Inside The Gazebo

Night Walk

2007-11-06T08:08:00.000-05:00

Last night my wife and I went for a long walk. It was very dark, and it was cold. The pleasant company of my wife kept me warm.

Leaves

2007-10-26T13:16:00.000-04:00

The winds are from the North now, crisp and almost cold.
Green canopies of the soft leaves of a summer have long ago turned to red and gold.
They lay on the ground to become next year's shreds of compost.

The mornings come frosty and dark.
Evenings are dark and lonely.
Only the leaves of the Oak resist the temptation to succumb.

The coyotes howl, and the lawyers expand their own fame.
Time shrinks while duress eats more to roll in the pleasures of becoming fat.
The sap of the Maple flows back to the roots.

Hard gray limbs stand naked to wait and bear the onset of ice and snow.
Squirrels gather the few remaining acorns to store a little more wealth for the winter.
The old Tamarack dies from blight.

The winds are cold now; they come down from the North.
The mornings begin with clenched flesh and the evenings end with salty tears.
The flow of life’s blood slows in the man.

Another Day

2007-10-10T07:06:00.000-04:00

On another day I would feel the warmth from your lovely thighs upon my cheeks. I would taste you.

On another day I would swim in the rapture of your inner muscles clenching around me. I would tremble from the pulses in my need to fill you.

When finished we would kiss, and we would touch. On another day.

Afterglow

2007-07-04T08:03:00.000-04:00

It will seem we have suspended time, though a fraction of eternity will have passed on by.

Apprehension retreats; perfect bliss fills its place.

Soft moans of anticipation may escape our lips; quickened heartbeats will pulse in our ears.

Tiny trembles of rapture will travel your skin as my fingers search and explore your femininity. Your frantic focus may be the capture of my sensual flesh.

We’ll plummet into a free-fall away from conscious thought. Our senses will lock as one; breath will pant across our playing tongues.

Enchantment and desire will rapidly scale the walls of need; we’ll hurl each other toward the top.

We’ll melt in our coupling, one absorbed by the other. When you sheath me; we’ll thrill to the glove of wet heat that surrounds our connection.

Furious thrusts will carry us on upward; we’ll soon conquer the summit and cling to its ledge. We’ll breach the barrier to float and drift across the long plateau of ecstasy.

Muscles taut and strained we’ll linger and delay the dreaded descent. But when we must descend, magic pulses will roll our climax slowly and quietly away.

You might quiver with final pleasures during the gentle softening of me...in the afterglow.

Candy

2007-06-10T09:31:00.000-04:00

They gang-raped and made her pregnant at the just blossoming age of fifteen. There were four of them. The first one took her virginity, one of them fertilized her. And she has never known their names.

But that was sixteen years; a husband still; and three more children ago.

She brush-paints “16” in large pink numbers on both sides, the trunk, the roof and the hood of her “fire-car”---the junk car she drives each year in the demolition derby at the county fair. Sixteen was the tender year of her age when her first child suckled at her breasts.

Last year she finished third in the main event of the Derby. The year before, she crashed early. This year she intends to win.

When the demolition derby and summer have come and gone, when it becomes fall and the hunting season, you will find her out of bed well before dawn and sitting high in a tree watching intently for the perfect bow and arrow shot at the elusive white-tailed deer. During gun season, which comes later, and often with brutal cold, you will find her burrowed into the ground-blind she constructed from dead tree limbs, rotted stumps, wilted ferns and bows of pine. She will be in the woods with her gun, while her husband will be at home with the remote control and waiting for his “game” on TV. “Fuck that!” she says.

But on this morning, cascades of raven black flow over her shoulders and fall gently toward her narrow waist. Her hair, soft as silk, reflects a tint of blue in the summer sun.

Earth’s darkest browns color her eyes. A sprinkle of gold and a fleck of green add to their sparkle. Like burning coals of subtle passion, they sear their brand on unaware hearts.

Lips painted with nature’s own gloss form the warm seductive smiles that will spawn tonight’s dreams of many a man’s restless sleep. Her radiant beauty and confident manner will hurl their imaginations to lusty places.

The twin globes of her firm breasts ride high and proud below her slender neck. Sheltered by the mere fabric of her blouse, her nipples beckon---like cherries wild and red---and so many men long for a taste.

Round taut buttocks beg for a good man’s best attentions. Her sculptured legs might hold him there between them, a willing captive forever.

But she takes no such prisoners.

The men who eat at the small diner call her Candy. We call her Candy, because she is sweet to our hearts.

The End

2007-05-13T08:03:00.000-04:00

I have written the above two words in a manuscript.

I have titled the story: Build Me a Gazebo.

The story includes a bit of suspense; a collection of romantic interludes; an imagination’s fill of erotica and a twist by Satan.

“They” do not live happily ever after.

Now, to rewrite it...this time writing it well.

EIJ

Bug Tails - "Squeak"

2007-05-06T09:51:00.000-04:00

Squeak-squeak
Squeak-squeak

What?...2:19 A.M...not the alarm yet....

Mmmmm...bed feels good...comfortable...

Should pee...wait awhile...

Squeak-squeak

So tired...sleep...

Squeak-squeak
Squeak-squeak

Fucking neighbor...first time here since Fall...

Squeak

Fixing something...well-house maybe...pump froze maybe...

Shit...better pee...2:43...too early...

Squeak-squeak

Old Libby snoring...too long a walk today maybe...

Where’s Bug?

Really had to go...good piss always feels good...don’t wash hands...will wake up

Tired...need more sleep...

Libby... dead to the world...doesn’t know I’m up...

Where’s Bug?...leave him outside?...No, in my face about midnight.

Mmm...quiet now...neighbor finished...

Jesus...bed feels good.

Squeak-squeak
Squeak-squeak-squeak

WHAM!! SQUEAK!! Plop-plop

What the fuck! What just bounced off the closet door?!

“Bug! You little asshole! Now leave that fucking thing on the floor!!”

Ah, there’s Bug! Over on Barbara’s side of the bed. Sounded like she just killed his toy raccoon!
Wasn’t the neighbor...Bug.

Human Gutters

2007-04-21T11:10:00.000-04:00

Middle-aged and well traveled in the trenches of human gutters; he wept through his story of hopelessness and despair. He cried over the loss of his soul.

He asked if it would ever get better. He asked if he would ever know peace within himself. He asked if he would ever again find dignity. He asked if he could ever again know love.

That night, he would destroy the most precious of gifts. He would pinch out the flame on the candle of his life.

I’ll always wonder what more....

Heart-words

2007-04-07T14:24:00.000-04:00

Be it good, or be it bad, I write from my heart. My muse dwells there.

My brain thinks, my heart feels. Topics come from my brain; the words come from my heart.

For the past many weeks my brain has said, “Pull words from your heart and put them on your blog”.

For the past many weeks I have opened my heart in search of those words. Most often, I’ve reached in and found only crumbs.

Be it good, or be it bad, I write from my heart. My muse dwells there.

My heart is empty now; no words to blog are there.

Center of Night

2007-03-31T08:42:00.000-04:00

I awoke during the center of last night.
I had been dreaming of you.
I was erect from the glory of your nakedness in my dream.

I recalled your enchanting image and I seared it across my mind.
I gripped the throbbing flesh of me firmly in my hand.
I stroked slowly, at first, pretending entrance into the heat of your flowing core.

Imagining your breath and movements thickened and stretched me.
I reached the pinnacle of sensation and my seed spewed from the top.
Washed and sated, I returned to a deep and dreamless sleep.

This morning, I smiled from lingering thoughts of you.
Throughout today I visualized you, and imagined your touch.
I am in my bed, waiting to see you presently in my dreams.

Will you come to me in the center of tonight, and be again my succubus?

Reflections of a Man

2007-03-24T08:41:00.000-04:00

I liked a woman once.
No, I’ve loved a few.
“It used to bother me,” I’d say, “that she has a beautiful husband.”
They needed me and I wanted them to.

But what the hell, they were lovely, they were young.
I was lovely, I was young.
I wanted them, I dreamed of them.
I needed them and they wanted me to.

In the warmth of the day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of the evening, when he was high and blown away; they loved me, the horse of me.
Only half drunk was I, and I’d bathed.
I was dangerous and they sought a thrill.

They knew me, they understood their ache.
They wanted me, they dreamed of me.
I knew them, I understood their need; and I unlocked my door.
They were sad and neglected; I’d give them their thrill.

“Let us have our fantasy,” they’d say, and it felt good to me.
They’d sneak away to be with me.
They smoked their pot, I drank my scotch.
We’d laugh, we’d talk, and we’d pet each other.

They were free for the moment and horny.
I was lonely forever and horny.
They’d undo their buttons, I’d undo my belt.
They’d wonder if they should, I’d convince them they could.

We fucked, I fell in love.
They cried from their guilt.
I wouldn’t ask about their tears, I knew the answer that would come.
I was patient, and I watched the ceiling.

In the warmth of a new day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of a new evening, when he was high and blown away; they stayed to smoke and sniff with him.
They’d had their thrill; they’d had their want of me.
I wept, I drank my scotch; and I left my door ajar.

Bug Tails - "'fraidy-cat"

2007-03-22T06:46:00.000-04:00

Last evening we enjoyed our first thunderstorms of the season. A series of them rolled through during the night. Bug spent the entire night plastered against me, trembling. (If you don’t know about Bug, he came to us as a stray a little over a year ago. We believe he had been through a lot). Old Libby just snored, on the floor, belly-up.

This morning, when I crawled out of bed, Bug stayed attached to me. When I sat at the table to suck down my first cup of coffee, he lay across my feet---not by them, on them. Same thing when I sat on the toilet. Have you ever tried to wipe with a dog across your feet?

He wanted to get in the shower with me too. I should have let him. He stinks after a long winter without a bath.

Silence

2007-03-19T14:35:00.001-04:00

He heard the door close softly behind her. He burrowed deeper under the covers. Lonely silence rang in his ears.

On the john.

2007-03-10T09:52:00.000-05:00

A little humor for the writers who visit here. Stolen from Reader’s Digest, March 2007.

**************************

“Once upon a time, a beautiful young antelope was going to the party of the year. Excited, she put on a new outfit, makeup, great shoes, the whole nine yards. Suddenly, she was stampeded by a herd of buffalo, making her the first self-dressed stamped antelope.”

************

“A recent survey reported that 27% of Americans take their cell phones to the bathroom, an indication that reading is definitely becoming a lost art.”

Zips 'n giggles!

2007-03-04T09:34:00.000-05:00

I followed her along the hallway; in a hurry not to be more than a few minutes late for my meeting, and I couldn’t help but focus my eyes on the cling of her summer-weight dress. She has a beautiful ass and it was apparent to me she wore nothing under that dress...well, maybe a thong. I started an erection, which I really hoped wouldn’t be noticed when I went through the next doorway and into the conference room.

I walked through the doorway, close behind her, and into the meeting. Not only was I hard, I was unzipped.

Later that day she began to giggle. I didn’t know why she giggled because she had been browsing through a sporting goods catalog while I finished an important document before leaving work for the day and a drink. She had finished her own work early, and come to invite me for an after work cocktail.

“What are you giggling about?” I asked. “Oh, just thinking about a little experiment,” she replied. “Something I decided earlier today that I’d like to try.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

She stood up from her chair and with a tentative grin said, “Here, I’ll show you.”

She walked over to where I sat at my desk and said, “Close your eyes for a moment.” I did. She kissed me softly and she let the kiss linger. She lightly fiddled with my slacks until she found my zipper. I began to slide my hand up her inner thigh, under that summer-weight dress. She broke the kiss and whispered, “No, don’t do that.” Then she knelt in front of me.

Lowering my now famous zipper, she began giggling again. She looked up into my eyes, “I don’t know if you want me to do this,” she said, “but I really want to try.”

“I really want you to do that,” I said.

Walk with Me

2007-02-24T11:36:00.000-05:00

Here...take my hand. Come walk with me.
Let’s stroll along this wooded path.
Let’s fondle the leaves, let’s smell the ferns.

Your arm feels good around my waist.
Let’s get in step or we’ll bump our hips.
Let’s laugh, let’s giggle.

I love it when you point things out to me.
Let’s watch the squirrel.
Let’s see the rabbit.

Along the way we’ll stop to have a tender moment.
Let’s share a hug.
Let’s steal a kiss.

Over there...see that log?
Let’s take a seat.
Let’s have a rest.

Do you feel the shade?
Let’s let it cool our brow.
Let’s take it as our refreshment.

Come, sit close to me.
Let’s stay connected.
Let’s absorb each other.

Close your eyes, be still and quiet.
Let’s hear the birds.
Let’s listen to the limbs while they sway.

Allow your mind to drift away.
Let’s find a dream.
Let’s share some pleasure.

Turn to me, I’ll touch you there.
Let’s show our love.
Let’s take each other.

Here...take my hand. Come walk with me.

Lots of Us

2007-02-19T07:02:00.000-05:00

During the noon break, I went into the lunch room to take part in a birthday celebration for a senior employee. There were approximately a dozen people in the room. I helped myself to a large piece of cake on my way to take a seat at one of the tables.

