Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thank you George
While My Guitar Gently Weeps
George Harrison, 1968
There has never been and most likely will never be a more perfect lyric. I grieve when I compare my doggeral to this phrase; I want to walk away forever from my keyboard.
George Harrison, 1968
There has never been and most likely will never be a more perfect lyric. I grieve when I compare my doggeral to this phrase; I want to walk away forever from my keyboard.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Forever In My Grasp-3 Word Wednesday
He was trying to drive while watching the two of them in the rear view mirror. How quickly did sixteen years fly by? When had she gone from riding in a car seat to sitting with a boy in the back of the car? He struggled to keep his emotions in check; who did this character think he was, asking his daughter to the movies, and then asking for a ride there? He glanced sideways at his wife, laughing silently at his pain. He pulled in front of the cineplex.
"What movie are you going to see?" He was doing his best to be polite.
There was a sort of half hearted mumbling sound from the back. His daughter reluctantly translated for them.
"Satan's Halo. It's supposed to be really scary."
"Have fun guys," his wife called out.
"Not too much," he grumbled under his breath.
"Ugh" was the exasperated reply, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
He sat at the curb and watched them go in, watched as the young kid made an awkward attempt to put his arm around his daughter's shoulders. Pulling the car back into traffic, he turned into the parking lot and shut off the motor. His wife looked at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Let's see a movie. We haven't been in a while. You said you wanted to see Death Abstain From Death."
She looked at him, and gently put her hand on his arm.
"Honey, I know this is difficult, but you can't do this. Let her go."
He stared out the window, then opened the door.
"We won't be at the same movie. We might as well stay,we're just going to have to pick them up later anyway to bring him home."
She sighed and got out of the car, holding his hand the way one holds onto an unruly toddler who might at any minute dash into traffic. They walked into the theater; their daughter was sitting on his lap, talking to a group of friends. A look of horror appeared on her face as she saw them; silently she mouthed "MOOOMMM". He was doing his best not to be the big gorilla, to not go over there and make his presence known. They got some snacks and walked into their theater, leaving her behind.
They found their seats and sat quietly, waiting for the movie to start. His wife rested her head against his shoulder. He sighed and took a sip of his drink.
"I didn't think this would be so hard."
His wife kissed his cheek.
"My mom used to say my father would pace the floor whenever we went out. And we all know what a gentleman you were."
He groaned to himself, and said a small prayer that karma wouldn't strike at him like that.
Halfway through the movie he left his seat and walked out towards the concessions stand, supposedly to get a refill on his drink. He looked around the empty lobby, searching for them. Ok, for her. He started to return to his theater when suddenly she and a girlfriend came giggling and texting out of the restroom. She froze in her tracks, then whispered something to her girlfriend, who continued to giggle and text as she went back to their movie. His daughter came up to him, her mother's mocking smile appearing on her face.
"What are you doing out here, Daddy?"
He held up his drink cup. "Just getting a refill."
"Not trying to spy on me, are you?" God, she was such a little stinker sometimes.
"Nope. Your mother drank all the soda within five minutes of the coming attractions starting. She never leaves me anything except ice."
His daughter looked around, then quickly threw her arms around his waist.
"I love you Daddy."
He hugged her back, trying not to keep her forever in his grasp.
"Love you too, baby."
She broke away and went skipping back into her theater. Old enough to date, but still skipping. He brought a hand up to his eyes and walked back into his movie. His wife looked at him, and once again kissed his cheek.
"Ok?"
He took in a deep breath, and returned her kiss.
"Nope."
"What movie are you going to see?" He was doing his best to be polite.
There was a sort of half hearted mumbling sound from the back. His daughter reluctantly translated for them.
"Satan's Halo. It's supposed to be really scary."
"Have fun guys," his wife called out.
"Not too much," he grumbled under his breath.
"Ugh" was the exasperated reply, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
He sat at the curb and watched them go in, watched as the young kid made an awkward attempt to put his arm around his daughter's shoulders. Pulling the car back into traffic, he turned into the parking lot and shut off the motor. His wife looked at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Let's see a movie. We haven't been in a while. You said you wanted to see Death Abstain From Death."
She looked at him, and gently put her hand on his arm.
"Honey, I know this is difficult, but you can't do this. Let her go."
He stared out the window, then opened the door.
"We won't be at the same movie. We might as well stay,we're just going to have to pick them up later anyway to bring him home."
She sighed and got out of the car, holding his hand the way one holds onto an unruly toddler who might at any minute dash into traffic. They walked into the theater; their daughter was sitting on his lap, talking to a group of friends. A look of horror appeared on her face as she saw them; silently she mouthed "MOOOMMM". He was doing his best not to be the big gorilla, to not go over there and make his presence known. They got some snacks and walked into their theater, leaving her behind.
They found their seats and sat quietly, waiting for the movie to start. His wife rested her head against his shoulder. He sighed and took a sip of his drink.
"I didn't think this would be so hard."
His wife kissed his cheek.
"My mom used to say my father would pace the floor whenever we went out. And we all know what a gentleman you were."
He groaned to himself, and said a small prayer that karma wouldn't strike at him like that.
Halfway through the movie he left his seat and walked out towards the concessions stand, supposedly to get a refill on his drink. He looked around the empty lobby, searching for them. Ok, for her. He started to return to his theater when suddenly she and a girlfriend came giggling and texting out of the restroom. She froze in her tracks, then whispered something to her girlfriend, who continued to giggle and text as she went back to their movie. His daughter came up to him, her mother's mocking smile appearing on her face.
"What are you doing out here, Daddy?"
He held up his drink cup. "Just getting a refill."
"Not trying to spy on me, are you?" God, she was such a little stinker sometimes.
"Nope. Your mother drank all the soda within five minutes of the coming attractions starting. She never leaves me anything except ice."
His daughter looked around, then quickly threw her arms around his waist.
"I love you Daddy."
He hugged her back, trying not to keep her forever in his grasp.
"Love you too, baby."
