A Pair of Shorts #8

The Spike and the Plug
By: James

You can’t quite believe the anger you’re currently feeling. You’re pretty certain that you’ve never been as angry about anything in your life. This really has to be the last straw, surely. I mean, why bother? Why bother trying to just get on with things? Life just shits on you any chance it gets. What conceivable reason do you even have for getting up in the morning? Seriously, just give it up, man. And what the hell is it with you anyway? You’re far too highly strung, and your anger barometer is clearly wired up the wrong way. You get mugged as a teenager and you’re mildly irked? Your girlfriend leaves you for her personal trainer and you’re “not that bothered”? At work, someone gets promoted over you, largely due to their husband-of-a-senior-member-of-staff status and you say nothing? Yet here you are, after walking barefoot through your darkened bedroom, foolishly stepping on an upturned plug, a plug that you left there, suddenly you think it’s okay to erupt into a frenzied bag of Mental. If it’s not “Son of a whore!” this, it’s “Fucking coconut shit-tits” that, and let’s not forget the classic “Jeeping shitwank fuckmethathurt!”. Seriously, stop your whining, you’re not that special. Remember whose fault this is.


Evidence of a Struggle on the Dancefloor
By: Lydia Crow

The band on the stage had been playing for thirty-three minutes already, and showed no sign of stopping for a break.

Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?

Her feet were sore, in her too tight new red shoes. She hoped her hair, perfectly curled earlier in the day, and her vivid crimson lipstick were intact with no sign of wear or tear. It wouldn’t do to look like a floozy.

The way you’re actin’ lately makes me doubt.

He was wearing his brogues, shiny as if brand new, but she knew they’d been worn so many times they fit his feet like a pair of driving gloves.

Yous is still my baby-baby.

He smiled at her as he twirled her round. She smiled back, ignoring the familiar cold sensation in her left foot which meant that the blister that had formed on her smallest toe had burst. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t look down. She just had to keep on dancing.

Seems my flame in your heart’s done gone out.

He smiled at her again, his eyes peculiar in the flickering light. They seemed sharper, more alert, and it suddenly seemed to her, on the dimly lit dancefloor, that there was something cruel about his expression.

She blinked her eyelashes, heavy with lacquer, and flicked her skirt as he spun her round once more. She smiled back at him.

A woman is a creature that has always been strange.




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