Category Archives: fiction

A Break From Monday


 

I began today with a to-do list of unending proportions. I have accomplished eight of the fourteen things on my list, (because I did, indeed, write an actual list for the day) and have decided that’s about enough work for now. So, as I logged into my blog account, I thought to myself, “Self! What better way to relax than to write some good old-fashioned smut?!”  What an excellent idea! I know I’ve said it before, but let me just give Mr. Grey and his Fifty Shades a run for his ill-earned money:

 

I remembered my training- how it felt when the cool links of the silver choke chain tightened around my neck, and how Professor’s massive hand spread across my exposed rear felt red-hot as he chastised me after I’d been too eager when I’d had him in my mouth. My refusal to stop fellatio had caused him to spend himself more quickly than he’d wanted, and I drank him in hungrily before he pushed me away. I saw the lust and indignation mingled in his eyes just before the leash connected to my collar was yanked forcefully forward, making my behind the perfect distance away for a good beating. The spanking wasn’t the reason I’d disobeyed him, though it was delicious in its agony, but what came after that I’d been insubordinate for. Professor always felt contrite after his punishments, and the severe hands that administered such harsh disciplines were as equally tender afterward.

That had been Professor’s flaw.

The chain around my neck was the same, a gift from Professor. He’d lowered it over my head that final day, and as the links fell cold around my collarbone, Professor had twisted the end loop around his meaty fingers slowly until it was cutting off my air. I’d hoped for one last time with him, a farewell, and my body responded as it had so many times before. Professor looked into my eyes, and I saw the almost imperceptible smile touch the corner of his well-formed lips. He knew his effect on me. He had taught me well.

He whispered in my ear, and his breath burned like fire on my skin, igniting an invisible trail of sensual gunpowder down the length of my body.

“Do not shame me.”

I would not. But the curiosity of what such brazenness would bring was always in the back of my mind. With my new master, I knew the chastening would be exquisite torture.

He stood before me now as I knelt, my leash lying loose in his hand. He saw me looking at it, waiting for his fist to close and the length of it to tighten, but instead, he dropped it.

No, this one would not feel contrition.

I think I made a small whimper when I realized it, which made him smile wickedly. Professor had said he was a venerable master, and I had not doubted it. I knew the satisfaction would be superb, but I could tell already that the waiting would be excruciating.

“Come here.” His voice was liquid-smooth, a deep sound that washed over me. I crawled forward, feeling a void at the end of my leash where a hand should have been. I kept my eyes downcast.

“Look at me.” His hand, the one that had dropped the end of my leash, cupped my chin and pulled it up until I saw his eyes gazing into my own. They were blue. The blue of an icy winter sky.

“You will look at me while you please me.”

This was new. A master had never before required such a thing. I did as he said.

 

 

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Doctor Zhivago, Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and Little Dorrit


What a list of men this is! At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

With great shame, I will admit that ,while I own every book that these literary men originate from, I’ve yet to completely read any of their fictional biographs. I know the stories, sure, or at least those of Jekyll, Hyde, and Frank, but I was only required to read bits and pieces of their stories in high school, and while I pride myself on being a book whore, it is with great sorrow and guilt that I acknowledge my utter lack of knowledge about these stories. Let me explain why these are the men I have chosen to be my literary fodder for the next months.

Doctor Zhivago is known only as my Auntie’s most favorite movie of all time. Perhaps it is the storyline, or Omar Sharif’s delicious accent, I am not certain, as Netflix has decided to remove said film from their Now Streaming lists at the very time that I finally decided to watch it. All that remains now is a reissued version starring Kiera Knightly, who I greatly despise. Luckily, I acquired a worn copy of this book in an antique shop awhile ago, and so I will make an effort to see just exactly what it is that thrills my Auntie so.

Now Frankenstein, I have seen. And while Kenneth Branaugh is as low on my celebrity totem pole as Kiera Knightly, I must say that Robert DeNiro’s presence as Frank’s monster made me forgive Ken’s performance. Too, my best friend Delightful, who is much smarter than I, had to read and write a 20 page paper for school last year on the book, and so I must read it, so we have a great many literary things to speak of. (Other than all the other literary things we speak of already.)

