The Edge

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's three words: intimate, jagged, thirst

Thom G knows that I write erotica. I swear he picks these naughty words just for me.

* * *

The Edge

Lips—a breath away from hers—whisper intimate details that promise pure bliss. Each teasing stroke brings her closer to that jagged edge where she knows her thirst will be sated.

To Whom it May Concern

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words are: combative, represent, sluggish

* * *

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Lover:

Dear Husband:

Dear Friend:

Dear Stranger:

Every question I ask, every suggestion I make, is met with a combative response from you. When did our marriage become so hostile?

I don’t question it’s my fault. It always is; I know this and I’m the first to admit it. Though I try to fix it, you won’t have anything to do with the solution. Your response is nothing more than a sluggish grunt at best; most often you ignore me.

I no longer laugh with you. I don’t share my day. I don’t ask about yours. Have you even noticed? The rare times I let down my guard and dare to share a morsel of my life, you either ignore me, or worse—so much worse—you feign interest.

So I withdraw. This letter represents my white flag. I surrender. You win. I am too tired to fight this war.

And if anyone asks, I will only give my name, rank and serial number.

Jane Doe. Broken Wife. Zero.

Pit Stop

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: edgy, iconic, lithe.

* * *

Sam wants to keep going, put a few more miles behind him, but guilt has won the battle.

Stupid Catholic upbringing.

His friends had told him about this place. It’s iconic, they’d said, you have to stop and stay a night, have a pint for us.

Shit.

After checking in, leaving his bags in his room, Sam finds the pub on the main floor. This better be worth it, he thinks, as he settles at the bar.

“What can I get you?”

He’s pulled into smokey eyes and pouty lips painted a luscious Fuck-Me red. His gaze dips down to the low vee of a black halter, then back up. His brain sizzles and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“It’s my birthday.”

The bartender smiles, tucks wavy auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, then it’s on the house. What’s your pleasure?”

Oh, he can think of several things right now. None of them are on tap.

“Guinness.”

She winks her approval, walks to the end of the bar to build his pint, hips swaying in invitation. He grins his appreciation, swivels to watch the band rocking it on stage. Bass pumps out of the speakers, edgy and raw, as bodies bump and grind against each other on the dance floor.

Red pushes a pint into his hand, brushes her fingers against his, flashes him an I-will-if-you-will smile before sashaying away.

Okay. Maybe this will be worth it.

He nurses his beer while she tends the bar. They flirt, each innuendo more implicit than the last, until they’re no longer exchanging suggestions but rather detailed descriptions of what each will do to the other.

“I have a room upstairs,” says Sam. “What time does your shift end?”

She calls over to one of the servers, unties her apron. “Hey, Andrea, cover for me.” She turns to him, flicks her head. “I’m on break.”

Sam fumbles with the key to his room, pushes the door open, kicks it shut behind him. Hungry, eager, they tear at each other’s clothes, claw and bite. Each mutters promises neither understand as they fall onto the bed.

His hands and mouth roam, search, tease, until her long, lithe body bucks beneath his while she chants his name and he pours into her.

Sam shifts so that she’s splayed on top of him.

“Sam,” she whispers. “I have to go.”

He groans, runs a calloused hand across her back. “Stay.”

She presses a kiss against his throat before rolling off. “I can’t.”

Naked, she walks around the room, gathering her clothes. After running a brush through her hair, she dresses, then leans over and presses a kiss on his mouth, leans in when he pushes his tongue between her lips. His hand slides under her skirt, cups her ass.

“Sam,” she groans against him. “I really have to go.”

She smooths her skirt, adjusts her halter, walks across the room and opens the door.

“Wait.”

She turns.

“You didn’t give me your name.”

She smiles. “Happy Birthday, Sam,” she says, as she closes the door.

Last Chance

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: battle, fluid, harvest

* * *

Last Chance

In one fluid motion, she sweeps the soft pink blanket off the tiny mattress and tosses it on the floor.

Tears are ruthlessly pushed away as she packs stuffed toys and delicate dresses. She battles the urge to gather it all in her arms, drop to the floor and rock the life she’ll never hold.

