A Tiny Thumbelina Tale
Pinch me because I must be dreaming. Today we have another amazing addition to the Blogger Compilation Project better known as F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES (I know, I know, the asterisk fools no one, but I’m trying to class my blog up, okay?)
Anyway, this little bit o’ tome comes from none other than our very own Beach Bunny Sandy Floyd, better known to Blogworld as Sandylikeabeach. Her take on the classic Thumbelina is as witty, clever and brilliant as this tiny writing powerhouse is herself. Please to enjoy, A TINY THUMBELINA TALE.
It was a dark and stormy night. Not really, but I always wanted to start the story of my life with that line. I have no idea if it was a dark and stormy night on the night of my birth or if I was even born at night. I was just a baby so I have no clear memories of the event. I’m not even sure I should start at the beginning. So let’s begin again.
I’m special. Well, as special as a person can be in a world populated by people, each one thinking he or she is special. Of course, if we’re all special, then special isn’t really special. It’s ordinary. It is the normal order of things. But I’m the Abby Normal of ordinary though my name isn’t Abby.
I wish it was Abby. Christ! I got stuck with an awful name. I swear to God, if there is one, that if I ever have children I will not stick them with some cutesy or super esoteric or just plain fucking weird name. And the lovely name that was bestowed on me? Thumbelina. What the fuck? Who names a kid Thumbelina? What the hell is a Thumbelina? I loathed my name. I shortened it to Tina. However, there was always that one teacher who insisted on calling every child by his or her proper name, no nicknames allowed. And of course, the first day of school each year my embarrassing name would be called out and I would have to acknowledge it and then say, “But I just go by Tina.” Then the more compassionate teachers would make a note on their rosters but the damage was done. The more obnoxious poets among my class liked to chant “Tiny Tina, Thumbelina” whenever I happened by.
Of course, even without the embarrassing weird name, I still would have been teased because of the tiny thing. Just as it’s not easy being green, it’s not easy being tiny and tiny is what I am though I’m not green and tiny, just tiny. Though now that I think about it, if green is the color of your species, then how hard can it be to be green? And if tiny is the size of your species, then being tiny wouldn’t be hard either, but tiny is not the size of my species so being tiny is not easy except that it is easy to be overlooked and easy to be treated like a child and easy to be thought of as younger than you really are which will be nice when I get older.
I am a very small person though not dwarf small, and unlike most dwarfs, I am exquisitely proportioned. But if other people didn’t feel compelled to state the obvious by telling me how small I am, I would rarely think about my lack of height unless I needed to get something off the top shelf at the grocery store. Of course, I’m sure one of the functions of the lowest shelf is to serve as a step for those of us who are vertically challenged to reach the stuff we need that is always on the top shelf. And I will admit to always being surprised when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or some sort of reflective surface standing next to a normal sized person. Honest to God, again, if there is one, I look like a miniature person.
So despite all my name loathing during my formative years living on a farm with my foster mother after being abandoned as an infant with a note pleading for someone to take care of “our little Thumbelina” thus dooming me to a lifetime of name loathing and forever linking me to a shadowy group of people with weird names, my feelings about my name took a somewhat nuanced turn. Translation: I figured out how to cash in.
Upon my successful completion of high school, I knew college was a financial impossibility. I also knew that I did not want to spend the best years of my life waiting on people be it as a waitress or a retail worker. Cubicle life sounded no better. So having no moral compass, or any compass at all, I decided to put my decidedly good looks, flexibility and passion for my passion to good use. I became a tiny stripper and Thumbelina was my tiny stripper name even though that name is not tiny and doesn’t often, or possibly ever, come up in that internet what is your stripper name thing. But I was dancing and dancing made me happy. It also made me money.
Now some people might think stripping is demeaning and they have valid arguments and indeed, I would agree it is demeaning if the stripping is involuntary. However, if stripping is a personal choice, there is power in that choice. And pardon the obvious use of the word, but stripped of its moral questions, at its heart, it is art expressed in a very specific form of dance. The best strippers embrace this. I know I did, and I was one of the best. I even won the International Pole Dance Championship a couple of years ago. Though to be fair, Miss Australia probably would have won if she hadn’t had that embarrassingly awkward slide down the pole. A little lube goes a long way.
You might not think that a strip club would be the best place to meet the love of your life and before it happened to me, I would have agreed with you, but then it happened to me though the actual meeting thing took place in a coffee shop across the street from the club, but that first sighting was in the club. He was part of a bachelor party though not the part that was The Bachelor. He was just one of The Bachelor’s buddies helping The Bachelor celebrate one of his last nights of bachelorhood.
He didn’t look like the usual regulars, but boy, did he look good. He had this tall, dark and handsome bad boy with the scruffy beard thing going on even though he wasn’t particularly tall or dark, but he was definitely handsome. And he had that scruffy beard thing which looks great on a male model, though male might be redundant because no one ever thinks a scruffy beard would look good on a female model, but I’m not typically a fan of the scruffy facial hair decision. It’s not even a decision. It’s a mark of indecision. Make a choice, already. Grow a beard or shave, but damn, it looked good on him.
I could have looked at him all night. I didn’t, because I also wanted my usual haul of tips and it’s not just the dancing that does the trick, you have to make eye contact and smile at everyone to make the most tips. But I did glance his way every now and then, and each time, he was looking at me, but not in the way the usual strip club attendee does. When our eyes would meet, he smiled ever so slightly. It was warm and sweet and it felt like we were the only two people in the room.
After my shift that night, a couple of the other dancers and I headed to the coffee shop for our usual after work confab. We settled in a booth and that’s when I noticed him. He was at the counter and he was alone. I’ve never been a big fan of fate, but fate might be a fan of me, because as fate would have it, Amber’s phone rang.
“Ugh, that was the sitter,” she said as she returned her phone to her handbag. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No. Jason has a touch of a fever so I need to get home. See you later, TIna.”
“You going, too?” I asked Nina.
“Yeah, she’s my ride tonight. Good night, TIna.”
“Bye NIna, bye Amber. Hope Jason’s feeling better soon.”
The girls had no sooner walked out the door when the scruffy beard guy appeared at my table.
“Mind if I join you? I’ve never been a fan of eating alone.” His voice was like velvet – soft and smooth. A voice that could be on the radio, maybe a classic rock station or maybe even smooth jazz although much of what smooth jazz stations play isn’t even jazz, it’s more yesterday’s pop and soft rock.
“Um,” I hesitated because it’s usually not a good idea to get involved with customers, but he was good looking and he smelled good, or maybe that was the bacon cooking in the kitchen, but he looked and seemed to smell good enough to eat and I was hungry.
“It’s just a little food and conversation,” he said. And then he smiled.
“Yeah, company would be great.” I smiled back.
He slid into the booth across from me and smiled that smile. “I’m Cooper.”
I wasn’t sure if Cooper was his first name or last name, so I asked. My foster mom always told me I shouldn’t ask too many personal questions too soon, but how else do you find out stuff that you’d be wondering about and all that wondering would keep you from being able to concentrate on the conversation. And I was going to need all the help with concentration because I wasn’t really thinking about having a conversation with him, if you catch my drift.
“It’s my first name. It’s a little unusual but I like it.”
“It’s a great name. I’m..”
“Thumbelina. The tiny dancer.”
“I go by TIna.”
“How’d you come up with Thumbelina for a stage name?”
“It’s my real name. And you thought Cooper was unusual.”
He laughed and his laugh was even better than his smile. “Well, I think Thumbelina is a beautiful name. It rhymes with ballerina and you are an exquisitely beautiful dancer.”
He had me at ‘exquisitely,’ or maybe he had me at ‘mind if I join you.’ It doesn’t really matter when he had me, much like it doesn’t matter when the heart finds love, only that it does and mine did that night. We talked for hours or it seemed that way. At last, we noticed the night was easing into dawn and we made our way to the parking lot. He asked me where I was parked and I pointed to my car.
“I’m right next to you,” he said.
“That’s your bike? It’s gorgeous.” Though I didn’t add ‘just like you,’ but I was thinking it.
“Yeah, you like bikes?”
“I’ve never been on one but it looks like fun.”
“It’s just about the most fun you can have with your clothes on.”
“I always thought that about dancing, but of course, I don’t always keep my clothes on for that.”
He laughed. “Here’s my number. Call me and we’ll go for a ride. And you can keep your clothes on the whole time.”
I smiled at him and climbed in my car. “It was nice meeting you, Cooper.”
“See you soon, tiny dancer.”
A few days later I had my first bike ride. I climbed on the bike behind him and as I wrapped my arms around his waist I said, “I think this is going to be the best part of the ride.”
He laughed. “Not by a long shot. Hang on.”
And off we went. He was partially right. Holding on to him wasn’t the best part, but it wasn’t the best part by a long shot. It was a very close second. The ride was exhilarating. Sitting behind him, looking over his shoulder, the wind in my face was a great feeling. We spent the afternoon on country roads, stopping here and there to admire the scenery or grab a bite to eat.
It was just like one of those Hollywood movie montages the writers employ because they suck at writing dialogue. And it did feel like one of those too good to be true but wouldn’t it be lovely if it could happen to me Hollywood scenarios right up until it turned into a killer zombie movie but without the killer zombies, but Killer Bees instead. But not African killer bees, but the biker gang. I know it sounds like a silly name, but the backs of their jackets have this evil looking killer bee and they used a sinister typeface for the name, so it doesn’t just sound silly, it looks silly, too. But I kept my silly thoughts to myself.
We ran into the Killer Bees at Roady Toadies, a little dive bar on the outskirts of town. Of course, we didn’t know the bikes we saw outside meant there were Killer Bees inside. In fact, Cooper said he recognized one of the bikes as belonging to a friend of his. We walked inside and let our eyes adjust to the light after being in the bright sun. Cooper spotted his friend and we headed over to where he was sitting.
“Jack, this is Thumbelina. Thumbelina, this is my good friend, Jack Sparrow.”
“Like the Johnny Depp character?”
“No,” Jack said. “I had the name first but I like to think he got his character’s inspiration from me.”
Cooper laughed and said, “I think he got the inspiration from Keith Richards.”
I smiled at Jack. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“Likewise. Thumbelina, huh? That’s not a name you hear everyday.”
“No, it’s not,” I replied, except that I was hearing it more today then I usually do and right about then, a loud voice behind me bellowed my name again.
“Thumbelina! I’d recognize that ass anywhere even covered in jeans.”
I turned around and there was the biggest Killer Bee I had ever seen. Of course, it was the first Killer Bee I had ever seen so thinking it was the biggest one ever was a big mistake. Behind the loudmouth Killer Bee, were more Killer Bees and they were even bigger than Mr. Bigmouth which was how I was coming to think of him. Mr. Bigmouth didn’t look familiar and I had never seen men attired in Killer Bee attire in the Pussycats club. But he was looking at me, the way hungry men look at a grilled steak.
And before I could reply, Mr. Bigmouth looked around at his buddies and said, “Boys, this is your lucky day. We have a celebrity in our midst. This here itty bitty thing is Thumbelina, stripper extraordinaire!” Then he looked at me and said, “I watch your World Pole Dance routine on YouTube all the time.” He glanced at Cooper and added, “She won the championship a couple of years ago. You know that?”
“No, I didn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She is quite extraordinary.”
If I hadn’t already fallen in love with Cooper, I would have right then especially since he didn’t know about how Miss Australia should have won except for that embarrassing slip or in her case, slide down the pole.
But Mr. Bigmouth wasn’t done. “Why don’t you dance for us Thumbelina? Just climb right up on the bar and show us what you got.”
“You can see me dance at Pussycats,” I replied in an even tone.
“I want to see you dance right now!”
Cooper stepped between us, “Leave the lady alone.”
“She ain’t no lady.”
And then Cooper slugged Mr. Bigmouth.
“I’m not a fan of double negatives either, but I usually refrain from hitting the illiterate,” I said to him.
“I would have slugged him even if he was grammatically correct. No one gets away with saying you’re not a lady.”
But before we could congratulate ourselves on just how clever our repartee was becoming, all hell broke loose. It was the three of us, okay two of us because I’m not much good in a fight and I’m really tiny, against all those Killer Bees. Fists were flying, glass was breaking and I was ducking. I could feel strong arms around me pulling me backwards and then everything went dark.
I wasn’t unconscious, just locked in a closet. I banged on the door, but I guess Cooper couldn’t hear me over all the noise of the fight and last I saw, he and Jack seemed to be on the losing end. After what seemed like an hour but was probably much shorter because everything seems to take longer when you’re locked inside a closet, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. My heart stopped, but not because I got shot but because I was afraid of who might have. I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out what was being said or who was talking. Then it got quiet again, so I started banging on the door and screaming to be let out.
The door opened and a rather mousey looking woman was standing there.
“It’s all right, dear. Toadie put you in there. He thought you’d be safer in there.” She smiled at me and there was kindness in her eyes.
“Toadie is a real person?” I couldn’t believe how many people had parents that made such bad choices when naming their kids.
The mousey woman laughed. “Oh, he’s real all right, but Toadie is a nick name he picked up when he was a roadie for Z Z Top back in the day. I’m Mrs. Fields, Toadie’s mother. I help out in the kitchen.”
I refrained from asking her for a chocolate chip cookie and instead asked about my friends.
“Well, they’re a little banged up, but no permanent damage. Come and see for yourself.”
She led me through the kitchen and into the bar. I spotted Toadie right away because he looked like a toad, kind of like how that senator looks like a turtle. Toadie was holding a shotgun but when he saw me, he smiled and said, “Sorry to stick you in the closet like that, but a bar fight is no place for such a pretty little lady.”
“No worries, Toadie. Thanks for looking out for me.” I was looking around for Cooper and Jack. “Where are my friends?”
“They’re in the john cleaning themselves up. Those Killer Bees did a number on them, but as badass as they think they are when you point a shotgun in their general direction and let it discharge, they run away like little girls.”
I laughed. Then I heard a noise behind me.
“She does have an incredible ass, Coop.”
I turned around and flew into Cooper’s arms. “Everything about her is incredible,” Cooper replied.
“I think I’m in love,” I sighed.
He smiled at me, “I know I am.”
Jack said his goodbyes and left the bar. Cooper looked at me, “Ready to ride off into the sunset to that happily ever after place?”
“I’ve always wanted to do that. Especially if that place has a bed big enough for two.”
He held my hand as we walked out of the bar. We climbed on his bike and he looked back at me.
“Too bad it’s midnight,” he said.
“Midnight will do.”
Somebody Shoot Me – An Ode To My Mother
A Conversation with my mother the day I told her I finished my novel.
ME: “Well Mom, it’s done. I finally finished it.”
MOM: “Finished what?”
ME: “Uh…my novel. The one I’ve been working on for the past year. Yeah, it’s done.”
MOM: “I had no idea you were writing a book! What is it about?”
ME: (sighs) “It’s a young adult novel about a teenager named Sawyer Hayden who–”
MOM: “Sawyer? Oh I don’t like that name.”
ME: ”Well it’s too late to change it now. ANYWAY…he wants a basketball scholarship so he–”
MOM: “Basketball? But you don’t play basketball! And why are you writing about boys anyway? You’re a woman who lives in New Hampshire! I know what you should do. Join a writing group and try to make friends with that woman writer there…
ME: Please don’t say Jodi Picoult.
MOM: …the one who writes all those nice cancer books. You know who I mean.”
ME: (sigh 2x) “Her name’s Jodi Picoult, mom.”
MOM: “No, that’s not it. Well, whoever she is I hear her books are very popular.”
ME: “FINE! WHATEVER! JUST LISTEN!” (deep breath) “In my book Sawyer asks his brother River to help–”
MOM: “RIVER? Oh I don’t like that name either. Why did you pick such ugly American names? With so many nice names in our family to choose from you–”
ME: “HOW ABOUT RAPHAEL? THAT’S WHAT I NAMED THE DAD SO HOW ABOUT THAT?”
MOM: “Finally a name I like! It’s about time you remembered you’re Italian.”
ME: “Ok…but just so you know, I made the dad Spanish.”
MOM: (appalled) “NOW WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST MAKE HIM ITALIAN? HOW AM I GOING TO TELL THE FAMILY IN ITALY THAT MY DAUGHTER WROTE A BOOK ABOUT SPANIARDS AND NOT ITALIANS?!”
ME: “I’M IRISH TOO, MOM! WHY DON’T I JUST MAKE HIM IRISH LIKE MY DAD, HUH? HOW’S THAT SOUND?”
MOM: “Spanish is fine.”
ME: “CAN WE FOCUS NOW? PLEASE?!”
MOM: “Yes, yes. Continue.”
ME: (sighs, molto frustrato) “So SAWYER leaves his father and moves to Nebraska–”
MOM: Bites lip.
ME: “NOW what’s wrong?”
MOM: “Well…why does he have to live in Nebraska? It’s a land locked state.”
ME: (rubbing temples) “What does Nebraska being a land locked state have to do with anything?”
MOM: “I don’t trust the seafood in land locked states. It’s too expensive. What you’re really paying for is the truck to have it delivered. They don’t fool me.”
ME: “Fine. You know what? I’ll change it to a coastal state–”
MOM: “OOH! You should make it Hawaii! I’ve always wanted to go there. You know they filmed that show LOST in Hawaii. But then you couldn’t use the name Sawyer. Hey! Now you can change that too! I always liked that doctor Jack–”
ME: “MOM! It can’t be Hawaii because Raphael is a long haul truck driver and that’s how Sawyer gets to Nebraska to live with his grandfather so he can get a basketball scholarship.”
MOM: “Well why does he even need a scholarship? With the price of seafood nowadays the father should have no problem paying for–”
ME: “You know what? Forget it. I didn’t write a book. I made a quilt.”
MOM: “Oh don’t be so sensitive. Tell me what the grandfather’s name is. Something good I hope.”
ME: “GUS.”
