner, but neglects to make an invitation
to another table and therefore again left to one’s own devices.

Stranger things are afoot; both girls have taken residence at
the now half-full table for four.
Innocent expressions of mistaken appropriation of the seats lead to
first contact and conversation flows between the three, although it is the slim
striped girl in black leather that takes control; although blessed with
gorgeous emerald green eyes, one would fail to remember what the other girl was
wearing.

From solitude to threesome in the pull of a pint, close
attention is given, glances made and pleasantries forth come, however, all is
snatched away as alternative adventures await the couple and no sooner are
conversations struck-up, they dry-up as three becomes one again.

A visual happiness exudes from behind the facial hair, eyes
glisten with pleasure following the unlikely flirtation. Although, with it, signs of other extemporaneous
conversations are lost too, shyness and anxiety rear their ugly heads once more
and attention moves to another, last pint.

Not local to this den of iniquity, the head full of
starry-eyed dreams would surely return another day, perchance to meet again
with the mystery young women whom had seemed so naturally friendly. Now, however, it was time to dispense of the
visibly singular existence and drink up.

Three-quarters of a pint is the casual drinking time it
takes the entrance door to clatter open once more. It is also a sign for the single-man to make
tracks, and return to the single-bedroom flat above the off-licence. It is also the signal for the slender,
leather-clad legs to return, evidently under duress from the owner of the green
eyes, but content to play along.

Up until now – it would transpire later – the emeralds have
eyes for the goatee. Yet, despite this,
and with honest thoughts not to get involved, the leather bond is beginning to
tighten. The visual differences are obvious,
his unkempt hair versus her short trimmed bob, casual dress versus street-wear
with fashionable attitude. Connections
of chalk and cheese made through talking and listening, confident versus
self-doubt, but it works and it strengthens.

The corner table in The Battle of Trafalgar pub, with
hindsight, is set to become the talk of future dinner parties and tales for
young offspring. It projects an unforgettable
foundation stone, the beginnings of a long enduring relationship.

The rest is history.

FFF Words

FFF – September 20th, 2013

A regular thread on the Authonomy Forum is the regular Friday Flash Fiction thread, or the FFF, as fondly known.

Each week several authors pull their hair out whilst racking their brains thinking of a flash fiction piece, as instructed by the threads proprietor, Verse_Artiste, AKA Lilian, and all in 1,000 words or under.

This week there were nineteen entries in differing varieties of form and genre, as this week was a “Free For All” challenge. Congratulations go to Yvonne, for this weeks winning entry, as voted for by Authonomy members, “Song in the Key of F” on page six.

Intrigued with the words for this week, I copied and pasted all of the submitted stories from the thread into the Wordle website, the following image is the result. It shows the top 200 most popular words, as used by all the authors involved:

Top 200 Words

The largest shown are the most commonly used. There are also some good ol’ favourite characters in there: garbage-man, Billy, Lanette, Croc, Rutters, Masters, Bess, and so on.

However, which are the most popular words used this week?

The following image, using the same data, shows the top 5 most popular words:

Top 5 Words

Do you recognise any of them from your submission?

Are you guilty of using too many ones or justs?

What could you use to replace them?

Now, there’s an idea.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 13, 2013

Theme / Genre: –

Include: Nail polish, knife, tissues, shoebox, watch.

Words: 865

Left Behind

In the dim light you
stand at that the top of the stairs, looking down at him at the bottom, he does
not move. You know he’s not going to
move, you know the force that you thrust the knife into his body, there is no
way anyone would survive that, especially as he fell the full flight of stairs
with that heavy bag of his.

You remember the
noise.

It happened about
ten minutes ago and you have been standing there ever since, in the dark of the
night, just staring down at him, watching to see if he moves, he has not.

The noise he made as
he fell, you stabbed him, you pushed him, he fell, the noise.

Again, your eyes
stray from his body to look at the broken spindles that he crashed into. Poking out at differing angles onto the
stairs, some with dark blood markings, as the blade you are still holding. You feel the weight of it now in your right hand;
the knife is a good nine inches long and glistens with the man’s deep crimson
blood.

There is blood on
the stairs, from the knife, from where he fell, from where you pushed him.

The noise was loud,
his sudden unexpected screech, the cracking of timber, the cracking of bone; you
are sure it was bone. The way he is laying,
there, his arms and legs distorted, they must be broken.

That was the noise: fractures,
breaks.

You tighten the grip
of your left hand, without looking, you know it is still there, the
shoebox. He did not get his hands on it;
you did not let him.

