Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Copyright © 2011, By C.L. Smith
Word count: 200
Your blue-jeaned legs were too long for your boy’s torso. You were hot to prove to everyone how high you could roundhouse to kick the top of Mrs. Johnston’s doorway.
“I take karate,” you puffed.
Your eyes were as pale as your skin, as still as your soul as you budged desk after desk aside with your hips. Occasionally a scrape skittered across the floor, a small stab of mouth pouching open, then a sudden shush.
The nearer you prowled, the more your mitts parted the folds of forgiveless air around a girl-shaped space.
Six, seven, eight times you tried. Target moving, gone; low center of gravity, your reptilian brain labored, and you susurrated as you tried connection from behind, in a gambited vise.
Then, as a balloon ooooking out oxygen, your breath is denied you. An arrow-end upends you below the sternum as the power hourglass flips in front of your ineffectual face.
While you’re bent over, your quarry glides tête-à-tête with you. After another vicious knee-kick--with compliments to your self-described sweet spot--her victory is iron-willed.
The breach that you intended to spread wide has held. And your lips forevermore trap the tale of your toothless puissance.
This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.