Itch
by Meg Tuite
It was nothing more than an itch that tore a hole into her single-girl-skewed-to-be-happy existence and spat on it. Clayton had a grin like the hand of a beast that stretched as long as her gravel road and there was that radio of his that always bellowed in his wake with the agonizing, popcorn-mangled moan of some despondent bumpkin battering on about heartache or doing somebody else's wife.
She kept one hand in her pocket for no particular reason. The itch would start with the tiniest gesture of a twitch in her finger and wouldn't stop until it had lurched up her arms and legs, binding her entire being with the backlash of Clayton and his demented music. He was made to be hers as surely as the beer she kept ice-cold in a cooler in her Pinto trunk.
Every few days Clayton blasted his dirt bike, like an ache, around that long stretch of emotion as she'd watch and wait, scratching away at her self in some divine sort of mosquito-bite trance. He'd head for her car and tear a cold Bud from the six-pack on ice. One faded, black high-top tapped on top of the other while he filed away at his teeth with a toothpick, leaning against the Pinto. He'd suck back the Bud and talk about anything with that ridiculous radio, duct-taped to the back of his bike, yodeling on about a life that was waiting to happen. She craved to smack that beer out of his hand and rub her crawling hives up and down his dirty fingernails until they both clawed for the same thing.
She kept one hand in her pocket for no particular reason. The itch would start with the tiniest gesture of a twitch in her finger and wouldn't stop until it had lurched up her arms and legs, binding her entire being with the backlash of Clayton and his demented music. He was made to be hers as surely as the beer she kept ice-cold in a cooler in her Pinto trunk.
Every few days Clayton blasted his dirt bike, like an ache, around that long stretch of emotion as she'd watch and wait, scratching away at her self in some divine sort of mosquito-bite trance. He'd head for her car and tear a cold Bud from the six-pack on ice. One faded, black high-top tapped on top of the other while he filed away at his teeth with a toothpick, leaning against the Pinto. He'd suck back the Bud and talk about anything with that ridiculous radio, duct-taped to the back of his bike, yodeling on about a life that was waiting to happen. She craved to smack that beer out of his hand and rub her crawling hives up and down his dirty fingernails until they both clawed for the same thing.
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Author's Note
This is was inspired through Erin and the Fictionauties.
It was published in 2010 at The Journal of Truth and Consequences.
Other stories by Meg Tuite
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Like it much. Faved it.
Thank you so much, Jeffrey!
Good imagery - "Every few days Clayton blasted his dirt bike, like an ache, around that long stretch of emotion as she'd watch and wait, scratching away at her self in some divine sort of mosquito-bite trance."
I like the phrasing in this piece. Great opening sentence. Good writing, Meg.
Thank you so much, Sam!!! I'm loving your FB photo. Maybe I should add my zombie photo from my 1-minute of fame in a zombie flick???
I love how the itch increases until the last line when it becomes unbearable. Love the cadence of that last line too, with all the "c" sounds: "craved," "crawling," "clawed". *
Thank you so much, Tina, for your insightful comments and for reading!!!
So many visuals her but what I love most is this voice, Meg! And oh that hot burning Clayton love. You built it up brilliantly with your powerful employ of the word. You rock it, I must say. *
i like something that may only work like that for me - how the two of them come together in the end...while being quite far apart in the beginning. it's a fear i have when anyone writes about man and woman, that the story confirms and deepens the rift, which i think is a pity given our mutual interdependence, history and love to one another.
"Clayton blasted his dirt bike, like an ache, around that long stretch of emotion as she'd watch and wait, scratching away at her self in some divine sort of mosquito-bite trance"
This is original diction and I'm a big fan.
*
Thank you so much, Meg for your wonderful comments!! And Marcus, that's beautiful! I love that you looked for that and look for that in a story! Really nice!
Thank you so much, Bill! I'm a fan of your work so, I really appreciate your reading and your comments!
And yes, Meg, that hot burning Clayton love!!!! Sounds like we have the makings of song!!! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!
Very sensory, very down-to-earth good.
Thank you so much, Susan, for reading and commenting!!!! And on the day you wrote four stories! I am evermore thankful!!!
Wow, very trailer-park cool, love the itch that took over her world, and your ending is a beauty:
"She craved to smack that beer out of his hand and rub her crawling hives up and down his dirty fingernails until they both clawed for the same thing."
Existential in the most vernacular sense
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Thank you so much, Susan! I like that it's "trailer-park cool.." I always love your comments!!!
popcorn-mangled moan of some despondent bumpkin
!!!
Wonderful so wonderful. The whole thing revs along, kicking up dirt as it goes along. *
Thank you so much, Jim! I always love your comments!!! Thanks so much for reading!!!
Your phrases set the tone just absolutely perfectly in this flash fiction! I adore your use of unusual phraseology and turn of phrase, surprises! The ending leaves just the right amount up to imagination. Amazing! *
Thank you so much, Robert, for your most generous comments!!! I appreciate your reading and commenting!!!
Another terrific one, Meg. You have those cadences. I can see the spirit of ol' Flannery nodding. "divine sort of mosquito-bite trance" is wow!
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Thank you so much, Andrew! That's the highest compliment one can pay!!! I am a devotee of Ms. O'Connor's work!!! I so appreciate your generous comments and for taking the time to read!!!! Cheers!
Found your taking a rather simple action and expanding it to mean much more so very enjoyable, Meg. Fine, fine work. Truly.
Love the "popcorn-mangled moan!"