The face in the fly-specked mirror was a hard one, shaped even meaner by the rusty room. An aura of stagnant humidity lingered behind the stinking mixture of excrement and paper that filled the mineral stained toilet in the graffiti scratched stall; a literal shit-hole. Cyrus Bohannon had recently added his own bloody shat to the odorous pile in the bowl, carefully hovering himself overtop so as not to touch his ass to the filthy seat.

“Perfect!” He cursed aloud. “No hot water!” An undeterred Cyrus shaved in the tepid water anyway, dribbling it disgustedly over his cheap, pink, “toss-away” plastic razor. His toothbrush remained in his pocket, though. He did not pull it out, fearful that somehow the putrid, humid air might carry the shit smell into its bristles. He was successful in washing the sweat from his skin and face, but the tired redness would not rinse from his eyes, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

Cyrus Bohannon’s whole life smelled about like this cankerous Arkansas highway rest stop.

So Cy reached into his other pocket, the one without the toothbrush, removing from it a clear sandwich baggy, the baggie’s bottom a rainbow of colorful pills. His arthritic hands split one of the capsules in two rather deftly before pouring the powdered contents of each half into the hollow made at the base of his left thumb and index finger before tossing the empty halves into the sink’s trickle. Lastly, Cyrus Bohannon lowered his face into the powder and inhaled deeply, feeling the burn that sucked through his nostrils until came the familiar acidic drip down the back of his throat that preceded the rush.

The sun was bright upon re-entering the world, so Cyrus squinted into it, using a hand to shield his raw and red-rimmed eyes. Worn boot heels gave the old man an uncomfortable looking, bow-legged stride, or maybe that was the hemorrhoids, it would be hard to guess between them if an observer were to try.

Cy climbed up onto the cab’s fuel tank, grasping for the grimy Stuckey’s bag he had shoved between the rig’s seats. There were picnic tables close by the toilets, but Cyrus did not care for company so he found a shaded curb near the rig where he lowered himself gently down to the concrete, mindful of the electric pain from his arse-hole. He gripped the greasy bag tightly in his shaking hands, not really hungry but knowing he needed to eat. That was the problem with the speed, you never, ever felt hungry.

Once seated Cy allowed his eyes to close for the briefest moment. On the highway behind him the hum of tires and throaty roars of the “Big-Rigs” zipped along with a frequent and soothing irregularity, that and a warm sun lulling him despite the jittery-tingle of the pills. In a brief, but vivid dream a blinding silence of snow drifted around the Freight-liner’s cab as it slid down Monteagle while a desperate Cy fought at the wheel, the dream so real that he actually heard the lonely whine of air-brakes squelching high-pitched and hungry just before the crash. At the end Cy lay dead in a twist of metal, but he couldn’t be dead could he? Can you be dead and still feel the heat of the day, or the weight of the crushed door pressing your thigh?

“No, you cannot,” he reasoned. But still there came to him the whoosh-wooshing of passing cars on the highway, so Cy squeezed his eyes tighter yet, wishing to go back to being dead, but he could not ignore the cab door moving against his thigh, pressing harder now. Reluctantly, the “dead” being so peaceful, Cy peeked open his unwilling eyes.

He was surprised to find that it was not the door of the cab pressing against his leg, after all. No, it was a damned dog, a lowly mutt that had crawled its way up beside him while he napped, a damned flea-bag stray! Cy “shoo-ed” it angrily, willing it away. And it did take a wary step back, but it did not go. Instead, it whined… the same whine as the air-brakes in Cy’s dream? Cy “shoo-ed” again, and the dog took another step away to where Cy could get a better look. “Just a damned mutt, spotted brown and white like a Holstein cow, long-eared and long-tongued. Ugly, is what. You are one ugly dog!“

Shamed, the dog took a circle at these denigrations, sitting itself down on Cyrus’ other side, but leaning itself up hard against his right thigh this time.

