Locker Room Talk

Locker Room Talk

There is an intimacy that comes with seeing another person naked.

I don’t mean the nakedness involving sex with a willing partner, or the nakedness of your feet resting in stirrups as your doctor pokes and prods.

I mean the nakedness of stripping down in the locker room at the gym, dripping with sweat, hair clinging to your forehead, with nothing but a minuscule cloth wrapped around your body.

And all the while, chatting away with the woman beside you who is also naked and sweaty and wearing what is laughably called a towel.

We started chatting about a year ago, when we both staggered into the change room, gasping for air, cursing our respective trainers.

At first, conversations were mostly about our evil trainers, but over the course of a year, we have discussed work, family and the other personal things that only women discuss. We have settled into a routine of sorts and although we only see each other at the gym, we talk every day and notice certain details.

Like yesterday.

“You left your hair down,” I said to her as I wiggled into panties.

She normally pulls it back into a smooth stubby tail. It looks good on her—puts the focus on her enormous dark eyes—but yesterday she left it down and used a flat iron.

She ran a hand over her bob. “I have something after work today, I won’t have time to go home and do my hair.”

I hooked my bra, stepped into my pants. “Job interview?” She’s not entirely happy with her job and I wondered if she was looking for something better.

“No.” She laughed as she buttoned her shirt. “I have a date.”

“Do tell!”

She grinned and told me about the guy she met on line. They have exchanged texts but are finally meeting face to face.

“You’re meeting in a public place, right?” I can’t help but worry. I’m old-school and can’t wrap my head around on-line dating.

“We’re meeting at a restaurant, listening to jazz music.”

“Do you want me to drop by and make sure he’s not a serial killer?”

She laughed. “I’ll be fine. We’re in a busy club. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

“You better.” I point a finger at her. “I want to hear all about it.”

“Promise.”

It’s a promise she hasn’t kept.

She wasn’t at the gym this morning. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t even know her name. The writer in me has concluded that one of two things has happened.

Date Guy turned out to be a serial killer and her dismembered body is scattered in an alleyway somewhere. Or, she didn’t want to show up in the same clothes and do the Walk-of-Shame at the gym.

As there was nothing in the news, it’s most likely she’s still in one piece.

But if she is in one piece, I want to hear why she wasn't at the gym. Is she still in bed? Is she alone? The woman owes me a story!

* * *

This is a true story, happened a few weeks ago. I saw her at the gym after the weekend. And to paraphrase Grace VanderWaal, I now know her name.

Eyes Closed

Today's muse: Verse Escape: Friday 55

* * *

Eyes Closed

Eyes closed to hide sorrow or, perhaps, to withdraw from harsh reality.

No matter.

Either way, peace at last. Away from intrusive questions, awkward gazes. Pitiful murmurs.

The light is not so bright here. Rather, it surrounds in a candlelight glow, a warm embrace.

The gentle rocking soothes and comforts, wraps me in eternal sleep.

Dying Embers

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: Decaying, Ember, Fragrant



My father-in-law is one the sweetest men I know. He and my father are cut from the same cloth. It is heartbreaking to watch a vibrant man submit to dementia.

Update:

Richard Edward Massabki died on December 13, 2017, at home, surrounded by his family.

I will miss you, Richard. À la prochain.

* * *

Dying Embers

He is fluent in three languages: French, Arabic, English. His time with the military exposed him to many nationalities and he can spew a key sentence from a dozen other countries. Phrases like finito la musica, passato la fiesta and haben Sie eine Schreibmaschine.

Granted, these are not expressions that will save his or your life, but if you’re with him in Italy, Richard can cheer last call and he can get you a typewriter in Germany.

He is an engineer—was an engineer before AutoCAD, when everything was drawn and written by hand. That precise writing that you see at the bottom of schematic drawings? Back in his day, that was meticulously written by hand, not by computer.

And that’s how Richard writes. Neat. Precise. Exact.

And that describes Richard. Neat. Precise. Exact.

It is how he conducts and presents himself. Pressed pants. Pressed shirt. Polished shoes.

Richard embraced the long-forgotten skill of conversation. My father also has this skill. It is a talent lost on the last few generations. It is easy to forget how to converse when you communicate with your thumbs, punch in abbreviated words without making eye contact.

Richard came come home from the auto shop one day—he’d had the oil changed or his tires rotated—and he told us about the young mechanic that serviced his car. He knew the man’s name, his wife’s name, the names of his three children and their ages—the youngest was having a birthday party next week—and he knew the man’s parents were from Poland, that they had emigrated in 1963.

