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lol fuck.. BRIGHTON BEACH NY damnit.. bah lol @ my edit cycle running out on the 2 hour limit *mumbles Maricopa.. maricopa* *eyeroll*
just submit your edit comments here folks
i'll make sure the print edition or kindle or ebook or what ever has em included
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA *goes about setting up a shoot out*
*** whispers into rues ear, hows about typing ya prose up in notepad or something similar first, then just cutting / pasting the fully edited tales. Bounds off on my pogo stick Boinnnggg *** Quote
*** whispers into rues ear, hows about typing ya prose up in notepad or something similar first, then just cutting / pasting the fully edited tales. Bounds off on my pogo stick Boinnnggg ***
lol i use word 2010.. and even with it.. i miss so much.. ;'s ,'s misspelt crap, inadvertant wrong wordage ect... not to worries.. anyone sends me a request at blondeonhorse(at)gmale(dut)cum can get a copy of the whole 4 part series .. lol NOT guaranteeing that you won't find edits in that either though.. *sigh*. i do love icewine with lime in the evening....
Quote
Oh I beg you can I follow?
Oh I ask you why not always
Be the ocean where I unravel
Be my only, be the water were I'm wading
You're my river running high, run deep run wild
I follow, I follow you deep sea baby
I follow, I, I follow you, dark doom honey
He the message I'm the runner
He the rebel I'm the daughter waiting for you
You're my river running high, run deep run wild
I follow, I follow you deep sea baby
I follow, I, I follow you, dark doom honey
I follow you
You're my river running high, run deep run wild
I, I follow, I follow you deep sea baby, I follow you
I, I follow, I follow you, dark doom honey
I, I follow, I follow you deeps sea baby, I follow you
I, I follow, I follow you, dark doom honey
I follow you.
I was all right for a while, I could smile for a while
But I saw you last night you held my hand so tight
As you stopped to say hello
Oh, you wished me well, you couldn't tell
That I've been crying over you, crying over you
And you said, so long
Left me standing all alone
Alone and crying, crying, crying, crying
It's hard to understand but the touch of your hand
Can start me crying
I thought that I was over you
But it's true, so true
I love you even more than I did before
But darling, what can I do
For you don't love me and I'll always be
Crying over you, crying over you
Yes, now you're gone and from this moment on
I'll be crying, crying, crying, crying
Yeah, crying, crying over you
stop me if you heard this actually that won't work bc i'm typing and i will probably butcher how it goes but....one day there was a scorpion who wanted to cross a stream he saw a frog sitting on a rock and called him over..."Listen frog...i want to get across this stream will you give me a ride on your back?" "I would love to scorpion" said the frog "but i'm afraid you will sting me" "no I won't" said the scorpion "I promise" after going back and forth for a while the frog finally let the scorpion cross the stream on his back and the scorpion stung the frog "why did you do that" said the frog "you promised" the scorpion replied "bc it's my nature"
... sometimes it takes a sting ta wake that stuuupid lil frog up, thanks scorpion!
Quote
There are six subspecies of Barn Swallow, which breed across the Northern Hemisphere. Four are strongly migratory, and their wintering grounds cover much of the Southern Hemisphere as far south as central Argentina, the Cape Province of South Africa, and northern Australia. Its huge range means that the Barn Swallow is not endangered, although there may be local population declines due to specific threats,… [Wikipedia]
Rest Stop
Manda dozes in the passenger seat, seat back, her body still knotted and tight even in her unconscious state; she mutters and moans with her hands clenched into fists. Annie moves her eyes back to the road ahead. She and Manda had been friends for years, and always the hair had been Manda’s attraction to people, they’d admired it, gossiped about it, and frequently, when Manda had been gone for so long from Phoenix, they had inquired ‘after’ it; did she still have it? Did she wear it in the same manner? Had its color changed, its length. Annie laughed quietly to herself. That hair had a life of its own. She missed it, especially because she knew the heartache that Manda felt over losing it. She’d become more demanding as a lover since she’d asked Annie to buzz it off. Annie liked the shortness, the ‘tennis ball’ as Manda called it now, of her cut. She loved the feel of holding her soft haired head when she was enjoying Manda’s mouth.
She watched the traffic around them to make sure there were no obvious tails, or hangers back in the traffic. “Fuck, they’ll probably have planes or helicopters or as Manda had said ‘goddamned satellites’ out looking for her,” she thought. “Once we get out toward the lake the damn traffic’s going to thin and we’ll need to switch vehicles.”
