Are you talking to me?

She didn’t have to speak. Her lascivious smile and the prurient way she moistened her lips with her almost-too-pink tongue said everything. I stood, poised to make my move, then quickly sat back down. She was looking at the guy behind me.

Blech, Eww, Yuck

I couldn’t remember how I got here; my mind racing to recall the suppressed details. What was at stake? Did I have to go on or should I just give up now. My intestines knotted from the smell. Curse you Joe Rogen.
 

Campfire

Friday Fictioneers prompt for September 5, 2014 ©Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

We sat by the campfire and we were all taken in by the cacophonous crackle of capricious combustion. John told inappropriate jokes that were utterly obfuscated by one too many horizontal meters of beer – which is to say one horizontal meter of beer. My knees burned because they were somehow, through the contorted way I sat on the camping chair, the closest part of my body to the flames. Tired of John’s incoherent babbling, I contemplated how a few inches can reduce the heat exponentially and how my own hands could be used as a heat shield; as if I just discovered that
q = ε σ (T_h⁴ - T_c⁴) A_c.

Goodbye

The breeze carried something with it as it ruffled the bedroom curtains; unwanted, yet inevitable. The summer ended and with it the dream. It was time for autum reality and responsibility, time to leave behind carefree and wonderment. Maybe again next summer.