Richard should have had a talk show. He would have had better ratings than Carson and Oprah combined.

I met Richard twenty-four years ago. He wasn’t home when we arrived at his house—he was out on his bicycle, riding home from a woodshop class he was taking. He was 70 years old.

When he vacationed with his wife—a woman who speaks English and French fluently; a teacher by trade—they took road trips into the States, attended Elder Hostels where the focus was learning. They took up bird-watching, studied the Civil War and learned how to play the kazoo.

He would entertain us with funny and heartbreaking stories about his life in Egypt, his hardships as a new Canadian. He told the romantic (and amusing) tale of how he met his wife at a church picnic, how she charmed him—a man from a foreign country with a thick accent and a meager sandwich wrapped in newspaper.

His eyes were mischievous, his smile quick and genuine. He flirted with every woman he met, told me each time I saw him that I was beautiful.

Now, at ninety-four, Richard’s gaze is tired and vacant. He no longer recognizes me, though he understands that I am a friendly person. Of course, he still tells me I’m pretty. He is, after all, an incorrigible flirt.

He holds out a trembling hand when I visit, reverts back to his native Parisian French when he greets me. Quelle belle fille, he says. He grins at me (ever the flirt), his smile now lopsided after a mild stroke.

“How are you, Richard?”

“I am well,” he replies, his English precise and formal. I know he lies. He is not well.

His brilliant mind is decaying at an alarming rate. Conversation—once fragrant with sweet endearments—is now riddled with anger, punctuated with profanity. This is not the Richard I know. This is not the Richard I love.

I watched him spiral into the void, unable to extinguish the fire that burned away the man I once knew. All that is left is a dying ember that cannot spark.

But once in a while it glows, and his eyes focus on me. I know in that moment he recognizes me. He smiles—the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and lifts my heart—and he sees me. Knows me.

I hold onto those moments.

Running Scared

This is a re-write of an old post that I removed because the link no longer worked.

* * *

Running Scared

Voices buzzed around him like angry wasps. Nate couldn’t understand a fucking word, but it didn’t matter. Two flights, three trains, and one terrifying bus ride. She couldn’t find him here.

He was confident with the distance he’d put between him and Fiona, so he treated himself to a restaurant meal. He’d grown tired of roadside food carts, exchanging crumpled wads of money for bowls of limp vegetables.

Wait staff bustled by carrying platters filled with foods he didn’t recognize.

A girl with enormous dark eyes stood at his table. Straight black hair hung down past her shoulders. He could see the sphere of a nipple ring through her thin tee.

“You English?” She smiled when he nodded. “What you eat?”

Nate tightened his grip on the small canvas bag he carried, pointed at a picture on the menu with his free hand.

She angled her head when she leaned in, pressed a toned thigh against his arm. “Noodle with fish.” She breathed it in his ear as if she described more than today’s special.

He bit back a moan. Today’s Special, indeed. “Give me that.”

She smiled again, a curve of lips both innocent and beguiling. “It will be my pleasure,” she crooned.

Narrow hips swayed as she walked away, a snug skirt barely covering her ass. His eyes followed until she disappeared behind the kitchen door. He needed more than food, he admitted. He could lose himself for a few hours, wrapped in those long, brown legs, buried in wet warmth.

But he had to find a new location, keep moving. It wasn’t safe to stay in one place too long. By now Fiona would know he’d taken the bag. He could picture her tearing through the house, her beautiful face now demonic, wild curls trailing behind her.

Sail out to one of the islands, he decided, hide from Fiona on some secluded plot of land where he could finally relax. He would rent a shack—no, fuck it, he’d buy one. Cash wasn’t a problem, he thought, tightening his grip on the bag. He would live quietly for a while, until it was safe. Smoke some weed. Get some pussy. His cock twitched in response as the plan unfolded in his head.

Nate clutched the worn bag against his chest as the slim waitress brought his plate. Her hand brushed over his shoulder, cool fingers whispered across his neck. “You want something else?”

“Sorry, honey. I can’t stay.” It pained him to decline what he knew would have been a glorious afternoon and evening. His ego was boosted when she pouted.

“You make Mimi sad.”

Nate sad, too, he thought, as she walked away.

He enjoyed the meal, tossed a few bills next to his empty plate, pushed back from the table. He contemplated seeking out Mimi, finding a dark corner off the kitchen where he could hoist her up against a wall for a quick goodbye.

