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Kama Sutra for Beginners
December 2, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Epiphany, Eye Contact, Love, Sex | by davidbdale | 43 comments
I stayed inside her for a very long time. Propped on my elbows, I slowed my rhythm, listened to our breath like bending trees, stopped counting my heartbeats, and felt my heart stop counting as well. I wanted to exist in the exclusively now, as the book put it. The past had nothing for me. I was inside her, and it didn’t matter how long I had been. But the future, well, the future was dangling god-affirming ecstasy, or the little death of need, and maybe a nibble on the neck. All good things. I knew if I so much as twitched my hips, the future would suck me straight to the afterglow. I found my balance and sought her eyes. I wanted her to see my unique love for her as her destiny. She’d seen this look from me before, this forcing-an-epiphany look. She flipped below me like a dolphin in a tank and gave me a look of her own. She rocked me off my elbows and pulled me back like a magnet, rocked me, pulled me. I couldn’t breathe. I wondered what animal pose we were doing. Silly boy, she was thinking, or so I thought, epiphanies are cheap. She growled. I found a rhythm that wasn’t metaphorical and harmonized with her to make something wild and furry we could share. And there it was, she was, when I quit striving for insight: the multifaced feminine deity of my personal pantheon: lips of former girlfriends and a schoolgirl skirt, variably breasted, numerously thighed, arms and legs enough to hold the important bits together: all the women I ever worshiped in a single apparition. I don’t know what hybridized figment she was concocting, but we made what we needed. and we saw that it was good.
Copyright © December 1, 2006
Baby Talk
October 11, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Baby, Eye Contact, Girl, Possession, Revelation, Wisdom, Youth | by davidbdale | 6 comments
It has happened only rarely in his perfectly healthy life. He has reasonable relations with his spouse, his children, his parents, siblings, associates and friends. He’s honest with others, frank with himself, friendly. He has an easy way. Deep sustained unabashed eye contact is not at all the ordinary coin among people he knows and loves, and yet he finds himself locked in a prolonged reciprocal stare with a newborn who will not let him go. There can’t be anything to this, he reasons, from the baby’s point of view, but still he holds the gaze of his brittle little girl as if her childhood were at stake. She can’t have anything to share with her father of two hours and twelve minutes, he understands, and yet he’s terrified of all he hasn’t learned about devotion and dependence, and something tells him he’s about to get a lesson. So he holds the stare. She will not let him go. She possesses him completely, as she inhabits her squeaky skin. So new is she and so complete, so vividly her own fresh entity, that she’s on the verge of speech despite her youth, and what she has to tell her dad will stun him to a dreadful awareness of his own inauthenticity. For twenty years his nature has slipped away. He’s watched it go and suppressed what little was left. There are people from his past he wouldn’t like to see today, though he denies it, people he would disappoint, and he knows it. With slippery little lips, she has formed the first syllable of this message to her dear dad. When he blinks, she spares him. She keeps her peace. He escapes without revelation, and his daughter, out of generosity, takes baby’s first step toward a diminished human life.
Copyright ©1997

This is a close relative of a Very Short Novel titled Short for Family from 20 years ago. The revisions…