Wednesday, February 15, 2006


These two pieces of flash prose (each less than 500 words) were entries into Desdmona's Stiletto Flash contest. The first, Memento, won an honorable mention. You may recognize the theme in the second, Timeless, if you're a fan of Arthurian legend. Peace, y’all.

~ Alessia

Variations on a theme

[ I ]

Father Secco paused in his preparation for Sunday’s sermon when the recently-hired cleaning girl appeared in his peripheral vision. “Yes, Carlotta? What is it?” he asked without looking up.

“Please to excuse, padre.” Her voice dropped an octave, “Is this.”

It took him a moment to decipher what sounded like ees dees before lifting just his eyes to discover Carlotta holding a plastic grocery bag at arm’s length from her body as if its contents might suddenly explode. As he met her gaze, a blush crept up her neck and lit upon her full cheeks, making her appear even younger.

Father Secco rose and circled his desk, relieving Carlotta of the bag. Free of its burden, her body immediately relaxed, and her hands clasped one another just below her ample bosom.

“I…I found eet in the confessional,” she stammered, “just like the other.”

He took a quick peek into the bag, nodded once, and thanked Carlotta for bringing it to his attention. “There’s no need to bother anyone else about this,” he cautioned as he herded her toward the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Carlotta crossed herself and muttered, “Sí, padre. Gracias.”

His heart racing, Father Secco closed the door to his office and pressed the knob’s button to lock it. He placed the bag on his desk and fetched a small key from the compartment of a hollow crucifix—one which once held a small vial of holy water. Taking a deep breath to quell the tremor in his hands, he inserted the key into the upper left desk drawer and slowly pulled it open. Her perfume—the vanilla musk—greeted him, flooding his mind with memories of that Saturday morning when he first heard her confession.

The black patent leather stiletto—never worn, from the look of its sole—had the drawer to itself, which was quite an honor considering the substantial clutter elsewhere. On the instep in flowing red script, a simple query:

Remember me?

Indeed, he did. In fact, he dreamt of her often; his seed soaking the sheets as he slept. How could he possibly forget the whisper rasp of her hands against the fabric of her clothes, the husky guttural sound of her voice as she climaxed, and the overwhelmingly enticing scent of her arousal in the close confines of the confessional? Odd that, in spite of what they’d shared, he wouldn’t recognize her if they passed on the street.

The bag contained the shoe’s mate—with one significant addition. He removed it gingerly, pinched between thumb and forefinger, and held it at eye level. Its message, in the same red ink, sent a shiver through him:

Until next time,

But it was the scent–her scent—which produced an instant erection. The heel glistened with her juices. Still wet. He brought the stiletto nearer his face and inhaled deeply. As he extended his tongue to taste of her, the remainder of her message came into view:


[ II ]

First light peeks through the drapery sheers, appearing as a raspberry blush through closed eyelids. Their pale bodies lie atop the soft taupe bedspread, naked limbs entwined in a deeply sated slumber. Lance smiles softly without opening his eyes, remembering that the woman he loves is—against all odds—finally by his side. His beard is still redolent with her essence, and his hips ache with the memory of passion lasting far into the night. Into the pre-dawn hours, if truth be told.

Truth. If defined as the absence of pretense, he muses, then their love is most assuredly true. Truer, in fact, than any bound by the arbitrary constructs of sin and salvation. Call it destiny, if needs be, or call it lust. Both may be true, but neither matters when the silky skin of her thighs rests atop his groin. Their rhythmic union declares itself beyond the reach of definition, of mere words—timeless in its systolic perfection.

Gwen stirs—whimpers as if an unpleasant dream disturbs her sleep—and he kisses her forehead to smooth her brow. The ding of an elevator carries through the heavy door, accompanied by muffled voices from another realm, another reality. The wheels of a pulled suitcase echo as retreating hoof beats against the tiled floor.

He is painfully aware that the universe has but one such night set aside for them, and it is not without risk to their lives, their loves, and their cause. Yet her insistent kisses vanquish all doubt. Her hot tongue upon his cock eclipses even the threat of death, and her touch sears his very soul. There is no price too steep for this moment.

Opening his eyes, Lance drinks the sight of her face. Fair lashes rest against porcelain cheeks still flushed with sex. Her breath teases his mouth, and he moves closer to inhale the air once inside her—as if in so doing, part of her will forever be in his blood. She smiles as his tongue then traces the outline of her lips, and her eyes—bluest fields deep—slowly open.

Their kiss deepens, and their bodies move together—closing the narrow space. He feels the cold steel just as Gwen gasps. Neither recoils. They know—without looking—what lies between them, and their eyes lock in silent understanding. Time’s up. The stiletto’s ornate handle protrudes from the mattress, its blade embedded as they slept.

Together, their fingers grip the shaft to extract the blade, and they read the words engraved upon it. Timeless words for a timeless quest. On one side: Take Me Up. On the other: Cast Me Away.

~ ~ ~

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