Sensational Ailey. (18.9.14)

I read this back in Sept for this Salon of SEAF: Erotica event, which was really fun. Now I’m finally getting around to posting it here.

NOTE: This piece is erotic, but not explicit. Enjoy.


The jangling of her keys in the door mingle with the quiet rush of still vivid cheers, insects, and gentle wind of evening. Her bare arms prickle as she inhales an earthy scent of rain, and she pauses to take in the still fullness of the darkening air around her. Trees shuffle against each other all down the street, their edges sharply highlighted in bouncing light from neighbors’ windows.

Her house is dark and silent. It’s the first night in several weeks that it’s not bursting with company, performance prep parties, or the frantic hustle of her day job. And she’d made sure when she left early this morning that it would be spotless. Even recruiting a guest or two, for the final shine.

She steps into the darkened hallway, flipping a switch, locking a door, and dropping keys. Tonight is hers.

Sets of soft glowing LED strips illuminate the edges of the hallway, casting the room beyond in layers of shadows and silhouettes. She steps out of her low slung heels, hangs the little bowler prop hat embroidered with her name, Ailey, on its particular hook.

The rest of her clothes create a trail of shrugged off vest, silky shiny trousers, a rather dapper finely striped gray and black tie, stockings made the home of glitter led astray, and deep red silky panties skimmed down legs. It all leads down the hall, up a few stairs, and around the corner into the bathroom. Shower set to appropriately steamy, Ailey leans across the sink to peel away shiny red tasseled pasties from her nipples. Her makeup is smokey eyes, dark red lips, and bright contrasts. It makes her blue eyes dramatic, her lips expressive. If Ailey smiles, it’s daggers to the heart. A smirk, a playful eyebrow, and the begging starts.

She steps into the steam, her body thrumming against the water with remaining adrenaline and flush of applause and freedom. Her show tonight had been fantastic. Far and away beyond her dreams. And on a milestone show to boot. She’d been a goddamn star. It felt good to be this proud on a night engineered to be all hers. And this shower, with all its steam, and slippery lathered soap, was only a refreshing cleanse from stage makeup, several half lives of glitter, and the perfume of so many hugs.

Her hair hangs soft and cool against her collarbones as she pads downstairs, back into the world of shadows and quiet light. Her bare skin shifts against the smooth robe wrapping her with every step. Thigh, breast, and back. Each brush sends skitters of tingles along her body, all the way down to her toes, sinking into carpet plush, then pressing against cold hard wood.

Indulgence is key, anticipation high. Her patience flows around her, steeped in imagination, as she finds the rhythm in fixing her favorite snacks, humming her favorite song. The pretty black and white swirled bowl she finds in the kitchen makes a pleasant clink against the counter. Hot milk burbles to a simmer, the colors of coco, vanilla, and spices dance on the surface then rush together into clear glass mug. Lavender ice cream so cold she can feel it pulling at her hand above the swirled bowl it falls into.

Her humming rumbles pleasantly in her throat, finally trailing off on low note as she reaches the hot tub outside with prized snacks in tow.

Her backyard is rimmed in trees, hot tub lit just right from within, and a gentle breeze pulls at her robe. It’s exactly enough convincing to let the robe drop off her shoulders, shivers following it’s descent. Moments later, hot water slowly envelopes her, toes, ankles, thighs, clit to belly button and nipples. She leans into the jets at her shoulders, and breathes in the brisk night wind. The contrast melting the soreness from her muscles, highlighting want in her core.

Just a few more minutes now, to sip the hot, spicy chocolate and lick every cold biting drop of lavender cream from the bowl. Her body buffeted by fiery caressing currents, and startlingly cold ice cream droplets escaping onto her chest.

Tension builds with every motion, and when, finally, her hands are free to twist and stroke, pleasure peaks. Promising the rest of the night to be entirely hers.

Basil Kisses Mommy. (18.6.10)

Never doubt the power of the wind that sweeps along the healing rain.

In the darkened days, when we hadn’t figured out as much, of what it was like to be kind, to be human, there was a stormy night. And in that night there were the souls, who’d sought their shelter in places, that kicked them out on their faces, time and time again.

Three of these souls were Ash, Amelie, and Baby tucked inside. The thunder crashed around them, lighting up their paths, they had no where more to turn.

They settled underneath, a tree whose leaves cast an illusion of protection, and as the raindrops fell, their spirits did as well.

Ash and baby curled into Amelie and cried, sure this was the end. The last chance at hope was spent and wasted, lost in the shuddering alleyway boards. Amelie only looked up to the sky, unable to see through the raindrops, unable to see where the rain fell from, the cloud with the silver lining, the rainbow they were supposed to cross. There was only darkness and swirling patterns of falling rain, struck briefly alight with flashes across the sky.

If this truly was the end, if this was where they’d lie, then at least, she’d make her lover smile to the sky, one last time. Amelie stood on shaking legs, wiping raindrops across her face, pretending she was brave. Her lost white dress in tatters, clung to her form as she stood against the storm.

