A Hard Time – NSFW


Laina left me after finding tetra-bytes of pornography on my private computer. Thousands upon thousands of clips and full length videos of sperm-laden women doing things that made me wake up in the middle of the night in a sticky sweat. I thought I was smart. I had the files tucked away neatly in a sub-folder labeled ‘Old Tax Forms,’ but I wasn’t smart enough to put a password on the computer. I tried to reason with her but she screamed that she’d had enough and flew out the door. That was seven months a go and I still find myself waiting to hear her car pull into the drive.

I never deserved her. She is a knock-out. Tall, strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and curves exactly where they should be. Her breasts point gracefully to the ceiling and the place where her ass meets her legs looks like a perfect upside down heart. Next to her I look like a troll. I stand at 5’6″ and as my mom always said, I’m as wide as I am tall. My hair is thinning, I have a eczema, and I snore when I sleep on my back. None of that mattered to Laina, however. She once said she loved be because I was genuine, kind, and I made her laugh. I was shocked when she said yes to our first date and stunned when she agreed to marry me. On our wedding night, my best man said during his speech, “I see you let her out of the basement tonight. You know, the one where you keep her chained.” Everyone laughed, but me. Everyone knew she was out of my league, including me.

I don’t know if it was the porn that bothered her so much as it was the fact that we didn’t have much of a sex life. When we started dating, I was too preoccupied with her to be bothered with porn. All of my energy and lust was directed towards her. However, once we settled into married life I started watching porn again. I’d spend hours holed up in my office with the door shut downloading everything I came across, cranking it until I was sore. Laina would spend money on expensive lingerie and try to seduce me, but I couldn’t get it up for her.The rare occasions that we did have sex, I’d lose it five minutes into the process. She’d end up crying and go to bed frustrated. I’d wait until she was sound asleep to sneak into the office to finish things up.

I’ve went over it all in my head hundreds of times before and after the split. Laina was more than enough of a woman for me, yet I needed something else. Years of being alone had desensitized me. The break from porn had helped but when I began to use it again, Laina’s touch did nothing for me. As our distance grew, I started drinking more and my once charming sense of humor turned on me. I’d get hammered at social functions and say inappropriate things to other men’s wives. The worst is when we’d be out in public and a hot young girl with big tits would pass by and I’d get a hard-on. I couldn’t help myself. Every woman I saw, I undressed and fucked with my eyes, my dick responding accordingly.

Yesterday morning I was served with divorce papers. I decided I’m not going down without a fight, not that Laina and I had anything to actually fight over. We didn’t have children so there was no custody to arrange. I owned the townhouse we lived in upstate and she moved into a flashy new apartment in Lower Manhattan. Both of us have our own money and we even signed a prenuptial before marriage. The only thing I want from Laina is forgiveness and hopefully, a mercy lay.

Today is the day. I got up early, ate a balanced breakfast, and cleaned the house to clear my head. When I made it to the door to the office, I froze.Two months a go I started going to a sex addicts meeting at the hospital a quarter mile from my favorite pizza place and hadn’t stepped foot in the office since. I bought a new laptop shortly after attending the meetings and kept it porn free. The second week in, I had an epiphany. Like a person does after receiving a DUI, I asked the group leader to sign and date a sheet of paper documenting my attendance. When I first asked Raul, he gave me a queer look and tilted his head.

“You know this group is anonymous and I don’t want my name out there. I know you don’t have a judge to be taking this to. So, what is it for,” he inquired with his quick, high-pitched Puerto Rican accent. I told him it was to get my ex back. He rolled his eyes and with  one hand on his hip, he signed the paper.

I walked away from the office and returned to the sheet of paper hanging on the fridge. I traced my finger down the written dates. Five weeks in, I stopped masturbating to porn. Thanks to Raul, there was a shiny gold star next to each porn-free week. I was so excited to tell Laina.

