Friday, July 30, 2010

Fade Into You

*Photo from the movie, "From Here To Eternity"
Pictures flicker on the screen. A bright light shines from the projector. He loved taking videos from old reels. She watched herself bounce and shimmy. Wind whipping through her hair—a silent laugh jumps from the screen.
Bare feet caked with sand, she giggled and spun for him.
But it was just a home movie.
She’d never spin for him again.
Her movie self went still. Her eyes glazed over with the look of love. Her mouth froze and her movie self walked towards the camera. She leaned forward on the couch. Her drink slipped and hit the floor. Rum and coke seeped into the carpet. She didn’t care. This is the part where he kissed me.
The light flickered. A phantom hand waved her movie self away, but she was determined. Her face took up the whole screen. And then the camera tilted, angled downward and filmed sand before the reel ran out. Then the screen went black.
She leaned back and laced her fingers over her belly. She could still see him standing there; feel the sand between her toes. She closed her eyes and tasted his kiss. She didn’t know when or how, but she'd faded into him—and he’d never noticed it. There were so many things he'd never noticed.
Perhaps that’s why he’d been able to walk away so easily.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Hedonist And Clarity


Your song is playing tricks on me
Your primitive tune flowing free
Raw drumbeat, tattooing lust
Tempting lips, promising thrust

I'm becoming a hedonist
Starving for your kiss
Work your magic Voodoo man
Spin the spell--state your command

Nails on my skin
Need clawing so deep within
Touch me slow
And when the heat is strong--blow

Gotta lose myself to your rhythm
Gotta bend and stretch to your whim
Then steal your breath and bend you to mine
While our bodies keep the time

Strum my fingers across your mouth
A naughty glance travels south
Offering you everything
If you'll only dance with me...

Clarity: SmutFest 2010

Well, my pretty little Bloggers there are 6 days and counting till July, 31 2010 and the deadline for submissions. There has been some confusion, so please allow me to clarify.

1. You do not have to use a pseudonym if you don't want to--it's optional. If you want your blog linked when the winners and honorable mentions are posted, I will gladly do so. If you want it to remain anonymous, I can do that too. I'm all about choices. ;)

2. You do not have to write smut. You can write in any genre you enjoy. You don't have to write explicitly, you can write a clean piece. The point of this contest is to allow you to write the story you always wanted to write, but couldn't because of fear, morality, contest restrictions, etc. Think about pushing the envelope--testing boundaries. Consider the many authors who have helped shape our world. But whose works were burned or banned for challenging the status quo. Throw convention to the wind, free your mind, and write something pure and honest. Dare to be uninhibited. :)

Contest Guidelines:

1. Depravity is encouraged, but not a requirement. If you must keep it clean, that's perfectly fine. My goal is to pull honesty out of you all and see what truly lurks beneath your skin. I wanna see your writer's chops.

2. No graphic sex or violence involving children or animals. They're innocent--let's keep them that way. ;)

3. If you do run amok in the sewers of your mind (God Luv Ya!) be sure that it is crucial to the story. I do not want gore for gore's sake. I want gore that drives home the severity of the character's plight--or is hilariously perfect in the tale.

4. Submission guidelines: 12 pt font, black ink, double spaced, 500-2000 word ct. Any genre. Submission deadline: July 31. And send it here:

*I forgot to add...put "SmutFest 2010" in the subject line of your email , so I don't delete you. :)

I look forward to reading your works. Take care and be well. :)

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Sour Grapes

Faces in a lovely mosaic
Words that sound like poetry
But bring pain
And sadness between the lines

Give me a dime
I was fighting
For a love I thought was mine
Just a line in time

Poets sing
They laugh and cry
Bleed for their art
Love even tho they fall apart

The beauty in his eyes
Was captivating
The sureness of his goodbye
Unbelievably grating

There's a trick here
A lesson that jabs a blow
Smile and say
Never wanted to love, you know?

But it's just sour grapes
Thanks Asap
Call me Wolf
And away I stalk...

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

SmutFest 2010: I Want Your Smut -- Give It To Me!!!!!!

