Flash Fiction / Writing

Good Gravy! by L.A. Murphy

He started off slowly. Just a dribble in the soup or in the gravy. Sometimes in “Dad’s” wine. It brought him something akin to true joy when he saw them feast. Little Lily slurping her soup, no idea what he’d done to it. Elaine, or “Mother” as she kept insisting, coating her plate in that home-made-don’t-you-just-love-it gravy, no one questioning the slight tang it had acquired.

“Dad” fingering his wine glass as he watched his family. No idea he’s not the only one watching. That every mouthful, every sip makes the watchers groin ache. Sometimes when he thinks of them he touches himself down there. Sister Agnes said he’d go blind so he tries to refrain. He’d hate to complete his work and not be able to see.

“Dad” is talking about the doctors again. They’re not too sure why he’s had such bad stomach ache. Lily is looking a little pale too. It was hard at first for him to refuse the range of accompaniments Elaine offered with every meal but in the end, “Dad” wrote it off as the fussiness of youth. He wasn’t fussy though. He’d lived in enough homes to know that any food was better than no food. But he had also learned one more thing. A bad family was easier to tolerate than this. This glowing perfect threesome who just had to invite more glory into their home.

As he showered, he imagined them all splayed out around the table. Dead between mouthfuls. His dick started to tingle and another thought entered his head.

Like father, like son. 

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