As I wolfed down the delicious German chocolate cake, I casually listened to fragments of the various conversations taking place around me. Some were talking about ice fishing---one woman proudly announced the large catch of Walleye her husband and young son had brought home the day before. Others were commenting on the snowmobiling conditions in the area. A man described the features of a new machine he intended to purchase during the coming weekend. Another person bitched about something a supervisor had said a few days ago. They were the typical mixed-company lunch room conversations.

At a lull in the conversations, a woman asked me what I had been doing recently with my spare time. She wanted to know if I had been ice fishing, snowmobiling, skiing...or what? Thinking about getting another piece of cake instead of thinking first about my response to the woman’s question, I said, “None of the above. For the past year or so, I’ve spent most of my free time at my writing.” It was a dumb thing to say.

“You’re writing?”---came the question of surprise from another woman. In addition were the chuckles from the men and giggles from the women. With a mouth full of cake, I mumbled, “Yeah.”

“You are writing a book?” The smiling first woman said. “Yeah,” I mumbled again.

Fortunately, the conversation turned away from me when the first woman declared, “I’ve always wanted to write a book. I have this wonderful romance story in mind that would make a fantastic book! It would make a great movie too!” A woman, silent until now, joined in to say basically the same. One of the men said he had a great story about Vietnam that he should write. And so the conversation continued among the dozen or so people in the room. I was content at that point to just finish eating my piece of cake.

Finished with the first piece, I decided against a second, politely excused myself and left the room to go back to my work. I stopped at the Men’s Room along the way to take a leak. While shaking the dew off my lily, I couldn’t help but to laugh. Not at my lily, but at the conversation that had occurred from the mention of writing a book.

Yesterday, I was visiting with one of the salesmen at the local Ford Dealership while I waited for my Built Tough, beat-to-shit Ford pickup to be serviced. The salesman said to me early in our conversation, “By the way, one of the gals you work with said something to me the other day about you supposedly writing something?” It is a small town! I looked around for a Men’s Room, but not seeing one handy replied, “Nah, nothing serious. Writing just keeps my hands and fingers out of trouble.” The salesman grinned, winked, and said, “Ya know, I’ve always been interested in writing a book. Let’s go over to my office and I’ll tell you about this great story I want to write.” Now, I politely asked him where the Men’s Room was and told him that if the Service Guys weren’t finished with my truck, I would be happy to come back to his office to hear all about it.”

As I shook the dew off my lily, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not at my lily, of course, but at how many “fellow writers” there are. Then I thanked the writing gods for my truck being ready to go.

Suddenly

2007-02-16T07:09:00.000-05:00

Suddenly she was here.
Gently she came, like the warm breezes of a mid-summer’s morning.

Suddenly a dark shadow drifted in, like a cold fog of dreary gray.
It covered her heart and squelched her heating love.

Suddenly she was gone.
He had swept her away, like the frigid winds of a black mid-winter’s night.

"e-shit"

2007-02-10T12:10:00.000-05:00

It appears to me the majority of the U.S. population is addicted to money, celebrity and electronics. Sucks, doesn’t it? I prefer sex and alcohol...and I save the drink for later, thank you.

A couple of mornings ago, while sitting on the john, I browsed through the February 2007 issue of Consumer Reports. I found there a short review on an electronic book reader, which prompts this post.

The Consumer Reports article is about the Sony Reader. The article says in part:

“The Sony Reader, $350, is the latest attempt to make the paperless book a best seller. Roughly the size of a trade paperback ...”

The article goes on to describe various features of the product.

This article piqued my interest because of the decision I will someday have to make regarding whether or not to query my writing to traditional print publishers or, e-publishers. Print-pub vs. e-pub has been a topic of discussion that I have seen many times here on the blogs. But, it was a fragment of the article ending sentence in CR that really grabbed my attention. The sentence fragment says:

“...and don’t mind paying a premium for something whose sequel might be better and cheaper.”

The magic word to me in the quote above? Sequel.

A couple of years ago, when I became a serious “wannabe” writer, I said to a friend, “Fuck e-pub, no way! If I write a good book, I want it to be published with ink and paper.” I think I lied. I am now coming to the conclusion that e-pub---for fiction anyway---will be where-it’s-at in the not too distant future...if not already.

And, I heard on the radio this morning that Michigan’s Governor is proposing a 50% cut in state funding to our libraries. That sucks too.

I Wonder Why

2007-02-04T14:51:00.000-05:00

Tall; five-eleven. Long smooth muscled legs and firm buttocks of a swimmer. Snug faded jeans. Rubber boots trimmed in wool at the ankle. A brown leather jacket zipped to the center of her just slightly rounded belly. A burgundy sweater accented breasts that ride high and proud. A black cap---the logo said Smith & Wesson. A manner of confidence, of education. A model she might have been in her day…had she wanted to be. But the long dark-blonde hair, tinted silver now by time and the sun, says those days have come and gone.

She browsed shades of lip-gloss, eye shadow and blush in the ladies beauty aisle. Men walked near; most paused to take a second look. Some stopped to admire. Women came to her, to ask her opinion of colors for them. I didn’t wonder why.

She pointed at me with a tube of lipstick and motioned for me to come there. I smiled and honored her request. She smiled too, when I rubbed my hand across the back of her jeans and gave the cheeks of her butt a pat. A man behind me sighed with a groan. I didn’t wonder why.

In the small morning hours of the next day, she rolled over on her side to face me. She gently placed her hand on my chest; her long fingers combed through the hair. With sleep still fresh in her voice she said to me, “You thrash and you turn night after night. You wonder if you are ready to finish writing your book. I don’t wonder if you are. I know you are. Listen to me for a change…go and finish your book.”

Kenny Rogers said it for eternity in a song. He said, “She believes in me.”

I wonder why.

Jess - II

2007-01-28T07:13:00.000-05:00

NOTE: If you would like to read the first scene of “Jess”, before reading this one, you will find it a couple of posts down.

************************************

Jess pushed open the bat-wing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon and stepped out into the balmy night. It was over now. He had just blown the brains out of the two men who had fucked his young wife brutally enough to kill her. He pulled the cork from the full bottle of whiskey and drank deeply. It tasted good. Maybe he should ride out of town a few miles, make his camp for the night and get drunk, he thought. He doubted anyone would follow him to seek revenge, or even justice, for the two murders. The whores and the men in the Lost Arrow Saloon had seemed grateful for the killings. That’s what he had done, though, murdered the two men in cold blood.

The big mule pinned its ears and curled its lips as Jess flicked the reins from the hitch rail. Jess snapped the mule on a nostril with his index finger and growled, “Don’t you even think about it, Ben. I ain’t in the mood to fuck with you.” Ben bumped Jess hard in the chest with his muzzle. In spite of his mood, Jess chuckled. “Godammit, you are an ornery bastard!” He grabbed one of the mule’s ears and gave it a sharp tug.

Jess put his left foot in the stirrup and lazily swung his right leg over the saddle and mounted the mule. Ben pivoted his head around and nipped at Jess’ toe. Jess tugged sharply on the off-rein and growled, “You just gotta do it…don’t you? Point our ugly head south and your asshole north, Ben. It’s comin’ on winter where we came from, so let’s stay warm for awhile.” Jess pointed Ben’s ass to the north and they left the Lost Arrow Saloon and two corpses behind.

As Ben jogged south out of town, Jess noticed lamps had been lit in windows of the few houses and in the small apartments above the dark business store-fronts. He supposed the sounds of his gunshots had awakened the residents who had turned-in early for sleep, or a piece of ass, maybe both. Jess had often turned-in early with his wife.

Ben kicked a hind hoof out at something, not just once, but twice. That was normal; Ben liked to kick---but usually at Jess. Jess turned enough in the saddle to look down and to the rear. Trotting along with them was a mongrel dog; black as Ben in color, and almost as ugly to look at. It had a big head, long neck, long gangly legs and large floppy ears. Jess grinned and said to the dog, “Well, dog, you are a handsome devil…almost as handsome as Ben here. Are you as good natured too?” The dog looked up toward the sound of Jess’ voice, bared its teeth and growled. Jess laughed and turned forward in the saddle.

Several miles fell behind Jess, Ben, and now the dog, as they continued south. Jess could no longer see any light from the town when he stopped to look behind and check his back-trail. As he had thought, nobody followed. He’d look for a comfortable place to make camp soon.

Tired. He was both physically and emotionally very tired. He hadn’t realized how tired, until now. The flames of the small fire licked at the night and the pot of beans. The burning wood crackled and Ben snored. Jess looked over toward the big mule laying just a few yards away. The animal was on its side, legs stretched straight out and he was for sure snoring. Jess smiled. “Damdest mule I ever saw,” he mumbled softly. “You sure are a different kind of critter, Ben. Meaner than a pissed-off snake most of the time and more unpredictable than a woman, always.” The word “woman” brought images of his dead wife into his mind. Tears began a sudden flow down his face. Jess wiped them away quickly with the back of his hand, shook his head hard from side-to-side, and took another big drink of the whiskey. God he was tired!

Behind him the dog growled. Jess snapped his mind back to the present. He heard and saw the pot of beans bubbling over. He set the cup of whiskey aside and quickly crawled the short distance to the fire. With a sturdy stick of wood he lifted the pot by its wire-loop handle from the heat. “Thanks,” he said to the dog, “my daydreaming damn near ruined my supper.” Startled by the commotion, Ben thrashed his way onto his feet. The mule shook, farted, and then trotted off toward the nearby spring and its pool of water.

Jess had set the pot of beans on a fallen log to cool while he rummaged through his saddle bags for the slab of bacon and the package of hard biscuits. He noticed the dog sitting near the pot of beans rapidly licking its muzzle and brushing the ground with its tail. Jess wondered if the dog had ever been able to eat its fill. He put an extra ration of bacon and two additional biscuits in his frying pan.

Jess scooped a generous amount of the now cooled beans onto his tin plate. He was as hungry as he was tired. He cut several pieces of the well cooked thick bacon in half and dropped them on the beans. He put two of the biscuits, warmed and softened by hot bacon grease on top of the pile. Jess grinned and set the heaping plate of food down in front of the mongrel dog. “Here,” he said, “you protected it; I guess you can have some of it.” Without hesitation, the dog began to devour the food. Jess picked up the frying pan, poured off the remaining grease from the bacon and ladled in beans and biscuits for him. With a tired sigh, he sat down on his bedroll, poured another generous amount of whiskey into the cup and ate his meal.

The dog licked the plate clean, pushing it across the ground as it sought every drop and crumb. Jess, soaking up the remains from the frying pan with one last biscuit, laughed at the dog’s tenacity with the tin plate and said. “You seemed to like the beans, boy!” Through a mouth full of soggy biscuit he added, “Maybe that’d be a good name for you…Beans.” Jess swallowed the biscuit, washed it down with a couple of big swallows of whiskey and laughed. The dog, Beans, trotted off in the direction of Ben.

Jess picked up the whiskey bottle to pour another dollop in the cup. The bottle was half empty and Jess was beginning to feel the effects. I’d better not, he thought. Instead, he got up off the ground, found the dog’s plate, picked up the frying pan and staggered toward the spring to wash the dishes and his utensils. He would cover the pot of beans and eat what remained for breakfast.

Ben was grazing on the lush grass that surrounded the spring. The animal rolled its eyes and pinned its ears as Jess came near with his dishes. Jess, stumbling a bit, walked next to the mule and leaned against its hindquarter. “Don’t worry, asshole, we aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to do the dishes and get in my bedroll,” he mumbled. “Where’s that damn dog?” Not getting any response from the mule, of course, Jess carefully made his way over to the pool of water and washed his plate, pan and utensils.

Returning to camp, Jess put his eating equipment and the bottle of whiskey back into his saddlebags and unrolled his bedroll. He stripped down to his underwear, threw a few more pieces of wood on the fire then took a piss. While doing that, he looked around for the dog. Not seeing or hearing it; he looked down at the puddle of urine forming on the ground and muttered, “Sure, I fed ya and now you’ve gone on your way. Well, I can’t tolerate a mean cur anyway. Good riddance.”

Within moments of laying his head on a rolled rain-slicker he used for a pillow, Jess drifted into a deep sleep. Crickets chirped their nightly song. A family of coyotes yipped in the distance. In the dying fire one small log rolled off another. Ben moved to graze a little closer to his master’s camp---to be his sentry. A small fluffy cloud drifted angel-like across the face of the moon.

Beans curled and pressed his body against the back of Jess’ legs.

After-Smoke

2007-01-20T15:29:00.000-05:00

Martha held the back door open to let him hurry in from the bitter cold night. She wore a short T-shirt and nothing else.

Mike stomped the snow from his boots as he pulled off his heavy parka. Martha fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. “Damn,” he said, “you must be really horny!” Martha slipped her warm fingers through the flap of his briefs, wrapped them around his soft chilled cock and stated, “It’s been too long since we’ve been together. I’m in a hurry for you. And, I want you often tonight.” Mike was warming fast.

He sent a perfect smoke-ring up toward the lazy fan that hung from the high ceiling. The slow turning blades disfigured it first then whisked it away. Mike grinned, pulled her tighter against him and said, “You ever do it with another woman?” She giggled, nuzzled her face against his neck and kissed him lightly. “You mean have sex with another woman?” she asked. “Yeah,” he answered.

