Risky Fiction

No Hesitation

2011-04-07T22:43:00.004-04:00

Warning: This piece has quite a bit more profanity than I'm used to posting online and deals with a touchy subject—one that has touched my own family, and even myself. That's not an easy thing to confess. I apologize in advance if I offend anyone. I'm not advocating violence as a means of escape, but once upon a time there weren't many other choices. I also know there are decent fellows out there in the world, and I salute them for being the 'real men.'. I wrote this as part of a prompt for Creative Writing class. The assignment was to write a very short piece of conflict, starting the story with: "This is what I should have done..."

No Hesitation

This is what I should have done. I should have pulled the trigger instead of hesitating long enough to talk myself out of it. The son of a bitch would be dead.

I’d be in jail, but I’d be free. Free from nasty, hate-filled smirks...narrowed eyes a searchlight for any excuse. Free from waking up and not being able to get out of bed because something else might be broken besides the perpetual promise of “Never Again.” Free from my now twice-weekly duty of being a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot.

I should have pulled the goddamned trigger and blown his fucking brains all over the pillow while he snored, sleeping off his latest binge of whiskey and Whack-a-Me. Why didn’t I? Was I afraid I’d miss and he’d wake up, snatch the gun out of my hands and shoot me instead? He was so far gone that a KISS concert wouldn’t have disturbed his peaceful slumber. The gun had a brand new clip in it, so what if one bullet went wide...there were more. I could have put a sweet plug right between the motherfucker’s eyes and ended both my pain and his.

Too late for that now, I think, as I set my face in grim determination to endure another round with the Raging Bull. He is between me and where the Glock lies hidden. All I can do now is take the blows and admonish myself.

Why the hell did you even buy the goddamn thing? I ask myself as his wrath begins raining a hailstorm of blows.

Go on, I silently urge him. Get it done.

That’s right.

Get it done and go to sleep.

I may have just enough strength left.

And this time, there will be no hesitation

An Auto Mechanic's Wet Dream

2011-03-03T21:49:00.002-05:00

Jack stripped and lay back on the red satin sheets while she straddled him. He could see tiny niblets centered within dark aureolas and a curly, brown triangle beneath her translucent pink baby-doll, which she slowly lifted over her head and tossed into a nearby chair.

Their lips met and they reached for each other simultaneously; their bodies becoming a tangle of tongues and fingers.

Suddenly, they stopped, mid-foreplay.

“Jasmine,” stenciled in curly vines and decorative roses about two-inches above her left nipple, looked down disparagingly at Jack's deflated, mingy manhood and sighed:

"I'm sorry, sir, but that hose is in awful shape, and since it's one of the smaller models, I’m going to have to charge you more for the parts and labor to get it functioning again."

Hell Hath No Fury

2011-01-20T20:04:00.000-05:00

“Cheating bastard!” I fumed and waited for Donald to come home.

I found out about the affair six months ago and spent the last two preparing my goodbye. I waited calmly, just beyond the perimeter of my hastily scrawled handiwork. I heard the key turning in the lock.

Donald stepped inside and smiled at me. “Hi, honey! I’m home.”

His last words echoed shock and pain as he was suddenly consumed by the bright, hot flames which erupted and descended back into the pentagram scratched upon the floor where Donald had once stood.

“No,” I laughed madly. “Now you’re home.”

The Mages of Morrow—Part 2: The Hinterlands (an epigraph)

2010-12-16T12:33:00.001-05:00

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."

-T.H. White, "The Once and Future King."

The Mages of Morrow—Interlude: The Stone

2010-12-16T12:31:00.009-05:00

This is a (slightly) edited excerpt from my novel "The Mages of Morrow." This is liable to be the last excerpt I post for awhile as I really need to get back to writing on it again. This is where I left off at when I won NaNoWriMo. It takes the story into Part 2: The Hinterlands. The character introduced here and in the Prelude: Boy at the Edge of the World, will turn up in the last third of the book. He is to be the main character in the two sequels: "The Sages of Sorrow," and (tentative) "The Pages of Pendrick." Don't worry, Mercy will still be around.

You should know that I cried (bawled is a better word) when I wrote this. I still cry a little when I read it. The last word was the hardest word I've ever written...to date.

The seeing-stone was finished.

His uncle said it was the worse seeing-stone he'd ever seen and pronounced it totally unusable. But the boy said it was perfect and declared he would get it to work, if the "gift" ever settled itself upon his shoulders.

"It's too small to see into, Pen." Uncle Ware said. "And why did ye shape it 'round them two bubbles?"

The boy turned to the side and pulled the cuff of his shorts up, showing the birthmark on his thigh. "To make it look like this," he answered.

His uncle scratched his head and worried, as usual. "Well, why did ye run a hole inter it..there?" Uncle Ware pointed to the hole at one end of the oblong Sagestone. He'd watched the boy take the pick and work it with precision and skill...piercing the stone little by little...taking care not to rupture the interior bubble on that end of the stone.

The boy walked over and opened one of the many cabinets in the workroom. From it's depths he retrieved a length of leather cord. He returned to the workbench and, picking up the stone, poked one end of the cord through and tied the ends together, fashioning himself a pendant from the seeing-stone. He pulled the Sagestone over his head and it rested lightly against his chest. His uncle gazed at it through sorrowful eyes.

"Now, I can carry my Sagestone with me, everywhere I go!" the boy exclaimed excitedly. "I won't have to leave it behind if I need to go somewhere. Seeing-stones are too useful to be left on a stand in a book room."

His uncle furrowed his brow and frowned. "Boy, the physical weight of carrying a stone on you at all times is nothing compared to the mental and spiritual burden you will suffer. You must not wear it like a charm, for a charm it is not!"

The boy placed his young hand over his uncles wrinkled and calloused one.

"Uncle..." he sighed. "Think of what happens when a sage is asleep in his bedroom and his stone is in his study. The stone may show visions of great magnitudes and not a soul would ever know. I have spent sleepless nights wondering how many lives have been lost simply because a prophesy went unseen. If...if..." the boy struggled for words..."If the gift of sight should be granted me, I want to SEE!"

He patted his uncles hand and went about cleaning the workshop. When he was finished with the cleaning of tools and the sweeping of floors, he asked his uncle if he could retire. The uncle sent him to his room with a quick but affectionate hug.

Long after the last rays of the sun that pierced the small window had crawled away up the workshop wall to hide in the deep corners of the night, Uncle Ware remained sitting on the bench.

In the dark, by the thinnest slice of moonlight, a trail of tears glistened on his cheeks.
The boy had been part of his life for thirteen years. He didn't need a seeing-stone to show him that soon—too soon, he knew—that most sorrowful and final of words would hang spoken between them.
Goodbye.

To read the previous excerpts, click on the titles:
Prelude: Boy at the Edge of the World
Part 1: The Spinnerlands (An Epigraph)
An excerpt from Chapter 1: Mercy at the Gates
An excerpt from Chapter 3: Leaving Crope
An excerpt from Chapter 8: "You never knew you had it in you?"
Part 2: The Hinterlands (An Epigraph)

"You never knew you had it in you?"—An excerpt from The Mages of Morrow: Chapter 8

2010-12-16T11:04:00.006-05:00

The following is an unedited excerpt from my novel "The Mages of Morrow." Chapter 8 is "You never knew you had it in you?" It finds Tom and Mercy still on the run and taken in by residents of the small town of Garrett (similar in name to Mercy's own hometown in Ohio. In fact, the couple hosting them are the doppelgangers of Mercy's own parents.) Mercy, having had her hair cut and dyed by Tom, is impersonating a boy. Mercy is reading the book Tom gave her about the history and magick of Burr, including the history of the sages and the mages. Mercy reads something in the book about a prophesy concerning the most powerful sage in Burr and his mission. She then realizes with growing alarm who that sage is...

Mercy put the book down and gripped the blanket on the bed, clenching her fists and releasing them, clenching them again...in a ritual of anxiety.

Oh my God, he's headed to the south. To where the dragons and smilodons and T-Rexes are!! And he's not told me because he knows I wouldn't want to go a step further if I knew it!

He's the one. The powerful sage in the book! He has to be....he has the Eternal Dragon! He WAS the one commissioned by this prophet dude to...what? Go find a king...and start a WAR? Oh, man...I don't want any part of that mess...
Mercy got up and started pacing up and down the room...thinking.

What are my options? Leave. I could go back to that lake right now and wait there for that Spin Hole to come back. Maybe it appears in the same location at certain times. Some of them do. Domus said so, and I've seen it in Crope. And I just know that one would take me home. To Garrettsburg. I mean this town is called Garrett, right? Maybe there is a singularity, a warp in the space/time fabric that connects the two. That's why the Slater's daughter disappeared. In order not to cause a paradox. It was a trade. I came to this world, she went to mine. Maybe she went to my own house. She's probably just as confused as I was...except she's from Burr and probably knows all about Spin Holes, so she would have figured it out.

But if I can find that Hole again...that same one. I could go through to home and she would have to be snatched back through to here. She could be with her parents again, and I would be with mine. I feel bad about leaving Tom...but I don't owe him anything! Not really. So he rescued me from Crope and a life of hell.

And he also kept me from going crazy the night the sprites attacked us in the woods. He told me later that they feed on people's panic until it drives a person mad.

But...I want to go home!! And Tom has already said that he's not going to help me go through a Spin Hole. He'd probably try and stop me again.

