A Glimpse

Welcome to the world of 19th century building remodels.  This building was built around 1895, I think.  There’s a shop downstairs and three apartments above.  My landlord doesn’t appear to care too much about it.  

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Super steep stairs no one cares about.  


These are how I, owner of body with a degenerating SI joint and DDD in the lower back, (AND FMS), get in and out of my home. 

They’re a challenge and I’m always up for a challenge. 



And speaking of challenges, I mentioned before I am working on a brand new kind of project for me: a video blog!  

This  vlog will be me talking about living with chronic pain, as I’ve said.  It is NOT about the effects, because we know and… I’m repeating myself.  I want to help people build lives worth living and I want them to understand that they are not alone with their pain.  

I will be talking about: 

  • Acceptance.  This is forgiving; being at peace with who and what you are, what you’ve been given; and it means that you understand right here, right now, that your body is flawed, NOT YOU.  
  • A technique called Turning the Mind.  This is a technique I learned in DBT that was pivotal in helping me learn to deal with my pain.  And it was something I seemed to know instinctively.  And I will talk about DBT. 
  • Goals, dreams & a Life Worth Living.  I capitalize Life Worth Living because I think it’s extremely important.  People with chronic pain forget how to live.
  • Chronic pain.  What it is; chronic vs acute.  I will touch on the effects on sleep, family and the mind and emotional state of the one its afflicted.
  • MCS, FMS, Osteoarthritis, Nerve Damage, Degenerating Disc Disease  
  • I will talk about whatever my viewers want or need me to talk about.

The first video will be an introduction to me and why I’m an authority on these subjects.  Why I have the audacity to think I can help people.  

I want that first blog to go out on June 1st.  That’s six weeks from now.  I am working my butt off at understanding YouTube and doing the research for the first few blogs.  I can’t promise quality, given my *cough* equipment but hey, I consider the content more important than any high tech options.  

So far, I’ve had everyone I talk to about it say something along the lines of “I’d love to see that” and that gives me impetus and motivation.  

And now, I am going to give my brain a rest with daydreams and fiction.


Camp Day 18


Grrrrrr   This story pissed me off.

Not being able to write at all pissed me off.

However, my brain is working on the vlog I wish to start.  So I’m going to do that.

April is NOT a good month for braining for me.  The competitions and the changes in weather really screw me over.  

As I said, I’m going to work on the vlog.  It’s going to be about living with chronic pain.  Not the effects of it; people who live with pain know that it fucks up their sleep, their lives, their relationships and their brains.  I want to talk about how to live with all that and how to build a life worth living, a life that is happy and positive and worthwhile.  I will be posting about the vlog more as it gets closer to the inaugural video.

My total word count is 26,011.  I don’t know if I can get further than that.  Maybe I’ll look at my notes and see if anything inspires me.  

I can’t even brain enough to figure out how to end the story.  This was a very weird premise to begin with.  

I am sorry to disappoint but I promise that when I write another addition to the Alphabet of Death, you’ll be the second to get a copy!



Kicking Ass and Slaying BWitches


“What is Keraunophobia?” Josie leaned on the rake she was using and finally asked the question that had been bugging her since the Truth & Dare game they’d played the night before.  Neither of them cared that they acted like silly teenagers on a sleepover.  On the rare occasion Josie managed to get away from work and her family, they were silly teen girls.

Kate Keighley, who had been expecting the question, smiled sheepishly.  “It’s a fear of thunder and lightning.  It’s terrible, right?  Sounds like something a five year old would suffer from.  Or your dog.”  She chuckled at the large dog playfully hunting squirrels around her acre and a half.   Not that the squirrels knew Ralph wouldn’t hurt them, they didn’t know he was just enjoying the unseasonably warm early spring day.  The vegetable garden they were clearing took up a solid half of the acreage, her small cottage was tucked into the middle of her land and all around there were flowers, berry baring bushes and fruiting trees.

Josie stared at her friend of twenty years.  “Seriously?  You’re afraid of thunderstorms?”  There was none of the judgement Kate generally heard, Josie was genuinely curious.  “How come I didn’t know this?”  They’d known each other since the first day of college.

“Yeah, and because it’s humiliating.  ” Kate stopped raking out the flowerbed she was working on.  She knew there was another frost due but she wanted to uncover the spring bulbs just a little bit, so they’d have a chance to soak up the sunshine due around the side of the house in about an hour.  “There’s one due tonight.  I’m hoping to get all this done before the rain soaks the ground.  I’m sure there’s one more frost due before winter is done with us completely.”

Josie helped with enthusiasm because, when the harvesting began, she always got a share to eat and to sell.  The pair had done a ritual for Ostara the night before, thanking the God and Goddess for the return of the light and asking for blessings on their endeavours over the next few months.  They were each solitary witches but they liked to do the Quarter rituals – the Equinoxes and Solstices – together.  Ostara and the Spring Equinox are closely tied and they combined the rituals with the rise of the full moon.

Later, long after Josie had gone, and they had made a date to go hiking in the woods nearby, and the moon had risen on its third night of being full, Kate stood skyclad in her backyard.  A small fire burned brightly, warming her naked body from the front as the mists cooled her from the back.  She lifted her arms and called her prayer and spell out to the sky.

“I call to thee, the Sisters Three –

Badb, Macha, and the Morrígan.

Strength I need, the power I seek

To guide the seed, the plant, the fruit.


I do not do it all for me

For families in need and Sister Josie.

Grant me what I ask

For me, for three, for charity.


For what I sow, what I reap

I shall not all keep.

I beg of Thee, bless the

Till and toil, the seed, the soil.

So I will it, so mote it be!”

Energy surged through Kate’s palms, down her arms and through her chakras, making her gasp and writhe with pleasure.  She stood there a moment longer until thunder rolled in the distance.  She barely contained the shriek that rose to her lips and studied the sky.  It was clear as far as she could see so she relaxed and took it as a sign.  It was the first time she’d ever asked for help like that but the lands around her, including the garden, had taken a hard with the shifts in weather and she wanted to ensure the plethora of fruits and vegetables she was used to.

Her garden did indeed grow.  She had staggered the growing of plants such as lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers, forcing the first wave to bloom and fruit early.  She preserved much of it, shared with Josie all that she could take then after keeping some, she sold most, both preserved and fresh, and gave whatever was left after the farmer’s market each weekend to a battered woman’s shelter.

Harvest came and she and Josie cleaned the plots of the last of the growth and performed their Mabon ritual, thanking the God and Goddess for all that was given.  Later, Kate again had a bonfire, this time she thanked Badb, Macha, and the Morrígan for their aid, though she somehow managed to take almost all the credit.

The Morrígan stood on the edge of Kate’s property as Nemain, Badb and Macha.  “The wee girl thinks to take the whole of the credit for her bounty this year. Reckless human.  How dare she?”  Nemain lifted a hand to punish but Badb laid a hand on her wrist.

“Hold, Nemain.  Wait until the harvest next.”

Nemain stared at her sister.  The sister who encouraged confusion and fear in battle, the one who encouraged battle.  “Badb?”

“She is high on her success.  Give her a year.  She pays us tribute and has been loyal thus far. Even if she does not share her worship with the one she calls sister, she is still worthy of our patience.”

Macha nodded in agreement.  “Aye, Sister, let her be.  For now.”

So the sisters faded away.

The next year went on as this one had.  And if, during the second half of the season, thunder rolled more often in a clear sky, the crops were still abundant.  Once more, Kate stood under the Mabon moon, skyclad before a fire, as was her wont.  She spoke conversationally to the triple Goddesses.

“I thank Thee, Babd, Macha and the Morrígan for bestowing such blessings upon me!  My magic, my abilities and affinity for the earth, gave us so much we could barely keep up.  It was wonderful.  The larders here and at Josie’s are full, the shelters and food banks are happy.  I am so glad to be such a powerful witch!”

