This, in case you somehow missed the title of the post, is 5MinuteFiction. You have been assimilated.
And welcome to 5MinuteFiction. That means we write fiction. In five minutes. Shocker, I know.
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: custard
photo by Herman Saksono
I’ll close the contest at 1:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.
At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Bradley Robb, @knownhuman , will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EDT I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
(Did you know I’ve never judged the contest myself? Never, ever? My own contest? About damn time, I say.)
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.
* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
Like all of us, you have a dream. You were ashamed of yours and packed it away. Tied the box closed with a tight, tight knot.
I explained to you your nature, and the knot disintegrated. All those needs, they tumbled out of that box.
You back was to me, as you tried to stuff your desires back into that box. Your face was calm but your tight shoulders and stiff back told me more than your mouth ever could.
Now here we are. You asked if you were the only one.
No, you aren’t.
You stated you need more than to be more than one knot on my string.
Yes, you are.
You paused, so I filled in the blank for you.
Piss or get off the pot. No more to be said.
You stammered. I repeated those six words, until you returned the correct reply.
Then I sent you to the lavatory, to take a picture of you doing just that. Pissing. Or else, you had to get out of the way.
You come back to me, eyes downcast. The shot, taken with your camera phone, is shaky.
I tell you that you are mine to play with, so if I chose to suck you off, then piss in your face, I will.
And it goes forward, this strange invective of service, devotion, domination, submission, role-reversal.
You can’t help but grab your cock (thick, long, always rigid) and jerk it, over and over, until harshly, eyes screwed shut, body arched, muscles clenched- you erupt.
It flows out of you, like custard, broken open by a spoon at the dinner table.
Gasping, suspended, you cry out that you will lovingly, tenderly, kiss my feet, because you need to show me your adoration.
Don’t I understand that all too well…
You remind me of a dove, the innocent and open way you look at me. I should release you, let you wing away to the Heavens, but perversely, I cannot.
@liraswrites
It felt too cold in the canteen, and I felt much less conspicuous than I should have been. No one seemed to be phased by the color of my skin, my hair, my eyes; so vastly different than they had been only two weeks ago when I’d first arrived. I suppose they were used to these things. But every glimpse of my hand as I picked up a piece of bread, or maneuvered the spoon made me shiver.
The custard tasted all wrong. Others were eating it and made no comment. Anyway, I knew it was just me. They’d changed everything about me. Things smelled different, tasted different. Even the feel of it in my mouth. It wasn’t smooth and creamy like it should have been. It felt… grainy. No, not that exactly. But it seemed I could feel each individual molecule, the faint vibrations of the atoms, the composition of each ingredient and its individual taste as a piece of the whole.
It was fascinating. And terrifying.
I looked up at the lights that now were no longer the warm glow of sunlight, but a spectrum of colors separate and distinct, and I sighed. I hadn’t wanted this. I’d never wanted to have anything to do with this.
But they’d changed me now. There was no turning back for me anymore.
The snow fell gently as the westbound train made its way slowly through Chicago. Not that there was any reason for the train to move that slow at 2:30 in the morning, but it made Carl Dunham happy nonetheless.
The 17th boxcar had its door slightly ajar, so Carl sprinted a bit, slipping once on the snow encrusted ground, but recovering enough to grab onto the handrails and hoist himself up and in.
For the moment at least he was out of the biting cold wind of Chicago’s winter.
He tossed his old backpack filled with his few possessions in the corner and surveyed his new temporary home.
“This’ll do,” he said to the dark space.
Closing the door to the Chicago winter, he sat down next to where he’d tossed his things and opened the dirty, torn pack.
Scrounging around the two changes of clothes and the few containers of custard he was able to steal from the shelter before leaving, he pulled out the last remaining item he owned that he cared about.
A small picture frame that held the yellowing photograph of a beautiful, smiling woman.
“See, Denise?” he asked the photo. “Told you we’d travel tonight. We always used to travel on Christmas Eve. Remember?”
Noticing a bit of grime on the glass, he quickly rubbed it with a well-worn and frayed sleeve.
“There love. All pretty again.”
The train picked up speed as it lift Chicago. Carl shifted uncomfortably on the wooden floor of the boxcar. Sleep wouldn’t come. It was just too damn cold.
Carl pulled out the picture of his late wife once more.
“Remember that time,” he said, “We took the kids to Bermuda for Christmas? What a blast. Jason was so made when we wouldn’t let him ride a moped by himself. And Molly looked so adorable in her pink helmet. Matched the pink sand perfectly, didn’t it love?”
Sighing, Carl sat up, shivering with the cold.