What am I going to do?
She was pacing still, when Tom swung the door open and bounded into the room. He shut the door and rushed over to her. He took her in his arms and held her close to him, just like the night in the woods...with the sprites. At first she struggled against him...twisting in his strong embrace.
"Stay the fuck out of my head, Tom Stranger!" she hissed.
"I wasn't in your thoughts, Mercy. But I could sense your...distress...pain..."
"Then you don't know what's bothering me?"
"No, little one. But I want to calm you. What have you read in that book that has disturbed you so?" Tom stepped back and rubbed her arms. They looked into each others eyes and for a second, Mercy thought he was going to kiss her, like he did that night in Crope when he thought she was Ruby. But instead, he pulled her over and sat her down on the bed, then pulled up a chair to sit across from her. He took her hand.
"What has upset you, Mercy?"
"You didn't read my thoughts?"
"No, Mercy. I think it's best if we stay out of each other's minds...don't you?" When she nodded, he continued. "Besides, you've gotten extraordinarily brilliant at keeping me out." He smiled at her, but she didn't return it.
"Why can I read minds? Why can I keep you from reading mine? I've never..."
Tom got up and walked over to a small table in the corner of the room. He picked up a small charm of a flower that had been lying there...probably a favorite trinket of the girl who had lived in that room before she mysteriously vanished. The girl who resembled Mercy. He returned and sat down in the chair again, holding the charm out to her in his hand. When she started to pick it up, he moved his hand away.
"Just watch this..." he said. He held his palm out again and whispered "Levitato."
Mercy watched in amazement as the charm rose into the air about three inches from Tom's palm and remained hovering there.
"Descenda," Tom whispered and the charm floated back to rest on his palm once more.

"I know your a sage, Tom," Mercy sighed. "Probably capable of taking the roof off this house with a single word, if you wanted to. I know you're the most powerful sage in Burr." She looked questioningly at him, then glanced at his index finger and saw that he wasn't wearing the ring. "The Ouroboros! Where is it, Tom?"
Tom lowered his hand with the charm and with his other hand he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the ring. The green dragon with the red eyes. "I've been keeping it hidden. I see you've read about the Eternal Dragon, then?"
"Yes..." she said. Then, she looked away from him, no longer able to meet his eyes. "I don't want to go to the south, Tom!" she started to weep. "I don't want to see a smilodon again, or a dragon...or worse—a T-Rex! I want to go home, Tom!" Then she looked at him, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I want to go home."
"Mercy..." Tom said, in an almost scolding tone. "The Spin Holes are dangerous."
"I don't care, Tom. I'm going through the next one I see...these people need their daughter back, and I think if I go home, she'll come back. Isn't that right?"
Tom sighed. "Possibly. But Mercy...there's a reason for it."
"A reason for what?"
"Why you're here. Spin Holes operate in a strange way. Crossover's have been known to shape the course of history here. It may very well be that the mages were once crossovers, creating a bridge, one Spin Hole from their old world to this one...then creating more and more Spin Holes once they were here..." he paused and looked toward the door...at the crack where the door met the floor. There was no shadow there. "I have to make sure this is not overheard by anyone, Mercy. And you must promise not to repeat it to anyone. Do you?"
"I already know that you're the one that has to find this King-dude."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Tom said. He took a deep breath. "The Prophet Bob was a crossover."
Mercy's mouth dropped. "He was what?"
"A crossover, Mercy. A fact that he concealed to almost everyone. But there was a reason he was...brought here."
"Brought?" Mercy didn't like the sound of that.
"Yes. Brought. I believe he may have even been from your world. He discovered a talent for seeing the future when he came here. He could see the future without a seeing stone, Mercy."
"A seeing-stone?"
"They're made from a gem called Sagestone, mined primarily in the south. Sages can scry the future in them."
"So, you think a Spin Hole brought me here. Why?"
Tom shook his head. "I don't know. I only know that some crossovers have been important in our history."
"Some?"
"Aye. Some, but not all of them."
"How do you know I'm important, then? There's nothing special about me."
Tom lifted his hand and held out the charm again. "Try it," he said.
Mercy just stared at him, bewildered. She couldn't do magic! Why was he asking this of her? To make a fool out of her? She shook her head 'no.'
"Go on," insisted Tom. "'Levitato' is the word. Say it."
She stared at him...becoming furious that he actually thought to make her look stupid.
"Mercy..."
"LEVITATO!!"
The charm shot off of Tom's hand, hit the ceiling with a bang and embedded in the plaster like a bullet.
Mercy turned wide, unbelieving eyes to Tom. He simply smiled.
"You never knew you had it in you, did you?"

To read more of the excerpts, click on the text below:

Prelude: Boy at the Edge of the World
Part 1: The Spinnerlands (An Epigraph)
Mercy at the Gates: an excerpt from Chapter 1
Mercy Spins: an excerpt from Chapter 3

Coming soon: Interlude: The Stone

Mercy Spins: An Excerpt from "The Mages of Morrow"

2010-12-10T07:27:00.005-05:00

The following is an unedited excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel: "The Mages of Morrow." This scene is from Chapter 3: "Leaving Crope." It is the scene in which Mercy describes to the gypsy Tom Stranger how she happened to find herself working as a sixteen-year-old waitress in a brothel in Crope. This is Mercy's "crossover" experience. Please feel free to comment on anything you like or don't like about this piece. This is a "rough draft" and will be polished at some future time. Oh, by the way, this excerpt contains a reference to a "real" event experienced by the author, when she was a young naturalist growing up in Ohio.

The subdivision on the outskirts of Garrettsburg, Ohio was fairly new. Shiny new blacktop wound through the immaculate and exclusive gated community and the new houses were almost all bordered by some type of natural environment. One house was perhaps more isolated than the rest, it was down the very last road and sat on a parcel that included woods and a clear-running creek.

This was the home of the family of the former Mayor of Garrettsburg.

They'd just moved to the neighborhood, and were one of the first families in the community. They wanted to get away from town life after the Mayor left office when his term was up. They were a well-loved and well-respected family, and the Mayor had ran the town efficiently. He was looking forward to returning to a quiet life of his law practice and had plans to write a book.

His wife was a successful entrepreneur, she owned a string of popular coffee and bagel shops in five counties.

Their daughter was consistently on the honor roll and received top marks at school in every subject, especially her favorites: math and science. She wanted to be either a naturalist or a biologist when she grew up.

She loved to explore the woods and creek on their property. Every summer when school was out, as soon as she woke up in the morning, she scarfed down a quick breakfast and headed out the backdoor, packed lunch in one hand and a copy of "A Field Guild to the Flora and Fauna of Ohio" in the other.

She kept a pen sticking out of the guide so that she could check off wildlife or plants that she'd identified. She took notes in the margins and in any blank space in the book that she could find, pretending that she was a real naturalist in the wild, documenting the habits and habitats of wild, dangerous animals. The only dangerous animal, the only predator she'd ever seen was a shy coyote that was out hunting in the early morning. She was downwind of it or she might not have seen it at all. She was frightened at first, but then the coyote saw her and hightailed it in the opposite direction. It had been just as afraid of her as she'd been of it!

One day, while she was hiking through the woods, she saw a deer.

Deer were common in the area and she saw them often along the roadside at dusk when the family was riding home after some event, dinner or a movie, in town. She'd never seen one in what she'd come to think of as "her woods" before, however.

Carefully and quietly she tracked it, stopping and crouching behind trees in order not to let it get sight of her. It stopped every so often and scent the air, as if it could smell her. Then it wandered off nervously a few paces and stopped to nibble the grass again.

The girl crept around it, using what cover she could find while it was occupied eating, and tried to get downwind.

The young doe, its sense of hearing much greater than a human's, heard a noise, maybe it heard the girl's breathing, although she was still a good twenty or thirty feet away from it. It looked up, wide-eyed, and angled its ears first one way, then another...honing in on the slightest noise. It sniffed the air again and caught her scent. The doe went scampering into a clearing ahead and...

Disappeared into thin air!

Poof! Just like that.

The girl, who'd broke cover as soon as the deer took off and was attempting to keep pace with it, stopped suddenly in her tracks, stunned.

One second ago the deer had been running in a sunny clearing. The next second it was like the deer had never been there. All that remained was a sort of shimmery something that looked like dust motes. Glittery dust motes.

The girl dropped her book and headed toward the strange floating substance.

As soon as she was close, she reached out her hand to touch it.

She screamed, but no one would hear her. The sensation was like falling, tumbling, spinning. She began to grow dizzy. She shut her eyes tightly and prayed the sensation would stop. She thought that she might faint. She had a feeling of being smashed and stretched thin, like dough being kneaded and pulled to make pizza crust. Remarkably, there was no pain, only extreme discomfort. Her head felt like a balloon, her ears like they were full of cotton.

Suddenly, her buttocks and then her back and thighs came into contact with something hard. Very hard. She heard noise: voices, music, a horse neighing. The sound of clop...cloppity...clop...and creaking.

She opened her eyes.

She saw a scene before her straight out of a western movie. She was in a town, lying on her side on the doorstep of a building. Looking around her she saw a horse pulling a cart driven by a man wearing clothes that seemed mismatched: a shirt and a vest from the Renaissance period and blue jeans. He reined the horse with one hand and in the other rested a sawed-off shotgun.

The store fronts on the opposite side of the cobbled street had an old-time western feel to them as well: Hyatt and Son: Greengrocers, Evans Rx Emporium, and Mulholland Meat & Storage Locker were some of the signs.

Slowly and with some dizziness, she got her feet under her and stood up.

Looking further up the street she saw signs for other businesses that confused her: Crope United Kim Exchange and Crope Public Trust. This last one had a gallows set in a courtyard surrounded by benches. She shivered.

If it were the scene of an old T.V. western, the gallows would have made sense. But there was something else, something out of place with the television western movie theory. Perhaps it was the burnt-out shells of automobiles, buses, and what even looked like tanks in random locations along the street.

She turned around to get a better look at the building whose doorstep she landed on. She looked up at the sign: "The Good Man's Rest." A plaque next to the door read: "Fine food, drink and whatever other comfort a man's body requires! For a Good Man's Rest, Inquire Within."

The girl, the daughter of the former mayor of Garrettsburg, Ohio, had her fist poised to knock on the door when it suddenly flew open. A dark-haired forty-ish woman stood just inside the door, looking at her and smiling warmly. Her eyes had an angry glint however, and the girl felt suddenly frightened.

"Well...lookee, lookee what the cat dragged home! You new in town, little girlie? Come on in and take your rest with me."

