Writing prompt: What’s in the box

Inspired by a writing prompt in a forum contest on Scribophile.

What’s in the box?

I was out of my mind. I knew it could never work. But I couldn’t stop myself. It was that urge, the itching, and the constant need. I had to have it.

And I snuck out late at night, tiptoed along dark streets, peeked through windows at people that sometimes would sleep. Sometimes not so deep.

And I saw it, through a stained pane, which I broke.

So I snuck in, I tiptoed around the darkened home, and frightened as I was, I could not stop.

It was there. I grabbed, I ran, and bells started screaming. Sirens blaring, spotlights glaring. I ran.

Out through teeth of glass that bit, down the alley, across a lawn. I took it, had it, looked at it.

And it opened easily enough as I paced a giggling circle in a shade away from moonlight. Shuffled my feet, froze, and stared.

At the bottom, under the lovely lid, below the frazzle of thin paper, and this I swear I didn’t do.

Through the bottom I saw grass, and edge of asphalt, a darkness, a leaf. I saw it all, through a neatly cut out hole I saw my legs, my feet, the grass, and darkness of night…

By J K Brennan

Down the rabbit hole- Unreleased. Want to be on the JennyK list of awesome people? Help me raise some cash to complete my album!

Anna – Open letter from a sex-addict.

Anna

By: J K Brennan

To: Unnamed girl, thirteen and under.

My name is Anna. I sell my body.
It’s a bargain, let me tell you. But that’s nor here nor there.

I’ve also destroyed my body with drugs. Hash, heroin, shit like that. The drug thing began long after the selling started though. I know it usually is the other way around. An addiction turns expensive and the prostitution comes as a symptom of drug abuse, not the other way. But that is how it was. Because, and here is the real problem.

I’m a nymphomaniac.

It started when my boobs suddenly grew. I had waited for so long to get boobs just like my friends had, and when they budded into pathetic little mini titties, I was so happy. I bought my first bra. With matching panties of course. I padded the bra with toilet paper to start with, and then when my little babies grew, I bought another bra that was just a little bit padded, and pushed them together and up. I looked like a real babe.

I started buying clothes for my weekly allowance, which was quite generous since I was a spoiled brat, and everything I bought was tight and sexy. My first set of stockings, you know the one that go to the thigh and is held up by a sexy garter? It cost me an entire month’s allowance. But I had to have it. Just like I had to have that first piece of lingerie. Silky, red and black, with buttons and ribbons and strategic transparent spots, and did I mention slutty? Very slutty.

It had buttons at the crotch and I played with them so much I wore them out. That was when I realized my boobs had grown so much that I could actually stick out my tongue and touch my nipples with it. I learned quickly to please myself with my fingers, and then by using different things I found in the home. Silly things really, but as long as it didn’t cause injury, it always turned me on and got me off.

Then, as I came closer to fifteen and my boobs were as big as they ever would be, I started inviting friends home for “movie and popcorn nights” as my mother thought they were. She was never home anyways. She was a lawyer see, and she was stabbed, but that is another story.

But really, I had my first orgasm given to me by someone other than myself, or by any of the many dildos I had bought online, on one of those nights. I can’t remember ever eating popcorn.

And then I realized I wasn’t quite normal. I wanted sex all the time. Girl or boy didn’t matter. Two or more didn’t matter either. Threesomes were awesome, in any combination of male female. It was all the same to me.

Life was good. But then I was supposed to go to college. I didn’t have a problem with that. I had a brain that only needed to hear something once or twice, and I learned. It wasn’t fair I know. My fellow students struggled to rise above average. I skimmed through and was top in my classes. It did give me lots of time over for my extracurricular activities though… it was great.

Well, I got my degree, but decided I didn’t want to study anymore. What was the point? All I had to do was borrow a book from the library, read it from cover to cover, and I was done. So what if I didn’t have papers to prove it. I knew what I knew. And if anyone wanted proof, they could just give me a test, I’d ace it, and viola.

But then everything started to fall apart.

