Locomotion

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The Pixie vaulted over the arena’s high wall and landed on the roof with a familiar flourish.

I smiled and snuffed out the cigarette I’d been smoking. The two hour wait was well worth seeing her again, and I hadn’t been bored in the interim. I put down the old paperback copy of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club and stood and spread my arms in greeting.

“Took you long enough,” I joked, “Does a guy have to start a street fight just to get a little attention in this town?”

“Oh I see,” she bantered back with fluttering eyelashes, covering the distance between us in short steps, “you just need a little attention. There, there.” She had to stretch up in order to pat the top of my head.

“Thanks,” I rolled my eyes, “all better now.” I wasn’t sure where to begin so I scuffed the rooftop until the toe of my sneaker nudged the old paperback.

“Fight Club,” the Pixie noted with a little laugh, “certainly your type of material. Just don’t go starting another project mayhem in my town.” Even the mocking way she waved a finger in my face was a dance.

“It’s my town, too.” I told her, searching for her eyes behind the distractions of her tasseled and feathered mask. “And I know we’ve got worse things than mayhem going on here. And I can’t live with that.”

The Pixie paused, startled and caught without a witty response.

“What happened to you?” She asked genuinely, finding stillness and meeting my eyes.

“I remembered what the vikings were really fighting for.” I took my turn to wink slyly. “Not just the good death. That was a part of their way of life. They might have done some awful things, but they went on those raids for their people.” I turned to face old city hall’s broken down clock tower, the hands hanging perpetually at 6:30. “And this is where my people are.”

“Why did you try to kill yourself?” She demanded suddenly, cutting off my first response. “And don’t tell me you weren’t. Suicide by gangbanger is no different than any other.”

“I told you, I hadn’t slept in…”

“Why not?”

I bit back a rude remark and took a deep breath.

“I was angry about… a lot of things.” I said, “When I hurt my ankle I lost my outlet. The gym, jogging–”

“What types of things were you angry about?” She asked. I sighed.

“My girlfriend left me–”
“That’s a symptom, not an illness.” The Pixie interrupted. I took another breath.

“I lost my job. Well, two jobs, and then a third.” I rubbed my forehead and raked fin gers through my hair. It was getting longish and greasy. Needed a good wash and a cut. “I was killing myself on freelance gigs just to keep my apartment–”

“What kind of freelance?”
“Ghostwriting, mostly.” I replied, getting used to the rough rhythm of her conversation. “The pay rates are low and there’s not much in the way of notoriety. Hard to build a following.”

“What happened first?” She asked, shifting her weight from one hip to the other and finally breaking eye contact, glancing off at the clang of a dumpster slamming.

“What do you mean?” I replied. All the energy left my body and I sat on the roof.

“Why did you lose the first job?”

“I got hit on the head in a workplace accident,” I recalled, feeling my stomach tighten, “it didn’t seem like a big deal. Mild concussion. But then everything changed. I couldn’t stand the lights or all the talking, couldn’t keep cool, so they fired me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped the corners of my eyes with dirty thumbs. “Since then… all I can do is write. And fight.” I pulled my knees against my chest, feeling cold.

“Hey, that happened to me once,” The Pixie said, sweeping off her cloak and splaying it across my shoulders. The purple garment felt heavy, made of a dense fabric with some type of protection woven between the layers. It felt warm and safe. “I dove away from some bullets and straight in to a brick wall,” she said, “somehow I got up and out of there and home safe and I don’t remember any of it.” She sat down cross-legged in front of me. Even so close her blend of makeup, mask and costume kept me from any chance at discerning her identity… but her eyes were unmistakable, deep brown and fierce and compassionate and beautiful.

“What happened?” I asked, arching to crack my back. The Pixie’s cloak nearly slipped from my shoulders but I caught it and held it like a blanket.