Mercy at the Gates—from Chapter 1 of "The Mages of Morrow"

2010-11-29T22:11:00.003-05:00

This is an excerpt from the fantasy novel I was writing for NaNoWriMo. I won Nano on 11/29 with 50,100 words. It is not edited, so there will be improvement on it somewhere down the road. Also, this is a fantasy meant to take adults back in time to the stories of their youth, in a modern re-telling. That said be aware there is profanity and sexual situations. It is Rated R by my standards. You can read the first two intros here: Prelude: Boy at the Edge of the World and Part 1: Spinnerlands, if you like.

Mercy sat at the gates.

She was taking a break from the chaos that was the Good Man's Rest. She watched Domus welcome people in and out of the city. Why the village of Crope employed the Arctodus to watch it's gates was a mystery. They were so far north that there was no threat here of dragons (not that Mercy believed in dragons, she didn't) or other pre-history beasts. She wasn't sure she believed in pre-history beasts either. Ruby told her that Domus was a pre-history beast, but to Mercy he just looked like an ordinary grizzly bear, if a little on the gigantic size.

The major difference was speech.

When she first came to Crope and people told her about the dragons and beasts that could talk, she thought they were all crazy. This is before the town hired Domus.

Then, one day, as she was sitting on the stoop of the inn, a cat came up to her. It meowed gently and she stroked it's fur.

"I'm sorry. I don't have any food to give you right now, but I'll sneak some later, if you're still around."

"What time?" the cat said.

Mercy jumped off the stoop and nearly choked on her tongue. From that time on, she encountered many domestic animals that could speak and some that could not. She asked Lovely Lucy about it one day when they were in the kitchen preparing meals for the evening crowd. Mercy paused in the midst of her corn-shucking.

"Why can some animals talk and some can't?"

Lucy scoffed at her. "How the 'ell do I know? Get your ass back to work!"

Clem, one of the regular patrons of the Good Man's, leered at Mercy and grinned. Mercy shivered. She hated being around the man. He was always making passes, or trying to grab her in places on her anatomy where she preferred not to be grabbed. He winked at her. "Some animals were created smart, by the mages, like. Such as dragons and some domesticated animals. And some weren't. Like chickens. I mean, who wants to hear a chicken bitchin' at yeh when yeh go to chop it's head off!"

Mercy shook her head. "But I've seen some cats and dogs that can talk in Crope and some that can't. Why is that?"

"Cherry-girl, you got more questions than a constable!" Clem turned and stumbled off in the direction of the tavern.

Lucy looked angrily at Mercy, her thin, aging lips pressed tightly together. Sensing a beating coming, Mercy quickly continued shucking. After awhile she decided to try her luck with Lucy again.

"Lucy? Why can some tame animals talk and some can't?"

Lucy looked up, glaring. "You stupid thing. Don't you know anything about the world?"

Mercy wanted to say that, No, since she was not originally from this world, she didn't know. But Lucy had never believed that she was not from some far off village to the north of Crope and got violently angry when Mercy tried to explain, so she kept her mouth shut.

Silence proved to be golden, because Lucy seemed to soften a bit. "Well, it's like Clem said. Some were created to talk by the mages."

"But what about the ones that can't talk?" Mercy asked.

Lucy looked away as she replied, "They be the crossovers, like."

Like me, Mercy thought. But she knew better to say this to Lovely Lucy, who was really not as lovely as her nickname suggested.

"Hey, girlie!"

Mercy jerked her head up, her reverie interrupted. Domus looked down from his stool, a very large stool considering his gargantuan size. His muzzle was a grizzled gray, indicating that he was no longer in the prime of his life...still, he had enough pep left to guard the gates of Crope during the daylight hours. He retired to a hut beside the gates after his shift. Why he was kept so close to the gates after dark Mercy could not understand. The gates were never closed and the giant Arctodus slept like a....well, like a bear. Regardless of his size, Mercy found the bear to be nicer than most of the humans she'd met in Crope. She took care not to get too close to him, however. The two-inch talons on his forepaws could slice your face off as neat as a paring knife. He wouldn't mean it, of course. But he was, like all his kind, as dumb as a door-pull.

She looked at him questioningly.

"Shouldn't ye be gettin' back to yonder inn? Yeh don't want ol' Lucy to come lookin' fer ye."

Mercy realized that she had spent more than her allotted break time out by the gates, head drenched in thoughts and memories that did nothing but depress her even more than she already was. She jumped up from the step outside Domus' hut (a step tall enough to be a seat for an average human girl) and hightailed down the street toward the inn, just a few feet away.

She entered the bar, gave her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light (it was always dark in the bar) and made her way toward the kitchen. She held her breath and hoped the kitchen was unoccupied. She'd been able to work in relative peace during the morning as Lucy had slept in, nursing a hangover.

As she stepped into the kitchen, a pair of strong arms reached out and grabbed her.

Clem had been hiding behind the door.

He pulled her close and ran his hand up her waist to pinch one of her nipples. She tried not to show how much it hurt, because pain only made Clem more excited. She felt his breath on the back of her neck and smelled the reek of Burr whiskey, which was stronger than any made back home. In the corner of the kitchen, Lucy laughed menacingly.

"Is today the day, Little Cherry?" Clem breathed. Mercy stifled the urge to vomit.

She looked at Lucy, hoping the woman would intervene for once. She didn't.

Instead, Lucy reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a long, thin needle.

Mercy jerked out of Clem's grasp and scrambled to the center of the kitchen.

"This past week was not my birthday," Mercy sighed, although she knew she was wasting her breath. She had made the same statement every time since she arrived here, but Lucy wouldn't believe her. And rightly so, for Mercy had no intention of telling anyone in Crope when her birthday was. It was bad enough that she had told them she was sixteen, when she first arrived, so many months ago.

"Well, damnit girl," Lucy replied, her voice rough as rocks. "You gotta have a birthday soon. Year's almost up. Soon it'll be the Harvester Moon, then the Cold Time. After that is Year's End."

Clem grinned from the doorway. "A man can't wait forever."

Lucy swung around to confront him. "You will damn well wait! Or be hanged. And won't nobody be able to he'p it. You know the law."

"Curses to the Lars-damned law!" Clem spat.

"You'll obey the law or I'll be th' one throws the lever on yer gallows! The girl is my property."

"I'm nobody's property. I'm a free person!" Mercy shouted. Some days she just could not hold her temper, especially on Finger-Pricking days when she had to endure Lucy referring to her as 'property.' She now knew how the slaves in the early days back in her world felt. She felt angry, and when she felt angry she got rebellious, and that was not a good state to be in when Lucy was around. Lucy rushed forward and Mercy felt the sting of a slap on her face. But she did not cry. She learned the hard way a long time ago not to give Lucy and Clem that satisfaction. It only made things worse. Instead, she did the second worse thing. She stared defiantly into Lucy's face. Lucy grabbed Mercy's hand and stabbed the needle in her middle finger hard.

Finally, the tears began to flow as Lucy pulled out the needle and squeezed Mercy's fingertip ruthlessly. The blood pooled and began to slide down her finger.

Lucy grabbed a small, thimble-like glass containing a measure of clear liquid from the counter. She held Mercy's throbbing finger over the vial until one drop of blood splashed down into the liquid, which immediately turned blue. The first time she'd underwent the Finger-Pricking test she'd been reminded of a pregnancy test. Except this was not a pregnancy test. It was an age test. How the substance in the thimble could tell Mercy was not seventeen, she did not know. It apparently involved magick, because Lucy purchased the potion from a local Sage. What she was told was that on the day when her blood caused the liquid to turn green would be the day she would be turned over to Clem for "training" in the Good Man's Inn main business: prostitution.

Mercy breathed a sigh of relief and Lucy slapped her again. "Damn you, girl! Name the day!"

Mercy cast her eyes downward, not wanting to be hit again. She was afraid she would have a bruise already. She was silent, however.

Lucy roughly shoved her toward the back staircase. "Go clean rooms, worthless virgin!"

Mercy bounded up the stairway, giving full sway to her tears, the cackling laughter of Lucy and Clem in her ears.

What she wouldn't tell them...she couldn't tell them.

She had forgotten her birthday.

Mercy at the gates. Waiting. Looking for a way out. She attempted to catalogue in her memory the faces of all the Spinners she saw, so that if she saw them again, she could ask them—no, beg them—to take her out. To take her anywhere but here. She put the foolish fantasy of home to rest a long time ago. She knew in her heart she would never go home again. At night, in her room, she dreamed of Santa Claus and Jell-o pudding. She sang in her sleep:

"I'm a Pepper, You're a Pepper, He's a Pepper, She's a Pepper..."

And sometimes she cried in her sleep, too.

The Mages of Morrow—Part 1: The Spinnerlands (epigraph)

2010-11-26T00:16:00.003-05:00

Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

'I don't much care where —' said Alice.

'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.

'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'

'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.

'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'

-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

The Mages of Morrow—Prelude: Boy at the Edge of the World

2010-11-26T00:03:00.001-05:00

There was an old quarry down by the stream.

It wasn't a large quarry, but it was large enough for the purpose it served.

Pure Sagestone, so clear you could almost see through a three-foot brick of it, was mined there.

It was not mined as a diamond would be, no. Sagestone was useful only to those few who knew how to shape it properly and then call forth images from it. It was not called Sagestone for nothing.

The elder man in the quarry wasn't known as a Sage. It was a secret he chose to keep. His small dwelling was only a few miles from a powerful Mage, and he did not want that kind of trouble. He had the boy to think about.

The boy was with him this day. He had not gone to the stream to fish, or to skip rocks on its calm surface, as he normally did when his uncle continued his never-ending search for the perfect seeing-stone.

Instead he had come to the quarry with his uncle.

The old man cursed and hauled stone after stone out of the earth and tossed them aside.

"Ah'll find ye yet," he mumbled irritably.

The boy picked up first one of the stones his uncle discarded (which he also quickly chucked away) and then another. As he bent over, his shorts rode up his leg and the sunlight shone on what appeared to be an odd-shaped tattoo on the side of his upper right thigh.

"What you lookin' for, boy?" his uncle asked.

"A seeing-stone for me," he replied.

