by Michael Seese
A Janet Reid contest two weeks in a row. I am one lucky dog. For this week's battle of bon mots, she asked us to use
in a 100-word story. But to foil her nemesis, Steve Forti, the mandated that he use "flesh taxi," a term she found in this tweet by Meredith Ireland:
OMG. How can you NOT want to write a story about that? So I give you "The Flesh Taxi."
"Please! Just let me go home."
My cri de cœur fell on deaf ears. Bound, gagged, jammed into this filthy ride, I could only stare at freedom through weary windows. Passing the Church Avenue station, my throat involuntarily tightened. "Escape" whispered from an invisible horizon.
We lurched to a halt.
Forced upstairs and inside, my screams heard by none, my sanity remains glued to one thought. A better place awaits. A place where I'm one with the sun, day and night, in nebulous bliss. But this cursed flesh taxi insists on taking me to the thing it calls "the apartment."
Not to boast, but I am VERY proud of this one. We'll see what "the judge" thinks on Monday.