Fuel

I called up the burning sensation of anger to help cleanse me of the oily chill of fear. It was a weak glow, the merest spark, but enough to catch on the dead wood tinder of indecision, self-pity and worry. The burst of heat energized me. I can see my goal now. The path to it is no longer covered by insurmountable obstacles. It is filled with opportunities, masked as challenges and difficulties. The meager flame of rage has transmuted to a blaze of determination, to be fed with the debris of each conquered task. 

It's been rough on this end of things for a while. I've missed the Friday Flash crowd. There is still lots to do, and I don't know that I'll be here every week, or even get to comment as much as I'd like. Big thanks to Danni for getting me started, both the first time and yet again. 

Weathering the Storm

Standing outside the modest brick building, a distant rumble gives warning of an approaching storm. Gathering the courage to face what she’ll find within, Grace’s mind flashes to her favorite childhood memory.

Windows barely cracked open to keep out the whipping rain despite the summer heat, she huddles on the stairs, peaking down through the space between steps at the laughing group circling the faded Formica table. Mismatched chairs hold her parents, aunts and uncles as they ante up for the next hand. The radio crackles and lights flicker as the storm rages around this tiny wooden sanctuary.

Auntie Penny lights a few kerosene lamps, in advance of the inevitable power outage, and her dad folds, mockingly accusing his brother of being a card shark. He winks at her as he grabs his battered guitar from beside the staircase. Quietly strummed folksongs replace the static laced rock’n’roll, Uncle Chaz leaning back in his chair to flick off the ancient radio.  The slowly dying light of the radio face made it look like it was going to sleep, a thought that had her yawning. Her mother absently murmurs song lyrics, the sweating beer bottle pressed against her forehead, and contemplates the cards in her hand.

In spite of the bitter storm, and her precarious perch on the stairs, 8 year old Grace feels completely safe and content. Down below are the titans of her world. The day had been spent reroofing the cozy wooden shack, racing the storm clouds that had brought dusk early. Worry had made the grownups tense, barking orders at each other and snapping at Grace when she got underfoot. Feeling the tension ease as their work stood against the tempest outside, everyone was merry in spite of their fatigue.

Sighing, Grace squared her shoulders and opened the door. Somber and serious, her Aunt Caren greeted her in the foyer, and pointed the way to the viewing room. It was agonizing to see how much her aunt had changed over the years. Time made the thin woman frail and quiet, so different from the vibrant woman who fought to work on the roof rather than in the kitchen. Slowly making the rounds to visit her siblings and cousins, Grace noted that the once tight group of adults she admired now sat in different corners of the room. There was no more huddling over a table together, commiserating with family also considered the best of friends. Time had changed more than physical appearances.

Harsh words spoken without thought had pulled them apart. To the point that now even the loss of one couldn’t pull them together. Grace mourned that as much as she mourned her father. She wished she could pinpoint the single instance that had caused such a catastrophic breakdown, even though it was too late to fix it. Her family had been destroyed by a pervasive cancer, just as her father had. One small, unnoticed hurt unaddressed spread to bigger hurts. Maybe if it had been found earlier, if they’d have found the right words, the right medicines, to combat it...

Numbly finding her way to the casket, Grace hears the pounding deluge begin, and thinks of better days.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Dear Mother Earth,

I love the change of seasons.

I need them.

The mud and mess of early spring morphing into the lush multi hued splendor of summer transitioning to the contrast of autumn: warm colors meets cool weather. I even need that crisp splendor of a true winter. Blinding white snow, breathtaking  cold. The kind that sends me burrowing into my cave of covers, hands shivering around a steaming mug of tea.

What I don't need  is this grey sludge. The slap of freezing wind when I open the door. The icicles no longer glitter merrily, they sparkle menacingly as I trudge beneath them to the mailbox, each one threatening to pin me to the frozen landscape.

'Tis well past the time for you to turn over a new leaf. I had my time to love the beauty of stark naked branches against an icy sky. I am well into my hatred of dreary darkness, wet socks and numb fingers.

It's time to gain a few more minutes of sunlight, to lose the ridiculous amount of layers I'm wearing to keep from getting frostbite.

