"WRITE SPOTS" - Read, write, display - All FREE

Request for site update

Fantasies_only — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:54:00 GMT

I've PMed a mod about this, but I might get a faster answer if I post it here.
I realize new laws (and some old ones) about this are being enacted, so I will try to comply with them all.

Background: To be obscene, the average person applying contemporary community standards (the Miller test), must take the material as a whole, and determine if it appeals to the most "prurient" interest (meaning lust, fetishes, or sex), depicts or describes sexual conduct in a patently offensive way, and lacks serious literary, artistic, political or scientific (and educational) value.
If the material doesn't meet all three criteria, it is indecent not obscene.

Indecency is legal if in the appropriate place, at the appropriate time.
Obscene material is not legal anywhere unless privately owned without distribution.
You are within your legal rights if you do not sell your stories, freely distribute them, e-mail them, force a minor to look at them, allow a minor to look at them, leave the stories where a child could get at them, or unknowingly let a minor see them (an example is if you are given a false age to give the impression the child is older than he or she really is).
You also may not add images of characters who are or appear to be children in an obscene manner.

The Miller test (3 prong test) is flawed, and even it's updated 4 prong test is flawed.
Nudity seen in a flirtatious or semi suggestive manner is not obscene nor should self pleasuring be, and while I agree consensual sex seen by or described to a third party is indecent, I don't think it's obscene (library books about rape may be illegal).

Laws are buckling down on child pornography, child exploitation, and anyone encouraging these acts, however fictional stories of this type (without pictures) are indecent (legal in the appropriate area), but not obscene.

My Request:
I propose new life be brought into these forums by adding new forums.
This would involve mental child sexuality and physical child sexuality.
"New life" however does not mean to bring in pedophiles.
There are strict rules that go with my request (including a FAQ).

Forum 1: Under 18
Description: Write erotica of kids 13 and up.

Forum 2: Child/Adult
Description: Write about child/adult relationships in the proper forum.
Sub Forums:
Sci-Fi/Fantasy
Voyeurism/Exhibitionism
Masturbation (public or private)
First Time (must have consent of child, and may contain same sex love)
Incest (must have consent of family member)
Mind Control (does not need consent, and may contain incest)

Rules

You may not include:

Sexual Violence
Non Consent (unless specified)
Child/Animal Sex
Child/Corps Sex
Urine or Scat Fetishes

FAQ

What is sex?
Sex is defined as the manipulation, vibration, or expansion of a sexual organ.
I don't buy it!
If I thought this way, every child who masturbates or has a spontaneous
erection is having sex. Sex to me is the penile penetration of the partner.
Notice I said penile.
Since other body parts, a dildo, vibrators, and sex toys do not have
the capability to produce semen, using them is not sex,
however using them on a real child is illegal,
so treat a fictional character the same (also for legal reasons).

Are these forums for pedophiles?
No!
These forums are for serious writers or just people
who dare to "go there" just to break taboos.
This includes nudists and naturists, photographers in nude fine art
or modern art, actors in nude theater, graphic designers of computer art,
or just anyone with an imagination (or child psychiatrists).

If you have ever had sex with a child,
attempted and failed to have sex with a child,
desire to have sex with a child,
or have a sexual attraction towards children,
you are not welcome on this site.

Is touching and fondling genitals without consent allowed?
Yes, in fact I encourage you to do so (in stories only).

Can pictures or links to pictures be added to the story?
No image, video, animation, gif or animated gif, or scan may be posted.
Voice (not sound) would also not be allowed if it was supported.
Links to pictures are not allowed either, even if decent.

Do these stories have to be fictional?
All stories in these forums must be fictional
without characters based on real people.
If real life has inspired you, you must change names and places,
but that kind of inspiration shouldn't be relied upon.

In addition:
Copyrighted characters may not be included in the story,
even if you call your writing a fan story in a fair use argument.

Forum: General Banter

To the administrator

Fantasies_only — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:04:31 GMT

Since I don't know who that is, I'll write this here.

I have a suggestion for this site.
Since I write a unique topic in erotica (see signature), I was hoping some forums (2 forums with sub-directories) could be made.

I don't think I should go further here, so please PM me.

Forum: Q's & A's on Write Spots

So Close to Hell- Erotic Novel Critique Request

rgoodman — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 23:35:05 GMT

Hey Peoples,

My name is Rena. I'm new to this forum. I'm working on a steamy erotic novel, So Close To Hell. It's hot! Help me out. I need a critique.

Forum: ADULT stories/articles/poems

A Shameless Promotion for Blood Is Thicker Than Water.

Nabahood23 — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:19:52 GMT

What is this? A factious crime novel!

No, its much more than that!

She looked at him; he didnt have a care in the world.

He didn't work because the family gave him money.

Still, he was not happy.

She thought that he really cared about her,

but lately it show more and more that he didn't.

Then the cheating started, but that is just what men do.

But men dont do this.

This may not sound like a just another crime novel - but you will be surprised! There are several characters, one of which is a young woman, 'Nancy, who grew up abused by her father. She has had a rough life and just when her life is getting better; it suddenly gets even worse! She won't stay out of jail without some help.

Mitch took a long look at Nancy.

Hell no he aint hit a woman before and he wasn't about to start now.

Nancy needed his help bad,

but what was she going to do to get him to hit her?

She was use to that kind of treatment, growing up with two brothers.

She often got punched and kicked by them.

Right now she needed Mitch to hit her

so she would not go to jail for killing Del.

A crime novel about a brother and sisters plans to take over a ruthless criminal enterprise and develop it into a nation-wide crime network of drugs, sex, murder and much more. Its quite an excitingly erotic urban crime novel.

For a sample chapter, you first must be old enough, it ain't nothing nice. If you are then go to: http://13.websitetoolbox.com/post?id=3719763

Please leave me a comment here or there. Let me know what you think because there will be more soon.

Forum: General postings for comment/critique

Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Nabahood23 — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:15:59 GMT

(Because of the graphic nature and adult themes in this story, Parental Consent is strongly advised. This is a fictional story. Any representation of any person, place, or crime is purely coincidental and unintended by the author.)

Problem Solved

Get in the car, Del; he is looking for you.

Nancy pushed the door of the hot pink Mercedes open as she nervously peered in the rear view mirror. Her arm trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, impatiently drumming her fingertips. She was upset that Del continued to cause problems for her. His constant cheating, staying out at all hours of the night, and now this; he was really getting on her last nerve. Still she loved him.

Whos looking for me?

Del stopped walking and approached the car. He tugged up his pants, knelt down, and peered into the open window. He had been out all night with his crew and was ready to go home. Her teary eyes examined his red bloodshot eyes.

Ronnie is looking for you; he found out a few hours ago. Just a few minutes ago, Delois called and said he put a contract on you. He is going to kill you. Now, get in the car because Im not going to let anyone hurt my man.

Not shocked by the news, Del leisurely got into the car and buckled his seat beat. Mentally, he patted himself on the back. He was proud of his game; he had Nancy under control. He married her five years ago but never been faithful to her. He had three other women that she knew about. He could stay out all night and she never would say a word. Now, here she is coming to the rescue to save him. Nancys hand slapped the back of his head.

What the fuck! Nancy, why did you hit me?

His eyes displayed his dislike of being hit as he stared at her. Taking her right hand off the steering wheel, she gently stroked his cheek with her fingers.

'Cause, boo, you make me so made sometimes, I could just kill you. Why you have to act a fool all the time? Now, Ronnies mad at you and yall got me stuck in the middle.

Woman, aint nobody scared of your brother. Remember, I introduced him to the Family. Shit, if it wasnt for me he wouldnt be underboss today. Remember, I was the one that killed Bruno Mach, so your brother could take over the East End. Besides, Baby, I can handle mine.

Del reclined the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Turning on the right blinker, Nancy slowly turned the wheels, changed lanes and drove up the expressway ramp.

I know, Boo; still, I cant believe you would do something like this? Whats wrong with you? Do you realize that Ronnie will kill you for this? I dont care if you made my brother, you cant go around disrespecting him like that. It just aint right; it just aint right.

Tears welled up in her soft eyes as she continued to drive. He looked out the window at the passing cars.

I dont know what youre talking about, honey. I didnt do anything stupid. I do what it takes to survive. Ronnie is just blowing steam like he always does. Hes trying to look good for the Boss. This is all apart of the game, honey. Anyway, I got plans and by tomorrow, this will all be over.

Reaching, he rubbed his hand across her thigh and turned on the radio. He did know; he just didnt want to tell her. Del knew he was very greedy but he figured the world owed it to him. He was unfaithful because he loved women. Both of these bad character traits probably would cost him his life.

Three miles later, they took the Barber Road exit, and then followed it to Chastity Lane. Del lit a blunt and cracked the window.

I dont understand. Youve done some mean things to me before but why this and why now? Youre putting us in danger. It is not like you needed it. You control South Central and Weston. Youre just selfish and childish. Yeah, you and Tony started the Family and you might have made Ronnie; but why treat him like this. He never did anything to the Family but good. You fools are rich and untouchable because of him; then you go and diss him on his own turf at that. Thats just stupid, Del.