“Well, it’s not like the old days, but I hope we’re heading someplace like California. And I wish to God you and the kids were still alive to play on the beaches like we did in Bermuda…”
* * *
It was two days later in Idaho when Carl’s frozen body was found by one of the trainmen. The smile on the old hobo’s face was in explicable.
“It’s almost like,” the trainman said to the officer taking his statement. “He died in a much better place than at the back of a refrigerator car…”
@rbwood
Custard
Elaine opened the recipe book at her favourite page, stained with milk and sticky with sugar; custard.
She didn’t really need the instructions but it didn’t feel right unless the book was open in front of her. She had cooked this same dish once a week, every week since she had first been taught it forty something years ago.
The simple but exact process was part of her Sunday ritual. The alchemy of eggs separated to sunshiney yolks and slick whites, whisked with milk and sugar, heated and flavoured with scraped vanilla pods.
As she opened the jar containing the black-brown pods the waft of sweet spice transported as it did every time to the French countryside. Her mother-in-law teaching her the correct way to cook the Creme Anglaise. The irony never escaped her, the French matron teaching the English wife her own national desert.
She heard her mother-in-laws warm voice talk her through the steps, long dead now, her son, Elaine’s husband followed only last year. Her own children grown and probably too busy to learn the art of traditional custard, though as youngsters they had always been fascinated by the magic that turned Bird’s pink powder to yellow joy in a bowl.
Even with no-one to share her bowl of custard with Elaine still cooked it, and with it remembered the youth of her marriage, the joy of her children and the sadness of loss.
~~~
@summerlandc
http://www.this-lemonade-life.blogspot.com
The silence between us thickened, gelling into custard, rich with betrayal, coating the nerves with emotion. Her eyes touched mine and I flinched somewhere deep inside.
Outwardly, my face remained calm; collected.
“You did, didn’t you?” she asked, voice sparse, her fury dying, a wind giving up stirring the leaves of a tree.
Behind me my stained sheets spoke a truth I would not deny. I had. I had taken another to my bed, fucked and tore at pleasure’s pinnacle until we both slept the exhausted sleep of the sated.
“Do you really want me to answer?” I answered her question with my own and her eyes fluttered shut.
“No.” She exhaled the single syllable. “No, I don’t.” Her hands reached out and I drew her into my arms, let her pull my lips to hers. “It doesn’t really matter, in the end,” she breathed into the space between our lips.
I kissed her, hard, hungry, brutal. Devoured her mouth without mercy until she tugged at my shirt and tipped us of her own volition back onto those traitorous sheets.
Custard-thick silence exchanged for moans and cries of desperate passion.
@AislingWeaver
It was a matter of texture, Sean concluded. He normally enjoyed sweets, but custard was the definite exception to that rule. At least, it always had been. It was hard to say no when confronted with the sight of his lover, swathed in an apron, bits of sugar dusting his hair.
“Just taste and let me know if it’s alright.”
The spoon slid into his mouth the second he opened to answer. Before he could protest cool creamy custard was followed by a hot, searching, tongue.
“Mmmmmm,” he managed. “I think I need to try another bite to be sure.”
Once again the spoon delicately carved out a before disappearing into his waiting mouth. This time Sean took the initiative, pulling his lanky lover into a deep, languid kiss.
“I take it you like my custard?” his lover teased.
“I think I’ll need to compare,” he insisted as they headed for the bedroom. “I think I’m developing a sweet tooth.”
@SesshaBatto
It looked like a wet sponge. Probably tasted worse. There was no way I would eat the glop. Then she caught my eye.
“Is it okay?” Tasha’s voice was small, at odds with her Amazon-type build. “I can bring you something else. No biggie.”
The sad smile she gave forced the spoon, along with a small piece of the custard up to my mouth. It sat on my tongue, tasting like a whole lot of nothing. I gave it an experimental chew, hoping some sort of pleasant flavor would displace the feeling that I’d just chomped down on a slug.
Sweetness swept over my tongue. Hey, it wasn’t half bad. The custard was pumpkin, perfectly spiced with clove and cinnamon. My favorite. Tasha was good at remembering things like that.
“It’s great, Tash.” I shoveled in another spoonful.
“Are you sure?” Her wariness made me frown. The custard was perfect. What was she expecting?
“Yeah its-”
My stomach cramped. The spoon and the next bite of custard clattered down to the plate. An irritated growl came from my gut, pain radiating out from it. Jesus, something was trying to claw its way out of there, I knew it.
Tasha bent her tall body down. A smile twisted her lips. “Next time you call it better be for something other than a booty call. I gave Sam the same recipe.”
Samantha, my wife, never knew about me trips to New York to visit Tasha. Well, until now at least. Panic helped whatever was in the custard race through my system.
“Fuck you.”
That was the last coherent thing I said before pushing past her to worship the porcelain goddess for the next six hours.
