By GregoryCody
Becky was awake.
The ungrateful iguana wanted food again.
Such awful pets - never satisfied - terrarium littered with fecal effigies of half-digested cricket bodies.
I dreaded watching the scaled beast feed - her dead gaze like doll eyes.
People say crickets don't feel pain.
***
I hope they're right.
The scoop swallowed my shadow.
Frantic legs cut across themselves, emitting shrilled melodies like wailing violin bows - crooked and shiny.
My desperate overture echoed within the glass arena ... farewell performance before a monster.
| Author Notes |
Funny story is that we bought our two boys 2 Fancy Leopard Geckos.
I didn't realize that they ONLY eat "live" crickets. Everyone laughs and thinks it's cool to feed them. It's not. It's cruel for some reason. I don't know why but I just feel bad for them. They think I'm crazy. But did you know crickets could scream? Because I do. Lol Thank you for reading!! |
By GregoryCody
Her voice shook.
“Is it gonna hurt?”
The strangers had a shared fetish. They met online.
He peeked behind her to make sure they were alone before answering.
"Nah, a little scary maybe."
He took a drag on his cigarette.
Her hair was braided tonight. Her mother always loved it that way.
“You ready?”
“No,” she whispered.
He pulled her close and kissed her warm lips as they stepped off the ledge of the building.
| Author Notes |
Thank you for reading! Sorry if it's dark, please Feel Free to let me know if the word count is at 75!
THANK YOU AGAIN :) |
By GregoryCody
The kettle whistled, shaking Harold from his stupor. The erupting steam pierced the recent silence of the tiny kitchen - Ingrid's voice now absent. There was no scent of cracked eggs wafting overhead. No aroma of bacon popping over grease. Not anymore.
Never again would she walk into their bright kitchen - the morning rays bursting through the oriel window - to begin their mornings together. Framed pictures of children, long grown now, lined the walls of the small room - frozen smiles trapped behind cheap glass.
Each day had begun the same - perusing the neighborhood section of the paper, circling yard sales - the end of the pen gnawed, still glistening with her saliva. The warped linoleum table rocked slightly as she scribbled - the worn pen - a purchase from one of these quests. It had been a "real find", as Ingrid put it, after haggling over the price with a neighbor. Her hand would lie over his, their fingers woven into themselves, as she would lead them in prayer before the small breakfast she had prepared. She hated wasting food and was familiar with his sour stomach - the result of too much anxiety and just as much Kentucky bourbon.
She'd slap his wrist midway through the blessing as she peeked out and caught him reaching for his crossword puzzles in the Weekly Reader. According to her, one of his biggest character flaws was that he didn't pay attention. She had a tendency to let him in on these little "nuggets of insight". Harold once thanked her, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Thoughtfully, he now sat alone on a tilted lavender chair, the plastic padding moist from the perspiration of his shoulders.
This table will collect so much damned dust ...
He chuckled to himself, as if that was the forerunner in his current predicament.
A thin piece of nylon rope dangled from his trembling fingers, his fist still closed. Several curled, gray hairs shot out between the threads, snapped fresh from her scalp. A lifeless body lay slumped in the corner ... her eyes still open.
Harold let out a sigh and reached for his crosswords.
By GregoryCody
I looked down at the rotary phone sitting in my lap - the crease in the khaki slacks had flattened. I had been too lazy to iron, too apathetic to notice...until now.
Sure I could take them to a dry cleaners. Had I not been forced to boycott the local one.
The owner was abnormally friendly. It was foreign to me. He also spoke too much and far too close - the scent of coffee did little to mask the horror behind his breath. It was an angry aroma. You shouldn't be able to smell a conversation, I remember justifying to myself. Eventually I just couldn't do it anymore.
The iron still sits in its packaging on my kitchen counter. I just realized I have no idea how to iron, I chuckled.
This was a "defense mechanism" of mine, I am told. Apparently I use humor to mask uncomfortable situations. There was not a mask large enough for this phone call.
My nervous fingers began to fiddle with the coils of the loose cord, weaving themselves into the slack rope - its tautness worn away years ago. Rather than retract, it fell into piles on either side of me like wet noodles.
The faded teal phone was a plastic relic, tacky - but I understood it's appeal. I liked to imagine it was spotted atop a dusty shelf in some quaint New England antique shop.
In actuality, I'm sure it was acquired online and at a discount, no less. Antique shops were the true relics, I acknowledged to myself with a smirk.
I became aware of the silence on the other line and spoke up fast.
"Listen, this is me, umm...you, but about twenty years in the future. I just want to tell you that it gets better man. I promise it does, umm...so, just keep going."
I paused for a moment, not knowing what to say. I wanted the call to end so badly. I managed to get out one more thought.
"Remember this too. I love you. And Greg...I'm proud of you."
I set the receiver down on its base and took a deep breath.
Dr. Rosenthal cleared her throat and whispered.
"How did that feel, Greg?"
I sat up on the couch and looked up from the toy phone.
"Awkward. It felt incredibly awkward."
Her expression did not change as she reached for her calendar.
"Should we make your next appointment?"
For what? I thought. What good are these therapy sessions doing? Utterly pointless. I looked down at my phone and let out a winded sigh.