Photo stolen from Google. :D

Okay my darling Chicos y Chicas...something new for Crooked Tales.

I'm holding a contest.

While reading and occasionally participating in the contests here on Blogger I have found a few things to my disliking...the restrictions. Now...I'm all for "good clean fun" (if I'm totally wrecked from yummy naughty fun), but it does frustrate me some.

So...I messaged Cathy(she's a cheeky chica bonita!) and Alan (also a cheeky chica bonita--no I did NOT miss type--he's far too pretty sans beard!)...and asked what do you think of me hosting a SmutFest?

Cathy's my girl--she gets me--and was all for it. Alan thinks I'm mental and NO ONE will enter. Prove him wrong!!!! Hehehehe.

Now I know that many of you are respectable citizens of Bloggerville and would not dare sully your reputations for the likes of some good old fashioned American naughtiness, but I urge you--nay implore you--to use a pseudonym and stretch past your comfort zone. Have fun with this.

Now if you're still reading (you rock!!!) but you may be thinking, "Kat, I'm a dude and I don't do love scenes unless I've got half a bottle of Jose in me and a hot blond." To which I say, "Where's the closest liquor store?"


The truth is this contest is about letting the grown-ups play as grown-ups will. I'm taking off the gloves and inviting you to be yourselves. Write about sex, drugs, violence, gore, zombies, French poodles on acid and dyed pink--I don't care. It's your tale--you tell it.

All I'm saying is--don't hold back! If you need to get graphic--and it serves a purpose--do it. If your character absolutely has to drop the F bomb every third word--do it. Whatever you've been holding back in the name of decency--let loose.

But make it art. Make it poetry--gritty, deliciously devious poetry.

Show me the darker side of humanity. Show me the twisted irony of life. Make me laugh, make me cry, but dang it all--make me feel something. No fluff, "Awe...that's so sweet" pieces.

So the Rules:

1. Depravity is encouraged, but not a requirement. If you must keep it clean, that's perfectly fine. My goal is to pull honesty out of you all and see what truly lurks beneath your skin. I wanna see your writer's chops.

2. No graphic sex or violence involving children or animals. They're innocent--let's keep them that way. ;)

3. If you do run amok in the sewers of your mind (God Luv Ya!) be sure that it is crucial to the story. I do not want gore for gore's sake. I want gore that drives home the severity of the character's plight--or is hilariously perfect in the tale.

4. Submission guidelines: 12 pt font, black ink, double spaced, 500-2000 word ct. Any genre. Submission deadline: July 31. And send it here:

*I forgot to add...put "SmutFest 2010" in the subject line of your email , so I don't delete you. :)

Q: What do you receive if you win?

A: The thrill of knowing you were chosen by your peers. Ever think that the Friday Flash is a bunch of back patting bs? I have. I wanna know what people really think of my writing and not wonder if they're just giving me a polite blanket statement.

So what will happen is that I will pick the three best entries and post them as "anonymous" on Crooked Tales on August 6th and put it to a vote. Everyone can put their vote for the winner in their comments. You'll have all weekend to cast your vote. Only one vote per customer! If you have multiple personalities and ALL personalities enter--then one vote per personality. I will declare the winner Monday August 9th and announce the names of the top three. I'll also start posting the honorable mentions.

I believe in democracy, but I also think it's a great opportunity to really find out how your work is viewed on it's own merit--without your name involved.

So if you're up for it--tell your friends. Pimp out this little SmutFest and for crying out loud...enter!

To kick it off:

The Blow-Up Doll

The truth is never quite so clear as when it’s crammed down your throat without a choice or chance to turn your head away and reject it. It sticks and chokes you, showing it’s cold reality regardless of your death gasps, fills your mouth with rancid cum. She looked in the mirror, grimacing at the lines around her mouth, her eyes, new lines that were undeserved.

They said she was pretty, but she just didn’t see what they saw. They said she had beautiful eyes and a sweet mouth. But all she could see were dead doll eyes—glassed over and sad—a mouth too big for her face and over painted. Her hands ran the length of her body, clawed at the top of her bra. Angry red lines followed and scratched her pale, tender skin. She bled in the tracks as she pulled the edges of her bra down to stare at her breasts.

