For Rent

Today's muse:

Not too long ago, I attended a Writescape retreat. It was a wonderful opportunity to focus on my book, which is why I've been away from this blog for so long. I've been spending all my free time writing, and have made great progress on Madison's Avenue. I'm on target to complete the first draft by April.

While on retreat, I attended a few workshops. One of the workshops prompted this piece.

* * *

For Rent

The landlord drops the keys into my hand.

“First and last,” she says, holding out her hand.

“Is it still what we discussed?”

Mrs. Gibson nods, thrusts her hand at me. I pass her a roll of bills wrapped with a red elastic band. She drops it into the front pocket of her apron and leaves, closing the door behind her.

She asked no questions, made no comment on my application. I like her.

The unit is tiny—not much larger than a small hotel room. A thin layer of dirt coats the worn wood floor. It is unmarred but for the isosceles groove that links door to bed to bathroom.

I follow the rut to the bed, ignore the dubious stains on the bare mattress. Peering beneath, I am comforted by the unblemished carpet of dust. No one else has hidden anything under the bed. It will be safe.

Two hinges drilled into the frame of the narrow closet to my right suggest that a door once protected its contents, but as most of my possessions will be stored under the bed, a door is pointless.

I take the rut to the bathroom, pause at the door. The white floor tile is pristine, chrome taps sparkle, and the shower curtain is free of soap-scum. Dainty lace curtains flutter at the narrow window above the sink—the only window in the entire unit.

I glance behind me at the dingy room, then back to the bathroom. I’m thankful that Joe sublet this unit. He was right: the bathroom cleans up quite well. No prints, no trace, no evidence.

I complete the triangle and follow the narrow groove to the door, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. I should pay Mrs. Gibson a little more for rent. After all, she doesn’t ask questions. And for guys like Joe and me, that quality in a landlord is priceless.

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.

Dressed Up

Today's muse: You can always tell when I'm writing an erotic scene in Madison's Avenue. The pent-up energy needs to be unleashed.

* * *

Dressed Up

The doorbell chimes a melody he recognizes, but can’t quite name. Drew grins as the notes fade out.

“It suits her.”

He runs calloused fingers through sun-kissed hair, wonders if he should have gone for a trim before picking up Andrea. He shrugs it off. It’s just a picnic with friends. It won’t matter that he’s needed a cut for more than two weeks now.

His hand drops when she opens the door, his palm instantly damp.

Andrea smiles—that seductive subtle curve of lips that always has need coiling deep inside him. The smile gets him every time. It’s shy and beguiling; it’s innocent and seductive. Most days, the smile alone is enough to leave him wanting. But today…god…today she’s wearing a long floral dress that drapes down to her bare feet. The bodice is nothing more than two narrow triangles of fabric wrapped around her neck, cupping her breasts in reverence.

“Hi.” Drew manages to keep his smile casual, his tone light, though his mouth has dried up and the blood rushing in his ears is deafening. “Ready?”

Andrea steps back and waves him in. “I just need to get my sandals.”

Drew sags against the wall when she turns away. Sweet Jesus.

Andrea comes back down the hallway, ivory sandals dangling from her fingers.

Drew clears his throat. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

She stops just steps away from him, looks down at her dress, then back up at him. “Yeah. Why?”

“You can’t wear that to the picnic.” He shakes his head, as though the matter is closed.

“Pardon me?” Blue eyes flash with rage and she tosses back her hair. “There’s nothing wrong with this dress.”

Drew puffs out a breath. “Maybe not, but you can’t wear it. I won’t let you.”

It’s like watching the wind whip into a funnel cloud, he thinks. Her back stiffens and she throws her shoulders back. Her breasts strain against the fabric, begging for attention. He knows too well how they fill his hands.

“You have incredible nerve telling me what to wear.”

Before she can fold her arms across her chest, Drew spins her around and presses her against the wall, pins her arms above her head with one hand. Andrea bucks against him, bares her teeth like a wild animal.

“I’m not taking off the dress.”

Dammit she’s hot when she’s pissed off. “You don’t have to.”

“Damn straight I don’t.”

