Fishing

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: electric, passionate, savage

* * *

Fishing

His gaping maw snaps open and closed. My breath catches with every savage clamp. His fight to hold on is passionate, but useless, for I am unable to keep my catch.

With tender hands I dislodge the hook and apologize for the pain I have caused. Sad, electric eyes stare back. He does not understand why I am throwing him back. He wants to stay in the boat.

His long, narrow body undulates in the water. He turns to me, beckons.

“I can’t swim with you,” I tell him.

Playful now, he flicks his fin in the air, gives me a splash.

I reach over for my rod, drop my line in the water.

Okay. Maybe just once more.

Dirty Words

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: Dirty Words (well, to be honest, it was the December 20 prompt)

* * *

Dirty Words

I often hesitate when asked what I write. The standard response is ‘I write Romance’. But the truth is, I write Erotic Romance.

It’s not much different from your run-of-the-mill romance. Girl still meets boy. They fall in love. Live happily-ever-after.

But there is one difference: I use dirty words.

Therapy

Today's muse: Standing on a crowded train platform. Too many people, too much noise, too many smells. I had a brief flash and to suppress the panic that I was sure was about to swamp me, I spun the image into a piece of prose. I am so thankful I have my writing for therapy.

* * *

Therapy

He thrust out his hand. “I’m David.”

His smile was genuine, showing straight, white teeth.

“Erica.” She slipped her hand in his, gave a slight pump, then let go. In what seemed like a casual gesture, Erica transferred her drink to her right hand, took a sip. Five years of intense therapy allowed her to perform the ritual without trembling or breaking out in a sweat.

Prior to meeting the wonderful Doctor Gibson, Erica would have stayed home in the dark, rather than attend any social function. Within a year of working with Dr. G, she was able to go to a movie by herself. Of course, if anyone sat next to her, she rushed off to the bathroom to vomit. But the fact that she was out and socializing was an enormous leap.

“How do you know Andrew?” David asked.

“We took some classes together.” Art therapy, but David didn’t need to know that.

“Photography?”

Erica nodded. “He has a brilliant eye.” He had taken pictures of her while she set up her own shot. Had printed them in black and white. They were sad and somehow hopeful. She had framed a couple, hung them in her apartment.

They were different from the other pictures taken of her.

“I’ve never seen you at Andrew’s parties.”

“No. This is the first one I’ve been able to attend.” Not because of her schedule, but because it had taken Andrew this long to convince her to come.

She didn’t like strangers encroaching her personal space; didn’t even like people she knew invading it. Erica didn’t like to be touched. She no longer cringed if someone did—she had suppressed that reaction a few years ago—but she didn’t like anyone touching her. Especially men.

Men had touched her before. Doctors, police. And, of course, him.

He had kissed her, rough and angry. Had pinched her nipples until she’d cried out in pain. And when she turned twelve, he told her it was time to be a woman.

“How do you know Andrew?” She forced a smile, just to be polite, pleased that she was keeping up her end of the conversation.

“We went to Boy Scouts together.”

“Oh.” Oh!

David only smiled. “I see Doctor G, too.”

Erica smiled back, and this time it reached her eyes.

David gestured with his glass. “Do you want to sit? Maybe talk?”

It was the first time that Erica had ever felt relaxed around a stranger. More important, it was the first time she’d felt relaxed around a strange man.

She noted that he was careful not to touch her when they sat. She wasn’t sure if that was for her or him. Either way, she was grateful.

David sipped his drink, sat back in his chair. “Andrew and I reconnected in university. We had Spanish together.”

“Hmmm. I’m afraid my Spanish is rather limited. I can ask where the bathroom is.”

David raised his glass in a toast. “A very important phrase to know.”

Erica laughed. “Indeed.”

She bumped her glass against his and their fingers brushed. It was unexpected and she jolted back.

“I’m sorry.” Ashamed, she stared over David’s shoulder, unable to look at him.

“It’s okay.”

Her gazed shifted to his and it was then that she noticed he hadn’t moved his hand. It was still raised in mid-air, as if he waited for her to tap his tumbler again.

And it trembled.

“Oh, David.”

He lowered his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t like to be touched.”

“Me neither.”

He nodded and Erica sucked in a shaky breath. He set his glass on the table, gestured for her to do the same.

“Let’s start over,” he suggested.

Relieved, she smiled at him and nodded.

He held out his hand. It trembled, but he held it out. “Hi. My name is David.”

She hesitated for only a moment, then slipped her hand into his. It was warm and dry. She wanted to pull away and sensed he felt the same. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around his and he squeezed back.

“I’m Erica.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Erica.” He didn’t let go of her hand, kept his eyes on hers, his smile natural and full.

No, Erica thought, the pleasure is all mine.

The Curtain

Today's muse: First 50 Words

Today's prompt: The Curtain

I didn't treat this prompt as the beginning of a piece but, rather, a stand alone fifty-word prose.

* * *

The Curtain

Stress has only brought stabbing pain to mine, Tin Man should wish for something else. My spinning brain gives me sleepless nights. You’re better off without one, Scarecrow. And trust me, Lion, being brave is overrated.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Dorothy was right. Go home.

Resolute

I know, I know. Where have I been? I've been busy. Too busy. And a little stressed out with it. But I hope I'm back. Thom G's site is my favourite writing prompt site, so it's only appropriate that I start off the New Year with Three Word Wednesday.

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: jovial, promise, resolute.

* * *

Resolute

Today is the first day of the new year.

I won’t lie and tell you I promise to write every day, or even every week.

The fact is, I lead a busy life. I have a frantic full-time job where I put in a lot of overtime. I look after my in-laws every Saturday. This leaves one day a week to myself—to write my novel, operate my small business, socialize with friends and family, and reestablish peace in my soul so that I can start the crazy ritual again on Monday.

It is not easy to maintain a jovial façade. In fact, I am a miserable failure at being happy.

But that ends today. Or, at least, I plan on trying to end it. My parents, gods love them, always told me they only wanted me to try my best. So that is what I will do.

Henceforth (I am a legal secretary), I will try my damnedest to write more often, take more time for myself, and make the time to finish my novel.

And I am most resolute in finding happiness.

My Bedroom

Today's muse: First 50 Words.

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

* * *

My Bedroom

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

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

A Picture Worth Two Words

Writing from the male POV has always fascinated me.

* * *

A Picture Worth Two Words

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

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

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

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

Miss Eleanor lives in the white cottage across from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where do you want me?” she asks.

“Jesus Christ,” is all I can manage.

Maybe Yellow

Today's muse: First 50 Words

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

* * *

Maybe Yellow

“What was she wearing?”

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

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

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

I shrug. “Maybe yellow.”

Salt

Today's muse: 50 First Words

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

* * *

Salt

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

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

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

Warning: Low Battery

Today's muse: First 50 Words

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

* * *

Warning: Low Battery

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

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

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

Homework

Today's muse: First 50 Words

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

* * *

Homework

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

Madison's Avenue - Deleted Excerpt

Today's muse:

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

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

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

* * *

Madison's Avenue (deleted excerpt)

“She’s asking for you, Miss Fields.”

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

It was a far cry from her usual vanilla latte.

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

“Miss Fields?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A few months.”

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