Yesterday, over on her delightful website, Casey Morgan put up the week'sFlash Fiction challenge. The brief is
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday. Come write a 250-word story (erotic? tgi oriented?). Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story in the comments below or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. (Find out the wild cards by going to Casey's site).
As ever, Copyright 2009 to mijita (at) thetreehouse (dot) net. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.
"C'mon, do the jigsaw, Lizzie." Bradley shakes the box, coaxing.
I turn away.
"C'mon, I can't alone. You know."
I spin back, snapping, "I do know you can't, you little shit. Get of out my room, now."
"I'm telling," wails the little shit, running for the door.
My mother raises her voice so I'll hear, "Stay away from her. Your sister'll get hers when your father gets home."
When your father gets home. Her words make me feel sick, and I slam my door.
I'm alone with my thoughts.
If only I could rewind today, not have talked in class, not have talked back to Horrible Mrs. R. Most importantly, if only a letter hadn't come home.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow. No. Tomorrow is distant future, with too much between now and then.
I try not to think about him coming home, try not to imagine my mother showing the letter, telling him what a horrible
girl I am, finally crying to show her frustration.
I know he'll open my door without knocking, eyes grave with disappointment, my own burning with defiance.
The lecture will go on and on before his hands unbuckle his belt and my father orders me to pull down my panties. Before I take a pillow and bend over the end of the bed. Before I feel his hands on my skirt.
My defiance will be stripped away. I'll be left crying begging, promising, finally screaming.
I will hurt.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to hide from the inevitable.
Like the far off thunder of an approaching storm, his car rumbles into the drive.
My father is home.
[Note: I wasn't able to do it in 250 words -- this came to about 287. Maybe next week. I did, however, us all the wildcards.]