“I woke up the next morning and couldn’t talk,” she said, “could barely walk. It took me three days to get up and about and functional.” She paused and took a shallow breath, “it took me almost three months to get back on the streets. But there’s one thing you should understand,” she collected my hands and cupped them in hers and shook them on the emphasis of every odd syllable. “What you’re feeling is normal. Trauma damages the brain. But it’s infinitely plastic and you choose how you rewire it. I’d suggest you choose right now.” She ran her four-ounce pink leather gloves over my face briefly and then stood and moved away.

“I already chose,” I told her, standing and following her along the arena’s protected roof to drape the cape around her shoulders, “that’s why I’m here.” I stepped back and rooted my feet. “Because you’re better than me at this, and I need your help.”

“Who, me?” The Pixie batted her long eyelashes and flounced about like a schoolgirl receiving a compliment from her favorite teacher. “What could I possibly teach you?” She asked, striking her favorite Peter Pan pose with fists on hips and chest thrust forward.

I breathed.

“Don’t fish for flattery, it’s unbecoming,” I said saucily, moving a step closer. We stood within a few yards of one another in the middle of the rooftop’s open space.

“But I don’t know what you mean,” she said, ever the comic. “What am I better at? I mean specifically? If you want me to teach you I have to know so–”

“Alright,” I interrupted, and took a deep breath, and then another. “Tactics, for one thing, strategy, escape routes… fuck, even fighting. How did you knock down that big ox with one punch?”

“Well it was more an accumulation of punches,” she mused, striking a pose with hand on chin and arms folded, gazing into the hazy sky as if lost in thought.

“Look,” I said, “if you have bionic arms you can tell me. I promise not to–”

“I can teach you,” she interrupted, uncrossing her arms, “but those are difficult lessons, especially the ox-felling. It’s all movement and–”

“Well I’ve always been a difficult student,” I cut in, mimicking her stance with my hands on my hips. I’d worn a similar t-shirt and pair of cargo shorts to the day we met so she would remember me on sight. The actual clothing I’d worn that day had burned in my bathtub and then been buried in my building’s dumpster.


How strong are your abs?” The Pixie asked, eyeing me critically down her nose.

“You want to feel me up?” I asked in disbelief. Some women got off raking their fingers up a six pack, but probably not the type who killed criminals while wearing a cape.

“No,” she laughed, “I mean, can you take a punch?” She removed four small domed plates from hidden pockets in the knuckles of her left glove. They looked like some kind of metal, probably steel, but painted the same shade of purple as the fingernails she used to pull them from cleverly disguised seams.

The plates were about the size and shape of contact lenses, but I had a feeling getting hit by them would be similar to a blow from brass knuckles.

“Sure I can take a punch,” I said, shrugging, my arms spread, “I used to–”

The Pixie’s sucker punch cut off my story about winning the occasional shot-for-shot contest in college. She leaned in and delivered a sharp jab to my solar plexus.

I grunted and took a half-step backward to distribute some of the force. It wasn’t her hardest punch, but she’d put all of her weight and speed behind it. I began to feel the woman in front of me might be mortal after all.

“Now try to hit me back,” she taunted, skipping back and forth with her fists raised in an exaggerated fighting stance. Her feathered mask fluttered and its tassels swayed to and fro. The rainbow skirt swished up to her waist showing flashes of purple-clad thighs.

Hitting her wasn’t high on the list of things I wanted to do right then, but I had asked for the lesson and my abdomen still ached from the sucker punch. I dropped into a boxing stance and shuffled forward. Feinted a few times and then threw a tricky double jab followed by my favorite right uppercut. My fists moved fast but carried little power; I was ready to pull back the moment my knuckles made impact.

The impact never came, at least not for my knuckles. The Pixie swooped around my assault with an unnecessary twirl of her cape and hit me with the exact same jab in the exact same spot.

I sat down hard and barely stopped the back of my head from striking the rooftop. My stomach clenched around my solar plexus and my lungs heaved, searching for air that was no longer there. Rather than curl up I laid back and let my body find its breath naturally. The pain left before my wind returned.

