Wednesday, March 24, 2010
When the day makes me weary
Beats me down
And I've given
More than I should
All I want
Is for you to turn me on
Offer up a smile, Babe
Say something sweet
Let me kick my shoes off
And curl up with you
Kiss me deep
And turn me on
Brow to brow
Fingers in my hair
Nuzzle my neck
Kiss the strain from my lips
Lay me down
Help me forget everything, save you
Make me hum
And turn me on...
Friday, March 19, 2010
I have been stranded on this strange world for 156 days. My craft has disintegrated into little more than a paper shell. Escape has gone from improbable to impossible. The sadness I feel over this cold reality is crippling.
I spend my days observing the local wildlife. I watch their peculiar mode of transport. They hold themselves up as though they are superior to all other inhabitants of their planet. I’ve not made contact. I’ve considered it. There are days when I feel it would break my depression and end this monotony. But this is a wild race—barbaric and cruel amongst their kindred. I can only surmise what my fate would be in their determined claws.
Not that I want to wallow in self-pity. After all, I didn’t get eaten today.
Day 163—A native almost found my hideout this morning. I rolled to the furthest darkest corner and froze in fear. I watched the wild beast search out the darkness. I remained deathly still. A moment passed. And then another—until the creature grew bored and moved on with his ritual.
I relaxed and resumed my diligent study of this species. I’ve elected to call them H-1. I’ve no real reasoning. It just came to me as I was foraging. All good scientists have a catalog of specimens. Unfortunately the H-1 are too numerous and too large to take a proper sample. But at least I can reference them in my notations.
As I always, I end my entry with a deep breath, thankful that I didn’t get eaten.
I’ve lost track of the days. Time seems to shuffle in shifts, light then dark, then light again. It’s a never ending tedium. The H-1 seldom notices. They come and go oblivious to their surroundings. Every surface, every crumb of food seems to exist solely for the H-1 to conquer and devour. Greedy bastards.
I tell myself it isn’t right to judge them so harshly. I should remain neutral and not fall prey to my own inadequacies. It isn’t the H-1’s fault that I’m to die in this cesspool—likely by starvation. I’m so lost in thought that I don’t spot the youth until it’s too late. She’s a beautiful example of her race, a prize for any zoologist’s collection.
She snatches me up as if I’m naught but a feather. She rolls me between her fingers and squeals with unabated joy. I scream but my cries fall on deaf ears. She licks her lips and pulls me closer to her. I see the teeth that will grind me to bits. I stop screaming and close my eyes. I don’t want to see my demise—experiencing it is quite enough.
The youth shoves me into her mouth and crunches down on my bones. I feel my head pop—it’s a bizarre sensation. My consciousness is freed and floating even as the H-1 dines on my corpse. I feel that I’m coming to terms with my body challenged existence when I hear a loud shriek. “What are you eating? Haven’t I told you not to eat off the floor? Well? Haven’t I?”
The little one begins to cry and her mother swipes her finger in the infant’s mouth. The bitch discards my remains in the trash. I’m laminating the advantages of simply going in to the light and not bearing witness to the desecration of my flesh when the woman exclaims; “Honestly Rachel! You could get dysentery.” She clucks and mutters under her breath. I watch helplessly as my form spills onto the pile of waste. The mother still ranting, “All of this over a dirty green M&M? Unbelievable. If you’d asked I’d have gotten you a fresh bag from the vending machine.”
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Doing odd things to you
Baby, swallow deep
Let the potion seep
Hold you awhile
Listen to the lyre
Your heart's on fire
Hot kisses till your vision blurs
Igniting desire, you begin to stir
A tantalizing game
Too wild to tame
Clothing tossed here and there
Burgundy kisses everywhere
Scrape my nails down your spine
Make you feel just fine
Take another drink
No need to think
Just a taste
Not a drop to waste
Moving through the haze
Frantic licks and a gentle graze
Gives way to intoxication...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
He smothered a chuckle and hung his dripping coat on the chair next to him. He tossed his soaked newspaper on the table and a movement caught his eye. An old man slumped at the table by the door, but no one seemed to notice. At any moment he expected to see Patrick Swayze come in to clean up this dive. But then, that was a movie and this was real life. There aren’t miracle-workers in real life, just under-paid-over-worked peons.
Lou wiped his damp forehead with the edge of his sleeve and attempted to flag down the waitress. But she was busy smoking at the bar and chatting up the bartender. He leaned back and smiled to himself, well the service is definitely lacking in this joint. He waited a few more minutes before deciding to brave the rain. Perhaps he could find a cab.