He tried, but you
protected it, just as promised, just as always.
It is all you have left and he would have stolen it from you. He did not know about the knife, otherwise,
he would not have come. He did not know
what the box and its contents meant to you.

The man was a fool
to try.

Why do some people
think it is acceptable to take other peoples things, possessions, memories,
why? What would he have done with
them? Not sold them, he’d get nothing,
he wouldn’t know their history; given them to his girlfriend, unlikely, they
are so defaced and scarred; thrown them away, probably. It is no matter; he will not be coming to get
them now. They are safe.

The blade is
starting to shake now, only slightly, but you notice. You have not moved for nearly twenty minutes,
it is beginning to weigh you down. To
compensate, you clench both hands. The
guard of your Bowie knife pushes right into the flesh of your hand from the
force of the lunge you made. The card of
the shoebox is crumpling, as you tighten your grip.

The noise was loud,
even for that short time. The neighbours
must have heard something; heard his scream, or the sound of falling; the
splintering of wood; the cracking of a skull, his skull. Surely, someone heard. The tiled flooring to the hallway, did he
crack his head open? Did you crack his
head open?

Looking down to the
tiles, trying to see his head, you notice a faint blue light shining through
the glass of the front door; it’s flashing.
Brighter and brighter, the blue light grows. Flashing and flickering, it illuminates the
tiles with a depressing sapphire light.
A pool of dark, dark crimson, surrounds the head of the man, you can see
it now.

That was the noise.

Peering down again,
to the box this time, you smile; you know the watch and the two bottles are
safe; safe in your hands. There was no
way he was going to get them, and you made sure of that.

Why do thieves
presume they can just break-in and take anything they want? Why?

Protect them, that
is your job, and you have. You have
nothing to fear. If anyone asks they
will see you have done your job, you have protected the box and its delicate
contents.

Three things are inside
the box, cosseted in tissues to keep them safe and sound: a Longines watch, one
bottle of nail polish, and one of nail varnish.
You know why they are there. They
are all you have left of her. The last
things she touched.

An engraved watch you
gave for her twenty-first and miraculously a bottle of her favourite, although
unusual, green nail varnish, and polish.
All found in the carnage of Minoru Yamaski’s fallen World Trade
Centre towers. The wristwatch, separate
from the disintegrated and burnt make-up bag, however, both contained a clear
reference to your undying love, over a decade ago.

He would never get his hands on anything you knew that,
never. No one would.

Into the intense flashing blue light you gaze, it’s mesmerising
and soothing. There is a flickering shadow
approaching the door, it grows larger and your doorbell rings; a familiar
ring. He doesn’t hear it, the man at the
bottom of the stairs, but you do. A
second ring and you tighten your grip again.

They are safe. The
police will understand. You had to
protect them.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 6, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Internet

Include: –

Words: 998

The Scream

The night was humid and heavy; Laylah could not sleep. With sister sleeping over at a friend’s, and
parents at a party, due back in the early hours sometime, she didn’t know when,
she had the house to herself.

At sixteen, she was well able to look after herself, but
rarely went to bed early, even when her parents were in. Yet, here it was before twelve; she had said
goodnight to her friends on twitter, and was trying to sleep.

She turned onto her back again, attempting to get comfortable. The room was dark, dully illuminated by the faint
green glow of her alarm clock. A lone
motor bike whirred away in the distance, then silence; she closed her eyes, and
smelt the warm aroma of her bedclothes.
With eyes shut, she kicked off her duvet; instantaneously hearing a
bloody-curdling scream. Or, did she
imagine it.

With eyes open, her heart began to race. If she did hear something, where did it come from? She sat up, a darker black shadow in the
darkened room, sprawled across the bed gave her a start; the squished up duvet,
she relaxed if only for a second.

The scream came again, a long drawn-out wail of a sound,
reminiscent of a horror movie. Layla was
out of the bed; she couldn’t stay there any longer. She tentatively pulled up the blind and
peered into the back garden. The orange
light of a streetlamp from over the fence filled the view, and the room behind
her. Her unadjusted eyes squinted for a
second, as she scanned the lawn between the trees and shrubs, summer scents
billowed through the open window. She
could see nothing out of place, and it was eerily silent.

She closed the blind, her eyes adjusting to the dark this
time; another black shape, by the door.
She froze, what was it? Her mind
began to make out a shape, it didn’t move, an arm with no hand. The shape, what was it? The door was a ajar, she could make out the
straight edges around it and … her jacket hanging off the back of it.

‘Oh my, Christ!’
Laylah said aloud. ‘Goddamn
jacket.’

