Let me spin you a yarn

Love Died That Day

2012-02-03T14:35:00.000-08:00

It was an endless cycle that she was in and there was no way end it, not even if she truly wanted out. She woke every morning not knowing where she would be or what to expect. She knew she would be many places at once, she always was but she knew herself well enough to know that she would always became more involved in one case each day. Nothing and no one was ever the same after her touch.

From the moment she opened her eyes each day it was like watching a movie. Countless times over the eons she had heard that she was in control when in truth she wasn’t, there wasn’t anything she could do to affect the outcome of any situation; she was simply along for the emotional ride.

Some people were very determined to hold onto her when they really should be letting her go. Others tossed her aside as easily as a stone, having not felt her weight or her value. Grasping, needy, desperate, content, complacent, or toxic; everyone twisted her into what they thought she should be when all they needed to do was take her as she was. Unconditional acceptance and no demands to change were the things that made her rich and precious and fragile.

As her eyes opened with the dawn she saw them. They were standing in the center of a well appointed bedroom, the décor as elegant as the pair themselves. He wore tailored slacks of dove grey, sharply creased down the front and back, into which was tucked an ivory shirt of the finest silk, the Mother of Pearl buttons shining with subtle iridescence in the soft morning light. His dark hair was still damp from his shower and he spoke as he resumed moving around the room in his typical morning routine.

The woman was statuesque. Easily 6 feet tall her slender frame was wrapped in a red silk dress, flattering her figure to the fullest with a silver chain belt accentuating her waist while the sweetheart neckline framed her décolleté with a perfect balance of propriety and temptation. Ivory silk stockings sheathed her impossibly long legs and she slipped into red leather Vera Wang heels as their conversation continued.

Watching the scene unfold before her was like coming into a book only pages from the end, which had always bothered her, if she had gotten there sooner would there have been a different outcome. She would never know. And now she watched this couple dredge up past aggravations, past complaints, past hurt… past past past. Rarely was the death stroke anything current, instead past feelings were wielded like weapons quietly stored away… just in case.

She wanted them to yell at each other, to flail and rant and rave, any show of emotion was better than none. Her most common and painful killer was apathy and laziness. People became complacent, comfortable, and stopped appreciating what attracted them to each other in the first place. She no longer met him at the door in sexy lingerie, seducing him and stirring in him pleasure he’d never known. He no longer brought her flowers or told her how beautiful she was to him even when she looked her worst.

Apathy was deadly to her.

Their argument was nearing its end, after so many millennia she could sense it and she held her breath, waiting. They never shouted, never yelled, they simply agreed that they were done and as the door closed in their wake the click of the steel mechanism sliding into place was like a shotgun blast to the chest. The scene went black as she fell to the floor as she had done a millions times before; Love died that day but would blossom elsewhere from a seed called hope.

Hearts

2012-01-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

Pearl stood outside the restaurant waiting for Luke, huddling into her knee length brown coat and lifting the large collar to shield her neck from the frigid wind. Her pale grey eyes scanned the sidewalk, looking for any sign of the long legged swagger that would go a long way to make up for his lateness, but there was no sign of him.

With a frustrated sigh Pearl turned and headed south, walking directly into the wind and having to lower her face against it, her gaze focusing on the intermittent pools of watery yellow lamplight as she passed from one to the next. Her mind started making up all the shit a girl’s mind invents whenever she gets stood up: “What did I do?” “Maybe he’s not that interested.” “Maybe he’s dead in a ditch.”

Pearl chuckled to herself, the logical side of her brain knowing something very last minute had to have come up and the irrational side making up all kinds of crazy stories and she knew that the two sides needed to have a meeting.

It wasn’t uncommon to hear movement and conversation coming from the dark depths of the city’s many alleys, but this sound brought Pearl up short and she stopped, straining her ears to see if she would hear it again. She counted the passing of time by the pounding of her pulse. There it was again. In spite of not being able to make out any words there was something familiar about the voice, and turning toward it she made her way slowly into the shadows.

Her heels clicked quietly on the cracked pavement as she moved from cover to cover, pausing behind a dumpster then behind a stack of dilapidated pallets, each time pausing to listen for the voice. Pearl followed the sound like ET followed bits of candy, one by one she was drawn closer to the source and from where she crouched behind an old barrel she watched as two shadowy figures dragged an apparently less than willing third through a peeling blue door.

Like a hammer striking an anvil her mind pinpointed the strangled voice she’d been following: Luke. Once the figures disappeared from view she stood and jogged toward the building, stopping to stare at the plain white wall; there was no door.

“What the hell?” she asked quietly to no one in particular and she gasped when someone answered.

“You must see through what you see to what you can not.”

Pearl spun and scanned the area, grey eyes straining to see through grey gloom and stared as a faint light approached her. The marble sized green light bobbed and moved as though fighting a draft as it tried to hover at eye level.

“What do you mean?” she asked; she could give more thought to the fact that she was talking to a firefly later.

“She seeks what was lost.” The light said, bouncing more and more as though agitated, “Now! Go now!”

Pearl turned and stared at the wall, her brows drawing together in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

The tiny light zipped off and returned like a kamikaze pilot, dive bombing her head and she ducked and swatted at it. Splitting her focus between the insistent, cryptic helper and the wall Pearl took a few steps back and then ran at the wall, ramming it with her shoulder. She grunted in pain and adrenaline pushed her past it when the wall cracked and blue could be seen last the white.

As she backed up to run at it again the light calmed down and ceased its assaults. After three more painful meetings between her shoulder and the wall Pearl stumbled through the suddenly open door, emerging with an almost audible pop into a large cavernous room and her sudden appearance brought four pairs of eyes to rest on her.
Surprise hung in the air like a partially inflated balloon, bursting when a tall, thin woman let out a shriek and pointed an accusatory finger. As though an order was hidden in that sound a man the size of a linebacker charged her and Pearl dodged to the right just as he dove for her, his wide shoulders clipping her and knocking her to the floor.

Flipping onto her belly Pearl tried to scramble away, reaching for anything to give herself leverage, but he grabbed her leg and pulled her back and clutched her throat, squeezing with his meaty hand. She tried to pry at his fingers but they wouldn’t be moved. Spying the shoes she’d been knocked out of she reached out for one, straining her arm to its limit as her vision started to go grey around the edges.

Her fingers touched the smooth leather of her Jimmy Chu’s and she wrapped her fingers around it, cocking her arm back and then swinging out again. The sudden weight of the man’s body on her was like being pressed under a car and it took all she had to push him aside and wriggle out from under him. Climbing to her feet she looked at the shoe still clutched in her hand, the bloodied heel of her stiletto dripped with thicker things that used to be behind the man’s temple.

“And people say shoes like this are bad for you,” Pearl said, using humor to deflect fear as she stared from where Luke lay strapped to a sinister looking table to the crazy lady.

The woman rushed her, fingers curved like claws and she let out another ear piercing screech. Pearl bolted to left and ran around Luke’s table as the woman snatched up a jar from a shelf and hurled it at her, the glass shattering against the wall and spraying Pearl with formaldehyde.

“They are mine!” she screeched, “Mine to eat! Mine to love!” A jar sailed through the air to punctuate each statement, and with wide eyes Pearl soon realized that the wall behind the crazy lady was lined with shelf upon shelf of hearts, some still beating.

“Oh, fuck this!” Pearl said, lifting the hem of her coat and dress simultaneously and pulling a pistol from the holster strapped around her thigh, leveling it at the woman and firing a single shot that tore its way through her crazed grey matter.

Pearl holstered the gun and stared down into Luke’s wide blue eyes, shrugging one shoulder as she went about freeing him, “Did I mention I’m with the NSA?”

Winter

2011-10-30T13:49:00.000-07:00

All he could feel was pain. All kinds of pain. Searing pain that set every nerve on fire. Throbbing pain from shattered bone. Sharp pain from expertly split skin and muscle. His mouth and eyes were filled with blood and grit, his lungs filling slowly with thick red life in an effort to catch up and his breath came in wet gurgles. With a sudden white hot flash the pain blissfully disappeared in the wake of a neck breaking blow to the head.

* * *
Winter sat in the corner of the large tavern, his golden eyes moving from one person to the next, ever aware of who was doing what, where they were doing it and how it might affect him. He didn’t know why he was so hyper-aware of his surroundings, nor was Bothun ever able to explain it during the many months he’d spent recovering from being beaten nearly to death.

Bothun had found him on the brink of death, mostly buried in the snow, the red of his blood having caught the old mage’s eye as it was absorbed into the crystalline drifts piling up around his frostbitten limbs. For months he’d lain unconscious, his body mending with the aid of powerful magic, and even after waking up it was another six months before he was well enough to leave Bothun’s care.

The old man had dubbed him Winter, as much for the season in which he was found as for the chill that settled over those who looked at him. Winter had woken with no memory of who he was, where he was from or what had happened to him, and after almost a year of healing and rehabilitation it was with a grateful handshake he set out to uncover his past.

The orange light from the fire crackling in the large fireplace cast eerie shadows across his face, the darkness disappearing into the black of his hair which hung almost to his waist, the heavy mass confined into a thick braid and bound at the end with a leather band from which hung a silver coin. He’d found the coin in the bag of possessions that Bothun had returned to him once he’d regained some of his strength, along with a rare Prince Jamison revolver and hand tooled leather holster.

The grip was made of ribbon mahogany, the deep red hue striped with black and worn smooth from what he could only assume was his own use of the weapon. The burnished steel of the barrel, frame, cylinder and trigger guard were elaborately decorated with relief flourishes, the dark recesses making the ornate design stand out. Bothun had tried to grip the weapon but painfully learned that it was protected by a dark magic the likes of which he’d never encountered, which explained why Winter’s attackers hadn’t stolen it.

Winter continued to watch as the other patrons cast sideways glances at him, the men wary with hands idly resting on the hilts of their swords and the women excited, tittering and smiling shyly at him. His perfectly sculpted face was that of a God, broad shouldered and tall he simply commanded attention, though it was more the almost electric aura around him that made him impossible to ignore.

Pushing his empty plate away he stood up, towering over the smaller desert people who were native to the area, and their dark eyes turned to watch him as he made his way toward the door. The weight of so many stares was almost measureable and he felt it pressing against his back like a hand, urging him to leave so the air could again be easily breathed. A scent wafted past his nose, sparking an elusive memory in the back of his mind and he spun on his heel, his fierce eyes trying to locate the source.

A lithe figure was pushed forward, her delicate frame stumbling toward him and Winter’s body reacted before his mind fully processed the situation, drawing his revolver and firing a single bullet. Amid the screams and subsequent chaos the woman staggered and he caught her as she fell; he didn’t see who had pushed her and he scowled into the crowd but there were too many fleeing bodies to determine who the culprit had been.

Winter lifted the woman into his arms and carried her to a long table, clearing it of dishes with a single swipe of his arm before laying her down. She stared up at him with wide blue eyes. Blue? The desert people didn’t have blue eyes. He pulled the turban from her head, sending a thick wave of red hair spilling across the arm that cradled her shoulders and he was again assaulted by the familiar scent that had stopped him only moments before.

The tavern was almost empty now, only a handful of slaves huddling in the corners undoubtedly hoping he wouldn’t see them, and the quiet hung like heavy clouds; silent but oppressive. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and from her left ear and Winter watched in frustrated confusion as she slowly reached into the folds of her robes and extracted a small pouch. She pushed it into his hand before using the last of her strength to reach up and press her palm to his cheek, giving a weak smile before the light left her eyes.

Winter stared at her face, now empty of life, and carefully extracted his arm from under her. Loosening the drawstring on the pouch he upended it and dumped its contents into his palm, staring wide eyed at the silver coin that was identical to the one ornamenting his hair.

Hannah

2011-10-21T16:52:00.000-07:00

Her velvety brown eyes stared at the words scribbled on the single old sheet of stationary, ink splotches spattered across the fragile yellow paper. In spite of having found the letter only hours before, she had read the note a thousand times if she’d read it once, but having it memorized didn’t keep her from reading it again.

She raised her eyes, her gaze moving slowly up the imposing stone façade of the house she stood before, and as she took her first step forward a bolt of lightening suddenly flashed a warning at her from the rapidly gathering clouds. She hesitated for only a heartbeat.

The old boards creaked under her feet as she ascended the stairs and slowly moved across the wide porch toward the large double front doors. Pulling a heavy ring from her purse she selected one of the old iron keys and inserted it into the lock, having to use both hands and a good deal of force to get the mechanisms to move through the built up rust.
With grinding protests the lock gave way and with a trembling hand she turned the knob and pushed, the hinges groaning like weary old men as the door swung inward.

The air was thick with dust. Tiny specks danced through the sunlight that was intermittently blocked out by heavy clouds in an ever changing ocular staccato, flitting in the eddies of air as she moved from room to room. Furniture was draped in sheets that were once white, the passing of time having turned them the same aged yellow as the paper clutched in her hand.

Cobwebs large enough for her to use as hammocks filled corners and doorways, dainty webs laced balusters together and thick mats of silk threads cocooned the chandeliers. Rugs were rolled and stacked like cord wood in each room, the dust so thick on the hardwood floor that she left footprints as she walked, the boards creaking under the forgotten feel of a human’s weight.

She walked through the kitchen, her gaze glancing over the wood burning stove, the pot rack laden with cast iron skillets and the butcher block topped table like a stone skimming across the surface of a still lake. She made a direct line toward the back door, reaching for the ornate knob and letting out a surprised scream when she was pushed from behind, cold hands slamming her against the still closed door.

Spinning and pressing her back to the wall her eyes scanned the room, looking for her assailant even while knowing she wouldn’t find them. Her mind went back to the letter, written over a hundred years before from a despondent husband to his dead wife:

My dearest Hannah,

This morning finds me wracked by the fiery pangs of your absence. Remembering the softness of your skin, the mirth in your eyes and the gentleness of your touch leaves me lost and longing. Nothing and no one will ever fill the vacancy left in my soul. The day I shrug off this mortal coil can come none too soon if the hereafter finds me lying by your side. Wait for me, love.

Forever yours,

Roger

Roger had been her Great Grandfather, and he had died when she was only 10. She fondly remembered sitting on his knee and listening with a young girl’s romantic heart as he spoke of his Hannah, her namesake. Despite the years that had passed, his love for his lost wife was an ever present light in his dimming eyes, and the mere mention of her name seemed to bring out of him the young man he once was.

He had moved out of the house he and Hannah had shared, refusing to create any memories there that didn’t include her, and lived out his life by raising their one young son. As he lay in his bed dying, Hannah’s small hands tucking the quilts her mother had made around his frail body, she wept silently both in anguish and in joy. Anguish that she was losing him and joy that he was going to be with his wife again.

The dreams started only days after he died. Hannah would wake up dripping with sweat, her heart pounding and feeling an overwhelming sense of panic, as though she had lost something and couldn’t find it anywhere. Her parents would soothe her, calm her, rock her, but she couldn’t get anyone to believe that something had gone wrong with Great grandpa’s soul.

These dreams plagued Hannah almost nightly all the way through college, and it was while home for the holidays that she found Roger’s letter to Hannah and the pieces fell into place. She had been awakened by the same sense of panic she had felt for as long as she could remember, getting up and heading outside to get some air, the cool autumn air chilling the sweat on her skin.

Hannah sat curled up in one of the worn rocking chairs on the wide porch, her brown eyes staring unfocused across the front yard until a milky shadow moved near the garden shed. Unfolding herself she stood up and moved toward it, not feeling afraid but rather a sense of excited anticipation came over her. She felt pushed and guided and directed. She pulled the door open and walked directly to a stack of old boxes, her hands moving the unimportant ones aside and, as if controlled by someone else, she reached into the dusty contents of a non-descript shoebox and extracted one specific letter and a ring of old keys.

It only took one reading of the letter for her to understand what she needed to do. She packed a small bag, left a note for her parents and climbed behind the wheel of her mom’s SUV. Four hours later she found herself being attacked by her Great Grandmother.

“Wait!” she shouted, holding her arms up to shield her head from invisible fists. “Grandma, stop! He’s here! I’ve brought him to you!” Hannah’s voice carried through the house, echoing off the high ceiling. The room was suddenly still, holding its breath and watching her with what felt like skepticism. Reaching into the small bag slung over her shoulder, Hannah extracted a polished silver urn, Roger’s name engraved across the front and she held it out as proof.

Slowly she reached for the doorknob again, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding until she stepped through the doorway without incident. She felt something move past her, like the brush of heavy skirts scented with lavender, and she followed the scent to the family graveyard. A low iron gate hung oddly from one rusted hinge, the sagging corner stuck in the dirt. Two dozen headstones poked up through the thick carpet of weeds, ivy and decomposing leaves, the stone covered in moss and the chiseled words faded.

Hannah moved slowly, still following the scent of lavender, to the far corner of the graveyard, stopping to stare at the bare earth of her Great Grandmother’s grave. Nothing grew there. The air didn’t stir. The temperature dropped. She felt something pacing, circling her like an impatient lion and with slow, deliberate movements she removed the lid from the urn and sprinkled the remains of her Great Grandfather’s body onto the bare dirt at the base of the half finished dual headstone.

It felt like the universe held its breath and for several minutes nothing moved, nothing made a noise. With a sudden burst of air, thick green grass and brilliantly colored wildflowers erupted from the naked ground. The branches of the trees that hung bare over the ground exploded with emerald leaves, birds circled overhead and the dark clouds that had felt so ominous split and showered a warm rain down onto Hannah’s uplifted face.

In the sporadic sunlight that reflected through the fat drops, out of the corner of her eye, Hannah watched her Great Grandparents reunion and in that moment she knew what pure joy looked like.

Montana

2011-07-01T10:22:00.000-07:00

Blue skies stretch, covering the whole of the world that at that moment contains only me.

Black mountains reach up, draped in snowy lace, brushing the sky like a lover’s lips.

Wide green plains roll, a velvety ocean grown still, rising and falling like breath.

Trees sway in a silky breeze, leaves preening, waving at those who pause to greet them.

Water flows, running fast or trickling, making music to accompany the bird song.

Stretched out on the velvet swell of ground, my vision draped in blue sky and dancing trees, black mountains embrace me and the land’s wet kisses saturate me where we touch.

The languid pulse of Montana infected me with awe and wonder because I took the time to breathe her in; we won’t be roommates, but rather occasional lovers, madly falling together each time we meet.

See You In The Funny Pages

2011-06-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

She stood outside, wearing the storm like armor. The fat, warm raindrops struck her bare shoulders and her upturned face, exploding into a hundred smaller drops that saturated the aqua cotton of her summer dress, molding it to her body: breasts, thighs and hips. Her sandaled feet stood in an ever growing puddle, unaware and uncaring, and the shallow water lapped at her red polished toes.

He had told her about summer storms, the lightening racing across the sky, chased by claps of thunder she could feel in her chest; but the storms were only part of why she had flown in to visit him. The wide sky was black, every single star obscured by the heavy clouds that loomed overhead, lost against the dark of the night. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then another, and another until she felt the threat of tears had passed.

“Sasha, come back inside.” Adam’s voice was frustrated, but her own frustration was clear in the rigid set of her entire frame, her hands fisted at her sides, and she didn’t reply. She heard him step off the curb and walk up behind her, his pace slow and tentative as though she was a wild animal who might turn and bite him. When he laid his hands gently on her shoulders she had conflicting urges: to turn and fold herself into his embrace, or to step away.

Her internal conflict lasted only a few heartbeats yet it felt like eons, and it took every ounce of will she had to take that single step away from him, his fingers sliding over her skin until they fell away entirely. Folding her arms as a means of perceived protection from the painful conversation she knew was coming she turned slowly to face him, her hazel eyes locking with his light blue ones through the veil of rain.

“Adam,” Sasha began, her voice quiet. He mimicked her pose and folded his arms across his chest as he shook his head.

“I know that look, Sasha,” he said, his own deep voice quiet.

“Then do I even need to say anything?” she asked, hoping he would let her off the hook, but she knew better.

“Yes!” His blue eyes grew fierce and he stepped forward, his long fingers gripping her slick shoulders, “I want to hear you say it. Tell me and let’s see if either of us believes it!”

The pressure of his hold made her anger flare to life and reaching up she fisted her hands into the wet cotton of his T-shirt, glaring up into his face. “You want to hear it? Fine! I’m selfish! I want to kiss you and touch you and make love to you, and I can’t because besides living so far away you’re married!!”

Adam opened his mouth to speak but the adamant shaking of Sasha’s head silenced him. “I know what I’m saying isn’t right, isn’t fair, but I’m in pain and I think its better that we part as friends, I don’t want to lose that.” A small smile lifted one corner of her mouth as she released his shirt, her hands smoothing out the wrinkles. “We’ve known each other a long time,” she said wistfully, “But it’s clear your wife doesn’t like me and I won’t be a secret.” Stepping forward Sasha closed the gap between them, rising onto her tip toes and kissing him softly. “I’ll see you in the funny papers.”

Stepping around him she went back into her hotel, refusing to look back. Her heart was breaking but sometimes you have to run away to see if someone will chase you.

Full Spectrum

2011-03-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

Dawn
Milky cool peach
Rising
Violet pink lavender
Breaking
Amber honey topaz
Sailing
Warm golden liquid
Soaring
Caress cover embrace
Cresting
Bask yellow fire
Sinking
Bliss nourish fulfill
Falling
Reach touch hold
Fading
Breathe orange kisses
Failing
Filter cool color
Dusk
Veiled indigo touch

Nothing Is Forbidden, Everything Is Allowed

2010-12-17T16:35:00.000-08:00

I’d been pretty apprehensive when my best friend Sasha had invited me to her favorite club. I was well aware that Sasha was far wilder than I was, as far as I knew there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t try at least once and that held true in every facet of her life. The particular facet she had coaxed me into sharing with her; however, was propelling me into uncharted territory and I couldn’t calm the butterflies in my stomach.

It wasn’t that I was sexually repressed or inexperienced, I simply hadn’t ventured too far outside the boundaries set by society at large. And now here I was, dressed in a dress chosen by Sasha and following her into the dark interior of the club.

The feel of the place wasn’t what I had expected. Basing my expectations on the few strip clubs I’d been in I found the dim lighting unsurprising, but that’s where the similarities ended. There was no stage, no visible DJ spinning loud bass heavy songs for the girls to dance to, and the air didn’t smell of unwashed bodies.

Small groupings of soft chairs and love seats surrounded low tables and filled the enormous room, lit warmly by candlelight that illuminated so many faces. Soothing music of the vocal jazz variety flowed from invisible speakers, filling the air like mist and I could almost feel it beading up on my eyelashes.

Sasha took me by the hand and led me to the far back corner of the club, motioning for me to sit as she settled herself into the burgundy chair across from me. The blueberry velvet of my own chair felt especially soft under my fingertips and I couldn’t resist petting it idly.

Our server appeared and I had to do a double take, again surprised by the unexpected. The scantily clad woman I’d anticipated was nothing at all like the tall, handsome man who smiled down at me after giving Sasha a kiss on the cheek, a gesture that looked to me like he’d done it before. How often did Sasha come here I wondered.

I barely noticed when Sasha ordered champagne for us, simply staring like a fool as the server walked away with a wink in my direction. “What is this place?” I asked Sasha, keeping my voice low. Her bark of laughter was in no way muted and I tried to shush her, to no avail.

“Oh my darling Jess,” she replied with a wide smile, patting my knee, “You have no idea the treats you are in for tonight.”

Finding myself both intrigued and alarmed by that statement I sat back and watched. I watched people talking quietly over drinks or h'ordeuvres. I watched as pairs and groups wandered off together and disappeared behind a heavy black curtain I hadn’t noticed before, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was back there.

When our server returned he popped the champagne and poured two glasses, holding one out to me while sinking down into the chair beside me with the other. I passed a confused look to Sasha who rose to her feet as our server sat, as though choreographed, and all I got from her was an encouraging wink as she walked away.

The clinking of his glass against mine brought my gaze back to his face and he beamed a brilliant smile at me. “What shall we drink to?” he asked. His voice was like mink; soft, silky and it should have been totally illegal.

“I’m sorry, this is my first time here and I’m not sure what the protocol is.” I replied honestly, feeling very out of my depth. “I mean, is this allowed?” I punctuated my question by gesturing at him sitting there with his glass of wine.

He laughed, rich and thick like chocolate that clings to your tongue, his blue eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “My dear, in this place nothing is forbidden, everything is permitted.”

As we raised our glasses to drink to that I knew this would be a night I would never forget.

The Fleas Of A Thousand Camels

2010-08-19T16:44:00.000-07:00

The low drone of dozens of voices speaking at once filled the room, the range of tone overlapping to create a strange kind of white noise that Chloe was usually oblivious to. Today it was like a hundred banshees wailing on a cliff as turbulent waves battered the stone face and she squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the urge to plug her ears.

Only 8 more hours until she would be getting on a plane and flying away; away from everyone who had expectations of her, had demands on her time and relied on her. For 14 glorious days she could focus solely on herself, she could swim and sleep and hike and breathe; she would have the time.

Glancing at the clock she sighed; 7 hours and 48 minutes to go.

The drive home was filled with so much sameness: the same songs on the radio, the same cars following the same route to the same home they always went to in order to do the same things they always did.

“How did I get here?” She asked herself, her voice incredulous in her own ears. There had been so much she had wanted to do and see and experience, and in her 39 years she’d barely scratched the surface of that great big world of wants.

Chloe walked through her front door and straight into her bedroom where her packed suitcase stood waiting, staring at her impatiently, and with a relieved smile she grabbed the handle and went out to wait for the taxi she’d pre-scheduled to take her to the airport.

Long flights, layovers and plane changes could do nothing to diminish Chloe’s excitement and with each mile of ocean that passed 35 thousand feet below her she felt more and more eager to be free of any routine. She wasn’t on the ground a full day before she was in the ocean, swimming slowly, letting the salt water seep into every pore, soaking up each new experience like a sponge.

Chloe spent her days hiking in the jungle, swimming and exploring the reefs that skirted the island, and trying every kind of new food she could find. Her spirit felt light and engaged and alive with each passing day and each experience. The unbridled joy and elation she felt flagged on the journey home, and with every mile of ocean that passed 35 thousand feet below her the memory of another responsibility came to her until it felt like the fleas of a thousand camels were biting at her brain.

When the plane landed in LA she rushed to the ticket counter and bought a ticket back to the island paradise from which she had just come; she couldn’t return to her old life without sacrificing her soul and that was a trade she wasn’t willing to make, she’d just send for her things and start a new routine.

You Can Never Have Too Much Of A Good Thing

2010-07-01T22:08:00.000-07:00

Everyone had something to say, but no one cared one whit what I wanted, and their incessant chatter buzzed in my ears like a swarm of mosquitoes until the pitch pushed me over the edge. I surged to my feet, the sudden motion silencing my potential father-in-law who was busy discussing what the privilege of marrying his son was worth.

“Zoe!” my mother’s tone was like ice, but I was oblivious to it, having had years to adapt. From my parents I’d only known disappointment, anger and distance, and as they sat in the very elegantly appointed study I could see my life slipping away before my eyes. Ever the proper young lady I had spent my youth in needlepoint, sitting silently in a corner during my mother’s Salons and being sharply corrected until I mastered proper etiquette and the very thought of one second more of it made me sick.

Lunging across the low table I slapped the tea cup from my mother’s hands, the hand- painted china sailing through the air leaving an arc of chamomile tea in its wake before shattering on the floor. “No Mother! No more will I pander for your approval by flawlessly regurgitating the day’s lesson. I will not sit silently while you harp at me about not being good enough so wed a leper; you do not determine my worth!”

I heard my father shift in his seat so I spun and pinned him with my furious gaze. Reaching out I snatched his cane from his hand, turning and smashing it against the edge of the marble mantle, not even flinching as splintered mahogany showered down on us like confetti. “And you, Father, you who were so disappointed that I was not a precious son that you couldn’t be bothered to notice me at all save for the beatings you meted out on a whim.” I pointed accusingly at the broken cane as I ranted; it’s highly polished beauty masking its sinister function.

