Some filthy flash fiction (explicit sex) ---- The most lucrative attraction of the traveling circus from the Far East was never featured on the billing. Only word of mouth brought curious patrons to the small tent hidden behind the big top. And most, when told of the ten shilling entrance fee by the attending clown, beat a hasty retreat. Surely no circus act was worth that? Even the name didn’t suggest wonders worth the price. “Hercules and the Hummingbird.” Presumably they had a strongman, and perhaps he’d taught a hummingbird to hover over his head or something. Not a sight they’d part with a week’s wages to see. But those that coughed up the coppers did not regret it. They spoke of what they’d seen in hushed whispers for years to come. Elspeth was there on a recommendation from her cousin in Singapore. Mary had told her she simply must see the act. Elspeth had required her maid Vicki to dress her up as a commoner, for it would not be the done thing to be seen frequenting a circus of all things. And so uncharted was the territory she’d be venturing into, she insisted Vicki accompany her. The two alighted from the cab, and with bonnets strung tight over their heads, they navigated their way through the rabble to the rear of the big top. The noise, smells, and dirt of the trampled mud all assaulted Elspeth’s senses, and she swore she’d take cousin Mary to task if this ordeal wasn’t worth it. A pantomime clown took their money with a ridiculously wide grin. “Enjoy the show, ladies,” he bellowed and opened the tent flap for them. Inside, two rows of bench seats in a semicircle faced nothing more than a low rectangular table, with a blanket spread upon it and an old pillow at one end. At the other end sat a plump woman with a cheery face, dressed in rags, and a maid’s cap much like the one Vicki wore. Her legs dangled from the table as she appeared to inspect each audience member with a cheeky smile and an occasional wink. Above her, the sparse interior was lit by a single kerosene lantern hanging precariously from the tent pole.

Transgressive fiction has a way of getting under your skin and staying there. Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O'Connor — these writers didn't ask for permission to go dark. They just went. So we want to know: What's the one book that made you feel genuinely uncomfortable — and you loved it for that? Did it influence your own writing? Would you recommend it here, or is it too much even for this crowd? Drop it in the comments. No judgement. This is exactly the place for it.

They say the first line of a story is either a door or a wall. We want doors. Dark ones. Share the opening line of something you're working on, or one you've always wanted to write but haven't yet. It can be one sentence. It can be two. Just make it the kind of line that makes someone need to know what comes next. Drop it in the comments 👇

A paragraph, an opening line, a scene that's been sitting in your drafts, or something you finished last night at 2am and can't stop thinking about. No polishing required. No apologies needed. Let's see what you've got!

General discussion about anything, preferably writing related. Remember we don't want AI bunfights taking over our community. So avoid that topic, as well as politics and religion. Anything else goes.