Hear tell she fancies the lettuce (News Flash Fiction) March 30, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Humor.Tags: England, fiction, flash, funny, Humor, lesbian, news, short story, situation comedy, Telegraph, toilet, UK
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Rated M for coarse language and sexually suggestive themes
The Fiction:
Government Office for the West Midlands – Birmingham, UK
03.30.2010 09.37 GMT
Penelope Welles was a secretary, and a damn good one. When she was on duty, no phone messages went undelivered, no files remained unfiled, and no visitor sat unannounced. Her boss, Mr. Rupert Kingsley, often boasted to his colleagues that he had the best assistant in the West Midlands, and few would choose to bicker.
Despite being extraordinary, Penelope was still human; and like all humans, she occasionally felt the need to tinkle. Now was one of those times. She peaked her head into her boss’s office and asked:
“Mr. Kingsley?”
“Yes Miss Welles?”
“I’ve got to use the lav in the worst way. Do you mind?”
“Why, certainly not, Miss Welles. Go on with it, I’ll mind till you get back. Don’t forget now, they’ve installed those bloody timers, so keep it under ten clicks or it’ll have you in the dark.”
“Does it really save the electrics like they say?”
“Don’t know, but they sure are a bugger when you’re in a cubicle doing the business.”
Penelope hurried down the hall and into the lady’s loo where she stepped into an empty cubicle. She lifted her skirt, lowered her knickers, and sat to do her bit. Presently she heard a voice.
“Wot’s that now, who’s there?”
Penelope recognized the voice.
“Rose? Rose from accounts? Is that you?”
Rose confirmed.
“Yes, it’s me. You’re that fetcher from the tax office, right? Penelope, was it? Kingsley’s your pitch, I think.”
“Right you are.”
“Come tell, how you been?”
“Right fine, but a bit of the aches.”
“On your monthly then?”
“Oh no, that was last week. Just wrenched me ankle a bit.”
“How you do a thing like that?”
“Now there’s a funny line. I was…”
The two women sat on their toilets long after they were finished, conversing and gossiping through the cubicle wall, unaware of the amount of time that was passing. Eventually there was a muffled click and the whole loo went completely dark.
“Bloody hell,” said Rose, “The fucking timer’s gone.”
“I’m closest, I’ll get it” Penelope said. “Just need to wipe me labs.”
There was some noise as she fumbled for the toilet tissue and wiped herself dry.
She stood up, reached down, and encountered a problem.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
“Wot’s it?” asked Rose.
“The elastic from me knickers is caught around the heel of me pump.”
Rose laughed.
“It’s not funny!” said Penelope, “I can’t see a thing it’s so fucking dark in here.”
She stooped to undo the snag, lost her balance, and fell headfirst into the cubicle door. The flimsy lock buckled, the door flew open, and Penelope spilled out onto the floor of the loo.
“Quite the racket!” Rose called, “You alright then?”
Penelope winced in pain, and then answered.
“No, I don’t rightly think. I’ve a huge lamp to the head and me ankle’s gone buggered again. I don’t think I can walk.”
“Keep yourself, I’m coming.”
Rose righted her knickers and felt for the cubicle door lock. She opened the door and stumbled blindly until she touched the edge of the washbasins. She began to creep slowly along the edge toward the light switch, until…
“Oh bloody hell; I think I’ve caught me blouse on the soap dispenser.”
“Come off it Rose, how’d you go and do a thing like that?”
“I don’t fucking know! It’s so bloody fucking dark in here!”
Rose pulled gently, but not quite gently enough. With a series of popping sounds, the blouse’s buttons let loose. The snag let go and Rose stumbled back, tripped, spun, and fell face down on Penelope.
“Ow, you bloody lummox! That fucking hurt!” Penelope cried.
In the struggle to right themselves, Rose’s brassier was pulled down and Penelope’s skirt was flipped up. The two women were still wrestling in the dark when the door opened and the light came on.
Lola the cleaning lady looked down at the lump of female on the floor. The skinny blonde one on the bottom lay with her skirt up and her knickers around her ankles; and the dark haired, full figured top one sat with her hand between the other’s legs and her exposed breasts hanging in the other’s face.
“Wot’s this?” asked the astonished Lola, “Bunch of lezzers?”
Penelope gazed wide-eyed at her.
“No… oh goodness no… it was the lights… an accident! We’re not lettuce lickers, are we Rose? Erm, Rose?”
Lola ignored her answer, turned away pale-faced, and pushed her cleaning cart swiftly down the hall.