Martha laughed, plucked a small clump of hair from his chest and said, “Why do you ask such a thing when I’ve let you screw me god only knows how many times, and just now too?” “Just curious.” Mike said, and then added, “I think most women have thought about having sex with another woman. Maybe even done it. It’s to satisfy their emotional needs, I think. The satisfaction of the emotions and gentleness they don’t seem to get enough of from a man. I was just wondering if you ever had.” Martha kissed his neck again and began fondling his now soft but still damp and sticky privates. Stroking him, she giggled a little nervously then admitted, “Yeah, well okay, once,” she paused then added, “with my college roommate.’

“Did you like it?”

“It was fun at the time! We were both quite inexperienced with sex then. My roommate had screwed only her high school boyfriend and I had had sex with just two of mine.”

With her still snuggled against him, his arm under and around her shoulders, Mike gently rolled her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed the nipple and said, “So how did it come about that you had sex with each other?” She moaned from the pleasure in her nipple. “We started talking about sex one night in our room while we were drinking beer. After awhile, we just started to touch each other…kind of showing each other what had felt really good with our boyfriends. The conversation, and the beer, had made us both very horny.”

“Did you do it just the one time?” Mike queried. “Yeah, just the once,” she replied. “We both felt guilty as hell and embarrassed afterwards! But over the long term, I think it has helped to keep us the truest of friends. We are still closer to each other than we are to anyone else, by far.

Mike sent another smoke-ring toward the fan then offered the cigarette to Martha. She took a long draw and inhaled deeply. When she finished coughing, she said, “I don’t know why I enjoy a smoke so much after we’ve had sex, Mike. I normally hate the damn things!” Mike grinned and said, “It’s in the definition of fucking. Fuck, then have a cigarette is what the definition says.” Martha giggled some more, tugged on his swelling shaft and teased, “My, aren’t you the literate one!”

Since Martha was fondling his masculinity, Mike thought it was only fair that he return the courtesy. He snubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray they had placed on his chest, set it on the table next to the bed, and then rolled onto his side to begin strumming Martha’s clit. “Mmmm,” she moaned. Spreading her thighs wider, she whispered hoarsely, “I guess I’m going to have to have another damn smoke soon, huh? Mike chuckled, pushed a finger in and said, “Yep, and we have almost a full pack.”

Yesterday

2007-01-14T06:54:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I walked toward a pretty woman.
I looked into her eyes, she looked into mine.
As we passed, she smiled.
I wondered what her thoughts might be.

Yesterday, I walked toward a handsome man.
I looked into his eyes, he looked into mine.
As we passed, he smiled.
I wondered what his thoughts might be.

Jess

2007-01-07T08:35:00.000-05:00

Jess peered over the batwing doors---a big man, rugged and confident. More than a month had passed since he had been in civilization. He itched from the dirt and stank from sweat. No matter, he was there to kill.

The odors of stale smoke and unwashed bodies permeated the air at the entrance to the small saloon. Raucous laughter, punctuated by the profanity of illiterate men, accompanied the smell. Three past-their-prime whores worked the crowded room; pushing support-lifted tits against dirty shirts and rubbing clapped-up crotches against denim covered thighs. Sour notes tinned from a never tuned piano. Jess lifted the retainer thong from the hammer of the double action Colt, inhaled a deep breath of the repugnant air and parted the batwing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon. It had been a long, hard search.

Now, the smell and the noise almost overwhelmed him as he entered the dreary room. The combinations of coal oil, cigars, stale beer and human stench was oppressive after weeks of tracking his prey across tall grass blanketed Plains and through high clean mountain passes. The two men he trailed had known their destination, he hadn’t. He had to find them the hard way; by following the occasional signs they left along their route. Many times, he had thanked God there had been no rain.

Jess leaned his lower back against the rounded edge of the badly scarred bar. His eyes scanned the room; a cold shadow seemed to tint their color. In the din of noise he felt, more than heard, the bartender approach from behind him. He turned to the side. “Whiskey or beer?” asked the bartender. “Both.” Jess replied. The bartender passed a dirty hand through his greasy hair and looked Jess square in the eyes. A chill slithered down his spine. “Sure,” he said. The man lifted a glass and a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, poured a full measure, and then turned away to pull the beer. Jess resumed his scan of the haze filled room.

“A nickel for the beer, a dime for the whiskey,” the bartender said. Placing the coins on the bar, Jess said, “What’s the ugly one’s name? The one with the big blood-mark on his face?” The bartender didn’t hesitate, “Don’t mess with him! He’s crazy, rabid-dog crazy! He goes by Cross.”

“Just wanted to know his name,” Jess said. He knocked back the glass of whiskey and then picked up the beer. He drank about half, set the mug on the bar then stated, “The three men playing cards with him don’t seem to be frightened.”

“The one across the table is his brother. The other two are the local blacksmith, and a whiskey drummer that comes through here every couple of months. Cross needs the blacksmith to keep his critters fit and the drummer gives him free whiskey from his sample cases. He probably won’t ever kill either of them…unless one of them pisses him off.

“Pour another whiskey,” Jess said. He drank the rest of the beer, set the empty mug down and added, “Fill that one too.” As the man did, Jess asked, “Cross have any friends in here…besides the brother?”

“Ain’t hardly!” snorted the bartender. “Like I said, he’s crazy mean. Take my advice, enjoy the drink and put the questions about Cross aside. Your curiosity about him will get you dead!”

“Don’t have any more questions, friend,” Jess said. “None.” The bartender shivered.

Jess lifted the full beer from the bar, pushed away with an elbow, and began to make his way through the noisy customers and toward Cross’ table. One of the whores snatched the sleeve of his shirt and said, “You look like you could use a good fuck, mister. I’ll suck and fuck you ‘til ya drop, baby.” He looked down at the worn-out whore, smiled and said kindly, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll bet you would. I’m a mite dirty now, though…maybe another time.” He moved on, the whore sighed.

At Cross’ table Jess placed his free hand on the back of an empty chair while taking a sip of the beer. Cross looked up at him and snarled, “Want somethin’, asshole?” Jess smiled. “Just passin’ through. Wondered if my money was any good at this table.” Cross leaned back in his chair, and with a sneer said, “I’d be glad to put your money in my pocket, just as long as you understand we play by my rules. Like ‘em or go fuck your sister!”

“Don’t have a sister,” Jess said quietly. He set the mug of beer on the table and began to pull the chair back and away from the table. His eyes focused on the blood-mark on Cross’ face. Cross appeared ready to make a comment when his brother tossed the deck of cards in front of him and told him to “deal”. Jess smiled.

As Cross lifted the deck of cards, Jess lifted the big Colt from its holster. In a single smooth motion, he touched the muzzle to the center of that ugly blood-mark and pulled the trigger. Brains, blood and bone splattered the grimy wall. Cross’ brother jerked up his head, wide eyed and mouth agape. Jess, already turning toward him, shoved the hot muzzle into the brother’s open mouth and pulled the trigger one more time. The three whores screamed.

The echoes from the big gun died away. Burned gun powder and the sickly-sweet smell of blood masked the other smells of the room. Jess’ boots thumped wearily on the wooden floor and two empty brass cases plinked there too as he reloaded and walked back to the bar. All heard the softly spoken words of a man in the crowd…”sweet Jesus”…

“I’ll buy that bottle to go,” Jess said to the bartender. “Whatever you want,” said the man, “a bottle of my best, on me! The man paused then added, “What caused you to make such a mess in here, son?” Jess didn’t answer the question. Instead, he thanked the man for the generosity and told him he’d just as soon pay. The deadly Colt holstered, Jess dropped more than enough money on the bar and picked up the unopened bottle of whiskey. The bartender leaned with his elbows on the bar. Shaking is head slowly with disbelief; he starred at the two bloody bodies on the floor.

With his free hand, Jess grabbed the top of the batwing door on the left. As he began to push it open, the whore called to him from the center of the room. “Mister!” she said. “I’d be real pleased to give you a bath first!” Jess turned enough toward her to face her fully, he smiled and said gently, “Yes, ma’am, and I’m sure it would be pleasurable. Had a real pretty wife once…she liked to give me a bath.” He gave the woman a curt nod of his head then pushed through the batwing doors and stepped out into the night.

The two batwing doors of the Lost Arrow Saloon fluttered back and forth on rusted hinges. Human gore oozed silently down the grimy walls. The bartender had the answer to his question.

The whore sighed. She rubbed her crotch against a denim covered thigh, a tear trickled down her powdered cheek, “How about you, cowboy…want a bath?

New Year Office Party

2006-12-31T07:00:00.000-05:00

She wanted sex. She didn’t want commitments, promises or romance, but she did want sex included in their friendship. Alice knew him well, although not intimately.

They worked in the same building and visited with each other almost every day. The physical chemistry between them was like static electricity…just a touch… but never openly acknowledged by either of them. They talked instead of politics, economic conditions, sports, current events, their respective families and other ordinary subjects. The occasional innocent bantering between them, though, about sneaking off to "do-it", were the conversations they secretly enjoyed the most. In reality, they had shared no more physical contact than a few quick hugs. She craved more than a hug with him and was convinced his cravings were the same.

During the past couple of months, Alice had imagined them making love in large, canopied, silk sheeted beds adorned with elaborate pillows and comforters. She had envisioned them naked on big fluffy towels on the beach; the rhythm of their coupling tuned with the waves slapping against the shore. She had seen them on beds of pine needles deep in a forest, squirrels and birds as witness to their passion. In her mind they had entwined on the seat of his truck; on a park bench under star filled warm summer skies; in the deep grass of orchards of cherry blossoms. Just last week, he’d added another to her fantasy list when he laughed and teased her to come by his office some afternoon...they’d do-it there.

On Friday afternoon of the New Year weekend, the building all but vacant, the staccato of Alice’s footsteps echoed through the corridor. She went into his office determined that her fantasy become a reality. Within moments of her arrival, they shared their first orgasms together, on the top of his desk.

Happy New Year Folks!

Erik

Christmas Turkey

2006-12-26T06:43:00.000-05:00

“Good morning, Tonya!”

No answer.

“Um…you’re in a bad mood?”

“Yup!”

“Pissed at me?”

“Nope!”

“Who?”

“Asshole husband!”

“Okaaaay, what did he do?”

“Didn’t do!”

“Okaaaay, what didn’t he do?”

“Fucker didn’t take the Christmas turkey out of the freezer to thaw like I told him to!”

“Oh.”

“I had a house full of guests and hot dogs for Christmas dinner!”

“Oh. Guess I won’t ask if you had a good Christmas then?”

“Not if you value your balls!”

“Yeah.”

“So, what do you want for breakfast…asshole?”

“Thought you weren’t pissed at me?”

“You’re a man, ain’t ya?”

“Yeah, last time I looked.”

“Well then, what do you want for breakfast…asshole?

Hmmm….maybe it’s in my best interests to talk with Tonya’s husband about his New Year’s resolutions.

A Christmas Card

2006-12-24T07:02:00.000-05:00

I celebrate the day of Christmas for the birth of Christ. I savor the day also as a day of personal peace...counting and appreciating the many blessings I have been given.

Among my blessings is the knowing you---the talented writers who faithfully give of your skills, knowledge, and passion for the art-form, here in front of God and the world. You are special people.

Whether you are published yet or not, you each have the rare gifts that may be claimed by only a few. You have the gifts of a writer. They are precious gifts to be shared.

May God continue to bless you, and may I continue to appreciate you.

Merry Christmas.

Erik

Bug Tails - "Bug's Cookies"

2006-12-16T10:47:00.000-05:00

Bug: active, adorable, affectionate…asshole.

And a pack-rat. Many, if not most dogs will bury at least some of their treasures. Bug buries everything; his toys, chewy bones, treats, leash, and now and then his food. I suspect his propensity to do so is influenced by the amount of time he spent as a stray. At least several weeks, I think.

Since Bug still dangles his balls, I don’t let him run loose unless I am close-to-hand. Our living vicinity contains several female dogs and…well…Bug is adorable. I don’t want the neighborhood pissed at me because of unplanned litters of pups.

When Bug is out-of-doors, unsupervised, he is in a spacious and clean kennel. In their kennel, he and Old Libby have the best view of the lake in the neighborhood. This is where he buries stuff.

In previous Bug Tails episodes, I’ve told of Bug’s manners in the bedroom. They suck! My sleep deprivation seems one of his goals. Lying atop the pages of my reading material and eating his bedtime dog-cookie is a nightly ritual. Several times during a night he will also wake me…um…to check on me?

Two nights ago, when I brought Bug and Libby in from the kennel just prior to going to bed, Bug immediately ran between one of the sofas and a wall. Something new for him, but I didn’t pay much attention to the action because he returned quickly. I gave him and Libby their hand-full of evening treats, went into the bathroom to pee, and then went to bed.

In bed, I wriggled into a comfortable position on my belly, unwrapped a no-sugar-added Popsicle, opened my book and waited for Bug to bring his cookie. He didn’t come.