Jekyll and Hyde are a pair that I am slightly more familiar with. I actually am not certain if I have read their entire story or no, because it was included in a high school lit book, and seemed much shorter than the actual copy I now own. This I will say- I do believe there are a Jekyll and Hyde in each of us. I am just accustomed to letting my hide out a little more often than the rest of you. (Heehee, did you see the play on words I did there? Brilliant, I say.)

Little Dorrit is a complete mystery to me, as I know not who he is, what he does for a living, or what it is that makes him so little. This title was one I came across on a more than regular basis when I worked at the Bookstore That Must Not Be Named, and as I greatly adore Charles Dickens and his writings, I picked up a copy, with the intent on reading it sometime in my lifetime. I believe that Dorrit may be the first in my Journey of Literary Men, as I am insanely curious to see why he is little.

I’m sure there are a great many fabled men I’ve yet to read about, but as I do not wish to be called a fiction skank, I’ll start with this little cultural gang bang. If anyone has any suggestions for future scholarly forays, let me know.

 

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I Am Now a Mermaid


Thanks to Pouring My Art Out.

Awesomesauce. XOXO

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Picked


Previously.

Just then, an immense being of a man bumped into Shaandi, not unintentionally, Isari noted. She also espied the irritated look that passed over the whoremother’s face before she turned to acknowledge her antagonizer with only a façade of purest pleasure.

“Jespin Fleura, you beast!” The name was spoken affectionately with just the slightest hint of erotic promise. “Mind you don’t ruin my shoes now! I had to fuck Barlavian three times before he’d agree to gift me with a pair from his new collection!” Though Shaandi was extremely tall for a woman, and towered over Isari, she had to crank her neck at what looked like an uncomfortable angle in order to make eye contact with the large man. Isari saw a bright flash of white teeth as the man smiled his own alluring smile before speaking. As he spoke, Isari felt the rumble of his  deep voice in her own chest.

“My utmost apologies, dearest woman! I was momentarily distracted by the wide assortment of lovelies here this year. I believe it is the finest Hocking Day in many years!” He did nothing to disguise his lustful gaze as he spoke to Shaandi. Isari made a disgusted noise in her throat, and the man’s stare drifted in her direction. At first, Isari wanted to laugh at his lewd observance, until he identically mimicked Shaandi’s earlier inspection of her. This time though, when his eyes skimmed over her chest, one huge paw of a hand reached out and squeezed one of her breasts. She felt her face redden with fury, and clenched her jaw, ripe with indignation.

Shaandi gracefully batted the man’s hand away from Isari . “Jespin, don’t be a boar! Can’t you see the girl’s not accustomed to such behavior? Leave your pawing until after you’ve made you purchases!” Isari lowered her eyes then, refusing to feel anything other than enmity for the woman, even if she did keep other’s hands from molesting her.

Jespin Fleur was not in the least deterred. He shook his hand in a dismissive manner and stepped closer to Isari, and she closed her downward turned eyes, waiting for another unwanted touch to occur.

“I’m Nikoli, sir. Do you see anything in this direction that might be of interest to you?” Isari’s eyes flew open in the direction of her new-found friend, and couldn’t keep the slightest smile from her face when she saw him putting one delicate hand on a slim hip and strutting about lasciviously. He spun around like the finest runway model and struck a pose facing away from the three, with his well-toned rear sticking out ever so invitingly. Jespin’s laughter roared loudly in response.

“I do indeed! I’m always looking for a fine young male specimen to add to my collection. Nikoli, you say? Are you always in such elevated spirits? ‘Tis something my other boys need to learn!” Jespin moved away from Isari, distracted for the moment, and Isari breathed a thankful sigh of relief. She no longer cared what Shaandi thought, who was standing beside her still, because she clearly could not keep her feelings about this day off of her face.

Before Nikoli could move from his fashion pose, Jespin’s massive hand landed a loud slap on Nikoli’s protruding rear. Isari winced when Nikoli yelped, but the boy was not to be so quickly dismayed. He rubbed his ass with a soft hand and turned to prevent a repeat action. Jespin grinned wickedly, and Shaandi shook her head, bored of the big man’s behavior.

“I am here to earn a fine coin for my family, no? I would think this thing would be easier done with an agreeable attitude, that’s all.” Isari saw how he tried to keep a pained expression from his face as he nursed his abused hide, and liked him all the more.

Jespin nodded his head and was about to speak before Shaandi interrupted him, clearly trying to get the man away from their company.