She broke away and went skipping back into her theater. Old enough to date, but still skipping. He brought a hand up to his eyes and walked back into his movie. His wife looked at him, and once again kissed his cheek.
"Ok?"
He took in a deep breath, and returned her kiss.
"Nope."
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Alpha and the Omega-#Friday Flash
"Why do you always dress like that?"
She gave him a bemused look, than glanced at her ensemble. Peasant skirt, flowing top, long fringed scarf. Somewhere between Frida and Isadora. Her long curly hair loosely framed her face. Summer was no time to adhere to a strict fashion regime. She smiled sweetly at him.
"Don't you like the way I dress?"
He stared across the restaurant, letting his gaze fall upon a tall blond in a short skirt and form fitting top at the next table. She had a look that inspired envy, not so much for her, but for the man who was sitting with her. A man who looked much like himself, short, balding, timid. He coveted the sense of power that emanated from that other man. Why couldn't she dress like that?
"It just seems so pretentious. Why can't you dress like that woman?"
He stared at the blond, not even bothering to hide his desire. She followed his gaze and smiled again, a hint of sadness appearing this time.
"Ah, I see. Younger. Sexier."
"I just want to make a good impression at the party on Friday. A lot of important people are going to be there. I need to be taken seriously by the others if I'm going to go anywhere within the company, and they're not going to do that if they see me with you, and you're dressed like an aging gypsy queen."
She took a sip of wine to hold her tongue and balm her hurt feelings. Complaints about the way she dressed from a man who attired himself like her grandfather, bow tie and vest always in place. Too many complaints about her appearance, her choices. Nothing seemed to please him anymore.
"You know I don't like pretending to be something I'm not. Do you really think my appearance will have any impact upon your place in the company?"
"I'm not asking you to be something you're not, I'm just asking you not to embarrass me, that's all."
She bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood, keeping the tears at bay.
"I didn't realize you found me embarrassing. I'm sorry."
He shrugged his shoulders, and muttered into his plate of pasta. Why couldn't she understand, he whined to himself? Why did she have to make such a big deal over a tiny request?
He arrived at her apartment two nights later. He gasped when she opened the door; she was wearing a tight, black, pencil skirt; a low cut silk blouse barely covered her breasts. Stiletto shoes encased her feet as black seamed stockings snaked their way up the back of her legs. Her makeup was expertly applied and she had her hair swept up. She exuded an air of supreme confidence with her new identity. She was completely out of his league.
"Wow," was all he managed to get out.
"Wow indeed," she replied, as she breezed past him towards the car.
They drove to the party; he felt like the luckiest man in the world. He walked in with her on his arm and thought himself invincible. Other men would finally notice him, would finally pay him the respect he deserved with this regal beauty at his side. Jenkins, one of the Senior VPs, observed them as they entered, excused himself from the conversation he was having, and walked towards them. Now was his chance to make a good impression.
"Michael Jenkins, Senior Vice President." He offered his hand to him but never took his eyes off her, assessing her from head to toe.
"Mr. Jenkins, I'm Thomas Edwards from the accounting department, and this is my friend, Veronica Mitchell."
Jenkins took her hand. "Just a friend?"
She looked straight into Jenkins' eyes, smiling seductively at him.
"Yes, just a friend."
Jenkins slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
"You looked parched. Allow me to get you a drink."
Jenkins threw a wink at Edwards.
"Thanks old man, I'll take it from here."
Edwards stood there, alone, a comical look on his face, as he watched the two of them disappear together, his place in the pack painfully established.
She gave him a bemused look, than glanced at her ensemble. Peasant skirt, flowing top, long fringed scarf. Somewhere between Frida and Isadora. Her long curly hair loosely framed her face. Summer was no time to adhere to a strict fashion regime. She smiled sweetly at him.
"Don't you like the way I dress?"
He stared across the restaurant, letting his gaze fall upon a tall blond in a short skirt and form fitting top at the next table. She had a look that inspired envy, not so much for her, but for the man who was sitting with her. A man who looked much like himself, short, balding, timid. He coveted the sense of power that emanated from that other man. Why couldn't she dress like that?
"It just seems so pretentious. Why can't you dress like that woman?"
He stared at the blond, not even bothering to hide his desire. She followed his gaze and smiled again, a hint of sadness appearing this time.
"Ah, I see. Younger. Sexier."
"I just want to make a good impression at the party on Friday. A lot of important people are going to be there. I need to be taken seriously by the others if I'm going to go anywhere within the company, and they're not going to do that if they see me with you, and you're dressed like an aging gypsy queen."
She took a sip of wine to hold her tongue and balm her hurt feelings. Complaints about the way she dressed from a man who attired himself like her grandfather, bow tie and vest always in place. Too many complaints about her appearance, her choices. Nothing seemed to please him anymore.
"You know I don't like pretending to be something I'm not. Do you really think my appearance will have any impact upon your place in the company?"
"I'm not asking you to be something you're not, I'm just asking you not to embarrass me, that's all."
She bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood, keeping the tears at bay.
"I didn't realize you found me embarrassing. I'm sorry."
He shrugged his shoulders, and muttered into his plate of pasta. Why couldn't she understand, he whined to himself? Why did she have to make such a big deal over a tiny request?
He arrived at her apartment two nights later. He gasped when she opened the door; she was wearing a tight, black, pencil skirt; a low cut silk blouse barely covered her breasts. Stiletto shoes encased her feet as black seamed stockings snaked their way up the back of her legs. Her makeup was expertly applied and she had her hair swept up. She exuded an air of supreme confidence with her new identity. She was completely out of his league.
"Wow," was all he managed to get out.
"Wow indeed," she replied, as she breezed past him towards the car.
They drove to the party; he felt like the luckiest man in the world. He walked in with her on his arm and thought himself invincible. Other men would finally notice him, would finally pay him the respect he deserved with this regal beauty at his side. Jenkins, one of the Senior VPs, observed them as they entered, excused himself from the conversation he was having, and walked towards them. Now was his chance to make a good impression.
"Michael Jenkins, Senior Vice President." He offered his hand to him but never took his eyes off her, assessing her from head to toe.