MOM: (flinches, thinks and then says) “So SAYWER leaves a man named RAPHAEL to live with a man named GUS?”
ME: “Yes but mom, Gus is awesome. He’s a biker and a southern rock roadie with…bad…ass…tattoos…”
MOM: (near tears) “What happened to my dainty daughter who used to love to read books and write stories and listen to music?!”
ME: “She changed her name to Sawyer.”
FOR MORE MIND-NUMBING MATERNAL MASOCHISM VISIT:
Jazz, Jesus and the 1 Star Review
Every so often there comes a moment when we see ourselves through another person’s eyes. Determining whether that’s good or bad depends entirely on what we see. Most of my epiphanies are delivered in the form of my sister telling me my ass looks fat in my jeans, whether I ask for her opinion or not.
Commentary on my fat ass or bad breath I can handle, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the reality of personal feedback in the form of reviews for my novella, Reapers With Issues.
Before I begin I’d like to state that every reader who reviewed my work negatively did not condemn me personally for what I’d written, despite not particularly enjoying the book. I’ve read reviews of other books where the reviewer took the author to task, and I am happy to say I’ve been blessed with a classy group of readers who didn’t feel the need to blast me.
I guess what confounds me most is that I expected there to be more blow back for subject matter. Portraying Jesus as a closet homosexual and writing a scene where Genghis Khan violates a shi-tzu wasn’t going to win me an audience with the Pope, and I knew that going in. I also prepared myself for a critique of the quality of the writing itself, which as it turns out I didn’t receive much of. What I did get was essentially the same question, asked in so many words, of what kind of person could conceive of the Reapers idea at all. Again, good or bad depends entirely on what we see.
[enter the dreaded introspection process]
The first thing I did was try to answer the question of what kind of person I am. Despite an obscene amount of navel-gazing I am no closer to that answer now than I was when I began. My motivation to write Reapers With Issues was just as strong and the subject matter just as easy to conceptualize as Gods of Asphalt’s was, so identifying a specific default in thinking didn’t pan out. The truth is that I’ve got a hundred different stories buzzing around in my head; everything from harmless children’s stories to British comedies to even more Reapers sequels (oddly there’s nothing milling around in there that remotely smacks of Erotica, but that’s a post for another day after an hour on a couch).
So after an even more shameless bought of self-contemplation I began to ask myself a different question, “Why do any of us write what we write?”
Do we choose our genre or subject matter because of who we are, or because of what we make of the world around us? I imagine it’s no coincidence that Reapers With Issues was written during the darkest hours of a friend’s battle with cancer, or that Gods of Asphalt was written while stuck in bed, listening to my two teenaged sons bicker amongst themselves and argue with their father.
It is also not lost on me that I wrote Reapers With Issues from a third-person point-of-view, allowing me to observe at a distance the story of a Reaper whose best efforts to gather souls are thwarted by a Savior, or that the overall theme of Gods of Asphalt is how brothers cope when their mother isn’t around.
I suppose in the end what we choose to write comes from the harmony of both who we are and what we see. I’ve learned that whether my writing is received as harmony or dischord depends entirely on who’s doing the reading, and no amount of alteration of my “music” will accommodate everyone.
For the record, I’m fine with that. I am a Jazz fan, after all.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
Yes, you are correct, it is my birthday. I know this to be true because I follow Edward Hotspur’s blog and El Guapo’s blog and Ginger’s blog and Sandy’s blog (as well as kind email wishes from Trask Avenue, LeClown, and many a sweet comment from my good friends John E. and PMAO). All better blogs than mine, because quite honestly I completely forgot it was my birthday until I read them. Wait…more to the truth I forgot again that it was my birthday since my kick-arse British friend Megan wished me a Happy Birthday the night before (suck it, HR and Elias. She beat you to it).
It’s been through these good people that I’ve made even more friends today, and perhaps have even sold a book or two. That being said, I am not sure mere words can describe what all your birthday wishes mean to me. Without knowing me personally, you may not understand what a Dickensian upbringing I had, and how kind words and well wishes I never received as a child mean the world to me now. You have all become my family, and I am grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for sharing my day.
The Emperor’s New Clothes
Just in time for the holiday season comes the latest installment of our F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES courtesy of the one and only Sparklebumps!
The Emperor’s New Clothes (otherwise entitled A Woman Scorned)
Once upon a time, there lived a very beautiful boy who longed to be king and live in great finery. This would have been all well and good, except for the fact that he was the bastard son of a peasant, and there were no chances for boys such as him. So he grew up always looking in shop windows and coveting the fine silks and satins that were displayed in them.
One day, the boy (who was becoming a young man by this time) was hauling cow dung to the nudey community on the other side of the village, and as he passed the shop window, he looked inside. This time, instead of wishing for the fabulous duds inside, he spied the shopkeeper’s daughter, who was also very beautiful, and fell instantly in love with her because she produced in his pants the same reaction that fine fabric did.
He entered the shop, went right up to the gorgeous girl, and planted a kiss on her berry-colored lips. At first, she was taken aback by the force of his passion (and the fact that he wore d’odour du cow shit)but then she realized what an amazing kisser he was and her knees became weak with want. She kissed him back, and when they were both breathless, she took his hand and led him to the back room of the shop. The young man looked around and saw that he was surrounded by garments of the chicest style and materials. He was so overcome with desire, from the kissing and the clothing both, that he prematurely ejaculated.
“Aaaaahhhhhrrrrgggh,” He groaned as he shivered with pleasure. The shopkeeper’s daughter looked at him curiously.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She held out her hand to steady the man.
“Um…er. It’s nothing. I just find you so sexy, and I have a passion for fashion, so I’m just overwhelmed.” He flushed bright red and his eyes darted nervously around, as he hoped she wouldn’t notice the wet stain on his pants. Her touch was already making him hard again, so she hadn’t noticed his deflated… ahem, ego. He pressed his body against her once more, and gripped her buttocks so firmly that she cried out, and responded by loosening the ties on his breeches.
They proceeded to fuck each other senseless throughout the night, and the girl only wondered about the wet spot on the man’s pants for a moment before drifting off into a perfectly-sated, sexy-dream filled sleep.
As the sun rose, the gorgeous boy awoke with a start and realized he had never delivered the shit to the nudey community.
He jumped up, and ran out of the shop, to where his wheelbarrow of crap sat, undisturbed. He hurried on his way, never once letting the girl he’s just de-virginized know where he was going, or if he’d be back.
On the way to the nudey community, the boy passed a grand procession, and as he maneuvered his shit out of the way, the Empress inside one of the wagons admired his beauty, and also his ass. She stopped the procession with a slight snap of her fingers,and whispered something to her head man.
“Hey, you! Pretty boy! Stop right there!” The man cried out in authority.
The boy froze, certain he was about to be beheaded for offending royalty with the stench of his cow dung, and turned slowly to face the wagons. He was too afraid to speak.
“The Empress is pleased by you. Come forward.” The boy stepped gingerly toward the ornate carriage, but stopped when he heard a voice like the tinkling of bells.
“Do you long for power? Wealth and finery? Do you dream of having loyal subjects to do your bidding?”
The boy’s jaw dropped, for these were the very things he daydreamed about.
“Yes!” He said vehemently.
There was a giggle, adn then the curtain was drawn back on the wagon and the lovely exotic face of the Empress appeared.
“And what would you do, my sweet boy, to gain all of these things? Would you be willing to be tied up and allow me to paddle that beautiful bottom of yours til it’s pink and sore? Would you allow my teeth to graze your nipples and your innocent member without promise of your own release?” She raised an eyebrow.
The boy contemplated an S and M relationship with an Empress, and couldn’t see any bad angles of the arrangement, so he responded with a confidence he didn’t necessarily possess.
“My queen, my all, I would allow even the largest of your strap-on dildos to invade my anal crevice if you could make me powerful and wealthy.”
The Empress grinned broadly, for she had every intention of doing that very thing to her next submissive. With only a look, the boy was shepherded into the carriage, and the Empress wasted no time in beginning her training. The boy was shackled to the roof of the wagon, and he watched his wheelbarrow of crap and the shopkeeper’s daughter fade into the distance as the Empress sucked furiously on his cock.
The boy did so well as a submissive, that when the Empress died, she bequeathed to him the whole kingdom, and he became so obsessed with fashion that he would spare no expense to obtain every style that arose.
Because the boy was so beautiful, and so obsessed with his wardrobe, he would spend every moment in his dressing room admiring himself in front of many mirrors, front and back. While in most kingdoms, when someone would ask where the Emperor was, the normal response was, “He is in his statesroom.”, in this kingdom, the servants would say, “He is in his dressing room.” The Emperor was so self-obsessed that he would host fashion week, and insisted on modeling all the newest fashions himself. Masses of horny women and gay men would flock to the kingdom to admire the fine Emperor and his fabulous duds.
Our story truly begins as the Emperor searches high and low for the most daring and creative of clothing designers to feature at fashion week. He shook his head ruefully when his servants suggested such designers as Betsey Johnson and Alexander McQueen. He wanted someone who would shock the masses and make them insanely jealous of his frocks. His servants whispered amongst themselves while the Emperor racked his brain.
“What are you idiots muttering about? Do you realize that fashion week approaches , and I haven’t one designer who’s designs make my prick hard? What are we to do?” The emperor raged.
One brave lad stepped forward. “My lord, there is one who may be just the designer you seek, though there are stories that all who hire her are susceptible to her spell. She has left a string of broken-hearted royalty across many lands.”
“Pshaw,” the Emperor scoffed. “You needn’t be concerned on that front. Do you not know by now that my desire is only for fashion? I think not even a magical pussy would cause my manhood to rise. Find this fabled designer, and bring her to me.”
The servants scurried like mice in every direction then, embarrassed for the Emperor and the fact that no woman could get it up for him.
An envoy was sent out to find the talked of designer, and returned with her in no time.
Now this designer, when presented to the Emperor, DID in fact create a reaction in his pants when he gazed upon her. He found her oddly familiar, yet couldn’t recall where he had seen her before. Years of being tied up and spanked by the Empress had made him forget his first sexual encounter- that with the shopkeeper’s daughter. If he had remembered this, he would have realized she and this lovely designer were one in the same.
After she had been de-virginized and left alone, the shopkeeper’s daughter vowed to shame the boy who had popped her cherry just as he had shamed her. She worked day and night, becoming a well-respected maker of high fashion, fueling her designs with the rage she felt at being abandoned that day.
Her hard work was about to pay off, because she saw that the emperor did not recognize her. She gave him a flirtatious smile and bowed graciously. The Emperor beckoned to her, and insisted at once that she show him her latest designs.
The woman tilted her head and spoke.
“Dear Emperor, I have no designs to show you, for the collection I’ve been working on is very magical indeed. It must be made of the finest cloth, from the richest silk worms in the world. And it must be encrusted with the most shining of gemstones. But once the design is woven, it can only be seen by the man that is worthy of the position he holds. If he cannot see it, it proves that he is indeed an unworthy fool, and must be fired.”
Now any unfoolish person would know that this story sounded like complete poppycock, but the Emperor was so vain that he could not distinguish truth from a lie. So he sent his men to the furthest reaches of the land to procure the finest silks and clearest gemstones to provide the designer with. Upon receiving the goods, the designer would secretly tuck everything into her trunks to save for her real collection, and then she would set to work on her sewing machine without a stitch of thread strung though it. The Emperor’s servants saw her working on the clothes that weren’t there, and became distraught at the idea that they were fools unworthy of their station, and so remained silent.They murmured amongst themselves, until the whole kingdom was murmuring about the invisible clothes. The emperor was so impatient after hearing the rumors, that he insisted on checking out the clothes immediately.
When he entered the sewing chamber, the designer smiled delightfully, so that the Emperor’s manhood grew quite hard.
“Have you come for a fitting, my lord?” She asked innocently.
“Ahem… er, ah, yes. I’m ready to see the fine designs.” The Emperor began to grow nervous, because he was seeing no clothing to try on, and was a bit afraid the servants would notice his raging boner if they couldn’t see the clothing either.
“Here.” The Designer pretended to hold out a piece of clothing, when in actuality she held out nothing at all. “It is a fine tunic, is it not?”
She couldn’t help but admire the tumescent member of the Emperor as he stripped and held out his hand to accept the garment she offered. She scooted closer, and as he slipped the non-existent clothing over his head, she slid her hand down and gently grazed his manhood.
It had been so long since the Emperor had been touched in such a way that he squealed and spurted his hot baby gravy all over the imaginary clothing.
“Now look what you have done!” The designer cried in dismay, though she was laughing inside to herself. “There is no way to clean such dirtiness out of such a garment! This will have to be re-sewn with new fabrics!” She turned away from the Emperor in feigned disgust.
The man was so embarrassed he couldn’t speak, and he covered his face in shame. This was exactly the reaction the designer had hoped for- she wanted him to be degraded as she had been. After many minutes, the Emperor spoke.
“Oh please do not be upset, my dear. I will send for more fabric and more gemstones, only please do not divulge what has happened here to anyone.”
The designer pretended to think on this for a moment before bowing her head in respect.
“As my lord wished. I will work on the other designs while I wait for the things I need.”
The Emperor knew he was being dismissed, and though he normally would not allow someone to treat him thus, he was too afraid she would announce his surprise discharge to the masses, so he said nothing. He left the room in the clothes that weren’t there with his jizz dripping down the front of him. The servants in the halls whispered behind there hands, surprised at the Emperor’s nakedness, and admiring it as well. The emperor went to his chambers and did not come out again until word was sent that the collection was completed.
The Emperor, still being very vain, had decided he would be the only person to walk down the runway during fashion week in the designs made for him. Since it was only twelve hours before the first show, he sent word to the designer telling her this decision. When she heard the news, she smiled to herself, because the Emperor would be walking in the nude down the catwalk in front of the entire kingdom exactly thirty-two times. Finally, her honor would be avenged.
The following morning, the emperor arrived in the dressing room, and was immediately worried because once again he saw none of the fine garments he was supposed to be modeling. The designer entered the room and waved her arm in the direction of the clothes that weren’t there.
“Is it not the finest wardrobe my lord has ever seen? Is he not pleased?” She looked at the Emperor expectantly.
The Emperor was momentarily distracted, because the designer was provocatively dressed in a skin-tight gown that was cut down the front all the way to her navel. Her breasted were perfectly shaped underneath, and the Emperor’s memory was jogged about a similar pair of hooters he had seen long ago. His manhood once again grew to abundant lengths, and his regained memory was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Ahh, yes, er… fine indeed. The most splendid I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He fibbed, for his eyes for not laying on anything other than a pair of perfectly shaped bosoms.
The designer seductively smiled and sauntered close to the Emperor. Her breast brushed his arm, and he jumped.
“Now, only payment must be made, and everything shell be yours.” She whispered invitingly.
The Emperor could not resist, and stuck his hand down the front of the designer’s dress. She peeled his clothes away and climbed onto his ridged cock, riding him until she found release. She did so quickly enough that the emperor was left unsatisfied, and with a boner still.
“Mmmm, that was great. Now, you must get ready have the entire kingdom admire all you have to offer.” She dressed so fast he hadn’t a chance to utter one word about his remaining boner, and was suddenly left with many servants trying to look busy and ignore his manhood.
The fashion show began, and the emperor hadn’t even enough time to take care of himself before it started, so he donned the non-existent finery and hoped that no one in the front rows would notice the bulge underneath. Out he went on the catwalk, naked as a jay bird.
The masses oohed and aahed, not because of the grand garments as the Emperor thought, but because they were so surprised at the largeness of his member, and the fact that he was completely naked. Not one of them said a word, but continued to admire the emperor as he strutted back and forth for half of the show. It was not until a child in the audience cried out, “Mama! The Emperor’s peepee is sticking out!” that the Emperor realized he was really and truly naked, and at that point he had already been in front of the audience for so long without clothes, that he thought, “What the hell? I look good,” and continued to strut his stuff. Upon realizing that the Emperor had just spent a good forty-five minutes nude in front of children and adults alike, the police came and arrested him for indecent exposure, and he was sentenced to one year in prison for every count, which ended up being… well, a really long time since there were so many people there. He became the bitch of a burly black man during his stay in the kingdom’s penitentiary and spent the rest of his life getting it up the butt.
What happened to the designer, you may ask? She road away with her trunks of silk and gemstones in tow, laughing out loud at the Emperor and his insane vanity. She now lives in Aruba and designs red carpet duds for the likes of Angelina and Salma Hayek.
The End
The Foolishness Of Fandom
Song of the day: John Coltrane AFTER THE RAIN
For those of you out there who may not know, today’s birthday boy, El Guapo, was the first adult male fan of my novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT. As a first time novelist, it was a real trip for me to hear feedback from someone who enjoyed my book as much as he did. New writers are often insecure about their work, and El Guapo made me believe I might actually have something worth writing about.
I’ve always wondered if there was a way that I could repay him for his kind words early on. I decided that his birthday would be the perfect day to thank him. So here’s my gift to you, El Guapo, and it comes in two parts.
Part One:
I am in the process of writing a secret book (yes, in addition to REAPERS and the rest of THE GODS OF ASPHALT series). What I can tell you is that it is set in the seventies and involves the classic rock music scene. I am thinking there is a place in my novel for a character by the name of El Guapo who drives the protagonist’s band’s tour bus, and who has a penchant for Hawaiian shirts. By the way, he gets all the groupies.
Part Two:
As I was writing THE GODS OF ASPHALT I discovered that it was entirely too long, so I cut a scene that never made it into the book. It was an early scene that showed Gus every morning waking up, staring out the window in a longing sort of way, listening to John Coltrane’s After The Rain. I was sad that I had to cut that scene because I really liked it. When I think about it now, I often think you would have liked it too. I may have cut the scene, but I’ve included the song.
Happy Birthday, El Guapo.
Wanna join the party? Visit Momma Red Dwyer for a list of well wishers!