Avondale, and she goes on autopilot and drifts ‘Manda’s mom and dad praying over a dinner table’ ‘the trailer she and her mom and dad and brother survived in’ ‘a clean bed with Manda in it, laughing’ ‘the horses, and Manda and her mom teaching her ride’ ‘face down starring at the blue sheet on the bed with her twelve year old brother on her thrusting, sweating, and screaming “I HATE THIS DREAM!”’ ‘her mother’s vacant blue eyes with track marks oozing blood and looking like a black stain from her shoulders to her wrists’ ‘the neat rows of bottles, tooth powder, tooth brushes in the cupboard of Manda’s family’s clean bathroom‘ ‘the fake wood paneling where her father in his millionth drunken rage was beating her brother’ ‘her brother at 16 in a straight jacket with his face shredded by the bathroom mirror he’d been found head butting on a Saturday morning while her father was passed out on the couch in the 140 degree trailer’ ‘Manda holding her and crying with her and saying “I’ll never let him hurt you again”’. She swerves into the left lane and accelerates to escape Avondale.
Mom had run off chasing some hop headed dope dealer, address unknown; dad facing himself with two kids one a full blown psychotic had placed her brother with the State, dried out, gotten a job and managed to stay sober long enough for her to finish high school. She’d been a natural and had always loved the ballet, her only escape, other than Manda’s sleepovers was a store front dance school where the woman who ran it took pity on the girl always standing at the window. She’d done well, gotten a scholarship at U of A and graduated in three and one half years with a degree in Performing Arts and an interview with the San Francisco Ballet company; things had been like a Disney dream until she’d had her foot crushed in an automobile accident; back to Avondale then. ‘Dad drunk on the floor of the trailer the day after her brother had killed himself with a sharp piece of metal while sitting on a curb in the parking lot of the In-and-Out Burger’ ‘the white glowing rejection letters from each company she’d auditioned for’ ‘teaching girls younger than she’d been when she had started to dance, from families better off than Manda’s had ever dreamed of being’ ‘titty bar after titty bar until’ Manda stirs and sits up raising her seat back. “Fuck Annie, are you crying?”
Outside Lake Havasu City, they stop at a Holiday Inn, parking next door in a small strip mall where there’s a dry cleaner, Chinese restaurant and a dollar store where the signage is all in Spanish, now the national language of Arizona. The room is deliciously decorated in Formica simulated wood composite furniture, green rug and walls, textured ceilings, a toilet with a wrinkled circle of paper that keeps the seat lid and seat in bondage and announces “Sanitary for Your Use”. They drop together on the bed and rush to get each other’s clothes off.
Manda’s hands explore Annie’s long lean body in the half light from the partially open bathroom door. Annie’s skin takes to the sun, staying a healthy golden color until long into the winter. Manda draws one of Annie’s nipples up and away from her small breast, tugging gently to make it even firmer. Annie rolls her head to the side and moans at the pressure.
Three hours later, the sun’s set; and they leave the room. Holding hands they walk together, messenger bags and purses slung loose on their shoulders, down to the hotel parking lot. “Manda, your hair is looking better, not a tennis ball at all now.” Manda hip bumps Annie and they head toward a black two year old Suburban with Michigan plates that they’d picked out for the next leg of the trip. They had an appointment for just after midnight thirty miles away and they wanted to be there early. The neon light on the sign of the Holiday Inn flutters and speaks to itself in electronic snaps and hisses.
I was a heavy heart to carry
My beloved was weighed down
My arms around his neck
My fingers laced to crown.
I was a heavy heart to carry
My feet dragged across ground
And he took me to the river
Where he slowly let me drown
My love has concrete feet
My love's an iron ball
Wrapped around your ankles
Over the waterfall
I'm so heavy, heavy
Heavy in your arms
I'm so heavy, heavy
Heavy in your arms
And is it worth the wait
All this killing time?
Are you strong enough to stand
Protecting both your heart and mine?
Who is the betrayer?
Who's the killer in the crowd?