It was now 2 pm I still wasn’t dressed. Instead, I was standing in front of the mirror wearing underwear, trying to suck in my gut while appearing casual. My face was red and my ears were hot. I looked at the room behind me, clean clothes strewn everywhere. I had tried on a half-dozen suit pants that tugged at my balls every time I breathed.The button-up shirts weren’t any better. Each button screams as I painstakingly try to make it past my belly. I huffed as I settled on a pair of grey slacks and white collared shirt that made me look like an overstuffed feather pillow.


When the elevator door opened I stepped inside and pushed the button for the 20th floor. As it ascended, I sucked in my gut but forgot to breathe. Sweat beaded on forehead and I could faintly smell my armpits. I’d forgotten to put on deodorant. I fanned my underarms using the the file that contained the speech I prepared for Laina, the divorce form, and the dated paper from the sex addicts meetings. I began flapping my arms up and down at my sides like a bird trying to speed up the drying process. The elevator door snapped open at the 18th floor. All the air left my lungs and my belly went flaccid as Laina and a muscular black man stood in front of me, waiting to enter. Unfettered, the man with Laina entered confidently and held the elevator door open for her. Laina stood there stunned, staring into my eyes.

“What are you doing here,” she demanded.

I didn’t know what to say. This isn’t how I planned to approach Laina – not in the elevator and definitely not in the company of another man. I uttered something that barely resembled English and accidently dropped the file, covering the floor with paperwork. The sweat beads turned into sweat trails and my underarms were soaked, the stench undeniable. I scrambled to pick up the papers as Laina timidly stepped into the elevator and the man bent over to assist me. Recognizing the divorce papers, Laina kneeled down and picked them up.

“Is this what you’re here for,” she asked sharply.

I looked up at her still unable to talk. I looked over at the man as he said to Laina, “Do you know this guy?”

She sighed. “It’s my ex-husband. Well, soon to be.”

The man stifled a laugh as he said, “Oh, I see.”

As he spoke the muscles in his body flexed. “How the hell does he flex while speaking,” I thought to myself. He handed me the paperwork, Laina handed me back the divorce forms, and I attempted to smooth out my sweat drenched shirt. The man, now half-smiling, stood close to Laina with his arm behind her back.

“We’re not doing this here. Not now. I don’t know why you would even show up unannounced,” Laina held her palm to her forehead in an attempt to stave off a headache.

“It’s all good, Laina. Don’t sweat it,” he consoled her, now smiling widely as if amused by the entire display.

With the papers clenched tightly to my chest, I sized him up. He was probably in his mid-twenties, neatly shaven, and his white polo shirt effortlessly embraced his well sculpted body. His jeans were dark denim and without meaning to, I noted the outline of his package. My mind immediately envisioned him grabbing her by the waist, turning her towards the elevator wall, lifting the hem of her floral sundress, and pulling her panties to the side, taking her from behind.

“Dude, do you have a boner?”

I snapped back to reality and looked down at my pants. Yes, I had a raging hard-on.

“You’re disgusting,” Laina said.

I hadn’t noticed the elevator descending and as they stepped off,the paperwork fell back to the floor, and I stood there drenched in my own stench, unable to speak, and with a sad boner. I bent over to pick up the divorce form, reached for the pen clipped to the file folder, and signed the divorces papers.


Save the Children

She slowly ran her tongue along the edges of her teeth, stopping momentarily behind each third molar, where gum met tooth. They had been taken from her over a decade a go but some nights she would still wake up in a panic, the specter of iron rich blood clinging to her taste buds. The nightmares all played out the same – in a brightly lit cold room she could hear his footsteps approach her from behind. Without warning, the back of the operatory exam chair would fall and an overhead light tore at her retinas. Saliva dribbled down the sides  of her mouth as a Jennings gag held her bite in place. She’d reach to wipe it away but her arms were restrained to the sides and her feet bound to the chair so she couldn’t kick. She began screaming as she helplessly flailed in the chair until his goggled face peered over her’s.

