BLUE FIRE by: Michael A. Kechula
Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009The beautiful bartender leaned over the bar, and asked how I was.
“OK,” I mumbled.
Instead of making a senseless remark and running off, she leaned close enough to kiss, looked me squarely in the eyes, and asked, “Are you sure?”
“What if I’m not OK? What would you do?”
“Whatever it takes to make you happy.” Her face mirrored the seriousness of her voice.
Her words made my stomach tingle. “Do you realize what you just said to me?”
“I know exactly what I said.”
“I suppose you say the same thing to every guy who walks in here,”
“I’ve never spoken like that to anyone before. Something about you moves me.”
What a liar, I thought.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Rodney.”
“Tell me what’s wrong, Rodney.”
I had to strain mightily from unleashing a flood of verbal misery. So much was wrong I didn’t know where to begin.
“Well, if you won’t tell me, do you want me to tell you what’s wrong?”
“How could you possibly know anything about me?”
“It’s all over your face, flashing like a red neon sign on a dark and sultry night. You’re vulnerable, terribly deprived, and incredibly hungry.”
Her intuitions left me speechless.
“I can help you,” she said. “I know exactly what you need.”
“Oh? What do I need?” I asked, glancing at the word SANDY on her nametag.
“Blue Fire.”
“I never heard of Blue Fire. Is that some kind of new designer drug?”
“No.”
Just then, somebody at the other end of the bar called for a refill.
“So what’s Blue Fire?” I asked when she returned.
“Come home with me, and I’ll show you.”
“I have to warn you,” I said, “too much exposure to the color blue affects me in strange ways.”
“Sounds exciting,” she said, smiling lasciviously.
My blood turned to fire. I’d hoped I could pick up somebody that night. I never expected a beautiful woman would come on to me, proclaim she knew what I needed, then invite me to her place. I couldn’t wait for her to remedy all my woes, though I wondered if she’d respond to ALL my terrible cravings.
Sandy’s apartment was small and nicely decorated.
When she took me to her bedroom, she said, “Don’t take your clothes off.”
“Why not?”
“Just do what I say and go with the flow. Will you do that?”
I nodded.
“Take your shoes and socks off, and come here,” she said. “Sit on the bed, facing me. Now, press the bottom of your feet against mine. Yes, just like that. OK, extend your arms toward me so that our finger tips are touching.”
“Why do you have to be so far away? I’m dying to kiss you.”
“No kissing,” she said. “Now, close your eyes. Keep them closed and take a deep breath.”
I figured I’d play along for a while, then jump her bones. Pressing our fingertips and feet together was about the goofiest thing I’d ever done with a woman. I figured it was Sandy’s weird idea of foreplay.
A few minutes passed. Nothing happened. I was getting bored. “So when are you gonna give me some Blue Fire?” I whispered.
“You’re getting it now. I’m Blue Fire,” she said. “Feel the heat in your feet?”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it, I do.”
Then something happened that took my breath away. “Wow! Are my feet supposed to tingle like this?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “It starts there and moves all over your body. Slowly, but surely. Just let it happen. It’s very mystical. If it gets too intense, pull your fingers away from mine and it’ll stop.”
She was right. I’d never felt anything like it. After an hour of intense pleasure, I opened my eyes to see the expression on her face. I was astonished to find Sandy’s skin had turned blue. Not only that, her entire body was surrounded by a halo of blue flames.
My insides turned upside-down. Excessive exposure to the color blue makes me voraciously hungry for foul things, taboo things, things never intended for human consumption.
“Sandy, you’re blue all over.”
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Can you make it stop? All this blue is making me crazy.”
“Crazy is good. I hope you’re ready for more, because I’m gonna pull out all the stops.”
The blue fire that surrounded her intensified. So did my pleasure. And my hunger.
“Run, Sandy!” I screamed.
She didn’t listen.
I recalled my dead mother’s words when I bit deeply into Sandy’s stomach. “Chew every morsel 35 times before you swallow, Rodney. It helps digestion.”
“I will, Mommy,” I muttered.
When my count reached 35, I swallowed a big chunk of Sandy’s luscious, blue intestines.
—
©2006 Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 103 magazines and 30 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