The one who creeps in corridors
And doesn't make a sound
My love has concrete feet
My love's an iron ball
Wrapped around your ankles
Over the waterfall
My love has concrete feet
My love's an iron ball
Wrapped around your ankles
Over the waterfall
I'm so heavy, heavy
Heavy in your arms
I'm so heavy, heavy
So heavy in your arms
This will be my last confession
I love you never felt like any blessing
(Ohhhh)
Whispering like it's a secret
Only to condemn the one who hears it
With a heavy heart
Heavy heavy i'm so heavy in your arms
(i'm so) Heavy heavy i'm so heavy in your arms
(i'm so) Heavy heavy i'm so heavy in your arms
(i'm so) Heavy heavy i'm so heavy in your arms
I was a heavy heart to carry
my beloved was weighed down
My arms around his neck
My fingers laced to crown
I was a heavy heart to carry
But he never let me down
When he had me in his arms
My feet never touched the ground
|-----------------------------------Swallows (Hunt part 1)---------------------------------|
The swallows and martins have an evolutionary conservative body shape which is similar across the family but is unlike that of other passerines. Swallows have adapted to hunting insects on the wing by developing a slender streamlined body and long pointed wings, which allow great maneuverability and endurance, as well as frequent periods of gliding. Their body shape allows for very efficient flight, which costs 50-75% less for swallows than equivalent passerines of the same size. Swallows usually forage at around 30–40 km/h, although they are capable of reaching speeds of between 50–65 km/h when traveling. [Wikipedia]
Driver, in his C&C Humvee, roars NorthWest on Route 95 toward Lake Havasau City; “Kertus, stop off with the state trooper and check out the car, and see if there was anything in their room at the hotel. We’ll go out to where that fucking Bureau agent’s cell phone was so active last week; Desert Hills; I’ll squirt the GPS to you so you can get there after you clean up the mess she’s left in town. Yeah.” Ill at ease with the loose nature of this pursuit, he stares at the screen of his touchpad and muses, ‘If we hadn’t cut her loose in Spain, would any of this be happening tonight.’ Looking out the window, ‘Did Elise understand what would happen to her?’ He closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose firmly, longing at this moment for sleep, for the warmth of someone unknown and uncaring beside him; for the smell of a woman, the touch of her becoming lost in his memory as he returns to work.
Elise and Rilla
Rilla stretches herself, her back and neck pop audibly as she twists and rolls her spine and neck. “Rilla, Sono pazzo di te. Let’s get ready and get to the helicopter quickly please Luci mia.” Rilla turns to her side and looks at Elise, “Roight.” She slides from the bed to a squatting position and scoops up her black jeans, Rider Inc. logo’d t-shirt, and her socks and Doc Martens; “Ya best wash yaself now Doll; won’t have much time this gets going.” Naked, she begins pulling her clothes on. Elise lies still, admiring the girl’s lithe body, the movement of her muscles under the skin, the slow roll of the field of butterflies on the bodyguard’s side and back, the slight wobble of her perfect small breasts. 'If only we had more time to play' she thinks.
Rilla is from Capetown; however, it’s not the Capetown that she gifts her public persona with; not the Afrikann’s poverty of the white ghettos and public housing projects. She’s from a far more refined portion of that country’s white minority population; her biology is a flow of patterns drawn from Eastern Europe and the Anglican isles writ strong upon her features. Her father had worked mightily to ensure his family’s integration into the power circles of that country’s economic survival. She’d had schools, good clothes, become familiar with owning fine stock, an appreciation of the arts, had, been an artist for a period of time herself and longed for the days when that had been her every moment’s absorption. “Fouk, I have to get my mind on this job” she thinks, and gets on with preparations. Rilla’s smart phone vibrates and she looks at its screen quickly, texting she murmurs, “Okay, it’s time; they’re waiting for us in the lot outside.” Elise pulls at the same outfit that Rilla is completing, thinking “What has Manda stirred up, what is she creating with her weave?”
The elevator is wood and brass and soft lighting and a mirror behind them. They stand facing each other, their bullet resistant garb and combat packs as black as the wide blown pupils of Rilla’s eyes. Rilla pulls on the straps of Elise’s pack, pulling her close and looking hard at her face. She grips Elise’s braid at its base and pulls her face close, turning her head slightly she moves in, grips Elise’s lip with her teeth and sucks on it for a moment. The circulation fan in the elevator whispers to them of the air above. The doors open and the two move together down the hallway to a glass door held open for them by a battle armored and flight helmeted Driver Ink bodyguard; outside the UH-1 waits, its blades circulating slowly, pushing air, a low deep moan from the molecules as they are danced from under the spinning composites.
The fast mover slides through the black sky of Phoenix, its warning lights flashing white blue and red in a seizure inducing pattern, Rilla’s grin is wide and Elise leans against her for the sense of safety she longs for now.