“Nate.” The familiar voice purred next to his ear, warm breath teased his lobe.

Nate’s bowels liquefied as Fiona pressed the blade of a pearl-handled knife against his throat. He knew she carried it in a special compartment in her purse.

“Missed you, baby.” She ran her moist tongue along the sensitive spot below his ear, purred his name as though she’d just climaxed. She reached around him, popped the button on his jeans, edged the zipper down.

Despite his terror, he was instantly hard. Ashamed with the knowledge that he’d always want her, he closed his eyes in defeat. He felt Fiona’s lips curve against his throat as she wrapped her fist around his cock.

A feral moan was all Nate managed as he ejaculated and Fiona severed his carotid.

Welcome Wagon

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: Tangy, Unhinged, Vapid

* * *

Welcome Wagon

An impressive pile of discarded outfits were strewn across her bed. The simple act of selecting attire shouldn’t be this difficult, she mused, when she was merely going out for dinner. Because it wasn’t a date.

No, it wasn’t.

Anna selected a pair of earrings, hooked them on her lobes. Tilting her head from side to side, she analyzed the effect in the mirror, removed the earrings, replaced them with another pair.

Dammit. She was making an issue. This was becoming a date.

No. It wasn’t. It was just dinner. A friendly gesture because she was the new neighbor. It wasn’t a date.

Who was she kidding? Of course it was.

She walked through the living room to the kitchen, poured two fingers of courage, downed it in one gulp. She didn’t want to like him, but Jay Watson had charmed her.

He had helped her carry boxes when she had moved into the unit across the hall, had rewired and hung her new chandelier in the dining room. He had even boosted her car when she had left her lights on—without, she noted, the vapid lecture that her ex always seemed to give her whenever she did something that displeased him. And, yeah, that happened a lot.

The Idiot—as her mother called him—had been, well, an idiot. And just a little unhinged. Which was why she had walked out six months ago. She was relieved that he didn’t try to follow or find her. Which was fine by her. She spent some time rediscovering who she was and who she wanted to be. Found that she liked being alone, which was quite different from being lonely. She wasn’t tethered to anyone.

But now she was going out on a—she was going out for dinner. With a friend. He was just a friend.

Her head jerked up at the quiet knock. She wiped her damp palms on the simple cotton dress she’d finally selected. Maybe she should change.

Jesus! Just breath for Christ’s sake! He’s taking you out to dinner. Probably because he feels sorry for you.

But, oh god, she hoped it was because he liked her because she really liked him.

Anna set the glass in the sink, walked over to the door, flipped the lock.

Jay stood in the doorway, his grin wide and fierce. He clutched a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

“You look great,” he said.

She admitted she was out of practice, but Anna recognized attraction when she saw it. His gaze traveled down, hovered at the dip in her dress, paused for several moments at her bare legs. When his eyes came back to meet hers, they no longer smiled. There was no question in those dark orbs, only demand.

Desire, sharp and tangy, rushed through her.

Anna wondered why she’d bothered changing her clothes so many times. She was just going to take them off.

Service Elevator

Today's muse: Oh, wouldn't you just like to know!

* * *

Service Elevator

A glance out her office window told her that she’d worked too late. Again. The office tower across the road had dark windows which meant that it was at least midnight and the automatic timers had engaged.

Emily turned her wrist, narrowed a look at her watch. Yup. Twelve-fifteen.

She hooked her bag over her arm and walked out to the elevator. Working late was not an anomaly for Emily Grant, so walking through the office in complete silence, flanked by dark offices, didn’t bother her. She rather liked it. There was a general exodus around six o’clock, which made it easier to accomplish tasks that required her undivided focus. By eight, the place was empty. It was bliss.

She pushed through the secure glass doors into the corridor, pressed the down button. She was tired but had accomplished much more than she had expected. The proposal was finished and she could present it to the board on Monday. She was confident they would like her ideas and move to make the changes she was suggesting.

She closed her eyes, took in a cleansing breath, and let it out in a disappointed sigh when she heard footsteps. She knew everyone in her office was gone—had been gone for hours—so whoever was working late was with the investment firm across the hall.

Emily cursed the slow elevator. Now she would have to share the ride with a stranger. Not that she was concerned for her safety. She could look after herself. But she would have to make Small Talk and, dammit, it was too fucking late for that.