She looked at him, sitting there like he didnt have a care in the world. For years she thought that he really cared about her. When the cheating started, strangely, it really didnt bother her that much because she grew up knowing about her fathers many affairs. She remembered how in spite of the hurt and shame from her husbands infidelity, her mother would just say, Honey that is just what men do. The most important thing is your daddy keeps a roof over our head and food on the table. But, men just dont do this. They dont try to destroy the brother of the one theyre married too.

The car drove up the long drive to the stately four bedroom house. Slowly, it pulled into the open garage. Del got out of the car and walked into the house. Nancy followed closely behind and pushed the button on the wall to close the garage door. She still could not believe he could be so stupid and anger her brother.

Well, Im going to take a hot bath, honey. Will you fix me something to eat; I am starving.

Pulling his baggy pants up on his waist, he sauntered through the large kitchen into the hallway. Nancy opened the refrigerator as a lone tear flowed down her smooth skin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. Now, theyve got her in the middle of this fight.

Damn, all that man can think of is himself. Hes acting like nothings wrong. Everyones mad and he wants to take a bath and eat. That should be the least of his worries.

Nancy retrieved a plate from the cabinet and placed it on the counter. After putting the bread on the plate, she placed the slice of deli cut honey ham on the wheat bread. Carefully, she spread sandwich spread on the other slice, added some lettuce, a slice of Colby cheese and poured a glass of beer.

Theyre going to kill him if they find him. Why would he do something as stupid as steal from the Family? It is not like he needed the money. Every time any of his crew gets paid, they make sure he has money.

Placing everything on a tray, she carefully carried it into the den, placed it on the desk, and then walked into the bathroom. Dels head rested on the white porcelain edge of the oversized tub. Nancy walked into the room and looked at him. Interlocking her fingers, she twirled her thumbs and leaned against the pedestal sink. She loved Del, but she had grown tried of his cheating and the constant problems he caused her.

You know I wont let my brother hurt you; but, what Im going to do, Del. I mean you beat up four of Ronnies friends, took over their turf, and dissed them in front of everyone. Thats just like insulting Ronnie.

He raised his head and looked intently into her eyes.

Shit, woman, the motherfuckers deserved it. He got caught slipping; all drunk and flashing his cash everywhere. If I didnt jack them fools, someone else would; so why not me. You know the rules of the hood, game knows game. But, dont worry; it will blow over. Its not like Ronnie lost any money. He makes millions everyday. His crew runs most of East End anyway, so why cant they share.

Draping his arms over the edge of the tub, Del laid his head back and closed his eyes. Ok, if that is how he felt, she knew what she must do. She really did not want her brother to kill her husband; but blood is thicker than water. Nancy opened the cabinet over the sink and retrieved her makeup case. Tears streamed down her soft cheek as she thought over her conversation with her brother. She replayed Ronnies words in her head - Kill the motherfucker or I will kill him myself then shoved the cold gun into her hands. She slowly screwed the silencer into the end of the barrel. She knew it was loaded but she silently slid the chamber back and checked. She thought about what she was going to do for a brief moment. About how much she hated his cheating, about what she was going to do to keep from going to jail before the police came. Without warning, she turned, pointed the Glock at Del and squeezed the trigger firing one bullet in his brain.

You just dont know my family, bitch. We dont play like that. We take care of our own and we take care of our own problems. Problem solved.

She opened her hand and let the smoking gun fall into the tub. It landed on Dels lap as his limp corpse slowly slid down into the tub. The only part still visible was the top of his head where the bullet entered. Nancy returned to the den, took a bite out of the sandwich, threw the glass of beer against the wall, turned over the furniture and dialed the phone.

Hello.

Hey, Ronnie.

What you want Nancy?

Its done.

You sure hes dead?

Yeah, hes dead.

You okay?

Nope, but Ill survive. Funny thing is I kinda enjoyed killing him.

Well, dont get to relaxed yet, sis. Remember were just putting this plan into action. We still got to fool the cops so you wont go to jail and so Tony doesnt kill both of us. So whatever the plan, its got to be believable.

Im going to call Mitch tell him that I killed Del because he tried to beat me again. He knows how violent he gets; he had to stop him twice this month after he went off on one of his tantrums.

Nancy looked at Dels corpse half-submerged in the water. At first, she thought that she wouldnt have the nerves to do it. After all, she did love him; that is why she stayed in spite of everything he did, the beatings, the women, and everything. Then Ronnies showed her proof that he was trying to destroy him; but she still couldnt do it. Then she, not so accidently, overheard a conversation he was having with Mitch. Del told him that since Ronnies turf brought in so much money, he want all of it for himself. He thought Ronnie had become too weak to be an underboss and he was going to take him out of the game a little at a time until he destroyed him. Well, that changed everything.

See, I told your fast ass not to get involved with Del years ago. Nah, you wanted his money and had to go sleep with him. Now, look what youve gotten us into. Sis, youre bad news.

Listen, Ronnie, you wasnt complaining when you became underboss like I planned, did you? Now shut up and let me think. I aint got long before this stuff looks suspicious.

Okay, so how you going to convince Mitch to beat you? You sure that is what you want to do?

Well, somehow I got to make it look real. Mitch was Dels partner. When I tell Mitch that I did it, I hope I can talk him into helping me stay out of jail by hitting me. With the bruises, I know I can convince the police.

Nancy youre crazy. You dont have to do it this way. This is too dangerous. Just tell the cops that Del tried to beat you. They will believe you.

That wont work, Ronnie, because I dont have any fresh marks. They will have to see the bruises and everything. Without fresh marks, there is no way they will believe me.

Well, just hit yourself a couple of times and run into the door that should work.

Come Ronnie be serious, Im trying NOT to go to jail; not trying make the world stupidest criminal show, either.

She hung up the phone and looked for Mitchs cell phone number. She only had thirty or so more minutes left before she had to dial 911. Mitch lived two houses down the street and he could be there in a few minutes. She found the number in Dels address book and dialed.

Pushed A Little Too Far

Yeah..

Oh, my God, Mitch, I SHOT HIM, I SHOT HIM!!

She was playing it perfectly and from Mitchs delayed response she had him hooked. She let out a whimper and repeated herself.

Oh, my God, Mitch, I SHOT HIM, I SHOT HIM!! He is lying in the tub; I think he is dead. Oh, my God what am I going to do, Mitch?

Nancy? Wait, wait, and slow down what happened.

I SHOT DEL!

Mitch didnt know what to say as she started to cry loudly into the earpiece.

Just stay calm, Nancy; I will be right there. Have you called the cops, yet?

No.

Well dont not, yet at least. Just stay calm, Im out the door and walking down the street. Tell me what happened.

Well, Del got mad because I saw him in front of Lisas house this evening. When we got home we started to argue about it and then

She stopped and started to cry again. Mitch walked up the drive way and in a few minutes knocked on the door. Opening the door, Nancy collapsed against him. He picked her up, carried her to the living room, and carefully placed her on the sofa. She opened her eyes and looked at Mitch. He was staring at her.

So, what am I going to do, Mitch?

Well, first of all, youre going to tell me the truth?

What you mean, Mitch; I am telling you the truth. I killed Del.

Yeah, tell me another lie and I might believe you; but I know you didnt kill Del.

Getting up off the couch, Nancy frantically led him into the bathroom where the corpse was. Reaching over the tub, Mitch lifted the head up out of the water.

Yeah that is Del, alright, but you still didnt kill him. See, I happen to know that he had beef with your brother. Now tell me the truth, Nancy. Ronnie killed Del, didnt he?

Nancy slapped him hard on the face. This was taking to long. She had to get some fresh bruise before she could call the cops and this buffoon wouldnt believe her. She had to take drastic measures. She slapped him harder, and then collapsed into his chest.

Damn it, Mitch, how many times do I have to tell you; I Killed Del.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she looked into his eyes. Mitchs heart melted when she started to cry again.

Okay, I will help. Just stop crying. First thing dont tell them to much; just tell them that you killed Del because he tried to beat you. He got a record a mile long and everyone seen him hit you before. They will believe you and call it self defense.

Nah, theyll need some proof to be convinced.

What you mean; what kind of proof?

I mean I need some bruises and marks to show them. They wont believe me looking like this.

Mitch took a long look at Nancy.

Yeah, you do look good.

Thanks, but stop being nice; I dont need nice right now. Hit me.

What? Hell no I aint hit a woman before and I aint about to start now.

It wasnt working; so she had to think fast. What was she going to do to get him to hit her?

I knew a punk as bitch like you couldnt hit a woman. I shouldve gotten someone else that had the balls.

She could see the veins rising in Mitchs thick neck as he became angrier. She had him right where she wanted. She rushed to the front door and stood by it with her arms crossed and looked at him.

Get your homo ass out of my house, Mitch. I knew I never should have called you. Del was right, youre weak. What you got fucked in the ass too many times in prison. It turned you into a fag.

Nancy eyes looked at him with disgust as she reached for the doorknob. Suddenly, Mitch rushed her as his muscular arm brought his hand harshly down across her cheek, striking her hard enough to knock her against the wall. Her thick one thirty three pound frame slid to the floor in a fetal position as tears formed in her eyes.