"Mr. Jenkins, I'm Thomas Edwards from the accounting department, and this is my friend, Veronica Mitchell."
Jenkins took her hand. "Just a friend?"
She looked straight into Jenkins' eyes, smiling seductively at him.
"Yes, just a friend."
Jenkins slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
"You looked parched. Allow me to get you a drink."
Jenkins threw a wink at Edwards.
"Thanks old man, I'll take it from here."
Edwards stood there, alone, a comical look on his face, as he watched the two of them disappear together, his place in the pack painfully established.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Please, Holy Eva
She won't be president of your wonderful societies of philanthropy
Even if you asked her to be
As you should have asked her to be.
Evita, The Actress Hasn't Learned the Lines, Tim Rice
Even if you asked her to be
As you should have asked her to be.
Evita, The Actress Hasn't Learned the Lines, Tim Rice
Thursday, August 19, 2010
I Need You Tonight-#Friday Flash
Dinner was over, the wine was finished, desert sat melting on plates. The two of them were lounging on the couch, eyes closed, their heads gently leaning against each other. He let his hand gently caress her thigh; she pressed her leg against his.
"It's getting late," she murmured.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed," he sighed, burying his face into her hair.
She tried to fight off sleep, she had a long drive home. She stretched out her arms and legs and sat up, causing his head to fall into her lap. She laughed as a goofy smile appeared on his face as he inhaled deeply.
"Hey,come on. Be nice." She dropped her lips to his ear, outlining the edges with her tongue. "I need to go home."
She felt his arms around her waist, his one hand holding her wrist, while the other playfully snaked up her legs.
"Not yet," he pleaded, "Stay a little longer."
She jumped slightly as his fingers began to tease her, letting her head fall back against the top of the couch. She gasped as he gently penetrated her.
"Oh, don't," she groaned, "I can't do this, I really have to go."
A sharp "clicking" sound made her head snap up. Hand cuffs encircled both wrists, her arms locked behind her back. She tried not to panic.
"Honey, this isn't funny, you have to let me go. I need to go home."
He stood up, ignoring her, and began to undo his belt, dropping his pants. He gently cradled her face in his hands, gazing into her eyes.
"Go home? To your husband, darling? I'm tired of being a diversion for you. I'm tired of you always rushing off, leaving me alone. I need you tonight more than he does."
An angry glare emanated from her as he began to pull her head closer to him.
"Unlock these handcuffs now, or I'll tell your father."
He started to laugh, and bent forward to kiss the end of her nose.
"Tell my father? Tell him what? Tell him you've been having an affair with his son and you couldn't come home on time? Bad idea; I believe there's an adultery clause in that pre-nup you signed, isn't there, darling?"
He kissed her lips, then stood up again and roughly grabbed her head, intertwining his fingers into her long, curly hair.
"It's getting late," she murmured.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed," he sighed, burying his face into her hair.
She tried to fight off sleep, she had a long drive home. She stretched out her arms and legs and sat up, causing his head to fall into her lap. She laughed as a goofy smile appeared on his face as he inhaled deeply.
"Hey,come on. Be nice." She dropped her lips to his ear, outlining the edges with her tongue. "I need to go home."
She felt his arms around her waist, his one hand holding her wrist, while the other playfully snaked up her legs.
"Not yet," he pleaded, "Stay a little longer."
She jumped slightly as his fingers began to tease her, letting her head fall back against the top of the couch. She gasped as he gently penetrated her.
"Oh, don't," she groaned, "I can't do this, I really have to go."
A sharp "clicking" sound made her head snap up. Hand cuffs encircled both wrists, her arms locked behind her back. She tried not to panic.
"Honey, this isn't funny, you have to let me go. I need to go home."
He stood up, ignoring her, and began to undo his belt, dropping his pants. He gently cradled her face in his hands, gazing into her eyes.
"Go home? To your husband, darling? I'm tired of being a diversion for you. I'm tired of you always rushing off, leaving me alone. I need you tonight more than he does."
An angry glare emanated from her as he began to pull her head closer to him.
"Unlock these handcuffs now, or I'll tell your father."
He started to laugh, and bent forward to kiss the end of her nose.
"Tell my father? Tell him what? Tell him you've been having an affair with his son and you couldn't come home on time? Bad idea; I believe there's an adultery clause in that pre-nup you signed, isn't there, darling?"
He kissed her lips, then stood up again and roughly grabbed her head, intertwining his fingers into her long, curly hair.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Bad Dog
“Jesus, you’re a hot mess.”
He didn’t open his eyes, only groaned at the sound of her voice. He had passed out naked on the couch when he’d returned home around dawn, covered in mud and debris. Dried blood was caked on his hands and under his nails; leaves and brush were stuck in his hair.
“Not now, Molly, it’s too damn early.”
She tried not to stumble over his work boots, discarded with his ripped clothes in the middle of the floor. She sat next to him on the couch; she made a grimace as she caught a whiff of him.
“Man, you reek! You smell like you’ve been rolling in garbage!”
He buried his face deeper into the couch, trying to cover his head with his arms.
“Not now, damn it! Just leave me alone! I’m too tired to listen to you nag.”
She sighed and smacked his ass. It was a beautiful ass when it was cleaned up nicely. She gazed longingly at him, then held her breath and gently kissed the back of his neck.
“You’re lucky I like you so much, boyo. You’re lucky I put up with you during this phase of the moon.”
She got off the couch and started to walk towards the kitchen; she needed a strong cup of coffee. She was almost there when he lifted his head up, gazing at her with blood shot eyes.
“Hey!”
She stopped in her tracks, smiling at him in spite of herself. A grateful smile appeared on his lips.
“I know.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
He didn’t open his eyes, only groaned at the sound of her voice. He had passed out naked on the couch when he’d returned home around dawn, covered in mud and debris. Dried blood was caked on his hands and under his nails; leaves and brush were stuck in his hair.
“Not now, Molly, it’s too damn early.”