“See,” the Pixie grinned, standing triumphantly over top of me, pink shoes planted either side of my hips. “When you’re moving it can double, even triple the force of the blow. And with my little stingers,” she patted the pouch on her belt where she’d stowed the plates fondly, “and taped wrists and good aim, I can fell even the biggest buffoon.” She bent down until her painted smiling lips and masked face were a foot away from mine.

“Okay I get it,” I groaned, and then sat up suddenly and grasped the collar of her cape. She squeaked in surprise as I rolled backward and lifted my shins, flipping her gently to the rooftop and sinking my knees past her legs so my hips pinned hers.

She looked at me like she might take my eye out but did not struggle.

“What happens when you can’t move?” I asked, leaning forward and collecting her hands one at a time. She let me pin them easily either side of her splayed tassels.

“I can always move.” She said with a wink.

I kissed her as swiftly as I’d swept her. Her eyes closed and she kissed me back with electric passion. I’d never tasted a sugar sweeter than her lipstick.

She raked her fingers down my stomach, over the shirt and then under. The mixture of sensations sparked by her fingertips and the leather gloves threatened to overload my nerves. And then she grabbed my belt with both hands and broke the kiss and bridged hard and scooted between my legs and out the back door.

I rose warily in time to watch her wrap the blue cape about her slight frame in a protective cocoon.

“Movement is only half of the lesson,” she stated, “the other half is timing, and yours is terrible.”

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2016; between a rock and a hard place

facerun

Ordinarily I avoid clichés such as “caught between a rock and a hard place” at all costs while writing, but the idiom feels too appropriate both for the upcoming year in general and my own path through it. And since I haven’t written a single damn word these past few months, using a well known turn of phrase in the title here is an acceptable evil. I can live with it.

Between the enduring wars and related displacement of peoples, high temperatures melting polar ice caps, declining honeybee populations worldwide and Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy, it’s easy to be frightened of what the future holds. Personally I’m too busy being scared of everything and anything to worry much about whether I’m going to drown, perish in a nuclear apocalypse, or wind up building a wall along my country’s southern border. And yes, I’m Canadian buddeh.

We’re coming up on the three year anniversary of my brain injury and, in the interest of absolute optimism, I’ve made some significant progress. The problem is I have to look at a chart of that progress spanning the entire time period in order to even be aware of it, and I never really feel it. This is the kind of shit you can’t quite understand until you’re living with a debilitating invisible illness.

On the brighter side, I’ve been seeing a new counsellor who has a stronger approach to healing mental health problems, starting with proper diagnosis and understanding. I’m easily distracted by the extreme anxiety I live with every day now, and the bouts of severe depression that strike every so often. I’d never considered that I’m recovering from a series of tightly arranged traumatic stressors. Looking at the past through the frame of how it shaped my mind and my present rather than agonizing over the unfortunate events is much healthier, and I’m grateful for the lens my new counsellor has provided.

Time passes strangely when you’re outside of the world, looking in. In the past three years I haven’t made many new friends, but I have lost many who I thought would be by my side forever. I haven’t adopted any new passions or learned any new skills, but I have allowed my previous skills to rust over. I haven’t held a job for more than two weeks, but I’ve submitted many applications.

The main ordeal I’m faced with now is re-integrating myself and my actions with the rest of society. This ordeal’s engine is my anxiety. It’s hard enough trying to hold a casual conversation with a stranger (or even a friend) while your subconscious is screaming insults. It’s difficult to stay focused when every stressor, even good ones like exercise and mental challenge, causes your skin to itch and seem too tight. It’s hard to interview well for a job if you’re determined to be honest, but the honest truth is that your symptoms would prevent you from being a good employee.

If I’m going to make any really significant, positive changes for myself this year, it will most likely be a year of necessary evils. Maybe if I force myself through enough awkward conversations I’ll have one that really matters. Maybe if I work out enough I can go back to loving exercise and practicing martial arts rather than loathing the mere idea of sweating. Maybe I’ll send out resumes in bulk and go into every interview prepared to paint myself as a picture perfect employee.