Nobody will believe that you killed Del no matter how hard I hit you.

Im telling you the truth. I killed him and enjoyed it.

Bitch, you could not kill a mouse. I know you. You high maintenance types, pretty ass bitches aint good for nothing but a fuck.

She looked at him angrily but inside she was delighted that he struck her; she now had the bruises she need. Unexpectedly kneeling down over her, he roughly thrust his hand under her dress and violated her vagina. Nancy wanted to jerk away but Mitch held her shoulders so she could not move. She was use to this kind of treatment, growing up with two brothers. She often got punched and kicked by them. Then there were the things her father made her do. Coming in drunk late at night as her mother laid in a batter helpless lump in their room, he would come to her room and rape her. At first she would fight him, scratching and clawing and hoping her father would stop; but she, soon, learned to surrender and escape the abuse in her mind. Nancy shook the cobwebs out of her head, sat up on the floor and looked at Mitch.

Let me up off this floor and Ill show you, I can do more than fuck, motherfucker.

Oh, you got heart, huh, bitch. Well, I hope you can convince the police because I still dont believe you.

I told you, I killed him; Nobody, but me.

Mitch lustfully looked at Nancy as he ran his hand down her thigh. Hed been watching Nancy since he started working as her brothers driver. But he could not touch her because she belonged to Del. Nancy didnt know what to think. She knew that the police were going to question her, but there was no way she was going to rat on Ronnie and there was no way she was going to jail. She decided that the best way to keep them from finding out the truth was to tell them that she killed Del in self defense. Mitch leaned his head close to her face and kissed her on the cheek.

Nancy, I should kill you and your brother for killing Del. But, the truth is Im glad he killed Del. Id eyed your fine ass for a while; couldnt approach you cause Del was in the way. So, what am I going to do?

Nancy knew he'd been watching her since the first day he started hanging with Del. She noticed how he walked past her at the club or parties and barely brushing her round ass as he passed by. Once she felt him grip her ass hard as he opened the car door for her; but she never told Del. She did not want to start anything and get him killed. He was too nice. Nancy liked the aggressive type, the kind that would grab a womans hand and shove it right up against his crotch, letting her know that he was admiring her and that his body was hot for her. But Mitch wasn't that kind of guy, and she knew that. Nancy stood up, turned around to face of Mitch.

I can take whatever you got, Mitch. But, I keep telling you Ronnie had nothing to do with it. Shit, man, he aint nowhere around. It was me; all me.

Smelling the sweet scent coming from her body, Mitch suddenly snapped; becoming a totally different person. He became sexually aggressive and it frightened her. Nancy never saw it coming. Mitch quickly made up his mind if he was going to make it look like Del tried to beat her; he was going to go all of the way and teach her a lesson at the same time. Mitch watched as she slowly walked to the front room and sat on the couch. Retrieving his Berretta from his waistband, he followed her and promptly stripped the tight silk dress off of her body. Seeing her cleavage push up from her exposed bra, Mitch eyes grew wide. Wanting to get her attention, he placed his gun against her temple.

God Damn, youre tight!!!!! Look at those beautiful tits. Now, take your panties off, bitch!

Slowly he step back and waited. Nancy stood and wiggled her tight g-string down her long legs. As she stood up his eyes fell on her thick black whisks shaved into the shape of a diamond over her vagina.

"That'll have to be the best sight in the world. Man, why did Del fuck around on you? Now get your fine ass on the floor.

Nancy slowly squatted down and lay prone on the floor. She intended to let him do hit her a few times to make it look convincing; but she had no ideal that he was going to really rape her. Forcefully, he stretched her arms above her head making her breast stick out even farther then leaned over and licked her large nipples, biting each of them hard. Using a few strips from her torn dress, he tied her hands to the sofa. She knew then he was going to make her hurt and tried to close her legs but he positioned himself between them.

Mitch, you dont have to do it like this. I- I- I will give it to you.

What kind of fool you think I am, Nancy? I wasnt born yesterday. I finally got your fine ass and under me where I can do anything I want to you; you think Im going to stop now. Shit, Hell Nah.

When he had finished strapping her arms to the legs of the couch, she was stretched across floor with her vagina exposed. He brutally shoved a couple of fingers up inside her, pulling them out and licking them clean. Forcing her thick legs up on his shoulders, he explored her with the tip of his tongue, splitting her lips and landing right on her clit. What had she gotten herself into; this awakened the violent of days of her youth. She groggily looked at him. He was smiling as if he had accomplished some great feat.

"Damn, Mitch, what are you doing!?! Mitch! Untie me NOW! LET ME GO!!!!!!!!!"

Nancy screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Hell no you stupid, bitch! You want to convince those cops that Del beat up! Well, then Im gonna do a good job for you. Im gonna shove my dick all up in you. And you know what I'm gonna do after I finish? I'm gonna stick my dick in every hole you got. I'm gonna have you so full, you won't know what to do.

He laughed as she squirmed and grunted against the restraints; harshly biting down very hard into the meat of her inner thigh. She screamed. Slowly, he ran his hands between her legs, softly petting her vagina. It was red and swollen, as he rammed two fingers up in her. She struggled but couldnt get loose. She could not believe this was happening. All she was trying to do was just not to go to jail. He slowly pulled off his jeans, revealing his huge penis pressing against his baggy boxers then he removed his boxers. He was at least twelve inches long and a good four inches wide. He was HUNG!

Ohh Mitch! You can't shove that into me!!! It won't fit! You'll tear me apart! PLEASE NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Too late, bitch now, shut the fuck up and take it.

Nancy stared in disbelief at him. She hadnt been with many men and shes never seen one that big. Mitch slipped his stiff tongue into her vagina again, and then positioned himself between her legs. She started to beg him to stop; but Mitch cupped his hand over her mouth. He shoved it in, ramming his full length into her, grinning as he smacked into her. It hurt as it hit the back of her wall. Straining from trying to screaming, she hollered loudly in Mitchs hand.

"OHHH OHHHH OWWWWWW OHHH GOD OH GOD TAKE IT OUT MITCH!!!!!!!!! OH GOD PLEASE!!!! AAAAHHHH"

Refusing to stop, Mitch began to rape her mercilessly; her vagina stretched tight as a glove around his oversized penis.

"Oh yah you bitch, you like this dont you? I know this is what you've want. You've wanted my hard dick ramming up inside you all the time. Just imagine how much fun we couldve had if you hadnt marry that fool, Del.

She whimpered, struggled, and screaming as he continually shoved his penis inside her. Her fighting against him seemed to just turn him on more, so she submitted. She just laid there and took it.

Oh youve liking it, huh, bitch.

Why are you doing this to me?

Nancy screamed loudly again as he continued to forcefully penetrate her. The blood curdling screams and the look on her face were almost too much for him, but he controlled himself, waiting for her to tell him what he wanted to know.

Tell me that you like it, bitch. Say it, say it.

Yes, I like it; harder, harder.

Was she faking; from the look on Mitchs face what she suddenly said shocked him. Finally, the tears streaming down her face and her body uncontrollably convulsing under his body convinced him. Afterwards, her body lay limp on the floor. As he pulled out of her, he looked at her, smiled and untied her hands. He looked her again.

So, Nancy, you really did kill him, huh? Well, Ill be. So, you got heart. Well, this got to be the craziest shit Ive ever heard. Bad ass Del was killed by a little fuck toy.

He got up and put on his jeans and straightened his shirt. Suddenly it hit him. He thought about what he just did. Damn, he just took advantage of Ronnies sister. He had lost it and now he was a dead man for sure. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his gun and put it to her head.

So, what should I do to you, bitch. Maybe, I should just pull the trigger and blow your fucking brains out, then you want have to worry about going to jail.

Nancy did not want to die; she was just trying to keep from going to jail when the cops came. So she had to think fast. Looking up at him helplessly, she nodded.

"I... I... I'll be yours Mitch, just please, don't kill me... I'll be whatever you want me to be, I promise... just no more right now, please."

She curled up in a ball on the floor by the sofa. Mitch laughed because he never saw that coming. He raped her and she loved it. Her spirit was broken. Grapping her chin, he lifted her head so her eyes met his.

"Bitch, you're mine. I and only I decide when you fuck, who you fuck and how much you fuck... you have no choice... got it. Now open up your mouth, my dick needs cleaned!"

He shoved the full length of his penis into her mouth until His testicles hit her chin. She felt him sliding deep in her throat. As he rammed her throat rapidly, her eyes welled with tears, her face turn darker from the lack of oxygen. Eventually, she started breathing through her nose and began to suck him. He looked down, grabbed her head, and rammed her face harder. A few minutes later, he exploded in her mouth. Choking on his semen, she swallowed. Just for moment, the little tough independent exterior Nancy had seemed too disappeared; however, hell has no fury like a raped and humiliated woman holding a grudge.

Forum: ADULT stories/articles/poems

First installment of On The Verge of War

Nabahood23 — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:01:28 GMT

The midnight blue 1964 Ford

Wait a minute, son. I thought we agreed?