Nemain growled and even Babd, who felt that there was a time and place for battle, was furious.  But it was Macha, the goddess of war and sovereignty, who held them back.  “There is a time and a place,” she reminded them.  “There are better strategies and ways to teach a lesson than merely smiting her where she stands.”

After a moment, the sister grinned at each other in dark delight and once again faded away.

It was nearing the end of July and Kate stood with her friend and stared at the garden.  “I don’t understand it.  The last two years of have been so lush, what’s with this mess?”

Josie took in the thin, scraggly plants that each held only a few, tiny vegetables, and the choking weeds and shrugged helplessly.  “I don’t know, Kate.  It’s so weird.”

“I’ve tried so hard to keep up with the weeds but they’re still…” she waved a hand.  “Look at them!  It’s impossible.  I swear, every time I pull out a seedling weed, two spring up full grown in its place.  It’s like, well, magic.”

“Did you piss Someone off?”

“I don’t think so.  I have left offerings and thanks and the Solstice went off without a hitch.”

Josie nodded, remembering.  They’d had a little too much wine and, well, it was a good thing her husband was familiar with and accepting of the depth of her relationship with Kate. “I don’t know… It kind of looks like you did.”

“Lammas is coming up in a couple days, maybe I can make things right.”  She paced, thinking.  “There’s a weed killer potion I could try too.  I’ll need to go up the mountain for some of the ingredients.”

“I think Dale will let me out tomorrow.  He’s home with his friends tomorrow, watching baseball.  He and some of them are betting on one of the teams while the other half are betting on the other.  Or something like that.”  Josie grinned.  “If I make them enough food, I could probably stay the night to help you prepare.”

“Oh that would be great.  Meet here at ten?”  When Josie agreed, Kate looped her arm through her friend’s and walked her back to the car.  “If you need any help with the cooking, let me know.”

She paused as a thought popped into her head.  “I have a jar of those pickled cherries Dale likes so much.  And I’ll even give him a jar of pickled cherry tomatoes.”

“Oh, now he’ll now you’re bribing him but he’ll love it.  They love those pickled cherry tomatoes on sliders.”  Josie grinned as she opened her car door.  She leaned forward and kissed her friend smack on the lips.  “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

That night and next morning, Kate checked the weather forecast carefully.  She checked the government site and her own weather radars, placed on the mountain near here where she took her hikes, and found that there were no storms due for several days.  She sagged with relief for she would not go out if there was even a hint of rain in the schedule for the next twelve hours.

At 9:45, as she was packing water, snacks, and the containers and bags she needed for collection in a bag she got a call from Josie.

“What’s up, buttercup?  Shouldn’t you be leaving?”

“DJ started puking suddenly an hour ago.  She’s complaining of a pain in her side and her temperature is up.  Her appendix looks about to burst to me and nothing I am doing is going to stop it.  We’re on the way to the hospital.”

“Okay, Jos, I’ll come down as soon as I get the things I need.”

“You shouldn’t go alone!  You know that I hate it when you do.”

“I have a spare battery and GPS messenger beacon, like I always do.”   There were the sounds of vomiting and whimpering in the back.  “Bye, Josie.  Love you all.”  She hung up, knowing Josie had forgotten her.

Kate drove up to the national park and waved her membership card at the gate’s sensor.  It opened and she drove on up to her favourite parking spot.  Opening her door, she exchanged her running shoes for hiking boots then stood up and applied her favourite, homemade bug repellant.  She’d have to apply it again once she sweated it off, but she figured that didn’t matter for commercial, chemical laden sprays were far worse for their ability to cling to your skin through the sweat of the day.

Her backpack was strapped on, belt around her waist and all.  It was a little heavy but it’d lighten up as she drank the water.  Of course, she’d only fill it up again with her collections.  The padded metal frame rose above her head with a light sleeping bag attached to it.  She grabbed her favoured cedar walking stick and locked up her car.

Something rumbled in the distance and she looked up sharply as she suppressed the slight shudder of fear.  The sky was clear and bright.  She double checked the radar app on her phone and there wasn’t a storm or even a cloud in sight.

Kate shrugged, decided it must be a truck in the distance, and set off on her hike.

Again and again she heard the rumbles of thunder.  Again and again, she checked her app.

Suddenly, the sun dappled woods became dark and heavily oppressive.  Kate looked up and screamed.  The sound was short and cut off abruptly.  She gave a shaky laugh. “It’s ridiculous.  There was nothing on the radar.  It can’t be about to storm.”  She stared up at the clouds with a mutinous expression.  “You are not real.”

A fat rain drop hit her right between the eyes as lightning lit up the woods so bright Kate was seeing spots whether her eyes were open or closed.  Thunder ripped through the woods, so loud it tore through her skull from one ear to the other and she felt it in her bones.

Kate screamed in fear and crouched, her arms wrapped around her head.   She stayed like that, shivering and tense with anticipation until she realized that her eyelids were red with light.   Opening one eye cautiously, Kate was shocked to see that the sun was out and there was no storm cloud overhead, no evidence that there’d ever been one.

“I need to eat something, obviously.”  She found a log and sat down on it after removing her pack.  She pulled out a bottle of water and a bag of homemade trail mix.

After a brief rest, she set out again, looking for a specific plant she knew was on her trail.  Lightning suddenly forked out of the sky and struck a tree several yards in front of her.   The tree exploded and with the light having blinded her she wasn’t able to duck as splinters and shards of the tree came flying at her.  Small bits struck her face, embedding themselves under several layers of skin.

One thick piece stabbed her in the thigh and knocked her to her knees.  Kate cried out as she fell.


And the Morrigan continued to torment Kate until she was driven near mad. 

Camp Day 13

Good afternoon!  

This month is very difficult for writing for me but I’m a little bit ahead of schedule.  The stats on campnanowrimo.org say I have to write 1458 words a day to hit 50k on the 30th.  

Technically, that’s ahead (it takes 1667 from day 1 to day 30) but to me it’s behind.  I like 2k a day so I should be at 26k, not at almost 24.  

Oh well.  I have to work with the way I feel.  

I am trying to push through though because of the project I am working on.  In order to complete the weekly pieces on schedule, I will have to work regardless of how I feel quite often.  

James is 2480 words so I will get to letting you read.  I am going to scrub off the heebie jeebies. 



Japanese Game of Justice

The sign almost said JAMES JOSEPHSON.  It said JAMS JOSFSON and the Japanese man holding it was smiling large and nodding hopefully at every well-built male he saw.

James, the guy in question, ambled through the arrival gate and started looking for his ride.  He found the sign and approached the driver.  “Konichiwa!” James said cheerfully.  He was quite happy to be a contestant on this game show that Japan was for.  The prize was ¥500 million, which was about $4.3 million US dollars, and it was totally tax free.

The man with the sign looked James up and down and stifled a sigh.  This man was not what he expected, but then, he had not been told what to expect, just that he was to pick up a contestant for the show.  He had done this before and the contestants had always looked like athletes.  This one looked like he ate too many American cheeseburgers and sat around on his ass. “This way,” he said in heavily accented English and a barely there bow.  He left James to bring his own bag.

Adjusting his grip a little bit with a barely muffled derogatory comment on the service, James followed the man out to the parking lot. He hoped there was a limo to take him to the studio.  The car was tiny, a boxy little Japanese wagon, and James barely managed to squeeze his 6’2” self into the back seat.  He finds a tray with a selection of bottled drinks and packaged snacks on the seat next to his.

“Eat, eat!” His driver says.

James woke up some time later, naked and shivering, and crammed into a cage.  All around him were other cages, all containing other people, equally naked, cold and pissed off.  Each cage was about twenty inches square, they were bolted to the floor, and there was no space between them.  There were rows and rows of cages.  He estimated that there were ten cages in his row and ten rows in the …cave? “What…what are we doing here?”  James spoke through chattering teeth.  “I thought…”

“Yeah, we all thought.” A man closest to him on the left sneered at him.  “What did you do to earn this?”

“What do you mean?” James asked with confusion.

