So far, so good! I have four short stories under my belt this month. And I think I’ll have a fifth before we get to January 31. Having a deadline of Saturday night for short stories has worked really well to motivate me. Often, I start the next story on Sunday morning and finish it before mid-week.
The longest one so far is nine pages at 4,404 words. The shortest; one page, 350 words. And yes, three out of the four are filled to the brim with smut. It’s a bit of a crutch for me, I know. Stories filled with base instincts are easy for me to slip into. I know that other folks will be interested in reading the material based on the subject matter.
I suspect that I’m afraid to branch out into completely new territory. Sexy stories are easy. Coming up with original content, lacking in penetration, is a gamble for me. But in order to slip into this new writing habit, I told myself that I would write anything I wanted. And apparently, what I want to write about is smut. I am going to take steps to write stories in which sex doesn’t happen (or at least isn’t the “driving force” of the story.) I know!!! What a stand-up human being I’m becoming in this pursuit. 😛
In order to hold myself accountable, I’m leaving snippets of each week’s story below.
I closed my eyes and took a sip of my drink. I was surprised to realize that my hands were shaking from my encounter with S just now. With my eyes closed, I actually missed my mouth at first, slamming the glass into my chin and slopping a bit of the the liquor down my neck. How frustrating to lose my calm in front of S now! Especially when I had just finished making an ass of myself.
Wiping the wasted cognac off my neck, I realized it was seeping into my shirt. I unbuttoned the first four buttons trying to keep the majority of the liquid off my new shirt. Looked like it wasn’t going to stain, but it was uncomfortable being this wet. I set the glass down and prepared to head upstairs to change my shirt. I was stopped by a bow at my throat.
S stood over me, more demon than angel now. The fire made him look even taller and thinner than I knew him to be. The bow for his violin was probing the hollow of my throat, forcing the shirt open even more. He leaned in close to me, closer than necessary to see the extent of the damage the cognac had caused to my shirt. I felt more than saw him breathe deeply. I felt as if I had been laid naked on an examination table for S to explore and diagnosis.
Back Alley Blessings
The movements became harder and harder, and I took it and hoped for more. I let my face rest against the brick wall again, just letting it scrape the skin off my cheek rather than think about the placement of my head. It had been ten long years. It would probably be the rest of my life before this happened again. If I could take pleasure from this intrusion, I would. I just didn’t care anymore.
We made a baby. Now what? He sleeps, so tender and soft, in his car seat which I pray is properly installed. His father is at the wheel, driving seven miles an hour down a back road in order to avoid any traffic that might threatened his son. We love him more than we could ever have understood love. We’re so frightened that we’ll do something wrong.
Even though now the main concerns are diaper rash and teething, our minds wander independently to the future. What can we do now to make it a great future for our son? What are the unavoidable situations he’ll have to go through? Can we do it?
I meet my husband’s eyes for just a moment in the rear view mirror. We’re thinking the same things. There’s no need to articulate it. That would make it too real. And the last couple of days have already been beyond real. We’re exhausted. Our baby is exhausted. And we know that the exhaustion has only just begun.
But would we have it any other way? No. I know he feels the same way because I see his eyes crinkle just a bit at the edges at what he sees in the rear view mirror: his wife and his son in the back seat. He drives his family home.
He took a breath before speaking. The man on the other end of the line could see him? Or was that just an educated guess thanks to audio cues? Time to test the theory. Slowly, he stood with his back to the fire and using one hand let the rest of the belt slip away. Now the sliver of chest was accompanied by flashes of porcelain thigh and glimpses of darker treasures. If the voice could truly see into the apartment, this was sure to get a response.
The flat dweller paced before the fire, forcing the gown to flutter in the self-perpetuated breeze. He shivered. Was it anticipation or losing some of the heat he had accumulated while wearing his comfortable robe? Did it matter? He listened to the soft breaths on the other end of the line. Would he speak?
And that’s all folks. Are you participating in the 52 Week Short Story Challenge? If so, let me know. I’d love to exchange notes with you.