Awkward, heavy, bulging breasts hung from her body. They were cone shaped with huge, dark nipples. She rolled her nipples between her fingers, closed her doll eyes, and moaned. The slickness between her thighs betrayed her yet again.

She hated her body. She hated the lust that controlled her. Hated the weakness, the fat, the lines, everything. She hated the attention she got. She especially hated the compliments. Tears welled up and she thought of the hands that had touched her—trained her. She remembered the feel of her knees being pried apart when she was ten. She could still feel his probing hands. She could see the scars lashed across her face. No one else saw them, but she knew they were there. Her skin burned under their lines.

She remembered the boys she’d kissed. Remembered the lies they’d told. “I love you” a hollow thing tugging on the zipper of her jeans, sweet kisses that laid her down on the grass and moved between her legs. She remembered the early morning sun rising, revealing the truth to her naive eyes. The look on their faces, the awkward pause as love was shown to be a fraud.

It was all bullshit. She remembered everything—each insult—each lie—each false kiss.

She saw it for what it was. She saw herself clearly. She’s was nothing more than vessel for release, a broken blow-up doll to be popped and discarded. She picked up the knife. She looked at it. She looked in the mirror. Cut away the hate, the pity, and the lies. Cut away the eyes, the mouth, and the breasts. Cut it all away. Leave the bloody doll for the fucking coroner. She watched the blood fall through robotic eyes until there were no eyes left to see.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010


So. I have this friend who is running her very own heartbreak boot camp. Sweet, right? Lol. I need one. Anyway. She gave me an assignment to keep my troubled mind busy. :)

Write a flash, 101 word count, about Hope. Lol. It was harder than I thought it'd be. But here it goes:


Hope is a red balloon drifting toward a yellow sun. It bounces on the wind current and buoys in a sea of chaos, trailing its tail over power lines. Always one second away from getting zapped or pecked by kamikaze birds.

It drifts unhurried, creating its own symphony of sound. A small squeak as it rubs against plastic cups discarded in an old telephone pole that bears scars that read, “Jenny loves Steven 4 Ever.”

Still it forges forward, riding the wind until the last moment. It’s fearless and bold.

Until it hits a pine tree then it just goes…


Lol. Okay, so a different friend has been feeding me YouTube videos that remind him of me. Hehehehee. Pretty hot ones! So enjoy:

Monday, July 12, 2010

Full Circle

I met him for drinks at La-La LaBoo’s. He was hunkered at the bar, his long white fingers tapered unnaturally around the glass. I eyed the contents with open suspicion. To be honest, the thick red liquid nearly sent me bolting from the bar. His shoulders slumped and I could read the defeat in each line.

Something lured me to him. Was it the sadness in his expression? Was it the wide flourish of his arms as he spun to greet me? I can’t say. I was as surprised as the rest of the bar when my feet marched up to him. I tossed my purse on the bar and tapped the hard wood. “Hey barkeep,” a gnarled old creature who looked suspiciously like my date times 20 hobbled over, “Might I bother you for a Tequila Sunrise, Good Sir?” He mumbled about high maintenance women and fruity drinks under his breath, but filled my order.

I smiled at the barkeep broadly as he slid my drink down the bar. It landed in a sticky mess, spilling over my perfectly manicured nails—so I licked them clean. My date eyed my hands with open disdain. “Lazy,” he tisked, “you never had long nails before.” I chuckled and drummed the bar’s surface, enjoying the clicking sound. “I’m a liberated woman, Sweetie. You kicked my ass to the curb. So I decided that long nails are sexy. Like ‘em?” He scoffed and swallowed the remnants of his drink. “No. What’s next? A tattoo? How’d you pay for it anyway?”