Roosevelt worked the racket back and forth quickly. The long engine mount bolt finally came out. He was pulling the motor out of an old 1962 Dodge Dart. Jamal paced the floor of the detached garage. He located an old truck body at Ben Peeve's Truck. With his eyes, he quickly searched the room as he looked for the right word to convince his father.

But, pop, you gotta see it first before you pass judgment. Mr. Peeve said I could have it for one hundred dollars. Its perfect.

His father slipped the socket on the other bolt and continued to work.

But Jamal, we agreed that youd get one of the cars off the lot. Now youre talking about completely rebuilding one from scratch. Come on now, son; youre sure you want to do that.

Yeah, besides Henry said hell put it together. Pop, the junk yard will be closing in a few minute. We gotta go.

Jamal impatiently paced the floor like a nervous father awaiting the news of the birth of his child. Roosevelt slowly pushed the crawler from under the car and placed the engine mount bolts in the bucket of cleaner. Frowning, he looked up at his son.

Who said you could use my shop and my workers anyway, boy?

Nah, not here pop; we going to put it together at the dealership. That way it will be done before I leave.

What shop you think Im talking about? I hope you know youre paying for it. My men dont work for free, son.

Looking down at the floor, Jamal shifted his feet. He hated when Roosevelt tried to cheap. His father owned the shop and someday it would be his, anyway. Jamal looked over into his fathers stone cold stare.

Ah, come on, pop; Im your son. Besides mom already asked Henry to do it.

Shit, Jamal, stop being a damn mommas boy. Youre a man, now. In a few more months, you will be in the Army; time to learn to stand on your own feet, son and really be a man. Neither your mom nor me will be there to help you then.

Standing up, his father could feel his age and he felt the bones of his spine crack. Serving in Heong Nu, Vietnam with the 11th Calvary, Roosevelt Walker worked as a mechanic in the Army motor pool. Honorably discharging from the military after two tours in Vietnam, he returned to Selma to marry Janie Carter. In 1976, the couple opened Walker Automotive first location on small lot on Dallas Avenue. The company rapidly grew from a mechanic shop into a tiny used car dealership. Three profitable years later, Roosevelt purchased some property on Highway 80 near Marion Junction. On October 1, 1980, he opened the Walker Ford dealership. The couples last child was born less than a month later. When Jamal turned seventeen, he enlisted into the United States Army.

Later that same day, the Walker Ford dealership's black and blue wrecker truck towed the rusty wreck to the dealerships paint and body shop. The truck was restored to factory specification. Everything was rebuilt or replace with Ford parts. The large rusty bumpers and the original grill were re-chromed and glistened brightly. The old torn bench seat was removed and reupholstered in the original blue tweed fabric. The windows, the inside floor and the rocker panels were replaced because of damage and rust. The useless six-cylinder motor and transmission were replaced with a chromed high performance 351 Cleveland engine with a Holley four-barrel carburetor and a new racing transmission. The suspension was upgraded and the old radio was replaced with a Pioneer sound system. Hank Sanders custom-made the treated dark brown oak boards for the bed of the truck. Other than that, the rust brown 1964 Ford step side truck was original.

Right before Jamal graduated from the U. S. Army ranger school, his mother asked Henry Reed, the supervisor of the paint shop to paint the restored Ford midnight blue with a purple pearl clear coat. His oldest brother, Randall, purchased some low profile racing tires and custom twenty-inch rims for the restored Ford truck. They were shipped in from the Burning Rubber speed shop in Long Beach, California. Private First Class Jamal Antonio Walkers graduation was scheduled for Friday at the Army Ranger School in Fort Benning, Georgia. Fifteen members of the Walker family took the drive to the graduation ceremony. His father and mother drove the freshly painted truck from Marion to Fort Benning for his graduation ceremony. Sandra's husband, Darnel Williams, and Reginald, Sandra's son drove Roosevelt's silver gray 1999 Lincoln Continental. Randall, his sister Sandra, and the rest of the family arrived in Darnel's eggshell white Expedition and Randall's royal blue Excursion.

After the long traditional military graduation ceremony, Jamal took a thirty-day leave and traveled home to rural Selma, Alabama. For three enjoyable weeks, his days consisted of meeting old high school friends and chatting with Henry at the dealership's paint shop. His nights were occupied with loud wild parties, flirtatious ex-girlfriends, and a lot of club hopping. Because Janie converted his old bedroom into her home office, Jamal decided to stay at Darnel and Sandra's split level white and brown frame house. Four days before the end of his leave, Jamal hesitantly hugged and kissed his entire family goodbye. He was about to start his long hard drive to Fort Hope in Hackberry, Louisiana and begin his spine tingling journey as an U.S. Army Ranger.

The Barracks Of C Company

In the murky mosquito infested swamp waters of Johnson Bayou, live many dangerous fearless alligators, deadly poisonous snakes, and other loathsome creatures; these waters are also the home of Fort Hope and the ferocious U. S. Army Ranger Covert Operations Division. Fort Hope is located 43 miles southwest of Hackberry, Louisiana. The military placed the base on the north side of Johnson Bayou. Constructed in the middle of the Louisiana's humid swamps, Fort Hope is the smallest of three covert operations installation inside our border. They respond only to orders from the President and the Department of Defense in Washington D.C.

Jamal was delighted that he had finally received his belongings. It had taken over two months for his antique furniture and all of his other belongings to arrive from Fort Benning. After loading the heavy cardboard moving boxes into the bed of his restore antique pickup truck; Jamal quickly started the loud engine of his 1964 Ford step side pickup truck. The deep bellow of the high performance engine thundered through the dual tailpipes. The thin white metal speed odometer needle quickly shot pass fifty and abruptly stopped on eighty-five. He headed toward Company C's barracks with the back of his Ford truck packed with moving boxes and a small wooden roll top desk.

Jamal glanced at his black Army issued combat watch on his right wrist as he raced down the two-lane state road 27. The radio announcer's smooth voice flowed out from the two 15 inch Pioneer competition woofers behind the seat of the truck.

Its 10:37 a.m., Monday, July 9, 2001. Its a steamy 98 degrees and rising this hot summer morning. The National Weather Service said this heat wave should last for at least three more days. By Sunday, we should get some rainfall, folks.'

As he pulled the midnight blue Ford into the barracks parking lot, KRSX call letters were given out over the radio. The tires loudly screeched as Jamal quickly slowed the dusty truck down.

The four-story brown brick building of C Company was built to replace World War II barracks that were destroyed by Hurricane Mary. However, because of the harsh swamp conditions and the humid temperatures, the old brick building quickly aged. Jamal planned to make this co-ed building home for the next few years or at least until he can save enough money to move off base. The unit sergeant assigned him a large room at the end of the hall on the second floor.

The young men placed the boxes on the floor of the small room. Seconds later, Jamal came into the room with his suitcase and duffle bag. He threw them on floor beside the small twin bed.

Alright, that is the last of the boxes, Jamal.

Man, I appreciate you guys helping me.

Soldier, youre part of Company C, now. Were all family here.

The men shook his hands and return to the rec room. Six hours ago, Jamal's belongings arrived on the large military base and now a dozen plain brown moving boxes littered the white vinyl tile floor of the room. He carefully hung a picture of his family on the white wall over his army issued gray metal twin bed. His black Dell laptop was plugged into the beige wall socket next to the small wooden antique roll-top desk. As Jamal finish unpacking his things, a breeze from the air conditioner slightly moved the sheer blue curtain by the only window in the room.

Man, its hot as shit. I could use something to drink.

The summer on the concrete lined military base was extremely hot and humid. The temperature on an average summer day could quickly reach the three-digit mark. As tiny semi transparent waves of heat flickered from the hot brown brick windowsill, Jamal reached over some unopened cardboard boxes to open the apartment-sized white refrigerator to get a Coca-Cola. The refrigerator was empty except for one half-empty bottle of tropical punch Gatorade.

I shouldve stopped by the store before I came to the room.

He unpacked the last of his military field gear, stacked the empty cardboard boxes by the brown wooden door to his room, and headed for the drink machine in the recreational area of the coed barracks. During this time of the day, soldiers filled the room to watch television, shoot pool, or just lay around. It cost one dollar for a sixteen-ounce drink. Jamal fished around in the faded pockets of his Levi's 501 button fly jeans for some change, as he hastily strolled over to the large red Coca-Cola drink machine. After dropping four shiny quarters in the waiting drink machine, he carefully made his selection and waited for the cold drink to appear.

A few seconds later, a cold clear plastic bottle tumbled into the opening. His hand reached in and retrieved his much-desired drink. Jamal held the cold wet bottle in his left hand and promptly twisted open the cap with the other. He slowly brought the perspiring bottle to his open mouth and gladly felt the cold beverage drench his parched throat. As he stood by the machine quenching his thirst, a very angry unit sergeant burst through the tan metal door of the barracks and immediately approached him. The angry unit sergeant loudly screamed at a startled Jamal.

Private Walker, the captain been looking for you. He wants you in his office, like yesterday. What youre waiting for private? I said m. o. v. e., MOVE IT, MOVE IT!!'