Drew frees a hungry breast from its halter, kneads the hard nipple between his thumb and finger.

“I’ll take it off for you.” His lips curve in a smug smile when Andrea goes still. “If you wear this, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. But you’ll have to change fast,” he says, as he pulls her dress up around her waist. His lips nibble on the soft skin below her ear, the spot he knows drives her crazy. “We don’t want to be late for the picnic.”

Andrea unties the halter, lets the dress slither to a puddle around her ankles. “What picnic?”

The Vessel of Ropav - Chapter 1

Today's muse:

As mentioned previously, I started writing this fantasy story, but have lost my vision, so it's shelved. But since I posted another excerpt, I thought maybe I could post what I've written so far and see how everyone feels. Who knows...maybe it will inspire me to finish.

And by the way...has anyone noticed the name of the Vessel?

* * *

The Vessel of Ropav - Chapter 1

“The bidding will commence at £12,000.”

A low hum drifted through the crowd as everyone speculated on the value of what was, in essence, a nondescript piece. A small, clay chalice with rough etchings, shaped somewhat like a pear. It was ugly, really.

When the vase was delivered to the auction house, there was great skepticism among the staff. No one knew what this urn was or whether it had any value. Upon analysis, it was determined that it dated to at least the time of the pharaohs but no one could decipher the cryptic symbols. They appeared to be hieroglyphics, but no translation was completed. Oddly, the National Museum was not interested in acquiring it, insisting it had no historical value. The board of directors of the auction house finally agreed to sell it, confident someone would want to own it—even if it was nothing more than a decorative conversation piece.

The auctioneer repeated the starting bid, somewhat desperate when there was no reaction. “£12,000 for this...vase.” He struggled to name the ancient urn. “This piece was recovered from a pharaoh’s tomb.”

A paddle at the back of the room rose above the heads. The auctioneer, delighted that someone had at last bid, jabbed a finger at the man and shouted “£12,000! Do we have twelve-five?”

No one moved.

The old man at the back of the room inclined his head in acknowledgement and lowered his paddle. A dark wool coat hung across his thin shoulders, a black homburg perched on his thinning, gray hair. On his weathered face, angry red scars competed for attention with deep wrinkles. No one noticed the excitement dancing in his eyes.

For too many years, Ethan Chamberlain had chased this sacred piece across five continents. His quest had taken him to the most inhospitable countries, on decrepit ships that threatened to sink at any moment, and airplanes that defied science by remaining airborne. He had been hospitalized more times than he chose to remember, often surprising medical staff with his survival.

“Going once ... going twice ...”

An elegant woman, a sheet of auburn hair cascading down her back, raised her paddle in the air. Angered, Ethan raised his own before the auctioneer could acknowledge the woman’s bid. Several heads turned to stare, but he kept his eyes on the vessel. He had never come this close and he knew he never would again. He would not fail. Could not.

Worlds depended on it.

As the price was acknowledged, another paddle was raised. Then another. And yet another. The auctioneer was surprised, yet excited, at the interest shown in this otherwise unknown piece.

The value escalated quickly as bidders volleyed prices, each one vying for ownership of a relic they knew nothing about. Ethan sat back and watched. He would wait for the right moment.

A buzz rippled through the crowd as the price reached £500,000. An enormous woman in the second row raised her paddle. Sausage fingers clasped the handle as she waved it in the air, her arm undulating like a flag in the breeze. The auctioneer’s excitement was tangible and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he called for additional bids.

“Six. Do I hear six? £600,000 for this ...”

Enough! In the back row, Ethan’s hand rose high in the air.

“One million.”

Silence descended on the room like a heavy pall and every face turned to look at him, awed by this brazen breach of protocol.

“Well! I…” the large woman protested. Not that she was about to outbid the strange man—a million pounds for heaven’s sake!—but it was the principle of the thing.

Ethan Chamberlain continued to stare at the vessel, his face impassive, contrary to the joy that blazed within.

No one in the room knew the chalice was fashioned by gods. No one knew it would bring unspeakable power to the owner. No one knew how to fill it.

Except Ethan Chamberlain. He knew. He knew this and more.