Turn a little faster, please, Mother dear, it is time for another season. I need it.

To Victory

A trickle of sweat runs down my spine as I snap the last wet shirt and pin it to the loaded clothesline. My sunglasses help dull the blinding blue brilliance of the cloudless sky. Stretching my aching arms, I savor the summer scented breeze. Sun warmed grass between my toes, fresh laundry on the line…this is the perfect day. This is a picnic day. I see a pitcher of sweet tea, a basket of food and a good book in my future.

Then I see my nemesis. A black stare leaves me cold. The one that reminds me of our impending showdown. The one that requires me to wear socks and shoes. On my perfect picnic day. I glare back, defiant. I will win this battle.

And then I will enjoy the sweet scent of freshly mowed grass with my perfect picnic. It smells like victory.

The pic is mine. This is dedicated to the Decepticon that lives in my carport and makes me battle it to get the lawn mowed every week. And because I'd rather mow the lawn then shovel the driveway again.

Twinkle Toes

I want to dance through the cosmos

Swirling and leaping through the ballet of galaxies

I want to revel in the beauty of the universe

Painting with infinite hues and unending canvas

But I live in a finite existence

My feet firm on the ground

Photo by Birgitta Lindsey
I found the picture at Stories without Words and you can find more of Birgitta's work at Birgitta's Fine Art America site

Rules

“What are the rules?”

Her shoulders droop. She ticks the points off on her fingers with the barrel of the gun. “6 weeks between concussions, I can only shoot him once a month, I can’t stab him with anything bigger than a dinner fork.”

He holds his hand out for the Glock. “And?”

Her carefully blank look fools no one.

“And?”

“And no kicks to the head while wearing skates.” She slaps the gun into his palm.

“He almost lost an eye last time.”

“Not my fault he didn’t pay attention during a fight.”

The fabric of a story.

People talk about weaving words together to make a story. And I can see that metaphor. There’s the weft and warp creating the underlying structure to any woven piece, just as in story telling. And you can make some gloriously creative images within that frame work. But I don’t weave.

I knit.

Weaving is essentially a grid. Boring straight lines going up and down. My few ventures into weaving left me with plain squares of cloth. How…basic. But knitting…well there are loops within loops. Sudden crossovers, subtle merging of rows, bursts of new colors in unexpected places. It can make something much more three dimensional.

To me, this illustrates writing more clearly. The final work is shaped as you go along, increases and decreases adjusting the parameters of the world, each line is tied in with the last as the thread twists and turns. Occasionally the yarn spits out a giant nasty knot and you will spend hours getting it unraveled so that you can move forward. You can use the same pattern again and again, but each time the finished work is something unique. Each time you attempt it, what you end up with is better formed, more polished.

So I’m not going to weave words. I will knit you a yarn. I hope you enjoy the stories.

Run With It #4

We spent the drive out to the ranch in painful silence. There really wasn’t anything to talk about. We had no idea what was the problem.

It started six years ago, when I was finishing my undergrad degree. Deciding where to go for my Masters. Dreaming grandiose and ridiculous dreams of my future. With my husband, Parker.

We had floored everyone we knew by eloping on Spring Break the year before. Not because anyone doubted we’d get hitched. Just because we’d always wanted the rockin’ reception with family and friends around us. But Las Vegas gets to you, and we were ok with the idea of celebrating once we graduated. Two reasons to party, only once expense. It worked for us.

We found a sweet little shithole of an apartment, were insanely busy, but blissfully, blindly happy. We were busting our butts for finals. The fridge was empty, so Parker went to get some basics: beer, ramen noodles, pop tarts and milk. I only remember that because they found the list on him. He always brought a list, even though he never actually followed it.

He got hit by a car. Not sure the culprit ever even knew they hit someone. They certainly didn’t stick around.  

At the wake some asshat, claiming he knew Parker, made a pass at me. Something about the best way to grieve was to get laid, and he was the man for the job. Never meek or mild, I humiliated him before he was dragged out and dealt with by our friends. I walked into the apartment a few days later to find I had an unwanted, angry guest in the mood for revenge.

Five days in a coma, four emergency surgeries, three months of relearning to walk led to two words that sum up my one goal in life. Never. Again. I will never again be unprepared to defend myself.