“Stop screaming, or you’re going to scare the children,” he’d say, referring to the little ones gathered in the waiting room.

She tried to suck down her sobs but as the metal tools began to probe her mouth and yank at her wisdom teeth, she erupted in a hysterical shriek. Tears ran down her cheeks, mingling with her blood tinged saliva.

The psychiatrist called it PTSD – post-traumatic stress disorder. He said she should go back to his office for a visit, to revisit the place of the trauma. The good doctor said it would serve her well. She tried on many occasions but only made it as far as the parking lot. On one afternoon, she saw him leave the office building and climb into a shiny black Cadillac. Her pupils doubled in size and her hands grew white as they clung to the steering wheel.

She told her psychiatrist about these occurrences but left part out where she followed him home. She knew where he lived. She knew his work schedule. She even knew the weekends he had visitation with his children. She had to be careful though. The miles on her lease agreement were almost met.

She stopped running her tongue along her teeth as she approached the lot behind the office. His car wasn’t there today – unusual for a Tuesday at 10 a.m.

Across town, Dr. Rowser was driving imperviously to meet with his son, daughter, and ex-wife. He growled at traffic as his eyes darted from the stereo clock to the road. He had known better than to let her take his weekend away, leaving him to cancel appointments less than 24 hours in advance. He knew with such short notice patients would arrive anyway and he’d have to deal with his fat excuse of a receptionist upon his return.

The matinee was at 11 a.m. and he balked as he passed the line to the box office. I can hear her now, he thought to himself as he parked and walked towards the theaterYou’re never on time, you never put the children first, he recited in his mind. He saw his daughter wave from him at the middle of the line. He also noted the chafed expression on his ex wife’s face. He picked up his pace and was breathing in and out deeply when he reached them.

“Finally,” his ex announced.

“Don’t start. This isn’t my fault.”

She wasn’t listening to him. She started to say goodbye to the children when his son shrieked, “Daddy! Behind you!”

Before he could turn around he felt a cool object penetrate his left shoulder, just above the scapula. His field of vision turned red and the angles of buildings distorted as the pain center in his body activated. Fully turned and facing the assailant, he saw the knife come down again but this time it pierced his chest. He began screaming in horror as he fell crumpled to the pavement.

In a mocking tone, he heard a woman’s voice say, “Stop screaming, or you’re going to scare the children.”

Writing Prompt From:The Writer’s Book of Matches: 1,001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction

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Save the Children by Heather Brewer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://mujerprolijo.wordpress.com/.

The Summon of 2012

creatures 2

View Writing Prompt: Mysterious Animals

Marza mewed sweetly from her high chair. Linda peeked into the kitchen. “Oh, no, ” she said aloud. Marza had made a huge mess again. This time her meal of calve hearts had hit the ceiling and some had made it as far as the living room couch. When Linda approached her, she kicked her hind legs and began to trill her tongue.

“Why can’t you be a good little and put your food in your mouth instead of…everywhere else,” Linda asked her sweetly through a toothy smile.

Marza returned the smile, exposing a triple row of razor sharp teeth and fluttered her three long-lashed eyes at Linda. Whenever she was excited her lavender hued fur would stand straight on end and the black stripe down for forehead would become luminescent, glowing like a black-lit poster from Linda’s youth. Linda found it impossible to stay mad at such a magnificent creation.

Marza wouldn’t stay small for long; however, and Linda dreaded the day. At this point lil M weighed approximately 52kg and was only 1 month old. With a proper diet, she would continue to gain approximately 10 – 15 kilograms a week and her height would double every month. In a eighteen months she would be able to peer into a second story house, the point at which she would be considered full grown. Like others of her kind, she was even-tempered, playful, and affectionate. However, there had been evidence of other’s similar to her hunting entire villages of families in Northern Europe, slaughtering and eating everyone and everything in sight. Thankfully, genetic testing had shown a difference between the two individual genomes that distinguished those like Marza as docile and not driven to hunt if fed properly.

