Flash Fic: Window Washer

I haven't been writing lately. Bad, bad writer. I need to get back into it, I know, but I've been having a case of blahs.

So, having no news to report, I thought I'd do a flash fic. Obviously, I can't call for prompts, because there isn't time. So I'm grabbing some random words to use. Words are: injustice, skyscraper, and sprayer.

***

Anthony stuffed his scraper back into its pocket on his toolbelt -- how the fuck did someone get gum stuck to the outside of a forty-third story window, anyway? -- and picked up the squeegee again. This time, the rubber slid effortlessly across the glass.

It wasn't fair, he thought for approximately the two hundredth time that day. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back at school, starting his graduate degree, not in a dolly on the side of a skyscraper staring wistfully at the executive boardrooms and offices he'd been planning to occupy himself.

Sure, this job wasn't forever. He'd be able to go back to school next year, or the year after. But the business world was cutthroat: a year or two-year break from school without a really good, resume-building excuse (like a stint in the Peace Corps, say, or an internship with a really high-power firm) could be enough to make or break him. A break from school to take care of an ailing grandmother? It would interview well enough -- but only if he could get to the interview. And he'd have to be careful about even that, not to let those shadow-interviewers of the future see that it wasn't just an act of familial devotion but one of necessity, because there was no way Anthony's family could afford any outside help.

Of course Anthony loved Nana. He'd agreed willingly to put off the rest of his schooling to help take care of her when the doctor had said she was probably in her final year... but in these moments, when he was alone in the sky, he needed to vent about the sheer injustice of it all.

Anthony sighed. He wiped the squeegee and dropped it back into its bucket. He tugged on his harness to check that it was secure, pulled his gloves snug, and carefully lowered his suspension rig another twelve feet to the forty-second floor. This window didn't have any unusual debris on it -- he really did want to know where that gum had come from -- so he used the sprayer to mist the window with cleaning solution.

This one was an executive office. Heavy oak desk, leather chair, the works. On the side of the room was practically an entire gym's worth of equipment: a treadmill and a bike and a nice bench with a complete set of weights. There was a man on the treadmill, apparently reading a report as he jogged. Anthony grinned, then stopped working altogether, because the man was gorgeous. No more than thirty, with wavy blond hair, chiseled features, and ripped body -- he obviously used all that workout gear on a regular basis. Anthony watched the muscles of the man's legs ripple as he ran, trying not to salivate.

The treadmill slowed, and Anthony started out of his lust-induced haze. Oh shit, the guy had noticed him. Anthony jerked his gaze up to the executive's face and gave him a grin that he hoped wasn't too guilty or sheepish, and waved with the hand not holding a squeegee.

The man grabbed a towel and mopped his face, dropped the report he'd been reading on his desk, and walked over to the window. Anthony blinked. In his experience -- and he'd been washing windows for his dad's company since he was sixteen -- the people inside the buildings rare even noticed him, and even when they did, they never did more than wave. But this guy -- shit, he was even hotter up close -- was standing right up on the floor-to-ceiling window, right up in Anthony's face. If it wasn't for the glass between them, Anthony could have kissed him.

Shit, don't think about kissing! Anthony couldn't control his blush, but hoped the guy wouldn't notice. Maybe he hadn't. Their eyes locked. Anthony wondered if he was crazy for thinking something was passing between them.

The man turned away, and Anthony let out a breath he just now realized he'd been holding. He drew another, and yet another, trying to get a grip on himself, to forget about that electric gaze. The man was bending over his desk, scrawling something on a piece of paper without bothering to sit down. Anthony tried not to look at the way his workout shorts defined his ass. He swallowed, hard, and tried to ignore the way the harness suddenly seemed tighter through his crotch.

Harness. Work. Right. Anthony lifted the squeegee and scraped a line of cleaner from the window, trying to look at the glass and not the man beyond it.

Another line.

Anthony jerked in surprise, and the man smiled. He ran a hand through his hair and then pressed his hand to the window. He looked at Anthony, another charged expression.

Anthony's heart pounded as hard as it had the first time he'd lowered himself over the side of a building. Slowly, hoping he wasn't about to do something irrevocably dumb, he pulled off his glove and put his own hand to the glass, matching the other's.

The man's smile widened, and then he held up the piece of paper that had been in his other hand: The inside needs cleaning, too, and I think you're the man for the job. Come see me when you're done out there. Ofc 4228. He lowered his hand, leaving a smudged handprint.

Anthony looked back up to the man's face, met his eyes. Anthony smiled, and nodded once.

Things were looking up.

FREE READ!

"Of Sound Mind" -- the second (standalone) episode in my One Mind universe, has been re-released under a Creative Commons license as a free online OR downloadable book at Goodreads (account may be required)! Check it out! (And while you're at it, check out its awesome new cover, courtesy of my amazing, award-winning artist brother!)

Flash Friday!

Hey, it's Flash Fiction Friday! Lynn kindly suggested the following words: quarry, mushroom, sublime, and challenger. Let's see what I can come up with, shall we?