When the auctioneer slammed his gavel, Ethan rose, ignoring the overt stares of those around him, as he hurried out of the room to make arrangements for payment.

And arrangements for the ceremony that would fill the Vessel of Ropav on the night of the new moon.

The Vessel of Ropav

Today's muse: This is an excerpt from a short story I started writing. I admit that I am now a little hung up on continuing...I'm not very good at writing sci-fi or fantasy. So the piece is shelved. For now.

* * *

The Vessel of Ropav

“Do you have it?”

“Yes,” he replied, for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. 

The two men—one young, one old—marched in step with the other commuters, blended in with their dark suits and even darker overcoats.  They walked onto the train platform, scanned the crowd that formed along the thick yellow line that ran parallel with the track.  The old man smiled when he thought how ridiculous it seemed to have nothing but a swish of bright paint act as a barrier; as though there was an unseen force field preventing commuters from pressing too close to the tracks. 

Or jumping. 

It would have made his task more difficult, he acknowledged.  Difficult, but not impossible. 

He gestured at the younger one to take the agreed-upon place near the yellow line and walked over to the public pay phone.  He could hear the distant chime of the train bell and willed his arthritic knees to move faster.  He lifted the receiver and punched in the three numbers.

“911. What is your emergency?”  Odd, he thought, that the voice should sound so cheerful.  Perhaps she knew. 

As the train approached, the tracks sang as though they heralded a new day. 

“The Vessel has been filled.”

“I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?”

“The Vessel has been filled.”

He dropped the receiver and it swung like a pendulum from the metal coil.

“Sir? Sir? Hello?!”

There was no time to waste now.  He pressed his way through the crowd, ignoring the obscenities shouted by angry business people.  Breathless, his ancient knees aching, he reached his young friend.

Here, the edge of the concrete platform gave way to gravel and sporadic patches of grass.  The train would enter the station at top speed, making this location ideal.  And, of course, the telephone.  It was petty, he knew, but he wanted the higher powers to know they were bested. 

The old man had no doubt the message would be conveyed. 

He stood next to the younger one, made no eye contact.  It would be dangerous for anyone to associate them. 

“You know what to do, yes?”  He spoke so only the younger would hear.  It wasn’t a question, really, it was confirmation.  Confirmation for an old man who knew there was only one chance to change the world.  That such a sacrifice could be made only once. 

The young man gave an imperceptible nod as he moved his hand across his loose overcoat—over the small lump at his chest—and brushed away a non-existent speck of dirt.  The old man closed his eyes and murmured a chant.

“Blessed be, my son.”  And the old man stepped off the platform into the rushing path of the 06:07 morning train as horrified rush-hour commuters looked on.

As the 911 dispatch received dozens of calls from eye witnesses to what was later ruled a suicide, one other phone call was made.

“My lord, the Vessel of Ropav is now filled.”

There was a pause before a deep voice replied.

“Prepare for battle.” 

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.”

Drought

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt:  #333 - Drought

* * *

Drought

It was arid,

and my soul had withered.  

The rain would not come

and thirst robbed my spirit.

When the deluge came

it thundered down in icy spikes,

pummelled my body

until it woke.

Beneath the waves,

I choked my pain

until it ceased to thrash

and buck.

Buoyant once more,

I float along the river—

the pennies washed from my eyes—

and I see you once again. 

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.

Three Words

Three Words

Three words. That’s all. It wouldn’t take long to say them.

The thing of it was, once he said them, he couldn’t take them back. And uttering them was a game-changer.

He had to mean it; it was pointless otherwise. He didn’t have a problem lying under most circumstances. But this was different. Once those three words hung in the air, he couldn’t pull them back, stuff them in his mouth and swallow. They would be out there, for everyone to see.

It was a verbal contract, binding as though a thirty-page agreement were executed, with article eight, paragraph six, sub-paragraph three setting out the consequences of retracting said statement.

She stood before him, waiting, eyes filled with love and hope.

“I can’t,” he said.

He knew one day he’d regret it, because—and he could admit this now—he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He heard her weeping as he closed the door, leaving without saying the three words she so desperately needed to hear.