As quickly, as she could she reached for her phone bedside
the bed, scrolled through the app’s and found the torch.

Another scream.

Whirling around she scared herself with the flashlight of
her phone, countless moving shadows, growing and shrinking, as her hand shook
with fear. She looked this way and that,
more shadows, more movement, darting around the room with reflections from
glass picture frames and mirrors. Her
heart was pounding up through her chest now, thankfully there was nothing
there, otherwise she thought she may well have exploded.

It was coming from downstairs, that she was sure. Although very unsure what exactly it was, her
mind’s eye pictured the white face of young girl, her age, hounded by
something. By what? By whom?
It can’t be though, there’s no other noises. How are they, it, whatever, is in the house
anyway?

The shadow of her jacket wiggled side-to-side, as she
approached the door with the radiating phone, her arm straight out in front.

‘Damn jacket, damn dark,’ she whispered under her breath,
‘there better not be any spiders.’

She pulled the door open, squashing the jacket against the
wall. A familiar hallway, unfamiliar in
the dark. Quietly, assassin like, she
made her way along the passageway, stopping only momentarily, as floorboards
squeaked under her feet; further raising the beats of her already thudding
heart.

Dark shadows led into rooms off the corridor. A cool breeze tickled her toes and legs
beneath the hem of her pyjama bottoms, sending a lightening pulse up her back.

Screeching louder, the horror girl yelled again, somewhere
ahead of her.

The flashlight shook in front of Laylah, one hand tensely ventured
ahead, her heart now climbed into her mouth, she swallowed, the other hand nervously
slide along the wall, until, she found it.
The light switch that will illuminate the hall, stairs and landing all
the way down to the front door and hallway.

One flick, and all will be revealed.

She snapped the switch and ran.

‘Aaaarrrgh,’ she screamed at the top of her voice. Intentionally thudding, as hard she might
down the stairs, jumping the short distance to the half landing for more
impact. ‘Aaaarrrgh.’

She stopped at the entrance to the sitting room, the door
was open and light spilled into the room, her shadow extending across the room,
between the furniture, to the other side.

For two minutes, she didn’t move, just stared into the dark
corners of the room. Nothing moved, nothing
made a sound. The sudden hum of the
fridge freezer in the kitchen behind her broke the impasse, but nothing else
made a noise.

She scanned the room with her torch-phone and sighed,
nothing.

‘Must have imagined it then,’ she said, trying to convince
herself.

She looked at the app on her phone and was about to press
the off button, when there it was again, louder than ever. A screech, long, bloody, and behind the study
door, it continued, as she raised her head glancing to the door.

‘Who the hell …’ she said, not sure what to say.

She crossed the dark corner of the sitting room and grabbed
the door handle.

Another screech, this time seemed to leap into her head,
chased around her ears, shuddered her entire body. She had to know what was going on.

Screaming herself, as she opened the door, she thrust it
wide open, pulling a gust of wind into the room with her, papers flapped off
the desk in the dim light of the computer screen.

‘Wha_’

Another scream shrilled the very air she had just sucked in,
as the yell ensued from a pair of desktop speakers. The computer screen flashed, a pop-up
appeared.

“Congratulations! You
have received another bid on your item.”

‘Automated eBay alerts!
Damn it, Dad!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 30, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Perfect Form

Include: –

Words: 1,021

The Wrong Form

Now, I’m not usually one for filling out forms, in fact I
detest them. Actually, it’s not the
forms themselves per se, some are very graphically attractive, it’s their
contents; dumb-arse questions that don’t need asking.

“Do you identify as the gender you were assigned at
birth?” – What? I mean you couldn’t make this up

“For people who are transgender, the gender they were
assigned at birth is not the same as their own sense of their gender.” – hold on a minute, this is a survey for
reducing the speed limit to 20mph, does my gender really play a part? And, if I have changed gender will that
affect my answer?

Yes. No. Prefer not to say.

If I prefer not to say, could that be construed as hiding
something; and I pay my council tax for this!

I take a sip of coffee, its mellow taste turns slightly
bitter as I sip, it cools the heat rising within me. I close my eyes and breathe. I’m stressing again, this bloody council form
in front of me, of all things. Listening
to my breathing, and with help from caffeine I’m sure, the stress slowly falls
away.

My therapist’s breathing technique, Listen to the
individual breathes, as you inhale and exhale. I listen, I concentrate, but it’s not long
before my hearing picks up other café noises, chatter, chinking of cups, rustling
of newspapers. Thoughts are slowly
moving away, I wonder should I buy an almond croissant. Just a few seconds; I convince myself to
focus once more, sounds still linger, however I can still hear and feel my
breathing; stomach control is good. A
few seconds more.