His uncle straightened up and looked curiously at the lad, a sly smile played at the corner of his wrinkled mouth.

"Aye. Are ye gonna shape and polish it yerself, then?"

"Aye," the boy said simply and hunkered over again to continue his search, digging in some places with his bare hands.

His uncle watched him for a few minutes, then bent his own back to the pickax again. His thoughts were complicated and troubled.

Is it time already? he thought to himself.

He left the quarry that day empty-handed again, but the boy had a prize. His uncle scoffed when he saw it; a clear but imperfect stone with what appeared to be two hollow bubbles of the exact same size in its depths. But the boy was well pleased. After supper, he took the awkward looking rock immediately to the workshop to begin shaping it.

His uncle came in after a time to watch and advise him. His mind was still wondering.

He is so small, still. So young.

"Turn it, like so..." he said, gently taking the boys hand and guiding his efforts.

So young. But even the smallest stone can cause a mighty ripple in the stream, if it is cast hard enough.

Click on the text to read the epigraph to Part 1: The Spinnerlands

The Lust, The Flesh (an excerpt from Zombie Nation: St. Pete)

2010-10-29T13:59:00.020-04:00

This week I'm sharing with you an excerpt of my story "The Lust, The Flesh" which appears in the local zombie anthology, "Zombie Nation: St. Pete." You can purchase the anthology here: Zombie Nation Publishing. I'll be having a contest in the future to give away a couple of copies of the book. I'm open for suggestions about how to do the contest and have received some wonderful ideas already. Please feel free to post your suggestion here: Contest Ideas.

I looked for Hollis among the animated corpses. He was near the end, munching on somebody's big toe.

I repressed a gag and called his name.
He turned a wound-covered, pepperoni-pizza face to me. His eyes were still clear blue; they hadn't yet taken on that milky glaze of the undead.
"Christine! Will you join us? We're taking over!"
"No, Hollis."
Pink-tinged tears fell from his eyes, and were absorbed into the rotting flesh beneath. I walked alongside Hollis, keeping pace with the marchers, but keeping my distance as well. There was a man in a black suit on the other side of Hollis. He was mumbling to himself.
I looked at Hollis. He was definitely crying. What the fuck?
"...the wages of sin is death," murmured the Man in Black. He sneezed, spraying bloody snot all over the back of the zombie in front of him. The newly painted Jackson-Pollock-canvas didn't even flinch.
"I love you, Christine! I want to marry you."
Highlight of my life. A proposal from a zombie.
"You're a zombie, Hollis. You don't love anything except flesh and brains," I said.
The Man in Black lurched, as if my words caused him pain.
"The lust! The flesh!" he shouted.
"What's his dealio?" I asked.
"He was a preacher,” Hollis said. “Practicing for Sunday's sermon when we busted into his church. He's still trying to preach, I guess."
I nodded. A fresh one. It seemed the newer the zombie, the more they held onto to their former selves. It was the passage of time that rotted the zombies’ grey matter. Hollis had only been reanimated a few days ago. Still, he seemed more lucid than the preacher.
"Hollis, what started this?"
Hollis shook his head. His eyes glazed over—I thought for a moment I was losing him—but they cleared, baby-blue again and he seemed okay.

"Remember that festival awhile back? Zombie Fest? Well, there was a real zombie from California here and he infected someone."
California. That figures. Damn tourists always causing trouble.
"A real zombie, Christine!" Hollis looked like an excited kid on Christmas; an undead kid with putrid, maggot-infested flesh.
#
We were headed towards downtown. A crowd gathered, lining both sides of the street. If there were cars ahead of us, they quickly got out of the way, even on U.S. 19, where traffic stopped for no man.
The spectators began to jeer and throw things. Not a smart thing to do, in my opinion. "Go back where you came, you undead bastards!" a male voice yelled.
And just where might that be? None of them had been buried, so the only thing they could return to would be their normal, living state—and that sure as hell wasn't going to happen. Here were people bitten and infected with a plague. From California. I laughed. Eighty percent of the population there are brain-dead anyway.
A zombie a few rows ahead of us dashed out of his line and grabbed the man from the sidewalk. The man struggled, but it was no use. The plague caused those stricken to have superhuman strength; especially when they were pissed off.
The crowd screamed as the zombie bit into the struggling man's neck, severing his carotid. Blood spewed from the open wound. The man jerked twice…and then was still. I turned away just as the zombie lowered his head and began to feed. Hollis craned his head to watch, which disturbed me greatly.
"Where are we going, Hollis?"
"We're goin' straight to hell, where old serpent Satan flaps his wings, to fan the flames of our destruction!"
"Cool it, padre," I said. "It'll be okay," He looked over and rolled his eyes at me as if to say 'Don't bullshit me, sister.'
A woman's voice rose amongst the spectators. "I hope they kill every stinkin' one of you, zombie freaks!" Some of them held hastily crafted cardboards signs. One in particular read: "Leeve Our Branes Alone!" That one made me grimace.
“The stupid always survive,” I grumbled.
Hollis hadn't heard a word I'd said. He was drooling, still trying to watch the zombie buffet. I tugged his bloody shirt sleeve, and his head snapped back; he looked at me with an eerie calm. I shivered and hoped he didn't notice.
"I asked you where we're going."
"Uh, I dunno...hang on."
Hollis tapped the shoulder of a female zombie in front of him. She was missing an ear and her nose was decayed to a pulpy mass.
"Do you know where we're going?"
"Coast Guard.”
"Why are you going to the Coast Guard?" I asked, but I had an awful feeling I knew.
Hollis again reached to tap No-Ear Woman. I pulled him back.
"Never mind."
Scanning the horde, I wondered who the mastermind might be, if there was such a being. I thought about asking Hollis, but he didn't seem to know much about the plans of his brethren, if there were any.
I guess I knew then that I couldn't save Hollis. There was no cure for this plague, and by the time the government got around to doing anything, the whole state, from Key West to Tallahassee, would either be dead or undead. The thought brought tears to my eyes. I had loved what used to be the man walking next to me. But I also knew I couldn't let him, or the others, transform me. I wasn't ready to put brains on my list of gourmet delicacies, so I had to take care not to get bitten. I still don’t know where the disease came from. Maybe some shit-head scientist fresh out of UC-Berkeley woke up one day and thought, "Geez, I'm bored...I think I'll create a zombie virus. Yeah, that would be cool!"
A shout from the crowd cut through my daydreaming. It was aimed at me.
"Whatcha doin' with them monsters, girl? You a zombie lover!!!" He was big, like an eighteen-wheeler with legs. He stuck a middle finger up in our direction.
"Shut the fuck up, man!" Hollis shouted.
"Make me, you friggin' corpse!"
I couldn’t understand why these people came out to taunt an army of zombies. Hollis tried to get past me and lunge for Mack-Truck, but I pulled him back. Another zombie broke from the crowd and went for him, but he wasn’t alone. Two men were with him, and all three were armed: Mack-Truck had a tire iron; the other two had Louisville Sluggers. Mack swung the tire iron, and it connected with a loud crack. The zombie went down. It was dead, but the men continued to beat it into a lumpy, fleshy mass oozing on the concrete, not hard considering the fact that this zombie was already rapidly decaying.
We continued the march. As we neared the police station, I became anxious. There were police cars parked at the station, but I couldn’t see any officers in the crowd.
A shadow appeared at my side. I glanced up into another pair of living eyes.
It was Kevin.
Kevin worked in the same office I did. He was extremely shy and extremely unpopular. No one talked to Kevin unless they had to and Kevin, likewise, spoke only when spoken to. He was an efficient, hard worker. Therefore, the other employees were continually seeking ways to get him fired. I never understood why it was that slackers always wanted to see the people doing the work get fired. Hell, it was because of them that they got to slack off.
"Hello, Christine," Kevin said, smiling. I had never notice that he had such a nice smile; probably because I'd never seen him smile before.
I had also never seen him outside of the office. His casual attire was very different than the business suits he wore to work. He was dressed in blue jeans, a faded Lightning shirt and a black, leather motorcycle jacket, which set off his wavy brown hair and blue eyes.

Damn! Kevin was hot!
"Um...Hi."
"Sorry about your boyfriend," he said.
"Thanks."
I was suddenly aware of Hollis stiffening at my side. My jealous zombie boyfriend.

"Er...Hollis? This is Kevin. He works with me."
Hollis glared.
"Idle hands are the tools of the devil!" Preacher barked.

Kevin shrugged. "I think it's horrible what they're doing."
This seemed to satisfy Hollis, but not me. I looked at Kevin. He read the question in my eyes.
Kevin leaned over.
"When we get to the fences, veer off with me and prepare to haul ass," he whispered.
"Why?" I asked.
He looked wary. "Just be prepared.”
“Do you know why they want to get to the Coast Guard?”
"Well, they just can't go shambling into Tampa International Airport now, can they?"
He had a point.

Contest Ideas

2010-10-29T13:41:00.000-04:00

I am having a contest sometime in the future to give away copies of "Zombie Nation: St. Pete," the local zombie anthology featuring writers from my area. My story, "The Lust, The Flesh" is on page 179.

I've gotten a couple of really great suggestions for this contest so far.

Jim Bronyaur would like to see an excerpt of this story (which I've posted for #fridayflash this week) and then a Story Starter: a paragraph into another story which contestants would finish. I think this is a good idea.

Icy Sedgwick has another great idea. She would like me to post all of my story (I'd have to do it in parts, it's no flash story) and then contestants would pick a character from my story (a victim or survivor) and write a flash in that character's POV.

Please leave a comment as to how this contest should run.

For more information about "Zombie Nation: St. Pete," visit this website: Zombie Nation Publishing.

In print...finally...

2010-10-06T15:29:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I went to the mailbox and was delighted to find that my copy of "Oh, the Horror!" by Static Movement had arrived.

This anthology of short horror tales is the first printed book where my work appears that is sold by distributors (Pill Hill Press for now, eventually Amazon).

I can't begin to express in words how giddy I was when I opened the book and saw my two flash stories, "Out of the Box," and "Telescope Moment" listed on the Table of Contents page as being on pages 78 and 82 respectively.