"I'd love to."
By GregoryCody
The wooden horse sat tucked away. Years had passed since a child had played with it, rocking to and fro - giggles filling the air like an aroma of home cooked food.
Deborah rocked in her chair, staring at the old rotary phone.
"Maybe they'll call today," she thought.
By GregoryCody
I awaken to an alligator in my bed. Linens lie shredded at our feet - another restless night. Frigid sandpaper runs down the massive body, and guttural snores lift its belly - breathing hilltop emitting discontent.
Early stretch, her wedding ring scrapes my chest...I'd bought it at a pawn shop years ago.
By GregoryCody
She was far too clingy. I couldn't find a moment to myself without her shoving kisses onto me, cuddling too tight, or rubbing my back with the grace of an epileptic. I felt smothered. Literally, at times. Every embrace was as if it were our last - my breaths cut short, my organs having to readjust themselves like furniture. She also expected me to run like her servant when she beckoned.
Fine. But I stand by my claim:
No four-year-old should own a puppy.
By GregoryCody
I used to sell penis pumps. The medical term was vacuum erection devices, but somehow that sounded worse.
...Clinical Specialist Wanted...
This was a vague enough description in the paper to entice me. I bit. The next thing I knew I was in a doctor's back office, wearing a white lab coat, selling patients a see-through, battery operated cylinder designed to engorge the male appendage with blood, causing an artificial erection.
Each week I would travel around the Midwest, asking men questions I didn't want the answers to. These touched upon a variety of topics but we stuck pretty closely to the gentlemen's penis that sat naked before me.
Some men would be stricken with crooked members, a result of scarring (lovely image) while others might have had a sexual disorder or adverse medication effects. And some were genuine stories of triumph and heartache after surviving prostate cancer.
I decided to put in my notice after an especially revealing day (pun somewhat intended). The old door made a grinding sound as it opened, metal against linoleum. The patient had arrived early. An older African American male walked in, white clumps of hair on his temples, dressed in a wrinkled, dark blue uniform.
Probably here on his lunch break, I thought.
He quickly averted his glance towards the floor as we made eye contact.
Typical response, I figured.
He made his way around the examination table, moving around the room, acting as if he were searching for something. He even started to quietly hum.
I felt for him. I'd be uncomfortable too, I thought. Okay, I guess I'll start.
"Have you had any erections this week?"
He was beginning to reach down as the question stopped him, his eyes staring straight at the wall.
Silence.
I'd say it was a good fifteen seconds until he picked up the waste basket and twisted the cellophane bag off with his hands, tying the ends in a knot.
I stepped aside and let him pass towards the door with the bag of trash. No words were spoken.
I stood there for a bit, questioning my life decisions, when a knock rattled me. It was a nurse addressing me from behind the door.
"Mr. Martin, the patient is ready to see you."
| Author Notes |
Haha, some people are asking if this is fiction. Well, unfortunately this is a very true story!
|
By GregoryCody
"Stop sniveling," he snarled.
Tommy was rattled, uncocking the rifle's hammer.
He hated hunting.
His father's toothless grin widened.
"We're makin stew."
Tommy looked down.
A man's body lay still, his face collapsed inward like falling wax.
"Wipe that blood off," his father ordered, dragging the body by the feet.
By GregoryCody
I awoke to a nightmare. The bear had gotten inside again. I could smell his musky odor. The creature bellowed, pounding upon the hollow walls, shaking our cheap pre-fabricated house to its foundations. I stopped breathing, willing myself to stay still ~ trembling under a waking coma. Perhaps, this time, he would go away.
But the monster's hunger was insatiable.
He was a teddy bear in our first dream ... but gentle wrestles gradually turned to forceful grapples ... playful kisses to angry teeth, his frustrations left ventless.
My bedroom doorknob twisted. Smooth. Silent, except for husky panting. Sounds of sucked back drool ~ ravenous anticipation.
Dad's ugly feet — matted fur glistening with sweat —stepped in front of the nightlight as the familiar silhouette shot across my curtains. The floorboards creaked like a rusty violin — composition behind the dance to come.
I think Mom worked late on purpose.
By GregoryCody
Our house woke me up. We'd been introduced several times before, but he acted like he didn't know me.
"Harold, glad to meet you," he grumbled.
The horrendous bellow, deep and steady, shook barren cupboards and rattled pictures from walls ... Granny Friel's wedding picture - shattered again. I knew he'd howl like a siren, rain teardrops if I ignored him.
"Dad!" I shouted into the malevolent air.
A crack tore in the rear corner.
Harold began to devour himself. The steep walls collapsed upon themselves, revealing innards of plywood and snapped wires as windows exploded into plumes of glass cyclones.
Crumbling floorboards squeaked and fractured as dad and I stepped quickly down his throat, a worn burgundy running carpet slipping under our feet. We burst out of his mouth as he belched us onto the grass.
Dad said it was an earthquake. I say it's because Mom left.
| Author Notes |
I am going to include this in my SHORT STORIES book that I just put together here!
Flash Fiction is FUN! Thanks for all the help guys ...especially with my prose JAY SQUIRES and VISIONARY1234. |
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