The captain's office was located in the Special Ops building. It was built on a small hill overlooking the personnel building. The distance was about two miles due west of the barracks. Quickly, Jamal opened the tan door of the barracks and ran across the hot base. He took a short cut through the parade grounds where the soldiers played football. Running at top speed, Jamal reached the Special Operations building in about four minutes.

Special Operation Division

Tiny clear beads of sweat slowly rolled down the dark brown skin of his forehead as Jamal walked into the captain's office. A cold breeze from the air conditioning vents in the well-decorated office welcomed him as he closed the heavy metal door. It felt a lot cooler in the office than it did in the barracks. Sergeant Major Wilson was sitting in a leather office chair with his back to the door as Jamal slowly approached the wooden cherry wood desk. He labored to catch his breath.

Private Walker reporting as ordered.'

The sergeant major slowly revolved around in the noisy leather chair and stared over his black military issued glasses. Two quick seconds and a few giant steps later; the sergeant major stood three inches from Jamal's perspiring face. The sergeant major was a thin but muscular brown-skinned man. Jamal noticed a long black scar on the side of the sergeant major's face. It was displayed like a badge of honor. His muscular chest displayed a colorful billboard full of various military decorations. His Army issue camouflaged uniform was crisp and very well ironed. The fading reddish brown hairline and military issued black plastic glasses made him look like Malcolm X. Sergeant Major Wilson's deep dark brown eyes stared directly into Jamal's coal black eyes.

Damn, it is about time you got your sorry worthless ass here, private. Do you think Captain Bates has all day to wait on a lazy good for nothing maggot like you, private?'

Every time the sergeant major opened his mouth to insult Jamal with his words, little wet missiles of his spit exploded on Jamal's already soaked face. His face became drenched in perspiration and a layer of the sergeant major's saliva. As his bombardment of insults and saliva continued for what seemed like eternity, Jamal noticed how time and the harsh conditions of thirty-five years of military service had hardened the sergeant major's disfigured face.

At that moment, the frosted glass inner-office door slowly opened. A tall, young Chinese American officer forcefully emerged into the outer office. Captain James Arthur Bates or Captain Jab, as the soldiers called him, was in his late thirties and a proud graduate of West Point Military Academy. He was the current base boxing champion for the last three years. Methodically, he straightened his tie and shirt and sauntered toward the sergeant major. He gently placed his tanned hand on the sergeant major's shoulder. Jamal quickly snapped to attention.

I am pleased you could make it, Private Walker.'

He said sarcastically as he gestured to him to take a seat in the chair.

I understand that you graduated in the top 5 percent in your class.'

Yes, sir! Sir, I am trained to be the best at what I do.'

It is easier to shoot at a target than it is to kill a moving man. Do you have what it takes to be a ranger, private?'

Jamal graduated from the ranger training school ready for a fight. The running and exercise regiment molded his young body into top condition. He actually enjoyed the intense training that Fort Benning offered. He played middle linebacker on Westside high school football team; therefore, he quickly adjusted to the daily exercise and cross-country running. The Ranger drill instructors systematically transformed a rough eager recruit into a dangerous lethal weapon. Jamal developed into a proficient and skillful armed fighter. An U. S. Army ranger's skills are reserved exclusively for killing the enemy under the dark moonlight. Jamal stared deeply in the hazel eyes of the captain.

Yes, sir, I will do whatever it takes to get my job done.'

We will see about that.'

The sergeant major reached and retrieved a crystal glass from his desk, took a loud sip and continued to speak.

Captain Jab, he is still green behind the ears. He is a virgin when it comes to killing people. I will bet a month's pay that he goes green as soon as he sees blood.'

The captain laughed at what he said.

Wilson, everyone goes green the first time they kill a man. Lets see what he can do.

The captain briefed Jamal about his mission. At 2200, he was to meet his unit sergeant and another soldier on the helicopter pad. He was assigned as the team scout and point man. He was assigned the task of taking out the enemy guards at the guard shack. After that, he was to backup the team as they break in the complex.

The sergeant major laughed. Yeah and dont get a yellow streak in you and bring back prisoners.'

Yellow streak, my ass.

Jamal abruptly jumped to his feet, saluted Captain Jab, did a perfect about face and marched to the door. He could still hear the sergeant major's voice as he stepped out of the office.

Hes just a boy, Captain Jab. He doesnt have the guts to do the job.'

Jamal tried not to let what Sergeant Major Wilson said irritate him; nevertheless, those words would ring in his ears while he was on the mission.

Prepared and ready to go

The hours hastily rushed by and the time arrived for Jamal picked up the gear he would use on the mission. First Sergeant Roger Pickford transferred a brand new M-16 assault rife across the booth. Sergeant Pickford carefully placed the assault weapon and a case of ammunition on the counter. His large blue eyes quickly glanced across Jamal's face.

You are new around here. Is this your first mission, son?'

Yes, sarge, I got here a few months ago from Fort Benning. I am assigned to C Company barracks over by the mess hall.''

Jamal signed for his weapon as Sergeant Pickford faced Jamal again.

That's good, private. There are only a few rules here.'

He announced them by pointing to the large laminated poster that decorated the wall to the left of the door. The poster read Clean your weapon before you return it, check your weapon to make sure it is unloaded before you return it and keep track of all you ammo you do not use, you will need to return it.'

Jamal departed the armorys office and headed for the helicopter pad. The time on his watch changed to 2140 as he drove the loaded Ford into the parking lot of the base airport. Jamal opened the driver side door of the blue truck, stepped out of the cab and locked the driver-side door. Slowly, he reached into the back of the bed and retrieved his gear. Later, he heard the deep loud cry from the pipes of a custom Harley as it turned into the parking lot. It was followed by a black 2000 Dodge Ram 2500 truck.

The Dodge pulled into the spot right next the Harley. Jamal threw his backpack over his shoulders and began walking toward the far south hangar on the base airport. This was the sector where the base heliport is constructed. Halfway between the parking lot and the hangar, the young Irish American soldier on the motorcycle caught up with him and touched him on the shoulder.

Hey are you the new recruit Captain Jab was looking for this morning.'

Jamal barely nodded his head and abruptly continued to walk. By the time, he reached the hangar both men caught up with him. They entered the opened door of the hangar in perfect stride. A dozen eight feet long florescent light fixtures illuminated the hangar from the ceiling. A small table and five chairs were grouped in the center of the hangar. Jamal noticed that two of the chairs were already occupied as they walked closer. The captain and the sergeant major arrived a few minutes before them. Captain Jab sarcastically greeted them.

I am glad you gentlemen could make it this evening.

After some quick introductions, the captain continued to talk.

For a while, I thought that Wilson and I would have to do this mission.'

The captain returned their salutes and directed them to sit at the table. He placed four folders that had top-secret stamped across them on the table and strolled to the dry erase board on the north side of the table.

Okay, gentlemen, this is the mission.'

For the next ninety minutes, Captain Jab steadily detailed the mission to them. They will be flown by helicopter out into the Gulf of Mexico to the small Caribbean Island nation of Tilfar. The mission was clear. Their team would penetrate a weapon laboratory on the island. The sergeant and the corporal were assigned the job of breaking in and hacking into the computer system. The team meeting concluded about 2300.

An Army green Chinook helicopter was setting on the helipad waiting for them. The pilot was performing his final inspections as they walked up. Sergeant Shelton and Corporal Richardson sprung into the cargo area of the Chinook. Jamal never could comprehend what had disturbed him. Maybe, it was the assignment as a lookout. Maybe the comment the sergeant major had made earlier was still bothering him. Either way he said very few words during the whole mission. Jamal finished loading the gear and sat down opposite the corporal.

The island of Tilfar

The targets location is one hundred and twenty miles south by southeast of the Texas coast. Tilfar became a semi hostile nation after the 1965 ousting of King Rafaela. The Cuban government funded the militants and assisted them in defeating the small Tilfarian army. Afterwards, the diplomatic relations between our two countries has been very strained. The Commonwealth of Tilfar measures approximately 58 miles wide and measures approximately 70 miles long.

On the north side of Tilfar was Tanner and on south side San Manito. To the east of Tanner were the 280-acre Venelan rain forest and the weapons laboratory. Since, this was a covert operation; the pilot was instructed to drop the team half a mile from the seacoast. From there, they would use a raft to floating to the beach. Jamal was the first to repel down the rope into the dark cold salt water. As the Chinook departed, the team climbed into the inflatable raft, gathered their gear, and headed south toward Tilfar and the weapon laboratory.

The island was hot and humid, but the scenery was breathtaking. The team of well-trained rangers quietly ascended forty feet up a spectacular granite ridge adjoining the beach. Jamal walked point as they slowly entered the amazing rainforest. Inside the forest, they were greeted by a myriad of colorful birds and fragrant plant life. In the midst of the forest was a mammoth clear-blue freshwater lake. The impressively quiet lake was surrounded by the strong and healthy foliage of the rainforest except on the south side where the weapons laboratory was built. Jamal thought to himself.

This island would be a good spot to retire.

