Dark Lantern

Today's muse: Verse Escape: Friday 55

* * *

Dark Lantern

She groped in the darkness, afraid she would never find her way.

Terrified she would.

She was so tired. If she could just find...

There! A light. He had lit one, after all.

She was mere steps away when it vanished.

And the pitch black swelled with his mocking laughter.

The Cave

Today's muse: Verse Escape: Friday 55

* * *

The Cave

She told no one. After all, who would believe it?

But she knew the truth that lived alone in her shattered soul. Truth that clawed for release from the darkness he cultivated to keep it hidden, barricaded from salvation.

In the shadows of her padded cave, she spirals down, chanting her mantra.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Learning to Fly

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Today's Prompt: Learning to fly.
(okay, actually it's an old prompt from April 30)

* * *

Learning to Fly

I didn’t ask for this. I mean, seriously, if someone had told me this would happen, I would have tapped out; walked away before I was shoved out on my ass. Hell! Not on my ass at all…free-fucking-falling, man!

All was good. I’m there with my brother and sister and we’re having lunch. Okay, we were making a lot of noise but we were always screaming and carrying on. We’re kids! It’s what we do. Mom never complained. She always fed us when we got loud. So, of course we’re gonna scream until we’re fed.

She always looked after us. Kept us warm, fed us, kept us clean. Protected us. I’m tellin’ ya, there was no warning at all that she was gonna go postal. I mean, she could have talked to us, told us she wasn’t happy with our behavior, maybe have a discussion about rules.

No! Instead, she just shoves us out of the nest without any warning and tells us to wave our wings and fly.

Are you fucking kidding me?! Shouldn’t there be a lesson of some sort? Maybe a discussion on the theory of flying?

I won’t lie. It was scary for a moment. The ground was coming at me pretty damned fast and I thought it was all going to end right then. But after some frantic flapping, I got it together and managed to fly. And I have to admit that it was pretty damned cool.

But as soon as I get back to the nest, I’m packing my shit and leaving. The woman is fucking psycho!

Wendigo

Today's muse: Verse Escape: Friday 55

* * *

Wendigo

Pale skin shimmers like moonlight.

She cannot see. He has made sure of that. She wears nothing but silk ropes that hold her in place; hold her open.

But she hears. Hears his breathing. Hears the swish of his belt released from his pants.

She knows what is next. And she waits. And she wants.

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.”

Tall Tales

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Todays words: dappled, elaborate, filthy

* * *

Tall Tales

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

No more. Filthy girl.

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

She deserved it. Filthy girl.

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

Keep quiet. Filthy girl.

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

Even herself.