Or maybe the planet will be overrun by intelligent apes and I’ll join the fight for human survival.

Honestly… I don’t know which of those “maybes” is the least likely.

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, and freeing myself will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. These past two years I haven’t had the energy or the aptitude for much… certainly nothing so difficult as reformatting a mind as damaged and disused as my own. But I want to do that work more than anything else…

If our world ended next year, whether in a nuclear apocalypse or a cataclysmic flood or a massive meteor strike… I’d be okay with that, so long as in my last moments I could feel I’d done something meaningful and significant with my life. So I guess I’d better hurry up and get on the path to self-actualization… either that, or uncover a way to assign higher intelligence to lower primates.

Either way, I’m fighting for my freedom, and my place in the world.

 

 

Flashback on The Pixie’s Paramour

Warning: The body of this post contains sexual content and mature subject matter, please read at your own discretion.

Well the main editing process on The Pixie’s Paramour is complete and I thought I’d celebrate with the freshly updated version of the most popular excerpt I ever posted. It was the only sex scene in the book. Is that good, bad, or normal? I don’t know, but I like to give my readers what they like, and I promise that the sequel to The Pixie’s Paramour (already in the works) will involve considerably more risqué content.

I’m planning on sending out a few query letters to the more open-minded publishing houses but most likely this book will be self published and available in paperback and ebook format sometime this summer. If you are a graphic artist who is or know one who might be interested in creating a cover for The Pixie’s Paramour (professionally of course) please leave a comment!

And as usual, if you like my work you can either follow my blog or track the book’s progress through The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page.

Without further foreplay, enjoy the smut!

~*~

The top of the old manor house was level and gravel-strewn, presumably with a graded metal roof beneath to control rainfall. It had an insulated hot water tank the size of a tractor tire set in its center. I stopped short of the tank and gazed past it, across the street, where the hedges had long since burnt out. The wail of sirens had almost arrived and I could see flashing lights approaching through the block’s treetops. There were multiple tones and frequencies to the sirens and a rave-like blend of lights. Whoever made the call had requested the police, fire department, and paramedics. Which was probably for the best, because they might all be necessary.

The Pixie strode past me with swaying hips and leaned on the hot water tank with a sigh of satisfaction. She undid her voluminous blue cloak and spread it on the tank’s rubberized surface and leaned forward on both forearms, avidly anticipating the arrival of the authorities.

“Are you sure this is the best part?” I asked skeptically, following until I stood inches behind her, watching the flashing lights over her shoulder. While I had to agree that the results were the purpose behind the violence, I preferred knocking thugs out to observing the aftermath.

“Not just yet,” she said, and I could hear the sly smile in her voice. She reached back with both hands and I took mine in hers and wrapped my arms around her belly. My bare chest made electric contact with the smooth material of her purple rashguard and she shifted and slid back until her hips pressed against the tops of my legs. She drew me closer until she could feel how badly I wanted her.

I smelled the familiar lavender perfume emanating from the right side of her neck. I arched around and kissed her left collarbone and inhaled the scent of her.

Her mouth met mine as she twisted around but I broke the kiss in shock. I’d smelled the soldier girl’s sweat during our lengthy rolling session at the gym. Until that moment I’d been certain the soldier was the Pixie… but this woman’s sweat was sweeter, her body more supple, and the mystery made me mad with desire.

“I want you inside me,” she said, slightly breathless as she raised on tiptoe to grind her hips against mine and lifted one of my wide hands to touch both of the perfect, tiny breasts through her tantalizing top.

“Could you be more specific?” I asked, freeing my wrists from her little gloved hands. My left forearm sealed her waist in place against me and my right hand wrapped lightly around her throat.

She arched her back and took a long shaky breath and all but whimpered.

“I want you to fuck me,” the Pixie whispered, “right now.

