How I wish I could give it to you

In recent weeks, I've been up to my eyebags in flash fiction.

I wrote another one that got rejected. 

But another one I wrote after that was ok. 

The one that was rejected, was rejected because it featured penis too heavily (a bit like Birth of the Holy). Anyway I tried a new one, and made the creative compromise of not featuring any dick and it turned out ok. So I guess the lesson is to give feedback a chance and sometimes working within creative limits can produce serviceable work. 

You might not realise this (especially from reading this blog) but I'm a professional writer. 

In a way, I'm in the privileged position of being paid to write these stories, so I should be open to feedback. Even if it means having to write something that (if you've read this blog before) doesn't feature my favoured motifs of cock and DMX. 

Anyway, that acceptable story is one for another time. 

Here's the one that got rejected:

Our date is going well. She looks at me and we lock eyes. Brief is the moment I’ve known her in the flesh, and in this briefer moment still we share an understanding that more flesh will be known tonight. Her irises frame the moonlight, the falling rain underscores the melody of her speech. There’s more to be known of her, but knowing her heretofore, I can be only certain of her beauty. But then my stomach sinks, as another organ rises. For I know my accursed malady and what comes next. It starts with barking and growling. Synthetic trumpets follow. Maybe she didn’t hear? I panic and pull her to me and we kiss. Bad move. 

She reciprocates, and escalates, lightly pressing her hand against my crotch. The synthetic trumpets are louder now. The interruption amplifies the silence, before it shatters. 

‘DON’T GET IT TWISTED!’ 

‘Did you say something?’ 

‘No…’ 

‘THIS RAP SHIT, IS MINE. MOTHER FUCKER!’ 

‘Excuse me?’ 

‘Sorry it’s my ringtone. I really need to take this, sorry. I have to go.’ And so I do. 

In an alleyway, behind a bin, I wait a minute and the chaos subsides. 

Since his death, DMX has haunted my penis. When the mood dictates, from below my belt his standards belt out from my urethra. I avoid situations where this can happen. People wouldn’t understand. I don’t even understand. 

I rattle along a suburban road. The rain hits the window as droplets hypnotise my conscious mind as Sufjan Stevens plays on my Pixel Buds. The unconscious takes over and wanders into salacious territory. There’s movement in my periphery. Grey perms turn to reveal eyes enhanced by thick glasses. A few at first, until every old person on this bus ride glares in my direction. I pop my Pixel Buds out. ‘YOU BETTER BUST THAT IF YOU GON’ PULL THAT’. How do I explain what’s happening? I decide not to. I pretend nothing is happening. The embarrassment causes the music to settle. I get off the bus. There’s always the next one.

Hey, I didn't say it was good.

(the editor) Dan.