CLICK ME
NaNoWriMo Versus The Queen Of Self-Distraction
This time last year I put up a post entitled Why No NaNoWriMo which chronicled my need for self-distraction whenever I sit down to write. How I accomplish writing a blog at all I’ll never know. Needless to say, this year has been no different and I’ve yet to finish the second novella in my REAPERS WITH ISSUES series. What’s got me blocked this year is:
The Oakland Raiders – Walking Dead – Firefly’s 10th anniversary re-release – Coconut Rum – my promotion – Tom Elias – raising a daughter as stubborn as me – learning to love Scifi – wristsaroundtheworld – Junior’s shenanigans – Frank Stallone’s faulty brakes – Prince Charming’s charm – and this little ditty right here:
The Ugly Duckling
Today’s post features another offering to our collection of F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES! Kat from Grafiklit has taken on the challenge of spinning the classic, THE UGLY DUCKLING. Enjoy!
Once upon a time (because this a time-honored way of beginning fairy tales), there was a swan, and she was pregnant. She didn’t want to be, because she wasn’t in love with her swan boyfriend, and the egg made her fat and almost totally ruined her bitchin’ prom dress. So after she laid the egg in the bathroom of the Sheraton that her high school had rented, she scooped it up and snuck outside, making tracks for the hospital a couple blocks away.
She’d managed to fit the egg inside her clutch, so no one at the hospital knew what she carried up to the second floor, the neo-egg unit. She also managed to sneak into the nesting room and stick the egg in one of the cribs. Birds aren’t very good at security.
They’re also not very good at math, because none of the nurses noticed that where once there was one egg, now there were two. Luckily for them, the mother was a duck, which meant that she was stupid.
The mother and father duck went home the next day with their two new additions, and the mother duck sat on the eggs until they hatched. The hatching day was a big deal in the duck household. There was cake, and soda, and balloons, and cousins and uncles. When the eggs cracked open, everyone gathered around the nest to watch. The duck, the real duck, emerged from his egg first.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” said some distant aunt. No one really knew who she was related to. She smelled like moth balls, though.
Next was the swan.
“Holy shit,” said the distant aunt, “He’s fucking ugly!” And even though no one was sure if she was supposed to be there, or if she’d wandered in off the street, everyone agreed with her. That second duckling was fugly. Seriously, have you ever seen a baby swan? Bow-wow City.
The swan grew up thinking he was a duck, and he was constantly tormented. At school, he was pushed into lockers. His lunch money was stolen. His head was dunked in every toilet in the school. Ducks made gagging noises when he walked by. No duck chick would date him.
At home, his parents ignored him and doted on his duck brother. This brother was the duck version of David Beckham. When he entered a room, angels sang. Little old ladies helped him cross the street. Even blind ducks knew how good-looking he was.
In a situation like this, it can go two ways: the ugly duckling (even though we all know he’s a swan, let’s stick with this for the time being, hmm?) can rise above his tormentors and graduate and go to college, where things might not necessarily improve, but maybe he’ll turn out to be a whiz with computers and get wicked rich, or he can go on a shooting spree at his school and make the papers.
It went the third way: the ugly duckling decided to cut off his brother’s face, wear it, and take over his identity.
Did I mention that ducks were stupid? Well, swans are fuckin’ crazy. Like Mexican cartel crazy.
One day, the ugly duckling stole a scalpel from his science class. That night, he slipped some sleeping pills into his brother’s milk and waited until sleepy times. Then he cut off his brother’s face. Bill and all. He spent the rest of the night cleaning up the blood and figuring out a good way to attach it to his own vile mug. There wasn’t one. He ended up stapling it on. Then he dressed in his brother’s clothes and ate breakfast looking like Duck Leatherface and his parents had no clue. Ducks are so stupid.
Fortunately, most of his teachers were geese. Geese are very smart. They let him go to his first period class, then called him to the principal’s office, where the police were waiting. The cops were also geese.
His lawyer was a goose, too, and once he got a look at the duckling’s real face, he knew he was dealing with a swan. He also knew that all he needed to do was file a bunch of legal papers and get the trial delayed a few months. Because, you see, teenage swans are butt-ugly, but young adult swans are like David Beckham times a thousand.
And thusly, once the trial finally started, the judge and jury and all the court people saw this gorgeous swan waddle into the courtroom. The judge (a duck) was confused. He wanted to know where the filthy psychopath was.
The lawyer, not missing a beat, said that the psycho duckling had escaped, and this poor beautiful swan had been imprisoned in his place. Injustice! cried the jury (also ducks). So they let the swan go, and a manhunt (duckhunt?) was launched for the psycho duckling. They never found him, of course. But a lot of unattractive ducks suffered some vigilante justice.
And the swan, meanwhile, started a new life, but because he was a swan, and therefore mentally unstable, it wasn’t too long before he strapped a few homemade bombs to his torso and waddled into his old high school. He blew himself sky-high and died a virgin.
The End.
F*ck Me – It’s NaNoWriMo Time Again
I know I’m four days behind in this post, but better late than never as someone much more clever than I once said.
For those of you who may not know, NaNoWriMo stands for NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH which basically describes an online community of writers gathered together to practice their craft. You can create a page similar in style to Facebook where you connect with others and draw support from the world of writers.
Anyway, it’s NaNoWriMo time again, and I of course have signed up to fail. The good news here is that I have my second novella, REAPERS WITH FANGS to finish, so I am determined to be successful this year. Who wants to be my buddy and crash and burn succeed with me? I promise it will be a glorious disaster success!
H.E. ELLIS @ NaNoWriMo
If you’ve already joined up, leave a link to your NaNoWriMo page in the comments. For blog posts penned by folks far more dedicated to their craft than I, please visit:
TOM ELIAS
JOE HINOSA
VERY NORMAL
JENNIFER VAUGHN
SIPS OF JEN AND TONIC
OUT WHERE THE BUSES DON’T RUN
Reapers With Fangs
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, the day is nearly here when we will unveil Book Two of the four book compilation series called REAPERS WITH FANGS. The sequel to Reapers With Issues follows the Grim Reaper on his journey through middle management Hell.
For those of you who have not read Book One of the series entitled, REAPERS WITH ISSUES but would like to purchase a copy visit www.wristsaroundtheworld.com where every purchase donates 100% of the profit to a great cause that you too can be a part of. Don’t forget to visit the REAPERS WITH ISSUES website and sign Grim’s DEATH BOOK. Now onto a preview of:
REAPERS WITH FANGS
Death’s bag landed with a thud, dumping its coconut scented contents and nearly a pound of beach sand onto the cold, office floor. “When was someone going to tell me about this?” Grim asked the three Horsemen scrambling to form a line in front of him.
“What ‘this’ are you referring to?” Famine asked, backing away slowly.
Grim stepped forward and shoved a pink, bubble gum scented memo into Famine’s bony hand. “THIS is what I’m referring to. This memo that’s nearly two weeks old. I count on you three to cue me into this kind of thing when I’m gone. I shouldn’t have had to hear this from Lucifer.”
Pestilence flinched at the word “Lucifer,” but said nothing. War looked to Famine who, after returning a stony glare, reluctantly answered. “No one wanted to bother you. We all agreed you needed the break.”
“So you thought waiting until I got back from vacation to walk into this mess was the better idea?” Grim asked as he snatched the memo from Famine’s hand and tossed it atop a monstrous stack of waiting paperwork.
“No, that’s not what we thought at all,” Famine explained. “We agreed we’d do some recon first and get a handle on who this Ashli person was before we decided whether or not you should worry.”
Grim startled. “Worry? Why? Who is she?”
Without saying a word Pestilence slowly lifted Grim’s mug off his desk and then went for coffee just as Famine produced a silver flask from deep inside his cloak.
“That good, huh?” Grim asked, not convinced he wanted to know.
“I’m not sure “good” is the word you want here,” Famine said as he poured a stream of red, viscous liquid into the steaming cup of coffee. Pestilence blew the billowing smoke away before handing the mug to Grim who promptly set it on the desk behind him.
“I’m not a Cherub, Fam. You don’t have to pussy foot around me. Just tell me straight out who this Ashli person is.”
Famine took a quick sip from the flask, steeling his courage before he spoke. “From what we’ve been able to gather Ashli is…well, let’s just say word around the Cloud is that the boss has got himself a new girlfriend.”
Grim stood frozen for a moment before he snatched the flask from Famine’s hand, tipped it back and sucked it dry.
“We’re still not sure what this is, so I see no reason to assume the worst,” Pestilence said in an attempt to put Grim at ease.
“Bunch of bullshit is what it is,” War blasted. “Give me five– no, four thousand real Reapers and we’ll take care of business no problem I guaran-fucking-tee it. We don’t need no Bible bitch tellin’ us how to do our jobs. We–”
Famine backhanded War into silence just as Grim dropped the flask to the floor. “Wait–what’s he talking about?” Grim asked, wide eyed. “What did he mean by, ‘telling us how to do our jobs?’”
Famine hung his head and sighed. “Yeah…I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“So what are you saying?” Grim asked. “That I finally got Skippy and his shih-tzu out of my department and now….now I’ve got the girlfriend setting up shop here? Are you telling me she is actually in command of the OHD??” Grim’s shocked reaction forced his eyeballs to pop out of his skull and roll along the floor.
Famine picked the eyes and his flask up and set them all on the desk. “I’m afraid that’s the way it looks,” he reluctantly replied.
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Grim said as he ripped off his best tanned meat suit, stopping short of revealing a heart-shaped tattoo with the words Fran Forever emblazoned across the bicep. A tattoo that for the life of him Grim could not recall getting. “I need to sort this shit out so give me a few minutes alone, please. Pronto.”
Famine nodded and then led the Horsemen out of the office. As soon as he was alone Grim headed straight to the closet to change into his regular uniform. His official cloak, Grim decided, would put him in the right frame of mind to deal with the fact that once again, God pulled the rug out from under him.
As Grim slid on the heavy, black robe he set to putting this new dilemma into perspective. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Anything had to be better than Jesus and his Reaper disaster. After all, the Big Guy never kept a woman for long, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before this new one grew tired of his continued absence. Running the Universe for an eternity isn’t the nine to five job most women think it is.
Still, there was reason for concern. Even though this wasn’t the first time God took a mate, it was the first time in at least two thousand years he’d been this public about it. As Grim could recall, Lucifer was the reason behind God’s last romantic debacle. Grim wondered just how deep into Ashli’s pie his demon colleague’s fingers were, and just how bad the blowback to the OHD might be if God found out.
His mind racing with new concerns, Grim threw open the office doors and called for his Horsemen. “Have any of you spoken to Lucifer yet?” Grim asked once they arrived. “He’s the one who forwarded the memo. He’s got to know how this happened.”
“We…didn’t think it was such a good idea,” Famine tentatively began. “We didn’t know how much of this action originated from the Southern offices, you know, considering how Jesus’ Reaper solution went down.”
Grim ran a bony hand back and forth along his spinal column. “I do know what you mean, but it seems like a lot of risk, even for Lucifer. This isn’t Jesus and his shih-tzu we’re talking about, this is the Big Man and his woman. Anyone remember Lilith?”
“Come on, Boss,” War interjected around a wad of chew. “You know you can’t trust ol’ whistle britches, especially when there’s a female involved. Don’t matter who she is. He nails ‘em faster than Jesus to a cross.”
Hearing his Horseman echo his thoughts reinforced Grim’s suspicion of Lucifer’s role in Ashli’s sudden appearance at the OHD. Determined to get answers, Grim reached for a phone that rang as he grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Why Grim! You’re back!” Lucifer announced with mock cheerfulness. “What’s the good news?”
“You tell me. I’ve been skull deep in sand for the past two weeks.”
“Hmm…how very odd. I’d have thought your ponies would have alerted you to the magnitude of the situation by now.”
Grim shot his Horsemen a look of death as he spoke. “Never mind all that and just answer a question for me. Did you have something to do with this Ashli bullshit or not?”
“Hold your Horses,” Lucifer snickered. “The answer’s no, I had nothing to do with this. Although I wish I had, because this is more glorious than any plan I could have concocted.”
“Plan? What fucking plan are you talking about?”
A sudden, thunderous crash resonated throughout the office followed by a sulfurous puff of smoke. Lucifer appeared at Grim’s side. “Sorry about the theatrics Grimmie old boy, but I just had to be here when you got the news.”
Grim rubbed his skinless temples in exasperation. “Fuck the news and just get to the plan.”
An expression that was both gleeful and menacing at once took hold of Lucifer’s face as he stared into Grim’s and said, “I can sum up the plan in one word-
Vampires…”
FOR MORE REAPERS VISIT:
http://www.reaperswithissues.com
TO BE PART OF A GLOBAL PROJECT AND GOOD CAUSE VISIT:
http://www.wristsaroundtheworld.com
Romantic Monday – Ode To Edward Hotspur
For those of you who may not know, the great Edward Hotspur hosts a weekly blog-wide post-off known as ROMANTIC MONDAY. As someone who isn’t much of a romantic, I wasn’t sure I’d have anything remarkable to post on this topic. But something about the Halloween season inspired me to write the following tale of love and devotion gone wrong. For my first Romantic Monday offering I give you:
ODE TO EDWARD HOTSPUR
How I wish I had the courage to kill you, my darling. Oh, to have the strength to give you what you ask! Alas, my beloved, I am weak. You cannot imagine how it pained me to remove your feet. Surely you understand the sacrifices we must make for our love!
It all started so beautifully, did it not, E.H.? That glorious day when at long last you noticed me! I hardly believed it myself. Oh how you teased me, renaming me “Hellis” and coordinating our blog posts. How did you know the pleasure I would receive, seeing your words intertwined with mine? So why, oh why did it have to end?
Did my novelty wear off after only a year? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you had moved on to another? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your words on another woman’s blog?
I recognized you. I recognized you because you belong to me.
I do not blame you for straying, my darling. You are just a man, after all, easily swayed by blog stats and sparklines. I forgive you your frailties. But I see now that I have to protect you and our love from the seductive, literary succubi who covet you for themselves.
Please do not cry, my sweet. You shall not miss your hands for long!
Just as you gave yourself to me, I shall become you, E.H. I will sacrifice my own identity and assume yours as a testament to our devotion to one another. I will destroy these usurpers of our love with your own beautiful, words. Oh how it will pain me to mingle my words with theirs. But love is pain my darling, as you well know.
FOR MORE ROMANTIC INTERLUDES VISIT:
Hastywords
Kayjai’s Blog
Edward Hotspur
Daydreamdaisies
Loveandlunchmeat
Bluegirlpoems
Pechorina
Kerryjr
Monarcenciel
Sheilapierson
Thecheekydiva
Asoulswalk
Ohmygawdjustdowhatisay
Pouringmyartout
Benzeknees
Halloween Interview – Werewolf
For a really good Halloween read, click on the pic above to visit GRAFIKLIT for a sample of her novel BULLETPROOF WEREWOLF.
For those of you who don’t know, I am obsessed with Halloween on a level that can only be described as unhealthy. So as part of the Hellis Hellish Halloween Holiday – Four-H – I’ll be bringing you an exclusive weekly mini-series of Halloween-centric posts with various Halloween icons. We’ll start our interviews with a highly reclusive star of the annual All Hallows Eve festivities, the Werewolf.
****
H.E.: Good morning, Mr. Wolf.
Wolf: Good morning, thanks for tracking me down.
H.E.: No problem! I… uh, have a list of questions, but I have to ask, are those tattoos real, and you have to tell me what kind of cologne you’re wearing.
Wolf: (grins) Oh, of course they are, and they’re not any kind of tribal you’ve ever seen before. There are more, of course. As for the cologne, I’m sorry but I’m not wearing anything but me. I’m not offensive, am I?
H.E.: God no… I mean, of course not. You’re kind of… catnip-ish, in a good way… a very good way.
Wolf: It’s funny, you know. I get that a lot.
H.E.: (dabbing perspiration) I see… so on to the meat… I mean body… er, main part of the interview… What would you say is the best part of Halloween these days?
Wolf: Oh, I’d say the pumpkins. I mean, sure there are your basic Jack o’ Lanterns, but I tell you the new special kits these days… wow.
H.E.: I’m sure nobody ever suspected your artistic side. People are probably surprised to know you’re a bit reclusive. Will you share why?
Wolf: Other than the obvious? People don’t understand me. I’m either this (gestures at himself), or I’m a rampaging beast, completely terrorizing normal folks, taking what I want, and leaving devastation behind.
H.E.: Guh… uhhhm, right. I completely undre… understand. So you would say you have trouble keeping stable relationships going?
Wolf: Absolutely, and don’t get me started about vegetarians. The last one I dated… let’s say it turned out badly.
H.E.: So is there an up-side to this Werewolf situation?
Wolf: Honestly, yes. For one, no male-pattern baldness. That’s a plus these days. Also, my stamina is completely off the scale…
H.E.: (stabs herself in the leg with her pen) Mmph.
Wolf: Are you all right, Miss Ellis?
H.E.: Yes… yes. All right, moving on. How do you feel about the way popular culture has portrayed you and those like you?
Wolf: Do you have enough tape for this? Oh, it’s digital. First thing is, I’m not necessarily a wolf, H.E. I’m a shapeshifter. Also, when you say, “those like you,” that’s another misconception. I’m one of a kind.
H.E.: (mumbles) Oh, yes, you are…
Wolf: Pardon?
H.E.: Guh… nothing… please go on.
Wolf: Right, well, ‘werewolf’ is a German term, where actually I’ve been more aligned to the Norse concept of things. I can shift shape into what I like when I like. I’d also like to take the opportunity to say that I’m not at war with vampires, and the whole silver bullet thing? It’s a myth.
H.E.: So you’re saying that the moon thing, and the wanton rampaging and killing…
Wolf: Is part of the myth. I’ve hunted herd animals on farms. I’ve done ‘wanton rampaging’ but to my recollection, nobody ever literally died when I did that.