Then the door swung open and the most amazing girl walked in. It wasn’t that she was exotic or even particularly pretty. But there was something interesting about her. The way she swept her hair over her shoulder and wrung the rainwater out captivated him. She looked around the room and spoke to the waitress for a moment. Lou leaned closer, trying to hear what she was saying. But she was too far away, so he relaxed in his chair and watched her over the edge of his ruined newspaper.
She seemed dissatisfied with whatever the waitress said and looked around the bar again. Her eyes narrowed on Lou’s face and she marched over to him. “Can you believe they don’t have a payphone here? Do you have a cell I could borrow?” She sat next to him, moving his drenched coat out of her way without being invited, but he didn’t mind. He tried to focus on her face, tried not to notice the way her red dress clung to her chest, or how her breasts rose and fell with each breath. He cleared his throat, “Ahem…no, I’m sorry, I don’t have a cell phone.”
She swirled in the chair, openly frustrated. “Great!” She took a calming breath and smiled sheepishly at him. “Sorry, it’s just that my boss will be livid if I don’t get in touch with him. I was supposed to check back over an hour ago, but I was detained…” Her words trailed off and Lou got the impression that whatever had detained her hadn’t been pleasant. He started to offer words of comfort, but she perked up, as suddenly as if she’d flipped a switch. “Oh well! Looks like we’ll be stuck here until the rain clears—however long that’ll be.”
She laughed cheerily and patted his hand affectionately. “Cara,” she said and stuck her hand out to shake his. He returned her smile and shook her hand, “Lou.” She squeezed his hand and he felt a thrill run through him. It was obvious that she was younger and more enthusiastic than himself, but her joy was contagious.
“Well, Lou, how about a cup of Joe? I bet you take yours black.” She jumped from her seat and placed the order at the bar without waiting for his response. She bypassed the useless waitress and carried their coffee back to the table. “I wonder how long that dragon’s been here? She looks as faded as the wallpaper.” Cara handed Lou his cup. “Here’s to hoping it tastes better than sludge.” He smiled at her sweet face and sniffed the suspicious looking brew. Yeah, here’s to hoping, he thought, and he bravely took a sip.
Cara stretched her legs out in front of her, resting them against his own. She seemed capable of making herself at home anywhere. That was a knack that Lou had never mastered. She hummed a tune under her breath and leaned in close to Lou. “Do you dance? I’d love to dance. Wonder if this crap-hole has a jukebox?”
Lou chuckled and winked at her, “If there’s a jukebox it’ll be as rusted as everything else. And no, I don’t dance.” Cara crinkled her little nose at him, “Pity. It’s a great way to kill the time.” She leaned back and quieted down for a minute before popping up again. “What if I teach you? Would you dance with me then, Lou?” He considered her offer and thought of the miserable day he’d had. He thought of the papers in his office waiting to be graded. “Why not? Sure, teach away, Cara.”
She lit up like Christmas as she led him to the center of the bar. “We don’t have any music, but that’s okay.” She smiled up at his face and she took one of his hands in hers and placed the other at the small of her back. “I’ll sing, you just sway and do what feels natural, okay?” Lou nodded and pulled her closely against his body. He liked the way she felt, warm and soft in his arms.
Her voice was clear and sweet as she sang an old Billie Holiday song about a woman wishing for her lover. They swayed into each other, gently brushing together, thighs touching, fingers entwined. Her breath felt like a caress against his chest. He felt his stomach clench and he knew that he was feeling things that he shouldn’t be feeling for this strange girl.
She pressed in closer and laid her cheek on his chest. It was divine. It was way too familiar. He pulled back and startled her. She looked up at him with warm brown eyes. “What’s wrong, Lou?” He released her hand and stepped away, needing space between them. “Nothing,” he assured her, “I just need to use the restroom.” She smiled at him. “Oh. Well don’t touch anything. God only knows what you’d pick up.” She laughed deep and sexy in her throat and Lou swallowed hard.
He escaped to the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. His clothes were mostly dry now and he could hear the rain dying down outside. He could be on his way and not have to worry about the little vixen in the bar. But the thought of bailing on her brought a pang of sadness. How had she weaseled her way in so quickly? They were strangers after all.