I don’t remember any of the attack. I cannot recall a single moment of the funeral, nor being told Parker was dead. The last thing I can remember clearly is being kissed breathless by the man I love. Whispers of encouragement for my exam and how we’ll celebrate that night at home.

Then it’s just pain. And shame and anger.

My first clear memory is a newspaper article taped to the wall, with the words ‘Parker is dead’ scrawled across the top. Toby told me I insisted that be done when I kept forgetting. I hated losing it in front of everyone, and realizing it happened over and over pissed me off. I suppose that’s better than the numbness I feel now.

Cam and Toby lived in our building at the time. Just starting their computer consulting business, they had irregular hours and didn’t travel as far. I was lucky they came home when they did. They saved me. The Asshat didn’t make it. The well deserved consequences of taking on two men who collect forms of martial arts as a hobby. They’ve never told me what happened, and I don’t ask.

 ********

Alex’s POV

Dammit. Cazzo. Porca puttana.*

I keep checking in the rearview mirror to make sure Rory is still there. I know it’s stupid, but, fuck, it’s been four years since the last time someone came after her. And the Pack still hasn’t figured out why she’s a damned target to begin with or who is after her.

She’s pale. Silent. Huddled in the middle of the back seat between Toby and Cam, eyes unfocused. Suppressing a sigh, I turn back to the road.

Six years ago, Cam called in the Pack to help with a neighbor who’d been attacked. No. Mauled. Beaten. Bitten. Some Born bastard came for her. It happens, they get bored and want a new plaything. But he didn’t have a pack mark.  Neither did any of the others that came after. It didn’t make sense.

Even knowing how strong she had to be to survive, I can’t get past how fragile she seems. I bet against her living all those years ago, not that I’d ever tell her that. Helluva a fighter, our Rory. She’ll be an Alpha some day.

I look one more time in the mirror. It’s not like she going to vanish from the car. She’s intact, not a scratch on her. There’s plenty of us to keep her safe on the ride home. Hell, we even grabbed James. If the four of us can’t keep her safe…not gonna’ finish that sentence.

A low growl from the back grabs my attention. Toby murmured an apology. I’m not the only one frustrated by the lack of answers. He and Cam have given up more than anyone else in the Pack to solve this. Being away from everyone for months…it’s self-imposed exile.

Rory looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Normally a laughing greenish-gray, now they hold fear, and trust. She trusts us to get her through this. Like Cam and Toby, I know that the sacrifices are worth it. We won’t betray her trust.

 *************

Rory’s POV

Everyone’s tense, even imperturbable Toby is losing his cool. I hate how much everyone has given up to help me. I wish I could tell them why, think of some clue from my past to assist in my own defense. I cower here, amongst my dearest friends, my chosen family, helpless. I see Alex watching me. Meeting his worried gaze, I know despite it all I am safe.

*Italian for 'Fuck. Son of a bitch.' Thanks to the Great and Wonderful Maz for help with swearing like a sailor in Italian. :)

Echoes

2:18. The clock’s crimson glow is a warning. Something is wrong. I lie petrified in the bed, expecting the strident tones of a predawn call. A morbid slide show flashes through my mind: dark and gleaming wood of the casket, the family clinging to each other in grief, a grey gloved hand of a pallbearer gripping the smooth handle. Cloying incense and the scent of freshly turned earth surround me. I hear my own sobs, as heavy pain radiates out from my heart.

There will be no phone call. This is not some hellish premonition. It is the echo of your death. Years later, my mind blessedly let me forget the anniversary of your loss. But the body remembers. It replays the agony of it. Lets it reverberate once more.

Run With It should return next week! :)

Run With It 3

Alex’s apartment was at odds with the dilapidated building that contained it. Tastefully painted and attractively furnished, the Den of Seduction was an oasis of sophistication in a desert of frat boy chic. It reflected the perfectly groomed image of its owner. Usually. At the moment, he was a disheveled drunken mess sprawled facedown across his couch. At least he was dressed.

I dropped my bag by the door, shouldered past Cam and took a running leap onto the prostrate fool. “Damn, Alex, you reek! What were you drinking?”

