Ever have one of those days when you haven’t had any sleep the night before, and you’re just about to finally fall into bed at 9:30pm and you get a phone call from a customer you deliver the newspaper to (for a stunning compensation of 11 cents per day) to let you know that your eldest son didn’t deliver their paper today (and neither did you because you spent the day in the hospital with your youngest son) and all you want to do is cry?
I wish I could say me neither.
I see a vast plain lying prostrate at the feet of mountains, bowing to their majesty. Mountains which look up, extending their noses, straining to reach the praise of heaven. And a sky so blue, yet feathered with winglike clouds.
I have so many stories inside me, just begging to escape, from fingertips to keyboard. Tales of wanting and of contentment. Of bad behaviour and of good. Of kink and of chastity. And of faraway lands that are waiting to be discovered. Just like my landscape.
Now that I’ve got that out of my system…
I’m thinking about starting up another blog to go alongside this one but for more of the naughty type stories, so I can keep this one more family-friendly. And by family I mean MY family in particular. I think my biggest problem is not knowing how to properly separate the categories on this site, so that I could perhaps keep the nice away from the nasty and vise versa, and just keep one single blog.
Anyone have any suggestions? Advice? Sugar? Coz I’m also out of sugar.
Promise from sunrise springs
a new day brings
the sun
Thanks to Wilson K for sharing this
Some useful tips when writing or rewriting your work:
So, how do I find a balance between dialogue and narrative? After reading Bransford, Fitch, and McCarver, I found three different techniques:
From McCarver’s article: Find a particularly long narrative section and see how it might be broken up into more of a scene with dialogue.
After reading Fitch’s post: Find a section in the story where the characters have a whole conversation, and then cross out the dialogue that is commonplace. Because, as Fitch says, “A line anybody could say is a line nobody should say.”
From Bransford’s post: If the dialogue does carry the story forward but still feels “thin,” look for places to add gestures, facial expressions, and/or any details from the scene that enhance that section. Bransford says, “gesture and action [are] not [used] to simply break up the dialogue for pacing purposes, but to actually make…
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Two spent bulbs reside darkly beside a third, dimly illuminating the marital bed. Go deep, vapid man. Clouds rage between two souls in thunderous silence. Attend, inconsequential man.
Brother slips on his black cotton pyjamas and glares down at his wife. He measures the years by the Christmases they have spent together. This one sees more lines about her eyes – lines of worry about how she plans to leave him for his younger brother.
“Why don’t you just go fuck him if you think he’s that much more of a man than I am?” brother spits.
She admits nothing, backing up from where she sits. Brother knows he is right.
He sees again as father stalks past mother to upend the kitchen table laden with hours of preparation. He beholds again as his sibling protects the children from the glass on the floor, protects their mother, protects his own wife while he looks on, paralysed.
“Chase him around the country like one of his groupie whores why don’t you?” brother continues as he administers the first pinch to her thigh. He sees the blood red and sickly green that this Christmas has become.
“Say it!” brother seethes. He crawls up her body, forcing her down. “SAY IT!”
“You should never have let him grow up,” his wife whimpers.
Brother rewards her with his love.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Christmas lights sparkle like champagne, ascending to the Angel atop the tree. Glow of family’s warmth pervades the room like a candle. Shine on, blind mother.
Mother places the final platter on the table with a smile and steps back to admire her work. She lifts her elbows as two of her grandchildren, chasing one another, careen past the crystal wine glasses, toppling one to the floor. Cursing her eldest son’s spawn she bends to retrieve the largest of the shards.
“Mother, let me help you,” says man.
Mother looks up at her son, wondering where he achieved his height. If only he would cut his hair.
“Thank you,” mother says.
Man bends to help her.
“When will you get married and have children like your brother?” mother asks him quietly.
Man smiles. “I’m too busy for that,” he says.
From the kitchen doorway comes a grating whisper.
“Mother, he’s coming,” warns brother.
“Then get your children in order!” mother accuses.
Man stands to face his father.
“Lovely,” says mother, glowing. “Let’s eat.”
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Screaming neon bathes the room in hues of blue, but red abducts the breath. Lay down, young man. Torturous pleasure soothes Ego where she hides. Take it, tempered boy.
Man stands at the end of the bed, contemplating the sensuous mound beneath the white cotton sheet and draws with finality on his cigarette. He watches as she rolls over through the cloud of his exhalation. He readies silken crimson scarves, tying one to each of the four posts.
“What do you do for a living?” man asks unfastening the buttons of his shirt.
She laughs a dark, wicked divulgence and rises to her knees, facing him.