Without a backward glance I picked up my skirts and ran from the room, my heart hammering in my chest; I’d been too well taught not to know that what I had just done ensured me the beating of my life. I also knew that I now wouldn’t be permitted to marry His Lordship Henry Paul Worthington III, son of the Duke of Sussex, and as I ran toward the barn my heart soared with that knowledge, hammering anew with anticipation in place of fear.

I rounded the corner of the smithy, the heat of the forge like a wall that made it hard to breathe for a moment and my eyes locked on the broad shoulders of Master Bruce’s apprentice, William. I hesitated for half a heartbeat, questioning my own sanity until he turned and his sapphire eyes found me, and then the world melted away. I ran to him and claimed his mouth, his surprise brief, then his arms snaked around me and he eagerly returned my kiss.

We tore at each other’s clothes with an urgent need to touch, skin to skin, exploring with brazen lips, fingers and tongues. We tasted and touched and fell together like the teenagers we were, stripping off title, class and wealth with each layer of fabric and rejoicing in the simple passion we shared, consequences be damned.

My heart and mind soared to new levels of euphoria under his touch, my body sang and I wrapped myself around him, holding him against me with slick arms and legs as he filled me. His breath was hot against my neck, and taking his face in my hands I claimed his mouth and his breath, arching against him as the new sensation of release surged through my every cell moments before he gave his essence to me.

We lay in a tangle of arms and legs, our skin slick and our breathing ragged as we stared into each other’s eyes from inches away. He smoothed my tousled hair away from my face, his calloused hands rough on my cheeks and I relished the texture.

“Make love to me again.” I said, unashamed of my boldness, or my newly awakened lust, and he smiled down at me with a look that told me he would be happy to oblige.

“You can never have too much of a good thing when that good thing is you,” he said. My heart swelled with the love I’d had for him since I was 12, and I writhed under him, lacing my fingers into his hair and reclaiming his mouth.

“Zoe?”

I blinked to clear my vision, shaking my head to lift the fog from my mind and I stared at the delicate teacup my mother was holding out to me. I glanced around the room, taking in the ever disappointed face of my father and the sour expressions of The Duke and his son as they discussed my dowry.

Looking out the window my brown eyes locked on the intense sapphire stare of Master Bruce’s apprentice William, and my heart floated and sank at the same time. Taking the proffered tea I quietly stared into its pale amber depths, ever the proper young lady.

Postcard From The Edge

2010-06-30T17:52:00.000-07:00

Two weeks away and it felt like the whole world should have changed; my mind almost refusing to accept that everything had stayed the same. I sat in my small apartment and stared at what was familiar and yet altogether foreign: my mail was still piled up on the bar, my bed was still unmade from my mad dash out the door, and the comfortable scent of sandalwood incense hung faintly in the air, yet I smelled only the jungle.

I sat back on my green velvet sofa and closed my eyes, running my hands over the soft fabric and imagining it was soil, dark and rich and slipping through my fingers as though through an hourglass. The cars moving past my windows sounded like the rush and pull of distant waves as they kissed and caressed the shore, calm and peaceful.

I had planned the trip for the sole purpose of escaping from my family, my friends, my job and everything else familiar; what I hadn’t recognized was that I was actually trying to escape from myself. I was bored with everything and everyone; the food held no taste, the sunshine no warmth and the world no joy for me. I’d travelled halfway around the world, but nowhere was far enough to get away from my own jaded heart.

For the first three days I hiked into the jungle, losing myself within the humidity and dark coolness of an alien world I’d never before imagined. Each day I walked further than the last until on the fourth day I emerged from the trees and found myself standing at the edge of a monolithic cliff.

Vines crept from the jungle and cascaded down the cliff face, the rich green leaves contrasting beautifully with the dark, almost black, stone. The vista my eyes beheld staggered me, and before my knees gave out under me I lowered myself to carefully sit on the edge of the cliff, my muddy boots dangling thousands of feet in the air.

Before me was a vast sea of green, foliage swelling with the rise and fall of the hills under their feet, the turquoise of the ocean sparkling just beyond and the azure of the mid-day sky crowning what was at that moment, the whole world to me. I was only faintly aware of the tears that slipped down my cheeks, I was wholeheartedly focused on what was being shared with me, and my apathy began to slip away in the wake of such splendor.

A large rough tongue suddenly licked my tears away and I turned my head to stare into the green eyes of a jaguar, but I couldn’t find my fear, instead I cocked my head to one side and smiled.

“Hi there.” My voice sounded strange amidst the jungle sounds around me, as did my laugh when the huge cat sat down beside me and cocked his head to one side. After sizing me up for a moment he laid down beside me, resting his head in my lap and allowing me to pet his ears.

I stayed all day, not moving from the precipice of my newfound joy until the sun began to sink into the ocean. My feline companion stayed with me all day and whimpered when I explained that I had to go but would be back.

I spent the rest of my stay at the cliff’s edge sitting, reading, napping or simply gazing and always my companion was with me, often just staring at me. As the sun set on us for the final time I penned a brief note on the back of a Wish You Were Here postcard I’d picked up at the airport. All I had been gifted with was expressed in one simple statement: “You are responsible for your own joy.” I addressed it to myself, my postcard from the edge, and with a kiss tossed it into the air for the universe to send whenever it felt like it, watching with a wide smile as it disappeared into the chasm below me.

At dawn I was awoken by the weight of a gaze; heavy and green and staring at me from the olive skinned face of a stranger who was perched on the edge of my cot. I didn’t move despite the sudden hammering of my heart in my chest, remaining as still as I could and simply staring back.

His black hair was shot through with tawny gold and hung to his waist like a satin curtain, beautifully showcasing the width of his smooth shoulders and expanse of his sculpted chest. My eyes couldn’t help but wander and I admired the rest of his angles before lifting my gaze again to stare into his eyes, strangely familiar eyes.

Wordlessly he bent down and brushed his lips across mine, soft as a rose petal, and I was overwhelmed with the need to be filled and enflamed by him. Hours later I awoke, blissfully sore and softly languid, feeling like water and light had simply been poured into my skin. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know he was gone; I sensed his absence and with a sigh tried to push aside my disappointment.

The journey home was long and noisy: cars, airports, airplanes, people, crying babies and machinery assaulted my ears and was almost painful. When I reached my door I had rushed inside, seeking refuge from the city sounds I’d been so oblivious to not two weeks before, and even the muted sounds that filtered through my walls were almost unbearable.

The soft knock on my door dragged me from my memories of the ocean, the jungle and my unknown lover. The familiar musky scent of his skin greeted me before my eyes could even verify it was indeed him, and with tears in my eyes I stood paralyzed with joy in the doorway. He smiled at me, his green eyes shining as he held up my postcard, “If I am responsible for my own joy, why then can I not find it without you?”

When It Rains

2010-06-29T16:24:00.001-07:00

The sound of footsteps on the floorboards above her head had Sasha’s nerves on the brink of a breakdown. She lay on her side on the dirt floor, curled into as tight a ball as she could manage, her eyes squeezed shut and flinching with each clomp of thick soled shoes.

It still wasn’t clear to her where she was or why she was there, the questions she’d been asked were confusing, and the pain her captors inflicted each time she said I don’t know in response had left her a bruised and bleeding wreck. How did she get from sipping a latte in her favorite corner coffee shop to a dark pit carved into the earth? The saying was, when it rains it pours, but this was a torrential downpour in her book.

Her captors were insisting she knew where the RFHC was, and they wouldn’t believe her when she denied knowing anything about it. From what she was able to glean based on their questions, it was some sort of prototype weapon and oh how she wished she did know where it was, not so she could give it to them, but so she could use it on them. Sasha had never had any violent tendencies in her life… until now.

Pale moonlight filtered down through the cracks between the boards, highlighting the dust that fell across Sasha’s battered body along with the silvery light. Tears leaked from her eyes and she wished there was a way to drown out the conversations above, the constant sound as brutal to her ears as the beatings were to the rest of her body.

Through the low din of the voices above Sasha’s ears picked up a patterned knocking: tap, taptap, tap. She sat up slowly, her muscles wincing in protest. Tap, taptap, tap. She looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, rising to her feet and walking stiffly from one side of her prison to the other, her head tilted toward the wooden planks overhead.

She followed the sound to its apparent origination point, peering up through the knothole and meeting the gaze of the man occupying the chair directly over her head. His hazel eyes were filled with an intense knowing look, and she watched as he again knocked his knuckles against the table: tap, taptap, tap.

With the fifth repetition of the pattern in her ears, a haze she hadn’t know was clouding her mind dissipated like coastal fog assaulted by sunlight, and a flood of memories poured forth, staggering her. Bracing herself against the dirt wall Sasha closed her eyes while her mind and body were filled. Knowledge, training and purpose poured into her every cell like a tidal pool fills with water; not gentle and easy, but with rushing swells, dangerous currents and swirling waves.

It was a full 20 minutes before Sasha felt like she could stand up again, her legs shaky and after a few deep breaths she again looked up through the knothole into now familiar hazel eyes: Kyle, her partner, mentor and lover. They had gone undercover together three years prior, him as a member of the terrorist splinter cell they were working to destroy, and her as a sleeper agent meant to confuse and frustrate them once captured. They were allowed to find small clues that led the them directly to her, but unbeknownst to them Sasha, when activated, was deadly and efficient.

With a fast and subtle movement Kyle bent over and dropped something through the floor, a rusted steel awl landing point down in the dirt. A slow smile spread across Sasha’s face as her muscle memory kicked in, her long fingers wrapping around the wooden handle just as Kyle suggested to Marco, the leader, that they interrogate the prisoner again.

Sasha sat down on the floor to wait, her back to the wall opposite where the trap door would open and the wooden stairs would be lowered, the awl hidden within her folded arms. The trap door opened and the watery light of dawn cascaded down the rickety steps that were lowered into the pit just before a pair of booted feet descended.

Dark eyes found her and without hesitation he made his way across the pit, grabbing her roughly by the arms and hauling her to her feet. In one swift motion Sasha drove the dull point of the awl into the corner of his eye and into his brain, dropping him wordlessly. Drawing the pistol from his holster she sat his body up and crouched behind it, waiting for someone to check on him.

His friends called to him and when no reply came, two of them ventured down the wooden stairs. Sasha didn’t understand what they were shouting in their foreign tongue when they took in the scene, she didn’t need to. Almost as if on auto pilot she used the dead body as a shield when the two men opened fire on her, shooting back until her borrowed gun clicked empty. Diving to the side she somersaulted and rolled to her feet, running at her captors and slitting one throat with the awl while redirecting the dying man’s gun and shooting his partner in the chest with it.

Both bodies dropped, wet gurgling sounds emanating from them as they tumbled down the stairs to bleed into the dirt. Creeping up the stairs Sasha’s blue eyes scanned the room, finding only bodies at Kyle’s feet, the long blade in his hand thick with blood.

Sasha reached up and took Kyle’s hand as he helped her from her prison, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him hard on the mouth; she felt their three years of waiting melt away, replaced by their immediate wanting of each other.

One Bullet Left

2010-06-09T16:17:00.000-07:00

I crouched down behind a fallen tree, letting the thick branches shield me from the view of the searching soldiers. My right shoulder burned from the wound I’d received during my escape, the kiss of a 45 caliber round gaping like a mouth and still bleeding steadily despite my makeshift bandage. On the bright side, at least I hadn’t been showered with the same kind of affection in a more vital area.

My fingers were sticky with blood, which would have made clutching the 9mm I had stolen easier if it weren’t for the numbness that kept me from feeling the gun’s weight. Peeking through the tree’s branches I watched as the line of fanned out soldiers made their way through the underbrush, spread ten yards apart and scanning slowly and carefully.

Slipping back into the gradually thickening forest I picked my way around boulders, fallen trees and gullies, careful to employ all the evasive techniques I’d learned over my years as an assassin. This particular job had become a worst-case-scenario in every sense; being captured and tortured, but I had managed to escape and that is what I focused on.

Happening upon a small stream I walked through it, hoping to mask my scent in case they decided to set dogs after me. My mind whirled as I moved, trying to puzzle out how I was discovered, it had happened so quickly that I couldn’t help but think they knew my plan and knew exactly where I would be; someone had given me up, there was no other explanation. Only one person came to mind when I thought about who wanted me dead, and who had the resources to know every detail of the job: Victor.

Victor had been hounding me since I joined The Agency, always making passes, innuendos and even grabbing at my ass once or twice, which inevitably resulted in his arm bring broken; he was now very clear about my intensions where he was concerned. He was also the Agency’s chief tactician, he was the one who planned this job and I was willing to bet he was the one who set me up.

Putting the woods behind me I spent the next four hours making my way back to The Agency, and the closer I got to my goal the more furious I became; astounded and appalled that someone would let a refused proposition move them to murder. As I approached the non-descript entrance I was met with gunfire and I dove for cover behind the nearest car.

Again my skills kicked in and I made my way toward the door one body at a time, dropping nearly a dozen operatives before reaching the entrance. Marching down the long hallway, my laser-like gaze found Victor and I zeroed in on him, annoyed that he didn’t look more afraid to see me.

“Why?” I asked as I approached him, my gun raised, and all activity in the Com Room stopped, dozens of pairs of eyes locking on Victor and me.

He had the audacity to look condescending, arching one eyebrow at me and folding his arms as he perched on the edge of a desk. “You seem to be under the impression that you are indispensible,” he said evenly, “And you also seem to be under the impression you have control over what you do and don’t do.”

“You are not the messiah of The Agency, and I will not allow you to put my life at risk because of your bruised ego!” I dug into my pocket and withdrew a disc, flashing the shiny silver plastic at him, “And in case you have any notion of denying that you set me up, here is a recording of your call to Black Curtain giving them every detail of my mission.”

He had the good grace to go pale, his light blue eyes shifting nervously to the disc before coming back to lock with my own angry green stare.

“You won’t kill me, you can’t, there are no more bullets left in that gun. A 9mm holds ten rounds and you dropped ten men to get in here.”

I smiled at him, a most unpleasant smile and he shrank back involuntarily. “You’ve been out of the field too long, Victor. This is a Glock G19, it holds 15 rounds, there is more than one bullet left here for you.” And without hesitating I shot two rounds; head and heart.

You Can Never Be Too Rich, Too Handsome Or Too Well Armed

2010-06-04T16:39:00.001-07:00

Lolita sat idly twirling a thick lock of hair around her fingers, the silken black strands contrasting with the creamy white of her skin. Her long stocking clad legs were propped up on the desk top, crossed at the ankle with elegant black heels masking the bright red of her freshly pedicured toenails.

Her milky décolleté swelled dangerously above the black satin corset that was laced up the back with cherry red ribbon, mirroring the red lacing on the sides of the matching panties and the red of her lipstick.

Jonathan walked through the arched door way, loosening his tie and frowning to himself as he walked, his hard soled shoes clomping against the hardwood floor until being muted by the thick area rug. His low mutters of frustration came to an abrupt halt when he looked up and his sky blue eyes landed on the woman occupying his leather office chair, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Bad day at the office?” Lolita asked, her voice a sultry purr.

Jonathan felt paralyzed as he fought to change mental gears from the horrendous challenges of the day to the supple flesh of his wife. She was a feast for his senses, both soothing and enflaming him simultaneously, and as a slow smile spread across his face he made his way toward her.

Rounding the end of his desk Jonathan dropped his suit coat over the back of a side chair before slowly approaching her. He touched her ankles, wrapping his long fingers around them and lifting them off the desk as he sank to his knees in front of her. Setting her feet on the floor he slid his hands over the curve of her calves, across the backs of her knees and up her thighs before clutching her hips and pulling her against him.

Lolita wrapped her arms around Jonathan’s broad shoulders and pressed herself against him, locking her legs around his hips as she claimed his mouth. He smelled of vanilla and honey, and tasted of sunshine and rain, an intoxicating blend that never ceased to assault and overwhelm her, leaving her ready to do anything he asked.

Jonathan lifted her up, his arms locked around her and his mouth never stopping its ravenous journey along her neck, across her chest and over her shoulders as he carried her to the large rug before the marble fireplace. They both knelt on the thick carpet and Jonathan pulled at the corset laces that were preventing him from touching more of her skin, his fingers impatient.

Gunfire erupted from the hall and they both spun, diving for cover and Jonathan pulled his 9mm from his belt holster. Moving from cover to cover in a crouch, Jonathan made his way toward the doorway, his eyes scanning for the source of the disruption. Catching movement to his left he dove through the door and somersaulted across the hall, coming up behind a wide table that served as cover.

Lolita rose to her feet and walked across the room, stepping into the hallway and gaining the attention of the intruder. She sauntered toward him, her hips swaying enticingly and the man’s eyes were drawn down to the swell of her breasts, giving her the time she needed to get close to him.

With the speed of a snake she struck, the heel of her hand connecting with his chest with enough force to rupture his heart, and she stared wordlessly as she watched him drop to the floor, bleeding from the ears, nose and eyes.

Jonathan’s eyes watched her as he holstered his gun, watching warily as Lolita walked toward him like a predator.

“Any idea who that was?” she asked as he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her abruptly against his chest.

“Yeah, that’s the man who has been trying to take over the family business. He was pretty insistent I sell, threatened to kill you if I didn’t.”

Lolita smiled at him as she slowly began unbuttoning his shirt, dragging her nails across his skin. Jonathan captured her wrists and held her arms out to the sides, his gaze intensely admiring them, “You know the saying don’t you?” he asked, turning her and pressing her back to the wall with his own body weight, “You can never be too rich, too handsome or too well armed, and you my dear are a triple threat.”

He slipped his hands under the edge of her panties, touching her lightly and smiling when she gripped his hand and pressed it firmly against her heat. “Now,” he whispered, “Where were we?”

Pity is Tasty

2010-05-21T13:42:00.001-07:00

In a million years I’d never have imagined myself having a conversation like this; it was so cliché. I had gone to the museum to sketch, like I did almost every Tuesday afternoon, my senses working together to transfer strangers to paper. In a setting like this I was forced to work fast, having no time to plan the image or nit pick the results, I didn’t have much time before the subject moved on, unaware.

Different things intrigued me about each person, and I tried to capture the facet that shined the brightest, letting my eyes convey them to my brain which then spoke to my hands and the image flowed out of the charcoal I held between my smudged fingers. Aged hands clutching a cane, the smiling face of a toddler, the gentle slope of an elegant neck or captivating eyes; all these things filled the pages of my sketchbook and I felt honored that I was able to take the best of these people home.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

The voice startled me and I jumped, my blue eyes wide as I looked up at the tall man standing beside my chair. He was not the kind of man I would have expected to talk to me: olive skin, high cheekbones, thick waves of dark hair and honeyed chocolate brown eyes; he was beautiful. I, on the other hand, was quite plain which is how I was able to sketch as I did, no one noticed me.

“Yes?” I replied, closing my sketchbook.

He stared into my face and laughed, a warm, rich sound like edible music, “No need to frown, I’m not a Hand That Rocks the Cradle psycho killer.”

“Isn’t that exactly what a psycho killer would say?” I asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

“Touché.” He smiled at me and pulled a chair up to face mine, lowering himself into it and leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees.

His expression grew very serious and he glanced around us before speaking softly, “I’ve seen you here every Tuesday, sketching in your book,” he reached out slowly as though he was afraid to frighten me away, taking my hand and uncurling my dirty fingers. “I watch you watching people and in your eyes I see longing. You see in others what you can’t see in yourself: unique beauty.”

I didn’t know how to react to him, to his touch, his words or his intense attention, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Are you mocking me?” I asked, reclaiming my hand. He smiled at me then; making me even more wary and I moved to stand up, wanting nothing more at that moment than to be as far from this man as possible.

His hands shot out, lightening quick, clutching my thighs and pushing down painfully, effectively pinning me to my seat. His face changed, the warmth in his eyes being smothered by something dark and sinister and my heart pounded painfully in my chest. He leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak but before he could utter a single word he was struck from behind with a baseball bat.

I gasped when his blood sprayed across my face, warm and smelling like a new penny, and I froze in place as he slumped to the floor. Screams broke out around me, one of them my own, as the assailant grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me abruptly to my feet. I stumbled after him, the fingers of my free hand trying to pry his away with no success; I could only follow as he led the way into the stairwell and down.

I finally found my voice and shouted over the echo of our feet on the steel stair treads. “Who the hell are you?!”

“Zeus,” he replied as we ran, and I’d have sworn I heard the sizzle of lightening in his voice. I tried to stop and yank my arm free, only succeeding in causing myself pain and he suddenly spun, pinning me to the wall, his hands gripping my shoulders painfully. “I am Zeus, and I am here to keep Perses from killing you.”

“What?” I was well versed in mythology, and knew that he was claiming to be the ruler of the Gods, claimed to be saving me from the God of Destruction.

“You are the incarnation of Eleos, Goddess of Pity and Compassion, and Perses would like nothing more than to rid the world of you, for without compassion mankind will destroy itself and that would feed his power. You yourself would be a particularly satisfying victory, he thinks pity is tasty.” He leaned in close, his breath warm on my face and his eyes sparking as he caressed his fingertips along my jaw, “Trust me; you must survive.”

Wednesday

2010-04-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

“So you want just the facts, Ma’am?”

I stared at my new partner with annoyed eyes, his obvious glee at making what I was sure he thought was a clever joke only annoying me all the more. Being a detective with a last name like Wednesday made the Dragnet jokes inevitable but no less tiresome and I didn’t even bother sighing.

“Yes, Jensen, that’s what I want.” I folded my arms across my chest, the straps of my shoulder holster crisscrossing between my shoulder blades pulling comfortingly. He stared at me, his expression suddenly confused and I arched one eyebrow at him, cocking my hips to one side, clearly waiting.

“Ma’am?” he said with a frown.

“Give me your facts,”

His police training finally kicked in and he slipped into the routine rundown of himself: age, height, weight, ranking in his class; I stopped him with one raised hand when he was about to launch into the list of his accolades. Using my full six foot two inches of height to my advantage I stepped toward him, my blue eyes piercing the chocolate brown of his and he actually backed up a step.

For a full minute I simply stared at him, unconcerned with the sudden hush that had fallen over the bull pen behind me and the press of dozens of gazes against my back. When I finally spoke I kept my voice a whisper, “I hate Dragnet.”

Laughter erupted from the bull pen and Jensen looked confused for a moment when I smirked at him, giving him a wink and a playful slap on the cheek. Turning on my heel I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, smiling as Jensen was ribbed and teased as he hurried after me.

I slipped behind the wheel of my red ’69 Camaro and brought the 396 cubic inch motor to life with a growl that never ceased to make me smile. Jensen paused in his stride and simply stared for a moment, looking the car over from bumper to bumper the way he might check out a leggy blond. Taking up his post in the passenger seat he gave me a sideways look, his question clear on his face.

With a shrug I said, “I can’t stand police cars, that’s why I went for Detective, I wanted to drive my own car.”

“Not very subtle,” he replied, buckling his seatbelt as I pulled out into traffic.

“I’m not a subtle woman.”

As we drew closer to our destination our conversation dwindled, both of us focusing on the crime scene we were about to see. The little bit of information that had been called into the station was enough to already bother me; the city’s resident serial killer had struck again.

The scenery didn’t surprise me as I drove down the access tunnel and emerged into the concrete valley of the nearly empty canal, slaloming my way between piles of junk and debris until I reached the line of yellow police tape.

“We’ll have to ford the canal,” Jensen said and I looked over at him.

“Ford? Who talks like that?” I asked rhetorically, killing the motor and climbing out, wading my way toward the scene both knowing and afraid of what I’d see.

“Detective Wednesday,” the men standing near the body said in unison with synchronized nods.

“Jones, Maddock,” I replied, nodding back at them both. “Anything different about this one?”

“Not that we can see, just more of the same.” Maddock replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Jensen followed me silently as I approached the victim and once glance at his pale face told me he’d never seen a dead body before, terrific. “If you’re going to throw up do it down stream.” I said matter-of-factly as I crouched down and stared into lifeless blue eyes.

The woman was tall, at least six foot, red hair and wrapped in what always reminded me of a burlap toga. The slowly moving water eddied around her, spinning in little whirlpools before continuing on their way.

“She… she looks like… you,” Jensen’s voice was steady despite his peaked face and I glanced over my shoulder at him before turning my attention back to the dead woman.

“Yes she does, they all do.” Rising to my feet I scrubbed my hands over my face, impatiently pushing my hair out of my eyes. “His letters say they are impersonating a Goddess and must die for their blasphemy.”

“So he sees you as the Goddess?”

I couldn’t help but sigh; I wasn’t good at being the focus of adoration in the best of situations, but this was sick. There was always a letter on the body, neatly folded and tucked inside the chest cavity where the heart once was. With a deep breath I pulled gloves from my pocket and knelt beside the body as I pulled them on. Pushing the burlap aside I exposed the open wound between her breasts, dipping my fingers into her chest and extracting the neatly folded, plastic wrapped note.

Taking it from the baggie, I stared down at the now familiar handwriting: I see you.

The gunshot echoed off the concrete walls of the canal, the sound more painful to my ears than the bullet itself was to my shoulder. With practiced focus I detached myself from the burning heat of the wound and shifted my gaze, scanning the area. My eyes locked on the gunman, this was the first time he’d shown himself and without hesitation I drew my weapon and fired.

I felt nothing as I watched his body drop and roll down the sloped wall of the canal, an evil rag doll landing gracelessly with a splash in the filthy water; he should have realized I was a Goddess who could kill.

Herald Of The Zombie Prince

2010-03-31T12:44:00.001-07:00

My eyes fluttered open but I found myself still covered in darkness. I blinked several times to clear my vision but not a single pin-prick of light found its way to my retinas, but of course for all I knew the beating I’d taken over the past few days could have caused some ocular damage.

The chair under me was bare steel, cold and hard, but still a welcome break from hanging from a chain by my wrists as I had since being brought to this place. My body ached from the myriad of tortures they had visited upon me in an attempt to get the information they wanted, yet I hadn’t broken and I attributed that to my years of training.

The skin across my stomach was red, blistered and burnt from electrocution, the tips of three fingers were crusted in blood where my nails had been, and the simple act of breathing made me acutely aware of at least two broken ribs. They wanted that information badly.

I heard a door open somewhere, the metal hinges grinding just before the sound of boots echoed through the air. Less than a minute later the door to my cell opened and the sudden flood of light stabbed at my eyes, making them water and giving me an instant headache.

Fluorescent lights flickered on around me, giving off their watery glow and casting deep shadows into the corners of the room. When opening my eyes seemed like something I could do without dying I lifted my lids, letting myself acclimate slowly before fully opening my eyes.

Before me stood the most unassuming man I’d ever seen. No taller than five foot eight, average build leaning toward plump and thinning, non-descript brown hair that was cut short but shaggy. His face held not a single remarkable feature, and I knew this is what made him efficient; five minutes after seeing him most people wouldn’t be able to recall what he looked like.

“Good morning, Simone.” His voice was just as forgettable as the rest of him, but I was surprised he knew who I was since I hadn’t even given up my name to my captors. He stepped toward me, his stride slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets, stopping when the tips of this polished shoes bumped my bare toes.

He spent a full minute staring at me, his brown eyes narrowing periodically as he cocked his head from one side to the other as though trying to puzzle something out. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re the herald of the zombie prince Jesus.” My voice was raw from screaming, and having to speak made me want to whimper like a wet kitten.

His smile was humorless, bordering on sinister, and I actually had the wherewithal to be afraid. The lackeys who had beaten me over the last few days didn’t instill the kind of fear in me that this man did, and I knew that I either had to escape or he would kill me.

“I can’t quite figure you out, Simone,” he said, rocking from the balls of his feet to the heel and back again. “It’s almost as though you enjoy the pain when all you have to do is tell me what I want to know. Easy peasy, right?” I remained quiet, which brought a frown to his face. “Very well, have it your way.”

The next day and a half pit my will against his, and in the wake of a new level of pain there were many times I was hair’s breadth from telling him what he wanted to know just to bring the agony to an end. I slipped in and out of consciousness, welcoming the spells of utter blackness where I felt nothing, and wondering if this would be the one from which I wouldn’t wake.