Lou returned to the barroom and felt some indefinable emotion wash over him as he watched her sitting at their table. Her legs were crossed and her chin resting on her hand as she waited for him to come back. He slid into his seat, “Sorry about that.”
Cara smiled at him, “Oh, no worries, hon.” She tweaked his nose and leaned back in her seat. “You’re awfully cute, you know,” she said decisively. He choked on his coffee and looked at her in surprise. “Ah...thank you.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “You disagree? Well, it’s true. You’re very interesting, Louis. Tell me something about yourself.”
Lou set his coffee down. “Well, there isn’t much to tell. I come from an average family. Live an average life. I’m quite boring, really.” She seemed to process this and reject it. “Bull, everyone has a story. That you’d sum up your whole life like that means there’s much more to your story. But I won’t pry.” She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “Sludge. Well, my story is a bit sordid and not at all pleasant. So maybe it’s best that we just skip stories, Lou. We’ll be two strangers who met in a bar one rainy night and fell in love. But it’s a tragedy, because we’ll never see each other again. What do you think? Romantic?”
He laughed and pulled her hand across the table. He turned it over and traced the delicate lines of her wrist. “You’ve got it all figured out then? What if it has a happy ending and this is just a funny story we tell our grandkids?” She scoffed and jerked her hand away. “Where’s the fun in that? Tell our grandkids? Please, as if those snot-nosed brats would care!” Lou grinned at her vivid imagination and feigned indignation. “Okay, it’ll be a tragedy then.”
Cara smiled and came over to him. She sat on his lap, facing him, her legs swinging at either side of his hips. “Seal it with a kiss?” His mouth went dry as she licked her lips in anticipation. She kissed the corners of his mouth, tasting and teasing him. She stroked his tongue and opened her mouth wider to lure his tongue inside her parted lips.
He hardened under her weight and she moaned against his mouth as she felt him growing, she ground her hips instinctively. Lou pushed her back gently. His hands gripped her shoulders and he whispered sharply. “Cara! We’re in public. Maybe we should go somewhere?” She looked at him through dazed, heavy-lidded eyes. “Go somewhere? Oh, you mean we should get a room.” She shook her head to clear it, lust still burning her eyes. “No, Baby, that’s not how the story goes.”
Lou looked at her in confusion and squirmed uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” She stroked his cheek with her hand and answered quietly.”The fantasy only exists here, Sweetie. If we leave then the real world will come rushing in. If you want me—and I can tell that you do—then you’ll have to take me here.” He considered her words and countered, “That’s crazy. There’s no reason we can’t go to your place or mine or see each other again. I like you. I’d like to see you again.”
She stood up and drug him to his feet. “No, Baby. This is it. After we leave here, I’ll just be a memory. One day you’ll look back and wonder if I ever existed at all.” Without waiting for his opinion she led him to the restroom. She closed and locked the door behind them. He eyed the green peeling paint with disdain. “You can’t seriously want me to take you in here?”
But she was already pulling her dress over her head. Her breasts filled her bra nicely and she guided his hands over them. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. His breath deepened and he buried his face in the crook of her neck kissing her, nipping at her tender skin. Her hands freed his erection and he forgot all of his objections as she stroked him. He set her up on the sink and groaned when she parted her thighs and pulled his hips between them. Her hands tugged urgently at his ass, and she begged him to push inside.
The rain picked up again as Lou lost himself in the rhythm of rocking in and out of her body, the hum of the downpour muffling her gasps. She felt like heaven wrapped around him. She felt like home. He gritted his teeth willing his body to hold off until she came. But she wasn’t trying to orgasm. She was just enjoying the feel of him sliding against her wet flesh. He kissed her lush mouth and pressed his forehead against hers, “Cara, I can’t last much longer…”
She kissed him again and pushed a hand between their bodies. She stroked herself and inched her fingers down to feel him pushing inside her. The feel of him was intense and erotic; it sent her spiraling out of control. She screamed out her pleasure and he covered her cries with his mouth. He kissed her and kissed her as she climaxed around him and he spilled himself inside her. They clung to each other, petting and stroking their backs and shoulders until they had to disengage themselves. They cleaned up and dressed in silence. The fantasy dissipated and they were strangers once more.
She smiled at him awkwardly and didn’t argue when he led her back to the table. She gathered her coat and shook his hand, unable to look him in the eye as she said goodbye. He watched her walk out the door and he tried not to cry.
