Waiting.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Why did you go?
When will you return?
Will you return?
Come back.
Come back.
I'm alone.
I'm afraid.
I grieve.
For you.
Always for you.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Always for you.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Beacon
Cold, heavy rain beat against the window panes. The fire was near gone; the only heat in the room was from their bodies, snuggled close under covers. She was asleep, curled up on her side, her robust ass pressed against his stomach. His hand gently followed the curve of her body, starting at her hair, her shoulder, her waist, finally resting in the hollow between her legs. She sighed contentedly, then rolled towards him, as a haughty smile appeared on her somnolent features.
"Not again?"
He slowly began to stroke her, making her squirm with delight. She tried to return the pleasure, but he denied her, pushing her hand away. She groaned in mock dismay at his rejection, all the while moving her hips in a steady rhythm. He began to rub harder, as if trying to remove an unhealthy stain. A dispassionate expression enveloped his face as he watched her body writhe in ecstasy.
His obligation finished, he let his hand creep up her body, moving past the tattoo of five red bats wreathing her right breast. Five bats representing health, wealth, love, longevity, and virtue. He had paid for it before he embarked on his last trip to China. He'd received the e-mail with the link to the pornographic video site two days later; a mere 48 hours after she'd professed her love and fidelity to him. He tried to cauterize the sight of watching others feast on her flesh from his memory. His hand stalked up her body until it perched menacingly at the base of her throat. He rolled on top of her, straddling her body, pinning her down as his hands began to wrap themselves around her face. Bending forward, he kissed her for the last time.
"I know what you did while I was gone. You should never have gotten that tattoo Roxanne; it stuck out like a beacon on the video. I guess it wasn't the good luck charm you hoped it would be."
He wrapped his hands around her neck, squeezing her throat with no more effort than he would have used to wring out a wet towel.
"Not again?"
He slowly began to stroke her, making her squirm with delight. She tried to return the pleasure, but he denied her, pushing her hand away. She groaned in mock dismay at his rejection, all the while moving her hips in a steady rhythm. He began to rub harder, as if trying to remove an unhealthy stain. A dispassionate expression enveloped his face as he watched her body writhe in ecstasy.
His obligation finished, he let his hand creep up her body, moving past the tattoo of five red bats wreathing her right breast. Five bats representing health, wealth, love, longevity, and virtue. He had paid for it before he embarked on his last trip to China. He'd received the e-mail with the link to the pornographic video site two days later; a mere 48 hours after she'd professed her love and fidelity to him. He tried to cauterize the sight of watching others feast on her flesh from his memory. His hand stalked up her body until it perched menacingly at the base of her throat. He rolled on top of her, straddling her body, pinning her down as his hands began to wrap themselves around her face. Bending forward, he kissed her for the last time.
"I know what you did while I was gone. You should never have gotten that tattoo Roxanne; it stuck out like a beacon on the video. I guess it wasn't the good luck charm you hoped it would be."
He wrapped his hands around her neck, squeezing her throat with no more effort than he would have used to wring out a wet towel.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Does Not Meet Our Needs At This Time
He was seated at a table, multiple pens at the ready. He didn't mind readings so much, but the book signings afterwards were always so draining. People wanted to share their stories with him, tell him how moved they were by his words. All he wanted to do was sit on his couch with a cold beer. Ah well, the lot of a published writer.
The usual suspects were qued up; middle aged ladies clutching a copy of his latest book. Some were reserved, some were down right vulgar in their demands. He always tried to smile and say something polite, but tonight it was warm in the store and his tie was tight and his throat was parched. That beer would taste so good right about now.
She stood out from the others, mostly because she was about twenty years younger than the rest, closer to his own age. She was pretty, he thought, in a gentle, non threatening way. She kept her eyes down on the stack of books in her hands. She must have been carrying at least five volumes; it looked like everything he'd written so far. He hoped she wasn't expecting him to sign all of them; he was very particular about what he signed. He didn't want to find his work on E-Bay, profiting someone else. He tried to make eye contact with her, but she kept staring at her feet.
Finally she was right in front of him. He looked up at her; she was quite lovely, with soft features, curly red hair. He smiled at her, and held out his hand for the first book.
"I usually only sign one volume per signing." His smile grew as their eyes finally met, his hand still held up expectantly.
"That's fine," she replied, her voice cool and low, "I'm not interested in an autograph. I'm returning them to you."
He stared at her, confused.
"I'm sorry?"