When I woke it took me several moments to process the fact that I was no longer in that dark cell, no longer cold. I was still in pain, but it was muted, the edge dulled by medication that was being fed to me through a tube. I moved my head slowly, taking in the white walls, white sheets, white floor and white lights, slowly recognizing the sector medical facilities and feeling a sense of relief I hadn’t expected I would ever feel again.

Glancing to my right I stared at the sleeping form of my partner where he slouched in a chair at my bedside, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his chest. His sandy hair was unkempt, and his clothes looked like he’d been wearing them for a week; I would have smiled if I knew it wouldn’t hurt.

“Darren?” My voice was less than a whisper, but it was enough to snap him upright in his chair, his hazel eyes darting around the room before coming to rest on me. He scooted the chair closer and gently took my hand, being careful of the needles and tubes plugged into it.

“Simone.” He said my name like an answered prayer.

“How long….”

“Three days,” he answered, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “I thought I might lose you.”

“It’ll take… more than…. torture… “

Darren laughed, shushing me. We stared at each other for several minutes, and in my eyes he read my question. “We got the information we needed. Sheridon is still alive, but he’s being held only until you’re well, then he’s yours to do with as you please.”

I shook my head slowly and Darren frowned at me. “Kill him. I won’t…. be… like him.”

It was his turn to shake his head, smiling softly at me. “As you wish, I’ll gladly mete out his punishment, and he’ll pay for almost taking you from me.”

Agitated Garden Gnome

2010-03-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

I’d wandered through the forest in search of Wiley for three days. He had disappeared inexplicably and my baby sister had thrown a fit, waking the whole clan with her tantrum, and my mother begged me to look for him. So here I was, tromping through part of the woods I knew belonged to another clan, my feet cold and wet and my tummy growling for food.

With an exasperated sigh I sat down on a fallen log and pulled a strip of venison jerky from my pack, gnawing at it and savoring its savory flavor. Wiley had only ever been trouble from the moment he showed up, always getting into places he didn’t belong, eating things he shouldn’t be eating and causing enough mischief to give our leader a perpetual headache.

He had only been allowed to stay because my sister adored him, and from the time she was born we were all told she was fated to deliver our people from our forced nomad lifestyle so she got what she wanted. Unfortunately, all the doting had turned her into a spoiled brat, and I was counting the days until I turned 21 and was free to leave the clan.

I was tired of wandering, hoping the place we settled wasn’t owned by people who were afraid of us or felt threatened to the point of chasing us off at sword point. I wanted to live in a real house, eat at a real table and sleep in a real bed. I’d only been in a regular bed once, just over a year before with the daughter of a landowner who didn’t mind us camping on his property.

That single spontaneous night was spent entangled in Anne’s willowy limbs. The feel of her skin against mine, softer than the silk of her sheets, made me hate my own bed roll and it pained me to leave her when the sky blushed pink. She had laced her fingers into my hair and kissed me, hard and bruising, making me swear I would return; it was a promise I made willingly.

And now here I sat, more than a year later, searching for a mangy fox to pacify my spoiled sister when I wanted nothing more than to wrap myself in Anne’s warmth and passion. With a sigh I rose to my feet, brushing leaves and dirt from the seat of my breeches as I set out again, following the faint signs Wiley had left behind.

The sound of yelling floated through the air, a high pitched voice speaking so rapidly I couldn’t clearly make out any one word. Following the sound I emerged into a small clearing and stared wide-eyes at the small agitated garden gnome who was fending Wiley off with a stick.

“Hello?” I said, drawing the gnome’s attention as well as the fox’s. Wiley turned, and recognizing me he bounded through the grass to lay at my feet, rolling onto his back in the hopes of some tummy rubs. Bending down I scooped him up, looping a rope around his neck to ensure he wouldn’t get away again, all the while the gnome watched me with angry black eyes.

“Thatbeasttriedtoeatmyfaceoff!!!” he screeched, his rapid speech making a single word out of many, and I fought back the urge to laugh.

“My apologies, good sir,” I said, bending at the waist and bowing to the tiny man. “This creature belongs to Aurora, destined savior of the Wanderers. I’ve been hunting him three days now and I thank you for your help in capturing him.”

“Justgoanddon’tcomeback!” the little man shouted, turning on his heel and disappearing into the undergrowth, still cursing about Wiley all the while.

I made the trek home in a day, not having to take the time to look for signs, clues or trails to track the sly red fox, and I emerged into camp to a cacophony of noise. Greetings and cheers rose up around me as I walked past lean-tos and sleeping pallets, making my way to my family tent.

My mother and sister emerged and looked around, clearly trying to figure out what all the ruckus was, and spotting me my sister ran toward me and pulled the red fox from my arms. I didn’t get so much as a thank you from her or a welcome home from my mother, and the lack of such a simple nicety pushed me over the edge I hadn’t known I was at.

“Mother, I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.” My voice was very matter-of-fact and the look on her face told me she didn’t believe me; her look changed however when I turned and headed back out of camp.

No one tried to stop me, I suspected they all thought I was bluffing and would be back when I ran out of food or the weather got bad. What they didn’t know was that I was dead serious, only this time what I was tracking had long ebony hair, emerald eyes and slept on sheets of silk with arms open and waiting for me.

Fool's Journey

2010-03-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

We are all of us fools, paupers and princes alike. I’d forgotten where I’d heard this, but with this phrase making endless circles through my mind I waited patiently for the airplane to touch down in Rome. I was the fool, more the fool for letting myself get lost in another person’s identity, thoroughly losing my own in the process.

Samuel was a force to be reckoned with, his personality so overpowering it was all but impossible not to feel like clover in the shadow of an oak, and I had allowed myself to cushion his feet for six years. Sometimes he stepped lightly, like butterfly kisses across my cheek. Sometimes he stepped hard, fists and stone words bruising me inside and out.

I had managed to toss a few things into a single suitcase after he’d left for work: clothes, toiletries, a handful of photos, everything else was left behind. I felt like a coward, slinking out of my own home as though I had no right to expect better treatment, and yet the moment the door had clicked shut behind me I felt like I could finally breathe.

I didn’t think Samuel would miss me, and I was fairly sure he would quickly find a replacement on which to inflict himself, but I couldn’t think about that poor woman’s fate; I couldn’t save them all. I was focused singularly on rediscovering who I was, so much so that I hadn’t even noticed our descent until the tires hit the tarmac.

To choose a destination I had quite literally spun the globe on my way out of the house, closed my eyes and jammed my finger against it, bringing the textured sphere to an abrupt halt. Under my finger was Italy, and without a second thought I made that my destination, determined to create a new life for myself.

It was hard at first; learning the language and learning the city, but learning to live was the hardest part. It was months before I stopped jumping at every raised male voice I heard, and even longer before I could bring myself to go on a date.

Italian men were much as the stereotype described: they talked with their hands, thought very highly of themselves and assumed that every woman wanted them. But, as with all stereotypes there were many things that outshined the small percentage of common perceptions, and I eventually found myself hopelessly in love with a passionate, kind and gentle man.

Mario’s hands talked all right, they talked to my body with feathery touches. He thought highly of himself, but wasn’t arrogant. He did think every woman wanted him, but that was fine with me because to him I was every woman. I was amazed on a daily basis that it was possible to be so happy.

The day I opened the door expecting the pizza delivery man and instead found myself staring into Samuel’s face instead was the day I experience real fear for the first time. In all the years I’d spent being abused, I’d never experienced true terror because it was only me that was in danger; now there was another target.

“Briana.” Samuel’s voice was absolutely even, no rise or fall in the tone, and I knew from experience that he was at his scariest and most dangerous when he used that voice.

“Samuel,” I replied, absolutely certain he could hear my heart hammering against my sternum. “What are you doing here?” I mustered every ounce of will I had and stayed in the doorway, blocking his entry as best as I could.

“Is that question even necessary?” he asked in the same even tone, his pale blue eyes boring into my brown ones.

“I thought you’d have just moved on,” I said, “Found someone else.”

Before he could reply Mario’s voice drifted from the back of the house, asking in Italian what was keeping me, and panic was plain on my face. Samuel moved as though to come inside and I stepped into his path, leaving one sweaty palm on the doorknob and laying the other on the doorframe.

“You need to go,” I said quietly, “There is nothing for you here now.”

Samuel’s blue eyes narrowed on me, and it felt like he was looking for a chink in my armor through which he could hurt me, and I lifted my chin a notch, hoping the apparent defiance would prove to be a successful bluff.

“What’s going on, love?” Mario asked, appearing behind me and laying his hands gently on my shoulders.

I could feel the press of him at my back and was both relieved to have him there, and terrified Samuel would hurt him. Before I could reply; however, Samuel spoke, a polite smile splitting his face.

“I seem to have the wrong house.” He shifted his eyes to lock with mine. “The person I was looking for isn’t here anymore.” With a small nod he turned on his heel and made his way down the walk, passing the pizza delivery man on his way.

Mario paid for our dinner and carried the box into the kitchen, pulling me along behind by the hand. As he busied himself with getting plates and pouring wine I stood and fought to keep from trembling, very aware how close this fool’s journey had come to ending.

Old Glory

2010-03-24T12:58:00.000-07:00

I pulled into the parking lot of my old high school, nosing my car between painted lines and killing the motor. I sat in the quiet interior for several minutes without moving, just staring at the campus before me, and when I finally climbed out and my feet hit the asphalt a flood of memories washed over me. I paused and took several deep breaths before making my way up the main path.

The school was made up of separate hexagon shaped buildings, the cedar shingles black with age and I was overwhelmed at the vivid images that raced through my mind as I walked. There were the stairs where me and my one friend ate lunch every day, there was my senior locker, and there was the pay phone from which I’d call the office posing as my mom to excuse my sister when she ditched.

There wasn’t much that had changed in the 20 years since I’d graduated, and pausing by the office door I looked up at Old Glory flying overhead, feeling sorry that it was fated to be in high school forever. I walked the entirety of the campus, reliving so many memories both good and bad that by the time I climbed back into my car I was emotionally exhausted.

I drove back to my friend Wes’ house and flopped down onto the sofa with a sigh. Wordlessly he appeared and offered me a beer, taking his and sitting down beside me, an inquisitive yet knowing smile on his face.

“So, how was it?” he asked, taking a swig of Corona from the bottle.

I sighed and took a drink of my own beer, turning in my seat to face him, staring intently into his brown eyes. He was one of my wisest friends, and I relied on his insight and intuition to keep things in perspective lest my crazy imagination get the better of me.

“It was the same, and yet vastly different,” I finally answered. “Why did everything then seem so earth shattering when it was really unimportant? And why do the things we eventually recognize as stupid continue to impact us even all these years later?” It was an earnest question, I really wanted to know and my plea for an explanation was plain on my face.

He smiled slyly and shrugged one shoulder before taking another drink. “At that age there’s no perspective; few people have experienced at 17 what they have experienced at 40. It only continues to impact us if we let it, but it takes work to slough off those scars.”

I took another swallow of my beer and dropped my head back against the cushions, closing my eyes and trying to imagine what the evening would be like. It was my 20 year reunion and the idea of seeing people who had either ignored me, or who had been downright mean, was enough to tie my stomach into knots. Wes had agreed to go along as my date even though he graduated the year after me, but it was a small town and he knew everyone from my class.

“Come on, get up,” he said, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to me, “It’s time to start getting ready.”

I took his hand, letting him haul me to my feet and push me toward the bathroom to shower. As the water poured over me my mind wandered in every crazy paranoid direction it could find, refusing to see that we were all adults now and no one was going to throw gum in my hair again.

As I slipped into the new dress I’d bought just for the occasion I sipped at my beer in an attempt to calm my racing heart. Make-up applied, jewelry carefully selected and hair done I emerged with a deep breath. Wes was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets with one foot crossed over the other, looking stunningly handsome in his tux. My movement caught his attention and he turned his attention to me, a smile spreading slowly across his face, and I felt like I was finally going to prom.

“You look very handsome,” I said, my heels clicking on the wood floor as I crossed the living room to throw my beer bottle away.

“As do you,” he replied, taking my hands and holding my arms out to the sides to boldly get a better look at me. “You ready?” he asked, pressing a kiss on the back of each hand.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered, taking a deep breath.

We walked out to his car and made our way to the Tanaya Lodge where my classmates were waiting, and as I climbed out of the car I braced myself in the face of learning if high school ever really ends.

Compass Rose

2010-03-23T23:24:00.001-07:00

She was barely tall enough to see over the railing, having to stand on piles of coiled rope to get a glimpse of the sea. Her hair was bound at the base of her neck with a satin ribbon, the long strawberry blonde curls bouncing with each touch of wind, and the heavy layers of her pink dress billowed around her legs.

The sound of the Captain’s door opening drew her attention and she eagerly hopped to the deck, her hard soled shoes clip-clopping across the planks as she ran toward the bridge deck where Captain Harris unrolled his maps, gathering her skirts and trotting up the stairs. Captain Harris saw her coming and smiled, stepping to the side to make room for her, lifting her onto a box so she could see the maps.

Staring with wide blue eyes, she watched as Captain Harris pulled a small, round brass object from his pocket, opening its lid and peering at the bobbing needle within.

“What’s that?” she asked, excitement plain in her songbird voice.

“It’s a compass, Rose.” He answered, lowering it so she could see it more clearly. “That needle inside always points north, so no matter where we are we can always find our way home.” It had been strange at first having a child on the ship, let alone a female one, and it had taken some smooth talking to get the crew to accept her and not think of her as bad luck. But now, three weeks into their journey, he had become quite fond of the little girl.

Rose was betrothed to a foreign Duke who was at least twenty years her senior. The arrangement, while none of the Captain’s business, set his dander up. What kind of parent was so eager to be rid of their child as to send them off to be married before the blush of womanhood was upon her?

Captain Harris sat the compass on Rose’s small palm, watching her eyes light up as the needle bounced and danced under the crystal, and she looked excitedly from the compass to the Captain’s face and back again. He couldn’t help but smile at her unabashed enthusiasm.

Shouting erupted from the crow’s nest and everyone looked up to find the crewman posted pointing to port and shouting pirates. Chaos engulfed the ship, men running to and fro to prepare for a possible battle.

“Hold onto that, little one,” Captain Harris said, scooping Rose up and running down the stairs, ducking into his own cabin and depositing her behind his desk. “Stay here,” he said as he made his way toward the door, “And don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

Rose crawled under the desk and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs and squeezing the compass tight. The sounds of yelling, gunfire and tromping boots overhead created a cacophony of noise that made her head hurt, but slowly the noise eased until only the creak of the hull filled the air.

Trepidatiously Rose crawled from beneath the desk, climbing to her feet and walking to the door. Grasping the brass handle she turned it and pulled the heavy wooden door open, letting out a startled scream when she was roughly grabbed and hauled onto the main deck before being dropped unceremoniously at the feet of a stranger. Opening her hands to break her fall, the compass hit the deck and rolled, stopping when it met the black leather of the stranger’s boots.

Rose looked up into the deeply lined face of who she could only assume was the pirate captain. He wore a red scarf on his head that matched the sash at his waist, gold embroidered breeches and tunic hung on his thin frame as though made for someone else, which they undoubtedly had been.

Reaching out to reclaim the compass, the pirate Captain bent down and snatched it away from her, laughing when she glared up at him. Climbing to her feet Rose seethed at him, oblivious to the sea of pirates surrounding her and the ship’s crew.

“Give that back,” Rose ordered, her tiny hands fisted at her sides. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

The Pirate Captain laughed, “You hear that boys, it doesn’t belong to me.” His mocking tone made Rose’s blood feel like fire in her veins. He bent down to be at eye level with her, his breath rank with whiskey and rot, “But that’s never mattered much to me.”

A smile spread across Rose’s face, slow and sinister, and it was enough to back the Pirate Captain up a step. The calm wind that had been steadily blowing picked up, but only on the deck where they stood, the ocean swells remained small and didn’t break. Rose slowly opened her arms wide, her little fingers flexed straight out and palms up, seeming to will the wind into action.

The Pirate Captain shouted an order to one of his crew, pointing at Rose as he spoke, his words lost to the wind. With a nod the crewman drew his sword and pushed his way through the wind, his menacing snarl paling in comparison to Rose’s and with one quick motion of her hand the blade of his sword curled up like burned parchment.

Captain Harris watched wide eyed as Rose fended off every armed man who tried to cut her down, their weapons twisting, torquing and melting at her command. It only took a few minutes before the men fled back to their own ship, and as their Captain stated to move Rose stopped him with a look, holding her small hand out to him.

As though approaching an unpredictable animal he stretched his arm out as long as it would go and gently sat the compass in her hand, backing away as Rose curled her fingers around it. The pirates scrambled away, severed the ropes that bound the two ships together and made a hasty departure.

As their ship made its way toward the horizon, Rose turned to Captain Harris and smiled sweetly, holding the compass out to him, “Now we can get home.”

It's a Beautiful Day If You're A Duck

2010-03-22T16:57:00.000-07:00

The restaurant was dimly lit with ivory candles glowing warmly from within glass hurricane shades etched with twisting vines. Tables and chairs of dark glossy wood were generously spaced throughout the elegant room, thick navy blue carpet flowed underfoot and heavy burgundy drapes billowed around the wide windows like rich picture frames.

The food was divine; the wine, perfect. My macadamia nut crusted chicken had been paired with a mango passion-fruit jam that made the flavors sing. A sweet white wine complimented the taste and my palate had never been happier. The passion-fruit infused cream brulee was light and creamy and was my idea of heaven.

Across from me sat Alistair, his close cropped hair the color of honey and his laughing eyes like whiskey. His suit was clearly made just for him, tailored to his broad frame and the dark gray fabric was as soft as a baby’s cheek to the touch. When he had picked me up for dinner I had felt very aware of my off the rack dress, but he smoothly diverted my focus by brushing his lips across the backs of my fingers and telling me how beautiful I looked.

When we finished our meal we rose and made our way through the sea of quiet conversations and out through the heavy brass and glass doors. Standing under the dark green awning we stared at the rain that was drenching the city, a spring storm the weatherman didn’t see coming as of the six o'clock news.

“Shall we walk?” Alistair asked, a wide smile making his eyes sparkle with mischief. “My apartment isn’t far if you’d like a nightcap.”

“Walk? In this?” I asked, raising my brows at him.

“What, it’s a beautiful day.”

“Sure, it’s a beautiful day… if you’re a duck,” I replied with my own smile and he laughed, rich and warm.

Holding his arm out to me I slipped mine past his bent elbow, and together we struck out, stepping from beneath the shelter of the awning. We talked as we walked, nature’s wet kisses like pearls on our cheeks, warm and delightful and occasionally we would both spontaneously laugh up into the sky.

By the time we reached his door we were soaked to the bone and laughing almost uncontrollably. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers wet and the metal slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor with a jangle. He bent down to pick them up and his laughter suddenly ebbed as he stared at my legs, tentatively reaching out to caress the curve of one calf, and his touch slammed the brakes on my own laughter.

Alistair rose slowly, trailing his fingers up the outside of my leg, his gaze firmly focused on what he was doing. He lifted his eyes and stared at me, moving slowly as he stepped toward me, and the intensity of his gaze made my heart rate double. He gently pressed himself against me, pinning me to the door, his lips hovering only a whisper away from mine as he fumbled with his keys. He smelled of warm pears and vanilla, clean and edible, and the click of the deadbolt brought our lips together in a light exploratory kiss.

As the door swung away from my back his arms replaced it, wrapping around me before walking me slowly backward into the apartment and I pushed the door shut once we were inside. Our motions were slow, deliberate and focused, every moment a new discovery.

I pushed the heavy suit jacket off his broad shoulders, the expensive material hitting the hardwood floor with a wet splat. His white dress shirt clung to him, translucent where it touched his skin and I gave into the urge to descend on one nipple, the starched cotton rubbing between my tongue and his skin and a low moan escaped him.

He took his turn, unzipping my dress and peeling it away, revealing my bare breasts, and I stood unabashedly before him in nothing but my panties and heels. The rise and fall of his chest moved me back toward him, impatiently pulling his shirt out of the waist of his pants and pulling the shirt tails apart, sending buttons flying. My fingers attacked the button of his slacks, pushing them down to find him bare underneath, eager and waiting.

Alistair lifted me up and I wrapped my legs around him as he carried me to the bedroom, his mouth and tongue anything but idle on the way, tasting and exploring my neck, shoulders and breasts.

His bed was an ocean of silk sheets in which we got lost: drown, died and lived. He covered me with warm kisses, taking me to the moon and back, his caresses soft and delicate and I cried out for more until he slipped inside me. The patience and restraint he’d been exercising vanished once his body was buried deeply in mine, and his movements became frantic, hungry, and he ate at my mouth while pushing himself deeper.

I rose up to meet him, pacing him and driving him on with my own passion, flipping him onto his back and rearing up over him without breaking the rhythm he had set. His long elegant fingers gripped my hips, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

Bending forward I took his face in my hands, “Look at me,” I said before bestowing a bruising kiss on him. “Watch me.”

His gaze didn’t stray, his whiskey colored eyes locked with my hazel ones. His hands roamed, plucking at my nipples and teasing me where we joined as I drove us both to the edge of ecstasy. We hovered on the blissful edge of sexual tension for several spine arching moments before falling headlong into the raging sea of release in a tangle of limbs and pounding hearts.

If a Chicken and a Half

2010-03-05T15:34:00.000-08:00

Isabelle stood over the stove stirring the bubbling brew with her favorite wooden spoon, the long handle worn smooth from her touch. The large cast iron pot radiated heat from all sides, warming her stomach through the soft cotton of her T-shirt.

With one long tapered finger she touched the words on the worn page, the paper dark and stained from years of use; some corners dog-eared to mark a favorite recipe. Isabelle had found the book in a used book store while on vacation in New Orleans, almost lost between Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray’s newest tomes.

The small leather bound book was no larger than the average paperback, and it felt good to the touch, almost warm and the moment Isabelle held it in her hands she knew she had to take it home. Some of the writing inside was smudged beyond legibility, verifying that it was handwritten and not a copy; someone had spent a great deal of time creating it.

Isabelle had brought the book home in her purse, not trusting it to her checked luggage, and was home only one day before she chose a recipe from it’s pages and headed to the grocery to get the ingredients. The resulting roast duck with caramelized carrots and onions in a sweet brandy sauce melted in her mouth and elicited blissful sighs from her with every bite.

It had been two weeks since she had tried that first recipe, savoring each meal in the quiet solitude of her small London flat, pairing it with a wine that complimented it perfectly and following it up with a sweet pastry from the corner café.

Today’s meal was stew with chicken, veggies and cream. The list of herbs for this recipe had been strange, asking for things she’d had to order on-line, and the cooking directions had been very, very specific on the order in which to add the ingredients.

Isabelle had followed the directions perfectly, adding a little extra chicken since she had it, and as she tossed in the last of the herbs, chopped honeysuckle blossoms, a column of blue light erupted from the pot. With a gasp she staggered backward until her hips hit the counter opposite the stove, her topaz colored eyes wide.

The blue light flickered like a strobe, silver smoke and red sparks joining in the visual fray, the brightness increasing in intensity until Isabelle finally had to shield her eyes. She could hear the light, hear it sizzling through the air like lightening, and the sound grew louder and louder until she thought her ear drums would rupture.

As unexpectedly as it began the light and sound stopped and Isabelle staggered from the sudden silence. Blinking into the normal white light of her kitchen she stared wide-eyed at the nude man curled up in the middle of the floor. He had olive skin, warm and brown as though kissed often by the sun, and waves of dark hair crowned his head, the long locks spilling across the gray linoleum like silk.

He groaned, and at the sound Isabelle scurried away, pressing her back against the refrigerator and holding her wooden spoon out to ward the man off as he slowly climbed to his feet. When he stood before her it was all she could do not to let her gaze wander, with such a feast for the senses it was nothing short of a miracle she managed to hold his green stare.

“Who are you?” Isabelle asked, a tremor in her voice.

He smiled at her; white teeth flashing as his rich laugh enveloped her. “You tell me, you made me.”

Isabelle frowned at him, confused, and with another laugh he pointed at the cookbook that lay open on the counter. Moving slowly toward the book she picked it up and scanned the page, stopping when she reached the small, blurry footnote at the bottom: “If a chicken and a half is used, the results will be extra delicious.”

Fusion Powered Hero

2010-02-23T16:02:00.001-08:00

Ember woke slowly, stretching her long limbs out and wiggling her fingers and toes as she gave a mighty yawn. Sitting up in her bed she swung her legs over the side, pushing the cat-tail fluff filled comforter aside as she slid to the floor. With small shuffling steps she made her way to the window, pushing the shutters open and peering out across the vast field of green grass and wildflowers; it was spring in the forest.

With an arched back she unfurled her wings, stretching the bones and forcing the hibernation induced wrinkles and folds from the translucent membrane. Ember’s deep red hair was tousled and matted, the braids she had woven the locks into six months earlier were twisted and hung in fuzzy ropes over her shoulders.

A loud growl emanated from Ember’s stomach, and she pressed her hands against her tummy, scowling in her typical just-woke-up way. Flopping down into her favorite chair, the one she had made herself years before out of pliable twigs, she scooped up her hairbrush and set about the task of untangling her hair.

It was afternoon before she had managed to smooth out her hair, and with one final pass of the burr-bristle brush, she opened her door and stepped into the warm spring sunshine. The air was chaotic, filled with flitting fairies whose jewel-colored wings glowed like drops of magical light, and with the widest of smiles she jumped up and joined them.

After greeting friends and family, Ember darted off, leaving the circle of trees in which they lived in search of her favorite bathing spot, clutching clean clothes to her chest. She heard the river before she saw it, eagerly anticipating washing off the dust the inevitably collects on a person during hibernation.

Cresting the brow of a small hill, the river came into view and she immediately spotted the jutting rock that diverted some of the water into a small fall to splash into a round pool before finding its way back to the main vein of the river. Ember landed on the banks of the pool, draping her clothes over a nearby branch and then merrily stepping under the small falls.

The cold water gave her a sharp jolt! She let it course over her face, splash off her shoulders and run down the curves of her body, sighing blissfully as the dust was rinsed away, leaving her skin feeling clean and new. Climbing up to the top of the falls she perched on a tiny outcropping of rocks, turning her face up to the sun and opening her wings to dry.

Ember wasn’t sure at first that she had heard anything, the river making enough noise to drown out most of the other sounds the forest might be making. There it was again. She sat up straighter and looked around, raising her hand to shield her green eyes. Nothing. She wanted to turn back to the sun, to absorb its warmth and revel in the feel of the golden light, but something in the back of her mind pushed her to leave despite her wings not being dry.

Ember climbed back down, skirting the pool and heading toward where she left her clothes. With a startled scream she fell backward as the hawk, missing its mark, slammed into the ground. She scrambled backward on hands and feet in a very awkward crabwalk, trying to keep out of reach of the hooked bill that continued to snap at her.

Climbing to her feet Ember turned and ran, knowing that birds were cumbersome on land and hoping to find a log to hide in. The forest floor was littered with pine needles, sharp stones and large rocks, all of which proved to be an obstacle of one kind or another. She fought to climb over the rocks, slipped on the needles and cut her feet on the stones, and still she ran, her life depended on it.

The hawk hopped after her, its large black eyes zeroed in on her and the feeling of that focus pushed her forward. Another startled scream escaped her when she was scooped up from behind and lift off the ground, much to the dismay of the hawk which let out a frustrated cry as it took to the air.

Clinging to the arms that encircled her, Ember turned her head to see who was to thank for her timely rescue and her heart flipped in fear when she didn’t recognize the face. The stranger’s powerful wings beat an ebony blur through the air, out maneuvering the bird like her own fusion powered hero, and in only a few short minutes the hawk gave up the chase, rising up and passing beyond the canopy of trees.

The stranger landed on the banks of the small pool, setting Ember down gently on her feet and taking a step back. She stared at him, taking in the glossy black hair that hung over one shoulder, his honey colored eyes and the iridescent sheen that shimmered off the opaque black of his wings. Ember completely forgot she was naked, being completely transfixed by this strange man who had saved her life.

He walked toward her, his bare chest rising and falling as he worked to catch his breath, and she stood frozen to the spot. He reached past her and retrieved her clothes from the branch where she had hung them, handing them to her wordlessly and watching as she dressed slowly, her eyes never leaving his.