“Are you not going to admire any of the other playthings here, Jespin? As you said, there are a great many to choose from.” Despite how Isari felt about Shaandi, she couldn’t help but admire the way Shaandi’s voice carried a certain sensuous tone that made people want to do her bidding. She saw how it affected the piggish Jespin, and his dark eyes sank once again into the wanton stupor.

“Alright, alright. I will leave you to your choices for now, but do not think once the bidding begins that I will so easily be redirected.” He made once last barbarous gesture in Isari’s direction before laughing and moving away toward the other commodities. Isari watched his obscene retreat until she could not longer see him amongst the hoard of buyers, but she continued to hear his rumbling voice long after. She didn’t realize Shaandi was observing her closely as she did so. Once she did, Isari immediately dropped her eyes again, willing the woman to disappear.

“Ah, my dear,  I would never allow a prize such as you to go to such a bumbling oaf.” She clapped her hands together musically and leaned forward so that her face was only inches of Isari’s. “Now, I must pretend that other merchandise here is of interest to me, but I do believe I’ve found what I came here for.” Before Isari could respond, Shaandi’s lips were on her own. The kiss was charged with all the carnality that was Shaandi Necorian, and after she was far withdrawn into the crowd, Isari was reeling with the pure pleasure of it.

Nikoli waved one woman-like hand in front of Isari’s face until she met his eyes with a dazed expression.

“Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a gratifying experience for you. Maybe being a whoremother’s slave would have it’s perks after all?” He winked at her knowingly, and she shoved him roughly.

“Shut up, you.”

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What Was Read in 2013


This is a shamefully short list of books for the entire year. That’s all I have to say about that.

Strip City: A Stripper’s Farewell Journey Across America- by Lily Burana

Sebastian- by Anne Bishop

The Help- by Kathryn Stockett

Between the Lines- by Jodi Picoult and Samantha van Leer

Wings of the Mornings- by Lori Wick

A Mermaid’s Tale: A Personal Search for Love and Lore- by Amanda Adams

Memoirs of Cleopatra- by Margaret George

The Rose and the Beast: Fairy Tales Retold- by Francesca Lia Block

Grimm’s Grimmest- by the Brothers Grimm

City of Bones- by Cassandra Clark

The Art of Racing in the Rain- by Garth Stein

The Vampire Lestat- by Anne Rice

Mermaid- by Carolyn Turgeon

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Hedonism’s Slave


Whatever expectations Isari had had of this day were obliterated by the clouds of dust that swirled around her and assaulted her senses. She scrunched up her face, mindful of the cosmetics that heavily layered her skin. She blinked, the grit of the sandstorm causing her eyes to water, and she quickly lifted a perfectly- manicured hand to her face, attempting to catch the bothersome tears that threatened to destroy all her mother’s hard work. She breathed in through her mouth and immediately regretted it when dirt found it’s way down her throat and she began coughing grotesquely. She bent over, aware of the fact that her bountiful cleavage was nearly falling out of  her ridiculous costume. She looked on either side of her, trying to see if anyone else was having the same issues as she, and she made eye contact with a pretty boy that looked close to her own age. He grinned broadly as he shrugged and shielded his eyes from the airbourne grime.

“If they fall out, you might catch a higher price!” His eyes sparkled a brilliant green color, and Isari laughed, which only made her choke harder. She continued to hack until one of the handlers approached, looking anxious.

“The buyers will be here soon!  You must maintain your disposition!” The handler laid an un-calloused hand on Isari’s back and began thumping her lightly. Her coughing fit ended quickly enough, and she stood up, let out a deep breath. The handler adjusted her crooked dress, and slid his hands on either side of her breasts, thrusting them upward before stepping back and nodding approvingly. He then moved away, continuing to fuss over the other human commodities. Isari glanced over at the green-eyed boy and rolled her eyes. He shook his head, a little bit sadly.

“We’re not people anymore, you know. Only bondservants for the next seven years.” He seemed distracted by his own thought momentarily, then brought his attention back to Isari. “I’m Nickoli.” He held out a pale, freckled hand, and Isari grasped it firmly.

“Isari. I’ve been trying to forget that fact for the last three years, thanks.” She smiled kindly at Nickoli, and realized by his handshake he would most likely be purchased by a man. She immediately liked this charming boy, and hoped that maybe their buyers would live near each other. She’d been feeling melancholy of late, thinking of her family, and her friends Rona and Mighera, and of the fact that she would never see them after this day. “A great opportunity” is what they all had said to her. Perhaps, she had replied, but at what price?

