Clive's Requiem

A .38-sized hole bled life. Sunk in a crimson puddle, Clive looked up at the lawman who’d felled him.

"Was it worth it, sonny?” The cop said.

Through pain and blood loss, Clive thought about it.

Thought about Colt barrels thrust in rent-a-cop faces, bags packed tight with green rolls, civilians crouching in balaclava-induced terror. Thought about breakneck getaways down back roads, a life of hot credit cards and shitty motel rooms. Paradise, USA.

Thought about HER, with all that fiery beauty, beside him every step of the way. With HER, that insurmountable rush from daylight bank snatches never ended.

Back from a score, blood pounding, they’d keep the high going. Strip off bulletproof vests and bandoliers, shirts and underwear, then spreading legs and letting tongues wander. He'd trace dollar signs on her clit, SHE whispering every statute they’d broken with filthy abandon. His cock rifle-hard, HER cunt bank vault-tight, the illicit euphoria of armed robbery extended into an orgasmic hereafter. Twin flames, fucking each other raw beside stacks of The Man’s cash.

And this cop had stopped to shoot Clive, meaning SHE probably got away.

Between bloodstained teeth, Clive gurgled, “Worth every fuck...”

The cop assumed Clive died mid-sentence.

Last Shot

The fifth of whiskey was empty. Mikey looked at the bottle despairingly, trying to ignore the reams of paperwork on the desk beneath.

Investment portfolios showing red. Tax bills with steep fines. Court subpoenas.

Half a million down the sinkhole, and worse yet to come.

He stood up and put his coat on. He wanted to go out, but where? Maybe Tossolini’s, but Mikey knew his favourite chef wasn’t working tonight. Dooley’s Bar, then.

Mikey left the building. The walk made his feet ache in protest, but it was only a minute away. He caught his reflection in a window – unshaven, tie loosened, fresh grey streaks running through his cowlick. Such unkemptness would’ve made him an apostate among his fellow Finance District slicksters, but lately he’d been depressed and borderline insomniac, and appearance was the last thing he cared about.

Ten Days of Writing - Day 9

I jumped into Leone Ross' Ten Days of Writing challenge half-way, so it's kind of fitting that I didn't quite make it to the end. I did Day 9 but was just too busy to pull something together for Day 10. I really wish it was something I'd been in on from the beginning, but such is life.

Leone's full list of challenges are here. I might go back through these and attempt a few of them - some are really intriguing (particularly the word loop one).

The challenge for Day 9 was to write 250 words about a moment of either pain or ecstasy. I chose the latter. It's not my best bit of writing (heck, I couldn't even come up with a title) but half the point of these exercises is to see where our limits are and what we can do with different ideas. Story begins after the picture...

Ten Days of Flash - Day 8

Image from aboriginaltourism.com.au

Continuing on with Leone Ross' Ten Days of Flash. The day 8 challenge was right up my alley: take a myth, and modernise it, using only 120 words or less. I chose the Indigenous Australian myth of the Rainbow Serpent; there are lots of different stories about this creature, but most agree that it's associated with water, rains and fertility.

SAVIOURS AND SIDE EFFECTS
By Elliot DeLocke

Smithfield Chemicals burned, oily smoke plumes rolling skyward. Commander Farlane watched his fire crews struggle for control.

“When’s he coming?” he asked.

Dreamtime Liaison Officer Schultz shrugged. “Soon. He got caught up at the Litchfield fire.”

The inferno roared. Chemical storage silos groaned; they’d explode any moment now. Farlane braced himself.

Then... a rumble.

Behind them, a gargantuan serpent reared, scales shimmering with iridescent glory. The beast cried and belched thick, cleansing fog over the fire; toxins were purified, combustibles went inert. Heavy rains were summoned, finishing the blaze off.

Firefighters cheered. The Rainbow Serpent departed, flowers sprouting behind it.

Farlane and Schultz shook hands, politely ignoring each other’s massive, throbbing erections. Working with fertility spirits always had side effects.

Ten Days of Flash - Day 7

Writer Leone Ross has a challenge on her Facebook page called Ten Days of Flash, with the goal of having participants write flash fiction every day for ten days. I found it via Remittance Girl's blog and thought it looked fun, so I decided to jump on board... right around day 7. Because if you're going to do something, you might as well do it half-assed, I guess.

But what the hey. The Day 7 challenge was to write a 55-word piece of flash fiction inspired by one of five posted photos. I choose the picture shown above, and came up with the story below.

THE CLIENT
By Elliot DeLocke

The client’s teeth chattered. Malcolm lent the man his jacket.

“Warmer now, Mister Griffin? Do you need gloves? I’ve only rubber ones, I’m afraid."

The jacket nodded. Malcolm fetched them, acting as thought this were all perfectly normal.

“Better? Okay, from what you’ve told me, you definitely have a libel case against this Wells character...”

Progress

8:00 AM. I wake up, achingly erect and thinking of Janet.

Janet? That’s unusual. But with little hesitation, I grab lubricant from the bedside drawer, slather my cock, begin stroking myself.

I recall Janet, fucking me, riding me hard, hair spilling over her breasts and face twisted with lust. Janet, raking fingers and lips over my chest, letting me clench her ass tight as she bounces.

I gratify myself, stroking, gasping. The memories are intense; I’m desperate to come.

Beautiful, lustful Janet, fucking me. That’s all I think of in this moment.

A marvelous orgasm. Semen bursts from my cock, pouring everywhere.  I moan, loud.

I feel relaxed.

Then, I recall Janet.

Janet, shooting dagger-eyes and dark accusations whenever I interacted with, worked with, or even mentioned other women. Janet, demanding more and more of my time until I saw no one but her. Janet, keeping me awake all night, insulting, threatening, telling me she’d kill herself if I ever left her. Janet, who took four years and tens of thousands to finally divorce.

The memories are queasy, bitter.

But the hot semen on my fingers shows that – for a few moments – I can forget.

That’s progress, right?

Copyright Elliot DeLocke 2014. All rights reserved. Do not reprint in part or in whole without the author’s permission.

Dishes

The kitchen's a mess. Dirty plates are piled four-high, and I have no clean forks or spoons left. Breakfast bowls have been rinsed with hot water, but otherwise sit waiting to be immersed in suds. A frying pan has been wiped down, but not scoured. Tea cups have blackened interiors, desperately needing a scrubbing with steel wool.

There's no dishwasher. Everything needs to be cleaned by hand.

And my hands are currently cupping my balls and sharply pinching my nipples. They are occupied with immersing themselves in water-based lubricant, before gripping my erect shaft and stroking, each pull taking me closer to spurting.

As I fuck myself, teetering on the brink of orgasm, my thoughts occasionally drift back to the dishes. As I masturbate with sloppy, fluid-drenched fingers, I feel moments of shame.

My kitchen is a disgrace, and I know it.

One day - when someone new and lovely enters my life - I will scour every plate, wash each coffee cup and polish every teaspoon. I will disinfect every bench and stovetop. For a new lover, I will work my hands to the bone, and the kitchen will sparkle.

Until then, my hands are too fucking busy.