Author: Douglas

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A Month Later in Nîmes

In the back studio, Sylvie air-brushed the ventral fins’ spines with henna; Kirill embraced her as thanks for a caffè macchiato. In the middle, Élodie sanded her thousandth maple scale; there, he pressed the saucer-sized blank and her hand to his face to imbibe a fragrance like morning perfume on nighttime skin.

In the fore, I sweated the god-damned dorsal mounting; he asked ‘Manon?’, then stopped, covered his mouth with a hand, and thrummed blunt fingers on his cheek. He was done fucking me.

A month later in Nîmes a wooden fish mobile crushed the artist. Shoddy anchor bolts…apparently.

http://www.lesmachines-nantes.fr/atelier.html
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/02/flash-fiction-challenge-100-words-on-the-subject-of-revenge/

100 words on day 862

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A Dragonfall Shrike

http://boltcity.com/amulet/desktops/desktop_vigoslair_1500.jpg

The helo-plane hovers with its wings tucked while the pilot surveys the beach for high tide indications and a good spot to set down. The companion-pilot, a dragonfall shrike, leans out of the soft spot below the helo-plane to circle the high-walled cove. At this time of the morning the wind falls softly from above with few gusts or swirls. The shrike circles a tree and a tree-house then rises up nearly to the forest above before tucking its wings into a dive and inserting itself into the water. It comes up juggling a fish. Innacule Brin has been informed this helo-plane, an amphibious model, can also belly-land in the sand like a curlew nesting. Inna hopes she won’t have to kill the pilot in order to hijack the plane; he seemed like such a nice man [on the phone].

140 words on day 860

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Exploring a Guerrilla

http://maciejkuciara.blogspot.com/2011/08/weekend-fun-continued.html

Varsha was a short brown woman with long black hair and bit bigger ass than any of us could handle if we’d ever been allowed to handle it at all. When she first came to us on a rainy day she told Yolo she was married, she told Chit she was a widow, and she told Mattie she was gay. Me? Well me…me she told to fuck the hell off. We had no trouble believing all three stories were true, and I just pretended she was my little sister—until that got creepy.

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Chit counted ammo in the shade of a travelers’ tent we erected on a sand bar. The awkward height and angle of the poles presented the lumpy aspect of a large boulder, but against the white gravel and sand near the river it must have looked like a target because in ten minutes Chit would be hurrying to rid himself of his current ballistic inventory in a rapid orderly fashion.

“See anything?”

Varsha swiveled to eye Chit in the tent; she left her arms akimbo and her feet in place.

“See anything?”

She swiveled back continuing to survey downriver. “No.”

Varsha’s denim leopard-patterned cargo-capris were tucked into a pair of laced on sune-ate. Those shin guards were so big for her they ran from her ankles up past her knees.

Gotta stop here.

225 words on day 847