There was a loud, ear-piercing whistle then, and Isari shivered involuntarily.

And so it begins, she thought bitterly.

After the government had fallen to anarchy, a new way of life had taken over. The people who had once been celebrities in the old government became the highest class in a new caste system where self- indulgence and carnality reigned supreme. Those individuals gifted with such talents that stimulated the mind and body- actors, writers, artists, musicians, prostitutes- these were elevated above all others, as were  those children born to such. These were called the  Schon. The working class, those who were responsible solely for pleasuring the Schon were known as the Haaldus. The Haaldus consisted of beautiful people alone. Any child born to a member of the Haaldus who bore any imperfection were sent away to a lower caste- the Enw. The Enw were those who served the Schon, keeping them in their extravagance, and children deemed acceptably alluring were sold off at the age of seventeen to the Schon, where they remained for seven years, until they had earned the title of Haaldus. There existed another caste, though it was not acknowledged, one consisting of those who were disabled, or unseemly, or those considered devoid of any pleasure-imparting talent. The Forsaken, as these unfortunates were called, were displaced souls, forbidden to build homes, and so wandered the streets and roads, most of them meeting their deaths at the hands of the higher castes. Isari’s parents were Enw, and this was her Hocking Day.

She watched as gorgeous people decked out in shimmering fabrics entered the Emporium, intent on finding the most desirable of playthings. Several faces she recognized, an actor and actress couple who were known to purchase a considerable number of Enw every year, an artist who’s work had brought Isari to tears, and a well-known prostitute who owned a slew of pleasure houses across several provinces. The sea of beautiful faces in front of her began to blend together, and Isari realized her ridiculously-tight dress was making it hard for her to breathe. She felt a hand steady her, and gave Nickoli a grateful look. She closed her eyes and  took as deep a breath as her bindings would allow. When she opened her eyes, she found herself face to face with Shaandi Necorian, the owner of the pleasure houses.

Shaandi eyed Isari intimately, starting from her feet, which were encased in absurdly high heels, continuing achingly slow all the way up to her chest, where Isari heard her make a sound low in her throat. Isari stood there miserably, trying not to reach out and pummel the woman, until Shanndi’s eyes met her own. An almost imperceptible smirk appeared on the woman’s face, and the slightest raise of one perfectly-shaped eyebrow as she assessed the malice burning in Isari’s eyes.

“Don’t be so hostile, love. The clients won’t enjoy it.” Long fingers with lacquered nails were placed on Isari’s chin, lifting as Shaandi appraised her skin and jawline.

Isari remained mute, openly showing her contempt as Shaandi noticed Nickoli standing nearby.

“You, too, love. There’s too much sadness in your eyes. Buck up! You’re lucky to have made the cut.” Nickoli smiled, remaining his charming self despite the barbarity of his situation.

“Yes, ma’am.” Isari noticed a Southern lilt to his response that she hadn’t noticed before.

Shaandi laughed, a pleasant and alluring sound. “Ma’am? Oh, love, do I look as old as all that?” She flirted as she touched Nickoli’s hand. Isari didn’t fail to notice how every action and movement the woman made was licentious.

Nickoli’s porcelain skin flushed a bright red, and Isari realized the effect Shaandi was having on him. “No, ma’- er, miss. No, not at all.” Isari narrowed her eyes at him, feeling betrayed by his reaction to this member of the Schon.

Shaandi laughed her golden laugh again, and turned her attention once again to Isari. “You see? You’re little friend accepts his circumstances, pretty bird. Perhaps I can teach you to welcome them as well, hmm?” Shaandi placed her hand once again on Isari’s face, this time cupping her cheek in a surprisingly comforting way.

Isari felt her heart sink, despite the reassurance. It had been bad enough when she knew she was being sold to a complete stranger to be used as she would, but to be sold into servitude at a pleasure house was more than she thought she could bear.

 

 

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Insecure


I have realized why I haven’t finished writing a complete novel yet.

Because I suck balls.

Not in the good, tea-bagging kind of way, either. In the Taylor Swift, untalented, Twilight-esque kind of way.

OK, maybe not quite that badly. I’m pretty sure I could never write something as terrible as Twilight even if I tried. But I’m also pretty sure there’s some people out there who might think so.

