Sunday, August 17, 2014

My Bedroom

Today's muse: First 50 Words.

Write the first 50 words of your story, using the words my bedroom.

* * *

My Bedroom

I chose everything in my bedroom: paint, bedspread, bureau, carpet. I could escape and be alone in my bedroom. I listened to music, did homework, dreamed. It was a haven. It was safe.

Until a man I trusted—a family member—came in one night and stole it from me.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

A Picture Worth Two Words

Writing from the male POV has always fascinated me.

* * *

A Picture Worth Two Words

Every woman flirts with me. I’m not being vain. It’s a fact.

Most brush their tits against my arm while they reach for some invisible object. A few have been bold enough to press their entire body against mine, making my cock jump in reflex.

I can’t help it. It’s not easy to resist a woman’s soft curves when she’s so damned willing. And they’re all willing.

Except for Miss Eleanor. She is the only woman in this one-stoplight town that hasn’t tried to get into my pants.

Miss Eleanor lives in the white cottage across from me.

As she does every day, she walks to the end of her drive to collect her mail, wearing a variation of the same outfit: long ground-skimming skirt, over-sized man-shirt, tattered gardening hat.

She pushes down the mail flag, opens the door, reaches in to pull out her mail. Standing at the end of her drive, she sorts through the envelopes, setting them into some sort of order I imagine only makes sense to her.

She looks up and sees me standing at the end of my own drive, glances down at the camera hanging around my neck. I was planning on taking a hike through the woods at the end of our road, but I am now compelled to capture something different. I am intrigued by the quiet woman that hides beneath the baggy clothes, who seldom leaves her home. The woman who avoids eye contact.

“Would you mind if I take your picture?” I lift my camera in question.

I have never seen her smile, but this time her lips curve—somewhat lopsided, a little rueful—before she heads back toward her house. I only hesitate a moment before following her.

She glances back at me before stepping into her house, leaving the door open.

It’s an invitation, I’m sure of it, but I call out, giving her the option to change her mind. “Shall I wait outside?”

“No, I’m ready.” She steps through a doorway at the end of the hall, walks toward me, hips swaying. She wears nothing but the oversized shirt.

It no longer covers up what I imagined was a matronly body, wide from birthing children, sagging with age. The sleeves of the simple white shirt are now rolled up, the front unbuttoned, exposing beautiful firm breasts and long, toned legs that taper to a thin triangle of fur.

Miss Eleanor stops, leans against the wall, one hand on her hip.

“Where do you want me?” she asks.

“Jesus Christ,” is all I can manage.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Maybe Yellow

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Write the first 50 words of your story, using the words maybe yellow.

* * *

Maybe Yellow

“What was she wearing?”

I frown, as though I’m trying to remember. “Jeans and a shirt.”

The cop’s pen hovers over his notepad. “What color was her shirt?”

It doesn’t matter what I tell him now—she’s long gone—but I just can’t turn her in.

I shrug. “Maybe yellow.”

Tuesday, July 1, 2014


Today's muse: 50 First Words

Write the first 50 words of your story, using the word salt.

* * *


The bullet had only grazed his shoulder, but it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Jake hissed when Emma poured vodka on the gaping wound. “Jesus, woman! Why don’t you just pour iodine on it?”

Emma dabbed at the raw flesh with a towel. “Sorry,” she snapped. “I couldn’t find the salt.”

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Warning: Low Battery

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Write the first 50 words of your story, using the word Warning: Low Battery.

* * *

Warning: Low Battery

Everyone watched in mute terror as the hooded figure paced the front row of the movie theatre, an AK47 dangling over his right shoulder.

In the back row, Jeremy Ackerton punched nine one one into his cell phone.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, when the screen flashed its warning: Low Battery.

Thursday, April 17, 2014


Today's muse: First 50 Words

Write the first 50 words of your story, using the word homework.

* * *


He hadn't seen Emily Fischer since high school. Back then, she was too thin, too tall and too...well, just too. Today, she was full breasts, slim hips and long, toned legs. If she had looked this good when they did homework together, Jake Everett would have passed algebra with honors.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Madison's Avenue - Deleted Excerpt

Today's muse:

As many of you know, I am writing my first novel (working title: Madison's Avenue).

