Milk & Oranges: Short Fiction

Milk & Oranges
by Brian James Spies

He walked up into the musky attic, mainly to get away from the people below who did not understand. He went to turn on the light only to discover that it was too dusty to do its job. He cleaned it off with his bare sweaty hand. The dusty residue felt good on his bare hand, why, he didn’t know. He heard the hard oak floor boards creak beneath his old mud-covered work boots; to him it sounded like a banshee screeching. Someone had once lived here, he could still smell him, his scent left lingering even after he wasn’t. He walked over to the mini-fridge; he took out some milk and began to drink it before he realized the power had been shut off. It was sour, sour as his insides felt. It reminded him of late nights spent with him, late nights spent talking, bull shitting, eating oranges and drinking cold milk. He chuckled, it always amused him, how the oranges made the milk curdle. But it was what they liked, it was what they did, it was how they bonded. He heard people downstairs, laughing and shouting, like nothing had happened, like he wasn’t gone. This enraged him; it consumed him, their ambivalence, their complete and total coarseness. They acted like savage beasts, he thought to himself. This thought was interrupted by a passing jet flying over the house, its scream like star fire hurt his soul. He spotted an old projector by the window. It was rusted over; he wondered if it still worked. He hunkered his old, tired body over towards the projector. As he grew closer, he felt a breeze blowing from somewhere unseen. Then he saw the source, a broken window; it must have let dew cover the raw, unburnished metal, causing the oxidation that corrupted the projector like life had corrupted his memories, like it had corroded everything. Like the oranges and milk had curdled in his stomach. Everything is metaphor, everything is gone. But in its place there was a kind of patina, a reflection of what had been and would never again be. This gave him something, something he could hold onto, something he could build upon.

Mickey Jackson

Sexy Boy: Short Fiction

Sexy Boy
by Brian James Spies

It was late when we got back to my dorm room, I had left moon safari playing and Ce Matin La was just starting as I closed the door behind her. As we made our way through my room the music began to peak, we sat on my bed, she worked her fingers through my tousled hair. I started to gently peck at her neck. She giggled as I worked my tongue along her collar bone. Slowly we became prostrate before our longing. As I began to work my way under her blouse, I expected resistance, but I found none. The music skipped ahead to the next song, A New Star In The Sky, I was certain that by The Voyage of Penelope I would be spent. She pushed me back, and much to my surprise, began to undo my belt and unbutton my fly. “I want you inside me.” She whispered. I nodded with approval as I reached for a rubber from a bowl my roommate kept on top of the mini-fridge. She took it from my hand and tore it open with her teeth. With the most economical of movements she slid it over my hard cock. As I slid myself into her our bodies rocked back and forth, like a baby’s bassinette. I kissed her lips, they tasted like cherries, and just like that my cherry was gone. As we lay there, awkwardly, under the sheet that I had grabbed from the floor so she would not feel exposed; I offered her some Kush and she accepted. It tasted like cinnamon as she said, “We’re going to have to work on your pacing.”

KhingKOBRA x Destro

Nowhere: Short Fiction

Nowhere

by Brian James Spies

His foreskin was raw and chafed, there was still cum dripping from between his knuckles as he wept the blood from under his right eye. As the cum mixed with his tears, it stung. He had gotten a real beating; I mean a real beating. But he had held his own and now he would be one of them, one of the gang. No more wedgies in the stairwell or swirlies in the bathroom stalls, no hoping and praying that they finally leave him alone, no longer would his nickname be Tits; now they’d call him by his real name, now he would have their respect. He fastened his belt slowly, as if this all was no big deal, trying to be cool. As he turned around one them put his arm on his shoulder, he didn’t flinch this time. He would never have to flinch again, he thought to himself. His mind drifted back to all the times he cried alone in his room, all the times his mother would knock on his door and ask him if everything was okay. “Of course everything isn’t okay!” He would scream out through the tears. How could anything be okay, he was a loser. “But not anymore,” he thought to himself, almost smugly. “I’m not a loser anymore.” Maybe he was too confident, maybe if he had some humility he would have seen it coming, the sucker punch headed right for his gut. It split him in half; it would have been funny if it hadn’t been him being laid out like a cartoon character. “Nice ‘job Baldy, talk to us when you grow some pubes ya fag.” The other guys laughed and then turned to walk away. He lay on the infield grass, hardly breathing; the wind knocked out of him right along with his masculinity and what little self-esteem he possessed in the first place. He couldn’t even cry, he was broken; like an old toy, they had had their fun with him and now they were done with him. From that point on he wasn’t even there.

What I Did Last Weekend

Make a Smilebox scrapbook