She tried not to stumble over his work boots, discarded with his ripped clothes in the middle of the floor. She sat next to him on the couch; she made a grimace as she caught a whiff of him.
“Man, you reek! You smell like you’ve been rolling in garbage!”
He buried his face deeper into the couch, trying to cover his head with his arms.
“Not now, damn it! Just leave me alone! I’m too tired to listen to you nag.”
She sighed and smacked his ass. It was a beautiful ass when it was cleaned up nicely. She gazed longingly at him, then held her breath and gently kissed the back of his neck.
“You’re lucky I like you so much, boyo. You’re lucky I put up with you during this phase of the moon.”
She got off the couch and started to walk towards the kitchen; she needed a strong cup of coffee. She was almost there when he lifted his head up, gazing at her with blood shot eyes.
“Hey!”
She stopped in her tracks, smiling at him in spite of herself. A grateful smile appeared on his lips.
“I know.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
Friday, August 13, 2010
RMA #fridayflash
The last of the guests had crawled away. She was in the kitchen, washing up glasses. She'd spent most of the night in there, behind closed doors, avoiding him. He walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist, his head on her shoulder.
"Are you mad at me?"
She stiffened slightly, trying to disengage herself from him.
"No, just tired."
"You spent all night in here. Didn't you enjoy the party?"
She shrugged. "They were mostly your friends. I didn't really know anybody."
He began to kiss her neck,his hands reaching for her breasts. She pushed him away, keeping her eyes down.
"Not tonight. I'm on the rag."
He pressed his body into hers, spreading her legs with his knee as his hands pulled up her skirt.
"I don't care, I'll renew my red wings."
She shoved him away from her.
"Jesus, I said no. Do you ever listen to me?"
She stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, the sting of rejection growing in his belly. Her cell phone began to vibrate on the table; flipping it open he saw "NEW MESSAGE". Hitting open he read: Babe, great party. So naughty in the kitchen. Want you AGAIN. He closed the phone and put it back on the table. Turning off the lights, he crashed onto the couch for the night as waves of grief and anger alternately washed over him.
Two days later they were sitting down to dinner; she was sullen and withdrawn. They ate in an uncomfortable silence when he mentioned he had an interview with a new tattoo shop that was opening two towns over.
"Oh," was all she said.
"Yea, they want to see my book. I was thinking of picking up a few hours there, just to have something to do in the evenings." He saw a spark glimmer in her eyes.
"How many nights?"
He looked into his wine glass. "Oh, I don't know, maybe three. Just to keep my skills fresh."
He saw her body relax as the wheels began to turn in her head.
"I think that's a good idea. We could use the extra money."
We my ass, he thought. "Yea, but I was thinking, I need to practice a little. Would you mind if I gave you something new?"
"No, that would be OK." She put her wine glass down and rubbed her face with her hands. "God, I'm really tired all of a sudden. I'm gonna go lay down for a while."
She got up and staggered to the bedroom, collapsing halfway there. He finished his wine, then got up and started to set up his inks and tattoo machine on the nightstand. When he was done he picked her up and placed her on the bed. He removed her clothes, then went into the bathroom to sterilize his hands. Pulling on a pair of nitrate gloves, he positioned the templates on her, turned on the machine, and began to work. He took his time, putting more effort and skill into each piece than any he'd ever done before. He inked for over four hours; finally he sat up and tried to straighten the crick in his neck. He blotted off the excess ink, and placed a light bandage over each. He packed up his inks and machine and left a note on top of his pillow. He walked to the front door, picked up a suitcase, and left. For good this time.
The next morning she woke up with a splitting headache. She rolled over to his side of the bed. "Jamie?" she slurred, wincing slightly at a pain in her groin. She reached for him; no one. Opening her eyes she found the note, then noticed the bandages on the inside of each thigh. Picking up the note she read:
Dear Ami-
I'm done. I'm tired of sloppy seconds. All I ever did was love you babe, but I guess that wasn't good enough for you. You always wanted things I couldn't give you. I've left you a little present so you'll always remember me. J
She dropped the letter and stared at the bandages, finally ripping them off.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" she yelled as she saw the intricately designed skull and crossbones on her inner left thigh, and the words, TOXIC, DISCARD AFTER USE embedded on her inner right thigh.
©2010 VL Sheridan
"Are you mad at me?"
She stiffened slightly, trying to disengage herself from him.
"No, just tired."
"You spent all night in here. Didn't you enjoy the party?"
She shrugged. "They were mostly your friends. I didn't really know anybody."
He began to kiss her neck,his hands reaching for her breasts. She pushed him away, keeping her eyes down.
"Not tonight. I'm on the rag."
He pressed his body into hers, spreading her legs with his knee as his hands pulled up her skirt.
"I don't care, I'll renew my red wings."
She shoved him away from her.
"Jesus, I said no. Do you ever listen to me?"
She stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, the sting of rejection growing in his belly. Her cell phone began to vibrate on the table; flipping it open he saw "NEW MESSAGE". Hitting open he read: Babe, great party. So naughty in the kitchen. Want you AGAIN. He closed the phone and put it back on the table. Turning off the lights, he crashed onto the couch for the night as waves of grief and anger alternately washed over him.
Two days later they were sitting down to dinner; she was sullen and withdrawn. They ate in an uncomfortable silence when he mentioned he had an interview with a new tattoo shop that was opening two towns over.
"Oh," was all she said.
"Yea, they want to see my book. I was thinking of picking up a few hours there, just to have something to do in the evenings." He saw a spark glimmer in her eyes.
"How many nights?"
He looked into his wine glass. "Oh, I don't know, maybe three. Just to keep my skills fresh."
He saw her body relax as the wheels began to turn in her head.
"I think that's a good idea. We could use the extra money."
We my ass, he thought. "Yea, but I was thinking, I need to practice a little. Would you mind if I gave you something new?"
"No, that would be OK." She put her wine glass down and rubbed her face with her hands. "God, I'm really tired all of a sudden. I'm gonna go lay down for a while."