Several minutes passed, I read a few pages and unwrapped another Popsicle. Hmmm…I began to wonder, what in hell is Bug doing? I’ll finish this Popsicle, I thought, and then go check on him. More time passed. I read several more pages, finished the second Popsicle and still no Bug.

Aw, shit, I thought, I better go see what he’s doing. I crawled out of bed, gathered up the Popsicle sticks and wrappers, and then went looking for Bug.

Crap! A wasted trip! Bug and Libby were munching dog biscuits on the living room rug. Both watched me walk by without making any effort toward me. I tossed the Popsicle sticks and wrappers in the garbage, went into the bathroom to pee again, and then went back to bed and my book.

SPLAT! No, not thunk, thud, plunk or boink, it was splat. The thing Bug dropped onto the pages of my book was black, wet, slimy, and smelled like the inside of my boots after a long hike in the woods on a hot day. “Jesus H. Christ!” I said to Bug. “What is that?” Bug didn’t answer, of course. He licked my face instead. His breath smelled like that glob lying on my book.

I slid out of the warm bed…again, picked up the book and made my way back out to the garbage can. I had to scrape the wad of black, smelly goop off the book. It was stuck on the pages. With a dry paper towel, I dabbed up the remains as best I could without ruining the book entirely. Pissed-off at Bug, I went back to bed. He wasn’t still there waiting for me. Smart dog.

Once again, snuggled under the covers on my belly and with my book open to clean pages, I began to doze instead of read. I just couldn’t stay awake.

My eyes snapped open! I’d been startled awake! Bug! He was on his belly too, across the pages of my book. His cold, wet nose was pressed against mine. We looked into each other’s eyes with me thinking evil thoughts. Just as I was about to bite him on his nose, he lowered his head into the crook of my neck and shoulder. He wiggled his body in a little closer to me and sighed with a little moan thrown-in. Bug: active, adorable, affectionate…asshole!

Next, it was morning.

May I Ejaculate?

2006-12-05T07:40:00.000-05:00

In our sex scenes, we give our characters gushing wet pussies and hard throbbing cocks. We make her thrash, tremble and scream with her orgasm. He thrusts, jets and grunts with his. He goes soft, she squeezes him out. They sigh. They snuggle, share a smoke and make false promises to each other during pillow-talk. We move them on to the next scene.

Ah…but what would we do with them if he couldn’t ejaculate? That’s apparently coming soon, so to speak.

Several years ago---high over EA’s Oklahoma in the first-class cabin of a Delta jet---another suit said to me, “Buy Pfizer”. He claimed to be a Wall Street mucky-muck. Of course I didn’t buy Pfizer. Not long after, Viagra deeply penetrated the…um…market.

Another time, a very beautiful but married woman said to me, “Stop by early this afternoon for coffee…or...uh...tea. Call first!”. I didn’t jump on that opportunity either. Regrets-regrets.

More recently---a couple of days ago---while driving to work in my Built Tough but now beat-to-shit Ford truck, one of the drive-time radio Doc’s started his daily commentary with a history of the aforementioned Viagra. Then, he went on to talk about the current research being conducted on a male birth-control drug which would prevent ejaculation!

Jesus H., I thought. Get it up, and stay in all day. Wow.

Sound good? I wonder.

From a male POV, I can in truth say that after the second or third Bernita researched 18 minute rest periods, it starts to become a bit more like…well…work. Showing off encounters physical limitations too. The shoulders begin to ache like hell, the legs begin to cramp painfully, the mind wanders off and the’ole pecker gets sore. When you start to think the Vaseline Intensive Care will feel better than the pussy does now, it’s time to get dressed.

Me? I think I’ll just go see my own Doc about a sample of Viagra…and enjoy the ejaculation.

Ladies POV?

Morning Farewell

2006-12-03T07:38:00.000-05:00

During the past several years I have arrived early each morning at a small local diner---hungry and looking forward to the beginning of a good day. Those days always started with a warm “Good morning, Erik” from the wait-staff.

This morning I ate the last breakfast at the little diner. The owner has made the decision to open later, close earlier. His decision does not accommodate the needs of my schedule.

I shall deeply miss the good people of that diner…especially Tonya.

“With a stone on his heart he walked away. She had become the bright beginning to each new day. She had become special.”

Need a hug?

2006-11-19T07:26:00.000-05:00

Silence in embrace.
No, not silent…the song of a hug.
Bodies push together, head to toe;
Arms wrap tight around;
Leg junctions press against thighs.

No, not silent…a moan of pleasure.
Bodies mold together, two become as one;
Comfort given, a thought of understanding;
Breasts touch breasts.

No, not silent…a sigh from a warmed soul.
Bodies compress, a shield to turn the world away;
Hidden from the bitter, covered against the cruel;
Hands pet and soothe the bruise.

No, not silent…the song of a hug.
Bodies join, heart caresses heart;
The spoken gift, gentle and sincere;
“I love you, friend”.

"Nice ass!"

2006-11-11T10:30:00.000-05:00

Tonya, bending over in front of the “pay-here” counter cussed at the connection of wires she attempted to make from under the shelf which held the cash register.

“Tonya,” I said. “Have I told you lately what a nice ass you have?”

“Shit!” she exclaimed.

“No shit, “I said. “You have a nice ass.”

“That’s not what I meant, Erik! I can’t get this damn plug to go where it’s supposed to!”

“Can I help?”

“Sure. Come over here and lift the cash register so I can see underneath of it.”

I left my table, went over and raised the back-end of the cash register. Click. Tonya snapped the plug into its proper receptacle.

“Jesus…finally!” she said. ”I’ve been fooling with that thing since I got here this morning,”

“Why was it unplugged to begin with?” I asked.

“Who the hell knows,” she stated. “You can sit down now. I’ll order your breakfast.”

I went back to my regular table and sat down. Tonya went into the kitchen. As I watched her go, it occurred to me that she didn’t acknowledge my comment about her ass. Hmmm, maybe that annoyed her a bit…along with the plug.

No sooner had I finished those thoughts when Tonya came out of the kitchen carrying a chipped mug of coffee and sat down at my table. I was the only customer in the diner at the moment.

“Thanks for the help, Erik,” she said. “I’ll treat to your breakfast this morning.”

“Nah,” I said. “I didn’t do that much.”

Well, I want to.” She laughed then added, “Tell ya what. I’ll buy your breakfast, you leave the tip!”

“That’ll work!” I said. I thought about repeating my comment about her ass but a group of about half-dozen men came into the diner. Instead, I said, “Speaking of tips, here comes a bunch.”

“Yeah, “she said. “Those guys are a road construction crew. They’re good tippers.”

Tonya left her partially finished mug of coffee on the table and went to wait on the construction guys. Four more men came in to join the first group. All of those guys will appreciate Tonya’s ass, I thought.

Tonya finished taking the orders of the first table of men then went over to the second table. On her way to the second table, one of the guys at the first table said, “Boy, she sure does have a great ass!” There was a murmur of agreement from the other men. I noticed Tonya to wince but, she didn’t break-stride. I found it difficult not to laugh and thought she must hear that comment on a regular basis. She just doesn’t respond to any of those comments, I concluded.

I finished eating. Tonya came to take away the tableware and asked if I wanted more coffee. I told her no, and started to reach for my wallet. “Don’t forget,” she said. “It’s on me…just leave a big tip.” She giggled as she walked away toward the kitchen with my dirty dishes.

Finished with breakfast and the last drops of strong black coffee, I tossed a couple of bucks on the table, put on my jacket, and then started to make my way to the door. Tonya was still in the kitchen.

On my way to the door I noticed there were now over a dozen men in the little diner---eating, laughing and carrying on loud conversations about sports, hunting and other such man-talk.

I had just pulled the door open to leave when Tonya shouted from behind me, “Hey, Erik!”

I turned around and said, “Yes, Dear?”

“You too!” she yelled. The noise from the other conversations in the diner calmed.

“Me too, what?”

“Nice ass! You have a really nice ass! Pinchable!” Hoots and jeers arose from the dozen or so men.

Even though it was a cold morning, my cheeks were warm as I walked to my truck.

The Blank Page

2006-11-04T10:07:00.000-05:00

Every morning I write during breakfast. I arrive early at the small diner with my pen and Doodle Pad. I sit down at my regular table, flip open the Doodle Pad, click open my pen and write. The wait-staff bring to me whatever it is they think I should eat for breakfast that day. The only consistent food in their morning menu for me is strong black coffee in a chipped mug.

It is an enjoyable start to the day, mine. Wonderful wait-staff who have become my friends, good food, and an overall happy atmosphere in which to scribble my words. They all start right there in that small town diner---the lines for my WIP, the “Bug Tails”, the sex snippets, the semi-violent scenes, the half-assed attempts at poetry……

Except this morning! Damn! This morning I flipped open my Doodle Pad, clicked open my pen, and my mind was as blank as the page. Nothing! No idea for a writing topic. None. Shit! I thought.

The opening-shift waitress, Tonya, apparently noticed my stare at the Doodle Pad. From across the room, she said, “What’s the matter, Erik? Run out of ideas?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “You got any? Give me a topic to write about.”

“Okay. Let me think about it for a few minutes”

Tonya told the kitchen staff what I’d have for breakfast, and then busied herself with the rest of her morning opening chores. I continued to stare at the blank page of my Doodle Pad. This is serious, I thought. I’m not getting burned-out am I?

Tonya refilled my coffee mug. I said, “Well?”

“I’m still thinking,” she said. “What do you want to write about?”

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t have any good ideas for you. Wait! I’ll go ask the cook.” Tonya turned away to go into the kitchen. I continued to look at the blank page and sip coffee. Damn, I didn’t like that blank-minded feeling at all.

Tonya returned from the kitchen. She had a smirk on her face.

“And?” I asked.

Tonya giggled. Then she said, “First, the cook said, ‘How the hell would I know what he should write about?’ Then she said to tell you to write about people screwing if you couldn’t think of anything else.” Tonya and I both laughed.

Tonya went to wait on a group of customers who had just walked into the diner. I continued to look at that blank page and eat my breakfast. Well, I thought, maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll think of something to write about.

What do YOU do when the page in your Doodle Pad is blank…along with your mind?

Bug Tails - "Bug Went Hunting"

2006-10-22T09:35:00.000-04:00

Uh…Bug went hunting…kinda.

The plunk of acorns falling on the ground from two ancient oak trees was the only other disruption to the quiet serenity of the day. The accompanying disruption to the sound of falling acorns was the soft steady snores of old Libby, spread-eagle on her back, napping and basking in the warmth from the sun. A perfect fall day---temperature in the mid-seventies, unblemished blue sky, and the air calm as a sated woman.

Bug, sprawled flat on his belly, was snuggled tight against my thigh. Me? I was sitting on the top step of the deck thinking “man-thoughts”.

Two fat squirrels, one black and one reddish-brown scurried into view and hurried under the oak trees. Bug stiffened. A low growl rumbled in his throat. This ought to be interesting, I thought. The squirrels began to gather acorns. Libby continued to snore.

He hadn’t attempted to move yet, but Bug’s body was taunt as the waist band of a pair of too small underwear. I glanced down at Bug and saw that the hair on the back of his neck was bristled straight up. He was trembling too.

It didn’t take long for the squirrels to have their cheek pouches stuffed full with acorns. They rose up and curled their tails like squirrels do. Both looked around to survey the surroundings then scampered off in the direction from which they had arrived. Bug twitched. I put a hand on his shoulders and told him to stay…that the squirrels would return soon. He sighed, his body relaxed, and he leaned a little tighter against my leg.

Sure enough, about five minutes later the two squirrels reappeared. I felt Bug tense like a compressed spring. The squirrels chattered briefly to each other then resumed the gathering of acorns.

Bug launched! No threatening growl, no warning bark. He just launched himself from the deck and landed on the ground at a full run. The squirrels rose to their haunches and focused on Bug as he charged directly toward them. They separated. The black squirrel dashed toward the oak tree to the east, the red squirrel toward the oak to the west. Oh-ho, I thought, Bug has a dilemma!

You’re familiar with the phenomenon of being expected to be at two different places at the same time…aren’t you? Yep, when the squirrels separated at the last possible instant before Bug’s arrival, Bug’s head and shoulders followed the direction of the black squirrel and his hind-end started in the direction of the red. Ass-over-teakettle he went! He tumbled down the short grassy slope just beyond the two oak trees to disappear over the top of the seawall. I heard the splash and saw the small geyser of water when Bug landed in the lake.

I now think squirrels are capable of laughter. The high-pitched chatter that came from within the gold leafed canopies of the oak trees sounded like squirrel laughter to me.

Old Libby grunted, rolled onto her side, and continued to snore. Me? I went to see if Bug had learned how to swim yet.

Skid-marks

2006-10-14T09:04:00.000-04:00

**********
Inspired by a comment from December Quinn, on hers a couple of weeks ago. http://decemberquinn.blogspot.com

**********

We stood face-to-face. Her left arm rested on my shoulder. Her fingers traced pathways of pleasure on the back of my neck. Her eyes were locked onto mine. Our breath mingled and I hoped mine wasn’t foul.

I already had a hard-on when her right hand slid down my stomach to the front of my jeans. She squeezed and massaged through the fabric. Jesus, I thought if she wasn’t careful I’d come in my drawers. She halted the rubbing to lower my zipper. I wondered if she could read my thoughts.