H.E.: (tossing question list over her shoulder) Okay, just growl for me.
Wolf: Pardon?
{recording ends}
Fifty Shades of White??
People, I am disillusioned. No, I am more than that- I am traumatized. Because my innocent little British Sweetie Pie just wrote the raunchiest retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves that I’ve ever read. Hang on to your caps chaps, because I bring you Snow White and the Seven Strippers??
“I am leaving tonight!” thought Snow as she packed her bags cautiously. All her step mother cared about was her father’s money and she got it when he passed away. Snow knew the woman was jealous but banning her from going to university, this was a whole new low! Any boy Snow brought home her step mother convinced her they didn’t like her and Snow had never had a proper relationship. Leaving was the only way she could live her life how she wanted.
As Snow stormed past the beautiful ruby Red Mercedes Mclaren SLR her father had bought her for her seventeenth birthday, she backtracked for a moment. It was hard to leave when you had everything but she couldn’t stay for luxuries. Snow tapped the car and forced herself to leave. Marching down the street Snow bumped into a street advertiser who offered her a leaflet. It read ‘New VIP Bar Opening Tonight, All Drinks £1” she thought for a moment. Her step-mother had never let her go clubbing. Snow was going to do it; she was going to get smashed!!
Snow walked up to the new bar and walked through the doors; she stormed straight to the bar and asked the bartender for a double vodka and cola because that is what her step-mother ordered when she wanted to get drunk. She took the drink and gulped it down in one. She smiled; she had never felt this free before.
A friend from University was sitting across the bar, Snow couldn’t remember her name but she ordered another drink, downed it and walked over to her friend “WANT TO DANCE,” she shouted but the girl couldn’t hear her, then Snow remembered her name was Zoe, Snow walked closer to her and said “Zoe, do you wanna dance?” Zoe smiled and said “Yes actually, I have been stood up and could do with a friend,” Snow led her to the dance floor and they started dancing. They were shortly joined by a very good looking man who passed them a leaflet “I would love you girls to join us later,” he said before winking and walked over to another crowd of girls. The man had jet black hair and beautiful blue eyes; he had stubble on his face and walked around the club with a cheeky smile. The leaflet said “TIME OF YOUR LIFE, a club with a difference,” Zoe looked at Snow and pointed at the opening times “It doesn’t open till eleven,” Snow looked at her diamond incrusted watch and it was only nine but she was determined to have a good time “Let’s get plenty to drink before then,” she said pulling Zoe back towards the bar. At 11:30, Snow and Zoe stumbled to ‘time of your life’. Snow looked at the man at the booth at the door and said “How much do you want?” the man laughed and said “The shows has already started but if you still wanna go in its £15 each,” Snow passed the man £100 and said “Keep the change,” Zoe giggle as they walked into the club barely holding each other up. They were both shocked when they walked into a revamped theatre; they took a seat at the back near the bar and waited for the next part of the show to start.
A tall, gorgeous lady walked onto the stage and said “I hope you ladies enjoyed the first act but now onto the second, you all know this guy, give it up for Friendly!!” The women around them screamed in anticipation. A woman next to Snow had a huge stack of five pound notes on the table in front of her so Snow presumed she knew what was going on. Suddenly a beautiful man’s voice sang “You know I know how, to make them stop and share as I zone out,” he slowly danced onto the stage in a suit and took his jacket off “The club can’t even handle me right now,” as he stopped singing the women went wild. Snow had never seen anything like this but she was captured by what she was seeing.
“Watch you, watching me I go all out,” he sang as he sat on the edge of the stage and the women closest to him stroked his muscly chest and abs. “The club can’t even handle me right now,” he finished singing and the music started. He started dancing but really dancing, he was amazing. His shagging blond hair was dancing with him and his muscle rippled as he delivered every move with passion and precision. He slid across the stage and jumped onto a girls lap, he was dancing on her and she was gridding on him. He jumped onto the table and ripped his pants off. Snows jaw dropped as he used his hat to cover his dignity. As he left the stage the women came back on and said “Did everyone enjoy that?” Snow was too shocked too scream and she needed another drink. As she sat back in her seat, the most beautiful man she had ever seen stepped onto the stage in a camouflage trousers and a white vest top. The white vest top didn’t leave much to the imagination as all of his muscles protruded through the material. He man danced down the ales of the theatre, pulling girls to their feet and dancing with them. Snow bit her lip as he dance towards her, he was her perfection. He had dark hair and dark eyes. As he danced back towards the stage, women sighed and pleaded for him to dance with them.
Seven acts and nine shot later, Snow was on cloud nine. As the club emptied Snow found a nice comfortable bit of concrete and fell asleep.
“We should really wake her up,” said Flirty as he stared at the beautiful girl asleep on the road. Frisky nodded at him and kicked her. Flirty shot him an angry look but Frisky simply shrugged back. The girl looked around and realised she was asleep on the road outside a strip club. Her hair was stuck up in the air and her clothes were on backwards (Meaning at some point last night she must have taken them off). Flirty looked her up and down, he didn’t know what to say. “Are you alright?” Frisky said as the girl squinted at them both. She looked at him but the only thing she could remember from the night before was running away from home. She was confused but asked “Do you have a place for me to stay?” Flirty and Frisky were taken back, Frisky shook his head “Erm no, no girls allowed,” but Flirty had a different idea. “How long do you want to stay?” Flirty said before Frisky could stop him. The girl fluttered her eyelashes and said “Only till I can find myself a place,” Flirty smiled and added “What is your name?” the girl blushed “Snow White,” she whispered in embarrassment, Flirty smiled “I am Flirty and this is Frisky,” The girl looked at the both before nodding. Frisky pointed down the street and said “Come on then.”
Snow slowly realised she was going home with too strapping young men. She started staring at them and taking in their feathers. Flirty was tall, dark and handsome but Frisky had long brown hair and rough stubble on his face. When they arrived at the block of flats, Snow asked “Which one is yours?” the men turned around and smiled, Frisky answered “All of them, all seven flats,”
“For all seven men,” Flirty added with a big grin on his face. Snow suddenly felt warn inside, seven absolutely gorgeous men in one building, she was glad she ran away from home.
Snow placed the one bag she had with her on the table and sat on the sofa. The flats looked awful from the outside, dull and run down but on the inside they were luxurious. Snow wondered why the men lived here and how they got the money for such expensive things but she didn’t want to be rude and ask. Flirty walked in the room with another man with Blond hair and striking green eyes, he was very muscly and very attractive. He walked over to Snow and said “I am Friendly, please to meet you,” Snow just nodded but she had a feeling she had seen him before. He blushed and sat on the other sofa, Flirty looked at Snow and said “You will have to come to work with us, Fancy doesn’t want you here alone but I think I have a job you can do,” He winked which also seemed familiar to Snow. Flirty got his car keys and encourage the others to show Snow to the car. Snow was in the car with Flirty, Frisky and Friendly but she was told that Funny, Fancy, Funky and Fizzy were in the other car.
When they reached the place they had called work, Snow noticed it was a dance studio. They walked into a huge studio and Snow sighed at her reflection straight away. Her usually neat hair was all over the pace, she combed it with her fingers back into a Black bob it usually was and felt instantly better. As soon as Friendly started dancing, Snows memories from the night before came flooding back “OMG YOU’RE MALE STRIPPERS!” she screamed as the seven men stared at her. The men just laughed “I am guessing you can now remember last night then,” Funny said as he finished laughing “No,” Snow answered and she was mortified. Flirty looked at her and said “You stayed after the show and was drinking with us, you were telling us what you would do to us behind closed doors, and you were being pretty…”
“Erotic,” added Frisky as Flirty struggle to finish his sentence. Snow was shocked; she was not usually like this at all. Flirty looked at her “Our front lady quit last night, I though you could fill in for her,” he whispered as reality suddenly dawned over Snow and she turned to leave. Fancy, one of the wiser of the young men then stepped up and said “Look Snow, you came here looking for something else, you ran away from home and you have nothing to go back too, it’s do or die for you so why don’t you just give it a shot?” Fancy’s word rung in Snows ears. Snow had gone from being a pampered princess to being a widow’s slave, a life which she only ran away from last night and was willing to go back already. She needed to prove to herself that she didn’t need that life, that she could earn money for herself, she turned around and nodded at fancy
“Yes, you’re right,” she said and the men smiled “Welcome to the team,” Fancy stated before handing her over to Funky who was going to teach her the ropes. Funky had short curly ginger hair and lovely blue eyes, he seemed to be shy compared to the other but the man could dance, all the men could dance!
The first thing Funky did was pull out a costume, it was a sexy ringmistress costume and it was lovely. The jacket was blue, the waistcoat was yellow, and it had a white shirt, it also came with black skin tight shorts. When snow tried it on and she felt absolutely amazing. Flirty wolf whistled from the back of the studio as Snow studied herself in the mirror. Funky then went through how the night flows. Funky sat down next to Snow as she watched the men rehears “We open Thursday, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, 11:00 till 2 but the show is only 11:15 till 12:45, Ten minutes per set, opening, all seven of our acts and a closing set, go it,” Funky said and Snow nodded, Funky watched as Snow seemed mesmerised by the dancing the men were doing. He looked at her and said “Can you dance Snow?” she shook her head and said “My dad took me out of dance classes when I was younger and pushed me into maths,”
“Did you still want to dance?” Snow turned to look at Funky but didn’t reply. Funky dropped it and continued teaching Snow “So your job is to introduce us and keep the crowd pumped so they give us more tips,” she nodded and Funky went to join the others rehearsing.
Flirty ran over to Snow, pulled her up and said “We are finished now and better go get ready for tonight,” Flirty pulled her really close and Snow could fell his muscles on her body, she didn’t want to admit how aroused Flirty made her feel but he was perfect. Flirty turned and walk away as if he knew she would follow, as if he knew he had her screaming for him on the inside.
Friendly walked out to the car with Snow and she wanted to know more about the man who had fascinated her so much the night before. “You are an amazing dancer,” She said trying to start up a conversation with him “Thank you,” He said before blushing. Snow was amazed by his modesty; she didn’t think he knew how good he was. “As dancers go, I think you are one of the best I have ever seen,” Friendly shook his head “The women don’t come to see me dance, they come to watch me take my clothes off and then they push for me to take them home to fulfil their fantasies,” Friendly said while getting in the car. This filled Snows head with more questions “Do any off you have girlfriends?” the three men in the car shook their heads “Who you want to share your boyfriend with hundreds of other women?” said Frisky with a smiled on his face. Flirty shook his head “Frisky likes to take his fans home and give them what they want, Friendly and I stopped doing that a long time ago,”
“Why did you stop?” Snow asked.
“Because women come home with us, get everything they want, a night of passion and pleasure then in the morning they go back to reality, a family, a husband and a perfect life, they just use us to live on the edge for one night,” Friendly said with heavy heart. “They want more, I give them more, its how I want to live and it keeps me full,” Frisky said, he said those words in a like he was a hunter and women with dull and repetitive sex lives were the pray, he finished his sentence with “I aim to please,” and chuckled all the way back to the flats. The men spent the rest of the afternoon getting costumes ready and packing the car but Flirty took time out too come see Snow who was having a nap ready to stay up most of the night.
Flirty gently knocked on the door and walked into the room topless. His muscles rippled as he moved and this made something inside of Snow sing. Flirty sat on the bed next to Snow and she sat up straight so she was fact to face with him, his gorgeous brown eyes gazed into hers as he said “We are setting off soon, I thought you might want to get ready,” Snow smiled at him but what she really wanted to do was just jump on him. Snow was very caged at home, she had only ever kissed a boy when she was younger and she hadn’t really thought about it since but these men turned her on, they really set her going and she had to think twice about kiss Flirty. Flirty react over Snow to open a draw on the night table. He pulled put a wallet and slowly brushed his hand against Snows legs as he put the wallet in his pocket, if she was going to do it, she was going to have to do it now. Snow lent in really close to Flirty’s lips and bit hers, to do it or not but Flirty took things into his own hands and kissed her. She was shocked at first but as he licked her lips with his tongue she started to relax. Wearing only one of Flirty’s old shirts Snow was already half naked and Flirty took advantage of that rubbing his hands all over her body, teasing and pleasing her until she wanted to beg for him to do it, to just fuck her but he had other ideas. He slowly got up and started walking away “What are you doing?” said Snow disappointing and pining for more “If I just gave it to you, the excitement is lost; I have to keep up the tempo,” he whispered before walking out.
Snow got dress into jeans and a t-shirt ready for the car ride to the Club, when she walked out onto the street she realised an ex-boyfriend shouting her. She walked up to him and asked “What are you doing here?”
“Your step mother wants you to come home,” He replied as he opened the car door. Snow shook her head and walked away “You don’t belong here Snow,” the Ex shouted “You are from a land of millionaires and socialites, this is a few pounds and drop outs,”
“Everyone can change,” Snow shouted back as the Ex got in the car and slammed his door.
Snow washed her face in the toilets before the show; she was really nervous and didn’t want to go out onto the stage. She saw a shadow behind her and she turned around. It was only Flirty, he picked her up and pinned her against the wall, Snow could feel something hard pressing against her legs and it was making her excited. Flirty kissed her and Snow kissed him back, slipping her tongue in and out of his month gently. Flirty was struggling to contain himself and pressed her harder against the wall. He placed his hand on her thigh and slowly stroked her up to the top of her legs, just before he used his fingers to stroke her insides Flirty backed off. He placed her back on the floor and gently kissed her on the forehead “See you after the show Snow,” he said before giving her a cheeky smile and leaving her desperate for him.
Snow leapt onto the stage and shouted to the rowdy audience “Are you ready ladies?” they screams as they knew what was coming. Snow was dazed by all the women, there were hundred and they were all waning one things, these seven men to take their clothes off for them. As the seven men ran onto the stage in their cowboy uniforms, the women screamed even louder and threw money onto the stage. Women stood up from out their seats just to get a touch of the men or an acknowledging wink. All the women wanted to be danced with as the men picked women out the crowd. This was what they paid for. All night the women were throwing money at the seven men and all night Snow had her eyes on her prize, she wanted Flirty and she wanted him bad.
When they finally got back to the flats, some of the men had invited women to come back with them and hurried into their bedrooms. Friend said goodnight and walked into his room alone. Once Flirty and Snow were alone he picked her up and walked into the bedroom with her in his arms. When he got to the bedroom he threw her down on the bed and took his shirt off, his beautiful body was something he used to turn ladies on and it worked at charm with Snow. She lay back on the bed and waited for him to crawl on top of her. He hovered over her and pulled her top off, and then he kissed all the way up to her lips before rest his body on top of hers. Snow smiled with delight as he kissed and nibbled on her neck and pushed his hips against hers. He pressed the hard bulge in his pants against her jeans which she just wanted to rip off. Somehow Flirty seemed to know what Snow wanted and he pulled down her jeans in hast while she unbuckled his belt and threw it to the ground allowing for his jeans to just slide off. At this point Snow was ready to beg for it, which gave her an Idea. She stood him up and got on her knees, now this she had never done before but she was ready to give it a try, she downed his boxers and exposed the only part of Flirty that the women at the club didn’t see. She took it in her hand and slowly paced it into her mouth. When she looked up, Flirty had the biggest grin on his face. This was what made men happy. The fact that snow was completely naked and giving a man a blow job that she had only met two days ago didn’t embarrass her, it excited her! She could defiantly get used to this new life. As Flirty started to find it hard to hold onto his load he pulled her up and kissed her quickly, he pushed her onto the bed and stroked her with his fingers. She didn’t know what to do, she wanted to scream and just before she did Flirty filled her mouth with his tongue and gave her something to concentrate on other than the pleasure she was feeling. As she felt the pleasure growing inside her Flirty placed himself inside her, just a little bit at first, he trusted slowly and gently but when he felt Snows muscles relax he got faster and harder. Snow felt the pleasure bubble over inside and she let out a little whimper. Flirty smiled before dropping onto the bed next to her. Snow rolled over and hugged him, they fell to sleep and Snow was happy for once.
The next morning Snow woke up but the men were gone. Flirty had left her a note on his mirror “Make yourself at home, we will be back after rehearsal” Snow sat in the living area and turned on the TV. Suddenly there was a buzz from the door. Snow walked up to the intercom and asked who it was “Snow it’s me, we need to talk,” The sound of her step-mothers voice tore through Snow like a hurricane but she knew she had to let her in, so she did.
Snows step mother sat across from her and said “I will make us some coffee,” Snow just let her do it because she knew she wasn’t going to go home with her. Snow took a sip from the drink her step mother had given her and immediately felt funny, before she knew it Snow blacked out.
When the men got home they found the door open and they ran inside. They found Snow on the floor and instantly took her to the hospital. The doctor told the Seven Strippers that Snow White had been drugged and she might never wake up. The other men left Flirty to watch over her while they piece together what had happened at the flats. While Snow was unconscious, the seven men pieced together what had happened and her step-mother was arrested. After 3 months the doctors discussed how unethical it was too keep Snow White on life support and decided to turn it off. Flirty walked in the room and said goodbye to Snow. “I hope you can hear me Snow because I want you to wake up, I was to talk to you again, I want to watch you dance and I want to make your life better, please just wake up,” Flirty kissed her on the lips and walked to excite the room. Unexpectedly with a cough, Snow uttered the words “I am awake,” Flirty spun around filled with joy. The doctors ran into the room followed by the other six strippers. The doctors looked at each other “This has never happened before,” they mumbled between themselves.
When Snow was finally allowed home, she couldn’t feel anymore content with going home with the seven strippers.
Snow and Flirty lived happily for around two weeks before a new act joined the group called Prince Charming and Snow fell madly in love with him. It turns out that Prince Charming was happy to share and Snow got the best of both worlds.
She was a very happy girl!!