She got up and staggered to the bedroom, collapsing halfway there. He finished his wine, then got up and started to set up his inks and tattoo machine on the nightstand. When he was done he picked her up and placed her on the bed. He removed her clothes, then went into the bathroom to sterilize his hands. Pulling on a pair of nitrate gloves, he positioned the templates on her, turned on the machine, and began to work. He took his time, putting more effort and skill into each piece than any he'd ever done before. He inked for over four hours; finally he sat up and tried to straighten the crick in his neck. He blotted off the excess ink, and placed a light bandage over each. He packed up his inks and machine and left a note on top of his pillow. He walked to the front door, picked up a suitcase, and left. For good this time.
The next morning she woke up with a splitting headache. She rolled over to his side of the bed. "Jamie?" she slurred, wincing slightly at a pain in her groin. She reached for him; no one. Opening her eyes she found the note, then noticed the bandages on the inside of each thigh. Picking up the note she read:
Dear Ami-
I'm done. I'm tired of sloppy seconds. All I ever did was love you babe, but I guess that wasn't good enough for you. You always wanted things I couldn't give you. I've left you a little present so you'll always remember me. J
She dropped the letter and stared at the bandages, finally ripping them off.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" she yelled as she saw the intricately designed skull and crossbones on her inner left thigh, and the words, TOXIC, DISCARD AFTER USE embedded on her inner right thigh.
©2010 VL Sheridan
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Risk Management-Three Word Wednesday
"Is this a fucking joke?"
She was standing in front of his desk, the gun's barrel pointing straight at his heart. Well, it would be, if he actually had one.
She held the gun with both hands to keep them from shaking.
"Does it look like a fucking joke, Miles? I'm tired of your bull shit! I'm tired of the way you think you have all the leverage in this relationship! You don't!"
She let her finger slide slowly towards the trigger.
Miles sighed, trying not to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the moment.
"You know, Catherine, this is just a temporary remedy to any problems you believe you have with me. Will shooting me really bring the solution you want?"
She hesitated; she knew he was right, knew deep in her heart that shooting this stupid bastard wasn't worth going to jail for. She started to lower the gun when she saw the tiniest look of arrogance rise in his eyes, a look she'd seen too many times.
"I'll let you know," she said, as she empitied the gun into his chest.
She was standing in front of his desk, the gun's barrel pointing straight at his heart. Well, it would be, if he actually had one.
She held the gun with both hands to keep them from shaking.
"Does it look like a fucking joke, Miles? I'm tired of your bull shit! I'm tired of the way you think you have all the leverage in this relationship! You don't!"
She let her finger slide slowly towards the trigger.
Miles sighed, trying not to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the moment.
"You know, Catherine, this is just a temporary remedy to any problems you believe you have with me. Will shooting me really bring the solution you want?"
She hesitated; she knew he was right, knew deep in her heart that shooting this stupid bastard wasn't worth going to jail for. She started to lower the gun when she saw the tiniest look of arrogance rise in his eyes, a look she'd seen too many times.
"I'll let you know," she said, as she empitied the gun into his chest.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Baby
“I’m sorry”.
The doctor left, leaving the two of them to accept the fact that their newborn son was going to die before the weekend was over. It was 4:30 on Friday afternoon; within the next forty eight hours he would cease to exist except in their memories. The man walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the NICU, I want to see him, be with him for as long as I can. Do you want me to get a nurse so you can go too”?
She shook her head.
“No”, she replied, "I want to rest now. I’m tired”.
He looked at her, shocked and angry, then sadly, kissed her cheek, and left.
Her son was going to die. They had tried for years to have a baby, accepted failed attempt after failed attempt, and spent money they couldn’t afford to spend on treatment after treatment, until finally they managed a successful conception. She was a high risk pregnancy because of her history of miscarriage, so for twenty weeks of her confinement she had been on total bed rest, the last six in the hospital. All she had to do was get to week number thirty, then the baby would be viable enough to live outside the womb. At week twenty seven she started to hemorrhage and have contractions, and the baby had to be removed.
Now her son was going to die. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about it, much like she had spent the entire pregnancy trying not to think about the baby. She took a deep breath as she felt a sob form in her throat. NO! she told herself, she wasn’t going to cry, this was the very reason she had remained so detached, why when people asked if she was excited about having a baby she had smiled and said ‘of course I am’ out loud, but deep in her heart she always told herself, “Don’t you dare get excited, don’t you dare hope that this will happen”. Some how she had always known that it wouldn’t.
She tried to think of what she had control over. They would have to call a funeral home, buy a coffin, and make arrangements for some sort of ceremony. Should they take pictures of him? When he was born they had an emergency baptism. He had been given his father’s name, but now she couldn’t refer to him by that, he would forever and always be the baby (“we lost the baby in the spring” she’d say, or “Yes, the baby had blue eyes like his dad”). Some how referring to him that way made him less real.
The hours passed. Her husband spent the weekend in the NICU, talking to his boy, singing to him, touching his hand through the hole in the incubator. His boy was so small; there were so many tubes and wires attached to him. His tiny, translucent body rocked with violent seizures. The man felt so helpless; he was the dad, he was the one who took care of his family, he was the one who made sure every thing was all right. Dads could fix anything, but he couldn’t fix this. People would stop and offer condolences without saying them out loud, would say “God has a reason”, or “You’re both young, you can have another”. He didn’t want another, damn it, he wanted this one!
He and his wife grieved separately. He couldn’t understand how she could be so detached. Their boy was going to die, why didn’t she want to be with him?
The weekend grew old, and still their son was alive. He wasn’t any better, but he wasn’t any worse, unlike one of the other babies in the ward. The man began to bargain, just let him live a little longer, please, just a little more time, and he began to encourage and coach his boy, that’s it big guy, you can do it, that’s Daddy’s big boy. His wife refused to visit the NICU, stayed in her room making phone calls he didn’t want to know about.
Finally dawn broke on Monday morning, and for the first time in his life he was happy to see the start of a new week. His boy was still alive. He walked back to his wife’s room; the doctor was speaking to her. When the man said “good morning” the doctor turned to him, an embarrassed, sheepish look on his face, and cleared his throat.