I winked at him then, my lips curling like a fat cat licking cream. “I didn’t. Nick did.” His eyes narrowed on my face. “Nick? Is that your boyfriend?” I laughed gaily. “Who needs a boyfriend when they just break your heart? No…he’s just one of many friends.” His eyes narrowed on my features and I could almost hear him counting to ten. “Friends. Pfft. What good are people? You should be a rock, like me.”

I squeezed his arm. “Don’t be jealous. I love you best of all and always will. But you’re…” I laughed, searching for the right word, “you’re you.” He yanked his arm away as if burned by my touch. “And that’s a bad thing? I’m sexy and witty and funny. Heck, I’m an ace of a man!” His declaration made me smile. “Don’t forget modest.” I nodded and raised my glass to toast him.

He slammed his fist drunkenly on the bar. “Bartender! Another glass of wine—nay bring the bottle, my good man!” The fossil turned toward my date and snarled, “Ye’ve had four bottles already. Ye be done now, so pay up!” I watched the veins pop out of my date’s neck and I laughed hysterically. “Heck of a place you picked.” He barked at me—like a dog—literally barked! At which I howled like a wolf. He leaned in close and whispered drunkenly in my ear. “It suits me.”

I couldn’t argue that point. He seemed a carved fixture of the rat hole. It saddened me though. I could see that he was so much more than that. Why couldn’t he? I said nothing, just followed quietly as he led me from the bar.

“You’ll have to drive.” I smiled at him, “Too drunk old man?” He huffed. “You know I don’t drive, Kitten.” My heart skipped a beat at the use of his old pet name for me—I immediately squelched the flutter. Fuck that. I dug my keys out. “Figures, 300 years old and still can’t drive.” He hopped in my car as if he were naught a day over 44. I quirked my lips and gunned the engine—laughing aloud as he freaked and the tires burned rubber. We skidded out of La-La LaBoo’s parking lot. “Where to, Chico?”

“Drive to the outskirts of town. There’s a surprise I wanna show you.” His surprises were rarely good, but what the hell? For old time’s sake, I headed out of town. The road snaked ahead and the night got blacker without the city lights to brighten the sky. The yellow moon sagged fat and heavy in the cloudless sky—but felt oddly hollow. “Ominous moon,” I commented and shivered uncomfortably. My date grinned, his fangs catching in the yellow light. “It suits me.” That was the second time tonight he’d said that. Always bring things full circle was his motto, a strange thing to remember, but there it was.

I drove until the road turned to dirt and forked. One way sloped into darkness and I couldn’t see past the hilltop. Alongside the road straight ahead sat an old Baptist church and ancient cemetery. The path to the left seemed the safest; I detected street lights and a hint of pavement, possibly a development. My date tapped the passenger side window, “This way Kitten.” I could barely contain my misgivings, but steered the car toward the dark slope. “You’re lucky I trust you, Chico.”

We bounced down the rickety track and skidded to a stop just before a cornfield. My date hopped out of the car and took my hands in his ice cold ones. He skipped cheerily toward the corn—dragging me behind him. “Close your eyes, Kitten. You’ll love this!” I obeyed and he swung me round in a clearing, and then kissed me sweet.

His breath felt wonderful—his searching tongue—even better. I tasted his wine and a hint of something else—something salty-sweet. Then I felt a blindfold close over my eyes. The cold night air raised goose bumps along my skin as he unbuttoned my shirt kissing the hollow of my neck, the valley between my breasts. I moaned—I couldn’t help it. The man had skills. I felt my bra give and my breasts fell, heavy and swollen. His hands covered them, pinching my nipples between his fingers.

I took a ragged breath and gripped his hands with mine. “Please…” I whispered. He laughed—cool breath on my ear. “Patience Kitten.” He moved behind me and slid one hand down my body, slipping between my thighs, rubbing gently on my jeans. “Are you wet for me, Kitten?” I turned my head toward his voice, and moaned weakly, “Yes.” He patted me intimately and I doubled forward—on fire with sensation. “Good girl.” He sounded pleased with himself as he righted me. He unzipped my jeans and slid them down—then laughed when he saw I wasn’t wearing any panties, “Nice.”

He left me there—naked and blindfolded in the middle of the cornfield.