A few months ago, I finished the first draft and I am now editing. I deleted Chapter One and most of Chapter Two.

Since it is no longer in the book, not even incorporated into back story, I thought I would tease my faithful followers with an excerpt.

* * *

Madison's Avenue (deleted excerpt)

“She’s asking for you, Miss Fields.”

Madison didn’t look up, but continued to stare down at her coffee. At least that’s what the vending machine said it was. It tasted more like dishwater. Looked like it, too.

It was a far cry from her usual vanilla latte.

A thin scum of artificial creamer floated on the gray liquid, creating an impenetrable barrier, as if it were protecting the coffee from consumption. No need to worry about that, she thought with a snort.

“Miss Fields?”

Madison turned her head. A young woman in pink scrubs, her hair tied back in a swinging golden tail, smiled in encouragement.

“You should go see her.” The nurse gestured to the room behind her. The young woman walked away, her rubber-soled shoes making a soft shooshing sound on the terrazzo floor.

Madison scrubbed her hands over her face, pushed manicured fingers through her wild mane and let the dark curls fall back around her shoulders. She sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a rush, and practiced a smile.

It felt fake. Nana would see right through it. She always did. It wasn’t easy to pull one over on the old broad.

Madison smiled then; something she hadn’t done for many days now. Old broad, she thought. Nana would appreciate that, would even laugh. God it would be great to hear her laugh again.

Madison walked over to her grandmother’s room, hesitated outside the door. She brushed her hands over her tailored suit, smoothed away non-existent wrinkles.

It was amazing how much things had changed in just a few weeks.

“Game face,” she muttered and pushed through the door, forced her lips to curve in what she hoped was a convincing smile.

The frail woman that lay in the bed was not the one she remembered; definitely not the one that had raised her. Regina Fields was a strong, formidable woman who lived life with a passion that left many half her age weary just watching; miles away from the thin facsimile who was losing a vicious battle against cancer.

“There’s nothing more we can do,” the doctor had said when Madison sat with him in his office. “It’s aggressive and has spread beyond what we can control. All we can do is make her comfortable.”

She had stared over the doctor’s head, at the framed diplomas that covered the walls. All those degrees, and there was nothing he could do.

“How long?” She remembered her voice had sounded tinny.

“A few months.”

A few months. Well, Madison thought, as she stepped into her grandmother’s room, he was right about that.

Sunday, January 12, 2014


Today's muse:

I attended my writing circle’s monthly breakfast meeting on Saturday. Due to family commitments, this is something I haven’t been able to do for quite some time. It was inspiring and I realized how much I miss meeting with such a gifted group of people.

The format has changed somewhat since the last time I attended. There is now a writing prompt…after all, I would expect nothing less from a writing group.

Saturday’s writing prompt at the WCDR breakfast: five minutes to write a postcard story.

* * *


He brought her a gift—he always brought a gift; as if the weekly tithe would dispel her anger and forgive his sins.

It was expensive, as were all his gifts, but the dainty pendant lay cold between her small breasts.

He fingered the gold cross she now wore, his hands travelling lower. “Do you like it?”

The fog of bourbon smothered her as his mouth crushed hers and she fought the bile that rode high in her throat.

“I like it,” she whispered.

The lie, she told herself, was a small price to pay to be daddy’s little girl.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014


Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's prompts are: gorgeous, jittery, outrageous

* * *


It’s a new year and I have no reason to believe that anything will change from the last one. In fact, I expect it to be worse. Not because you will share it with me, but because I will let you.

There was a time you thought I was gorgeous, when a single touch from you made me jittery with need. Now, I sleep alone—as do you—and I comfort myself with outrageous fantasies of another man’s hands and mouth worshipping me.

I believe that we create our own destiny, and if I want to leave, I know I can. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I would survive, I would move on.

The thing of it is, the first divorce almost killed me—or rather, my thoughts did. The despair I felt dragged me into a dark cave that took years to crawl from. My thoughts are not exactly warm and fuzzy these days, but I know one thing: it would piss you off more if I lived, than not.

And that’s what keeps me going.