She looked at him, calm and collected,never raising her voice or giving in to emotion, as if she were rejecting a glass of wine, and not his life's blood.
"You should be. I'm returning these to you. You should be ashamed, calling yourself a writer. This is some of the most self indulgent and selfish writing I've ever read. I bought all these books, each time hoping to make some sort of connection with the author, and each time I finished one, I was left with the feeling that I'd just made love to a man who refused to take his pyjamas off during the act. You broke my heart."
She left the books on the table, turned and glided away. He watched her leave the store without so much as a glance back, his hand still up in the air in expectation.
The usual suspects were qued up; middle aged ladies clutching a copy of his latest book. Some were reserved, some were down right vulgar in their demands. He always tried to smile and say something polite, but tonight it was warm in the store and his tie was tight and his throat was parched. That beer would taste so good right about now.
She stood out from the others, mostly because she was about twenty years younger than the rest, closer to his own age. She was pretty, he thought, in a gentle, non threatening way. She kept her eyes down on the stack of books in her hands. She must have been carrying at least five volumes; it looked like everything he'd written so far. He hoped she wasn't expecting him to sign all of them; he was very particular about what he signed. He didn't want to find his work on E-Bay, profiting someone else. He tried to make eye contact with her, but she kept staring at her feet.
Finally she was right in front of him. He looked up at her; she was quite lovely, with soft features, curly red hair. He smiled at her, and held out his hand for the first book.
"I usually only sign one volume per signing." His smile grew as their eyes finally met, his hand still held up expectantly.
"That's fine," she replied, her voice cool and low, "I'm not interested in an autograph. I'm returning them to you."
He stared at her, confused.
"I'm sorry?"
She looked at him, calm and collected,never raising her voice or giving in to emotion, as if she were rejecting a glass of wine, and not his life's blood.
"You should be. I'm returning these to you. You should be ashamed, calling yourself a writer. This is some of the most self indulgent and selfish writing I've ever read. I bought all these books, each time hoping to make some sort of connection with the author, and each time I finished one, I was left with the feeling that I'd just made love to a man who refused to take his pyjamas off during the act. You broke my heart."
She left the books on the table, turned and glided away. He watched her leave the store without so much as a glance back, his hand still up in the air in expectation.
Monday, September 6, 2010
I Wish I Knew . . .
Falling in love: supreme act of faith, or desperate act of a deranged mind? Perhaps, it's a combination of both.
I suppose if I had the answer to that question, I could write a book, make a lot of money, and retire, spending all my days writing for free on a blog.
Silly Rabbit!
I suppose if I had the answer to that question, I could write a book, make a lot of money, and retire, spending all my days writing for free on a blog.
Silly Rabbit!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Love Conquers If it Can
The hadn't met cute. He hadn't tried to take her cab in the pouring rain, she hadn't taken the last strawberry scone at the local coffee shop. He had come into her office, looking for the Bursar's Office, and she had tried to show him where it was on the printed map they kept at the front desk, but neither one of them was wearing their reading glasses, so they couldn't see the finely printed building names. She wound up taking him outside and pointed up the hill, telling him it was somewhere over there, beyond that big Gothic style arch. She watched him trudge up the hill, then returned inside to her desk. The next day he showed up with a bouquet of zinnias. It was almost stalker-ish, but not quite. So maybe that was kinda cute.
Lunch led to drinks, which led to a movie, and then dinner. Each successive date led to less restrictions on their time together, less distractions to conversation. Which eventually led them to his bed, because she said her house was a mess, and while he was slightly concerned that she was hiding something (or someone)her dexterity with her tongue made him put his concerns on the back burner.
So now it was a year later, and they were at the point where you decide to agree to some level of commitment, or just walk away. People kept telling them they were perfect for each other (they never saw her reluctance to wipe up the kitchen after she used it or his refusal to wear clothing in private), and for the most part they conceded they were, but still wondered if it was enough. Does love conquer all? Or does love conquer what it can, leaving the rest of it up to us?
Lunch led to drinks, which led to a movie, and then dinner. Each successive date led to less restrictions on their time together, less distractions to conversation. Which eventually led them to his bed, because she said her house was a mess, and while he was slightly concerned that she was hiding something (or someone)her dexterity with her tongue made him put his concerns on the back burner.