Kertis and the Cop
State Patrol Officer Hazard Grey Loomis is confused; he’d been ordered to wait at the scene and secure the hotel room and the vehicle that was on the bulletin issued that morning. “Back up is due in moments” he’d been told; and what the fuck showed up? He sighs and looks at the strangest sight he’s seen since relocating here from Florida 3 years ago to escape a miserable marriage and to earn enough income to meet his divorce decree’s requirements. His ex-wife had walked away with almost everything he’d managed to accumulate during their five year marriage, condominium, boat, the car he’d bought for her, the clothes he’d bought to keep her up to date on the latest Palm Beach fads. Every morning when he rose and stared at his face in the mirror he prayed that the Cuban lothario she’d taken up with a year before their separation would decide that he wanted ‘legitimate’ children and would drag his ex-wife to a priest and take her finances off of his own hands.
‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with this clown? I can hardly understand a word that comes out of his mouth; it’s like those Greeks with their stones in their mouths.’ He longed to reach over and pry this guy’s mouth open and see what was wrong with its shape that these sounds come tumbling out of it. The Australian and his Indian, as in INDIA, partner in of all things a BLACK turbin, had showed up in the blackest fucking Hummer he’d ever seen; and the fucking thing was ARMORED, how the HELL did that thing pass any state’s inspection requirements. He was tempted to run a license check on the damn thing but was afraid that he’d be pushing a grocery cart with his belongings in it if he did. “WHAT?” he shouted at the Austalian.
Kertus smiles at the confused police officer, enjoying every moment and laying it on particularly thick; “Wot? Wot? Waddya moin cobber? Dun ya understand? Tis’ th’ car roight? Bah ya doint half th’ story roight? Cos’ wot the feck ‘er they driving NOW?” Officer Loomis rolls his eyes and presses the send button on his shoulder microphone “Central, can you send me a shift officer and a fucking translator please?”
Kertus grins widely showing the copper his huge teeth; loving the fun. He’s sent his partner to search the room, and knows that Sajjan will also shut down the hotel and start the process of finding out which vehicle from the registry is now missing. The Sikh is relentless and efficient. Driver had paired the two of them to maximize results. Both were obscenely violent when unleashed, and loyal to Driver. Kertus wonders about trying out a hairlip voice impediment on the copper.
Sajjan has made two search passes in the room. It’s a cheap motel and so relatively easy to search, a bedroom, a small dressing and sink area, and a small bathroom with a tub and a toilet. The first pass yielded only some trash from the trashcan, inventoried and bagged for destruction, the towels and wash clothes, bed spreads and linens, the phone book and Christian bible from the room, some local restaurant and site seeing promotional pamphlets, the plastic water glasses; all sorted into a large plastic sack, and a smaller sack. There was only one thing in the small sack; the telephone book; two of the pages in the book had been dog eared but neither had any markings to indicate what was of interest; Bars and then Restaurants. When he looked closely at the Bars page he could see the barest hint of an indentation, under a group of entries in the English letter range O to S. All were local to the motel or were back in Phoenix proper, except for one, located along the Arizona border. He’d scanned the page and squirted it from his touchpad to Driver.
Picking up the wet cloth and towel, and humming a song from a Bollywood movie he had been streaming from Netflix, he enters the bathroom to begin his wipe down. ‘Women with women, it leaves a beautiful odor so unlike men with women or men with men.'
Ohhh, children... My father was a brawny Moor, six feet six inches tall. He bound his head in a red velvet cloth. he wore a curved sword, forged from the finest Toledo steel. He captured a lady, bright and dark. he took her in his arms and wrapped her in a warm quilt and carried her off. They came to a castle and he battered down the doors with the trunk of an oak tree and KILLED EVERYBODY IN IT, just so they could rest the night. Later, while she slept, he walked the parapets... and became a king
|----------------------------------------- 1:11 AM PST -----------------------------------|
I sat waiting at the bar. As usual, the place was quiet at this time of night, and day of the week; 'Sundays' I sighed. "Another Icewine Cocktail?" the bartender inquired. 'Why are people always so mannerly and nice when there's a buck to be made?' I wondered. "Yeah, sure, sugar me up Mister." I said. He didn't smile. I wasn't surprised, for a girl I'm not a nice bit of fluff. And sitting here for 2 hours? I'm sure he was thinking "crack ho" in his head. But i kept the tips coming, so he'd no complaints.
I look up and into the mirror; 'Yeah, still there.' I light a smoke, watching my dried blood nails handle the pack of Reds and the Zippo I carry to remember what 'real' men once were like in this world. Briefly I remember a face, and a voice saying "For a skirt you're tough sister." But those days are gone now. Now it's all, "Wanna fuck baby?" or "Can I give you a lift?" or "What ya workin on on that puter girl?" Always predictable, and never interesting. And the girls I long for are never much better; I suppose I'm not really the L-Word type they all would spread their thighs for. God, it all was so easy once; if you could dance the guys all formed a line to spin you around the floor; and if you wore red lipstick and had the right color of hair, the girls all wanted a bit of it.