@RCMurphy
Tibby licked the custard off her fingers, delighting in the gooey caramel covered creaminess that coated her tongue. She giggled gleefully and ran her fingers along the edge of the pan once more, cradling her finger underneath to scoop the morsel to her mouth.
Her brother Meeka frowned while he watched his sister enjoy her dessert. He was lactose-intolerant and his mother ordered him some cake, but he coveted the forbidden custard.
Tibby licked the remaining swirls from the pan and smiled brightly at her mother, and when her mother took the pan from the table and turned to place it back on the cart, she stuck her tongue out at Meeka and blew him a quiet raspberry.
“Mom, Tibby’s making fun of me,” Meeka cried. Tibby gave her mother another winning smile and batted her eyelashes, the way her mother always had done when her father was around. Mom always got what she wanted when she gave Dad that look.
Her mother shook her head and laughed, then smoothed Tibby’s hair back and whispered in her ear, “Be nice to your brother. He was very worried about you.”
Tibby rolled her eyes and leaned back in her bed. She pulled the thin white covers up to her face and sighed the content sigh of a spoiled child. Tibby’s mother sat in the chair next to her bed, and pulled Meeka into her lap. Her mother sang her favorite lullaby and Tibby soon drifted off to sleep.
When she woke a few hours later, the nurse was leaning over her bed with another long needle. Tibby groaned and fled under the covers.
“Just one more shot tonight, dear. I promise,” the nurse said as she pulled the covers back. Tibby whimpered, and reached for her mother’s hand. Her mother woke and clutched Tibby’s head to her chest, the lullaby floating once more from her lips.
As the needle punctured her skin, Tibby yelped, and under her breath she muttered, “Tomorrow night I want banana cream pie.”
@saraheolson
I ran, screaming, as fast as I could from the kitchen, nearly skidded on the tiled hall floor and made for the bathroom, he was behind me, gaining fast. Squealing a protracted ‘no, I’ve just washed my hair’ as I slammed the bathroom door closed behind me, I heard him crash against it with a loud thud and I instinctively put my hand over my mouth and giggled.
We didn’t usually get time alone at home, it was really unusual for the kids to be out during the day and for both of us to be home, it was luxurious. We’d already made love, done some bill paying and then decided to cook a leisurely lunch before the kids were brought home again at dinner time. I thought it would be nice to make something special for dessert, a cremé bruleé, he called it ‘Frenchified custard’, but oh my God I loved to crack that caramelised lid, to listen closely to its’ sound as it broke to reveal the creamy luxury within and then to sink my spoon into the bottom of the ramekin to find those tiny black pearls of sweet, intoxicating vanilla… sex on a spoon to me.
He crept quietly up behind me, snaked his arms around my waist and I melted into his embrace, as always. He dipped the tip of his finger in the still warm custard and raised it to my lips for me to taste, it was perfect. He dipped his finger in it again, but, this time traced a line down the side of my neck with it as I protested and squirmed in his arms that were now bracing more tightly. His tongue closely followed his finger; I giggled and wriggled free from him. I could see the mischief plainly in his eyes, he was bent on trouble!
He chased me around the kitchen, custard filled saucepan in hand, me giggling like a schoolgirl until I had the bright idea to seek refuge in the bathroom, however, I didn’t think through a long term strategy, eventually I’d have to come out. I smiled to myself, there’d be more chasing, there’d be messy spreading of that sweet and silky liquid over the lines on my body he loved to lick, there’d be wrestling and feigned resistance until I’d ‘let’ him take me and do with me what he (and I) wanted. Such intoxicating sweetness…..
@AlcyoneAlchemy
I slipped the knife into the bowl. Thick. Yellow. Strange strands of liquid pooled at one edge. A smell. Not vanilla, exactly, but not banana, either. Something in between. Honey?
I pushed the knife through, extracted a thick blob of the stuff, brought it to my nose. Sweet, but indistinct. I flicked out my tongue. Again, sweet. But nothing I could positively identify.
I licked the knife clean.
Waited.
No reaction.
I covered the knife again, then presented it to her.
She didn’t exactly smile, but I could tell she was pleased. She wiped the knife with her finger, raised it, letting the dripping custard fall into her mouth before licking her finger clean.
I let the knife clatter to the floor.
Using our fingers, we devoured the rest of the bowl, Then we devoured each other.
Content, I asked her a question. “And now I’ll own her soul? She’ll be mine forever?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. I may have altered the recipe a bit.”
And I could feel, somehow, my soul being ripped from within myself. It hurt, at first. But not now. Not now.
I just sit here, in my chair, awaiting her next utterance.
