SDS Envy: “Twinvy” by Gary Broxson

If you are new to the SDS Challenge, a little background.

Three writers will each write one story a month going down the list of deadly sins. The stories can be anywhere from 666 words to 6,666 words in length, although those numbers are not set in stone. If ambitious, the writers will provide accompanying graphics. These stories will not be anonymous because some writers may want to use the same characters for each story and write a series — or book — encompassing all seven sins. Finally, interpretation of the titular sin is up to the writer. Meaning, each ‘sin’ can take multiple forms.

The fifth set of stories cover the sin of Envy. This is the offering by Gary Broxson.

Disclaimer: The writing challenge has no restrictions and the stories will likely span a wide gamut of genres. The majority of the stories fall in the PG-rating range with a few perhaps pushing into the soft R-rating. Some readers might find a few of the stories disturbing because of the topics, language, and/or plot points, and if so, stop reading and move on.

*** Warning ***
Words and descriptions contained in this story may offend some readers. Read at your own peril (caveat emptor).


Copyright 2021 — R. G. Broxson
(4,335  words – approx. reading time: about 16 minutes based on 265 WPM)

“Mommy-Correy, what do pink ostriches eat?” Corrine Cornette looked up from her 50 Shades of Gay novel.

“Pink ostriches?”

Tonya lifted her palms as in supplication. A gangly, broken bird spilled from her hands; it’s reedy legs and boneless neck dripped down – lifeless.

“Tonya, dear, I think you’ve got a young flamingo there. And I think it’s… dead.”

“No, Mommy-Correy; it’s not dead.” Tonya scooped up the pendulous head and put it in Corrine’s face. “See, its eyes are open. It can’t be dead.”

Then the dead bird squawked a horrible, sickly sound.

Corrine flinched; the book tumbled from her lap.

“Tonya! Get that dead bird out of this house right now!” This voice was loud and uncompromising – even shrill. It came from the doorway.

“Now, Sarah,” Corrine interjected—deescalating, “This bird must have blown in on that tropical storm last week. It’s hurt. You know that Tonya loves animals and the outdoors.”

“Outdoors!? Outdoors is where she’ll sleep tonight if she doesn’t get that ugly chicken out of my house.” The bird squawked again, on cue.

“Come on Tonya,” Corrine ushered the confused girl toward the back porch. Before they exited, Corrine glanced back at Sarah who stood resolute, akimbo. “I thought this was our house,” she said calmly. She let her eyes say the rest.


“Mommy-Sarah hates you.” Sonia stuck out her tongue, put her thumbs to her perfect dimples and wagged her fingers.

“No, she doesn’t,” Tonya snapped, twisting her hair in doubt.

“She does,” Sonia insisted. “I heard her talking with Mommy-Correy. She thinks you’re weird, tromping around in the marsh all day, bringing home stupid stinky chickens.”

Tonya went silent—pensive. “It’s not a chick…”

“And,” Sonia interrupted, fishing for a reaction, “she thinks you’re ugly.”

This tactic worked. It always worked; the hook caught. Tonya dashed away in tears down the hallway; she punched the bathroom doorknob lock behind her.

Through watercolor-blue eyes, Tonya, on her tip-toes, glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. As always, she saw an eight-year-old girl with two braided blond pig tails, stray hairs stuck out like hay. Pink-rimmed glasses framed her blurry-blue eyes and accentuated a constellation of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

Tonya swung open the mirrored medicine cabinet and retrieved a small glass vial tucked behind a huge pink bottle of crusty Pepto. She twisted the tiny cap off and rubbed the curved rim of the container up the tear streak-line on her cheek and across the moist pouch below her eye. Tonya collected her tears, even blinking hard to squeeze out a few more into the opaque bottle.

Composed now, Tonya swung the medicine cabinet mirror open again to replace the vial of tears. The mirror’s angle changed instantly. The pig-tailed girl was replaced with a doppelgänger. Sonia stood in the doorway, her reflection now framed in the mirror. She was the antitheses of her twin Tonya; her hair was a cloud of spun gold, her eyes were crystal blue with contacts, unshielded by buggy lenses; her complexion was freckle free. Mommy-Sarah had encouraged eight-year-old Sonia to apply cover-powder and makeup. She had forever twirled batons and tap-danced around the house in preparation for the next beauty pageant.

