Tall Tales

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Todays words: dappled, elaborate, filthy

* * *

Tall Tales

Most days she could stand in the backyard and let the sun wash over her, burn away the shame. Once, she could throw back her head, spread her arms to the sky and ask for forgiveness. Even receive it.

No more. Filthy girl.

She hid beneath the large oak, rubbed at the dark finger marks that peppered her arms and legs. The aching had not yet started, but she knew it would come.

She deserved it. Filthy girl.

She could hear Mama calling for her, promising it was safe. Olly, olly oxen free! She should run, dance toward the soft voice, touch home and be safe. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Keep quiet. Filthy girl.

She would stay curled in the dapple shade of the oak tree and devise an elaborate story. A tale that would explain everything. One that she would tell for years. One that everyone would believe.

Even herself.

A Good Book

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: A good book

* * *

A Good Book

She reached for the notebook she kept on her night stand. More than forty years and she still had nightmares.

She relived her childhood horrors in the words she scribbled down, then flipped back several pages. She smiled when she realized that she had the makings of a good book.

Old Ghosts

Today's muse:

I started a new job recently. Yesterday morning started with a bit of an adrenaline kick. If nothing else, I will have to thank the partner down the hall for providing great writing fodder.

* * *

Old Ghosts

She arrived at work much earlier than everyone else. She said it was because she could get caught up on work before her boss waltzed in, but truth was, the commute was more bearable at that hour.

There aren’t many people on the train at five-thirty in the morning. Most days, she could sit in a quad alone and not have anyone near her. Touch her.

At rush hour, it was an orgy of bodies sausaged together, talking, breathing, pressing.

The last panic attack had her bolting out the train doors, racing across the platform to retch onto the eastbound tracks.

That was months ago.

She had a new job now, a new routine. She hadn’t made any friends yet, but it was better that way. Fewer questions.

She looked forward to mornings now; the routine, the quiet, the normalcy of it all. She lost herself in books on the train, reinvented herself as the strong protagonist in her favorite novels. The nightmares hadn’t stopped, but it was getting better. She had slept through the night last Tuesday, hadn’t woken in a cold sweat, gripped in fear, listening for him.

The new office meant she stopped at a different Starbucks in the morning. They knew her order now—Grande black Americano—and started brewing it when she walked in the door.

A few years ago, it seemed impossible that she would feel so content.

She waved her security pass over the sensor and breezed through the door. She no longer watched behind her and waited for the door to lock in place to be sure no one followed her in. To be sure he hadn’t followed her.

She shrugged off her sweater and hung it over her chair, sat down and kicked off her walking shoes, slipped on the strappy pumps she kept under her desk. She had started wearing heels again—it wasn’t easy to run in them, but then, she hadn’t had to bolt for a while.

She pulled out her book, opened it to where she had left off on the train and sipped her Americano, lost herself in the Irish setting of her current read. She was well into the next chapter when she heard him behind her.

“Hey there!”

She cursed herself for wearing the heels, then forced herself to sit still when David came into her line of view.

“Jesus!” Her heart pounded and the ringing in her ears was deafening. She hadn’t paid attention, had felt so comfortable that she had stopped being aware, stopped looking behind her.

The senior partner was laughing until he saw her face. David stepped back, hands up in submission. “Hey. I didn’t mean to scare you. No one here is going to hurt you.”

She forced a smile, managed to pull off easy banter and joked with him about her reaction. He was the only other person who arrived at work at the same ridiculous hour. Though they didn’t work in the same department, she felt a kinship of sorts; had exchanged a few words about the demise of the current generation and felt at ease with him. Maybe it was because they were cut from the same era, had the same work ethic. Maybe because he was so different from the other one.

She knew that David maintained the idle chat with her until she calmed, and she was grateful.

He turned to walk back to his office, paused before turning the corner. “No one here is going to hurt you,” he repeated.

As his footsteps retreated down the hall, Monica put her book away and analyzed the layout of her desk. Tomorrow morning, when she came in, she would re-arrange it so that her back was not exposed to the hallway. She would pack away the strappy pumps and replace them with loafers. She would hang a mirror at her desk so she could see anyone coming up behind her.

And she would call her therapist for an appointment. She wasn’t over him. She realized that now.

As she took a sip of her coffee, she accepted that she never would.

Goodbye Kiss

This piece was a semi-finalist in the WCDR's Whispered Words competition and appeared in the printed Anthology (there is a link in the bar on the right).