Months had passed since his strange encounter with Cara. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he could still see her face—hear her laugh. He tried to forget her, to push her out of his mind. But her charm had enveloped him in ways he hadn’t expected. He went to the University and taught the students; he maintained his yard; he did everything he was supposed to do. But he woke up to twisted sheets, his body hungry for hers. He even went back to bar to see if she’d turn up there, but it was useless.
He stood in front of the new batch of juniors. He pulled up the slides and prepared to take roll call. The first day of the new semester was already wearing on him. He hadn’t realized how predictable his life had become until Cara had turned it upside down. He started to tell the boy at the end of the aisle to close the door, but was interrupted by a late-comer. “Can you squeeze me into your class, Mr. Thompson?”
He froze. He knew that voice. It had haunted him for countless nights. He turned to face the student and he recognized her instantly. There were new lines around her mouth and her eyes looked tired. She winked at him and ran a hand over her swollen belly. He turned white as a ghost and took a step back as realization dawned.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Someone comes along
Who hits you where you live
A secret to share
A joy to embrace
A royal pain the ass
What can you do
When someone so wild
Feels so right?
No sense in analyzing it
And for God's sake
Tell the man he's right!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Good old Nazareth could be found most Tuesdays on the corner of Lohman and Sangria Street selling his filthy wares. A spectator might be surprised to see his loyal clientele step right up for one of his dirty rags. Didn’t Sister Edith buy one last week? The townsfolk whispered behind simple shell fans, the heat blistered here in the South, but not nearly as harshly as the fires of hell poor Sister Edith was likely to endure. Twas a right pity, too, considering she was the organist at the First Baptist Church on Murrieta Ave.
All day long Mr. Nicholby would stand on his milk crate and holler at the downtown crowd. “Come on y’all! Come see the sweetest fruit you’ve ever seen. Nectar so delectable it’ll tickle your tongue and make you beg for more! I’ve got smut here, folks, best smut of the South!” Every so often he’d single out a pedestrian, “Hey you there! You wanna buy some smut, don’tcha? Come on now and help an ol feller out.” The townsfolk would blush and scurry off, trying valiantly to disassociate themselves from the smut peddler.
You could hear the desperation building in his voice as the sun wore high in the sky and his money box ran low. He’d pick up the old tin box and shake it. Nope. Nothing in there save a few rolling coins. Nazareth heightened his appeal; he implored the public square, “Please ladies and gents! Buy a bit of smut! Show some Southern pride and behold some of the finest Georgia peaches you’ve ever seen!”
But no one was buying. Few outside of his regular customers ever did. And then he saw something. Some college kids came waltzing down the sidewalk. Old Nazareth’s cloudy blue eyes perked up and he straightened his back. Surely they’d buy a bit of smut! “Howdy boys! You look like some healthy young men. Buy a bit of smut today?” The short one stopped and looked at the old man skeptically. “You selling dirty magazines in the middle of the square old man?”
Mr. Nicholby chuckled, “You betcha! Dirtiest rag in the South. I’ve got soft fuzzy peaches and ripe melons too pretty to be believed! And for you young man, only $5—a bargain!” The young man grinned and stepped foreword to hand Nazareth his money. “Sure, I’ll take one,” he looked at his friends and snickered. The old man put the money in his beat-up tin and handed the boy a magazine. The boys walked off laughing, but they didn’t get far.
The boy stomped back to Nazareth. “You ripped me off, old man! I want my money back.” Nazareth tapped his finger to an old hand printed sign on the side of his cart. “All sales are final. NO REFUNDS!!!” The young man huffed and threw the magazine on the ground. “I paid you for smut and THAT is not smut.”
Nazareth Nicholby laughed and slapped his knee. “Sure it is! Southern Monthly Utopian Topiaries. SMUT. It’s the best potted gardening magazine this side of the Mississippi. We specialize in topiary gardens, but there’s in an entire section in this issue on potted miniature fruit trees that I find particularly exciting.” With that he packed up his cart and grinned at the stunned young man. He turned his cart around and thunked it all the way home, the setting sun warm on his shoulders.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Awhile since I spoke in hushed tones
And laughed in your ear
Been awhile, Babe
Since I sent you a picture
Or just a smile
It'll be awhile yet
Before I kiss you sweetly
Link my lips to yours and hum
A soft, teasing whisper
Just for you to hear
A confession between friends...
Be awhile yet
Cuz life is such a mess
A tangled pendulum that swings...