“Oh, hey.” Tall and lean, he wore a charcoal suit with a vibrant yellow and orange tie. He carried a leather briefcase. She recalled his name was Frank. He’d introduced himself the first time they’d met at the elevator several months ago. She’d had the hi-how-are-you-nice-weather-we’re-having conversation with him almost every day since then. The mundane had recently shifted to flirting, but it was still late. Not to mention, she had a chardonnay chilling at home that was calling her name.

He grinned at her. “We seem to be on the same schedule.”

She noticed the dimple this time. It softened his look, which was all dark and broody, a little dangerous. God help her, but bad boys had always been her weakness.

He pressed the down button.

“Why do people do that?” Emily asked.

He frowned at her. “Do what?”

“Press the elevator button when it’s already been pushed. The elevator isn’t going to get here any faster if you push the button several times.”

“Yes it will.” And to make his point, he pressed the button once more.

Emily let out a surprised laugh when the elevator chimed its arrival. “Well, it appears you have magic hands.” Oh god! Did she just say that?!

He held his arm out to keep the doors open. “I do,” he murmured as she eased by him.

She licked her lips. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that late. Should she ask him out for a coffee? A drink? More?

Frank’s finger hovered over the service button and he glanced over at her, lifted one eyebrow in question.

No, it wasn’t late at all, Emily thought, and nodded her consent.

Her smile bloomed as the elevator stopped between floors and the lighting shifted to a dim emergency glow.

He pressed her against the elevator wall, pulled her chin down with his thumb. His mouth was hot and greedy against hers, his tongue offering promises.

Oh god, she thought, naughty, naughty boy.

Motorcycle Maintenance

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: jockey, kindred, lopsided

* * *

Motorcycle Maintenance

It had been a pretty good week, in Amanda’s opinion. She landed the Miller account and collected on receivables that she’d been chasing for six months. Both brought in over six figures. She’d have a quick drink to celebrate, then head home.

She crossed at the light in long strides, despite the narrow pencil skirt and three-inch heels she wore. She’d always thought that stepping into The Master’s was like walking onto a movie set. Walls were trimmed with warm wood. Sofas were covered in dark fabric. Music was quiet and comforting. The place just begged you to sit and enjoy a drink.

As she edged onto the last empty high top, Frank bustled over. “Do you want a table, Amanda?”

She shook her head, set her clutch on the bar. “I came to have a drink.”

Frank—the owner and occasional bartender—nodded. “Rough day?”

“No, actually, a good day. This is a celebration drink. Not a crying drink.”

He beamed a smile at her. “The usual?”

“Thanks, Frank.”

The man next to her leaned over. “I’ve always wanted to go to a bar and order ‘the usual’.”

He was about her age, Amanda judged, wore dark trousers and a linen shirt in robin’s egg blue. The cuffs were rolled a few times, revealing what she judged was a tattooed sleeve on his left arm. His eyes were trusting and danced with laughter. She decided he was harmless.

“In my case, it either means I’m predictable or I drink too much.” She shrugged. “Probably both.”

“That depends. What’s ‘the usual’?” He turned to face her, his body language telling her he not only asked the question, but wanted to know the answer. Okay, she’d play along. After all, he was cute and she was in a dry spell right now.

“Dry Martini. Bombay Sapphire. Neat. Three olives.”

“A kindred spirit.” He nodded his approval. “Stirred, I presume.”

Amanda smiled. The man knew martinis. “Of course. Bond doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Tattoo Boy snorted. “Right. Vodka. As if.” He lifted his glass in toast when Frank delivered her drink. “To a good day.”

She lifted hers in response. “Cheers.”

She jutted her chin at his tumbler. “Scotch?”

He nodded. “Laphroaig.”

“Nice.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Sam.”

“Amanda.” She took his hand, pleased with his firm shake. Setting down her glass, she turned his palm. “Calluses.”

His eyes seemed to lose their luster then and he pulled his hand back. “I’m not a desk jockey.”

Instantly contrite, she apologized. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that, well, you’re wearing that gorgeous shirt and with the ink.” She waved her hand and up and down. “It all doesn’t fit together.” She let her shoulders slump. “What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic.” Sam all but barked out the reply, as if he dared her to ridicule him.

“Automotive or industrial?” She sipped her drink, could see her response surprised him. “My brother’s a mechanic,” she explained.

That seemed to relax him. “Automotive. And motorcycles for clients that have them.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve been taking my bike to Murphey’s for service, but it’s a little far. Where’s your shop?”