Then I went to those pages in the book and stared at them for a good, long while, trying to fathom my feelings about seeing my work in a book.

Don't anybody pinch me.

I might wake up.

A post about upcoming posts...

2010-09-21T00:38:00.002-04:00

It's been awhile since I posted any news on my blogs.

It's not that juicy news hasn't been happening, it's just that I've been buried up to my eyeballs in schoolwork and this is a scenario that is not likely to change anytime soon.

I have a couple of items I want to post about concerning upcoming stories of mine that are being published (think zombies, ghosts and a meteor strike).

The biggest news is my story 'The Lust, The Flesh' has been accepted for publication in the upcoming local anthology 'Zombie Nation: St. Pete.' I am working on a post with various news items and links about this project that could be a big step forward in my writing career.

I have other publication news to share also in that upcoming post. I'm working furiously between school studies trying to put together this post and another one, about a special memorial service that my husband's family had for him in Massachusetts last month.

About my college career. I attended an orientation meeting Monday afternoon for the Phi Theta Kappa International Honor Society. I signed up to be a new member. Looking forward to the academic benefits of being a member of that organization.

These last couple days has been all about me joining organizations. Last Thursday, I became a two-year member of the Florida Writers Association, another group that is sure to benefit me greatly.

The future is looking very bright.

Out of the Box

2010-08-19T17:13:00.004-04:00

This story is rated R for language and the disturbing element of annihilating happy childhood memories. Enjoy. UPDATE: Published 9/27/10 in Oh! The Horror anthology

He woke up in the dark, tried to scream and couldn't.
He was standing, that much he knew because his legs were sore. He was in a tiny closet. No, that wasn't right. He was encased: tomb-like, in a wooden crate like a coffin, but with the lid at the top over his head.

Someone had put him in here while he had been passed out from the party. And how long ago had that been? A couple of hours? More? He did not know. He felt something hot and wet trickling down his face. He wriggled his arm up in the small space and tentatively touched the spot that was sore. His nose. It was bleeding. Did someone hit him in the face? He couldn't remember. He hoped it wasn't broken.

He heard a scritching sound. In the faint light that entered the box through small cracks where the boards were nailed, he could see something small moving in the box with him. He hoped to God whatever it was, it wasn't poisonous and that it would not crawl up his leg. He tried to move his feet away from the thing, and found they would not budge. Maybe the soles of his shoes were nailed or superglued to the bottom of the box. Or maybe the psycho who put him here nailed his feet down. He was so numb from standing he didn't think he'd be able to tell.

His head ached. His stomach felt empty and raw, like he might have thrown up earlier. Hungover, maybe. He couldn't remember anything.

The scratching noise ceased and, looking down, he saw the other occupant of the box perched on his shoe. It looked like a large, furry cockroach.

It was then he started to cry.

He lifted his hand again and pushed against the lid at the top of the box. No give, but he thought he heard a sound like the ping of a tightly coiled spring. Maybe the lid was hinged?

He was starting to feel for hinges around the edge of the lid when the voice spoke.

"Boy?" it said.

He gasped. He KNEW that voice!

"Let me out," he pleaded. "Please!"

"You lied to me. You ran away again."

"I'm sorry. Please...let me out of here." He looked down again and thought he could see the hairy roach (OR WAS IT A SPIDER?) climbing up his pants leg. "There's something in here with me!"

The voice outside the box chuckled. It sounded coarse and evil. "You've met the little friend I put in with you, then."

"PLEASE!" he yelled.

"Relax, boy. I'll let you out...eventually. But first, you must sing." The voice sounded close now, like it's owner was standing right next to the box.

"Sing?" The boy in the box shuddered. It was then he knew the man who had once loved him had gone mad.

"Yes. Sing,. And make it good. Something peculiar to your situation, perhaps."

Something peculiar to his situation? Well, his situation was pretty much fucked. He shut his eyes and tried to remember some of the music he'd heard at the party with the older kids.

"Come on!" shouted the man on the outside of the box. "SING! SING OR DIE, DAMN YOU!"

Then there was a loud BANG and the box tilted slightly, causing his head to crash painfully into one of the corners. He winced and felt fresh blood trickling down his temple. He looked down and saw that the hairy roach/spider/thing had crawled up to the crotch of his pants. He looked away quickly, praying that he wouldn't piss himself. Or worse. Then he remembered a song he'd heard and threw back his head in both defiance and fear and sobbed out the first verse of "Man in the Box" by Alice in Chains.

The voice laughed. "You're no man...but you will be buried in shit. That's for sure."

He didn't want to die in here, not like this, with some foul thing crawling slowly toward his head. He looked down. It was on his stomach now. It no longer looked like a cockroach, but he wasn't sure what the hell it might be. It was big. He closed his eyes and shivered.

"Please. Let me out. I promise I'll be good." The pain in the center of his face flared up briefly.

"No, you little liar! Not until you sing the right song!"

The boy felt a tingling on his hand and did not dare to look at it. He knew the bug thing was now climbing onto his hand.

He ran through every prison song he could think of, from Folsom Prison Blues to He's in the Jailhouse, Now. Every song that had to do with being caught, captured, locked up. After each one, the voice only laughed. He was on the fifth chapter of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet when:

"ENOUGH!" The voice of the man who once had loved him bellowed. "Stop trying to buy time. You're going to die in there if you don't hurry it up, boy."

Cheee-reep! The sound was sudden and close, startling him.
He flinched and looked down at his hand. What the—?

On his hand sat the world's ugliest mole cricket: huge, brown, and hairy, with one of it's wings torn off. The boy flinched and tried to move his feet again and felt a stabbing pain through the soles. Looking down, he saw that he was indeed nailed. Blood pooled at the bottom of the box. Whenever he moved his feet there came the sound of metallic pinging, like his feet were attached to coils...? The light switched on in his mind.

Suddenly he knew what his father wanted to hear...he closed his eyes, trying to remember the words. He sang:

"All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel..."

On the other side of the box, Geppetto turned the crank.

Telescope Moment

2010-08-12T16:41:00.012-04:00

This story is rated PG-13 by my standards, for sexual references and the suggestion of violence.

Breathe. Turn and adjust focus. Nothing.

Breathe. Pan across. Ah, there! The blond with her kid at the kitchen table. Doing homework.

A worthless pursuit, watching them. A tall chest of drawers sat by the side of the entrance, obscuring from view the bottom two-thirds of the door. Who places a wardrobe next to the front door? Nothing worthwhile to see here. If she were to move the wardrobe, however—but he thought of the child and shook his head. No. Kids complicated things.

Breathe. Pan down. First floor. The slats of his blinds rustled as he panned the scope across the windows of the first floor apartments of the building opposite his.

His hands trembled and his breath caught in his throat.

That one.

The careless brunette was getting ready for work. He could see in through her open bedroom window, her curtains parted just enough for the view. Her hair was sopping wet (fresh from the shower). Her naked back was turned to him. He felt a warmth begin in his stomach and spread to his groin.

Breathe. He struggled to get his breathing back to normal as he watched her dress. She turned slightly when she put on her bra and he caught a glimpse of her breasts. He shuddered. He grunted angrily when she moved away from the window. He wanted to see if she would turn around when she put on her panties. So far, he'd yet to have a glimpse of that treasure.

His frustration was made complete when she stepped back in viewing range a short while later, fully dressed. His erection subsided. He sighed, and contemplated how much she looked like that other one, the girl from that complex he'd lived in across town...he couldn't remember the name, that was so long ago and he moved around a lot. The frequent moves were necessary, of course. He couldn't take a chance on being caught. He'd nearly screwed up with that nurse who had worked at the hospital. But she'd been a lowly candy-striper. Far below the notice of a top-gun surgeon. He was one of few people the police never bothered to question. He'd been very lucky that time.

His excitement increased again as she disappeared in the direction of the living room. Trembling, he panned the telescope in that direction, following her movements to the door. She opened the door and began to exit, then stopped, locking the door from inside before closing it

He cursed under his breath and turned away from the telescope. He thought for sure she was going to slip again.

She'd been careless once before and he'd not caught it. He'd caught her reaction, though, coming from her bedroom one morning to discover she hadn't even chained the door, let alone locked it. He cursed himself time and again for not being more observant with that one. He could have completed his work and moved on.

Still, she'd been careless once. She might be again. And so he watched. And waited. He kept a small bag of tools ready: rolls of duct tape, several pairs of latex gloves, a sharp knife, a sharper scalpel, a syringe, and a bottle of a certain tranquilizer to knock out and, eventually...after an indeterminate amount of fun...to kill. If only she would make the same mistake twice. Until then, he would bide his time. He had become very good at that over the years.

Yes, the brunette from 610 might very well be The One, thought the man sitting in front of his window in unit 524.

He turned his attention back to the telescope.

If not her, then—

Breathe. Pan across. Adjust focus.

Muse and Anti-Muse (Melencolia)

2010-07-26T02:09:00.001-04:00

The following is the sonnet I wrote for my Western Humanities I Final Project on the Renaissance. I had to display a Powerpoint on the Shakespearean sonnet, write and recite my own sonnet.

My sonnet is inspired by the 1514 metal engraving "Melencolia 1" by German Renaissance artist Albrecht Durer. (see below)

Muse and Anti-Muse (Melencolia)

In the happy course of composing plots,

full of daring deeds and mortal affairs.

A sudden chaos, then my mind is fraught:

Calliope! She leaves me unawares!

Imagination now an empty room;

the door therein stands frightfully ajar.

Souls who pursue the arts know well this gloom;

with Mind and Melencolia at war.

Melencolia violates the space,

that dearest Calliope once did fill;

And stirs me not with her Stygian face.

All inspiration she’s designed to kill.

O Anti-Muse! turn yourself ‘round again,

Leave by that door, and let my Muse back in!

