Gloria was having a really bad day. She had a run in her pantyhose. She’d been late for work and had to endure a thorough scolding from the world’s worst boss, followed by a series of menial tasks she thought below her. Bring coffee. Copy these letters. Run out and get everything on this list from Office Depot. And hurry up about it. She ran from the second she walked in the front door to Maeve Blankins, Photography. She hated working for a woman, hated it with a passion, but the job paid well, better than anything else she’d found. And it did have it’s fringe bennies. She couldn’t think of any other employer where a constant stream of gorgeous hunks walked in and out, took off their shirts, and posed.

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The Dance

 The nights were the worst. Sometimes Linda woke up, forgetting Pat left her until she reached for him and found nothing. A few times she’d gotten in the car and driven around, hoping to see him somewhere, she didn’t know where. Every time she returned, she felt dumb. If he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found, yet there was satisfaction in trying…

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My Blanket

I hate it when he sends me upstairs to think about things. I know darn well what I did and thinking about it just makes it worse, ’cause he’ll be up sooner or later holding that awful old belt of his, smiling that crummy little smile.

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Trail Sore

One thing she really hated was when he was right and she knew he was right and she had really fucked up. Like tonight. How she’d left the steaks out of his pack she couldn’t recall. She had put together all the food, and divided it between their knapsacks. She had an angry and hungry man sitting in the small tent with her, and she could tell he wasn’t going to let this one go.

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The dream was always the same. Amy wore a dress she could only describe as early June Cleaver, and her lingerie was straight out of the fifties as well – she had never in her life worn a garter belt for heavens sakes, or stockings. Even her heels weren’t really stilettos. She shook her head. She was in a small room with minimal furniture, a simple couch, the awful table and two chairs. Awful because she knew how he would use it.

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The Cliff

I can recall
The hearty laugh
The bawdy shriek
Your lusty chuckle
Why can’t I hear you anymore?

I’d know that scent in a heartbeat
Sometimes I catch it
Even now
When I sort our clothes
Or close a book
An old book
One you loved

The touch
I miss your touch the most
Your fingertips
Your hair
Your skin
Stubble against my silk
And then the rolling, heaving, grasping reach
As we made love

You chose
Not me, not after all the years
You chose…
I must not have been enough
You chose
The end of the road
But it was I
I and the others
Who paid your toll

Sundays the church bells call
But I can’t return
Instead I stand
At cliff’s edge
Trying to make sense of the senseless
To find meaning
Any meaning at all

So far
I return
I have children to raise
This week
I can’t promise the next


This is dedicated to someone close who chose the end of the road – long ago.

I’ve been absolutely focused on a book revise/rewrite cycle, to the point I was effectively off the grid for the last two months. Not to mention family, day job, and medical issues. But I’m back!

This is part of Ruby Kiddell’s Wank Wednesday Erotic Notebook project. See the other entries here

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The Box

Katrina sat on the edge of the bed, clad in nothing but a towel, still flushed from the hot water. The doors to her closet stood open, and there was literally nothing inside. Every Dior she owned, all her shoes, coats, everything was gone. The lingerie drawers on her dresser were open and they too were empty. She knew without looking that the rest of the chest was empty as well. She took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. The shower had washed off all the perspiration from an afternoon of tennis at the club and she’d been overjoyed. Finally she’d beat that bitch Betsy for the club championship. It had been an elusive goal for the last eight months. When she walked into the closet and found her loss she was livid. She screamed for Marie but the maid was nowhere to be found. She stomped around the room for a moment, nearly tripping over the huge box at the end of the bed. A card with Jack’s writing was taped to the top.

For my sweetheart, to help you live the future you’ve agreed to.

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She stared at the newsbreak,
His boots, baggy pants,
Name and battalion
Stenciled on the helmet,
Turnout coat open,
Two small heads peeking out,
And warmth started inside
Until she saw his face,
The face of tough,
Of strong, of a protector,
But it was all wrong
Because one tear,
Only she saw it,
Formed in the corner of those
Loving brown eyes
And ran down his cheek.

She ran,
Digging keys out,
Her tiny blue car raced
Most of the way
Across town,
Engine shrieking,
Radio dumping news
Faster than she could listen.
It didn’t matter,
Her mission was clear.

The huge red truck
Carried him back,
Mumbling its guttural rumble.
She knew he sat hunched,
His crew unable
To ease his pain
It was their pain,
Heads down,
No siren,
No talking,
No waving.

She was in time.
She stood on the sidewalk
As they parked,
Where everything would
Return to normal.
He slowly dropped off the side,
His shoulders showing

She ran to him,
Her perfume fighting with
The stench of sweat,
Her makeup pressed against
The soot still on his cheeks,
Her silk blouse pressed against
His sodden cotton shirt
As he wrapped her in his arms
And trembled.

She held him like she might a child.
His voice was high and clear
As he sobbed
“I could only carry two
And there were three.”
And it was clear
She would hold him
For a long time
Because for him

Once was enough

Haven’t written poetry for a while – needed a fix

OK – fair’s fair. I need to preface this by saying I am sick – fighting the flu and barely sane. Somwhere (Sunday night here?) I saw a tweet go by from our leader ensuring me (apparently only me) that the topic for the week was #clear. Not only am I sick, but I am trying to indie-pub my first story. So the ww hung in the back of my head until tonight when I absolutely had to file it (or getoff the pot) Imagine my suirprise when I went to link in and found that we were, instead, writing about #once.

This is part of the #wankwednesday group run by Ruby Kiddell. To look at all the entries look here

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Judy was laying back on the setee reading a bodice-ripper when the door to the motor-home slammed open and Ronnie stomped in.

“God damn Enzo Ferrari.”

That was all he said as he unzipped his fire suit, then pulled the Kevlar undershirt over his head and threw it in the corner.

“Damn those assholes, anyway.”

She didn’t understand – today wasn’t a race day, not even a practice day – all they had to do was make themselves available for the media. If it were anything else she would have been out there next to him, standing by her man so to speak, but he was so well-spoken and so confident she didn’t think she had to do the adoring girlfriend number.

“What happened?”

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Our Captain

The captain walked down the aisle, slowly, stopping to talk with a few people before she reached the cluster of flight attendants. Step one – evaluate the emergency. She took a deep breath, moved in as the wall parted for her. Harris. What was her name? Pamela, she thought, the latest addition to her crew. She leaned toward her.

“He seems distraught, Captain. We were worried. He isn’t talking, he just seems really upset.”

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