I reached for the blindfold and he scolded me, “Not yet, Kitten.” I dropped my hands to my sides and waited. A few moments passed and then I felt a warm liquid rush over my head and slip down my naked body. I shrieked and ripped the blindfold off. “What did you do?!” He fell over laughing and I saw that he was naked, too.

I looked at my hands. Red. Blood red.

I looked at my date. He’d fully recovered and was watching my expression. My eyes went wide. My mouth went slack. He placed an arm behind him and bowed regally, then stretched his claw like fingers toward me. “A dance, My Sweet?” I stared at him like a dummy—dripping blood. Whose blood, I didn’t want to know.

He stood up and frowned. “Hmmm…you aren’t drunk enough.” My eyes bulged and I snapped, “Doubt if I could ever be drunk enough, Chico.” He grinned and I swear to Jesus that his fangs were longer—nearly touching his chin.

He clapped his hands and servant wenches came forth from the corn. They carried huge vats of some fermented beverage and poured pitchers for he and I. Flowers adorned their long flowing tresses and white skirts draped their hips, falling to the ground. Blood stained their hems red and I watched their bare breasts glitter in the moonlight. I licked my lips and he smiled at me.

He grabbed the prettiest wench and thrust her before for me. “Want to drink from her breasts, Kitten?” I shook my head no and turned away. He slapped her on the ass and sent her off. I stifled a stab of jealousy. This was the strangest night ever.

He handed me a pitcher and bade me to drink. I hesitated, unsure of what he’d do if I did…or if I didn’t. I raised the pitcher to my lips and drank deeply. Sweet, tangy, fruity wine slipped down my throat. So I drank more—greedily emptying the container. He took it and refilled it. I drank that one, too.

Then he spun me in his arms, my warm flesh pressed to his cold skin. I heard music hum from the corn. Sweet violins sang soprano strains to primitive drumbeats. Heaven and earth merged as we danced naked in blood under the obese yellow moon. A white dove flew high over head and cried a mournful cry. I tilted my head to watch it.

As I leaned back he nibbled the column of my throat. My vision blurred and I tried to focus on his hawk eyes, but I saw four, then six, then eight of them—swirling into a mosaic of eyeballs. “Zat wine’s some good shhhhit” I slurred—not my sexiest moment. He laughed coolly in my ear, “Relax and enjoy it.” I realized that he seemed oddly sober. I didn’t like that, but my arm swung wildly when I tried to slug him.

He laid me on the cold damp ground and lapped the blood from the bottom of my breasts to my nipples, his fingers worked magic between my parted thighs. I moaned and arched against his hand. I cried out his name…it’s the last thing I remember.


I awoke in my bed—squeaky clean and neatly dressed in satin p-jays. I looked at my hands. My new nails were filed short and I laughed to myself. “Bastard.” I patted my body down, puzzling over what had happened, how I’d gotten home, and washed and tucked into bed. My breasts and thighs were sore. Guess I had a good time. I laughed louder and made a dash for the toilet. My bladder was screaming as I pulled my pajama bottoms down. Then I saw it—two perfect fang marks on my inner thigh. My heart sank. I looked in the mirror—I was pale. Dark circles formed under my eyes. The cock-sucker drained me!

I stood there glaring at the mirror with my pants at my ankles and growled my displeasure. “Damn you, Mr. Gully! Meet you for drinks, my ass!”

Friday, July 9, 2010

Fu Manchu: The Return of Sniffles

I watch the roulette wheel spin with mild disdain. I never approved of Uncle Chuckles’ gambling addiction. If I told him once, I told him a thousand times—the lottery is not a practical retirement plan. Pfft. Men. What can you do? I watched the little ball bounce. I could see my deranged angel chanting, “Black 25, black 25” in his head.

I yawn. I stretch. I hike my leg up and lick myself. What? You would, too, if you could. The ball bounces. I’m tempted to hop down and run off with the damn thing—to teach them all a lesson. But black cats are barely tolerated as it is. Best not push my luck. The ball stops. “Red 23!”