“Shoo, dog!” He hollered it this time, angrily. Once again the dog stepped off, but not far away. Instead it stretched its nose toward the Stuckey’s bag, eyebrows high and hopeful. Cy noted then how thin it was, even for a dog. He pulled the burger from the bag then, tickled when the dog sat down. Curious, Cy put the burger back in the bag, it amusing him when the dog stood back up. Cyrus took it from the bag again, “hooting” this time when the dog sat down once again.

“Well, how about that?” Cy didn’t even realize in his excitement that he was speaking aloud. He unwrapped the burger now, smiling when the dog sat back down. He took a bite, surprised when there was no reaction from the dog, not even a whimper. Not hungry himself, he pulled the patty from between the buns and tossed it at the dog, who promptly snagged it out of the air and smacked it down.

“Whooeee! I reckon you are a smart dog!” Cyrus took out the french fries next, and tossed them one-by-one at the cur, who yanked each one from the air and smacked them all down, just as it had the meat patty.

Fries gone, Cyrus wadded up the bag. The dog sat.

“That,” Cyrus thought aloud, “is really something! I reckon she knows just when to sit. You are a smart bitch, ain’t you now?”

As if it could help, Cy grabbed at a handful of air, pulling himself with it up from the curb. The dog stood as well. Limping his way towards the Freightliner, he glanced back to see the dog limping along behind. A mini-van sailed by on the highway, its children waving at Cyrus and the dog through its opened windows. Cy found himself waving back, though he wasn’t sure which was more noteworthy; children waving at him, or him waving back?

He climbed into the cab then, settling his hemorrhoids into the warn cloth of the Freight-liner’s seat. Triggered, the big diesel roared beneath his boots, shaking the cab like an atmospheric re-entry. The dog sat hopefully below, patiently, its wide eyes looking up at the driver’s side door. With the hissing of brakes and a grinding of gears the big rig shuddered forward fifty slow feet before the brakes hissed again, lurching the rig to a stop. The man climbed back down and gestured toward the dog, who dropped her ears and trotted happily forward.

At sixty-four years of age Cyrus Bohannon finally caught a break. He found his luck just outside of Little Rock, so that’s what he called her. And so that everyone would know, he painted it beside the Queen of Hearts on either side of his cab:

Cyrus Bohannon

Owner/ Operator

Me and My “Little Rock”

The crystal wind chime shattered.

Vicky Marlowe watched, transfixed, as her mama's last good yard decoration cascaded down in a waterfall of dollar store glass, missing her carefully maintained acrylic nails by mere inches. Her blue eyes widened—not in fear, never fear—but in a most unseemly, electrified excitement.

Sweet baby Jesus, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to the rhinestones on her "Live, Laugh, Love" tank top, he planned this.

James. That devil in Carhartt clothing. That Adonis with motor oil under his fingernails.

"Vicky!" Henley came charging out of the double-wide with all the grace of a stampeding elk. "You okay, girl? Should I call Dale?"

Vicky’s lips curled into a smile so wicked it would’ve made the pastor blush. "No, Hen. And you keep your mouth shut about this. You hear me? Not a word."

How could she explain it anyway? That her neighbor's brooding mechanic had somehow known exactly where she'd be standing at four o’clock sharp? That the wind chime’s fall had miraculously cleared her path to the tool shed, where even now he was waiting, his muscled form likely aglow in the golden shafts of the setting sun, like some pagan god of NASCAR?

Her husband’s voice bellowed from the trailer. "Victoria Lynn! The HOA president’s gonna be here any minute!"

The HOA president can kiss my authentically tanned behind, she thought, her manicured fingers clutching the well-worn copy of Rich Dad, Poor Dad she’d been pretending to read. Let all of Pine Haven Trailer Park burn.

With the practiced grace of a seasoned Denny’s waitress, she glided toward the shed, her Target sundress whispering secrets across the gravel path. The sticky humidity hit her like a microwave door swinging open, mingling with the perfume of marijuana wafting from Lot 23B—nature’s aphrodisiac.