So now it was a year later, and they were at the point where you decide to agree to some level of commitment, or just walk away. People kept telling them they were perfect for each other (they never saw her reluctance to wipe up the kitchen after she used it or his refusal to wear clothing in private), and for the most part they conceded they were, but still wondered if it was enough. Does love conquer all? Or does love conquer what it can, leaving the rest of it up to us?
You've Got Mail #Friday Flash
She felt his hand on her back, pushing her forward to give him greater access. She rolled her eyes and complied. The things one had to do to stay employed. At first it had only been the covert touch over clothing, the intermittent rubbing himself against her. Gradually it grew to hands against flesh, his fingers probing deeper and deeper. He never tried to kiss her, though. She always found that rather odd. Perhaps he wanted to save that for his wife. Some men have standards, she guessed.
She could hear him behind her, grunting, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Her skirt was pushed up over her hips, her panties bunched around her ankles. His condom encased tool was rubbing between her thighs; occasionally it would slip inside her, causing him to pause in his exertions and savor the sensation. The carnality itself wasn't weird or humiliating. The weird part was his insistence that she take dictation during the fornication, then type it up in an e-mail and send it to him. Once a week.
"Oh yes, that's good. Take it, you know you want it. You're so good, God baby you're wonderful, call me Daddy, make me spank you, take it baby, take it hard."
He was starting to climax; she braced herself against the desk as he began to pummel her harder. She tried to keep her writing legible as he fell against her on the desk. The weight of his body hurt; the edge of the desk was cutting into the front of her thighs. He fell back into his chair, trying to catch his breath. She had to stay bent over until he said other wise. One time she had forgotten, and had to spend half an hour on her knees. Under his desk. During a meeting with his supervisor. She was surprised they hadn't been caught. Even more surprised that he could still hold an intelligent conversation while being pleasured orally. Maybe she wasn't as good as she thought.
He leaned forward and tugged on the hem of her skirt; the signal. She slowly stood upright, keeping her back to him. Making eye contact was also forbidden. She stepped out of her underwear, leaving them on the floor, and stood by the side of the desk. The spoils of conquest; he must have had more than a dozen pair hidden away somewhere. She always wondered where.
She heard him zip up his pants and push his chair closer to his desk.
"Thanks, dear. Get that e-mail to me ASAP".
She opened the door and went back to her desk outside his office. She opened up her e-mail, wrote his address in the TO: column, wrote his supervisor's address and her lawyer's address in the BCC: column, then transcribed the e-mail, pressing send when she was finished.
She could hear him behind her, grunting, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Her skirt was pushed up over her hips, her panties bunched around her ankles. His condom encased tool was rubbing between her thighs; occasionally it would slip inside her, causing him to pause in his exertions and savor the sensation. The carnality itself wasn't weird or humiliating. The weird part was his insistence that she take dictation during the fornication, then type it up in an e-mail and send it to him. Once a week.
"Oh yes, that's good. Take it, you know you want it. You're so good, God baby you're wonderful, call me Daddy, make me spank you, take it baby, take it hard."
He was starting to climax; she braced herself against the desk as he began to pummel her harder. She tried to keep her writing legible as he fell against her on the desk. The weight of his body hurt; the edge of the desk was cutting into the front of her thighs. He fell back into his chair, trying to catch his breath. She had to stay bent over until he said other wise. One time she had forgotten, and had to spend half an hour on her knees. Under his desk. During a meeting with his supervisor. She was surprised they hadn't been caught. Even more surprised that he could still hold an intelligent conversation while being pleasured orally. Maybe she wasn't as good as she thought.
He leaned forward and tugged on the hem of her skirt; the signal. She slowly stood upright, keeping her back to him. Making eye contact was also forbidden. She stepped out of her underwear, leaving them on the floor, and stood by the side of the desk. The spoils of conquest; he must have had more than a dozen pair hidden away somewhere. She always wondered where.
She heard him zip up his pants and push his chair closer to his desk.
"Thanks, dear. Get that e-mail to me ASAP".
She opened the door and went back to her desk outside his office. She opened up her e-mail, wrote his address in the TO: column, wrote his supervisor's address and her lawyer's address in the BCC: column, then transcribed the e-mail, pressing send when she was finished.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Ten Stitches Per Inch-Three Word Wednesday
"You Bastards!"
He threw the bottle, shattering the mirror. Bourbon drenched the surface of the wall, dripping towards the floor. The bottle was almost full. He cursed at himself; what a fucking waste.