I’m not sure what happened first, but my friends, my fuck-buddies as I called them at the time, all started to drift away. They fell in love, found jobs away from me, got married, children and minivans.

I didn’t want that. I just wanted to party. No, actually, it wasn’t that kind of fun I wanted because I never drank, never smoked, and never watched movies or read books for entertainment. I craved sex. Orgasms, the heat, the mind numbing ecstasy. I needed new and exciting things all the time. Tie me up and abuse me, I’m happy. Give me a whip and a basket of rubber accessories along with someone to abuse, and I’m happy. Put me in front of a video camera while being filled and probed and used, broadcast it live on the web, I’m just as happy. Excite me, exploit me, degrade me, adore me, and make a slave of me. Ooh, yeah, that’s the spot Baby.

But all of a sudden I was alone. The HIV scare had started and people became afraid of casual sex. Well, to be honest, it scared me too a bit even if I wasn’t a gay man, which was what the HIV targeted according to those days ignorant prissies and priests. But sure, I got tests for stuff and came back negative. I learned early that condoms would keep me from making babies I never ever wanted to have, so it wasn’t such a big deal, even if the guys grumbled a bit…

So I watched porn and masturbated til my eyes and fingers were sore. But it was so boring. So dull. After a week I was climbing walls in my little studio apartment. I tried to go to a bar, but there is something about drunken people that drunken people never understand. They never perform. Besides that, they smell bad, and they have an annoying habit of wanting to stay the night to sleep it off, or simply pass out, giving me no choice in the matter but to let them stay. Preferably in the tub so I can start their morning with a nice refreshing icy cold shower.

Needless to say, I wasn’t popular. I didn’t want to move away from my home town either. It was a safe place after all. My mother paid my bills. There was also that detail about her not paying for me anymore if I moved far away. So it was easier to stay even if everyone knew me. They all thought I had all kinds of sexually transmitted icky to spread, but I didn’t. But I suppose; once a slut, always a slut. It doesn’t really help if it happens to be true. But I was a slut without aids, or Hep C, or any of those itchy, leaking, smelly, eventually harmful deceases. Why would anyone believe me though? Once a nympho, always a nympho.

I don’t think there is such a thing as nympho anonymous.

There is? Hmm. I suppose that for me, it would be a great place to find likeminded people and setup “play” dates or special group therapy sessions hehe.
Sigh. I really didn’t mean to tell you all of that. But hell, it was my life. From the time I was thirteen until the moment, around twenty-four when my mother died from a sudden loss of blood, and consequent complications; yeah, she was stabbed by some unhappy customer, she was a lawyer see, and she was a good one, thus her well deserved death.

I suddenly had no money, my life had been eat, sleep, and fuck. It wasn’t such a bad life at all. Instant gratification and no strings. Perhaps I simply lacked empathy, or simple human emotions beyond a twisted instinct to reproduce. Flawed mainly because I never did reproduce anything, except my dear mum’s signature on a couple of pieces of paper she forgot to sign.

What papers? Well… just normal papers with numbers on them.

Checks?

I suppose some of them were. But come on now. What kind of responsible person would leave the checkbook in a drawer without a proper lock? What the hell, she didn’t even hide the key.

Where?

Well, in her nightstand, under the drawer. Yeah, with tape. But that’s not the point here. You digress.

Ahem, where was I?

Oh right, my mother died right? So there was no more money coming. Sure I could have found a job I suppose. But why should I? There are millions of other people that can do that kind of stuff.

Hey, don’t get me wrong here; I did try for a while. Online seemed to be a good place to make money. Everybody said so. But it was so distracting to shuffle serious business with web cam masturbation. Trust me, it can get confusing. Chat, invoice for three “this side up, push buttons to open”-T-shirts, video conference with employees and customers that always seemed to end with a virtual nekkid poker game. I’m telling you, those guys are such perverts.

