Flash Fiction


WHEN I'M 128 by Murray Morrison

When I am one hundred and twenty eight years old, I'll be having a time. I am fully confident that by the time I am that old I won’t give a shit about anything: my woman will be one hundred and twenty six and, with any luck, still loving the cock. The pair of us will be an obscene gesture in the eyes of the world, but I have no reason to suppose her capable of becoming less beautiful.

We'll get other coffin dodgers over for threesomes and wrinkled orgies, where the invidious stench of stale piss, the clack of cracked yellowing false teeth, the slosh of half full colostomy bags will accompany the incoherent grunts and groans.

Imagine my ancient flaccid ball bag, the papery skinned plucked chicken with a coarse scattering of briary grey pubes, hanging half way down the emaciated thighs - the old digestive system is not what it once was, neither as efficient nor as capable as in past days- and the steady diet of prunes and soup has left me a shadow of my former self.

I am still at it though, humping away, obeying a pointless animal instinct, if there is any life left in my watery seed I would hate to see the misbegotten wretch it would produce, my lover of course ran out of steam and eggs a long, long time ago.

Perhaps of course, I might go and snare me a young chick with a penchant for extra mature things (like stilton cheese, fine ruby port, malt whisky and horrific revolting old perverts). I could take her out in public and just as people were considering, with a warm and comfortable feeling, the goodness inherent in a young woman who will take time to spend with her geriatric relative, I'll grab a handful of breast and start tonguing in the most licentious manner, cocking a rheumy, malevolent, triumphant eye.

By Murray Morrison, copyright 2008. All rights reserved.





Flash Fiction