I’m still pretty scattered, but I really am trying to post every-day and if I keep doing that, at some point, I’ll write something pretty. So, that’s the plan.
Yesterday, I started a big project, well, I made Lauren, my assistant, start it. A few years ago I got lazy and quit tagging my blog posts, really, my assistant, Sarah, used to tag them and when she retired, I didn’t keep it up. Part of it was, I just missed her, and doing the tags or making someone else do them, that just made me miss her more. So, the tagging stopped. Yes, an assistant’s just an employee, but the good ones, they do get really important. I miss them when they go, there’s a real sense of loss, another person who goes. Sarah was around when my thumb quit working and I could hardly type, hardly talk to anyone, before the NeuroSwitch. People weren’t really around anyway. Sarah was around though, so we’d go to lunch, at night we’d go to the bar, we’d alphabet conversations. She was good with the alphabet and smart to talk with, so she kept me sane when I really needed it. Sometimes, sitting at the bar, with a vodka tonic and ten dollars worth of Elliott Smith in the jukebox, I’d alphabet flash stories that she’d type up after. She was around for twenty-ish tattoos. She stopped me from dying once. She was around when I really needed someone to be around. A fix for a fix, but we were close and had fun. So, yeah, when she left, the tagging stopped.
Anyway, we’re tagging again, Lauren’s off to a spectacular start. Tonight, I go for another tattoo, and then and then and then…1 comment
I’ve never written about it here, but ever since I was fifteen, after reading The Catcher in the Rye, I’ve had this… recurring want to put my fist through glass windows. Whenever I get so lost, so frustrated, I imagine going through the house and putting my fist through every single window. We’ve never had a garage like Holden Caulfield. I imagine the glass cutting my skin, digging into my knuckles, tearing veins, arteries. That pain would drown out every thought in my head. My head’s such a disaster.
He just loves her. he loves her , when he looks at her, time stops. She goes and goes and goes, and time goes and goes and goes, until everything’s gone and gone and gone. He’s just rambling now, waiting for sleep and bad dreams.He’s just rambling so that he’s not thinking about her, but that’s wrong, he’s rambling about her, so he’s not not thinking about her. He’s never not thinking about her. She’s somewhere else, he just wants her close, maybe the rambling makes her close. It does it does, a little a little, not enough. Not enough. At night, not enough.3 comments
You wake to lips on your neck, gently caressing, searching. Cold fingers on your chest, sliding toward your shoulders, pinning you down.
Her long dark hair’s in your face, tiny curls tickling your nose, her tongue wrapped around yours.
She’s already naked, already wet for you, from you. Her breasts, her body, pressed hard against you, her legs hugging your waist.
She’s going to take you inside her, she’ll hold you there, deeply. You’ll come deep in her, sooner rather than later, whether you want to or not. She’s taken you past the place of choice.
You can’t breathe, or speak. Her teeth tore into your throat, ripped out your tongue.
You’re inside her and she’s soaking wet, wet with your blood.
You’ve never been with a woman like her, nor will you ever be again.6 comments
So, the trailer for Rigor Amortis is live and eating brains! In case you missed it, Rigor Amortis is an anthology of flash fiction, tales of zombie romance and erotica, and it includes one of my stories. One might see “zombie erotica” and be a little taken aback, but trust me, zombies and sex are like chocolate and peanut butter, they just work. I can’t really explain why they work, they just do. You could buy the book for yourself and find out, that’s what I’d do.
Rigor Amortis comes out this Friday…No comments
So, a few months ago my friend, Matt Staggs, tweeted something to the affect that zombie fiction was tired, which made me ask if “zombie erotica” was tired too. Zombie erotica is the only sort of fiction I’ve ever had published. Well, a bunch of us got into this bizarre and rather amusing conversation about zombies and sex, the lovely, Jaym Gates, coined the term, “Rigor Amortis,” and joked that it’d be a great title for a flash fiction anthology. Well, that joke got pretty serious pretty fast, Jaym took the idea and she fuckin’ ran with it. She found a co-editor, the excellent, Erika Holt, and a publisher, Absolute XPress, and soon enough.. Rigor Amortis will be a reality.
I submitted this piece I wrote last year, Waking up someone who isn’t me, and they were kind enough to accept it. It was posted here, but I took it down because it’s being published. I’m pretty proud of that story, and I tend to at least mildly hate everything I write. I wanted to take some really dark feelings, loneliness, sorrow, yearning for a physical connection to someone, pain, longing for existence without that pain, I wanted to take those feelings and paint them with words. I wanted to write images that made those feelings palpable. I think I managed to do that, I hope so anyways.
At any rate, I’m really excited to be a part of Rigor Amortis. I so can’t wait to see it finished.3 comments
She leans over and kisses you, and it’s like lightning. You close your eyes and fall into her, or she falls into you, or maybe you’re falling into each other. You close your eyes, her lips touching yours, and the world doesn’t go black, you’re not wrapped in darkness. You’re wrapped in light, white blinding light, complete, and radiant, and so right now. You’re enveloped in this radiance, totally fucking lost in it. Her lips wrap around yours, yours wrap around hers, and with every touch the light gets hotter, even more total. Your lips brush her cheek, her neck, she grabs at your hair, pulls harder with every kiss.
Electricity flies through her and into you, burning away all the fear and loneliness that’s been enfolded around your heart for so very long. Every nerve in your body is alive and screaming. The current from her touch runs down your spine to the tips of your toes, and for this series of perfect moments you know what it’s like to feel truly happy, truly in love.
You’ll fall asleep holding her close, dazed from feeling what it’s like to be struck by lightningNo comments
She’s all curly brown hair, soft brown eyes, eyes so beautiful you’re afraid to look into them for more than a breath, or a heartbeat. You’re afraid of getting lost in those eyes, afraid of not being able to find a way out again. You’re afraid that they’ll look into you so deeply, afraid they’ll see everything inside you and look away. You’re afraid how those eyes love you, but one day might not.
She’s an angel. She’s your warm and safe, and everything good. Her eyes are your connection to Divinity in the here and now, in this world of blue skies that fade to black and fill with stars. She’s your paradise found.
The worst torture in Hell is said to be the absence of God, the loss of connection from one’s soul to Divinity. You look into those soft brown eyes, the eyes of your angel, and you don’t look away. You know you’re already damned.No comments