“These doors are easy to pick, dumbass,” the beauty queen smirked from the bathroom doorway. She held a bobby pin in her perfectly manicured fingers, and then flicked it at her sister.

A primal mewl broke the moment. “My bird!” Tonya started. “My fla…minko…” she stuttered. She pushed past her sister and ran toward the screened porch. Sonia smiled as her panicked twin turned the corner down the hallway.

Tonya, breathless, saw that the French doors leading to the screened porch were open, just enough. Enough to allow…

“Hazel! Stop it!” Tonya commanded like a tiny field general. The calico cat was hissing and spitting at the cornered flamingo. The bird jabbed its beak at the attacking cat. It squawked, matching the cat’s anger and frustration. Its wings flapped and fluttered in the confined corner. It stood on only one leg.

Tonya swooped in and grabbed Hazel by the scruff, thumbed opened the screen-porch door and flung the cat out into the backyard. “Bad kitty; that’s no way to treat a guest.” The cat landed perfectly on its feet, grumble-growled, then leisurely licked a paw like nothing had happened.

Corrine arrived in time to witness the commotion. “Is your bird alright?” She knelt beside Tonya and examined the young flamingo. There were a few scattered feathers on the porch floor but neither could assess any major damage to the frightened bird.

“Boy, he’s quite a fighter…or she,” Corrine corrected. “It…pulled the old rope-a-dope on Sister Hazel there.”

Tonya looked at Corrine, head tilted, braids descending parallel, “Rope-a-dope?”

Corrine smiled, put on her explaining face and replied, “Mohammad Ali, the greatest, most flamboyant, boxer of all time, used the rope-a-dope tactic to make his opponents think he was hurt. He would cover up on the ropes,” Corrine put her arms and elbows together. “They would pound away at his defenses, thinking they had him on the ropes, until they simply tired out. Then Ali would surprise the dope with a knockout punch.”

“What about its leg?” Tonya cried. “Hazel must have bitten off his leg.” Her watery eyes searched the porch for body parts.

“No, Tonya.” Corrine soothed the girl, smoothing back her braids. “That’s just a really cool defensive tactic that nature has given its more vulnerable creatures. If Hazel had persisted, she would have gotten a webbed foot right in the puss. Your flamingo was holding, even hiding, its ace card, you might say.”


“You are both Gator-girls now,” Corrine and Sarah smiled, holding each other, holding back the tears. “That makes us Gator-mommies.”

“I don’t care about that mascot stuff, unless it helps to recognize an endangered species,” Tonya said sincerely, then laughed, pretending it was a joke. “I just want to get a good education and work with a top-notch ecological or environmental organization.”

Sonia sneered at her sister. “I am going to make the Florida Gator’s Cheer leading Blue Squad my freshman year.” She put a fist on her hip and one straight up into the air to punctuate her statement. Even in khakis and a sweater, she looked like an angel. “From there, I will become crazy-famous.”

“We are so proud of you both.” Sarah and Corrine agreed—nodding, smiling, hugging. “You are only a stone’s throw from home; please come back to visit your Gator-mommies every chance you get. Our nest is empty and our arms are open wide.” Sarah leaned on Corrine’s shoulder and cried as if their daughters were going off to war.

At 18, Tonya and Sonia had already figured out life. Thanks to ‘you-can-do-whatever-you-want-in-life’ high school counselors, their education goals and career paths were set in stone as they set out to pursue their unique dreams.

Sonia thrived at FSU. She found new friends, made the cheer leading team and joined the most popular sorority. Her grades were below average, but her social life received gold stars.

Tonya dove into the books and waded into the wetlands. She volunteered at marine sanctuaries, tended to flipper-crippled sea turtles, prop-scarred manatees, and an occasionally beached whale that needed to be dragged back into the ocean. Tonya’s baby-girl pig tails had been woven and melded into a singular golden rope, a French braid that hung down between her shoulders, its tip brushing the utility belt of her hiking shorts.