Sigh…if I told him once…I watch his face fall. My beloved Uncle Chuckles—even his orange tufted hair seems sad. He points to his cart full of fresh cans—our livelihood. He wouldn’t! He did. My ears perk up and I sit rigid and focused as he haggles away this week’s money. I yell “Reeer!” as I shoot through the air at him. I love that man, but he can be a royal pain in the ass.

“Sniffles!” He shouts and dodges my attack. I snub him and twitch my tail as I stalk into the shrubbery. He got my point—I’m sure of it. I go search for mice, but find a ground mole instead. Those are quick little suckers, let me tell you! I work up a sweat swatting it to and fro—darting in quick, sure steps as it tries to escape my razor sharp claws.

I forget about the roulette wheel as I swallow its tail. Mmmm…tasty. I stalk back to the gambling hobos and take my rightful spot next to Uncle Chuckles. Peter Pickansquat, stirs the mystery stew—and it smells divine! I lean over and sniff the air. Ah the main course after a yummy appetizer. No wonder I’m getting fat.

Uncle Chuckles reaches down and scratches my ears absently, then tallies up his winnings. It seems his luck had changed while I was hunting. He smiles at me and says, “There’s my good girl, Sniffles. I’ve got a surprise for you.” A surprise? I lick his hand and he chuckles deep in his big belly. “Ah, ah. Wait until it’s time, Sniffles.” He winks at me and my heart overflows with love for him. My beloved, my deranged angel, my heart beats for thee! I’m such a ma-roon.

We sit in relative comfort, supping with fellow bums—outcasts with stories of the “normal” folk. Willy Tinkerton and coughs, “I saw this dame with seams running up the backs of her legs—you know—the sexy stockings? Well she bends over to pick up her wailing brat and I ken see them seams go straight up to her arse. Poetry I tell ya—pure poetry.” Skidmark laughs and says, “Yeah? Did ya get a piece of that action, Willy?”

I laugh to myself—the idea! Sure, Willy’s a good enough bloke, but no “normal” chick would want a piece of that craggy old soul. His good eye frowns—his wayward eye does whatever the heck it wants. I lick my paw and stroke my ears. Willy clears his throat, “Naw. The brat threw up on her. Right pity, too. She had a nice rack to match them stockings.”

Skidmark slugs Willy and passes the tin of cornbread to Uncle Chuckles. My deranged angel thanks him and speaks strong and clear. I stop grooming myself to listen. “I had a wife once…she wore silk stockings with a seam running up the back.” We all stared in shock. Uncle Chuckles was the most antisocial bastard this side of the Mississippi! He shrugged, “I used to love to run my hands over those seams…I left her with our boy…I reckon he’d be close to eighteen by now.”

I sit back to process this revelation. I’m not the only woman in his life? How can that be? I lie down on his knee and purr. He strokes my head and my jealousy subsides. We eat in silence after that. I doubt that anyone knew quite what to say. We break just before dawn. The light from the fire is ebbing—the light from the sky cracking into unfathomable hues of red, yellow, and blue.

Uncle Chuckles packs up his winnings and we walk quietly back to our makeshift tent. “I shouldn’t have told them that, Sniffles.” I gaze at him sympathetically. There isn’t any secret that can phase my love for him. I rub against his legs and he trips over me. I hear him chuckle, “You mental cat!” I smile with satisfaction—whatever it takes to make him smile is what I’ll do.

He unloads his winnings, carefully sorting them and placing them in shoeboxes. And then he pulls a wiggling bundle from his coat. “Sniffles, come here sweet girl.” I saunter up to him—at my own pace. I peek at the bundle, smelling trouble. He opens the cloth and out pops an orange tabby. I sneeze. Uncle Chuckles scratches the tabby’s ears. I see red. “This is Mr. Tibs. Treat him nice Sniffles.”

I glare at the intruder. I glare at Uncle Chuckles. He goes gambling with our meager wages and brings back a…a…a Mr. Tibs! Oh the nerve! The tabby-cat sits on his ass and licks himself. I walk up to him, “Hey round boy,” I say, “You better stay outta my way. You hear me?” He ignores me and turns to scratch his shoulder. Oh great. He’s got fleas. Unclean! I shake with outrage and stalk off to find a critter to kill.