Cursing quietly in Italian, Alex rolled us both off the couch, his 6’4” brawny frame trapping me underneath him. “Moonshine. Won it in a poker game.”

I shoved at him, laughing. “Well, you smell like you slept in the still. How much did you have?”

Toby strolled out from the kitchen, chuckling at my futile efforts to move the uncooperative brute. “Two quarts.”

“Two…” Horrified, I smacked Alex in the head, satisfied with the resulting groan. “Idiot.”

Cam slid onto the vacated couch as Toby pulled Alex off me. I scrambled up, unfazed by the aggravated grimace Alex sent my way. Cam tapped the back of the couch to get Toby’s attention. “Quick. Get some popcorn, the show’s starting.”

“And miss the opening act? Not happening.” Toby dropped next to his love, draping a long arm behind Cam. I spared them a smile; they were such a striking couple. Toby’s lean form and dark good looks were a stunning contrast to the burly tattooed canvas of Cameron’s body. I must have paused too long, because Toby waved for me to get on with it. “C’mon now, I’ve missed watching you take him down a few pegs.”

Alex staggered toward the half wall that separated his kitchen and the living room. I beat him there, cutting off access to the coffee. “Sandie came to see me this morning.”

Alex growled, grabbed a mug from behind me. “You can yell at me for drinking or sex. Not both.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to gripe about you being a lush. After two quarts of moonshine, no part of you was upright last night.”

That earned me a smack on the ass which morphed into a none-too-gentle shove. “Bitch.”

“In every sense of the word.” Covering the mug with my hand got me elbowed. I almost gave him a quick jab in the kidneys, stopping short when he snatched the coffee pot up. It wasn’t worth getting burned. Instead, I nicked the sugar bowl.

“Like I can’t figure out where that went.” Alex rolled his eyes as he added cream to his coffee.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “You’re too hung over to figure out how to get it without spilling.”

Alex scoffed “I’m not an idiot. Unlike some people, I already have my PhD.”

I snorted. “In porn.”

That earned me a glare. “Sociology.”

Cam and Toby chimed in from the couch. “In sexual subcultures.”

Yes, we have had this conversation before. Often.

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Which means you have a truly frightening collection of porn.”

“Erotica.”

“It only counts as erotica if it actually has a plot. The rest is just porn. Seven servers full of porn, plus all those bookshelves in your spare room. Face it, Alex, no one thinks you’re smart because you have a PhD. They think you’re a genius because you found a way to make your smut addiction not only tax deductible but somewhat socially acceptable.”

Alex practically preened. “I’m just that good.”

“Last night you weren’t, I can guarantee it. You’ve been a man-whore long enough to know that drunk men don’t perform up to standard.”

“Oh, yeah? What does Stacy have to say about that?”

“That she’s pregnant.” God, I love when Alex is not awake and still sort of drunk. His face is so much more expressive that way. The horror, stark fear and absolute confusion parading across his fine features had our audience leaning on each other to smother their laughter. I knew he’d realize the baby wasn’t his soon enough, but for now his alcohol induced stupidity was so enjoyable.

“Fuck.” He swayed a little and just barely sat on the stool next to him. “I don’t want kids. What do I do now?”

“Get a vasectomy.” A warning hiss came from the peanut gallery to go along with the bemused stare from Alex.

“That doesn’t help me now.”

He looked so pathetic, I just had to have a little mercy. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s not yours.”

He looks up at me hopefully. “How do you know?”

“Because you were too drunk to sleep with her. “ His growl made me laugh. “I’m just surprised there hasn’t been a whole pack of women showing up with your pups.”

“They’d have to know his name for that.” Toby added dryly.

I raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “That makes much more sense than my explanation.”

Alex ground out, “Which is?”

“Sterility.” I smiled sweetly. Cameron roared with laughter. Toby’s shoulders shook as he leaned his head against the couch. Alex went white, then red, and I held my ground. “What? Think of it this way, you wouldn’t need a vasectomy.”

I slid the sugar bowl toward him with a small smirk. He snatched it up, sending me a mock glare. Whatever retort he was about to make was lost as everyone’s cell phones went off in quick succession. The guys all had texts. I got the joy of a call from Mark.

