Recipe for Disaster

Recipe for Disaster

Sulking, that’s typical of him. He hasn’t spoken to me properly all day. It’s not fair. What can I do? How’s it me? It’s her fault. 

Bitch.

Yesterday, after strutting back from ‘surveying his domain’ or whatever he does every day, he started whining. ‘Where’s my food?’ and ‘Are we really having that again?’

Well, he may think it’s idyllic here, but for home-making, it’s pretty primitive.

But I said I had a surprise for him, something new. Oh, he was eager enough to try it. He finished it too. All of it - none for me, then just fell fast asleep. Not a word of thanks. He snored too.

This morning he staggered off immediately, mumbling about a summons. He returned in a foul mood, moaning about his head, cussing about being evicted, then sat there groaning, head in his hands, while I packed.

So here we are, wandering aimlessly, looking for another place to stay and him blaming me. I said to him, it’s her. The other woman. Your ex wife. She said you liked the fermented juice of the fruit of that tree. 

I can tell you, that’s the last time I take Lilith’s advice! 

199 Words

This was written for Cara Michaels' Menage Monday 49

Dangerous Summer

Dangerous Summer

They say the sun out here can kill a man. Dry him out like old jerky, flense the flesh off his bones and turn them to stone, then to dust. Out here that kinda dust don’t just blow away, it lingers; soulless splinters, whipped up by spiteful eddies of capricious wind, tiny pieces of people. They’ll draw tears from the eyes of unwary travellers, wheedle out precious moisture, help the sun desiccate them.

But I like it here. Places where nature is harsh, perilous, are more real. There’s a dangerous whispering truth to them, like the fascinating glint on the treacherous edge on a newly whetted blade. You just got to take care, that’s all. Make the right choice. The ones that come here think they know that. By looking for me they prove that they’re serious – or desperate.

There’s a longing in them, a need, not just a want. An edge, something I can work with. They can be honed, ground into polished dust. So they come, they think they got choices. But no, whichever way you go from here, it’s me or the sun. That’s why the crossroads is always the best place for me to make deals.

___

200 Words

@nickjohns999

This was written for Cara Michaels' Menage Monday 48

Now is the Hour

Now is the Hour

The old man is still watching. I see the movement at his window.
He watched as we unloaded the van, openly until he saw that we noticed him, stared at him. Then he only lurked behind his curtains. But he saw as all of us arrive. Counted each of us in; I thought I saw him making notes. It is almost time. We must begin soon or the window of opportunity will pass.
It must be him that made Police come here. But they will not cause problems for us; they are inside now and will stay.
The old man cannot, must not ruin this for us.
“What shall I do about the old man?” I ask my brother.
He frowns, the weight of decision twisting his face.
“Aw fuck him, let’s get this party started! The cops can’t stay long.”

150 Words
@nickjohns999

This story was my response to Cara Michaels' #MenageMonday Challenge