Wednesday, March 18, 2015


Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: annoyed, hushed, pain

* * *


He had that annoyed look that said he had a bad day at work. He always had that look.

Momma fussed over him, made him a drink, cooked his favourite dinner and laughed when he told his stupid jokes. Me, I sat real quiet at the table and didn’t say nothing. I did my homework real fast and went to bed early.

That’s when they started yelling. It got louder and louder and I tried to pull the covers over my ears, but I could still hear them. Momma begged him to stop. She was crying and I wanted to help her but she told me so many times never to come out of my room if they were fighting. She said it was for my own good.

So I waited for a long time. And then it got all hushed.

I stood by my bedroom door and waited until I heard the front door slam. I ran down the hall to the living room and Momma was lying on the floor. Only this time, she didn’t move.

Now I’m living with a new family. And I have this pain in my stomach that won’t go away.

Monday, March 16, 2015


Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

The words: Docile, Inflict, Whimper

* * *


The flat of his hand came down a little hard. Not too hard—just enough to inflict that delicious tingle between pleasure and pain. It made her wet.

Laura maintained her docile persona while his hand hovered over her ass. She thought the heat from his palm would ignite the delicate skin already tender from his discipline. She wanted to groan when he slapped her again.

Instead, she let her imagination veer to candle wax, and a stifled moan escaped.

Mistaking her whimper for a plea, he stopped. “You know the safe word.”

She arched her back, raised her hips. Tilting her head, she looked up at him. Her lips curved in what most would think of as a smile, but he knew it was a challenge.

“I forgot it,” she whispered.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Over a Barrel

Today's muse: This is a true story. No names have been changed. The whole scenario happened, except for the last line.

I swear.

* * *

Over a Barrel

I follow Roberta into the elevator, press the button for the ground floor.

“Starbucks or Timmies,” I ask her.

Roberta looks up at the ceiling as she contemplates the daily morning query. “Timmies,” she replies.

I nod. I can get my vanilla latte fix at lunch.

The elevator stops at the thirtieth floor and a woman enters, pushing a rather large black barrel on wheels. She positions herself in the elevator, hitches her leather bag over her shoulder.

Roberta says what I’m thinking. “That’s big enough to hold a body.”

We all laugh.

“There are a few people I’d like to stuff in here,” Barrel Woman says.

Roberta and I laugh again. “We can think of a few co-workers,” I say.

The other woman nods. “Getting the body out of the office is one thing. It’s disposing of it that’s the problem.”

I say the phrase I use all the time. “My husband is an undertaker. I’ll help you get rid of the body.”

She laughs hard at this, swipes away faux tears. “Appreciate that.”

I nod. “I got your back.”

We all fade to silence as the elevator moves down. Barrel Woman pats the enormous black bin. “It’s a portable marketing sign.”

Roberta and I both smile. “Oh!” It’s as though we’re both relieved to know that she’s not really transporting dismembered colleagues.

We reach the ground floor and I hold the elevator door for Barrel Woman as she maneuvers her tube.

“Have a great day,” I call out, as she walks away in the opposite direction.

“You, too,” she replies, and disappears around the corner.

I elbow Roberta. “Hey. Maybe we just met a serial killer.”

Roberta lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, right.”

We glance back—I don’t know why, and I regret it now—to see a zigzag of crimson drops along the terrazzo floor.