Out of the deep swirling blackness, steps a pair of high
heels, shattering my calmness. This I
can’t miss, I open my eyes.

‘Would you mind if I join you?’

‘N, n, notal,’ I’m stuttering. ‘No, no, not at all.’

A completely curvaceous stereotype has just walked straight
into my breathing techniques, and is now sitting down beside me, not in front
of me, but right next to me. Her leg is touching mine, should I move?

‘So, I see you’ve coffee,’ doh, man what am I saying, it’s a
fucking coffee shop, ‘latté, I mean, coffee latté.’

She’s smiling, is that good?

‘Actually it’s a cappuccino, it’s lighter than a latté, I
have to watch me figure!’

You, me and the whole coffee shop are watching your figure,
lady. Aware the room has fallen silent,
I look up, head’s turn back to their business and small talk begins again.

She is gorgeous, and I mean gorgeous, grafted from the skin
of Aphrodite herself, a perfect clone of form and beauty. Legs are how they’re supposed to be; slender,
and all the way up to her rounded pert butt-cheeks, clad in faded ‘Boyfriend’
jeans. A washboard stomach inevitably
sits behind the loose t-shirt that hangs from her ample chest.

Another sip of coffee passes my lips, all gender questions
dissolved. Now I’m questioning a female
form; why next to me?

‘Is this your local cafe?’ Another lame question bolts forth.

‘No, actually, just passing by,’ she winks.

She winked. I turn to
see what at. There’s nothing. She winked at me. She winked, at me.

‘Just passing through, huh,’ I take another nervous sip of
coffee. Not the most attractive, or
social, of guys, I find myself sitting hip-to-hip with a sex goddess.

‘You’re funny, I like that,’ she says.

She’s smiling, what did I do? Did I tidy the flat? I try to remember, do I have a nice pair of
underpants on? You never know where this
might go.

‘I’m meeting friends later, but need a lunch date, are you
interested?’

‘Lunch?’ Yes, lunch
you muppet, you heard her, don’t need to repeat it. ‘Sure, that would be nice.’ Nice, ahhh.

‘Can you suggest somewhere?’

If I said the municipal dump, I swear she would follow me. I didn’t, we’ve moved a few doors along the
road to a great little sandwich place on the corner. I’ve gone for a Big Hank: roast chicken,
crispy bacon, Swiss cheese and BBQ sauce, my new friend, Stephanie, is having a
Kate Moss: roast chicken, spinach, salad and light mayo.

As I sit, happy and enjoying her conversation, and not
believing my luck, she says the most peculiar thing.

‘I’m a bit aroused, hope you don’t mind me saying, I’ve just
had a Brazilian.’

‘Brazilian coffee?’ I
ask, not having a clue what she means.

‘No, Brazilian, silly,’ she has a wicked laugh, ‘you know,
when you wax-off your pubes.’ And a
strange way of saying things.

‘Oh, right, Brazilian, yes of course. Did it hurt?’

She’s smiling and laughing again, today is my lucky
day. I swig a mouthful of ginger beer.

‘Do you want to see it?’

Beer sprays in her direction, luckily, short of her immaculate
features. ‘What? Here, now?’

‘Well, no not here silly boy.’

I thank the lord, desperate as I am; I can’t imagine some
girl pulling her knickers off in front of me at the table.

‘Let’s sneak off to the loos.’

I’m thinking about it, honestly, I am thinking about it.

‘What, right now?’ I
say.

‘Sure. You do want to
look, don’t you.’

I’m thinking some more.

‘Maybe,’ I lie through my teeth, course I flippin’ do.

‘Come on,’ she stands and saunters off to the toilets.

Following, a few seconds later, I look around uneasily,
someone I know might be looking. They’re
not, I continue.

She has the door ajar, checking that I’m still coming. Can she be more desperate than me? I close the door and lock it behind me, by the
time I have turned round she already has her top off and is unclipping her bra.
I’m speechless. The view is
breathtaking. Next, she slowly unbuttons
her worn jeans, then slowly, provocatively slides them down together with her
underwear.

‘Oh, my god, you’re a he-she, she-he,’ I’m suddenly
transported back to the transgender question, realising that in my desperation
for perfection, I’ve managed to pick up the wrong form.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 23, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Twelfth Commandment

Include: –

Words: 970

Thou Shalt

Why after all this time has this happened? I think, trying hard to comprehend the significance of last night. Why now?