“You find the boys and all of you get your asses back to the ranch. Right now.”

I felt the fear numb my body and knew my earlier unease was not paranoia. One look at my now deadly serious friends told me I was going to be in trouble for not pointing out Stalker Boy and Blue Eyes.

Damn. Play time’s over.

Run With It #2

A quick volley of texts told me that Alex was at his campus apartment. He found it more convenient for late nights and research than heading back to the ranch in outer suburbs. After packing up my computer, I grabbed my jacket and bag, and then jogged down the two flights of stairs. Classes just let out, so the stairs were crowded. I kept my eyes down and concentrated on getting outside as fast as I could. I don’t usually mind small spaces, or large groups, but too many strangers brushing against me raised my hackles. When one of those strangers stepped in my way, deliberately waiting until I met his gaze before moving, I was unnerved. It was brief, but there was something challenging in his cold blue eyes. Refusing to look back, I swore I could feel his gaze follow me out the door. I tried to brush it off as I hit the fresh autumn air, letting the anticipation of tormenting Alex cheer me.

Halfway there, my unease returned. I hesitated, trying to decide if I should figure out what was wrong, or just hurry to the safety of Alex’s. The quad was full of its normal denizens: those on their way to class navigating around the ones lounging on the grass, or playing ultimate Frisbee. As I tossed my hair over my shoulder, I noticed a broad shouldered fellow heading in the same direction as I was. Nothing strange about that, but the way he slowed when I glanced at him put me on full alert. I decided to pause a moment; pretended to look for something in my backpack while checking out the area. My suspicious friend also stopped a few feet ahead of me, answering a call. I would peg him as an upperclassman, his jeans and jacket too worn and beaten for a freshman, except the school cap had that glossy new look to it. His backpack was not only new, it was practically empty. Now that was odd. It was far enough into the semester that no student left home without provisions. Snacks, notebooks, textbooks, DS, MP3 player – every square inch of space in that bag should have a purpose. Whatever was in it, I didn’t recognize the shape. I grabbed a granola bar from the bottom of my bag, repacked and set off again. I heard the mystery man finish up his conversation as I walked past him, saw him fall into step just behind me.

Just perfect. It could all be innocent enough. Alex had snagged a two bedroom apartment just off the quad where a lot of grad students and upperclassmen lived. I tore into the granola bar packaging. The last thing I wanted to do was eat it, but it gave my hands something to do besides shake. I managed to swallow the last of it as Stalker Boy and I reached the beginning of student housing. I slid my phone out of my jacket, and texted a quick 911 to Alex, hoping he’d at least meet me at the door of his building.  Part of me wanted to turn and get a good look at this guy. Furtive glances had gotten me nowhere. The hat was too low to see his face, and he was just a bit too far behind me to see more than the shape of his brown leather jacket. I didn’t think he was much taller than me. I felt ridiculous. Just one more block away, and I could relax, laugh off my paranoia, and spend an afternoon teasing Alex about the latest editions to his research material, and the notion of him as a father. Picking up the pace, I half-jogged to corner, looking for cars as I crossed the street. Two buildings left, and relief washed over me as the door to Alex’s building opened. A familiar half-dressed form leaned out, but not the one I was expecting. Fueled by adrenaline and sheer joy, I sprinted the rest of the way.

“Cameron! What the hell are you doing here?” my momentum knocked him back a step as he wrapped me in a bear hug. From the safety of Cam’s broad shouldered embrace, I watched Stalker Boy continue on. I felt foolish for worrying about him.

Cam squeezed me tight. “Toby and I finished our project in Tokyo and flew in late last night.”

I returned the hug, thrilled to have him home after 3 months away. Firmly pushing him away, I circled him to see what changes he’d made on his journey. Cam never came back from a trip without a tattoo, especially from Japan. This time he’d had the color on his eastern dragon finished. It traveled up his spine and ended with its head peering off his left shoulder.  We met just after he’d had the outline done. The last six years was told as a story using the art on his body. I moved his elbow length auburn hair out of the way so I could ooh and ah over how well the finished piece turned out. He pulled it over his shoulder and told me which parts hurt the most. This ritual greeting of ours dulled the sliver of fear still needling me.