Her voice rose quiet, soft, and unendingly sweet.

Lady Ash my love,

We have come so far.

And our child within you,

must know our star.

The star our love has followed, looking for the future, a world where we can say that this has past.

This song was my grandmother’s, her love in me grows strong.

I sing to the elements of soul

They dance around us all

entrancing us in storm, warming us in shine, bringing us the fresh bread scents.

This is our love and child, and this is where we are

I sing for you my love and all who’ve needed shelter.

To all the world’s connections, carry this message with you,

Along to all the ones who can help you

Find the shelter from the rain that would heal us

If only falling with a different touch.

And in these moments, when all hope is lost,

Please be standing there.

Her song is haunting against the rain, Ash’s tears mix with rain on her face, and when Amelie offers her hand for them to dance in the echoes of her song, she takes it.

Swaying there together, singing their songs of love, Baby kicks between them, and the rain warms their faces and their hearts.

For everywhere around them, lights blink on in darkness, casting light in shadow and a honeyed glow. The rain fell thicker all around, but the cold did not sting them, the wind did not bite. They were caressed together, taken care of by the night.

Amelie’s song returns in the raindrops, ringing along the ground, except her words are different, answered by the storm.

To the wind and rain who hears us, and all the spirits there that may,

We Care.

Those lovers there beneath the worried sky, were protected. From their own world and the wonders that had lost their course, warmed in rain and sheltered they danced in love. Amelie took a sprig of something growing just in the dirt and cracks, held it to her lips and laughed. Pressed it to her lovers lips and kissed her. The sweet, earthy scent of basil wound around them, a charm for their future, and a lullaby for their tired eyes.

Ash’s tears were happy now as her hand brushed baby’s tiny fist, lying just below the surface, ready to seize the world. “I think we should name her Basil.” Ash’s voice was hoarse and low, accompanied by the thundering approval of whichever goddesses above were watching.

Amelie nods and they kiss once more.


Seven long years later,

These two lovers stand, with their own protection and their people, finding their better world.

Basil kisses mommy, and she grows.

I’ll Be Writing. (18.11.2)

Sat at the desk, battered by winds and rains. Buffeted by daily demands of life.

There are times of course, when the world wins, and away from the words we must go.

Ties snaking along, glowing through darkness and storms, edging paths, curbs, marking trails amongst debris and disorder. Pulling, dragging, making its own demands. Looped over elbows, taught against ankles; chokers and bracelets, wrapping round each bit of story, plot, and thought. Quiet. Ignorable at first. Ever present and growing.

Pulled in so many directions, and still returning. Again yet again, until time stretches oddly.

Understanding finally the words.

I’ll be writing.



In unrelated news:


This is Magic. (18.6.1)

Magic isn’t hard to find. It isn’t even hard to recognize, or harness.

It’s just, that most of us are so easily distracted from magic that when we see it, it’s out of our minds a second later.

These distractions are often called ‘explanations’ or ‘causes’ by those who particularly don’t want to see magic. Distractions are the most mundane objects that exist.

There are some devices that can highlight magic, but just the fact that the magic is being seen through a device, it is discounted. Slow motion cameras capture the magic that’s so fast it’s lost to us. The way everything moves in slow motion, the majesty of running wolves and shifting fur, exploding bubbles having a single point of origin, and ink droplets hitting water and twisting around themselves, it’s magic. Every instant of is being presented to you with perfect proof. Just blown off. Just how the world works.

It’s fine not to acknowledge it. But it’s there.

When you notice the rainbows and shifting shimmering colors at the edges of windows, puddles, and mists, it’s magic too. The places where the dimensions brush against each other is beautiful, shifting, and it feels like a gentle sunbeam brushing your skin, burning and soft at the same time. The bits of matter thickening the air feel like the mists of this world.

When there are lights dancing on the walls inside, there’s a rift there as well. It doesn’t matter that putting your hand in front of the dance lights can shift the rift.

Everything in the universes is connected, so why wouldn’t your hand moving have an effect? It doesn’t mean it’s not magic. It doesn’t mean the light is causing the colors, it just means the timing is spectacularly lined up. And that’s not really so great a feat, there are so many variables in a vast space, coincidences are easy.

There are so many distractions from magic, it’s dismissed as trick of the light, explained as confluences of different laws of physics, and masked with the mundane. It doesn’t take much to look past the distractions, if you want to.

Noticing a flower bud barely open, dew forming, or a bough of a tree shifting, is magic. Wind in the tree is the distraction. Dew is only humidity, not evidence of fairies. And flowers, they only grow is all.

The moment between noticing magic, and the distraction taking over, that’s the hard thing. Disconnecting distraction from observation is the moment where the power to harness the magic lies.

Learning to notice the disconnect, to highlight it instead of allowing it to carry on, is harnessing magic.