“Who are you?” Ember asked, laying one hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her fingers.

“Jasper,” he answered, his voice a whisper. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Four Score and Seven Years Ago

2010-02-19T14:17:00.000-08:00

I was the newest doctor in the county psyche ward. Fresh out of school and low man on the totem pole, this is why I now found myself working with the homeless and nameless. To make my job even better, I was also given the graveyard shift, which guaranteed I wouldn’t have a social life.

I was making my rounds, my white shoes silent as I walked the halls, stopping at each door to peer through the windows at the sleeping patients. They weren’t all still in their sleep, many tossed and turned, talked and yelled or fought against their restraints and I sympathized with them as they fought their demons.

The janitor didn’t hear my approach; he was too busy making faces through one of the door windows at whoever was inside. “Hey coo coo bird,” he said, tucking his hands into his arm pits and flapping from side to side.

“Excuse me.” My voice sounded loud in the quiet hallway, and the janitor jumped and spun to face me. “What are you doing?”

He had the decency to look embarrassed, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to another. “Just talking to Abe here, doctor,” he replied, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the door.

I walked to the door and looked through the window at the man inside. He sat quietly on his bed, his back braced against the wall and his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. His dark hair was shaggy and hung in his eyes, eyes that watched me sharply, unblinking.

“Abe?” I asked, shifting my attention back to the janitor.

“Yeah, that’s what they call him on account of his funny talking. He won’t give his real name, what else they gonna do?”

“Who are ‘they’ and what kind of funny talk?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest and cocking my hips to one side.

“They’s the other doctors,” the janitor explained, wringing his hands, “He talks like Abe Lincoln, like in his speech.”

I frowned at him, “Four score and seven years ago? That speech?”

“Yup, just like that.” The janitor nodded.

“You can carry on with your work now,” I said and he looked more than relieved to be dismissed. “And please don’t taunt the patients any more.”

“Yes ma’am. Never again ma’am.” He took the handle of his cart and hurriedly made his way down the hall.

I lingered at the window, watching as Abe rose from the bed and walked toward the door, his eyes locked on my face. In the brighter light from the hall I saw that his eyes were gold, like warm honey, and in them I saw no insanity, no instability; I saw only a man.

“Who are you?” I asked, despite not expecting an answer.

“Victor,” he answered, his voice vibrating through the mesh enforced glass and I blinked in surprise.

“How old are you?”

“Two and a half score.”

“30?” I was surprised I remembered what a ‘score’ was in terms of time, and Victor looked equally surprised, a tentative smile spreading across his face and I couldn’t help but smile back.

I laid my hand on the glass and he stared at it, clearly suspicious. “You don’t belong here, do you?” He replied by laying his hand against the glass to mirror mine. Without a word I moved away, turning away and heading back up the hall and I could feel the press of his gaze against my back like a hand.

Returning to the nurse’s station I was conveniently ignored by Susan, the tenured nurse who was there to supervise me, but instead went between watching bad late night TV and sleeping. At the moment she was engrossed in a re-run of the Jerry Springer show and was shouting loudly at the screen.

The door to the records room was open so I slipped inside, rifling through the file cabinets until I came up with Victor’s file, labeled ‘Abe, room 342.’ He had been picked up a year before for disturbing the peace. When he was arrested he had been wearing a fine suit and top hat, and the mug shot from the police looked like one of the old fashioned photos you can get at the fair.

When the police weren’t able to identify him they sent him here, claiming he was insane and not safe to be on the streets; he’d been scrutinized by doctor after doctor and all the notes said the same thing: ‘Amnesia and delusions of grandeur.’ I didn’t believe it, there was something in his eyes and I was inexplicably compelled to help him.

I tucked the file into the waist of my pants and pulled my shirt over it before slipping back out into the hallway, grateful there were still people fighting on TV to hold Susan’s attention. Pocketing the master key I quietly made my way back down the hall, glancing up and down its length to make sure no one was watching.

Stepping up to Victor’s window I saw him sitting again on his bed. Surprise flashed across his face and he stood, walking toward me and again laying his hand on the glass. I kept my eyes locked with his as I slipped the key into the lock and turned the bolt, pulling the door open.

“Trust me,” I said quietly, taking him by the hand and leading him down the hall.

Susan was snoring softly and we moved past her and out the doors easily. The butterflies in my stomach were making me sick, and I was hyperaware of every movement and every noise around us as we walked.

We made it out a side entrance of the hospital and into the dark streets without incident, and a block away I stopped, dropping his file into a nearby trash can. “This is all the help I have to offer,” I said, shrugging and feeling helpless. Had I let him out just so he could freeze to death on the streets?

Without a word he reclaimed my hand and walked with purpose, his bare feet navigating the dark city streets with ease. Rounding one final corner he stopped and stared at a blank brick wall, into which was set a single row of stones that formed an arch. I wouldn’t have thought it was anything more then an architectural detail, but Victor looked at it and clearly saw something very different.

“Come with me,” he said, and the confusion must have been clear on my face. He caressed his fingers across my cheek and smiled, “Trust me.” It didn’t occur to me to protest, I simply walked with him toward the wall, and only had a heartbeat to be afraid before I found myself in an elegant garden, a large stone wall at my back into which was set a brick arch.

I stared at the people milling around at what was clearly a party, but it must have been a costume party based on how they were dressed; it had to be, didn’t it? Clinging to Victor’s hand as he walked toward the crowd I whispered to him, “Where are we?”

He smiled at me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders as he replied, “1837.”

Liberty

2010-02-11T16:55:00.000-08:00

I was in love with the way he made me feel, singularly beautiful. I adored the way he smiled, like sunshine bursting from behind clouds. I relished the way he smelled, that purely masculine scent that couldn’t be found in any bottle. I treasured the sound of his voice, the deep tone like a smoothly plucked E string.

As he maneuvered the car out of the city the acrid scent of pollution was replaced, mile by mile, with the almost foreign smell of the countryside. Wide swaths of tall green grass moved in the gentle breeze, swelling and undulating like a land locked emerald ocean. Patches of wildflowers screamed their colors out from the crests of the soft waves, schools of shocking orange poppy fish, deep purple lupine eels and bright scarlet rose coral.

He lowered the top of the car, the black canvas peeling back to expose us to the sun’s warm rays, and I lifted my face to them, letting them pour over me and soak into my skin. I could feel the press of the golden light against my closed eyelids, and I smiled when I felt the caress of his fingers across my cheek.

Turning my head I opened my eyes and watched him, his dark eyes intent on the curves of the road which he deftly negotiated as though he’d traveled this path enough to have it committed to memory.

“So where are we going?” I asked, not for the first time as I brushed a stray lock of my chestnut hair out of my eyes.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he replied, not for the first time, a sly smile quirking his mouth.

I knew better than to press him for more information, he wasn’t going to tell me, so I just tilted my face back up to the sun and was content in the moment. I let myself doze under the coaxing warmth of the sun, letting the chill of the city streets seep from my core and a remarkable calm crept over me.

When I felt the car begin to slow I opened my eyes, my lids heavy with sleep, and as he brought the car to a stop and turned the motor off the sudden press of silence deafened me. A city is never completely quiet, and the sudden onslaught of quiet was unfamiliar and left me feeling almost anxious.

His laugh rose up through the air like a falcon riding a thermal, “Relax,” he said with a wide smile before getting out of the car, “The country won’t hurt you.”

“Uh huh,” I replied as I climbed from the car, my shoes silent on the soft grass. Holding out his hand as he rounded the nose of the car, I slipped my fingers across his palm and his touch calmed my groundless nervousness.

He led me away from the car, the knee high grass tickling my exposed calves and as we crested a low hill my gaze fell on a huge pride of mountain lions and I froze. I glanced sideways at him and spoke at a whisper, “What was it you were saying about the country not killing me?”

Again he laughed, he actually laughed, and it seemed an odd thing to do considering the situation so I looked at him more fully. He stepped in front of me, taking my other hand as a very serious expression replaced his smile.

“You know that saying about something coming out of left field?” he asked, and I could only nod in response, unsure why he wasn’t more concerned about the animals he’d just trusted his back to. “Well, you’re standing in left field now, and here is what’s coming,” he paused as though working up the nerve to continue. “This family you see behind me is my family. I am, in part, like they are.”

My face must have conveyed my confusion because he stepped closer and cupped my face gently in his hands, laying a soft kiss on my lips. “I love you, and I want you always at my side,” again he paused, “I need to show you my other self, the other side of my nature, and I can only hope for your acceptance. If you can accept me, and if you can love both aspects of what I am, know that I can make you like me, you have only to consent.”

I heart was hammering in my chest almost painfully, and the pounding echo through my ears was backed by the sound of my blood racing through my veins. He back away slowly and the pride parted, creating a backdrop of tawny fur and whiskey colored eyes that went between watching him and watching me.

He removed his clothing as he walked, warm sunlight replacing fabric until he stood nude before me, draped in golden light. His eyes never left my face as his body transformed, shifting and reshaping itself, fur flowing to cover his skin until he stood before me as a large cat.

I stared into his face, seeing the spirit of the man I loved in those foreign eyes and knowing in my heart that I never wanted to be without him. I moved toward him, my feet following the trail of clothes that tied one form to the other, shedding my own as I moved. The pride closed in around us, encircling us and bearing witness to my own transformation.

Innocence Ended At That Moment

2010-02-03T18:02:00.000-08:00

I hadn’t wanted to go to the party; I’m just not a party going girl. The music was always too loud, the people too drunk and too obnoxious; but it was my sister’s 25th birthday party, what choice did I have?

I arrived late, hoping to stay for an hour or so and then slip right back out; Jules knew I hated parties so I figured she’d anticipate my early escape. I heard the music the moment I got out of my car half a block away, the bass notes moving through the air like ripples on a pond and with a sigh I forced myself to walk toward the noise.

Climbing the brick stairs I opened the heavy white door and almost staggered when the music flowed over me, cringing involuntarily. People were packed tightly into the space and they had to move just so I could get inside and close the door, many casting annoyed looks at me that I had interrupted the bouncing they called dancing.

I didn’t hear my sister over the thump of the music so I wasn’t expecting the hug I found myself in that was almost a flying tackle. I hugged her back and then smiled into her unabashedly enthusiastic face, her liquid brown eyes sparking. I expected her to fade back into the crowd as she usually did, but instead she took me by the hand and dragged me upstream, against the push of dancing bodies, and into the kitchen where it was only moderately quieter.

Jules pointed at the liquor bottles that covered the counter like a disorderly army, dropped a kiss on my cheek and then disappeared. I smiled to myself and shook my head, how could two people come from the same stock, be raised by the same parents and yet be so completely different?

Ignoring the few people who were milling around the kitchen, I made myself a Midori sour on the rocks and added a splash of black cherry vodka to the top. Holding the crystal class I turned and made my way to the back door, pushing my way through the crowd and continuing to walk until the body count thinned and the noise faded to a more bearable volume.

I stopped where the lawn ended and weathered planks leading to the beach began, kicking off my shoes and making my way to the sand, sighing when I sank into the soft grains. I walked quietly to my favorite spot among the dunes, sheltered from the wind, and sank down with a contented sigh.

The rhythmic sound of the waves lulled me as they advanced and receded, advanced and receded and I closed my eyes. I was so lost in the ocean’s song I didn’t hear the man approach; it was only when I felt the weight of his stare that I opened my eyes and found him sitting between me and the water.

The color of his eyes was lost in the faint moonlight, I could only tell that he had dark hair that hung in a shaggy fringe across his forehead, and the silver light caught only the high angles of his face. I wasn’t alarmed at his sudden appearance; I didn’t feel my usual sense of self consciousness as I usually did any time a man was within 20 feet of me, instead I felt completely at ease. It was an unexpected feeling.

“The ocean, she speaks to you,” he said, his voice silky and laced with something foreign, sending goose bumps down my arms.

“No,” I replied softly, amazed my voice hadn’t fled, “She sings to me.”

“Then shall we dance to her tune?” He rose to his feet and reached out his hands to me.

I set my glass aside and reached up, sliding my fingers across his palms. He gripped my hands and pulled me to my feet, not releasing his hold on me as he walked backward toward the water where the sand was firmer. When the ocean licked at our ankles he pulled me closer, his arms snaking around my waist and pulling me against the length of his body.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as we began to sway to the song of the sea that only we could hear, hearts hammering and breath quickening. In what was probably the bravest moment of my life I laced my fingers into his thick hair and pulled his mouth to mine, tentative at first until he eagerly responded.

We touched with anxious hands, tongues tasting and bodies yearning to be one. I learned as we went, savoring the feeling of euphoria that rose up in me, giving back to him all I could.

I’d never been with a man before, no one had ever been interested, but I followed his lead and found the dance easy to learn. In the thundering rise of our passion he filled me, holding me tight and sending us over the edge into a sea of pleasure; my innocence ended at that moment.

Fisherman

2010-01-27T11:58:00.000-08:00

The morning was calm; there wasn’t a single puff of wind to rustle the tall green blades of the overgrown grass. Mona sat quietly on the two-seater teak swing that hung from the porch roof, her long legs tucked up under her and cocooned inside a burgundy chenille blanket. Her elegant hands cradled a porcelain cup of tea, the deep red of the painted roses matched her hair and the painted leaves were the same bright green of her eyes, which blinked languidly from her alabaster face.

The burble of the creek that bisected her property filtered to her ears through the stand of elm trees that blocked it from view, but she could close her eyes and see the large boulder she’d always used to cross the creek, the stone forcing the water into a Y around it and creating small eddies when the two sides reconnected.

She had used that stone to cross the ribbon of water since she was five years old, her father’s work roughened hands ready to catch her should she fall while his deep voice encouraged her to do it on her own, confidant in her abilities. With his certainty as a net, she never fell.

Mona shifted her gaze up when a breeze finally moved across her cheeks, blinking into the blue sky, white clouds like cotton candy drifting slowly by. Unfolding herself she rose to her feet and made her way inside, leaving the blanket on the swing and sitting her teacup on the kitchen counter before traversing the stairs to her bedroom.

Dressing in tan linen slacks and a lightweight knit shirt, Mona slipped her feet into her deck shoes and trotted back down the stairs, leaving the house through the back door in the kitchen. She made her way down the well worn path to the private dock at the edge of the lake, her shoes making quiet noises on the wooden planks of the jetty that jutted out into the water.

Unwinding the rope that tethered her small sailboat, Mona stepped in and pushed off, little Coral drifting away from shore as her main sail was hoisted up the mast. The bright red canvas caught the rising wind and snapped taut and propelled the craft toward open water. Mona claimed her seat at the stern, tiller in hand, and smiled wide as Coral coursed through the water like a sleek eel.

The day moved by unnoticed, the sun crossing the sky the only proof that time was not standing still. Mona dropped sail and anchored Coral; there was no land in sight and no other boats broke the perfect line of the horizon. She laid back; lacing her fingers behind her head and turning her face up to the sun, letting the golden rays lull her to sleep as the lullaby of water lapping at Coral’s hull filled her ears.

Mona woke to wet kisses, fat raindrop falling widely, and she blinked herself awake, sitting up and looking into the quickly darkening sky. The fluffy white clouds had been chased away by dark ones heavy with rain, and she could almost see them swelling larger and larger against the ominous canvas of the gray sky.

With practiced speed Mona hauled anchor and raised her sail, the stiff wind catching it eagerly and Coral listed sharply to port. Mona squinted through the ever condensing raindrops to get her bearings, but nothing was visible. She pulled her compass from the small bag under her seat and pushed the tiller to turn Coral west, toward home.

With each passing moment the storm worsened, the sky grew darker, the clouds heavier and the wind stronger. The rain fell in sheets, plastering Mona’s clothes to her body and she fought to stay on course, the tiller slick in her hands. A fierce blast of wind attacked Coral, pushing her like a bully until she tipped, falling sideways into the turbulent water.

Mona swam away, her heart too busy hammering against her sternum to be sad at the loss of Coral, she could be sad later if she survived. She fought against the choppy waves, the muscles in her arms and legs burning with fatigue as she tried to stay afloat, each passing moment taking more and more energy.

Her strength began to give out, muscles refusing to work and making her feel leaden, her own weight pulling her under. When she could no longer fight her way to the surface she felt herself falling, falling weightlessly through the quiet press of the dark water, but there was no safety net of daddy’s confidence to catch her and soon unconsciousness enveloped her.

It felt as though no time had passed; one moment Mona was sinking through the storm tossed water and the next she was blinking up at a glossy wooden ceiling. Her body cried out when she tried to move, her muscles protesting any movement and it felt as though her limbs weighed ten tons.

With gritted teeth she pushed herself up, using her hands to move her legs over the side of the bed in which she’d found herself, the navy blue flannel sheets soft against her bare skin. Bare skin? Looking down at herself Mona frowned at the large black T-shirt she wore, Firefly emblazoned across the front.

The room rocked gently, and despite her tired legs Mona didn’t lose her balance to the familiar feel of the water. Slowly making her way up the steep stairs she opened the hatch door and emerged into the quiet night, stepping onto the deck with bare feet.

“Hey, you shouldn’t be up.” Came a deep voice from behind her and Mona spun in surprise, her weak legs tangling and again she was falling, but the stranger’s calloused hands caught her, lifting her and carrying her to a padded bench.

Sitting down beside her he read the questions in her expression and smiled, the bright starlight shining from the now cloudless sky glancing across the planes of his face. “I was angling for sturgeon and instead caught a Siren.” He said softly, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. “I’m the luckiest fisherman in the world, I think.”

Guardian Angel

2010-01-20T12:07:00.000-08:00

Everything has ranges; there is nothing that is absolutely singular and unique. This was something I hadn’t ever really given much thought to. I never took the time to evaluate the differences between an heirloom and a Roma tomato, I just saw them as tomatoes; in hindsight, I should have paid attention to the details.

The day wasn’t different from any other, its name on the calendar was the only proof that the year was marching onward. I woke slowly, eyelids reluctant to open and out of habit I reached out to my left and found – nothing. I turned my head, tousled hair making soft noises against the smooth cotton of my pillowcase, and in the soft morning light that diffused through the blinds and curtains I stared at the empty space beside me.

Alex had been gone for almost seven months, and I had only recently finished donating his things to charity: his clothes, sporting equipment and video games had been delivered to the Salvation Army Thrift Store to be scattered into new homes.

His books were harder to let go of, the books he’d read to me with a different voice for each character as though reading to a child. I would listen intently, his voice like ermine across my cheek, and I found it easy to fall into the story when he helped me feel like I was part of it. It had taken months for me to sort through them, whittling and purging the volumes until I was left with a handful I just couldn’t part with.

Rolling onto my side I buried my face in his pillow, inhaling deeply, trying to breathe in the last trace of his scent hiding deep inside the fibers. I curled myself into a tight ball, unsurprised when tears silently leaked from my eyes and dampened the sheets.

Alex had been on his way home from a business trip, and none of the cliché hazards had fallen in his path: it wasn’t dark and it wasn’t rainy, it was a perfectly bright, warm, sunshiny morning when he’d stopped for gas and was shot dead by a car-jacker. That isn’t a call I’d ever expected to receive, let alone a month before my wedding.

The police had shown me a still photo captured by the gas station surveillance camera of the man who had shattered my life, the black and white image grainy. I didn’t know him, and could make out only that he was tall, thin and was missing his left thumb, and even with such a distinctive feature the police hadn’t been able to match him to anyone in their records. The case went cold and died, just as its victim had.

With a deep breath I pulled myself together, wiped the moisture from my face and climbed out of bed, shuffling my way into the bathroom and under the spray of a hot shower. I let the water run over me, hoping, as I did every morning, it would carry away the overwhelming sense of anger and loss that I had been mired in, and taking comfort in the knowledge that with the passing of each day I sloughed off another layer of pain.

I dressed with little thought, jeans and a non-descript T-shirt that might have been blue, and was thankful I worked in such a casual environment. After a quick brushing of my hair I bound it into a ponytail and called it good, I couldn’t be bothered to apply even a minimum of make-up.

I scooped up my purse as I grabbed my keys and made my way out to my car, starting the motor and pulling into traffic. The drive to the office went by unnoticed, as did the cubicles, meeting rooms and people that filled the five story building. I made my way to my desk and dropped into my chair with a sigh, closing my eyes while I focused on caring about my work.

The hours slipped by in painfully slow ticks of the clock, and it wasn’t until the sound of arguing voices emanating from the reception area filtered through the glass wall into the rear of the office that I realized I hadn’t even gone to lunch yet. I stood slowly, reinforcing the office term “ground-hogging” along with the 50 other people who were all standing up to peer over the cubicle walls.

The man in the lobby was very adamant in his demand to be let in, pounding one fist on the receptionist’s desk and leaning well into her personal space, which she was incrementally losing to him. He suddenly swung his gaze and his eyes locked on me like a missile, the intensity of his gaze actually compelling me to take a step backward.

The receptionist was forgotten as he moved to the locked door, gripping the steel handle and pulling it open. Bits from the lock mechanisms fell to the floor along with part of the doorframe and people scattered like ants. At first I was frozen, his green gaze unwavering as he strode through the aisles, making his way toward me.

My senses finally returned to me and I ran, barreling out a side door and into the hallway, making a quick right and running full out for the stairwell at the far end. I could hear him behind me, his curses audible as the screaming of my co-workers faded away, and our feet pounded against the carpet in almost perfect synchronization.

With a loud curse he seemed to find a supplemental supply of energy and with a burst of speed he hit me from behind, wrapping his arms around me and the force of the blow carried us to the floor. He turned his body as we fell and absorbed the majority of the impact with a grunt, sliding on his back until the stairwell door stopped us.

I struggled within the iron bands of his arms, thrashing and kicking and cursing, but his hold didn’t slip. Bracing his back against the door he pushed with his feet and leveraged us off the floor so we were upright again.

“Damn it, woman,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m not going to hurt you!”

I wasn’t convinced so my thrashing continued until he spoke again, his words freezing me like a puddle.

“Alex sent me, you’re in danger.”

When my body went still he released his hold on me only to grip my shoulders and turn me to face him. A scar lanced across his face from the center of his forehead down to his left earlobe, but it was the green of his eyes and the earnest look in those eyes that drew my attention.

He opened his mouth to speak until the sound of renewed screams filled the air and drew his attention to the opposite end of the hall. I turned my head and stared at the man who erupted into the hallway, his dark eyes locking on us. He smiled a sinister smile at us and waved, the lack of a thumb catching my attention and I gasped.

“Trust me,” said the man who still held my shoulders and before I could answer he had pulled me into the stairwell. I turned and tried to head down, hoping to escape into the street outside, but he grabbed my hand and headed up to the roof.

Our feet carried us toward the edge of the building, the nine-fingered man gaining as he ran after us and without missing a beat my rescuer lifted me into his arms and leapt off the edge. I hadn’t had time to argue, so I simply clung to him, my eyes going wide as huge wings materialized from his back and carried us away, leaving the nine-fingered man scowling on the rooftop.

The man landed in an alley several miles away, the wings fading from sight and I stepped away from him until my back connected with the wall behind me.

“So what are you, some kind of guardian angel?” I asked, eyes wide. He didn’t look like I’d imagined an angel would look, he was rugged and imperfect; I hadn’t thought there would be a variety of angels as there was a variety of tomatoes.

“Something like that,” he said, holding one hand out toward me. There was a promise of safety and information in his bright green eyes, so I slipped my fingers across his palm and followed as he led us out of the alley to get lost in the sea of humanity that filled the city.

Viking and Bear

2009-12-31T14:56:00.001-08:00

The forest was still. Too still. Winter lay over the landscape like a God’s hand, powerful and heavy and impossible to ignore. Thick blankets of snow draped the trees, turning their branches into quilted arms reaching out toward each other, fingers occasionally intertwined.

There was no sound of running water; the creeks, rivers and even the waterfalls having frozen solid many months before. Each crystal clear drop was bound to the next in mid-motion, creating otherworldly arrangements of frozen spires and spikes straining to meet.

No animal seemed to move, no birds sang and no wolves called to one another. Even the wind appeared reluctant to break the deafening silence, puffing only in small gusts, none large enough to disturb the freshly fallen snow. It felt as though the world were holding its breath; waiting. Waiting for what?

I walked slowly, my steps deliberately tentative to ensure my own footing. The leather and fur of my boots were slowly absorbing the moisture from the snow, letting the coldness leech into my feet and my toes were starting to go numb. The chill didn’t bite anywhere else, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself and count each gold coin well spent on the thick leather armor I wore; sadly the boots hadn’t been finished by the time I had to leave. I was on edge because of the quiet, the forest was never so quiet and it didn’t bode well for me. Despite my sense of foreboding I pressed on, searching for game.

When the silence lifted I could almost feel my ears pop, the abrasive sound of cracking wood, thundering earth and a menacing roar poured over me like water, chilling my blood. Spinning on one heel as I reached for the twin swords sheathed on my back, my eyes widened when the form of the largest bear I’d ever seen filled my vision.

It charged me and I dove to the side, feeling it brush against my leg as it passed. The snow cushioned my fall and I rolled to my feet, spinning to find my target, my blades glinting in the diffused sunlight. The bear had slid to a halt, spinning as I had and locking its dark eyes on its own prey.

We charged each other, Viking and bear, each completely certain of victory.

I swung my swords, slashing downward in an X, trying to penetrate the thick fur and layers of stored fat to reach something vital. It swiped at me with one massive paw, black claws longer than my finger catching in the leather of my cloak and ripping it from my shoulders, throwing me to the ground.

I jumped to my feet and carried the motion through my blades, bringing them up high before slashing downward, the steel cutting deep and the bear cried out, taking a step back. The thick black fur was matted around the wounds where blood was running freely.

The bear lunged at me, snapping its huge jaws, trying to gain purchase on a mouthful of my flesh. Its long teeth distracted me from the swinging of one paw and I suddenly found myself on the ground, my face burning with pain and my own blood polluting my vision. I gasped, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from my lungs when my body met the frozen ground, the cold air stinging my throat as I drew it in.

The shadow of the bear fell over me, and I rolled to the side to avoid its driving forelegs. Wiping blood from my eyes with the back of one hand I found my target, rushing the beast. Crossing my arms over my chest as I moved I swiped my blades horizontally past each other, the razor edges slicing deep and the bear rose up onto its hind legs to loom over me like a massive tree.

The bear dropped its head to roar at me, the sound echoing off the ice and snow around us, and I seized the opportunity it presented. Running forward I braced one foot on its knee and launched myself up to land on its shoulders, kneeling on the broad muscle and driving one blade into its neck.

The bear howled, folding itself at the waist before rising back up in an effort to throw me off. I let the momentum of the bear’s action carry me skyward, tucking my arms and letting my body make one full rotation before reclaiming my perch and striking the killing blow, blood arcing from the steel tip of both swords.

As the bear fell I jumped, landing a foot from its nose, the steam from its dying breath momentarily warming my toes.

Demonic Dentist Drills For Jesus

2009-12-01T15:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes marketing is everything. How many people bought Pantene products because they wanted to look like Kelly LaBrock? Shoes that can make you jump like Michael Jordan, cell phones that have perfect reception in the deepest parts of the Amazon and jeans that will make you a rock star. It wasn’t the manufacturer that imbued these items with that kind of power, it was savvy marketing firms and people buy into it every day.

My day had started like every other: shower, dress, breakfast and then head off to work. My 45 minute commute took me past the usual assault of billboards, marquees and bus stop bench ads, all of which were visual white noise to me at seven in the morning. The bus stopped at a red light and as I sipped liquid energy provided by Starbucks my still sleepy eyes focused on a small sign wedged between a dry cleaner and a bagel shop that read “Demonic Dentist Drills for Jesus.”

As if the phrase itself wasn’t enough to get my attention, the image of Jesus in his long white robes holding a dental drill that was sporting a sinister smile and horns made me frown in confusion; what were they selling? I pulled the cord to notify the driver I wanted off, and slinging my backpack over one shoulder I pushed my way through the sea of my fellow drones. Score one for marketing.