Sliding my hands down his well muscled back, I leaned into him, pushing him toward the door. “If you spent the evening partying with Alex, why didn’t you keep him from Sandie’s sister? Since we all know he has no impulse control, I’m holding you responsible for this morning’s assault. And where the hell are your shoes? It’s cold out here!”

He chuckled as he unlocked the door and let me lead him inside. Looking down the block one last time, I saw Stalker boy and the blue eyed stranger talking outside the corner store.

Run With it #1

I'm going to try my hand at a serial story. These character have been poking at me for a long time now, it's time they come meet the world. I hope you all enjoy it! Here's episode 1 of Run with It:


Let me tell you about myself.  I’m 26, an only child with long, dark blonde hair and hazel eyes. I work as an ASL interpreter while finishing my PhD in linguistics…

“There you are! Do you know what that sexual deviant did this time?”

My chin dropped to my chest, as the strident tones interrupedt the painful process of filling out an online dating form. I couldn’t decide if I’m relieved or aggravated.

I sighed, turning wearily toward the invader: my zealous Christian colleague from across the hall.

“Seriously, Sandie, you have no business calling anyone a sexual deviant,” I said, hoping to derail whatever rant was on the way.

“Excuse me?!”

 I now had a rabid, insulted 5’3” Jesus freak standing in the doorway of my office.  Might as well keep going, maybe she’ll get pissed off enough to leave.

“You’ve been dating Brian for 6 years, but you won’t have sex with him, and you don’t masturbate. We’re talkin’ some serious deviations from sexual norms.”

Her scowl was fleetingly replaced in quick succession by shock, embarrassment, and indignation before returning with a vengeance. Well, that plan didn’t work.

“Lorelei, I’m not going to get into the reasons why one should stay chaste.”

Thank God for small miracles.

“There are more important issues at hand. That, that, hedonistic heathen slept with my sister!”

I sighed. A large number of heathens have slept with her sister, but it’s probably not safe to point that out. Back to the heathen in question. If she was coming to me, it was a specific one.

“Okay, now that you’ve tattled on Alex, what do you expect me to do about it?”

 That actually stumped her. She looked perplexed for a moment before asking, “Is beating him an option?”

“Not a good one,” That was a stupid question, and we both knew it.

“Why not?” The plaintive wail grated on my nerves.

“Sweetheart, he brought a dominatrix to Christmas. Beating him will not get you the response you want.”

She dropped into the chair by the door with a disgusted snort, rested her chin on her hand, and glared at me. I returned a level stare.

“She’s pregnant.”

 I refuse to ask what happened. I try very hard to not know what Alex is up to. It saves me from feeling the need to bleach my brain.

“And the Anti-Christ is conceived. Prepare for Armageddon.”

Sandie slapped my arm. Hard. “Be serious! He seduced her last night and..”

 “Hold on. He slept with her last night? And just last night?” I rubbed at my arm.

“She’s only been here two days. And we spent the night before at a play.”

I tsked in irritation. “It’s not Alex’s.”

“But they were…”

I cut her off again. “It takes up to a week after ovulation to implant, and another week after that for the test to be able to detect the hormones. Did you forget your basic biology?”

Sandie bristled. “I was excused from class on those days. I’m …”

“Chaste. I know. But that means abstaining from sex, not health class! Jesus!” Annoyance thy name is Holy Roller.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”

“Believe me, Sandie, that was a prayer for patience. Y’know what, I don’t have time for this. Alex isn’t the father. Go catch up on 7^th grade sex ed and we’ll talk later.” I dragged her out of the chair and shoved her out the door. Leaning against it, I glared at my laptop. Suddenly finding a date didn’t seem so interesting. I grabbed my phone. Time to find the other sexual deviant and give him the news. I smirked. Alex as a dad. I was going to enjoy making him squirm.

Contemplation

Sitting alone in my kitchen, listening to the rhythms of the house. The whir of the refrigerator. The hum of the laptop. Dryer rumbling in the room next door, its bass notes out of time with the high pitched squeak of the washer.  There is a whoosh as the heater kicks in. It makes me realize that I’m cold.