After taking about two steps toward the freshwater lake, Jamal spotted a half-hidden land mine. It was slightly protruding from the thick green Bermuda grass. He calmly signaled the sergeant and corporal to stop. Then, he showed them the location of the mines.

Well, it is too late to turn back now.'

Slowly and very cautiously, they crossed fifteen rows of land mines. Later, Jamal signaled to the team to stop a half of a mile away from the gray metal building. Jamal's mission was to secure the guard shack. Afterwards, he would signal the team when the coast was clear. Jamal had been in the Army now for almost three years. This was why he became a U.S. Army Ranger.

Cautiously, he continued to travel alone in front of the team. He carefully examined the area through the lens of the night vision scope. Just as the report said, the guard shack stood in the middle of the only road into the laboratory with two guards on duty. This would be the first time he saw any real action. Jamal quickly rehearsed his pending actions over in his mind. Reflecting on the training he had received at Fort Benning, Jamal slowly laid his camouflaged frame in the prone position on the ground.

Pressing his body hard against the ground to muffle any sound, he carefully crawled toward the wooden guard shack. As he came closer to the unpainted shack, Jamal silently slipped his Army issued knife out of its case on the side of his pack. He gently positioned the knife between his teeth and continued his slow descent upon the unsuspecting guards. One of the guards proceeded to walk towards him. Jamal immediately stopped and instantly hid himself in some of the surrounding underbrush. The armed guard continued to walk in the same direction. He stopped about four feet to the right of the ranger.

The ranger silently studied his prey. The old gray haired man unzipped the front of his black pants and proceeded to urinate next to the brush where he hid. This was the ranger's prime opportunity. A continuous stream of warm semi-transparent urine flowed from the unsuspecting guard's heavily veined penis. The ranger positioned himself for the kill. The unsuspecting old guard stood with his back to Jamal the entire time he contently continued to relieve his full bladder.

In a few remarkably swift and carefully planned moves, Jamal forcefully emerged from his hiding spot. With his left hand, he quickly covered the old mans mouth. He wrapped his right hand around the butt of his knife. Viciously, Jamal submerged the tip of the custom Bowie Knife serrated metal blade into the side of the overwhelmed guard's esophagus. Then, the ranger used the serrated end to slice the trachea into two pieces. Crimson streams of blood spurted from the open wound and quickly drenched the disabled guard's uniform. The perishing guard's eyes wide grew with fear as he tried to breathe. Jamal turned the weak old man to face him. The ranger inserted the bloody blade of his knife deep into the mutilated and battered guard's stomach.

Jamal made a penetrating semi circle cut on the mortality wounded guard's stomach. The horrified guard's large intestine instantly slipped out between the folds of the cut bloody skin. Jamal slowly helped the dying man to the ground. As the bleeding corpse continued to twitch on the grass, the ranger promptly went to work.

Rivers of red liquid gushed out from the light pink wound and stained the green grass as Jamal continued to slice open the victim's stomach. Skillfully, Jamal removed the liver, spleen, and kidneys. The stench of bile wafted in the air when the ranger cut a section of the semi- transparent gruesome looking large intestines in two and placed it in a freezer bag along with the other organs. Then, Jamal carefully stored the transparent bag in his backpack. He retrieved a present for someone.

That was too easy. It is time to get my other present.

The other guard was in the guard shack. He was about 20 or 21 years old and ignorant of the demise of the old man. He danced with his weapon to the beat of the melody of a song as the ranger silently crept to the rear the hut. Jamal could hear salsa coming from the transistor radio. Unnoticed, he gradually crept through the open door. By the time the song ended, the lackadaisical soldier turned around to find Jamal standing behind him.

The naive young guard nervously tried to protect himself. However, it was too late. The ranger's blood stained sharp edged metal blade forcefully plunged into the base of the front of his neck. For a few seconds, he examined Jamal's eyes as if to ask, why?' Jamal violently rammed the knife further into the perishing boy's throat and watched him die. The primed ranger disemboweled him as he did the other and placed the second container in his backpack. Upon finishing his job, Jamal snatched the dead boy's half-eaten sandwich and stuffed it in the corpses mouth.

Did your mom ever tell you to finish your food?'

He laughed rudely as he signaled to the team waiting in the forest.

When the team reached his position, a crimson pool of blood slowly covered the wooden floor. The strong pungent stench of bile seasoned the air inside the small shack. Jamal drugged the deceased elderly man across the wooden floor of the security shack. The old man's abdomen skins waved back and forward. Each motion exposed the bloody pinkish inside of the dead man's abdomen and the mutilated intestines. Shocked, Corporal Richardson abruptly stopped and stared at the revolting sight. Seconds later, he retreated to the open door to release chunks of pinkish vomit outside. When the pale corporal returned, wiping some bits of vomit from his lips.

Man, you are one sick soldier.'

Yeah, I know. Just leave me alone and I will be fine.'

Jamal reached down and retrieved the dead man gun.

It took the sergeant and the corporal about thirty minutes to complete the job. They broke into the facility and secured all the personnel inside. Corporal Richardson hacked into the computer, and copied all the files. When they were done, the corporal downloaded a virus into the system that locked the whole facility down. It took the enemy about six weeks to determine what he had done to the system.

Two presents for the sergeant major.

The team arrived at the pickup spot ten minutes before the Chinook reach the destination. Jamal handled point as the sergeant then the corporal was raised up into the hovering stationary Chinook. After a brief postponement, Jamal was hoisted up. The Chinook immediately took off for the home base. Jamal took a seat next to the corporal. The corporal looked at Jamal.

Are you some kind of deranged psychopathic killer? You did not have to kill them. You could have tied them up or just knocked them out. Man, you are sick.'

Yeah, I know.

Jamal closed his eyes and went to sleep. What seem like only a few minutes later, Jamal felt someone's hand on his shoulder as he slowly opened his heavy eyelids.

Hey, it is time to unload. We are at Fort Hope.'

It was approximately 0600 and Jamal had something he really needed to do. The team unloaded and they returned their weapons and equipment.

I will see you guys at debriefing at 1400. I am going home to get some sleep.'

Sergeant Shelton started his Dodge and departed. Corporal Richardson mounted the Harley and took a long stare at Jamal. He shook his head and started his bike.

Man, you got some serious issues.'

The time was 0800; Jamal knew precisely where the sergeant major would be. At 0400, he runs five miles from the NCO mess hall to the parade ground. At 0600, he trains the base self defense classes. So right around now, he should be just coming into the office. Jamal sat in the Ford as the sergeant major's maroon convertible 1998 Jaguar sped into the parking lot. Sergeant Major Wilson tarried a few minutes to talk to a young lady before he entered Special Operations building. Jamal gradually exited the truck, entered the building, and carefully opened the door of the unit's office. He was carrying his backpack with him. Jamal entered the tranquil office. The sergeant major sat at his desk with his back to the door. Jamal abruptly spoke as he entered the office.

Good morning, Sergeant Major.'

The haggard sergeant major turned in his leather chair and looked at Jamal over his glasses.

So, private, did you have the guts to carry out your mission.'

Jamal emphatically reached into his backpack to retrieve the two bags. He opened them and dumped the rank despicable contents on the desk. By this time, they had developed a very disgusting foul odor and it immediately permeated the entire office.

Here they are, Sergeant Major. You tell me.'

Jamal wasted an entire day cleaning up the mess in the sergeant major's office. He was also docked one-month pay for that stunt, and spent three weeks in psychotherapy.

Forum: General postings for comment/critique

A Creepy Short Story - The Mirror

StevenCampbell — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 17:36:29 GMT

Inside a single yellow eye of a two-story brick house, fifteen-year-old Randy White sits at his bedroom desk and stares into a rectangular wall-type mirror propped in front of him. He draws a few lines to his portrait, trying to capture a convincing likeness of himself to show Mr. Evans, his art teacher, on Monday.

A crowd roars from outside his bedroom window; he wonders for a moment if the Warriors have scored. A half-block away, Ridgewood High Schools football team is battling a well-matched contest with their neighboring town, Lambridge. His parents and sisters are there amidst the fervor.

Randy glances at the radio on the stand by the side of his bed and considers turning on the game. Then, annoyed, he realizes the noise of the game has become a distraction; the skinny boy stamps to his window to close it.

Football season has ascended upon Ridgewoods Friday nights and tonight the air is heavy in the third quarter, the game tied. Randy knows that sweat and adrenaline and coffee and soft drinks are flowing fast. He had been part of that life once.

Before he closes the window, a loud cheer follows a brown elliptical ball kicked over the heads of the visiting blue and white team. The ball passes end over end between white jutting poles rising toward the scarlet sky, and then falls and bounces into a wire backstop. The fence rattles, Randy knows, where on the other side, a few bees buzz atop the uncut field of brush and scrub in the waning September daylight.

Behind the school and beyond the field lights, portions of Myers Ridge jut like jagged canine teeth trying to bite into the bands of red and gold sky above it. Randy notices a sphere of white light blinking along the cliffs and wonders what it is. It moves back and forth and up and down, then zips away for a few seconds before it returns and repeats the pattern.

