1. heartmom

    Dance at Bougival – Renior

    He pulled her tightly against his chest, trying to forge some kind of connection between their hearts. She was so beautiful – autumn auburn hair and snapping brown eyes. Her cheeks flushed and her lips were ripe and fiery. She smelled like powder, lavender talc, and her breath hinted at wintergreen.
    He held her plump, white hand tightly in his fist. There was substance to it, and sweetness, and he smiled slightly, thinking of the dimples he knew rested under the base of each finger.
    His hand cupped her waist, her warm, supple waist. He could feel her corset beneath the silk, holding her in, holding her back. As he pulled her towards him, he cocked his head and pushed his face near hers.
    “Look at me,” he commanded silently. She turned her face away, eyes half-lidded, her expression wistful. He exhaled softly, and she felt the warmth fan across her cheek. She murmured, and he leaned in, the stubble of his ginger beard just inches away from her turned-up nose.
    “What was that, cherie?” he asked tenderly, “tell me, mon amour.” Around them, the music faded and the clinking of glasses and raucous laughter all blended together in a comfortable buzz.
    “Your breath is terrible,” she said. “You need a mint.”

    1. mcullen Post author

      This is gorgeous writing, Karen. Great detail. . . tactile, sensual, has substance. And the surprise ending = brilliant! A joy to read.

  2. Ke11y

    I went immediately to the bathroom to brush my teeth and gargle before my wife came home!

    1. mcullen Post author

      Great humor!

    2. heartmom

      Don’t forget the floss, Kelly 😉

  3. wrdpntr

    Things found at the flea market

    I spotted it across the field, the cowgirl outfit I prized at five. It’s October ’56 and I’m straddling a pumpkin decked out in my red and gray fringed skirt and vest, white hat to match. Wrist cuffs frame the plastic pistol in my hand, the vinyl holster on my hip.
    The Uncle Wiggly Game steals my memory. I don’t remember much about the rabbit with the pocket watch but I can’t forget the Skeezix. I’m waiting for a cat to wear that name. The Ouija Board winks at me from a dusty tailgate. I think of our summer camp séances, how I always fled before the message was spelled out. Could that plastic gizmo really move around the board under its own steam? We tried levitation but I always broke the silence with my nervous laugh. There’s a gold pan, the one miners cooked in when they weren’t washing for color. The red in that Ballantine Beer tray puts a spell on me. My grandma tucked one like it under her Shabbas candles to keep wax from ruining the tablecloth, though it was already pocked with scorch marks. There’s a trunkful of Treemark shoes, the kind I coveted in high school. Two-inch chunky heel, laces, and perforations like my high school boyfriend’s wing tips, which he wore with Roebucks dungarees. Need I mention the predictable LPs, thick as bologna in their brown paper sleeves? The flip-sided toaster begets a smile; someone’s given it a new cord; I could really use it! Coils of chicken wire roll like tumbleweeds before the wind. Blackened railroad spikes wave goodbye, their hard lines spelling finality.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Wonderful description of flea market finds. I especially like, “the predictable LPs, thick as bologna in their brown paper sleeves.” Thanks for sharing your writing here.

  4. Ke11y

    Oh my…what a treasure trove of things for an Englishman to go in search of…the cowgirl outfit I know, yes, Annie Oakley…but the Uncle Wiggly game? So off I went in search…Ballantine tray, too…and Shabba candles…Treemark shoes…what fun to go looking. It was as if I were on my own flea market adventure…but the jewel for me, well that was the word ‘beget.’ How I love that word. Thanks so much for adding so many specials little finds to my morning. Beautiful.

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