HelenMegara

I'm just lost in the world.

Prose Challenge of the Week #40: Write a story about a drunken one-nighter, written out of gender. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

solipsist

138 reads

one-night-standing:

there was an elephant on your ceiling. yes —

i see it now. i see its patchworked skin

as i lie silent here

in a twin-sized bed beside you,

your elbow fit into the crease of mine.

i wandered in the daybreak haze

of after-wine, of after-love,

and smoke-filled eyes,

and the infantile sound of your clock on the wall.

the room takes shape in a blur

(a soundless gasp for breath): elephant

takes form above clock

takes form over desk

takes form near waste-bin

takes form on gunmetal carpet

takes form beneath chair

takes form under down-jacket

takes form as

the shape of your shoulders pressed into the fabric,

heavy white and grey and black.

and bed-frame —

taking form under mattress

taking form under me and you, you and me,

half-sleeping strangers in a half-shared bed.

each piece of this depthless setting

slips into place

beside count-filled siblings,

so i count and you breathe and we lie.

it is morning now,

and i haven't slept in your bed.

is this why we call it standing? waiting?

although your elbow fits perfectly in the crease of mine,

you are no-one i could ever love,

and no-one i could ever love

could ever live in a room like this.

(i don't love it.

so my feet dig themselves out of this shallow grave

and in one piece,

this body you will never own

finds its way out of this room i can't sleep in.)

Challenge

RBeville

448 reads

We Swung So High We Touched The Sky and Didn’t Cum Down ’til Morning.

You don't ask my name because names don't matter in a juke-joint where smoke's thicker than sense. Beer drips off the tap in heady froth that begs to be suckled. You lick your lips and I lick mine and I know we're going to get along just fine.

You don't ask my age. In here everyone is any age you want. In the corner booth where shadows darken your eyes into those of a hungry carnivore, I'm fresh prey, naive and sweet. But on the dance floor, in the liquid lights of red and orange and pink, while the juke-pop whines, I'm wise to the world, and my body promises delights yours begs to taste.

We drink cheap tequila. I lick salt from your hand, tasting your skin, and I'm left wanting. You rub lime on my lips, reducing me to a shivering creature whose mouth needs yours. The warmth in my belly is no longer from the alcohol alone. Your hands pull my hips to yours. Who is who in this tangled mass of limbs? Does it matter? Do we care? We are drunk on a stronger stuff than this bar sells.

Tumbling into the alley, I press you against the wall, taking from your body every ounce of comfort and lust and desire I can. Sparks spring between our hips, send fire down our legs so our knees shake, and we cling to keep from falling. Fingers tangle in each other's hair, and I cannot have enough of you, nor you of me.

Your apartment is here, you say. Just a bit farther. The air never smelled so sweet as with your scent, made sharper by the night air, on my shirt. Trust is already forgotten or forged--same difference--and I come with you.

Bourbon, you ask. Whiskey, I say. Both, we laugh. Our skin is electric. The floorboards tip and sway. You hold the bottles. I hold your belt loops. The bed is a life-boat into which we tumble. Our safety from life's storms will be found in one another, we promise.

The water is not safe. Drink, we cry together. The storm swells higher, and we cling tighter than two lovers ever clung. There is no food left. Drink, we say. We shall survive it all.

The bottles empty. With our own juices, we write love letters on the sheets. Once written, we put our letters in bottles and toss them out to sea. Broken glass smashes, christening the walls.

We are lost, you cry.

No, I say, we are found.

Rations gone, we fall on one another. Our hunger is bigger than either of us. We cannibalize one another--tongues lick, mouths taste, eat, eat, eat...until la petite morts cums, drags us drowning to the bottom of the sea...

...morning light blinds my salt-gritted eyes. My dry lips crack when I try to speak, to say, I am lost. Lost-lost. Truly this time.

You were not you. And I was not me.

My head pounds. I cannot bear for you to see my nakedness. You twine in a stained sheet, tight as a shroud. My belongings are scattered on the floor, studded with broken glass.

I start to say something awkward and awful, but you shake your head.

I turn and go.