The Early Bird Catches The SPaM
Even though I’ve been taking a break from SPaM in order to write the REAPERS WITH ISSUES series, I had to come back today in order to introduce to you all someone truly special. For those of you out there who may not know, there is a rockin’ chick among us who is somewhat new to blogworld. I’ll let her About Me page speak for itself:
Essa Alroc is an Orlando, Florida based freelance writer who published works include “The Blurb About Freshness on the Back of Your Deodorant” and “Understanding Your Utah 529 Plan”. When she’s not at work, fantasizing about setting her cubicle on fire, she is working on her first full length novel. It is not about deodorant or financial aid plans.
With blog posts entitled TEN WAYS TO GET FIRED or HOW NOT TO KILL YOUR HUSBAND one can’t help but wonder what goes on in the mind of Essa Alroc.
1. Your writing style is edgy, to say the least. What influences do you attribute to forming your particular writing style?
I was born and raised on heavy sarcasm and using humor in the place of emotions. My life’s motto is if your going to bitch about something, at least make it funny. That way people will actually listen. When I was growing up, I was an overweight kid with bad teeth, who wore my brothers hand me downs. If it wasn’t for my incredible ability to hurt someone’s feelings, I would have made one hell of a target. Luckily for me, the weight came off, the teeth got fixed with braces, but I never lost the ability to come up with some seriously scathing commentary. I also still wear my brothers hand me downs.
2. You live and write in Florida. How does living in the south influence what you write?
Florida both fascinates and horrifies me. I have a theory that something to do with the heat makes the people here crazy and violent. What I like about this state is that things that would be ridiculous anywhere else seem normal in Florida. I draw on a lot of my experiences here for both my fiction and non fiction work and I never seem to run out of things I write about it. What I dislike about Florida is all the rapes and murders…and lack of Jack in the Boxes. I miss their curly fries.
3. Your page MAKE ME YOUR BITCH speaks to your ability to write for hire. How does writing for someone else’s project differ from writing your own, and what can someone expect in the way of services?
My first love is humor writing, but in today’s market, it’s not a viable career option. Luckily, thanks to the plethora of jobs I’ve had, I’m able to write about a large range of subjects and still make them readable (and g-rated). My goal when I’m writing someone’s page is to get them SEO hits and at the same time, give value to the reader who was searching for their page in the first place. When someone types a query into a search engine, they’re not looking to get sold something. They’re looking for an answer to their question. My goal is to answer that question and still make my clients page come out on top. At the same time, I have to keep it free of my personal opinion and four letter words. Sometimes it’s easy, like when I’m writing an article about medical marijuana. Sometimes, it’s impossible, like when I’m trying to come up with 10 things I like about Mitt Romney. Number 1 was his hair.
4. Tell us about STRANGELY SOBER.
Strangely Sober was a novel born of frustration. Frankly, I was tired of reading about unworldly heroines who need the hero to show them how things are done. I’m not like that, and I don’t think most women are like that. Having a vagina doesn’t make me a bumbling, clumsy, insecure mess who can’t handle life on her own. I’ve lived a full life and I think a lot of people have. I created my protagonist, Angelica Salvatori, AKA Sal, because of that. She drinks too much. She smokes too much. She lives everyday like zombie apocalypse is right around the corner. She adapts and re adjusts as necessary. Personally, I think that’s what life is all about.
5. Tell us about ASYMMETRIC ANGELS.
I wrote Asymmetric because I didn’t feel ready to let go of Sal. There were some loose ends to tie up from the first novel and I didn’t think her story was over yet. Asymmetric has been a challenge to write, because it’s got some strong religions undertones in it, despite the fact that I am not remotely religious. It’s a sequel to my first novel and its where my heroine, Sal, tries to create a shaky opinion on faith and at the same time, tries to adapt to a world that is constantly changing for her. Asymmetric is a novel about getting to know yourself. It also has explosions, a high body count and a recurring Gary Busey hallucination. Can’t disappoint my readers while I’m trying to be artsy.
6. How does blogging effect writing, if at all?
Blogging is a release for me. Its entertainment writing in its highest form. I don’t use my webpage in my portfolio, because it’s my hobby. I don’t allow marketing on it, and even my own marketing blurb for my business is kind of a joke. I don’t want my readers distracted by ads. I want them to laugh. I don’t censor myself and I don’t want to do that for a sponsor. All my blogs are born out of an everyday experience that can be made ridiculous using the right words. The world is a ridiculous place, and the ability to laugh at that ridiculousness makes us powerful. I laugh at the Westborough Baptist Church, the economic crisis and child prostitution because I understand the power of humor. I go by the lessons I’ve learned from George Carlin and Richard Prior. ANY topic can be made funny when given the right delivery. That approach makes me fearless in my writing.
7. What have you learned most from writing your novel?
Be prepared for change. When I originally wrote ‘Strangely’, it was called ‘Unforgettable’ and it was written about a schoolteacher with eidetic memory. Two days before I released it, NBC released a show called “Unforgettable”, about a cop with eidetic memory. Instead of releasing it anyway, or trashing the whole series, I adapted it, changed it, until it was a completely different novel. Now, I’m glad that happened, because ‘Strangely” is about 10000 times better than what it was originally.
8. What advice would you give other would-be novelists?
Put your novel away for 6 weeks after you finish it and then read it again. It’s like being a first time reader. Maybe you realize your novel is, in fact, genius. Maybe you realize its crap. Maybe NBC puts out yet another shitty crime drama show and you have to start all over. Either way, you’ll be glad you did it.
9. Who are your favorite authors?
I love Jacqueline Susann, because she made trash literary genius. Read “Valley of the Dolls” closely and you realize that Neely O’Hara is Scarlett O’Hara. I love Piers Anthony because he makes sci-fi/fantasy a commentary on politics that hasn’t been met since Orwell’s “1984”. Finally, I love Tim Dorsey because he writes about Florida with tongue in cheek humor that delivers both admiration and disdain for this wild and crazy state. If Serge Storms were real, I would totally be stalking him.
10. Where do you see your next project taking you?
Well, the final book in the bar series, Gio’s Gift, is already breaking my heart because I’m murdering off a character I’ve grown very attached too. After I’ve uncurled myself from my sobbing emo ball, I’ll be working on something I’m calling the Dark/Light series, which I’m hoping comes to par with some of Anthony’s more political novels. It will be my first foray into science fiction and is loosely based on Nietzsche assertion that God is dead. Personally, I don’t think God is dead. I think he’s a sandwich artist at Subway…at least, he will be in my book. I hope eventually to make enough from my humor and fiction projects to focus on them full time. I think as long as I keep typing away and putting my best literary foot forward, it will happen.
Or I’ll wind up a sandwich artist at Subway.
GET A FREE DIGITAL COPY OF STRANGELY SOBER TODAY ONLY BY CLICKING BELOW:
The Publishing Process In GIF Form
At first you’re thinking of writing a novel and you’re all…
But then you have an idea!
And you go…
But then you hit page 50 and you’re all….
And then you hit page 75 and you’re all…
But you power through!!
And then you’re finished!!! You have finished a novel!!
Only then find out you have to start querying agents.
So you write your query letter…
You obsess over it…
And then you send it out to agents and you’re all…
Then a couple of days go by and you’re all…
And…
And…
But then you hear from your first agent!! And you’re all…
And…
And it’s a rejection. But it’s just your first one so you’re all…
Then you get a few more and it’s more like…
But then! An agent calls! And they love your work! They want to represent you! And inside you’re like…
But you don’t want your agent to think you’re crazy so instead you’re like…
And you love your agent! When you say “yes” you want to…
But instead you go…
And then it’s time to submit to publishers. You are back on submission, and you’re like…
Then the editors start saying….
And…
And your inbox starts looking like…
And you’re all…
And…
And…
But then your phone says your agent is calling. And you want to be like…
But instead it’s more like…
And it’s an offer! You have an offer! And you feel like…
And…
And…
And…
And then you go celebrate with your friends and they’re all…
And on the car ride home you’re still like…
But it’s time for revisions. And you pretend you know what you’re doing…
And it’s back to…
But then you’re done! You’re really really done! Only your book doesn’t come out for another year. And so you’re like…
And…
You get your cover and you’re all…
But then publication day approaches! And your reviews start coming out and it kind of feels like…
But some of them are good! And you’re like…
And then your book is out there! People are reading your book!
And it feels pretty good!
And there’s only one thing to do. Start the whole thing over again.
Beauty and the Beast – 2178
We are going to switch gears here for a take on a classic fairy tale brought to us by author in residence and my writing companion, Tom Elias.
Although Tom may be new to blogworld, he is no stranger to the SciFi genre. So sit back and enjoy a version of Beauty and the Beast that is truly out of this world.
***
Bika Carlton stared out the widow port at the austere Lunar landscape. One of the wealthier residents of Luna Seventeen, he enjoyed the luxury of this view because he could afford the monthly payment. The view would end soon, Bika knew, because he could no longer haul enough water for the payments.
Were he alone and responsible for nobody but himself, this problem would be simple to overcome. As a self-made shipping success, Bika understood what it meant to go without, tighten his belt, and continue to struggle on toward success. No longer could he take refuge in the ease of self-reliance. Around him, the trappings of wealth and comfort mocked him for his complacency and foolishness.
Out on the stark surface, someone in an enviro suit bounced along in the familiar gait particular to Lunar dwellers, and Bika thought, “Probably a repair crew, now that it’s safe.” The massive, unpredicted solar flare that wrecked his shipping fleet also caused significant damage to the unprotected portions of the Lunar infrastructure that had been turned sunward at the time. Thoughts of the revolving Moon reminded him of the time, and Bika collected his personal effects and stepped out of the apartment just ahead of Belle’s morning alarm.
He had resolved to not broach the subject with his daughter until he knew for certain that he could lay out a coherent plan of action for her with confidence. He wanted her to feel taken care of, no matter what, because that is what daddies did. Bika loped through the hallways of Luna 17, steadily connecting downward to levels below the gray and airless surface. He was surprised that his meeting would be in The Below. Anyone rich as The Beast could surely afford a domed office with a fountain.
“Bika Carlton,” he said to a receptionist who barely acknowledged his existence in The Beast’s Spartan offices.
She barely nodded and continued to subvocalize dictation into her desktop AI. Bika lingered momentarily and then seated himself. After close to thirty minutes past his appointment time, a group of executives dressed in the latest nanofiber enviro suits. Their clumsy stride told Bika that they came from a deeper gravity well, but he guessed Mars because they didn’t walk like complete Earthlings.
As if choreographed, a flock of administrative types disgorged from a side door as it dilated open. The receptionist stood up and indicated that Bika would follow her. She stood at least four inches taller than Bika. Willowy-thin like Belle, the woman showed all the signs of being a Lunar native, her moves effortless and unconscious.
If the reception room he sat in had little by way of decoration, The Beast’s office displayed even less. Bika thought it looked more like a cargo hold than an office. A simple credenza sat centered on one unadorned concrete wall and held only a box that clearly functioned as a speaker. The receptionist touched a pendant communicator at her neck and her mouth moved silently. A light on the box lit green.
“Mr. Carlton, thank you for coming,” the disembodied voice of The Beast sounded.
“Thank you for having me,” Bika answered with a knot building in his gut. The Beast, wildly successful beyond what Bika earned in his life, wielded massive power. Always the shrewd businessman, The Beast frequently extended help in the form of financial assistance to smaller freight companies like Bika’s. The Beast earned his company’s success as well as his nickname. Reflecting on the man’s cutthroat reputation did not help alleviate Bika’s nausea.
“All right,” The Beast’s voice echoed in the spare room, “Tell me the background.”
Bika nearly launched a soliloquy on the misfortune of the solar flare and his fleet sitting in tatters in high Martian orbit. Sadly, those fine vessels now had more in common with Mars’ two lumpy moons than they did with flight-worthy spacecraft. Around him, the dour flock of administrative specialists ran through a litany of dry data on balance sheets, profit and loss tables, and estimates on targeted markets around the Solar System. Each one spoke in turn as if rehearsed. Clearly, they performed this number often. Soon enough, they concluded the flow of raw data, and a silence hung in the office air.
“Carlton,” The Beast’s gritty voice sounded, “You know what all that means. You’re dead in the water, and what’s more, I own the papers on most of those hulks. They’ll take at least a year to overhaul, and what I just heard tells me you cover one month with what you make the previous one. Nothing wrong with that. It’s ballsy. Not many like you anymore. But facts are facts. You could ship twice your annual haul for five years and not come close to being in the black with me. You owe me.” The man let the statement hang.
“Yes,” Bika said, “Yes, I do. I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh I know how you’ll pay me back, don’t worry,” The Beast said with humor in his voice. “You have one old bucket left, and I have just the project for it.”
Bika swallowed and prepared himself for the worst.
Belle finished setting the table while dinner sat in the warmer unit of the tiny kitchen behind her. Meals on Luna, regardless of relative wealth, were not elaborate, flavorful or large. Overeating in low gravity could have embarrassing side effects. Belle managed to keep up her share of domestic tasks while she finished her university schooling. She knew her father would be home within minutes since he remained a creature of habit.
In spite of being absent for long periods after her mother died when Belle was small, the young woman turned out remarkably well-adjusted and bright. She made honors marks in her courses to be sure, but remarkably never took the wealth her father earned for granted, somehow driven by the same innate need for personal achievement that her father used to carve out his life.
She whipped her thick, black braid over her shoulder and returned to the kitchen unit to retrieve the plates of warm food. She met her father just as the apartment hatch cycled.
“Hi Daddy!” she enthused.
“Hi, Peanut,” Bika answered, dejected.
Belle immediately sensed the trouble in her father, set the plates down, and hugged him. Bika felt relief, and held his daughter tight until his eyes dried. Later, each of the two had mainly pushed their tasteless food around their plates, and Belle understood the entire problem. In spite of it all, she could see hope.
“Daddy, this isn’t so bad,” she soothed, “I mean, we’ll just get a different apartment, and cut back, and while you’re gone on the mission for this Mr. Beast person, everything will be fine. I’ll finish school while you’re gone.”
“I know you will, Peanut,” Bika agreed, attempting a smile and a convincing glance into Belle’s bright green eyes. “I just have to make sure I get everything set up for you. The rent and such, I mean.”
Belle nodded in agreement and much later, Bika stared out the same window port. The scenery scarcely changed, but in the darkened apartment, the light pouring in highlighted the tracks of tears on his face. Nobody could ask for a better daughter. Bika told her most of his plan, but not all of it. In his mind, there could only be one workable solution.
The Beast had arrayed the facts and then put down his trump card that morning. Bika would commit his one remaining functional ship to a special mission for The Beast. He claimed he needed the old scow because the plasma jet engine would not interfere with the cargo he planned to haul. The hitch was, Bika would pilot the ship, alone. Relativistic effects of the old bucket’s drive included, Bika would age almost twelve years, and his Belle would wait for fourteen on her side of Einstein’s frame of reference, at the least.
None of this truly concerned him, though. Bika had much to do, because he planned on engineering this imposed duty upon him. He would start tomorrow and talk to all the people he needed to. He saw his solution as the only way out, and Belle would be taken care of for life. The Beast would get his due, his project destroyed for trying to take away the rest of his life. For Bika, it only meant dying.
One week later, Bika again stood in the undecorated office of The Beast, again regarding the speakerbox.
“Carlton,” the voice of The Beast came clear from the device, “Do you think I got where I am by being a fool?”
“I don’t think you’re a fool, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bika said, nervous.
“Try and bluff me all you want, it makes no difference. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about you blowing up your ship and the additional insurance you’ve bought up this week? Hmm?” The Beast said with cutting sarcasm.
“I… I don’t know,” Bika said.
“You’re the fool, Bika, for signing the contract you did without reading it well, and for assuming my absence would insulate you from my awareness,” The Beast lectured, his tone now cutting. “You have some balls, though. I can’t deny that. I also can’t let you out of this so easily.”
“What now?” Bika said with anger and a sense of nothing to lose.
“Change in plans. To ensure you don’t pull something funny, Carlton, your daughter will travel on the ship with my cargo, not you,” The Beast explained.
“You bastard,” Bika whispered.
“I hear that a lot,” The Beast said, “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not without a soul. She will ride in stasis. I’d take the rest of your life for squandering my investment, but not hers. Have her at the Luna spaceport tomorrow.”
Bika, overcome with a dizzy spell, teetered and then repeated himself, screaming, “You bastard!” The indicator light on the speakerbox, however, was dark.
Belle wore her concern well-hidden. Only the smallest of creases between her eyebrows gave away her emotion. Bika, her father, read it clearly, and the tiny furrow might as well have been a furrow cut into his heart.
“I have failed you,” Bika said, eyes wet and boring through the deck plating of the port’s shuttle dock.
“Daddy, you always tried hard. Nobody’s lucky all the time. I’d rather sleep for twelve years to be done with this than lose you,” Belle said.
Bika shook his head, unable to speak in the face of his daughter’s kindness and grace.
“Besides,” Belle continued, “This is the least I can do to repay all you gave me until now, Daddy.”
Belle hugged and kissed her father, took her small bag and walked into the shuttle’s airlock. She turned and smiled, and that image of Belle remained burned in Bika’s mind for the guilty years that followed.
Bika’s remaining freighter powered through deep and unforgiving space. Being old and outdated became an advantage on this journey, and it also meant that the components rarely failed out of wear. The deck plates and deep structures vibrated with the power of the engine that rammed them along at a large percentage of the speed of light.
Magroodian pulled himself along one access corridor, trailing his ruined leg behind him. His opposite arm, twisted and weak, provided a stabilizing point and occasional anchor despite its apparent ruin. Magroodian tended ships in flight and the low gravity in the older model freighters proved ideal for him for this and other reasons. He could tend on newer and slower interplanetary routes, but those often involved other passengers. Magroodian preferred solitude because he could avoid the stares and the questions.