Not Loving

2010-07-09T20:44:00.000-04:00

This poem has profanity and a sexual theme.

in this heavy hour, we are...

in this musky hour, we are...

in this sweaty hour, we are

not resembling

not even pretending

to be human.

we are wild dogs,

or perhaps stoats

in our frenzy,

our furious rutting:

not loving,

but fucking.

we are white spaces

on a wall

where pictures used to hang.

we are untouchable places,

beyond the flesh

that aches to feel

SOMETHING/ANYTHING.

we are castles behind

our fortress walls

surrounded by moats:

we are impenetrable, secure,

waiting for catapults.

Only Silence Remains

2010-07-06T16:26:00.000-04:00

This poem of mine was published last month on "Soft Whispers."

I am here...right here...
just a step or two away
from you...here-
with only the distance
of the aisle to separate us.
You are looking at cans of tuna fish,
I am contemplating vegetable soup.
You turn and look in my direction and I smile
but your eyes are blank and unfocused;
seeing right through me,
not seeing me at all,
as if I have become Invisible.
Again and again I observe this
tragic ritual
in American marketplaces
and city streets, where a
smile and a “Hello” are rare commodities
and sometimes more precious than gold.
We are a nation of Invisible People:
frightened of any confrontation
beyond our computer and cell phone screens.
How will we re-learn the Art
of spoken Communication
once it is forever lost?
Will our public voices continue
to dwindle into nothingness
...until only silence remains?
(dedicated to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, who envisioned this long before I did, and wrote about it in “The Sound of Silence.” Poetry can be prophesy.)

Works in (slow) progress...and a trip into the surreal life.

2010-06-24T00:13:00.007-04:00

1.) Outlining chapters for my NaNoWriMo novel, which is to be called "Mages of Morrow." It is set in the same alternate world as my short story, "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon."

2.) Working on finishing up some incomplete poems: "Ars Gothica," "The Thoughts of a Statue of Dead Poet in a Park Watching People," and "Blame, Lies, and Manipulations." I have another poem I am working on, that doesn't have a title yet. The only thing I know for certain about it is that it contains the "F" word and is sort of about that. So that means it will only get published here, on the "Risky Fiction" site.

I have other unfinished business, this is just the stuff I'm working on now.

I work on these projects when I have a spare moment. And I haven't had too many of those lately. Recently my time has been maxed out with studying and writing essays for college. My term ends 7/23 and then I'll have a small break before the fall term begins on 8/23. I hope to squeeze in a little writing time during that nice break.

I took a nice little field trip to the Salvador Dali Museum as part of a cultural experience for an essay I had to write for Western Humanities class. I love Dali's work. Especially those pieces from the years when he was fully engaged in doing his best Surrealist stuff.

I feel inspired to write a story based on "Archeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus." But I need to chew on it mentally for a bit. When the time is right, I'll know it. I want to be able to do it justice.

This is a photo of the artist outside the entrance to the museum:

Golden Warm

2010-06-11T00:24:00.000-04:00

Lying back on summer-green grass,

gazing up at Heaven.

Stars are brighter than ever.

Night is blacker than velvet.

Heat lightning flashes in the distance:

far away for now, no threat now, no harm.

For now, I am warm--golden warm.

Warmed by love and wine

and the thought of you--asleep at my side.

Though sharp is the wind;

it howls and keens!

Come storm and do your worse!

I am golden.

I am warm.

I Need Me Some Back Up!

2010-05-23T00:16:00.001-04:00

This is the attitude I need to conquer Algebra...

Dragons and Dinos are calling me to a change of NaNo heart...

2010-05-12T03:39:00.004-04:00

I've made a momentous decision.

It happened, as the saying goes, "just like that."

After wracking my brain and flinging a few, well-chosen and nasty adjectives at the computer (and at myself and my fickle muse--and yes, he is lower case for the moment) I decided to change gears on my NaNoWriMo plans.

I was going to originally write a very clever story about nanobe-like aliens who come to Earth and invade our bodies so they can use us to war among themselves. I still like this concept. But when I sat down to outline the chapters and plot lines of the book, I went blank and all of the plot bunnies went and hid themselves. I've been looking everywhere for them. I've found plenty of dust bunnies but not one single plot bunny could be located. They may have gone to Cleveland.

"Into the Glow, Aborning" will get written, that much I know. It's just not going to get written in November.

I have had nothing but the world of Burr on my mind lately. The muse is slamming delicious thoughts into my head about that place. Burr is the world (alternate reality) where my WIP short story "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon" takes place. The name of the world is never mentioned in the story.

I had already planned to start a first novel (thinking trilogy, certain that it will take more than one book to tell this story) based on this world. The novel is to be called "The Mages of Morrow" (with subsequent novels named along the same line: "The Sages of Sorrow," etc. all very sequel-y).

Burr is a wonderful place. Full of shifting black holes, magician-scientists (mages) who bioengineer sentient Dragons and prehistoric monsters to war for them, gypsies (who are lesser mages), and scholar-scientists who still practice the real hocus-pocus-brew-me-a-potion type magic (sages).

I've got Burr so much in my blood (and love the place that it becomes so much in my imagination) that I have to start writing it soon.

So I sat down tonight to start writing the outline, and voilà!--the Muse is back and the bunnies have come home from their holiday. One of them is wearing a Manchester United tee-shirt. Very odd bunny. The outlines I was able to do flowed better than I could have hoped for. I wanted to get 4-to-5 done, but only got two done. However, those two are very detailed. The Muse is definitely doing his part again. Back to capitalizing.

Even now that I'm done for the night (morning, now) and, as I'm fond of saying, Morpheus keeps trying to drag me off to Dreamland (he is positively ranting now), I don't want to stop outlining this story. The ideas keep coming and coming. One thing I should do is finish writing "Tiny Dragon." This book doesn't depend on the short story, it's just that I love the story and want to finish it. And I'm so very close to the end, anyway.

So, I will be writing about dragons and dinosaurs this November, after all.

It's nice to be focused.

Bastard Out of Oklahoma

2010-04-23T11:52:00.004-04:00

I was there the day Chaos

was born: bastard out of Oklahoma.

the Great Plains breed these rag-tail

sons of bitches like shady businessmen

breed money-heavy bad deals, and

this deal could be the worst of them all.

Deception was his mother's name:

to all appearances sweet and mild,

cycling into another beginning,

bright and beautiful to behold

lady in waiting, waiting...impatient for lovers

to violate her and impregnate her,

filling her empty womb with savage life.

Heat was the first who came calling

and he enveloped her

neatly, trapping her in a tight

embrace from which she could not escape

and he tormented her body like an oppressive fever

and left her sweltering,

dripping with sweat.

It was then that Breeze

entered the scene, following

closely on the heels of Heat-

so they both shared her bed

stirring her passions. In this moment

her First Children were

born: white and chubby-cheeked.

smaller, subtler indications

of the greater labor to come

Afterward her next lovers: Energy and

Entropy crushed her beneath them

in a violent fury of assault

she cried out in protest and in pain

but they held her fast, penetrated her depths,

rising and thrusting,

thrusting and rising

in a swirling frenzy

to the place where her Children

rushed together and Amalgamated,

leveled off: flat, dark-skinned and boiling

and shuddering with intensity,

the rape nearly complete

The collective mind of Amalgamation

stirred. It rippled, crackled and seethed.

and Mother's ripe belly continued to swell

as the Amalgamation grew there  

along with the Bastard Child, who  was waking slowly

from his slumber.  Mother was nearly obliterated

by them all and they hung heavy and damp and brutal,

thick with ripening entropy

In the nether region of the Amalgamation

a furious tide could no longer be stemmed

and on the underside, as black-green Mammatus bubbled

with Energy, moisture-laden breasts to suckle a hungry beast,

at that moment

a vortex was forced open and

born into the world was Absolute Horror

a hideous breech birth, branching out

bleeding down from above

touching the tentative tendril of its

God-awful tail to earth, digging in with massive, clutching claws

beginning his short, violent life with a wail

that sounded as if booming

from the depths of Hades.

And thus the Bastard, Chaos, was born

and he bore many, many other names

as well: Apocalypse and Armageddon,

they called him Ahriman and Azhi Dahaka,

Kalki, the Destroyer, on his solemn steed

the snake of Midgard, rising from Ragnarok

poisonous and drunk from the blood of gods

and Charon, the boatman, ferrying death and

destruction, as icy-hard stones

rain down in torrents

to cover broken land like dead men’s eyes,

Celaeno, the dark one, and her evil sisters

swiftly churning, End-Of-All-Things and Judgement Day.

Chaos bore all of these names

and he bore them well, but not for long.

but while he reigned over the plains,

all things fell and were crushed before him...

plant, animal, bark and steel...

all were consumed by his ravenous maw,

masticated and spit out into the roiling air.

Even brick and concrete block

felt the pain of his passing.

and the people who were out of doors only

felt a growing uneasiness and heard

screaming thunder as he approached,

a rain-wrapped and terrible vision

they could not see.

For thirty minutes he rained down death

and it took another thirty for him to die,

the cycle closing down, a calming inward intake of breath

as Mother opened up her arms and the bastard

roped out and ascended back into her bosom,

becoming gray and harmless once more

waiting for another day, rife with heat and breeze,

energy and entropy, the four-corners that

make up the Alley Proper, to breed another

Bastard out of Oklahoma.

The Curse of the Little Green Hybrid

2010-03-18T13:22:00.010-04:00

This story was published in 'Soft Whispers' anthology titled "Un-luck of the Irish" on March 17, 2010

My family lived on the hill behind the O'Riley farm (if you can call it that--a few acres of inferior soil that was barely fit to grow potatoes in). We sort of looked out for their clan and my Da helped them when he could.

He also helped himself to the attentions of Margaret O'Riley, the youngest girl. Their tryst caused quite a stir, for it wasn't often that our two races pitched woo.

And so...I entered the scene.

My name is Larry. I’m a leprechaun.

Well, half-leprechaun, really. My uncle Morvay called me the "little green hybrid."

There's a legend, nasty as badly-brewed poteen that a witch put a hex on the O'Riley family. An upstart of a young woman tried to curse the witch. So, the witch cursed her.

She wrote it in goat's blood, on the side of the girl's hovel, and the words have never worn away.

