Motel
by Laurie Stone
The motel was in the undergrowth of several weedy small towns. A flashing sign made it visable from the road. We used it as a safe house, but Brody didn't know the room was bugged. I fumbled with his belt. He stopped me and said, “Do you mean this, or are you handling me?” I smiled, brushing hair off my cheek. I said, “I don't know.” I liked not living in a house, not having friends, not eating regular meals, not caring for children—as Brody's wife did. He kissed me. He made love like a boy who was angry at his toys for being important to him. I didn't know how I made love. Afterward I wondered what kind of sex we would have if he was no longer on the run. If we were living a normal life, would we look at each other? I was mad for the long muscle of him and the lace of scars across his skin. I was plain mad, too. To have the thing you want is to see what else there is, and I could feel my happiness rooted with the men in the van, hunched over their screens. They could hear the headboard slam against the wall. They could see Brody and me naked and hear us huff like cars that take a long time to turn over. I didn't mind. I was doing my job.
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Author's Note
I wrote this with a flash fiction workshop I am conducting. The prompt words were: hip pocket, fumble, confetti, riddle, undergrowth, and confide. There was also the requiement of splicing in a memory at least two times. I decided to take a "ready-made" scene from a TV show and write from the point of view of one of the characters.
Boggles the mind. I don't know what the hell is going on in the story, but it kept my eyes glued to the screen. *
It's a scene from Homeland as I imagined Carrie's interior life . . . not the Carrie of the show but my own personal Carrie. Brody is a double agent and Carrie works for the C.I.A. No one is quite sure if Brody can be trusted, but she has the hots for him and she loves her job, and she is yes, bi-polar. You are the only one to comment so far, and many thanks for that. I don't only write about erotic subjects, but I seem to in these posts, and I kind of like the way they are building their own little world.
Good lines: "I thought if he wasn't saved I would unspool."
And, "Brody made love like a boy who was angry at his toys for being important to him. I didn't know how I made love."
This is such a strange bizarre little piece. I love it*.
Steven: thanks so much for enjoying its bizarreness. Do you watch Homeland?
I don't watch HOMELAND. I presume that's something on TV or cable. I'm an old man who lives under a rock. My music is the "classical" stuff and I don't read much written after 1960. But I nonetheless enjoyed your piece! And I do read EXQUISITE CORPSE magazine and recently also enjoyed your reminiscence of Woodstock (I wasn't there) electronically printed at Mr. Codrescu's venerable site. It's interesting that you used this "prompt" technique (never heard of that before, either) to construct a perfectly good, interesting and intriguing piece of tiny fiction. However you do it, keep doing it. I look forward to perusing more of your results here at F-naut & elsewhere. Thanks for posting!
Hah-hah! The joke as usual is on me: I had you mixed up with Susan Silas at the CORPSE: I was lead to read your stuff here by having dug your short RAT RASHAMON printed in EXQUISITE CORPSE. An extremely memorable piece. I assume that one was generated by reading an account of the actual experiment proving, at least in the mind of a Teutonic scientist, the hopelessness of hope? I doubt that was also a "prompt" generated story, although I've been wrong once already today... Thanks again for posting your work and I apologize for my confusion (it's chronic, I fear).
Fuck yes. Definite *