“I mean that all of us are crooks, cons and, like in her case,” he pointed, “killers.  What is your dark, dirty secret?”

James shrank back against the bars of his cage.  “I…I… I don’t know what you mean.  I play contests, that’s all.  I win a lot but I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“I play contests, that’s all,” someone else mocked.

“Bullshit. You’ve done something.”  The woman to his right came close and pressed her face between the bars.  It mangled her features and she glared at him with her eyes bugging out and her mouth stretched over her teeth.  “I know a killer when I see one, asshole, and you are a killer.”

“I am not!” He nicknamed her Jane, because he was lacking in imagination.

She reached across the space between them and jabbed him with her finger.  “You are!  I can see it in you.  What a clever little psychopath you are.  Hiding, hiding behind your games, cheating whenever you can.  Lying little asshole.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” he cried.

The first speaker stabbed him in the back with his finger.  “Lying bastard! You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t hurt someone somewhere.”

“Ouch!” James jumped away.  He decided to call that guy Stabby Joe.  “How do you know that?  What do you know?”

“There’s a Jap over there that speaks English.  He heard them talking.  We are the scum of the earth, our captors think, and they were hired to punish each of us.  If we make it to the end, we earn our freedom.”

James’s eyes hardened and he snarled.  “Then I guess I’ll have to kill you all, just like that little half Jap bitch Tahlia in high school.”

Jane crowed gleefully.  “Oh-ho!  I knew it!  I knew you were a killer!”  Freezing water suddenly pelted them from sprinklers above them and they all screamed in shock.  She turned her face up to it and closed her eyes.  “Drink, asshole.  It’s the only water you’ll get today.”

James reluctantly did as she told him to and tipped his head back.  The water wet his dry throat and he gulped it down. The water shut off before his thirst was slaked.  He smacked his lips then noticed his mouth was a little slimy and there was an acrid taste left behind.  “What the hell?”

“Oh, just wait, newbie.  It gets better.”  Someone shouted.

A few minutes later, his gut cramped.  Hard.  He doubled over, as best he could in his small box, and wrapped his arms around his middle. He swore loudly as the cramping turned into convulsions in the lower intestines.  “No, no, no” he moaned.

His neighbours laughed between their own convulsions.  It wasn’t their first time and wouldn’t be as intense as what James is about to go through.  He cursed them as he tried not to shit himself.  The convulsions worsened and he squatted.

The moans and groans of pain echoed in the room, warring with the drips landing in the puddles.  James tried and tried but he couldn’t help it and his bowels evacuated themselves brutally, in a messy, chunky stream of liquid.

“Ha, ha!” crowed Stabby Joe gleefully, even as his own bowels let go.  “Serves you right.”

Suddenly the lights went out and came back on.  A hush settled over the prisoners.

“What’s going on?” James whispered.

“Shut up!” Jane hissed.

Someone screamed at them in Japanese and the few people who understood it stuck their arms between the bars, cramming them both through the same space.  Others followed suit and two men pushed a trolley between the rows.  The trolley held a large pile of steel manacles.  He cuffed each prisoner.

James struggled and the man grabbed his thumb.  He bent the thumb back toward James’s elbow and James screamed as he was driven to his knees.  The manacles were snapped around his wrist.  The next three people to James’s left were given the same treatment.  Every time someone fought the restraints the following three people were hurt as well.

When the man was done, several others lined up at both ends of each row of cages.  Each person was sexless and faceless behind heavily padded black leather jackets and pants, leather gloves and black motorcycle helmets with deeply tinted face masks.   They carried cattle prods.  James shuddered as he stared at them.  One turned to face him and the dim overhead lights reflected in their face mask, giving the impression of eyes.

There was more screaming of incomprehensible words and a loud buzzing echoed through the cave.  The doors of the cages swung open and the prisoners surged forward.  Most of them took a second to stretch, revelling the small freedom.  They were yelled at again and the doors began to sing closed.  Everyone moved out of the way then, once the doors were closed, they were prodded out one end of the row, one row at a time.  They were led and followed by the faceless people.  There were others watching over the groups and they made their role clear as the group emerged into the bright, blinding light of day.

As sunlight pierced James’s pupils someone made a run for it.  There was the sound of a shotgun being racked and then the boom of the firing.  A thud of the body landing on the ground was followed by silence.  James decided to let these events play out.

They were herded to a field, guided by a few zaps of the cattle prods and then several prisoners were shoved to their knees on the damp ground until the others got the hint and knelt on their own.  Tents lined one side of the field and a large wall of fabric stretched across the end the prisoners faced. Solid, wood, scaffold-like towers stood at each corner with armed gunmen standing in each.  Bleachers lined the side opposite the tents and the final edge of the field held

Several small, very old women scrambled among the prisoners, shoving small wooden bowls of soupy rice at each person.  James stared at the contents of his bowl, trying to figure out the contents.  Chunks of white, fibrous vegetable and a brown stringy meat.  “I’m not eating this,” he said, setting his bowl on the ground.

“Suit yourself,” Jane said as she reached for the bowl.  Stabby Joe beat her to it and she screamed wordlessly at him and launched herself at him.  Gunshots boomed again and those with cattle prods rushed in.  Jane subsided, returning to her own seat with her hands over her head and her eyes lowered to the ground.  “Okay.  Okay.  I’m sorry.  I’m good.”

They halted, the cattle prods less than an inch from her skin for a long moment then pulled back and marched out of the crowd.  Jane sagged with relief then glared at Stabby Joe.  “I will get you.”

“Not if I get you first, skank.  And when I do, I’ll make sure your last act in this world is to get choked out while I fuck you.”  He grabbed his genitals and shook them in her direction with an over-the-top moan of pleasure.

She flipped him the bird while James looked at her appraisingly.  Yeah.  He could do that.

A moment later, two men got up on one of the towers by the long stretch of fabric.  They both had megaphones.  One spoke in Japanese and the other followed in English.  “You have ten tasks to complete to get to the castle.  If you survive the castle, you will earn your freedom!”

More Japanese then more English.  “This is a fight to the death!  You are all criminals.  All have one goal: survival with a clean slate.   If you win, you can go anywhere in the world and begin a new life.”

“What about the money?” James wondered aloud.

“Money?” Stabby Joe laughed.  “You thought that was real?”

James was crushed.

“On your feet!” the English speaker screamed at them.

The prisoners surged to their feet and pressed forward.  As they were jostled and crowded, Stabby Joe spoke hurriedly to James and Jane.  “If we work together, we can get to the castle.  From there, it’ll be each to his own.  Deal?”

“Deal!” James and Jane said together seconds before a horn sounded.  The four rows in front of them started running while the five behind them forced them forward.

James ran for it, swearing because his hands were still manacled together.  The three of them ran, stumbled, slipped through the mud.  There were already dead and dying bodies littering the ground.

They fought their way through the ten challenges, killing more than two dozen people between them.  Injured, they finally stood in the castle courtyard.  James had a broken rib that shifted every time he took a deep breath.  One wrist was sprained, two fingers were broken and he had several deep bruises forming, including the one that covered half his face and forced his eye half shut.  He thought he probably had a crack in his cheekbone.

Jane grinned savagely at him.  “We did it!”

“Yes, we did.”  James grinned back.

“And now, you’re on your own.  And your ass is mine, slut.”  Stabby Joe leered at Jane.

“I’ll rip your dick off with my cunt,” Jane snarled at him.

Guards with semi-automatic rifles stood in a circle around them to protect the medics who went through patching them up, though only just enough to stabilize broken fingers and stop the bleeding one all three of them.  They were given water and food.  And through this, all around them, people cheered and shouted at them.  TV cameras caught every expression and high powered microphones heard every word.  Viewers present and around the world placed bets on the winner.

“There are three more tasks inside the castle!” The words came over the loudspeaker.  “Only one can survive!”  The audience screamed in delight and encouragement.

James thought castle was too grand a word for the big boxy building.  It was two storeys, stacked like a cake that had one layer smaller than the other.  There were barred windows cut into the cement block walls and no other doors.  More guards paced the walkway on top of the first storey.  Three jumbo screens on the top of the building showed their faces to the people in the stands.