One year into the journey to Centauri Alpha II, Magroodian felt the comfort of a well-worn routine. He exited the cargo bay after checking the precious device it held. His next task involved checking the telemetry and guidance. All of the panels indicated that systems onboard were ticking along perfectly. He logged all of this faithfully, and turned his attention to his favorite task.
The stasis unit self-diagnosed and rendered a report of nominal metrics. Magroodian peered through the glass, trying to see past the fog. He purged the interior atmosphere, clearing the viewplate. Inside slept the Angel. Magroodian had seen beautiful women, even slept with a few before the accident, but this creature plucked every heart string Magroodian possessed. Belle Carlton’s raven hair and porcelain skin remained unchanged, of course. Only the occasional lead stuck to her head in places disrupted the perfect vision of beauty. Magroodian felt pangs of hunger, and realized he had stared at her again for hours.
Two years later, Magroodian’s routine had evolved. One task taking several months’ time enabled him to speak with her, in a way. Cobbling components of unnecessary or redundant systems, he had devised an input channel to the stasis machine, and by reading a message he could communicate in a way with the perfect beauty laying wrapped in cold, artificial sleep. The improvised device would feed her these messages back through her monitoring leads, slowed for her reduced awareness. Magroodian’s first love letter, when read, ran to ten recorded minutes and then required his agonized patience for over a week while it slowly trickled into her mind.
The fact that Belle could not answer never slowed Magroodian down. From his lonely, disfigured point of view, having half of a relationship to him was more than he had hoped for to begin with. He wrote poems, random thoughts, and love letters to her, not knowing if his words registered or were merely expressed as slow, cold dreams. Today he carefully read a short but deliberately-crafted note to her.
“My Perfect Little One,” he read, “My mind is filled with thoughts of you. They are thoughts of nothing but love, caring and kindness. In my mind, we are together, and we have finally found our Someday. I cannot tell you how much joy these thoughts bring me, and I have them because of you in my life.”
Magroodian wiped the saliva from his mangled jaw, not wishing to slurp it back into his mouth while reading. He fed the file to the device he’d built, and set about waiting. At the moment the slow-trickle device finished an unknown, random chunk of interstellar matter struck the hull, detonating a maneuvering thruster fuel unit.
Months passed, and Magroodian struggled mightily to keep the freighter intact and functional. He felt tired in his bones, unable to recall a night of rest not interrupted by a new crisis. Ever resourceful, Magroodian shifted power sources, rewired entire systems, and kept the engines humming. Yet, system failures moved through the ship like a malevolent poltergeist.
Now he feared that he could save no more systems. He had already cut life support to much of the freighter, and what the remaining areas had ran at minimal levels. Nonessential computer systems were offline. What remained beyond navigation, stellar drive and life support were the circuits for Belle’s stasis pod and the cargo package. With mysterious faults cropping up still, Magroodian could choose between maintaining the cargo or Belle.
He agonized this before realizing that the system load for the stasis unit took more resources than an additional, conscious human would. Magroodian realized while he watched the stasis unit cycle down that the fear of having to face Belle for real outweighed the fear of having to sacrifice her outright. While she slowly floated up to consciousness, Magroodian moved his possessions from his room into the galley.
Belle slowly realized that she no longer slept in stasis. In fact, someone moved her to a comfortable bed and saw to her recovery regimen before she regained consciousness. She felt cold, deep down, and she shivered. Something in the room smelled funny, and it took Belle several minutes to understand that she caused the odd odor. Her limbs felt heavy and rubbery, and sitting up caused pain everywhere. Breathing deeply caused her to rack herself coughing.
Gradually, though, she felt a little better. She thought standing might be useful, but somehow doing that was impossible. At the hatch to the room, a chime sounded. She could barely croak out a sound, and the door opened. The ugliest man she had ever seen stood there holding a tray. She quickly realized even with her eyes that refused to focus well that this poor man had suffered a grave injury somehow. His hair grew in patches, and his face hung misshapen and jumbled on his head. One eye drooped, sightless, and ropy scar tissue laced up his neck. Belle’s heart broke for Magroodian simply looking at him.
“Here is some food,” he said, placing a small tray with a smaller cup of broth near her. “You should eat very slowly. Your stomach has not processed food for three years. I will explain everything when you’re ready.” He turned awkwardly on his atrophied leg to leave.
“Wait,” Belle managed, stopping Magroodian. “Tell… me… please.”
Magroodian sat in a chair – his former furniture – with his face mainly averted. He told her of his struggle to keep the ship under power, save the cargo, and her life. Belle absorbed it all. She had missed so much, and the few ounces of broth in her stomach felt like gallons. She grew sleepy, and Belle later recalled broken images of Magroodian bent over her, gently tucking her under a blanket and arranging her pillow.
“Tell me your name,” Belle said at some point days later. She recovered quickly, and the two of them walked the decks to build back her stamina.
“Magroodian,” he answered, looking down and away. “I run the ship while it flies.”
“My name is Belle,” she said, “I bet you know why I’m here.”
“Yes,” Magroodian said.
They walked together a bit. The induced gravity made each of them tired in spite of remaining low. Belle, used to half what she struggled with now, felt exhausted. Magroodian mentioned it would be good practice for Centauri Alpha II, and then remained silent while Belle breathed hard and thought.
“You don’t ever look at me when you talk,” she said, and Magroodian did not answer. Belle lunged ahead and whirled in front of him, preventing him from limping further. “Look at me, please.”
He did, reluctantly turning his mangled face to her but keeping his working eye locked on the floor. Belle said nothing for a long moment.
“It hurt very much,” she finally said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes, very much,” he answered and wiped his chin. He felt something like a pressure on his cheek, and looking up saw that he sensed Belle’s perfect, graceful hand touching his face. He felt dizzy because of this act of gentleness. He dared to look at Belle’s face, and stopped breathing when he saw the tears flowing down her soft cheeks. In that moment, he would have given his own organs to keep her alive, or sacrificed himself for her, merely for her touch and her tears.
Later, the freighter was only months out from Centauri Alpha, and Magroodian managed to get the deceleration phase configured in spite of the patchwork quilt of circuits and fixes. He grew comfortable with Belle, and she with him. They shared an easy friendship. He never mentioned the love notes or the system he devised to communicate them. Over dinner, without warning, she alarmed him with a statement.
“I had such beautiful dreams while I was in stasis,” she said, then asking, “Is that a common phenomenon?”
“Dreams? How do you mean?” Magroodian said, defensive.
“Oh! They seemed to go on forever,” Belle smiled, “And there was this amazing man who read me beautiful poetry. Sometimes he wrote love letters. It was so vivid that I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Well, I will check the library, but I’m sure it’s connected to the stasis effects or the medications,” Magroodian said.
“Too bad, almost,” Belle giggled, “I would love to meet whoever could say those wonderful kind of things to me.”
“Perhaps someday you will, or someone like him,” he answered quietly.
The lights went out at that instant and the entire freighter shuddered. Magroodian, twisted and bent, sprang into action like a cat.
“Stay here, Belle!” he said and hobbled through the dark by memory. His instincts told him the engine main power relays were failing, and he headed that way. The emergency lighting finally kicked in, flickering and red. In the drive compartment, Magroodian saw that he guessed correctly. He brought the main power grid off line. He now owned about two hours of time to spend on figuring this out before the backup generator systems expended their chemical fuel. The backup battery system he disconnected long ago in the process of saving the freighter.
Magroodian quickly determined that it came down to a choice. He used the standard procedure and added key systems one by one to the recoupled power grid. No matter how he did it, or in what order, it still came to a choice. He left power to the cargo bay and its cargo online. The life support systems remained on backup. Belle found him hunched over a computer much later.
“You fixed the problem,” she said with amazement.
“No, far from it,” Magroodian spat.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Life support is on backup power, and that system can run life support by itself for about…” he glanced at the computer, then finished, “Six more hours. Then the backup system is out of fuel.”
“That would give you six hours to find the problem, right?” she asked.
“Yes, but the fuel runs out. We don’t get more. If something bad happened later, we would have no backup power system at all. Besides, the support system damage is in part of the ship I have sealed off. We don’t have suits that support that kind of vacuum work anyway.”
“Oh,” Belle said.
“Our cargo takes power, but I cannot even uncouple it from the master relays or it will be worthless,” he explained.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Magroodian lied, thankful for the fact that his twisted, ugly face could not convey deception.
The next hours contained few conversations. Magroodian existed in an agitated state of activity, most of it spent at the helm. He sat in earnest silence, only wiping his chin and surrounded by technical manuals. He had some piloting experience because the job required it. Because of this, he knew there were some operations a navigation program could not execute. Planetary orbital insertion happened to be one of them, so Magroodian did the best he could.
Belle saw him many times, limping along as quickly as he could in his race against time. He went in and out of the cargo hold frequently. She assumed his task of saving the ship consumed him completely, and willingly stayed out of his way. She distracted herself by investigating the ships’ systems using the computer terminal in her room. Magroodian did in fact have most of the ship completely shut down. She wondered why he had not just taken the cargo hold off line months ago. Looking for anything to answer that, Belle found some audio files, hundreds of them. She only played three before she bolted from her small berth to find Magroodian. When she found him near the airlock, their eyes met and both knew what the other thought.
“Why?” she said with a quavering voice and tears on her cheeks.
“It is the only way one of us will survive all the way to Centauri,” Magroodian answered, now suited up and clearly set to walk out of the airlock.
Belle shook her head. “No, no. Why didn’t you tell me? About the recordings? It was you all along. My poet.”
Magroodian’s world stopped. Tempted to just walk into the airlock and cycle it without a word, he ultimately dropped his hand to his side. He felt defeated.
“You could never love anyone as… hideous as me,” he said, indicating his face with his good hand. “It was easier.”
Belle was speechless for a moment, tears flowing. Then she shook her head again, a puzzled look on her face. “You’re wrong, but what were you about to do?” she asked.
Magroodian explained the trade-off quickly, concluding the explanation by saying, “So I’ve cut the life support down to accommodate one person, programmed the insertion at Centauri Alpha, and I was about to… walk out.”
Belle dissolved into waves of hard, sorrowful tears. She staggered against the bulkhead, rocked to her core. Magroodian had no idea what he had done or said that caused this. He only wanted to save her life. She stopped sobbing abruptly and wiped her face. She looked into Magroodian’s eyes and strode to him. In an instant, she stood inches from his face with hers. The fire in her eyes softened, and he felt the sensation again that meant her hand rested against his ruined face. Then she leaned in and placed one soft, loving kiss on his lopsided mouth.
“You silly man,” she said in a whisper, “I’ve loved you for months now. And if I had known you wrote me such beautiful words, that those were more than dreams… that they came from your heart…”
She cried again, softly, and this time into his neck. Eventually his arms took her and held her. They stood that way for a long time.
Later, Magroodian decoupled the cargo hold power system from the main junction. Belle watched as he reconnected the life support and recalibrated it to account for two humans instead of one. Then she asked to see the cargo, and Magroodian walked with her on his uneven legs to the hold. The backup lights illuminated the device in a surreal red light.
“It’s a kind of communication device. I’ve been sending reports back to the owner with it,” he said, and Belle saw the keyboard and screen, now dull black.
“Why is it special?” she asked, intuiting the uniqueness of it.
“It uses entangled quantum particles. Whatever messages I type here, or whatever data I send, is instantaneously reflected back on Earth with no delay.”
“Oh God,” she gasped, seeing the point.
“Yes,” Magroodian said, “It’s one of a kind and took trillions of credits to research and build. But it takes a lot of power. It would have made the owner richer than any man in the Solar System.”
“He’s going to be furious with you,” Belle said.
“You could say that,” he answered, wiping his lip.
Some months later, Magroodian initiated the braking and entry sequence. Both he and Belle struggled under a full Earth gravity for weeks, and then he increased the braking thrust. By the time the external cameras showed them the bright, yellow disk of Centauri Alpha, both had adapted to two full Earth gravities as best as they could. They helped one another, adapted to each other, and grew close.
Magroodian maneuvered the freighter manually now, Belle watching in fascination as he caressed the controls with his one good hand and expertly put the ship into a stable orbit of the second planet, an Earth-like world far from home. Planetary systems detected and relayed a standard query message. When the colonial authority learned their identity, the next message was a sharp and directive. The Beast’s Centauri office expected him to come in person, immediately.
“You’re in trouble,” Belle said.
“Oh yes. I ruined the company,” Magroodian explained.
Belle, catching her breath loudly, said, “Oh no! You should have pushed me out the airlock, stasis thing and all.”
“I could never have done that, Belle,” Magroodian said, “You know that.”
His words seemed to calm her. Then she stated without room for debate, “I am coming with you.”
“All right,” Magroodian acceded.
Within two hours, a corporate shuttle hailed them and instructed them to extend the docking posts.
Magroodian sat in the office, sweating and breathing heavily under almost twice Earth normal gravity. Beside him, Belle reclined in a gravity chair designed specifically for offworlders unused to such a deep gravity well. Her breathing came hard, and some motions made her groan, but never once did she complain.
An administrative functionary breezed into the room on muscular legs. This functionary collected the bills of lading and other necessary documents, to include each of Magroodian and Belle’s identification files. The man broke the electronic seal on the case, flipped casually through the packet, and then pulled a scanner out to upload the identity information on their cards. It matched the logged mission data, and he then swiped a special, textured area of the device first down Belle’s arm, then Magroodian’s. Belle’s swipe earned a green diode light, as did Magroodian’s. The readout for Magroodian, however, made the functionary double-take and then fly from the room.
Seconds later, a cadre of other administrative types flooded the room. Belle lay there confused as the team made her more comfortable and brought food and drinks. More teams arrived, these equipped with data pads and earpieces. Magroodian sighed and then groaned as he stood. He whispered something in the ear of one aide, who vanished. All of the rest he waved away. He and Belle were alone again in seconds.
“What is going on?” Belle asked.
“Belle, you may hate me for this, because I’ve not been totally honest with you,” Magroodian said.
“Go on,” she said with hesitation.
“Belle, I am The Beast,” he said without decoration and waited for whatever response he earned. None came, and he continued, “Everything else is true except I don’t work for the man, I am the man. The company is now in the red, this destruction of my face and body is not makeup. I was and still am a hard and shrewd businessman, but once I fell in love with you, and you returned it to me so well, I changed completely. I’ll understand if you leave and hate me. I can have you back on Luna on one of my fold ships in two weeks. I regret making you my insurance for our trip. I do not and will not regret falling in love with you, Belle.”
He finished his statement and stood ready for whatever Belle had to say. Minutes passed, and tears again brimmed in her eyes. Then, slowly shaking her raven-haired head, she raised her arms to him, inviting him to her for an embrace. The Beast, Magroodian, accepted it gladly
The Three Little Pigs
Here is another offering to the F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES list brought to you by our very own A.H. Browne, better known as the POURINGMYARTOUT guy. Enjoy his jazzed up take on the childhood classic The Three Little Pigs.
****
Tusker felt the sweat running down his face under the coarse, bristly hair. His snout was glistening under the hot, bright spotlights, and his tusks gleamed. He gripped the drumsticks tightly between his stubby hoof pads to keep them from slipping as he pounded frantically on the drums. He could feel the shuddering, jarring shock run up his arms and pound through his body as he set the rhythm. He loved the sound of the drums. He knew that most drummers were using new synthetic skins, but he loved the classic human skin. It just sounded right.
He had never felt more alive. The drug was coursing through his veins like liquid fire. Even past the glare of the spotlights he could see the crowd surging like a storm-tossed sea. And out in that vast, heaving ocean, he could see the glint of thousands of pairs of eyes riveted on him as he pounded the heartbeat of life into the music. Thousands of eyes belonging to sweet little porkers who were burning with desire for him. Oh, he was going to sow town after the show tonight.
He wished he could get the guys to try this drug just once. But they were on a new clean-trip after years on the road, struggling to make a name for the band, to break into the big time. All those nights of playing little dive bars in little crap towns. Tusker knew if he could just have discovered this drug back in the day, then they would have made the big time a whole lot sooner. He never wanted this night to end.
But end the night did, as nights will, and after the last encore the band stumbled backstage, followed by the screaming adoration of the crowd. As soon as they got into the dressing room, Tusker’s two band mates turned on him.
“What the hell is up with you, Tusker?” The Snout growled at him. “You were burning through the songs. You just kept playing faster and faster. You’re supposed to keep the beat, not see how fast you can push it.”
“We sounded like a recording played at the wrong speed,” added Porseus.
Tusker was genuinely surprised by this attack. “What are you talking about? We sounded great. We never sounded better than we did tonight.”
“We aren’t a speedthrash band. We don’t do walls of noise. We are known for our subtlety and complexity. We do real music.” The Snout was trying hard to be reasonable.
But Tusker wasn’t in the mood to reasonable. He was feeling like they were ganging up on him unfairly. And he was feeling his anger rising up inside him, the flames licking at the dry tinder of his raging soul.
“Real music?” he sneered. “Is that what you call it? Is that why I never get to help write any of the songs? You think I am just some farm boy from the sticks?”
His two friends could feel the argument slipping into dangerous territory. The Snout hastened to reassure his friend. “Nobody said that, Tusker. You never showed any interest in writing songs. That isn’t our fault.”
“You never asked me,” Tusker responded coldly.
“We are getting way off topic here,” commented Porseus calmly.
“So now I can’t talk as good as you, is that it?” demanded Tusker. “You got some nerve, putting on airs with me. I have known both of you since we were in grade school together.” He pointed a cloven hoof at The Snout. “Do you remember those days, Mr. big shot? Because I sure do. I remember you before you were ‘The Snout’. I remember you when you were just Grismold Terris, a piglet from a crap town in the middle of nowhere. Before you could play the guitar. Before anyone ever heard you sing. And you,” he began, turning on Porseus with eyes blazing, “before you became the bass player for the biggest band in history, you weren’t so hot. Porseus Gowl, who couldn’t even get onto the hoofball team because you were too fat.”