I’ve never had a taste for whiskey… Okay, that’s a lie, not the last you’ll hear uttered from these lips. That’s what I am, a fibber, a twister of truths, a bull-shitter, a bloody liar. Not the worst thing I’ve been called either. A rogue and vagabond, a cheat and blackguard. All true.
When I saw her, I had to have her, I was transfixed, bewitched. She was a dancer with a travelling show, all the way from the US of A, bringing a taste of the Wild West to the towns and villages of this backward land. To me, she was exotic, the way she looked, the way she danced, the way she sounded.
I sold the family land for half what it was worth and paid for passage to America. From New York to Boston to Chicago we danced and drank, we laughed, we fought and we fucked. It was passionate, explosive passion. She told me she loved me, I told her I hated her. We both lied.
We followed the gold trail west, in search of easy money and an easier life, all we found were sad, desperate people scratching in the dirt. Much like home, I suppose.
The money ran out, my inheritance squandered on liquor and opium.
“What should we do now?” says I. She shrugged and smiled and closed the door behind her.
I’m stuck here now, where the summers are too hot and the winters too cold, where the whiskey would rot your gut and every second person you meet wants to steal the eyes from your head. I’ve burnt my bridges and can never return.
Some times I conjure images of home, I can almost feel the soft rain on my face, hear the whistle of the wind through the trees on a moon lit night, or smell the pungent earthy smell of a freshly tilled field, or an open peat fire, taste freshly cut rhubarb and thick yellow custard on my tongue.
What I usually imagine, what occupies nearly every waking thought and haunts my dreams, giving me no respite even in sleep, is the taste of peaches from her lips, the hint of summer meadows in the air when she passes by. And that is no lie.
“Don’t you _dare_ peek,” Carlie said, ” No matter what you think you hear.
I promised her, but damn if it wasn’t hard to do. We’d had such a great night out for my birthday, dinner, dancing, the works, and Carlie had practically dragged me back to her place from the pulsing music. Not that I put up any kind of fight. And then the blindfold when we walked into her front door?
I have a good imagination, and it was running full steam as she led me through her place. I _think_ it was to her bedroom, but when she let go my hand and said “Don’t. Move.” I heard her walking on what sounded like plastic. More sounds made me want to just rip the blindfold off – I was _sure_ she was taking off her clothes.
“Not a move, David. I see you. Not a move.” Now she was a breath away, the out of the room. I heard her pad – yes, barefoot, down the hall, to the kitchen, then rummage and come back.
More steps on plastic and then stranger sounds still. A kind of “sschorp”, a giggle, and the flick of a lighter.
“OK, David. You’re a good boy.” You can look now.
I ripped off the blindfold to see Carlie, yes, naked and beautiful, reclined in the middle of her bedroom floor – on a plastic table cloth, with a recently upended egg-custard (my favorite!) giggling on her flat tummy. It had a candle in it.
“Happy birthday, Baby,” she said, holding out a spoon. “Make a wish, blow out the candle.”
She _started_ singing happy birthday, then. But she didn’t ever finish.
@_Monocle_
“People say that eating this stuff reminds them of their childhood.” He leant back in his chair, the bowl miniscule in his hand. His tongue poked out, licking the custard from his matted beard. “They always used to have it for school dinners. Apple pie, cherry crumble, jam slice – always with custard. People like being reminded of their youth. They like to think that life was easier back then.” He placed the bowl down on the table, the spoon clanging on the inside. “What they normally don’t realise is that life was hard back then too, they were just too young and stupid to realise it.”
He looked up at the girl sitting opposite him and frowned, the skin on his face pulling taut against his cheekbones. “You’ve not eaten anything. Would you prefer something else?”
The girl whimpered. Her face was a rainbow of purple and blue and yellow, bruises on bruises. Her hands rested on the table, shaking.
“Please,” she said, her lip fighting in an attempt not to wobble and let forth the sobs building in her body. “Please. Let me go. Please.” The man looked wounded.
“Don’t you like it here?” A tear slipped down the girls face, and her hands tightened their grip on the table. “Come now, don’t cry!” said the man, smiling wide and revealing his blackened teeth. “I know you miss your friends, and your fiance, but you must leave them behind. Now eat up, your custard’s going cold.” The girl’s trembling intensified, and slowly she lifted her hands, reachig for the bowl. She picked up the spoon, custard dripping off the side from the tremors of her hand. She shut her eyes and put the spoon in her mouth. She swallowed, wincing as her bruised throat was pulled with the movement.
“That’s my girl,” said the man, tilting his head to the side as he took her in. “My beautiful girl. How lucky I am to have you.”
@Skyfall
All finished? Well, if not, too bad ’cause time’s up.
Y’all seemed to like that prompt; at least, you sure made something of it. Good job!
Ok, you get back here at 3:00 and see who made it to the finals.
See you then!