I’ve been told by a few people that I possess a talent for writing, and if my blog is any indication, the fact that I have almost as many followers as I do posts seems like a good omen. However, I’ve just been working on chapter four, and every time I type something and then read it, I want to smash my computer screen and abolish any evidence that I would imagine such drivel.

Is this a writer’s dilemma? Do all writer’s sit in front of their work and berate themselves for writing swill? If so, did Stephanie Meyer type up her “masterpiece” and refrain from ever reading it afterwords? It would certainly seem so. ‘Tis true I would probably benefit from a few classes that teach a person how to focus and write and rewrite, but who has money for that kind of thing? I’ve always written by emulating other authors whose books I’ve read. Is that considered plagiarism? I wouldn’t think so, since I’m not actually stealing their ideas. As much as I adore a great many writers with many writing styles, I don’t really want a reader to finish my book and think to himself, “Well, so-and-so writes exactly like that.”

I’ve discovered as I write that the details, which are so extremely important, are the very things that keep me from getting my stories out of my head. I adore Thomas Hardy’s attention to detail, and his 14- page devotion to describing what an English moor looks like, but how did he do that while still keeping the reader interested at the story at hand? And unless you’re writing in first person narrative, how do you stick the “she said” s and “he replied”s in without sounding too cheesy?

I know I can write well, it’s just getting it out that’s the hard part. And as you all probably already know, the only thing I like hard is my Rockstar’s dick.

Thank you for listening to my rant. The end.

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NaNoWriMo: Chapter 1


Well, I didn’t finish my NaNoWriMo novel, but can’t let it go to waste, so here’s the first chapter…

I opened my eyes, threw back my head, and laughed in delight.

I’d waited my entire life to get to this place, and even though I had no conceivable idea how I’d gotten here, I was here, and that was good enough for me. I saw an unpretentious breeze, or rather, the effects of it, and a leaf from one of the massive sunflowers I was standing in the midst of brushed lightly against my cheek. I lifted my hand and pressed my fingers to the spot, imagining for a moment that being kissed by an angel  must feel very like having a feathery sunflower leaf caress your cheek. I raised my eyes upward, and through a canopy of honeyed sunflower petals, I beheld a flawless azure sky; I watched contentedly as whispy silver clouds meandered by. I’m convinced for a moment I saw the form of Alice’s white rabbit scramble past before it dissipated into the heavenly beyond.

Standing amid the towering plants, I had no idea how far the field stretched, only that I couldn’t see the end of it. I wanted to barrel through the tall stalks until there were no more to barrel through, so I did. As clumsy as I tend to be, it didn’t really seem to be a very good idea, but I felt weightless as I ran, and my feet refused to be obstructed by clods of dirt or wayward sunflower stems. I raced through the golden crop, until I realized that if it ended, I was nowhere near that end.

I slowed, just as I felt of burst of sunlight fall across my shoulders. I raised my arms and bounced gleefully, bellowing “HERE COMES THE SUN! DOOBIE DOOBIE!” and giggled, because I haven’t the faintest idea what the rest of the words are to that song. I didn’t even know it was a Beatle’s song until well into my 20’s. For shame.

I continued to dance foolishly through my sunflowers, giving no thought whatsoever that my dance moves have always rivaled those of a pious eighty-year-old nun. In the past, I would shudder at the thought of even dancing alone in my apartment, and sooner die than set foot on any designated dance floor, but here, among my blooming friends, I felt no such humiliation.

“Doobie doobie!” I sang again at the top of my lungs, celebrating the glorious Sun’s visitation upon me, my arms still aloft, inviting her to share her blessed vitamin D with me. She consented, and I smiled into her radiant heat with face lifted, swaying slightly with my fellow sunflowers. And like them, I didn’t sneeze as I normally did when faced with direct sunlight; instead, I drank in her rays like a parched traveler in the desert.

As I absorbed the shining nourishment with my eyes closed in prayer, I felt again an angel kiss upon my head. My eyes slid open and I embraced my sunflower lover, pulling his head down to better examine each petal, each seed, every floret. The intricacies of my lover’s face bewitched me, and I could not look away. Instead, I found myself adrift in his gaze, awed by the spectrum of colors. My sight was more keen than ever it had been, and no matter where I looked, I saw more than ever I had. I wondered if this was a gift from Mother Sun, and mentally thanked her.