James, Jane and Stabby Joe were dragged forward and positioned in front of the three entrances at the base of the castle.  The voice over the loudspeaker counted down from ten with the help of the screaming crowd and the three contestants were shoved into the rooms.  The doors dropped down behind them with a bang.

James immediately turned around and felt all over the door, looking for a way to open it.  There was nothing. He couldn’t hear the outside anymore either; he couldn’t hear anything at all.

With sliding steps and his hands straight out in front of his face, he started forward.  Three steps in something skittered over his foot.  James shuddered and stifled a scream.  “A bug,” he muttered.  “That’s all.  It can’t hurt me.”  He repeated the mantra, willing himself to not panic.  He took two more steps and heard a whisper of sound.  It sounded like a screen being pulled to one side.  James strained to hear anything, anything at all.

A moment later, he heard it.

In the dead silence of the room, it sounded like whispers or silk sliding on silk.  For a moment he entertained romantic notions of a sexy, scantily clad woman, waiting to touch him.  Then reality hit him.

Or, rather, bit him.

Something sharp stabbed him on the top of the foot.  It felt like a bee sting.

And again on his ankle.

James felt tiny feet clinging to the hairs on his legs, crawling up his body.  A wave of multi-legged creatures swarmed over him.  He tried swiping them off and they clung to his hands.  He felt tiny strands of silk sticking to his fingers and screamed.

The sound seemed to embolden the spiders more and hundreds of them rose up his body in a tidal wave of legs and bites.

He screamed again and they climbed in his open mouth.  They bit him everywhere they touched him.   The pain and venom from the sheer number of bites drove him to his knees and eventually to all fours before he was finally laying on the floor.  The spiders continued to bite without mercy as the audience outside screamed their delight at his death.

Camp Day 11

Good evening!

I know it’s been a couple days since I posted last.  It’s taken me far too long to write Ida.  The foggy, heavy head is a bitch.

Ida is erotic horror, which means that if you are under the age of majority in your place of residence you need to sit this one out.

This is going to be  short.  It’s dinner time here and I’m really quite tired.  I hope you like the story.  It didn’t turn out like I expected but hey, it’s done and editing fixes everything. 😉

Have a good night! 



Intense Dreams

Ida Iliescu moaned as her hips thrust upward.  Her sheets tangled around her legs as she thrashed and twisted.  A tanned hand with perfectly manicured fingernails sild between her thighs and rubbed over her clit causing her entire body to clench up. Her breath froze.  He gave her a little pinch.  She screamed as she gushed all over her bed.

The scream woke her.

Ida pounded the sheets and growled in frustration.  “Holy fuck!  Why? WHY do I keep having these dreams?”  She rolled out of bed and padded across the room to the bathroom, her feet making a soft slap on the oak floor.  Taking a wash cloth, she soaked it under the tap, so focused on her frustrations that she didn’t pay any attention to the temperature.

When she touched it to her folds, she screamed again, this time in shock.  “Holy mother of hockey players!  What the hell are you trying to do to yourself?”  She warmed it up and cleaned herself from knees to belly button.  “Damn these dreams,” she muttered.  “Ruining me for anyone else.”

She laid down on the other side of her queen size bed, rolled onto her side and bunched her pillows under her head and between her thighs. “Goddammit I hope there isn’t another dream tonight.”

Eighteen hours later, Ida finally closed her shop.  She leaned her head on the front door as she turned the bolt and sighed.

“You should go home, you look exhausted.  I can do the final books.”

The soft voice behind her made her jump out of her skin.   “Jody!  I almost forgot you were here.”  Ida was startled and whipped around with her hand on her chest, back against the door.  Part of her was dismayed that the carefully applied makeup didn’t hide the dark circles and sunken look to her eyes.

Jody laughed.  “I was in back working on the arrangements for the Murdock wedding.  I can’t believe she has sixteen bridesmaids!”

Ida groaned.  “I know!  But it’s a fantastic commission for us.”  She rubbed her face and pushed off the door.  “Go home to Frank.  You’ve been working late for the last three weeks.   I’m sure he must miss you.”

“Oh yeah, he misses the cooking.  But he’s not missing out on anything else.”  She made a lewd gesture that had them both laughing.

“God.  Speaking of sex, it’s the dreams.  They’re keeping me up.”  Ida followed Jody into the back room of the flower shop.

“Oh yeah?  Still the super hot guy?”  Jody looked interested as she grabbed her coat and purse.

“Yeah.”  The golden god had been invading her dreams on and off for weeks now, though it had been every night for the last week solid.

“Still no actual intercourse?”  Jody was sympathetic.

Ida slapped her hand down on the table.  “No, dammit!  It’s frustrating as hell.  The orgasms are fantastic and I swear he’s done everything but stick that wonderful cock in any hole I’ve got!” she said angrily.  “Seriously, if you’re going to screw with my sleep with these intense dreams at least fuck me.”

“I totally agree,” said Jody, nodding.  “I’m beginning to think he’s ruining you for all real men though.” She studied her boss.  At 5’6”, Ida was as tall or slightly taller than half of the men in the neighbourhood they lived and worked in.  Between their job, which included slinging around fifty pound boxes of flowers, and Ida’s daily running regime, she was toned, delicious looking.  “You should wear your hair down more,” she added.

Ida pulled the long braid over her shoulder and toyed with the end of it.  “Our customers would find these black threads in all their arrangements if I did that.”  Both women laughed.   Ida picked up Jody’s coat and purse and put them in the other woman’s arms.  “Go home.  I’ll finish these three you have going and clean up.  Go see Jay.” She grinned. “Finish what the golden god has started.”

Jody’s eyes twinkled as she headed for the back door and the alley.  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be quite happy to oblige. See you tomorrow.”

The door slid shut on its track as Jody pushed it from the outside and the automatic lock clicked.  The smile slipped from Ida’s face as she rubbed her eyes.  She was more tired than she had ever been.  Every muscle, hell, every bone ached with fatigue.  She just didn’t have the energy she needed to finish the arrangements but she had to do it.  She dragged a stool over, knowing it would take her three times as long as necessary.

A few hours later, Ida shut the last cooler and leaned against it, yawning heavily.  She laid her head against the cooler door and indulged in a ten second nap.  Any longer than that, she’d found, and her dream lover found her and began his seduction.  She cleaned the work table, washed her hands, briefly lamenting the seemingly permanent green stain on her finger tips.

Finally, she stood in the alley, pulling the door closed.  A small, satisfied smile curved her lips as she punched in the security code that blanketed the store in protection.  She had taken a slightly more than modest inheritance from her maternal grandmother and built this shop from the ground up.  She’d chosen to work as a florist because of the years of her childhood that were spent in the gardens with that grandmother.

She was also an amateur botanist, creating new breeds of her favourite plants through cross pollination and splicing.  And she loved every minute of her life.

Except the damn dreams.

Footsteps echoing off the damp brick walls around her made Ida put her hand in her pocket and thread her fingers through the set of brass knuckles she kept there.  You didn’t live in the middle of downtown, even if it was being rebranded as an upscale place to live, without some sort of protection.  She reached into her other pocket and thumbed the cap off her tiny can of spray Mace.

Whispers started.  The hushed voices bounced all around her.

What a tasty package.

Wonder if she smells like flowers.

Look at that mouth, I’d like to –

Ida stopped listening and lengthened her strides, trying not to look like they were getting to her. She stared at the mouth of the alley.  Her shop was at the bottom of a long tall building, her back door opened at the side, about one third of the way up the alley from the main street.  Her car was parked in the lot at the other end.   She risked a glance behind her to find three men blocking the way to the busy street.

At her look, the three grinned and picked up their pace.

Ida moved faster but then her boot came down on someone’s discarded banana peel and she slid, crashing into the wall.  She caught her fall on a garbage can and straightened quickly.  But they’d gained some distance on her.  She sprinted forward.

