Tuesday, January 19th, 2010

Heather Altfeld
Flash Fiction

The teacher lived in his study, surrounded by inappropriate objects of desire.  The framed full-color sketch of the depths of a pomegranate, the Sheena Easton nude, the Scrabble tiles carefully spelling “fellatio” stuck to the cubby-sized Fridgidaire, the Banwa balls cupped like new breasts in the perfect red velvet box.  It was a pleasure chest, a joy den, this study, but when they found him face-down on the mahogany desk in a small pool of dried spittle, his students, some of whom had taken tea with the good professor while salaciously gazing at the ten-inch chocolate erection he displayed on the top of his file cabinet, or stared at the wiry sculpture of a threesome in tantric orgasm, wondering, is that a leg there splaying out of her privates? while they discussed the lessons learned from the Napoleonic wars or the significance of 16th century courtesans in France—found themselves confused by the sudden state of disarray with respect to the affairs of the teacher.  What does one do with the dildos of the dead?  Which of these objects had been mired in the bodies of his young throng, and which had he held in a frenzied state of chaos?  They imagined the boxloads taken to the dump; small Dominican children stealing the batteries from the pearlescent vibrator for their stolen Game Boys, fingercuffing each other with little blue beads strung together in pods of delight for the anai of the willing.  They did not want to abandon their professor’s things amongst these urchins.  And so in the end, they split the load willingly around the edges of a grand bonfire, toasted to their education with libations of warm bourbon, and climbed into their cars with an imagined and giddy urgency.


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