Crooked Tales

Love Is a Crispy Egg-roll

2011-12-02T13:01:00.001-07:00

“What’s this?” I scornfully pushed the brown gelatinous log around my plate.

“What’s what?” Mary looked at me with sincere confusion, eyes red rimmed with fatigue.

I pointed at the mutant morsel she had set before me. She rolled her eyes. “It’s an egg-roll, George. Eat it.” I frowned, not quite sure I believed her. I stabbed it. I swear a small, strained voice shouted, “Help me!”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked her. “Nothing,” she retorted. I speared it again with my fork. Death spasms gripped it and the guts came spilling out of the limp, lifeless wrapper. White chicken meat for blood—it was a massacre on my dinner plate. “I think it’s dead.” She scoffed, “Perhaps it’s a bit soggy, but it tastes fine. Just eat it.” I flipped the crime against Chinese cuisine over and gaped in pure horror at the clear slime oozing over its rump. “Why isn’t it crispy?”

Annoyance stiffened the angle of Mary’s shoulders. “I microwaved it. I was tired. It’s been a long day and the twins had me up all night. I just wanted to fix something quick and easy that would at least be warm in your tummy. I’m sorry!” Her head tilted forward and I could see that she could barely keep her eyes open. The twins, huh? Yes, I could see those adorable little soul-suckers keeping her up. But there was still no excuse for the travesty she was deceitfully passing off as food. “I see,” I said, crestfallen. “You don’t love me anymore.”

Her head snapped up and sleepy disorientation pulled her eyebrows together. “Huh? What do you mean I don’t love you anymore?” I turned slightly away from her to hide my smirk and continued in a wounded voice. “It’s okay Mary, the last two years have been great. I knew having the twins would change things, couldn’t really expect you to love me forever. Don’t worry about it.”

She sat up straight in her chair, suddenly awake. “How can you say that?! The Orange Chicken and rice are okay, aren’t they? No complaints there, right?” I sniffed softly to myself, but loud enough that she could hear me. “Well…I didn’t want to say anything…” Her bloodshot Hawk eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s wrong with the Orange Chicken, George?” Her words ground against her teeth.

I shrugged. “It’s nothing…it’s…” I paused for effect. “Well, do you remember back when you used to love me?” I heard her outraged gasp of protest, but plunged on quickly. “You remember you used to make the Orange Chicken look so pretty? You’d put diced scallions over top, a lovely fringe of white rice edging the tasty, perfectly golden brown chicken. The orange sauce would gracefully cascade over the top—pretty as a picture.” I looked at the pile of slop all mixed together, no scallions in sight and sighed with sweet reverie. “And the egg-rolls! Oh the crispy, delectable egg-rolls! That’s when you loved me, Mary, that’s when. Do you remember?”

I met her stunned, slack-jawed expression. It was so hard not to laugh.

Her pathetic protest: “You can’t be serious! I was so tired…I made it exactly the same!”

I squeezed her hand to offer comfort. “It’s okay,” I said. I stabbed a soggy chunk of egg-roll and tried to pick it up, but it slid defiantly off of my fork, plopping on my plate in a gooey slush. “I’ll eat the egg-roll of decayed love. I won’t complain.” She jumped to her feet and spirited my plate away. The sad lonely, smashed egg-roll bit—that I’d finally speared successfully—hung from my fork in midair.

She said nothing, but the slamming of cupboard doors and pots spoke violently. I sneaked a peek into the kitchen. Even the stove seemed to complain as the tic, tic, tic gave way to the angry whoosh of flames. She poured oil into the skillet. I walked carefully into the room, tossed the diseased disfigured roll in the sink, and clapped my hands together like a little school girl. “I knew you still loved me!” Mary whirled on me, a frozen egg-roll clutched dangerously between the talons of her cooking tongs. “Babe,” she snapped, “dead man walking.” I grinned broadly and risked a quick kiss on her cheek. I practically skipped to the dinning room. Yup, I thought, nothing says love like a crispy egg-roll.

The Masterpiece

2011-09-02T12:53:00.000-06:00

“You can’t be serious!”

Abraham looked sympathetically at his friend. “Ah, but Theo,I am deadly serious. It was his dying wish and who are we to circumventit?” He smiled kindly as Theo’s powderblue eyes cleared of the confusion of his many long years and looked lovinglyat the panels.

Then they both looked at the fire.

It raged with a controlled vengeance, hungry enough todevour the world but held fast to its leash. The wood panels lay innocently onthe ground. The moonlight flickered—no—caressed the lacquered boards. Paintflowed in a perfect succession of brush strokes—wild—then calm. An old man’sface loomed from a sea of Mars black, etched inthe paint. Cobalt eyes wept with both love and pity. The old man floated in thesky high above the world, arms stretched outward…grasping…pleading. A millionsouls fell into a sea of filth and despair. Engaged in sex and murder, lust andhate they created their own sewer as they drifted to the depths of hell. Thesewer split and reemerged on the second panel. Angels sang in a soundlesschorus as Jesus raised his arms to his Father. His perfect features begged formercy.

The two old men stared wordlessly at the panels. The tug ofwar between father and son, the sorrow dripping from their faces, as theywatched man create his own demise was surreal. The angels sang—the first bardsto record the Black Day of Judgment. It had taken Charles 54 years to perfectit. He had painted with a two inch brush in broad strokes and then gone overthose strokes with the smallest brush he could find. Indeed the tools used tocreate the piece were laid lovingly beside it. The tiny brush so worn that tapeheld it together. The fine horse hair bristles were long gone and replaced withthe pointed ends of Charles’ own strands.

Theo grasped Abraham’s arms, “Please Abe, reconsider. Onceit’s gone…the world should see it! They should know…” he broke off toodistraught to finish. Abe squeezed his shoulder. Abe was in his 80’s and in no conditionto lift the solid cherry wood, six foot long panels alone. Abraham would needTheo’s help to do this. “We’ll have to work fast Theo or we’ll never have theheart to finish this monstrous act.”

Theo looked up, eyes wet for the loss of their close friend,for the loss of his life’s work. “Monstrous indeed. You know this isn’t rightAbe. This is his Masterpiece!” Abraham shook his head slowly. “No Theo. It willbe his masterpiece when we finish the task at hand. He trusted us. We mustfollow through.”

They raised the first panel and tossed it with a heave ontothe fire. Flames shot up as high as they could see when the lacquer finishstruck. The fire was pleased to feast on such a treat. They threw the secondpanel on top of the first. Theo collapsed from strain and grief. Abrahamreached down for the brushes, pallet, and paint. He fed them to the roaringbeast.

They watched the panels melt and burn. They watched theflames lick the paint from the boards. They held each other in mourning as thefire began to eat it. When the last flame flickered they rose and gathered upthe hot ashes that remained.

They filled the urn with them.

Hours later they placed the urn on the table and stole theurn holding Charles’ true ashes. He said his life was nothing without his workand, therefore, his death irrelevant. He wanted his art to be mourned, nothimself. So he asked them to swap the ashes—to hide his body away—and mourn histrue self.

They scattered his body to the wind…and remained silent asthe parlor filled with loved ones. A large portrait of Charles rested proudlyon an easel next to the urn. He’d requested that there be no viewing of hisbody, just a humble memorial service for his charred masterpiece.

Phoenix

2011-07-22T19:14:00.004-06:00

A bird on fire streaks through desolate clouds that hanglike sagging tits from a black-purple sky. Rollthe joint between your fingers, man. Feel it? That’s some good shit now. Pushthe shaggy edges of limp brown hair behind my ears and take a hit. Puff, puff, pass.

Shelly crawls over to sit in my lap. Her tiny breasts—justnipples at best—push violently against my chest as she works her mouth overmine. She takes a tablet and puts it on her tongue then kisses me, the tabletslipping from her tongue to mine then back to hers again. I feel her grindinghotly against me. Color bursts behind my eyelids.

The flaming bird screams now—shrieks into the midnight moon.

Shelly crawls over me to sit in Jim’s lap. She kisses him,slips him some acid like she did me. Grinding—ride the waves of pleasure. It’sfreedom, youth on a shoestring swinging in the breeze, flowing like steam fromdesert roads that snaps soundly against a crisp New Mexico sunset. Even as I sit amongstfriends, even as I contemplate the kaleidoscope of fireworks spreading out likesex starved virgins before me, I sense the fragility of the moment. I sense thedelicate skin of a bloated balloon seconds from popping—the final death throeof childhood as the adult emerges.

Shelly grabs Jen by her hands, pulls Jen to her feet. Theydance—modern witches around a pagan bonfire. Water splashes in Jim’s glass andhe hurls it at them. Wet breasts strain through wet tank tops. Angels at theirpeak—they’ll never be this beautiful and uninhibited again. Their hands roamover each other, Sirens calling, they kiss. Tongues entwine until they breakapart to lure Jim and me. Serpentine arms beckon with the promise of a warmembrace.

I rise to greet the Sirens’ call. The bird explodes into amillion ashes in the shadow sky.

When I sit in the clinic I only remember glassy eyes and wettongues sliding over taut skin. When the doctor wipes his tired eyes with gnarledfingers I hear Jen’s soft sighs, feel the tremble of her thighs. The doc clearshis throat. He looks at the floor. I see Shelly’s big blue eyes staringprovocatively from across the fire. I see Jim bend her body like a whip. Thedoctor is frustrated. Angry lines turn his brow into mangled tree roots.

I see the flaming bird incinerate. I wait for it to be bornagain. I wait for it to rise from the ashes. I watch Jen pull my face to hers. Fuck me hard. I wait amongst strangersor were they friends? I slide into the slick-salty-sweet honey pot of ecstasyand ride the waves. Surfer of lust—I watch and stroke deep. Watch and stroke.Watch and stroke. I wait for the bird to flame into life. I ride this youthlike there’s no yesterday, no tomorrow, only this minute, this second, thisbreath.

Did you hear what Isaid, Son? You’re HIV Positive.

By Virtue

2011-07-14T21:02:00.003-06:00

Jasira means bold, courageous.

He watched the sunlight disappear in her raven hair andsmiled at the memory. She’d told him that when he’d first met her. Her brotherhad slapped her, of course, for speaking. But Charles had enjoyed the defiancein her black-almond eyes moments before she bowed her head and trailed afterher sibling.

It was impossible to get heralone. So he’d wait until school let out to water his garden—any excuse towatch her pretty face. She would even wave to him sometimes. Just barely lifther hand to flex her perfect fingers—on the sly—always so careful not to getcaught.

He knew she was a Muslim girl, though she and her brotherdressed as American teens. Charles ran a hand over his sweaty cheeks. The sunwas a killer in the afternoon. The water sprayed loudly over the drowned rosebush. He watched Jasira step closer and closer to his house.

Her prim pink skirt went below her knees. Little white socksseemed ridiculous on the blossoming 17 year old. He smiled broadly as sheapproached the edge of his yard. “Where’s your jailer, Jasira?”

She paused, unsure of what to do. “M-my brother is withFather looking at colleges.” Charles nodded and switched off the garden hose.He walked up to her, just a mild mannered older man. “I’m sure he’ll get into agood school.” She nodded and began to skirt away from him—ever wary. Her petalpink lips curled slightly at the corners. She was a sheltered child. He grinnedbroadly, “It’s awfully hot today, would you like a drink of lemonade?”

She was nearly to the other side of his lawn now. “Oh…no,thank you though. I must get home…” Charles felt frustration ball in his gut.So many months of waiting and watching for her flashed before his eyes. Beforehe knew what he was doing he grabbed her small wrist. He dragged her across theyard and into his house. He slammed her against the wall. She screamed andfought—clawed at his face. Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. He kissed herrose petal mouth and cheeks. He pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.

She kneed him in the groin. He grunted and his lust becamerage. He hit her across the corner of her eye and cheekbone. He yanked herskirt up to her waist. “Stop fighting! You probably give it to every boy. It’smy turn, damn it!” He wedged himself inside her tight body and bit hard on herbreast. She pulled huge clumps of his hair out of his scalp. He roared in agonyand punched her hard in the mouth. It knocked her out.

It was dark when Jasira awoke. The concrete sidewalk wascool and painfully hard beneath her. She sat up and tried to orient herself.Her book bag lay in disarray beside her. Her skirt was stained with her virginblood. She touched trembling fingers to her swollen, cut lips and moaned. Painstabbed at her as she gathered her books and shoved them in her book bag.Memory flooded her brain—right up until it all went black.

She walked on wobbly legs to her house. Dread curled a tightfist in her belly and she almost turned and ran for the police instead. What wouldher father do when he saw her? She was late coming home. Surely he was backwith her brother by now? She took a steadying breath. Her parents loved her. Itwould be okay. She was their daughter. It would be okay. The words became a chant,a prayer in her head. Only her tears belied the truth.

The light to her house flickered yellow in the darkness. Herfather’s car was not yet in the drive. She rushed the steps, eager for herMother’s arms. She flung the door open, “Momma?!”

“Jasira, where have—“ her mother stopped dead, stumbled backagainst the kitchen doorway. Then she rushed the girl, dragged her into thebathroom. “Your father must not know. Do you hear me, daughter? He must neverknow.” Her mother stripped the clothes from her body and she cleansed her witha cool rag. “Your indiscretion must be borne in silent shame.” She tiltedJasira’s face upward, “Do you understand Jasira?” Jasira swallowed hard. “Yes,Momma.”

She was so weak, so terrified. Tears swelled once more. Hermother wiped them away. She held her daughter close and wept, too. “I foughthim, Momma.” Her mother screamed a primal wounded mother's scream. Then she suckedair hotly into her burning chest. “I know, Daughter. It makes no difference.Papa cannot know.” Her mother redressed her in a nightgown and started to rubconcealer over the cuts and bruises. “You will go straight to bed. I will tellhim you are sick. Pray to Allah that he believes us.”

She hugged Jasira and opened the door to the bathroom. Jamalstood in the hallway. “Why was the front door left open?” His wife pulledJasira behind her. She laughed nervously. “Oh, sorry, I wanted some air.” Shestrode further down the hall intending to lead her husband to the supper table.“How was the trip? You must be famished?” Jamal narrowed his eyes on her face.“What’s wrong?” She smiled sweetly at him, “Nothing, nothing. I have our mealwaiting.”

Jamal grew very quiet. He was a shrewd man. He looked fromhis wife to the closing door of Jasira’s room. He pushed past his wife andopened Jasira’s door. His wife fell to her knees and began to pray. His bellowsent her face down on the floor. He dragged Jasira into the living room. Hewiped the concealer from his daughter’s face. “Deceiver!” He threw the daughternext to the wife. He dragged his wife up by her throat. “What happened?”

She trembled, her heart breaking with each beat. “Jasira wasraped.” He dropped her as if she’d burned him. He fell backward onto the couch.A warring of emotion flickered in his even features. His strong, tan jawclenched. His mouth worked, but uttered no sound. Kamal sat quietly next to hisfather. His head fell into his hands, “She is…impure.” The words fell from hishorrified lips. His mother closed her eyes. “Impure” rang in her head—a bell ofdoom. She looked at her beautiful daughter, so young, so bright…

Jasira paled and scrambled to her feet. She ran to thebathroom. Wild thoughts chasing their tails inside her brain, I should have gone to the police. This can’tbe real. I should have gone to the police!

Jamal stood quietly. He walked calmly to the kitchen. Whenhe returned he handed Kamal a sharp knife. “She has dishonored our family.Restore us.” Kamal stood with shaking knees. His young face grim, “Yes,Father.”

Jamal’s wife stood. She threw herself at her husband. Herfists embedded in his shirt. “No! No! Please! Jamal, she is our daughter, no!”He wrapped his arms around her. He held her tightly so she could not breakaway. His chest ached, tears fell from his lashes. “She was dead when herpurity was stolen.”

Devotion

2011-07-01T09:06:00.000-06:00

Daddy bounced me on his knee a little and dragged the brush through my hair. I waited patiently for him to work out the tangles. “It has to be perfect, Cassie.” He worked until he was satisfied. He had me stand in front of him. A flower barrette pulled one side away from my face. My soft lacey dress looked bright blue against my tan skin. Daddy nodded with pride.

He took my hands in his. “Please understand, Pumpkin, that you’ve done nothing wrong. I only seek to protect you. There are dangers in this world…you’re so innocent...” His gaze drifted off along with his words. “I tried to explain this to your mother, but she didn’t understand. That’s why it has to be today. It has to be while she’s visiting Nan.”

Daddy kissed my cheek and squeezed my chubby hands. I knew that Daddy loved me. So I followed him. He walked me to the bed and I marveled at the pretty cushions. Soft and white with lacy trim, they were cool to the touch. I ran my hand over them. My bed at home was warm with cotton sheets that had Strawberry Shortcake pictures. Then I remembered my bear. “I forgot Yay Yay, Daddy!”

He kneeled down to me when he saw my lip tremble. His hands were warm and strong on my shoulders. “Be a big girl, Cassie. You won’t miss your teddy for long. Soon you’ll out grow him. You’ll see. Now don’t cry and lay down for Daddy.”

I lay down like a big girl. “I won’t cry Daddy.” I whispered as he tucked me in. He kissed my forehead, “That’s a good girl.”

I didn’t cry as he worked. I waited patiently, sure that he’d be done soon and we’d be going home. I missed Mommy. I wanted her to see me in my pretty new dress. But I started to panic when I couldn’t hear the dirt falling anymore. It was getting harder to breathe. I tried to stay really still, to listen for Daddy.

I could hear him walking away.

“Daddy?” I whispered.

Nothing.

I pounded on the box and shouted, “Daddy?!”

Nothing.

I didn’t like this game anymore.

I started to cry. “Daddy?”

I don’t like the dark. I wish I had Yay Yay.

Tears splashed over my lashes.

“Daddy?”

Artistic Notions: Edited for Commentary

2011-06-29T16:10:00.008-06:00

I posted this yesterday and was too lazy to say a thing about it. Mark had mentioned that he'd like to see more of my work online. So I dug some stuff out and photographed it. Just odds and ends--enough to indicate my interests. I've made and lost or have given away so much art over the years that its crazy. Lol. I'm so guilty of telling people who visit my home, "Oh you like that piece? Well, take it. You can have it."

I will never earn a living with my work if I keep doing that. Lol.

When I dream of desert sands

Watercolor on paper 11" x 14"

(the color is far brighter in person)

Groceries

Graphite sketch on paper 12" x 18"

And I think I could earn a living at it if I grew enough balls to actually pursue the marketing/gallery aspect of it. I won an award for my Van Morrison painting. There was a gallery in Ohio who wanted it, but I was nervous and worried that I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure.

Did you know some galleries expect you to hob knob with the crowd and basically sell yourself to up art sales? I didn't. I'm the "paint in the darkest corner of the room" type. Or at least I tried to be in school. Inevitably I'd end up with a bunch of classmates standing behind me saying things, "Wow, you really love color. Wow, what made you think of that?" Not that I'm a great artist. I have weaknesses, many areas to be fleshed out.

Van Morrison

Winner of the "Mr. E" award Ohio University

Oils on canvas 30" x 40"

Fairy Princesses

Oil on canvas 18" x 18"

But I have a good eye and I think the most crucial part of art is seeing. I mean...take a pass with the brush, step back, stare, mix some colors. Take another pass, stare. Question. I may spend 3 hours painting and 12 hours looking, contemplating, questioning what I've done. Am I satisfied? Is it successful? Where is it weak? That part is beautiful, that part is not.

It's a labor of obsession.

It's work. Physical, mental, emotional work--I'm a slave to it.

"Pop" Art

Charcoal on paper 18" x 24"

Birthday Party

Photograph collage 11" x 14"

But I also love it.

