A Pair of Shoes

His shoes were worn out, with holes in the bottom and on the sides. It was warm enough, so I gave him my old sandals. I didn’t wear them, and he just needed to cover the bottom of his feet until we got a more permanent solution anyway. We decided to go to the beach, they have shops with cheap goods down there. When we got there I saw the name of the boardwalk. Ocean Boardwalk. What a lame name. As we walked he told me about his family. About how he wishes they had more money. I felt sorry for him, but I needed get him some shoes. I walked with him and we found the shop. It had a weird, light blue door. We walked in and he started to try on the shoes. That’s when I noticed the tattoos. They were names.

                When he got his shoes and I paid for them I asked about the names. They were his brothers and sisters names, ones who died. He lived in an orphanage, the kids were his family. He was never adopted so he works at the orphanage for food and board. Many of the other kids who weren’t adopted killed themselves. So he took it upon himself to permanently mark his body with their names, so they’d never be abandoned again. It struck me, just then. He was so kind, so sincere. Doing all he could to help and he didn’t even own a pair of shoes. All he had were the clothes on his back, a bed at an orphanage, and homemade tattoos.

Her Palm

I’m starting to get clammy as he tells her he loves her. He clenches me as he leans in for a kiss. He puts me up to cradle her head. Her brown hair is as soft as her skin. I’m beginning to get lost in the gentle curve of her neck. The two of them kiss and pull away. They both reach down and I’m taken from her head to her hand as I share a kiss with her palm. I can’t see it, but I know he’s smiling, because when he smiles, I blush too. I savor my kiss with her palm, it’s warm and dark, but comforting. All of us start walking, hopefully, home, so I can feel more of this beautiful person.


This is a flash fiction story. I recently purchased a book called: 642 Things to Write About. It's an interesting book to say the least. It's easily one of my favorite things ever and I'm definately going to continue writing with it. The prompt for this one was: Write a love scene from the point of view of your hands. I hope I got that message across.

My Stupid Mouth

My Stupid Mouth.

 

A phone call, that’s how it always starts with her. I called her to apologize for the things I said earlier tonight. “You don’t care about me! You only care about everyone else! You’ve never loved me!” Et cetera, et cetera.

                Sometimes life seems easier when you’re alone; when you have no one to worry about but yourself. Yeah, that’d be the life, waking up and just sitting on the couch with cold pizza in one hand, a beer on the coffee table and the TV remote in the other hand. No rules, no curfews, I could see any woman I want. Bu, I want her…

                Damn it. Why does this always happen? Every time I try to envision my life without her I’m always miserable. She’s infected me. I can’t even think about living without her. Without falling asleep to the steady rhythm of her breathing, without her filling our house with the smell of spices when she cooks, without that little snort in her laugh when she laughs too hard. I would miss her. I would.

                Son of a… I’m going to end up pleading into the phone to ask her to come back I just know it. She’s never pleaded for me. Ugh. Why is this so hard for me? I can’t live without her, but I can’t ask her to come back. It’s like my life is some kind of morbid carnival ride and I can’t get off. It’s making me dizzy and I want to throw up but it’s just too much fun to just get off.

                Now she’s yelling back. I want to quiet down. I’ve been screaming since she picked up the phone but if I stop I’ll lose her attention. I know it. What am I going to do? How am I supposed to tell her I love her still? Even through all of our fights I love her. Damn it. I’ll just have to go for broke.

                “Stop. Let me just take a second. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. And… I love you.”