In Linda’s past past life she had worked as a zoologist and taught at a local university, but when the Venus-Solar eclipse occurred in June of 2012 and soon after, her career took a drastic redirection. That fateful evening, the creatures emerged – some of which were dazzling, ethereal, even mythical – while others were downright terrifying and deadly. After the Summon, the entire world was overtaken with panic and for a good reason – many lives were lost in the beginning. Complete mania broke out. It was as if WWIII had begun, but this time the enemy was not man. It was everything else.

The world held it’s breath when the second Venus-Solar eclipse occured in 2017. Thankfully, the day passed uneventfully and left everyone scratching their heads as to why it happened before. It was now 2028, fourteen years since The Summon. A lot had changed and most of the regions inhabited by creatures had returned to a new normal while other regions were quarantined. The areas with the most lethal and terrifying ones were under constant military surveillance and completely walled off from society. In fact, one third of North America was no longer accessible to civilians. In the military zones, the world’s top biologists, geneticists, and scientists of every field relished in the observation, study, the poking and the prodding of any creature they could get close enough to.

None of them appeared to be linked to any species known to man and no one seemed to know exactly where any of them came from. Some experts speculated that some came from the depths of tropical rain forests, others  may  from South-American caves untouched by man, or from parts of Russia and Africa were humans did not inhabit. Nonetheless, the creatures came from everywhere and were in every country, in every city, across the globe. In 2019, it had been determined that approximately 106 genetically distinct creatures had been identified, and every year, at least 10 new ones were discovered. Linda had joined a special group of activists to help save the creatures, even the ones that were not docile, easily domesticated or harmless; a move that proved to saved thousands from being incinerated by military war heads and militia groups.

Linda turned to Marza and wiped her glowing nose with a hand towel. Marza violently sneezed. Orange snot dripped from Linda’s arm onto the floor. “Augh, you bad little,” Linda teased as she wiped the mess. Marza continued to mew and bunted her head tenderly against Linda’s now clean hand.

Suddenly, a loud alert came from the television in the living room. Linda had forgotten she had even had it on. She slowly walked towards the set and listened to the urgent announcement in between the siren. The announcer frantically spit the warning that the North border of The Summon Holding had been compromised and that everyone within a 100 mile radius must retreat to their shelters until further notice. Linda choked down her own saliva as the blood began to circulate wildly through her arteries and veins. The sanctuary where she worked and resided was only 22 miles from the border. She backed up from the television, walking backwards into the kitchen. She turned to Marza, but she was gone.The buckled straps that had held her in place were now chewed through completely and Marza was no where in sight. Linda’s heart leapt in her chest.

A low snarl came from under the kitchen table. Linda slowly lifted the table cloth and her eyes met glowing lava red orbs. Linda was so startled she fell back on to her bottom, hitting the floor. Marza emerged from under the table, her once lavender fur had shed, exposing sharp, jagged quils. The word “please” barely escaped the roof of Linda’s mouth before Marza lunged for her throat.


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The Summon of 2012 by Heather Brewer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://mujerprolijo.wordpress.com/2016/03/02/the-summon-of-2012/.

*sings* Getting to know you…

Before I sat down to write this, I felt that writing a personal entry is a cop-out for today’s writing practice, not worth my time (or anyone else’s for that matter). Thankfully, I came across an article earlier this week that encourages new writers to get the autobiographical urge out of their system before ever attempting to write a novel. It made sense to me because as I sift through writing prompts, I find myself drawn to the safety of familiar topics or genres of writing. When I wrote the story “Funny Feet” I was put off by the silly concept of a man who laughs every time he sees feet but as I began to write, the story unfolded before me and is now my favorite short that I’ve written.