* * *

Goodbye Kiss

Depending on which side you’re standing, the carpeted aisle between the church pews stretches for miles. It was much less scenic from this side of a marriage certificate. Not at all what Jake had imagined so long ago.

In a dark corner of a quiet bistro, Shayla sat across from Jake. They laughed and talked with a natural ease that surprised them both. Oblivious to the other diners, unaware that coffee was long-ago cleared, they were more than a little embarrassed when the waiter cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, but the staff will be leaving soon.”

Shayla glanced at her watch. “It’s after midnight.”

Jake apologized to the waiter. “We were talking and I guess we lost track of time.”

The man shrugged, flashed a smile. “You shouldn’t rush love, my friend.”

No, Jake thought now, you shouldn’t.



Reluctant to bring the evening to an end, Jake took his time driving Shayla home that night. He parked on the quiet street, in front of the little yellow cottage she called home. Brilliant flower beds flanked the stairs that led up to the porch.

Jake led Shayla to the house. Her palm was warm and dry as she locked her fingers with his. Beneath the single coach light beside the front door, he pulled her close. His eyes tracked her face, committing every feature to memory.

“I had a wonderful time,” he said, cupping a hand behind her neck.

“Me too.”

Framing her face, his fingers wrapped in her thick curls, Jake dipped his head down as Shayla tipped her face up to him.

Just a light kiss, he told himself, a chaste goodnight.

Their lips hovered a breath apart, pressed lightly. Shayla breathed a sigh. Then it changed.

Jake was freefalling, the air roaring in his ears. Shayla’s arms crept up his back as he pulled her in, changed the angle of the kiss, took it deeper. Teeth scraped, tongues searched and he fell further, darker.

Jake was abruptly aware that he had Shayla pinned to the front door, the strap of her dress hanging off her shoulder, the crest of one glorious orb glowing in the warm coach light.

He held her away, shame tearing through him. How much further would he have gone? And on her front porch for chrissake.

Her breathing, he noticed, matched his: fast and uneven. Shayla’s hazel eyes were wide with surprise and—he could see a hint of it—fear.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Jake shook his head. “I’ve never...”

“Me neither.”

Shayla leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his cheek against the top of her head and willed his heart to steady.



No, Jake thought, as he walked down the narrow church aisle, this kiss wasn’t going to be like that at all.

The planning for this day began almost a year ago. At first, there were vague notions, like the ambience and tone they wanted to set for the day. Jake smiled as he thought of how often Shayla had changed the music selection. She was determined this day would be perfect.

“After all,” she’d said, time and again, “it only happens once, right?”

Yeah, Jake thought. Only once. As soon as they knew the date, they met with their priest.

“This will be a trying time for you,” said Father Jim, his voice soft and soothing. “You will argue, and there will be tears, but if you rely on the strength of your love for each other, it will carry you through.” Jake squeezed Shayla’s hand. “We won’t argue, Father.”

And they didn’t. Jake couldn’t see the point. It was Shayla’s day and, as far as he was concerned, she would have whatever she wanted. Shayla had a vision of how she wanted her day to be and Jake found it easier to agree. When anyone questioned their plans, his firm response was always, “It’s what Shayla wants.” His tone left no room for discussion.

Despite the cheerful façade he had maintained, Jake could now admit that Father Jim had been right. This past year was trying.



He stood with Shayla at the front of the tiny chapel. The arc of colour cascading from the stained-glass windows seemed to dance in celebration.

Behind him, Jake could hear family and friends shuffle in their pews, their hushed voices drifting up to him. A year of careful planning had come down to this moment. A whole year, and he still wasn’t ready.

He glanced at Shayla, her face relaxed and serene. Diamond earrings—a gift for their one-year anniversary—winked at her ears. The ivory dress she had selected so many months ago, now fit just a little too loose.

Everything is going to change, he thought. It’s never going to be the same. Ever.

He wanted to go back to the way things were, before it all went wrong. Every instinct told him to run, burst through the chapel doors, and rush into the sunlight. He thought he was ready for this. He needed just one more year, one more month.

Just one more goddamned day.

It was too late, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Jake closed his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded at Father Jim. Silence shuddered through the small chapel when the priest raised his bible. As Father Jim’s gentle voice floated over them (‘Friends, we are gathered here today…’), Jake covered Shayla’s delicate hands with his.

“I love you,” he whispered, as he bent down and pressed his lips against his wife’s cold, lifeless mouth.