Another tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. With blurry vision, I look in the bathroom mirror; my eyes are puffy and red; arms droop at my side; black beads wrap around white knuckles of my tightly clenched fist; I’m shaking.

Michael makes me happy; I thought we were both happy. Best of friends, soul mates, and one day soon, we would be lovers, but now, now everything is in limbo. I feel more tears, and watch as they track down my face, changing direction at every hair follicle.

Patiently, I waited for the day he would ask me. That day was yesterday; now come and gone. Yet, I teased him. So, it was my own fault, retribution for what had happened, my punishment.

“Marry me?” Michael had asked.

Opening my hand, I can see blood; gripping it too tight, the crucifix of my rosary beads has cut into my skin.

“I’ll think about it,” I had said, “and give you an answer tomorrow.”

Timing could not have been any worse. How could I let this happen?

‘God, why? Why have you forsaken me?’ I say under my breath. A word that I have read in books, heard in films, and truly believed a word that I would never utter; my God would never abandon me, but he has, I know it.

Away at a weekend retreat, jealousy and suspicion never cross my mind about Michael. I know the other men that attend with him; some are married, most help at mass: ushers, offering collectors, and indeed celebrants; all devout Catholics. Never have I had reason to doubt him. It was me I should’ve doubted. I made the error, not Michael.

‘Oh, dear Lord, why?’ I say aloud.

‘What’s that Sarah?’ The voice of my best friend Ruth, from the other side of the door.

I have nothing else to say and stand in silence.

‘Come on out, talk to me,’ she pleads from the hallway, but I don’t want to talk I have sinned, does she not see that.

Damn Michael, if only you hadn’t gone to the retreat, I wouldn’t have gone in to town with Ruth; my best friend of all people, and those events, those shocking events. I can’t stop but think about them now, how they started so innocently and how they ended so … My temperature is rising, I can feel my face redden, my dressing gown bristles on my skin, I’m sweating under my arms, between my legs. I run some water and splash it on my face, tightening my eyes to expel the vision. This should not be happening; the feelings should not excite me.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Oh come on Sarah. It’s not the end of the world, these things happen.’

Opening the door, I see Ruth standing, staring at me. She has been crying too, not as much, but I sense her feelings are similar to mine. As I stand in the doorway, a cool breeze evaporates the perspiration and chills my skin. She has always been a good friend to me. Her parents and mine are close, regular church goers, I wonder what they will think of it all.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she says. ‘Let me look.’

I pull away.

‘I’m fine, it’s nothing,’ I say, I feel disappointed in myself, she only wants to help. ‘What will my parents say, and yours?’

‘Sarah, please darling, forget it,’ she says. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

I am surprised at her complacency. ‘What if Father Pat finds out?’

‘Who will tell him? Go to confession if you like.’

I know she’s putting on a brave face for me, I know she thinks differently, it’s not in our teaching. I move closer to her and look her in the eye.

‘It’s not the way of the church, Ruth. We’ve been brought up in the eyes of the Lord and to live by the Commandments.’

‘Do you know how old they are?’

Is it me she questions, or the catholic faith. Something seems different about her now, her eyes.

‘Thou shalt not do this, thou shalt not do that,’ she says. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, according to the Commandments, nothing. And don’t try to convince yourself otherwise.’

‘But, what about Michael? I have cheated on him.’

‘Only in your eyes, you are not married. You didn’t even say yes.’

She’s stronger than me, more confident, I guess that’s her attraction as a friend, but she can’t be right.

‘Do you remember that book, what was it?’

‘Which book?’ I say.

‘You know. Jeffrey Archer, that’s it.’

‘The Eleventh Commandment.’

‘Yes, Thou Shalt Not Get Caught, that one.’

‘That’s just a story, and no one’s been caught.’

‘Exactly, exactly my point, Sarah,’ Ruth says, concluding her trail of thought.

I’m beginning to well-up again, I can feel it. ‘But, I will know, I will never forget.’

‘Good. So, are you really that ashamed?’

‘Yes,’ I say staring into her eyes. ‘Well, no, I …’ thoughts of last night return, how right it felt, my tears recede.

‘Good, I’m glad. For a second …’

She reaches out and touches me, softly, comforting, pulling me to her. I can’t, no matter how often I see Father Pat’s face, resist the pull. She kisses me on the lips, a sweet taste. My head is telling me if I ignore this feeling, it will only lead to unhappiness.

‘What should we do, Ruth?’

‘First, invoke a Twelfth Commandment.’

I stare, what is she talking about, the eleventh was made up, surely there isn’t a twelfth.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, the Twelfth Commandment, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Thou Shalt Keep Calm and Carry On.’