Repeat the medicine!

Last week I offered you, dear readers, some samples of what I called Fifty-five Fiction. It seems to be a favoured genre of younger readers, many of whom are put off by the cumbersome weight of literary fiction. This is because the need for instant gratification is fed by the frenetic pace of modern life, where to stop is to run the danger of being left behind. I must confess that I am not a big fan of shorter versions of literature; I still like to be enveloped in the challenge of serious, soul-stirring writing; this mode will never go out of fashion, for there are avid readers who cling to every word that their favourite author puts down on paper. However, there are still some acolytes who want a change, and fifty-five fiction can address that issue.

Remember, the title of the piece needs to be catchy, if only to arrest the reader’s attention, though it is not part of the miniature itself. So, here goes:

Awards Night!

John Bosser loved an image—self-sculpted—big boobs and bigger butt being mandatory.

Wife? Free sex.

Daughters? Free sex for others.

Other women? Free or bought sex.

His approach was simple—lots and lots of pre-coital activity.

“You know”, he would explain, “before the actual act; what’s it called? Fair Play”.

And the winner is…

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Language Man-u-al.

John Bosser, master of languages, sold his talents selectively. Methodology: his forte; Hindi, a five-finger exercise.

“Ah”, and Johnnie held her fingers.

“Aaah”, palm.

“Ee”, forearm.

“Eeee”, elbow.

“Ooh”, upper arm.

“Ooooh”, shoulder.

“Rhri”, she shuddered.

“A”. Johnnie persisted.

“I”, she cautioned.

“Oh”, chin.

SLAP 

“Oww”.

“Ang”-er flared.

“[F]-Akk”, Johnnie said, and slunk away.

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