“I was just telling your wife, there’s been a misinterpretation of the facts. Two of the charts were incorrectly filed on Friday, and were misread. Your son has a chance of survival, all though his quality of life will be severely compromised. There is considerable neurological damage, and he may suffer from debilitating seizures, but at this point it’s too early to tell much”.
The doctor looked at the man, who was holding himself up against a chair. His boy was going to live!
“Thank you” the man managed to croak out. The doctor gave a terse smile and excused himself, saying something about having to speak to a patient down the hall. The man looked at his wife as the tears began to form in his eyes.
“He’s going to live” escaped from his throat before he collapsed into the chair, his body racked with sobs.
His wife sat silently. Live? The baby was going to live? She tried to wrap her brain around this new information. All weekend long she had prepared herself for the worse news a parent can ever receive, and now they told her it was all in vain. No, she thought, this couldn’t be happening, the baby was gone, the baby was all ready a memory to her, the baby didn’t exist.
Her thoughts were interrupted as a piercing cry of anguish erupted from a room down the hall.
©2010 VL Sheridan
The doctor left, leaving the two of them to accept the fact that their newborn son was going to die before the weekend was over. It was 4:30 on Friday afternoon; within the next forty eight hours he would cease to exist except in their memories. The man walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the NICU, I want to see him, be with him for as long as I can. Do you want me to get a nurse so you can go too”?
She shook her head.
“No”, she replied, "I want to rest now. I’m tired”.
He looked at her, shocked and angry, then sadly, kissed her cheek, and left.
Her son was going to die. They had tried for years to have a baby, accepted failed attempt after failed attempt, and spent money they couldn’t afford to spend on treatment after treatment, until finally they managed a successful conception. She was a high risk pregnancy because of her history of miscarriage, so for twenty weeks of her confinement she had been on total bed rest, the last six in the hospital. All she had to do was get to week number thirty, then the baby would be viable enough to live outside the womb. At week twenty seven she started to hemorrhage and have contractions, and the baby had to be removed.
Now her son was going to die. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about it, much like she had spent the entire pregnancy trying not to think about the baby. She took a deep breath as she felt a sob form in her throat. NO! she told herself, she wasn’t going to cry, this was the very reason she had remained so detached, why when people asked if she was excited about having a baby she had smiled and said ‘of course I am’ out loud, but deep in her heart she always told herself, “Don’t you dare get excited, don’t you dare hope that this will happen”. Some how she had always known that it wouldn’t.
She tried to think of what she had control over. They would have to call a funeral home, buy a coffin, and make arrangements for some sort of ceremony. Should they take pictures of him? When he was born they had an emergency baptism. He had been given his father’s name, but now she couldn’t refer to him by that, he would forever and always be the baby (“we lost the baby in the spring” she’d say, or “Yes, the baby had blue eyes like his dad”). Some how referring to him that way made him less real.
The hours passed. Her husband spent the weekend in the NICU, talking to his boy, singing to him, touching his hand through the hole in the incubator. His boy was so small; there were so many tubes and wires attached to him. His tiny, translucent body rocked with violent seizures. The man felt so helpless; he was the dad, he was the one who took care of his family, he was the one who made sure every thing was all right. Dads could fix anything, but he couldn’t fix this. People would stop and offer condolences without saying them out loud, would say “God has a reason”, or “You’re both young, you can have another”. He didn’t want another, damn it, he wanted this one!
He and his wife grieved separately. He couldn’t understand how she could be so detached. Their boy was going to die, why didn’t she want to be with him?
The weekend grew old, and still their son was alive. He wasn’t any better, but he wasn’t any worse, unlike one of the other babies in the ward. The man began to bargain, just let him live a little longer, please, just a little more time, and he began to encourage and coach his boy, that’s it big guy, you can do it, that’s Daddy’s big boy. His wife refused to visit the NICU, stayed in her room making phone calls he didn’t want to know about.
Finally dawn broke on Monday morning, and for the first time in his life he was happy to see the start of a new week. His boy was still alive. He walked back to his wife’s room; the doctor was speaking to her. When the man said “good morning” the doctor turned to him, an embarrassed, sheepish look on his face, and cleared his throat.
“I was just telling your wife, there’s been a misinterpretation of the facts. Two of the charts were incorrectly filed on Friday, and were misread. Your son has a chance of survival, all though his quality of life will be severely compromised. There is considerable neurological damage, and he may suffer from debilitating seizures, but at this point it’s too early to tell much”.
The doctor looked at the man, who was holding himself up against a chair. His boy was going to live!
“Thank you” the man managed to croak out. The doctor gave a terse smile and excused himself, saying something about having to speak to a patient down the hall. The man looked at his wife as the tears began to form in his eyes.
“He’s going to live” escaped from his throat before he collapsed into the chair, his body racked with sobs.
His wife sat silently. Live? The baby was going to live? She tried to wrap her brain around this new information. All weekend long she had prepared herself for the worse news a parent can ever receive, and now they told her it was all in vain. No, she thought, this couldn’t be happening, the baby was gone, the baby was all ready a memory to her, the baby didn’t exist.
Her thoughts were interrupted as a piercing cry of anguish erupted from a room down the hall.
©2010 VL Sheridan
Home For Dinner
He quickly downed the whiskey in his glass. There was no harm in meeting someone for a drink, right? Just a quick drink and then he could get home. He looked at his watch; 6:45. She said she’d meet him at 6:30. Just one more drink and then he’d bail. He was about to call the bartender over when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A soft sultry voice reached his ear.
“Sorry I’m late sweetie, but traffic was a bear.”
He turned towards the voice and smiled in spite of his nerves. She was tiny, about five two, with long, curly, red hair falling past her shoulders. Large round breasts filled her shirt; full, luscious buttocks were encased in a tight pair of jeans. She smiled back at him as she sat down.
“Drink?” he managed to get out as the bartender arrived, painfully aware of the tightness in his groin.
“White Russian, thanks.”