As fresh-meat freshmen, the two beauties caught the eyes of the upperclassmen, and women. Sonia was soon dating a tight-end on the Gator JV football team. It was not true love; even as she begrudged him a swift kiss for luck, her eyes shifted to the starting quarterback who was half-engaged to a senior cheerleader. Like an offensive coach, Sonia had already drawn up the X’s and O’s in her mind; a power play that would get her to the goal line, an easy pick-six for Sonia.

Tonya stayed focused on her work but soon found herself spending quality time with a law student named Nancy. They stayed up late, discussing racial injustice and the effects of climate change. BLM meets global warming. After too much wine the debate fragmented into a farcical Racial-nado scenario, the next satiric blockbuster starring the remaining cast of 90120 as they battled cross-burning Klansmen that rained down from a racist cloud. Never underestimate Hollywood.

Nancy was good for Tonya. On a subsequent visit she selected a nautilus shell from Tonya’s windowsill collection and began speaking into the opening. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Tonya, sweetie, it’s time to come out of your shell.” After they laughed together and hashed out her agoraphobic feelings, Tonya conceded to go with Nancy to a Gator rivalry football game.

On the hour-plus trip to Jacksonville, they passed a cozy, Caribbean-colored home with a yard full of plastic flamingos. “Oh, I love those lawn ornaments,” Nancy squealed. “I’m going to have a few in my yard one day. Going for the tacky-trashy, yet southern-stylish look.”

“Those aren’t very colorful,” Tanya remarked.

“I think pink is a very nice color,” Nancy countered with a subtle smile, always ready to argue a point, and insert an innuendo.

Tonya stared out the window blankly. “They remind me of a flamingo I rescued as a kid. Only Blue was a bit different. It seems that flamingos get their famous pink pigment from the brine shrimp that forms the majority of their diet. We had a hard time collecting brine shrimp so Blue supplemented his meals with Dixie Iris flowers and buds that grew in our back yard. It didn’t take long before ol’ Blue’s tail feathers started to turn an Iris shade of blue—thus the name.”

“That’s remarkable,” Nancy exclaimed. “Did it stay that way? Blue?”

“I don’t know. I remember my Mama-Correy was concerned that if we returned Blue back to the wild, the other flamingos might not accept him back into the flock. But I was silly and stubborn and insisted that Blue should at least have a chance to be with his family, and that nature would decide his fate. So we put Blue out in the backyard, near the marsh and tried to shew him away. He didn’t want to go. Then somehow our old cat, Hazel, got after him and he just lifted off, like he could have flown away any day but didn’t. He headed south for the Everglades. I remember crying, but I was happy for Blue.”

“And,” she tugged at her braid. “I’ve still got this to remember ol’ Blue.” She slid her long braid across her shoulders like the tattooed woman peeling a python off her shoulders at the county fair. “Tonya flicked a small feather in front of Nancy. The weather-worn feather was tightly banded to the tip of Tonya’s braid. She tickled Nancy’s nose with it.

“That’s such a sweet story. The only pets we had in Chicago were big fat rats, and they would eat anydamnthing and they never flew away.”

The stadium was packed that evening, but Nancy and Tonya worked their way through the sea of orange and blue fanatics.

“Not fair,” Tonya complained, “it’s too cold tonight for reptiles.” Tonya shivered next to her friend. “We are at a disadvantage against warm-blooded mammals…like Bulldogs? I can’t believe they over-breed these animals to look like a pile of laundry with a tongue. It’s inhumane; these ferocious dogs can barely breathe in oxygen; they can’t run as fast or as far as a toddler. Yet they are the face of this top-ranked football team. It’s like having a slow, enormously obese elephant or a stupid, stubborn donkey as your mascot.” She seemed to finish her thoughts, waiting for Nancy.

Nancy just laughed at Tonya’s keen insights but kept the awkward moment alive by holding her hand. Tonya sighted high seats in the bleachers in the old Jacksonville stadium.

“Gators are reptiles; I get it, Tonya. Bulldogs…mutants.” Nancy huffed a little as they climbed the stone bleachers, but still managed to fake a dramatic eye roll to Tonya. She was happy to play along with Tonya’s odd sense of humor. Seated, she passed Tonya a hot cup of cocoa from her thermos mixed with a shot of Baileys Irish Crème. “This’ll warm your cold blood up, gator girl.” She pulled an orange and blue shawl from her back pack, threw it over them like Harry Potter’s cape of concealment, and snuggled closer to Tonya. “Maybe we don’t have to save the world tonight,” Nancy whispered.