I grasped her wrists and leaned her forward until her pink leather palms rested on the cloak covering the old water tank. My toe tapped the inside of her foot and she spread her legs wider. I lifted the rainbow-striped skirt up onto her lower back so I could see her ass outlined beneath the purple material.

“Don’t move,” I instructed her, and knelt down and retrieved the balisong from my back pocket and unfolded it. The butterfly knife had a short, razor-sharp steel blade. I pinched the purple fabric between the Pixie’s thighs and pulled it down as far as it would stretch and then carefully sliced a rough circle free. The fabric went in my pocket with the folded knife and I stood up and unzipped my shorts.

The Pixie gasped and bit down on her cloak as I slid through the welcoming hole in her tights into her warm wet embrace. I sighed deeply and bent forward and turned her head so I could taste her lipstick again. She breathed shallow and fast through her nose as she drove her hips backward, trying to absorb every inch of me.

I broke the kiss and straightened my back and put both hands on her shoulders to help accomplish her goal. A catlike moan escaped the Pixie’s lips before she clasped both hands over her mouth and buried her face in the royal blue cloak. As our pace quickened I slipped a hand down the front of her tights to massage the flower bud between her legs. My other hand wrapped around her throat again and applied pressure to the carotid arteries both sides of her neck.

Yes,” the Pixie gasped, trusting herself to speak for only a second, “do that!” She muffled her mouth anew as fresh moans echoed from deep inside her. The blissful energy between us built to an unbearable level.

The Goddess and Her Champion (Erotica)

Warning: The following content contains sexual imagery and mature themes, please read at your own discretion.

“Do you wish to live forever?” The Goddess asked, scraping all eight amber-enamelled fingernails down the warrior’s scarred chest.

Breaker arched against the soft bed of earth he lay upon, lifting the Goddess’ light and supple form as he drew breath through pursed lips. He sat up as he exhaled, breath tickling the nape of the petite brunette woman’s neck.

“Only if living forever means never leaving my Suravani’s inside.” Joshua Cronen wrapped his arms around the Goddess straddling his lap and lifted her effortlessly.

Suravani shrieked with pleasure and wrapped her legs around his hips, ankles locked and urging him deeper.

He pushed her against the soft sand wall and held her there as she kissed him and took away all concept of time. The room was one of her creation, specially designed for the two of them, and he could not say how long they had spent there. A day or more certainly… long enough for the mystique surrounding the deity to melt in the fire between them. She had told him things while she lay in his arms, how long it had been since she took human form, how long since she felt a lover’s touch, how long since she’d found a man worthy of tasting her sweat… It had been longer than the lives of many mortals. But Breaker was not mortal; not anymore… not quite. The power that flowed in his veins was partially granted by his Goddesses, but significantly due to his own dedication to mastery of the body and mind. When he touched Suravani and his energy flowed into her over the hours, the days… even a deity could not withstand such passion. They were immortals and nearly indestructible, ancient and experienced beyond belief. But their advantages made them overlook the one thing that would always bring them back to the mortal realm… their emotions.

Finally they nestled like spoons in a cupboard, satisfied if not spent, whispering and laughing softly. The petite slender form Suravani had chosen fit perfectly in Breaker’s ropelike arms. Her hair smelled perfect… the Gods had a fetish for perfection.

“So what will it take to bring my Goddess to such pleasure,” Josh asked, raking rough fingers up the inner muscles of her thigh to bring one last surprised gasp to Suravani’s lips. “Such pleasure that she’d choose a mere soldier to share her spot in eternity?”

Suravani’s laugh sounded mysterious as the winds through the dunes in her creation, her home continent of Fallien.

