Flash Fiction Round 1 Challenge 1 Swamp

Flash Fiction Contest

Round 1/Challenge 1

Prompts: Genre-Romantic Comedy/Location-Swamp/Object-RV

48 hours to write an original 1000-word story incorporating the above

Only the Swamp Will Set You Free
A cougar releases her prey and returns to her former hunting grounds.

The first time you hear about The Swamp you are waiting in the express line at a grocery store just off I-35, 20 miles shy of Dallas. You thumb through an issue of More magazine plucked from a rack next to a mountain of Snickers bars on sale two for a dollar. You fantasize about shoving a buck’s worth into your mouth. But you don’t pick up because you’ve got a hot young guy waiting for you in the RV who likes his sugar mamas sweet but svelte.

You snap out of your sugar jones long enough to silently curse the SOB ahead of you who has clearly ignored the14-items-or-less shoppers’ etiquette honor system. You mentally scan your basket and wonder if eggs are considered one item or 12 items and if free-range hens really have it better than hens in pens and that you forgot pens for the dry-erase calendar in the RV and how dry you feel between your legs since you entered menopause and that the odds of someone wanting to be between those legs are about 12 to one and whether a dozen eggs constitute one item in the express line. You wish your neurons were like breadcrumbs you could trace to find your way back to pre-menopause mental clarity.

Behind you, a couple of 40-something locals dish on last night’s drama at the neighborhood bar. 

“Y’all know somethin’ ain’t right with that trollop Missy Mae,” says a rotund blonde. Her fingernails are adorned with tiny confederate flags. You fight rolling your eyes.

“Her bein’ at Swamp is like, um, is like a tadpole tryin’ to jump a river log,” her girlfriend says with almost forgivable earnestness.

“Lawd knows, my man likes his women with a little life on them, not skinny and green as grass when it comes to lovin.’”

You pay for your groceries and walk across the parking lot. You think about the bouquet of lavender, lilies and sunflowers you will set out with tonight’s dinner when they hook up at Camp n’ Cruise Motorhome Haven in Roulette, Louisiana. You will leave the flower arranging to Nathan. He’s so much better at it.

“Hey gorgeous, whatja bring me?” Nathan says. He bounces down the RV steps and greets you with a bright smile. The new veneers your soon-to-be-ex-husband paid for glisten in the sun.

“Stuff,” you say. “Let’s get on the road.” You feel people looking at you, judging your 25-year age difference. You feel that way a lot lately.

You pull back onto I-35 and settle into your happy place—a freeway trance.

“Let me rub your sexy neck and shoulders, gorgeous. You seem tense,” Nathan gushes. You wonder if he remembers your real name or if he calls all his older women “gorgeous.” Must be less taxing on those struggling synapses.

“Mmmmm, that feel good, gorgeous?” the man-boy Adonis asks.
You don’t respond. You are fixated on a road sign. HAPPY HOUR ALL DAY. CHIPPENDALE BARTENDERS. EROTIC ENCOUNTERS. GO AHEAD. LET YOUR COUGAR OUT AT THE SWAMP.

“Punch The Swamp into the GPS,” you demand.

“Sure thing, gorgeous!” Nathan chirps. You wish he would stop talking. Forever.

You get off at the next exit and follow the instructions. It’s not far. You turn a corner and there it is. The Swamp, a mossy green building with gold trim and brass signage.

“What are we doing, beautiful?” You marvel at the new word Nathan’s learned.

“We are going to grab a drink,” you say.You take up three parking spots with your Road Warrior and you don’t care. You’ve earned it.

You push through the doors with Nathan at your heels. The place is lousy with prowling well-to-do middle-aged women and virile, penny-less post-college guys looking to hook up and work through mommy complexes with as little out of pocket as possible. 

“Cool!” Nathan blurts out. He appears to be in his element. You are not so sure.

Above the bar, the day’s drink specials are scrawled in elaborate pink chalk: Black Cohosh Cosmo and Estro-Jello Shots.

“I don’t get it,” Nathan says, his blue eyes confused beneath perfectly shaped brows.

You sigh. “It’s a play on menopause because this is a cougar bar. You know, hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings .... kind of swampy?” 

You lose interest in Nathan as you discover a fresh Helga, your term for the embarrassing chin hairs that began sprouting about a year ago. This one feels massive — a mean-spirited, menacing follicle with a shaft the size of a coax cable.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, emergency tweezers clutched in your clammy hand. In the bathroom, you elbow your way to the mirror between other aging beauties yanking out Helgas of their own or engaging in some other ritual designed to ward off the inevitable.

You return to the bar and see Nathan whispering to a sexy bartender with a crew cut and no shirt. His eight-pack abs rise and fall as he laughs to something Nathan said. Their heads, still full with the mane of youth, almost touch as the bartender slips Nathan a piece of paper, then traces his thumb lightly along Nathan’s muscular forearm before flipping a bottle of Stoli high into the air to the delight of a badly dyed brunette with a soccer-mom bob.

Nathan is still eyeing the bartender when you sneak out the side door of The Swamp. You are free of your midlife crisis. You’ve flirted and fucked and fondled and are finally finished.

You say out loud, “Call Oscar.” The hands-free system dials and after a few rings a raspy cigar-stained voice answers. “Claire? Where are you?”

“I am leaving the swamp — don’t ask. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Come home, kitten. Come home to dry land.”