I Can Hear Something.


I can definitely hear something.

You probably think I’m crazy, but I can hear something.

We don’t have a basement, so there is no ‘downstairs’; so where is the sound coming from?

I know I don’t look very dignified, but I dropped my pencil, and it rolled away. Probably went under the sofa.

That’s the problem with polished floors, stuff rolls away.

Now, if John had bought me the carpet, he promised the pencil would have hit the ground and stayed there. But no; it hits the polished boards, and away it goes. I knelt down to see if I could see it and the closer I got to the floor the louder it got.

Sometimes it sounds like a conversation, and other times it sounds like singing.

I can’t stay down here all afternoon, but I don’t want to get up either.

My knees hurt and if John walks in the door and sees me in this position he is likely to take advantage, and that will mean that supper will be late.

John likes to be thoughtful and tender; he takes his time. Which is okay with me most of the time, but when food is cooking, I wish he would be more like other men and get on with it.

Obviously, my views on the subject are purely hypothetical.

John is the only man I have made love to, but my female friends do tell me stories. I almost wish they wouldn’t; almost.

Females can be amazingly indiscreet.

I never discuss the specifics of our love life. I talk in generalities, but if I don’t add something to the conversation, the other women change the subject or leave me out of the juicy bits.

I must say that it makes it very hard when we entertain or are invited out to dinner. I keep looking at the husbands and remembering what their wives said about them.

He’s in too much of a hurry; he is too shy; he likes to have the light on, he likes the light off.

He likes ‘threesomes’.

Boy, was that an interesting conversation.

“How do the boys divide you up?” was the most interesting question.

Who works on which bits?

We were all thinking it, but Betty said it.

We all acted shocked, but we also hung on the answer.

“Mostly, the men are not as brave as they thought they would be and the whole thing fizzles out.” Martha sounded very disappointed.

I’ve thought about it, who hasn’t, but it’s a big jump from thinking about it to actually doing it. I don’t tell the girls, but I’d have a go, as long as I could pick the third person.

Sexual fantasies are all very well, but they are not going to help me work out where that noise is coming from, or where the hell my pencil went.

John just came through the front door. 

What the heck; dinner can wait.   

Painting by Kenton Nelson.






Enjoy my work. Then buy me a coffee?

Enjoy my work? Then buy me a coffee?

11 thoughts on “I Can Hear Something.

    • That is a really good question.
      I was not in a particularly ‘creative’ frame of mind the day I wrote this but I decided to write anyway. I made a bargain with myself; I going to let the story go where it wants to go and if it doesn’t work, then I can come back to it. What was making the noise? It never came to me, so I have no idea, I just know it was there and it fascinated my character. I’m still not sure if she got her pencil back either, I hope so….. it was a good pencil.

      P.S. Thank you for taking the time to comment, talented lady.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. A pleasant and quirky journey through a random pattern of thought. A smashing story arc in a condensed space. Very funny because it demonstrates how the human brain truly works. Good insight, an author needs that.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. After John had his way with me, he said he needed to step out again and that he’d be back a bit later. Something to do with work; I wasn’t paying attention. A few minutes after he left, I heard it again. That noise from underneath my floorboards. It came from the exact same spot. Only this time, as I knelt down on my knees and glued my ears to the floorboard, I heard it. I heard John’s voice. What? Why can I hear his voice coming from underneath my floor boards. I listened harder. Another voice. What? Another voice? Who is he talking to and why can I hear there voices from underneath my floorboards?

    Then there was a slamming sound. The exact slamming sound a door makes when it’s slammed. Oh my GOD. There is a basement underneath my house? John was in it talking to another woman? Is he having an affair? What is going on?

    And then John walked in again. He caught me on the floor and asked what I was doing. I asked him. Is there a basement underneath our house I know nothing about? Were you just down there talking to some other woman?

    The blood rushed from his face and he looked ghostly white for a few seconds.

    Alice… There’s something I need to tell you.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Artful whimsy throughout and a fine chortle to finish… Terry, you really need to hurry up with this ‘getting discovered’ thing – so I can dine out on knowing you before you received the Nobel Prize for Literature (for your transformational approach to flash fiction). : )))

    Liked by 1 person

    • From your lips to God’s ears……….. I’m beginning to think that I may remain undiscovered, but when I think that, I remind myself that about a year ago I did not have the readers I have now……… and what a loyal, appreciative bunch you are. It is so much fun to write a story knowing that it is definitely going to be read…… by a small group admittedly, but also from all over the world. I love looking at the countries my visitors come from. I wonder how many of you need the Google translator to unravel my Aussie humour? It warms me that you folks enjoy what I do, and always remember that I appreciate your presence.


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