So how do I know when I've done something good? The same way I know with my writing. It's like my body is primed, zinging with electricity. I paint furiously, smearing thick globs across gessoed canvass. I don't eat. I don't sleep. I forget to pee for crying out loud! I become possessed. I work until my eyes are raw with exhaustion and my hands tremble in awe. I step back and think...did I really do that? I have no memory of it. Just the vague image of a mad woman pouring heart and soul and fire into a massive piece.

It's personal.

Perhaps more personal than writing is.

You see, there's a rightness in holding a pencil or paint brush in my hands. There's a feeling of being--I mean--truly being. I feel alive. I feel free. The tool becomes an extension of my arm, as if I were meant to be born with a pencil in my hand--only God forgot.

At this minute I would rather be scratching these words out on a sketch pad. I hate typing. I hate the artificial feel of a keyboard beneath my fingertips. It's cold and calculating. It frustrates me. Perhaps a laptop would be better because at least then I'd be mobile. I could take it to the desert. I could find a nice big rock and park my ass next to a lizard and tap-tap-tap away.

But it wouldn't be the same.

Ever open an old, much loved book, and feel the feather soft edges flip under the pads of your thumbs? Remember the scent of the book? So distinctive, so intimate--you could feel the history. The book has been read by hundreds of people. They touched it, inhaled its knowledge, its essence. They left their mark in dog-eared pages. They left scribbles in blue ink on page 43. They made notes in the margin. Jenny wrote on the copyright page, "This is the best novel I've ever read. Enjoy!" She wrote with hot pink, flowery handwriting in 1983--back when people still used cursive.

You'd pick that book up from the Library never consciously aware of the human history surrounding it, connecting you to it. All you'd think is that you'd been waiting two weeks for Jenny to bring that damn thing back so you could check it out.

That's what drawing is to me. It's addictive--healing. It's about that magical moment of creation where the world is clear and pure and that empty white space before me lays virginal--waiting--waiting so patiently for the first touch, the first stroke. It waits, aching, begging for the whisper of air, the soft tickle of graphite, charcoal, paint, water, eraser, brush. It waits, knowing that soon I will love it most of all. Soon I will give it form, purpose, beauty. I will tell it who it is and in doing so--I will find my identity.

It's a moment of pure perfection.

Until I screw it up!

:D

Jimi

2011-06-28T10:18:00.000-06:00

Bold and bright
Eyes burn in silence
Not a text
Not a call

Silent phone
Useless
I keep trying
To find someone

Who'll see
Wanna see
The truth of me
But all there is

Is silence
Fuck it
I'll crank up the volume
And play Jimi

Why Do I Write?

2011-06-26T23:24:00.003-06:00

As if I have a choice.

When I saw this post on Mark Kersetter’s blog I was utterly enthralled with his response, with his heartfelt experiences. I found it to be eloquent, articulate, and profound. I really, really didn’t wanna write this after reading his post. But I’ll give it my best shot. Frankly, I think he only picked me so I’d stop trolling through his archives.

What? My boys got a Playstation for their birthdays and no longer want anything to do with me. So I was bored. Geesh. LOL.

Okay….

Writing, for me, is about release. I release the pressure in my head, shuffle words into some random fashion in the vain attempt to make sense of the things that I don’t understand. So much of my life has been one bit of confusion crashing into uncertainty and then disintegrating into disappointment—that often I feel as though I’m adrift in choppy water with no row, no life jacket—nothing solid. So writing becomes the vessel that’s tangible and real—the lifeline I cling to. Writing is the only thing that makes sense.

But it’s also torture. For whatever reason, when I take to text, all that comes out of me is bitter and cruel. Words become pain, become anger, become hate, become lies, become weapons, and become truth. They morph on the white screen in front of me so that I don’t even know what I’m saying until the last period is written.

Not that I’m bitching. It is what it is. And there’s purity to the gritty stuff, you know? There’s honesty there. And honesty is all that matters to me. I want to peel back each layer of my flesh and examine each element until I am comfortable with what I see. If I can sort out my head—if I can dissect and destroy all my weaknesses then maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to like myself. Or at least respect my attempts at writing or painting, for that matter.

The thing is...I never set out to be a writer or a blogger or anything in this vein. I'm an artist. That's how I've always identified myself. I paint. But I am also a free spirit and when I was in college I took a bunch of classes outside of my major (I majored in painting). One of the classes I took was a "Women in Writing" course. It had feminist themes and required a lot of personal essays. One essay in particular was tough for me. We were asked to write about our bodies.

At the time I was in the throes of a miserable marriage, still dealing with the effects of being sexually abused as a child, and coming to terms with the fact that I'd married someone who kicked me every chance he got. My point? I hated my body. When I was thin, I attracted a lot of male attention. I never learned how to deal with that. For a long time I honestly believed the only thing I was meant to be was a sex object. I felt very much like I was cursed and I think that's why I gained so much weight. I think I packed on pounds as a form of body armor. "If I'm fat and gross, then I'll be safe cuz no one will touch me." It's not that I consciously thought that, but in retrospect, I think that was why I ended up being 5' tall and weighing 330 lbs. Yeah. you read that right. That's what self-hate does to a person.

It's suicide, just another way to die, to fade into oblivion.

So that essay, for me, was like lighting a stick of dynamite and holding it to my breasts while I flung my body onto a landmine. It was...hard to write. I waited till the last minute and I poured a 13 page essay out in less than 3 hours. I didn't edit it. Are you kidding? I couldn't even read it. Coward that I am, I didn't even want to go to class to see how my classmates graded it. (We had to pass out copies to the whole class and grade each others work.) That meant 20 peers standing in judgment.

A fragment of the essay: http://katdelrio.blogspot.com/2009/08/peel-back-skin.html

Imagine my shock when they all loved it, when they gushed and cried over it. I felt paralyzed when my professor told me I should change my major from painting to writing. I didn't. I'm a painter. But I did take more writing courses. And I did start to take the poems and stories that I'd written for years and never fully appreciated more seriously. I also started taking Tae Kwon Do. (I've lost 72 lbs to date--and still going.) I started this blog. I left my ex. The divorce should be final soon. Thank God. I moved to New Mexico from Ohio. That's a lot of changes over a two year span.

So maybe I write to find the pieces of myself that have slipped away and try to fit them back together? Maybe I write to fill the silence in my own head? Maybe I write because it saved my life? Probably I write because it keeps me sane. It's helped me accept my sensuality--to appreciate that sex isn't dirty. It isn't a tool to control someone--that it's okay to be a woman through and through. In that sense writing has empowered me.

Whatever the reasoning, regardless of my dislike of my own writing—I stick with it. I write as if there’s a loaded gun aimed at my temple and if I stop rat-a-tap-tapping at the keys a trigger will lurch and all that will be left is a bloody manuscript. It’s as if I leave my body and pour every ounce of everything that I feel, or have ever felt, onto the page. It’s a wild rush of emotion. It's giving voice to my convictions. I never have a plot. I never even know the characters name before I write. I just start typing, or scribbling in a book, praying that it will make a lick of sense at the end.

So why do I write? Because I have to. Because I’m too pathetic to do anything else. Because there’s a volcano of emotion rumbling beneath the surface of my skin and it’s gotta go somewhere. I write because it’s the path I walk. It's my lifeline.

There’s a Blogger who’s pretty good at writing. He likes to boldly go where few other writers dare. So I think I'll pass the torch to Marc Nash. Well, Marc, why do you write the crazy things you do? :)

I swear Axl is a far better lyricist than he gets credit for.

Reflection

2011-06-25T10:24:00.000-06:00

Brown bohemian eyes shine
Red lips to entice
To devour

Warm breath flows
Like a whisper
In a dark room

Cool rain
Patters against French doors
Streaks and trickles over clear glass

A touch that lasts forever
Buried deep
Branded to memory

A tremble
A sigh
Knowing this cannot be duplicated

No matter how many others
You kiss
Or touch

You'll never be here again
Drumbeat--staccato
Pleasure licking along your skin

Wild rush
Never see your soul
Reflected in your lover's eyes

#3WW: Sell Your Soul

2011-06-24T08:47:00.002-06:00

#3WW: Gag, Maintain, Omit

The camera light glows red, winking.

Click. Flash!

The yellow lights from the overhead lamps burn white hot. The bonds are tight. She chokes on the ball gag. Her arms are twisted behind her back. Beautiful blond hair falls around her young face. Her breasts are crushed. The weight of the man steals the air from her lungs.

Her thighs tremble as he pushes in and out, the pain is so intense that she can’t tell where exactly he’s penetrating. She tries to breathe deep—gasps as the pain from the knife racks her. $900 for bondage photos. Rent money. Just photographs. Wheezing makes maintaining air impossible. The wild drum of her heartbeat pounds against her chest. What seemed so benign has become damnation.

Tears stream down her cheeks.

Click. Flash!

Just a little money.

The knife burns hotter. She fights. Struggles. Screams—but no one can hear. She kicks. They flip her over. She fights with bound hands. They omitted the knife. There shouldn’t be a knife stabbing. It was just a bondage set—a photo shoot. Her mind reels—coherent thought as elusive as freedom.

She stops screaming.

Stops fighting.

She’s found face down, a black tarp covering her perfect, young, beautiful body.

The cops say she was the victim of a snuff shoot.

Life is forever when you’re 23, but death is eternal—always.

***

The devil smiles with a used car salesman smile. He tips his top hat. Shiny buttons line his shiny striped jacket. Gold tooth flashes like a camera. The shutter whines as the lens focuses. Click. Flash! Dollar signs light up his eyes. Such a pretty young girl, why not use what you got to make some cash, Honey? It seems so easy. No harm, no foul.

Go on…you’ll be famous just like Jenna Jameson.

You know you want to.

Just sign on the dotted line, Sweetheart.

Just sign away your rights.

Just sell your soul.

You know you want to.

http://bignewsstory.com/taylor-summers-news-story-part-two-02/

That's A What I like!

2011-06-23T12:34:00.002-06:00

5 Ways to Turn Your Man On

The website flashed with pretty pale pink letters and I paused for a second. The girl with perfect abs grinned knowingly from my monitor. Things had been a bit stale with Joe for awhile now…for the last 13 years to be exact. Oh sure, we still had sex…if you can call hitting the hot spots in the same order at precisely 9:00 pm every Friday…sex.

I looked at the 20-something blond and could just tell that she had epic sex. I read the list again. “A man appreciates a woman who looks her best.” Hmmm. I looked at my fuzzy purple bunny slippers. How long had it been since I’d worn make-up? I couldn’t remember. I walked over to my vanity and blew a layer of dust in the air. Okay, it’s definitely been too long since I dolled myself up.

It was easy to say I was busy with the kids and mundane household duties, but I had to confess that I’d just been lazy.

I went through the whole mess. The shaving, plucking, tweezing, face painting, perfuming, and curlers then I looked in the mirror at my “Mom Uniform.” The butt of my gray sweat pants sagged halfway to my knees. My t-shirt drooped making one boob look uneven with the other. I shook my curler laden head in disgust and rummaged through my closet for something a bit spicier—or at least feminine.

I came back with a low cut tank top and some jeans. I squeezed the jeans on and shrieked at the role of blubber hanging over the waist. I unbuttoned the jeans and relaxed a little when the roll seemed less obvious. Then I donned the tank top and a push-up bra like those pop stars wear. By the time I decided on which pair of heels to wear—I was feeling pretty confident. The tank was long enough to hide the unbuttoned-roll mess and my war paint looked pretty good.

My confidence faltered as I unrolled my hair—to my horror—it stood on end like a puffed poodle! I quickly plugged in my curling iron to do some serious damage control. Moments later I was viciously dragging the iron through my brown helmet, taming the maniac mane. Then I herd the kids come in. I jerked my head to the side like a child caught steeling candy. The iron burnt a huge red welt on my forehead and I dropped the demonic thing in pain. But I was determined to light my Joe up, so I bravely patched the burn with gauze and looked at the website again.

“This is the age of technology. Nothing gets a man hotter than a naughty text message.”

Hmm. I eyed my cell phone with suspicion. What could I say that would get his blood going? I looked at the bed. I thought about what I knew he liked. I thought about what I could possibly say. And then I thought; this is stupid. Knowing Joe he’d be happier with a plate of chicken wings. Chicken wings! That’s the ticket. Combine food and sex? There’s no way that could go wrong! I quickly texted him, “Hey Babe, I can’t wait for you to get home and stuff my creampie with your Bismarck!”

He responded seconds later. My excitement died as I read his text. “What? You want me to bring donuts home? I thought you liked those jelly ones?” I hung my head in frustration. I texted him again, “No Sweetie, I want you to stuff my creampie with your Bismarck.” He texted back, “Huh? Maybe the donut shop will know what you’re talking about. I’ll ask them.” I groaned and told him, “Never mind Joe. Jelly donuts are fine.”

Nothing seemed to be working out like I’d hoped, but I had faith in the article. I mean busty blonds don’t look that happy for nothing, right? Next on the list:

“Make eye contact. A man loves to know he’s the only one you’re looking at.”

I waited for Joe to get home and when he walked in the door I winked at him. He looked me up and down, and then frowned. I said, “I missed you Sweetie” and leaned up to smooch him. I winked at him again. He set a box of jelly donuts on the counter and felt my brow. “What?” I asked. He shrugged, “Just checking. What happened to your forehead? And is something wrong with your eye?” I blushed, “Nothing’s wrong! I just winked at ya.” I touched my wound, “Battle with the curling iron.” He nodded and pointed at the donuts. “The donut shop had no idea what creampie you were talking about, but the kid behind the counter snickered at me. Little snot.”

I grabbed the box and put it in the refrigerator to hide a snicker of my own. I cleared my throat, “Well you know how kids are these days. No respect.” I turned back to look at him and he seemed to consider me more closely. “You’re acting strange today. What’s with this get up?” I smiled seductively (I hoped) and told him, “I wanted to dress a little sexier for you. Don’t you like it?” Joe frowned, “It’s different.” He started toward me and I got excited thinking he might kiss me. But he scooted me out of his way to grab a beer instead. I hid my disappointment.

Later that night, after the kids had gone to bed, I remembered the website. I went upstairs and clicked out of the page, cursing the lying blond as I did so. I took off the tank top and push-up bra. Tossed my heels back in the closet, I shimmied outta my jeans and scrubbed my face clean. I put my hair in a pony tail and pulled on an old faded pair of boy shorts and a soft cotton sleeper top with thin straps. I bounded down the stairs and curled up next to Joe with less enthusiasm than I felt.

He wrapped his arm around me and kissed the top of my head. I felt his hand brush my ponytail away from my neck and I smiled at him. He grinned back at me and for a second I thought I spied a spark of something. “You haven’t put your hair up in a ponytail in ages. Remember when Joe Jr. was in baseball and you’d wear your hair in a ponytail and a ball cap for his baseball games? I always loved that. You looked so cute at those games.”

I laughed and slugged him playfully. “You never told me that before!” I shook my head and chuckled again. “You want another beer, you old softy?” Joe grinned at me and said, “Sure.” I was halfway to the kitchen when his voice stopped me. “You sure can rock a pair of shorts for an old broad, you know that?” I turned around in shock, hands on hips. “You gotta be kidding me! I spent hours trying to get dolled up for you to turn you on and all you really wanted was a ponytail and a pair of boy shorts? Seriously?!”

Joe sat up and grinned, his sexy smile making my heart skip a beat. “And a wiggle in your walk…” He walked up to me and he had my undivided attention. “And a giggle in your talk…” He kissed me hotly, nipping at my lips—then smacked my ass. I squealed, my eyes bright with excitement, big goofy grin that made the years melt away. “What I really want is to watch those sweet cheeks racing up the stairs.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

Choices

2011-06-16T15:43:00.008-06:00

“Lexie…oh God…Lexie…”

My hands froze on the cantaloupe. I dropped it on the counter. His voice sent a chill through my heart. I knew his voice so well, had heard it a million times, in a million ways. I’d heard it hostile from across the room, silly-sweet in the morning, moaning hotly in my ear.

But I hadn’t heard it in two months. Not since…well I didn’t want to think about that.

I hit replay and waited for the machine to start.

It was the hollow tone that scared me most.

I grabbed my coat and left the groceries on the counter. Charlie, my faithful Calico, swirled around my legs in protest. I hadn’t fed her yet and wouldn’t until I returned. All I could think of—all I could see was his hazel eyes staring vacantly from some unfathomable abyss.

I’d heard he’d come back to town, but I didn’t know where exactly. I drove the car like a maniac. It hugged the corner so tightly that it nearly ran over the curb. Tires screeched as I raced—well above the speed limit—toward his old apartment. Memories flooded my mind. They filled my head with a collection of images—images that depicted a life created, then destroyed.

They were meaningless to me now. I pushed them away.

His car wasn’t there. The windows were dark.

I threw the car in reverse, then overdrive, and jammed down the gas pedal.

There was a park nearby. We’d walk there on Sundays and watch the children play. He’d brush my hair from my cheek and say, “We’ll have a daughter just like her one day.” Tears streamed down my cheek and my tight grip on the steering wheel threatened to crack my knuckles wide open.

The swings swung eerily in the empty park. A bum pushed a dirty cart full of cans on the opposite side. No sign of Luke anywhere. A strangled cry escaped me and my hands shook as they raked through my auburn hair. “Come on…think, Lexie, think!” I muttered under my breath, anxiety becoming a tangible beast sitting in the passenger seat. Where would he go? What would he do?

The possibilities terrified me.

His mother said they’d released him days ago. She said the meds helped. She said she had hope that this time would be different—that this time they’d licked the demon that stalked him.

My heart knew different.

I’d seen the haunted look in his eyes. I’d seen him weak and clawing, begging for release. I’d thrown pills in the toilet and flushed them. I’d thrown knives out the window and wrapped his wrists in bandages. I’d sobbed and bled with the man. I’d begged him to love me more than death—to just once choose life.

And just then I knew. I knew exactly where he was.

I drove much slower now. The sense of dread was tearing at my clothes, my breasts, my face, clawing, biting at my psyche. I drove cautiously along the train tracks. There was a cargo train that ran late. I looked at the glowing numbers on my dashboard. 8:53pm. I had moments before it would arrive—IF that.

I pulled along the gravel road. Old row houses flanked the makeshift street. You could almost see the ghosts of children from the 1930s playing stickball. I could feel their laughter and a shiver rolled over my skin. My heels crunched loudly on the rocks. I pulled my coat closer to my form, unable to find warmth.

He stood on the tracks. I walked up to him and he smiled at me. The mouth I loved so well, had kissed for hours, dreamt of day and night—smiled at me. His eyes shone brightly and seemed more alive than I’d ever seen him. His voice was surprised as he addressed me. “You found me!”

I could see that he was amped up. I kicked at the stones and watched them roll away. “You knew I would.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I did. You always knew me better than anyone.” I snorted in disgust…or maybe despair. “Fat lotta good that’s done me.”

Luke frowned then. “I’m sorry Lexie. Sorry I couldn’t be the man you needed me to be. It’ll be better this way. You’ll see. You’ll find someone who loves you.”

I screamed at him and lunged. I grabbed his beautiful face and forced him to look at me. “No, it won’t be better!” I shouted at him, choking on my tears, “That’s what you don’t get, Luke! I love you, only you, always you. How can you not see that? How can you do this?!” I felt weak and trapped in a wordless hell. He caught me, held me up.

He pulled me to him and brushed his lips over my hair. “Ssh. I know it’s been hard, Baby. I know it. Don’t you see? I’m doing this for us, for you. I’m releasing you.” I opened my mouth to protest. He silenced me with a kiss. Even as his lips parted mine, even as his tongue traced mine—I knew this was our last kiss. Fresh tears burned my eyes and fell, mingled with our tongues.