Although difficult, I controlled my urge to fondle her voluptuous body. Through sheer force of my will, I left my arms resting on the top of her shoulders and continued to gaze deep into her smoky grey eyes.

My zipper down, she parted the overlapping fabric of my briefs, slid her hand through and wrapped her warm fingers around my throbbing shaft. I moaned, clenched my jaw and strengthened my resolve not to blow my wad...yet. She began slow deliberate full-length strokes. My legs began to quiver. I told her to be careful or there would soon be a sticky mess on the front of her black sweater. She smiled, I groaned. She leaned closer and gave me a soft kiss. Her tongue flickered into, then out of my mouth. She pulled slightly away and went down on her knees.

While licking the swollen head of my maleness, she unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned my jeans. She gave a quick tug and the jeans slid down my legs to my ankles. My entire body began to tremble in anticipation of her taking my tap-root fully into her mouth.

Her spittle splattered my erection as she snorted and barked out a loud roll of laughter. She flung her head back and almost went into raucous spasms. I wondered if I was really THAT small. My pecker drooped.

She stood and put her arms loosely around my neck. Still giggling, she managed to compose herself enough to say; “How old are those underwear? Good-god, the only thing holding them together is the air in the holes!” She spewed another fit of laughter, this time spraying my face. My dink was left dangling in the open, limp and cold. What could I say?

I placed my hands on her shoulders and tried to again look into her eyes. It was difficult---she shook from the laughter. When she quieted, I said, “Well, they are my favorite pair…my dress pair. My mom always said to have on your best clean underwear in case you have to go into the hospital.” I shoved my noodle back into my jeans.

Finally she gasped in a few lungs full of air and wiped tears from her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand. I offered her my hanky. She snatched it and blew her nose.

“Well,” she said, “if you do have to go to the hospital, there won’t be any skid-marks visible. Not in those underwear! There’s nothing for a wet fart to stick to!” This time she sprayed her laugh-spit into the hanky.

With a sheepish grin, I said, “Um…I take it you’re no longer horny?” She thought that was hilarious too.

Campfire

2006-10-03T12:54:00.000-04:00

Kurt placed his hand on the back of Amina’s. His touch created a quick wave of pleasure that washed through her arm and into her heart. “What are you thinking about, Amina?” he said in a soft voice.

Amina continued to stare into the random kaleidoscope of images created by the campfire. Flames flickered to cast a dance of shadows across their faces. She sipped wine from a clay mug filled with a sweet-red poured an hour or more ago. Kurt tossed small twigs into the fire---the fragments of wood landed in the flames then flared like the strike of a match. Burning chunks of wood snapped and popped, spewing tiny geysers of sparks only to extinguish at the fire’s perimeter.

“Nothing much, “she lied. “I’m just watching the fire and letting its images play in my mind.”

Amina was trying to understand awareness that she would have great emotional difficulty when it became time to kill this man. Kurt was good, a gentle man. In the short ten days she had known him, she had become more than fond of him.

But, her mission was clear. There could be no turning back and the current circumstances with Kurt had provided for the perfect opportunity. The pickup truck, the small camper---they would give excellent disguise for her mission. She would be able to travel into the heart of the city without suspicion. In the interim, though, there was still this night and two more before her sacrifice.

“Entrancing...looking into fires and at oceans,” Kurt said. “A fire pulls your mind in, an ocean carries it away.”

Amina rolled her hand under his, palm to palm. “Funny you would say that,” she said. “Here we are, deep in a forest on foreign soil to me, gazing into this little fire. And my home, so far away across an ocean.”

A nearly burned through log rolled in the fire’s bed. Another shower of sparks rose and fell. The sounds of the shifting fire joined with the sounds of the night. She gave a gentle squeeze of his hand

Silent of conversation, their independent thoughts drifted away from the images of fire---hers to the bonds of her duty. Yes, on the third day she would kill him, she thought, then she would begin the journey to fulfill her commitment to God.

She would love him though…until then. Love him hard for now. Maybe God might allow her to love him for eternity. She smiled at the thought and from the warmth of the small fire on her face.

A Fantasy of Senses

2006-09-25T07:05:00.000-04:00

I close my eyes.
I see the splay of your hair upon the sheet, softly colored by time and the sun.
Errant strands of silver and gold cling to your face.
My thoughts create the touch of your panted breath warm and moist against my neck.
My mouth anticipates the taste of a probing from your tongue.
My mind builds the pleasure of your bare breasts as they rasp against mine through the hair of my chest.
I imagine the strength of your legs scissoring around my naked waist.
My ears tune for the sounds of wet passion as our bodies repeat their connections.
I sniff the air in search of the smell of your woman’s musk.
My muscles tighten and my tendons begin to strain.
My heart races, I gasp for breath.
My eyes open, and I am still alone.

Bug Tails - "Bug 'N Books"

2006-09-18T08:20:00.000-04:00

I call Bug by “Bug” for good reason. It’s because of his manners in the bedroom. Have you ever suffered the experience of a single fly or mosquito in your bedroom all night?

Early to bed-early to rise; that suits my biorhythms just fine. Eight o’clock in the evening is past my bedtime. If I’m still there at four in the morning, I’ve overslept. My week-night entertainment in bed is two to three hours of reading, which gets me through about ten books per month. I’m a slow reader.

Each night of late, as I lay on my stomach reading and munching on sugar-free Popsicles, Bug has been joining me with a dog biscuit. He jumps onto the bed with a whole biscuit in his mouth, trots over by my head then…plop…drops his snack on the open pages of my book. He eats his treat by small bites and nibbles. My book---his table---lots of crumbs.

Last night I said to him, “Bug, you’re an asshole. Why don’t you learn to read the book instead of eating off of it?” In response, he licked my face, stood up to move a bit forward, and then dropped full-body across the book covering it completely. Lost cause, I thought.

I pulled the book out from under Bug, dog-eared a page corner, closed it and tossed it down to the floor. I turned off the light, snuggled the top of my head against Bug’s belly and went to sleep.

This morning, when I crawled out of bed, I stepped on the remnants of that book. Jesus H., I thought, I give him books and I give him books, all he does is chew the covers off.

Teaching Bug to read could be difficult.

Spilled Beer

2006-09-12T07:08:00.000-04:00

David intended to enjoy a couple of cold beers, quiet time to think, and to learn a bit of information about the new area in which he now lived.

Nice bar, he thought. Clean. Warm woodsy ambiance and spacious. Being mid-day, the tables weren’t occupied. A half-dozen men and one woman claimed stools along the short side of the “L” shaped dark-oak and brass trimmed bar. David selected a stool near the center of the long side of the L…away from the other patrons.

“Hello, stranger! What’s your pleasure?” said the pretty woman behind the bar. Her smile was genuine, not the usual paste-on smile of people who make their living by serving the public day-after-day.

“A cold mug of whatever is your most popular draft beer,” David said.

Nice ass, David thought, when the woman turned her back to draw his beer from the tap. He wondered if she was attached to anyone. Probably, he guessed, and likely to a total asshole.

The woman placed a full frosted mug of beer on the bar. “I’m Doris. First beer’s on me. You?”

“David. Thank you.” The beer tasted good. He drank almost half of the refreshing brew before setting the mug back on the bar.

“Um, haven’t seen you in here before,” Doris said. “Just passing through?”

“Nope. Just moved here,” he said.

“Good!” Doris said, with a warm smile and a wink. She walked to the short end of the bar to serve the other men and woman. One had been thumping the bottom of his mug on the bar top to get Doris’ attention. They’ve probably been sitting there and drinking since the place opened, David thought. His gaze followed Doris as she walked toward the other people. Yes, definitely a good looking woman.

Harsh words erupted between Doris and one of the men. The man wore a sleeveless white T-shirt, a rolled bandana tied around his head, and his hair in a ponytail. He had a thin moustache. A tuft of hair grew under his lower lip which, in David’s opinion, looked like shit. That must be the one, David thought. Jesus….

Doris made a curt remark to the man, gathered her fists full of empty beer mugs then hurried to draw fresh beers for the group.

“Who the hell are you?” the man with the ponytail shouted at David. David ignored the question. Instead, he said to Doris, “Boyfriend?” Doris bowed her head slightly and shrugged.

“Got wax in your ears, boy?” Ponytail shouted. “I’m asking who the fuck you are?” David ignored him again.

Doris delivered the fresh beers to the group. She said, loud enough for David to hear, “Mind your own business, Bill! You’re drunk! Drink this beer and go home!”

“Yeah you’d like that wouldn’t you, bitch? I go home then you screw the new guy.” Doris pivoted on her heel. She moved away rapidly. David saw resentment, or hatred, in her eyes.

Yep, pure asshole, David thought. Why are such good looking women attracted to pricks like Bill? He’d asked himself that same question many, many times in the past. He hadn’t figured out the answer yet. Likely never would figure it out, he thought.

David had finished his beer. “Like another?” Doris said.

“Sure.”

Setting another beer in front of David, Doris said, “I’d enjoy visiting with you, but…..”

“I understand,” David interrupted. “I’ll be back.” He thought the meaning of the smoke he saw in her eyes was clear.

“He drives a black Ram pickup with dog boxes in the bed,” she said softly. Her smile was tentative.

“So?”

“Well, just in case you’d rather stop in when he’s not here,” she said.

David smiled. “Naw, I’d rather stop in when he’s here. For the entertainment value.”

“Doris! Get your ass down here!” Bill shouted. She flashed an apprehensive smile at David, hesitated briefly as if about to make a comment, but instead hurried to the small end of the bar. Bill called her a dumb Cunt and demanded she get him another beer. Returning to the beer-taps, she glanced at David with an apologetic expression, maybe shame, and poured another beer for Bill. Bill slithered from his stool and staggered toward David.

Bill leaned his forearm and elbow on the bar. His face positioned about a foot from David’s. “I don’t like you, asshole!” he said. The stink of his breath was repulsive. David thought dog shit smelled better. He ignored Bill again. He just stared into the amber liquid in his mug.

“I think you want to screw my woman so I’m gonna stomp your shit!” To emphasize his point, with his free hand Bill grasped David by the shoulder. A big mistake.

David didn’t ignore him this time. He had been holding his beer mug by its barrel with his fingers and hand pushed through the curved handle. Sudden as the strike of a snake, David swept his arm across and up from the bar. The thick and heavy beer mug connected high on Bill’s jawbone and on his temple…hard. The sound of the impact was ugly. A wide gash opened over Bill’s cheekbone. Blood splattered.

Bill dropped to the floor like a stone. The woman sitting with the men at the short end of the bar squealed like a pig and applauded. Doris blurted a short startled laugh.

“Doris?” David said quietly. “How about a refill? It seems I’ve spilled this one.”

Understand!

2006-09-11T08:38:00.000-04:00

I recall my thoughts about those whose evil beliefs demanded the carnage of five years ago this morning.

Find out who they are.
Find out where they are.
Hunt them down.
Kill them…every fucking one of them.

Have I become willing to “understand” them? No.
Am I willing to forgive them? No.
Will I forget about them? No.

Shooting Star

2006-09-04T09:12:00.000-04:00

Chuck watched the shooting star glide across the clear night sky. He imagined the sparkles from the comet’s tail as being monstrous fireflies of space. He made a wish.

The hour being late, he walked along this path alone. The only discernable sounds emitted from his footsteps and the occasional rustle of the fabric of his lightweight jacket. The bulk and weight of his Smith & Wesson .45 nested snug under his left armpit…comfortable.

An unknown neighborhood to him Chuck had taken this route for this evening’s walk at the recommendation of the new night-shift desk clerk at the motel where he lodged. A sleazy looking little bastard, Chuck had thought, but what the hell, he was the employee of a reputable hotel chain.

Earlier in that day Chuck finished an intense week of business so he strolled along now allowing his mind to wander randomly and clear away the stress. He looked forward to leaving early the next morning on his return trip home. Two hard days of driving, he thought, and he would be sleeping comfortable in his own bed.

Chuck glimpsed a flicker of movement in the thicket of small trees just ahead at the right side of the pathway. A deer? He wondered. Deer were plentiful in the area where he lived. He thought it likely they were plentiful here as well. Chuck slowed his pace---maybe he would have a sighting.

But, this is a big city, he thought, so he deftly slipped his right hand through the partially open zipper of his jacket and unsnapped the retainer strap that secured the big Colt in its holster. A feeling in his gut had prompted a warning.

A muffled cough, that’s what it sounded like. Damn, he thought, human, not animal. A long time avid hunter Chuck knew the differences between human sounds and animal sounds.

He stopped walking. He searched the small stand of trees with his gaze and listened intently. A shuffle of feet, a rustling of the brush, and then two men stepped into the path directly in front of him...close

Fuck, he thought, here we go!

Predictable as well, he thought somewhat amused. Both degenerates; covered with tattoos and body jewelry. A look at their eyes told the real story, though, glazed by drugs. That frightened him.

One man seemed familiar---immediately his mind’s-eye flashed a picture of the sleazy little night clerk at the motel. Maybe a brother, he thought. A planned assault?

