Oscar Wilde lifted his heavy head from the pillow. With one hand he straightened his abundant Neronian curls, while with the other he stroked Bosie’s cheek that still rested on his ample chest. Gazing across the room of the Albermarle Hotel, his eyes lit on the hunting scene that was framed in pride of place.
“It’s strange,” Oscar opined (he rarely merely spoke when he could opine or soliloquise and one day he’d have to stop thinking of himself in prose that was quite so purple).
“Strange?” Bosie yawned.
“Strange indeed what people insist on viewing as unspeakable, or not.”
This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is below, copyright Jan Wayne Fields.