It’s rather late but here is my entry for last month’s #LiteraryLion challenge, hosted by Laura Gabrielle Feasey. I forgot to email it to myself before I went on holiday and I only had one copy saved on my computer, hence the delay.
The prompt was “flower” and the first image that sprung to mind was funeral flowers. I think I had a few personal things on my mind at the time so steered towards something negative.
The challenge, as always, is to tell a prompt-inspired tale in 400 words or less, in fourteen days. You can find out more about it here.
*Contains explicit language/content
By Donna-Louise Bishop
I wanted it to be so much more than it was but in reality my life had never really amounted to anything.
Girls, beautiful girls, would often pirouette themselves around me like a hooker getting paid overtime. The scent of their freshly washed hair would drive me insane and I would often wank to the thought of that clean, shampoo aroma during my morning shower.
Dying alone, I realised now I’d spent too much time on women, too much time fucking their tiny, little brains out. The drugs, the drink, the after-work parties and all-night raves; I’d spent far too much time wasting time.
All those fake smiles are distant memories now; the laughter and living-for-the-moment excitement is long gone. I have no one to share that with now.
My GP set up a Macmillan nurse to come and help me in my final days at home. She’s polite and tries to “keep my spirits up” – her words, not mine – but all I can do is drool at the sight of her tits in my face while she helps dress me. It’s wasted though. Any arousal I had left in my cock has long since dried up – unlike the tumour.
Fight it, I was told. Fight it. You have so much to live for. People who love you, places you haven’t seen, and you still haven’t written that book. Now I never will.
The friendly visits soon started to dwindle when I was told it was terminal. As the weight started slipping off like chunks of fat being sliced off a pork chop, any “friends” I had left decided not to visit anymore. They thought I didn’t know their goodbyes meant just that. Cunts, all of them.
As I lay here, knowing the end really isn’t that far off, I wonder who will be at my funeral. It’s a morbid thought but perfectly natural for me to have – or so I am told by my nurse.
If they chose some bullshit song to sing, like All Things Bright and Beautiful, I swear I will rise out of my coffin and strangle the vicar myself. If there is a hell, that act will almost definitely secure my spot.
I’ve never been one for gardening but I hope someone remembers I love tulips. They were my mother’s favourite flowers.