I check my watch; God, another night like this, I might as well have gone to a 12 step meeting, i might actually have gotten laid by someone.
I hear the bell on the door to the bar and a quick lite breath of air from the street outside, I smell rain coming on it and smile to myself remembering what she'd said once about our skin feeling different with water and goose bumps. I hear a woman laugh gently and look up in the mirror. God, I've seen her before, I think I danced with her once, but she'd shoved me away; Christ, she's wearing my lipstick, and she's with some guy looks like a true burner. Internally I roll my eyes, and realize, too late, that she's watching me actually roll them in the mirror.
She and the burner park at the bench and table against the wall just behind me and to my right. The burner comes to the bar and stands waiting for the bartender to bother to look up. Customers at 1 AM are really of little interest to him, I've asked and he's always busy thinking about his prosthetic leg by this time of the day, said his stump burns from 10 hours of standing and all he wants is to go back to his rooming house and let the lady who runs the place wrap him in a cold towel and kiss his face. I'm wishing i had a stump right now, if that's what it takes. I tap the bar once and the bartender looks up with a pained expression, sees the burner and nods at me.
"Scotch and soda for me, with ice in it. And an Icewine with berries if you can." the burner says. He's not bad looking for a Hobbit, I can smell the reefer on him from the eight feet that seperate us; can't tell in the mirror whether his girl has red eye or not. She's pulling a pipe out of her bag, loading it with tobacco; her hands are strong looking, a little thick fingered, and i'm already wondering at what they'd feel like. She's striking a match and putting the flame to the tobacco and in the yellow glow of the flame, and the smoke rising sinuously i can see her eyes, they're large and blue, and no, there's no sign that she's done anything but 'Tabacc' tonight. For some reason I'm relieved by that.
I shake my head to try and separate it from someone that's not gonna ever slice through my lonliness. I stare at the wineglass in front of me, a slice of strawberry is slowly circling and the ice wine is so thick and sugary good that my tounge slides out and touches my upper lip and circles my mouth. I always remember a girl I had truly awesomely wonderingly loved when I had Vin Glacé like this, and Oregon, how the fuck did they create it in a state with so little sun.
The bartender's brought the drinks to the burner, who drops a fifty on the countertop and takes the glasses away, he looks at me strangely as he passes; probably wondering what the fuck I'm doing with an open airMac on the bar top at 1:11 AM PST. I watch him walk carefully toward the booth and set the drinks down, I can almost feel his sigh of relief that he didn't spill any. His girl is still looking at me. The smoke drifting around and i can smell it in my mouth now, an odd combination of cheap tobacco and some smooth candy or spice taste; something she's put together for herself; something to touch her and put her in a place she likes. I wonder if she remembers the shove she gave me, how I'd lurched into that guy and his bitch behind me, how he'd pulled his arm back in a fist and how I'd planted my boot between his legs. His girl had squatted down on the floor trying to comfort him while he'd puked his fried pickles on the floor. I'd turned and looked for the blue eyed girl smoking at the booth table, but she was gone; and I'd gotten a bum's rush by 'always smiling George' the tall skinny black bouncer.
I'm feeling uneasy and unhappy, and damn horny, and like crying, and hating everything except the sweet mix of icewine, strawberry, and that girl's smoke in my mouth.
I had finished a piece and turned it over to an agent, knowing that the audience for my stuff had shrunk incredibly since the news leaked out. The rows over who and what it was had written the work were loud and angry and neatly divided the entire literary community that had, so far, swooned over my tale and my sorrows, and whispered in different shadows about who was real, and if so, who was it, and did she really, and why?
And so here I was again, in the club where it had neatly begun almost two years earlier, she was still in my mind, every day; but then mostly at night when the airMac was charged and on a bar or in a booth, or just on my thighs. I’d little hope of actually seeing her, or, of anything approachable happening. I’m far too, well, to be honest, ‘me’ to expect that; but still, where the heart lingers, it hopes. I picked the Gzhelka on ice up from the bar and downed its three ounces quickly. The sliver of lemon peel glued itself to my outer bottom lip. The vodka neatly peeled the film off my eyes and loosened my sinuses; I held back the urge to sneeze or cough or shout that always accompanied my vodka fueled efforts to numb myself. The tall red headed girl with the triple lip piercings looked at me from behind the bar and said “Fuck, are you okay?” My eyes teared up heavily and over ran; I hurried to mutter hoarsely “yeah fine thanks” and wipe my eyes; the redhead reached under the counter and her long black lacquered fingers reappeared with a pink Kleenex in them. “Here honey, with time you’ll feel better.” I nodded and tapped the rim of my glass for the third time since I’d sat down.