“I’m a nurse,” she says. “I help people to heal.”
Man grunts, deep in his throat. He inhales her naked refinement with his eyes.
“What happened here?” she asks, placing her fingertips delicately upon the hollow where his collarbone should be.
“It doesn’t matter,” man says.
He strips his shirt from each of his wrists and goes next for the buttons of his fly. He watches her watch him, her gaze steady, unfaltering, settled solely on his flesh.
When he reclines, bereft of his clothing, he surrenders his limbs.
“Do you trust me?” she asks as she ties him, wrists and ankles, like a martyr, to the bed.
“No,” man shivers.
She smiles as she slips one last scarf around his neck, tugging gently.
An exalted master in his own right, man succumbs.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Leila awoke to the sun streaming through her bedroom window five minutes before her alarm was due to go off. She stretched, catlike and smiled to herself. Awareness dawned as clear as day.
Tonight’s the night.
She rolled over and gazed at the pillow beside her, fluffed up, soft, inviting. She pictured in her mind what he would look like laying there in the soft sunlight, a mere twenty-four hours from now. In her mind’s eye she saw him open his eyes and smile at her adoringly, as happy to be there as she was to have him. She breathed in, imagining his musky natural scent, heady as a glass of fine Italian wine, and what it would be like to cuddle up in his arms, to feel the comforting warmth of his embrace.
Jeff.
She whispered his name out loud and the feel of it on her lips caused her mouth to water. Her hand slid down her body to the sensitive spot between her thighs. She turned to look at the clock. Two minutes left. She didn’t have time. Instead she propped her head up with her hands and looked around the room, making plans. Candles. She would need lots of them. And incense perhaps. Or not. She could see herself at work today, unable to concentrate even more than usual just knowing…
Tonight’s the night.
Jeff.
Her radio came on giving her a start but then she laughed out loud when she recognized the song: “Anticipation”, by Carly Simon.
She leaped out of bed and into the shower. Thoughts of what kind of music to play for the evening entertainment distracted her from the task of shaving, her causing her to nick herself. She swore under her breath and let the water run over the cut, hoping that she wouldn’t have a scab to mar her perfect date, with Jeff… It was going to be a tough day.
Showered and dressed for work, Leila flicked on the light as she floated into the kitchen, singing the song that was now stuck in her head. Through the large picture window she could see clouds gathering.
‘Never mind,’ she thought to herself. She grabbed her favourite yellow mug with a large animated sun hand-painted on its side and filled it with hot coffee. Still mulling over music she turned on the radio. Maybe not date material, but the DJ was certainly in tune with Leila this morning. She danced around the kitchen singing “I’m walkin’ on sunshine, wooah,” until she heard the front door slam closed. Her roommate, Amanda was home. Coffee in hand, Leila shimmied out of the kitchen to greet her best friend. She came to a dead stop when she saw the look on Amanda’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Leila asked. “Did something happen at the stagette last night?”
“Jeff’s not coming tonight,” Amanda said, worriedly. “He has to work.”
“What are you….” Leila looked down at the piece of paper in Amanda’s hand. It was a glossy photograph of a man, nude but for a g-string, a collar and a pair of pink shirt cuffs, his hands at the back of his head and a face that looked exactly like… Jeff.
Leila let out a tiny shriek of disbelief as her cup hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.
I realise that in posting a serial story I have created for myself a certain responsibility to my readers to keep it up. Unfortunately, life. You probably understand. It doesn’t always revolve around the internet.
So, I’m writing now to say I haven’t forgotten about my story (Boy Series – One through…) and neither is it finished. Nine is not the dot dot dot.
Not that I’m assuming anyone cares.
Are they crickets I hear?
Cold and white, flurries muffle the air like clouds of frigid dust. Hurry on, persistent child. Wind stings, raw, bitter, like father’s loving caress. Abstain, willful young man.
Brother throws his keys on the table just inside the door and shakes the snow from the shoulders of his jacket as he takes it off. He goes to the kitchen to find boy sitting at the table, drawing a picture by the dim afternoon light.
“How’s mom?” asks boy.
“It was a miscarriage,” answers brother.
Boy looks up at brother and narrows his eyes.
“You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there!” brother disclaims.
Boy goes back to his drawing.
“What are you making?” brother asks.
“Nothing,” boy answers.
Brother peers over boy’s shoulder to behold a well detailed account of the previous night. Father stands over shattered mother, his mouth agape, his fist raised. Brother cowers, twitching in the corner, his knees to his chin. Below the drawing boy has written, ‘Father’s Love‘.
Brother, snatching away the drawing, shreds it with his teeth before eating it.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
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