The footsteps behind her got louder, faster.  The garbage cans when flying as they shoved them out of the way.

“Get her, Joe!” a rough voice shouted.

She looked behind her and gave a startled scream to find one of them, presumably Joe, was almost close enough to grab her.  Ida adjusted her purse so there was no strap to grab and put in more effort to running.

Something heavy hit her from behind and she flew through the air briefly before landing on the wet, dirty ground, weighed down.  The breath was knocked out of her and she couldn’t catch her breath. She wheezed trying to inhale.

“Get off her, Joe!  We want some fun and we can’t do that if she can’t breathe.”

The weight lifted off her and she was lifted to her feet.  Strong fingers gripped her biceps as a wide flat hand slapped her between the shoulder blades.  “Come on, pretty thing, breathe!”

Ida coughed, gasped and drew in a long breath.  Immediately, she struggled against the hands holding her.  She wrenched one hand free and sprayed Mace into the face of the one in front of her.

Unfortunately, he saw her coming and smacked her hand to the side.  The Mace missed his eyes and sprayed his cheek instead.  His face transformed from concerned to furious and she shrank back.  He reached out and backhanded her before he ripped the Mace from her fingers and threw it down the alley.

Tears formed in Ida’s eyes as a bruise formed on her cheek but she lifted her chin and spit at him.  “You can’t hurt me,” she said.

“Oh honey, we plan on it.”  He smiled cruelly as he motioned to the two others.  They tore her purse off her then cut her coat off with a few practiced moves with the knives they carried.  Then her arms were pulled behind her and pinned there.

The leader stepped close again and reached out to stroke her unblemished cheek.  His hand slid down her throat, over her collar bone and stopped on her breast.  He squeezed hard enough to leave fingerprints and she gasped.  He grinned as he put both hands on the buttons on her blouse and tore it open.

“Oh la la,” Thug Number Two said.  “The uptight florist likes to wear pretty things.”

Thug One took out his own knife and slid the blade very lightly over her chest.  He popped open her bra by slicing through the small scrap of fabric holding the cups together.  Her breasts popped free.  “Look at how beautiful all this pale flesh is, boys.”

The other two agreed and just as Thug One reached out to touch her there was a shout from the end of the alley.  Footsteps rang out again and Joe changed his grip on Ida as Thug One and Two turned to face the newcomer.  “This bird is ours,” growled Thug One.

Ida bristled.  “Bird?  What, you watch too many old mob movies?  Piss off, you bastard.”  She stomped on Joe’s foot and when his grip loosened and he leaned forward with the pain, she slammed the back of her head into his nose.  Turning, she kneed him in the balls and then took off running, holding her shirt together.

The sounds of a fight started behind her and she slowed.  Near the end of the alley she turned to see who her rescuer was.  She got a glimpse of golden hair, a strong jaw and broad shoulders and slid to a halt, her jaw hanging open.

It was the golden god of her dreams.  He was magnificent as he seemed to effortlessly flow through the fight until all three were on the ground.  Only when they were all groaning did he come to a halt and pulled out a cell phone. “Yes.  I am calling because I have here three men who assaulted a woman in an ally beside the Have a Heart florist shop on Sweet Street.”  He listened for a moment.  “They may need ambulances, yes.  We will wait, of course.”  He shut down the phone and looked up.  “Miss?  Or Ma’am… I need you to stay here.  The police will be along momentarily.”

He removed his coat and spread it over a few boxes that were piled up nearby after testing to make sure they would hold her.  “Please, sit down.  You must be exhausted and frightened.”

Ida came closer, she couldn’t help it.  His voice was seductive.  It reminded her of his whispers in her dreams.  Her knees were suddenly shaking and she started to sink to the ground.  He was there in a flash to pick her up.  He sat on the boxes and cradled her in his lap.  “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

Tears suddenly filled her eyes as she gathered her blouse over her chest.  Revolving red and blue lights filled the alley from both ends and the rest became a blur.  She found herself in her own home, sitting at her dining room table by candlelight as he set a bowl of a light soup in front of her.

Ida blinked up at him, fear warring with comfort.  “Who are you?”

He sat down in a chair beside her and rested a hand over hers.  “Oh, my dear, I thought you were in shock.  I helped you in the alley, remember?”  His thumb stroked the back of her hand in mesmerizing circles.  “My name is Xander Aarle.  After you gave your statement, I brought you home.  You asked me to stay for a little while and I offered to make dinner while you took a shower.”

She looked down at herself and discovered she was wearing a silk robe, a pair of slippers and little else.  “I don’t remember.”

Xander smiled as he stroked her hand and looked into her eyes.  “That’s okay.  It’s shock.  You’re alright.”

Ida yawned.  She blushed as she covered it with her hand.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.  You’re tired.”  He smiled at her and she blinked.

When she opened her eyes he was above her, his mouth on her nipple and she was arching her back in pleasure, her hands fisted in his hair.   She shoved against him.  “What?  How!?  Get off me.”  She pushed against his shoulders.

Xander stroked her nipple with his tongue.  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You asked for this.”  He shifted back to rest on his kneels and heels.  His shaft rose high in an impressive display of his arousal.  “You wanted it in all you dreams.  You begged me to fuck you.”  He grabbed her legs and pushed her knees back to her chest as her jaw went slack.

“You…you were in my dreams?” she asked as he moved her hands to hold her legs in place.

“Spread those beautiful thighs for me, my little tasty treat.”  Xander shifted again, lying on the bed with his face near her core.  He blew gently on her and she gasped.

Helplessly, she spread her thighs.  “I don’t…Oh!” she panted as he swiped the flat of his tongue up her lower lips. An electric tingle shot through her that made her feel good and yet left her feeling tired.  He brought her to a screaming orgasm that way then pushed himself to his knees.

Xander crowded her, laying on top of her.  He peppered her face with kisses.  “Such a lovely snack you are. Let me in, Ida, let me in.”

Ida whimpered and rocked her pelvis just a little, causing his cock to slip through her slick folds.  “Please, please! Fuck me.”

“That, my dear, is exactly what I needed.”

She screamed as he thrust into her all the way to the hilt, forcing all her muscles to adapt at once.  Ida opened her eyes and screamed again; this time in fear and loathing.

Xander had transformed.  His face was terrifying.  He had a short snout and wicked fangs.  Black eyes with fire in the pupils stared at her.  Cheekbones jutted out and rose up at the temples to meet multiple ridges from his forehead.  Red skin covered him from head to foot and great big wings rose up from his back.

Ida wriggled backwards, fighting to get away. “Let me go!” she shrieked.

“No, your life is mine now.  I won you!” He growled.  His head darted forward and he sunk his teeth into her shoulder to pin her down.  His tongue lapped at the blood but that’s not what he was really after.

She pounded on him and kicked, struggling as hard as she could.  A sharp, burning pain suddenly exploded in her womb as barbs from his penis stabbed into her.  Ida’s struggles got weaker and weaker as he drank in her life force.

Finally, all that was left of her was a husk and two blood stains on the bed.

April Camp Day 8

Welcome to Hector’s little hell hole, people!

It took me two days two write this and, frankly, The Boyfriend is a little surprised that I managed to write at all today.

I have had a fair number of public appearances in the last couple of days – shopping, therapy, my daughter’s dance competition – and my head is basically full of acid coated cotton batting. I have a major migraine and my thinking is not where it should be.  You don’t want to know how much backspacing and cussing this is taking.  *chuckles ruefully*

Thank you, MCS.  

Speaking of my daughter’s dance competition:  I am so proud of GirlKid!  She won first overall in her age group and category for her solo!  She did amazingly well for her dances. Tomorrow morning is the third and final for the weekend.

MCS is not easily defined but here goes:  Chronic multi-system disorder, usually involved the nervous system and at least one other system.  Persons with MCS “react adversely” to chemicals and whatnot in the environment.   Adversely.  That means we lose our ability to think, to communicate, we get violently ill, we get extremely tired.  It’s crap.