It’s over now. The last harvest has failed.

Tales of Woe

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: banter, duty, element

Based on a true story. The names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent guilty.



* * *

Tales of Woe

“Oh my god, Elan! What happened?”

Elan Fischer shrugs, mumbles an incoherent response into his glass of beer. He had expected this response, he just didn’t want to talk about it. As his friends arrive for the annual summer barbeque, the greeting from each is the same—or some variation of it.

He manages to put off John and Trevor when they ask him what happened. He even avoids Rick’s queries when he corners him by the fire pit. He finally relents when Sandra and Emily tag-team him. He always did have a weakness for women.

“Alright.” Elan throws up his hands in defeat. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

To give himself time to gather his thoughts, Elan walks over to the cooler and pulls out a beer, takes his time drying it off. When he pops off the top, he turns and faces the group, flicks his heavy braid of hair over his shoulder.

At six-two and a very fit two hundred and eighty pounds, Elan is intimidating. A result of his mother’s Cree blood and father’s Irish heritage, he has smooth Mocha skin and blue-black hair that falls in waves past his shoulders. He has the seductive, wild look of an era long past.

Women want him. Men fear him.

Elan leans back against the picnic table, his beer in one hand. “I was at Charlie’s last night.”

There are smug nods at this disclosure. It is no secret that Elan likes a drink. Before the inevitable banter can start, he gestures with his bottle. “It wasn’t like that. I met my brother for a drink. Then we decided to stay for a bite. You know Charlie’s has the best wings in town.”

There is a low hum of agreement.

“So Delsin and I are eating wings and drinking beer. We’re minding our own business. Shut up, we were,” he says at the snorts he gets from that. “Do you want to hear what happened or not?”

Sandra and Emily hiss at the others. “We want to hear what happened,” says Sandra. She slaps at John when he sniggers.

Elan takes a pull from his beer and waits. When the group is quiet, he continues.

“So, like I said, we’re minding our own business, when Del points out the girl sitting alone two tables away from us. She’s sipping her drink and she looks like she’s crying.” Elan hitches up his worn jeans. “I figure it’s my duty to go comfort her.” He ignores the laughter from the guys, the snorts from the girls. “But before I can get up, this guy comes out of the bathroom and sits down at her table. She clearly doesn’t want him there but he’s not leaving. She gets up to leave and the guy grabs her arm.”

At this point, the girls gasp. John, Rick and Trevor are silent.

“I can’t just let that go,” says Elan, “so I walk over and say to the guy ‘hey buddy, the lady doesn’t want you to stay.’ He says ‘Oh yeah?’ and stands up.” Elan steps away from the table and pulls himself to his full height. “The fucker’s bigger than me, if you can believe it.”

“No!” Emily clamps her hand over her mouth.

Elan nods, a grim look on his face. “I turn to the girl and tell her to leave while I talk to her boyfriend. Then he sucker-punched me.” Elan points at his left eye that has swelled and discoloured to an angry puce.

He shrugs. “I took him down after that.” He leans back against the table as though he’d just recounted an uneventful drive to work and not a bar brawl.

Everyone talks at once; the guys congratulate him and the girls are instantly up from their lawn chairs. Sandra runs her cool fingers beneath his eye and croons. “Poor baby. Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll take care of preparing the food. Do you want another beer?”

Elan flicks his sad eyes over to her. “Sure.”

Emily gives him a quick kiss on the lips and walks away with Sandra, their heads together, no doubt dissecting the events from last night.

When the girls are inside and out of ear shot, Trevor looks over at Elan.

“That was a good story, El.”

“Had the girls sitting on the edge of their seats,” John agrees. “But there are several elements in your little fairy tale that just don’t add up.”

Elan says nothing.

Rick taps his bottle against Elan’s. “What really happened.”

Elan grins, glances at the patio doors. “Don’t tell the girls.” The men rumble their consent. Of course not. What kind of friends would we be? We have your back, bro.

