by: Frederick Foote
Two offerings of flash fiction that forge a connection between sexuality and writing…
Long, lovely, limbs with a drawn-out torso to match and a face to fit her frame. Clad in a colorful summer dress that contrasts with her pale winter skin. She’s sitting across from me at our sidewalk cafe table, inquiring about my writing preferences.
Delightfully, I respond. “Short stories, flash fiction, a dab of poetry. And, you are a novelist, Ms…”
“Abigail Butler. Gail, to my friends and fellow writers.” She sips her drink and peeks over her shades, “Have you always written short stories? Have you tried writing longer works?”
I like her eyes. I wish she would ditch the dark glasses. “I have a short attention span fifteen thousand words is about my max.”
“Too bad. I was looking for a writer that could stay the course, and carry the day.”
She smiles ever so slightly.
I return the hint of a smile. “To what end were you seeking such a writer?”
“Oh, just for the duration of the conference. I’d like to find a partner to workshop with, someone who’s a kindred spirit.”
“I see. Well, a short story writer might just meet your needs better than a novelist for our three-day conference, unless you require someone who could stay the course for full seventy-two hours straight.”
“I see your point,” She replies. “However, a story that is too brief may lack the punch that I desire and the climax that I’m so very fond of.”
“Of course, that is a critical factor in selecting a workshop partner for me too. However, some of my readers have informed me that they have received penetrating pleasure from my flash fiction, and have experienced hours of unparalleled satisfaction upon.”
She shifts in her seat and leans toward me, exposing a pleasing path between a pair of pale, fleshy hills.
“Hmmm, that is an interesting perspective. Still, I find the building power of a long narrative to be almost irresistible.”
“I agree, with you. We’re on the same page,” It was my turn to lean in closer to her. “I see a novel as a series of scenes, with mini-climaxes, building in intensity until the emotions are overwhelmed – like a series of interconnected short stories.”
The brief smile of hers is back, drawing us closer. “Building in intensity, I like that. But, the sheer length of the work is a major factor in my enjoyment of a story.”
“Naturally,” I chime in. “but there is more than one standard here for enjoyment. We all use the same words, but with radically different impacts. It is a poor writer that is dependent on length alone to satisfy readers.”
She peeks over her Ray-Bans again. “Really? I’m interested. Tell me more.”
“Look, even a strong foreword can build anticipation. A provocative introduction can promote pleasure in the consumption of the story. Innovative approaches can stimulate a variety of exquisite and unanticipated sensual responses from readers.”
She pauses and sips her drink. “I hear what you are saying, and I like it, I do. But can a novelist and short story writer coexist for long?”
My gaze lingers over my drink for a moment before I respond. I touch her hand. “Who knows? Our different perspectives, outlooks, and literary values may be the perfect synergy to spur new creative efforts, interest, and directions.”
“Now, that is so true. That’s an excellent point!”
I hold her hand. “And, with a short story, there’s no long-term commitment. If you don’t like the story, you can quickly move on to something else.”
“Yes. Yes. Look, I have some draft chapters of a new book, I would be pleased if you would look at them with me.”
“It would be my pleasure to give them my undivided, personal, close attention.”
She takes off her glasses. “It sounds like you have a hands-on approach. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I have a room with an ocean view. Do you have any of your works I could sink my teeth into?”
“I think some of my pieces would be like honey in your mouth and you wouldn’t need to use your teeth at all.”
She puts the drinks on her tab. We take a short walk and an even shorter elevator ride to her room and the impending stimulating give and take off our literary exchanges.
Exchanges that have grown more in quality, depth, and frequency over the past few years.
“Know this, that luscious slice of life between your legs, that gravy giver, that happiness hole, that indentation of inspiration is on my mind all the time like a flood on the flatlands.”
“Tis a shame to bring such a weak game, limp language, impotent images, and watered down aspirations as your prayers of supplication.”
“Words, mere words, are insufficient to do justice to your succulent and tantalizing mounds of infinite delight and irresistible, indelible nipples. Nipples that stir passions beyond the ability of logical thought to convey.”
“If your proposition is true, then you are summarily dismissed for knowingly trading in counterfeit currency, for undercutting the value of your doomed to fail, false, and preposterous campaign and, for wasting my time, abusing my ears and disturbing my devotions.”
“Tis true. Tis true. I’ve dribbled swill on the golden altar, played false notes and faltering tunes, and provided a pale and insufficient shadow of my true emotions and great affections. I shall remedy these gross offenses with this sharp blade to slice out my impudent, inarticulate, and inadequate tongue. Swiftly I— “
“Stay! Stay your hand. Hold for the moment. There may be tasks of redemption for that offending member. That wagging appendage may prove its worth in worship and play. It may have uses beyond, above and below the afflictions of speech.”
“You are most gracious and wise beyond recall for you have proven that actions speak louder than words and are more endearing than poetry or prose. Shall I commence the acts of propitiation?”
“Soon, soon. You have embellished a few of my attributes and stirred the jealousy of other parts and places. You should strive to remedy this inequity, and in so doing you may rise to the occasion and succeed in your ambitions beyond imagination and sensation.”
And, the courtship continued in hopes of consummation and recreation.