“Look, Franzis, just calm down,” said Porseus evenly.
“Don’t call me that,” yelled Tusker. “I am Tusker Barns now. Drummer for The Three Little Pigs. The band that sells out more stadiums than any band in history. The band we all put together to get out of that little crap town.”
“Okay, Tusker, we don’t want to fight with you. You just seemed to be a little out of control tonight.” The Snout sounded vaguely disappointed.
“Maybe we just need to pick up the pace of some of those dirges you two write.” Tusker was almost screaming now.
Porseus lowered his eyes and bit back a reply. He knew it would only make matters worse. He didn’t know what his friend was on, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. They had all experimented with drugs when they were younger. And those first years on the road playing small dive bars was mostly a hazy memory. But he did remember their lives together when they were growing up in Stockyard. Franzis had lived on a human farm outside of town. Grismold’s dad was the town’s only dentist. His own father was the janitor at the high school they had all attended, a constant source of embarrassment to him. It was partly the way that Franzis had always remained proud of his own dirt-poor father despite the fact that he raised filthy human livestock on a rundown little ranch that had made his own situation seem bearable. He hated to see his friend like this.
But Tusker had had enough. He made a sloppy waving motion with his arms and turned away, hurrying out of the dressing room and off down the corridor leading out from under the Rocket Stadium.
Porseus started to go after him, but The Snout put out a hoof and stopped him. “Let him cool off. We can talk to him tomorrow when he has come down off whatever he is on.”
Tusker jumped into his brand new Roadhog parked in the private underground parking lot and started the engine. The ferocious roar filled the cavern around him in a most satisfying manner. He tore out of there going much too fast and before long was ripping through the Honeywood hills. The lights of Angel City spread below him like a field of stars reflected in a huge lake. But the sight did not calm him, did not slow his racing heart or bank the fires inside of him.
He pulled up in front of his mansion, and the sight of the sprawling building did go a little way towards making him feel better. This ostentatious display of his own success did make him feel powerful and in control. That was all he wanted. A little control.
The mansion was made of bound bundles of rushes imported from Eegiptt. The roof was fake thatch made from some kind of plastic. His highly overpaid architect had convinced him that he would be the first to own such a home in the United Confederacy. He had also assured Tusker that this style of building was all the rage amongst the fabulously wealthy in The Old Countries, and that soon all the glittering, beautiful swine would be clamoring to copy the new trend. The rushes were just for show anyway. They were bundled around hardened steel cores, but Tusker did think the place had a certain elegant charm, like a cottage from some old fairytale. A really big cottage.
He turned on the giant screen telemonitor and watched some hoofball. The Wild Warthogs were playing the Badass Boars, and he tried to pay attention to the game, but his mind kept wandering. At about three in the morning he tried to get some sleep. He lay tossing and turning in the huge, canopied bed. His heart was still thudding away in his chest like one of his own drum solos, and he was sweating like a human. In the darkest hour of the morning he finally fell asleep.
And then he saw the face. A hairy, ferocious face, with a long, tooth-filled muzzle and two pointy ears. He woke up yelling, but the nightmare didn’t end. In the corners of the room he saw wispy shadow shapes and heard claws scraping at the tile floor. He leaped from the bed and ran to the closet, grabbing the blastgun he kept handy. He turned without aiming and fired a spray of pebbleshot into the window where he thought he saw something moving. He felt hot breath on the back of his head and heard ragged breathing. He screamed and spun around, letting go with another blast right into the closet, right into the clothes hanging there. The clothing began to smolder but he didn’t notice. He was too busy being frightened out of his wits by the terrifying howling coming from all around the outside of his house.
He raced from the bedroom and bounded down the curved stairway to the bottom floor. The howling grew in volume. And the bloodthirsty and mournful baying was taken up by more of the shadow creatures. He stood in the middle of the living room, shaking and trying to aim the gun in all directions at once. He heard scratching and pounding at his front door and at all the large windows surrounding the huge room. The creatures were coming in.
He let out one last scream and raced to the door leading to his garage. He jumped into the car and grabbed the spare key he hid in the little compartment in the dashboard. He didn’t have his regular set of keys. He didn’t even have any clothes on. He couldn’t take the time to open the garage door. He drove straight through it. As he peeled away, if he had bothered to look, he would have seen the upper floor of his fine new house engulfed in flames.
Porseus threw a robe on and stumbled down the stairs to find out who was pounding on his door at this unseemly hour of the night. He was too mad to be worried that it might be someone more dangerous than himself. He was a very large pig. That was part of what made the name of their band such a funny, tusk-in-cheek joke. He threw the door open and was shocked to see his friend Tusker standing there stark naked and holding a gun. As soon as the door opened, Tusker charged in and slammed it shut once again.
“They are after me. They are trying to kill me.” Tusker was ranting as he bolted around the room, peering out windows and aiming the gun in all directions.
“Who is trying to kill you?” Porseus kept asking, but all he got in return were the ravings of a mad pig.
Suddenly Tusker screamed something about the howling and sent a blast of pellets through one of the windows.
“Hey, what are you doing?” yelled Porseus. “This place isn’t even paid for yet.”
Tusker answered by shooting a hole through the front door.
“This place is made from rare hardwoods imported from all over the planet. Do you have any idea what that door cost?” Porseus was more than a little angry by this point. He was also more than a little frightened. Something had obviously scared his friend badly.
Tusker went into a long, rambling speech about the creatures that had surrounded his house and his desperate flight for his life. Porseus was almost convinced that his friend was just having a bad trip, when he heard the sirens in the distance. He went to the front door, opened it, and peered toward Tuskers house only a few blocks away. He was startled to see a somber red glow in the sky and a pillar of dark smoke obscuring the setting moon.
Tusker joined him on the porch. He was wild-eyed and rambling, but Porseus couldn’t deny that something bad had happened at his friend’s house. And then it came to him. Tusker must owe some bad pigs money. Bad pigs who sold bad drugs. These would be dangerous individuals. He grabbed Tusker by the arm and led him to his own car, a classic Hock Roadster parked in the driveway. Together they took off, headed for The Snout’s place.
Five minutes later they pulled up in front of the imposing stone estate owned by their friend.
THE ANGEL CITY CHRONICLE
Police this morning found the bodies of The Snout, Porseus Gowl, and Tusker Barns, members of the famed hard-steel band ‘The Three Little Pigs’, at the residence owned by the Snout in the Honeywood Hills. All three of the famous musicians were killed by gunfire. Preliminary investigation has led the police to believe that the gun belonged to Tusker Barns. Evidence points to the fact that Tusker shot his two band mates before turning the gun on himself.
The medical examiner says it is too early to do anything but speculate, but that he was willing to bet that Tusker was under the influence of the new street drug called Big Bad Wolf.
Kristerella
Somebody pinch me because I must be dreaming. It seems our very first F*CKED UP FAIRY TALE has come in! Thanks to my ever trashy but always wise blogmate Kevin Jorenby of TRAILERTRASHDELUXE fame, we are treated to a fairy tale every bit as f*cked up as promised. Ladies and gentlemen, please to enjoy…KRISTERELLA!
***
Kristerella awoke and stretched to the pleasant sounds of birds singing a happy tune. Her head was thick from last night’s debauchery, but still she felt okay all in all. She laid her head back down and soon was dreaming about her “main squeeze”, R-Patsy; he was just about to enter her when: “Cock-a-doodle-doo!!” went the damn rooster.
“Ohhh, that cock”, she lamented, “always waking me up when I get to the good part.” Then she remembered a little of last night’s “after-party” with R-Patsy. “Ohhhh, that cock”, she purred this time. A little smile broke across her face at the recollection. “Ouch”, she said, as her facial muscles, unaccustomed to smiling, or any emotion at all for that matter, entered unfamiliar territory. She’d had small parts in the village plays, but never showed emotion in any of them. Her vaguely good looks, and the fact that everyone felt bad about her orphaned status, were all that kept getting her roles. Oh, there were some nasty rumors going around that she was overly friendly to the play director, and R-Patsy’s feelings were hurt by this, but Kristerella assured him, and anyone else who asked, that nothing much really happened and she still loved R-Patsy.
The thought of smiling made her sit bolt upright in her shabby straw bed. She hid her face in her hands as she recalled more embarrassing details of last night. She dimly recalled laughing at one of the jokes that one of her “backup squeezes” had told (was it Mandingo? or Bubba? she couldn’t remember; one was black and one was white, but all she knew and cared about was that they were both sure-handed coachmen and sure good lovers, and they always had weed).
“Please tell me I didn’t show emotion,” she sighed into her hands, “I just can not show emotion.” Her father had taught her that showing emotion was for common folk, just as he had shown her how to pick the best pot, just before he was murdered by a rival drug gang. She hadn’t kept up the family business, but she kept some of her dad’s connections, and either “traded favors” for enough weed to get her by, or scrounged together enough allowance from taking care of her mean-ass stepmother and ugly-ass stepsisters, to buy enough to keep her happy. She loved sitting on the front porch when she thought no one was watching and getting high. She also got a little income from a deal she had worked out with the mice, fencing things they stole from the ugly stepsisters.
God, but those were some ugly women. Her stepmother had probably been sort of striking in her younger days, but her features were a little too sharp to be considered beautiful or even pretty. The relentless aging process, as well as her unbridled greed, had taken away any pleasantness about her features, giving her a permanent, ugly scowl. That is, except for when she felt like she was “putting one over” on someone, then she got this hideous satisfied smug look on her face, like one would get if they thought they’d denied someone their favorite shoes or something. As for the stepsisters, they were a new and improved kind of ugly. Kristerella, for the life of her, couldn’t figure out why God decided to strap a pair of vaginas on as homely and dumpy a couple of bodies as were ever formed. Their mom was bad enough, but their dad must have made Sasquatch look like the royal Prince.
Oh, the Prince. She would love to get a piece of that. If R-Patsy only knew how she felt about the Prince, he’d really whine like a little baby. It wasn’t just the money, the position, the way he could dance and sing; it was, more than anything else, the way he played the lute. He did a lute solo during his song “When Dodo Birds Cry”, that sent her through the roof.
“Speaking of birds”, she thought to herself. She took a couple quick hits off her pipe, threw the covers off her nude body, moved down and put her legs up on the footboard of her bed, and clapped twice. Seemingly from everywhere, mice and birds appeared. The birds first grabbed a sponge out of the wash-basin, dipped it in a huge bowl of honey, and flew in tandem over her body, squeezing out the honey-filled sponge all over her. The mice spread the honey around on her and nibbled playfully at her neck, her nipples, and the entrance to her own honeypot. Once the birds were done with the honey, they lined up in the rafters of her little garret. At a whistled cue from the lead bird, they took off and lined up in an attack formation, diving down from the rafters and swooping in and out of her gaping gash, fluttering their wings at the entrance, like she had taught them to. After a few minutes of this, she clapped her hands again, the birds and mice all backed off, and she shoved the giant heel of a glass slipper inside herself, crying out, “Oh my Puhrincccce!!!!” as she shuddered mightily in ecstasy.
Completely satisfied, Kristerella giggled a little stoned giggle, thinking to herself: “If R-Pats only knew who I really wanted.” Then a horrible thought occurred to her–”Oh my God, he better have pulled out last night. I don’t want to pop out a kid with that big fucking ugly forehead like R-Patsy has. I mean, his eyes and his body drive me crazy, but that forehead is Uggggg-leee.” “And the little bastard’s head would probably tear me in two coming out, if he has that same freaky forehead. And where is he anyway?”
She got up and went to the window. “Oh, now I get it”, she exclaimed. There was a long, bright yellow rope hanging all the way down to the top part of the lower floor of the decaying manor house, the house that her pops had lovingly built up and Old Wartface herself had hatefully let go to rot while she spoiled the Ugly Twins with the last of her dad’s money, drug money that was rightfully Kristerella’s. The rope was actually braided together out of human hair, from her longtime rival for R-Patsy’s affections, her slut of a distant cousin, the bitch that Kristerella liked to lovingly call “Ra-Cunt-Zel”, an even bigger pothead than Kristerella, who sold half of her hair years ago to Kristerella’s dad to pay for a couple pounds of weed. The shit was so straw-like already from too much blonde hair dye, that it made a very sturdy rope. Kristerella had to hand it to R-Patsy–he only needed to use the rope for the steepest part at the top of the house, the last section going up to Kristerella’s room, and the lower part he scaled like he was some sort of vampire or something.
After the birds and the mice helped her dress, Kristerella made her way down the long stairway toward the second-floor bedrooms of the Uglies. On the way down, she spied a disgustingly obese mouse which she promptly named Gus, since she was a big “Lonesome Do-do bird” fan. She put some undersized clothes on him so that everyone could ridicule his obesity even more. She made Jean-Luc, the lead thief in her gang of mice-thieves, explain to Gus that if he wanted to keep on salting away the table scraps he’d have to pull his considerable weight as a thief.
She cracked open the door to her evil Stepmother’s room, the smell of the old lady’s gas nearly knocking her down in the process. She whispered for the nasty cat, Aguilera, to follow her down to the kitchen for breakfast. When they reached the kitchen, Kristerella started a fire in the woodstove while Aguilera farted, stretched, screeched some awful high noises, waved her paws oddly up and down as she screeched, then plopped down on the rug and promptly fell asleep. The horse and the dog, two of the dumbest creatures Kristerella had ever met, but who magically seemed to communicate, with short neighs and barks, complicated messages to each other whenever the birds told them someone in the house needed rescuing, were sleeping in the morning sun. The mice all came out and stole most of the corn from the chickens in the yard, pooled their strength and stole a broom off the wall, and bashed Aguilera over the head with it, just for fun.
The mean stepmom and the ugly stepsisters all finally woke up and rang their bells for breakfast. Kristerella made them wait while she smoked a couple joints, blowing pot smoke into the nostrils of the unconscious Aguilera. After a while, she tired of this and took the now-lukewarm porridge and tea up to the bitches, the now-groggily awake Aguilera close behind. Aguilera spied Gus hiding under a teacup, grabbed him and threw him at the ugliest sister, who shrieked at her mother. The evil stepmother then gave Kristerella 3 days worth of work to do before lunch, as punishment. Kristerella didn’t care; she had plenty of weed, and the stepmother would be too busy trying to make ladies out of her clumsy, ugly daughters to bother checking on Kristerella’s work. She still found time to beat Aguilera with her mop bucket, though.
As she was busy cleaning, Kristerella heard a knock on the door. It was a representative from the royal palace, inviting all the women from the household to a ball in honor of the Prince that night. The King was worried that the Prince was a little “light in the loafers”, since all he wanted to do was ride horses, play the lute, and dress in frilly purple sportcoats, so he made the Duke organize a dance so that the Prince could find a mate.
Kristerella took the note up to the so-called “music room”, where the step-mother was assaulting the piano in accompaniment to the Ugly Twins doing their best to out-screech Aguilera. “At least Aguilera’s screeching is usually in tune”, sighed Kristerella as she opened the door. She interrupted the Uglies in what appeared to be some sort of sisterly foreplay. Kristerella would’ve steamed open the letter, but the King’s official seal was on it, and she dared not break that. Besides, when she had snuck out earlier for a midmorning puff, she ran into Bubba, who’d told her about the royal ball. He’d heard it from the widow lady down the lane, the one who lived in a shoe (which she called “The Shaq” for some reason) and who traded Bubba killer blowjobs for his killer “chronic”, so that she could keep her sanity while raising 23 of the laziest kids on the planet (except for the ugly stepsisters, that is). The old woman was sending all 9 of her daughters that were over the age of 11 to the ball, along with one of her sons, Percy, who liked to design and sew all his sister’s clothes (“if you know what I mean”, she’d say), “just in case”, since, like everyone else, she’d heard the rumors about the Prince. It was really assumed that Percy would go anyway, even though the ball was for young ladies and their adult chaperones, because he had designed most of the gowns in the kingdom, and treated all the dances as if they were his own personal fashion show. His mother was pretty redneck about Percy, but she had to admit that he had the only ambition in the whole bunch, and his dress designs brought in much-needed income. Percy’s “gaydar” didn’t really go off around the Prince, but he, like Kristerella, had many fantasies about the Prince and held out hopes that perhaps one day he could convince the Prince to “bat for the other side”. Besides, he had a purple paisley sportcoat that he knew the Prince would like.
Kristerella quietly stood while her mean stepmother read aloud the note about that night’s upcoming ball. The ugly stepsisters snorted and farted gracelessly with homely excitement as their mother tried to calm them down, fully realizing that it would take the whole 10 hours to try to scrape off the outer layer of ugly and make them marginally presentable. Still, even a bitchy mother can dream.
“What are you looking at, ‘Second-hand Rose’”?, sneered the ugliest sister, setting both of them into gales of clumsy, snotting, spitting, choking laughter. Kristerella did get their hand-me-downs, and got some cash too, from the clothes and jewelry (that the stepsisters forgot they had, or didn’t like but thought they were in too good a shape to give to the hated Kristerella) stolen by Jean-Luc and his gang of mice-thieves, right out of their closets.
“Surely I can go to the ball too,” cried Kristerella. She was bound and determined to get the Prince out of his paisley knickers for real, not just in fantasy. Her mean stepmother agreed that, if Kristerella remodelled the entire west wing of the manor, and resodded 5 acres of lawn, she could go to the ball also.
Kristerella quickly went to the stables and serviced both Bubba and Mandingo in exchange for a buzz and their help with the extra work. She then beat the birds and mice mercilessly, forcing them to resew her late mother’s frumpy old gown and to steal some jewelry and accessories from the ugly stepsisters to complete her outfit. Her plan worked beautifully until she made the mistake of modelling her outfit in front of her evil stepmother and her ugly stepsisters. It just so happened that the sheriff, who once upon a time had a little affair with Kristerella’s evil stepmother during her first marriage, chose that moment to stop by and bring some zucchini. The evil stepmother, even as she was making eyes at the sheriff, spied some parts of Kristerella’s outfit that looked familiar. She pointed them out to the dimwitted stepsisters, who slooooowly realized that the items had been stolen from them. They demanded the sheriff immediately arrest Kristerella for receiving stolen goods; he hauled her off to jail.
