7 prose micros by Rickey Rivers Jr

Flash Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine


It feels good to wear a cape. It makes me feel super. In the night skies I glide smooth. They won’t forget me. I manifest the idea of reality. I cannot be tamed. I embrace the bestial form. I am the sacrifice of the moonlight, a chill up the spine in summer stickiness. It’s funny, so many doubted, thought I would let go of the past. How can I let go of this pain? I’ve gained strength. Why would I resist? I am power not powerless. They will know and understand a woman who has taken control, and I will shake their foundations to rubble. Of course this is founded on concepts of love without proper understanding of loyalty and bond. Perhaps the concept of bondage could be better understood if forcibly given? I will see soon this truth. I will share the pain the world has given to me. This I swear to you.


There’s graffiti on this woman, and eyes are depicted. She is sultry to an extreme degree, burning me from outside in. She hasn’t come anywhere close to my personal space, and we have yet to touch yet I see myself in her tats, her back covered, her arms covered, her legs as well. I can barely make out skin beneath all the ink. Is there a person there, a bit of skin untouched? She must have a bit of herself uncovered. Under the covers I’ll be surprised, amazing, this maze of a woman. Bold am I, when I slither past crevices, hoping to enter. Not to be rude, I honestly want the tattoos. You can’t taste the ink after its tasted flesh. Yet flesh marinated in ink may be a treat to digest.


I am in the tub. In here I feel floppy. In here I think about childhood, how I used to be. I am wishy washy. I’ve been that way for a while. School was terrible. Clichéd, I know. I hope to never be near a classroom again. I wanted to be a teacher until I grew a common sense cloak. I am soaked from the soul to the skin. Underneath the waves of adolescent trauma I see myself hovering above the surface. I am no longer a child. I am between the wetness of growth. Life in the tub has left me wrinkled, which is not abnormal yet I wish not to leave here aquatic in nature.


I retired from the industry. My life, as it is now, is as normal as the word can be defined. Only thing is numbskulls, would-be fans, sometimes like to speak out of turn as if someone gave them the right. The women are fine, surprising even. It’s the boys who come up and say things like “Hey, aren’t you…” and “What happened to you?” Sometimes they ask if I could pose for photographs in suggestive positions. How does the world birth such low level louses? It boggles the mind to think your career must infinitely define you even after you leave it behind. Still, I put on a pleasant face and decline. This is what you must do. You must pretend. Lest you be assumed as some uncreative derogatory term. I’ve heard them all, they don’t bother me. Yet the lack of awareness annoys. As if you weren’t pleasuring yourself to me. Be humble. I’ve even had dummies approach me while I’m out with family I offer politeness and decline invites from ingrates. When the camera stops we’re expected to be cordial. It’s insanity how the world assumes they know you based off seeing you perform. None of the performances were personal. Yet, what can you do when it comes to entitlement? I wonder if complaints ever discourage others. One can hope. I hope everyday. At this point that’s all you can do.


I don’t like bondage. It terrifies me. My friend was into it. She allowed herself to be tied, to be treated like furniture. It’s funny; the idea of a safe word seems safe until it isn’t. That’s when it’s the last word. I think about that a lot. I mean, considering how she went how could I not? When I heard the news I froze. I couldn’t believe it. Hearing the fetish of your friend before attending their funeral should never be a thing. Though, I suppose that’s the best way to hear about it, unless you’re into sharing that sort of information with friends. She wasn’t into that, and I share that stance. Some secrecy isn’t a bad thing. Ironically, a person shouldn’t want to be untangled purposely. Guarding yourself is a right, a firm right to grasp, no matter how selfish it may seem.


It’s amazing how much pleasure can derive from waxing, perhaps not for the waxie but for the waxer, most certainly. I took care of a woman’s pelvic region recently and she became jelly on the table. A man, who seemed quite nervous at first, shrieked so suddenly that it shocked me sweetly. His shriek gave me a feeling. I oozed in private. Oh, how delightful, the sound of forcibly removing unwanted hairs. The feeling akin to ripping crops from the ground and oh, this world is so ripe for ripping. The sound of hairs pulled away combined with wincing. It is enough to make even you succumb to saliva soaked skin. There’s such a smooth feeling from the freshly waxed.


Slept with an editor yesterday, was criticized the whole time, felt transported back to childhood, scrutinized for things beyond my control. They said things like “sloppy, unorganized, and rough.” I felt them leave red marks all over. These marks took away from my overall grade or score or whatever editors use to classify acceptance. I think they’ll discuss me at the next editorial congregation, probably have a good laugh. This editor was cruel but it didn’t take away the attraction. The rejection gave a stinging sensation. It produced a bit of depression. However, I can’t lose hope. One can improve on anything if they work hard enough at it. That’s what they teach you at least. It’ll be difficult to be as hard as I was, but I promise to try and try harder still.

Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in The Gray Sisters, JJ Outre Review, Hybrid Fiction (among other publications). https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com You may find something you like there. Twitter.com/storiesyoumight Mini chap books are available here: https://payhip.com/StoriesYouMightLike