The larger of the two men held a small pistol in one hand. Chuck quickly assessed the pistol as being of a small caliber. The man didn’t seem able to focus his aim though. Drug-high indeed.

The smaller man caressed with thumb and fingers a large knife held lightly in his grip. He and the knife worried Chuck more than the man with the pistol, even though either weapon could wound him fatally.

Chuck’s mind quickly calculated three options. He could turn and run…hope he was fast enough; stand quiet and let them have their way; or, draw the .45 and attempt to stop their potential assault.

He didn’t like any of the three options.

Chuck killed them instead.

Soft Ending!

2006-08-28T07:44:00.000-04:00

“I don’t have one.”
“Why?”
“I hate those things!”
“Well, we’re not doing it without one!”
“Well, we wouldn’t do it if I had one!”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate them. As soon as I start putting one on, I go soft.”
“Because they’re too tight?”
“No. Because I hate ‘em so much.”
“We’re not doing it without one. I mean that!”
“I don’t want to stop now.”
“Not without one.”
“Told you, I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I have some left. I’ll go look.”
“What, maybe you have some left?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I don’t. I’ll go look.”
“You keep your own supply, and you’re not sure if you have any left?”
“Yes. I’ll be right back.”
“Never mind.”
“What?”
“I said never mind.”
“Why?”
“It just went soft.”

Teased.

2006-08-21T08:38:00.000-04:00

She leaned across the front of me to shuffle through the stack of papers on the desk. One shoulder brushed my arm, a firm hip connected with my thigh. My heart fluttered.
The back of her head hovered close to my face. I inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair, brushed and clean.
The pressure of her hip increased against my leg. Blood began to fill my cock. I wondered if I should move a bit away.
Her task completed, she straightened, turned frontal to me and locked her eyes with mine. A smile of amusement formed her mouth.
Her breasts rested lightly against my chest, warm and soft. I imagined the nipples extended and hard.
She pressed her belly against the zipper of my jeans. I nudged my bulge forward in return. I wondered if she’d touch.
Her tongue flickered and coated her parted lips with a wet sheen. The heat of her panted breath pulsed against my neck. A shiver of pleasure washed across the surface of my flesh.
She flashed a full smile, stepped back, then turned and walked away. I wondered if she was so cruel to all animals.

Morning Reflections

2006-08-14T10:24:00.000-04:00

Early, the sun still sleeps.
The moon meanders along its way.
Dark, but the day begins.
A book of hope, today’s words to read.
Coffee perks, only one cup to fill.
Gone are friends, none to share.
Good deeds faded, and not remembered.
A future belongs to other’s whims, though one passed me by.
Try to masturbate, but can’t ejaculate.
No fantasies left to get me there.

Bug Tails - "Bug Went Boating"

2006-08-07T09:45:00.000-04:00

Several days following our camping adventure with Bug, I readied our fishing boat for summer enjoyment. Bug wasn’t as interested in participating in the boat’s summer preparations as he had been in the preparations of the camper. He didn’t even bother to pee on the boat’s trailer tires. He did growl and bark at it, though, when I brought it up to the garage from the back lot.

The next morning my neighbor and I launched the small boat. I sailed it home from the launch-site to our dock. My wife, old Libby and Bug were waiting for their first boat ride of the season with an attitude of excitement. Well, the wife and Libby were excited. Bug took a nap even though he was about to go for his first boat ride.

I eased the boat up to the dock, tied off, and waited for my passengers. Libby immediately jumped in to take her regular place on the seat located in the bow of the boat. The wife stepped in and took her place on the center seat. Several minutes were then spent urging Bug, however, to get in the boat. It took a lot of coaxing, but he eventually leaped in then jumped up on my lap. He was trembling. I soothed him with gentle words and petting. When I put him down on the deck, so I could push us away from the dock, he scurried under the middle bench-seat and under my wife.

It was a hot and very windy day, the water choppy. Our little boat bounced and banged across the waves. We cruised along at quarter-throttle. Libby played at fending off jet-ski riders with growls and barks. My wife pointed out the properties that had come up for sale during the spring. Bug continued to cower under the seat; he wasn’t a “happy camper.”

Approximately twenty minutes into the ride I shut off the motor, let the boat drift, and began attempts to coax Bug out from his hiding. I wanted him to become a “happy boater”. After awhile I succeeded. He came out from under the bench, shook, jumped up into my wife’s lap…then puked.

Shortly thereafter, we arrived back at our dock.

Thinking of Things

2006-08-01T07:24:00.000-04:00

I lay without sleep, thinking of things.
A parade of storms marched by.

Lightening opened doors in black sky.
I saw visions of you, brief, vivid and clear.

Thunder rattled the walls and shook my heart.
I was lonely, I wanted you near.

Wind chorused a shrill song, its melody repeated.
I wished for your breath to mingle with mine.

Drum-rolls of rain echoed rhythms on the roof.
I longed for the feel of your fresh washed hair.

Smells of drenched earth wafted through open windows.
I yearned to disrobe you of the lace you wear.

I lay awake through last night, thinking of you.
A parade of storms marched by.

Friendsex

2006-07-26T08:21:00.000-04:00

Both were naked, socks off.

She positioned herself on the large and comfortable pillow-chair. He positioned his body in front of hers, on his knees. She spread her legs. He hooked the backs of her knees in the crooks of his arms and lifted her legs, spreading them wider. She guided him in, and then he began slow, deliberate full-length strokes.

They looked directly into each others eyes. “Jesus…that feels good!” He said.

“You bastard!” She said.

He laughed.

“Why a bastard?” He said

“Because every time I’m on my way to visit you, I promise myself we won’t start fucking as soon as I’m through the door, and…ooooh sooo good… here we are!”

“Mmmm…don’t you like it anymore?”

“You know I do. But it makes me feel kinda like a whore…just here for sex.”

“We both know you’re not a whore,” he said.

She laughed.

“I kinda like feeling like one, though,” she said. “Do it a little faster. Damn, you feel huge today!”

“Huge?”

“Yeah, you feel even bigger than you normally do. I love your cock…uh, I’m already getting close.”

He chuckled.

“Mmm…I’m getting close too. I’ve missed you. What about it do you love?”

“Its size, its shape…it fills me just right…um, I’m real close! You close? Come when I do, please.”

“I like it best when you come first,” he said.

She giggled.

“Whores aren’t supposed to come…but screw me like I am one. Now! Come with me, now!”

He did. Then they kissed and cuddled for awhile, his weight resting on her.

Later dressed, they went for a long walk in the cold, snowy day. They talked, they laughed---unconditional friends.

Bug Tails - "Bug Went Camping"

2006-07-19T12:38:00.000-04:00

When the seasons caused me to transition my wardrobe for cold winter and spring to one for summer warmth, my anticipation of dedicated outdoor activities heightened. It was time to pull the winter tarps off the boat and the camper, haul them from the back-lot up onto the garage patio, and make them ready for their intended enjoyment of water and woods. Bug, my dog, decided to participate.

Our pop-up/tent camper was first to be readied, but the thing must have been a bit intimidating to Bug when I first brought it to the front of the garage. He approached it with caution, growling deeply in challenge. It didn’t run away, so Bug trotted to it and peed on the tires. One soaking was not enough. He circled the damn thing three times, squirting with each pass.

I cranked the upper tent portion of the unit up then pulled out the beds at each end. I set the “stuff” stored inside the unit onto the garage patio. Bug facilitated the unloading process by jumping on, or nipping at, each item as it was removed. Once the interior was empty of clutter, he bounded inside to sniff-check every crack and corner. That chore completed, he selected a spot in the center of a bed and curled-up for a nap. Bug was ready to go on his first camping trip.

We went camping. Two days later we arrived at our favorite campground and claimed our favorite campsite. My wife staked out Libby and Bug (facility leash rules), then unloaded all of the “go-camping-stuff” from the truck. My job was to position and set up the camper.

All during our preparations of camp, old Libby snoozed in the sun…nothing new about camping for her. Bug, on the other hand, bounced about like a ping pong ball. Good gosh, there were new squirrels, birds, adults, kids, dogs, a cat or two…and a gazillion new trees. “The trees”, Jesus, over the next couple of days Bug would drag me to almost all of them.

Camp ready, we picked up the pooper-scooper, leashed the poopers, then went for the first walk around the campground. Old Libby just plodded along minding and doing her own business. Bug…well, I’m sure you can imagine that picture.

Evening arrived with the campfire snapping and crackling, and ready for cooking. The wife and I each ate two hotdogs. Libby and Bug devoured one each. The wife and Bug had roasted marshmallows for dessert. God, Bug, what a mess!

After a long day we all retired to the camper for bed. My wife and I are bigger than average. I’m a couple of inches over six feet and my wife is almost six foot tall. Libby is a big dog, almost 100 pounds. Add Bug at 30 pounds, and it was a comical shuffle for maneuvering position in the small confines of the pop-up to get ready for bed. Um, there were also the dog’s farts….

A hard struggle later, I was under the covers in the bed into which I must literally crawl. On my stomach reading a western paperback, the wife beside me reading a book of fairy tales, and Bug stretched out on the opposite side of her, I felt and thought it a nice comfortable camping moment. Libby was curled around herself on the floor and directly in front of the porta-potty. That was an issue I’d have to deal with later.

About midnight, my nose bouncing on the pages of my book, I decided to turn out the light and give-in to sleep. I reached across my wife for the switch on the hanging tent-light and apparently disturbed Bug’s sleep. He groaned and rolled over against the canvas side-wall of the bed.

SWOOOOSH!...Bug was gone, disappeared.

THUD!...something hit hard on the ground below---Bug had just fallen through the bottom of the bed’s canvas side wall.

Next, squeals and cries of a dog seemingly being tortured filled the night air! Aw, Shit!

Almost injuring myself, I scrambled out of that small confining space of bed and landed with one foot hard on Libby’s tail. She started yelping!

I succeeded in getting outside just as Bug was getting up on all-four’s. He seemed dazed but not severely wounded. Seconds later my wife and Libby stumbled out of the camper to aid in the rescue. Neighboring campers were rushing over from their late night camp fires. The night security lady arrived on her golf cart.

Bug shook, circled a couple of times the spot where he landed, then trotted over to the nearest tree to cock his leg. Bug was okay.

It being obvious that the dog had survived, everyone’s focus shifted elsewhere…on me. Along with the laughter and finger pointing of my wife and the neighboring campers, the night security lady looked at me, and with a big smile (or smirk), said, “Umm…maybe you’re a little chilly?” I said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and quickly went into the camper.

You see, Bug and I both sleep in the buff.

bastard moon

2006-07-13T08:45:00.000-04:00

Full moon, you ugly bastard!
Shining down upon me the big piss-yellow eye.

Full moon, you wart covered whore.
Dripping down upon me the shadows of your smuttiness.
You push and pull against my rationale.
You ebb away my sanity.

Full moon, you evil bitch.
Trashing my good being to dried waste.

Full moon, you brutal prick.
Ripping out my heart and crushing it back to dirt.
You stomp upon my love.
You butcher my compassion.

Full moon, you ugly bastard!

First Coupling

2006-07-08T09:16:00.000-04:00

The heat of their passion approached its extreme. He longed to plunge deep into her, fill her with his seed. No, this was their first coupling, he intended to make it last, linger as long as he could. Her wetness overflowed; he was hard as steel, throbbing, so he pushed her stroking hand away. She tugged on his body, her signal, she was ready

He descended into the narrow warm tunnel of silkiness, gliding slowly toward the bottom. Her inner muscles gave-way then reformed snuggly around the one of his as it moved on down. Subtle contractions inside her began to eat away his resolve.

He stopped movement. He lay quietly atop her and inhaled the clean freshness of her neck and long tresses of her hair. Her stone-hard nipples indented his chest. The heat from her core pulsed around the source of their intimate connection.

He slowly withdrew, but stopped short just inside fleshy lips to stay at the threshold of woman’s door to ultimate welcome. Her saturated mound of hair tickled and teased, and he struggled greatly to restrain.

He began another slow decent, stopping briefly in increments of delicious torment. She sighed, filling with his thickness. He groaned from the intensity of his need. She begged him not to tease. He muttered…………”

***************
Um, maybe you’d like to write the next lines?

Recognition

2006-06-28T08:18:00.000-04:00

He knew her, but not for sure. And he felt a tension rising within him. A sexual tension.

The woman, with hair short and blonde, focused clear blue eyes directly on his. She projected herself into him, with her eyes, and a smile.

He looked at her, almost a stare, covering her completely with his gaze. A thin blue summer outfit clung slightly to her tall lithe body. His tension grew from familiarity. She fidgeted with the ring of keys held in her hands.

In a small world, they stood in the aisle-way of the store. Other customers moved by their either side. Women glanced a look at him, men at her. Maybe the strangers could sense the heat that radiated between them.

Softly she spoke his name, and asked if it was really him. He extended the same to her.

They embraced... butter melting into toast. He held her close. Her still firm breasts he pulled tight against his chest. She pushed the femaleness at the junction of her legs against his thigh. Unspoken, they began to heart-share a memory of many years ago.

Hard winter weather had brought them together on an isolated back road, separately stranded. They had forced their entry into an unoccupied cottage for shelter. A mattress and blankets on the floor, a fireplace for light and warmth. For an afternoon, a long blizzard night, and part of the new day they made love.