Madison's Avenue - Revised Excerpt

I attended a workshop today: Master Class - Page Turning Fiction taught by Kelley Armstrong.

We were given the opportunity to read the first two pages of our WIP. During the lunch break, I re-read my work and realized that perhaps the first chapter would read well with just a handful of paragraphs and a hook ending. So I read the "edited" version to the group and it was well-received.

Kelley asked, "What happens after this?"

I gave a quick synopsis and then she asked a question that changed everything.

"Why can't the story start when Madison arrives at the house in Maven?"

I thought about it for about three seconds and realized she's right. Madison's Avenue should start at what is currently Chapter 3.

I was in a slump with the book, but now I have focus and I'm excited. Thank you, Kelley!

This is what I read in the class. It's not how the book will start, but a revised version of this excerpt will appear somewhere in Chapter One. Or, perhaps, in Chapter Two. The possibilities are endless. Who knows where the characters will take me now!

* * *

Madison's Avenue - A Revised Excerpt

Madison Fields wasn’t sure how she felt about moving into the cottage in the small town of Maven. All her dreams—no, they were nightmares—were about Gerry shouting and hitting. Most mornings she woke gagging on the memory of whiskey and stale cigarettes.

She remembered her room had one dresser. The paint was chipped and most of the drawer pulls were missing. Her bed was a worn mattress on the floor with a thin, faded blanket that did little to keep her warm. She remembered the dank basement with its bare concrete floor and moldy walls. She remembered hiding in her mother’s closet among the worn dresses. She had a vague memory of the woman who lived across the street, the one who gave her homemade oatmeal cookies.

But she had no memory of the last day in that house, the day she was whisked away by Child Services and brought here to live with her grandparents.

Just as well, Madison thought, her parents were murdered that day.

Prime Real Estate

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

The words: minor, nebulous, oily

* * *

Prime Real Estate

The living room was large, boasted floor-to-ceiling windows which offered an impressive view of the water from the penthouse suite.

Rick Emerson imagined his furniture in the space: Sofa against that wall, a couple of club chairs and a big-ass television over there.

The smell wasn’t that bad—nebulous, at best—once you got used to it. Despite the lingering odor, the charm was evident. Crown moulding enhanced the jewel-tone paint of the walls. Of course, there were a few marks in that one section, but he was sure he could wash those out. He didn’t have time to repaint. Besides, he liked the color. The rich hue added elegance to the space.

Hardwood floors, still oily from recent treatment, glistened throughout the three-bedroom unit. He crossed over to the window to take in the view. From this height, the marina was nothing more than a tub filled with toy boats bobbing in bath water. He wondered if a slip was included.

He was pretty sure no one would be interested in the space. Of course, filling out the paperwork for this unit would be a fucking nightmare.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket.

“Emerson.”

As the voice on the other end peppered him with questions, Rick turned away from the window.

“That’s right, three bedrooms,” he confirmed. “Yes, it is a great location. No, units in this building rarely come on the market. It’s empty, ready to move in. Yes, I would love to show it to you. There’s this one thing I should mention…”

When Rick pressed end and pocketed his phone, he smiled at the young woman who lay sprawled in the center of the floor of the living room with the million-dollar view.

As he dialed nine-one-one, he decided the paperwork was a minor burden for prime real estate.

Secret

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: "Secret"

* * *

Secret

He has been dead more than twenty years, but some things are best left unsaid. I am not protecting him, you see; I am sheltering those I love. It would destroy them if they knew.

So I lie awake each night, ride the panic attack. And keep his dirty secret.

Apartment 204

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: "Apartment 204".

* * *

Apartment 204

Amber lights ricochet off the darkened windows of the gated complex. Neighbors gather to speculate in excited whispers. Most wear pajamas, though a few are caught wearing less.

Where is the super? What is taking the police so long? And is that blood smeared on the door of Apartment 204?

About Her

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's three words: unselfish, winding, amoral

* * *

About Her

If you interview every woman he’s slept with—and there are a lot—each one would say the same thing: “He’s an unselfish lover.”

This declaration is often punctuated with a blush and a knowing smile. It is always followed with a sigh. And the sigh is always wistful.

Everette Beale provides a much needed service to neglected women. Neglected married women, to be specific. He has countless letters from former lovers (he doesn’t call them clients) thanking him for saving their marriage; for saving them.

He studies each woman’s interests—learns about her family and friends, her hobbies—so that he can have a meaningful conversation with her. He courts her: takes her out to dinner, a movie, even the opera, if that’s what she likes. He snuggles with her on his sofa and strokes her hair while they discuss a wide variety of subjects.