"The blood remains upon this wall

That ye might be a curse to all

Since you cursed me, with thy foul tongue

Let then on all thine flesh be hung

The power of death in all thine speech

Wheresoever ye tongues may reach."

The O'Riley's tried many times to remove it, even with fire, but to no avail.

So the wall was avoided. When additions to the house were made, they were constructed around the wall.

It was said that the old witch refuses to die, but remains ever close, watching her curse in action.

I first saw evidence of the curse when I was a wee lad. Uncle Pat came to our house drunk after a night of carousing, and became angry when Da refused to let him in.

"May the devil take ye, elfin bugger!" He pounded on the door. "And may ye shrivel up and die!"

"Yer witch-curse won't do for me!" Da yelled. "It's a man's curse and on'y on a man will it do!"

Da was right.

Pat's curse rebounded. The next day, they found him in a ditch less than a mile from his house. It was difficult identifying him, though, desiccated as he was.

Afterwards, I began to wonder. Would the curse manifest itself in me since I was only half O'Riley? Would my leprechaun blood protect me and keep me from making terrible oaths? Was being a "little green hybrid" a good thing?

I wanted to know.

About that time my Aunt Esmerelda moved in with us. God, she was old. Positively prehistoric!

She crept up on me behind the house while I was trying to hex a snail.

"Do ye love the curse so much that ye seek to destroy innocent creatures with it?" she snapped. I spun around, shocked by her sudden appearance.

"No...Aunty, I..."

"What, then?" Her dark, brooding eyes flared.

"I wanted to see if the curse skipped me, because I'm half..."

"Leprechaun?" she asked. I nodded. "Would ye be happy if it did?"

I nodded again, "And relieved."

She smiled; a hideous, toothless grin that split her face like an old scar. "If ye don't want the curse, mind yer tongue. Don't say words in anger. Or even in jest."

"Have you ever been affected by the curse, Aunty?"

"Only once," she said.

I decided to try an innocent curse on a person. Not entirely innocent, because a curse by its very nature is bad.

For the target, I picked my mum. I watched her by the cook fire and thought: "Itch." Then: "Scratch," "Feel an itch," "May your skin prickle with the sudden urge to scratch yourself and then subside," and all other variations of "itch" and "scratch" that I could think of. Nothing happened. I felt relieved. When I turned around I saw Aunt Esmerelda in the corner, watching me. My face flushed hot and I fled the room, wondering if she knew what I'd been trying to do. But she couldn't read my mind. Could she?

Some years later, Da passed and Mum was forced to turn the tenant farm over to her brother, Peter. She decided to immigrate to America, and I was going with her. So was Aunt Esmerelda.

The voyage was dull, cramped, and cold. The Atlantic winds howled, but the ship rolled smoothly along the waves. There were other leprechauns on the vessel, though none of the non-Irish humans could see them because leprechauns have the gift of invisibility-at-will.

I took up with an Irish lad named Devon and together we sneaked onto the first-class decks and peered out at the waves.

"We're gonna make good time in this tailwind," Devon said.

"Aye. If we don't get hammered by the sea and go down to the deeps."

Devon shook his head. "Nah. T'is the best ship ever built, don't ye know?"

"Bollocks! If she's a ship, she can go down and she probably will," I laughed.

A sudden strong headwind whipped around as the breeze changed directions and a chill prickled the back of my neck. We turned to head back below to lower class and I saw her.

Aunt Esmerelda, reclining in a lounge chair, was watching me scornfully with her hard, black eyes.

By now you may have guessed. Our voyage abruptly ended in the wee hours of the morn, amid screaming and ice-cold, watery death. But I don't look that old, you say? Trust me, I am. The blasted leprechaun blood in my veins has kept me youthful beyond endurance. Or maybe it is that final curse. I’ll get to that later.

Mum died that night. And Devon. And countless, innocent others.

Esmerelda and I escaped on a lifeboat with as many of the Irish, human and leprechaun, that we could find. Some survivors would later complain that they saw boats adrift with few people in them. They probably couldn't see the leprechauns.

I sat shivering in the boat with my head bowed. Sometimes, I would look at Esmerelda. She bored holes into me with her black, knowing eyes and grinned in that awful way.

Once we were aboard the Carpathia and counted among the living, I found the wireless op and sent a message to Peter, breaking the news about Mum and asking questions that I hoped wouldn't make him think I'd gone mad.

We were living in a New York tenement when his return message reached me weeks later. He wrote of his sorrow at mum's death and confirmed my fears. I wasn't the first to suspect what I then knew to be true.

Now that I've told this much, do you believe it? You haven't even heard the worst.

I burned the wire from Uncle Peter and tried to wipe all references from my mind so she wouldn't discover my treachery.

After thinking long and hard, I discovered how to end the curse. It was a way as horrible as the curse itself, but it was the only way the carnage could finally be brought to an end. So, I lit a candle one day after Esmerelda had gone shopping, and made the first of many horrible utterances.

A few weeks later, word reached us that Uncle Peter and his wife had died of consumption and that many others in the O'Riley family were also stricken and were not long for the world. Esmerelda frowned when I read these letters to her, but said nothing.

As for myself, I volunteered to help in the hospitals, caring for those suffering from tuberculosis and other dread diseases, like dysentery and influenza.

Eventually, I received news that the last of my O'Riley kin had died in Ireland. The home was to be razed to plant corn.

"Good luck," I said, putting down the letter. I meant it both about the razing and the corn. I hoped that both would be possible soon.

"What are ye on about?" Esmerelda muttered. We were sitting at the kitchen table.

"Nothing," I said. I coughed and put my hand to my mouth. A drop of blood appeared on my palm. I gazed at it and smiled.

"I'm the last," I said. Esmerelda didn't say anything."What happens to you when I die?" I asked her.

"I'll die too," she replied. "At last." She smiled her toothless, evil grin.

"Why the devil are you smiling then, witch?!"

"Because I'm cursed, too. Cursed to watch my own evil." She laid her hand on my arm.

"Of them all, you're the only one had the guts to end it."

I flinched, twisted out of her grasp. "I had to curse my own family to do it!"

"Yes. And I'm sorry for it."

I looked up at her in surprise. "You're sorry?"

"When the obituaries started coming, I knew what you were doing. I could've saved you the trouble, but I didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I removed the curse after the shipwreck. Those miserable souls; dying, screaming. It haunted me. I long for death now, and I'll die soon. But you don't have to." As she said this, she placed her bony hands over my chest, murmuring words in the old tongue. I felt the pain in my lungs disappear. My head began to spin and everything went black.

When I came to, she was gone.

"You expect me to believe that crap?" the youth said. He ran his greedy hands along my 32 inch HDTV.

"You said you'd buy it for two, if I told you my story."

"It's B.S.! You 'aint no half-breed leprechaun and you didn't sink the freaking Titanic. I'll give ya fifty bucks."

I was down on my luck and soon to be evicted from my apartment if I didn't come up with some rent, which was why I was having the yard sale in the first place.

I reluctantly accepted the fifty and helped the punk load the TV into the backseat of his convertible.

"Nice car," I said, making small talk. "Is it new?"

"Yeah..." He got into the drivers' seat. "It's a little green hybrid, just like you." He roared with laughter and slammed the door. "See ya around, Larry Leprechaun!"

He drove away.

I watched the car speed down the street. "And may the road rise up to meet your greedy head."

I started to turn away, then grimaced as I heard the distant clamor of screeching tires, shattering glass and fiberglass.

The dawning horror overtook me that the curse, and its progenitor, still live. Remembering her final curse, I grew cold with terror.

Somewhere she is watching...grinning. Forever, unless...

I hurried to my apartment and took my sharpest knife with a trembling hand.

I grasped my tongue between my fingers...

Comfort

2010-03-12T12:28:00.003-05:00

This story is rated R for sexual situations.

“He’ll be good for you,” Darren said, squeezing my hand lightly in his.

“Don’t...” I replied. “I don’t want him. I want you.”

Darren sighed. “I want you to be taken care of. Bill will be a good provider. Promise me...promise...”

The words rang in my ears over and over as Bill grunted above me. He was nearing his climax and I could only feel numbness. And this was our wedding night. Bill cried out in ecstasy and when he finished, rolled off me and put his arms around my waist, breathing his warm sighs onto my neck.

“Was it good, baby?”

“Yes,” I lied. Darren was right. Bill was a good provider, but he would never be the great lover that Darren had been. Darren died three years ago, and I still grieved for him. Silently...but I mourned him, nevertheless.

I reached over and turned off the light.

Bill fell asleep quickly, our bodies meshed together as we lay on our sides, our knees bent, our legs intertwined. ‘This, at least,' I thought, 'is familiar.'

Later that night, Bill woke me up for sex again. Looking at him in the dark, he looked so much like Darren, with his curly hair and strong jawline. I fantasized that he was Darren and felt the first stirrings of passion since Bill and I had become lovers.

“Oh, baby...” Bill sighed.

I put my finger to his lips. “Shhhh...”

“Do you want me to turn on the light?” he asked, pausing in our lovemaking.

“No,” I murmured. I thrust my pelvis up and he began moving again, rocking into me with increasing motion.

“Oh, Darren!” I cried as I orgasmed, realizing my mistake too late.

Bill never said anything about my error that night. He has never mentioned it at all, though, I felt him wince when I said Darren’s name, so I know I hurt him deeply.

I think I fell in love with him then.

But I know his love for me is not as strong as it was before that dreadful slip. Still, Bill is loyal to me and is a wonderful, caring husband. And even though now I call out his name in the throes of our passion, he remains quiet.

His silence is the sad price paid for my comfort.

A Coin from a Fountain, Lost in Time

2010-02-24T18:45:00.001-05:00

(to “Junkets,” I would love you, if I could travel back to you)

You took me by surprise, my lover

I knew you were waiting patiently by the fountain

for me to come to you, as you knew I would

both of us slipping quietly away from

our alternate lives, bound and chained by time

in servitude to the lies we see

as reflections in the mirrors we pass through

as we leave our promises behind us

like ashes from long dead fires

smoldering softly asleep.