I don’t come back for two whole days. I’m sure that my deranged angel is sick with worry—but no. I catch him outfitting the flea-bitten round boy with a top hat and a bowtie. “There’s a nice boy, Mr. Tibs.” I burn. I seethe. I mean to tell you I’m fit to be tied and I take off again. How dare my beloved pamper that lazy sack of pompous-do-nothing-flea-motel?! Where is my tiara?! Doesn’t he know that I’m the next Queen of Sheba? Men!

I stay gone two more days and this time when I return I see my beloved sleeping soundly. The lazy waste of fur sits grooming himself. I walk up to Uncle Chuckles and twitch my tail in his face. “Hello,” I say. I purr. I pounce. I knead my claws in his chest—nothing. Huh? This isn’t right. I walk up to shit-for-brains and demand, “What’d you do to my beloved?” Mr. Tibs yawns and clicks his claws, one by one. “He’s dead. Found him like that this morning.”

Panic grips me cold and frantic—racing through my blood. Dead? Impossible! I run back to my deranged angel. I jump on his chest. I pound on his heart. I lick his whiskers. I nudge his hand with my head. “Pet me!” I scream and sob and meow for all I’m worth. But nothing brings him back to me. I curl up on his chest and try to offer warmth.

Shit-for-brains scoffs and yells, “Hey, dumbass, he’s dead. Get over it.” He runs into the open field. I yell, “Traitor!” But it sounds more like a squeak. I lay there all day, remembering our adventures. I’d weep, but my eyes are dry. The sun is starting to set. Who will find him, I wonder? Who will lay him to rest with the honor he deserves? It kills me to think of him laying here for days or weeks until someone finds him.

And then I remember the night he talked about his family. I rifle through his pockets and the fabric makes me sneeze. I don’t know what I’m searching for—or why I even care. I mean, he did betray me. But I dig anyway. Sneeze and burrow. Sneeze and burrow. And then I find it.

It’s old and yellowed—slightly frayed. I pull it out with tender teeth, careful not to tear it. A photograph with feather-soft edges drifts onto his chest. A young Uncle Chuckles with a Fu Manchu mustache and Gallagher hair bounces a curly haired child on his knee. An elegant woman smiles as she leans over the back of the chair and watches them. She looks so in love. How could she not be? How could anyone not love him?

I nuzzle his cheek and purr mournfully one last time. Then I take the photograph in my teeth and set off to find them. They have to know he died. They have to mourn him. They have to remember him. I couldn’t stand it if this all there is to his tale. I twitch my tail and stalk off into the tall grass. And I sneeze.

*This is Part Two of The Sniffles Saga. Read Part One here. Also, I dunno who did the painting, but I like it. ;)

Friday, July 2, 2010

If I Write You A Love Song...