Magic is creating change. It’s shifting through the endless possibilities of worlds and times and combinations. Looking for the change that improves.

Magic is change, at any scale. Magic is taking the time to stare at the differences in the world through the mirror, instead of accepting them.

You are change that hasn’t happened yet. You are magic that you are too distracted to use.

Learn to notice the disconnect.

This is magic.

Silly Weekly Meta Momentum. (18.10.4)

When ya gotta write and all your head provides is song lyrics that already exist.

Starting lines and dramatic passages of fame.

Bits and pieces, ideas and scraps; deserve much better than this claptrap half exhausted gotta write something for the weekly brain.

Can’t loose momentum on the weekly.

Bits deserve flesh and strength.

Pieces of larger things that can’t, well shouldn’t, simply be removed.

To stand on their own.

Ideas take time.

Scraps need edited.

Sensations and scenes, imagery and vivid instants.

Those would be lovely.

Fully realized, perfect edits, easily.

While still asleep.

The lead weight cotton static in the mind drags on the hunt

To find a more or less decent post.

Maybe next time, it won’t be a weird and silly meta blob of bits and pieces.

Full News At Ten. (18.9.23)

A bloody rampage started earlier today after a warehouse employee of our local Palm Art department store failed to use absolutely as much tape as humanly possible, resulting in the newest batch of Resilient Bounce tupperware’s escape.

Ninety-two fatalities reported before authorities gave up on counting. Countless injuries. Damages to public and private property to be properly assessed once the tupperware have been contained, investigated, and reprogrammed.

In other news, make sure you don’t slip in the massive egg slick on your way to work today. A hundred twenty count box failed on the byway, due to a flaw in engineering caused by a lack of tape on the bottom flaps, leaving the structure unsound.

Full News at Ten.

Postcard Perfect. (18.8.26)

This rarely used closet in an awkward corner of the converted attic bedroom was last on the list to pack. Seems like all it held was clothes of another era, dust, single shoes, and lost paperclips.

Hangers squeak on the old rod, and puffs of dust light up the sunbeams sneaking in through cracks like muted glitter. In the back corner, there’s a surprise. A dusty, worn shoe box with blue, green, and red stripes and a far too faded to read brand logo. It draws me like a magnet, and a moment later I’ve settled on the floor, and gently lifted the lid.

I don’t remember the box, nor have any suggestion as to what the contents are, but this feels important. Important enough to take time away from this difficult move, into a new, uncertain life that could lead us anywhere.

A postcard on top catches my eye, layered in fine dust, edges worn, a clear, gorgeous blue lake. My breath catches in my throat, and I know if I turn over the card, there will be a note to myself from the summer of my thirteenth year, telling myself all about my favorite crush, the deep water and my first bikini, scrawled in fading ball point pen. But all I can do is dive into the senses that surround me.

Smells of dust, heat, and abandoned clothes fade, replaced by thick pine perfume, campfire smoke, and damp lake water air. A little jetty sticks out into a deep blue lake, the expanse of water broken at the edges in ring of dark trees, with light sandy shore beneath them. Directly across from me, as I stand in the sand with bare feet and scratches on nearly every bit of my skin, is a cliff face of yellows, reds, and darker stains of the tougher plants clinging to its surface.

I knew if I crossed the water in the sometimes leaky metal rowboat, I’d find a huge old tunnel cutting through the cliff face, with some abandoned machinery that worked to create it in rubble at the bottom. I wasn’t allowed to go there, but sometimes I’d sneak out with older high school kids, following my crush, my face burning every second. Hoping to be noticed and yet stay invisible all the time I spent following them.

The sky above me is blue, covered in cloud whisps and dotted with birds flying high and slow, or darting low to play with each other in gusts.

Just as I’ve adjusted, amongst memory or reality or something else the muggy summer heat shifts before my eyes, instead bringing the smell of fog rolling across the lake in early morning stillness, a coffee mug steaming on the edge of the jetty, cool crispness of autumn, and sounds of shuffling leaves falling. A soft sweater wraps around goosebumped arms, and this time my feet are sinking into thick, dewy cold grass.

This isn’t memory. I hadn’t been back to the lake in years, and even then it was always summer. Tears stream down my face as shrieks of children’s laughter float to my ears, and my heart swells when the water breaks by the jetty and my love’s head surfaces. Before I can make out the face in the vision, I’m sitting back in the dusty attic room.

My face wet, my body trapped in stiff denim and a thin tank top pressed against sticky skin. My lover stands in the doorway, watching me, knuckles to door frame, worried. The faded post card in my hand, light and simple. Looking down it’s only paper and ink, no longer the journey to come.

My love kneels beside me, kissing the top of my head and pulling me into warm arms. I curl into those arms, tucking my nose against my lover’s throat, smelling faint tinges of earth and tree sap.

“I think I know where I want to go, to stay,” I say quietly, smiling.

A gentle hand wipes the tears from my cheek, a contented face returning my smile. “I can’t wait to find out.”