“A soldier?” She giggled like a young girl, still lost in the carnal experience, “how long has it been since you called yourself that Breaker?” She wiggled in his arms and rolled over to straddle his hips and press the soft skin of her forehead against his close cropped hairline and gaze into his endless hazel eyes. “You are a general, a champion, a great teacher and leader… you could be my champion. My partner in all this.” She swirled a dainty hand carelessly and the sandy walls vanished, leaving them floating on an earthen bed high above where the hawks or even the legendary griffins of Fallien could soar. The vast dunes and ocean ring surrounding the lonely continent looked like a well drawn map from so high in the sky

“So what would you have of me?” He asked, “what more?” He corrected the question, slapping the supple skin of her hindquarters to illicit another giggle and gathering her back into his arms. The skin over his abdominals stretched as he sat up and held the Goddess in his lap as they looked down her domain together.

Extract from an upcoming thread at www.althanas.com

Creation ~ Echoterre

The young boy quarreled each time she tried to put him abed, and would never settle between the old linen sheets until she promised to tell him a story. He did not seem to mind which story, or whether or not he had heard it a thousand times before. It mattered only that she sit at the foot of his bed and regale him as he drifted off to sleep.

“Is there a story you’d especially prefer tonight?” Alyson asked the orphan, settling on his straw mattress. Whilst all the other boys and girls slept snugly, exhausted by long days of chores and play and lulled by the sound of waves that permeated the orphanage’s wooden walls. The sea air always tired them out, but not this one.

“Any old tale will do,” Thomas said blandly, rolling about and half burying his head beneath the carefully stitched goose down pillow. “Just so long as it is true.”

Alyson took a deep breath and simply started with the first story that came to mind. She had attended mass that day and the subject of the sermon still sang in her heart.

“Have you ever heard of the Godsland, far out in God’s Domain?” She asked, putting a note of myster in her tone.

“T’isn’t a story if you ask questions,” Thomas growled irritably, voice muffled by the pillow. Alyson took another deep breath, expanding her lungs as that her laced bodice would allow.

“Well the Godlsand is where all good boys and girls, and all true men and women aye, go after they die in this life.” Alyson untangled her hands from her brown woolen skirts as she relaxed into the familiar story. “There they feast and make merry and the greatest and noblest of them are chosen as the Lord’s servants, called angels. He gives them wings and the power to become invisible and they help him in bringing the chaste souls to the Godsland to prosper in eternity.”

Thomas rolled slightly, emitting small suckling sounds around his thumb. He was not out yet; Alyson knew that the moment she rose he would come up with some question or another, and so she went on.

“God made his land first, and the land of men second, and surrounded it by the great Razor Reefs and put monsters in the sea so that not even the most skilled skipper would ever sail out of the land of men and live. Last he made two more great lands far to the north and south, invisible in the greatness of his domain. Far from where their inhabitants might ever reach the Godsland or the land of men. For only the evilest and darkest souls are sent to those isles…”

Thomas wriggled and stretched and then lay still, breathing evenly; asleep.

“But that dear boy,” Alyson whispered as she rose deftly and tucked the sheets up around his chin, “is a tale for another time, perhaps when you’re old enough to attend the church mass yourself.” She moved away on the balls of her feet, as silent as a spirit.

84 ways TBI can make your life really interesting

Broken Brain - Brilliant Mind

Some time back, I compiled a list of possible issues TBI can introduce into your life. I combed through a bunch of sources and then put them all together, took out the duplicates, and came up with a list of common complaints related to traumatic brain injury. I’ve refined the list over the past couple of years, and I’m sure there are more issues I’ve missed, but this is what I’ve  been working with, thus far.  These apply to mild, moderate, and severe. And a lot of them are problems I have dealt with on a regular basis throughout the course of my life.