“You ride?” She could see he was stunned by this revelation, but he quickly recovered and smiled. His grin was crooked and showed a small dimple in his right cheek. He was rapidly moving from Cute to Hot.

She smiled. “I have a Triumph America.”

“Nice.” Sam narrowed a look at her. “Wait. You named it, didn’t you?”

She laughed. “Gertrude. It sounds British.” She smiled into her drink, watched him shake his head. “You didn’t answer my question.” She pulled an olive off the skewer, popped it in her mouth.

“What? Oh. Right. My shop’s in Malvern, off Windsor Road.”

He signaled Frank, waved a hand between them, lifted two fingers. “You’ll join me for another.” It wasn’t a question and she found she liked his authority. “What do you need done?”

She gave him a blank stare as her mind raced. Oh, she could think of a lot of things she needed done.

“With your bike,” he clarified.

Oh. Right. “Just regular maintenance. Get it ready to put away for winter. Fuel Stabilizer. Oil change.”

He smiled at her use of the term. “I’ll give you my number. Call me and we’ll set a time for you to come in for an oil change.”

Was he flirting?

“If you want, we can enjoy a ride first. Then I’ll look after,” he sipped his scotch, “...changing your oil.”

Oh, yeah. He was flirting.

She arched one eyebrow. “We’re still talking about motorcycles, right?”

He shrugged, gave her his lopsided grin. “Sure.”

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.

Still a Rose

Still a Rose

Rose seldom made eye contact, talked to no one. She sat alone in a cubicle meant for four secretaries. She sat alone because no one wanted to share a space with her.

Rose’s name did not befit the aroma that hovered around her. It shrouded her like Pigpen’s dust cloud; omnipresent and foul. Everyone talked about her, but avoided engaging in any actual conversation with her. After all, it’s difficult to talk and hold your breath at the same time.

The complaints to Human Resources could no longer be ignored and Rose was walked out the door under the premise that her job was obsolete.

The thing is, the smell lingered.

A cleaning crew was called in to disinfect the area, scrub it down. They sprayed the carpet tiles around her desk, replaced her chair.

It still stank.

A second crew came in and ripped out her desk, even emptied her filing cabinets.

“Jesus, fuck!”

Eric took two steps back, dropped the garbage bag he had pulled from the last drawer.

“What?” Frank walked over, peered inside. The stench was overpowering and he gagged. “What the hell?”

Eric pulled his t-shirt over his nose, opened the bag to get a better view, though he immediately regretted that.

“What is that?”

“Not what." Frank swiped his hand over his mouth. "Who.”

The Interview

Today's muse:

I wrote The Fuchsia Bear back in 2009. It was one of my first posts. I have toyed with rewriting it many times, then came across a writing prompt from Sarah Selecky: write from the point of view of something that normally does not have a voice. Without question, I needed to rewrite my bear's story.

* * *

The Interview

“Is this thing on?” I point at the winking red light.

“We’re rolling.” She wears her formal face, but I know she’s excited. She thinks her producer pulled some strings, but the truth is, Barbara is the only one I would talk to.

I shift my plastic eyes to hers. “Where do you want me to start?”

“We all know how it ended.” She flashes her famous You-Can-Trust-Me Smile. “I want to know how it began. Tell me how you met Emily.”

I clear my throat and wonder if I can get through this without getting emotional. “Her parents introduced us.” I pick at the purple fur on my arm. Once soft and shiny, it is now matted and dull with age. “We slept together that first night.”

Barbara glances at the camera, sends the viewing audience a knowing smile. “And, I understand, every night after.”

It is difficult to hold back the grin. “Yeah, but most nights I slept propped against the pillows.” I drop my voice as if the entire world won’t hear me. “She kicked a lot back then.”

“But it wasn’t always like that.”

“No, it wasn’t. On the nights I did sleep next to her, Emily kept one arm wrapped around my throat in a stranglehold so tight I could hardly breathe.”

“And you still managed to wake up on the floor every morning.”

Whether it’s habit or loyalty, I defend the only girl I have ever loved. “It wasn’t because she didn’t care.”

“No, of course not.” Sarcasm is thick in that short sentence. “Yet, you weren’t exclusive.”

“There were others,” I admit. “At least once a week, one of them would share our bed.”

“You never felt threatened?”

I shrug. “The others looked up to me—still do. Mostly because I know everything. And I mean everything.” I lean forward, rest my elbows on stubby legs. “The moment she got home, Emily would run up to our room and debrief me on her day. She trusted me with classified data; the kind of information that can’t be passed on to just anyone.”