“I did go out for drinks with Del last night. But I’d had a few, so I took a cab home. Of course, I had the munchies when I got back and I was rummaging through the cupboards looking for something good—I was thinking cashews—and I lost my balance and caught the corner of the cupboard door.” Elan winces as he rubs his swollen eye.

To their credit, his friends remain stone-faced.

Trevor lifts his bottle in salutation. “The damsel in distress story is much better.”

“Definitely,” John agrees. He glances over at the house. “It might even get you laid.”

“You think?”

Rick shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

Shame

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday.

Today's words:  beat, pressure, substance.

 * * *

Shame

The skin on my wrists is raw and tender. Tiny red dots surface and I wipe away the blood. I wonder if they’ll scar. My linen shirt lays shredded on the bathroom floor. Too bad, really—I just bought it. I didn’t expect to have it torn off me. David never showed any sign that this darkness lurked inside him.

With a swipe, I clear a narrow path through the steam on the bathroom mirror. The shower helped; scalding water beat away most of the pain. But only time will heal the bruises.

Would this have happened if I hadn’t provoked him? Did I ever say no? Asked him to stop? I can’t remember. But even if I did, would it have mattered? Would he have stopped? A small part of me—no, a large part—knows I’m to blame. I asked for this.

My gaze wanders to the reflection in the mirror, shifts down. At the base of my throat are dark, finger-shaped smudges. I can still feel the pressure, the heat of his calloused hands. There is a small cut on my bottom lip that is beginning to swell. If I turn around, I know I’ll see welts on my back and my ass.

My mother always told me it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. They’re the ones that keep the shadows hidden. She wasn’t kidding. After six months, I thought I knew David rather well. Charming and funny, he was always polite and attentive; a gentle and generous lover. That changed tonight.

Dinner was the usual how-was-your-day-what-do-you-want-to-do-this-weekend conversation; nothing of any real substance. I realize, now, it was the drive home; when I leaned over and pressed my hand against his cock, told him to drive faster.

“I can’t wait much longer,” I begged.

His response was a growl. I had never heard him utter more than a sigh when we made love, and the guttural sound was thrilling.

David didn’t bother to lock the car when we got to my house. He snatched the keys from my hand, threw open the door, dragged me up the stairs to my bedroom. He slammed me against the wall, yanked at my shirt, sending delicate pearl buttons flying. I made a feeble protest, but he pinned my arms and tore off the fabric. Blood pounded in my ears and I couldn’t catch my breath as his hands and mouth took with vicious possession. Again and again. Over and over. It was hours before he stopped. It felt like days.

I woke up alone this morning.

And now, standing before the mirror, I let the evening play back in my mind. Every detail comes back in Technicolor. I stare at the tender, swollen lip reflected in the mirror and I don’t dare lift my gaze higher. I can’t look into those pale blue eyes that I know will judge. I’m too ashamed.

I’m not ashamed because David used me.

I’m ashamed because I liked it.

Laundry Socks

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

These are actually last week's words: hamper, pulverize, taunt

* * *

Laundry Socks

The kids are well-trained. Four hampers are lined up like wicker soldiers beside the washing machine and everyone puts their dirty clothes in the appropriate bins. Black, White, Jeans (I can’t believe how many jeans this household has!), and Not.

The Not basket holds everything that does NOT fit into the other three categories, which I sort to create smaller sub-loads.

Without fail, a sock from one of the Not piles is sucked into the black hole of the Galaxy Load, never to be seen again. More than a little frustrated with this scenario, I began hanging lonely singles from a makeshift clothes line above the dryer.

Then something odd happened.

One by one, each orphaned twin returned from the great beyond, pulverized beyond recognition. I didn’t think much of it; figured the machine chewed up the socks then spit them out like manky hairballs, unable to digest the poly-cotton blend. As each mangled footie resurfaced, I simply shrugged and pinned it with its pair. These dancing duets now hang in a macabre conga line: fully-grown, healthy socks, each with its decimated conjoined twin.

There is one sock at the end of the line that has remained alone for what seems like an eternity. It’s singular existence taunts me; a constant reminder of my failure as a mother. It's a running joke in the family and I used to laugh. Used to. Not any more.