Or he simply sits with her in complete silence.

Some would think this is amoral. After all, these women are married. But Everette doesn’t look at it that way. He thinks of himself as a modern-day hero, a champion of relationships, if you will. Without the cape, of course. Unless she’s into that. In which case, he’s all in.

Everette’s lovers hire him because they are neglected by their partners. This desertion is not as simple as a spouse who works too many hours and has no time for his wife. It’s about contact and communication.

“He doesn’t talk to me anymore,” is the most common complaint.

So Everette listens. And eventually, the conversation shifts from talking to contact. How she longs to be touched again, misses how he used to look at her; when a mere glance across a room at a crowded party would make her wet.

As she confides her desires, gives voice to her hidden cravings, Everette’s mouth takes a winding trek down the column of her neck and across her shoulder. Her head falls back as she gives in to the hedonistic need that has tortured her for months—years—and he takes with a ferocity that reminds her of how it used to be with her man.

The agreement is terminated when he fucks her. It’s not a secret; he’s quite up front about it.

He tells her it’s because she will want to reignite the passion she once had with her man; that the sex—the glorious, liberating sex—that they just shared will be a pivoting moment that will strengthen her marriage.

He tells her that she no longer needs him. And he sends her home, back to her husband. It's the same routine each time a contract is terminated.

When the agreement ends, and before the next one engages, Everette sits at home alone. He holds a tumbler of scotch in one hand while the other one strokes his cock.

And he thinks of her.

He always thinks of her.

Good Morning

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: "Good morning"

* * *

Good Morning

“Good morning.”

A muscled arm wrapped around her, dragged her across the mattress to be pressed against a hard body and a hard cock.

She liked his voice, the gravelly sound of it, the way it skimmed across her skin and made her wet.

She just couldn’t remember his name

Next Time

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: "Next Time"

* * *

Next Time

“Can you pick up some milk on the way home?”

“I’m busy.”

She hated when he did that, just flipped her off. “Fine.” And she’d hung up.

She should have said thank you. Drive safely. I love you.

Not just fine.

She smoothed her hand over the casket. “Next time.”

Once in love with Amy

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: Once in love with Amy

* * *

Once in love with Amy

He fantasized about it a lot; his calloused hands wrapped around her sensuous neck, squeezing until she was limp.

There would be nothing but silence after that. Oh, to be free of her incessant bickering, the fucking nagging.

She wasn’t always a bitch. He was once in love with Amy.

Always Watching

Today's muse: First 50 Words

The prompt: The Sky

* * *

Always Watching

She glanced up at the sky, at the dark clouds heavy with storm.

Was he watching? she wondered.

Yes, she thought, he watched. He’d always watched her—touched her—no matter how small she’d tried to make herself.

He’d been dead twenty-five years and she still tried to be small.

Hungry?

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: Hungry?

* * *

Hungry?

She wore an oversized tee that hung just below her hips. The thin fabric did nothing to hide dark circles that teased him. Beckoned.

She held a mug of coffee, traced her finger around the rim, ran her tongue across her upper lip. “Hungry?”

His cock twitched in response. “Starved.”

Cedar Chest

Today's muse: Based on a true story

* * *

Cedar Chest

I was given a handmade cedar-lined, walnut hope chest by my first husband.

It was enormous and weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds.

I kept if for many years after our divorce, but there came a time when I no longer needed it. More important, I no longer wanted it.

When I remarried and moved into a new home, I decided to rid myself of the chest—start fresh. I thought about selling it, but it had a few battle scars and I didn’t think anyone would want to pay money for it. More than anything else, I just wanted to get rid of it. So my husband and I put this beast into a borrowed van and brought it to Goodwill.

We carried it inside the store and before we even set it on the floor, four women surrounded us and started asking questions.

When I told them it was handmade, they asked by who. I don’t know what made me blurt it out, but I said: “My Ex.”

There was a lot of tongue-clucking and a few muttered “bastard”, at which point, my husband edged away.

It was a busy Saturday morning and a steady stream of customers entered the store. Each one stopped to admire the chest, stroked the smooth finish.

For about fifteen minutes, I stood with several strangers, all of them women, circled around a wooden box that my ex-husband had made. They said kind words about his workmanship, and cussed his obvious lack of style to let such a wonderful woman leave his life.

I had walked into Goodwill with a heavy weight, but walked out feeling lighter than I had in years.