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Fiction
[Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes and explicit sex scenes.]
One thing journalists have to learn to love, Marc thought as he dialed yet another number from his list, is the sound of a phone ringing. It would be an understatement to say he was struggling with that part of the job.
He was about to hang up when the impossible happened.
[Content warning: This is a work of fiction containing mature themes and explicit sex.]
Marc emerged from the building for a bit of post-prandial sunshine. That abandoned half-sandwich was alright, but left him unfulfilled. Sort of like his morning.
It was warm now. He walked the dozen or so blocks that separated his office from the red-light district. He grabbed a steamé from a stand and munched on it as he worked on his casual glance. It wouldn't do to stare too much. Not if he wanted to go unnoticed, which was probably a doomed endeavor anyway.
[Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes and explicit sex scenes.]
Claudio was tall and lanky, almost too thin for comfort. But he had a reasonably handsome face with a cute mustache that could almost remind you of a slightly Mediterranean Clark Gable if you didn’t look too closely and facial hair underneath a hooked nose was your thing.
It wasn’t Sophie’s. But then, men in general weren’t. Her thing, I mean. She’d slept with enough of them to write a brick of a memoir if only they’d been memorable. This fellow, rocking mom jeans and polo shirt, certainly was though.
(Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes and explicit language.)
He should have known better than to whistle. He’d probably jinxed it. In the news business, things rarely go as well as one hopes. Maybe there’s a curse on it — the business, I mean. Maybe newsrooms aren’t supposed to be filled with happy sunny people who f***ing whistle on their way to work. That never sell papers.
(Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes and explicit language.)
Marc was up bright and early the next morning, as was his habit. He rarely slept past 6:30. He went to run his usual 7 km up and down Mount-Royal and was back in his apartment on Milton near McGill University before 7:30.
The movie was still running in his head. Thelma & Louise was a popular film, and for many good reasons. The plot was exciting, the characters well cast, the filmography impeccable. Hell, Ridley Scott. The man knew what he was doing. But there was something else about that movie that kept bringing him back. Other than Brad Pitt’s abs, I mean.
(Content warning: This is a work of fiction that contains explicit sex scenes, mature themes and language you don’t want your kids to hear. Don’t read if you’re easily offended.)
Growing up in a small homogeneous town leaves its mark on a girl. A mark that only becomes visible after she leaves Lilly Whiteville, that is. Which maybe goes some way towards explaining why so many in her situation never want to leave their peaceful little place, the one that looks so much like them, for any reason ever. And why they languish in a sort of permanent state of nothing much until death takes mercy on them.