That changed today.

Today, as I emptied the Not Load of browns and transferred it to the dryer, a lump in the pocket of Nathan’s khakis made me stop. I squeezed it, tried to guess its identity. About two inches long, it was somewhat hard, and yet, tender. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Gross...a machine-washed Tootsie Roll.

I pulled the pocket inside out, my entire hand wrapped around the roll. I remember thinking it was even more disgusting without the wrapping—slimy. It flopped onto the dryer with a hollow ting that echoed off the laundry room walls. I cocked my head. It didn’t look like a Tootsie Roll.

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have picked it up, shouldn’t have held it between my thumb and forefinger, shouldn’t have squeezed it. I Definitely shouldn’t have lifted it up to my nose to sniff.

I now know why the socks hang so patiently on the line. I don’t think I’ll ever do laundry again. What if the rest of the foot shows up?

Snow Day

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: bulky, mist, resign

* * *

Snow Day

Perched on the edge of his chair, Justin sits at the kitchen table, his spoon poised above a bowl of cereal. He doesn’t dare eat the crisp honeycombs, as the crunching would drown out the radio announcer’s voice.

Resigned to this mundane torture, he waits with infinite patience as the man on the radio drones on about the recent municipal election, the looming transit strike, a movie review and rush hour traffic. The weather report is next.

Justin squirms while the forecast is mapped out for the next four days. But it’s today’s weather report he waits to hear.

“Say it. Say it.” His lips move in silent prayer, repeating the words over and over.

Then, the announcement he had waited for all morning. With a deafening woop, Justin leaps off his chair, thrusts his fist up in an air punch.

“SNOW DAY!”

He races to the mud room, yanks down his snowsuit from the wall hook.

“Mom!” he shouts, balancing on one leg as he wiggles into the bulky gear. “I’m going over to Nathan’s.”

“Be home for lunch,” she calls back. “Tell Nathan to come with you. I’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Justin pauses, his fingers on the coat zipper. Grilled cheese. With milk. And pickles. Mom always serves grilled cheese with pickles. Awesome. He grins as he pulls his wool cap over his ears, slips on his mittens.

“See ya later!” The door slams behind him as he rushes out into the crisp cold.

“Whoa!” A foot and half of snow had fallen overnight and it was still coming down. The weather man had predicted more than two feet.

“Isn’t it great?” Nathan trudges up the driveway, pulling a toboggan behind him. “My mom thinks that school will be cancelled tomorrow, too.”

“Sweet!”

They wade through the snow, leaving parallel ditches behind them.

“Let’s go check out the new house they’re building over on Wilmont.” Justin scoops up a handful of snow, shapes it into a ball. “We can throw snowballs through the window openings.”

“Cool. Race ya.”

They’re breathless when they arrive at the construction site. Disappointment washes over them when they see that the windows have been installed.

“So much for practicing our pitching.” Nathan kicks at the snow.

“Let’s see if we can still get in.” Justin jogs up to the front window, presses his nose against the glass; his breath paints the window in a thin mist. With his mitt, he clears a large circle.

Nathan presses against him and peers through the glass. “Is that…?”

Justin’s breakfast threatens to resurface. His breathing is ragged and fogs up the window. He isn’t sorry that it blocks his view. He doesn’t want to look inside anymore.

“We…” Justin swallows. “We better call the police.”

Vindication

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: error, jingle, vindicate

* * *

Vindication

She glides the drawer open, inch by precious inch, careful to make no sound. The room is dark, but she's done this so many times before, she needs no light. Tongue clasped between her teeth in concentration she dips her hand into the drawer. Any error at this point would mean exposure. And she can't let him know.

She's not sure why she’s hiding it. It's not shame. Guilt, perhaps.

She lifts the small satin pouch. Her fingers fumble with the drawstring as she empties the contents. She's anxious. Needy. She holds her breath when the pieces jingle together, listens for any reaction from the other side of the door. There is silence, then a cough and footsteps.