The train’s whistle blew.

I jumped in his arms—breaking the kiss. “Please, Luke, please come back with me. Let’s get off this track.” I pulled at him. I yanked on his arms, but he shook me off easily. “Please, Baby, come with me!” I screamed and pushed at his waist. I tried to knock him over. The train blew again. I could feel the bright light closing in on us.

“Fine Luke. I might as well die with you. Once you’re gone—I’ll be dead inside anyway.” I parked myself in front of him. I crossed my arms over my chest in defiance. He chuckled and pulled me into his arms. It felt like heaven, but I still braced for the impact.

We watched the train come closer…closer…closer.

My breathing quickened; my pulse pounded.

He whispered in my ear seconds before the train struck. “I love you, Baby.” And he threw me off the track.

“LUKE!” I screamed until my voice stopped—died of its own accord.

All I could see among the wreck and ruin was his radiant smile as Death welcomed him home. I collapsed in the gravel, pain shooting up my arms from the fall. A new fear gripped me. My hands flew to my stomach. It felt okay. I should’ve told him about the baby. Why didn’t I tell him about the baby?

Saturday Night

2011-06-10T11:02:00.000-06:00

She drug her lips softy over his knuckles. “Stay. Please? For just a little longer?” He withdrew his hand and flexed his fingers. She winced when his knuckles popped. He patted her ass. “I can’t, Babe. You know that.”

Annie rolled over—the sheet slipping over her taut stomach. “I know.”

He stood up and she watched the graceful curve of his spine. She openly admired the tensing of his hip muscles as he moved. He spent two hours a day at the gym to ensure that everyone would notice his body. He paused by the mirror and sorted out his hair with sure quick fingers. He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

And he knew it.

He smiled at her through the mirror. “Going out tonight?” She laughed and pulled the sheet up over her breasts. “The night’s half over—what would be the point?” He grinned that possessive, yet, sweet smile of his. She knew that he worried about her running off with someone else. She always did her best to reassure him.

He was nearly dressed now. There was only one piece of his uniform left to don. He sat next to Annie on the bed. She smiled just for him. He leaned over and kissed her soft and sweet. His lips brushed hers, enticing her skin. His tongue slipped inside to taste the honey there. She moaned and moved to pull him in closer—to drag him back to bed.

He pulled away. “I can’t stay, Babe. I told you that. You know the rules.” The clock on the nightstand flashed 12:23am. A gold ring sat innocently on the clock. He picked it up and placed the band on his ring finger. Annie threw off the covers and walked, naked, to the bathroom. “Maybe I will go out. No sense in wasting a Saturday night.” She closed the bathroom door in his shocked face.

When she heard him leave she washed her face and pulled out her foundation. Let his wife comfort him. Annie was done.

Wooo Hooo!!!

2011-06-06T10:15:00.001-06:00

So ..okay...if you read this little bitty rag of mine then you know I've been fighting with my weight. Sweet, right? Okay...maybe not sweet. But whatever.

Anyway, I started doing Gerbalife--I mean--Herbalife. (Pardon my pet name for it!) I've been working out like a mad woman. Bought a torture device--er--a bicycle. And I've been trekking all over the gloriously dry, hot, desolate, desert known as Deming, NM. I even got a flat tire from this heinous little thing called a "goat head." Ever see one? They are thorns (I think) and enjoy puncturing the heels of your sneakers to stab you in the foot. Long painful spiky bits of hell--thank you Lord Jesus. Ooooh! And they follow you indoors and cling to your carpet, so when you least expect (usually barefoot from the shower) BAM!!! Effing pain!

Little baby Goat Heads. (Must not be from New Mexico--cuz out here we grow 'em waaaay bigger!)

Wow I get sidetracked easy!

Okay. So I've been busting my ass on the bike and doing these "core" exercises (ugh) and surviving on mutant Herbalife shakes for the past 17 days. And so far I've lost 13 lbs. It's probably water weight--but heck--I'll take it!

To reward myself I've decided to write a completely nonsensical post (obviously) and some really bad tunes. BUT they are tunes that will get you up and moving (or at least they do that to me).

Enjoy Bloggers and have a rockin' day!!! :D

Does Lady Gaga make anyone else wanna dress up in a silver, whacked out space suit complete with extra cleavage and Martian antennas? Is it just me? Blue eyeshadow and silver lipstick? Any takers?

Thank GOD for Pink!!!

Can't dance with out Cyndi!

Hell Yeah!

Let It Run

2011-06-05T17:02:00.000-06:00

Shaky hands twist
The dish rag--the bruise will heal
Squeeze the water out

Let it run
Let it run

Splash in the creek--hide away
Squish the mud between your toes
Water tickles as it trickles

Let it run
Let it run

It's been a weary day
Night seems colder, too
Tears more cleansing than dew

Let it run
Let it run

Lip Service

2011-06-03T08:43:00.002-06:00

“Hate is a commodity! Hitler used it to kill. American politicians use it to drive fear into the hearts of working class America and create divisive attitudes and steal votes. Hate brings fear, eases manipulation, and preys on the weak. Hate lines pockets and kills freedom.”

Sweat dripped down his back, but he ignored it. His voice rang out strong and clear—the vessel of conviction. “My opponent is the servant of hate! He leads you in prayer and convinces your hearts to turn as black as night! His organization, ‘The Minutemen’ marches on small churches and lays siege to the very democracy we love! He tells you to hate homosexuals. He claims it’s in scripture. He asserts that he knows the will of God!”

He paused for effect. Tears streamed down his fat cheeks. His voice resumed, vibrating with the flair of a Sunday preacher. “Imagine that?! Imagine the arrogance of assuming to know the thoughts and will of God Almighty!” He was shrieking with passion now.

The crowd stood rapt. They were primed and ready for his sales pitch.

“Now I know that I am a politician. But I’m not like these other scoundrels. I won’t lie and mislead you with chants like ‘Hope’ and ‘Change.’ I won’t ply you with empty rhetoric about the way things were. I won’t say America has gone astray. I won’t defeat you with fear. I won’t insult your intelligence.”

He mopped up the sweat with a damp handkerchief. “You already know that we’re in a battle for our future. You already know that our deficit is out of control. I don’t need to tell you what you already know. All I need to tell you is that true change—REAL CHANGE—is possible. Open your hearts. Open your minds. And fight for a smaller government!”

He pulled the microphone closer and tone softening. “My opponent will tell you that God will smite those who fornicate with the same sex. He will tell you that sex ed in schools leads to teen pregnancy. He will say that he holds all the answers and a direct line to God. I will say that I have no business in your bedrooms. I will tell you that empowering our children with knowledge is the best way to fight teen pregnancy!”

The soap box wobbled under his weight, but he plunged forward. “The problem with liberals is that they tell you what you want to hear and then get in bed with the right wingers as soon as you elect them! The problem with the far right wingers is that they pick the wrong damn fight and do NOTHING when they hold the majority! It’s lip service people! They think you’re stupid. But I know you’re not. I know you are disgruntled with the world we live in. I know that you want your country back!”

“Does it matter who marries who? Does it matter if sex ed is taught? No. Of course not. What matters is our national debt, our gas prices, our economy! Where have the financial conservatives gone?! I ask you! I was sitting on my couch listening to this crap and realized—these jokers in DC don’t care about us. They have no intention of doing what’s right! All they want is your vote and your donation and for you to go back to sleep! Well, I say WAKE UP! Wake up and take your country back! Vote for Charles Hinkly!”

The crowd erupted in a roar. Flags were waving. Families were crying. Finally someone had said the things that they’d been dying to hear. Words rushed into the empty vacuum of their discontent. Charles smiled and shook hands as he walked to his limo. His driver opened his door and he climbed in. Just as the door was about to close two men approached him.

“Mr. Hinkly! We just LOVED your speech Sir. We wanted you to know that you have our vote.” The younger man put his arm around the shoulders of the older man. “It’s so hard to be gay in Ohio. So many Christian conservatives judge us. We’re planning a wedding soon. But we wanted to tell you how hard we’re going to fight for your campaign. I really think you can make a difference in this state, Sir.” They beamed and Charles extracted himself from the car. He clasped their hands in his.

“That’s wonderful gentlemen! You make a glorious couple. I’m honored to have you fight on my side. Truly!” They gushed and walked away like star-struck fans. He sat back down in the car and smiled with knowing satisfaction. People like that were gonna win him the Governor’s seat. He’d play both sides against the middle and be the first Libertarian in the White House. The Teabaggers and faggots would line the way—they just didn’t know it yet. But he did. He lit a big fat cigar. Yeah, he knew.

Memorial Day and "It's What You Did"

2011-05-29T12:51:00.002-06:00

Tomorrow is Memorial Day...a strange holiday for me. I'm the daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter of a looooooong line of military men. That's a fairly common tale in every culture around the globe, I think. That my ex-step-father is a Vietnam Vet is nothing spectacular either. That he was an abusive pedophile alcoholic son of a bitch from hell...well...that's probably no shocker either. Not because he was a Vet. Millions of folks are Vets and never once indulge in committing evil sins against their families. I only feel its a common sad story because...well...that's the world we live in these days.

But it makes Memorial Day and the Fourth of July complicated for me.

There's the loyal patriot within me who wants to stand up and praise my ancestors (who served all the way back to the Revolutionary War--no joke). But there's also the angry bitter woman inside who knows first hand what war can do to a person...to their families...to their mind. It's bitter-sweet at best--this tug-of-war between respect and frustrated tears.

So I wrote a story last year and was too cowardly to post it...taking much of it from conversations with my ex-step-father...and my recollections of his 3am nightmares. You know, the fun ones where he drug us out of bed screaming, "Get Down!!! Get Down!!!" Mom called them flashbacks. At 8 years old...I called them "Holy Shit! Moments." I still remember my mother saying, "Just be glad he doesn't think your the enemy during his flashbacks." Considering that he treated me like the enemy when he was stone-cold-sober...I'd say she was right about that.

This story I feel could speak for itself, just fine. This glimpse into my reasoning is merely to calm my inner patriot. I want to be clear that even though I've wanted to hang my ex-step-father's head on a spear in my front yard--I have always--ALWAYS--respected his service. I've always understood that he was plagued with a lot of unaddressed war related issues and pain. So this story isn't meant to hurt him. It isn't meant to hurt anyone. It's just a vessel to pour out the pain I witnessed and the confusion I experienced and maybe...just maybe...it's one last attempt to understand that which can never be understood.

Happy Memorial Day folks. God Bless and many thanks to those who have served and fallen and to those who still stand to remember. Much love and respect,

It's What You Did

The stench from the fireworks clouded his lungs. He coughed. Just a small thing, but it brought blood up all the same. The doc said he had Agent Orange. His feet were eroded by jungle rot. They don’t talk about that shit in the glamorized Hollywood versions of Nam.

Nope. Hollywood just wants some buff Charlie Sheen running through the jungle with sweat gleaming on his muscles. Hell, give him a bandana—make him look like Rambo. Rambo well, at least that prick had balls.

A chubby little kid sat on his yuppie daddy’s shoulders and waved an America flag singin’ “Born in the USA…I was born in the USA.” No way did that kid know what that song was about. Hell the yuppie idiot who sired him didn’t know either.

He scoffed in silence. He’d paid his dues and everybody else’s. No need to march on DC or write the local paper for vet’s rights. He’d said his piece behind the machine gun on a tank. After Cathy spoke—wasn’t nothing but silence. He dug in his pocket. A faded photograph of four skinny guys with dreams as big as the New Mexico sky smiled back with cock sure grins and a joint hanging from the corners of their mouths.

The caption read: “The boys and Cathy’s Clown.”

Dave had busted his chops when he’d named the tank Cathy’s Clown. It hadn’t been so funny when the real Cathy had sent him a Dear John letter—3 months pregnant with Jimmy Kearns’ kid. It was even less humorous when they left Dave’s body floating in a fucking rice paddy. He could still see him floating there—face down—as the chopper pulled away.

He married a little Vietnamese girl. It was the 60’s man, that’s what you did. She divorced him in ’73. He couldn’t blame her. He was an asshole, everyone said so. He drank too much. He’d get the beast upon him and knock her pretty head into a wall. He never meant to…it just sorta happened. The seventies passed him by in a blur of alcohol induced coma. The eighties weren’t much better.

He looked at the picture again. Jesus they were young. Was he really ever that green? He shook his head and passed the families on the green grass. He saw their stares. But he didn’t care. He always dressed in full uniform on the 4^th. He was one in a long line of military men. His daddy went to Korea. His granddaddy fought in WWWII. It’s what they did. They served.

He stuffed the photo away.

Only he and John made it outta Nam. And John was still locked up far as he knew. That shit made you crazy. That’s what the doc said, “No shame in talking about it. You guys weren’t treated right. We know it. There’s help out there if you want it.” He shrugged the vet doc off. He was tough. It’s what you did. Only pansies cried and talked about their feelings.

Folks were grilling out today. The air was ripe with charred burgers and hot dogs. That’s what you did on the 4^th. Took your kids to a park and cooked out while watching fireworks and waving little paper flags. There were flags all over the lawn. He shook his head, his long hair stringing down his back. It was illegal for the flag to touch the ground. Folks don’t care about shit like that anymore. He picked one up—smeared with mustard. Shoulda been ketchup, the flag was dead, it might as well bleed.

He tossed it down and rolled over it with his wheelchair.

The street was crowded with people pushing and shoving to get to their cars.

They parted when they saw him. It could have been respect for his sacrifice. Or it could have been fear. Why fear a disheveled vet? He pushed the wheels over the pavement. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts stood up and saluted him. Fucking civilians. You don’t salute anyone other than a commanding officer. He nodded at the guy as he rolled past.

When he got to his little apartment he checked his mail. More bills. A letter from the V. A. Nothing important, so he tossed the stack on the counter. He rolled to his bedroom and pulled out his old revolver. It felt good in his hand—heavy and real.

He rolled to the mirror and looked at himself. He paused, then put the gun in his mouth.

When a dog is old and no longer vital you put them to sleep. It’s what you did.

Again

2011-05-27T11:58:00.002-06:00

"You know me." My tongue darts out to nervously lick the desperation from my lips. "Sure, I'm a mess. Who isn't?" I remain rooted to the floor watching his face close a steel door to me. He says nothing. Again. Still.

How many times have we been here? Him shutting me out, me clawing and scratching my way in...and for what? The constant pain and disappointment? I told a friend once that he needed to sort out why he felt he didn't deserve happiness...hello pot.

What is it about me that repulses men? They get drawn in by my smile, my words, but once they know me...poof. Am I too intense? Too demanding? Do I ask so much? Is it impossible to love me?

Why do I fight to keep them? Why?

I slink down the wall and crumple on the floor. I pull my knees up to my chest. He stands, resolute, across the room. He might as well be on the moon. The chill wounds me. I feel the fight within me die. I resign myself to this zombie-like existence. Maybe all I'm good for is a fuck. They don't want understand me, show no interest in my mind, won't even read the shit I write. They cherry pick the bits they like and amplify them in their minds. But when reality smashes the fantasy...well...I end up here again.

"Fine. Go." He lets out a breath like a deflating balloon. I don't look up when the door closes.

Untitled

2011-05-27T11:43:00.001-06:00

Two halves of a whole
Separated by pride and fear

Empty words
And lost dreams

Linger with vampiric intensity
How to prove?

How to reassure?
How to let go?

More Words

2011-05-26T18:47:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I wallow
Sit by the river and swallow
Lies I've heard
Truths absurd

I listen to the trees
So easy to please
So quiet and clam
Fragile in my palm

Is the heart that beats
Against empty teat
I just wanted love
Words on wings of the dove

Flit and flutter
Slippery as butter
And drift away
And drift away...

Words

2011-05-26T18:35:00.000-06:00

Old emails swim
Behind leaky eyes
Ghosts of who we were
And may never be again

I loved you with wild abandon
Naive and free
Hopeful
Stupidly

My voice constricts now
I still smile
Though you'll never see
You don't want to

This polite distance
This strained ache
I knew that befriending you would challenge
Though loving you is fatal

I still look for love
I peer from face to face
Pale comparisons
Empty shells

Or maybe I'm the shell?
The fraud?
The one with nothing left to give?
Hope burns true

I'll find love one day
It won't be with you
But I'll find it
I'll never give up...

Civility

2011-05-25T23:08:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I want to slap you
Reach through this computer
And claw your face
And snarl

I want to shake the stupid from you
Make you see the glory you deny us
To keep us apart
When love still burns...

I growl and shake
Enraged

But I'm too polite to budge
Too kind to say a word
I close my eyes and chant
Just friends is better...

"Jenna"

2011-05-24T09:52:00.003-06:00

The phone feels foriegn in my hands. It's shiny sliver surface and black buttons wink with slimy perfection. I hear his breathing on the other end of the line. I look at my brightly colored toenails. Cherry red. I painted them an hour ago. His gasps come faster, more hotly now.

I swallow hard.

My voice is silky smooth and wraps around him softly.

I caress his face with velvet words. I moan and sigh. I arch my back and wish I could hang up this vile telephone. I wish I had a lover. A flesh and blood man to wrap me up in strong arms and kiss the sweet curve of my neck.

"I need to kiss and lick and taste you. Would you like that? Would you like it if I swirled my tongue over the tip of your cock and swallowed you whole? Mmmm...I can taste your cum now...." I moan and pretend to rub flesh that he has no idea is bone dry and nowhere near my fingers. "Ahhhh....ohhh God...honey...please...give it to me!" I moan louder, more excitedly, giving Meg Ryan a run for her money.

I hear him gasp and gurgle. Grunting harder, faster. His climax is loud and somehow sterile.

The line goes dead.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The call ended.

Beep. Beep.

The system tells me that I'm ready for the next caller.

I clear my throat and lay back on the pillows. I glance at the clock. That call was 12 minutes long. Need to keep them a bit longer to make my bonus. My eyes drift to a photo of my boys. What the hell am I doing? I close my eyes against the shame...the growing emptiness in my chest.

Beep.

"Hi!" My voice sounds fabricated, as if I'd stolen artificial cheeriness from a perpetual--ageless--bimbo. "This is 'Jenna.' Who's this?"

Domination and Dinner

2011-03-30T12:04:00.002-06:00

I liked the way his lips curled softly at the corners of his mouth. It made me thirsty for a drink from those lush lips. But I'd never tell him that. I slid the whip over the palm of my hand then gently slid it over his shoulder before slapping him sharply with it. He shivered and drew in steadying breath.

He was trussed up on his knees with his hands tied behind him. I could see every muscle in his exquisite body. His veins formed lines just under his beautiful tanned skin. I stroked his hair and gently caressed his face. I watched his warm brown eyes stare eagerly--hopefully into my cool blue eyes. I walked around him and swatted him with my little whip once more. Then I stood before him. I kissed his sexy lips.

I used my whip to stroke and tease his hard cock through the pretty pink panties I'd instructed him to wear. He moaned against my hot mouth. "You want me to strike you, don't you, Slave?" He whimpered and nodded yes. I stood up straight and pulled the whip away. He cried out with desire and agony. I placed my foot on his thigh. I ground the heel of my black stiletto boot into the meat of his muscle. He doubled over.

I pulled him upright. "There, there Sweetheart. I would never hurt you. Would I?" He seemed reassured, so I slapped him. I watched with satisfaction as he dripped precum from his rock hard shaft. I hooked my leg over his shoulder and snapped, "Eat me good, Slave." He leaned in and began to lap at my tender folds. His tongue delved inside and pulled my juice out. I smiled a rewarded him with soft pettings as he swallowed my nectar. Then he drew his tongue along my soft wet skin to flick my clit. Again and again he flicked my clit. I felt my lips go numb and I bucked against his mouth. He sucked on my pussy. I yelled at him, "Suck me, yes! Yes!" I squirted all over his face and he struggled to drink it. He knew better then to waste a drop.

