Ellen inhaled the stainless aesthetic, then slowly exhaling, savored the anticipation washing over her.

The vendor folded back the stainless doors releasing the sacred aroma into a cloud of rising steam, and smiled. Taking the cue Ellen stepped forward to place her order, “two please,” she said smiling back at the vendor.

Silver tongs plunged deep within the stainless, returning a rich plump hot dog steamed to succulent perfection. The vendor expertly nestled the dog into a warm spongy bun, and repeated, to complete Ellen’s order.

Reaching out Ellen graciously received the hot dogs remarking “how juicy and plump,” and with no one noticing she genuflected a wee bit, thanking the universe for the moment.

Instinctively she grasped the solitary yellow squeeze bottle brightly contrasting itself against the cool stainless of the cart, and wondered, maybe she’d eat the hot dogs naked, but she squirted a long yellow line across both dogs before she could decide.

With one bite Ellen revisited all her summer memories, reliving a brief happiness she had as a little girl, when time stood still.

Oatmeal tasted of summer, fresh warm flavorful milk tinged infused purple, floating blueberries.

Thick blue platters slid across pink speckled Formica counter one after another, waitress never looking, repetition in motion, “here ya go sis,” and words.

Silently I watched the brunette poke the steak using a knife in her left hand, a knife weathered dishwasher dull, in her left hand. The steak juice flowed red, making puddles for dipping French bread, French bread with real butter. Slowly she cut a piece off the rare steak, her right hand awkwardly balancing the fork, raising it to her open mouth, closing red painted lips around meat, her tongue peeking out just a bit as she chewed.

I stared at her, as she slowly chewed red meat in her mouth, slowly grinding it into energy, replenishing her body. One piece at a time mashed between her white teeth until she swallowed, following each mouthful with a sip of black coffee.

I stared at her, on the oval vinyl stool, unconsciously turning hips side to side in sync to her cutting and chewing, eyes looking straight across the counter into her reflection, on the diners mirrored wall.

I stared at her in public, crossing and uncrossing her legs, eating then sipping from white porcelain mug in her left hand, patting lips with white paper napkins, dipping French bread in blood, enjoying herself.

I stared at her, eating my cold purple oatmeal surrounded by hungry people filling their mouths with too much food, talking little while they stared into the diners mirrored wall.

She never stared back.

On soft cotton sheets, fresh with spring air, Franny dropped her robe, edging herself onto the bed.
With her finger tips she placed warm bacon upon her inner thighs, letting juices dribble to the sheets, letting the grease adherer each slice to her skin. Using her salty fingers Franny massaged the bacon with ice cubes, turning it translucent white, like her skin. Laying back upon the crisp sheets, Franny enjoyed the mingling of odors, the touch of meat. Beckoning me, she softly commanded, “Be my Trojan Horse, make me sizzle, devour me.” I emerged breathless, from the dark corner.

Carole King wafting across the quad

sun shinning on our bodies, reaching up

I touch sky blue cotton dress with

spaghetti straps, compelling anorexic

dancers creating permanent jealousy

binge infused with cheerleaders,

wondering could they possibly, like you.

Grass between toes, classes for the toads

reefer madness swirling puffing circle

hula hoops around your waist, waste

around my brain, wine draining into dirt,

Candies stained burgundy fly through the

air, I lick grapes alcohol jam drying upon

bare ankles calves looking at you, looking

up your pale blue cotton spaghetti strapped

dress, wondering If you belong to me…

Tull crests a wave, your lungs suck my air

I don’t care, your on top for all to see, blond

hair obscuring my face, tongues exchanging

spit hips craving hips. Students teachers rush

away, friends form circle mandala shielding us.

Permission to explode quad style public display,

hundreds gather keeping authorities away, you

And I melt into bliss, getting away for just this day.

With one hand I pluck a round fragrant orange from the white china bowl, ignoring its pedestrian neighbors. Tossing it from one hand to the other wanting to know it, balancing it on finger tips rotating the fruit in and out of the palms of my smooth yielding hands.

