“Feathers? Seriously, Amy, this get-up is too much.”
Dora eyed her friend’s outfit. Amy was known for her flamboyant get-ups, but this one was over the top. Turquoise feathers were attached to a sheer body suit, strategically covering her private bits. Barely.
“Really?” Amy answered, “It took me days to create. I’m wearing it.”
“Well, you better wear a coat or they won’t let you in. You’re practically naked.”
“I look fabulous! You’re such a prude, Dora. Why don’t you let me do your make-up tonite?”
“Fine. Just don’t make me look like a clown. I’m a firm believer in ‘less is more.’ “
Despite Dora’s predictions, the girls had no problem getting into the night club. And as expected, all eyes were riveted on Amy as they made their way through the crowded room to the bar. Amy loved being the center of attention and Dora didn’t mind being in the wings. She was a psychology student and was fascinated by the lengths that men would go to flirt with Amy. She often used these outings as case studies for her assignments and was sure there would be plenty of fodder tonight.
They were waiting on their drinks when the first suitor approached.
“Hey, Peacock. Wanna dance?” He was one of the confident jocks that always made an early beeline for Amy.
“No thanks. I’m waiting on my drink.”
“Your little friend can hold your drink. Let’s go.”
“I said no thanks,” Amy replied, turning her back on the guy.
He wasn’t taking no for an answer and went to reach for her arm. Before he could make contact, Dora’s hand flashed out, twisting the guys wrist back and bringing him to his knees.
“The lady said no thanks. Now beat it,” Dora hissed.
He didn’t wait to be told again and took himself down the bar to lick his wounds and search out his next conquest.
“Well, that was fun!” Amy laughed, clinking her Cosmo against Dora’s beer bottle. Dora rolled her eyes and laughed with her.
Amy danced while Dora held their places at the bar, chatting with the bartender and watching the hook-ups unfolding around her.
Returning to their barstools, Dora asked Amy if she wanted another round.
“Nah, I’m tired. Let’s get out of here,” Amy answered.
As they were leaving the club, the pushy jock made one last attempt, blocking their exit.
“Hey, Birdie. Heading home already? Why don’t you take me with you?”
“Dude, she didn’t want to dance with you. And she isn’t leaving with you. Now move,” Dora said, stepping in front of Amy and putting herself face-to-face with the guy.
“Who are you? Her Bitch?” he sneered.
It was Amy’s turn to get into the mix and she sidled up to Dora, snaking her arm around her waist.
“She’s no one’s bitch. But she’s all mine. Take me home, Lover.”
Dora answered by placing her lips on Amy’s, then giving her bottom a sharp slap.
“Naughty girl. I told you those feathers would get you in trouble.”
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Artwork courtesy of Eric C. Carter.
Check out more of his amazing creations at https://society6.com/dizzypixel/prints.
Photograph + illustration by hand; no filters. Like his work?
Let him know: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Dizzypixel
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Written for the To Live and Write June 2021 “Flash Lit” #1. We were challenged to write a piece of fiction, non-fiction or poetry of 500 words or less, inspired by the artwork featured above.
She took the pictures from the back of the closet and placed them in a box for the movers. She promised herself that she wasn’t going to look at them, but she couldn’t resist and turned over the small one that used to sit on her makeup table. As her fingers stroked the glass her mind drifted back to that magical day.
Both of my parents were born in Belfast, Northern Ireland and the majority of my family lives in the United Kingdom. I am first-generation American and proud of my Orange-Irish heritage and can’t wait to one day sail “home” into Belfast Harbor.
It had been a long night filled with people crowding our house and talking all at once. My mother alternated between crying and wailing, giving me a headache. The television blared the local station, flashing scenes from the Rockford Files with the occasional news update interrupting the program. Everyone jumped when the kitchen phone rang and hushed to hear who was calling. The cacophony returned when it was determined to be someone wanting to know if there was any new information. There wasn’t.
It was New Year’s Eve and I was cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway in my Dodge Colt. On a whim, I’d decided that morning to ring in 1987 back home in the Bay Area instead of San Diego, where I had been stationed in the Coast Guard and still lived. My SoCal girlfriends would be whooping it up at the Country Bumpkin, our dive bar of choice, two-stepping and shooting tequila and kissing every cowboy within reach at midnight. A year ago I was matching them shot for shot and kiss for kiss, but not this year.
