Friday, July 15, 2011

'Another One of Life’s Lackluster Moments (in Fabulous Techno-color)' by William Lemley

Posted By on Fri, Jul 15, 2011 at 9:30 AM

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Some people are more lackluster than others, perhaps, but we all have those lackluster moments. William Lemley has got you having a doozie of one (though that may seem contradictory, read on and you’ll see that it’s not). I love the emotion he’s able to tap into. It’s not overwrought but definitely calls up a sting like... Well, you’ll see.

I’m running low on submissions so please send in your stories. I’m still waiting for those six-word pieces too. Flashfiction@sacurrent.com. Your summer disappears quickly so put it to some good use and write some flash.

— Lyle Rosdahl

“Another One of Life’s Lackluster Moments (in Fabulous Techno-color)” by William Lemley

You feel the last two Jamesons you shouldn’t have had, and here in the near dark you’re straining to keep focused on her kiss as she straddles your lap. A pained tension, taut like sore gums under a dentist’s prod, wells in your head. This analysis causes a moment of hesitation, a long drawn second of non-motion, and she feels it. “The first time with someone new is always weird,” she coos like a counselor peddling some emotionally supportive babble—the kind housed in cookies and on posters. You nod acceptingly, the tension still present. You start to excuse yourself, “No. Yeah, it’s just.” The vacuum that is this moment sucks the words from you.Sitting on you in only a black lace bra, she is as unwholesome as a part truth or a half eaten pie. You run your hand along the curve of her bare hip around to the top of her ass and, unlike you, she is far from cold. This is everything you might have wanted tonight, but it seems you’re not nearly enough. The realization causes you to expel a weighty scoff. “Whiskey Dick?” she asks in a whisper, and have words ever sounded as hot? Scalding, like newly shorn balls in an alcohol douse. Your hand draws up to touch her breast, but you let it fall to the bed. You are an idiot but you can comprehend a lost cause. You hope she cannot make out your expression because you know you appear as lost as a person with one too many chromosomes. “We can do this some other time,” she offers and you nod again like a crying child would to a threat, head hung. Her kiss to your cheek is not the same as a lover’s but it’s close, and somehow this drunkenly registers as something like hope.  As she exits the room, the light from the open door makes a cameo of her nude silhouetted form.  Now alone in the dark, you mull her words over as you lay flat on the mattress scratching your head.

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