Cupped hands encircling the California navel mimicking god, who cupped the earth, infusing warmth activating the sweet primordial juices beneath dimpled skin. Lonely hands massage the skin following its tactile ridges north to south then round its equator.

Slowly raising the orange to my nose I breathe deeply extracting musty bark flavor, exciting a tart smile at the corners of my mouth causing anticipation releasing saliva squirts into my mouth.

Slowly exhaling and rolling the orange down to my lips my tongue lingers, drawing a wet target and I bite, teeth piercing the peel hard without bruising the tender skin encasing the meat.

First my thumb makes it way under the skin then my fingers join as I carefully keep the peel in one piece, juice escapes first in one drop then in many leaving sticky tracks down my wrists.

My fingers pull at the core releasing the umbilical attachment exposing a hole like Alice may have seen, but instead of sending in my imagination I jam a finger into it spreading apart sections from their sisters clinging grip exposing them to life outside the womb.

To Be Continued….

salmon4,
originally uploaded by theopensite.

I have a question? Can food be Flash Fiction? Sure at first blush it sounds like I’m sniffing way to much Guacamole into my nostrils along with an extra side of lemon and garlic but that is not it at all.

Now it will come as no surprise that food is considered art both in creation and exhibition. Food can be high art like the standard bowl of fruit and of course food can be porn. Hell food sometimes can be just food, the question is can someone put together food and say it is Flash Fiction?

This is a picture of a wonderful dinner I created with baked salmon and guacamole sitting on a virginal bed of red lettuce surrounded by tomatoes, scallions, red onions, mushrooms and a dab or two of deep rich olive oil… Yes it is Food Pron but is it Flash Fiction? You decide.

My bony fingers morphed into agents of my ravenous emotions, transferring lust to the tips of my being awakening deadened nerves I reached into the bag ripping apart the dark and chewy pumpernickel then smeared the risen creation into the butter painting each chunk richly with soft yielding yellow.

Steam rising from the soup urn cried out to be eaten. Before the ladle could serve it’s cupped treasure my other hand plunged slathered bread deeply into the foggy green pea soup all the way to the second knuckle before the searing heat caused  recoil and pain.

Emotions sending signals of desire from somewhere unknown completely hijacked my  consciousness, I obeyed commands shoving the bread dripping with green and yellow snoot into my cavernous mouth where my tongue sent impulses of ecstasy back and forth to my lonely primitive self, releasing gush after gush wave upon wave of delight exploding in every cell and region of my body. Even places long dead lit up briefly like backyard fireworks trailing off wet in a  hot July night.

Mustache caked with greenish yellow back-flow licked clean,  teeth gleaning, dripping saliva like a lion finishing its kill, picking at my teeth succumbing to desire rolling over exposing my soft side, drifting off to exotic places and erotic dreams still possessed by emotional tyranny looking to feed its elevated hunger.

White paper wrapping me like some deli sandwich, hiding  me from your sight, won’t you unwrap me, have your way with me, fuel your hunger with me.

Let me be your sandwich

Fingernail the tape baby, one quick flick is all you need to do, I’ll be free to be unwrapped free to be discovered laid open for your pleasure naked on your plate.

Let me be you sandwich

My ingredients touching each like crazed orgies of the senses, spices, oils, muscle and grizzle straining to hold me together, blood and spit traveling end to end.

Let me be your sandwich

You can eat me two handed rough or cut me into four delicate tongue teasing morsels just waiting for your enameled fingers to chomp me up.

Let me be your sandwich

Serve me on your stomach so my drizzled juices meld with yours creating sticky love, television background all black and white, neighbors quiet listening as you eat.

Let me be your sandwich

Throw out my pickles throw out my onions, get down to the bone the marrow of my soul, the succulent center of all my creativity. Fingers as fork digging in the middle bringing up gobs feeding mouths as cups sharing one then another.

Let me be your sandwich

Discard my appearance close your eyes savoring my touch knees, thighs stomach, neck back then lips to lips I come to you.

Let me be your sandwich.

