The little funky old shack was a family kept secret. A rite of passage. Each generation gave the pad their own stamp. Away from the old ones, freedom galore. Always the same replayed story. Youth will be youth. Nothing ever changed.
Huggin’ and a-kissin’
Dancin’ and a-lovin’
Wearin’ next to nothin’
“Why is there glitter on the mattress and the stain? Gross!”
“Don’t worry about it.”
How many babies were conceived? No, our parents never. Ew!
The sky lit up — bang, bang.
Tin roof, RUSTED!
Goodbye hair… clothes… comfort… sanity…
Get off me.
Closed-door at the love shack.
This little flash fiction gem is a B52’s “Love Shack’ parody. Lines were borrowed… Now, I need to go cleanse this pop classic out of my head — shame I can’t charge rent.