Writing the three short stories I have in the past few days has been a huge personal accomplishment. Prior to beginning the 500 Word Challenge in 31 Days, I hadn’t written anything creative besides a witty post it note. I spent my entire twenties in school where I earned two bachelor’s degrees – one in Women’s Studies and the other in Nursing. When I wasn’t in school or working, I was partying nonstop. Looking back, I can see that I was in search of community and I found it. I could go to most popular venues in the heart of Detroit and I’d always be greeted with open arms. These were the people I considered friends.As I approached my thirties, many of those friendships drifted away because they weren’t built on anything substantial. In addition, the nightclubs and bars didn’t hold the same appeal. I often found myself bored. Nonetheless, I continued to go out consistently because I didn’t know what else to do. Plus, I hated to be alone.

I had almost given up on my dream of doing anything creative. Over the year’s I developed a mindset that if something didn’t make money or bring instant gratification, it wasn’t worth my time. Well, that mindset has changed. As I was finishing my nursing degree in 2014, my mother’s health began to decline drastically. She eventually entered hospice and I was in charge of her medical care when the hospice nurses weren’t around. It was the one of the saddest and most beautiful moments in my life. She was so grateful for my care and the love between us was palpable.

I continued caring for her, juggling school, watching over my cognitively impaired uncle, and courting a new relationship all at once. My stress level was through the roof and I kept myself heavily medicated with a high dose of anti-anxiety tablets to make it through the day. Fast forward to May 25th of 2015, my mom passed away. Fast forward again to June 15th, I lost my first nursing job. The women I worked with did not like me and for the first time in my life I found myself trying to impress people. This was something I wasn’t used to because throughout my life, people have always been drawn to me. Also, I was in the midst of grieving my mother’s death and my mind was unable to focus on the job. After I was fired, I sunk into a deep depression.

My boyfriend and I took a trip to Germany that had been planned well before my mother’s death and while we were there, my mood dramatically shifted. The trip was exactly what I needed.While in Berlin, I sat on a window sill of a beautiful apartment in a neighborhood called Kreuzberg with my boyfriend as we drank wine and dreamed about what life would be like when he moved in. It was August and he was planning to end his lease in September. We talked about different art projects, a room we would dedicate to creating music (since he is a talented musician), and how we would redecorate to make the home ours. Writing came up passively. I was more interested in the idea of becoming an artist. In my youth I was constantly drawing and when I went to college the first time, I took a painting class and learned how to use different mediums. I was sure that when I returned home that I would begin putting pencil to paper and bring the images in my head to life.

When we returned home it did not take long for depression to find me again. Steve hadn’t moved in yet and I was all alone in the house for the first time. My uncle who had been living with me up to that point had flown to Tennessee to be with my sister and it was decided that he would stay there. It was the freedom that I always thought I wanted but when it happened, I didn’t know what to do with it. So I slept. I slept a lot. And I drank. A lot.To the point that it almost put an end to Steve moving in. He told me, “If this is how it’s going to be, then I don’t know if I can do this.” The thought of losing him made me clean up my act. I started seeing a therapist, slowed down with drinking, and tried to reach out to my friends. Everything seemed to be getting better until October 28th, 2015 when I was in a car accident that resulted in a broken tibia.

Recovery was complicated in the beginning. I ended up in the hospital twice because of infection. Also, I was instructed that I could not bear any weight on my right leg for 12 weeks. Steve had to take care of me hand and foot. He even hired my cousin to come take care of me while he was at work. One might think that this would result in a downward spiral back into depression, but it did not. Sure, I was sad. There were days that I would feel immense amounts of self-pity. But something in me had changed. I felt my own mortality for the first time. I allowed myself to grieve my mother’s death. I had time to be grateful for what I did have and I dreamed of the future – a future I felt lucky to have. I also watched the man I love unselfishly do everything in his power to make me comfortable and ensure I was well taken care of. I’ve never felt more gratitude in my life.