Rose stared down at Penelope silently for a moment. Finally, she spoke.
“It was an accident, yes. But I… well, I am. Didn’t you know? Seem the whole bloody office knows.”
Penelope took her turn at an awkward silence, and then answered.
“I didn’t, but it’s… it’s alright… I’m not against it or anything. You… you do have lovely bosoms”
“Thank you” Rose said as she pulled her bra back up.
“I’ve always been a bit curious, you know” said Penelope.
“Fancy a drink sometime?”
“I’d love that, but right now I think I need a doctor. This ankle is fucking killing me.”
“Of course,” she told her, “I’ll call for one straight away.”
To herself, she whispered “Maybe those bloody timers aren’t so bad after all…”
The Interview (narrative fiction) March 17, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Humor.Tags: Day, fiction, funny, Humor, Ireland, Irish, Paddy, Paddy's, Patrick, Patrick's, Saint, short story, St
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“Callaghan’s the name, James Callaghan. How can I help ye?”
His voice was as thick as the room temperature stout that he was drinking, and it flowed just as quickly.
“I’m on vacation, sir, from America. When I told my boss at the Press Gazette I would be in visiting Ireland on my European tour, he begged me to do an interview with a real Irishman. I was wondering if perhaps you could participate?”
“Why, I’m right flattered missy, though I’m not so sure what’d be so special about an ordinary man like me. I work the day, take to the drink at night, just like a lot o’ good men do.”
“It’s because of the holiday today and…”
“Ah! Say no more! Tis a fine day for celebratin’, indeed it is. I’d be honored to tell ye everthin’ ye wish to know.”
I smiled warmly and placed the voice recorder between us.
“Well, can you tell me something about him most people don’t know?”
“I can. A great many folk think he was Irish ‘imself, but he wasn’t. Born In Scotland, he was.”
“Scotland? I always thought he was born in Britain?”
“Britain! From who’s dirty blasphemous lips did ye hear that? The man weren’t perfect, but he sure as hell weren’t British.”
“You said he wasn’t perfect – so why did they make him a saint?”
“Well, that I can understand. Flawed in blood he may have been, but he was pure in spirit. He brought the good spirit to many a man for many a year. The Lord has to smile on a man like that, even if he is a Scot.”
“So you’re saying he saved Ireland?”
“O’course he did. He wasn’t the only one, though. There were at least five others involved
in the work, though he’d be the most famous.”
Feeling that I had plenty of material for a short feature article, I turned off the recorder and thanked Mr Callaghan. I offered to buy him another pint of stout, which he cheerfully accepted.
Before bidding him ado, I cleared my throat and recited the line I had spent hours practicing.
“Beannachtai na Feile Padraig!”
James Callaghan cocked his head and gave me a peculiar look.
“St Patrick? Did ye say… Sweet mother o’ jaysus, todays the 17th!”
He quickly drained the entire pint of stout, faster than I’ve ever seen anyone drink anything. He slammed the empty glass down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“St Patricks day! And here I thought it was John Jameson’s birthday!”
“Hey you shitefaced bunch ‘o drunkards, it’s St Paddy’s day!” He called to everyone in the pub.
A murmur echoed though the room, and everyone began bolting for the exits.
“I’m sorry to run out on ye missy,” he said, “But I’m late for Mass!”
***
A word of advice to my fellow journalists out there: Never look for interviewees in an Irish pub. Ever.
***
A note from the author
Don’t forget to raise a glass to your favorite patron saint today.
Catholic, or otherwise.
Secrets, Secrets Part I (Narrative Fiction) – ORIGINAL DRAFT March 10, 2010
Posted by Princess Wordplay in Mystery/Suspense, Romance/Women's Fiction.Tags: fiction, lesbian, romance, suspense, woman's, women
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Rated M for mild explicit language and some sexually suggestive content
Have you ever been woken by the warm rays of the sun? One minute you’re sleeping, and the next – there they are – peeking through the window blinds to caress your face. It’s become the norm for me and I love it. No screaming alarm clock, no hurried grooming, no skipping breakfast, no rush to catch the bus. Self employment is a dream turned reality. It’s hard to believe six months earlier I was living a nightmare.
Those playful little sun rays finally coaxed me to consciousness, and I shook the last of the sleep out of my eyes. It was Monday; clock read 9:48 AM. My mind drifted to the night before and my first real date since the breakup. Believe me; I had my dirty little doubts. We had met the night before, found fellowship at the bottom of a bottle, and woke up together the morning after.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. A single girl’s got needs too. The thing is I never expect a drunken fling will spawn a long-term relationship. Shit, I half expected her to be one of those jilted sperm dumpsters that was more les-experiment than she was lesbian. I was shocked when she asked for my phone number and outright floored when she called later that day. The surprises, or so I would soon found out, had only just begun.
