You Are Not Your Vomit

My latest Flash! Friday entry wherein you can’t exceed 160 words. The word prompt said to “include a famous author,” and then there’s the above photo prompt.

Chuck awoke with last night’s vomit plastered to his face like an unwanted congratulatory plaque for not swallowing it. He had dreams of dildos, bloody anal beads and a particularly rambunctious monkey named Alfred hell-bent on rubbing his big blue monkey balls in his face.

Such was common when your pen sashayed in the crude underbelly of fiction writing. In his early days, Chuck had tried writing sentimental shit, like a cancer kid riding a majestic rainbow to a fantasy-land of other cancer patients.

Instead that became the contorted ground swell, like a throbbing pubescent boner, of his book “Lullaby.”

He pushed himself up out of the vomit and a congealed strand of it hung on to his three-day-old beard like bourbon-infused silly putty.

With one swipe, he brushed away the blinds only to recoil at the sight of the monkey with his big blue balls dangling over the balcony.

Vegas, Chuck thought.

Then he ran to retrieve his laptop.

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