Suddenly, I noticed a massive oak behind me, and I wondered how I had missed it during my absurd Sun Dance. I let go my sunflower’s head, and approached this majestic tree.

I racked my brain on any topiary trivia I might have picked up, but the only thing I could come up with was that this tree must be ancient to have grown to such huge proportions. I looked up at the gnarled branches, and was surprised to see an array of crimson and russet colored leaves; several of them floated lazily down to me, and I caught one, congratulating myself on my expert leaf-retrieving skills. The leaf in my hand was dry and brittle, and because I had caught it with such vigor, when I opened my hand to look more closely, I realized it had crumbled to powder in my palm. I pouted, and tipped my hand, silently observing the spread of oaken ashes in the light breeze.

Before the last fragments were gone, I heard someone whispering, but when I turned to look for the source, the only thing I saw was a crude heart chiseled in the trunk of the tree. Within the heart, the initials

RD

+

JL

I reached out and traced the letters as an overwhelming flood of emotions filled me. I knew this tree.  A long time ago, before the miscarriages and tears, before the grown-up decisions and divorce, a beautiful boy and a younger version of me had laboriously scraped these letters into this tree with a dull pocket-knife. This tree sat in the middle of where we would have built our house, if it had all worked out.

The tears came, unwelcome- tears, not because of regrets, because the decisions made had been the right ones, but because these memories were not welcome here, not on this day, not in my coveted field. The fingers outlining the letters curled into a fist, as did the fingers of my other hand, and then they were beating furiously on the foul carving, again and again. I heard myself cursing violently, and salty tears blurred my vision, and I continued to strike mercilessly on the oak’s mighty trunk until my fists were bloodied and raw.

I wiped the hated tears away with my forearm, and glared at the wretched heart, now bleeding with my own vital fluids. It seemed to pulse as I stood there, but I knew it was only the rage inside of me that lived. I screamed at the aged tree, and it paid me no mind. I wailed until my voice was ragged, but still this oak stood sentinel over the engraved memory, and it was not removed.

At last, when all of my energy was spent, I sank down against the base of the tree and covered my head with my arms, sobbing uncontrollably for all that was, and wasn’t, and couldn’t be. My divine Sunshine continued to pour over me, but I hardly noticed.

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Different


Before

Trinyx stayed just under the surface of the waves, watching the beautiful creature with the bouncing hair react to the lecherous older one. She worried when she saw the angry expression cross the young human’s face, wondering what had angered him so, as she watched him shove the other man out of the way. Trinyx felt as though her very self was being pulled toward the handsome boy as he stomped angrily away from the ship’s rail, until she noticed a splash in the waves next to her. She moved away in disgust when she realized what it was- one of the other less-attractive humans was leaning over the side of the ship, retching into the sea. She was filled with fury that he was polluting her ocean in such a way, and wanted to jump up and  grab the man, pull him into the water, and swim down to the deepest depths with him where she knew he would perish. Instead, she swam close to the body of the ship, and indignantly banged her tail against the wood several times.

As she swam away toward her home, she looked back, and saw several of the men looking confused and leaning over the ship’s rail, peering into the water, wondering what sort of fish had rammed their boat. Trinyx glimpsed the dark-haired man too, who seemed to be looking directly at her, though she knew it was too dark for him to see that far. She lifted her pale hand in a useless gesture, and thought she imagined the man raise his own hand in return. The waves moved    her, and she pushed her tail against them , diving into the night-black water.

Far below the moonlit surface of the ocean, Trinyx slowed her movements, realizing how close she had been to a human. She thought of how soft his hair had been between her fingers, and how it had sprung so lightly from them. She weaved her fingers between the ropey lengths of her own hair that was billowing out around her, and let it go, watching it lazily drift in the leftover currents of her swimming. A few small fishes glides through it, and she swatted them away, perturbed.

She felt melancholy now, now that she had felt the air on her thick skin. She had never felt the pressure of the water surrounding her, but she felt it now, and she wanted to be back against the ship, looking into the expressive eyes of the alluring young man again. She thought of him and wondered if his skin would feel like hers, and she ran her hands down her torso, over her breasts and down her belly, until she felt scales that led into a lengthy tail. She looked at her tail, the tail that was the envy of her sisters, with it’s rainbow of purple and green and silvery scales, and decided it was not at all beautiful. Her fingertips felt over the coarse scales, and she wanted to feel what it was like to stand on two legs like the humans on the ship had.