She presses back against the pillow, still as death, and wills her breathing to slow. The pounding of her heart all but drowns out all other noise. But then the television snaps on and she relaxes. Leaning over, she pushes the drawer closed. He'll be occupied for a while now. Will likely fall asleep out there.

Her fingers close around the small device. She nudges the dial and the familiar hum makes her smile.

He's with her, behind closed eyes. Not him…the other one, the one she's denied. The other beckons, carries her up the mountain, promises she will soar at the top, thrums against her until she convulses.

And when she takes flight, she is vindicated.

Serenity

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: draft, locate, serenity

* * *

Serenity

It didn’t take long to locate him. It was easy, really. Laura knew where he worked and that he lived not far from the office.

There are no secrets on social media.

A tennis match of comments and responses had quickly escalated to email exchange, which evolved to flirting and…and now she was here.

Laura followed a group of women into the tavern, selected a stool at the end of the bar. It was Friday. She knew that Jacob’s habit was to stop by after work for a drink. She shrugged off her coat, ordered a draft when the bartender walked over.

Though she had only seen him in pictures—clicked through moments he had shared with the cyber world—Laura recognize him immediately. He sat at a table with three other men, recounting a rather animated story.

She smiled when all four heads turned to follow the women who had walked in before her. There was a brief, hushed conversation among the men, then Jacob continued his story, his hands emphasizing key points in the tale. There was loud laughter when he finished.

When Jacob signaled for another round, he looked over and saw her. His smile was immediate and  Laura was pleased that he recognized her. Any reservations she may have had evaporated at that moment.

He muttered something to his friends and walked over.

“What are you doing here?”

“I needed to get away.” Laura shrugged. “Find some peace.”

Jacob nodded. Their email discussions hadn’t gone into great detail, but he understood. Without another word, he took her hand and led her out of the bar.

Two falsetto beeps announced the alarm was deactivated on his car moments before he pressed her against the passenger door. As his mouth ravaged hers, his hands possessed, cupping her ass, pinching an erect nipple. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. And if having these basic functions meant he would stop, she would gladly live without them.

Jacob reached behind her and yanked open the door. Before pressing her into the passenger seat, he cupped her chin, lifted her face until their eyes met.

“I don’t know how much serenity I can give you, but I can guarantee you’ll be relaxed when you leave.”

That’s what she’d counted on. 

She Smiles

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words (well, last Wednesday's words...I've been busy!): detach, jolt, surge.

* * *

She Smiles

With detached interest, she watches the guardrail whip by in her peripheral vision. What would happen, she wonders, if she gave the steering wheel a good yank to the left?

These days, she ponders this far too often. Dealing with the roller coaster ride is weighing her down. The surge of anger after an argument is replaced with mind-numbing fatigue, leaving her spent and depressed. She just wants to close her eyes and escape. Sleep.

Her fingers dance around the steering wheel, itch to give it a quick jerk. Just a small one. Nothing serious. She’d wake up in the hospital, and he’d be there when she opened her eyes. He’d tell her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, that he couldn’t live without her. It would be the jolt he needs to make him realize he was being an asshole.

The sound of crushing metal is deafening as her car careens into the concrete barrier. The vehicle rolls over and over, windshield glass explodes into a thousand diamonds. The roof collapses like a deflated soufflé.

Moments before the darkness takes her, she realizes the truth. He won’t miss her, he probably won’t even grieve. He’ll just be really pissed that she totalled the car.

And that thought curves her lips.

Reality Check

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: bubble, lumber, wreck

* * *

Reality Check

The whole thing is a wreck, a fucking sham.

Once filled to bursting, I now lumber along, going through the motions, acting out my part. It is just a matter of time before the hollow façade bounces across a spike strip and collapses like a delicate soap bubble.

Reality will ooze like black grease, and I will smear it over my skin to camouflage. I will hide.

And he won’t find me.

Plastic

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: downhill, sliver, freak

* * *

Plastic

Arguments used to be so simple. Breaking up meant taking my Barbies and storming out because you wouldn’t share your crayons.

