Bullseye (Flash Fiction 250 words)
In 1987 I donated sperm for cash. They gave you a magazine and you aimed into a plastic jar. Ten quid a shot. I used a cassette cover of Carly Simon, in a cheesecloth with a bow tied at her navel. Three dud samples and they told me not to come again.
We would have split up anyway, after Mum died last year. I lost my confidence. Then Dad fell down the stairs, and while I was away Jane invited the new PE teacher back to our place. It’s now my place. Before I moved schools, I saw them every day at staff meetings, holding hands like a vitamin advert. I’ve come to stay with Dad for half-term, to recuperate. He was in bed when I arrived so I played on his PC until the small hours.
My phone’s just beeped. A text, from Jane, fantastic. She hasn’t been in touch since 2009: Don’t ever contact me again. That’s from last night. There’s a new photo on her Facebook, she looks pretty far gone. I left a witty comment, something like “Who’s the daddy?”
It’s her fortieth today, and she’s pregnant, which is brilliant. I wouldn’t be surprised if she conceived in our bed. A year of firing blanks, a new donor, then “bullseye” first go. I’m really happy for her, I know how much she wanted it. I’ll text her, ask her to wet the baby’s head for me. Maybe she’ll let me be there at the birth?
Bulls Eye – Flash Fiction 250 words
In 1987 I tried sperm doning for cash. They gave you a magazine and you aimed into a plastic jar. I used a cassette cover of Carly Simon, in a cheesecloth with a bow tied at her navel. Three dud samples and they told me not to come back.
We would have split up anyway, after Mum died. I lost my confidence. Then Dad fell down the stairs, and while I was away Jane invited the new PE teacher back to our place. It’s now my place. Before I moved schools, I saw them every day at staff meetings, holding hands like a vitamin advert. I’ve come to stay with Dad for half-term, to recuperate. He was asleep when I arrived so I fiddled on my Mac into the small hours.
My phone’s just beeped. A text, from Jane, fantastic. She hasn’t contacted me since 2009: I’ve blocked you from my friends. Don’t ever contact me again.
That’s a bit harsh. It’ll be from last night. There’s a new photo on her Facebook, she looks pretty far gone. I left a witty comment, something like “Whose the daddy?”
It’s her fortieth today, and she’s pregnant, which is brilliant. I wouldn’t be surprised if she conceived in our bed. A year of firing blanks, a new donor, then “bulls-eye” first shot. I’m really happy for her, I know how much she wanted it. I’ll text her, ask her to wet the baby’s head for me, or is that a tad premature?