Peeking out. “Hey, there’s my sister,” Tonya pointed to the sideline, waving and calling out to the animated cheerleader. Sonia, somehow hearing her name in the din, looked up at what she thought was an admiring fan, noticed it was only Tonya, and sneered. Then, spying Nancy, Tonya’s clutching companion, she blew a Hollywood kiss. They both reached up from under the blanket to catch the invisible buss.

“So, that’s really your sister,” Nancy noted, sitting up straight and loosening her embrace on Tonya, ever so slightly, yet noticeable by the slighted twin.

They both watched as Sonia leaped, splayed, spun, bent, toe-touched, hip-thrusted, waved, pom-pommed, and chanted surly slogans across the field in an odd effort to destabilize the other team. She also invoked poetic punchlines to incite or riot; she charged the Gators to win no matter the cost, and slurred the dirty Bull Dogs on the backhand.

Ultimately, the game was won on the field and none of Sonia’s ‘sinsual’ gyrations seemed to help score a single point or block an opposing field goal. She told herself that there was more to life than wishing on a stupid star.

Two nights later there was a timid tapping on door 629, Nancy’s room. Her roommate was gone for the weekend, visiting family in Alabama. Nancy was asleep and alone in her dorm room. She whispered, “Who is it?” then, like a good law student, asked herself why she was whispering in her own damn room.

“It’s me, can I come in?” Recognizing the voice, Nancy hurried to the door and unlatched the bolt.

“Tonya, are you okay?”

The girl, anxious to get out of the all-seeing hallway, slipped inside the dark room. She was dressed in an odd mix of leather and lace; a beige, threadbare T-shirt depicting a stenciled manatee with the caption Save the Chubby Mermaids and a muddy pair of unlaced hiking boots. That was all. Perky points accentuated the letters ‘a’ in ‘saved’ and one of the ‘b’s in ‘Chubby’ in the gauzy T-shirt.

“Can we talk for a while?” the girl asked meekly.

“Sure, Honey. Come on over and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ll get us a glass of the house wine. I hope you don’t mind that it comes in a box, not a bottle—but the box is recyclable,” Nancy saved, clasping her hands in entreaty.

The girl semi-smiled at the obvious effort and awkwardly pushed her pink-framed glasses back up the bridge of her freckled nose and stroked her meter-length French braid in a classic cue of doubt and hesitation.

The two settled beside each other on the bed and sipped at the room-temperature Merlot. “Just take a minute and relax, Ton, you’ll know when the time is right. No pressure.”

Looking up into Nancy’s eyes, “I think the time is right now,” Tonya whispered, setting the empty wine glass on the nightstand.

The two melted together under the thin sheets. They kissed and caressed until their breathing became one.

Again, Nancy whispered, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Then giggling, “Get your ass out of that shell.” Like a hermit crab from its nautical home, the girl emerged.

“I can’t wait any longer,” The marsh girl slid out from under the sheets, gliding up Nancy’s naked and quivering body, lobstering her breasts and pinching nipples harshly, eliciting a sharp yelp and giggle out of Nancy.

Tonya rose up slightly, her knees playfully pinned Nancy’s shoulders. Tonya hovered her engorged cleft over Nancy’s face until Nancy kissed her lips and opened her mouth, her tongue flicked, begging. Tonya backed away, teasingly, laughing, playing.

Suddenly, Tonya snarled; she reached down between her thighs and snatched Nancy by the hair. She pulled the girl’s face into her crotch. Nancy moaned and lapped slowly at first, and then met the rhythm of Tonya’s thrusts with her tongue and chin. Tonya grinded; she rode like a cowgirl, her singular braid whirled like a rotor blade before takeoff; her eyes rolled back in delight.

“This is what it’s like,” she said in a course voice, rhetorically. “This is what it’s like to fuck face, to ride a dyke?” She breathed harder, faster. “You fucking whore,” she growled now. Nancy’s eyes opened widely between the bucking thighs. Nancy mumbled something inarticulate.