Steve said to me one day that he was shocked at how positive my attitude was. I don’t know how or why but I was happy and the reason didn’t matter. My mental health was becoming…healthier. I did what some may call “soul searching” and truly gave thought to what it was I wanted to do besides being a nurse. Did I want to draw? Read? Write? So at first, I broke out a sketch book but was hindered by fear. Feeling discouraged, I decided to begin reading books. Books of fiction that I didn’t have the time for and didn’t make time to read while I was living out my twenties. Then online I came across a discount for three writing courses through Writer’s Digest. I got excited. In fact, I got so excited that I purchased the courses immediately and ordered the required textbooks. Next, I came across the 500 word challenge and made the decision to start. And I did. And this blog is my testament to the commitment I’ve made for myself.

It has been so long since I’ve felt this alive and consumed with writing. I hadn’t written a short story in over a decade. What surprised me even more was that I wasn’t afraid to write; in fact, I couldn’t wait to get started. I  decided whatever came out would only get better with time. Now I have three pieces that I am actually proud of. To many, this may seem insubstantial, but to me, it is a monumental feat. I am no longer dreaming of doing something, I am doing something. I am inspired and motivated. The reason I did not write a short today is because I spent most of it reading short stories and  about the craft of writing. If you could see me right now you’d think I’d had a very rough day. My eyes are bloodshot and I’m wearing leopard print pajama pants, a purple shirt, and pig slippers; however, today wasn’t bad at all. Quite the contrary. Today was full of pleasure, inspiration, and insight. I went on forums and read other’s writing and encouraged them to write. I even gave advice.

Dear words: I’ve found you again and I’m not going to let you go this time. Not without a fight.

Thank you for reading.

Cosmic Irony


View Writing Prompt: Oh, the Irony & Lonely Planet


Emily remembered the day she learned the truth. Like every thirty something, she lived her life taking for granted all the basic luxuries and conveniences that came with living in a developed country – running water, over-stocked mega grocery stores, transportation, smart phones, computers, but most of all – electricity. The day the sun became the enemy, Emily was driving in rush hour traffic from her nine-to-five, heading home to make dinner for herself and to feed her dog. She was irritated and restless. Her boss had given her a hard time about a project she had spent hours perfecting and she was still mulling over a break-up with a guy she dated for a short time, wondering what it was about her that had kept her single most of her adult life. The traffic was heavy, everyone in a hurry to get anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere.

With a deep sigh she flipped on the radio, a habit she outgrew years ago. Driving to and from work had become a refuge; it was the only time her mind was able to quiet, but today, she couldn’t shut off her thoughts. She turned the dial to a pop music station but instead of a song being played or a disc jockey running his mouth, she heard a very serious voice speaking formally to listeners. She turned the radio up.

“…what we are seeing here is one of the largest solar storms in history. If a solar flare produced by the storm and able to reach the sun, the sun will emit a massive burst of gas and magnetic energy – enough to destroy the infrastructure of power grids and cause widespread power outages. While this is the worst case scenario, it is dependent upon the amount of emissions that are able to reach earth. Our planet could be hit partially, fully, or missed completely…”

Emily listened on as the man continued to explain the phenomenon that with words she did not fully understand. Despite his proficiency in speech she could sense uneasiness in his voice.

“What we are trying to do is warn people of the possibility and urging everyone to be prepared. We cannot prevent widespread panic but we are asking everyone to band together…”

Adrenaline spiked her blood stream and now her mind was racing uncontrollably. She could feel her heart thump in her chest and the feeling of dread sat heavy at the bottom of her stomach. She looked at the cars around her. Everyone was at a dead stop. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw that her face had gone completely white, her pupils dilated. She glanced over at the car next to her. The woman in the driver’s seat had the same slack-jawed expression. They made eye contact and held it for a moment. Then the woman began to cry.

It took a week for the world to end. Major grocery outlets were being controlled by the National Guard or local militia groups while local markets were completely looted and burnt down. Goods were now being rationed out to families and individuals as the news made it more apparent that solar flares were imminent and to what extent the earth would be affected, unknown.