I have this ‘thing’ about noses, and my own is no exception; I hate, absolutely hate, blowing my nose where others can see. As a child in elementary school I had once done so, with the awesomely humiliating result of having snot on my hair when I turned around. Since the age of ten I had never cleared my sinuses within view of another human; so, cautiously I looked around, found a close by little niche where I couldn’t be easily observed, and blew. I wadded the Kleenex feeling quite awesome and full of Russian bred strength, turned, and there she was, in the crowd.
She, like most, is taller than I am; probably by as many as five inches give or take, and in heels, she’d be even more a graceful giraffe to my more, hmmm, well, to me. I love heels, and delight in wearing them, but suffer from that affliction that many people who attempt to ice skate, disastrously discover themselves victim to; weak ankles. So, outside of a bed, it's flats, boots, flip flops, sandals, multipurpose exercise shoes, or Doc Martens steel toed short boots for me. I think my feet had been happiest when I worked security and wore a pair of stupid and unattractive black crepe soled utility shoes for ten hours a day; those cheap shoes had been the most comfortable I’d ever slid my webbed toes into.
I watched as she shed her Utility coat and revealed her Heavy Red Broken and Unbound grey strap hoodie. Oh fuck, I’d lusted over that item for months, and was still dieting in hopes of eventually fitting into it. It was made for her, and she had her eyes shadowed to its same soot grey shade. She had lovely eyes; that was a certainty, a blue that had burned for entire city states; but it was her nose, and the shape of her face that stung my heart so. I stood and watched as she began her ritual of motion to the music; I’m a better than adequate dancer, but this girl, she’d danced in public before; it showed in her lack of self-concern, her abandonment to motion and sound. I worked my way back to my bar stool in time to keep a guy with close cropped hair with the letters “SUXZ” carved into it on his occipital region from claiming my seat. ‘College rituals’ I thought as I pushed him away from my stool. “Sorry” he mumbled and immediately leaned on the shoulder of a burly jock sitting on the stool beside me. I picked up my triple Gzhelka and slid around to watch the brunette in the crowd; I guessed that most had learned of her space requirements as there was no one within her spin or push range. Sipping the vodka slowly and teasing the lemon peel with my tongue I considered my possibilities; setting a course for it I put my glass back on the bar, pushed it at the bartender and said “toss this will you?” She nodded, and threw it back in one long gulp, “Thanks doll.” I nodded and moved into the crowd.
The grey hoodie was tight on her, and I could see the strength in her movements through it, she was about five inches taller, in a pair of Shrekh Wild Divas, my eyes were centered on her mouth. She had her lips in a sort of tight grimace at the moment and her body was burning while she reached and moved and twisted and turned and stretched her arms out in a grasp that suddenly met my tits full on. Her eyes focused and she spun down quickly focusing suddenly on me being there, in her zone. “Love the shoes, I mumbled.” She laughed loudly, a strong full on laugh with no hesitation or shyness to it. “Me too!” she shouted; and began to let the music into her again. I returned the courtesy and began a slow set of moves that a Romanian friend taught me. The Romanian had spent years perfecting an entire life’s worth of belly dancing moves and motions and I’d never had a hope of equaling her abilities; but the Romanian had paid a dear price for her ability, and I’d no desire to lose that much of myself to something other than my loom and its threads.
The brunette watched me as I began to move along with her, adding to her motion and not conflicting with it, suggesting with my hips and hands what might be possible, and my hair, unbraided, loose and flowing and moving my presence even closer to her. She seemed suddenly open to the options offered and her moves calmed and grew into mine; she was so fast at picking up what I had, I was so jealous of that ability. My Romanian friend and lover had spent months getting me to learn just 20 of the proper seducing motions. I was beginning to heat up, my light hoodie still zipped I felt the moisture under my arms and between my breasts tickle as it ran down me. I stopped and looked at her and she suddenly was awkward, and unevenly slowed to look closely at me. “I’ve seen you watch me here before. I remember you.” I nod and try to become interesting. “Yes, can we?” and I motion toward a table. “I know who you are, I’ve heard of you. You’re that writer that everyone talks about.” I feel my face, usually so pale and white, burn, and know that I look like some child caught with her mother’s wallet in her hand. “Umm yeah, that’s what they say about me.” She frowns, looks down at my Doc Martens, smiles, looks up and steps close. “No; it’s not going to happen this way.” She raises her hands to my shoulders, leans in close, and kisses me. I feel the soft skin of her lips, I smell her hair, the odor of her body beneath the light sweet smell of a cologne or body wash or cream; the smell of tobacco and of some sweet spice odor. My legs tremble and the desire she’s imparted sits heavily between my thighs. I am so surprised, I haven’t closed my eyes and so I am wide eyed looking into her partially closed eyes, her irises are a corona blue edge to her pupils, so deep and black and waiting for my open mouth to drink from; suddenly, she pushes, hard, and I’m sent staggering backward. I turn mid-stumble and am banging into some girl who yells and shoves me into the body of the huge half-back she’s dancing with.