The man’s eyes had been one color, and though she had never seen her own, she knew from looking into her sisters’ faces that mermaid eyes were an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, and she thought to herself how uninteresting that was- as she had watched the man, she could see within his eyes a flurry of emotions, whereas when she watched her sisters, the constant color shift in their eyes made it completely impossible to know what they were thinking.

She had let the man’s sounds wash over her; how different they had been from her own! From the things her grandmother had told her, human voices were terrible to listen to, and humans themselves were seemingly possessed when offered a mermaid song, but Trinyx had liked the sound of his words- they were not melodious as a mermaid’s, no, but still pleasing to the ear in their own way.

She fingered the silver chain that was tied in her hair, and pushed the little button that had released the tiny door. She cried out when she saw that the picture inside was beginning to disintegrate already, and she shut it again quickly, hoping to preserve the likeness of the woman who looked like her human. She gripped the locket tightly to her chest, and was amazed that she cared so for this man, this creature who was so unlike her. She swam in circles, wondering what she was to do now.  Bubbles and fish floated out of her way as she did so. She was forbidden to have contact with the upper world, but there was one thing she knew for certain- she had to see him again.

 

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I’m Awesome, Or So They Say


Before you say that no one even knows who these proverbial They are, let me just say- this time, I can actually clarify who “They” , in fact, are.

It seems while I’ve been pretending to be too busy writing my November novel to write on my blog, I have become more popular than ever before, so much so, that I received two, yes, count them, TWO blog awards in the same day! Just a few days ago. I did not immediately respond, because I was sadly, working, and going to concerts, and masturbating. (Ok, I only said that last thing to make sure you were paying attention.)

Anyhoo, Archon over there in his Den bestowed upon me the You’re a Winner! Award, which requires me to do nothing but appreciate, which I most certainly do, since without Archon, I would only receive comments from one Pouring My Art Out, which is, in itself, not something to complain about, but I like to think that Archon and PMAO are fighting over who will eventually win my hand in virtual blogospherial matrimony. (Yes, that is my histrionica kicking in there.) Both are unfailingly loyal in being the only two bloggers to “Like” and comment on every single post I make. John used to  silently appreciate me, but he has more important things to waste his time on. (I know, I can’t think of anything either.) Whatever, the point is- Thanks, Grumpy Dude!

Too, I was awarded the Liebster Award by honeyimalesbian, a blogger who I am ashamed to admit I did not know existed until I received said award. (Isn’t it nice to be appreciated by people you didn’t know about?) I appreciate her just as greatly, and shall make an effort to further get to know the workings of her inner mind.

As always, there are rules that come with the Liebster Award, which I most certainly do not intend to fully abide by. Nominating fellow bloggers is one, where I will hereby direct you to the right of your screen to click on a blogger of your choosing from my blogroll. Secondly, I am to answer the ten questions asked of me by Honey, and here they are:

1. Where would you love to go on a trip?

Neverland, Wonderland, and Chicago. In that order.

2. What did you want to be when you grew up? Did you do it?

An artist, a writer, a rancher, an actress, a mother, a wife, a stripper, and then a writer again.

Maybe I will do it, if I ever grow up.

3.  When and why did you start blogging?

A little over two years ago, because a coworker started a blog and I thought I could do it better, and because I have a lot of opinions nobody wants to know.

4.  Are you a foodie?

I love food, it is my nemesis.

5. When was your first kiss??

I kissed a girl and I like it, when I was very young.

I kissed a boy when I was 15, and didn’t like it as much.

6. What do you read/ watch when you are in a creative funk?

Other people’s blogs/ Sex and the City. Because everyone else’s lives are much more desirable than my own.

7.  Introvert? Extrovert?

I am an introvert stuck in an extrovert’s body. Or at least my boobs are extroverted.

8. What is your favorite season?

The one when I get the most presents. Or feel like giving them.

9. Coffee or Tea?

I don’t think anything with whip cream, chocolate, and caramel added can really be considered coffee anymore.

10. Whats the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you?

Loved me even when I continued to be a neurotic, fucked-up, self-absorbed nincompoop.

Now, I’m supposed to ask 10 questions of my own of all the people I didn’t nominate, but I don’t have time for that shit. I have a book to write. XOXO

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