Flash Fiction
Cliché, cliché, cliché! Yes, I know it's a cliché. It's intended to be. It's just a quick, half-hour or so flash fiction to help me ry and work on my writing. Hence the cliché; I don't particularly need to worry about plot because it's already sorted. So. Tada.
On Monday, as Kyle passed me, he shoved me into my locker and hissed "Fag!" in my ear. As I ducked my head and walked away, my friend Jordan accompanying me with an arm around my shoulders to help against the onslaught of less deliberate pushes and shoves from the crowd, Kyle strode off in the other direction with the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
On Tuesday, as Kyle passed me, he shoved me into my locker and hissed "Fag!" in my ear. I ducked my head and walked away with Jordan's arm draped over my shoulder, us both deaf to the snide whispers that were following him for such a public display of affection towards the school's only out gay person that had serenaded us since my outing. And behind me, the crowd parted for Kyle like the Red Sea before Moses.
On Wednesday, Jordan was at home, sick. Kyle, being Kyle, took full advantage of this fact. His shove was forceful enough to send me sliding to the floor after my collision with my locker, and his comment evolved into a "Where's your boyfriend, fag?" Once he left, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea before Moses, I took two steps in the opposite direction before Jordan's absence was sorely felt. I rushed to the bathroom after that, missing the first half of my class as I sobbed.
On Thursday, I waited almost desperately by Jordan's locker for him. He didn't show. Curiously, Kyle still passed me, at almost the exact same time he had for the months preceding this. He pushed me into Jordan's locker this time - which, I might add, was a good few corridors away from my own and in a far more deserted area of the school - albeit far more gently than the day before. "Fag!" He was already a good couple of metres away from me when the otherwise deserted corridor gave me the strength to push myself away from the lockers and call after him. "The hell is your problem, Kyle? Did you follow me here?" The crowds that suffuse the majority of the school normally sap my confidence to breaking point. Always before, without fail, Kyle had passed me in front of my own locker, where the crowds were thick... Another reason I was shocked he managed to be here with such perfect timing. I'd never talked to him after he passed before. As he turned, the expected surprise was written across his face.
"Are you talking to me?"
"You see anyone else here?"
He almost snarled at this, his canine muzzle contorting. "Watch it, fag."
"Like you must've been watching me to know that I'd be here?" Ooh, that struck a nerve. He was staring at me with his mouth wide open. "Watching the faggot's every move? What does that say about you?" I was carefully approaching him now, assured by his trembling hands and his mouth still open in that 'O' of shock that he wouldn't make any moves. "Well, Kyle? Something you want to say?" I was standing directly in front of him now. He was a good few inches taller than me. His shirt was taut over his chest, rising and falling convulsively as his breath quickened. His biceps were twitching, straining through the material. The muscles in his forearms were contracting, I could see every movement his definition was so good. As they contracted, his arms raised in jerky movements like a puppet with a broken string. Raised in a graceless line towards me. Towards my head. Ii braced for the impact, the burst of pain that would leave me blissfully unconscious. For the - for the almost scarily gentle hands passing through my headfur, scritching lightly between my ears, teasing me, pulling me gently closer towards him, with his eyes wide and scared - scared? Kyle? - his lips parting as he licked the dryness away, closing as he pushed them towards mine.
On Friday, Jordan had returned. We stood, happily chatting by my locker, catching up on the days he had been away... Though I wasn't quite brave enough to mention Kyle at all. I checked my watch and, as it ticked to the time I had become so used to dreading, Jordan's face twisted into a miserable scowl. His ears flattened, his mouth opened in the beginning of a sigh - before Kyle reached us, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and spoke with a voice so much softer than the one I was used to, the voice I had happily listened to until early this morning, the voice which replaced the dread I knew with a music too sweet to be true: "Morning, hun. Ready to go?" And with my nod of affirmation, he led me through the red sea without a scratch - and of course, I grabbed Jordan's arm as we left, breaking him from his shock-induced stupor, dragging him, otherwise unmolested, with us.