She was the craziest woman he’d ever known. She could talk him into things he’d normally never consider. She pulled him through the mall and put a quarter in the merry-go-round, hands on hips she looked at him expectantly.
“It’s for children!”
“So? We were kids once.” She threw a leg over the miniature lion. It was a circus theme. She was far too large for the ride and looked a bit like Alice after drinking the potion. He laughed and looked around nervously. “Someone will see!”
She tossed her head back and giggled. “It’s a public mall. I expect someone will see. Are you gonna let every chance at pleasure pass you by?” The mechanical ride went around slowly, a soft clown song bubbling from the speakers. He felt skewered by her disappointed eyes. He yanked off his tie and set his briefcase down. The ride was almost over, so he dropped another quarter in the coin slot. He waited for the elephant to come around and pulled himself up by its tusks.
It was silly to do this, but he caught himself grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a merry-go-round. He watched her move to the horse next to him. She leaned over and kissed him as they went round and round. She kissed him as if they were the only people in the world…instead of two crazies in mall courtyard.
They walked from the mall hand in hand. He opened the door to the passenger side for her and she dropped to the seat. He grinned like a loon as he climbed behind the wheel. He fired the engine and pulled out of the lot. Traffic in town was the worst. Congested with cars crammed together like rats in a flooded sewer, he deftly navigated the streets.
Finally the traffic eased up as he drove to the outskirts of the city. The long, black, country road wound ahead—a welcoming stretch of fresh pavement. He listened to her giggle as she went on and on about some crazy exhibit she’d seen in seventh grade. He smiled to himself as he pictured her at that awkward stage of female puberty.
He looked over at her pretty face and allowed himself a moment to admire the noticeable swell of her breasts. He was truly smitten, lost in thought and happy for the first time in years.
Then she screamed.
He turned back to the road.
A semi was hurling toward them. He’d veered into the wrong lane. He tried to correct the car and get back over, but it was too late. His face dripped sweat, his pulse raced, and her screams deafened him. The last thing he saw was a Breyers Ice Cream advert plastered across the trailer.
They collided.
She stopped screaming.
Everything went black.
“I think it’s tragic--so sad. I mean, he was just starting to evolve…and now this.” She leaned in and whispered to her daughter—as if whispering somehow made gossip better—less sleazy. Her daughter shrugged and said simply, “I don’t think we should be talking about this, Mom. I mean, Uncle Ray has been through a lot. Let’s just let him be.”
Dea Carter sat back, aghast. “Augustine Carter, what did you just say to your mother?” Augustine sighed and set her coke on the kitchen table. “I told you to call me Auggie! I’m just saying that we shouldn’t be talking about Uncle Ray like this.” Dea clucked her tongue, “If Ray had been living appropriately this never would have happened. Honestly, taking up with a hippie like that.”
“Ahem,” Both ladies turned to see Ray standing there. Lord, he looked rough. He stumbled over to the liquor cabinet and unlocked it. He grabbed a bottle of red wine and turned to face them. “I’m drunk, not deaf. Don’t say that shit in my house.” He moved past his sister, Dea, and up the stairs to his room.
He sat on his bed and cracked open the bottle. He drank it straight out of the container. Ah…sweet, sweet alcohol. He smiled, setting the bottle on the floor and rolled over on the bed. He could still smell her scent on her pillow. Give it a sec, he thought, and the booze will leave me hazy enough to sleep.
“If I write you a love song, will you love me forever?” She smiled sweetly, her breasts crushed against his chest as they lay naked in bed. He kissed her neck and smiled at her giggle. She tweaked his nipple and kissed his mouth. “Well, will you?” He ran his hands down the length of her back and cupped her ass tightly under the blankets. He pulled her groin hard against his and moaned. “Mmmm…love is just a fleeting thing, Baby. It comes, it goes. But this? This moment is forever. No one can take it away.”
She pushed up away from him. “So you don’t love me? Or you just don’t love at all?” He sighed. “Don’t ruin a great moment, Babe. You have me here. I come back to you every night. I think about you all the time. Isn’t that enough?”
She frowned, her free spirit crumbling. “You’ll never say the words, will you?” He sat up and pushed her away. “I’m a man. I think with my cock. What more do you want?” Her face fell and she turned away. He looked at her, feeling inadequate and guilty, She mumbled into her chest, but he heard her. “I want you to love me.”
Ray awoke from the dream and looked at her side of the bed. He could see her there through bloodshot, drunken eyes. He saw her smile. “So if I write you a love song, will you love me forever?” Her apparition was as sexy as she’d been in life. Tears spilled over his cheeks. “Yes.” He reached for her. “Yes, Baby, I will.”

Thursday, July 1, 2010


I see the colors shift and change
Watch them spin out of control
I remember the words we said
Remember the promise of joy

I heard it in your voice
Felt it in your tone
Was I really so young?
So naive?

The things that I believed
Nail my ass to the wall
I thought you said
You'd catch me when I fall?

Another dream slips away
And joy is just as elusive
As it was yesterday
Another lie from phantom lips

Toss a bottle in the sea
Still just passing ships
Wondering if
Love can set me free