The day it happened, Emily stood on her porch sipping a three-finger pour of whiskey. She had quit going to work and stayed home preparing as best as she could. She was done for the day and the day was drawing close to dusk. She had been glued to the television for the past hour as the countdown began. NASA and other scientific organizations had gathered enough information to determine an approximate time that the sun would be impacted by solar flares and confirmed that emissions would reach earth. It was estimated that two-fifths of the globe would become radioactive and that a geomagnetic storm would completely dismantle the infrastructure and operations of every power-grid on earth. Electricity – and life as everyone knew it – would be gone in less than an hour.

Time ticked on as Emily stood on her porch staring at the landscape as the sun hovered in the fall sky and grey-yellow clouds gently folded around it. It was 9:38 pm when it happened. Emily watched as fire orange trails struck the sun’s surface, turning it into an orange glowing eclipse. The sky darkened and the sun appeared to triple in size. Emily blinked against its luminescence until everything grew dim. She watched in awe as the night sky turned into a kaleidoscope of colors. Auroras. Northern lights. Something she had heard about in science classes ages a go and typically occurred in the northern polar region of the globe. But tonight, the northern lights were on full display in Athens, Illinois. Emily stood in still as everything in her house went quiet and the rooms turned dark. Her ego began to dissipate until nothing existed – except the sky.

The months following the coronal mass emissions, millions upon millions of people died from radiation or starvation. Many more died from violence as society seemed to madden and those who survived were only able to on limited supplies. The true survivors were those who were raised with the ability to use the land, to grow crops, can their own goods, and heal the sick. Still, even that existence became impossible as the drought persisted and everything green began to die away. What was once a beautiful glowing blue and green orb was quickly turning into a monochrome version of itself.

No one was prepared for the way the world would actually end. Emily, like everyone else, knew the dangers of war, the possibility of nuclear arms being deployed, the reality of natural resources running out, and the impact of global warming; hot topics heavily debated on news channels and wine fueled dinner parties of the affluent. Ironically, the very thing that gave us life is what took it away.

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Cosmic Irony by Heather Brewer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://mujerprolijo.wordpress.com/2016/02/25/cosmic-irony/.

Funny Feet

View Writing Prompt: Funny Feet

Becoming an established journalist has been my dream since 7th grade. When I moved to Boston, I set my sights high. I was fresh out of Penn State, free of the rural countryside, and the persistent smell of cow manure. I moved into the first apartment I found with running water and a stove that had at least two operating burners. With nothing more than two month’s worth of rent in savings, a suitcase of clothes, and a limited supply of toiletries, I began looking for my first job. My resume was perfect – aesthetically pleasing and focused on my diverse skill set with only minor embellishments showcasing my extra-curricular activities.

When Boston Globe hired me, I was elated. When they assigned me to the Arts and Entertainment section, I could feel the balloon burst. It wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for. I wanted to write hard hitting news stories on political scandals, criminal trials, or global economics. Instead, I found myself semi-conscious at dog shows, wine tastings, and book signings. Luckily, my superior seemed to like my work and I liked her, even though most days I couldn’t look her in the eye or anywhere else for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, she is a mega-babe. Her name is Eva. She’s a tall, curvy Brazilian woman with dark brown hair, and sharp green eyes that could make anyone feel as if she knew all your secrets.

But there was definitely one of mine she did not know. In fact, it’s a secret I’ve done my best to hide from absolutely everyone. Ever since I was a child I’ve had this thing about feet. Not in a sexual way. Unfortunately, whenever I’ve tried to open up to people about issue with feet, they automatically think I’m some sort of foot fetishist. In reality, it’s nothing even close to that. Feet do not turn me on, they just make me…extremely uncomfortable. And when I’m uncomfortable, I laugh. A lot. I mean laughing to the point that my eyes well with tears, my face turns maroon, and I have to hold my stomach for fear that my insides might spill on the floor. What’s worse is that I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about feet that makes them so absurd to me. I’m thinking its the toes and the way they curl into the ground for balance or the fact that they simply look clumsy on the end of most legs. Whatever it is, it’s uncontrollable. Once I start laughing, I can not quit until my entire body aches.