Stepping off onto the curb I serpentined my way across the sidewalk, crossing the two lanes of foot traffic and ignoring the grunts and grumbles directed at me for impeding progress. I stopped just below the sign and stared up at it, my nearness skewing the perspective of the characters and giving them bobble-heads proportions.

I lowered my gaze and peered through the ornate wrought iron gate, down the narrow alley, the end of which disappeared into the gloom. What did this place even sell? Pushing on the gate it begrudgingly moved, the hinges groaning in protest and finally binding up when there was just enough room for me to squeeze through.

Brushing the rust flakes off my coat I walked slowly into the shadows, the neighboring buildings feeling like looming guardians of a secret treasure as they pressed in around me. My feet were silent on the damp asphalt, the crisp wind unable to blow dry autumn leaves this far away from the trees so nothing crunched under foot, only my breathing broke the silence.

The alley ended abruptly, opening into a small courtyard of red brick pavers, the edges worn smooth and visually softened by the moss growing between them. A small brick cottage stood in the center of the courtyard, the pavers around the base of the walls pushed up as though the house had sprouted from underneath.

Tall buildings soared on all sides, and yet no shadows fell on the tiled roof, stopping just shy of the foundation as though afraid to touch it. The rising sun covered the house like chiffon, thin and light, and I felt like I could actually see the light swaying in an undetectable breeze.

I approached the door slowly, the cobalt blue paint looking fresh, almost wet, and the brass handle gleamed enticingly in the liquid light. The metal was warm to the touch, and the latch made a satisfying click when I turned the handle. Pushing the door open I ducked under the low doorframe and into the gloom of a single large room.

The room was void of all furniture, the dark wood floor bare and the walls naked. The only thing in the room with me was a small black goat that was staring at me with strange red eyes. He stood in the center of the room, his head cocked to one side and his face managed to convey an expression of surprise at my arrival.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” it said in the kind of voice you’d expect a Billy goat to have. I glanced around myself in the lame attempt to verify it was talking to me.

“You have?” I asked, frowning as much at the talking goat as at myself for talking to said talking goat.

“Of course I have. I’ve tried several times to reach you but nothing seemed to get through. You’re a tough customer.” His voice bleated a cadence that was easy to understand while still managing to be annoying. “I finally had to resort to something absolutely ridiculous just to get your attention.”

“Who are you? Why have you been waiting for me?”

“Why, to steal your soul of course,” it said as though that was the only logical answer.

I thought back to the sign I’d seen from the bus, the words and imagery drawing me out of my normal routine, tempting me to investigate and try something new, and now here I stood having a conversation with a goat about the potential theft of my soul. Marketing, for the win.

1849 Colt Revolver

2009-10-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

I’d seen photos of my family’s 1849 Colt revolver since I was a child. My father had a photo album that had been passed down for generations, and within the fragile, aged pages were faded photos of the men in our family with it. Some of them posed with pride and purpose, chests puffed out and serious expressions on their faces while others were candidly captured, a chorus line of expressions dancing across their faces.

The weapon was fairly non-descript: steel barrel, cylinder, hammer and mechanisms with a brass backstrap and trigger guard and a dark walnut grip. The only thing that made it stand out from the rest of the weapons of its time was its infallible accuracy; all who had wielded that gun never missed what they aimed at… ever.

I was the first woman in the family to inherit the pistol, well; I would have been if it hadn’t been stolen the day before my 18^th birthday; the day before it was to come to me. In this, the age of energy weapons, it wasn’t valuable for its designed purpose, but I wanted it; I wanted it based on principal and family honor.

For five years I chased my Colt. I followed every lead I ever had, no matter how dodgy, unreliable or far fetched it may have seemed. Over the years it passed through many hands, always moving onto the next pair just days before I would have been able to reclaim it, and each person who had touched it, died.

My father had told me stories about the gun, stories about it being bound to our family by magic, but I hadn’t started believing those stories until I came across its second or third casualty. Who believed in magic anymore anyway? Science had an answer for everything, and had advanced technology far beyond anything I thought magic could claim to accomplish, but with each close call and each new dead body I began to question more and more what force might be surrounding my pistol.

As I stood watching the well dressed, elegant and filthy rich crowd milling around the lavish ballroom, I found myself hyper-aware of every noise, scent and movement around me; I’d never been so close to my goal.

The fabric of my floor length gown moved with me as though it was a living thing, the deep red fibers gently hugging my curves and shimmering in the soft light; people staring at it as though waiting for it to breathe. I’d pinned my heavy black hair up and was wearing the ruby choker and earrings my mother had given me, and had even applied some make-up, something I never bothered with.

My heart jumped when the auction began, the auctioneer’s voice booming over the low din of mass conversation, and I moved to my seat, bidder’s paddle in hand and ready to fly. A wide array of antiques from furniture to random knick-knacks paraded past, and was claimed by an enthusiastic new owner.

When my Colt was carried onto the platform my heart leapt as though seeing a long lost lover, and I felt it staring at me, asking me where I’d been. The bids rolled almost faster than the auctioneer could acknowledge them, and before I knew it the price was out of my range. The bids began to slow, the barrage dwindling until there was a victor and the crowd applauded his acquisition. The man rose to his feet and turned, his dark eyes zeroing in on my blue stare, and with a wink he made his way out of the ballroom.

To hell with discretion. I jumped to my feet and ran after him, erupting through the heavy double doors as though I’d been fired from the gun I was trying to reclaim. I stopped and scanned the lobby, my eyes shifting toward his movement just in time to see him disappear down the hallway opposite where I stood.

As I ran I discarded my shoes, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet, and I followed the glimpses I caught of his long dark hair just before he disappeared around corners. When I reached the door to the penthouse I turned the knob in stride and burst into the posh room to find myself face to face with the stranger who bought my gun.

“Selena.” His voice was rich, like a decedent dessert, and I wanted to roll it around on my tongue. He was wearing a tailored black suit punctuated by a dark red tie, and his long black hair was in a loose pony tail that hung between his shoulder blades.

“How do you know my name?” I asked, my brows drawn together in confusion. “Do I know you?”

He smiled as he walked toward me, his gait predatory. “The last time you saw me I was a gangly boy.” His approach backed me up, step after step I moved away from him until the barrier of the door prevented me from going further and still he came closer. “You were my love, and because of that love I was sold, your father disapproved.”

I felt my eyes go wide as I stared into his face, seeing the boy he’d once been like a shadow within him. “Ian?” My voice was a whisper, and my heart was pounding almost painfully against my sternum.

We stood staring at each other, frozen and humming with tension, our adolescent passion flaring back to life after a decade and a half of dormancy. In unison we reached for each other, hands touching, groping and seeking while hungry mouths fed at one another.

I almost didn’t hear the knock at the door, too lost in the feel of Ian against me, and I whimpered when he stepped back. Taking my hand he guided me to the side and opened the door, stepping back to allow the delivery of his purchase, which I watched wide-eyed.

Closing the door behind the delivery man Ian turned and walked to the glass case in which my gun was nestled. Lifting the lid he turned with the leather belt hanging from his hand, the tooled holster cradling my Colt and he held it out to me. “Wear this for me,” he said, his voice touchable.

I reached for my birth-right with trembling fingers, feeling the hum of the weapon calling to me, and when Ian pulled it back out of my reach I frowned at him. “Just this,” he clarified, a lustful smile spreading across his face, which I returned as I unzipped my gown and reached for my gun belt.

The name on the form is wrong

2009-10-23T18:34:00.000-07:00

I was handed the file only moments before I was pushed through the Window. I’d been woken from a dead sleep by the persistent warbling of my cell phone, muffled by the stratum that always seems to build in a woman’s purse. I fought my way free of the dark red sheets, the soft cotton having wrapped itself around my legs like amorous serpents.

Stumbling across my room I grabbed my purse and up-ended it, the black leather disgorging its contents all over my pale grey carpet. In the diffused sunlight that was fighting its way around the edges of the heavy curtains I sought the phone, zeroing in on the blue light of the screen with sleepy eyes.

“What?!” I snapped after flipping the face up.
“Ruby, Jump in 20.”
“It’s Diamond’s turn,” I argued, shuffling back to my bed, “Call him.”
“Now.” That one word left no room for further argument, and the line went dead.

I closed the phone and dropped it back on the floor, scrubbing my hands over my face with a low, frustrated growl. With a resigned sigh I flipped on the lights and made quick work of preparing to Jump, leather head to toe: pants, jacket, boots and gloves. After much trial and painful error I’d found that while I might look like a wannabe rocker in my layers of dead cow, it was the perfect material to withstand the friction of Time.

I hadn’t been called for a Jump in months, and I’d been happy to lead a normal life. As I drove through streets that filled with cars as quickly as they filled with sunlight, I couldn’t help but wonder why they were calling on me now.

I entered Sector C3, housed behind an imposing façade of glass and steel, and I rode the elevator down to sub-level 7. The shiny doors slid open and I was assaulted with a cacophony of sound and motion. Stepping into the midst of the strangely organized chaos, my whiskey colored eyes found Dawson and I headed in his direction.

Dawson spoke to me without turning around, his uncanny ability to always know who was within earshot as evident as ever, “Here.” He shoved a file into my hands, the Kevlar envelope thick and heavy.

“What’s the job?” I asked as he took me by the arm and pulled me through the sea of faces I’d come to know, however, as each one passed I became more and more aware of the fearful stares I was getting from wide eyes. “What’s going on, Dawson?”

Dawson remained silent, his brusque demeanor reaching a new level of annoying. I opened my mouth to snap at him, but he beat me to the punch by stopping and spinning to face me, his blue eyes as wide as everyone else’s, worried and angry.

“Miss the mark, Ruby.”
I frowned at him, “I never miss.”
“That’s what may end our world as we know it.” Dawson said cryptically before turning away and continuing to drag me toward the Launch Relay.

I caught a familiar scent as I climbed the three metal stairs to the Relay platform, turning and finding Diamond’s annoyed gaze locked on mine. He was being led by his handler Amy; her long fingers fisted in the Kevlar sleeve of his Jump coat, and despite her leading, his long legs carried him to the platform ahead of her.

Diamond stopped and stared from Amy to Dawson to me and back again before speaking, “What the hell is…”

“No time,” Dawson interrupted, grabbing both me and Diamond by the arms and pulling us toward the Relay Window. Normal protocol is to harness the Jumpers together so they aren’t separated in a wrinkle, but I saw no harness on the platform, and fear suddenly reared its ugly head.

Dawson turned and fisted one hand into each of our coats, pulling us down to eye level, “Don’t let go of each other,” he whispered, and before either of us could question what he was talking about we were pushed into the Relay Window.

The warm blue light of the idle Window held us suspended like amniotic fluid. I watched as a small army of Black Suits flooded into the control room, but Dawson didn’t spare them a single glace, he focused on his programming. I sensed something was very, very wrong so with movements slowed by the Relay Energy, I stuffed the file into my coat and reached out toward my Jump partner.

Diamond had been watching the same events, and I knew he was processing them as I was; it was how we were trained. He reached out and took my hand, pulling me toward him as the sound of gunfire erupted, muffled by the Relay Energy, and as I wrapped myself around him I watched Dawson’s hand hit the Launch switch a split second before a swarm of bullets ripped him to pieces.

I loved the Jump. The sensation of moving faster than light while standing still, of swimming while flying, or of being full and empty all at the same time. Nothing else could compare, and even the searing heat when we hit Entry Point didn’t diminish the elation the journey brought me; it was the reason I became a Jumper.

Diamond’s arms were like steel bands around my ribs, my own arms and legs locked around him and still the force of Time pulled at us, trying to cast us separately into the waves of minutes and millennia. Just as my grip started to slip we hit Entry Point, heat blasting our bodies and scorching our exposed faces. We cried out, the sound lost in the heat, and with an almost audible pop we tumbled across wet asphalt and came to a painful stop against the side of a tall brick building.

“Mother puss bucket!” I cursed as I untangled myself from Diamond and rolled onto my back. The leather of my clothes was smoking, and I watched with foggy eyes as the smoke swirled up into the darkening sky that loomed beyond the tips of the tall buildings.

“Mother puss bucket?” Diamond asked as he climbed to his feet.

“I’m trying not to swear so much,” I snapped, getting to my feet.

“I fucking love swearing, it adds spice to the English language.” It would have been funny if he'd been joking.

Reaching under my coat I extracted the Kevlar folder that Dawson had given me, pulling the sheaf of papers out and thumbing through them in the fading light. I felt myself frowning, brows drawn together as I shook my head.

“What’s the job?” Diamond asked, folding his arms over his thick chest and cocking his hips to one side.

“This can’t be right,” I said, “The name on the form is wrong, is has to be.”

Diamond moved to stand behind me and peered over my shoulder at the name of our target, and I felt him go rigid at my back.

Turning my head I met his green gaze and spoke softly, “Hitler?”

Venom Burned Like Fire

2009-09-23T13:28:00.000-07:00

She had laid herself bare, exposing the vulnerable throat of her emotions without knowing if he was a predator. He had sat in motionless silence for weeks. No movement. No speech. Nothing that might startle himself.

As he sat motionless she paced and waited, speculated and guessed at what he was thinking or feeling. Anxiety. Fear. Surprise. With each passing day she felt more and more sure that she had shaken the very foundation of his traditional upbringing and he was paralyzed with uncertainty.

It was certainly uncommon, what she had suggested, but even at that she had expected some kind of reply. “Are you crazy?” “Flattered, but no thanks.” “Sure, that’d be great.” Something, anything, would have been welcome.

She’d been patient, a virtue she always struggled with, but finally after three weeks she tested the waters with a tentative toe. She reached out now as she had before, electronically, forming words on a tiny screen with the hope he would finally reply to her.

His reaction was surprising, turning away anything that would link him to her. He refused to help her with her work, which he had always readily helped with in the past. He even severed all on-line ties, removing her from his networking pages.

The weakness of his character was exposed as her feelings had been, and her disappointment was like venom, and that venom burned like fire. In her rational mind she knew that his reaction was rooted in his own issues, and in truth had little to do with her. This didn’t keep her feelings from being hurt, however. She was hurt that he didn’t respect her enough to talk to her, and she was sorry for the narrow view he had of life.

With a deep breath she smiled, knowing she was a resilient woman whose wounds healed quickly, and knowing that there were others who would be open to the joys locked in each possibility.

Talk To Me

2009-09-04T23:23:00.000-07:00

Whoever said silence was golden had never heard the sound of an anxiously beating heart. They had never paid attention to the sound a clock makes as it reminds you that time is fleeting – tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds; all an agonizing jumble in the face of the unknown. How can seconds feel like days, or days feel like years? With each heavy thump of my heart against the resistant wall of my sternum, I wonder if I was right. Was I right to tell you? Was laying myself bare within the confines of my own words the correct thing to do?

A collection of letters formed words on an electronic page in an attempt to shape my thoughts and feelings into something easily understood. Did I arrange them correctly? Did I use too many; too few? Which ones did you find frightening, and which ones shook the foundation of your traditional views?

I’m open; open to questions seeking understanding, if you would just talk to me. Send your own collection of letters and words back to me and I will drink them in, whether bitter or sweet, I only want to quench my thirst.

His skin began to blister from her touch

2009-08-25T10:43:00.000-07:00

Good things come in small packages. He had heard the cliché before, but he wasn’t buying it. He stared through the haze of blood that filled his eyes into the soft, round face of the child who stood before him, and he knew for a fact that there was nothing good in this particular small package.

She was no taller than four feet; her cotton dress was trimmed with eyelet lace at the hem and sleeves and tied high with a large bow. Once white, the red of his blood now sprayed across the front like a scream. She wore white patented leather Mary Janes and was clutching a tattered Teddy Bear in one hand.

He was tied to a chair, his arms pulled painfully behind him and tied to the back legs, while his ankles were bound to the front legs. He could barely remember everything she’d done to him: burns, cuts, beatings; acid, knives, fists.

After three days at the mercy of the child who was out to destroy him, he could almost feel his sanity slipping away; the shell in which the demon was hiding conflicted with how he understood children behaved. Five year old girls didn’t drip acid onto your toenails; they didn’t ram metal rods through your wrists and then hook them up to a car battery… they just didn’t, did they?

He had no idea why he was there. Four days ago he’d been an accountant, calculating payroll for a deli chain called Mr. Squid Pickle, and barely making ends meet. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened on his journey home, until the bus came to a screeching halt and the metal side peeled away like burnt skin.

The child had been standing there in an apple red dress and pigtails, holding the Teddy Bear in one arm and smiling the most disturbing smile he’d ever seen. She walked very calmly toward him and took him by the hand, dragging him from the bus seat, and his skin began to blister from her touch. No matter how hard he fought or resisted, she was stronger.

One whole day had passed before she even spoke to him, at first simply tying him to the chair and wordlessly inflicting small torments: deep pinpricks and steam burns, and the more he struggled the bigger her smile became.

When she finally spoke, her voice was small and playful, punctuated by frequent giggles whenever he screamed. He slipped in and out of consciousness more and more frequently as time went by, and the sudden appearance of a tall slender woman wielding a sword was enough to bring him around.

Without a word she cut his ropes while watching for the child with keen green eyes. He crumpled to the floor the moment the ropes fell away, lacking the strength to even remain in the chair, and when the child’s laughter echoed through the room the woman spun to find its source.

The little girl walked toward her fallen captive and his would-be-rescuer, idly petting the Teddy Bear’s head as she peered at them through a thick fringe of lashes. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know you were here, Grace?” she asked, “I could smell your stench the moment you crossed the threshold.”

“Nice that you let me get this far, Sadira.”

“I wanted you to feel like you were doing well.” Sadira replied with a smile, flashing her tiny white teeth. “He doesn’t even know why he’s here,” she added, gesturing at the crumpled man at Grace’s feet. “He has no idea that the fate of mankind rests with him, and frankly I was surprised I found him first.”

Grace narrowed her eyes at the child, knowing she could not win a hand to hand fight with the demon housed in that tiny shell, so she opted for surprise and hurled the knife she’d had up her sleeve. To her own surprise the blade hit its mark, sinking hilt deep in the soft tissue and Sadira’s eyes went wide as she began to silently cry.

The man watched from where he lay on the floor and the child’s tears made him smile weakly. He watched as Grace strode to the child and without hesitation removed her head with one powerful sword stroke, and the black mist that pulsed from the open wound didn’t faze him, nothing could faze him anymore.

The ocean smelled of salt and death

2009-08-20T16:09:00.001-07:00

It’s as if she knew all along; knew that the ocean would be her demise, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She learned to walk on Florida beaches, learned to swim in Hawaiian lagoons and even had her first kiss while sitting on a surfboard off the coast of Australia; the ocean didn’t frighten her at all.

She was fortunate enough to have been born into a wealthy family so it was easy for her to travel so as to commune with the world’s seas and oceans. In her travels she’d experienced her fair share of ocean related incidents: coral cuts, jellyfish stings and run ins with barracuda, but nothing could keep her out of the water.

Sharks, however; sharks spoke to her spirit and she tried to spend as much time with them as she could. For her there was nothing more magical than sharing one small sliver of time swimming with these powerful creatures. Petting the rough skin of a blue shark as it moved past her, feeding a bull shark by hand and even going for a ride on the dorsal fin of a whale shark; such moments had been hers, and she wouldn’t trade them for a single drop of the blood that was now seeping out of her.

The open ocean was like a liquid desert, vast and largely lifeless, and she had sailed into the heart of it on her way to Cape Town South Africa. She had seen the jumping sharks there before, and cried at the beauty of it, amazed and speechless that something so large could be so stunning.

She had stopped for a swim, diving into the blue depths over and over and even played with a pod of dolphins that had happened by. Close to sunset it had been the arrival of the Great White that had surprised her; in such an endless realm it was amazing that their paths had crossed.

She had done everything she was supposed to do: she began moving back toward her boat, not panicking, not splashing, just swimming steadily. When he made his first pass she could feel his coarse skin against her leg, and she was torn between wanting to wait for the chance to feel it again and continuing toward the boat. She wasn’t stupid, she kept moving toward the silhouette of her boat.

She knew that sharks investigated things by putting them in their mouths, much like infants, but infants weren’t armed with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. It was just bad luck that his first exploratory bite severed her femoral artery.

She floated on her back, arms stretched wide as she stared up at the blanket of stars passing slowly overhead. At that moment the ocean smelled of salt and death, her death, and she waited for the sleek predator to return to claim her; now she would never have to be away from the ocean she loved.

Just one word

2009-08-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

Inspiration

Idea

Thought

Concentration

Focus

Work

Create

Craft

Finesse

Write

Re-write

Edit

Anxiety

Frustration

Anger

Determination

Passion

Completion

Satisfaction

Pride

Bliss

His look stopped me in my tracks (part 2)

2009-08-19T16:53:00.000-07:00

From where I sat by the windows I could see him sitting in his car. There was no burst of steam from the tailpipe so I knew he hadn’t even started the motor. The wipers and headlights remained off as well, though through the windshield I could see him gripping the wheel tightly.

I couldn’t even begin to guess what was running through his mind at that moment, and I again reached out and laid my hand on the glass. I wanted to ease his confusion and I wanted to calm his uncertainty.

I watched as he got out of the car and started back toward my building, and my breath caught in my throat. The thin walls of my building allowed me to hear his steady steps as he ascended the metal stairs to my floor and I rose to my feet just as the door opened.

Stepping into the foyer his eyes met mine and he froze in place, his hand on the doorknob with rainwater dripping off the hem of his leather coat onto the pale gray linoleum. I took a step toward him but his look stopped me in my tracks.

“This isn’t fair, you know that right?” he asked as he closed the door.

“What isn’t fair?” I asked, confused by his question.

“The danger you’ve put our friendship in,” he clarified taking one step toward me. “Don’t you see the peril?”

I folded my arms and cocked my hips to one side, arching one eyebrow at him, “No I don’t. If you’re not interested in going out with me then nothing need change between us.”

“It’s all changed!” he said, his voice sounding a little panicked, “Just knowing how you see me has changed the very foundation of our friendship, how can it ever be the same?’

“It doesn’t have to be weird unless we make it that way,” I replied, “I just didn’t want to be one of those people who sit on the sidelines and then bitch about not being in the game!”

This statement stopped him and for a full minute he only stared at me. I did my best not to squirm under his intense gaze, but I finally succumbed and turned on my heel, walking across the room to look out the windows.

I could feel him in the room; I didn’t need to see him with my eyes to know he was warring with himself over what I viewed as a fairly simple issue.

“It’s not that complicated, you either want to go out with me or you don’t. Simple. If you don’t, then nothing need change. If you do, then…” I let my words trail off, trusting he could deduce how great it’d be if he did want to go out with me.

His feet were almost silent on the carpet; almost. He came up behind me and I’d have turned around but I was busy at that second wishing I could breathe. His warmth rolled over me and fought back the chill in my bones as he laid his hands on my shoulders and slowly turned me to face him.

I looked up into his face, painfully handsome, and when he gave me a small smile just before laying a soft kiss on my mouth I was sure he could hear my heart sing at the chance we’d agreed to take together.

I could smell his fear as he passed (part1)

2009-08-18T12:21:00.000-07:00

I was acting on courage alone. I stood at the window, my hand pressed to the rain splattered glass and oblivious to the cold, waiting. My green eyes watched, anticipating the sight of him, and the tension I’d created within myself strained along the rim of my psyche like a brimming cup.

For a year he had been dominating my thoughts, and I found it increasingly difficult to focus on my job, my mind constantly shifting back to memories of his face and driving me to distraction. We had the shared skill of story telling, and on that we had built a friendship. We shared a passion for words, keeping one another inspired and motivated to create; the irony wasn’t lost on me that as much as I loved words, some were difficult for me to put together.

He was a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes that danced when he laughed, and his winning the genetic jackpot only served to intimidate me into silence; no small feat. And now here I was waiting for him to arrive under the pretense of needing him to read my latest work; clearly I was insane.

It wasn’t just the possible rejection of my feelings that I was afraid of; it was the potential affect my confession could have on our friendship, which was something I didn’t want to lose. But as a friend had once told me, “fate favors the risky” so here I was, waiting to take the risk.

His car turned the corner onto my street, the silver paint shimmering under a layer of rainwater and the headlights refracting off the sheeting drops that fell through the beams, diffusing the light into an almost worthless haze. I watched as he parallel parked near the corner, climbing out of the car and jogging toward my building.

My heart pounded almost painfully against my sternum.

For the hundredth time I glanced around my apartment, making sure everything was perfect. I had lit at least a dozen candles when the power had gone out, so the air glowed with soft golden warmth that gave the feeling of being in a cocoon.

Despite anticipating it, the knock on the door made me jump and with a deep breath I opened the door to let him in. His hair was wet and a fine layer of moisture coated his face. He took off his coat, shaking the water off in the hallway before coming inside.

“Man, it is pouring out there,” he said, “This new work of yours better be epic.” His laughter filled the space and I smiled at him, closing the door in his wake as he hung his coat on the rack.

Heading into the kitchen he poured himself a cup of coffee; he had been over enough times to know there would be some hot and it made me smile that he was so comfortable in my home. I smiled even wider as I watched him pour a second cup for me, adding cream and sugar and giving it a stir before handing it to me.

Holding the cup in my hands I moved into the living room, sipping the sweet brew as I stared out the window at the eerie light the storm had created. Turning when he entered the room I watched as he sunk down onto the sofa, sipping his own drink with a contented sigh.

“So, what is this new thing you’re working on?” he asked, propping his right foot on his left knee and stretching his left arm along the back of the couch. I lingered by the bank of windows that made up one whole wall, the cold air that seeped through pressing against my back as though trying to push me forward.

My mantra rolled in a loop through my mind, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky, fate favors the risky and the nerve those words gave propelled me forward. I set my mug down on the coffee table and folded my arms in front of me, as through they could protect me.

“Well,” I began, “I have to confess that I invited you over today under a somewhat misleading guise.”

His eyebrows drew together in confusion, “What do you mean?” he asked, setting his mug on the side table before sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

My pulse was fluttering wildly, thousands of tiny bird wings beating against the underside of my skin, but I pressed on. “I have been working on something, but it’s not a new book.” I felt rooted to the spot by the intensity of his questioning stare, and couldn’t have moved if my life depended on it.

Finally I just sighed, closing my eyes as I spoke, “I don’t want you to feel pressured or obligated or anything like that but I couldn’t let another day pass without telling you how I feel about you.” I kept my eyes shut and pressed on, “When I’m with you I feel like I can do anything, like I could be anything I wanted to be. I can’t even articulate all the things you make me feel, and I know I’m not the kind of woman you normally go for, but there it is.”

I kept my eyes closed for a few more heartbeats, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me and it made it hard to breathe. The silence that descended on the room was heavy, like a wet blanket, oppressive and smothering, and I slowly opened my eyes.

He got slowly to his feet, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I… um…” he paused, “This is a lot to process,” he said as he moved slowly toward the door, and I could smell his fear as he passed. Lifting his jacket from the rack he paused with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at me, “I’ll call you.” With that he was gone.

I moved across the room and stared out the window, my hand again pressed to the rain splattered glass and oblivious to the cold. I watched him walk slowly through the rain toward his car, and I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Adrenaline Bliss

2009-08-17T14:29:00.001-07:00

He had been a coworker for almost two years. Over time we’d had a handful of non-work related conversations, which I found to be both wonderful and torturous. Wonderful because for a few moments in time I was on his radar; torturous because he made mine go crazy.

I wasn’t a slender woman, never had been, and one thing I’d learned over the years was that almost without fail, handsome men went for stunning women. Why shouldn’t they? Beautiful people could afford to be picky.

His hair was dark and glossy, like mahogany that had been polished by years of loving caresses and the short cut kept it away from his face. Thick lashes that would make any woman pea green with envy framed his eyes, warm like aged bronze.

Yes, he was beautiful. Yes, he was kind, and funny, but it was his scent that ate away at my nerves. Soap, shampoo and cologne I couldn’t name; but under that was just him. Just his skin. Each time he passed me my eyes involuntarily fluttered shut as I inhaled in his wake. When we spoke face to face it took all I had not to bury my nose in the hair behind his ear to breathe him in.