Randy thinks of UFOs, so he hurries back with a digital camera. He zooms and snaps a picture. The orb blinks off and on. Randy takes another picture. The crowd roars. The orb stops blinking.

He waits for the strange light to blink on again, but the ridge remains dark.

Bands of lightning spread out across the northern sky, streaking and skipping over the amber clouds. Randy reaches to close the window when white light flashes in front of the window and sends him falling backwards. Partially blinded, he scrambles from the floor to the window and closes it. Then he ducks and waits; he wonders if little gray beings will enter his room and want to abduct him.

After several minutes, he peeks outside. Then he pulls his curtains over the window and hurries to his desk. He watches his window in the mirror for several minutes. The football crowd is muffled on the other side; there is no other disturbance out there. No UFOs. No aliens. All is safe. Right?

Right.

And the light?

Probably heat lightning, he thinks. Thats all.

Right?

He leaves the window and pushes away his imagination. He has read too many horror stories, watched too many science fiction movies. Thats why his back prickles with an underlying dread.

All in my imagination.

He returns to his portrait and draws. His hand, eyes and mind become synchronous and he discovers he really likes what he is doing. He understands the rules of composition and positive and negative space now. He has become an artist and he knows it. Drawing what he sees is easy to do.

He looks at his face and studies the forms made clear by the light from the lamp on his desk. Then behind his mop of brown hair where thick green curtains should cover the window he closed not long ago, he sees a closed door instead.

What? This cant be.

He slowly puts down his pencil, rubs his eyes, and looks again at the mirror. The door is there! A dark oak of plain, smooth slab with a glass doorknob on it where his window should be. He quickly turns from the mirror and looks at his window. Its there, covered by green curtain. In the mirror, he sees the door.

Fascinated and a little frightened, he repeats the procedure until he is certain the mirror is not lying to him.

He looks at his window. Hello. Aliens? His voice catches in his throat. He coughs. Then, Hello?

No answer.

He lifts the mirror from its propped up position and crosses his room. Facing the curtain, he holds the mirror by its wired back with his left hand and sees clearly in the mirror the door now next to him. He reaches out to where he knows there is curtain. He watches it happen in the mirror as he touches cold wood instead.

He yanks his hand away and blows on his fingers.

He hears the muffled noise from the football field where his parents and two young sisters are watching the game. But he barely thinks of them now.

He lifts his hand to the curtain and watches his hand in the mirror grasp the faceted doorknob. It is solid and cold and he shivers and takes a deep breath to calm his excitement. Then he turns the knob.

The door in the mirror swings out and he feels its weight butt against his right shoulder as the door comes to rest. He moves forward and watches the door open all the way in the mirror.

Beyond the door is a hallway with a wood floor as dark as the door and just as polished. Across the hall is a plain, off-white wall where a large painting of a seascape hangs from an ornate gold frame.

He reaches back toward his window and sees his arm enter the hallway. He turns and looks at his hand pressing against the curtain and the window behind it. He does not feel the curtain or window, even when he leans his shoulder against the curtain.

When he looks again at the hallway in the mirror, he tumbles through the doorway.

In his bedroom, the boy holding the mirror falls into the curtain and window, evaporating through green fabric and window glass and wood frame and wall. His reflection continues to tumble likewise into the hall, sprawling onto the cold, hard wood.

In his bedroom, the mirror falls to the floor and bursts into shards and slivers.

At his window, Randy White has vanished.

Window glass begins to chatter with the sound of rain. Two-hundred yards away the football game has ended. Several minutes pass before the front door at Randys house opens. His father calls upstairs to remind him of their ritual of going out for ice cream after a home game. Wear a jacket, Randys father says, its raining.

Minutes pass. The youngest girl impatiently stomps upstairs calling for Randy to hurry. Inside his bedroom, the girl sees on his desk his drawing pad and a self-portrait looking back in wonderment. Past the desk, Randys camera lies near a broken mirror below his window. She crosses the room, picks up the camera and turns it on. She looks at the pictures that Randy took of the flashing orb. The images are blank.

She puts down the camera and picks up a piece of mirror glass, jabbing the end of her thumb on an edge. She cries out, switches hands and sucks at the bead of blood from her injury. She holds up the knife-like length of glass and sees the door. A shadow falls across the polished floor. She looks closer. The shadow is crouched over a body. A long, smooth, gray face turns. Large glowing yellow eyes peer at her. A mouth of sharp teeth consumes the Navy blue fabric of Randys shirt.

The creature lunges at her. She screams and drops the broken mirror and runs from the room, crying and yelling all the way downstairs. She races past her mother and older sister and into the arms of her concerned father.

No one believes her when she tells them what she saw. Upstairs, no one else sees the door in the broken mirror. They do not see the hall or the creature consuming Randy Whites body. Looking around, they see Randys drawings and evidence of a boy missing from home.

He did stop enjoying sports, Randys father says to the police officer taking notes inside Randys room.

The police officer suggests that Randy was abducted, which would explain how the mirror was broken.

Definitely abducted, the girl says. By an alien.

No one listens. No one ever really listens to children. Not ever.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

A Dark Short Story - Are We There Yet?

StevenCampbell — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 17:32:16 GMT

The closer he and his family got to Lambridge, Pennsylvania, the harder the rain fell. Fifteen-year-old Douglas Coleman pulled at his sweaty T-shirt and wished that the air conditioner in his parents Grand Cherokee worked. The grand had left the vehicle several years ago. Same with their lives, except the good times they had once lived had been yanked away over the summer by a cruel twist of fate, right before the dog days of August had hit.

He didnt care if they ever got there, but he asked anyway: Are we there yet?

Almost, his mother said. Another hour is all.

He sighed and crossed his arms. Next to him in the back seat, his eleven-year-old sister, Keera, snored. Drool leaked from the corner of her open mouth and formed a puddle along the front of her pink T-shirt. Douglas wondered how she could sleep when it was so hot and their lives had been ruinedthanks to him, of course, although his mother and Dr. Jarvis said it wasnt his fault. No matter how many times his mother said that things were going to get better, he knew they would never be as good as when they had lived in Minneapolis.

Douglas jabbed Keeras shoulder until she turned her head and stopped snoring. Then he tilted his head toward his open window and let the warm spray douse his sweaty face.

Minneapolis and everything that had been theirs were a long ways behind them now. There would be no going back until he graduated high school. And then he would be on his own, going to college (he hoped at Minnesota State where many of his friends planned to go) while his family tried to make a go of it in some foreign place where the state depended on a captive groundhog to predict their springs.

We have no other choice! His mothers words still resounded in his ears from the days they had spent packing. They were SFC: strapped for cash, a term his father had started using after lightning had struck him three months ago. It was a term that Douglas hated hearing. It ranked up there with SOL, which was how he felt most of the time.

In the front seat of the old truck, Adriana Coleman banged an open palm against the dashboard. The engine was overheating again.

We there yet? Douglass father asked as he awoke from his nap.

Almost, Adriana said. She pointed to a large billboard sign ahead of them that read WELCOME TO LAMBRIDGE.

Maurice Coleman rubbed his right temple as he turned in his seat to look at Douglas. Were muh-moving, son, he said. Nuh-new home, new town, new people. New, new, new.

Douglass face soured. I dont want to make new friends, he said. Its taken me all my life to make the best of the ones Ive left behind.

Adriana said, When we get settled, you can e-mail your old friends, or call a couple next weekend. I know they would love to hear from you.

Douglas sighed. Like theyre gonna care about my new life. I saw their looks. They were glad it wasnt any of them heading to a new a place. He sputtered as a realization clawed at his mind. Ill be the new kid at school. The one everybodyll pick on.

Its tenth grade. You wont get picked on.

Before Douglas could argue, Adriana said, I know youre going to like your new bedroom. Youll have plenty of space for your easel and desk and all your paints and canvas and

Whatever. Im not painting anymore.

If you insist.

I do.

Anyway, its a beautiful home in the country, just down the road from Uncle Jasons farm.

Great. I love the smell of cow manure.

Adriana set her mouth firm. Her expression was one of iron now. Douglas returned to gazing out at the lousy rain. The move was his fault, after all. If he had put away the lawn mower before going to Kennys house, then his father wouldnt have been struck by lightning while putting the mower into the shed. The lightning bolt would have knocked him out of his shoes and left him with impaired short-term memory instead, and his father would still be employed as a lawyer. And not just any lawyer. Maurice Coleman had been successful as a private practice lawyer, earning as much as six figures last year. But now, he wasnt well enough to be an ambulance chaser.

Nobodys fault, Maurice said from the front seat.

Douglas clenched his jaw, turned away from his father, and glared out his window at downtown Lambridge. The streets appeared barren and so did the storesa steady conglomeration of brick and cement shops that shoved against each other. Their windows looked dark and lifeless, although all were open for business. Even McDonalds and Burger Kingcramped between more brick buildingslooked dingy and deserted. At a street corner, Douglas looked at a discolored tavern on the left, its only visible window sporting a black sign with white letters that announced fifty-cent wings on Friday nights. Below it, neon signs advertised a selection of beer inside. On the uneven sidewalk in front, three young girls around the ages of ten or eleven came around the corner and passed by on Roller-blades, each of them teasing each other with obscenities. An old, sickly looking man in a tattered Army jacket stepped out of the tavern, turned up his collar to the rain, and then looked at Douglas and grinned. Douglas shuddered at the rotting teeth he saw and looked away. Icy pain sliced through his stomach.