“Shut up, Lesbo. Gimme an L; gimme a G, a B, T, or Q…Whathaveyougot? Gimme a rug muncher,” she groaned. “Give me a lot of Ms, more Ms. Oh, now just shut up and give me the whole alphabet, A to Z.” She jammed Nancy’s face back into her crotch, humming the A, B, C song.

Tonya pushed down harder, squeezing her powerful thighs together despite the protests of the woman beneath her.

“Eat it, bitch! Eat it! Like this was your last meal.” She grinded harder, suddenly feeling a tree-branch snap. Nancy’s nose cracked beneath Tonya’s crushing pelvic thrusts. Blood gushed from the erotic union between Tonya’s grinding loins and Nancy’s broken nose onto the snow-white sheets.

Tonya squeezed even tighter with her vice-like, air-proof thighs until the flailing of Nancy’s arms and legs ceased. After several minutes, the naked cowgirl unsaddled and showered.


The coroner reported cunnilingual asphyxiation as the law student, Nancy Brewer’s, cause of death. She had essentially drowned in her own blood and secretions in the act of lesbian lovemaking. Surveillance video was reviewed from dorm-hallway cameras and Tonya Cornette was brought in for questioning. Tonya’s alibi was weak; she told the investigator that she had been out in the marsh all night in a john-boat studying the nocturnal mating habits of the elusive striped snipe. No witnesses.

Reports of the salacious, sexy, sorority slaying had all the lusty and violent elements of viral news. Tonya was arrested, arraigned, and released on bail that her mothers had scraped up by taking out a second mortgage on their Florida home. Not considered a serious flight risk, Tonya was fitted with an ankle monitor and was allowed to go only from dorm to classroom, and cafeteria. Those short sojourns turned out to be a media-manufactured obstacle course of cameras, cables, and correspondents.

A gauntlet of reporters jabbed phallic microphones in Tonya’s face and asked every conceivable question: “Do lesbian lives matter?” “Is it true you will be posing for Playboy?” “Do you have anything to say to Nancy Brewer’s family?” “What’s your preferred pronoun?” “Will you marry me?” But the most asked and damning question was the one she refused to answer even when the investigator asked it: “Did you do it? Did you kill that girl?”

Ironically, Tonya had learned enough law from her long talks with Nancy to avoid incriminating questions. It was at that point she realized she was in deep trouble and she asked for a lawyer—a profession dear Nancy Brewer would never attain.


There was a knock at Tonya’s door. “Go away!” she yelled. “No reporters are allowed up here in the dorm.”

“It’s me, Sis. I just wanna check on you,” a familiar voice replied.

“Sonia, is that you?” Tonya cracked opened the door, then slid back the restraining chain. She put her hand to her mouth and teared up as her sister stepped in. “What a nice surprise,” Tonya smiled for the first time in weeks. “I didn’t think you would want to be, you know…associated with me.”

“Oh, Sis, do you really think I’m that shallow?” Sonia made a feel-sorry-for-me pouty face.

“I’ve visited, Sis. It’s just hard to catch you at home. You are always in that damn swamp. Here,” Sonia pulled a small glass vial from her purse, “this is something I found the last time I visited your dorm, when you were out.” She held up the vial that Tonya’s tears had filled so long ago as an intimidated child.

“It’s empty,” Tonya said, “I always kept it full of tears.”

“Your salty tears made an excellent elixir. When I dosed the quarterback’s girlfriend, that bitch wanted it as much or more than I did. I got her college ball boyfriend and she went after the highest paid college coach. The guy that went to the NFL, Urban Meyer. You can see the video if you just Google it. That’s her, giving a Dolphin ride to an old granddad.”

“Well,” Tonya considered, “I can’t believe you’ve been plundering through my stuff while I’m at court appointed inquiries and a grand jury. It’s been more than a month and you haven’t called or…”

“Water under the bridge, Sis. Water under bridge. Besides, you seem to be doing quite well without me.”

Tonya looked confused. She tugged at her French braid. “Quite well? I’m going to be tried for manslaughter. I have to wear an ankle monitor.” She stomped on the floor with her shackled foot. “And the reporters are hounding me and dragging my name, our name, through the mud.”

