Ice trailed down her spine, leaving
behind erect strands of thin blond hair
sprouting from goose bumps. She arched
her back underneath the pressure of
his tongue, cooed as he lingered
at her posterior breathing heavily
over the single cube as it melted
into a shallow pool. He slurped
water inside his mouth, kissing her—
cool, moist lips against sultry, smooth skin.
This hot and cold piece was inspired by the prompt for this fortnight’s Literary Lion:
From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by. At the bus stop, Jake and Donnie played Taps with Donnie’s basketball, jumping in the air to catch the ball and pass it back before their feet touched the ground.
Jasmine sighed audibly. Yesterday had been her last day in a public school after she’d set Mrs. Robertson’s hair on fire. That woman was too sexy to be a teacher, anyway. She’d still have a scalp if she didn’t shove her tits in Jake’s face to “help him with a test question.” It was only a matter of time before she’d be arrested for sex with a student . . . Well, probably not now . . .
The Christmas decorations lit up in flames as Jasmine dug her nails into the banister. Her mother burst onto the balcony, flung a dusting of snow from her hands to extinguish the lights.
“Please don’t burn down the house, honey,” she said, her droopy eyes pleading. “Again.”
word count: 149
Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.
Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.
Sleet pelts my head—
I left my hat and scarf
my hair is stiff in the
I trudge through the ice—
my feet numb in my boots.
I’m shivering for the warmth
of my bed and snuggie.
I enter my 2-bedroom apartment—
the air has been turned
down to 56.
Thermostat Nazi strikes again.
He says I’m not the relationship type
because I have cold hands and feet,
the tips of my fingers and toes,
just under the nail,
a purple-blue tint.
A lack of blood flow, a lack of oxygen.
My heart beats to a different tune
opposite of the symphony he composes
for our love.
I’ll admit I can’t feel anything
when I touch him—
my senses numb to his warm affections.
“I love you” tastes like heated
mayonnaise on my tongue.
His kisses fail to thaw my icy lips,
frozen in a pout, unwilling to smile
to his presents and poems.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the meek
lover you desire of me,
but I don’t need a king to save my heart
and I’m too independent to let a man
be the key to my happiness.