A Very Brady Southern GothAugust 20, 2011 at 3:21 PM | Posted in Fiction | 7 Comments
Tags: femslash, Southern Goth, The Brady Bunch
This is another in the series of flash fiction from Chuck Wendig’s site “Terrible Minds.” The theme this week was to take two of these sub-genres and mash them together: Southern Gothic, Cyberpunk, Sword & Sorcery, Femslash, Black Comedy, Picaresque.
I don’t believe I’m giving anything away when I say that I chose Femslash and Southern Gothic. We had a thousand words…but this a little over 500. I couldn’t stand to write any more than that.
To find out the details and read more entries, go to his website:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Sub-Genre Tango Part Two
Greg and Pete had Cindy’s dressed carcass ready for the spit. “Gee, Mr. Franklin,” Bobby said to Sam the Butcher, “thanks for your help. This was easier than we thought.”
Sam took a puff from his cigar and nodded, as he was cleaning his knife.
Greg said, “Messy, though.”
Sam answered, “That’ll happen. You boys find Pete and help him with the wood, so we can get the fire started.”
Just then, Jan came running and screaming into the clearing.
She fell into Alice’s arms, who attempted to comfort her. “What’s wrong, dear? What’s wrong?”
Through her sobbing, Jan pointed in the direction she had come. “P-P-Peter!”
“What’s wrong with Peter?”
Sam snorted to himself, “That’s what *I’d* like to know.”
Then Peter came into the clearing. He was wearing a white suit and holding a bible. Everyone gasped. They realized now that he had taken the talisman from the swamp, and that was why all of this happened.
Peter spoke. “Repent, ye sinners! I shall cast the demons out!”
Bobby said, “Oh, no! What do we do?”
A hatchet seemed to grow out of Peter’s forehead. As he collapsed, they saw Marcia standing behind him. The group breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Marcia went over to Alice. “Come on, I need you to come with me to the old haunted Southern mansion where Mom and Dad bought the farm.”
“We need to get the traveler’s checks.”
As they approached the decrepit building, Alice thought how little it was like a Southern mansion and how much it was actually like a Mid Century modern split level. As they entered, Marcia got close to her, and held her hand. They found the bodies in the dining hall, staked to the wall. Odd, magical markings were drawn on the wall next to them using seventeen of Crayola’s sixty-four colors. “Shh,” said Marcia. “He’s still around here somewhere.”
Oliver. The Satanic cult leader they had originally followed, then rebelled against. A devious bastard, Alice thought.
They heard a maniacal child-like laugh and turned. In horror, they clung to each other as they watched Oliver, armed with a spear, slide down the long banister, fall off the edge, and go tumbling into the alligator-filled pit they had prepared for him. As they listened to Oliver’s painful and likely clumsy death, Marcia was very aware of the heat of the older woman’s body near her as they touched. She pulled Alice to her, holding her close, and in a moment their embrace changed from one of comfort to that of sexual energy. Marcia ran her hands over Alice’s lumpy body, holding her ass and grabbing a breast. She began to kiss Alice on the face and neck, and worked her way down.
Alice returned the embrace in kind, and hungrily kissed Marcia as she felt up her firm young body. She longed to taste the sweet nectar between this girl’s legs.
Marcia pushed Alice back, onto a chair. She knelt in front of Alice, pushing her skirt up. Marcia took in the glory of Alice’s hairy, musty, unused nether region and pushed her face into it.
Immediately, Alice started to moan. “Marcia…Marcia…Marcia–“