Crumbs laying upon your out stretched body licking fingers smiling at white paper crumpled on the floor, waiting for desert. My breath is served upon your treasure, mouth upon the universe, kiss upon your love, pleasure joy ecstasy all mixed mashed and swallowed.

Satiating warmth wraps you in white paper and you sleep.

I walked toward the Brooklyn Bridge Bakery, I walked toward chocolate cake.

On the door a sign said closed for holiday, impatiently jiggling the handle I pressed my nose against the window in hope of being noticed, in hope of being noticed so an exception to the rule would be made.

For God’s sake it was my birthday, every year I’d drive into the city to get my cake and make no mistake, it was my cake. A 12 layer chocolate confection, filled inside with liquid ooze so decadent, so luxurious it mashed your taste buds into submission and usually rendered you speechless.

I walked toward the bridge wondering if I might fling myself into the river. I wasn’t depressed but I needed that cake, I needed to taste, to experience the overpowering delight in each bite and then fall into the arms of the Goddess that flows into your soul in subtle waves of ecstasy.

I needed to be part of something beyond my pitiful existence. I craved visiting feelings you could only find in a shangri-la of dark gooey sticky slippery velvety chocolate. I turned on my heels and headed back to the store, at least for today the demon inside would not coax me to the rivers edge.

Back at the Bakery I kicked the door muttering something about seeing them in hell and walked back to my car where I typed Ben & Jerry’s, Waterbury Vt into the GPS. The factory tour would have to suffice this year.

Red Sourdough

Ancient cutting board pitted knife English country plates

Nervously cut toasted golden sourdough

Olive oil mayo slathered like meringue

Drizzling lemon puddles filling mayo crevices

Ripe juicy tomatoes sliced thick dripping blood

Steel grinds pepper fine infusing tomato membranes

Grated parmesan merging with pepper, tomato, lemon,  mayo, bread

Fingers dripping delight with acidic juices spiced from nature

Lovers mouth waiting, open, receptive, yielding, famished

Each bite exciting nuanced earthy flavors, melding into something new

Silva juices mixing mashing liquefying ravishing sun air ground vines sweat

Juices dripping mouth neck breasts, drying like a mountain road

Stomach spreading satiated glow throughout our bodies

Lover’s juice encrusted fingers gently licked clean

Long soft kisses exchanging tangy sweet remnants, upon the kitchen table

Toasted BLT

Getting sick had benefits I hold onto even decades after childhood.

Too sick for school meant staying in bed reading comics interspersed with blissful naps.

After working all night mom squeezed fresh orange juice then sat for a few moments holding my hand.

Lunch time meant toasted BLTs on rye served with lots of ginger ale.

Sometimes a back door thermometer heralded a hearty visit from the neighborhood doctor,  he always prescribed no TV no radio, just rest and reading.

Now when ill I stay home making toasted BLTs on rye with sides of ginger ale and long blissful naps.

Olive Oil

I turned the bottle on its head, gurgle gurgle is all it said.

Receiving it’s taste I give thanks to the Italian mystery.

Olive oil in my veins swirling then merging with life.

I’m insane in my big leather chair pouring Carapelli down my chest.

The oil spreads out pooling in my lap, slowly covering jeans in green.

Olive oil in my veins becoming my life,  but not my wife.

Drip, drip, the IV serves the earthy elixir, slowly eons of dust circulates in my heart.

I become one with the peasants, skin wrinkling, vision waning, mouth drying.

Olive oil.

What might have been or could have been seem to take up lots of space in our lives. Today’s 100 word story is entitled Underground Chocolate, Enjoy!

Underground Chocolate

Breathing imperceptibly while picking the lock at Underground Chocolate, Sally slipped inside.

Giddy with anticipation Sally gave herself a hug and asked “ where’s the new chocolate?” The silence gave her the permission she sought.

Opening a box containing 6 truffles Sally allowed the intoxicating aroma to engulf her, bringing forth a tear of happiness.

Gently Sally rubbed a truffle around her lips till finally her teeth pierced the delicate shell, releasing a cascade of rich decadent chocolate into her mouth.

Sally was the first outsider to taste this new chocolate, this new self-indulgence.

It was worth all the risk.