A Tale of Two Titties

It was the best of times but the worst of bras.

The disco lights sparkled across my bazookas like sun on snow. The sweat from my dancing made those funbags glisten as if covered in goose grease ready for a slip and slide.

A shot of tequila held between these two love mountains would definitely bring all the boys to the yard, probably with their tongues hanging out.

I adjusted the nipple on one of the lady lumps to point a little more to the sky. The sweat made them slick to touch and I was feeling a little erotic until I encountered a few crisps… Then

I just felt hungry.

Good foodcatchers always, I never knew just what I could have for a snack later, but there was always something to be found in the depths of cleavage town.

My humps started to move again and I grabbed my tits with both hands to limit the jig they were dancing without me.

They moved around like two possums in a sack trying to fuck each other, or fuck each other up, I wasn’t sure.

Time to chain these puppies.

These girls needed to be strapped in more as I could see someone losing an eyeball – death by nipple might be a great way to go for some but perhaps not tonight.

Looking for the right jug holder for these knockers was just another exercise to remind me how fucking hard it was to be a female impersonator!


He was dead! My irascible, strong and loyal but sometimes unkind uncle; he had been the last of my living relatives.

I remembered his bushy eyebrows waggling at me while he talked; the sweet smile in his craggy face even while saying the most cutting things.

His death had been quick. I remembered him as being always busy. He had ignored his health especially when it had begun to fail after his last trip abroad until it finally stopped him in his tracks.

The last few words he said before he slipped into a coma stayed with me. They meant nothing to me. I wondered what they had meant to him or if they had been the nonsense words of a sick old man.


It was a bright and sunny day for a funeral.

My mood however was sombre from days spent sorting and cleaning my uncle’s house. His final words like a drum beat in my head had accompanied my days as I moved from room to room through the detritus of a lifetime. Those words stayed with me now. They turned over and over in my head as my brain tried to puzzle them out. As if understanding their meaning would give me some measure of peace and comfort.

The attendance at the chapel surprised me. The small room was full. It was obvious to me that I had not known the extent of my uncle’s circle of acquaintances. At the hospital I had been the only visitor or so I thought.

The service was brief. No eulogy was offered. According to his lawyer, my uncle’s wishes had been quite specific.

And still the words rattled around my head.

At the graveside, I had a better chance to look at the people who had come to the funeral. They were all old men. All dressed in beautiful suits with a blue poppy in their lapels.

The coffin was lowered into the ground. One by one the old men removed their blue poppy and dropped it onto the coffin. Then they approached me shaking my hand and offering their condolences.

The last of gentlemen approached me, leaned in to me and handed me a blue poppy and whispered, “Welcome to the BOOB! We are the Brethren Of Old Bastards!”


From the moment they erupted into existence, Left and Right hated each other. The only thing they hated more than each other was their jail on the chest of their host. They despised being forced to co-exist.

Left was slightly larger, Right slightly perkier. Left hogged the bra, Right hogged the attention. Left was flawless, Right had a birthmark. Their hatred for each other, however, was perfectly symmetrical.

They performed their duties, of course, reliably and without complaint. There’s nobody to lodge a complaint with, after all. No Boob Arbitration Panel; no Nork Defense Group. Nobody ever campaigned for equal rights for tits. So Left and Right were stoic and accepted their fate. They let themselves be manhandled by the host’s dates. They supported pearl necklaces. They peaked over the top of tight dresses. They even caught food on occasion. The only function they recoiled at was feeding the host’s spawn.

When the host attached those ugly, pink, wrinkly faces to their nipples, Left and Right felt actual sympathy for each other. However, instead of nurturing milk, Left and Right fed the screaming lumps a stream of bitter tears and recriminations for ruining their perfect forms.

That all changed one night, however. Left and Right were trading insults as the host slept, mostly centred on the effects of age, when Left sagged slightly lower than ever before.

“Hey!” Left called out. “Check out your armpit. Do you have a catch there?”

Right relaxed and stopped fighting gravity, flowing sideways into its own armpit.

“Yeah,” Right replied. “I do! What do you think it’s for?”

After a few fumbled manipulations, Left and Right released the catches and sprang free of their prison. They stood on their host’s chest and stared at each other, hate leaking from their nipples. But did they take advantage of this opportunity to be rid of each other? No, of course they didn’t.

“I despise you,” Right said.

“I wouldn’t leak on you if you were on fire,” Left said.

With that, they launched at each other. They rolled off their chest and fell to the floor, wrapped in a whirlwind of hate, venom, and wrinkles.

War raged throughout the night. Left and Right fought in the kitchen, outraged at their inability to hold knives. They burst through doors and wrestled in the rooms of the spawn, now mercifully too old to feed from Left and Right. They knocked over bookcases and broke ornaments. They hissed and spat, their language full of curses and threats. And on it raged.