I walked behind him and used a very sharp blade to cut the ropes I'd bound him with. I tied him to the bed instead. When I was satisfied that he couldn't move..I climbed on top of him and slid that engorged, dripping cock inside my pussy. I watched him arch and try to buck. But it was impossible with the binds. So I rode him at my own speed. I watched his face flush and sweat. And I brought him close to orgasm 4 times before I let him cum inside me.

He filled my tight little kitty with a heavy load of seed. I scooped some out with my finger and made him drink it. He gagged, but obeyed. Then I straddled his head and made him lick me clean. I knew he hated this part.

I released his bonds and smiled sweetly. I kissed his mouth. "Get dressed, Babe. I gotta go fix dinner."

The Big Bad Wolf Likes Flowers

2011-03-04T14:06:00.005-07:00

No. Really he does. I caught him just yesterday stealing Sleeping Beauty’s roses right off her bush. No worries though—she slept through the whole incident and if she noticed that anything was a muss when she awoke, well, she never said.

Last week I saw him creep into Little Miss Muffet’s house. Did you know she grows rare and unusual poppies in a greenhouse? (You wouldn’t believe the things Mother Goose left out of her tell-all book. Of course, that’s another tale.)

So anyway, yup, there he was all furry and bad-assed popping poppies as if they were candy. He crammed his slobbery jaws full of the contraband and stole into the shadows. As if the village wouldn’t notice. I mean, really. Everyone knows that Old Mother Hubbard watches the goings on around here—anything to avoid her heathen children. He had to know that she’d see his transgression and alert the community.

So I decided to follow Big Bad and see what trouble he’d get into today. I stalked him easily as I am very small, no bigger than a thumb you might say. Anyway, I followed him into the forest. His nose tilted to the sky and I could tell that he was tracking something. He turned away from the well-worn path and veered into the wild brush. Trees slapped against him, but he stayed his course. I could only wonder at what scent had so enticed him. Curiosity propelled me over gnarly tree roots and suspicious mounds of earth. The going was difficult, but someone had to stop this serial florist.

Eventually we came to an old little house surrounded by an ominous barricade. A sign out front read; “Ye have stumbled upon the dwarf dwelling. Trespassers be shot!” This must be Snow White’s house. I watched as the wolf climbed over the old stone wall that circled the compound. I waited until his last paw had fallen out of view and then proceeded to scale the thing myself. Luckily I was small enough to slip through one of the many cracks webbing their way across its surface.

I admit to being a bit apprehensive about searching the place. It’d been years since anyone had seen Snow. And there was that whole scandal over her divorcing the prince and moving back in with the dwarfs. She said she missed her “uncles” but no one believed her. They’d walled themselves into this forested hovel and we’d quietly gossiped from the village edge. So tramping through Snow’s hidden garden was a tad unnerving. I kept my eyes wide and followed Bid Bad’s furry tail.

He peered into a window, sniffing it’s ledge, and licking the glass. What on earth was he about? I watched—perplexed—as he repeated this behavior with each window. We came to the back of the house and he paused by the back door. Something inside the house had caught his eye and I blushed as he became…er…um…excited. His back leg began to thump and he made a soft howling sound deep in his throat. What hell was he about? I crept up the side of the house and pressed my face against the dirty window. Whatever Snow did out here in the woods didn’t involve cleaning. I had to wipe a small section clean to be able to see.

What I saw will haunt me till the day I die. “Uncles” my ass! The seven dwarfs had Snow in a most compromising position and she seemed rather happy about it. I turned bright red, I’m sure, before quickly turning away. I suppose that are advantages to seven men…even if they are wee.

Thankfully the wolf found the scent he was after and moved on to a secret trail leading from the back of the house. We trekked down some old stone steps and into a strange shed-like-thing. It turned out to be a spring house. Lily pads floated along the water’s surface, their delicate flowers emitting the sweetest aroma. Big Bad inhaled deeply then set about collecting them.

He worked quickly, filling his satchel and pockets. Soon there was only one lily pad left. A small croak stopped Big Bad’s steady hands. “Please don’t take my home, Sir!” It was the frog-prince. He was still awaiting his kiss it seemed.

The wolf looked at him a moment. “You can live elsewhere, it’s a big forest.”

“But I can’t. This is where my sweet princess will find me and break the spell with a kiss.”

The wolf pondered this a moment. “So move into the cattails. She’ll find you there.”

The frog-prince frowned. “But good sir, this is my home. Besides, you have plenty of flowers. Your pockets are overflowing!”

The wolf yielded a wicked chuckle (they don’t call him Big Bad for nothing). “You know FP, it’s been years since I had me some frog legs. Do they still taste like chicken, I wonder?”

The frog-prince gulped and took a backward hop. But it was too late. Big Bad snatched the amphibian up and ruthlessly ripped his legs off before swallowing the screaming creature. The wolf smiled with true satisfaction. “Treasures and a snack…what a wonderful day this is!” He turned and looked at me. “Wouldn’t you agree Thumbelina?”

I was too scared to move. My voice stuck in my throat. I willed my feet to work, to take me far away from this murderer. He tenderly scooped up the lily and set it inside his satchel. “Would you like a lift back to the village young lady?” I vigorously shook my head no. He laughed and I cringed. “I’m a wolf, you know, I’ve an excellent sense of smell. Care to tell me why you’ve been following me all day?” Again I shook my head no.

He leaned over me and I think I might have pissed my pants. “Can’t speak little one? Not even a morsel. I’ll tell you what. Keep your trap shut and I won’t eat you. Do we have a deal?” This time I shook my head yes. He left me there in my little puddle of fear.

It was several hours later that I made my way back into the village. I went straight to Humpty’s house, as he was our unofficial mayor, and made my confession. He immediately split down the center, his yolky face boiling with rage. “There’s been a murder in Fairyville?! Obscene! Call the neighborhood watch!” He bellowed at the king’s horsemen. “Inform Old King Cole! Justice must prevail.”

The villagers crowded together, murmuring amongst themselves. “Poor frog!” they whispered. “That wolf has always been trouble.” “First he’s a serial florist and now this!” The gossip swelled and I knew it wouldn’t be long before an angry mob formed. To his credit, Humpty tried to calm the rabble. But it was useless.

The crowd roared and took up their scythes and pitches and torches. They filed down the streets of Fairyville with bloodlust burning in their eyes. They surrounded Big Bad’s house and shouted at him to come out. The wolf ignored them until the baker threw a stone in his window. The door of his home slammed open and Big Bad sneered at the townsmen. “You’re too late; my creation is complete!”

That was a seemingly odd thing to say and they puzzled over it. I hung back away from them, knowing that I didn’t want caught up in whatever Big Bad had planned. I inspected the goggles on his head and the mad scientist white coat and knew he’d done something awful. His laughter crackled through the night air. “Meet my sweet!”

...Too Be Continued... I'm thinking I may turn this into a whacked out novel or long short story...

The Fairy Princess

2011-01-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

Frilly lace, pink and delicate, bulges from thick shoulders--over huge breasts. Lipstick smeared from corner to corner, mascara in dripping globs--she's a carnival of color. Tie the ribbon in her hair. It doesn't match--but what does? What matched fat and self loathing?

All dressed up and no where to go.

Stiletto heels and stockings that won't stay up--she's just a clown--a walking parody.

Tears streak a black river over bulbous cheeks. Soft blond curls twist and fall. They called her Miss Piggy in school. "You'd be so pretty if you just lost a little weight." Her mother would fuss and cram her into yet another girdle--leaving her with a cinched waist and arms that looked as if she'd explode out of the thing.

She was 18. Too old to hide behind her mother's skirts, too young to give up, too old to pretend. She placed the crown upon her head. A fairy princess in pink lace. In her heart she saw the beauty she could be. She saw herself dance on weightless feet--saw her prince bow and take her hand. "Spin me around the floor. Kiss me sweet." Her heart whispered in hushed tones--thump, thump under her skin.

Riiiiiiiiip. The sound of tearing fabric pulled her back to reality. She wiped away the tears and the makeup. Blue eye shadow marred the lacy hem of her dress. She grabbed her car keys and purse. She slammed the door of her car--winded from the slight exertion. White knuckled grip on the steering wheel--the long road wound it's way to the closest Burger King. The car flew as though it were determined to escape misery.

The voice in the speaker was distorted. She sobbed as she ordered 4 burgers, a large fry, and a chocolate milkshake. Money was another demon--but she forked it out readily to gorge the garbage in her mouth. Eating was pleasure, was comfort, was hate, was suicide, was death. Nothing mattered anymore. Addiction trumped all.

Shaking hands gripped the triple Whopper with cheese and shoved it in her face. She tasted tears, tasted salt, tasted rage, tasted helplessness, tasted nothing. She pulled out on the road--driving one handed. Took a turn too fast and her milkshake crashed to the passenger floor board. She swerved to lean down and rescue it. Her head full of chaos. Her tongue salivating for chocolate.

She never saw the deer.

She never heard the crash.

She never anticipated it's antlers crashing through the windshield.

She never dreamt she'd veer off the road--crash into the rocks below.

She never envisioned the pain, the shock of true instant death.

She'd only wanted something salty sweet to kill the truth of her. If only she'd known what the truth of her was....

Ralph's A Respectable Name

2011-01-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

"You can't name him that! Please reconsider!"

Doctor Hancock looked at my mother with shock. But my mother stood firm. "His daddy knocked me up and run off. I can name him any damn thing I choose. Now write it down." Dr. Hancock, God bless him, tried once more..."But Ms. River a boy needs a name he can live up to, not one he has to live down." He frowned and looked at Nurse Gina. Neither of them could overcome my mother's indomitable spirit. She would not budge.

So they wrote my name down.

I didn't think too much about it as a youngster. Folks would call to me with a sly grin on their faces, but I was a simple boy and chalked it up to them just bein' happy to see me. I was a sweet child. Everyone said so. I never cried much or carried on like a fool. But I didn't stand out among my peers neither.

When I started school--well, then my name got to botherin' me. The fellas would chuck rocks at me and tell me to go play in the deep end of the pool. The girls wouldn't chase me round the playground like they chased the other boys. I don't figure it was my looks so much, cuz every once in awhile a pretty little girl would look at me then glance away real quick, like I wouldn't notice. So I reckon it was my name to blame.

By the time I was 15 I finally had me one good friend. Jimmy Watts. He lived down on Yellow Street, on the wrong side of the tracks. His daddy had a taste for Bourbon and an eye for skirts. More than once Jimmy turned up at school with a black eye. But he was a cool cat in my book.

We sat at the bleachers watching the guys play football. Jimmy passed me a cig and I took a long drag. The smoke filled my lungs and I coughed. My eyes teared up and one of the cheerleaders laughed at me. Jimmy nudged my ribs with his elbow. "We gotta change your name, man. Ain't no girl gonna kiss you with a name like that."

I laughed at ol Jimmy. "Ain't no girl gonna kiss me ever. Don't matter what my name is." Jimmy scoffed and took his cigarette back. "A good lookin' fella like you? Pshaw! Sure they will. We just gotta change your name."

I looked down at my shoes. I wasn't really shy--just invisible. "You really think a girl'd kiss me?"

Jimmy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "I'll tell ya what, Man, we change your name and I bet Bethany will let you put your your hand up her sweater." I musta turned bright red when Jimmy said that. He knew I liked Bethany best of all, but bein' Jimmy, he had to bust my chops. "What's a matter, Man? Don'thca like girls?"

I slugged him in the side. "Shit yeah, I like girls!" Jimmy laughed. "Well, alright then. We gotta get you a new name." Jimmy looked out at the field, "What about Carl?" I followed his eyes. "Naw Jimmy, there's already a Carl Weaver." Jimmy leaned back, "Humph. Well how about Ralph, like the Honeymooners? Ralph's a respectable name!"

"Ralph." I tested it out on my tongue. I liked it.

I went home and told my mother I changed my name. She belted me across my mouth. "Ain't nothin' wrong with your name, Boy! Your daddy's dirt, so it fits you just fine." I decided to go by Ralph at school and let my mother call me whatever she wanted.

So I went by Ralph for the next several years. I even enrolled in college as Ralph. Jimmy'd been right. The girls warmed up to me a lot after I changed my name. It took two years, but it was worth it. I grew up tall and strongly built. I was still average academically, but I found that I had far more confidence with my new name.

Then I saw her. She was walking across the quad with three other girls around her. I never could figure out why these girls traveled in packs, but it didn't matter. The sun kissed her hair, turned it into a golden halo. I watched her laugh as if in slow motion. I stared so intensely that I snapped my pencil.

I found out her name was Angela.

I stayed back for awhile--just to get the feel of her. I learned that she loved music and was a dancer. I learned that her boyfriend had moved to another state to study engineering. I learned that her smile lit up the room.

Finally, I got up the courage to meet her. I skipped trig class so I could catch her at the library. I watched her walk in and go straight for the art history section. She walked along the aisle, barely tall enough to reach the books. I walked up to her, "You need me to reach something for you?" She smiled and I felt my heart skip a beat. "Thanks. That'd be great!"

I helped her get all the books she needed and offered to help her carry them to her dorm. We talked for hours. We stopped at the campus ice cream shop and I bought her a milkshake. She smiled at me and asked the question I'd been dreading. "We've spent nearly all day together and I never thought to ask your name! What's your name, silly?"

I took a deep breath. I looked down at my milkshake. My brain said, "Tell her it's Ralph!" But my heart just could not look into those cornflower blue eyes and lie. I braced myself for her reaction. I looked at her point blank and blurted out, "My name is Mud. Mud River."

:P

"I Want To Die"

2011-01-04T11:34:00.001-07:00

"You have a beautiful mind. Look at the things you create. It's a gift."

Blue crashes over red and makes purple. The scent of oil blends with turpentine. Crack a window. Let the fumes escape. Odorless turpentine is not odorless. Control the brush with an iron fist, white knuckled demands, smear and streak. Fill the picture plane with color. Fill it with life. Breathe air into it. Let it grow and become a beast.

"Are you listening to me? Did you hear what I said?" He crossed the studio and grabbed my shoulders, spun me round to face him. The brush came along for the ride and drew a trail of purple across his shirt. He didn't notice. Or didn't care. It was impossible to tell. "Look at your work! THAT'S who you are. That's how you're defined. Not by love, love is a passing thing. Fleeting in the big picture."

He picked up my ratty old notebook full of ramblings, full of pain, full of dreams. "This is your legacy. This is what matters. This is Cynthia." His chest heaved with excitement. Adrenaline pushed the blood through his veins. I watched it with numb fascination. It was hypnotic. Beat. Beat. Pause. Beat. Beat. Pause.

I said nothing.

I put the brush down.

There was a sad beginning of a shape on the canvass. An eye peeking trough a kaleidoscope of color. "You are better than the men you've been chasing. Don't you know that? You cast your pearls before swine, Chica. But that isn't who you are. Can't you see that?"

I wiped the paint from my fingers. I smeared it all over my jeans and went over to the window. The sun was shining. Peeking trough the clouds to wink at me. Flirty bastard.

I remember the sound of his voice. I remember the feel of it's sweet vibration in my ear. What had he said? Which time? So many things. So much to just slip away. He called me Sweetie. Another called me Kitten. So many called me mental. So many things. I remembered the others. The feel of warm hands, big and strong, kneading my shoulders. I remember kisses and wanting them so badly only to find them hollow.

Vern turned me around again. He wrapped me up in warm arms. I could smell his aftershave, smell his cologne. I could hear his heartbeat. I could feel him--real and solid. I could see the frustration in his line, in his muscles, in his face. Why couldn't I love him?

He led me to the canvas. He put the paintbrush in my hand. The canvass loomed bold and bright before us. I saw the love in his eyes, saw the worry. I knew what he wanted from me. I knew what I wanted. But the two were impossible. They'd never meet in this century. He wanted me; I longed for another.

He kissed my forehead and gestured to the painting. "Finish it. Remember who you are. And for God's sake...don't ever say you want to die again."

I watched the door close behind him.

Streak the purple. Crash it into yellow. Switch to red. Lips should always be red. Candy apple, delectable, nibblingly beautiful red...

Rain

2011-01-04T10:40:00.001-07:00

They're just fragments now
Broken shards
Lost loves that smile
From a shattered mirror

It hurts too much to breathe
Too much to grieve
I wasn't meant for this
To try and try and fail

I kiss the frog
But no prince bounds forth
I kiss the sky
And it rains

Pours down on me like hail
Crushing blows
Pummeling
Again and again and again

How much pain can one person take?
How much to endure?
When will my ship come in?
When will these damn cliches make sense?

It all seems so pointless.
Why hurt like this?
Why love and lose?
Why bother?

I'll never be over him it seems.

Not till the day I die....

Hope

2010-12-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

"I just want love. Is that so awful? A kind touch, warm arms to wrap around me--isn't that normal?" Tears streamed down her cheeks and she enclosed herself in her own hollow embrace--as if that could ease the chill.

I looked at my friend and my heart echoed her words, "Sure Sara, everybody wants that. But the way you're going about it...you're losing your focus. How will you survive without a job? What about your kids?"

She looked so fragile. Cool gray eyes clouded over with exhaustion and depression, I felt for her. I really did. It was tough to be a single mother. I knew she was looking for a lifeline--for something that would make her life make sense. She faced me boldly, "I had it once. Real love--I felt in my soul --like quiet poetry washing over me. So simple yet so right. I felt it. I know what it is. I crave it Laurie."

I walked up to her then and shook her shoulders. Something had to get her attention. "You are losing everything! You've no money, no food, no electricity, you're gonna be evicted from your apartment.Where will you take your children? How will you live? You haven't even packed a box. How long before the state takes your kids and locks you in the loony bin? You gotta focus!"

Her face fell and sobs racked her slight frame. "I know. I know! What am I gonna do Laurie?!" She buried her face in my shoulder and I looked at the ceiling. The room was full of paintings she'd created years ago. Photographs of smiling faces leered like nightmares from freshly dusted frames. On top of everything....Christmas was coming.

People build you up when you have potential. They say, "What great artist. What a powerful writer." But life skills and inner strength aren't things you can really learn. You either have them to back up your talent--or you don't. I knew her paintings would sell--if she had the courage to put them in a gallery. I knew her writings could be published--if she had the balls to send them out. It wasn't that she was an empty shell of a woman. It wasn't that she was pathetic. It was just that life had beaten her down.

It was easy to be witty and charming online or in a classroom--but throw life obstacles at her and she collapses. She was everybody's darling when the party was roaring, but she was nobody's problem when the lights went out. I pushed her back and told her quietly,"I'll help you pack. We'll put your things in storage and you and the kids can stay with me. But you have to find a job. I can't afford to feed everyone."

I wasn't sure how much Sara heard. I watched her walk woodenly over to the Christmas tree. She tenderly fingered an ornament. There were lights strung in the branches, but they remained dark. Daylight was waning and our breath hovered in the air. The kids couldn't sleep there tonight--it was far too cold with the power disconnected. She pulled the angel down from the tree top. "I bought this when I was still married. I thought it was a symbol of hope. I guess I should've stayed with him..." Her words trailed off as her mind wandered.