I was jerked from my dreamy flashback when my phone’s speaker came alive with AC/DC’s Money Talks. Ten O’clock, right on time.
“Hey Bryan.”
“Good Morning Piper. Have a good weekend?”
“All kinds of crazy shit. You?”
“Becky went out with some friends. I stayed home and changed diapers, cleaned up puke, sang lullabies.”
“You’re still the most exciting accountant I know.”
He laughed, fully aware that I didn’t know any other accountants.
“Thanks. I see you’ve been a busy beaver, huh? You took in over five grand this past week.”
“Yea, I really cleaned up. You get while the getting’s good.”
“You got yours, all right. What’s the plan for this week?”
“My rent’s coming due, cell phone bill also. I need about $800 for groceries and spending cash, and that should cover it.”
“Eight hundred for groceries? What army are you feeding?”
“Well, groceries and there’s a sale at Macy’s…”
“Say no more, you can afford to splurge. I’m looking things over, and I figure even after we make your quarterly estimated tax payment, you’ll still be sitting on a nice sum. There’s a mutual fund I’ve been watching that’s showing some nice steady growth. I had the idea maybe we could start with about two grand and see if we can earn you a little return.”
“Oh my God, this is insane.”
“Calm down, Piper, it’s just a low risk fund. If you’re that nervous we can just forget about it…”
“No, no… I trust your judgment. It’s just… A few months back I was punching a clock, slumming it out in a sleazy no-lease efficiency and pondering whether I could get away with using butter flavored cooking spray on my toast because I couldn’t afford to buy margarine. Now I set my own hours, I’ve got this gorgeous apartment in a high-rise overlooking the park, and I’m talking about investments with my accountant. I have an accountant! This is insane!”
“You deserve it, you’re a talented person. Did you know Becky talks non-stop about how proud she is? She said you never belonged in that office, that with your creativity you should never stoop to entering insurance claims into a computer to make a living.”
“You’re making that up!”
“Would I lie to my favorite sister-in-law?”
His wife, Rebecca, is my only sister. My own joke had been turned on me.
“Ha, very funny, Bry. Go ahead and make that investment if you think it’s smart.”
“Will do. I ought to have that money in your personal checking account within the hour, and I’ll mail a cashier’s check for your rent and pay your phone bill online.”
“Don’t forget your cut on the first of the month”
“If you insist. You’re family and this is easy stuff. I don’t have to charge you, you know.”
“Maybe not, but I say you do. I’m not poor and part of that is credited to your head for numbers. You’re the greatest, Bry, I mean that. Tell Becks I love her, k?”
“Of course. Talk to you next week if I don’t see you sooner. Don’t forget Auntie Piper is free to visit Michaela anytime she wants. “
“I won’t! Bye.”
I suppose some people might say letting my big sister’s husband handle my finances is a mistake, but I trust Bryan. He’s a good accountant and because he’s family I know my secret is safe. Anonymity is a big deal in the business. The targets have big money, and big money can do a lot. You don’t want these people finding out who you are.
After my phone call with Bryan, I fueled up on toaster waffles and grapefruit juice before jumping in the shower. I’d forgotten how luxuriously divine hot – not lukewarm, mind you, but hot – water was until I moved in here. The shower is spacious, plenty of room for two, though I’d not yet utilized it for company. This realization yielded wishful thinking, my thoughts wandering to the image of Vicki and my soapy, slippery fingers wandering across my inner thigh.
Somewhere in my head the voice of cold reality interrupted.
She likes you now, but what will happen when she finds out what you do for a living?
I didn’t know, and I was afraid to find out. My dream bubble burst, the lust vanished, and the novelty of the shower faded. I banished these unpleasant thoughts in the back of my mind and tended to the rest of my hygienic chores. Faded jeans and a cardigan were selected as sufficient attire, and a quick pony tail substituted more elaborate styling. At a time most people took lunch, I was finally ready to start work.
The work was waiting for me, consisting of one email with three attached photos. Three “marks” and the usual note: See what you can do. I could do plenty, of course. Piper Reed always gets the job done. It hurts them a little, sometimes even a lot, but they bounce back. It doesn’t kill them. The public gets served what they like, which pays off for my client, meaning I get paid. Call it unethical if you wish, immoral if your heart insists. I call it business.
To be continued…