Nevertheless, I managed to finish Hector, largely thanks to a conversation with The Boyfriend and Girlkid.  Sometimes talking it out helps the process.  Hector’s eye – her idea.  Actually, I have to give her credit for that whole last bit (which needs written better, perhaps I’ll attempt that tomorrow).  For now, I’m going to be a vegetable.


Muah!  PS Count to date?  

History Hath More Fury


Hector Heirro studied the email and sighed sadly, expressing his opinion of the sender’s intelligence, and replied with exaggerated care.

Mr. Singh,

As I have told you before, I have a Masters in History and Classical Studies.  I also teach.  The 80 Years War was the subject of my thesis and I developed a theory that I would like to prove.

The thought that he could possibly disprove it never crossed his mind.

I wish to study Her Majesty Elizabeth the First’s jewels as I believe one of them holds the key.  I am well aware that the ones in the museum dedicated to her are paste and I have asked for permission to access the actual jewels. 

You have already implied the permission is granted.  My flight will land at Heathrow tomorrow morning at 9:38 am Greenwich Mean Time and I will arrive at your museum precisely two hours later, allowing for the customs process and traffic.  I have enclosed a picture in a previous email so that you may be sure of my identity but I will be carrying further identification with me. 

I require unlimited and unrestricted access to these jewels.  I assure you, I know how to handle them carefully.  I am paying a great deal of money for this privilege and I expect it to be fulfilled to the letter.

In truth, he was only interested in a single piece.  It is a brooch given to Elizabeth I by the King of Spain, Phillip II.  Rumours have told him that the piece opens like a locket.  She denied accepting it many times and sent it back to him each time.  Each time, he would send it back.  Hector believed that they were exchanging messages.

Elizabeth I was purported to be supported the Spanish Dutch rebels against King Phillip II and yet she was in league with the king.  It would change the world view of history if he could just prove it was true.  It had taken exhaustive research and he hundreds of thousands of his family’s fortune but he didn’t care.  He’d been all over the world, especially Spain and the Netherlands and gathered all kinds of information, suspicions, rumours and secrets.  The one that had kept cropping up is the brooch as a locket.  He pursued it ruthlessly.

Hector walked from through the penthouse apartment and out to the pool enclosure for his last swim for the next few days.  The pool itself is only ten feet long but has a motor that produces a current of varying speeds that allows him to swim in place.    He was fanatical about his health, ate well and swam for about forty-five minutes every day he was at home.  He was rather vainly pleased with his body.  It was, he thought, too bad there was no woman to admire it.

Twenty-four hours later Hector was in a vault deep in the Tower of London, staring at Elizabeth I’s personal collection of jewels.  The real ones.  He almost rubbed his hands together in glee.  Instead, he turned to his companion.  “Thank you, Mr. Singh.  I appreciate all your time.”  His tone was clearly dismissive.

Mr. Singh, who runs the biggest bank in England and carries the responsibility of protecting the royal jewels, was not used to being dismissed like the family butler.  He opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again.  He turned away from the young man and headed out.  At the door, he paused and gave Hector a single finger salute then walked back into the main bank, whistling happily.

Hector waited until he heard the door lock then indulged himself with a gleeful hand rubbing.  “Okay, Hec, let’s get to work.”  There was no real description of the brooch-locket so he began at one end of the table and started picking them up.  He logged each with a description.

“That’s weird.”  He examined the small brooch in his hand.  It was vibrating a little.  The longer he held onto it, the longer he focused in on it.  The world spun around him and he was suddenly standing in the Queen’s Privy Chamber with half dressed women screaming in fear and outrage all around him.

Hector dropped the brooch and he was suddenly standing back in the vault. He stumbled back against the table and rubbed his eyes.  “What the hell was that?”  He looked all around the floor for the brooch but couldn’t find it.  He gave up after a long, fruitless search.  There was absolutely nowhere for it to hide so he got up and resolved to get back to work.

There, in its original spot on the table, was the brooch.  “What the hell?”  Hector snatched it up to examine it.  Immediately, it started vibrating again and he quickly dropped it on the table.  He rubbed his hand on his thigh and stared at it once again.

“You know, Hec, I don’t think that’s the brooch after all.  Time to move on.” He made a couple of notes, (like don’t ever touch that again!), and moved on to the next in the line.

It was too small, he thought, but he looked anyway.  It had gems in varying shades of red all over it and a small silver axe.  He couldn’t figure out what it was for.  Hector closed his fingers around it and paced as he tried to figure it out.  The brooch vibrated and he found himself facing Elizabeth I and her favourite torturer.  The former looked at him with surprise while the latter dropped the small hammer he had been using to pulverize the small hand bones in the person they were questioning.  The woman in the chair screamed in fear as soon as Hector appeared.  Hector embarrassed himself by screaming in response.

The queen gave a command Hector dropped the brooch and the world spun crazily around him.  He found himself on his hands and knees staring at the vault floor, the brooch nowhere in sight.  He pushed himself to his feet and looked at the table.  There it was, gleaming dully in the vault’s soft lighting, back in its spot.

Hector pushed shaking hands through his hair.  “What is going on? Where am I going?”  He was part frightened, part intrigued.  “This could be a great way to study history!  But what if I get stuck?  Or injured?”  He shuddered.  He was suddenly more afraid than intrigued and involuntarily took a step back.  Then another.  He was almost at the door when he caught himself.

“No!  I’ve worked too hard to find this proof to give up now.”  He marched back to the table and looked over the brooches before selecting one at random.

It was pretty, almost the size of his palm and, to him, looked like it could open.  It had an angel on the front that was set upon a shield with crossed swords.  Perhaps it was given to her as a symbol of God’s protection, he mused.  He was so intent in trying to find a miniscule hinge that he never noticed the vibration begin.

It wasn’t until he smelled the sweat of hot, overdressed horses and the acrid scent of gunpowder smoke that he even thought to look up, so involved was he.  He slowly moved his eyes from the brooch to the muddy ground.  His eyes traveled slowly to the left until they came to the silver and gold plated armour on a horse’s leg.  Up, up, up he looked.

Straight into the face of Queen Elizabeth I.

“You!” she cried.  Her horse danced in place with her agitation.  “Bring him to me!” she said imperiously.

Hector stumbled back, his hand reflexively tightening around the brooch.  Arms grabbed him from behind and dragged him forward.  “No!”  He struggled.

She pulled her sword and pointed it at him, resting the tip under his chin and raised his face to hers.  “Who are you?”  He shook his head, scraping the underside of his chin against the back of the blade.  She pushed his head back further.  “Who.  Are. You?” she asked again.

When he still refused to answer, his eyes wide with fear, she moved the blade to his shoulder and pushed it into him.  Slowly.  He screamed in pain, until a stinky, gloved hand covered the lower half of his face.  Elizabeth stopped pushing the blade in and asked again.  “What is your name?”

He had tears flowing down his cheeks and he was slowly being smothered by the leather glove but still he shook his head.  She twisted the blade and he remembered to let go of the brooch.  Instantly, he was back in the vault.  He stumbled back and hit the table.  It tipped over as he fell, raining the bits of metal and precious stones on him.

Instantly, each brooch began to vibrate.  Pieces of him were transported away to another time.  A hand went there, a piece of torso here.  A large, fancy brooch landed on his face, right over his eye.  His eye went to Elizabeth I’s court, in the middle of a party.  The last thing he saw was a man’s leather pump lowering down on top of him.

Mr. Singh found him some time later, the body mangled, the table upright with the brooches in place, gleaming smartly.

April Camp Day 7

Good morning!

I finally managed to finish George early this morning.  I was going to try for it last night after I got home but after therapy (my final session!) and shots and Walmart, I was… Well, frankly, stupid.  MCS sucks, folks.  And when you add in lidocaine shots my brain turns to mush.

So, here it is.  (You can blame The Boyfriend for the title.)  George is sweet as pie, except when he’s not.  I had no idea that he was that much of a sociopath until the very end.  And I have to tell you, that is not the way I want to die.  Nope.  