This may not seem like a big deal to most people but it has had huge ramifications in my life. Most girlfriend’s were to insecure to understand that it wasn’t them, it was their feet. As a result, I’ve been single and without sex for nearly a year. Also, there isn’t any type of support group for this sort of thing. I suppose I could see a therapist but without health insurance I could never justify spending hundreds of dollars talking to some old guy about feet. So I keep it to myself and keep my eyes above the waist.

I’d been at the job for a few weeks when feet once again became an issue. I thought journalism would be a safe zone for me but unfortunately, working closely within tight quarters and having a desk placed precisely in the aisle row makes feet an every day concern. Come Monday mornings, I have to mentally prepare myself for the work week ahead. For most people it has everything to do with the workload and deadlines, but for me, it’s all about feet. Not just anyone’s feet, however. Eva’s feet. Every single day, Eva saunters into the office donning a new pair of heels. I found I could contain myself most days; however, on days that she wears peep toe shoes, I have to keep my eyes fixed firmly to my computer screen. I held my breath each morning as she’d stroll by with her tanned hooves shoved into stilettos and two to three toes spilling over the front platform. She would say hello and I’d muster something that vaguely resembled a spoken language as a response. I’m sure I came across as rude, imbecilic, or really into screen-savers. Maybe all of the above.

Monday she wore a sleek black pointed toe heel. No big deal. I made it through another day without incident. But today when I came into the office I noted that the unseasonably warm weather and sure enough, Eva took full advantage of global warming by wearing a pair of  red leather peep toe shoes. As I stared into the blank word document on my screen, she casually stops at my desk and requests a one-on-one meeting before lunch. “I have something to run by you,” she said with a smile. I nod as a means of confirmation and gulp in large a bubble of air as she walks away. “Of course she has something to run by me on Peep Toe Tuesday,” I thought and I spent the rest of the morning looking at job openings. “Maybe I should become a postal worker,” I pondered. “Everyone on the job wears reasonable shoes.” As I envision my new career path, I’m interrupted by a ding coming from outlook. It is an email from Eva reading, “I’m available now if you are.”

I walk into the large, sunlit room to find her sitting cross legged in a Barcelona chair adjacent to her desk instead of behind it. “God dammit,” I thought to myself. After greeting her, I nervously put my hands in my pockets and eyed the ceiling as she began to speak to me. “Well, Marcus. I have to say you’ve been doing a wonderful job. I love the last piece you wrote on the Grand Opening of the new boutique on Harrison. I decided it’s time to give you something a little more exciting to write about.”

“Oh, thank you.” Still staring at the ceiling.

“As you know, New York fashion week is approaching in a couple of weeks. A local designer and a dear friend of mine is working on a line. I’d like you to visit her studio as the models are being photographed and fitted into her new collection.”

I shifted my gaze to her face then down to the floor where I stood and back to her face out of nervousness, making every attempt to avoid looking at her feet.

“I have to be quite honest with you, actually. It was a piece I was supposed to write but I can’t bring myself to do it.”

Confused, I managed to maintain eye contact with her.”Can I ask what the problem is, if you don’t mind me asking.” I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.

“Well, the truth is,” she paused and then let out a lyrical giggle, “it’s for a new shoe line and as much as I love her work, I have a problem with feet.” Through her smile and casual demeanor, I could see her face begin to blush.

“What…what kind of problem,” I stammered while maintaining eye contact past the point of awkwardness.

“I don’t have a problem with my feet, it’s just other people’s feet. It’s silly, really. It’s just that whenever I go shoe shopping or am around people bare foot at the beach or gym, I start to giggle uncontrollably. I know it sounds absurd. I just do not want to make a fool of myself…”

She trailed on like this for a few more minute and I looked at her feet. I began to laugh.

“What’s so funny, Marcus?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” I said through tears of laughter. Nothing was wrong. I was in love.

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