Here’s the list, broken down by category:

Behavioral
1. Impulsiveness
2. Aggression (verbal/physical)
3. Raging behavior

Communication
4. Trouble being understood
5. Trouble understanding
6. Trouble finding words
7. Trouble communicating in general

Emotions/Moods
8. Agitated, can’t settle down
9. Angerrrrrr!!!
10. Anxiety – Feeling vague…

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Combat vs. Communication

One winter I worked security at a big music festival’s final evening performance. It was a volunteer gig, and our team comprised of a fairly laughable security squad. Of the nine of us three were underage, none over six foot or 160 pounds, and only two prepared to deal with a potentially violent altercation. Since this was a goodwill event attended mostly by a crowd of professionally connected couples and singles in their late thirties and forties, violence seemed unlikely. At most we would have to bounce a drunk, and I’d done that before.

The heads of security were a pair of senior citizens who were content to sit at the front desk, and asked us to cover the rest of the lobby, hall, and auditorium. By the time we’d been assigned badges and yellow SECURITY T-shirts and begun taking up stations in the halls I needed a cigarette, so I nipped outside and found a quiet place to smoke.

On re-entry I noticed my teammates were mostly clumped in pairs and trios in the lobby and hall close to the reception desk. I walked the perimeter and identified potential danger zones and then retraced my steps and spoke with each member of the team individually. Within a half hour I had them on individual stations set in a zig-zag pattern that covered the lobby, the hall, and the auditorium, and enabled each yellow-shirted youngster to see at least two others at all times. After that I set them on a fifteen minute rotation to keep them alert and incorporate regular bathroom checks.

The guests arrived dressed to impress and flowed past the reception desk, mingled through the lobby and hall, and eventually found seats in the auditorium. I took off my badge and yellow shirt and walked among them alert for threats and detecting none. Once the majority of the attendees had settled in seats the speeches began, and shortly afterwards the band took the stage.

Seeing nothing but responsible adults having a good time, I checked on my teammates and then returned to the reception desk. I asked the heads of security if they needed anything and they told me guests had been exiting and re-entering the auditorium through the side door, which was supposed to be reserved for staff and emergency purposes. They asked me to stand inside the auditorium and deter guests from using the side doors, which sounded good to me because the band rocked around the lead of a charismatic stand-up bass player.

I stationed myself in front of the side doors and listened to the music and watched the band and apologetically turned away the occasional guest and pointed them to the back doors. After an hour or so a man approached carrying a small child in his arms.

“I need to get through here,” he informed me.

“Sorry sir,” I responded as I had to all the other guests, “the side doors are reserved for emergency purposes, if you could please proceed to the main exits at the back I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The man took a good look at me, and then a good look at himself. I was wearing cargo shorts and a cheap yellow SECURITY T-shirt and army green crocs. He wore a three piece suit that probably cost as many thousands of dollars and fine leather shoes, and he was taller than me, and heavier, and broader across the shoulders.

“Look buddy,” he told me, “I own this building. I’m the one who paid for this whole event, and I could have you fired in a snap. So you’re going to let me through those doors.”

I chuckled and took a deep breath.

“Listen buddy,” I said, catching his eyes and not looking away. “I’m a volunteer so I’m not sure you can fire me, and even if you do I’m the head of security, so no one will escort me from the premises for you. Also, these doors are reserved for emergency purposes. Unless there’s a fire, you’re not going through them.”

The man took a surprised step back, staring at me and then looking away and then checking his very expensive watch. Even with a few drinks in his system he didn’t have the courage to respond.

The little girl in his arms wriggled and whispered something in his ear.

“She has to go to the bathroom,” the man said blankly.

“You should have started with that,” I informed him, stepping aside and holding the door open for them to pass. I smiled at the child. “Bathroom emergencies count.”

My Ten Word Story

Not too long ago I entered a 10-word story contest via Twitter… I’m guessing I didn’t win, but I liked the story I wrote and figured I’d share it with everyone here. Be careful; if you blink you may miss it.

~*~

The starving wolf chased the sheep right off the cliff.

~*~

Not bad eh? Feel free to comment with a ten word story of your own – apparently that’s all the rage these days!

The Pixie’s Sexy Goodbye

Warning; the following content is sexual in nature and contains mature themes. Please read at your own discretion.