I really did try to keep it at present tense.  I may have screwed up here and there.  As far as editing goes, it’s had one really quick read through but that’s about it.   Writing George’s nasally speech pissed me off. *laughs*  I figured he’d sound that way with a broken nose AND a handkerchief stuffed up there.

Enjoy!  And have a delightful Friday.  Today begins Girlkid’s final dance competition season.  It’ll be fun.  I look forward to seeing the dances I’ve watched her practice as full productions.   Her solo is quite amusing.



Gorygeous George

“Gorgeous” George Grigoraki is a mechanic, well, he’ll tell you technically, he’s a watchmaker.  A magician with a wrench.  The glorious, gorgeous caretaker and time keeper of the entire factory.  If it weren’t for him, he’ll say while in his cups, the whole factory would miss a step and never right itself.  The truth is that the only machine Gorgeous George works on is the very large shredder that breaks down scrap metal, (miss-cut pieces, damaged ones, scrap), into much smaller pieces that can be melted and reformed into other parts, after the company sells it to other metal working places.

“George!  Could you come here a minute?”  Al appears on the catwalk that surrounds the big shredder.  He’d come over from the offices of the main building, using the skywalk to cover the space between buildings.

George is under the shredder, trying to fix a belt that’s come loose for the eighteenth time. There’s a two tonne load to shred and it’s only nine in the morning, so it makes sense that she’d break.  The somewhat cavernous building that houses the machine, just off the main building, is nearly silent with the shredder standing as unmoving as stone.  “Sure, Al, just give me a minute, almost got this.”

“No problem.”  Al is George’s immediate supervisor though he leaves George alone most of the time.  He thinks the world of George, even if there are rumours that he drinks to much at home and …well, his cousin’s wife has seen George’s wife at the ER with injuries much too often.  “Does that work?” Al smiles as he calls out the question.

“Does what work?”  George slides out from under the machine and rises.

“Alternating between cussing and praising the machine.”  He meets George at the stairs to the catwalk and together they walk to the small table tucked into a corner. There’s a mini fridge there and he watches as George reaches in to grab a bottle of water.

George laughs.  “Sometimes.  She’s getting old though, and ornery.  Sweet talk doesn’t work as well as it used to.”   He takes a pull from the water bottle and watches his boss.  He knows Al hates the building, calls it creepy and weird. Apparently, Al and several others think the building is haunted by the people killed in the shredder.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Al swallows nervously.  “I just got word that they’re bringing in a new shredder and they want this old girl in as many pieces as you can get her by the first shift tomorrow.”  He stands up as George’s eyes turn molten.  George really is kind of a big guy at six feet with broad shoulders, muscular arms and chest and a beer belly.  How he manages to squeeze that gut under the machine, Al will never know.  “And then, well, George, they’re bringing in someone who can operate the new shredder.  It’s full of computers.”

George leaps to his feet.  “What?” he bellows.  “I’m fired?”

“No.  No, not that, George.  They want to keep you on, you’re a valuable member of the team, George.”  Al tries a friendly smile but lets it slip as George’s glower becomes fiercer.  “You’ll have a new job, if you want it.  Good references if you don’t.  Work for another couple of hours, go home.  Get a few hours of sleep and be back here by seven.  They’re giving you a full twelve hours to break down the machine, along with two extra men.”

“I don’t want your men,” George snarls.  “I’ll do it myself.  I get to pick the department I’ll be moved into, not them.”  George knows he can’t afford to lose the job.

“Whatever you like, George.”  Al flees.

George grabs a chair and throws it as hard as he can.  It bounces off a wall, hits the catwalk and tumbles to the floor, where the metal-on-concrete sound echoes around the room.  Cursing to himself, George stomps back down the stairs to undo the fix that he had just completed, purely out of spite.

At eleven, George sets down the pen and stares at the plan he’d just finished.  He had the manuals and spec sheets for the shredder spread out over the table that served at his desk and lunch station. “I think that will do.”  He rubs his face.  “And I may need those two assholes Al said would be here.”  He cusses under his breath and heads home.

George lives fully with the belief that a wife is a mother and a homemaker and nothing else.  He expects a Cleaver standard of living even if he is a grubby blue collar worker.  So when he gets home and finds the house in chaos he is furious.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” he shouts over the din, scaring his youngest son, Jimmy, and his wife badly.

The living room table is littered with dishes, toast, half melted ice cream and soup in a cup, along with a coffee cup and a cereal bowl. The TV is blaring a Disney musical that is making his head hurt. Thelma leaps to her feet, gets tangled in the blanket she’d been cuddled under with Jimmy.  “G-G-George!  Wha-What are you doing here?”

“Wha-what is Jimmy doing here?” George mocks her.   “What the fuck is that mess?  Why isn’t my house clean?”

“I’m sick, Daddy.”  Jimmy, six years old, speaks up to defend his mommy.

“Did I ask you?”  George glares at his son.

As soon as his daddy looks away, Jimmy slinks from the couch and starts to creep from the room. George stalks toward Thelma and she holds her hands up.  “It would have been clean by the time you got home!  I swear!  I just wanted him to feel better!”

George backhands her. “This house is to be clean at all times,” he snarls as he grabs her by the forearm and drags her to the kitchen.

Jimmy runs behind them, screaming.  “Don’t touch my mommy!” He pummels his tiny fists on his father’s hip.

Turning, George releases Thelma and picks up Jimmy, wrapping big hands around skinny biceps and shaking him hard.  “Mind your business!”  He tosses the boy toward the living room. Jimmy hits the doorframe and lies there.

Thelma screams and tries to rush to her son’s side.  She’s stopped by a strong arm thrust in front of her.  It catches her in the throat and she bounces back.  George grabs her by the hair and drags her further into the kitchen.  The morning’s breakfast dishes are in the sink and there’s a coffee spill on the counter, the same one he’d made when he left earlier.

George slams her face into the counter and Thelma screams again as her cheekbone cracks.  “Look at this mess!  It’s a simple little spill that would have taken you three seconds to clean up.”  He drags her to the sink and plunges her face into the dirty dishes hard enough to break a glass and slice her face.  It carves into her just below her eye.  “Five minutes and you’d have had these done but what do I find you doing?  Lazing around on the couch with that lazy boy!”

George hauls her out of the sink and shakes her.  “I don’t know why I married you.  You’re lazy and shiftless.  And look at you, you’re ugly too.”  He punches her in the soft, but nowhere near fat, belly and slaps her breasts as she tries to bring her hands up to defend herself.

As always, he blacks out and the violence escalates.  He comes to sometime later to find himself sprawled across his bed.  He stretches, pleased that he’d slept so well.  “Ow!  What the hell?”  He studies the hand that refused to open or close all the way and finds it bruised, swollen and that at least one knuckle is probably cracked.  “Thelma!” he bellows.  “What the hell happened to my hand?”

Thelma doesn’t answer and he tries again a couple more times before rolling out of bed and storming into the kitchen.  There’s blood everywhere and both Thelma and Jimmy are in piles on the floor.  “Shit.”  George’s eloquent statement comes after prodding Thelma and the boy with his foot and finding them unresponsive.  He hadn’t found a pulse on either of them either.

Just then, the front door opens.  “Mom?”  Nine year old Jake walks in as George hurries to the front door, surprising his son.  “Dad?  What are you doing home?  Is everything okay?”  Jake spies the dirty dishes on the table and drops his bag.  The word shit explodes from his mouth before he can think about it and he hurries to the mess.  “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll clean it up.  I’m sure Mom was just busy doing other stuff.  I know Jimmy wasn’t feeling well this morning.  Maybe she was cleaning up barf or something.”

George watches the boy, every word like a hammer to his skull.  “Your mom is a lazy whore.”

Jake turns to George, his mouth hanging out.  Fury fills his expression and he throws whatever he has in his hand at his father.  “She is not!  You’re an asshole!”  Jake watches his father’s face turn purple and nearly pisses himself.  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry!”