But the sun sets over the mountains
And I feel you here, everywhere
Phantom arms to stroke and hold
Rock against you gently
While the light slowly fades
And dreams fly in the face of time
*Awesome Blog where I found that photo of the Organ Mts.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Sweat gathered in the folds of his neck. He’d tried to be a good man, tried to do the right things in his life. But somehow his good intentions always landed him turmoil. Everything he touched turned to shit. His marriage was shit. His job was shit. He was shit.
His legs trembled as the preacher called from the pulpit. “Jesus loves you! Come forward and accept Christ into your lives. Are there any sinners out there who feel the weight of the Lord calling to them? Heed the call children. Come humble and be redeemed!”
His lungs constricted as conviction gripped him. How could anyone love him—let alone the Messiah? He choked on his fat. His hands were stained green from the fluorescent lights at his pathetic job. He had nothing but the gulf of fear rooting him to the floor.
Could he face the man he was? Could he shine a light inside and search out the corners? Could he lay this at the Lord’s feet? He sobbed—a broken man. He coughed; he squirmed, no better than a worm on a hook. His life flashed though his ordinary brown eyes—spiraling down the eye of the needle, and plunging deep into his chest. It was madness. It was agony. It was every sin he’d ever committed crushing him.
He watched himself drinking into oblivion—numb to emotion—numb to love—numb to everything but drink. He saw the things he’d done for his wife, things he’d done as a child. He saw himself locked in the pantry, thinking evil thoughts as his mother cracked him with her yard stick. He saw his weakness. His willingness to please, his inability to stand up for himself—he watched in abject horror as he begged his cheating-bitch-of-a-wife for another chance.
He fell beneath the weight. He blubbered, clutching his heart. He was sure the pain was going to split him in half. His beet-red face creased with rivets of sweat. His eyes popped and he gasped. The preacher leapt over the pews screaming, “You feel the Lord, don’t you brother?! Accept him into your life and awake in the kingdom of God! Believe ye sinner and be healed!”
The man sobbed, his body wracked with guilt, self-hate, and pain. He slid down between the pews. The congregation whispered in hushed tones. “I think he’s having a heart attack,” said one lady. “No, it’s the Lord calling, praise be!” said another. Charles Olsen groaned, his vision blurring. His mind reeling, he began to pray, to plead for salvation. He whimpered incoherently and the preacher joined him, believing it to be tongues. He made deal after deal in his mind. He swore he’d change. He’d get it right. He’d be a better man if God would just let him live.
Out of desperation he cried out, “I believe!” And a white hot light cracked the church ceiling and shot through him. It ripped into his flesh and shone through his pores. It seared him, scorched his grotesque skin. It lifted him above the pews. The congregation screamed, some fell to their knees wailing—hands raised—others ran from the building. Charles opened his mouth to yell but his mouth was full of light. It poured from his suspended form and filled the church.
He was lifted from the church and pulled up into the sky. He was blind and drifting, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The light dissipated and he was cast into darkness. Red glowing orbs floated to him. “Yup. He’s definitely broken.” One orb glowed and spoke to the others. “Pity. Third one this week,” came the reply.
An older, larger, orb floated to him and looked him in the eye. Another orb, an onyx colored thing, asked from a doorway, “Is repair possible?” The large orb that stared into his eyes probed his thoughts. He watched, hypnotized by its shifting colors as it searched his memories. He couldn’t see a face, but sensed sadness emanating from its shiny surface. “No. 0349852 is broken beyond repair. Obsolete. Judgment: discard.”
He shook himself out of the trance and cried out, “No! Please, please give me another chance. Repair me. I beg you.” The large, shifting orb hovered in front of him. It flickered and then panels he’d not previously noticed peeled back and it transformed before his eyes. A beautiful woman stood over him. Ethereal light skimmed her skin and she shone silver in the darkness. Ice white hair cascaded down her back and she leaned in closer. “Be not afraid, 0349852, all men die.”
She stroked his cheeks and pressed her luminous lips to his chapped and sweaty ones. She opened her mouth and eased her tongue over his, calming him. She inhaled deeply and devoured his essence. She took his soul inside her body, becoming whole again. She’d given this essence to him 52 years ago in the hopes that he would use it well, that he would grow to be a great man. The experiment had failed. She stepped back from his empty shell.
She looked to the elders. “It’s not good to play God in the world of men. They come back broken, my brethren. We should find a new game.” She transitioned into her orb shape and hovered a moment before joining them. Lexall scoffed, “You’re too soft, Sarianna. It’s just sport.”