As you’ll recall, I’ve joined a Facebook group called Friday Flash Fics. We’re given a photo as a writing prompt, with our fiction responses to the photo posted every Friday.
So, this week’s photo is quite… different from last week’s. In fact, if you’re under 18 this is probably where you should go somewhere else:
Obviously, I couldn’t wait to write my response to this. So, without further ado…
The Page Turner
“Well, that looks like a page turner if I ever saw one,” Dennis says.
“Ssh. I thought I’d read for a while before going to bed,” Jim explains.
“Which is why you’ve still got your glasses on, I assume.”
“Everything else was superfluous.”
“Well, I like this look on you.”
“You want me to read to you for a while?”
“Considering that you’re not wearing a damn thing besides your glasses, I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be doing. But, if you insist.”
“I can read quietly to myself if you prefer.”
“You know, I can’t remember the last time anyone read something to me. It was probably my mother when I was a kid.”
“Honey, you just compared me to your mother.”
“I can’t think of anyone you’re less like than my mother. Her legs aren’t nearly as hairy as yours.”
“Or her chest, I’d imagine.”
“I can’t say I know anything about the state of my mother’s chest. What are you reading, anyway?”
“The Great Gatsby. Have you ever read it?”
“Not that I can remember. Although it seems like the sort of thing I would have been assigned in high school.”
“I try and read it at least once a year. It’s my favorite book.”
“Really. How is it I never knew that?”
“Trust me. After two years, there’s probably still a lot we don’t know about each other. I don’t think I know what your favorite book is, for example.”
“Well, right now it’s the one you’re holding in front of your junk. Actually, strike that. The book you’re holding in front of your junk is probably my least favorite book because it’s interrupting an otherwise spectacular view.”
“So you don’t want me to read to you, then?”
“Absolutely I want you to read to me. That will require you to move the book.”
“Not at first, actually. I know the first part by heart. Ahem: ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years—’”
“‘Vulnerable’ is hardly a word I’d use to describe you.”
“Do you mind not interrupting? And besides, that’s not about me, that’s what Fitzgerald wrote in the book. Don’t confuse the reader or the writer with the narrator.”
“I’ll do my best, but I have to confess it’s kind of hard to concentrate at the moment.”
“Hands on top of the covers, then. Now where was I? ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’”
“Go on. Aren’t you going to read any more?”
“Yes, but that’s all that I’ve ever memorized.”
“You know, I always like a good reveal.”
“Hey, I said hands on top of the covers, buster.”