“Give us an example.”

I smile. “I can’t give you specifics. Let’s just say she kept detailed dossiers on those who didn’t play well with others, and lengthy reports on what went down at recess. I know where it’s all hidden. It would humiliate a lot of people if those things were made public.”

“What other secrets did she ask you to keep?”

I shake my head. “Come on, Barbara. You know I can’t tell you that.” It doesn’t surprise me that she tried. Everyone does. “It’s part of the Code.”

“SCOT.”

“That’s right,” I confirm. “The Silent Code of Teddies.”

“Surely some bears break the code.”

“None that have lived to tell the tale.”

Barbara stares at me, her eyes wide. “You don’t mean…”

I cut her off with a wave of my paw. “How would you feel,” I ask her, “if your bear shared your secrets?”

She straightens in her chair. “I don’t have a bear.” Her eyes dart around, refusing to meet mine.

“Barbara.” I wait until she looks at me. “Barbara, we both know you have a bear.”

“I was a child.”

“He still knows your wishes. You have a lifelong bond that will never break. He still knows when you hurt.” I lean forward. “He still cries when you do.”

She stares at me, her eyes bright with hope and need. “He does?” No longer a world-renowned reporter with a voice of steel, she is now eight years old and needs to cuddle.

“Yes, Barbara, and he always will.”

She looks down at her papers and I know she is collecting herself. I do what I know her bear would do and I wait in silence.

When she is ready, she looks up. “We may edit that part.”

I shrug. “As you wish.” But I know when she reviews the tape, she’ll leave it in. She’ll leave it in because it’s good for ratings. More important, she’ll leave it in for her bear.

Composed now, Barbara carries on.

“Tell me about your amputation.”

“What? Are you referring to this?” I run a paw across faded pink yarn stitched into the right side of my head and snort out a laugh. “She chewed my ear off. It’s no big deal.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

Barbara sends me a dubious look.

I cross my legs. “Bears don’t feel pain the same way humans do. It’s part of our training.”

“Training?”

“Fluff Camp,” I explain. “Six intense months before we’re shipped for retail.”

“What does your training cover?”

“We’re expected to be fluent in at least three languages, including Newborn. We also take psychology and learn to deal with sleep deprivation. And, of course, there’s etiquette.”

“Etiquette?”

“It’s important to know how to dress for and behave at special occasions.”

“Such as?”

I smile as memories whip by. “Emily used to throw these extravagant tea parties and I went to every single one. Who wouldn’t? I mean, everyone was there: Kenny and Barb, the Rangers, some of the Care Gang. Emily’s parties were always formal.” I let out a quiet laugh. “And she’d make me wear that gaudy, orange hat. It clashed with my fur, but it made her happy when I wore it.”

“You changed for her. Were you resentful?”

“There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that girl. Everyone said we’d grow apart, but that never happened. In fact, we became closer the longer we were together. We’d spend hours together in our room discussing everything.” I tick off the topics on my three-fingered paw. “The pain of love, the torture of betrayal, how our friendship helped each other heal.”

“And she still left.”

I drop my short arms and sigh. “Yes. She left.” I shift in the chair, my worn feet just touching the edge of the seat. “Things have changed in the last few months. There was a time when my days were filled with her laughter and tears, her songs and stories. But lately, my days are empty, passed in solitude, lying prone on our floral bedspread. Alone.” I swallow the lump that blocks my breathing. “Lonely.”

The crew is silent. The only sound in the room is the quiet hum of the camera.

After a few moments, Barbara gives a small cough. “When did she leave?”

“Last week.” My throat is tight. Dammit, I don’t want to cry. “She left for college on Friday.” I feel hollow, as though the very stuffing that lets me live is now wrenched from my fuchsia body and I am nothing but a dishevelled casing.

I look up at Barbara. “I’m not naïve. I know how this ends. I’ll be boxed and sent to a charity to live with other abandoned stuffies. We’ll remember the days when we were loved, boast of lavish play dates, each tale more embellished than the last.” My mouth stitching curves up in a rueful smile and another thread pulls loose. “No one will talk about the end.”

I look into the camera. “But in the dark hours, when the lights are asleep, and I am not, I will remember how she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me close while she dreamt.”

Barbara’s eyes are bright and wet. “You don’t forget, do you?”

“No. Never.” I press a worn paw against my purple chest, just above my polyester heart. “And we pray you never forget us.”