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True Story

by Rowan Luis

His parents were out, there was no one else in, which was unusual. They couldn't miss an opportunity for outright depravity in the living room. After a lot of hard kissing he ends up slouched low, pressed into the back of the sofa and her top's been pulled down as she straddles him, exposing her nipples. It happens that his belt's undone and the zip's open, she rubs herself all down his shirt and blows him, really blatantly, because she can. He moans loudly, because he can, and grabs at her hair and pulls it. This freedom goes to their heads, they're giddy with it, the sex imprinting itself on the family room. He tears her jeans down and takes her from behind roughly bending her over the sofa, her tits are hanging out and she really feels like she's in a porno now.

They hear the crunch of tyres on gravel and freeze, pulsating inside each other for a few seconds, hearts beating, breath and red faces. He hurriedly pulls out of her arse, way too fast, and she shits herself, all over the sofa and the backs of her legs. This makes getting dressed far more unappealing, but she quickly pulls her knickers and jeans up over the shit. Shaking slightly they stand there gawping at the mess and the smell. His parents walk in bringing the breeze of winter from outside, plastic shopping bags and car keys. His dad looks confused and asks what's happened here? in short clipped welsh tones. They look at each other. The boy blurts that the dog has shat all over the sofa while they were out. His mum swears in Welsh and goes into the kitchen with the shopping and starts loudly putting things away. His dad looks at the sofa, then at the two kids, asking where the fuck is he? Meaning the dog. They both shrug, unwilling to commit to anything else now, whatever happens next isn't going to be anything to do with them, it's not their fault the dog ruined the furniture.

His dad stomps out of the room throwing his wax jacket back on and slams the back door. Through the window they see him head for the barn where the dead caravan lives, with the cattle feed and straw. He strides out of the barn holding his shot gun shouting the dogs name angrily, Ben! BEN! Out the window they can see the dog cowering round the side of the barn, his tail between his legs, shaking at his masters angry voice; he knows what it's like to get a kicking. His head is low but whimpering eyes look up at his owner as the man swipes him by the collar and drags him yelping into the field next door, out of sight.

They hear a loud bang and a last yelp. Birds take off the telegraph wire. His mum comes to the window and she swears again, wiping her hands on a tea towel, she surveys the filth on the sofa.

06/10/2010

Author's Note: not a poem

Posted on 06/10/2010
Copyright © 2021 Rowan Luis

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 06/10/10 at 04:09 PM

oh man... the dead dog would weigh on my mind. awesome write though.

Posted by Coleman Demiurge on 06/13/10 at 08:45 PM

Why people must go at it in the living room I do not know - that never turns out well. It does make for a good story though, unless of course you're that dog anyway... Not so good for him. Good for me though: An engrossing read, putting it mildly. Nicely done. ;)

Posted by Charlie Morgan on 06/27/10 at 11:05 PM

...maybe kill the boy instead o' the dog; i mean he ought to be shot for gettin...well, i have my reasons and jealousy may or may not be included. good [enjoyably scary] write.

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