I should be writing.

I should be reading.

I should be cleaning.

I am just sitting. Taking it all in. Or ignoring it all. Depends on how you look at it. It doesn’t really matter.

The shadows are lengthening outside. The glare of early afternoon is giving way to the dull glow of early evening. There is no revelation during this trance, this melancholy meditation. No sense of peace or enlightenment. Only a hollow resignation.

'Is This Real?'

Song: Lisa Hall - "Is This Real?" Video by lanlailaala

I arrive at the appointed hour, using the code left on my desk to unlock the heavy door. The foyer holds only a small table with a flickering black candle the only light. It’s as if nothing exists outside the wavering circle of light.  I turned and locked the outer door, heart pounding as I commit to the evening. No stopping now.  My body shivers.  Not quite fear, but a delicious hint of it.

 I slowly unbutton my black trench coat, marveling at my hands' steadiness. My sure movements belie the turmoil in my head. Anticipation. Apprehension. Longing. Shame. Skin flushing, I am pulled toward the items on the table. Thick white parchment with red writing demands my attention. Gliding my fingertips over the bold script, I can hear his dark voice commanding me.

 Shoes off.  

Legs trembling, I slide my silk clad feet out of the red heels and leave them neatly under the table.

Coat on the table.

Take up the mask.

I shrug the coat off, shivering again. Focus on making the movement graceful. Pleasing to his eyes, even in his absence. Folding the coat, exchanging it for the satin mask on table. The motions set the candle flame dancing. Tendrils of smoke writhe, like a shadowy promise of what is to come. The warmth flickers against my skin through the lace lingerie, a caress from an invisible hand. My body tightens, longing driven by nervous anticipation. I lift the delicately embroidered mask to my eyes. My pulse races.

His phantom voice whispers instructions once more.

In your place.

 Unthinking, my feet bring me in front of the next door.  My body remembers well where it belongs. Sinking gracefully, gratefully to my knees, sitting back on my heels, I follow the last of his commands.

Wait.

Always the most difficult to obey. The anticipation was delicious, but patience is a virtue I will never claim. My hands twitch as they rest on my knees. I want to touch and be touched. I still the mutinous thumb stroking the inside of my leg. The dark, the silence, they don’t bother me – I can hear him in my thoughts. Picture his presence.  The lack of physical stimulus torments me. In time, my legs numb to the hardwood beneath me. I am floating in the stillness of the room.

I focus on the aching desire, letting it fill my mind and skin. An internal flame licking through my body. Let it distract me, consume me.  The intensity swelling until I whisper, “Unreal.”

Strong fingers bury themselves in my upswept hair, pulling my face and breasts against a powerful, leather clad thigh.

From above, a deep growl, “Oh yes, pet, this is real.”

Till Death Do Us Part?

Dear John,

                I know I said I couldn’t live without you. I know I was the one to find the voudoun priestess. But really, I think it was the shock and grief talking. Honestly, I couldn’t stand picking up your dirty underwear and wet towels. How did I possibly think I could handle the bits of body parts that you leave all over the place? I’d happily deal with the smell of those nasty cigars over the rotten, reeking stench that permeates the house now. I actually miss slaving over the deplorably greasy food you insisted on eating. I can’t cook for you anymore. It’s not even cooking! I’m sure the neighbors have begun to realize their juvenile delinquents didn’t all just run away. We haven't had a decent conversation since you lost your tongue. And our sex life...

You’re not the man  I married.

It’s over.

I'm sorry.

Sincerely,

Mary

Eat your dinner

“But Mooommm, I hate eating the skin. Can’t you peel it off for me?”

I ignore the puppy dog eyes my daughter sends my way. “No. All the best nutrients are in the skin. Just eat it along with the rest.”

Petulant stomping toward the table tells me how well my declaration is received. I smile indulgently at her muttering, and finish filling our plates. Swallowing my smile, I shuffle to the table with our dinner.

“Just eat the skin with the flesh, love. If you eat it all, there’s fresh brains for dessert.”

Temper

White hot heat pulses through my veins.

Blinding light obscures all thoughts.

I move on instinct alone.

Threats growling through clenched teeth, words I won’t recall after the fury subsides.