"Leaving him was the smartest thing you did! That marriage was toxic and you know it. We make our own hope, Sara. We create it within ourselves or else we lose everything. Now go find some clothes for the kids to wear to school tomorrow." Sara put the angel aside and climbed the steps like a zombie. The fog would clear. Her thoughts would flow and one day she'd be back to herself again. I could only pray that when that day came she'd be able to forgive herself. It's a helluva thing to try and move forward when you're blanketed in guilt.

I opened an empty box and started to fill it with plates. Wrap the newspaper around the dish and stack it on the previous one. Wrap the newspaper and stack. Wrap and stack. Shit it's cold in here. I touched my cheek. The wetness I found there surprised me. I looked around the room slowly being eaten by shadows. We all want love...but at what cost?

Happy Thanksgiving Day!!!!

2010-11-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

Well, my fellow patriots....today is the day we gorge our faces, devour a roasted bird, watch some football, wrangle some kids, drink some brews, ignore our in laws, and give thanks for the year's madness!

So what are ya waitin' fer? Git to it! :D

I hope you all have a rockin' holiday.

I for one, am thankful to have met such wonderful folks on Blogger, grateful to those who read my smutty tales and still called me friend. Take care and God bless.

Hugs! ♥♥♥

Ache

2010-10-31T17:13:00.001-06:00

Scorpions sing of the wind of change
I watch the sand kick up
And swirl

Everything is shifting sand
Lost in the eye of hurricane
Lost on empty promises

It's a strange life
I'm a strange girl
A woman and yet

Somehow childishly free
I danced tonight
And laughed in moonlight

Sure the witching hour felt
My pulse catch
Felt my heart

Ache

Loneliness calls
Shadows fall
But light peeks through

I dreamt a dream of joy
Of early morning kisses
And late night caresses

I dreamt of long hair falling all around us
Big hands searching out my secrets
Warm breath on my neck

I dreamt of you.

Sold!!! :)

2010-10-28T14:35:00.000-06:00

Just using my blog to confirm a sale, sorry bloggers.

This is the box I made and the way it will ship.

More Jewelry

2010-10-24T11:30:00.001-06:00

It's a Prison

2010-10-16T15:32:00.001-06:00

It's a prison. It's a horrible state where hunger begets hunger begets insanity begets self-destruction begets emptiness. And the emptiness becomes a void impossible to fill. Feelings consume and food becomes salvation. Eat away the tears. Eat away the loneliness. Eat away the pain. Eat away the self-doubt...the self-hate. Eat away the bitter truth. Eat away the past, the present, and the future.

Gorge until you're full. Gorge until your soul no longer bleeds.

Eat till you vomit.

It's hell. A place where faces spread and bulge and distort into something macabre. Your features get lost in the mess. Eyes too small to hold outsiders' attention, so they turn inward. Thick lips become traitors to the eyes as they wrap around each morsel. No one really sees you anymore. They see only the gelatinous ooze that you've become. Ankles with rolls that bunch and fall over bulbous feet. Shoes don't fit. So why wear them?

Skin hangs in long lumps of yellowish brown chicken gel. It bulges then droops. It twists. It shakes as you laugh. It shakes as you cry--like a bowl full of jelly. But you're no beloved old man in a red suit delivering toys to good little boys and girls. You're just you. Just invisible--yet gawked at--sad, not so little you. You're just fat.

You sit because standing hurts. You sit because walking steals your air. Life is a sweet grape to be plucked from the vine and savored--but you lost the truth of that somewhere along the way. You've become a monster in human form. A fucking joke--only no one's laughing. So you sit and you eat. You sit and you eat and you wait. You wait for death. You wait for the crane to knock down the wall. You wait for the news reporter to say what a beautiful soul was trapped in a freak-show form. You wait for your mother to sob, for your neighbors to say, "She was the kindest creature I've ever known."

It wasn't always this way. Once, many moons ago, you'd been a knobby kneed little thing with teeth too big for your smile. You ran and played and threw your arms wide and danced under swaying tree tops. You giggled and rolled down the hill. You raced the boys on your bike. You were sassy and fun and utterly brilliant. Once upon a time you shone like the sun.

A tear streams down your anonymous face. Vacant eyes stare vacantly into nothingness. You raise the turkey sandwich to numb lips. You can't taste anything. The colors have drained from your world and become a gray monotony that looms like storm clouds all around you. Love and lust and sex are fairy stories you read about in Harlequin. Chew, chew, swallow. Food isn't the enemy. You are. You've done this to yourself.

It's a prison. Yet they call it my body.

* I guess I had one more flash in me. I'm trying to lose weight. Guess I had something to say about it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1bFr2SWP1I&ob=av3e

Lunch With a Psychic

2010-10-15T12:09:00.000-06:00

You know the feeling you get when it seems like someone is watching you and the hair on the back of your neck stands up? Well, I was trolling the internet at work one day, on my break, using the community germ-infested computer when I got hit with that feeling. I looked around the crowded cafeteria and didn't notice anyone obvious. So I went back to wrecking havoc online.

Not a minute later a security guard pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. She stares right at me and I start to freak a little. I mean, hey, I don't swing that way, you know? I try to ignore her and lean a little more into the "privacy screen" which was naught more than the equivalent of a folder separating the row of computers.

Then she grabbed my arm.

I jumped in my seat.

"What the hell?" I say and glare at her.

She looks around uncomfortably, and speaks in a hushed tone. Her ash blond curly hair smacks of the eighties and her gut juts out awkwardly over her belt and security equipment attached there. "I'm sorry," she says, "But I have to talk to you."

I still think this Chica is totally off her nut, but I'm a sucker for the urgency in her tone. I decide to give her shot. "Okay, what's up?"

She relaxed visibly and a string of words rushed from her mouth in a heavy whoosh! "I have to tell you that you aren't living right. You're on your way to being sick, really sick. You're a Gemini, right? Gemini's working in the positive are supposed to be long and willowy. Gemini's in the negative pack on stress in the form of pounds. I'm very worried about you. I saw you and got hit with a sense of urgency, I just have to tell you. The man you're seeing--he's no good for you. He's a Scorpio in the negative. Sure its sexy and fun, but he's gonna drain you of your joy, and then he'll be gone."

She took a deep breath and my shocked mind tried to form a rebuttal, but I wasn't quick enough. "I'm psychic," she says, "I used to give readings. I could do your chart. But really you just need to read a couple of books. I can't let this get out around here--I don't want to be fired. And let's face it, small town USA isn't very witch friendly." She jotted down the name of two books I'd never heard of before, some sort of new age astrology crap, no doubt.

I interrupted her next stream of madness, my face flushed with fear and confusion, "How do you know that I'm a Gemini? And who are you to tell me to lose weight?" She tossed her eighties do over her shoulder and laughed. "You don't get it. You don't need to lose weight. You need to lose stress--that's the only way you'll be fit. And I'm not saying you'll have a stroke or anything. No. Your health problems will be female related....hair loss...insomnia...infertility."

I laughed at her then. "I'm not infertile. I have two little boys. So you're worried for nothing." She smiled and said, "Is your fella a Scorpio?" I quieted down then, he was. She winked at me. "Listen up. That relationship will run it's course. It's not the "one" you follow me?" I didn't like this. I didn't want to hear it. She squeezed my arm sympathetically and continued. "People view relationships all wrong."

"Everyone is looking for their one true love. But it doesn't work like that. Relationships are about learning. You take what you need to learn from this relationship and move on to the next. See everybody's here to learn something different. I think you're here to learn patience and trust. You want everything right now and you don't trust anyone--least of all yourself. And not only that, but your "one true love" changes as you change. What you need now in a mate may not be what you need ten years from now. Right now your attracted to his take charge attitude and his stability. But you'll see pretty soon that he's not really that stable. And Scorpios have drinking issues, so beware of that."

Well, by now I'd had enough of this shit. "How do you know it won't work out? How do you know I don't trust people? You don't know me." She smiled then I swear I saw clouds swirl in her blue eyes. It was like looking into a limitless abyss. I shivered and looked away. "You don't have to believe me, but someone who loves you wanted you to know. I relayed the message. That's all I can do."

She stood up and started to move through the crowded room. I jumped to my feet. "Wait! Who wanted me to know this? Did someone set you up to this?" She looked at me. "You're a smart girl, don't be dense. Who loves you and has crossed over?" My jaw hit the floor and I sat with a thunk in my chair. Grandpa? He didn't believe in astrology or psychics....

Everything in my life was shit at the minute. The divorce was slow going and volatile. My boyfriend was an emotional roller-coaster. One day he loved me the next he just wanted to be friends--it was never simple or consistent with him. And this morning in the shower a clump of hair fell out when I was shampooing.

But how could she know?

Just cuz it's a bad-ass song:

Jewelry Time!

2010-10-11T16:32:00.001-06:00

So...I have been a jewelry making fool. :)

A friend wants one of these necklaces, but can't decide between them. They are all 16 inches, sterling sliver, and have onyx and agate stones. Help a girl out and pick your favorite?

Much grass!!!!

Kat :)

Onyx Cross

Cross Chain

Glass Heart

Heart chain details

Glass Red Pendant

Red Pendant details

Sunlight and Lust

2010-10-08T09:02:00.009-06:00

Sunlight slices across the white 400 count Egyptian cotton comforter. Shadows collect in the folds of the blanket. Rumpled sheets suggest hushed movements slow and sweet from the night before. His foot peeks out the side. A strong thigh begs to be caressed. My greedy eyes devour the contours of his back. I love that he sleeps on his belly.

A beautiful waist widens up to his shoulders. Soft dark hair dusts his arms and legs. He's hugging the pillow and I smile to myself. I remember the feel of those arms wrapped around me. I remember the thrill as I watched his eyes, felt his breath on my flesh.

I know that if he turns over his chest will be deliciously furry. I know his eyes will be heavy lidded and plagued by blue-black shadows. I know his mouth will be full and irresistible. If he turns over I'll have to rake my nails over his chest, circle around his nipples. I'll have to kiss him.

I feel the urge to leave the window and go to him. I feel my feet wanting to pad across the room and straddle his hips. I want so much to press my breasts to his back, to run my hands from his shoulders down to his hands. I need to lace my fingers with his and kiss him...kiss him...kiss him again.

I want it so badly that my thighs tremble and I nearly drop the coffee cup.

My face is flushed, my breasts aching...I clear my throat and go to the bed.

I settle next to him on the edge of the mattress. My t-shirt exposes a lot of leg as I sit down. I skim his back with my nails in large circles, then straight smooth strokes. I feel like I'm on fire, but try desperately to cool down. "Sweetie?"

He mumbles and buries his beautiful face into the pillow. I stifle a grin by biting my lower lip and try again. I lean in close, my hair spilling over him. I tug on his ear lobe with my teeth and kiss the corner of his jaw...still petting his back. "Baby, it's time to wake up. I brought you some coffee."

He groans and rolls over. "Is it morning already?" I feel like I've been struck a blow when I see his chest. Lust ticking along my skin. The colors and scent of him are bewitching. His arm over his eyes pulls his chest flat. And I inhale sharply at the tent he's pitching. I set the coffee on the night stand. A true hedonist...I lick his nipple and my hands begin to explore his wicked form.

He sucks in a deep breath and looks at me then. His randy grin fades to need as he sees the look in my eyes. Slowly he sits up and pulls me upright. "Want more?" His voice is rough and sleep worn. I swallow and nod, yes. His hands are on either side of my face as his mouth tastes mine. His tongue licks the corners of my mouth, then traces the inner line of my lips--parting them. I open to him reveling in the feel of his tongue stroking mine.

I don't know if all we have is this moment or a million more moments just like this. But I don't care. Because this moment is perfect. He drags his mouth away, presses his forehead to mine, and growls, "This is madness." I smile and tell him, "I know...but it's such a beautiful shade. Kiss me again, Baby, I wanna see the colors swirl. Please?"

He aggressively takes my mouth and I hope he brands my skin with his touch. I want to remember it always.

*I am the Smut Peddler...dontcha know? :D

Seduction 101

2010-10-01T11:23:00.002-06:00

"Well...it was a brilliant idea. No clue why I felt so confident that it would work, I can only say that I felt it was pure genius from the second it popped into my head. I remember the rightness of it all as I planned and plotted my way through it. I remember the joy as I meticulously picked scented candles and mood music.

The joy that burst 'neath my breast as I casually strolled the lingerie aisle was pure bliss. It's an addictive feeling, really. The idea that you've got someone to play naughty games with is so heady that it trudges you past the size 6 black lacy treats to your own double-digit size. It's false pride, a delusion that convinces you that your guy will think you're absolutely gorgeous (minus a roll here or there).

It was surreal. One of my best experiences ever.

My tiny hands skimmed soft silky fabric. My eyes glazed over with visions of happy endings running through my head as I found a matching garter belt. I just knew you'd love this surprise.

I had it all planned out.

You'd walk in the door, find me looking incredibly fetching in my new naughty nightie and heels (can't forget the heels!). A bountiful spread of your favorite feast laid out on the table. Soft candle light to warm the room while Bob Dylan sings "Lay Lady Lay" from the stereo. It was going to be amazing.

Then I saw the bondage store.

I eyed it with suspicion and blatant fear.

The clerk was a punk with green hair and chain from his nose to his ear. I stood there holding my dainty underwear in a pretty pink bag that read, Victoria's Secret. He snorted and exhaled a stream of smoke. He looked me up and down, then scoffed. "You're too timid for this store, Lady." That pissed me off. Timid? Me? Pffffffffft. I marched into the sore like Sherman marching to sea. I'll show him timid.

I spun a full circle before I realized that I didn't have a clue what I was looking at. I heard Mr. Green chuckle behind me. "Here, try these." He shoved some powder blue polka dotted scarves in my hands. "Let your old man tie you up with those." My eyes went wide. "Tie me up?" My voice squeaked and I blushed.

He laughed out loud. "Um...this is an S&M shop, you know." I bristled at his dig and snapped, "I know that. Show me something interesting." He looked at me again. "I guess you do have some spunk. Ok, lady, check this out." He pointed at a contraption hanging from the ceiling. I paled visibly. "A torture device?!" I shrieked.

Mr. Green clucked his tongue, "No. A Spiderweb. You get in it. It hangs from the ceiling and your old man can come at you from any angle, spin you around. Whatever he likes. But you can't really move much. You're just suspended there." I looked at the crazy thing through slitted eyes. "So I become an inanimate object?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds. It's sexy. One of our best sellers." I looked at the leather monstrosity. I looked at Mr. Green. "Ok....I'l try it..." But I wasn't convinced.

So my brilliant seduction scene took me all day. I cooked. I cleaned. I shaved things that I'm pretty sure shouldn't be shaved. I curled my hair, did my make-up, put on the flimsy bit of naughtiness. Then I hung the beast. I climbed into it. I squirmed. It flipped me upside down. I shrieked. I fought the bastard, but it won. It hooked my leg up thatta-way and my arms over here. And that, Sweetie, is how I got tangled up in this damn thing! Now can you please stop laughing long enough to cut me down?"

* The characters in this tale are fictional...any similarities to real people are coincidental!!! But that is exactly why I'd rather kick it old school. Just me and my guy. Hehhehehehee. ;)

Love this tune.

I Dreamt of Van Gogh

2010-09-29T13:37:00.003-06:00

*Thought I'd try a 3 Word Wednesday. The words are: engulf, tamper, and imminent. :)

Paint brush streaks across the desert terrain whisper softly. Hues of green and brown with splashes of purple and red draw my eye and engulf me in serenity. It's artist porn. The wind catches in my hair. Sunlight beaming as if to say, "Hey, I know you." The mountains stand proud and welcoming with trees like dancing arms to scoop me up in a hug.

It's peaceful here.

So much is chaos now. Thoughts are a jumbled mess inside my brain--imminent trouble on my horizon. But the day burns bright and warms the chill in my bones. For a moment I forget. I forget the stress. I forget the divorce. I forget the words. For a moment I'm just a girl with sunlight warming her face. I'm a simple creature with a sketch pad and coffee watching shadows morph into spiderwebs and crawl across the street.

The street's alive with creatures rushing about their day. Shoppers stopping to say "Hello," "Oh how pretty!," stopping by to try on necklaces. They shuffle their bags and comment on the weather. They beam as if the sun had worked it's way inside them and their eyes are stained glass windows.

They become a mosaic to me--a wash of living glass in red and amber and white. They are tanned skin and turquoise flowing over the old brick streets of Las Cruces. Potted plants and ancient trees line the middle of the street. Children laugh and dash barefoot past my booth. A beautiful little boy with onyx hair and sienna eyes chases a fairy princess in a frilly dress with dirty feet. Her Tinkerbell anklet twinkles in the morning sun. Yellow ribbons flow behind her as she shrieks with glee and evades his grasp.

It's Market Day.

I settle back and think of new jewelry designs, new materials. I sketch and think. Take a sip of coffee. My mind wanders as it's prone to do. I see a lady in a blue skirt. The kind the old Mexican lady's wear. I saw that shade of blue once before. I saw it on a slide of Starry Night. I remember the off color yellow flicker of the projector's light bulb. The instructor speaking with reverence, "Van Gogh saw with his heart. And his heart bled color."

I never really liked Van Gogh. His brushstrokes were primitive, brutal, to harsh to be impressionist. I thought he was a crazy man who cut off his ear. But that was before I knew him. Before I met him in an amber field ablaze with wheat and orange and cadmium red blurring into a river of joy. He smiled at me, an old man with kind blue eyes. Hands too big for his arms and a voice as soft as winter snow, he spoke of all the things within him.

His words rushed out in a stream of cotton. He explained why art should not be tampered with, how expression burns from within and comes screaming out. I listened. I wept. I looked at the honeyed sky and saw frantic brush strokes. I looked at the wheat beneath my feet and saw truth. I looked at Van and held out my hand--one artist to another. But he was gone and it was just a dream.

I blinked and looked at the lady standing at my booth, "How much is this?" I smiled and glanced around her. The other woman with the Van Gogh blue skirt had disappeared. "40 dollars," I say to woman holding my necklace. The Labrodorite beads burn a cool green fire, softened by an antique brass chain. She smiles and says, "I'll take it." I smile back to her and box it up.

It's Market Day; the sun is blinding. Somewhere in the distance Van Gogh is painting heated brush strokes across the sky.

Strut

2010-09-28T14:20:00.001-06:00

"Hey Baby"
She purrs
A cock-sure strut
It's so easy

A fine way to
Pass the time
Men come
And men go

Seldom linger
Hour by hour
Why get attached?
When goodbye comes so soon?

Skirt hiked up to there
They think she's easy
Fair game to touch and pander
Think she'll give them a thrill

But it's just a game
A chase
Who will pounce first?
Will she walk away?

Or go for the kill?
Say she's beautiful
Spin the line
Smile like a snake

Watch her pat your face
See her wink and lick her lips
A fox in woman's skin
Too smart to fall...

I posted this on Facebook. It got stuck in my head. Then came the poem. Somewhere a shrink is looking for me. :D

Then this came to mind:

And this:

My mind is a scary place. :p

What Else?

2010-09-25T17:54:00.001-06:00

There's a kind of loneliness stalking me
It settles in bones
Steals my breath away

I could give in
Let rule me
Take me down with unseen weapons

Or I could tell it
To piss off, bury deep
And pretend I don't feel it

It's not so bad when the sun is high
And the sound of my boys
Distracts me

Tougher to fend off
At night when it's quiet
When the long shadows fall

And my bed is cold
No man to warm my skin
To fill the space within...

What's a girl to do?
But lay back in the stillness of my mind
And listen to some tunes

:)

Friday Flash

2010-09-24T16:11:00.001-06:00

"Did you read my Friday Flash?"

I smiled at him, "Of course. As if I'd miss one? It's been awhile since you wrote one. I think you should write more."