“I forgive you.”

Running with Scissors

Running with Scissors

Engrossed in columns of numbers, I didn’t hear her walk up behind me and was somewhat startled when she spoke.

“Do you have a pair of scissors I can borrow?”

My head jerked up and I stared into Marion’s wide face, her lips curved in a polite smile.

“Sure.” I pulled open three drawers before I found a pair. I crunch numbers for a living; the only time I used my scissors was when I opened a bag of Skittles.

I handed them over to Marion, holding the blades in my hand, pressing the blue plastic handle into hers.

“Thanks,” she chirped, widening her smile. “I’ll bring them back as soon as I’m done.”

I nodded and put my head back down, already engrossed in my numbers. I had a meeting that afternoon with the head of marketing to discuss the budget for the next quarter. Management wanted a report on write-offs, and three clients needed accruals for the current month.

It was well beyond lunch—and I hadn’t yet eaten—when I was pulled from my numbered reverie.

“Thanks, again,” said Marion, holding out the scissors. I’d forgotten she’d stopped by that morning.

“Oh sure,” I said, taking the scissors from her. She walked away before I could finish with, “Any time.”

I made a face as I tossed the scissors into the top drawer of my desk. The plastic handle was sticky and I was more than a little annoyed that she hadn’t taken care of something she’d borrowed from me. I know they’re not mine—they belong to the company—but it’s the principle of the thing. When you borrow something, you return it in the same or better condition. It’s just good manners.

Maybe she’s careless with her own things, which may explain why she couldn’t use her own scissors. The blades are probably so coated with whatever is now on the handles of mine, that she can’t open them; rendered useless by her negligence.

I wrenched a few tissues from the box on my desk and wiped my hands. The thin paper was useless and it infuriated me that I had to stop my work and go wash my hands. I had a deadline—several, in fact—and Marion was messing up my schedule. I was determined to have a word with her, tell her that she needs to take more care with things she borrows, impress upon her how much her careless behaviour affects others.

Needless to say, I never got around to that.

It seemed as though seconds after I registered that it was blood I was wiping from my hands, the police were arresting me and I was being questioned and fingerprinted. At first, I denied any knowledge. But when they told me who I had stabbed in the chest fifteen times with the blue-handled scissors, well, I just shrugged.

“He was a jackass,” I said. “He hit on me, hit on all the girls in the office.”

My lawyer assures me that I won’t be in here long. A few years, at best. It’ll be worth it. That son-of-bitch got what he deserved. I’ll be a fucking hero at the office when I get back. And Marion? She may have done the crime, but I did her time.

I think she owes me one.

Turbine

Today's muse: One Word.

Today's word:  Turbine.

* * *

Turbine

The constant rotation of our water wheel relationship is both comforting and terrifying. I embrace the reassuring reliability of its monotony, but moments fighting for breath leave me trembling. The inevitable plunges into ice-cold water circle around like a menstrual cycle.

I find myself gulping for air when I surface, praying it all ends before the next turn of the wheel.

Needing More

Needing More

She’d forgotten the affect he had on her, was surprised it was still there after all this time.

He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, one arm thrown over the back, the other holding a pint of beer. For a moment—an eternity—he stared in her eyes, without saying a word.

That’s what she’d forgotten.

She could remember the first day they met, the last time they'd fucked, and countless things between. But that stare…she’d forgotten that soul-penetrating stare. It told her he wanted her, would clear the table of glasses, Blackberries, and bar coasters, bend her over the edge and hike up her dress to thrust into her right there.

He held that intense gaze until she squirmed. It was her tell and he knew he had her. His lips curved in triumph as he sat forward, set his drink on the table. His hand skimmed across her cheek, curved behind her neck, pulled her close. He brushed his lips across hers, flicked his tongue at the corner, murmured an invitation; one she desperately wanted to accept.

“I can’t,” she said.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Your husband.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of resignation. He sat back, ran a finger across his lips.

Her eyes followed the movement as she swallowed, nodded. “Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

And it was a lie. Her thoughts weren’t consumed by the one waiting at home. They were filled with another. One, she realized then, she would always need, but would never have.