I gasped as I felt your arms

encompass me in the dim light of the street torch

your lips burning like sweet poison

everywhere they touch

and they touch everywhere

and I think: if we should be discovered

at this moment and be killed for our indiscretion

then I would die content

but the street is happily deserted

the tinkling fountain and our sighs the only sounds.

The larkspurs by the fountain are drooping

the hour too late for their lovely faces

You dip your hand in the shimmering pool

and pull up a piece of shiny gold...a coin

of some foreign mark: a bright, thin thing

and you whisper, “Make a wish on it, my love

And I shall throw it back in!”

“No,” I cry. “Let us both wish on it, then

leave me have it so I can

wish on it always and wish for you!”

So we wish. And I take the coin from him

and leave him there. And through my silvered

mirror I pass again, back to my own age

my own time, my own space,

my realm of utter unhappiness and as

I wait under electric street lights by fountains

I pull out the coin and wish, wish, wish

I’ve gone back through the mirror many times

Yet, I’ve never seen my lover since

the night we didn’t throw the coin back in.

Slim Pickings

2010-02-19T05:36:00.003-05:00

We met at the local Dive and Dine, one of my favorite restaurant chains in the city. I'm sure it had a name, but my brain is a sieve when it comes to things like that. Names are overrated, anyway. Like the name of my date. I can't even remember that. She was drop-dead gorgeous, though. I remember that quite clearly. She was sleek and brown and fast. But God, aren't they all?

It was a blind date. Sammy from Home Tree set me up with her. I owe Sammy big time for all the blind dates he's arranged for me. Maybe one of them will go beyond the "Wham, Bam! Thank ya, ma'am" stage, but I doubt it. I just never seem to meet the right one. Or maybe I'm the one not right for them. Whatever. It all amounts to the same thing. We're just not made to be monogamous. God help me, I've tried.

The Dive and Dine is one big smörgåsbord with people crammed all around the buffet. I found my date near the top, which is not one of the better places for sampling the choicest dishes.

"Up here, love?" I asked as I took the empty space beside her that she'd been saving for me.

She sighed. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty slim pickings. But all the good spots were full up when I arrived."

I flashed her my best "I-Don't-Care-As-Long-As-You're-Dessert" smile and dug in to the feast before me. I ripped off a thin strip of a shoulder steak between my teeth and began chewing. I jerked my head toward the head of the buffet. "Care for one of the appetizers, bird? I see no one's got to those rare bits yet."

"No, thank you. You can have them." She said, pausing to return my "come-hither" look with one of her own. Oh, yeah, I thought to myself, there will be some good loving tonight.

I strolled up to the top and plucked them out, one by one, and journeyed back to my lady love's side.

"Sure you don't want one of these little treats? Blue ones are the tastiest, in my opinion. At least regarding humans."

"No, really. I don't care much for eyeballs," she said.

That's where I left her: sex, or no sex.

No self-respecting vulture ever says that they don't like eyeballs.

Bad Day at Bull Funk's

2010-02-11T12:22:00.002-05:00

2/12/11 marks my One Year Flash-iversary! My debut #fridayflash, this story, was posted one year ago. WoooHooo! Thank you to all the #fridayflashers who welcomed me warmly that day and who continue to inspire and encourage me! You guys rock!

This story is rated R for some language.

Brent whistled as he stocked the shelves with the new shipment of José Cuervo. He noticed some of the other brands of tequila were running low. He'd have to place orders for those later.

He couldn't wait to start reading the new magazine he bought at a certain 'store' down the street. He saw no problem with that, once the boss man left. Business was generally slow until about 10 o'clock, anyway.

The owner emerged from the back of the store, jingling his car keys. He ran his free hand over his crew-cut. He was a retired Air Force sergeant and old habits die hard.

"Okay, Brent. I'm outta here. See you tomorrow. And thanks for covering," he said as he went out the door.

Thanks for covering. If the new clerk they'd hired ever showed up again, Brent would kill him. He hadn't been to work for over a week now and he wasn't answering his cell. So Brent was stuck working doubles until they found a replacement. He didn't really mind. He would have a fat paycheck.

He finished restocking, walked behind the register and removed his magazine from under the counter. He began to look through it, thinking to himself that it was a great morning to be alive. With the shop to himself, alone with his "Busty Babes."

Several blocks away, in the parking lot of Artesia Acres Retirement Center, an elderly man sat behind the wheel of a Chevy van and frowned, looking impatiently at his wristwatch.

"C'mon, damn it!" he muttered to himself. He sighed and kept an expectant watch on the front door of the nursing home.

After five minutes, during which time the oldster looked at his watch fifteen more times and rattled off even more obscenities, the front door of the home opened and out drizzled six hunchbacked, shuffling seniors. Three of them climbed into the van with the geezer, and the other three got into a 1966 red Ford Thunderbird, parked alongside. A white-haired woman slid into the driver's seat and rolled down the window.

"Jimmy, for Christsake, don't let Melvin take a wrong turn."

Melvin stuck his hand out of the window, displayed the universal gesture of indifference and began backing the van out.

"Guess that's your answer, Bev," said Jimmy from the passenger's side of the van.

"Asshole," said Bev. She pulled the T-bird out and followed the van.

Brent was taking his cigarette break. He was standing outside the store under a neon sign that read: "Bull Funk's Wine & Spirits." There were two other signs, one on either side of the door. The first one read: "No Personal Checks" and the other stated: "Liquor Up Front, Poker in the Rear." Brent stared at this sign and snorted at his boss's cheesy sense of humor, blowing out a puff of smoke from between his thin lips. He smiled and turned facing the street, watching the women who worked in the office building around the corner walk along the sidewalk in their tight pencil skirts and it made him horny. He thought about going to the john when he finished his smoke. And taking along something to read. He grinned and scratched a raw, red pimple on his nose; one of many placed in random patterns across his face.

He threw his cigarette down and was about to squash it under his heel when two vehicles pulled up. A Chevy cargo van and a classic red T-bird. Six elderly people got out. One woman and five men. A seventh man remained behind the wheel of the van, scowling.

Shit! thought Brent. Six customers? And all of them older than blame.

So much for an easy morning. He stomped his cigarette out and returned inside the store. He waited behind the counter as the old farts filed in with their canes and walkers. The last one in the door (a gent with a limp and a bushy iron-gray beard) turned and shut the door. He flipped the sign in the window over from "OPEN" to "CLOSED."

Brent watched with mild amusement. "Waddidya do that for?"

The old woman went behind the counter. She pulled a Colt .45 Automatic out of her handbag and jammed it between Brent's eyes.

"Oh, you gotta be shitting me!" Brent cried. "You're fucking robbing us?"

"Yes and no," said the woman.

Brent laughed. Grandma pressed the gun harder into his skull.

"Hey, that hurts!" Brent said.

"It's supposed to," Granny said. She watched her accomplices. They were rummaging through the section where the tequila display was. "Hurry up and get it together. Jimmy, you get the boxes from the back."

"Okay, Bev. We're on it." Jimmy propped his cane against the shelves.

"What? You're stealing liquor?" Brent asked incredulously.

"Just what we need," replied Bev.

Brent made a move to subdue the old woman, but she grabbed the arm he was trying to strong-arm her with and twisted it behind his back. Brent yelped in pain. Christ, the old bitch is STRONG! Bev walloped him on the back of the head with the butt of the gun. He swayed, but didn't pass out. He ceased struggling. Bev leaned in close to him.

"There's a smart boy," she whispered. She licked his earlobe. Brent shivered, frightened and grossed out at the same time. He twisted around and looked up at the security camera. Fake, but still...

"We know it doesn't work," said Ironbeard from the door.

Brent didn't ask how they knew. He watched silently as the others began loading up the boxes with bottles of tequila.

"Why tequila?"

"Nosy little jerk, 'aint he?" Jimmy said. "And brave. Last punk didn't say or do a fricking thing."

"Didn't help him in the end, though, did it? He was still..." said one of the other men loading boxes. What did he say? It sounded like exyunitch.What the hell was that? Brent wondered. Did the old bitch damage his hearing when she hit him?

"Now, Rocky. It's okay," said Bev. She still had a hammer-lock on Brent. The business end of the gun was once more against his forehead. She leaned in to whisper. "We have a craving for fermented agave." She was licking his ear again. "Among other things."

"You couldn't just buy it?" he asked, hesitantly. He was starting to get worried. What had happened to the other clerk?

Rocky opened a fifth of Don Modesto and drained it down in three gulps. He tossed the empty bottle aside and wiped his mouth on the dirty sleeve of his flannel shirt.

"Any more questions, zitface?" Rocky asked.

Brent said nothing but stared dumbfounded as Rocky went back to hefting cases of booze and hauling them up to the front of the store, stacking them next to Old Ironbeard.

The man hardly seemed affected by the alcohol. In fact, he bounced up the aisle with the bottle-laden boxes like a much younger man.

Eventually, the five men came to stand in front of the register. They all looked at him. Brent trembled. Somehow he found some courage. "You can't kill me. Your fingerprints are everywhere and when they find my body..."

"What body, sweetie?" said Bev. She stuck her tongue (now sharply barbed) into his ear canal and it snaked deep inside. Brent's eyes widened and rolled into the back of his head. He screamed once, then fell to the floor, lifeless.

The suddenly stunning, blond and thirty-something Bev licked her lips.

"Jimmy, go tell Melvin it's time for lunch."

Welcome to Risky Fiction: A Disclaimer

2010-02-07T23:16:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Risky Fiction.

And yet another blog. I created this blog out of a need to showcase my not-so-kid-friendly works of fiction and poetry and post my Twitter #FridayFlash stories.

Warning: Here there be some nasty stuff. This is not for the kids.

You will run across some foul language on this site. There will be some violence and scary stuff. You may run across some sexual situations, although I always try to keep sex to a minimum in my writing, unless it really adds something necessary to the story.

That being said, welcome.

I hope you enjoy the ride. It will be wild, I can promise you that.