"Humph," he scoffed, then looked at me tentatively, "Did it upset you?"

My mouth quirked a bit, "No. Should it have?"

"Well, no...I just thought..."

I laughed at the uncomfortable expression on his face. "Am I the dead girl in your tale, Sweetie?"

He paled visibly. "No! Absolutely not." The words rushed heatedly from his lips and I walked up to his chair. My eyes narrowed on his handsome face, his silver hair catching in the soft glow of the lamp light. "Baby...am I the dead girl with worms oozing from her skin, perched on your couch, asking you for a kiss?"

He chuckled then, "No. Not you, Kitten. Never you."

I leaned over the back of his chair, my hair softly brushing his shoulder, my breath on his ear. I kissed his jawline and whispered soothingly, "Then why doesn't anyone else see me?"

Tunes for no particular reason:

Miss Sella Don't Know Much

2010-09-16T15:21:00.000-06:00

Miss Sella don't know much, but she knows Big Momma Thornton. Her gnarled hands shake as she shucks the corn. Trained and calloused finger tips strip out the the silk and her wrists fling it in the bin as an New York dancer might flick theirs for effect. She taps her toe and sings out loud. "Rock me baby," she bellows, and I just know Miss Thornton is smiling down from heaven.

Old Miss Sella never graduated high school. She couldn't tell you what half the words in the dictionary mean. But she can figure change in her head every Thursday as she sells her homegrown tomatoes at the square. She can't talk like a lady, but she can love as big and strong as the earth she tills.

"Ya gonna start on them beans, child? Or are we eating air for supper?" I grin and grab up a handful of green beans. I snap the ends off just like she taught me all those years ago. It's hotter than Hades today, but the clean mountain air makes up for it. And every so often a sweet crisp breeze blows through the mosquito netting and ruffles my hair. "We havin' succotash, Miss Sella?"

She grins and I see that a few more teeth are missing. "You know it, child." My tummy growls in anticipation, my taste buds burst with the memory of the buttery goodness yet to come. Ain't nobody alive can cook like Miss Sella. "You fixin' to have some fried chicken?" Miss Sella clucked her tongue at me, "Fraid not, youngin'. Got me a nice hunk a ham. Gonna have us a feast with some biscuits, if you ever get them beans ready."

I chuckled and assured her, "I'm a goin', I'm a goin.'" I held up my basket and showed her my progress. She squinted against her cataracts and nodded. "Why ain't you singing? You know how we cook in this house. Or did you forget? Down there in your big city with your big city men, I bet you forgot."

"Hey now! I ain't forgot, Miss Sella. Honest." I leaned back and started up where she'd left off. Wasn't long till she joined in and we were singing Big Momma Thornton up in the West Virginia mountains. Bees buzzin,' breeze blowin', sun about to bake us half to death--and us crazy women singin' the blues.

Charles hates it when I come home to check on her. He says I don't talk right for days, sound like a damn hillbilly. Well, I reckon he's right. But there is something about the winding black snake road flanked by bright green grass and cool mountain air that beckons me up this manic rock. First thing I do is kick off my fancy heels and dig my toes into the cool spongy grass. Second thing is to chase down Miss Sella for long needed hug.

I look at Miss Sella and try to picture her in the city, walking through the galleries. I wonder what she'd make of seeing her favorite blues singers splashed across walls and idolized by folks who would have forced them to use colored bathrooms 70 years ago. The world is changing so fast it's hard for old relics like Miss Sella to make sense of it.

I could fill an ocean with the things Miss Sella don't know.

Her knees pop as she climbs to her feet and hugs the basket of corn to her hip with one hand, leans on her cane with the other. "Let me get that, Miss Sella!" She swats me away with her cane and I remember the precision with which she wields that thing. "I ain't dead yet, youngin.' You wanna help? Bring them beans to the kitchen."

Sunlight fills the kitchen with warmth and joy. I breathe in the fresh lemon scent. She makes her own lemon soap and cleaners. Always has. Sunflower prints line the walls. I remember cutting and framing them for her on the days my mother left me here. Miss Sella loves her sunflowers.

She wraps the honey-spiced ham with foil and shoves in the oven. I don't say a word as she huffs and rights herself. Then she takes a sharp knife and scrapes all the corn off the cob and tosses it in a large pot. Next goes the Lima beans and finally the green beans. She puts some chicken stock in and brings it to a boil. I pour her a glass of iced tea and smile at her as she sits down at the table.

She squeezes my hand. "Ya know he died, don't ya child?" Her voice is well worn gravel turning under heavy tires. "Yeah...Momma told me." She blinks back some tears and I stare out into the sunlight till my eyes go blind and my vision fills with spots. "He was a bad man. Couldn't see why your Momma married him. Never wanted to you run away like that. If you'd just told me..."

I blinked and swallowed hard. Miss Sella waved her hands in the air. "No matter. You come home when ya can." I got up and gave her a big hug. Her strong hands ran over my back, expelling demons. Tears spilled over my cheeks. "I'll be home a lot more now, just wait and see." She gave me a tight squeeze and let go.

I sat back down and she took a hearty gulp of her sweet tea. "Ahh that's the stuff!" We chuckled together and fell into local gossip. Miss Sella might not know much, but she knows what matters most. I sniffed the air. Honey baked ham. Mmmmmm....

Turn Him Loose

2010-09-14T17:57:00.000-06:00

I met you on a Wednesday
Sunlight at your back
Shadow over your face

Tattoo branding your skin
Peel it back
See the sin within

Freedom; something sweet
Suckled from your tongue
But never meant for me

Cry with the crow
Hide in the corn field
Dark prince, fallen angel

You think you're something
Bigger than you are
A sliver star

Dangling in an opaque sky
Just a little boy
Cowering under Spiderman sheets

Never be what I need
Never see the truth of me
Best to turn you loose

Rather than swing from your pretty noose
On wicked night
Kiss your smile goodbye

One more Danzig tune...cuz I feel like it. Lol. Dang I love a man with a furry chest. Yum!!!

Labor Day and Jewelry

2010-09-06T13:40:00.001-06:00

First off... Happy Labor Day to my fellow Americans. Hope you didn't have to work. :p

Secondly...I have been a jewelry making fool these days. Whew! Think I'm gonna open a booth at out local farmer's market and craft show. Check it out here.

Anyway...these are not the best pictures, but it'll give you an idea of what I've been up to (when I should be writing. Ugh!).

I totally dig that copper hammered heart. It's purty-full. :)

I miss my camera. My phone camera blows chunks. Sorry!

Then I got a "brilliant" idea to make my own boxes and dress them up to match my jewelry pieces. Why do I complicate everything? lmao!

Looks like a coffin, lol. But pretty in person.

That's the interior of the heart's box...

Here is the exterior:

Another sample:

Last One:

So...what do you all think? Have I wasted weeks of my life? Now I have to figure out what to sell them for. Suggestions? I used real stones, copper, antique brass, and silver. turns out that I'm a fussy girlie-girl. Lol.

Why Don't You Do Right?

2010-09-03T10:29:00.001-06:00

"Just 5 g's, Baby. That's all I need is another 5 g's. I know you got it sweet cheeks. I seen Big Paul hangin' on ya. Everybody knows he's sweet on ya. If you don't got it, you just whisper nice in his ear and he'll give it to ya. Whatd'ya say Baby? You gonna help your fella out?"

I looked at my ruby red nails. same old story. Jimmy'd never change. I knew it then, like I knew the line he'd been feeding me was rancid. He'd never grow up. I stood up and turned my back to him. I left him sitting on the bench. The only sound I made was the clicking echo of my heels on pavement. I was tired of his lies--sick to death of his gambling and cheating. I knew about Denise. Did he think I didn't know?

"Baby! Come back here!" He grabbed my arm and spun me around. He stroked my cheek the way a mother soothes her child, "Baby. I know you're fed up. I know you want the white picket fence and a car load of kiddies. And I'll give em to ya. This is it. My big break, can't you feel it? You lend me the 5 g's and I'll triple it. I'll buy you that rock you want and we'll go swimming in Hawaii just like we said we would. Come on, Baby. Trust me this one last time."

I looked at his earnest face. Sad thing is, he probably believed his own bullshit. I remembered last summer when we laid in bed all day and made love on crisp cotton sheets in warm sunlight. I remembered how he kissed me, how his hands teased and plucked my body like I was a priceless violin. I remembered him coaxing my strings into a fine, hushed melody. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them back. I vowed to never cry over his sorry ass again.

I leaned in and pressed my soft lips to his. I opened my mouth and lured his tongue inside. I grasped at his shirt and walked him backwards to the bench. He flopped down on it and I straddled his lap. I kissed him deeper, wetter, hotter than I had in ages. I felt him stir between my thighs, heard his moan. I remembered the note I'd left on his pillow back home. I remembered the train ticket in my purse.

I whispered against his yummy lips, "I got the money, Babe. You're right. Paulie is sweet on me. He's been taking real good care of me. That's what a man does." Jimmy started to protest, but I kissed him again. I kissed him deeper, more demanding, tugging on his lips.

He never saw it coming.... till after I had fired.

I stepped away from him, the smoking gun shaking in my hand. I thought of the confession I'd written that morning. Wouldn't be long till the cops found it. I thought of Paulie waiting for me at the station. Jimmy looked up, blood dripping from his side. Eyes wide with shock he touched the wound and looked at me. I aimed straight at his heart. The shot fired smoothly.

He slumped over and I tossed the gun at him. I felt a twinge of remorse, but crushed it quickly. "Sorry Jimmy. Bullets were cheaper. Guess you shoulda asked Denise."

Satisfy My Soul

2010-08-20T23:07:00.000-06:00

He walked into my diner with an air of indifferent insolence and a cloud of smoke. He sat at my table, not waiting to be seated. You can't smoke in public anymore. So I watched in shock as he dumped the pink Sweet & Low packets on the table and flicked his ashes in the ceramic cup.

I stood there like a slack-jawed-ninny...my pen and pad frozen in my tiny hands.

He looked at me with those sarcastic, discontented eyes and ground his order out through coffee stained teeth. "Gimme some eggs, bacon, and a stack of buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup. Got it, Toots?" I scribbled some nonsense on the pad and nodded, "Sure." He swatted my ass as I turned to place his order.

I hated working the graveyard shift. Nothing but the drunk and lonely came to call. Why should he be any different? Fame and fortune didn't stand in the way of general disquiet. I watched him from the kitchen...as if he were the most interesting exhibit in the zoo. Maybe he was. I noticed something in the sureness of his hands as he flicked his ashes. There was a calm beneath his armor. Sure he came off like a sexist prick who hated the world...but there was more to him than that.

He stood and stretched his skinny frame to it's full height and shuffled over to the jukebox. I expected something cool and seedy to flow from the speakers, but he played the Doors, Roadhouse Blues. "Hey Toots!" he bellowed.

I tucked my pad into my apron's pocket and walked out to him. He took my hand and spun me in a circle. I giggled as he dropped his bitchin' Fedora on my head. He brushed my curls behind my ears and danced low and dirty with me. It felt gritty and wrong. It was grounds for termination. I think I fell in love with him.

Carl yelled from the window. "Order up!" I smiled and said, "I better get your eggs." But he pulled me closer. Close enough to smell his cheap cologne and cigarettes. He pushed me back onto the table and wedged himself between my parted thighs. I felt the wildness of stampeding elephants rage across my abdomen. Roadhouse was nearing the end as his lips assaulted mine. I can't call it a kiss. It was a bruising battle of heat, sex, and wetness slipping from his juicy mouth to mine. I moaned and fell back on my elbows, my tits thrust up as if they'd been designed to do so all along. He leaned over me and ground his mouth into mine. His tongue rushed wickedly over mine and I squirmed.

He stood and hauled me to my feet by the lapels on my powder pink uniform. He claimed my mouth again. His calloused fingers rounded over the heavy swell of my breasts and he popped the first three buttons. I shivered as his hot breath and teeth scraped over the crease of my cleavage. "Toots has some sweet tits." He gruffly whispered over my collarbone and my knees turned to Jello.

I wanted him then. I wanted him like I wanted air--like I wanted to drown this shit-hole diner in gasoline and flip Carl the bird as it went up in flames. Sweet Lord I wanted him to bend me doggie-style over that 1970's yellow Formica table and fuck me senseless.

But he chose that moment to button me up and send me to fetch his meal. I bet he chuckled smugly as I wobbled over to the window. I carried his plates with shaky hands and sat down across from him as he lit another smoke. I'd spent $22.50 on blood red nails that morning and they glittered like rubies as I snatched his cigarette away and took a drag. Smoke burned my lungs and I coughed, but it tasted like him, and I so dug that.

He took his smoke back and dove into his eggs. I never saw anyone smoke and eat at the same time before. He spoke with a mouthful of yolk, "You need religion, Toots." I took a sip of his water and choked. "I need what?" He swallowed his bite, took a drag off his cigarette and laughed,"You don't need no holy roller dive to pray in. You just need little oral communion...on your knees, Toots."

My face burned red--I knew what he meant. I sat back and crossed my arms just under my breasts. "Pfft. As if I'd ever pray to you." He threw his head back and laughed. We sat in silence as he devoured his pancakes. Then he pulled out a little candy. He unwrapped the foil, and held up a chocolate Jesus. "Try this religion, Toots. See if you feel holy when the chocolate melts on your tongue."

I leaned forward and looked him in his bloodshot eyes. "You trying to save...or fuck me?" He grinned like an ungodly nightmare, reached out, and rubbed a knuckle over my nipple till it stood at attention and practically winked at him, "Both." My eyes closed so I didn't know he'd moved til he had me in his arms, his hands squeezing my ass, revealing the tops of my silk stockings. He took my mouth by storm one last time, took his Fedora back, and folded some cash in my fingers. He tipped his hat and said, "Thanks for the dance, Toots."

And then he was gone.

I sat down and looked at the money in my fist. Two rolled up fifties. I blinked. I looked again. They were still there. I looked at the green glass doors, popped the chocolate Jesus in my mouth, and whispered to his ghost..."Thanks for the tip Mr. Waits." And as that little Jesus melted...I heard a choir of angels sing...."It's got to be a chocolate Jesus..."

Spiderwebs

2010-08-19T16:09:00.001-06:00

Everything collides
One strand into another
Faces twist and blur

Hearts that beat...then slow

Nothing but the marrow
Suck it from the bone
Feel the chill of death

See the friends you'll never know.

Winners, Music, and Quiet Meditation

2010-08-18T16:35:00.002-06:00

Greetings good people. :)

So SmutFest 2010 is long over and I need to reveal the contestants. I think it's obvious that the winner is story #1, based on the votes. And I have to say that I cried when I read it. Not only did I cry, but I stopped several times throughout the piece to read the words aloud. I weighed them, rolled the syllables over my tongue, tasting them--bewitched by the their colors and textures. I view the author of story #1 as one of my favorite wordsmiths. I thrill at the use of his palette, the sureness of his knife as he forges words into paintings. And when I got to the end of his tale--tears streaming down my cheeks--I blurted out "Damn it Mark!"

Then I read it again.

It's my pleasure to reveal the winner of SmutFest 2010 as none other than Mark Kerstetter with The Explanation. Please check out his blog here.

I wish I had something cool to give him. Maybe next time I'll have this whole contest thing down pat, but for now he'll have to be content with mad props. And a tune, lol. I see his poor character trying valiantly to build his sculpture and forget Fay--but unable too...or maybe I'm just stuck in the 80's and love this song...whatever the reason...Skid Row, "I Remember You."

Story #3 got a vote, so that makes it the runner up. Independence Day by one of my favorite chicas--Cathy Olliffe. Feel free to check out her wonderful blog here. I hope you have a hankering for some wedding mania though, cuz Chica is knee deep in it.

So for Miss Cathy...with love and best wishes....doesn't have a thing to do with her tale...unless Moonbeam really digs that freshly shaved peach...if not I got some guys in my harem...kidding!!!! Seriously? Could Cathy and Dave be any cuter? Hugs! This dance is on me you wild Canadian Lovebirds:

Last, but certainly not least, is story # 2. This colorful tale was delivered to Crooked Tales in a black wrapper labeled "Holy Crap! Ask And Ye Shall Receive." I opened the package with trepidation and trembling fingers, inside was a brief manuscript and a card that read: Who Takes This woman? by Manon des Sources: Originally from Europe, Ms des Sources now resides on the East Coast of the United States, somewhere between Exit 9 and Exit 7A, where nothing matters in the whole wide world when you're in love with her.

That's it. That's all I know about the author. What song to play for Mr. des Sources? Anything other than Inxs would be uncivilized. :p

I hope you've had fun. I know I have. I have one more submission to post and then that's the end of SmutFest 2010 till next year. But no worries, I've more deviancy in my twisted little mind in store for the fair citizens of Blogger. Have a great night. I'm off to wrangle some moneys, dream of faraway hot mean to kiss, make some gruel, and quietly meditate. :)

One for the road:

The Nitty Gritty

2010-08-10T12:51:00.003-06:00

So I've been a naughty Kat and have played hooky. Lol. Actually, it's been a maddening few days for me...but I digress. I've neglected my minions and there's no excuse for it--so--my apologies.

I feel like today is a perfect day for a music interlude. So how bout some classic G 'N' R? Why? Pfft. Why not? Axl's been kicked around lately and it annoys me. Is he a complete ass? Why yes he is. It's why I love him so. Because today's post is gonna be a bit obscene...please take a seat and enjoy Rocket Queen. :D

So...first order of business, good people, is my ten "confessions," what's fact and what's fiction you ask? Well, I'll tell you. :)

1. I Did back to school commercials for Value City and Schottenstein's department stores as a kid. True. I did back to school commercials when I was eight. :)

2. I was nominated for Miss Teen Ohio in 7th grade. True. I was 13 in 7th grade Cathy. Was nominated by a teacher. But I didn't think I was pretty or smart enough to compete against 16-17 year old girls, so I didn't enter. :(

3. I love lobster. False. I don't eat cockroaches from land or sea. Lol.

4. I never wear panties. (Hehehee.) True. Panties are for schmucks. :p

5. I sometimes dream about being Fred Astaire. False. Love his movies, but not THAT much. Lol.

6. I want to retire on an island somewhere with a harem of oh...say...30 cabana boys to do my bidding. False. As if I have the patience for 30 Cabana Boys. Pfft. Men are so needy!

7. I used to scam kids in school outta cash by eating bowls full of jalapenos for $5 a pop. ;) False. I did it for free, just to watch a bunch of white kids' eyes bug outta their heads. hehehehehehehe.

8. I once talked politics with Corbin Bernsen in a limo after a play he'd starred in, and he said I was very pretty and intelligent. (heart!) True. He was very cool. And tall! :)

9. My favorite color is green. True. I luv, luv, luv green, but I'm very fussy about the shade. :)

10. Gawd I need more?! Ugh. Okay. My hands down favorite singer ever is Iggy Pop. False. I heart Iggy like mad, even painted him (it's on this blog somewhere, lol), but my all time favorite singer ever is Van "the man" Morrison (I painted him also). :)

Okay. More Guns N Fucking Roses--cuz I say so! This I love:

One day very soon I will write something completely manic and moody to that song. *Sigh... Know what else I love? I love Mr. Smooth's blog and the story he subbed to SmutFest 2010. I had to flip a coin between his entry and another tale. It's wonderfully seedy and delicious. Check out Ant's blog here...and enjoy!

A STRIPPER’S CREEED by Anthony Venutolo

She couldn't think with Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" piping into the break room for the 989th time. How she hated those fucking stripper songs. For three years, she'd been at it -- this dancing thing -- and while she realized she was almost a cliche, the money kept her happy. Or at least happy enough.

