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Author: Steven John

Hands Free

Valere says he can orgasm simply by meditating on being fucked. He says when he goes down deep into himself, he doesn’t need to hand-pump himself up like a truck tyre. He says he can put one up, stiff as a wild pony, and come—hands free.

Angel pisses herself, says “can you believe this guy?” Laughs so much that tears run down her fat, freckled face.

Angel’s like that with Valere when she’s high as cheesecake. Goes without saying Valere is gay. Only a homo could say something fucking unbelievable like that, get a girl all juiced up, then she puts her arms around his neck and eats him like ice-cream. What if I said I could make myself come just by thinking about the checkout girl. She wouldn’t send me like some butt-licking errand boy to the store for a bottle and skins then would she. She wouldn’t think it was so damn funny then, wouldn’t pull me onto her kitchen floor to get laid.

That’s what Valere’s thinking of when he meditates—my tight ass. And I’ll bet Angel wishes it was Valere’s queenie weenie inside of her when we fuck.

She says, “You are so fucking awesome, Valere. Isn’t he awesome?”

“Yeah, he’s so fucking awesome.” Shit, I hate that queer. No wonder he can come hands free—she’s pushed his dick down my throat enough times, in one way of speaking.

“Valere read me some of his poetry today.”

“Valere brought us over some of his muffins.”

This crap is going to make me puke. Everything of Valere’s makes me want to puke, his yoga mat, his dork poetry, his ball-sack muffins. I’m going down the store for more beers, hit on the checkout girl. Her jeans are so tight you can see how close she’s shaved it. She gave me a look. Yeah. I’ll bet she don’t go for fag poets like Valere. I reckon she wants to milk me till I’m running on empty. I can score girls like her all day long—eyes closed, hands free.

Flash Fiction by Steven John
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The blacksmith’s heat that hammered the Prairies had spread west that summer, bending the people like horseshoes under the clang of it. The sun’s rays nailed through the forest canopy, hot and resinous, steeping the air to a green tea.

The canoe was beached on shingle, at the apex of the sea loch that brimmed westwards as far as the eye could see, emptying out into the Pacific, a day’s journey away. The turquoise water was photograph still. A jeweller’s alchemy of glacier blue and reflected chlorophyll from the galaxy of trees that stood high on all sides. The silence stung his ears, as though the sense of hearing had been ripped from him. He shouted. He had to check that noise existed there, that sound would still travel from his mouth and into his ears.

The naïve mountains around him said, “We’re bare as time.” He stripped off his clothes. His own nakedness seemed reciprocal and right. The only sound came from his heart and lungs, and from the gargle of water split apart by the wooden paddle and bow of the canoe.

When he’d gone far enough he lay on the duckboards and let the canoe drift to a stop. Eagles mixed overhead on the rising thermals from the forest. The silence threatened him. He was afraid of capsizing and drowning in the vacuum, making no sound, like a toppling tree in a lifeless forest. He loaded a cartridge into the shotgun, aimed at the void and fired. The water and trees and sun absorbed the report as though a single branch had snapped in the multitude—its insignificance not worthy of an echo. The stillness re-encircled, leaving him parched of air and smothered in sky.

Flash Fiction by Steven John
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