Here I am, making a serious offer for twenty-three boxes of “Super slide lube” and they start asking me how my business is going and I say the money slides in just fine, and they think I’m coming on to them or something. Jeez, and hell, I didn’t know they were serious about not demonstrating products. I do believe in product research and transparency when it comes to things I want people to pay money for. I wouldn’t expect a customer to pay for something if it’s not thoroughly tested first.

There was a big stink about it, and it was suggested I’d shut down. It was expressed quite forcefully I might add. I kept telling them it was not a porn site, and I didn’t need to warn visitors, but hell. I was getting tired of it anyways, so I sold the business on eBay.

That kept me floating for a little while, the eBay money. But as all good things end, there’s a sudden stop sooner or later. I tried being normal. Normal as in working at a grocery store, as a town hall clerk, a pre-school teacher. But come on, face it.

Customers are idiots, public service just sucks, and little kids don’t learn too good.

I could have excelled. I have no doubts. It was just all those other people. Well, you know what I’m saying. A shrink told me once that I had no sense of responsibility and didn’t respect myself, that I should manage my passive aggressive behavior and cut back on my casual relationships and stop blaming other people for my failures.

She was just like all the others, saying shit about me, looking at me funny. I’m telling you, she was fucking sketchy. And fuck her saying I don’t respect myself. I have nothing BUT respect for me. It’s just everyone else I can’t stand.

Shithead skank trying to shrink my head when society just kept pushing me down. It got depressing, let me tell you. I had to tell her to go fuck herself in the end, because I sure wouldn’t touch her skinny ass.

Oh shit, I lost track of my story again. It’s that retarded brain doctor. She put things in my head, some kind of psychic subliminal bullshit. I can’t concentrate when I’m being fucked over every time I turn around.

Sigh.

Oh, yeah, Broke; then one day there was an eviction notice in the mail. I always knew that Nazi son of a bitch landlord had something against me. What the fuck, it’s not like he didn’t get good money from the other five hundred people or so in his fucking building. I gave him good head often enough, I didn’t see the problem.

Anyways, fast forward a little bit. Here I was. I found a pimp, a place to live, and I didn’t have to see a shrink anymore. That was good. It was a bit tricky to tell paying customers to use protection though, or to be a little bit gentle with the soft parts. Or bones and teeth for that matter.

I was fine for a while, then I got banged up a bit and lost quite a lot of my pretty, which depressed me. I started getting lazy, I finally said yes to drugs. So to cut the story short; in my third year of working steady as a sex worker, I tested HIV positive.

I think it was because I shared a needle with my buddy Suzy. She’s alright. I mean, she’s not really right in the head, but she’s cool if you know what I’m saying. And she doesn’t have any teeth left so she is quite good with her mouth…

Well, anyways. I was trying to get at something important. I don’t know if it means shit to you or not. It doesn’t mean much to me anymore, but you know; I have a bit of social conscience left in me.

Morality? Did you hear me use that word? I’m not that fucking wasted. So let’s not go there.

Hang on, I wrote it down. Here somewhere.

Ah, here we go.

Girl, when your boobs start growing, tell your parents that you want to be a nun and move to a convent. Trust me, boobs are evil. You don’t want anything to do with them.

Yours truly
Anna

By J K Brennan

Down the rabbit hole- Unreleased. Want to be on the JennyK list of awesome people? Help me raise some cash to keep writing, and complete my album!

Green apples – flash fiction

Green apples

By J K Brennan

Here, an empty plastic bag neatly folded. There, a wooden bowl on a cardboard box.

Green apples. That’s what was in the bowl. She had wanted them once, had craved food, vitamins, minerals, the feeling of chewing; Crunching crisp apple into pulp, swallowing. All she swallowed now was her own saliva, when she had any, and the spark of hope that refused to go away. Mocking her with their moisture, their sweet meat within doomed skin, the apples made time pass. Like her, their time was short.

Here, a glittering drop of water. There, a speck of dust in unconcerned flight on invisible drafts, made evident by light from a spotlight attached to the wall above the bowl.

