Tag: insecurity

All Stories, General Fiction

The Evening of the Black Dog Lavinia Andrei Jennings

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The dog scrutinized her through the glass door of the high-rise building. His wet pitch black coat shone smooth as glaze over metal, and for an instant she perceived him as a bad omen, a gigantic raven, haunting her. And yet, his gaze was benign, his attitude tentative and curious at the same time. Flakes of snow settled continually on his muzzle and shoulders, shriveling and melting, like grains of sand measuring his time out in the cold.  Irene, still and uncertain, eyes squinting from the sunset glow, met his gaze, then promptly switched her attention to her own reflection in the door, her curly hair in disarray, her arms hanging pointlessly along her body. She had nearly tripped over the dog who approached her unexpectedly as she arrived home earlier, lost in her usual musings. Their eyes locked for a moment, in a question and answer one-two. She moved away, though, determined to ignore him.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Chicken Cutlet Bra by Lisa Shimotakahara

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First off, I’m a bra expert. I came by my bra expertise unwillingly. I was born flat-chested.

I understand that you, reader person, may not find my subject relatable if you personally have not experienced flat-chestedness – You haven’t walked around in my shoes. You haven’t walked around in my bra.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Fat Pussy by Midori P. Yeung

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Bubba is such a fat pussy. The bulk of her belly drags along the floor when she walks with her four short legs.

We describe Bubba with all the words we are no longer allowed to use on people.

But Bubba doesn’t care for semantics.

She circles around my legs and demands more snacks. Her soft hair tickles my skin and gives me a kinky mix of annoyance and comfort.

‘Bubba, I’m working.’

If you say so, she jumps on my desk and curls up on the laptop in front of me. She’s very fond of laptops; the electrical warmth comforts her tushy.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Otter by Tim Hildebrandt

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My cubical is in a row along the east wall of the building. Windows provide ample light on a sunny day, filtered through a bank of trees ringing the parking lot outside. The wind in the trees create moving shadows on my desk, and I follow them as my mind wanders.  I gaze at the ceiling ignoring my work. Reading is time-consuming, time I need for maintaining appearances and impressing others with skills and abilities always needing attention. Skills and abilities are my life’s work. I know what people look like when they have such skills, I know how they act. I try to act the same way so people will assume I have the same abilities. My goal is to learn how to engage effortlessly in small talk and put others at ease with humorous anecdotes. I search for anecdotes whenever I can, I sprinkle them throughout my conversation. But it is hopeless, I know I have no social skills. One has to learn how to get along with people, it isn’t an innate skill.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Marlene Dietrich by Riham Adly

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My promotional Facebook ad campaign is far from ready. An upside down, high resolution, Marlene Dietrich holding my self-published book awaits my intervention.  I hesitate before choosing the rotate option or is it the flip? Marlene looks regal, confident in her fur coat. What would Marlene think of a book starting with:

 She loved lemons and would squirt them on everything, their yellow rind reminding him of her sunshine. Lemons never tasted sweeter. Without her, his heart wouldn’t beat right.

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All Stories, Latest News

Week 120 – Insecurities, Placebos And Goosing Lamp Posts.

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I’ve been thinking on insecurities and what fun they are to write about. You can have a laugh and rip the pish out of other folks and you can do the same with your own but that isn’t funny.

I would rather use it as a self-help exercise, ’cause lets be honest, if you can write about them and put them out there, you will never need to pay a therapist.

Now paying a therapist seems to be something people in other countries do. We don’t. Us Scottish people would never dream of doing this and that has sod all to do with the very false stereotype of us being mean.

We wear our madness as a badge of honour. To be sectioned is the top accolade but it very seldom happens. The only way this can happen is if you sexually assault a lamp-post and it complains to the authorities.

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