Flash Fic Friday

Last night, I was pushing my cart through the grocery store, trying to begin restocking the hurricane-depleted fridge and freezer, when my cell phone trumpeted at me. It was my friend Lynn, who wanted to tell me about a beer she'd spotted that she thinks I should try (I don't like beer, as a rule, but I'm game to try from time to time) and then, apropos of nothing, she sent me four words and demanded a flash fic.

I had to put her off a bit, since I wasn't at my computer and I had some actual work for the Day Job waiting for me at home, but before I went to bed last night, I sent her a tiny story, which she posted on her blog.

I also sent her some words of my own (phone, seashell, caramel, balloon), which she has lovingly crafted into an adorable little steampunk (it's her preferred genre) vignette, which I'm posting here in its turn. It's a fun little exercise -- I love doing flash fiction -- so feel free to offer up additional prompts in the comments, and I'll see what I can do with them!

(Warning: absolutely no sexual content whatsoever, but plenty of steampunky gadget porn...)

Flash Fic Challenge

What, only one taker? But it was J.M. Cartwright, who delights in trying to stump me. J.M. gave me these prompt words:

Pitbull (the rapper!)
painting
caramel
Mustang

Ross knocked, and heard Jesse yell, "It's open!"

Ross opened the door into the apartment's living room and found Jesse watching TV, sitting in the middle of the couch with his arms stretched over the back, a longneck dangling from his fingers. One bare foot was propped up on the coffee table. Jesse was wearing those skin-tight, spattered painting jeans that Ross loved so much, and better still, no shirt. Acting casual was so hard that Ross' face actually hurt from the effort. "Hey," he said. "I brought beer. What you watching?"

Jesse looked up at him with those amazing eyes, black and sparkling like a midnight sky, and then looked back at the TV. "Some music thing." He moved one arm so Ross could sit beside him on the couch. Ross would just as soon Jesse's arm had stayed there so he could pretend it was actually around him, but he just set the six-pack on the table and took the offered seat.

Jesse finished the last swallow from the beer he was holding and leaned forward to snag a new bottle from Ross' offering. He glanced at it, blinked in surprise at the artisan label, and looked more closely, reading its description. Ross was beginning to feel hopeful when Jesse started to laugh. "What the fuck kind of frou-frou beer is this, man? 'Accents of caramel?' Damn, could you possibly be any more gay?"

Ross felt his face flame. "Shut up," he said. "We can't all be cowboys, riding a Mustang into the sunset or whatever. It's good beer." He knew shouldn't get so defensive -- Jesse was every bit as gay as Ross, and they both knew it -- but somehow he couldn't help it. He stared at the TV, painfully aware of Jesse's laughing eyes on him, but on the screen Pitbull was chanting, "I know you want me, want me," and that was almost worse. "Drink it or not, whatever."

"Hey, lighten up," Jesse said. "I'm just fucking around. See? I'll drink your frou-frou gay beer." He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a pull. "...Damn. That's not bad."

The tightness in Ross' throat started to ease. "Told ya." He grabbed a beer of his own, and they both stared at the TV in apparently companionable silence. Every time Jesse lifted the bottle to his lips, though, Ross watched from the corner of his eye, enchanted by the way Jesse's throat rippled with each swallow. "What are we doing tonight?" he asked finally, just to give himself an excuse to look at Jesse. "Shooting pool?"

"We could do that," Jesse said. He set the half-finished beer on the table and turned those eyes on Ross, dark and direct and as hot as the sun. "Or we could just stop dancing around it and go to bed."

There you go, J.M.! One of these days, it'll be my turn...

Free Read: Contest Ficlet

This was my entry into a ficlet contest on the Torquere social mailing list. Rules: 100-250 words, must include the words chipmunk, squash, and clipboard. My entry, after much trimming and gnashing of teeth, clocked in at 243 words.

***

Dan paced the hallway, frantically consulting his clipboard. "I told them! How am I supposed to put on a play when my actors can't be bothered to show up!?"

Behind him, a door opened and a six-year-old in a chipmunk costume poked her head out. "Mr. Halston?" she called. "Tommy's zipper is stuck and Savannah's crying 'cause she doesn't want to be broccoli anymore."

Dan looked up at the ceiling. "Give me strength," he muttered, and raised his voice for a chipper, "Be right there!" He turned to attend to his miniature divas -- and found himself abruptly nose-to-nose with the most gorgeous pair of warm brown eyes he'd ever seen.

He stumbled back with an automatic, "Sorry," and his throat went dry as the promise of those eyes was realized in broad shoulders, trim waist and hips, and a mouth-wateringly tight pair of jeans. "Um."

Brown-Eyes had a bright, slightly nervous smile, and was holding the hand of a tiny cherub dressed as a squash. "Hey," he said. "Are you Mr. Halston? I'm really sorry -- Emmy's parents had a little emergency and I told them I'd bring her. They'll catch up soon, I promise. Oh; I'm Emmy's uncle. Rob Brown." He offered a hand.

Dan took Rob's hand and felt his pre-show jitters fade. "Call me Dan. I hope you'll stay."

"For the show?" Rob cocked his head adorably, his hand lingering in Dan's.

Dan smiled. "That's a good start, anyway."