As luck would have it, another distant relative of Kristerella’s, Magda, was in jail doing time for insider stock trading. Magda could do magical things in the home; people used to say she could “make a tea party out of a horse turd.” In return for Bubba throwing some weed to her through the jail’s outside window, Magda took some old rags that happened to be lying around in the jail cell and sewed them into a fine gown that would’ve made Percy proud. Before she had gone off with the sheriff, Kristerella had managed to whisper to Mandingo, who was standing nearby, that she would be ever-so-grateful if he’d bring her glass slippers to the jail so that she’d have something to do that night. Mandingo rolled his eyes at her nymphomania, but complied anyway. The slippers, and some spangles and jewelry taken off a nearby passed-out “lady of the evening” in the same cell (who’d made the mistake of being so drunk that she propositioned the parson in front of his wife) completed the outfit. Mandingo and Bubba, being close friends of all the “shoe” family, convinced a couple of the oldest daughters to stop by the jail and model their gowns for the sheriff. Mandingo then stole the cell keys while the sheriff was thus distracted, freeing Kristerella. Meanwhile Bubba laced the sheriff’s pipe tobacco with some powerful weed. The sheriff, unaccustomed to the stuff, lit up a bowl, took a few puffs, and slept for 24 hours. The “shoe” girls, being used to doing each other’s hair and makeup, slightly altered Kristerella’s hair and makeup, knowing that would be enough to fool the dimwitted stepsisters at the ball; they had to rely on the dim lighting at the ball to help fool the evil stepmother.
The ball went as you would imagine; the Prince shuddered at the raw ugliness of Kristerella’s stepsisters, which caused Kristerella to wonder how the Prince would look shuddering in ecstasy with her, and the Prince took one look at Kristerella and fell in love. R-Patsy (who unbeknownst to everyone was way older than he looked) had suffered a heart attack while climbing down from his 3-hour performance with Kristerella the night before, and fallen to his death, hidden in the ivy until found several days later by the dog, and was a nonfactor in the rest of this tale. The Prince and Kristerella danced for hours, then slipped outside for a quickie on the footbridge in the moonlight. They pledged their undying love for each other and Kristerella showed the Prince how to pleasure her with the heels of her glass slippers, which she’d had custom-made to resemble a sizeable dildo. After awhile they decided they should go back in, as it was getting late. At precisely midnight, one of the servants, who had been playing catch with his friend with garden produce, accidentally beaned the evil stepmother in the head with a pumpkin. As the stepmother shook her head to clear it, her evil ugly eyes lit on the Prince’s new flame, who she suddenly realized was her servant girl, her late husband’s daughter Kristerella. She cried out “Thief, thief! Get her–she must have escaped from the jail.” Kristerella ran off, breaking a jagged piece off one of her dildo-heels in the process, which the Duke promptly picked up.
The next day, the King sent the Duke to match up the broken piece of dildo with the rest of the heel of the slipper. Only the King, the Prince, the Duke and, of course, Kristerella knew that the pieces were part of the slipper, not just some random dildo. The Duke travelled the kingdom with the broken piece, claiming to have found it at the ball, and that the Prince really wanted to meet the woman who had the most similar dildo to it. The Duke had to inspect dildoes of all sizes and shapes. When he got to the house of Kristerella and her stepfamily, he found that the stepsisters had dildoes as ugly as their owners. Meanwhile, the evil stepmother had found Kristerella hiding in the wardrobe in her room, locked her in, and hid the key in her pocket. Gus and Jean-Luc managed to steal it, but Gus had a heart attack and died on the way up to bring it to Kristerella.
Aguilera, who found that she now loved pot almost as much as Kristerella did, was high as a kite, singing and moving her paws oddly up and down on the stairs up to Kristerella’s room. She thought Jean-Luc was a toy, so she started to toss him and the key up in the air. The birds saw this, quickly realized what was going on, and somehow magically passed this information on to the horse, who with one loud whinny, magically passed the entire story written down here to the dog, who dashed into the manor, up the stairs, scared away Aguilera, grabbed Jean-Luc and the key in his jaws (instantly breaking Jean-Luc’s back and killing him) and delivered a slobbery key and a dead mouse under Kristerella’s door. She ran downstairs to show the Duke her broken slipper, but of course the evil stepmother tripped her, causing the slipper to fall to the floor and break into a thousand little pieces. Kristerella wiped the smug smirk off the evil stepmother’s face by producing the other slipper, identical dildo-heel and all, to the Duke.
Kristerella and the Prince lived happily ever after, until he moved her to a place later called Minneapolis, where he did nothing but write songs for his lute, and became so in love with himself that she dumped him. The stepsisters and stepmother became so lazy and despondent that they laid in bed all day, until an earthquake happened one day, further breaking down the decaying manor, and stirring up so much mouse piss and so many mouse droppings (from the vermin that Kristerella had used as partners in crime over the years), that they all contracted hantavirus and soon died horrible deaths. Bubba and Mandingo set up a pot-growing operation with “Mama Shoe” and married a couple of the daughters. Percy moved to Paris and became a huge success. Kristerella was last seen muttering to herself and walking through the American wilderness, for some reason heading towards the Pacific Northwest, still showing no emotion whatsoever.
Holy Jayne It’s Firefly!
Attention all you shiny folks from the ‘Verse! Today is the tenth anniversary of the first episode of the uber series that hardly was, FIREFLY. You don’t have to be a Joss Whedon fan to appreciate his dystopian western turned cult-classic.
For anyone who’s read my novella REAPERS WITH ISSUES and enjoyed the antics of a horseman named War, you may want to pay close attention to a character named Jayne Cobb.
Here’s a big thank you to a young uber fan-friend of mine for her awesome video below.
F*cked Up Fairy Tales
F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES is a compilation project for bloggers who wish to take up the challenge of writing their own spin on a classic fairy tale. Bloggers are invited to choose one of the tales below and leave their choice in the comments. Only one tale per blogger, please. I will update the list as soon as the choices roll in. Tales are assigned on a first come, first choose basis.
Each tale is to be no more than 5000 words in length, and can be as funny, sick, twisted, erotic or vanilla as you wish. Once your tale is finished feel free to email it back to me where I will run it in a feature post as well add it to the page above. When all the tales are complete, I will work with a publishing company who is volunteering to publish the compilation of works in both ebook and paperback formats. All proceeds from the compiled works will be donated to a participating charity, with sales records made available to contributors annually.
UPDATE – ALL TALES ARE ASSIGNED. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PARTICIPATE AND HAVE NOT RECEIVED A TALE, LEAVE AN IDEA IN THE COMMENTS AND I’LL ADD IT TO THE LIST.
Dear Hellis – A Letter To My Fifteen Year-Old Self
I got this idea from fellow rockin’ chick Darlene at THE DAILY WOMAN. Make sure you check out her post which is witty and insightful as opposed to mine which is…well, you’ll see.
Dear Hellis,
You know how you are absolutely certain that you are going to take off to New York and become a dancer/artist/photographer after high school? Or how you are NEVER going to get married or have children, ever? Well here’s some advice I’d like to give you from the future to make your impending reality bearable.
1. Get off your high horse and date a nerd. Trust me on this.
2. Start studying for the S.A.T.s NOW.
3. Yeah, don’t get attached to all the awesome. Or to your ass, because in twenty years it is going to expand into epic proportions.
4. Your English Lit teacher is NOT correct. What you write will not forever be considered, “the sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate.”
5. Teenaged boys lie. Even the nice ones.
6. Don’t listen to your father.
7. No, your hair does NOT look cool like that.
8. George Michael is gay. Don’t waste your time.
9. What makes you popular at fifteen doesn’t mean shit when you’re forty. Grow a personality now.
10. DO NOT MARRY THE HOT ROMANIAN GUY BECAUSE HE LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE LOST BOYS!!!!!
For more “Dear Me” letters visit CHATTING AT THE SKY.
Interview With…Lucifer
In my world, Lucifer looks a lot like Colin Farrell.
Today’s REAPER WITH ISSUES interview comes to you live from scenic downtown Hell, because today we sit down with none other than the Devil himself, Lucifer.
HE: Good morning, Lucifer. You look nice today.
LUCIFER: *runs hands over Italian silk suit* Yes, yes I do. And might I say that you look lovely as well. I cannot remember the last time I saw polyester blend worn so tastefully.
***
HE: *sighs* How was your trip to Earth? I noticed you didn’t travel by bus the way the Horsemen did.
LUCIFER: I will admit there are certain perks to being an Archangel. The ability to apparate is one of them.
***
HE: That’s right…I almost forgot. You are an Angel. So does that mean you are lacking in the… “meat department” or is that just a rumor?
LUCIFER: Let me be clear- I am an Archangel and as a rule we do not have “junk” as it were. Sadly, when my Father reassigned me to Hell he equipped me with said apparatus as a punishment. His plan worked beautifully, as this particular appendage is more work than it’s worth.
***
HE: You’ve stated that you were “reassigned” to Hell by your Father. Is there any truth to the rumor that this demotion came from a falling out over a woman?
LUCIFER: Oh how little birds love to chirp.
HE: So, I take it you aren’t going to answer the question?
LUCIFER: My lips are sealed.
***
HE: Alright, moving on. What confounds you most about mortals?
LUCIFER: Your overwhelming desire to know the sexual predilections of others. The mind boggles at the effort put toward investigating the bedroom habits of your would be politicians. These same politicians then refuse to represent the rights of their constituents based on their sexual predilections. How you mortals manage to accomplish anything is beyond my comprehension.
***
HE: On that note, if you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
LUCIFER: Literary Agent.
***
HE: No explanation necessary. Tell me, is it hard working for God?
LUCIFER: Working for my Father? Oh what to say, what to say… I suppose when inspected in the proper light the idea of working for God may seem appealing, but I haven’t found that to be necessarily true.
HE: Really? In what way?
LUCIFER: The man lacks vision, for starters. The first thing I would do if I were to take over Heaven is rewrite the Bible. Too many contradictions. No wonder mortals are confused as to what is expected of them.
***
HE: Rewrite the Bible. Interesting. So now tell me- what do you think of the Horsemen?
LUCIFER: Ugh. You want to talk about the ponies. *sighs* So be it. Where do I begin? Pestilence is an insufferable know it all, Famine is a stickler for standards, War is a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and Grim, well…Grim has his moments.
***
HE: Your dream date is?
LUCIFER: Bjork. There’s a lot of pent up hostility in that frigid little body. I’d love to melt her-
***
HE: Got it. Pick one- Beatles or Elvis?
LUCIFER: Why the Beatles, of course. The late great Mr. Lennon sent Jesus off the deep end with one simple statement. I’ve always admired him for that.
***
HE: Favorite sports team?
LUCIFER: I am sad to say that I am a former fan of Tampa Bay Rays baseball. They disappointed me a few years ago. I haven’t forgotten.
***
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
LUCIFER: North Korea.
***
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
LUCIFER: I refute the claim the a fore mentioned politicians have made that I, indeed, am the entity to blame for their succumbing to their baser instincts. No such whispering into ears was committed by me or any of my demon henchmen. We simply do not have the time.
That concludes our interview with the Lord of the Underworld, Lucifer. Stay tuned tomorrow for back to back interviews with God and his golden boy, Jesus!
Happy Anniversary STAR TREK!
WE INTERRUPT OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED INTERVIEWS WITH BREAKING NEWS:
Today marks the 46th anniversary of the airing of the first episode of Star Trek!
As some of you may know, I’ve been introduced to the world of SciFi, and more importantly, to Star Trek fandom. As a Red Sox fan myself, I respect and appreciate the dedication fans have to their chosen genre and television series. More than that, I applaud the voracity with which they defend their beloved Star Trek to Star Wars fans everywhere (Yankees, anyone?).
Although still somewhat new to the genre, I have grown to understand the subtle nuances between different franchises. For example, I prefer Star Trek over Star Wars simply because they have more people and less creatures. This blends perfectly with my abhorrence of animals. And let’s face it- James T. Kirk got more celestial tail than Han Solo ever knew existed. If I were Chewbacca I’d have jumped ship and joined up with Scotty on the Enterprise in a nanosecond (how’s that for some nerd speak?). And if we’re talking Star Captains, how can you beat Jean Luc Picard? Even space villains can’t help but take a bald man seriously.
Despite the fact that I won’t be writing SciFi anytime soon (REAPERS WITH ISSUES is about as close to SciFi as I get), I have come to enjoy reading it. For those of you who have yet to join the genre bandwagon I would suggest starting with Robert A. Heinlein’s STARSHIP TROOPERS. Put aside some time with this one people- once you read the opening you cannot put it down.
Another great author to both the genre and the series is our own Dayton Ward, who combines his writing prowess with his Trekkie fandom and pens some of the best SciFi reads out there. STAR TREK – VANGUARD is a good place to start. Keep an eye out for up and coming writer Tom Elias as well. I see good things in his future.
Then there are the super fans in the form of bloggers who rally their support in posts. Our good friend from the Great White North Sightsnbytes has a hilarious take on the series that will leave you in stitches, and of course the enigmatic Edward Hotspur who turns the genre upside down in his series STARSHIP INNERTHIGHS.
As for my experience with the genre, you can follow my journey here:
CONFESSIONS OF A STAR WARS VIRGIN
Interview With…War
HE: Today we sit down with everyone’s favorite Horseman, War. Good morning, War. How was your trip to Earth?
WAR: Freakin’ awesome! I missed the bus transfer in Purgatory, so I had to walk a some, but then this carful of female rodeo clowns gave me a ride in. Say…do I have white makeup anywhere fun?
***
HE: *struggling not to look* What confounds you most about mortals?
WAR: Uh…nothin’. Well, I guess sometimes I wonder why they go and hack and bludgeon the shit outta one another. Y’all are so fucking good at it, I almost don’t need to try.
***
HE: Where is your favorite place to reap?
WAR: Battlefields, hands-down, and the bloodier the better. Your inner cities aren’t bad these days either, on a small scale.
***
HE: If you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
WAR: Shoot, do we have time for my list? Porn star – that’s an obvious one. I was thinkin’ doctor since I ain’t scared a blood. But the good kinda doctor like one of them Gyno…cogo-ologists, you know, the kind that looks at lady parts. Not one of them human butthole doctors. That shit ain’t right. I was also thinking a vet might be awesome but only because I think the idea of having your entire arm up an elephant’s ass is fucking hilarious… [actually rolls on floor laughing]
***
HE: Has a mortal ever escaped you?
WAR: Just one. Fucking Lazarus. I’ve had some reclassified out of my reach, like Caesar. He got too big for his Rubicon-wading britches, so he got moved from my domain over to Grim’s. Same with Napoleon, that little Frog pantywaist. You might think Saddam Hussein escaped me by livin’ all up in his own asshole there, but in the end, that was MY noose.
***
HE: What’s the most negative aspect of wearing a meat suit?
WAR: There ain’t no downside, Sugar Britches (winks). Uh, they’re kind of fragile. Do you know how fucking painful bending your boner is? [shudders] Maybe the random need to back out a stinker.
***
HE: Is it hard working for God?
WAR: Fuck yes! Think about it: “Now War, you’re supposed to go and reap souls lost to conflict… but don’t be too messy… and don’t break shit… and don’t be too noisy, I’m resting… and that blood will stain, so don’t get it on you!” Seriously, I’d rather be married to a Human woman with control issues.
***
HE: Is Lucifer as bad as they say?
WAR: Lucifer is a card-carrying dickwad. If he weren’t one of them special creations of God, I’dve pummeled the piss out of his silk-suit-wearing panzie ass millennia ago. What I hate about Lu is that he won’t just come out and fuck with you like a man. He’s got to be all passive-aggressive and shit, so you’re just cruising along thinking the everything is cool and BAM! You’re asking yourself, “Hey, how’d this dick get all the way up my ass?”
***
HE: What do you have to say about the Mayans?
WAR: Oooooh! Those are so good with cheese! Or fried! I once had them barbecued and then smothered with pilates. Fuck, I’m hungry. Is there a taco place close?
***
HE: Your dream date is?
WAR: You. Those puppies real?
HE: [ahem] Can you just answer the question?
WAR: Guess I shoulda worn the tattooed rocker meatsuit. I’ll say my dream date was Catherine the Great. You think that story about her dying underneath her horse was true? The only thing close to being horse-like in that rumor was my epic fuckin’ …
***
HE: Alright, alright, moving on. Beatles or Elvis?
WAR: Fuck that hippy shit. I’m straight up old school metal dude, er, dudette. I do my best reapin’ to Disturbed. They ain’t metal but I love that shit. Makes me want to go hack something with a dull blade. Or bone them in half…
***
HE: Favorite sports team?
WAR: You know the Mongols used to have this brutal sport played on horseback… I don’t know. I have to admire teams that suck ass but have loyal fans. The Red Sox come to mind. I hang out with fans mainly for the fun, and of course cheerleaders.
***
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
WAR: Kicking ass and taking names, baby. Humans are always coming up with new reasons to go schwack each other, and yours truly will be there to enjoy the fuckery.
***
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
WAR: I have a sensitive side… no shit. One time, I was out reaping and there was this little kid who got shot. So I was all, like, “Aww, that’s sad,” and then I jerked his little soul out – *ssschwaap* – just like that. Sensitive an’ shit.
***
This concludes our sit down with War, the last of our interviews with The Four Horsemen. Stay tuned tomorrow for our exclusive on site interview in Hell with the ever stylish, ever evil, Lucifer. Then we’ll round out our weekend with an interview with the Big Man himself, God and his favorite son, Jesus! Stay tuned…