He staggered over and picked up a shard of glass, gazing at his reflection. Bloody mouth, missing teeth, swollen, blackened eyes. A Glasgow grin crawled malevolently up each cheek. Whomever had stitched him up hadn't worried about keeping him pretty; bright red scars snaked towards his ears. He was lucky to still have his ears; most people in his position wouldn't. His hand quickly felt his groin; he was very lucky to find that still in place.
He turned towards the door as it opened. She stood there, groceries in her arms, staring at the mess in front of her.
"Here," she said, her voice a whiskey soaked growl, "take these. And be careful. Don't break the fucking eggs."
He shuffled over and took the bags, then wandered into the kitchen, gently placing the eggs in the refrigerator. He pulled out two new bottles of Jack and arranged them on the counter. They gleamed a bright amber in the morning sun. He opened one and took a long hard pull. The inside of his cheeks screamed as the alcohol hit the raw flesh.
"Did you make coffee?"
He lumbered back into the room, bottle in hand, and flopped on the couch. His body began to ache as it sunk into the cushions.
"I don't drink coffee."
She kicked the side of the couch where his head lay.
"I do, you selfish fuck. Why can't you ever think about other people?"
He wolfed down some more of the bottle, then closed his eyes, trying to ignore her foul mood. He almost had his face ripped off, and she was pissed because there was no coffee? Christ.
She kicked the couch again as she returned from the kitchen, her Joe laced with a shot. She slumped into a chair, took a sip, then regarded the broken glass littering the floor.
"Great, you broke the fucking mirror. That's seven years bad luck, ya know. That's going to bring in all kinds of negative energy to this dump. I'm going to have to have someone come in and cleanse this place."
He could feel his body sink deeper into oblivion. She took another sip,then threw her coffee mug at him. It sailed over the back of the couch, missing him completely.
"You could say 'thank you', ya know. I didn't have to stitch you up, ya know."
He turned his head towards her, struggling to open his eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me? I look like shit. What the hell did you use to close the wound?"
"Quilting thread. Ten stitches to the inch. Just like my Meemaw taught me."
He closed his eyes again, grateful that she hadn't used the staple gun like her Papaw had taught her.
He threw the bottle, shattering the mirror. Bourbon drenched the surface of the wall, dripping towards the floor. The bottle was almost full. He cursed at himself; what a fucking waste.
He staggered over and picked up a shard of glass, gazing at his reflection. Bloody mouth, missing teeth, swollen, blackened eyes. A Glasgow grin crawled malevolently up each cheek. Whomever had stitched him up hadn't worried about keeping him pretty; bright red scars snaked towards his ears. He was lucky to still have his ears; most people in his position wouldn't. His hand quickly felt his groin; he was very lucky to find that still in place.
He turned towards the door as it opened. She stood there, groceries in her arms, staring at the mess in front of her.
"Here," she said, her voice a whiskey soaked growl, "take these. And be careful. Don't break the fucking eggs."
He shuffled over and took the bags, then wandered into the kitchen, gently placing the eggs in the refrigerator. He pulled out two new bottles of Jack and arranged them on the counter. They gleamed a bright amber in the morning sun. He opened one and took a long hard pull. The inside of his cheeks screamed as the alcohol hit the raw flesh.
"Did you make coffee?"
He lumbered back into the room, bottle in hand, and flopped on the couch. His body began to ache as it sunk into the cushions.
"I don't drink coffee."
She kicked the side of the couch where his head lay.
"I do, you selfish fuck. Why can't you ever think about other people?"
He wolfed down some more of the bottle, then closed his eyes, trying to ignore her foul mood. He almost had his face ripped off, and she was pissed because there was no coffee? Christ.
She kicked the couch again as she returned from the kitchen, her Joe laced with a shot. She slumped into a chair, took a sip, then regarded the broken glass littering the floor.
"Great, you broke the fucking mirror. That's seven years bad luck, ya know. That's going to bring in all kinds of negative energy to this dump. I'm going to have to have someone come in and cleanse this place."
He could feel his body sink deeper into oblivion. She took another sip,then threw her coffee mug at him. It sailed over the back of the couch, missing him completely.
"You could say 'thank you', ya know. I didn't have to stitch you up, ya know."
He turned his head towards her, struggling to open his eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me? I look like shit. What the hell did you use to close the wound?"
"Quilting thread. Ten stitches to the inch. Just like my Meemaw taught me."
He closed his eyes again, grateful that she hadn't used the staple gun like her Papaw had taught her.
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