What a deliciously naughty prompt we had this week. Not my fault, I use a random word generator, I promise.
Still, so many managed to keep their minds out of the gutter. Spoilspo… I mean, very admirable. 😉
Fantastic entries this week, and some new 5MinuteFictioners too! But there can only be five finalists.Thanks again to Noelle Pierce, @noellepierce for pulling the tough duty and picking the top five. Here, in no particular order are the finalists:
Leah Petersen *blush*
Here are their entries. Give a vote in the poll on the right of the page for the best among these four talented authors and the one flub of an otherwise excellent judge. (Oh, and I confess, I did change Chris’s “Looser” to “Loser” because I just. couldn’t. help. myself.)
“You can love or you can lust.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Those who lust, leave: those who love, linger.”
He grabbed his keys and slammed the door. Now, she knew where she stood.
Clouds, sky the color of rain, and her.
She’s lying beside me. Her breathing soft little sighs like the breath of wind on the meadow.
I’m watching her, and I’ve never been so happy. Never knew there was such happiness as this.
Not just sated lust, not just dreams come to fruition, but I have become the man I swore I’d be. I have taken her, as I swore I word, have possessed and controlled her and claimed her. And now she is mine, forever and forever.
Her breathing slows. Becomes fainter and fainter. It’s almost gone, and I feel the delicious anticipation. Will this breath be the last? Or this one? Or this one?
She’s gone pale but she’s still so beautiful. I’ll always remember her this way. Her breath stolen with all-consuming kisses and the poison I’d saved just for her.
“I can’t believe you’re lusting over a doll,” Richard said. “Loser.”
“It’s not a doll,” David said defensively. “It’s an action figure. Besides, I’m not lusting after it.”
“Dude,” Richard said, “You got drool AND fog on the window. You’re totally lusting. Who is that anyway? Wonder Woman? I heard she got a new costume.”
“Wonder Woman?” David asked in shock, pushing his glasses up on his face. “I will have you know that this is…”
“Black Canary,” said a woman’s voice, causing both boys to turn from the comic store window and look in the direction of the newcomer.
She was slightly taller than either of them were, had long, wavy red hair, pale skin and freckles all over. She also wore a pair of glasses, but hers were far more fashionable than David’s, being small and oval. She was beautiful.
“It’s a Black Canary figure,” she continued as the two boys picked up their jaws. “And on top of that, it’s a rare collectable. You, my friend, have good taste. Shall we go inside and get a better look?”
With that, she took David by the arm and led him into the comic store. David turned to look over his shoulder back at Richard and put his hand on his fore head, his fingers making an ‘L’ shape.
He had been surrounded by beauty for years. The gods themselves would salivate with jealousy upon seeing his harem: his dancers were the most lithe in the country; a woman with the hips of Venus herself brought him his drink; a porcelain princess spoke in soft words to a tall savannah delight. Any of them he could have, in a flash of fingers, a single command.
And yet his hand stayed on the arm rest, save to pick up his drink and sip it, brooding.
It was not until the ambassador came, stepping over barely clothed bodies in her dusty traveling boots, modest dress fluttering in each step yet never revealing more than a flash of leggings, did he stir. She held her head high, looked him in the eye as if she were a queen instead of some mere messenger between royalty. When she spoke, her voice was powerful and confident, so different from the meek whispers he was used to hearing.
“I can offer you a life of comfort,” he told her that night at dinner. “You will never want for food, money, for pleasure. Come, be my wife, and we can do away with all of this negotiation nonsense.”
She looked at him, a sly smile crossing her face, as if she knew how much he burned to see all of the things she had hidden from him.
I arrived at Windroth Farm one blustery March Saturday, when the snowdrops still peeped from every dew-soaked shadow. I was there to help in the dairy, and carried one pail of milk from sheds to house every day, when the sun was still fresh. It was Tuesday before I noticed the worn initials on the gatepost, P.L. and E.H., enclosed by a narrow heart, squashed sideways to accomodate an iron fastening.
“Their ghosts still walk,” said Master Thomas, when he saw me looking. “You can see them in the long hall, when there’s moonlight. They never touch, never see each other. It’s a punishment, I think, for their lust. Like Dante. Two spirits doomed to be alone, because they could not bear to be in life.”
From that day, whenever I passed the gatepost, I whispered a tiny prayer.