Now, in their embrace of unspoken memories, they again shared the soft glow of a fire casting its flickering shadows on rumpled blankets and naked bodies.

The storm had passed. They said goodbye. She returned to her husband and the lonely glass house in the city, he to his lonely cabin in the woods.

Then once more, today, they said goodbye.

Twin Fawns

2006-06-26T09:19:00.000-04:00

The small spotted fawn bounded from cover onto the highway. Inexperienced footing failed and flung it belly down in front of my headlights. Tiny legs flailed without success for an up-righting purchase.

The strength forced by adrenaline locked solid the brakes on my truck. Rubber smoked and squealed as ugly black trails burned into cement. My heart leapt into my throat.

Distance closed. All seemed lost for the baby deer. The animal was soon gone from my sight. My guts anticipated the sickening, crushing, killing impact.

Motion ceased, and the truck had stalled. My window down, all was still. I quietly exited the vehicle with flashlight in hand and grave apprehension in thought. A green vile taste filled my mouth.

Sounds. Scrapes and a clatter. Motion. A blur of white spots caught my eye, barely visible in dim light on the opposite side of the truck. A rustle of brush.

I shined the flashlight beam into the near woods. A doe with her twin fawns stood curious in the light. Big warm eyes calmed the recent cold event. The doe then raised her white tail and led the twins away.

It was just after midnight. I looked up and thanked God for the good beginning of a new day.

The Customer

2006-06-16T08:44:00.000-04:00

At the other side of the counter she stood; hair of onyx black, eyes of midnight blue.
From lips of port wine but unadorned with rouge, came her smile, she gave it free. It hurled me back in thought to a former me and the young man of long ago.
Turgid nipples of walnut brown pressed their presence through thin white cotton, and beckoned me to be the fool.
Instead, I spoke a greeting; her the mistress, me the servant.
I delivered to her demands, then my heart stumbled as she turned to walk away.
I watched her go.
I longed for simple days gone...and for the younger man once me.

Full Moon Reflections

2006-06-12T07:28:00.000-04:00

The beam from God's lantern shines upon the lake.
Mist-angels tiptoe their ballet across the watery stage.
Mother Duck's village floats serenely as she guards her precious young.
Old Bull Frog baritones a serenade for his mate.
Night Hawk shatters the surface as she plucks her midnight meal.
And I've been awakened by dreams intimate with your image.
I stand naked in the window, but you are so far - far away.

Jealous Muse

2006-05-27T09:00:00.000-04:00

I see the people pass me by. I watch them move along, leaving me behind to be alone. I hear pieces of their conversation and laughter...but only pieces. I am in private conversation with my muse.

The people go to ballgames, picnics, the dance, movies and the bar. Along their way the people will think of what all they'll enjoy today.

I go to a small room with pad and pen as my friends. I think of what I might write today. Alone.

The people go and do their work. They make things for other people, they make money for themselves. With colleagues they will talk of politics, family, and last night's game. They will bicker with each other, and they will bitch about the boss. I watch them move along, leaving me behind,

I am the captive of a jealous Muse.

Some Afternoon Delight

2006-05-19T07:26:00.000-04:00

I must be gone all of next week as well. I'll be back on Monday the 29th.
To experiment in the interim, though, I'll try my hand at a tiny bit of...um...er...Erotica? Maybe a good idea, maybe a bad idea.

"Mmmmm....
Your panty,
move it aside.
I'll taste you,
hurl you up to the summit;
tingling, trembling.
I'll move you across the high plateau,
urge you over the far ledge;
shuddering, laughing.
I'll lower you slowly, gently,
satiated.
I'll delight you,
in the afternoon.

I'll be away

2006-05-11T13:06:00.000-04:00

and may not post on my blog again until sometime during the week beginning May 22.

I'll likely find opportunity to cruise among yours, though.

Erik

Bug Tails - "Bug Walk"

2006-05-03T08:43:00.000-04:00

Bug and I began our morning walk by leaving the house and hurrying over to our favorite tree; the old maple tree which stands near the corner of the garage. Bug cocked his leg at the tree. I didn't cock mine. Whew, it was a long and welcomed first of the morning pee for the both of us. I think Bug finished first, by a squirt or two.

Daylight hadn't quite arrived. It was the grey time of morning when the moon plants itself on one end of mother earth and the sun hasn't yet peeked up from the opposite end of the world.

Making our way down the driveway, Bug's buddy, a big fat squirrel, waited at its usual spot until Bug eyeballed it. Bug saw his friend, barked two or three times then catapulted off in Squirrel's direction. Squirrel waited the appropriate amount of time, and then scurried over to the big oak tree on the other side of the driveway with Bug in hot pursuit. Squirrel ran up the tree about ten feet, turned around to face down the tree's trunk, and began his chattering mockery of Bug's again futile efforts. Bug can't climb trees, but by god it looked like he was determined to learn.

I called the dog over to me and we continued on our way.

The sky was becoming brighter as we walked north on the gravel road. I could see just a hint of orange color on the horizon off to the east.

It was a quiet morning and I noticed the sound of my footsteps as they crunch-crunched on the dirt and gravel stones of the road. Bug's footsteps were more of a skittle-skittle sound.

I heard the flock of wild geese that rested on the waters of the lake as they began their morning wake-up calls of assembly to each other.

We poked along on our morning walk and Bug continued to cock his leg against any object that struck his fancy for his territorial marking duties. I wondered how it is he can continue to generate enough new urine for marking purposes; especially after such a lengthy piss at the maple tree only half an hour before.

The birds flew from their roosts ahead of us and the sun now played peek-a-boo at the horizon.

A maple leaf of last year flittered across the road, pushed by a gentle morning breeze. Bug pounced and trapped it with his front paws.

A little further along we flushed a pair of partridge and they exploded from the edge of the woods that hug the side of the road on which we walk. I'm not sure which jumped the highest, me or Bug. The dog, of course, chased after the pair of partridge for a bit while I continued walking north on the road between the two stands of woods.

During our return trip to the house, Bug found laying in the weeds a discarded and empty plastic water bottle. He fetched the bottle then had great fun scooting it along the road with his nose and paws. I had great fun watching him play.

After about a hundred yards of fiddling with the bottle, Bug abandoned his new toy to scuttle down into the shallow ditch along the side of the road. He circled three or four times, humped his back, and finished his morning toilet. The smell of it reminded me to ask my wife not to give refrigerator leftovers to Bug in the late evening.

Arriving back at the house, a good morning walk behind us and the sun's belt buckle now at the horizon, we went inside. I headed for the bathroom to shave then take my morning shower. Bug went to his food and water bowls for a drink and a bite to eat. He had worked hard this morning.

What's up?

2006-04-28T07:44:00.000-04:00

Tonya set coffee, juice and water on the printed paper placemat in front of me and said, "What's up with you, Erik?"

"Not much," I replied.

"Me neither. Same-o, same-o," Tonya said.

Tonya walked away from my table to place an order for what she would decide to be my breakfast today. I watched her walking toward the kitchen and said to myself, "That conversation really sucked!"

I didn't have anything interesting to talk about and Tonya didn't have anything interesting to talk about. Her day would likely change toward the interesting, mine likely wouldn't. Unless, of course, I made it change.

So, what's up with you folks today?

Just Do It

2006-04-24T08:48:00.000-04:00

Jason Evans at http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com has a 250 word writing contest posted on his blog. It's a fun challenge. Prizes too!

Wander on over to Jason's and; "Get 'R Done!"

Bug Tails - "Update - The Stray Dog"

2006-04-20T08:24:00.000-04:00

A little more than seven weeks ago, a stray dog entered the lives of my wife and me. We initiated the appropriate "found dog" notices, and when no claims were eventually made for the dog, we concluded that our home would become his too. During that period, my wife, Barbara, gave the young corgi the name of "Rusty" due to the color of his coat of hair. I began to call him by "Bug"; short for bed bug. He liked to jump up on the bed two or three times each night and wander around on my body. So I thought "Bug" to be appropriate.

Having made the decision to keep the dog, we took him to the local Veterinarian for a "dog physical". Rusty (Bug) was diagnosed with heartworm disease; his heart enlarged with the affliction. Well, no choice for us, we opted for treatment.

Following Rusty's three day ordeal of shots and other tests at the Vet's clinic, we went to pick him up and were told then by the Vet, "It is critical that he be kept extremely quiet for at least the next four to six weeks. If not, he can easily die." Okaaay.

Taking seriously the Vet's advice and other instructions, we purchased a wire dog crate, lots of toys for in the crate, bedding and so forth. For the past five weeks that crate has been Rusty's small world. Ours too, in many respects.

Let's go back toward the beginning for a moment.

When Rusty first came to us, I posted here on my blog a short story describing his arrival. The story contained a bit of fiction so I requested critiques of the story. You were all very polite. By email, however, it was suggested to me that I rewrite the story as a dark flash-fiction for submission over at Tribe's. Good idea, I thought. Taking the suggested ideas for the story, I started to write a dark flash-fiction about the dog. Couldn't finish it. You see, I believe in the power of prayer and I also believe in the power of our thinking. Accordingly, it wasn't in me to write a dark story about the young corgi, especially under the circumstances. Sorry.

Back to the present.

Yesterday morning, early, we took Rusty (Bug) back to the Vet for a follow-up treatment (oral this time), and another "dog physical". When we went to pick him up in the evening, we were told by the Vet, "He's done very well. Keep him in low gear for a couple more days then you can let him shift into any gears he wants. He's again a healthy young dog." Thank you, God.

Last night I lie in bed on my stomach, reading a book and eating a Popsicle. My pillow was wadded under my chest and I had laid my book open on the bottom sheet. FRUMP, I heard and felt Bug jump up on Barbara's side of the bed. He trotted over by my head and, PLOP, dropped a dog biscuit onto the open pages of the book I was reading. Bug lie down on his belly, at the top of my shoulder, then proceeded to eat his biscuit. I was still eating the Popsicle.

While we each enjoyed our respective treats, I said to Bug, "Heh, during the day I write the pages of Placemat Crumbs, and here in the night you are making crumbs on the pages I'm trying to read. I'm glad I didn't write those pages about you for Tribe's."

Funding the Business

2006-04-11T11:18:00.000-04:00

During the past several days, Mark Terry has put-up a series of informational Posts on such topics as; agent's expectations, editor's expectations and, of course, "money", to name a few. For those of you who haven't met Mark, he is a professional full-time writer. I have included the link to him below.

Mark's post titled; "money and its writer is soon parted", speaks about personal expenditures involved to promote his published book(s). He also talks about writing as a business. It is from his comments on the business of writing that I have stolen a topic to post here.

"Writing is a business", is a statement frequently made in blog postings and the comments on postings. Presuming the statement to be true, it seems appropriate to exchange ideas on how various writers have arranged to provide (secure) the necessary operating capital to fund their individual writing businesses. I'm not talking about "profit" here; I'm talking about "cash flow". Cash flow being defined as the money available to purchase the equipment and supplies necessary to write the book and then fund the promotional requirements of publication. In addition, it is the money available to pay normal living and household expenses while the book is being written or, while off traveling to promote the book, etc.

All types of businesses that I am aware of require a certain amount of available cash to operate. Some use lines-of-credit, some have accumulated their own cash reserves, some use private investment money, etc. The point is that if we are going to operate our writing businesses as bona fide businesses, we need cash available to do so over the length of the "marathon", as it has been described.

Please elaborate on the subject to the extent you are comfortable. My question, however is:

Have you ever attempted to obtain a bank loan to fund your "writing business?

http://www.journalscape.com/markterry/ A worthwhile site to visit.

Writing Weather

2006-04-05T13:23:00.000-04:00

More snow. Shit.

This morning, I walked outside through the back door of my house and saw a frustrating layer of new fallen snow covering my truck and yard. I didn't consider it as being---God's gentle covering of nature with a soft blanket of pristine white---that writer's write about. I considered it as, goddammit, just more snow. "Welcome to northern Michigan in April!" I thought.

When I attempted to hand-brush the snow from a side window of the truck, I found underneath the snow a thin layer of ice. Enough is enough.

I arrived at Woodpecker's Diner for my usual early breakfast. I took my regular seat at my regular table then flipped open my Doodle Pad to pen a few words of early morning prose, anticipating the first mug of strong black coffee.

The waitress, Tonya, came quickly to my table with coffee, juice and water. She placed them on the table in front of me while mumbling a few words which, included, "fucking snow". Finished with her first chore on my behalf, she went into the kitchen; presumably to place her choice for my breakfast order today.

Waiting for my breakfast, I sat staring at the blank top sheet of paper in the Doodle Pad. No desire to write much of anything. I didn't feel the inspiration to write another vignette, start a new chapter for my novel or, write a few lines for the business book. None of the above had any appeal.

Tonya brought my breakfast and made a comment about my just sitting there looking at the blank paper, not writing. She was concerned that I may be feeling ill or something was wrong in my family. I told her I felt fine, there were no family issues, and that I just plain didn't feel like writing. She opined it had to be because of the weather. She concluded the combination of cabin-fever and "this crappy spring weather" sapped away enthusiasm and creativity.