~*~

The top of the old manor house was level and gravel-strewn, presumably with a graded metal roof beneath to control rainfall. It had an insulated hot water tank the size of a tractor tire set in its center. I stopped short of the tank and gazed past it, across the street, where the hedges had long since burnt out. The wail of sirens had almost arrived and I could see flashing lights approaching. There were multiple tones and frequencies to the sirens and a rave-like blend of lights. Whoever made the call had requested the police, fire department, and paramedics. Which was probably for the best, because they might all be needed.

The Pixie strode past me with swaying hips and leaned on the hot water tank with a sigh of satisfaction. She undid her voluminous blue cloak and spread it on the tank’s rubberized surface and leaned forward on both forearms, avidly anticipating the arrival of the authorities.

“Are you sure this is the best part?” I asked skeptically, following until I stood inches behind her, watching the flashing lights over her shoulder. While I had to agree that the results were the purpose behind the violence, I preferred knocking thugs out to observing the aftermath.

“Not just yet,” she said, and I could hear the sly smile in her voice. She reached back with both hands and I took mine in hers and wrapped my arms around her belly. My bare chest made electric contact with the smooth material of her purple rashguard and she shifted and slid back until her hips pressed against the tops of my legs. She drew me closer her until she could feel how badly I wanted her.

I smelled the familiar lavender perfume emanating from the right side of her neck. I arched around and kissed her left collarbone and inhaled the scent of her.

Her mouth met mine as she twisted around but I broke the kiss in shock. I’d smelled the soldier girl’s sweat during our lengthy rolling session at the gym. Until that moment I’d been certain the soldier was the Pixie… but this woman’s sweat was sweeter, her body more supple, and the mystery made me mad with desire.

“I want you inside me,” she said, slightly breathless as she raised on tiptoe to grind her hips against mine and lifted one of my wide hands to touch both of the perfect, tiny breasts through her tantalizing top.

“Could you be more specific?” I asked, freeing my wrists from her little gloved hands. My left forearm sealed her waist in place against me and my right hand wrapped lightly around her throat.

She arched her back and took a long shaky breath and all but whimpered.

“I want you to fuck me,” the Pixie whispered, “right now.

I grasped her wrists and leaned her forward until her pink leather palms rested on the cloak covering the old water tank. I tapped the inside of her foot with my toe and she spread her legs wider. I lifted the rainbow-striped skirt up onto her lower back so I could see her ass outlined beneath the purple material.

“Don’t move,” I instructed her, and knelt down and retrieved the balisong from my back pocket and unfolded it. The butterfly knife had a short, razor-sharp steel blade. I pinched the purple fabric between the Pixie’s thighs and pulled it down as far as it would stretch then carefully sliced a rough circle of it free. The fabric went in my pocket with the folded knife and I stood up and unzipped my shorts.

The Pixie gasped and bit down on her cloak as I slid through the welcoming hole in her tights into her warm wet embrace. I sighed deeply and bent forward and turned her head so I could taste her lipstick again. She breathed shallow and fast through her nose as she drove her hips backward, trying to absorb every inch of me.

I broke the kiss and straightened my back and put both hands on her shoulders to help accomplish her goal. A catlike moan escaped the Pixie’s lips before she clasped both hands over her mouth and buried her face in the royal blue cloak. As our quickened I slipped a hand down the front of her tights to massage the flower bud between her legs. My other hand wrapped around her throat again and applied pressure to the carotid arteries both sides of her neck.

Yes,” the Pixie gasped, trusting herself to speak for only a second, “do that!” She muffled her mouth anew as fresh moans echoed from deep inside her. The blissful energy between us built to an unbearable level.

~*~

And that’s all there will be! I’m almost sad to say that I’ve completed the manuscript for The Pixie’s Paramour and will spend most of the month of May editing and promoting it, as well as considering possible avenues of publication. Thanks to everyone who has read and supported my work, and I promise to keep bringing quality to fiction (and the occasional recipe or rant) to this blog!