I was routinely surprised at how strong an aversion the mass population had to making, and keeping, eye contact. People always seemed to find somewhere else to focus, only letting their gaze skip rapidly across other faces like a stone across a pond. But not him. He held my gaze, steady and unflinching, which only served to fan my fascination.

He was talking about books, his laugh rich and touchable as ermine, and to punctuate a statement he briefly touched my hand. Adrenaline bliss!

I was absolutely certain that my friends were sick of hearing about him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to act, which was the antithesis of my usual direct approach to life. I wanted to ask him out. I wanted to tell him how I felt, but the overpowering fear of not only being rejected, but of losing what little interaction we did have, paralyzed me into inaction.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, and his usual confidant demeanor slipped into that of an uncertain teenager, “Would you be interested… I mean, if you want to… I was going to ask if…” His words trailed off but had been enough for me to deduce where he had been going with them, and I thought my heart might burst from my chest.

“Are you trying to ask me out?” I asked, amazed that I’d summoned the nerve to say those words out loud.

He smiled a ten thousand watt smile at me, flashing white teeth, and he seemed to relax when I smiled back. “Yes, in my own feeble way I am.”

“I’d love to,” I said with a nervous laugh, and at that moment I could have sprouted wings and flown to the moon. “What did you have in mind?"

Just three words

2009-08-13T15:11:00.001-07:00

Dark eyes smiling
Room spans forever
Feet move forward
Time stands still

Hands reach out
Fingers meet softly
Blood courses faster
Heart beat anticipates

Touch, taste, scent
Soft, sweet, intoxicating
Tender turns heated
Patience is gone

Touch of lips
Caress of hands
Swell of passion
Climbing, cresting, falling

His breath was cool against my skin

2009-08-13T13:26:00.000-07:00

The fog lay over the city like wet gauze, clinging and sticking to every curve of her elegant skyline. The buildings seemed to prod at the moist haze like fingers tentatively exploring, searching for a weak point through which to escape. The light of the moon, fat and bright, couldn’t penetrate the blanket of vapor and the city was left at the mercy of streetlamp’s dismal yellow glow.

I walked alone through the thick curtain of suspended water, the white mass swirling in the momentary eddies my body created in the air. My shoes were silent against the wet concrete of the sidewalk, the tread prints left by the soft soles the only proof of my passing. My heavy black Naval coat hugged me warmly and my denim-clad legs moved me through the sleeping metropolis.

Every plant that lined my path was coated in dew, the tiny drops adorning every leaf and flower like the finest diamonds, which sparkled in the softly diffused lamplight. Night’s wet kisses had collected on my face, coalescing until heavy enough to run down my nose like a teasing tongue.

The air shifted around me. It moved and gave me pause, tempting me to turn around and look for what had caused the disturbance, and every single horror movie I’d ever seen flashed through my head. If I didn’t look, then nothing would be there, right? Isn’t that how it worked with the monsters under the bed?

I kept walking. It was all I could do not to speed up, not to take my hands out of my pockets so I could be ready to run, and I managed to feel a little proud of myself about that. The air moved more deliberately, as though an unseen body had moved through it, and my momentary pride vanished under a rising swell of fear.

My pace increased involuntarily; there was nothing I could have done to slow my legs down when the steady staccato of footsteps suddenly began and sent my heart racing. The sound seemed to echo off the thick air itself, effectively disguising from which direction the steps were coming.

I moved into a walk-jog. Walk two strides then jog one, walk two jog one, walk two jog one—

“Why afraid little mouse?” The voice was male, thick with an accent that drew out his vowels and the sound was candy for my ears. “You have been waiting for me.”

With each word my pace slowed a little more until I all but stood still. His voice vibrated through the dense air, touching and teasing me where hands could not reach, and with a sigh I stopped walking. My eyelids felt heavy and I blinked slowly as though I were drunk, not on manmade alcohol but on his voice; bottled it would be illegal.

He emerged from the mist like an apparition, and I could do nothing but wait for him to reach me. He stepped into the liquid pool of lamplight and the planes of his face seemed to be a Michelangelo sculpture come to life.

He stepped well into my personal space, the bump of his body against mine serving to convince my mind I wasn’t hallucinating, and I gazed up into his dark eyes. He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately, and I held my breath until his elegant fingers lightly brushed my cheek.

I found my voice and gathered my wits enough to ask, “Who are you?”

He smiled, a gentle curving of his lush mouth, “Don’t you know me?”

I stared at him, taking in every angle and curve of his face, absolutely certain that if I’d met someone so beautiful I’d remember them. I shook my head and frowned at him, “No. Should I?”

“You summoned me long ago,” he said as he bent at the waist and brushed a light kiss across one cheek and then the other, “Many lifetimes ago, in fact.”

His breath was cool against my skin, and yet a rush of heat coursed through me at his touch. “I don’t understand.” I whispered.

“Centuries ago you asked for love to find you.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to mine in a brief, soft kiss. “Sorry I’m late.”

She licked her lips like a hungry wolf

2009-07-28T14:12:00.000-07:00

They had been friends for ages it seemed; a decade of laughter and tears. Despite several moves that forced miles between them, they managed to keep in touch the old fashioned way; they wrote letters.

Maia loved stationary, and derived great joy from acquiring a vast array of paper on which to send the words that described a snapshot of her life at any given moment. The drawers of her desk were filled with paper in colors that ran the rainbow, was textured or patterned, and even some handmade with flower petals pressed into it.

It didn’t bother her that Jason only ever wrote on plain white binder paper. His tidy handwriting always hovered ever so slightly above the blue lines, the black ink from the fountain pen she given him always stark against the pale paper.

They exchanged thoughts and ideas, philosophies and hopes. They shared the mundane happenings of their lives, as well as their deepest desires and dreams; nothing was taboo.

Slipping into her favorite fringed sweater Maia made her way outside to drop a letter in the mailbox, the thick lavender envelope addressed in the sweeping lines of the calligraphy she’d learned and she smiled as she dropped it into the mail slot.

Turning on her slippered heel she headed back up her front walk, pausing when the headlights of a car splashed across the front of her house like vandals with a bucket of white paint. With a confused frown she watched as the taxi door opened and Jason emerged, his own handsome face very serious.

Jason paid the driver and slung the strap on his black leather duffel bag over one shoulder, standing in the middle of the driveway as though frozen to the spot. It had been at least five years since they had seen each other, their letters never containing photos, their words the only pictures, and he had forgotten how beautiful she was.

Maia’s last letter to him was full of heartache and was stained with her tears. Her boyfriend of two years had left her for another woman, her best friend, and she was devastated. Reading her words had stirred such anger in him that his vision actually went red around the edges and he’d had to take several deep breaths to regain his calm.

He’d always thought of her as a sister, his to protect and comfort, but seeing her standing there in the dark altered his reality. She wasn’t his sister. She wasn’t helpless and in need of his protection. She was strong and independent and in that instant he wanted nothing more than to bathe in her nearness.

Maia could see whatever inner battle he was fighting in the changes of his expression. He looked angry, then anxious, then stunned and finally reluctant. She was sure her own face had run the gambit of emotional responses too, and with effort she pushed them all aside and focused on feeling the energy he was giving off.

He wanted her, and that knowledge sent a great swell of lust crashing through her. Arching one eyebrow at him she licked her lips like a hungry wolf, eyeing him from under heavy lids, and the combined scent of their desire carried them toward each other.

They collided like waves, liquid and turbulent, eager to consume and drown them in their passions. Jason broke free from her lips, gasping for air as she sought to pull him under again.

“Maia, I…”

She buried her fingers in his hair, silencing him with a gentle tug, “Don’t tell me, show me.” With that direction they made their way inside to shake the pillars of heaven.

I'd laugh, if I could remember how

2009-07-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

I felt I’d gone crazy enough that I’d laugh, but I couldn’t remember how. It seemed all I could remember how to do was sleep, and even that was a fight that I lost more often than not. I lay in the middle of my bed, my body naked and exposed amid the wide expanse of the king size mattress, making me feel like driftwood lost at sea.

I stared with unfocused eyes at the fan blades spinning slowly overhead, the quiet hum of the motor competing with the steady drips of water from the bathroom faucet – humdriphumdriphumdrip. Nothing brought me comfort; I wanted only to tear down the world around me, convinced that only destruction would bring me peace.

I never expected it to end like this; frankly I never expected it to end, so my mind was refusing to process the fact that it had. She had been gone only a day. One day. It was a moment and an eternity all at the same time and my every cell presented me with its own memory of what had been: her caress, her scent and her laugh washed over me like waves of untouchable perfection now forever out of reach.

The phone rang; I ignored it. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes, squeezing them tighter and tighter with each persistent scream from the phone. I buried my face in her pillow, inhaling the scent of her shampoo that lingered there; honeysuckle, the scent of my heaven, which now only brought pain.

She had quite literally fallen into my life at my brother’s graduation party, tripping on his cat and falling into my arms as I lunged forward to catch her. The surprise in her smoky gray eyes refused to give way to embarrassment, and finally amusement won when she burst out laughing. That had been five years and a wedding ago.

Each night we had lain in bed, fingers laced together as we talked softly about our high/lows; the high and low point of our day. My low varied day to day, but my high every night was lying in bed with her, and she prodded me endlessly for something new; nothing ever displaced her as the best part of my day.

Our morning routine was the same every day; up at 6:00, shower, get dressed, pack up lunch and head out the door to carpool to our respective jobs. Yesterday hadn’t felt different from any other day; not to me anyway. She had seemed a little off from the moment she woke up, her gaze drifting off and staring into space not blankly, but as though she were listening to something only she could hear.

The longer it went on the more concerned I’d become, asking her repeatedly if she was all right, and she assured me she was. The drive to work was uneventful, and as I kissed her goodbye a feeling of dread began creeping over me, compelling me to beg her to stay with me and play hooky for the day. She laughed, called me silly, and climbed from the car to head into her office.

Halfway through the day she had called me, her voice quiet and sounding far away. She told me she loved me, but her dad had called and she needed to go see him.

Her father had died a year earlier.

Eat Hot Death

2009-07-13T23:00:00.000-07:00

I walked into the bar looking for a one night stand. I didn’t want complications and I didn’t want strings, I’d had all that and now I just wanted sex. I wanted the passion that had leaked away after so many years together. I wanted the mystery that gets solved when nothing about your lover is unknown. I wanted to feel beautiful and desirable and important, even if for only a little while.

Kicking Matthew out had been easier than I thought it would be. Despite ten years together it had been at least five since I’d started feeling more like his roommate and less like his girlfriend. He had stopped calling me sweetness and doll face, replacing them with hey or just a grunt. He’d stopped being interested in any of the things we’d once had in common, and he was spending more and more time away with his buddies.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to keep things alive: surprise dinners, sexy lingerie and a plethora of new sex toys, but when my efforts were consistently met with apathy, indifference or disinterest I finally stopped trying. Relegated to oversized T-shirts and cotton panties, TV dinners and virtually no conversation at all, we slid down into a depressing routine.

I could remember the exact moment when I realized I was letting life slip by in a cloud of mediocre companionship; Matthew had been sitting on the sofa in his dingy boxers and mismatched socks watching the newest trash reality show. I’d seen him like that a hundred times, it wasn’t a new ensemble, but seeing him there I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of panic that I had to run to the bathroom to throw up.

It was the very next day that I had told him he needed to go. At first he was shocked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, and then the yelling started. He went on about how I’d miss him and what would I do without him, all the while angrily packing his things. I knew he’d have to make several trips, after all you can accumulate a lot of crap in ten years, but the moment the door shut behind him that first time I felt light enough to walk on air.

Once the last of his things were out of the house I spent weeks celebrating. I celebrated by reclaiming my friends who had drifted away. I celebrated by throwing out all the clothes that had displayed the apathy I’d saturated myself in, replacing them with things that reminded me I was attractive and female. I spent time on my outward appearance so it would reflect the freedom I felt inside.

And now here I stood, a solitary hunter searching for worthy prey. My black hair had been cut into a steep A-line, the heavy locks framing my face while a wisp of bangs softened my hairline. My make-up was simple save the deep red lipstick that matched my dress perfectly. The silk felt like a caress of fingers when it fluttered against my thighs, the thin straps crisscrossing between my shoulder blades.

I wasn’t shy, having discarded the need for timidity with my oversized T-shirts, and spotting an intriguing face across the bar I picked up the shot I’d ordered and walked directly toward him. He was sitting with a group of his friends, two empty beer pitchers standing like valiant soldiers who had given their all, and it was his friends who noticed me first. One by one their faces turned in my direction, their gazes boldly looking me up and down, and by the time I reached the table his green gaze had found me.

I stood silently for a moment, simply staring at him while his friends made testosterone laden innuendos. I sat the shot glass down in front of him and smiled, “Buy you a drink?”

He looked at it dubiously, “What is it?”

“It’s called Eat Hot Death,” I replied, placing my hands flat on the table and leaning toward him, forcing him to lean back to meet my eyes.

“Sounds like a hangover waiting to happen.”

“Perhaps, but isn’t that typically a reasonable price for what comes before it?” I asked, straightening up and several heads turned as I walked over to the jukebox, dropping a quarter into the slot and making a selection. Turning back to him my eyes made it clear that I expected him to join me and with encouragement from his friends he got to his feet.

Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned out The Way You Look Tonight as he moved toward me, stopping right in front of me and I wordlessly reached up to push the heavy leather coat off of his broad shoulders, tossing it back at his friends.

His breath was coming fast and he visibly tried to slow it down, taking a deep lungful of air and letting it out slowly as I stood a mere six inches away. Placing one arm around my waist he took my hand as I wrapped my arm across his shoulders and we began moving together.

I could feel all the eyes in the bar on us; I could feel the emotion that was stirred by the simple movement of our bodies. My eyes never left his and neither of us spoke; only the music and the feel of our bodies pressed together existed, and the three minute song seemed to go on and on.

The silence that fell when the song ended was like being doused in cold water and he tried to step away but I refused to release him, my arm holding him against the length of my body. The asking in my eyes was plain, and my answer was in his. I released him so he could retrieve his coat, and I don’t think his friends’ crass comments even penetrated his ears.

Making his way back to me I gestured at the untouched shot glass with a small nod of my head, “You forgot your hangover,” I said softly.

He smiled at me, a fiery flash of white teeth promising passion, “You’ll see to it I feel hung-over in the morning, won’t you?”

I gave my own wicked smile in return as we made our way out of the bar, “You better believe it.”

Illusions can kill when used with skill

2009-07-06T17:02:00.000-07:00

She made me weak. I couldn’t deny her anything and on some level I knew that wasn’t healthy, I knew I needed to stop spoiling her, but I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t that she expected it, needed or demanded it; it was the way her face lit up when I brought her things that made me want to do it again and again.

She was made happy by the simplest things: a flower, a pretty shell or a lovely leaf, anything found rather than bought. Often when I presented her with my token of affection she looked at it as though she’d never seen it before, her eyes sparking with a child’s innocent wonder.

Each gift found a home through careful consideration; stones and shells were arranged in bowls around her tiny apartment and flowers and leaves were pressed between the pages of the old books I bought her second hand. A rose could be found between the pages of Romeo and Juliet. A particularly bright Aspen leaf was in Walt Whitman’s book Leaves of Grass.” A tumbled shark’s tooth was fashioned into a necklace, which she never took off.

She had a quality I’d never before encountered, an enthusiasm and appreciation for everything, nothing was too mundane to fascinate and enthrall her. Her vivaciousness was infectious, and I found that it was slowly rubbing the apathy and cynicism off the surface of my life.

She enhanced my awareness of things everyone takes for granted; guiding my fingers through lush grass just so I’d know its texture, feeding me bite sized morsels of things I would have shied away from if not for her persistence and laying in the sand on a cloudless day just to listen to the varying tones of the water.

The first time we’d slept together I was as single-minded as any other man would have been with such a divine creature in his bed, rushing toward the finish line as though there was a prize for getting there first. Patiently she taught me that there was much more to intimacy than I had imagined, and while frustrating at first, I learned to take pleasure in touch, scent and sound; the run became a marathon versus the sprint it had been.

The only aspect of her that perplexed me was her evasiveness when I asked about her family or her past. She skillfully dodged my questions like a champion slalom skier dodging flags on a mountainside, and I knew no more about her now than I did when she first came into my life almost a month before.

I had been sitting alone on the beach, only Johnny Walker to keep me company as I contemplated the shambles my life had become. My job was going no where and my girlfriend of five years had been cheating on me with my best friend, screwing him in our own bed while I was working. All the ways of getting even were coursing through my alcohol addled brain when she stepped out of the pre-dawn fog, a vision in white that sobered me instantly.

She looked lost, and I’m sure in that moment I looked found.

And now here I was, standing at the end of the pier with her, the smoky hues of the setting sun filtered through low clouds and bathing us in muted color. Her message had concerned me, asking me to meet her here because we had to talk; and everyone knows nothing good comes after that phrase.

As she explained that she wasn’t from my world I tried to understand what she meant; was she crazy? Did I care if she was? She held my hands tight, tears leaking silently from her eyes to roll over her flawless cheeks. She professed her love for me, thanking me for all I had taught her, sparing worried glances at the sun as it dipped closer and closer to the horizon.

I didn’t understand, I didn’t want to understand, and her words while soft and as gentle as possible wounded me at the core; with these wounds it would take decades for me to bleed out. Lifting the shark’s tooth necklace over her head she pressed it into my hand, begging that I not forget her and with the cryptic parting words of “Speak to the ocean, and speak to me.” She kissed me once hard and then dove off the end of the pier just as the sun disappeared.

I was too stunned to move at first, paralyzed by my own pain. Moving on numb feet I peered over the edge, blinking at the lightening flash of silver that dove beneath the waves. My mind whirled, it wasn’t possible was it? Could she have been… I hesitated to even think it. I stared down at the necklace and realized that illusions can kill when used with skill, and while not intentional, her illusion had killed part of who I’d become.

Behind the veil of water

2009-07-02T18:20:00.001-07:00

Finally, some solitude. Kyra had fled the city the moment her shift ended on Friday, having packed her car the night before. She drove toward the mountains, eagerly awaiting the chance to re-center herself; no car noise, ringing phones, rumbling trains or chattering people.

Kyra had felt off kilter for months, unable to focus on anything for very long, and fighting the overwhelming feeling that she was drowning in her own life. Typically she headed to the ocean to recharge her batteries, letting the waves lap at her feet and burying her fingers in the sand always made her feel calm again.

Today she was being drawn toward her friend Erin’s cabin. She knew Erin wasn’t home, she was spending the summer touring Italy but she also knew that it was perfectly fine that she use the cabin in her absence.

Turning off the main highway, Kyra spent the next hour driving down a narrow dirt road that became progressively more and more rutted, bouncing her around like a ping pong ball in a dryer. The sun was setting behind the pressing stands of evergreen trees, their peaks silhouetted against the orange light like black brush strokes.

As she rounded the final turn the cabin came into view, its steeply sloped roof mimicking the shape of the trees around it. Erin had built the cabin in a way that would have minimal impact on the forest; no trees had been cleared, no electrical wiring had been run and there was no running water, only a deep well and nearby river.

Stopping the car beside the house, Kyra turned the engine off with a sigh. Climbing out she inhaled deeply of the fresh mountain air, letting the scent of sharp pine and rotting needles fill her body like a cup. Lifting her duffle bag and small ice chest from the back seat, she made her way up the front steps, slipping her key into the lock and moving into the dark interior.

Kyra spent the next 15 minutes getting settled, which only involved lighting candles so she could see, putting her things in the single loft bedroom and opening one of the bottles of wine she had brought with her.

Slipping into the navy blue sweater that she always left on the hook behind the front door, she picked up her wine glass and slipped out onto the porch, sinking down into one of the rockers Erin’s father built for her.

The night was filled with the sounds of the unseen inhabitants of the forest. Cicadas sang loudly in the trees, small animals scampered through the underbrush, and in the distance the river roared on its way to the ocean. The moon rose overhead, shining down full and heavy and draping everything in a gossamer blanket of light.

Kyra saw something move out of the corner of her eye, just a brief flash of action that pulled her gaze, but when she looked she saw only trees. The rustle of leaves pulled her attention back to the front just in time for her to see the nude form of a man dash into the shadows of the trees. Normally she would have done the smart thing and gone into the house, locking the door behind, but the shimmer of iridescent light that followed in his wake pushed her common sense onto the back burner.

Setting her glass aside she rose to her feet and moved down the steps as quietly as she could, moving to follow him into the night. The blanket of pine needles muffled her sandaled feet, making her stealthier than she’d thought she could manage.

Again the slim line moved across her path in a flash of pale skin and dark hair.

Kyra followed. The sound of the river grew louder; helping to mask any noise she might make, even the startled scream that burst from her lips when a slender hand touched her shoulder was drowned out. Spinning around to face the owner of the hand she flailed, her arms wind milling in an effort to regain her balance, but it was the long arms of the nude man wrapping around her that kept her on her feet.

He held her against the length of his body, the green of his eyes visible even in the weak filtered moonlight. Kyra didn’t struggle, his touch gave her a sense of calm she’d never felt before and she wanted that sensation always.

He released her slowly and Kysa felt like someone was pulling her out of her own skin, the feeling almost painful, and she whimpered as her own hands shot out to clutch at his forearms. His smile seemed to shine with its own light as he caressed her cheek a moment before taking her by the hand and leading her deeper into the forest.

Kyra followed without question, unaware and uncaring where he led her as long as he stayed with her. It wasn’t until he stopped walking that she looked around, finding herself standing at the edge of a large pool fed by a thundering waterfall. The man released her hand and smiled at her before walking toward the water and wading in knee deep. Turning he curled one finger at her, beckoning her to follow, which she did with only the briefest hesitation.

Following him around the perimeter of the pool, Kyra’s heart began to pound when they reached the base of the waterfall. The man stepped into the water, the silvered rush cascading across his skin for a moment before he disappeared beneath the veil of water. With a deep breath Kyra stepped under the heavy flow, the sound of it deafening her as she reached out for something to grab onto.

His hands found hers, guiding her out of the water and into the mouth of the cave it concealed. He gave her only a moment’s pause before he turned and led her deeper into the cave, and she followed blindly. It took only minutes to reach the inner chamber where mineral deposits had formed curtains of marble, columns of calcite and clusters of white crystals that sprouted from the walls like exotic blossoms.

Turning to her he claimed her mouth without warning, pressing his lips to hers while his hands pulled impatiently at her clothes. Kyra returned the kiss and helped remove the cloth that prevented his skin from touching hers. Their hands roamed and touched, bringing pleasure and ecstasy, and drowning them in passion and heat that could have lit a dying sun.

Kyra woke when the fingers of dawn poked at her, and she cursed at them in a string of incomprehensible swear words. Opening her eyes she found herself staring up at the heavy beams of the cabin ceiling, and she blinked rapidly to clear her foggy mind. Sitting up in the bed she found herself naked and alone; had the whole thing been the product of an overly exhausted mind?

“Coffee’s ready!” came the voice she recognized as Erin’s, which only served to confuse her all the more; why was she home? Slipping to the floor she rummaged through her bag and pulled on her sweats and socks before descending the steep stairs to the main floor.

Finding Erin in the kitchen Kyra sat down at the small table and frowned down at the floral table cloth. A mug of black coffee was held out to her and she shifted her gaze to the hand that held it, staring at the long familiar fingers. Her eyes moved up the length of the arm and locked with the owner’s bright green stare, his lips curved up into a sly smile.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ve ever met my brother,” Erin said, “This is Jordan.”

Kyra smiled at him and took the proffered cup, setting it on the table. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Jordan.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her fingers, “The pleasure,” he said in a husky whisper with a knowing smile, “is all mine.”

Her touch burned like ice

2009-07-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be hunting demons, I’d have called them crazy. Since finding my lover the unwilling sacrifice in a dark ritual, however, I had suddenly become a believer. Unfortunately, he hadn’t survived, and I’d barely escaped with my sanity in tact.

And now, with the anniversary of his death less than an hour away, I crouched in the shadows of the warehouse to which I’d tracked the human worshipers of this demon. They were all dressed in long black robes, a wide red zigzag adorning the hem and the edge of the hood that kept their faces in shadow.

I spent every free minute researching, tracking and training. I’d only just discovered which demon was responsible for his death just a few weeks before, and since then I’d dug up as much information on it as I could. I had to figure out how to kill it.

I remained motionless, watching from the shadows as the worshipers prepared their altar, drawing a circle on the floor with cryptic symbols. They lit black candles, burned incense and anointed each other’s foreheads with blood.

My pulse sped when they discarded their robes, their nude forms softly lit by the wavering sea of flames and the incense smoke wafted in circles as they walked through it. They spaced themselves out around the circumference of the circle, all facing inward, and my fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle I held as I watched.

While I lay in the hospital a year ago, recovering from the physical and emotional beating I’d taken, I’d had a visitor; a stranger. She was the most petite woman I’d ever seen, no more than five feet tall with soft curves and long auburn hair. She looked perfectly average, but she didn’t feel average; the pulse of the energy that came into my room with her choked me.

She was soft spoken, her hands clasped in front of her as she walked slowly toward my bed, stopping to look down into my battered face. Her voice was soft as a rose petal when she spoke, “I know what did this to you.”

My eyes went wide because I hadn’t told anyone what I’d seen, certain they would have me committed to the loony bin if I did, I’d claimed memory loss and that was accepted. “I don’t know what…”

“Yes you do.” She interrupted my practiced lie, her blue eyes piercing mine, and I found it impossible to lie to her. Over the course of weeks and months we became friends. She educated me on the occult, separating fact from fiction, and teaching me the ways of magic. Together we uncovered the cult of followers, and tracked them to the warehouse where they would again summon the demon.

I looked around the perimeter of the room in which I hid, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of my mentor, knowing I wouldn’t find any. The worshipers chanting was rising, reaching a crescendo that made my head pound. I felt their collective voices in my veins, pulsing through my bones, and it took all I had not to cry out.

The symbols that made up the circle began to glow, humming with green light that seemed to climb out of the floor and reach for the ceiling. The haze of diluted beams touched overhead, and in a brilliant flash the demon appeared. His shape was smudged, a black smear on our plane of reality, and I knew it would only take the blood of a human sacrifice to make him corporeal.

I bided my time, knowing I wouldn’t be able to kill him until the sacrifice was made. I’d had to come to terms with the fact that someone was going to have to die for this trap to work, but that one death would prevent, and avenge, thousands.

A pair of worshipers stepped out of the circle, disappearing into the shadows and returning with their sacrifice draped in semi-sheer red silk. The shape under the cloth struck a familiar chord in my mind and my brow furrowed.

With more words, and more chants, the silk was removed with a flourish and I was paralyzed; there stood my mentor and friend. She was naked, wrists bound with thick red rope, and her blue eyes found me in the darkness. He gaze bore into me, and conveyed her order to finish what we had started.

She was led to the altar, hands lifting her and laying her along the stone slab, her thick hair cascading over the sides. The demon moved toward her, hovering over her for a moment before speaking in a drawn out hiss, “Wiiiiitccccchhhhh.”

I watched the scene unfold, my body taut as a pulled bow string, knowing what had to happen. I was furious now, more furious than I thought I was capable of being; this monster had taken my lover, and now I had to give up my friend as well. I felt the rage well up inside me, the pressure inside my skin unbearable as I watched the high priest approach the altar.

He raised a sinister looking knife overhead, clutching the handle in both hands while chanting and then driving the foot long blade into her belly. I heard the steel hit the stone, heard her cry out and heard the monster sigh when her blood surged out of the wound and cascaded onto the floor.

I had to wait, despite the pain in my soul, I had to wait.

The demon skulked around the base of the altar, the blood disappearing where he touched it. The more he took the more solid he became until his seven foot frame loomed over her. He plucked the dagger free of her body, licking the blade clean and tossing it aside. I knew what came next; I knew that the goal of this monster was to fornicate with his followers, impregnating the women with his poisonous seed. I also knew, however, that he always raped the sacrifice first, and I had to spare her that horror.

I stripped out of my clothes and walked toward the circle, my calm façade masking the rage and terror that beat inside me. I held the bottle behind my back, my hands trembling as I hoped to blend into the masses. The demon was moving toward her, opening her legs, and I knew I was out of time.

