Open On Sunday: Plastic
Spike
Real Love
"Spike."
His name was a poem on her lips; a combination of the eroticism of Byron and the romanticism of Burns; his body trembled in anticipation even before she touched him.
And when she finally did trail her fingers down his chest it was love and lust and heat, so much heat, and he broke and was remade, over and over.
It wasn't until he was sated and spent that he looked at her face and saw the brittleness behind her smile and he remembered that she was only a plastic facsimile and the real girl would never be his.
AN: As soon as I saw the topic, I knew that this was what I wanted to write about. I kept making false starts though and came close to giving up. Today, on the way to paying sesame oil at the local Chinese supermarket, each line came to me. I repeated them over in my mind and as soon as I got back to the office typed them out. Not only was it exactly 100 words on the first shot, but it's one of those rare times that I'm completely satisfied.
Real Love
"Spike."
His name was a poem on her lips; a combination of the eroticism of Byron and the romanticism of Burns; his body trembled in anticipation even before she touched him.
And when she finally did trail her fingers down his chest it was love and lust and heat, so much heat, and he broke and was remade, over and over.
It wasn't until he was sated and spent that he looked at her face and saw the brittleness behind her smile and he remembered that she was only a plastic facsimile and the real girl would never be his.
AN: As soon as I saw the topic, I knew that this was what I wanted to write about. I kept making false starts though and came close to giving up. Today, on the way to paying sesame oil at the local Chinese supermarket, each line came to me. I repeated them over in my mind and as soon as I got back to the office typed them out. Not only was it exactly 100 words on the first shot, but it's one of those rare times that I'm completely satisfied.