It’s so much more complicated now. The Dream House is more of a nightmare.

Arguments are about communication—or, rather, lack thereof. How you don’t listen, how you don’t talk. But when you do, it’s rhetoric about my happiness, encouraging me to spend time with friends. Yet, when I go out with Midge and Skipper, you freak out.

Joy rushes out of the open convertible as it bullets downhill. I reach for slivers of love that escape, but my fingers just miss them.

Or perhaps I don’t want to stretch that far.

Promises, Promises

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: demolish, resolution, transform

* * *

Promises, Promises

Milky blank pages of linen note paper stare back at me. After a moment’s pause, lips set in grim resolution, my Mont Blanc etches lines of promises.

Vow to decrease the numbers that have crept higher and higher on the scale. Pledge to explore my writing; finish the book—at least the first draft. Commit to leave work at a reasonable hour and reduce (if not eliminate) those retched twelve-hour days. Transform the tired, angry person I have become, into the content, peaceful woman I once was.

In a moment of clarity, the pen hovers above the expensive parchment, and I know what must be done. My hands curl around the paper and, in one violent motion, tear the pages into shreds, demolishing the words of promise.

Who am I kidding? The entire list will be moot by January third.

Resignation

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: figment, inclined, vulnerable

* * *

Resignation

She thought the others exaggerated, embellished their tales of horror. He couldn’t possibly be that evil. Besides, she was no longer a vulnerable twenty year-old struggling with her first job. She was a strong woman with more than twenty years of experience behind her. She could handle a demanding boss.

Larissa snorted. Oh, how wrong she’d been.

Lucas Fitzgerald was nice at first, praised her often. She felt quite smug that she was better than all the others.

“Stupid twit,” she muttered. “You should have seen through the smoke and mirrors, paid attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Well, she thought, it’s over now. She tilted the bottle of scotch to her lips, took a long pull of courage.

Human Resources brushed her off when she spoke to them. Just a figment of her imagination, they said.

“But he shouts all the time. Surely everyone else has heard him,” she argued.

“No one else has said anything,” they countered.

Larissa tipped the bottle again. Well, they’ll be talking now, she thought. She grinned at the wall behind his desk. Every framed face that grinned back was now modified with permanent black marker. Wild, curling moustaches and enormous devil horns now adorned each dignitary photographed beside the CEO. Some had voluminous breasts. A few had engorged penises. She knew it was childish, but it had felt so damn good scrawling the Sharpie across those smug faces.

She twisted her wrist, checked the time. Mr. Fitgerald was inclined to stop by the office late at night, rifle through her desk.

“Checking up on me. Making sure I’m doing my job.” Larissa spun around in his leather executive chair. “Let’s see what you discover today.”

She toyed with the Christmas gift he gave her last year. Mr. Fitzgerald had called from the airport as he waited for his flight to Barbados.

“I left you something on your desk.” He said it as though he’d left her the keys to a new BMW. “I expect you’ll put it to good use.”

The other assistants had received cheques from their bosses; some with a comma in their figures. But not Larissa. Lucas Fitzgerald found it necessary to give her a practical gift.

A click echoed down the hall as the double oak doors opened and closed. Larissa recognized the brisk militant march of her boss. She was surprised how calm she felt. She thought she would be more nervous terminating her employment.

As the door swung open, Larissa was pleased to see the look of anger on Lucas Fitzgerald’s face, watch it shift from fury to fear. By far, she thought, the best expression was that of shock as she plunged the stainless steel letter opener into his chest over and over like a jack hammer.

Breathless, sweating and more than a little giddy, Larissa, wiped the letter opener on his Armani suit.

“Thank you for the present, sir.” She stood up, adjusted her skirt. “I put it to good use.”

Quiet

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: admire, follow, piece

* * *

Quiet

Swishy skirt, crisp white blouse and pearls at her throat; the closest she can be to the June she admires.

One more look around the living room she vacuumed twice today. Polished furniture gleams in the fading daylight. He’ll be home soon, it must be perfect, nothing out of order, everything in its place.

