Jim Amos (flash fiction) "Maybe Play Around With That A Little" in Literary Potpourri

She lets her mind wander into the 30-minute daily puzzle about pouring her thigh over his belly towards Jerusalem with painted lips pursed and eyes aglow, whispering slow wet frothy bubbling promises into his well groomed ears as a flock of Herons fly in from the south of nowhere to feed upon her inhibitions.

He slides along personality pathways like rum in a cocktail, slithering under the hemline of her battered self image to tease apart petals of an unrehearsed caught-on-camera saucy pantomime routine. O no you shouldn't the audience yells but she is pleasantly scorched, no going back as he infiltrates the headquarters and the hindquarters and the space between with quick flicks of a seventy-percent-accurate smart missile with deadly precision (and easily remedied imprecision) making her forget all the frequently asked questions of the day the month the year, forcing her to vote YES on all his pressed demands.

She shakes off her shoes her clothes her skin, she rips sinew and muscle and digs great holes in her bones revealing dramatic valleys of flesh. She proffers up her heart; he kicks her full of strawberries-and-cream-morphine with an easy-to-swallow satyr's stare; she doesn't know if he takes a bite - the lights are too grim and the stage so neatly decked in decadent props and the stench of lemonade and Indian summer.

Something like a warm hand comes swooping down from the sky to land on her curved spine leaning into the sun. She turns around, now waking, it is 'him', her boss, Mr. "please call me Hank." She swoons, spins around, dances a dizzy waltz for a few years, blushes hard and tries to look austere thinking that will do the trick. A funny thing happens then because he winks and says O.K that he understands and as he slinks away he feeds her the kind of smile that makes her feel like she is the cream of every soup, and the sky gives a satisfied burp as if to say maybe play around with that a little.

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	Flash Fiction by Jim Amos MAYBE PLAY AROUND WITH THAT A LITTLE She lets her mind wander into the 30-minute daily puzzle about pouring her thigh over his belly towards Jerusalem with painted lips pursed and eyes aglow, whispering slow wet frothy bubbling promises into his well groomed ears as a flock of Herons fly in from the south of nowhere to feed upon her inhibitions. He slides along personality pathways like rum in a cocktail, slithering under the hemline of her battered self image to tease apart petals of an unrehearsed caught-on-camera saucy pantomime routine. O no you shouldn't the audience yells but she is pleasantly scorched, no going back as he infiltrates the headquarters and the hindquarters and the space between with quick flicks of a seventy-percent-accurate smart missile with deadly precision (and easily remedied imprecision) making her forget all the frequently asked questions of the day the month the year, forcing her to vote YES on all his pressed demands. She shakes off her shoes her clothes her skin, she rips sinew and muscle and digs great holes in her bones revealing dramatic valleys of flesh. She proffers up her heart; he kicks her full of strawberries-and-cream-morphine with an easy-to-swallow satyr's stare; she doesn't know if he takes a bite - the lights are too grim and the stage so neatly decked in decadent props and the stench of lemonade and Indian summer. Something like a warm hand comes swooping down from the sky to land on her curved spine leaning into the sun. She turns around, now waking, it is 'him', her boss, Mr. "please call me Hank." She swoons, spins around, dances a dizzy waltz for a few years, blushes hard and tries to look austere thinking that will do the trick. A funny thing happens then because he winks and says O.K that he understands and as he slinks away he feeds her the kind of smile that makes her feel like she is the cream of every soup, and the sky gives a satisfied burp as if to say maybe play around with that a little. § § § Jim Amos is the kind of writer who will sit at the screen for so long that he only realises time has passed when he hears the inimitable echo of his own neglected stomach. He also writes poetry and has been published at Snow Monkey, Pierian Springs, Clean Sheets, Tryst and Ultimate Hallucination. Send the URL for this work to a friend! GO TO NEXT PAGE