Thursday flash fic...
Sep. 2nd, 2009 02:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martinlivingsFrom the challenge laid down by jaylake HERE...
Tradition
Martin Livings, 2-9-2009
“Do you remember the first time we came here?” I ask.
Sarah laughs. “Of course. It was eight years ago today. We sat on this very bench, you and I, and watched the black swans for a while.”
The river laps at the rocks with a singular lack of enthusiasm, like a child eating broccoli ice-cream.
“It was our first date,” I remind her, and squeeze her hand. “We’d sent each other love letters for months beforehand. We’d finally found the courage to meet up.”
“Yes,” she breathes. Her brows furrow. “And then he arrived.”
The man in the brown overcoat and blue hat. Old, smelling like piss and beer. Unshaven and unwashed. “He flashed us,” I say. “Showed us his shriveled prick.”
“And we did what came naturally.” Her smile returns. “What anyone would do.”
“Well, perhaps not anyone,” I say. “We’re not exactly conventional, now, are we?”
Sarah giggles, stretches her legs.
The man on the ground at our feet emits a muffled bellow through the gag in his mouth, his wrists and ankles bound. He is well-dressed, beneath the ratty brown overcoat we’ve put over him like a shroud. The blue hat has faded over the years, and many of the blood stains never came out.
He looks nothing like the old man from eight years ago.
He looks exactly like the old man from eight years ago.
We stand, Sarah and I, and kneel beside the helpless man. The blades we carry glitter in the late afternoon sun. There’s no sound, save the soft splashes of the waves on the rocks, the pitiful moans of the man in the blue hat. Our excited breathing. My heart pounds, as it does every year.
I look into Sarah’s eyes. She looks into mine. We raise our knives.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” I murmur.
“Happy anniversary.”
The blue hat tumbles to the rocks, and the river’s waters run red.
jaylake HERE...Tradition
Martin Livings, 2-9-2009
“Do you remember the first time we came here?” I ask.
Sarah laughs. “Of course. It was eight years ago today. We sat on this very bench, you and I, and watched the black swans for a while.”
The river laps at the rocks with a singular lack of enthusiasm, like a child eating broccoli ice-cream.
“It was our first date,” I remind her, and squeeze her hand. “We’d sent each other love letters for months beforehand. We’d finally found the courage to meet up.”
“Yes,” she breathes. Her brows furrow. “And then he arrived.”
The man in the brown overcoat and blue hat. Old, smelling like piss and beer. Unshaven and unwashed. “He flashed us,” I say. “Showed us his shriveled prick.”
“And we did what came naturally.” Her smile returns. “What anyone would do.”
“Well, perhaps not anyone,” I say. “We’re not exactly conventional, now, are we?”
Sarah giggles, stretches her legs.
The man on the ground at our feet emits a muffled bellow through the gag in his mouth, his wrists and ankles bound. He is well-dressed, beneath the ratty brown overcoat we’ve put over him like a shroud. The blue hat has faded over the years, and many of the blood stains never came out.
He looks nothing like the old man from eight years ago.
He looks exactly like the old man from eight years ago.
We stand, Sarah and I, and kneel beside the helpless man. The blades we carry glitter in the late afternoon sun. There’s no sound, save the soft splashes of the waves on the rocks, the pitiful moans of the man in the blue hat. Our excited breathing. My heart pounds, as it does every year.
I look into Sarah’s eyes. She looks into mine. We raise our knives.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” I murmur.
“Happy anniversary.”
The blue hat tumbles to the rocks, and the river’s waters run red.