My confusion rules and my mind is only on the brunette with that face and that mouth. I’m turning to see where she is now when the half-back bellows and pulls his arm back to plant his fist in the middle of my skull. I waste no time, all of this is now just a reflex learned in a shopping mall ten years or more ago when a three hundred pound crack head had withstood stun wand, fists, fingernails and flailing feet and hurled me onto a counter top. I neatly kicked the halfback between the legs, dropping him like a sack of boiled potatoes to the dance floor where he proceeded to barf up an evening’s worth of cheap appetizers. His girlfriend dropped to her haunches beside him, avoiding the stream of vomit still launching from his gob.
I looked around, she was nowhere, vanished, gone. I stood there stupidly while the bouncers from the back of the dance floor near the restrooms waded toward me. I began to move toward the front entrance when a tall skinny black guy stepped into me. “No troubles babe, but you gotta go yeah. My name's Smiley; you just call me George right? So, okay, you got all your stuff girl?” Still craning my head in circles trying to find her I nod mutely. Smiley takes my arm, fuck; he’s tall and skinny and got damn big hands. “Okay, yeah, I’m ready.” And off we go, crowd parting like he’s Moses and saving them all from me. “I know your face and name, read your first stuff, not sure about the poetry, but shit, that one that raised hell was fucking HOT!” I nod and sullenly allow him to lead me through the front entrance to the cold air outside. “Thanks” I say. “No prob Amanda, come back again, it’ll be fine.” I stand in the lot for a while, cooling down and feeling like Dorothy in her first moments in Oz, before all the trouble begins, and with her salvation still so far down the road.
Quick Author's note.. this is the second of 3 "girl dancing" stories i've written.. this is the 'bridge piece between the 1st.. posted some time ago.. and the 3rd.. just above this.. so the posting sequence was 1,3,2 lol at anyone actually giving a shit about that..
Quick Author's note.. this is the second of 3 "girl dancing" stories i've written.. this is the 'bridge piece between the 1st.. posted some time ago.. and the 3rd.. just above this.. so the posting sequence was 1,3,2 lol at anyone actually giving a shit about that..
anyway.. enjoy.
I think this series is my favourite that I've seen by you. I briefly remember reading the 1st one a while back.
Thoroughly enjoyed.
*kisses* Quote
On the dark polished wood of the bar top the piece of paper glows, square and white. Around it the grain of the wood flows deep beneath its lacquer, the movement of currents under the surface, where larger creatures would lurk, waiting for some disturbance on the surface to draw them, in their strength and speed, to shine scaled and silver; a glistening display of their hunger, taking what is their need. Near to this abstract shape a pair of drops of condensation from my glass, curve magic, signaling the illusion of the lacquer and the burl beneath. The white of my finger’s skin is not quite a match for the absolute of the paper; my dried blood red nails touch, and spin, the parchment. It is not note pad, not jotting tear away, not desk top nor copy machine nor typing bail; it is a fragment of fine heavy weight contoured water color stock, its surface a topographical map of some far off continent, some world once glimpsed but not explored. Its edges not sliced or cut by scissor steel; instead rough edged and torn by hand, like sheet linen twisted and kicked until so frayed it serves only to drift some notice to me.
I watch my hand poise and then lift the frayed edge of the message; she had, in leaving the bar, paused, so close I could feel the heat of her on my back, and her wine sweetened breath on my cheek, like mine, a soft odor of strawberries, and tobacco, and with hers, some unknown spice that was now how I thought of her, in this moment before knowing would come. She had dropped the paper and it had settled quickly with only the slightest of sounds, a soft shuttling of the air beneath its contact with the surface shine of bar. I had turned to look, and had seen her back as the burner she’d entered with held the door wide for her; his eyes were flat and spoke nothing to me of intent or expectation.