The intoxicating aroma of prime rib floats throughout the main floor. Rearrange the flowers on the table, centre the chairs, re-fold the napkins, press them once more.

Trembling hands smooth away nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, finger the pearls he gave her for their anniversary, the ones he said would remind her of him, that feel like his manicured hands around her throat.

She struggles to push aside fear. He’ll see it, use it, torment her with it, take away the one piece of her she has come to love. She won’t let him. She can’t.

“Coming sweetheart!” She follows newborn cries up the stairs. “There, there,” she croons, rocking away tears. He hates when you cry, just be quiet, please be quiet.

Baby tucked in one arm, she spins the tap, fills the tub with water, tests with an elbow. A gummed smile is her reward when she floats the cherub in the tepid pool. She laughs as chubby legs kick and splash.

Daddy’s pretty little girl, his perfect little angel, no more crying now, no more crying, no more, no.

Bathwater is still as glass now, except for the occasional tear that streaks down her cheek and ripples the water to blur precious blue eyes that stare back from beneath the surface.

All is quiet now. Quiet.

Last Night

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: eject, impact, render

* * *

Last Night

The tile floor is cold against my bare ass. I don’t have the energy to pull the bathroom rug under me. It’s all I can do to hold my hair back, keep it from falling in the toilet.

My head rings like a kettle drum. What the hell happened last night?

I have a vague recollection of dinner. My stomach wants nothing more than to eject the tender prime rib. And the booze. The fucking booze just kept flowing, like Christ himself was standing at the bar and filling glasses with a wave of his hand. I can’t remember how many martinis I had before switching to rum and Coke.

I spew into the toilet. Obviously too many. I had pledged my undying faith to Jose Cuervo; we’re BFFs now. Arriba!

I spew again. Not much is coming out now. I’ve been at this for a while.

Last night comes back in snapshots. The managing partner’s speech after dinner; I remember now. He droned on about the financial impact of the merger, bonuses all around, yadda yadda yadda. Everyone clapped at the announcement, some wolf-whistled.

It was at that point that Martin put his hand on my leg, skimmed it beneath the short skirt. The journey up my thigh came to a halt when he reached the clasps of my garter.

“Jesus.” Martin angled his head, appeared to be listening to the speaker. He dropped his voice. “Meet me in the lobby. Bring your purse.”

He left as everyone applauded the final words of the speech. Chairs scraped, music blared and bodies swarmed onto the dance floor. I followed a few out of the ballroom, the handful who were going outside for a smoke. I didn’t want a smoke. I wanted to finish what Martin and I had started back at the office, before leaving for the staff banquet; when he’d pinned me against his desk, ravaged my mouth with his, squeezed one hungry nipple between thumb and forefinger.

It’s no wonder I drank so much. I should have known the drinks wouldn’t dampen the fire. Booze always makes me horny.

At a discreet distance, I followed Martin out the building, half a block up the street and into a taxi. He pressed me against the seat, pushed my knees apart.

“Go,” he said to the driver.

“Where?”

“I don’t care,” Martin snapped. “Just fucking drive.” His hand rushed up my leg, pushed thin silk aside and plunged.

Yes! Yes! My hands had a mind of their own at that point and craved to reciprocate. I don’t recall much after that, but I know only one of us was reflected in the cabbie’s rear-view mirror, rendered speechless, eyes closed, mouth curved in bliss. It wasn’t me.

I don’t remember dropping Martin off at his house, coming back home, getting into bed. I'm not even sure how I came to be crouched in front of the toilet, wearing nothing but a Bon Jovi t-shirt.

The scream of the telephone stabs like an ice pick. The answering machine kicks in. My cheerful voice rings through the apartment.

“Hi, it’s Charlotte! I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Have a great day!”

I dry heave. Am I really that fucking annoying?

“Hey, Charlotte.” Andrea’s voice floats through the speakers. “Why aren’t you at work? What happened last night? You left without saying goodbye. Some people are saying you left with Martin.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And his wife called to find out where he is. His wife, Charlotte! She says he didn’t come home last night. Everyone’s talking about it. You HAVE to call me and tell me what happened!”