“Yes, yes, they are, Tonya. Have you heard the latest one? They are calling you Horny Corny.” Sonia laughed and spun around the room. “I saw it in the Questioner, standing in line at the Dixie Pig checkout. There was a grainy black-and-white pic of you shouting at a reporter, spit flying from your mouth. Sis, you looked guilty of everything.”

Tonya froze. “You think this is funny?”

“Well, maybe not funny, Ton. You were never known for your sense of humor. But it is exciting, don’t you agree? All the press, the paparazzi, the…the attention.” She hugged her shocked sister. “You’re famous, Tonya. Fucking famous.”

“If this is fame, Sonia, I don’t want any part of it. I would trade it away for the peace and quiet of the swamp in a heartbeat.”

“Would you…would you really?” Sonia’s bright blue eyes lit up. “Would you trade with me?”


“Oh, Sonia. I can’t believe you are doing this for me. There is no greater love than one giving their life for another.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sonia muttered. “Help me with this hair. I can’t get this stupid braid right.”

“No, Tonya, that’s not how you apply mascara. It’ll clump your lashes.” Sonia took the applicator and flicked the wand quickly, enhancing Tonya’s eyelashes. “That’s better.”

“How are we going to get this thing off?”

I’ve got a trick for that too,” Tonya smiled. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos.” Tonya pulled a bobby pin from her hair.

Twenty minutes later, an awkward cheerleader walked out of room 321 to freedom and a new defendant prepared for her day in court.

The trial went on for weeks. It was the trial of the century. The best lawyers clamored for bench time. The LGBT colorful community demonstrated outside the courthouse. They clashed with the bible bangers, who were in turn drowned out by the throttles of the Harley Hoggers.

A mousy girl with braided hair and bookish glasses seemed to be bored with the opening remarks from the prosecutor and even her own defense. Each day she seemed to morph, ever so slightly, into a more vibrant version of herself. By week two, the signature singular braid was unbound. The gold-spun hair seemed to take on a life of its own. A different style every day.

Her clothes too, were upgraded. Now the reporters were asking her ‘who’ she was wearing. The courtroom had become a catwalk, a red-carpet conversation about fashions and styles. Tonya’s 15 minutes of fame extended to six weeks. After the final remarks by high-price lawyers, she waited, filing her nails and checking her hair as the jury returned from the anteroom.

They ‘dirty dozen’ as Tonya once characterized them for an interview, nodded to the judge and the world took a deep breath. “We the jury, find Tonya Denise Cornette…”

“I object!” Sonia interrupted, the first words she had on record for the entire trial. “You’ve got the wrong twin.” The judge’s gavel pounded a dent into his podium, until the jury and the court grew silent and were prepared to listen to the lady in bright pink standing beside her seated and bewildered attorney.

She began with, “So, I’m Sonia Sapelo. You got the wrong twin.” Addressing the judge with her pouty-face lips, “Can I go now?”


Tonya poled her john-boat up an uncharted tributary, deep in the Florida Everglades. She let the flat-bottom boat drift to a stop when she spied the fabulous birds. A strange but marvelous array of flamingos carpeted the shallow-water estuary. Tonya sat on the boat bench and observed, taking notes and sketching in her journal. She marveled at their grace, their beauty, their colors.

The flock of flamingos proudly wore the pink paraphernalia of their phylum. But the trained eye of the observer noticed more. These birds were each different, unique; every bird sported a variation of colored tail feathers. Each hue of the rainbow and more were represented in their posterior plumage. There were burnt oranges, scarlet reds, grassy greens, and blazing blues.

Tonya tugged at her tresses, remembering. She pulled at her plait and examined the tip of the braid. She cradled the blue feather bound to her hair by a half-dozen rubber bands. She spoke directly to the blue feather creating a crazy relief against the setting sun: “Blue, you once needed me. Now, I need you. Can you make room for another flamingo?”

The End


Here are the links to the other two stories:

Two Tales of Envy <<link
Writer: E. J. D’Alise
Word count: 2,160  words – approx. reading time: about 8 minutes based on 265 WPM

Envy the Dead <<link
Writer: Perry Broxson
Word count: 10,130  words – approx. reading time: about 38 minutes based on 265 WPM

If you’ve read all the stories and care to cast a vote, here’s the link to the Poll:

The SDS Challenge — Envy Voting <<link

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