"You could’ve killed me," she breathed when she saw him, towering amid Dale’s prized power tools.

James turned, his green eyes smoldering like a grease fire. "I’d sooner sell my F-150, darlin’," he said, his voice rough as gravel, sweet as Mountain Dew. "But I had to see you. Alone."

"The wind chime—"

"Was a calculated risk." He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the intoxicating scent of WD-40 and unfiltered masculinity. "Like this."

Without warning, he swept the self-help book from her hands, letting it tumble to the oil-stained floor with a thud. Vicky gasped—at his audacity, his magnificence, the sheer unholy nerve of him.

"That book cost me a whole shift's worth of tips," she whispered, even as her traitorous body leaned toward him like a sunflower chasing light.

"Then let me earn it back," he growled, his calloused hands cradling her face with a gentleness that almost unraveled her. "With something worth more than money."

Outside, a bolt of lightning slashed through the Oregon sky, the storm roaring approval. Thunder rolled across the valley like a souped-up diesel engine.

"The HOA president," she protested weakly, her fingers curling into his oil-streaked Metallica T-shirt.

"Will wait." His gaze burned into hers. "The world will wait. Time itself will wait, Mrs. Marlowe."

"Just Vicky," she murmured, her voice cracking under the weight of want. "When we're alone, you call me Vicky."

He grinned—a wolf’s grin, a rebel’s grin, a grin promising pleasures no respectable trailer park queen should dare to know. "Vicky," he breathed, low and dangerous, "my desert rose, my forbidden flower."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the tool shed like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Somewhere in the distance, voices called her name—her husband, Henley, maybe even the HOA president himself.

"They’ll ruin you," James warned, his lips grazing her skin. "If they find us, they’ll kick you off the Pine Haven Social Committee."

Vicky threw back her head and laughed—a sound of pure, wild abandon that would scandalize every lady at the Sunday potluck. "My darling, savage mechanic," she purred, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, "don’t you know? The prettiest flowers grow right through the concrete."

As if in agreement, the storm reached its crescendo, rain hammering the shed like nature’s applause. Something ancient and wild stirred in her salon-perfect highlights—something far beyond her title as Pine Haven’s three-time "Most Spirited Resident."

"The social committee," she declared, her voice dripping with rebellion, "could use a little shaking up."

And with that, as thunder rattled the very bones of her double-wide, Vicky Marlowe made her choice. Let the wind chime be the first casualty of her fall from grace. Let scandal roll through Pine Haven Trailer Park like a tornado in a beer can.

Because some things, she thought as James's lips finally claimed hers with fierce possession, are worth losing your ‘Best Kept Yard’ title for.

The old bag shuffled down the street. The wind billowed her slacks and pushed her along. She was worn, crumpled but not quite middle years, and a fellow or two passing had eyed her usefulness, from ample sagging bottom to lug handles, and had changed his mind. Not worth the effort it would take, stooping like that. For what?

So, she rolled on, past the elaborately decorated store fronts, feeling empty except for the receipt that lingered still. It documented the expenditure of eight dollars and seventy cents on a few five and dime trifles.

The seventy cents accounting for taxes.

The rest, consumables, already gone.

Yet the bag carried on.

12.01.2024

"Write a trashy story, but make it sound noble" challenge @Mariah and friend

The streets of London shimmered with mist, the gaslights casting halos against the cobblestones. Eleanor waited by the wrought-iron gate of the square, her gloved fingers brushing and adjusting the satin hem of her gown. Though the velvet cloak draped around her shoulders spoke of elegance, and grace instead of the simpleton “Lady of the Night” that she was.

Seven pence, she thought. Just enough to see her through another week.

When William approached, she straightened, her practiced smile softening her features. He was taller than most, his coat finely tailored, his stride confident yet unhurried. A gentleman, Eleanor knew, and the air between them hummed with unspoken intent.

