Thanks for the all the hits, views, and support for my flash fiction postings. I simply love getting these favorite writers of mine out into the world.
Expect big things from them in the future, the near future. This story here is a delight. I can't wait for Anna's new novel THE CLOTHES GOD MADE FOR ME to be released into the world.
There is an orange in my hand. I feel its dimples and its wet skin and when I press my nail into the flesh, the tangy energy inside is released. It’s clean and almost antiseptic and I carry something citrus in my left hand every day. Could be lemon, two. Could be lime, two. Today it is an orange. There is a pack on my back, slung over my left shoulder. It brushes along my torso and when I walk it bumps against my rib and pinkens my skin. In the bag I’ve got a computer, black wire, some lipstick sexy and a comb. A banana muffin wrapped in a napkin disintegrates with every step I take because the wire sexy and the lipstick rub against it. Reduce it to crumbles. There is a mole on my cheek below my left eye. When I was ten, my mother darkened it with an eyebrow pencil. Sexy she’d say. Wear these shoes she’d say. They show off your shapely foot. Add lipstick and a gloss.
Almost home and it’s no accident the neighbor’s hose comes alive jerking and spitting like a cobra at my ankles. Bill grins and continues to turn the screw and the pressure builds and rises and not being one to run away sexy I step on the rubber with my heeled shoes but the brass end bites my leg. He looks at me. I look at him. Drip drip drop the hose. Purple, black, blood bruise filling sexy like a kiss, sexy like a bite. Soaking wet curl points to my mouth. Good day I say to the neighbor leave him wanting more. Know sexy he’s watching me walk away. Glad I’m wearing these shoes, squeezing this fruit. Look over my shoulder. Drip. Squeeze.
Locked the screen door behind me. Locked the storm door behind me. Roll the orange in my palms. The doorbell rings. Tug fruit out of snug skin. The doorbell rings. Pull apart the flesh in 12 tidy sections. A knock on the door. Stroke my tender rib and eye the juicy parcels on the counter lined up and waiting. Cut open a can of asparagus with strong sexy pumps of the wrist pumps of the wrist pumps of the wrist and pounding on the door nibble sexy just the tips of twenty four thin, limp asparaphallis sexy.
Hello the neighbor says waving through the window watching me eat. Black wire coils within. There are lemons in my hand. They’re clean and antiseptic and my bag rubs up against my rib. I watch through the glass. Roll lime through my palm. He stops knocking and watches me eat. His hand frozen at a fist on my window. He’s still and this is what I’ve been sexy holding out for.
I open the door. My clothes are wet. My eyes are brown. Juice from the orange drips sexy on my chin. His hair is red and curly. Red brow, red beard, a forest of red chest hairs. I point to the couch and in comes Bill like a red flame, a ball of fire with that red hair. A pomegranate. An apple.
He ignores the couch. Comes at me gape mouthed like a fish. Like a pickerel, big wide smile. I return his kiss sexy smiling like guppy, lick like lizard, tongue like fire. You taste like orange he says. Clean he says. Bill tastes like pickerel. Algae and watery grave. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, I say. Cut right to the chase, he says. He smiles and I see a glint of silvery hook in his cheek. You’re a stunning girl, Bill says. I’m a woman, I say and unfasten the button of his pants with my teeth. You sure are, he says.
We finish and I dress in white cotton panties, white cotton bra with a little red cherry at the clasp. Walk to the counter, stuff orange peel between my teeth and gums. Look to Bill and reveal a wide, orange childish smile. Bill laughs and jingles his belt buckle closed. Hook is out of his mouth and snagged on my own lip. Bound in my mother’s corset of orange sexy orange.
Anna James has won various local awards for her fiction and poetry and has been published in Alehouse 2009 and The Groovy Chick's Road Trip to Love. She's an English Instructor and can most likely be found hiking the mountains of or agonizing over her new novel. You can reach her on FB at Anna Dickson James or by email at