It’s too late.  George pounces on his son and beats him to a pulp, just like his mother.  Afterwards, George cleans himself up.  He showers, cleans under his fingernails and puts on clean clothes before going to the pub for dinner.

Alma, the fifty year old waitress is surprised to see him.  “Hey, George sweetie.  How’s it going?”

George smiles winningly at her.  “The boys are sick and I have to go back into work tonight.  Thought I’d give Thelma a break and eat dinner here so she doesn’t have to cook.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?  You’re a sweet man, George.”

At seven, George walks into the shredder building to find two silent men waiting for him.  “Good. Let’s get to work,” he says cheerfully.  “You,” pointing to the one on the left, “start with the large access panel on the right.  And you,” now to the other man, “come with me.  I’ll give you an idea of our plan.”

George leads the way up the stairs and the silent man follows.  Halfway up, George starts to hear whispers.  It sounds like a dozen people whispering his name. He stops and whips around, nearly falling.  “Did you say something?”

The man merely shrugs.

George looks at him closely, thinks he looks vaguely familiar but he can’t place him.  “Do I know you?”

The whispers start again.  George spins around.  “You!” he shouted at the other silent man.  “Did you say something?”  When the man stops trying to loosen bolts that had long since rusted to frame and shrugs George scowls.  He listens but nothing else happens.

He continues up the stairs and goes over the plan with the other man, who says nothing, just nods along.  This makes George happy, he dislikes working with chatterboxes.  Men who think that just because they’re in the same room with another person they simply have to tell their life stories, or discuss the last football game (although, really, George will expound on his Lions, given half a chance).

As they turn from the table, there’s a long screech like a key on the side of a car.  George runs down the stairs.  “What the hell are you doing?  This may be going to scrap but we still need to treat it with respect!”

The man just stares at him curiously and George hesitates.  He looks at the machine and doesn’t see anything.  “Ahh… maybe it was the other guy.”  He moves around the corner of the shredder, looking for marks.  There’s a long scratch mark in the paint and rust and George bends down to investigate.

As he does, someone grabs the back of his head and slams his nose into the metal.  He feels a pop then hears a crunch as his nose explodes.  He cries out in rage and pain and straightens up as the hold on his head disappears.  He turns, fists up, but there’s no one there.

George grabs the handkerchief he keeps in one pocket and gingerly presses it to his nose to try to contain the flow of blood.  His eyes are watering and he can’t see very well. He blinks rapidly to try and clear them.   “Who’s there?  Come out, you bastard!  I will show you who’s boss!”

He runs back the way he came, every step a lightning fork of pain in his face.  The man there had moved to the next bolt, further away from George than he had been and he’s got a small torch in hand.  The metal is hot around the bolt he’d been cutting through, it’s obvious he’s been there a while.

Stumbling to a halt, confused, George looks for the other guy and finds him at the top of the catwalk, studying the top of the shredder.  George convinces himself he tripped and jams the handkerchief up his nose.  “Cudding the bold oud is good, id’ll be fasder,” he says before pointing at the other guy.  “Come down here!  We need do ged sdarded on de chude.”  His head is screaming but he has a job to do.

George heads for the long tool bench and suddenly drops to his knees when something slams across his the middle of his upper back.  It feels like a baseball bat.  “Hey!  Whad de fuck?!” he cries.  He awkwardly spins around, arms raised defensively, but, again, there’s no one there.

Confusion turns to fear as he climbs to his feet and stumbles toward the bench.  Maybe he can defend himself with a wrench.  He feels eyes on the back of his head, cold breath on the back of his neck.  He shivers and realizes the entire temperature of the room, which is normally kept at sixty degrees Fahrenheit, has dropped much lower.  His breath fogs out in front of him.

George grabs a heavy wrench and turns around.  He gasps and lets out an involuntary shriek.  Standing in front of him are a dozen or so people.  “Pedey?” he says with a small boy’s voice, still nasally from the handkerchief stuffed up his nose.  He hasn’t seen Petey since he died when they were seven years old.

The crowd parts to allow three people to come forward.  “Thelma?  Jimmy? Jake?  But you’re… you’re…”

“Dead?” she asks, though he swears her mouth didn’t move.  “Oh yes, you fucking cocksucker.  We’re all dead.”  As one, they go from looking normal to their condition at death.

Petey looks like his face had been smashed in with a baseball bat. He has leaves and dirt in his hair, scrapes from being dragged through a wooded area.

There’s a man who has very obviously been run over by a car.  A teenage girl with her face beat up, torn clothing and strangle marks on her throat. Another man whose throat is open in a jagged cut.

George shrinks back against the bench.  “But you’re all accidents.  I didn’t mean to do it.”

Jake steps forward.  “I’m an accident, Dad?” he sneers.  “Felt pretty on purpose.”

As George protests again, the crowd closes in on him.  He is punched, kicked, and cut.  They tear him to pieces and continue to do so long after his death.

April Camp Day 6

Good morning!

Fanny is already done!

It was like pulling teeth to get these 377 words.  Took way longer than it should have but Fanny insisted on being a bloody poem.

Well, not a bloody  but I figured it was a better word than fucking.  More polite, yes?  Until I blew it right there.

See, she scrambled my brain.  Hate the woman.  I’m glad we’re past her.  I will probably work on George some later, just to get the daily word count done to keep my stats up, but you won’t see him until tomorrow.

It’ll be a much better quality than this bit of… I’m not sure what this is.  A poem, I think.  That’s what was wanted anyway.  I don’t do poetry.  Spells, sure.  Poems, no.  And this was made harder by her insistence that every line had to start with F.  What the fuck, man.

It’s done.  I’m happy.  

Have a wonderful day!


Fanny’s Doom


Fanny Fabron is a French witch

Famed for her potions of health.

Fat though she was, people adored her

Funny, dimpled smile.


Forever cheerful she was, until the

Flutter of her biological clock

Fogged her brain until a child was all

Fanny desired.


From an old black book, worn and

Faded, a spell she searched out.

“Furfur, Furfur…What an odd name,”

Felt Fanny with amusement.


“For you a circle shall be cast.

Fiend you are called, lover you shall be.”

Fine male form a demon must have,

Fun for fucking and impregnating.


“Fertilize me!” she cried while

Flinging her hands in the air.

“Fornicate with me! But more,

Fond of me, I beg of thee.”


Furfur appeared with lightning and a

Funnel cloud fierce.

Fanny gasped and screamed as

Fetid air cleared.


Fine male form indeed, had he.

Fanny and head of a deer, chest

Fit for a weight lifter, wings of

Fur and leather.


“Fornicate, say you?”

Furfur asked of she.

Feral eyes looked her up and down,

Fat tongue licked skinny lips.


Fright past, Fanny stared at

Furry male parts that hung low

For it grew and grew.

“Finally!” she exclaimed.


Furfur paused, so used to being

Frightful was he that love was

Foreign to him and unknown.

“Fuck now!” was the gleeful shout.


Future comes, as time must pass.

Fritz, was the boy child of the union,

Furred was he, just like his father.

Fuzzy knobs upon his head.


Feet like hooves, he was a

Freak among the others.

Fracas and fights broke out often.

Finally, the villagers had enough.


Furor and whispered plans.

Forks for pitching, weapons made.

Flames on torches, burning bright.

“Fight Burn them tonight!”


Furfur disappeared in a cloud of sulfur.

Fanny cursed him, grabbed her child and

Fled into woods so dark.

Falling and stumbling, scratches galore.


Following on their heels, villagers chanted,

“Fat Fanny, furry Fritz.  Die tonight!

Fire to purify, flames to devour!

Father of Lies, welcome your spawn!”


Found in a cave, they were, afraid and cold.

Fuel piled around, wood and bark, stick and grass.

Flames touched to pyre

Fire exploded, high and bright.


Fanny and Fritz are no more.

Fear killed once and once again.

For fear brought love and,

Finally, destruction.