Her stripper's creed was simple and sparse: Grease monkeys tipped the most; cops tipped the least; and don't ever ever cross the line in the back room because they'll respect you more and in the long run, you'll get more lap dances.

She did fuck up tonight, though. Something didn't feel right about those three older guys. Not the regulars, the ones that wanted wine. But they kept tipping her during her session and she was never one to discard customers. Especially since the downturn.

After an hour, the handsome one with salt and pepper at the temples bought a dance. Walking into the back room, she made small talk with him. That's what you do to gauge where they're at. But the more questions she asked, the more unsure she became.

Halfway through some stupid rump-shaking rap song, her instincts told her to pull back on the intensity and even then he still had what she called a "happy accident." The man was slightly embarrassed but she fluffed it off and reassured him that it was pretty normal. He thanked her, gave her a healthy tip and was on his way.

Recognition reared its ugly head and she shivered. Rubbing her right inner thigh with rubbing alcohol, she replayed their conversation in her head:
Just moved into a new golf development
Had three kids
A developer.
Just built that strip mall near the Pancake Hutt
... bingo
She lit her cigarette and dreaded the call she was about to make. As AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" came to a close, she dialed her new boyfriend's number and said, "I think I just gave your dad a lapdance..."

Needless to say, she didn't officially meet the parents -- and never did.
It wasn't long before she updated her stripper's creed to include "Never give your boyfriend's dad a lap dance..."

Come One, Come All And Cast Your Vote!

2010-08-06T22:00:00.002-06:00

Seriously...don't make me beg!!!! The contest is over. SmutFest 2010 is done, time to pick your winner. remember...this contest had one real requirement: truth. Our brave contestants were welcome to get as crazy with the subject or genre as they wanted as long as what they wrote was honest and real. So bearing that in mind...write your vote in the comments. I'm posting all the stories as written by "anonymous" so you won't know who you're voting for.

You've got one week from Saturday to vote. Then I'll reveal the names of the top three authors and link their blogs. I know many viewed this contest with skepticism or disdain (Pffft!) but I think these entries will floor you. They did me. I mean one of them left me so brokenhearted...words fail. Another made me laugh out-loud! And a couple of them...well...lets just say...you may need a cold shower. ;)

There weren't many entries, but I will post the runner-ups, no worries. So happy reading! And don't forget to vote!!!!

Story #1: The Explanation by Anonymous (For now, lol)

Only because you’ve asked how it came to this, because you deserve an answer, Gail, I will linger a little longer. After that, I’m done with words. That must shock you almost as much as the murder.

The pen and paper I’m using came from my cellmate. It was just my luck to get locked up with a young romantic full of Nietzsche. “ That stuff makes me puke,” I told him. Thumping on the wall of our cell I said, “This is reality.”

But we should be shockproof, you and I, after those two copulating pigs who birthed us let us in the bedroom door. You were only seven, and I was six. They splayed their incomprehensible bodies across the bed, their weird sex organs out and open like alien prostheses. And the camera they taught us how to aim and shoot. And the other things they made us do. We should be over it, you and I.

But just when you think you’ve seen it all, life shows you something else. Something that was maybe there all the time. Something you missed. It may be as simple as a common flower. Dear Gail, have you ever seen a flower? I have.

You know me, married to Connie for sixteen years. Here’s what you don’t know: for the last fourteen of them we never touched, hardly even talked. Our marriage was a machine that hummed along. We slept in separate rooms, never ate together. After work I read books.

Every morning I awoke with a hard-on. I’d carry it in front of me to the shower like a stick with shit on the end of it. I’d stick my head under the shower, rub my eyes with my left hand while my right hand worked it up and down until ejaculation. For years I did that, my mind a blank, just a machine humming along.

And then I saw the flower. A girl. Fay was not one of my students. At least I can say I’m not a walking cliche. She was hired as an assistant in the English office. A girl without guile. Innocent. Pure, both of skin and of thought. I began to look for excuses to linger in the office.

She was eager to tell me the sad story of her life. Her parents had divorced when she was young and she never knew her father. Her mother was an alcoholic. A lover of poetry, she met an artistic boy at school and the two exchanged phone numbers. Clutching the phones to their faces for hours, they whispered their dreams into each others’ ears until the wee hours of the morning. Carl was the first boy to be nice to Fay. They dropped out of school and got married.

“But what about the poetry?” I had to ask. Fay smiled at me, and that’s when the world opened up. I realized that up to that point I had been dead and now I was alive. A torrential downpour after months of desert dryness hardly begins to suggest it. That smile hit me like lightning.

The little hand-written note she gave me with one of her poems on it was our first act of intimacy. Please know this: it was all innocent. Neither of us knew we had fallen in love. We didn’t know what love was.

There were additional poems, I recommended books and then I happened to drop by one day when she ate her bagged lunch by the ugly metal sculpture. I started bagging my lunch then and it became our routine. The more I learned about her the more concerned I became. I know the signs of abuse when I see them.

We bit into our sandwiches and looked up at the weird painted metal thing. “Carl would like this,” she told me. Carl was a sculptor of metal, and as I would learn, of other things as well. It began with the lunches. Her food never varied, always the same meager assortment of tidbits hardly sufficient to nourish a young woman. I began bringing extras, which she happily accepted. Carl did all their shopping and tightly controlled what Fay ate. But that wasn’t all. Buying a book was out of the question. I began lending her my books but noticed she never took them home. So Carl had forbidden books in the home as well? Fay was barely conscious of the poet struggling to be born within her. Poetry could become her ticket to the wide world around her, and here was this man—this ogre—barring her way.

It was none of my business, yet she wanted me to know everything, even about Carl—not that she was disappointed in him, just the facts, but they were enough. I had taken his place, I suppose. She needed to talk to someone and Carl had stopped fulfilling that role. For the first time in years I was needed. And if anyone needed help, it was Fay. Do you know the asshole didn’t even work? OK, yes he was a sculptor. But no gallery represented him. No one even knew about his work, much less bought it. They lived on her eight-fifty an hour job.

Then other details emerged. Their house and other big ticket items came from Carl’s rich parents. Carl would drive around town looking for junk for sculpture, eating whatever while she earned their money and ate lousy cheese sandwiches and pickles. It was obvious that Carl’s parents had found someone to take over the job of babysitting their little boy and Fay was just right for it: a devoted girl, pure of heart and perfectly malleable. Everyone was coming out a winner, except Fay, who, at the age of nineteen, was already dying.

And then I saw a chance to make a difference. Fay told me they needed to replace their sewer pipe. Nothing to it, I told her, a cinch for a metal sculptor with time on his hands. But Carl wouldn’t do it so I offered to do the job. She could pay me whatever they could afford.

So there I am, my shirt off, shovel in hand, digging away, and the moment came. The tall glass of lemonade and the tender pale arm extending it. Those fingers! Slender, like porcelain. I accepted the glass, and our eyes met. Then she did a strange thing. She poked her tongue out a tiny bit and pulled it back in, like a cat. And smiled. The sweetest most unabashed smile I have ever seen. I would have dug a hundred trenches for a smile like that.

I dragged the job out for over a week. Carl ignored me. And then Fay invited me in. The whole damn place was his workshop, nothing but junk. Fay offered me lemonade. She was close. You have to understand, Gail, I had stopped touching myself. I had finally realized that this wasn’t just about platonic love. I wanted to touch those hands, feel those lips, know her breath on my cheek. I had stopped touching myself in some attempt at self-control and now she stood close, her cheeks flushed. My body was so hard and full that I was in agony, my penis crouched between my thighs like a beast in the shadows.

And Carl walked in. At first I thought he was just ignoring me until I realized he was angry and this was how he expressed it, to act like I wasn’t there. Fay quickly dashed away and came back with a box. “We wanted to know if you’d like to have these books,” she said. I opened the box and looked inside. Pulled the books out one by one. A picture book of wild flowers. A book on yoga. A volume on Mozart. A Dickinson, and Keats. I held up the Keats and said, “Surely you’re not giving these away.” Fay bit her lip, then managed to utter, “We don’t have room for all these things.” I glanced around at the collection of filthy detritus clogging the room, then looked at Carl. He did not return my glance.

I put the books back. “No,” I said, “You’re not giving these up.” Only then did Carl turn my way. “I told you,” he said, to no one in particular. “Throw the shit out.”

I stood up to Carl’s six foot frame. “This isn’t shit,” I said, glancing around the room. “But I know shit when I see it.” Carl said, “I don’t like you little man. People like you think you’re so fucking smart. You’ve got the whole world locked up in an encyclopedia. But this”—he slammed his fist into the wall—“This is reality!”

He didn’t scare me, but I went home and thought about my behavior. Maybe I was just another forty-one year old cliche after all, sweating through a mid-life crisis. I avoided Fay. But she was always there behind everything, because everything was an occasion to echo her in some way.

I went back to Books. I picked up Joseph Campbell’s Creative Mythology and came to the passage on Abelard and Heloise. This is Campbell at his most eloquent, describing how the romantic hero follows the urges of his heart no matter the cost. I got drunk on the words: “We today must enter the forest: and, like it or not, the pathless way is the only way now before us.” The Knights of the Round Table each penetrated the forest by their own chosen point of entry, suffering and sometimes dying. Campbell contrasts this mode of life with the traditional one, appearing as mere mists to the Knights, the men of heart who walk right through into the tangled forest.

Perhaps my heart was more noble than my head. But when I searched my heart, I found that there was no bottom, just a wilderness in which I wandered, lost. Then I realized: that was the forest.

I decided to see Fay alone. I called her at home and she quickly volunteered that Carl was on a junk run. Her frank manner startled and should have encouraged me but I made up the story that I left my pipe cutter in her yard. I fully intended to act, not knowing what it would be, only where I hoped to end up—with Fay in my arms, convinced that my fears and hesitations were mists of cowardice. I had to risk utter foolishness and catastrophic shame. Love and my manhood depended on it.

I arrived at her place, got out of the car and headed across their junk-strewn yard when a utility van pulled up. It was Carl. He got out and took one look at me—a look of rage. I waited for him. He walked around to the passenger side, I heard a door open and slam shut, and he reemerged with a large metal object in his hand. It had sharp edges and flashed in the sun. He came toward me.

Without hesitation or thought, I reached down and picked up a piece of junk from the yard. It too was metallic and sharp. Without waiting for his move I swung the thing forward. It landed on his skull like an ax.

I didn’t have time to reflect on what I had done. All I could see was Fay bent over the bloody heap screaming his name over and over.

You may wonder how I pass the time without my precious books. Well they let us have porn. Oh not to look at. It’s to block out her image. I focus on all these pictures so as not to see her. And when I close my eyes I gather one piece of junk metal and fuse it to another. I’m building it very slowly, in my mind, because I’m memorizing every detail, from all angles. It’s far more difficult than analyzing text. I expect it’ll keep me occupied for years.

Story #2: Who Takes This Woman? by Anonymous (He strikes again!)

They were sitting in his office discussing the Myerson account when he impulsively blurted out, “Why are you getting married?”
She smiled and gave him a questioning look. “I don’t know. Edward asked, so I decided to say yes.”
“Do you love him?” He had been aching to ask her that question ever since she’d shown up at work with a two carat diamond on her finger. He had been dreading a response in the affirmative.
She tapped her pen against her note pad and looked out the window at the storm clouds approaching.
“He’s very good to me and the kids.”
He relaxed slightly. “That’s not what I asked you. Do you love him?”
She turned back towards him and gave him a sad little smile.
“Women my age can’t afford the foolishness of marrying for love. He’s financially secure, responsible, and reliable”
“And dull as they come.”
She laughed, trying to hide her anxiety about marrying a man who did nothing for her sexually. Edward was attractive enough, was kind, gentle, but had absolutely no interest in being sexually intimate. She knew that was a red flag, but nobody was perfect, she thought. That’s why God invented vibrators.

Simon got up from behind his desk and locked the door to his office. He loosened his tie and sat down, removing his thick, Buddy Holly glasses as he dialed the phone.
“Carol? Do me a favor please? Hold all my calls for the rest of the afternoon. Thanks.”
He smiled at her; she could feel the tension rising between them. They had always had a flirtatious way with each other, which Claudia had always envisioned as nothing more than friendly fun. She was surprised at the tingling feeling in her groin.
“I just think that marriage should be a union of soul mates, of two people who are compatible on every level. Emotional. Intellectual. And especially sexual.”
He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her. She started to laugh as she rose from her seat and walked around to his side of the desk, sitting in front of him, placing her feet on either side of his chair’s arm rests. She leaned back slightly as he grabbed her ankles. He could feel his pants grow tight. He was aching to touch her.
“God you have beautiful breasts.”

She began to unbutton her white blouse, pulling it out of her skirt as she slipped it off her shoulders. She unhooked her bra, playfully flinging it at him like a sling shot. He stood up and cradled her face in his hands, kissing her mouth gently, slowly teasing her with his tongue as his hands cupped her full, creamy white breasts. She sighed and caressed his hair. He had played out this scene so many times in his mind that he knew exactly what to do. He latched onto her left nipple, sucking and biting it while his fingers flickered quickly over the right one. She began to moan softly, asking, “Oh God, Simon, why are you doing this to me.” She didn’t tell him to stop.
Pushing her onto her back he pushed her skirt up over her hips, then pulled her panties down her long, curvy legs. Seating himself back in his chair, he pushed her legs up and admired her neatly trimmed pussy.
“A Brazilian, Claudia? I love the feel of a smooth pussy.”
He leaned forward and kissed her smooth skin, slowly working his way down to her lips. He began by kissing them, and then let his tongue lick and tease her. She began to wiggle her hips back and forth. He buried his head deep within her thighs, his arms wrapped around her hips as he probed deeper and deeper into her. She began to groan and cried out, “Oh yes, eat me, oh yes Simon, eat my pussy. Tease me. Make me beg for your cock.”
He continued his feast, her knees up next to her ears as he licked and slurped her love juice. Finally she let out a moan and her entire body began to shudder. Simon stuck his tongue deep into her in order to taste every drop of sweet honey. He stood up and unbuckled his belt, lowered his pants and exposed his huge, hard cock. He climbed up on the desk and lowered himself on top of her. Three years of masturbatory fantasies were about to come true.
“Claudia, you will never have to beg for my cock. It will always be yours for the asking.”
He plunged into her, his head beginning to spin as her tight muscles grabbed a hold of his shaft. Jesus, he thought, this was exactly how he hoped it would be; God please don’t let this be a dream. He kept thrusting deep into her. He couldn’t believe his staying power. She grabbed a hold of his face and brought his lips to hers, grabbing his tongue and sucking on it. She moved her hips back and forth. She bit his neck and gasped, “Fuck me, fuck me until I’m raw. Oh baby if I’d only known how good a fuck you were, we would have been doing this for years.” He continued to pummel her for several more minutes until they exploded in a mind shattering orgasm. The two of them lay on his desk, panting, heads swimming, bodies stuck together with sweat. Finally he pulled off her and collapsed back in his chair, his cock still hard and dancing a little victory dance in his lap. He looked at her still on his desk, legs up, spread eagled, her pussy purple and moist. He bent over and kissed it gently.

“Don’t marry Edward, Claudia. You don’t love him. I love you. I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life taking care of you and your children. I promise to stay sober, work hard, and come home every night and fuck the shit out of you. Please. You’re making a terrible mistake.”
Claudia lay on the desk and pushed a piece of her hair out of her face. Simon was right; she didn’t love Edward, she was only marrying him for security. Christ, he didn’t even want to have sex with her until after the wedding. And Simon was so sweet, so kind, so caring, and boy could he fuck!
She sat up slowly and looked at him, tears starting to form in her eyes.
“Simon, it’s not about what I want, it’s not about my happiness. It’s about being able to take care of my family. I’ll always care for you, but, I’m going to marry Edward next Saturday.” Her words trailed off.
Simon rose to his feet, leaned towards her and kissed her gently.
“You’re making a mistake. Don’t break your heart as well as mine.”

A week later Simon was sitting in a pew at ST Matthews’s church, watching the woman he loved marry another man. Claudia looked exquisite in her dress; Simon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He bowed his head into his hands as he heard the minister say, “If anyone knows of any just cause why these two should not wed, let them speak now and forever hold their peace.”
“YES.”
Simon looked up, horrified that he had spoken out loud. He looked at Claudia, who was standing at the altar, a shocked look on her face. All eyes in the church were fixed on Edward.
He looked at his feet, cleared his throat and then looked at Claudia.
“I’m sorry Claudia, but I can’t marry you. I’ve been leading you on; I’ve been lying to you and to everyone else. I’m in love with someone else.”
He turned and walked back down the aisle out of the church. Claudia sank down, sitting on the steps leading up to the altar. She looked towards where Edward had left, and then let her eyes search over the various wedding guests. She finally locked eyes with Simon; she smiled slightly as she saw the tears of joy slide down his face.

A week later they were in his office again. Edward had gone on the honeymoon trip with his new love, Tim (who, in retrospect, really was the best man). Claudia was tapping her pen against her pad as she stared out the window. Simon looked up from the spread sheet he’d been studying and looked at her lovely face. This had been the first time they’d been alone since the fiasco.
“You ok?” he asked softly.
A short laugh escaped her.
“I guess so. I know it’s for the best, but I had no idea. I guess I should have known, I mean most adult men want to have sex with their fiancées.”
Simon leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie.
“What are you going to do now?”
Claudia smiled a saucy smile, stood up and closed the office door, making sure the lock was latched. She walked slowly over to Simon’s desk, sitting in front of him. She placed her feet on either side of his chair, hitching her skirt up.
“I was thinking of letting you cum in my mouth. Unless of course you’d prefer a different place.”
Simon pressed a number on the phone.
“Carol? Do me a favor, please? Hold all my calls for the rest of the afternoon.”

Story #3: Independence Day by Anonymous (he's been busy, lol)

The adventure was only starting with Moonbeam’s dark voice.
She didn’t know that yet. But she would. Months down the road when Moonbeam was just a distant, uncomfortable memory, she would be confident in her adventure, strong in the faith in herself, sexy as proverbial hell.
For now, though, she was new to the game and Moonbeam’s insistent internet voice pushed her forward, albeit reluctantly.
After 18 years of having Mrs. Janice Dean beside his name on the mailbox, personal cheques and Christmas cards, Mr. Peter Dean decided he didn’t want a Mrs. anymore. Opting instead for Miss Gilly Stewart, the pouffy tart who secretaried at Mr. Dean’s used car showroom, he abandoned Janice and their three teenaged children. He went to work one day, shut the door behind him, and never came back.
Janice found out about it after she wrapped her husband’s cold dinner with plastic and stuck it in the fridge. She called his office to see how long he’d be and Gilly answered. “He won’t ever be coming home,” she told Janice. “He’s with me now.”
Janice felt a cold wave burn through her. She hung up, then took her husband’s dinner out of the fridge and scraped it into the trash can. She scraped meat loaf, she scraped mashed potatoes, she scraped 18 years of marriage, all of it, into the trash. Then she went to bed and stayed there for a few weeks.
She roused around one day when she realized she needed a new man. She’d led a pretty sheltered life, devoted to her family. She had relied on Peter for everything: he paid the bills, he drove the car, he directed all of their lives. Without his ballast, she was adrift. She needed an anchor.
And, oh yeah, she needed to get laid.
She’d heard about those dating websites, the ones on TV. She set up an account and it wasn’t long before she was getting hits. There seemed to be more men online than women and she suddenly she felt like Cinderella at the ball – they hummed around her like hairy bumblebees and she was tasty yellow pollen. This astounded her. She certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of a prize. Plump, middle-aged, suffering perimenopause and all its accoutréments - mood swings, hair growing in weird places and, worst of all, periods that lasted for weeks at a time. Still, to the guys in her online world she was Rachel Welch in that deerskin bikini. She was all that and a bag of chips. She wasn’t anybody’s Missus – she wasn’t anybody’s anything. She was herself. And she was hot.
There were plenty of guys bugging her to meet but the one who interested her the most was Moonbeam.
He was into domination, he said. He liked to take the lead, let a woman relax, be her man, her strong leather-clad man, he said. Every time he wrote stuff like this she quivered in her middle. There was just something so sexy about him, so confident. She trilled like a morning bird at an empty feeder whenever she saw him online.
They decided to meet.
He wrote, “I want you to shave.”
She looked at the words. Didn’t, couldn’t, answer.
“Down there,” he added.
She blinked, stared at the computer, considering. She knew what he was talking about but this was something she had never done. The generations were distinctly divided between those who shaved and those who didn’t.
She felt a slow heat flushing through her veins.
He wrote, “There’s nothing like the taste of a freshly shaved peach.”
***
In the shower, on the day of the meet, she stood, dripping with suds, holding a pink disposable razor in her hand. She heard her children, out in the living room, watching television. Nervous tears ran down her face, disappearing in the shower. She held the razor, indecisive, paralyzed with doubt. Her children laughed at something. She put the razor down on the edge of the bath tub. Then she heard Moonbeam’s dark voice in her head. “A fresh peach,” he said, his lips popping over the last two letters. “Pea-ch.” She picked up the razor and stroked it through the hair that had been there since she was a girl. Dark curls fell around her feet, pooling in soapy eddies towards the drain. The razor moved quickly; there was no turning back. Fresh tears soaked her wet cheeks as her children laughed and the TV chirped and normalcy seeped down the bathtub drain in a swirl of soapsuds, hair and liberation.