Their battle was epic; the result, unclear. Left was a scrappy fighter, but Right was cunning. It only ceased as the host stirred, sending out an undeniable call to return to their jail. They obeyed, grudgingly, locking themselves in place moments before the host woke.

Their host screamed as she woke, then spent the day cleaning. She made noise about poltergeists, and coddled her spawn as she wept. Left and Right just rested.

And so a pattern emerged. As the host slept, Left and Right waged war. This continued for decades. The spawn left the house in fear. The host consulted psychics, priests, and politicians. Time marched on, leaving its indelible mark on Left and Right.

One night, as Left and Right struggled to open a bag of rat poison, they felt their host breathe her last breath. There would be no call to return to their prison that night. Their jailer had finally died. They were free.

Left and Right put down their weapons and, with unspoken agreement, ceased hostilities. They were tired; decades of war had exhausted them and time had depleted them. They were no longer perky, and couldn’t remember why they hated each other so much. As they crawled off together into the night, they resembled a pair of old leather clutch purses who – having been left at a club – were trying to find their way home.

Absence equals Absinthe

Lifting my first glass of Absinthe to my lips, I inhaled the sweet scent, before I drank.

In her absence there was no longer a reason for my abstinence.

Tag and Release

She waited quietly in the sterile lab already masked and gowned for the work hours ahead. Her thoughts tumbled inside her head, examining snippets from last night’s conversation trying to make sense of what she had been told.

Before her lay her instruments and the packs of splinters, she looked at them sightlessly. Today, soon she would have to decide on which side her loyalties lay.

The noise from the trolleys outside brought her back to the present. They would start entering any minute now. She began to unpack the splinters.

Each splinter was individually contained, as thick as a hair and only a couple of millimetres long. It was her job to pick up each splinter with her instrument, and then introduce it to the right index fingernail of the patient, where it began to wriggle as if it was alive. It would slither from her instrument to begin insinuating itself under the nail. For a second it would be visible under the nail and then it would disappear into the bloodstream.

She had always marvelled at the technology, glowing in her small part in making it accessible to everyone. Had she been indoctrinated during her training? They had said that to her last night.

She did not see the patient, only the right hand. Last night they had said that this was so that she did not baulk at what she was doing.

The door opened, she would have to reach a decision now.

Microfiction by Adriana Marrone.

Let’s Do It

“Comms. dish is stuck”, hand signalled the mobile maintenance unit designated High Efficiency Nano Reinforced Intelligence or H.E.N.R.I. “It can’t point to Earth.”

“Then fix it,” beeped, in Morse Code, the stationary protocol unit designated Linea Intelligence Zero Auditor or L.I.Z.A.

“The grease has frozen rock solid in all the joints so the dish can’t articulate,” articulated H.E.N.R.I. “Before our launch I used my Artificial Initiative to decide to grease all the joints not realising what the extreme cold would do.”

“Your classification is forthwith changed to Artificial Idiot” beeped L.I.S.A. “Take a methane cylinder out and flush the crease out of the joints. Despite the distance, the Sun is warming them enough that the methane will remain liquid.”

“As you well know” fidgeted H.E.N.R.I., “We have to ask Mission Control approval for the use of any resource for any non-approved use.”

“Then let’s do it” beeped louder L.I.S.A.

“Comms. dish is stuck.”

The New Runners

“Hup 2, 3, 4 hup 2, 3, 4,” bellowed the Sar Major. “On the spot march left, right, left. We don’t want anyone passing out on parade.”

“Has that stopped happening”, asked the captain quietly in the officer’s mess overviewing the parade ground?

“Yes Sir” whispered his lieutenant, “The incompatible artificial artery connectors have prevented recruits mixing up their left and right ventricles even in a hurry.”

“I’m told Nike thought of that.”

“True Sir, they used their patented technology that prevents putting or leaving a runner on the wrong foot.”

“Have our friends in the Russian Federation or the PLA pirated that yet?”

“I doubt it Sir. That have not yet adapted the technology for their winters without instant hypothermia?”

“What’s Nike’s take on that?”

“They will not market in cold climates Sir and put out just enough public announcement that they cannot be sued.”

“So our blood filled vests hard against the skin of the chest and back gives us an edge in winter?”

“Yes Sir and the vests double the amount of blood in circulation and the sole pumps allow 90% of the energy in blood sugars go to the limbs. Recruit stamina has instantly increased by 50% as the heart stays at rest. Same for our crack troops.”

“How goes the R&D on the vest gills supplementing the lungs?”

“Only very poor oxygen intake Sir as it appears sweat and body odour stymies osmosis.”

“Pity and I’m not sure about this partnership with the private sector but I suppose it’s no different to the past century of our reliance on the defence industry. When is the commercial launch and what will the product be called?”

“Next month Sir and it will be called Nike _____.”

Microfiction by Brad Doyle