All posts tagged short stories

Coffee Stained Seats

I board the carriage, the rush of the train hitting me as I carry my heavy Santa-esque load on my back and through the hoards and throngs.

These random individuals most of whom haven't had great years and have no doubt taken it on others all vie for the first available seat on the train. Their eyes scout the room, quickly darting about as if they were a cat stalking its prey. A tongue juts out quickly and VOOM!- a seat is stolen and the person is reacquainting themselves with some estranged element of comfort gone missing in a world of hustle & bustle.

I board with my oversized luggage: I swear it weighs a ton. At least a metric ton, that much I am sure of!

In this time and in this season, the droves are dwindling and becoming dampened by the decaying sense of job morality. With the decline of an industry, more and more are coming less and less, starting their vacations early while their workplace starts to leak blood without the chance for an infusion.

"Get the kids," shouts the fifty-something investment banker, a man unsure about even his own investments at present time. He'll take his little boy and two half-grown up women, his wife, pet rock, & the dog and then just go. Away. Away from this, the mess; away from anything resembling anything that doesn't resemble Christmas.

As I push my way into the carriage, the loads of thoughts, dreams, distant memories once thought shattered but found again one listless cold morning, as I make my way into the train I see all of this in the glint of an eye.

I push my way in and sit on the last bite-sized chunk of a seat left over, my pants barely finding their way into a crevice left by the cruel bastard next to me sitting smug and cool with his classic sunglasses and pretentious smile.

As my backside settles in, a cardboard coffee cup shuffles it's way out from the side spreading good will & cheer on a message on the cup and spreading cheap milky brown liquid burned from some cheap espresso joint all over my freshly dry-cleaned red velvet lined pants.

I look down at the cup, now hitting the floor and staining my sackbackpack.

"Fuck," I grumble. The noise startled even the iPod earbud passenger dressed in a small sense of naivety with but a hint of Christmas cheer in the shape of a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Rei deer resting against her collar bone with a thin gold chain passed through it.

I smile the sort of smile that warns people off, looking at the messy residue all over my delicate fabric.

Right. That's the last time Santa ever takes public transport.

His shirt sticky

His shirt sticky from the morning run, he boarded the train. He barely had time to shower, to dress, to change into some clothes that made his random run-of-the-mill salesman job seem presentable.

“Look like a car salesman,” the recruiters had told him a week before he had been accepted as one of ten official sales reps for TeleDreamCo, another fledgling phone sales company where the staff knew nothing about phones and everything about charm and a cheap smile.

His shirt sticky, he looked around the train at the other people riding. One man on a computer looked worried, his jacket on his lap and his hands typing furiously. Another in a suit looked calm and relaxed, an easy Monday morning and he was flicking through his Blackberry looking at emails from the girlfriend, the wife, and the secretary all itching for the next time they’d see him.

A girl in her mid-thirties stared into space. Nothing was going on in that mind of hers and yet everything was going on in that mind of hers. She could not escape the work day and yet she so wanted to. She wanted to be that person who didn’t have to work, who didn’t have to struggle, who didn’t have to come home tired and bored and exhausted and lifeless only to have to do it the next day.

His shirt sticky, he saw all of this among the otherwise empty cabin.

It was 8:00 AM. Where was everybody?

 

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Midday Train Erotica

Here's some Midday Erotica for you… you know, because I can write random sentences that occasionally look coherent enough to be legible crap on a screen. 

I'm calling this series "Train Erotica" and whether it becomes a series or not remains to be seen.

I guess it's entirely dependent on how horny I am on morning trains. I'm horny a lot of time so I guess this could go for a while.

 

 

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The naked slit

Paul looked at the slit with delight. He licked his lips and thought about the prospect of inserting something inside.

She was amazing. Naked with just the right amount of shine on her. He knew what he'd do when he approached her.

It would be simple. He'd put it in. He'd put it in hard. Then he'd push down on it and let her feel his white piece. The warmth would flow all around them and they'd both be intertwined, connected, in mind and in goal.

It would be simple. His piece in her slit.

It would be glorious.

He looked around at his furnishings. The bare kitchen with the checkered floor. The flickering fluorescent light over head. The hum of the fridge reverberating the room all around them.

He looked at her and he looked at her naked slit, licking his lips once again.

The crevice, that part, the rift where everything happened. 

It was all he could do to contain himself from thrusting himself forward.

'Fuck it,' he thought. 'If I'm going to enjoy myself, I might as well do this right.'

He approached the tasty slit, an opening sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be filled. He looked at it and could smell what was inside. Paul imagined all who had come before, all who had been. 

What pieces had gone in and out of this aperture? White? Brown? Black? Were they more experienced, were they better off from when they went in?

With that last thought, Paul undid the bag surrounding his loaf of bread and pulled a slice out. Paul licked his lips as he thrust the slice of white bread into the toaster pulling hard on the handle to warm it up. As the heater glowed red, Paul almost let out a sigh of relief as he realised it was really going to happen: he'd finally get to eat something tonight!

The Bogong Diaries

Freedom is a blessing if you're on your vacation. The freedom to go wherever you please, to see whatever you want. Freedom is magical.

Why we're all clustered up in doorways as if the biggest pay-per-view moth orgy is happening is something I fail to understand.

As I flap my paper like wings and watch the scenery as it goes by, I can see my comrades all bunched up in doorways, windows, or anywhere with a nice light. They just stay there waiting for something to happen.

When we first all migrated down – the massive pack invading Sydney's night sky – they immediately planted themselves in their corners and went "right, let's start this vacation."

I looked up at them, my antennae bouncing off of my furry head, and asked "but why would you want to sit there doing nothing when there's so much to see?"

They didn't say a word; they just started snoring.

Yeah, their summer vacation had begun. I would make the most of mine.

I fly up the long white fluorescent tube of light and gaze longingly as I flap about. White light, white light, why do you burn so bright. I swear there's ne'er been a sweet & lovely sight!

I flap about and look at the people riding this bus. They cannot nearly know the world like I do. Full of life and difference and huddled up corner of strong and useful LIGHT!

–get a hold of yourself Barry. You're better than this. No one's going to fry this old Bogong's brain while Bogong Barry breathes again.

The scenery passes by again.

I think I need to find a place to land lest I smack into the window again.