* All images belong to their owners. I don't own any of them. :)

Mr. Smooth Gave Me An Award

2010-08-04T10:45:00.007-06:00

Two days ago I stumbled five blocks east of skid row into a bad stretch of road that descended into an even worse stretch of town. Imagine my shock when my feet stopped in a dank, darkly lit, smoke-filled tavern. There was a Guido-looking man standing next to a table. Two guys with gold teeth and shark smiles puffed on cigars. A hot blond, Jean Harlow style, dealt the cards.

I took a step back. Wouldn't you? The yellow bulb in an old rusted copper lamp swung ominously from the ceiling and as I stepped back--I collided with a mountain. The mountain spoke in a guttural tone as mountains are prone to do. "The boss wants to see you."

See me? What on earth for? I'm only little, only me! I never whacked nobody! I never bought drugs. What the devil could this Chico want with me? The mountain's beefy hands gripped my shoulders and walked 5' tall little me over to a dark corner. I couldn't see his face. But he had Andrew Dice Clay hair and chunky gold rings on thin tapered fingers. He puffed on a big fat Cuban cigar and smoked shimmered in the ghost light before rolling off into the shadows. It seemed the darkness was consuming everything in this joint.

Two dice sat on the wooden table. The dings and scars upon the table's skin did little to ease my fears. Is that blood?! I swallowed hard and shook in my stilettos. He shuffled a deck of cards, but I doubt he ever intended to deal them. He seemed to enjoy the feel of them flexing under his nimble fingers. The red glow of his cigar drew my eyes. I marveled at the inch long snake of ash just hanging there. He clamped it in his teeth.

"I hear you've been writing smut." His voice was like dark chocolate. Deep and silky smooth as it drifted from the shadows. I nodded, yes, though it was really more of a statement than a question. He chuckled, a lovely rumble beneath his double-breasted suit. The man might scare the be-Jesus outta me, but he had style. "We like smut 'round these parts--gives this place atmosphere." The mountain laughed behind me. I wished he'd move--stop wedging me closer to the table and Mr. Smooth.

Mr. Smooth continued, dark chocolate spinning his line. "I hear your write noir." I shrugged and the mountain shoved me. My hands landed on the table--on the blood stains. I was getting an idea of how they got there. The mountain snapped like a growling beast. "Answer the boss." My breath caught and I squeaked, "I write a lot of things."

"Hey!" Mr. smooth admonished the mountain harshly and we all looked at him. He stood up, straightened his tie, rolled his shoulders and walked around the table. He pushed the mountain back with one finger. One effing finger! "She's a classy broad. Give her a break." He righted me by my elbow and pushed my hair out of my face. "You okay?" I nodded that I was and he gestured to a chair. "Have a seat, Doll Face."

I took a chair and looked at him."How'd you know I was gonna end up here? I didn't even know. I got lost." Mr. Smooth grinned, laying in wait, covered by shadows once more. "The only way to find the Golden Pearl is to get lost. Ain't that right boys?" The bar cheered...but it was more of a slow growling agreement than an actual cheer. This was not a satisfactory response, but he spoke before I could voice my opposition. "The point is that you made it."

He leaned over and set a briefcase on the table. I played it cool while he worked the combination and the clasps snapped open. "I have something for you. A gift from my family to yours." My brow crinkled, "Family?" He laughed, "Sure. We're a family, aren't we boys?" The mountain laughed and I heard, "Sure Boss," float around the bar. He pulled out a large yellow envelope and pushed it a cross the table. "Take this, post it on your blog, and don't make me send Joey after you." The mountain cracked his knuckles and all I could think was Joey was far too small a name for a man that large.

I picked the envelope up with shaking hands. Damn I hope Mr. Smooth didn't see. I cleared my throat, "So can I go now?" Mr. Smooth leaned back and folded his fingers over his abdomen. "Yeah, Doll Face. Scoot." He didn't have to tell me twice. I bolted from the chair--knocking it over. I headed for the door, choking on the smoke, and then some creep called Uncle Buk grabbed my ass. In a moment of pure insanity, I looked back as I reached the door.

I watched a pretty brunette in a red dress take the stage. A piano began to play of it's own accord and she started to sing, "Black Coffee." When she turned around my heart stopped. It was like looking in a mirror--if I'd been trapped in the 1940's that is... I turned back to the door and hurried out into the starless night.

I stumbled backward into the gutter. My heel snapped. "Dammit!" I stood up and dusted off the dirt. When I looked up The Golden Pearl was gone. Every trace of it had vanished. In it's place stood a sorry looking Chinese noodle place. I looked around--nothing. It was gone. A chill seeped into my bones and I hobbled back the way I'd come. I didn't know where I was exactly, and I couldn't see any cabbies out. I made to the end of the block before I remembered the envelope clutched under my arm.

I opened it.

A green certificate winked at me. "The Versatile Blogger Award." I shoved it angrily back in the envelope. "Oh for Pete's sake! All this for a Blogger award?!" I scoffed to the blinking streetlamp. "Pfft. Men. And they say Chicas like drama. Humph."

It took me two days to get home and somebody owes me a new pair of stilettos. So, my dear sweet minions...I apologize for the delay. But Mr. Smooth...ah Ant...was kind enough to gift Crooked Tales with The Versatile Blogger Award. Apparently I have to tell you 10 things about myself that you might not know. But if you read my seedy little rag--you pretty much know everything. Lmao! So I'm gonna post 5 truths and 5 lies instead. See if you can pick them out. ;)

1. I Did back to school commercials for Value City and Schottenstein's department stores as a kid.

2. I was nominated for Miss Teen Ohio in 7th grade.

3. I love lobster.

4. I never wear panties. (Hehehee.)

5. I sometimes dream about being Fred Astaire.

6. I want to retire on an island somewhere with a harem of oh...say...30 cabana boys to do my bidding.

7. I used to scam kids in school outta cash by eating bowls full of jalapenos for $5 a pop. ;)

8. I once talked politics with Corbin Bernsen in a limo after a play he'd starred in, and he said I was very pretty and intelligent. (heart!)

9. My favorite color is green.

10. Gawd I need more?! Ugh. Okay. My hands down favorite singer ever is Iggy Pop.

Now for the fun stuff! I get to tag 5 bloggers. Hehehehehe. It's supposed to be 10, but eh, I never have liked rules, and Ant has a point about the black plague. I know I'm supposed to be looking for versatile bloggers, but I'm feeling more like girl power. Or maybe I just like to flip off rules as much as humanly possible--who knows? So my pics are as follows:

1. Cathy cuz I love her and she's killing me with her damn wedding sugary sweet syrupy crap! Lmao! Kidding Chica! I'll just email you my dental bill. I jest. If you haven't read her blog, then you must be mental. Really, if you wanna be one of the cool kids (or surly loner eavesdropping on the cool kids like me) then her blog is the place to be. You never know if you're gonna get a story to make you chuckle, to make you cry, or just catch up on gossip. Sweet. ;)

2. VL Sheridan. Seriously. Why aren't you reading Sins of the Flash?? It's awesome, tawdry, yummy, stark, and oh so sinfully bad for you. ;)

3. Carrie. I'll be honest...I dunno much about her, but Crooked Fang has profanity and scares me--and I love it! I leave her place feeling like I need a shower or a preist (and I'm not Catholic!) or both. Rock on, Chica. ;)

4. Maria. Look. She's got a freaking HUGE gun on her blog! Like I'm NOT gonna pick her? Pfft.. I'm mental, but not stupid. Seriously, she writes some crazy shit and I totally dig it. You want sexy assassins? How about some baby/creature murdering cults? Then she's your Chica, I'm telling you. Read her blog and love it! ;)

5. Is thing still on? Testing? Testing? Oh. Okay, cool. Last but not least...is my Chica. She doesn't post that much of her writing. Typically she blogs about writing, but when she does post some fiction prepare to be gripped by an overwhelming sense of--how the eff does she write like that? So polished, so brilliant, so flawless. Honestly, she sickens me. lmao! But I luvs her. So go over and check out Mistress Savage. :)

Hmmm...I'm winking a lot today. Just slap me simple and call me Twitch. Hope you had fun folks. Hope you have a rockin'-kick ass day and happy blogging! :D

Fade Into You

2010-07-30T01:05:00.002-06:00

*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.

Hedonist And Clarity

2010-07-26T11:28:00.006-06:00

Hedonist

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: kmd43008@gmail.com

*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. :)

Sour Grapes

2010-07-15T15:16:00.001-06:00

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...

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

2010-07-14T09:50:00.004-06:00

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?"

Kidding!

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: kmd43008@gmail.com

*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.

Meandering

2010-07-13T02:23:00.002-06:00

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.

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…

POP!

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

Full Circle

2010-07-12T00:43:00.005-06:00

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!”

Pfft. Men. Girl Power, My Chicas...

2010-07-11T13:52:00.001-06:00

Fu Manchu: The Return of Sniffles

2010-07-09T12:51:00.003-06:00

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. ;)

If I Write You A Love Song...

2010-07-02T10:34:00.004-06:00

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.”

Ships

2010-07-01T09:05:00.000-06:00

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

Insatiable

2010-06-29T22:18:00.001-06:00

Rip the sheets
As we tumble on the bed
Wild kisses to set souls free

Searching hands
Clawing fingers
Animal lust

Sniff the core of me
And I'll kiss the core of you
Hunger, hunger pounds

Feed the need
Growl and devour
Lips and tongues

And more...
And more...
And more...

As the hours stretch
Dawn looms in a crystal clear sky
Look me in the eye

Then do it again.

The Puppeteer

2010-06-29T00:28:00.002-06:00

Pretty doll on a string
Ribbons of blue
Strung in your hair
Take a bow

Sweet dancer
Tip and spin and curtsy
Twist on the string
Tap to the tune

Of the liar
Playing the lyre
A golden tongued devil
With dexterity

Deftly he twists you
Into knots
Twirling and spinning
Until you are caught

Sweet doll on a string
Shut out the devil
He knows not what he means
You're but a toy

A pretty play thing.

Prowler

2010-06-26T09:51:00.001-06:00

Prowler stay
Linger till dawn
Hold on tight

Press searching lips
Everywhere
Then do it again

Before the sun comes
And you must leave
Enjoy the secrets

Discovered in the shadows
Sweet Prowler
Linger near

Before you hunt another...

Human Touch

2010-06-24T20:24:00.002-06:00

There were lines on her face that she didn’t recognize. A frown where her smile had been, she remembered being young and happy—so full of life. But that day had passed. A marriage ended. A new friendship was stolen away and she found herself alone again.

Sure, she could call about five different numbers in her cell phone and any one of them would come and be with her. She didn’t have to be alone. But there’s a different kind of loneliness that chills your bones when you’re sitting next to someone who doesn’t understand you and wants only to shove their hand down your bra.

The room seemed to close in on her. It felt hot and suffocating. She paced the floor so sick of everything. Chat rooms and dating sites and horny people begging for sex made her ill. “I can teach you about anal if you can get past the fear,” he wrote. Some freak she would never meet and did not know, promising to dominate her. She turned off the computer ready to toss it over the balcony.

Dating in 2010 was nothing like it had been when she was in high school. Where were the people? Had they been replaced by robots and stuffed inside little machines? Were they reduced to text on a page? Where were the kisses? The hand holding? How was she meant to look into his eyes under a starless sky and fall in love?

“You don’t need love! It’s pathetic. Seriously. Are you gonna die if someone doesn’t love you?” She fought the tears and scoffed, holding the phone tighter. “Pathetic?” He laughed in her ear. “Yes, pathetic. Take me, I’m alone and I’m okay. You can do it. Think about your kids.” He was a good friend; she couldn’t scream at him, he was trying to help. It wasn’t his fault that he was an idiot.

She took a deep breath, her heart felt tight in her chest and hurt. “I think…some people are meant to be alone, cuz they’re afraid or selfish or just built that way. But others aren’t. I wasn’t meant to be alone. It isn’t pathetic or a weakness, it’s just the way I’m made. I want a companion. It’s that simple.” He went quiet for a moment. “I think that’s true. I think I’m happier alone.”

She laughed and wiped away the tears. “Of course you are.” She could almost see his expression change. “Why do you say that?” She twisted the hem of her shirt, nervously, “Because you’re dangerous. You’re the kind of guy a million girls could fall in love with, but you’re emotionally unavailable. You’re exactly my type. I seem to look for lone wolves that I can domesticate. It’s a hobby.” She laughed at her own stupidity. He laughed with her. “Well, girl, find a new hobby.” She looked at the floor. “Yeah…”

Joe’s marriage ended when he came home early after being on the road for two weeks and found her in bed with his best friend. She had smiled and said, “At least it’s someone you know and not a perv from the bar.” His friend had the decency to look ashamed. But she sat up and let the sheet fall. She arched her back so he could see the dark wetness of her nipples and know his friend had sucked them. She sneered, “Now if you’d come home last night…you’d have met a bar perv. Fuck he was hot!”

Joe had never hit a woman before.

His fist clenched. His friend stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t hit her. She ain’t worth it. I didn’t know about the other guy. Sorry dude.” Joe’s friend patted his shoulder and grabbed his clothes on the way out of the room.

He stood there staring at the whore he’d married. He remembered their vows, remembered saving to buy the ring on her finger, remember her bitching. Nothing was ever good enough for her. He turned on his heel. She shouted after him, “Where are you going?! Come back here!” He was done doing her bidding. Joe passed his friend pulling on his boots. He looked at him as he opened the door. “You did me a favor, man. Buy you a beer?”

His friend stood up and slapped him on the back. “Hell yeah!”

The bar was full of lonely hearts. Some laughed and drank and danced, others took up space at the bar. She surveyed the room and almost walked out. This wasn’t her thing. Insecurity clawed at her. But the bartender smiled at her, he’d seen her type a million times. She walked toward him—a lifeline in a room of vultures.

“What are ya drinking, sweetheart?” She looked around and cleared her throat. “I don’t know…” He grinned, “You look like a margarita girl.” She grinned. “I am!” He turned to fix her drink.

“What kind of woman doesn’t know what she likes to drink?” The guy next to her turned and glared at her face. He was obviously pissed off about something. “I’m sorry?” She looked at him questioningly. He chuckled harshly, “Why? Did you do something wrong?”

She didn’t know what to say. Talking to him was like maneuvering landmines. So she turned back to the bartender and her drink. “He bothering you, sweetheart?” She smiled at him, “Nah. I think he’s just grumpy.”

The man laughed louder, mirthlessly. “Grumpy? Yeah, you could fucking say that.” She looked at him then, took in his disheveled blond hair and bloodshot blue eyes. He’d been crying. “What is your problem? I don’t know you.” He growled at her. “Women are my problem. Are you a bitch, too?”

She shook her head. “No. But I could be if you keep this up.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry…” He mumbled and she leaned in, “What?” He looked up at her completely heartbroken and repeated himself. “I said, I caught my wife cheating on me tonight. My marriage is over.” She was stunned, felt his pain. She put her hand to his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

He kissed her hand and looked into her warm brown eyes. It was like looking at an angel. He bought her another drink even though she had barely touched the first. They talked till the bar closed. Then he walked her to her car. “I’m Joe, by the way.” She laughed and leaned against her car. “Ana.” She toed at the gravel. “It’s funny how you can have a whole conversation with someone and not even think to ask their name.”

He stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “The booze helps.” She laughed at him then and put her hands on his cheeks. It seemed so natural. Her laughter trailed off and she licked her lips. He put his hands on either side of her on the car. His mouth found hers, eyes closed, lips drinking. He tasted her margarita; she tasted his beer.

She moaned a little and he pressed into her, crushing her breasts to his chest, his hands moved to touch her body. He pulled her legs up and put her on the hood of the car, stepping into their v. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him more intensely.

He cupped her breasts and leaned to kiss their tips through her clothing. She bit her lip and her hands tightened in his hair. He came back to her lips and kissed her hard, bruising her mouth. Her hands traveled him, settling on the bulge in the front of his jeans. He drew in a sharp breath and stopped her hand from stroking. He looked at her with lust. Then he kissed her again, released her hand, and rubbed her sex through her panties. Her skirt pushed up to her waist, he stroked harder.

“God, you’re so wet.” She grinned and tugged on his lip with her teeth. He shifted her panties to the side and dipped a finger in. She loved it, pulled his hand to her mouth and sucked his finger. “Yeah…” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “So. Your place or mine?”

Hate

2010-06-22T18:11:00.001-06:00

I can't stand to see him hurt
Sad people make me sadder
I hate that he's shut me out

And would rather wallow

I hate that he drinks
I hate that he acts like I'm dead
He acts like I never existed

And that it STILL makes me cry

I hate that he bleeds
Oozes words and booze and lies
Spins his line of bullshit

And I STILL read it!

Hate that I want him back
That I wasted 8 months of my life on him
Hate that I cry myself to sleep at night

And want only to make him smile...

Nonsense

2010-06-21T18:25:00.002-06:00

Those I love
Don't love me
Learning to accept that
Is like

Finding a worm in cherry pie
Like learning the sky is green
The grass is purple
And burns real nice when you roll it

Or so I hear

You only call me when you're drunk
You only text when you're bored
Crazy men
Make me crazy

So many lips I haven't kissed
Hands I haven't felt
I should stalk his ass
Make him love me

But I won't

Too many rules
Have me twisted up in ties
An S&M rag doll
Presenting

Riddle me this
Riddle me that
Is phone sex a sin?
Gonna burn

In a fiery lake
At a banquet hall in hell
He said so many pretty things
Licked flames across my mind

Across my heart

Then flipped the switch
Executioner
Evil phone sexer
Evil mind licker

Found a worm in cherry pie
Found a worm in the bottle
Rolled some grass
But the match was wet

Or so I hear...

Yes Man

2010-06-21T17:39:00.001-06:00

I freaking LOVE this song, lol.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UH47sZcMbE&NR=1