Head pounding, hands shaking, muscles aching, stomach clenching, the supernova recedes.

All that remains is a black hole of regret.

Freedom

Freedom n. The quality or state of being exempt or released usually from something onerous.

-       From the Merriam Webster Dictionary

“You must have a preference.”

Boxers or briefs. Silk or cotton. Baggy or tailored. My skin itches.

“You have plenty of options.”

Cadmium. Chartreuse.  Crimson. The colors in my closet blur. My head aches as I helplessly stare at them.

 “There’s quite a selection”

Hazelnut. Chocolate. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Coffee. The scents surround me. Besiege me. I am powerless.

“You need to choose.”

Rye or whole wheat. Turkey or ham. Mayonnaise or mustard. The selection is nauseating.

“Just pick already.”

Jazz. Rock. Classical. Rap. Spirituals. Show tunes. The cacophony coming from the speakers is relentless.

I panic from the overwhelming input. Sweating and shaking, I wake.

The nylon straps’ embrace snaps me back to reality.  The reassuring scent of the leather hood banishes the remnants of the nightmare. The darkness is a relief after the vivid horror show in my mind. Master’s hushed footsteps soothe me. Warm water and oatmeal is fed to me. No demands, no choices.

I am free.

Jack Frost

The frigid air sears my lungs, making it harder to run. My gasps for air and pounding heartbeat do nothing to drown out the scratching sound of my pursuer. Skeletal branches, so hauntingly poetic in the day, petrify me in the dark. The pregnant moon spotlights my every move. The barren branches offer no shadows to hide me. Ice coated brambles grab my sodden jacket. Panic explodes through me. I rip free, and finally reach the clearing that holds my home.

 My sanctuary.  I see the warm glow of the fire in the windows; smell the smoke from the chimney. It’s so close, a mere twelve feet away.

There’s no way to run silently in snow. The glittering crust cracks with every footstep, the sound magnified by my terror. I hit a deep drift and it swallows my leg up to my knee. Exhausted, I struggle to keep moving.

 Chattering little creatures pour from the tree line, an otherworldly dance troupe flitting across the top of the snow.  Their icy skin glows in the moonlight. A part of my soul yearns to dance with them.  It makes me hesitate, just a moment too long. The creeping ice touches the back of my leg, jolting me back to reality with a burning intensity.

Survival instinct spurs me forward, struggling to reach porch.  I hear the radio murmuring “…composed in 1946…” Behind me, the corps de ballet relentlessly spin and leap, erasing the ugly scars my trail left on their stage.  With soaked clothes now made of ice, I pull myself up the steps and stretch desperately for the door. Thick frost creeps down my arm.

“…roasting on an open…”

My fingers stiffen like my frozen clothes; I fumble at the door knob. It is impossible to grip. I cannot even cry as the crystalline beast dances up  my shoulder and peers into my eyes.

“…Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

Why is the rum gone?

I love Talk Like a Pirate Day. From silly sea shanties to funny outfits, it's just pure fun. If you've never partook of the the festivities, you should check out the website: International Talk like a Pirate Day

And just to add to it all, don't forget that that it's also Hermione Granger's birthday. The wonderful Tom Smith even wrote a perfect song to combine the two events. Hey, it's Can(non) is a stitch to listen to.
Tom Smith Online - Free songs I wish I could provide a better link. It's on the list.

In the meantime, I hope you like the flash fic in honor of the day:


Raising Pirates

Sitting at the desk in her cubby hole of a home office, desperate to finish her piece before the deadline, Annie attempted to tune out the raucous group of hooligans terrorizing the house. The repeated and irregular thump of 14 year old Jack’s basketball against the shared wall reminded her of cannon volleys. It warred with the drum beat from William’s Caribbean music as the 18 year old tried to hide the prohibited presence of his giggling girlfriend. Sam and his friend Paul were again tearing apart the living room to build forts, stashing their treasures in odd places, and swearing vengeance on invisible foes who would steal their riches, as only 10 year olds can.

Annie sighed, checked the time, and weighed her options. Was it worth it to round up the ruffians and make them mind? After a moment, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bottle.

“This, my friends, is why the rum is gone.”