A deliciously wanton slut always enticing you to grab her by the hair to make her your own.
New Orleans.
(104 characters)
Cold beads and shiny trinkets exchanged for warm, eager flesh sprung free. “Throw me something Mister.”
Mardi Gras.
(115 characters)
Indulging in the decadence of carnival season, she greedily sucked down the slick, thick filling that spilled onto her tongue.
King Cake.
(137 characters)
With childlike wonder, she marveled at the Rockwellian surroundings never recalling the sky being that particular color before. (127)
The purple and emerald rains had washed the city making it vaguely unfamiliar though she thought she knew where she was. (120)
In awe, strangers reverently heaped praise, adoration and promises of eternal service on her to her growing discomfort and confusion. (133)
Others spoke to her with conspiratorial familiarity, pressing her for information and secrets that weren’t hers to give. (120)
Worried, she disappeared into the night to protect those she loved hiding in unlikely places as she waited for dawn. (116)
Voices whispered suggestions from the shadows – “drink that, hide here, cut off that lovely hair or better yet, cut off that finger.” (133)
Daylight came and went and peculiar people gave and took what they wanted as her heart and mind called for rescue from this strange place. (137)
While she waited for her hero, she danced on the fringe of her own sanity beneath the Sirius moonlight. Or, was it just a dream? (128)
“I’ll have the peach milk,” she told the server days later as she fingered the remains of her once long hair, “with a side of reality.” (135)
(Note: This is a compilation of individual tweets – 140 characters or less – woven together into a micro-flash fiction.)
I wanna wiggle on Santa’s lap until I’ve found the north pole;
I wanna lick his candy cane or maybe swallow it whole.
I wanna check his list of naughty girls to ensure I’m there this year;
I wanna give Santa some not-so-nice thoughts when I whisper in his ear.
I wanna serve Santa my cookies – warmed with milk on the side;
I wanna be sure they are drenched and dripping when I hop his sleigh for a ride.
So, if you run into Santa, please let him know this Christmas Night;
I wanna be why he “Ho, ho, ho’s” and will work ’til I get it right.
~Moxie
“That statue is sad,” she said aloud.
The other girl frowned and asserted, “That statue is perfect.”
To which she replied, “exactly.”
(133 characters)
I’d rather be a lump of play dough in the artist’s warm hands – always shaping me to his liking than be perfect stone forever wearing away.
(139 characters)
“Your loaves are like door stops. You aren’t good at bread making. Why do you do it?”
She replied simply, “I knead to please him.”
(130 characters)
The recipe instructions read, “knead until blisters appear.”
She kneaded for an hour and sighed with dismay at her still smooth skin.
(133 characters)