With practiced focus I burst from the circle and ran toward the monster, smashing the bottle against the floor at his feet while uttering the words that would destroy him. The white smoke that erupted from the shattered glass whirled up and wrapped around him, heedless of his deep bellows and venomous cursing.

The cultists swarmed me, and I dove toward the discarded dagger, clutching the handle before rolling to my feet. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once, the air was filled with the cries of those I killed and the fading screams of the demon. In what seemed like an instant eternity I found myself standing amid a sea of corpses, my body covered in their blood, my breathing coming in ragged gasps.

As some degree of calm came over me I tossed the knife aside and ran to the altar, bending over my friend’s still form. Her blue eyes fluttered open and stared up at me as I pressed my hand to the wound in her belly. There was virtually no blood flow to staunch, she was running dry and I couldn’t save her.

“I pass this to you,” she said, using the last of her energy to lift her hand and press her palm to my forehead. Her power shot into me, her touch burned like ice, and I cried out at the overwhelming influx of magic she was bestowing on me as her life winked out.

Everyone thought I was dead. They were right.

2009-07-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

Everyone thought I was dead, and they were right. My vision came suddenly into focus, momentarily disorienting me. I reached out to steady myself and gasped when my hand passed right through the wooden doorframe as though it were made of air. Looking down at my hands I realized it wasn’t the doorframe that was made of air, it was me.

My body ran the spectrum of pale translucence: white, gray, blue and everything in between, the colors feathered at the edges like a faded watercolor. As I moved I couldn’t feel the floor under my feet, finding myself floating rather than stepping, and it took me several moments to get the hang of moving around.

The air was filled with the scent of lilies and rain, fat drops splattering against the stained glass windows of the church. As I looked around I saw the faces of the people who loved me, some collapsed in grief and others blank with calm acceptance. The pews were filled, and despite the palpable grief permeating the air, I smiled as I walked down the aisle; as I’d requested everyone was wearing red.

The congregation was broken into several groups: dancers, family and a handful of former high school classmates. I saw faces I hadn’t seen in years, friends with whom I’d fallen out of touch, family I never saw and dancers I hadn’t known even knew who I was.

I lingered in the wings, listening as each person spoke about how I had touched their lives, the impact I’d had on them and how they would miss me. The stories made me smile, laugh and cry. I was content in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be forgotten.

My gaze shifted and I found my husband sitting in the front row, his face expressionless; dark circles under his eyes punctuating the tired pallor of his skin. In his hand he held the smooth worry stone I’d carried with me always, his thumb caressing the groove in its face over and over, like a physical chant.

Walking across the church I squatted down in front of him, reaching out and touching his cheek. He gasped, his eyes going wide and darting around the room, and I fell backwards in surprise. Had he felt me touch him? I reached out again and touched the tip of my index finger to the tip of his nose, as I had often done at bedtime, and with that he seemed to calm.

Looking discretely from side to side to see that no one was watching him, he called my name under his breath, “Melissa?” It was a question, posed to check his own sanity I guessed, and not knowing if he would be able to hear me I again touched his nose with my finger.

Color returned to his face in a red rush, clearing his eyes and bringing a tentative smile to his face. Moving closer to him I leaned down and spoke close to his ear, “What happened to me?” I asked, and I knew he’d heard me when his now bright eyes widened.

“Later,” he whispered, his pulse pounding against the side of his neck, “At home.”

Home. Heaven is what we want it to be, and being with him was mine.

She was as smooth as 20 year old Scotch

2009-06-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

It had just been that kind of a week: my car had all but exploded, my brother was being deployed back to Iraq, my parents told us they were getting divorced after 30 years of marriage and I was passed over for a promotion at work. Short of my cat getting hit by lightening I couldn’t see how things could get worse.

Nothing any of my friends said made me feel any better; all I wanted to do was find the bottom of a few glasses in a dark quiet corner of an unknown bar by myself.

Walking through my front door I dropped my keys in the cream and brown bowl that sat on the entryway table, letting the mail fall next to it as I pushed the door shut with my rear end. Simon, my long haired tabby cat, barely opened his eyes let alone getting off the sofa to greet me, and with a sigh I walked down the hall toward my bedroom to change clothes.

I kicked my black pumps into the closet as I unzipped my wool blend skirt, letting it fall to the floor and leaving it in a rumpled puddle. The blazer landed on my antique rocking chair and the silk blouse underneath hit the floor beside it. I caught my reflection in the mirrored closet doors and stopped to stare at what I’d become; a pantyhose wearing, cotton briefs adorned, full coverage white bra drone. What happened to the young wild woman I used to be?

With a sigh I stripped off the nylons before slipping into my most comfortable jeans, heedless of the gaping holes in the knees and frayed cuffs. I pulled a red T-shirt over my head and stuffed my feet into my black biker boots. Scooping up my black leather coat I made my way out of the apartment and back out through the lobby.

Hailing a taxi I slipped into the back seat, slamming my door with another sigh.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Drive around for 20 minutes, and then drop me at a bar somewhere,” I said, staring out the window at the fat raindrops that collided with the smudged glass. The car moved and I closed my eyes, letting my head fall backwards and rest against the seat; I was so thankful the driver wasn’t trying to make small talk.

It wasn’t ten minutes later that the car stopped, and I opened my eyes, looking at the driver in the rearview mirror. “Hey, I’d asked…”

“This is where you need to go,” she said without turning around.

“But…”

“Ask for Sierra.”

Couldn’t I just get one thing to go my way today? With another sigh I dug into my purse for my wallet and the driver waived me off, “It’s on me,” she said. Bonus.

“Thanks.” I climbed from the car and made a dash for the front door, pulling on the brass handle and ducking into the dark interior.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I shook the water droplets from my coat and wiped them from my cheeks. The place was virtually empty, and if their expressions as they looked me up and down were any indication, the few occupied booth were full of regulars.

I made my way to the bar and claimed a torn vinyl stool, crossing my arms on the padded edge of the black slab. The bartender made his way slowly to me and asked me to pick my poison.

“Midori sour, and I was told to ask for Sierra,” I said, speaking over the low strains of some old country song, and the bartender raised one eyebrow at me. He turned away and returned with a glass half full of a rich, tawny liquid, which was clearly not the neon green of the midori sour I’d ordered.

“Um, I don’t drink Scotch.” I pushed the glass back toward him, but he ignored it, turning on his heel and walking away down the length of the bar and disappearing into the back room. I slouched on my stool and glared at the glass, even getting drunk wasn’t going as I’d planned.

I felt her approach before I even heard a footfall, turning to watch her make her way across the room. All eyes were locked on her, including mine, and it wasn’t humanly possible to look away. Her dark red hair hung to her waist in thick curls, framing the taper of her waist and accentuating the flare of her hips. Her impossibly long legs carried her toward me while her green eyes stared at me with a predatory weight behind them, making me feel like a cornered rabbit.

She didn’t speak when she reached me; instead she pushed the glass toward me and raised one eyebrow expectantly.

“I don’t drink Scotch,” I said softly, afraid that if I spoke too loudly I’d scare her away.

Without a word she picked up the glass and took a long drink, her eyes never leaving mine. I gasped when her hand shot out and she tangled her fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as she pressed her lips to mine. The pressure of her kiss forced my lips apart and my mouth filled with Scotch that then burned its way down my throat.

When I next opened my eyes I was staring up at my own ceiling. The familiar sounds of my own house filling my ears, and I sat up slowly, wondering if I had imagined the whole thing. I threw the covers back and slid to the floor, heading toward the door, but I stopped dead when I caught sight of my reflection.

My long brown hair had been cut into a steep A-line and had electric blue streaks running through it. I was wearing a blue lace bra and matching lace panties, neither of which left much to the imagination, but it was the single bite mark on the inside of one thigh, more than anything, that made me stare.

Hazy memories compelled me to opened my closet door, and there I found all of my conservative work clothes cut into little bits lying on the floor. Turning around I made my way down the hall, picking up the trail of clothing shreds and following them into the living room where they culminated into a small mountain on the coffee table.

At the peak of the mountain lay a slip of paper, across which was scrawled, “Dreams are meant to be lived, not regretted”

No phone number. No idea where the bar was. No clear memory of what had transpired that night, but this stranger had managed to radically redirect my life in only a few hours. I smiled; she was as smooth as the 20 year old Scotch she’d kissed into me.

Being buried alive was the least of my worries

2009-06-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

It was like a twisted Bond movie. I was wrapped up tighter than a child proof medicine bottle, sitting at the bottom of a small cage that was hanging over a giant tank filled with adolescent bull sharks.

I’d made the mistake of laughing when I walked into the room, unable to contain my amusement at the campiness of the arrangement, but that had only gotten me a beating before I was bundled up and packed into the cage. Were they serious?

As it turned out, they were very serious, which they demonstrated by running an electrical current through the metal of my cage. The voltage was increased incrementally until it felt like every nerve was on fire, and I ultimately passed out.

Why was I here? What had gotten me into this situation? What had I done to warrant this treatment? I’d had the nerve to discover a cure for cancer.

I had no idea who the men who had kidnapped me worked for, no idea where I was and no idea why they wanted to keep my discovery a secret; but it all became clear in very short order.

Medicine is big business, and cancer is an enormous piece of that business. Without the need to treat, but only to vaccinate, billions of dollars of federal funding would be funneled elsewhere. That re-direction would make some people’s lives less posh than they were used to.

I’d hidden my notes and journals before heading out to talk to my mentor, Dr. Walter McAndrews at Yale, my Alma Mater. My excitement was kept almost entirely in check by a healthy amount of skepticism, but some leaked out into my voice as I relayed my tests and findings to my old professor.

The look he gave me morphed quite rapidly from disbelief to wariness to anger and finally clearly forced joy; his reaction surprised and frightened me. He had spent the majority of his career working on cancer research, soliciting more funding from the government as well as private parties than anyone else.

He had reached for his phone as he asked me to give him a moment, and his extremely out of character demeanor set off warning bells in my mind. I tried to leave to give him privacy for his call, I tried to tell him my tests weren’t conclusive and I tried to tell him I’d come back another day; he remained insistent that I stay.

His strange behavior turned me on my heel and sent me running for the door. I bolted down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, but I only made it as far as the lobby before I felt the electric shocks of a tazer in my back seize all my muscles, including my brain and everything went black.

And now, when I opened my eyes I found I was no longer in my cage, instead I was staring up into strange faces. My instinct to run snapped my body into action, my arms and legs jolting painfully against the straps that held me to the table on which I lay.

It soon became clear what they wanted; they wanted my notes, which I wasn’t willing to give them. They tried reasoning with me, beating me and threatening to bury me alive; but being buried alive was the least of my worries when they brought my wife into the room.

She was blindfolded, gagged and her hands were tied behind her back; if I didn’t turn my notes over to them Rachel would pay the price. I stared at her, at the gun they had pressed to her head and their shouts almost completely drown out her whimpers.

A phrase I’d heard over and over throughout my life played through my mind like a mantra; the needs of the many outweigh those of the few. Over and over I reminded myself of this, and I knew that Rachel was thinking the exact same thing, but of course that knowledge wouldn’t over ride her own natural fear of dying.

My eyes went wide when Walter walked into the room, and for a split second I thought we were safe, until he took the gun from the man holding Rachel’s arm. In one smooth motion he removed her blindfold, her green gaze locking on me an instant before he shot her in the head.

I lay there stunned, unable to move or speak, barely able to breathe. My chest tightened painfully at the sight of her limp body lying in a heap on the floor, blood slowly pooling around head in an ever widening circle. Tears leaked from my unblinking eyes and as I watched Walter walk toward me I felt my expression turn smug; I would have laughed too if the bullet had given me time.

I wasn’t there when Rachel’s sister, a nurse in whom I’d confided my discovery, retrieved my notes and saw to it that they found their way into the right hands. I wasn’t there months later when the FDA approved my vaccine, or when it was first administered. I wasn’t there over the years to watch cancer become a memory.

I’d known I didn’t have to worry about being buried alive, and it hadn’t occurred to me to worry about simply being buried.

I picked the wrong day to quit smoking

2009-06-24T17:14:00.001-07:00

I was pretty damn sure this was what it felt like to die. My body had gone cold, my skin was clammy and all I could see what a bright white light; clearly that was death, right? Wrong. I was actually disappointed that I wasn’t getting a free pass on my current situation; I’d have much preferred almost anything else to being in my own shoes right about now.

The nausea that rolled over me made me want to throw up with my whole body; and my mind was convinced that doing so would make me feel a whole lot better. Stomach acid burned my throat, my mouth went dry and sweat trickled down my back in a long ticklish line.

My fingers twitched, tightening into a fist and then opening like a flower, over and over repeating the same restless dance. My boots felt tight and my legs bounced a staccato rhythm against the floor with the heels, tap tap tap.

I began to question my own sanity, wondering how a crazy person would know that they were crazy; they wouldn’t, would they? They would just merrily go through life under the firm belief that the sky was green, the grass was red and the birds could talk; who could convince them differently?

I rose slowly to my feet and stared even harder at the white light, convinced that I would meet my demise if I touched it, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from shuffling forward like a hypnotized zombie. Transfixed, I was able to ignore the whooshing of the wind as I stepped into the light, letting it rush and swirl around me, whipping my nerves into a raw frenzy.

Reaching up to my chest I pulled the handle I found there and a huge red parachute deployed above me, slowing my descent. I was used to this, I’d done it a million times, but I’d always had nicotine to calm my anxiety and with a deep, adrenaline saturated sigh I realized I’d picked the wrong day to quite smoking.

I thought I knew who I was

2009-06-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

I thought I knew who I was, but then I opened the door and saw his dark face in the rain. It wasn’t the jagged scar that ran from his forehead, over his left eye to the bottom of his earlobe that brought me up short; it was the fierceness of his whisky colored eyes.

The heavy, fat drops fell audibly against the leather of his coat, splashing his cheeks with their shattered selves before running long his jaw to drip from the point of his chin. His crudely chopped hair lay plastered against his head like a black skull cap, and his chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing; he was in a hurry.

I frowned at him, my fight or flight instincts kicking into high gear as I stared into this stranger’s face, and yet I seemed rooted to the spot.

“Can I help you?” I asked, hoping forced civility would keep me from panicking.

He pushed past me in response, striding confidently down the hall and into the living room, his thick soled boots leaving muddy tracks on my cream colored carpet.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I slammed the door and trotted after him, my annoyance with his ballsy actions over-riding my compulsion to flee.

He stopped in the middle of my kitchen and cocked his head, listening for… what? I opened my mouth to speak and he held up one finger, effectively shushing me without making a sound, and to my own surprise I actually complied.

His gaze moved toward the ceiling, slowly following a sound that apparently only he could hear from the kitchen to the living room. In the span of two heartbeats he reached out and grabbed me by the arm, turning and running back toward the front door, throwing it open and dragging me out into the sheeting rain.

All my words of protest were lost under the sizzling cracks of lightening, deafening claps of thunder and the steady stomps of his heavy boots against the pavement. We ran two blocks before he ducked into a narrow alley, no light penetrating more than two feet into the blackness, and even the blue bursts of lightening didn’t reach us.

He pressed his back to the tall brick wall, holding me back beside him with one outstretched arm; he needn’t have worried about my running off, I was too out of breath to make a break for it.

The sound of footsteps filtered their way through the rain, their approach slow and steady, but the man to my left kept his gaze focused upward, straining his eyes into the night sky. When I finally heard what he had heard, my heart rate tripled and I didn’t know how to split my focus between the footfalls and the sound of huge leathery wings beating overhead.

A small squeak escaped my lips when he grabbed my wrist and ran further down the alley. Despite the utter blackness he moved like a cat, as if he knew every obstacle that would impede his progress, and he managed to avoid all the scattered garbage, dumpsters and sleeping homeless. I wasn’t as lithe. More than once I tripped and fell to the wet asphalt, scraping unknown amounts of skin off my bare knees before he could drag me to my feet and continue on his way.

By the time he stopped again I was completely exhausted, bruised and bloody. My Transformers sleep shirt and matching boxers were soaked and clung to me everywhere; I’d have been annoyed about it if I wasn’t so tired and cold.

He pushed me back against the wall, and in an impossibly low voice he directed me to stand there and not move. Was he kidding? I was doing good to stay upright. The loud grinding of metal on metal assaulted my ears, but I found I was too tired to be startled; I simply stood there waiting and trying to slow my breathing down.

His hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me away from the wall, lifting my arms and wrapping my fingers around the sides of a ladder before urging me to climb. The metal rungs were slick with rain, the rough metal digging painfully into the arches of my feet, and still he pushed from below.

It felt like hours had passed by the time I reached the roof, climbing over the edge of the brick wall and tumbling down onto the roughly textured roof, scraping more skin off my knees and opening up the heels of my hands to match. He dropped down beside me in a crouch, his leather coat fanning out to lie over my back, giving me a temporary reprieve from the ongoing downpour.

Rising to his feet he grabbed my arm and dragged me up with him, striding to the opposite side of the roof and peering over the edge.

“Listen, I think you have the wrong person,” I said, even my voice weary, “I don’t know who you think I am, but…”

In a brief flash of blue lightening I saw him smile. Climbing up onto the edge of the wall he hauled me up beside him and wrapped both arms securely around my waist, lifting me off my feet. For one frozen moment he held me there, my panicked heart out pacing his own steady pulse, and just before he turned and leapt off the edge into a glowing green light that had suddenly appeared, he said, “You’re the one who will save our world.”

One Wish To You

2009-06-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

The air was heavy with the scent of roses. Night, it seemed, amplified scent and Melody inhaled deeply of the moonlight induced aroma. She wandered slowly along the narrow pathway, the crushed oyster shells softly reflecting the fading star light to guide her on her journey.

She passed trees and bushes laden with the blossoms and buds. The dew collecting on the tips of thick petals, quivered for a moment on the precipice of crimson, pink or yellow cliffs before gravity pulled them to earth where they melted into the rich soil, searching out roots to nourish.

Melody’s sleeves were wet with dew, the cotton of her blouse absorbing the liquid gems as she brushed past the plants on her way to the small stone well at the far edge of the property. This part of the garden wasn’t as well tended as what grew closer to the house and the wild growth, left unchecked, provided a barrier between what her life was and what she wanted it to be.

Dawn threatened to break, quivering on the edge of the eastern horizon, but the pastel blush was still too weak to be called day. Stepping faster, Melody pushed past overgrown heather and Scottish broom, the purple and yellow blossoms throwing their scent in the air as she made contact with them.

As last she came to a low stone wall, spongy moss and tiny ferns growing in the crevasses, and with practiced precision she climbed over and continued on her way. The shell pathway had stopped at the wall, and her feet were now completely silent on the soft carpet of thyme as she hurried toward the small well that stood like a solitary soldier in the center of a forgotten clearing.

No one used the well anymore, and years of neglect had only served to endear it to Melody all the more. Its small sloped roof wasn’t quite as covered with cedar shingles as it had once been, but those that were left were held in place by more moss. The bucket and winch had long since weathered away, falling down the stone throat of the well.

Climbing up, Melody sat on the stone edge, her feet dangling in the black depths of the well. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a few small, round pebbles; she had made it a habit over the last 16 years to gather them when she went to the river so she could drop them into the well each morning. There was no crime in making wishes, and since she didn’t have pennies to waste, pebbles would have to serve.

Swinging her feet freely in the mouth of the well, Melody watched as dawn fought its way over the hills, beating back the night with bright fists. Pink turned to fuchsia, lavender to purple and yellow to gold, haloing the trees like wooded saints. It was when the light broke over the vast expanse of Wildwood that Melody made her first wish of the day, dropping a stone into the well.

The ancient manor house stood like a protective governess, her arms outstretched to welcome, but hard enough to protect those inside them. The wave of the roof tiles looked like wild red hair, crowning her tall torso and making her quite the imposing figure.

Another wish, another stone fall.

Melody knew that with each dawn came the landlord’s daughter, Hannah. Sitting astride her buckskin gelding she would erupt from the barn for her daily ride across the countryside.

Another wish, another stone fall.

As if cued by the sun she appeared. Her chestnut hair was bound at the base of her head, braids coiled like silken snakes. Her black breeches sheathed her legs and disappeared into the tops of the knee high leather boots, complimenting the blue of her blouse.

Another wish, another stone fall.

Melody watched intently, straining her eyes into the bright morning light until horse and rider disappeared over the hill. Looking down into her hand she pushed the two remaining pebbles across her palm with one finger, her heart steadily beating faster and faster as the minutes ticked by.

Another wish, another stone fall.

Climbing to her feet, Melody stood on the rim of the well, holding onto the rotting roof for balance as she rose onto her tip toes and peered into the distance. The sound of hoof beats was faint at first, and she wasn’t sure from which direction they were coming. The horse pranced out from the thick forest that skirted the clearing and Melody turned, her blue eyes locking with the green gaze that made her heart leap.

Hannah brought her horse up beside the well, reining him to a halt only a moment before leaning toward Melody and the kiss her proffered mouth promised. Melody felt her body flush with heat as she held Hannah’s mouth against her own, gently cupping the back of her head, and she relished the taste of her.

Breaking the kiss they smiled at each other, and Melody held up the one remaining pebble she had, holding it between her finger and thumb. “Only one more wish to you,” she said before tossing it over her shoulder.

The stone echoed, bouncing its way down to the water below while Melody slid onto the horse’s back, her arms wrapping tightly around Hannah’s waist before they rode off to their secret spot to pass the day in a heavy cloud of passion.

Alone but not lonely

2009-06-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

Butterfly loved the city. The push of activity, the pulse of the people and the hum of the city itself was a heady tonic on which she fed to keep memories of more unpleasant days at bay. The only daughter of hippie parents she was raised in a commune in the country, separate from the rest of the world and completely self sufficient. They grew their own food, raised their own livestock and made their own clothes. Butterfly was educated by the entire collection of eclectic, and often times eccentric, adults who came in and out of her life.

As a child she never wondered where the grown ups went when they left and didn't come back, simply assuming they were wandering the natural world and would find their way back eventually. As a result of her unconventional education, Butterfly could bake bread, sew and make her own pottery. She could carve utensils, skin a deer and slaughter the livestock when the time came. She was a voracious reader, pestering newcomers to see any books they might have had, and did her math with a stick in the dirt.

She knew every inch of land around her home, every tree and every rock. For hours she would play in the streams, among the ferns and inside hollow trees; alone but not lonely.

She saw her first automobile when she was 17, and marveled at the beauty of the long Cadillac, its glossy black paint reflecting her grinning heart-shaped face back at her. The man who climbed from behind the wheel looked alien to her in his cream colored linen suit, a straw Panama hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head; Butterfly had never seen anyone who looked like that. Her parents were much less excited to see the car, let alone the driver.

The basket Butterfly had made when she was eight was thrust into her hands, and she was instructed to gather blackberries from the bushes at the far edge of the commune just before her parents and the tall stranger disappeared into the house. She mumbled her annoyance at being left out under her breath, scuffing her bare toe in the dirt.

With an attempt at subtlety she looked around casually before hunkering down and running around the back of the house. She knew the adults would be in the kitchen, so she crouched down under the open window to eavesdrop. Her parents were making every effort to keep their voices down, while the stranger's voice carried out the window to echo through the pastures. The stranger was talking about things Butterfly had never heard of: freeways, imminent domain and money.

It was when her mother started to cry and protest being thrown out of their home that Butterfly threw caution to the wind and bolted through the back door, startling the three adults. Her hands were fisted at her sides and her whole body was vibrating with anger, which she directed at the stranger as she bombarded him with every ounce of verbal venom she could muster.

The stranger had stormed off after that, spinning the wheels of the car that Butterfly was no longer in awe of and pelting her and her parents with a spray of dirt and pebbles.

The month that followed was a blur that consisted of packing and moving. Friends Butterfly could remember seeing at home came in their own cars, loading up her family’s belongings or hauling away the livestock. Her first ride in a car was both exhilarating and terrifying as she watched her home grow smaller and smaller from the back window of a beat up Jeep.

When she laid her eyes on a city for the first time, Butterfly was afraid at first, having never seen so many people in one place or having heard such a cacophony of noise, and she cowered in the back seat until her parents assured her everything was fine.

It only took a few days for her trepidation to turn to curiosity and then there was no satisfying her sense of adventure. She spent her days wandering the streets, learning the alley ways and talking with strangers, however, with joy comes pain. Her romances ended badly, she had no common ground with those around her, and eventually her wounded heart hardened.

Her mother never recovered from being forced from her home, and she became withdrawn and silent, no longer the source of light and laughter as Butterfly remembered her to be. The pain and despair eventually became too much and one day she just didn’t wake up; no one could convince Butterfly that she died from anything other than a broken heart.

It was years later that Butterfly learned that the freeway and proposed shopping mall that would have stood where her bedroom had once been had never been built, and her heart dared to swell with hope. Calling in sick to work, Butterfly climbed into her silver Prius and made the long journey back to where she started.

She parked at the gate and walked, her sandals crunching on the gravel and the powdery dirt coating her toes. She crested the hill and her parent’s old house came into view, pulling a single sob from her chest as she stood frozen in place, surveying the land where she had grown up.

“Can I help you?” came a voice from behind her and she spun to stare at the tall man who stood a few feet away. His jeans were torn and faded, his shirt wrinkled and his boots worn; as old as his attire looked, his smile was as bright as a new penny.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to find anyone here,” Butterfly said, smiling back at him as he walked slowly up to stand beside her.

“Neither did I,” he replied, adjusting his hat, “No one ever comes out here.”

“Well, I used to live here when I was a child. I thought it had been torn down long ago.”

The man had grown still, turning his head slowly to stare at her with wide green eyes. “You’re the girl who gave my father hell all those years ago.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement and Butterfly didn’t know whether to be flattered or mortified so she simply nodded. “He’d made me wait in the car when he came to talk to your parents that day, but I saw you creep around to listen at the window, and then I saw you yelling at him at the top of your lungs; I think you even threw a rock or two.” He was smiling broadly at the memory.

“I behaved badly that day, didn’t I?” Butterfly said sheepishly.

“Not at all, in fact watching you do that was the push I needed to stand up to him myself; that’s why this place was never demolished.”

“I don’t understand,” Butterfly said, her brow furrowed.

“I threw such a fit, and Father got so tired of hearing about this place, that he just signed the deed over to me.” He dug in his pocket and extracted a tattered document, which he held out to her. “I was hoping someday I’d have the opportunity to give this back to you.”

Monkey with a flame-thrower

2009-06-19T11:32:00.000-07:00

I walked into the room with my hands stuffed into my pockets. The acrid smell of burnt flesh seared my sinuses, and I involuntarily scrunched my nose in a feeble attempt to ward off the discomfort.

It was the kind of room you’d find in any average American home: Ikea furniture intermingled with older heirloom pieces, mass market paperbacks neatly lined up along the white shelves of a narrow bookcase and knick-knacks in the fairy and dragon vein were carefully placed for easy viewing.

The only thing that didn’t belong was the charred remains of what used to be a 30-something woman lying in the middle of her scorched bed. The poly-blend floral bedding was melted around her, but only in the immediate vicinity of her body. The sides and edges were left unmarred.

“Arson?”

I turned to locate the genius who could look at the scene and think arson, finding a tall, lanky man with an unkempt mop of black hair falling into his blue eyes. He wore a black suit and was mimicking my hands-in-the-pockets pose while leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Actually, my first guess was a monkey with a flame-thrower,” I said, quirking one corner of my mouth.

He laughed, deep and rich as he pushed himself upright and walked across the room, stopping to stand beside me and look more closely at the black smear that brought him here.

“So what do you think, Detective Roberts?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

It was my turn to mimic his pose, crossing my arms as I turned to look up at him. “You have me at a disadvantage, you clearly know who I am but I don’t know who you are.”

“So no theory?” he asked, dodging my question.

I narrowed my eyes at him, watching him as he squatted beside the bed to get a closer look at the gruesome husk. “I have my own theory, but it’s not one I think anyone would believe.”

He stood up, one dark eyebrow arched, turning to fully face me, “Try me.”

