Dirty Socks

Sock monkey with multicolor mohair hat.

Flash challenge: a story with three sentences. (I’m probably going to hell for this one.)

Dirty Socks:

Monkey’s brains are filled with cotton wool, the stuff that comes from yarn stores, though he once told Teddy that it came from the bra of a flat-chested stripper from Vegas, and that’s why he thinks the thoughts he does, and he’s made from socks worn by a lumberjack, too, so he could kick anybody’s ass, even the boy who sneaks out the window late, late, late at night.

He knows he’s a he-Monkey because when he wishes he could masturbate, he wants to yank, not to finger, not like the girl who isn’t little anymore, lonely quick movements under her covers, who doesn’t realize his button eyes see in the dark, sewn wide open, watching her, his tail stiff and quivering.

His red smile stretches wide, wide, wide, for he will be there long after the boy is gone, smothered up against her soft breasts as she cries; he’s not a jealous Monkey–after all, Teddy doesn’t have a penis either–and no one looks as good in a sock cap as he does.

Sidewalk Cracks

Pink metal Hello Kitty lunchbox on cracked concrete.

Flash challenge: 100 words on the subject of revenge.

Sidewalk Cracks

“So Josie,” the thick-necked boy crooned. “What did Mommy pack for us on this fine Thursday morning?”

The tall skinny one pawed her backpack. “She’s got something hidden in here.”

“Ham and cheese,” crowed Freddy James, who apologized when the others weren’t around, “With mayonnaise.”

She stared at the quiet one in back. He watched her sometimes when he was alone, and his face grew tight and angry whenever his friends took her lunch, never hungry as the others tore her food in rough thirds.

Josie counted sidewalk cracks, walking with the hot sun behind her.

Ma packed that sandwich Monday.