Tag: 2021

the final straw

The final entry in the “Shotgun Room” trilogy. For mature readers.

“An aging philanthropist experiences first-hand the justice system of a near-apocalyptic future.”

In forty years Roy had been driving, he never had a parking ticket. He had never been convicted of a crime in his lifetime, and his police record was spotless. But in the world of today, that didn’t matter. The socially-constructed walls of political government didn’t work anymore, and people had begun to stray, even if Roy remained a saint: never deviating, never surrendering. He had persevered during the initial food shortages that plagued the middle-classes, and managed to clear the hump when most thought things could only get better. And then global warming hit. His house was paid-off and nested on an embankment that was high enough for the rising ocean levels to wipe out the communities below but not enough to take him with them. They didn’t even get so high as the support beams, but Roy felt no pride in his investment. And when the tide warning was issued, he was no slouch to doing his part: he opened his doors and let in the waterfront refugees. It was the least he could do: he hadn’t been to a Lions meeting since they disbanded in his area. It was too hard to get around anymore anyway, what with his sciatica and his athlete’s foot and, well, he didn’t really feel like talking about it. He just appreciated the company, feeding the displaced families with the canned goods he had accumulated in his basement from years of stocking-up. Sure, when the initial wave was over, he never received a medal, or a commendation from the Mayor, or a pat-on-the-back from any of the bureaucrats who seemed to permeate the halls of the directorate these days, but Roy had been doing his civic duty his whole life and he wasn’t ready to start asking for charity now. He was one of the good ones. The government had no time for the bad ones anymore.

Continue reading →
Posted on by wd 0

murky depths in shallow water

A poem.

it’s the start of another cold day.
i am standing on a bridge above a creek
that makes a rushing sound as it crosses
the linn before the pier shafts.
i have an entire half-a-joint left and i am done.

as i listen to the water flow,
so do the thoughts that would deluge
any if they stood on that same precipice,
that wearing surface at three AM,
stoned and very aware.
not that anyone would care about my bouts with chance and disrepair.
should.
but it’s how i feel

and there again, another day,
as distant constellations fade with the night.
a light on the horizon,
a constant.
there is a candle burning somewhere bright.

//jf 1.20.2021

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

Posted on by wd 0

gushing

A short story for mature readers.

“A socially-challenged young man has a sexually-frustrating evening alone.”

He was a dirty Boy. Hot on the heels of his shift, he reclined in his death-trap on four wheels, cruising the back-streets at 110 k with his high-beams on riding up some poor helpless Honda’s ass, scratching, couldn’t stop scratching. His Mom reminded him yesterday, “Make the prescription!” And he’d tell her, “I know, I know, I know!” Something with his sweat. Couldn’t stop sweating and he couldn’t stop scratching now, itching the skin around the outside of the hairy part of his armpit as it reddened, swole-up, pimpled in real-time under his nails and damn it, this fucking itch is KILLING me! I can’t wait to get home, jump in a hot shower and give it Hell with my luffa.
Through the front door he burst, stripping right down by the laundry room that sat parallel to the rental’s entrance, straight to his bareness, and scampered barefoot down the main hall to the bathroom. Music. That damn music again! It was his neighbour: his landlord’s 18-year-old daughter who had recently-graduated, occupying the suite next to his on the ground floor of the house they all shared. Blaring that Top-40 garbage at the maximum volume her little, pink, pig-shaped IPod dock could muster while singing at the top of her voice, the shower on, the water-heater – which sat in the wall between both suites – at full-tilt. He might not get any hot water now. Oh well, too late. And he wasn’t prepared for another hour of scratching while he would wait for her to finish showering and then wait for the hot water tank to fill back up again. He closed the bathroom door & kicked the mat so it blocked the gap at the bottom of the door, unplugged the night-light, turned on the shower to secure his place and sat on the toilet to take a big, fat shit. It was about damn time.

Continue reading →
Posted on by wd 0

member service

A short story for mature readers.

“A man struggles to set aside his expectations when he shares his lunch break with an attractive co-worker.”

There she was, clad in all-glory, walking directly towards him. OK Reggie, he would say to himself, today’s the day. Today, you’re going to talk to that girl. And then she would walk passed, and he would say nothing.

Couldn’t say it wasn’t on-par. Reg thought he would see her working more during the Pandemic: sadly, the opportunities were less, walking out of the building as he did at opening when she started, from the graveyard shift he was just promoted to. Some promotion. Three AM start. At least it was only part-time hours, what with his wife just giving birth and all… what am I even doing thinking about going with her? She would part the Red Seas wherever she walked, like that song by Ben Folds Five. She never gets wet, she smiles and it’s a rainbow… This was true of Megan.
She was tiny: so tiny you could mistake her for someone half her age. And to Reg, that was her appeal: her youthfulness; her natural blond hair; her curves. And make no mistake, Megan was a curvy girl, with her own Ben Folds & hairpin spirals to make Reg’s eyes water every time she strolled by. He thought this would have made it easier for him to go introduce himself: his own affinity for larger women. But Megan had a vivaciousness. Every guy was talking about her and every woman was jealous of the attention she got. Reg was never the man he wanted to be & always the man others envisioned him to be, and he was miserable for it.

Continue reading →
Posted on by wd 0

the tip

A short story for mature readers.

“Sparks ignite despite past schisms between a waitress and her customer.”

“Hey! I haven’t seen you in a while!” She still had a tray of food in her hand as she set it down on the hostess’ podium and gave the Boy a great, big hug. As much contact as he ever had with her in High School.
I moved to the city, but I’m just back for the evening.
“Well, that’s great! We can catch up! Here, I’ll show you to a table.” She picked up the tray and the Boy & his cohorts followed her to an empty booth, as she motioned she would be back in a bit.

“Hey, who’s that?” “Yeah, who’s the sexy waitress?”
Just someone I knew from school.

In actuality, she was someone he had seen every day, when he closed his eyes and willed the memories to come on strong. She was a rabble-rouser. Fifteen-years-ago, when he was still living in this developer’s dream called a small town, she ran with the wrong groups and flirted with the worst kind of danger. When the Boy was in the parking lot of that same restaurant all those years prior, driving food deliveries just to make a dollar to move away, she was drinking from a paper bag just a few cars parallel with one of the Wretched: the corrupted group of Grade 13s who learned early-on how to reap to their advantage. Amy must have been fourteen-or-fifteen at the time but there she was, dancing to the techno music blaring from the car stereo and just barely able to keep standing. Her partner saw the Boy. “Hey, you want some of this?” Amy lifted her top. There were two tanned, young, B-cup breasts, bouncing up and down, the nipples stiff from the evening air. The Boy tried to keep face as he continued tallying up his tip-sheet, the Wretched throwing a half-empty beer can at his car before the Boy realized this was not a battle worth winning and drove away. The next day at school, he could remember Amy just across the hall from him at her locker, sheepishly looking over her shoulder at him, avoiding his gaze, embarrassed? Turned-on? Curious? He didn’t know. All he knew then was that the heavy layers she wore did a good job of covering up the exotic figure underneath. Forget it, she’s fourteen! Maybe even fifteen… but with the Rule-of-Sevens that still meant he should only be dating someone sixteen or older. What was the age-of-consent anyway? These questions kept him busy enough and by the time he graduated Amy became an evocation, her natural breasts carrying him through many a lonely night to come.

Continue reading →
Posted on by wd 0