Andrea hisses the last sentence into the phone. Then the buzz of a dead line.

I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. Oh fuck.

Caged

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: erode, heart, observe
(I sure hope ThomG allows for conjugation.)

* * *

Caged

So flawless is the disguise, even the deceiver is fooled. Believing the lie. Living it. Embracing it.

It is true what they say, that such pretence only damages self. It is beyond repair; crushed into so many pieces, the stars cannot count them. Glue does not hold, and the toxic fumes cannot smother the pain.

Visitors ignore the ‘do not feed’ sign and offer sustenance. Day after day, they tug their bawling spawn past the cage. Tiny fists release bright helium orbs to the skies, but the cheerful globes cannot penetrate the fog above. Their suffocating taunts seep through the iron bars and render me wordless.

Despite constant rocking, the spirit has atrophied. The only muscle left thriving is the heart; but some have observed its erosion and predict apocalypse on a biblical scale.

The locusts cannot come soon enough.

Sweet Dreams

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: drag, mumble, penetrate



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Sweet Dreams

She raced down a dark alley; mile-high walls of concrete speared up on either side. Behind her, heavy footsteps followed, unhurried, knowing there was no escape. There never was.

Over and over she ran down this narrow lane, came upon the same door that was always locked. As she struggled with the handle, willing it to open, the footsteps came closer until they were right behind her. Arms—dozens of them, it seemed—wrapped around her, groping and probing. Stale rum and cheap cigars filled her nostrils. Her stomach lurched.

“Miranda.” Craig’s voice penetrated the terror that suffocated her. “Miranda. It’s just a dream, baby. Open your eyes. That’s it.”

When she pushed away, he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her and crooned, as he would a frightened child, until she stopped trembling.

As the fog lifted and the nightmare faded away, Miranda was aware that she was being held, that Craig stroked her hair.

“I’m ok now,” she said, and rolled away from him. Embarrassed and ashamed, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I should go home.”

“What? No way.” Craig hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her back, coaxed her to lie down. He propped himself up on one arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Miranda closed her eyes. “No.”

“You need to.”

“No I don’t. And certainly not to you.”

“Why not me?”

Because, thought Miranda, I’m falling for you and I don’t want you to walk away like Gregg did. I can’t survive that again.

“Miranda, I probably understand a lot more than you give me credit for.” Her eyes shifted to his. He brushed the short fringe across her forehead. “He’ll keep winning if you keep it locked up inside of you.”

She crumbled then, covered her face with both hands and let the tears flow. It was too good to be real, she thought. He was setting her up so he could kick her down, she was certain of it. Once he knew how fucked up she was, he’d walk away, never looking back.

Craig said nothing. He simply wrapped himself around her, pulled her close and spooned behind her. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

That small promise, the certainty of it, made her turn and face him.

“I should have told you this before.”

“So tell me now.” He pressed his lips on her forehead.

And she did.

Craig listened in silence, his only reaction was to close his eyes at times. When he did, Miranda could see his jaw working as he struggled with his anger, but he let her finish. She waited for him to leap out of bed, tell her it was all her fault, say he couldn’t be with someone who had so much baggage.

“I have never met anyone as strong as you.”

“What?”

“Most people would crawl into a dark cave and never come out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know. That’s what makes you strong.” He cupped her face, thumbed away the last tear. “Feel better?”

“Um. Yeah, actually, I do.” She felt light, like she was floating.

“Good. Think you can sleep now?”

Exhaustion hit her then. “Yeah.” She mumbled something incoherent as she snuggled into him.

He smiled as her eyes drooped. “Sweet dreams, Miranda.”

Craig was next to her when she woke, a protective arm around her. Miranda leaned into him. She was finally safe.



This is the end of Miranda's story...at least here. Stories, such as these, never really end. The nightmares never go away, they just become bearable.

Mute

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: gasp, mute, viable

* * *

Mute

He questioned whether his skills were viable; then she gasped, and he smiled in triumph as his probing fingers rendered her mute.