He ordered one more for himself, doing his best not to spill it when it arrived. There was calmness to her, a confidence that most women his age didn’t have. They sat and talked, each having several more drinks; he forgot to worry about the time.
After a few hours she stretched her arms above her head and brought them down around his shoulders. Her mouth was next to his ear.
“Can you give me a ride home? I don’t think I can walk in this condition.”
He pulled her closer, rubbing against her, hoping she noticed how aroused he was.
“Sure, just give me directions.”
She smiled a wicked little smile.
“I’ll tell you exactly where I want you to take me.”
They drove to her apartment; he parked his car at the curb as she gathered her bag.
“I had a nice time tonight,” she said, “We should do it again. Real soon.”
He leaned over and kissed her, letting his fingers wrap themselves in her curls as his tongue was eagerly received into her mouth. She pulled away, letting her nose brush against his.
“Do you want to come up?”
He looked at his watch; it was late, he shouldn’t.
“Yea, sure, I’d like that”.
He followed her into the apartment, not quite sure what he was going to do.
“Sit down and relax, babe, I’ll be right out.”
She disappeared into the other room. He removed his jacket and planted himself on the couch; she came back in from the bedroom wearing only shorts and a thin t-shirt, bra less. In the fading light he thought he glimpsed jewellery encasing each nipple. She sat next to him, almost on his lap, and let her hand brush his hair back.
“Hey,” she whispered, letting her head rest on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, trying to decide his next move. Should he be the aggressor, or let her? She snuggled closer, letting her hand casually drop into his lap. He turned his body to her, gasping slightly as he felt her lower his fly. He closed his eyes as her hand encased his cock; she gently began to stroke it, sighing softly. She played with him for a while, alternating between slow, soft strokes and rapid strong grips.
Suddenly she began to kiss it, first the head, then letting her tongue flicker and lick his shaft like a delicious ice cream cone. He pulled his pants down, and she repositioned herself, kneeling next to him, her hair behind her ears as she took him all the way into her mouth to the back of her throat. She was like a python, sucking and milking his cock, still using her hand to rub the base of his shaft. He let his hand slip into her shorts, grabbing her ass, letting his fingers probe her. She sat up, pulling off her shirt, exposing her breasts; he leaned over and began to suckle her nipples, continuing to let his fingers dance across her. She kissed his head, moaning softly the deeper his fingers entered her. She bent her mouth to his ear.
”Eat me.”
He lay down on the couch, and she positioned herself over his mouth. He kissed and sucked her, treating her like a succulent mango. She leaned forward, bracing herself against the arm of the couch. Suddenly her body shuddered, and he tasted a sweet drop of honey on the tip of his tongue. He wiggled out from under her, kissing the back of her neck as he entered her. She threw her head back against him, rocking her hips back and forth, his one hand holding onto her hip while the other grabbed her breast. He couldn’t believe he had such staying power, wasn’t sure if it was from the perfection of the act or the illicitness of it. Frankly, he didn’t care, all he knew was she was the best fuck he’d had in a long time. They changed position once more, this time she rode him, cow girl style, their tongues deep in each other’s mouth. Finally he came; he grabbed her ass, biting hard into her neck. She cried out, pain mixed with pleasure.
They sat together, panting for breath, cradling each other. He went to lift his head to kiss her again when he felt a sharp stabbing pain at the base of his neck, an ice pick piercing his brain. Death was instantaneous. She stood up, and walked into the kitchen, pulling the ingredients for a salad from the fridge as the sound of a circular saw whirred in the living room. Grabbing a bowl, she placed a spring mix of greens inside, adding some strawberries, fresh chunks of blue cheese and walnuts, and then tossed it with raspberry vinaigrette. Arranging her dinner on a plate, she grabbed a fork and two napkins and returned to the living room just as her mate finished cutting the top of the skull. Grabbing a blunt edged knife, it flipped the top of the cranium off like the lid on a paint can. Drooling at the fresh exposed brain, it dived in face first, chomping and slurping. She rolled her eyes in disgust as it looked up at her and smiled, its face covered in blood and grey matter. She flung a napkin at it.
“Wipe your face, dear. You’ve smutz all over it.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
“Sorry I’m late sweetie, but traffic was a bear.”
He turned towards the voice and smiled in spite of his nerves. She was tiny, about five two, with long, curly, red hair falling past her shoulders. Large round breasts filled her shirt; full, luscious buttocks were encased in a tight pair of jeans. She smiled back at him as she sat down.
“Drink?” he managed to get out as the bartender arrived, painfully aware of the tightness in his groin.
“White Russian, thanks.”
He ordered one more for himself, doing his best not to spill it when it arrived. There was calmness to her, a confidence that most women his age didn’t have. They sat and talked, each having several more drinks; he forgot to worry about the time.
After a few hours she stretched her arms above her head and brought them down around his shoulders. Her mouth was next to his ear.
“Can you give me a ride home? I don’t think I can walk in this condition.”
He pulled her closer, rubbing against her, hoping she noticed how aroused he was.
“Sure, just give me directions.”
She smiled a wicked little smile.
“I’ll tell you exactly where I want you to take me.”
They drove to her apartment; he parked his car at the curb as she gathered her bag.
“I had a nice time tonight,” she said, “We should do it again. Real soon.”
He leaned over and kissed her, letting his fingers wrap themselves in her curls as his tongue was eagerly received into her mouth. She pulled away, letting her nose brush against his.
“Do you want to come up?”
He looked at his watch; it was late, he shouldn’t.
“Yea, sure, I’d like that”.
He followed her into the apartment, not quite sure what he was going to do.
“Sit down and relax, babe, I’ll be right out.”
She disappeared into the other room. He removed his jacket and planted himself on the couch; she came back in from the bedroom wearing only shorts and a thin t-shirt, bra less. In the fading light he thought he glimpsed jewellery encasing each nipple. She sat next to him, almost on his lap, and let her hand brush his hair back.