The ink is black and the hand of the lettering firm and smooth, flowing across the contour surface carefully and with speed, a clear feminine form to the lettering taught in some elementary class and practiced carefully day and night by her; her eye for appealing shape and control clear in each character’s precision. The ink rises above the surface of the parchment, not the ink of some casual plume or commercial laundry marker now so commonly grasped to dash off a grocer’s list or after thought, or university note home; the ink of those who craft art, an ink meant to stand out from the background to become shape and not negative space.
It’s message is clarity, and concise, and complete, and carries such power over me that my breath catches hard. The bartender looks up at me and nods once, “On the tab will be fine, go.” The single word that flows with such power on the paper, which puts motion to me, shines up “Waiting”.
And she stands on pavement, and her eyes are bright and open; blue, like tomorrow’s morning skies, shining wet and sharp with points of light from around her. Her pupils dark like those pools of night tide water I find when I wander her shores, touched with my toes to watch the ripples echo the moon lit clouds. The skin of the eyelid, among the thinnest and softest of the body and containing the most pigment of any flesh, shadowed dark and colored deep grey running lighter on the upper lid; her hands have labored with softest brush to do this art. And my mouth will meet them and soft dust from them will coat and I will taste it. And her hair so soft and floating brown and high lighted with strands of gold will coast and form around her on a linen pillow where my arms and hands will wander and clutch and it will slide gossamer through my fingers. And her arms are open and I will fall into them and we will roll and toss together like the great ocean along the shore and I will be held within them, now safe and carried and warmed and lay upon her shoulder its curve a sweet place my mouth will search and taste and curry favor in. And I am rushing to her and crashing white and bubbled and foaming to touch and wash upon her. Her teeth are bright and delicious and my mouth is with hers our lipstick's flavor and color a match and joined together, my tongue pink and narrow at its tip and between her lips and her teeth are on it holding it in place while her own tongue caresses mine and her hands are on me and later they will explore and caress and communicate her desire and mine clutch her pulling her tight against me. Our mammal skin, ours the only life so smooth and fragile and sensitive and needing the comfort of each other, fitting together and sharing our desire. And we embrace and breath into each other and join, and in the morning will wake and laugh and know that we have mingled and are now one. And we will share and show and lift and carry each other, our moments stretched out like her legs so long on the cream linen of her bed. And knowing the rush of time we will open and present our selves and know each other in manners that intimacy, as a word does not confine. And her breath will quicken, and her body toss, and she will become me and I she, and those instants will join us, and in evenings we will repeat this song. And we run together now, moving faster, the sounds of our steps echoing, and her door is open and we are inside each other, and the spice smell of her is in my mouth and her legs wrap tightly; and we fit together in perfect motion. And her chest is heaving, and my breasts are gripped tightly, and I am lost with her and around her and she is all that there is and now, and now, and now. And we perspire, and we slide together and my hands are filled with longing and my lips are filled with throbbing and my legs part for her knee. And she leans back and she cries out and I feel like all of heaven has opened and lays in waiting for my heart to clutch at and draw it into me.
And the flowers we will send and the letters left on table tops in the sun, and the clothing we will wear, and the places we will be, and the ocean’s roll and thunder, and the hooves upon the turf, and the leaves in wind and rain, and the sounds of sleeping children, and the taste of salt and berries, and the feel of you and me, are all that I desire, are all that I will ever be. And as the sun rises, behind the mountains above us, and lights the ocean, shore, and city; lights your face and skin and eyes, settles in my chest and lights a place untouched by others. Settles in and softly speaks, and whispers with my voice to you; moves air in patterns, like the foam, left on the beach, beside the sea.
And we’ve planted acres of field in sprouting red
canvas flags; their wide expanses, large enough to clap
thunder when the oceans of sun driven winds lay
tidal into them. Red, belonging to the crimson, hot,
blood shed in the drama I drink from; in the pulsing love
shoving us on; that dyes our thighs and drives us
together for comfort found. With you, sheltering
against my belly, concealed in billowing sails of scarlet
linen that ride on strong western blows, safe
within their furls. The flap of the fabric lulling
you; slumber against me; strike out in your dreams,
my wounds undetected, in these darkening flows.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
It's not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long anytime she goes away
Wonder this time where she's gone
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home anytime she goes away
And
I know, I know, I know, I know
Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone
But, ain't no sunshine when she's gone
Only darkness everyday
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home anytime she goes away
Anytime she goes away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
It's not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long anytime she goes away
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know
Anytime she goes away
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know
Eva SinLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et.
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I briefly remember reading the 1st one a while back. 
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