They hadn’t been there for very long those apples. They would start to dull and their perfect surface soften. Just like the other ones. Just like her. They would shrivel and dry. Would he bring a new her when she shriveled and dried, she wondered. She didn’t have to think about it; the question was supposedly moot, but confirmed each time she saw the fruit lose its luster and the waiting began, again. She could hardly remember anything else.

#

When the apples became too old, he brought fresh ones, always green, always perfect, beautiful apples. Soon he would come, would rinse five or six fresh apples in the sink in the corner. He would throw the retired fruit in a plastic bag and tie it up. He would arrange the new ones in the bowl and leave the room. He would take the garbage with him, close the door and lock it.

Each time, He left her alone to watch the apples. “Time for contemplation and reflection,” he said once. “We want always what we cannot have.” He had said in a low voice in that peculiar accent; He didn’t come from around here, or, maybe she wasn’t where she had been before, hard to tell. After arranging the fruit and inspecting her bonds, he left her alone for an hour, sometimes two, whistling as he walked off to someplace other. Some place she would never see.

The needles with their attached hoses feeding her from bags of fluids kept her alive. The weekly cleaning kept her from smelling too bad, and the daily shifting of position kept her more or less free from sores. The hard plastic around wrists and ankles kept her in place on the narrow bed with its thin mattress, flat pillow, and sheets smelling of lavender. She couldn’t smell that anymore though.

How long had it been? In the beginning she had kept track of the time; that was after she had stopped fighting. How long did it take for apples to go wrinkly? Two days? A week? At one time she had calculated that if it took three days for apples to wrinkle enough for him to feel the need to replace them, and the apples had been replaced… Ten times? Twenty? Numbers meant nothing. Once she thought keeping track of when feeding bags changed would work better, but they were always replaced when she slept. Sometimes she didn’t even notice so she stopped counting.

#

Her shrinking body ached, skin burned, her eyes felt hollow and misty. She had long since given up on pulling at the things holding her naked form down, but still she raised one hand. She gained a few lousy centimeters; enough to scrape the side of diminishing thighs, no more. She tried to pull her legs up to bend her knees, knowing it was useless. The give in the restraints was the same as always: None. She was too weak to struggle and after a few moments, she let herself fall limp. A plastic bag hanging on the side of the bed needed changing. How was that possible? She wasn’t allowed to drink; everything was given to her through the hoses from the bags. What little generated by fluids dripping into her body couldn’t have filled the catheter bag that fast. How long had it been? When would he come?

#

Sharp burning pain between her legs raised her from numb rest, but the smell woke her all the way. Cringing and squirming slightly from the burning,it still felt better. A constantly irritating pressure had fallen away. Slowly turning her head, she struggled to focus, saw a dark yellow splatter on the floor next to the bed, a thin hose trailing through the urine to a bag broken open. Piss bags don’t break. Someone had said that once. She couldn’t remember who. She looked up to the coma bags; there were two of them. Both bags were nearly empty; Maybe a cupful in one, half a cup in the other. He had never left them that long. Would he come soon?

#

Here, a buzzing fly circling without aim. There, a realization of something different. Here, a lightheaded hoarse laughter. There, a wooden bowl filled with wrinkled apples.

She looked at them, mildly fascinated by the deepening wrinkles. She never knew how small apples could become when they dried. They were probably still edible; Ugly spots had appeared on a few of them, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t eat apples. She stretched her clouded vision toward the transparent bags; both of them flat and empty. She smiled a little. He would come soon, with fresh apples, and this time he would surely bring a new her. That would be nice.

“Kidnapper’s death dooms abducted woman.

Allen Kincaid, the man in custody for abducting twenty-year old Nina Henderson from her home in Smith’s Falls Ontario more than three months ago, was found dead in his cell this morning. According to his lawyer, Kincaid had finally been ready to reveal the location of Ms. Henderson to police in exchange for…”

Down the rabbit hole- Unreleased. Want to be on the JennyK list of awesome people? Help me raise some cash so I can continue writing and complete my album!