Should he offer the seven, she’d take him to heaven.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, her voice smooth and warm in contrast to the chilly night.

His gaze lingered on hers. “Eleanor, isn’t it?” he asked, the richness of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ve heard whispers of your … talents.”

She inclined her head, the flicker of a smile on her lips. “You’ve heard correctly. Seven pence for an evening you won’t soon forget.”

Without another word, he extended his hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her into a nearby alley.

It was dark and cold, but their bodies would keep them warm and fight off the chill. The gas lamp’s flickering firelight playing across the face of Eleanor as she unbuttoned her petticoat.

Eleanor pushed the dress to the side with the grace of a queen, William’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gloved fingers brushing the bare skin of her collarbone.

“You deserve more than seven pence,” he murmured, his voice low.

“And yet, seven is all I ask,” she replied, her lips curving into a smirk.

He moved with deliberate care, unbuttoning his coat as though unveiling something sacred. When he leaned in to kiss her, his lips were warm and searching, a curious mix of hunger and restraint. She allowed herself to respond, her hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath the fabric.

As his touch deepened, trailing over her arm and down her side, she felt her professional poise slip, replaced by a surprising warmth. When he lowered himself to taste his prize. He murmured under his breath about beautiful and delicate rose petals. His hands moved with reverence, exploring her curves as though she were a rare and precious artifact.

For a moment, Eleanor forgot about her price, the dreary streets, and the heavy weight of her reality. Here, in this fleeting moment, she was not a lady of the night but a woman cherished, her body and soul ignited by his touch.

The moments passed in whispers and sighs, her practiced art meeting his genuine anticipation.

After the milk had been added and mixed with her honey, he stood, buttoned his trousers and withdrew and placed the coins in her palm. But as moved toward the entrance to the alley, William paused, his fingers brushing her cheek.

“Perhaps next time, it will be more than seven pence,” he said softly, before disappearing into the morning mist.

Eleanor stared back, her lips tingling and her heart inexplicably lighter. It had been seven pence well earned. Now she was starving and with the seven pence in hand she would go in search for a different type of sausage. One to fill her belly rather than the area betwixt her nethers.

Nobler than I

December 02, 2024

Today, I agreed to be married

I have never met the young prince

I know not what features he holds

I know not of his disposition

I know not of his temperament

He knows none of these of mine

I marry not for love, but for unity

Two Kingdoms shall breathe as one

Two armies will not draw swords in haste

All soldiers will go home to rest

All diplomats will also

All because I say, “I do.”

He will take me as his betrothed

I will vow to obey his commands

I hear his commands are licentious at best

Positively wanton and immoral, at worst

But I must partake in such activities

For he will be my husband

On the first night, witnesses will view

They demand a child of our union

Chairs circumvent our bed

I have been warned of this practice

The proof of conception, for me, comes at birth

The proof of conception, for him, comes when he does

The bed also features a series of restraints

Used to secure my position and willingness

I have no ability to object to this ritual

But I will

If and only if

He fails to perform as advertised

He is a nocturnal adventurer

Seeking to make deposits in various ports

For the audience so accustomed to the norm

Tonight

Of all nights

Will raise more questions than spirits

My husband denies me my breathing

He guides my head to ensure proper alignment

I suffer

I struggle

I convulse

But, I endure and then smile, asking for more

This enrages him

He wants me to “lay back and think of England”

I want him to look me in the eyes

I wrap my thighs around his girth

I am stronger

He will finish after I am finished

When he does finish

I am just beginning

My fingers are firmer than his appendage

I grease my fingers for my assault on him

A hush falls over the crowd

A moan is all anyone hears

Somewhere in the village dell

Somewhere amongst the morning bells

A crowd of onlookers remember the smells

A crowd not so close remember the yells

A single bride files away, “what will gel”

And a single groom succumbs to his belle