“Hey,” she whispered, letting her head rest on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, trying to decide his next move. Should he be the aggressor, or let her? She snuggled closer, letting her hand casually drop into his lap. He turned his body to her, gasping slightly as he felt her lower his fly. He closed his eyes as her hand encased his cock; she gently began to stroke it, sighing softly. She played with him for a while, alternating between slow, soft strokes and rapid strong grips.
Suddenly she began to kiss it, first the head, then letting her tongue flicker and lick his shaft like a delicious ice cream cone. He pulled his pants down, and she repositioned herself, kneeling next to him, her hair behind her ears as she took him all the way into her mouth to the back of her throat. She was like a python, sucking and milking his cock, still using her hand to rub the base of his shaft. He let his hand slip into her shorts, grabbing her ass, letting his fingers probe her. She sat up, pulling off her shirt, exposing her breasts; he leaned over and began to suckle her nipples, continuing to let his fingers dance across her. She kissed his head, moaning softly the deeper his fingers entered her. She bent her mouth to his ear.
”Eat me.”
He lay down on the couch, and she positioned herself over his mouth. He kissed and sucked her, treating her like a succulent mango. She leaned forward, bracing herself against the arm of the couch. Suddenly her body shuddered, and he tasted a sweet drop of honey on the tip of his tongue. He wiggled out from under her, kissing the back of her neck as he entered her. She threw her head back against him, rocking her hips back and forth, his one hand holding onto her hip while the other grabbed her breast. He couldn’t believe he had such staying power, wasn’t sure if it was from the perfection of the act or the illicitness of it. Frankly, he didn’t care, all he knew was she was the best fuck he’d had in a long time. They changed position once more, this time she rode him, cow girl style, their tongues deep in each other’s mouth. Finally he came; he grabbed her ass, biting hard into her neck. She cried out, pain mixed with pleasure.
They sat together, panting for breath, cradling each other. He went to lift his head to kiss her again when he felt a sharp stabbing pain at the base of his neck, an ice pick piercing his brain. Death was instantaneous. She stood up, and walked into the kitchen, pulling the ingredients for a salad from the fridge as the sound of a circular saw whirred in the living room. Grabbing a bowl, she placed a spring mix of greens inside, adding some strawberries, fresh chunks of blue cheese and walnuts, and then tossed it with raspberry vinaigrette. Arranging her dinner on a plate, she grabbed a fork and two napkins and returned to the living room just as her mate finished cutting the top of the skull. Grabbing a blunt edged knife, it flipped the top of the cranium off like the lid on a paint can. Drooling at the fresh exposed brain, it dived in face first, chomping and slurping. She rolled her eyes in disgust as it looked up at her and smiled, its face covered in blood and grey matter. She flung a napkin at it.
“Wipe your face, dear. You’ve smutz all over it.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Exquisite Jewels
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us-don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name all the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Emily Dickinson
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us-don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name all the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
A Note from the Author of this Blog
We have recently been awarded the "Versitle Blogger Award" from our friend and acolyte of the Dark Arts of the Heart, Kat Del Rio over at Crooked Tales (Kat is progressing very nicely in her studies; it pleases us to see her develop from a weak and needy kitten to a strong and savage predator. Our advice: Don't fuck with her boys).
VL Sheridan will never deny nor confirm any requests for personal information about her for the following reasons:
1. All that matters is the writing.
2. Everything that needs to be known about her is all ready there in the writing.
3. The Internet creates a false sense of intimacy that she does not wish to partcipate in.
4. Nobody really gives a damn that you were picked last for volley ball/soccer/dodge ball when you were in 3rd/4th/5th grade. Really. Get over it and move on.
However, in the spirit of "playing nice" (and due to imbibing some lovely Bolly/Stoli's), she will concede to one of the requirements of the award and list ten things about herself. It is her considered opinion that the less known about a writer, the better. She has faith that any reader of her works will create a more fascinating and seductive persona for her than she truely posesses.
Thank you for your time.
VL Sheridan
Ten Things About VL Sheridan
1. VL Sheridan always refers to herself in the third person.
2. VL Sheridan hates when she finishes reading a story and feels like she just made love to a man who refused to take off his pyjamas during the act.
3. VL Sheridan will gladly submit to any man who has mastered the Tango.
4. If you have to ask, the answer is no.
5. VL Sheridan prefers ink to steel.
6. Her profile picture? God damn right that's what she looks like.
7. Bondage? Only after the appropriate negotiations.
8. VL Sheridan prefers them younger than her, prefers them taller than her, and prefers them ever so eager to please her.
9. VL Sheridan appreciates the finer things in life, but is quite happy with the simple things in life.
10. VL Sheridan is a consumate liar. Don't believe anything she writes. Or says. Or posts.
VL Sheridan will never deny nor confirm any requests for personal information about her for the following reasons:
1. All that matters is the writing.
2. Everything that needs to be known about her is all ready there in the writing.
3. The Internet creates a false sense of intimacy that she does not wish to partcipate in.
4. Nobody really gives a damn that you were picked last for volley ball/soccer/dodge ball when you were in 3rd/4th/5th grade. Really. Get over it and move on.
However, in the spirit of "playing nice" (and due to imbibing some lovely Bolly/Stoli's), she will concede to one of the requirements of the award and list ten things about herself. It is her considered opinion that the less known about a writer, the better. She has faith that any reader of her works will create a more fascinating and seductive persona for her than she truely posesses.
Thank you for your time.
VL Sheridan
Ten Things About VL Sheridan
1. VL Sheridan always refers to herself in the third person.
2. VL Sheridan hates when she finishes reading a story and feels like she just made love to a man who refused to take off his pyjamas during the act.
3. VL Sheridan will gladly submit to any man who has mastered the Tango.
4. If you have to ask, the answer is no.
5. VL Sheridan prefers ink to steel.
6. Her profile picture? God damn right that's what she looks like.
7. Bondage? Only after the appropriate negotiations.
8. VL Sheridan prefers them younger than her, prefers them taller than her, and prefers them ever so eager to please her.
9. VL Sheridan appreciates the finer things in life, but is quite happy with the simple things in life.
10. VL Sheridan is a consumate liar. Don't believe anything she writes. Or says. Or posts.
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