I was skeptical. I didn’t know who this man was; I didn’t know who he worked for or why he was at my crime scene, and despite all this I was compelled to tell him the theory that would have gotten me laughed right out of the station.

“All right,” I said, instinctively glancing around to make sure we were alone, “Spontaneous human combustion.”

He didn’t even flinch, so of course I did out of sheer surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, taking a seat in the white wicker armchair under the window.

“Nothing else is burned or damaged. The fire started right there,” I said, pointing at the bed.

“Cigarette?”

“No, that would have caught the whole room on fire; plus there are no other signs that she was a smoker.” I walked across the room and leaned back against the window sill, crossing my feet at the ankle. “She simply erupted in flame, burned white hot and then burned out.”

It was his turn to narrow his eyes, peering at me from under the dark fringe of his lashes. Rising to his feet he stepped in front of me, invading my personal space and trapping me between the window and the press of his nearness.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asked, his voice low, and I could only nod at him. He stepped out of the room, which gave me an opportunity to breathe again. I pushed away from the sill and walked back to the bed, staring down at the reason I was there.

I turned when he re-entered the room, his long legs covering the ground between us in short order and he stopped a few feet away. His lips twitched in an obvious effort not to smile as he extended his hand to me, “I’m V, with the NSA,” he said, “You’ve been cleared for a promotion.”

The Limp Kitten

2009-06-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

I saw the limp little kitten body and realized it had been drowned; what a shitty thing for any animal lover to encounter. I picked him up and cradled the tiny spotted feline in my hands, caressing his little head and large pointed ears.

I thought I was hallucinating when his tail twitched, and I almost didn't dare to hope that he'd survived his trip into the muddy creek. Having watched way too many shows on Animal Planet I held his mouth closed and blew intermittently into his nose, gently inflating his lungs before rubbing warmth into his body.

I carried on this way for a full minute, breathe and rub, and when he sneezed water out of his nose and then promptly began to mewl I laughed through the tears of joy that had erupted from my eyes. His pitiful little cries were music to my ears, and I quickly bundled him into my sweatshirt and ran home; jumping into my car and high tailing it to the vet.

Several hours, and a few hundred dollars later, he was handed back to me along with medication and care instructions. He was much too young to be away from his mother so I had several weeks of round the clock nursing to look forward to.

That had been five years ago, and never before had there been a better companion than Shakir. He'd grown into a 32 pound adult Savannah, his silver coat was littered with black rosettes and no sound escaped his large ears, especially not the can opener.

He loved to play, attacking my legs as I walked down the hallway with a basket of laundry or leaping on my back as I slept, but he always kept his claws sheathed, careful not to hurt me.

Tucked snuggly under the blankets I drifted off to sleep with the sound of rain on the window and Shakir hogging half the bed. In the depths of my dreams I suddenly felt afraid, registering on a subconscious level that something smelled like smoke; had I left the biscuits in the oven?

I woke suddenly to find Shakir on the floor by the bed, his mouth full of my arm and pulling me out of the bed. I blinked my eyes into the acrid smoke I found myself enveloped in. It seared my lungs and I coughed, trying to catch my breath only to gulp in more smoke.

Shakir bit me harder, drawing blood as well as my attention, and at his insistence I rolled out of the bed, landing on the floor with a grunt. I could hear fire crackling but couldn’t determine where it was coming from, and I started to panic until something solid thumped my cheek.

Reaching out I took a hold of Shakir’s thick tail, crawling on my belly as he led me across the floor. My eyes watered and my throat was raw, but whenever I stopped moving he turned and yowled at me to keep moving.

Hitting the front door with my head I reached up and turned the knob, opening it enough for us to crawl out, and moment later I felt hands lifting me. After a few disoriented moments I found myself sitting on the lawn across the street with an oxygen mask on and a blanket around my shoulders.

The rain had let up and the light drizzle faceted my hair and eyelashes with tiny prism droplets. Under the blanket with me, leaning against my side with my arm wrapped around him sat Shakir, his bright topaz eyes shining up at me; he’d returned the kindness I’d once shown him.

Graceful

2009-06-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

I’d been watching her long enough to know what her favorite drink was. I knew her favorite flower, her favorite restaurant and her favorite flavor of ice cream. I knew when she was on her period and I knew when she had gotten laid.

It wasn’t that she was that intriguing of a woman, well, at least not to most people. Her long brown hair was straight and non-descript, blunt bangs hanging in her brown eyes, which she subconsciously swiped at with one un-manicured hand every few minutes. She rarely wore make-up, and preferred jeans and a T-shirt to anything that might show her shape.

No, it wasn’t this woman I was interested in; I was hunting for the person who killed my wife, and this woman would lead me to them.

Grace and I had been married only a few years, and the honeymoon was still in full swing. We couldn’t get enough of each other, always looking for any opportunity to touch, kiss or fuck; location be damned. She’d filled me up to overflowing with passion and love, up until the day she was taken from me by a stray bullet from a bank robber’s gun.

Wrong place, wrong time, that’s what the police had said right before they gave their obligatory condolences and sent me on my way. Not good enough.

That had been two years ago. It had taken me ten months before I got my first clue and another 18 before I found my way to where I now stood; outside a titty bar in Sacramento. I watched Mousey Brown cross the parking lot with her head down and her shoulders hunched; the yellow of the lights casting a sickly tone over cars and people alike.

She spared a glance around as she opened the door, pausing for just a moment before she disappeared into the dark interior of the club. I climbed from my car and followed, only a minute behind, and the bar was dark enough that my eyes didn’t need any time to adjust as the door closed behind me.

The dance music blared while a tall blonde pranced up and down the illuminated catwalk, her full breasts bouncing with her rhythmic gait. I scanned the room, looking for Mousey Brown, but she had vanished. I found a table in a dimly lit corner and settled in, waiting for her to emerge from her hole, and waiving away other women who were selling lap dances.

The music changed as each dancer cycled through: techno, rock and dance poured from the speakers as my eyes passed over the inhabitants of the room for the hundredth time; still no sign of Mousey. Then the flavor of the music changed, it was slow and seductive and familiar. It made me think of dark nights on satin sheets, nights from memory, not from fantasy. Images of Grace lying under me, her skin slick with sweat and eyes lids fallen shut in ecstasy came storming to the forefront of my mind, and my gaze was involuntarily pulled toward the catwalk.

I watched from my lone, dark corner as a tall leggy red head pranced onto the stage. She dripped in black lace. Stockings, garters and thigh high leather boots encased her legs, and her breasts swelled over the top of the lace corset that cinched her waist; she moved like a serpent. I rose slowly to my feet and moved numbly toward the stage; surely my eyes were deceiving me, the lithe curves of the woman before me were familiar, intimately familiar, and my fingers longed to revisit them.

I reached the edge of the stage just as she dropped to her knees and looked up, peering into my face through her curtain of garnet hair with green feline eyes; it was my Grace. I heard a gasp escape her and her eyes went wide, piercing my soul a moment before darting toward the table of men who suddenly stood up and reached for concealed weapons.

Time slowed at that moment, and exploded all at the same time. Grace leapt from the stage and tackled me to the floor, straddling me with one hand pressed to my chest, holding me down. She extracted a gun from the top of her boot and turned, firing at the group of men with the precision of an expert gem cutter, dropping them easily in the darkness.

I stared up at her with wide eyes, her weight familiar on my body, and her scent wafting around me like a secret whispered promise. I reached up and touched her cheek, drawing her attention to me and despite the bar now being empty, the strains of our song continued to play around us. She smiled down at me, bending over until her breasts pressed against my chest and she held my face in her hands.

I had a million questions, but found I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat, my Grace had been restored to me and I didn’t know how; frankly I didn’t care as I wrapped my arms around her. She saw the questions in my eyes, lowering her mouth and speaking against my lips, “Ask me later,” she said softly before flooding me with her essence.

Our Last Visit

2009-02-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

What had it been? Eight years? Ten? She couldn’t remember now, and that question only added to the whirlwind already spinning through her mind. Why was he contacting her now? In his message he didn’t sound urgent or dire, he simply sounded… like Kyle. His voice was the same symphony of cadence and tone it had always been, and it still incited the same reaction in her that it always had.

They had gone to school together; since they were five years old they had been classmates, neighbors and friends. Kyle attended all of Lily’s cello recitals, and pretended to be awake; she cheered him on through every basketball game, encouraging him to foul the other team when necessary.

Kyle comforted her when her cat died, beat up the boys who were bullying her and walked her home from school every day. Lily helped him fix his motorcycle, teach his dog Gir to play fetch and made him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Adolescence cast Kyle in a new light, and Lily’s eyes didn’t see him the same; in place of a gangly boy she saw the shadow of the man he would become. His hair seemed richer, his laugh deeper and his eyes more piercing and she found herself feeling suddenly shy when he was around.

High school had brought on a whole new series of feelings. Lily had tried to date other boys, but none compared in her estimation to Kyle, and it pained her to watch him date other girls. He walked across campus holding Sara’s hand, or laughing with Jody, and each time he passed her she could only smile in mock encouragement, all the while wilting inside because that touch and laugh weren’t for her.

On graduation day Kyle took Lily by the hand and led her under the bleachers, his dark blue cap and gown complimenting her light blue one, and once they were out of sight of the crowds of weeping parents and bored siblings, he spoke to her softly.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, holding her hands in his.

“What is it?” Lily replied, her brow furrowed and confusion shining in her honey colored eyes.

Kyle was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving her face, “May I kiss you?”
The question caught Lily off guard and she blinked in surprise, a swarm of butterflies exploding in her stomach. A wide smile spread across her face, like morning sunlight slowly creeping across the landscape. Her inhibitions were swept away in the sweetness of him asking, and the knowledge that they were both leaving for separate colleges in only a few months.

Lily threw herself against Kyle, his surprise lasting only a moment when she pressed her lips to his and his arms came around her, squeezing her tight. That first kiss was the kind poets write sonnets about, and they sought to touch and taste and feel everything all in that one frozen moment in time.

And now, a decade later, that summer seemed as fresh and new to Lily as it had when it was happening. College, boyfriends, and four moves had passed, and still the sound of Kyle’s voice was enough to make her feel 18 again, and her fingers trembled as she dialed the number he’d left on her machine.

“Hello?”

“Kyle? It’s Lily,” she said, unable to stop herself from smiling like a fool, “It’s been a long time since our last visit. How are you?”

“I'll be better in a second,” he answered just as her doorbell rang, and her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.

Don't let me die

2008-12-27T13:58:00.001-08:00

Both of their battles had been hard fought and even harder won; battles physical, spiritual, mental and emotional had taken their toll on their minds, hearts and bodies. Rysa held Valente in her arms, cradling his battered and broken body while the world burned around them. His plate armor was scarred and bent, his life’s blood seeping from the seams to soak the blue and white carpet under their knees.

She had lost him five years before when her father had discovered they were lovers, her heir to the throne of Etana and he the son of a fish monger. The King had burst into Rysa’s room, his guards ripping him from her arms and taking him away into the darkness. She hadn’t seen him since that night.

For five years she had played the good daughter, courting the men her father pushed her way in an attempt to pacify him, while focusing all her energy on finding Valente and honing her magical skills. She snuck into the darkest corners of Etana, talked to the seediest scoundrels and villains, and paid them all for information that may lead her to him.

In the beginning many saw her as an easy mark, a pampered Princess who could easily be ransomed back to the King for a quick bit of gold, but those who underestimated her ended up dead. It wasn’t long before she had a reputation of swiftly meting out retribution on those who betrayed her, and the lowest echelon of miscreant no longer dared cross her.

As the years passed her magic grew, filling her tall frame until she vibrated with it, releasing it with her mind and letting it blossom into a the hammer of destruction she intended it to be. She had gathered enough information about Valente’s whereabouts to know where she would most likely find him, and she was ready to set her carefully detailed plan into motion.

She dressed in her finest gown; the filmy white layers of silk encasing her body like spun air, and her silver crown perched atop her head like an exotic bird’s crest. Her pale hair hung loose, and flowed like satin to her hips, shimmering frosted water as she walked into the throne room.

Her father looked up when she entered; waiving away the advisor he had been speaking with a casual flick of his fingers. “Daughter,” he said, leaning back and resting his arms along the carved frame of his throne.

“Father,” she replied, dipping in a small curtsey. “May I speak with you in private?”

“Of course,” The King raised one hand and again flicked his fingers in a shoo-ing motion, and Rysa watched in silence as the dozen people who had been milling around the room, filed out through the finely carved doors. “Now Daughter, what is it?”

Rysa was silent a moment, closing her blue eyes and focusing her mind on gathering her power. Looking up she locked gazes with her father, the man who swore he loved her and yet had torn out her heart the day he had taken Valente away, and she knew the look she gave him wasn’t friendly. The King flinched.

“Rysa?” he said, his voice carrying a current of confusion.

“Never again father,” she began, the low volume of her voice belying the sharp tone,

“Never again will you control me, and never again will you hurt those I love.”

The King stood slowly, his face wary as he descended the dais and moved toward her,

“Daughter, I act in your best interest –“

“Lies!” Rysa’s voice snapped like a whip, and blue lightning crackled along its waves, stopping the King in his tracks.

“Is this about that boy?” The King asked, and his disgusted tone launched Rysa across the room, her long fingers clutching his soft throat, her nails drawing blood.

“Valente! His name is Valente, and you will do well to remember that, Father, as he is the reason I am going to kill you.”

The King smiled, a sinister curving of the lips that made Rysa’s skin go cold. “Do you really believe that I have been completely unaware of your nocturnal excursions into Etana? Do you think me so dim that I wouldn’t know who you talk to, and I know what they tell you?” Rysa’s grip tightened and her father clutched at her wrist. “I am not as simple as you may think, Daughter. The information you have is outdated. Three weeks ago I ordered the fish monger spawn that defiled you be brought here for execution; after all if I simply told you he’d been killed, you’d have thought me a liar; better you see for yourself.”

Rysa felt her power waiver in the wake of this news, and it felt as though her heart stopped. Sounds of fighting filtered through the walls and distracted her enough for her father to reach for his sword, his beefy fingers barely on the weapon before the door splintered into the room.

A tall knight stumbled into the room, his armor that of the King’s Guard, and Rysa felt her vengeance slipping from her grasp. The Knight staggered forward, one hand clutching his side, while the other dragged a blood-stained broadsword behind him. He stopped six feet away and stared at the King and his daughter, his breathing labored as he reached up and pulled his helmet off, dropping it to the carpeted stone floor.

Rysa’s gaze locked on the green eyes she thought she’d never see again, and her heart gave a hopeful lurch against her sternum. Valente shifted his attention, his green gaze locking with the cold blue of the King’s, and he drew himself up to his full six and a half feet with visible effort.

“I need to thank you, Your Majesty, without your order of execution I never would have escaped from the hell hole you sent me to,” he said, and without another moment’s hesitation he lunged forward, piercing the King’s chest with his sword. Rysa gripped the hilt and channeled her stored power into the blade, bringing it to life with blue fire that seared and burned her father from the inside out.

She released her hold on her father’s neck at the same moment the sword slipped from Valente’s fingers and the King fell to the floor, a charred husk that filled the air with the stench of burnt flesh.

Valente staggered and fell to his knees, Rysa catching him in her arms and kneeling on the floor with his armored body weighing on her bones, as the sight of his battered face weighed on her heart. His blood soaked the white of her gown, its heat warming her skin even while her soul felt cold with fear.

He grasped her free hand, squeezing his eyes shut against what she could only imagine was excruciating agony, his voice a pain-filled whisper when he spoke, “Don’t let me die, not now...”

Rysa gathered every last spark of magic that remained in her body, drawing from her very core, and even reaching out into the ether to take more. Reaching up she cradled his head against her breast, lacing her fingers into his black hair that was sticky with blood, and she opened the barrier within herself that kept her magic in check.

The power flowed through her and into him, gently mending him and making him whole, and when he next opened his eyes there was no pain there, only hope fulfilled.

*Artwork by http://ertacaltinoz.deviantart.com/

I love you so much

2008-12-21T10:54:00.000-08:00

"I love you so much."

Those had been the words he'd said to her as they lay panting in each other's arms, his voice muffled against the side of her neck. Their skin was slick with sweat, and by the light of half a dozen candles Grace watched steam rise from Stephen's shoulders in the cool air of the bedroom. His dark hair was tousled and fell into his eyes when he rolled to the side, slipping off her body as easily as he'd slipped inside it.

Reaching up with her long, elegant fingers she traced the line of his profile; over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his parted lips and under his chin. Her touch opened his brilliant green eyes. He turned his head to look at her, and as always, she was absolutely charmed by the sight of his face.

They'd started out as strangers in an elevator. Three hours of conversation in that steel and smoky mirrored cube during a power outage had launched them into each other's arms within the day, like two magnets passing too close to one another. The pull was too strong to resist, and now, a year later, they still fell together like teenagers, impatient to touch.

She watched him, wondering how many times he'd said those exact same words to other people. When he said it to others, did he mean it the same way every single time, or did his level of love vary depending on the woman he was with? Who was worthy of the full dose? What did they have to do to earn it? How could it be lost?

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, pulling the sheet up to cover the bare lines of their bodies.

"Do you love on a scale?" she asked, pillowing her head on one arm.

"What kind of scale might you be interested in trying out?" He was being playful, and she smiled softly at him.

Stephen was always joking with her, teasing and making her laugh; he was her lighter side. She had gotten out of a very long relationship only days before meeting him, and she’d been certain he’d be a rebound fuck and nothing more; one quick romp and that would be that. That one romp had caught her like a fish in a net, wrapping her up in the burning need of addiction, and now she couldn’t imagine being without him, and the her feeling of dependence scared the shit out of her.

“How many other people have you said those words to?” Grace asked, and Stephen’s expression morphed from playful to confused, like dawn becoming day.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowed, “I love a great many people, don’t you?”

“I always thought that you loved one person, all the others you were simply very fond of,” she looked worried, as though she was sure she was failing a very important test even while still taking it.

“Is there no one you love?” Stephen asked, trying to understand why the idea of various levels of love was so foreign to her.

“Only you,” her answer was simple and without hesitation, though the lines of her face were showing an increasing level of panic.

He slid closer to her, pulling her into the circle of his arms, and she clung to him like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood. Leaning back slightly he looked into her eyes, caressing the silky skin of her cheek, “It’s all right,” his voice was soothing, and her panic began to dissipate like the morning fog, “Love can be learned, I will help teach you.”

Grace buried her face in the curve of his neck, simultaneously anxious and afraid about her impending education. Would she be any good at it? Would she be able to change her deeply rooted understanding of the most complex human emotion? She could only try, and hope that she would make a good student.

The morning after

2008-12-18T14:54:00.001-08:00

This is my attempt to write from a male perspective. Not sure it worked though. :-)

Wyatt's subconscious spun through the thin fog left over from the night before. A strange mix of memories and sensations filtered through the residual beer haze to create an almost morbid mosaic of images, scents and sounds.

He could remember the bar, but only because there was a stuffed jackalope behind the burly bartender, and he'd tricked his best friend into thinking it was a real animal. That farce had won him $10 and another round of drinks. The evening had started as guy's night out, just some time to hang with his buddies, talk about sports and speculate about what the hell women really wanted.

But then she walked in, and it altered the course of the evening.

He wasn't looking for anything long term, he'd been there and done that, and it always ended badly. He just didn't want to make the emotional investment, he wanted only the physical pleasure of sex in a fleeting moment of passion with a virtual stranger, and then he could carry on with his life.

His single-track focus found a railroad switch, and was diverted toward a new station that had long chestnut hair and was wearing a red dress.

The scent of good, strong coffee drew him toward consciousness by his nose, and his eyes fluttered open to stare up at a foreign ceiling. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, scrubbing his hands over his face before stretching his muscles with a groan.

He expected her to be hovering, waiting for him to wake up so she could start talking at him, but she wasn't there. He propped himself up on his elbows, and scanned the large loft apartment, finding her sitting at her small breakfast table with a steaming cup of coffee and the morning paper; completely oblivious to him.

He flipped back the cotton sheets, his skin pale against the navy hue, and rising to his feet he retrieved his underwear from the lamp shade where they had landed the night before. Finger combing his hair he walked toward the kitchen, and she looked up from the business section with a smile.

"Good morning. There's coffee if you're interested," Zoe said, taking a sip of her own before returning to her reading.

Wyatt was confused, and he turned his furrowed brow toward the magical black brew. She didn't want to kiss him? She didn't want to talk about her feelings? She didn't want to know where they went from here? He felt the foundation of his understanding of women shift, and he involuntarily scratched his head in confusion.

Taking his coffee to the table, he sat down across from her, watching her read as he sipped his coffee. She still wasn't talking. She wasn't even looking up at him, and he felt the knot of dread he harbored in his stomach after every one night stand, open like a fist.

"I'm going to hop in the shower, I have some errands to run," she said, laying the paper down and rising to her feet. "I had a great time. I have your number, so I'll call sometime, okay?" she dropped a light kiss on his mouth before turning and disappearing into the bathroom.

He sat for a moment, paralyzed with shock that she'd actually just dismissed him in the nicest way possible. He dressed and headed for the door, the sound of the shower serving as the morning's music, and he smiled as he closed the door behind himself, smiling at the knowing that this was going to be anything but simple.

The duck walks at midnight

2008-12-10T09:15:00.000-08:00

They all stood in a tight circle at the back of the barn. It was a small farm, so the circle was small, but it was about to get even smaller. Pig, Horse, Cow, Hen and Goat looked at Duck, who stood in the center of the circle with his beak hanging open.

"What do you mean, they are going to eat me?" he asked, confusion on his feathery face. "They love me."

The others all exchanged glances with each other. "Yes, well they will love you more with a nice gravy," Goat bleated, and the other frowned at her. "What? It's true. We've all seen it before; why coat him with lies about being coated with gravy?"

"Enough!" Horse snapped, stomping her hoof, dust from the straw puffing up into the air.

"Why would he eat me and none of you?" Duck asked, pacing in a nervous circle.

"I carry him to market, and pull his plow." Horse said, twitching her skin to scare off a fly that was annoying her rump.

"I give him milk for butter and cheese. And I've heard him say that with some chocolate my milk is delicious!" Cow explained, blinking her velvety eyes.

"I give him eggs." Hen said, "He eats those instead of me."

"I maintain his pastures, eating the grass down. Plus, I also give milk for cheese, and I've heard him said my cheese is very tasty on Hen's eggs," Goat waggled her stubby tail to punctuate her pride.

"And you Pig? What do you give him that I can't?" Duck asked, his shiny black eyes blinking slowly at the massive swine.

Pig was quiet a moment, his great, floppy ears bobbing on top of his head like flaccid pancakes. "I help him dispose of bothersome neighbors."

Duck needed no further explanation of that statement; he needed only to remember that Pig had huge teeth that could bite through anything, apparently that included bone. Duck shivered.

"Well then, I guess I need to run away. I could live in the wild."

Goat laughed, which earned her another glare from her friends. "Oh please, he's too soft to live in the wild. There's no one there to bring him his food; he wouldn't last a day."

Duck lifted his head and scowled at Goat. "You just watch me, I'm making a break for it tonight and I'll be just fine out there."

"My friends, the duck walks at midnight." Horse said, and they all bowed their head in a moment of silence.

That's one big pipe

2008-12-07T11:10:00.001-08:00

"Come here, I want to show you something." Mike pulled Haley along by her hand, and she walked the walk of the reluctant into the damp cave. She had a bad feeling about this.

The farther from the entrance they got, the more darkness she expected, but it remained light. Looking around she searched for the source of the light, noticing small mushrooms growing from the cracks in the walls that glowed with soft white light. Surely that wasn't enough to light the whole cave, though.

"Look, over there." Mike said, pulling on her hand again, and she stumbled after him.

They stopped on the edge of a large precipice, and peered down into the blackness, like stones facing a well.

"That's one big pipe." Mike said, and Haley rolled her eyes.

"It's not a pipe, it's just a big hole in the ground," she said, wondering how Mike could function on a day to day basis if he couldn't tell the difference between a pipe and a cave.

"What, like the Grand Canyon?"

"Did you really just say that?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest in an attempt to ward off the chill dampness of the cave air.

"Oh come on," Mike said, slapping her on the back with a laugh.

His laughter stopped when she lurched forward, wind milling her arms in an attempt to keep her balance, but the pull of gravity was stronger than she was and she fell over the edge.

Haley hoped for an Alice in Wonderland kind of experience; talking cats, hookah smoking caterpillars and singing flowers would be an awesome ending to this fall, but since she wasn't slowing down, she wasn't banking on such good fortune.

She couldn't help but envision every gruesome possibility of her demise; smashing her head on the rock wall, being impaled on a stalagmite or being eaten by whatever animals made this cave their home. None of these sounded very pleasant, but she hoped for something quick.

What she wasn't expecting was the sudden stab of pain that lanced through her body when it hit freezing cold water. It closed in over her head, giving her an instant headache, and she thrashed her numb limbs. Following her bubbles, she fought her way up, breaking the surface and gasping in lungfuls of bitterly cold air.

She could hear Mike shouting down to her, his voice scared.

"I'm fine, Mike. Just get a rope quick, I'm freezing down here!" she said as she tread water, unaware of the eyes that watched her from the depths.

I keep all my notes right here on the bottom of my shoe

2008-12-07T10:09:00.000-08:00

Sabrina opened here eyes, blinking several times to clear her vision and focus on her surroundings. Why do my shoulders hurt? she wondered, before tipping her head back to see her wrists bound around a hook with rough rope, and pulled over her head by the chain from which the hook hung. Ah, that's right.

It all started coming back to her now. She had been sent behind the Iron Curtain to retrieve sensitive data from the commie bastard who'd stolen it, right out from under the nose of the entire US Army. A single operative had a better chance, than if they sent in a whole platoon. That had been their theory. Based on her current predicament, she determined they'd been wrong.

Everything had been going so well. She'd spent a week doing recon just to track the son of a bitch down. Why did he have to steal it in winter? she'd wondered, Moscow is fucking cold! She hated the cold, and it was only the thought of the warm, sandy, tropical beach she was going to escape to when she completed her mission that got her through each bitter night.

At last. There he was. Through the scope on her rifle she watched him eating his week old bread, washing it down with rotgut vodka, his little hands twitching nervously as they fluttered like wounded birds over the small disc that lay on the table beside him.

The bullet left the muzzle with a muffled pop, and she watched it hit its mark, dropping her target like bad habit. He slumped over the table before sliding from his chair onto the floor, the disc glinting at her from the table like the light at the end of the tunnel it was for her, and she couldn't help but smile. Now all she had to do was walk across the street, get the disc, and then wait for her pick up.

Movement through her scope as she started to lower it stopped her, and she peered through it back into the bastard's squat. Who the hell is that?! she wondered as she watched a tall man dressed in black saunter across the room and pick up the disc, turning toward the window and making direct eye contact with her. Lifting the disc he nodded his thanks at her with a smile, and then turned on his heel and headed for the door. Mother fucker!

She dropped the rifle and ran for the fire escape. Jumping from one landing to the next, she let gravity help her descend the outside of the dilapidated brick building, pulling her toward the ground and she hit it running. Man, why do they always run? They'll only die tired!

She laughed at the memory of that thought, and her muscles cried out in pain at the movement, giving her a sharp reminder of the beating she'd taken from the man in black. And now here she was, naked, bleeding and bloody, and looking into his furious green eyes from where she hung by her hands.

"Who sent you?" he asked her for the thousandth time, his fist connecting with her ribs when she remained silent.

"All right, all right!" she said, grimacing against the fresh pain. He paused, moving to stand in front of her, and looking up with impatient eyes. "I'll tell you everything. I have it all here. I keep all my notes right here on the bottom of my shoe." Despite the fact that she was naked, he reflexively looked down at her foot, surprise flashing briefly through his eyes as her foot connected solidly with his nose, driving the nasal bone into his brain.

Grabbing the chain, she pulled herself up until the rope cleared the hook and she dropped to the floor on shaky legs. Getting out of the rope was easy, and as she slipped into the dead man's long black coat and heavy boots, she smiled despite the pain in her face, as she pulled the disc from his pocket and headed out to meet her pick up.