Yep, Tonya's likely correct.

Does weather influence your writing enthusiasm and creativity?

The Personality Behind Closed Doors

2006-03-30T11:33:00.000-05:00

In my office keyboarding these words, I am, for awhile, the sole occupant of this building. My office door is closed. At some future minute in this day I will push the button labled, "Publish Post".

When the button is pushed, my words and thoughts will become available to anybody in the world who seeks them or may stumble across them. The value of truth in the words they will read is known only to me. So it is with others; who post their own words and thoughts, and offer comments on the words and thoughts keyed by their fellow bloggers.

Traveling among the sites of blogland, I sometimes stop to wonder if I am visiting the real personality of the writer, or a fictional personality created by the writer. As writers, that's part of what we do---create personalities. By our work we project out to the public fictional personalities. We have an expectation, or hope, forms of relationships will develop between the reader and our created personalities.

I wonder how many of us do the same for ourselves as bloggers.

I have formed a myriad of perceptions about the many blogger personalities I visit. Some I perceive to be shy, gentle, non-confrontational. Some I perceive as aloof, selective in their intervention and sharing. Others seem arrogant, self-serving. I recognize bullies, needing control. There are some who appear to me insecure, defensive. I see some as seeking popularity, a "following". Maturity of perspective and immaturity of perspective I see too. Some seem open, honest. A few seem manipulative. Some are students, some are teachers. And so it goes.

My perceptions form in my mind visions of real people whom, all but maybe one or two I will never meet.

If it does come to pass I meet the one or two, I wonder if the real personality will be too the blogger personality.

There is no "question of the day" here, nor expectation for comments. These are only the ramblings of a dry drunk; maybe seeking a clearer perspective on my own personality.

I'll push now the button, "Publish Post".

Maybe Appearance

2006-03-23T07:40:00.000-05:00

Last week, as I wrote longhand in my Doodle Pad the last few paragraphs of a short story, my regular Tuesday morning breakfast companion joined me at the table. After taking her regular seat across from me she asked what I had been writing about. I verbally gave her a brief summary of the story. She begged to read it.

After a bit, I conceded and handed her the several hand-written pages. With them, I cautioned her it was a first draft and the story might not be very easy to follow. She said she understood.

Watching her read, I saw her develop an ever deepening frown. Finished, she handed the pages back to me without comment. I knew the answer, but had to ask the question. "Well?" I said.

She said, "Sorry. I didn't like it at all."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Too much profanity. I don't like that much profanity, especially some of the words you used."

"Okaaaay." I said. "I'll keep that in mind."

This Tuesday my breakfast companion arrived as usual, took her regular seat across from me and asked, "Well, what have you been up to for the past week?"

"Not much." I said. "I've been writing and looking for a way to make some money. By the way, I did a minor rewrite of the story you read last week. Would you like to read it again?"

"Sure, why not. You changed it some?" she said.

"Yes. " I said. Then I handed her the three or four computer printed pages of the story.

I watched her as she read the story again. This time she smiled a few times and even chuckled a time or two.

When finished, she handed the pages back to me and said, "Geez that is pretty good. You've made it an enjoyable read now. Last time was too profane and made me uncomfortable.

"Thank you." I said. We then moved on to other topics of conversations.

This is true, and I found my friend's reaction to the two versions of the story to be very interesting because during my minor rewrite, I had not removed one single word of the profanity. In fact, I hadn't changed much of the basic story.

There is no particular point to this post. It's just a little diversion for me away from something else I'm struggling to write which is dark and ugly. I don't enjoy writing dark and ugly stuff. But, I must learn.

The Stray

2006-03-21T08:51:00.000-05:00

It's in rewrite. I'm taking it in a different direction.

Thanks for your valuable input to the original version.

Erik

$ Gone Fish'n $

2006-03-08T09:23:00.000-05:00

I am now almost financial chum-bait for the sharks.

The foreseeable future will find me fishing for money with intensity. The tackle box is stocked. The reels are oiled.

From time-to-time I will row ashore to visit you. Please leave the beacon on.

Erik

Bardawill's Place

2006-03-06T08:07:00.000-05:00

I went over to Bardawill's place yesterday (see my preceeding post). I didn't get laid, didn't get drunk, didn't get fed----just left with my tail between my legs. Go visit her and Lisa s. http://dazeofwhineandroses today. You'll have fun.

I'm going to spend the day with R.J. today. Won't get laid there either (he doesn't know any women), won't get drunk either (Ivan drank it all), won't get fed either (R.J. is on a diet), so, guess I'll just chase my tail.

Have a wonderful day.

Do You Experiment?

2006-03-02T07:55:00.000-05:00

On Monday past, our friend E. Ann Bardawill http://somethingfell.blogspot.com gave us, as writers, a substantive homework assignment. Please refer to her post titled "Lentils and Flattery". The essay exam is Monday.

In preparation of my own response to Ms. Bardawill's assignment, one fundamental question continues to creep to the front of my mind. That question is: What genre?

Recent posts by other of our fellow writers, Jason Evans http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com and M.G. Tarquini http://mgtarquini.blogspot.com for example, have demonstrated their willingness, and ability, to write good work outside the sphere of their preferred genre. Their deviations cause me to wonder how many others of you do the same. And if you do, how radical is your departure (i.e. you write romance for publication----you play with horror).

Me? I already told you. I haven't figured out my primary genre yet. I just love to tell stories about people.

Olympic Reading

2006-02-27T10:30:00.000-05:00

Another Winter Olympics has come and gone. Four more years of training and sacrifice for those who will participate in 2010.

Unfortunately, I didn't see as much of the coverage as I would have liked. One thing and then another prevented me from plopping down in front of the tube for more than a few minutes at a time. So it goes. Next though, come the Summer Olympics in 2008 and maybe I'll be able to enjoy the majority of those games.

For you, which reading materials win the gold, silver and bronze medals?

For me:

Gold: Non-fiction (business, biography, spiritual, etc.)
Silver: Personal interest (outdoor journals, shooting, hunting, etc.)
Bronze: Western fiction and History of the American West.

Hobbies 'n Stuff

2006-02-23T09:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, http://bernitaharris.blogspot.com put up a very interesting post regarding her observations on our various writing personalities. Good stuff, Bernita!

In addition, we see post-up's from time to time on personal reading interests, preferred story endings, preferences on use of profanity in our writings, personal viewpoints on the publishing industry and the like. Some of us even show our many faces http://sandrablabber.blogspot.com. Through these various topics and few pictures, we realize an opportunity to know each other better and beyond the profile we each choose to place at our individual blog home page. Unfortunately, almost all of us will never have the opportunity to meet and shake hands.

I have chosen for my post today to ask you to share with the rest of us your personal passion that is aside from writing. That being what it is you enjoy most, on a personal level, when you manage to dig up some free time that belongs to just you. Some examples might be that in your free time you are; a woodworker, an artist, a musician, a swimmer, a movie-goer, a stamp collector, an astronomer, a prospector....................

I'm an outdoors enthusiast. My recreational enjoyment comes from camping, hunting and fishing. When harsh weather confines me to the indoors, I hand-load my own ammo for hunting or make my own little artificial bugs for fishing. My ammo never bags much game and my bugs never catch many fish but, that ain't the point.

You?

What's Under the Help Icon?

2006-02-20T12:23:00.000-05:00

A relative newbie on the block in the community of blog, I'm curious as to what a newbie's expectations should be for general help with writing product.

I have already discovered the blogs of the myriad of writers here to be educational for sure. In addition, I often find answers to questions that concern industry specific information, organization techniques for plot development, contract considerations, marketing and the like. What I have not found much discussion about, however, is what one should, or should not, post-up of work product which is intended by the writer for eventual publication. So, today I'll ask.

1). Is it appropriate to post work product generally that is intended for eventual publication?

2). If yes, is it appropriate to do so on a regular basis---once or more per week for example?

3). Should a writer post his/her material with the expectation of "free" editing and scene improvement suggestions from other writers in the blog community?

Thank you.

Songs

2006-02-15T08:35:00.000-05:00

My all time favorite song, Moonlight Serenade, just played on the radio. Made me think about all the women I never got to love.

What's yours?

To the Ladies I Admire

2006-02-14T07:31:00.000-05:00

To all of you wonderful blogland ladies who have become so dear, I wish for you the very best of Valentine's Days with hugs abound wherever you may be today.

Your visits here bring into my life warmth, humor, guidance, knowledge, compassion, confidence and enthusiasm. The sharing of your minds is my found pot of gold.

Be well today, continue to do good work today and know You Are My Special Valentines.

Always yours,
Erik

The Real World Returns, Again

2006-02-12T09:02:00.000-05:00

Several months ago, I gritted my teeth and sucked in my gut as I watched what had been a couple of very promising business deals head south with unexpected rapidity and on to oblivion. As they disappeared into the abyss, there I stood, empty hands and naked on the corner.

While in the process of trying to suture the resultant deep wounds, my wife, in her dual role as my mate and best friend, approached me with her recommendation that I turn the misfortune into a presented opportunity to write my book. Her recommendation included an analysis that with the combination of her income, our remaining but meager savings and a little "plastic" here and there we would be able to pay the bills for at least a few months so I should go-for-it. With high enthusiasm, I wound down my few remaining business projects and embarked upon my non-paying writing career.

About ten days ago, in mid-week, I arrived home after an enjoyable day of writing and blogging to find my wife's vehicle parked in the driveway. Although an unusual event during the work week, since she worked about 200 miles away, I was excited about her being home and only hoped it was not because of an illness. I went into the house, found Barbara seated at the kitchen table and said to her; "Wow, what a wonderful surprise! Did you decide to take a long weekend?"

"No" she replied, "I was 'downsized' today. I no longer have a job."

BOOM! The penny hit the floor.

What to say? But I said all that would come to my pea-sized brain; "I am really glad your are home! Let's enjoy that for a few days then we'll make a plan."

Well, it's planning time. With both my wife and I on the sunset side of our productive years, as far as the marketplace is concerned, it will not be an easy process. If I don't stop by your blog on a regular basis it is only because I'm out looking for a way to make some money. After all, that's what it's all about----is it not?

Value Received by Blogging

2006-02-09T12:57:00.000-05:00

The post-up of Sandra Ruttan in the wee hours of this morning titled: Traffic Signs & Corporate Lessons........ at sandrablabber.blogspot.com (highly recommended blog reading), where she discusses the value of structuring blogposts to include key internet search terms/words to increase your blog's traffic, caused me to think about any value that I may receive from blogging generally and which thoughts led to this post here.

During the brief period of my blogging experiences, I have come across several posts and comments concerning the topic "why we write" in one form or another. Today, I am curious about the various reasons of why we blog.

As most of us are well aware, blogging activity can consume large quantities of time that could otherwise be dedicated to our potentially paying work of writing articles, books, short stories and the like. I know for me, it has become far too time consuming if I expect to accomplish my writing goals within the time-line that I originally set. The forming addiction (for lack of a better phrase), is causing me to wonder if I might be better served by "backing off" substantially my blogging activities and diverting that time back to my writing toward a publishable work-product.

On the other hand, I have come to consider my blogging activities as the being involved with the activities of a viable community of people all traveling the same path toward the destination of a successful writing career. In addition, I find personal enjoyment from the communication and interaction among individuals, I find doors opened to new ideas and different methodologies utilized to bring those ideas to fruition, I find worthy news specific to the writing profession and of significant importance, I learn from others the guidelines and specific instructions on how to be a better writer.

QUESTION(S): How do you balance your time between blogging and actual work-product efforts? And, what benefit(s) do you seek to realize from you blogging activities?

Thank you.

Blogging Etiquette

2006-02-08T08:02:00.000-05:00

Within the small community of blogsites in which I travel, my perception is the writers posting on them are doing so for reasons to not only enhance their individual skills, but also to share information of potential value to the skills of their writer colleagues.

Each day's visits to the blogging community create for me inspiration, a heightened deterrmination to write better and often, a sense of awe. The intellectual capabilities demonstrated by fellow bloggers are nothing short of intimidating to me.

It is typical for me, along the way of my blog travels, to happen upon a posted topic or a posted comment of particular personal professional interest and about which I am curious to learn more. A question will form in my mind as to whether or not it is within good blogging etiquette to extract subject material from such postings or comments for the purpose of creating a post-up topic for my own blogsite.

QUESTION: Is it appropriate to extract subject matter from the posting or comments of fellow bloggers which, appear on the blogsites of others, to create a new post-up topic for one's own blogsite?

Placemat Crumbs - "Done-been-ate"

2006-02-07T11:14:00.000-05:00

Well, my placemat and I have been eaten. Can't speak for the placemat, but I sure didn't experience any erotic pleasures during the past couple of days!

It certainly must have been a wild weekend for good ole Blogger though; with Sandra thrown flat on her back--legs flung.........., Bernita bounced back and forth between the Barman and the Acne lad, M.G. floating off into the fantasy land of Bitch-lit............... Oh well, what is it that Dana says: "Re-????"

Only one thing to do now. Start over with the posting of the adventures of Eric and the 5 Bunions on Lost Island.

2006-01-10T13:12:00.000-05:00

Inside The Gazebo