I spy muh-my right eye, Maurice Coleman said, suh-something blue. His fathers stutter caused Douglas to clench his jaw tighter as another icy feeling jolted through his stomach.

The light changed and Adriana drove them deeper into an increasing murkiness of more constricted stores that looked empty of any life. They crossed over a cement bridge and a wide gray fording called Deer Head Creek. On the other side sat a Gothic stone church called St. Johns Cathedral. Its bell was peeling four oclock.

Cmon Duh-Douglas, Maurice said cheerily, Play along.

Douglas crossed his arms and held in his anger. Later, Dad. Okay?

Maurice began to hum. Then he sang a short ditty. The words were nonsensical and the chorus was a repetition of the word later. Douglas groaned.

Past the church, St. Johns Cemetery rolled wide and far with many tombstones marking the dead there. Keera awoke and screamed.

Douglas jumped and nearly screamed as well. Alarmed, Adriana turned to Keera, and then returned her attention to her driving when a car horn sounded at the stop sign she almost ran. Maurice made hushing sounds, but Keera sobbed louder.

The cemetery it scares me, she said. I saw myself buried beneath the ground.

Its okay, Adriana said. It was just a dream.

Keera turned to Douglas. Her tears dropped to her chin. I saw you in a coffin, she said between sobs. I saw Mom and Daddy, too.

Pain knifed through Douglass stomach. He shuddered.

Bad dream, Maurice said. Bad dream tap-tap-tapping.

Douglass stomach lurched. Mom, he cried and hiccupped. I dont feel good.

Were almost there. Just two more miles.
Maurice made more hushing sounds as he turned and looked out his rain-covered window. Almost home, he said. No more tap-tap-tapping.

Douglas pressed his hands against his stomach as his mother drove south and into the murky countryside, past woods and occasional clearings of soggy pastures with waterlogged fences and muddy cows, and farms with rusted trailers and car skeletons in the yards.

They stopped at an intersection and Adrianna waited for a semi decorated in yellow running lights to speed by before she eased the steaming, chugging vehicle into the intersection.

Instantly, a thousand screams filled Douglass head. His world exploded, which deafened the screams. Then all sound and sight went dark. He flew in darkness a long time before he awoke. He stared out his window. The closer he and his family got to Lambridge, Pennsylvania, the harder the rain fell.

The move was his fault. He pulled at his sweaty T-shirt and asked, Are we there yet?

Almost, his mother said. Another hour is all.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

Short Story - Dragon Slayer

StevenCampbell — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 17:26:22 GMT

Leonard tracked Emily to the faculty lounge. It was Wednesday and the last day the two teachers could spend third period together. As he sat across from her, he tried not to appear anxious as she slid the wrapped gift to him.

Open it. Hurry. Emily was dressed in a simple white tunic blouse and a gray flared skirt. Her golden hair and bright blue eyes lit up her otherwise drab attire.

Leonard tore away the blue wrapper with yellow balloons on it that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY in colorful bursts of printing.

He kept his surprise and exuberance low-key. You shouldnt have. He opened the silver lid of the laptop computer.

Turn it on. Everythings ready to go. The store clerk said it has everything. Even some games for when you need a break.

His long fingers slid over the sleek, black keypad. He grinned when the screen came on and Emilys youthful face filled the space. I love the desktop background.

He looked around, ready to show off his gift. At the beat-up brown sofa in front of the far wall where the only window wore a slatted blind left over from the Nixon era, Kathy Richards leafed through a Readers Digest. Leonard paused. Kathys expensive Princess Diana hairstyle, cosmetic face and ruby red fingernails had attracted recently divorced Frank Hallstead, who had entered the lounge and advanced on her like a walrus to tuna. He wasted no time trying to talk her into his leased Porsche after school.

Take it for a spin.

Leonard looked back at Emily. Huh?

Try it out. I have to return some books to the library. Ill be back in a few. She rose and strode away. He watched her leave. Her well-defined thighs contrasted nicely below her soft skirt.

For a moment, he listened to Frank flirt. Then he found the games. Solitaire, Hearts, Freecell, Minesweeper, as well as some he had never heard of. He clicked on DRAGON SLAYER.

CHOOSE YOUR SKILL LEVEL, the computer screen said.

He chose BEGINNER from the options offered.

The screen came to life as a red, fire-breathing dragon swooped down from a velvet star-filled sky and laid to waste in a fiery breath the Tolkien-esque village below. Elflike people ran screaming from wooden houses and stone buildings into the cobbled streets.

Leonard marveled the lifelike graphics while, within seconds, the dragon destroyed the living.

GAME OVER 0 POINTS. Red words filled the screen as the village disappeared into blackness.

Leonard clicked open the game and brought the dragons fury to life again. He pressed the keypad. A centaur stepped out of the shadows and shot gold arrows from a gold bow at the dragon. Every shot missed.

GAME OVER 0 POINTS.

He tried again. The centaur sent an arrow into the dragons tail. It screeched and banked away into the yellow glow of a full moon. Then it veered back. People ran. The centaur shouted orders to unseen comrades. A maiden stepped from an armament shop and gave the centaur a blue arrow.

Shoot at its heart, the flaxen-haired maiden said.

Leonard was stunned to hear Emilys voice come from the speakers. He looked up. Frank looked over at him.

Way to go, Stevens, Frank called out. Playing one of those new computer games. Im surprised.

Yes, Kathy said from a disapproving face.

Its a birthday present.

Frank came and stood over Leonard. You had me worried, old buddy. I took you for a book nerd only.
Leonard touched the keypad and discovered that he could pause the game. He wished he could pause Frank and slip away.

So you finally came out of your shell. Good for you.

You took your wifes death really hard. Kathy had joined Frank; she stood on the other side of Leonard. Im glad to see that our dearest Emily has brought you back to the living.

Whatre you playing? Frank leaned over and touched the keypad. Whats this button do?

Dont touch it. Leonard turned and smiled at Kathys intentionally placed midsection close to his face. He looked up past the bosom-filled red blouse positioned just above his head, at her aroused interest sparkling from lavishly colored hazel eyes boring down at him.

Yes, Emily is sweet and honest and true. He took delight in the resentment that crossed Kathys face. Then he said, Now, if youll excuse me, Id like to return to my game.

Frank thumped on the keypad. Make it work. I want to see what this game does.

Its on pause.

Frank pulled the laptop away. Let me see it for a moment Ill give it right back.

Leonard sighed and resigned the computer to Frank. Kathy smirked and returned to her seat and Readers Digest. Frank followed.

Whoa! Check out the dragon and these characters. These graphics are awesome. Frank attacked the keypad and made explosion sounds with his mouth. Take that, dragon. And that and that. His stumpy digits blurred.

Leonard listened to the sounds of the game between Franks bombing noises from his flatulent lips and cheeks. Spittle showered the computer. The dragon sounded angry.

Leonard looked at the door. Emily would be back any moment.

Okay, Frank. Give it back.

In a minute. Frank bounced in his seat and made more bombing noises. Then: Crap Im dead I mean, youre dead Stevens. He clicked at the keypad. Beginner, Apprentice, Master, he said. You were probably playing at the Beginner level, Stevens. You dont learn anything unless you go full speed. Let me show you what a Master can do.

Frank returned to attacking the computer with his hands and spittle. Leonard sat back and waited for Emily. He knew she would scold him in private for not standing up to Frank, but Millies death had taken the fight from him. Life was too short for quarrels with browbeats like Frank.

Damn, Im out of arrows. Frank clicked at the keypad. Hey look, this maiden looks like Emily.

Shoot at its heart, the computer said.

Frank and Kathy looked surprised to hear Emilys voice. Frank looked over at Leonard and grinned. Awesome. Then he looked at Kathy. Why dont you do something like that for me?

Kathy frowned and flipped a page of her Readers Digest.

Shoot at its heart, the computer repeated. Hurry, before he kills you.

Im trying, Frank said.

Hurry. The dragon is coming for another attack. Shoot!

Shut up. Im hurrying.

Hes coming.

Shut up. Franks fingers were a blur once more. Sweat appeared on his cheeks.

A terrible roar sounded from the computer. Kathy jumped and looked annoyed. You guys and your toys, she said.

Sweat covered Franks reddened face.

Kill it, the computer demanded.

Im trying. Frank panted

He pounded the keypad. The screen emitted a red glow that bubbled around Franks head like a fog. Kathy saw it. She touched Franks cheek and he shrugged her away.

Not now.

The fog followed Kathy and enveloped her. Leonard sat up and watched the fog envelop Frank.

Hey, Frank

Not now, dammit.

Kathy held up her hands and looked around at the red fog encasing her and Frank and the computer.

The computers orders were muffled. Strike the dragons heart with the blue arrow before he kills you. Hes attacking. Hurry! Shoot!

The fog grew brighter. A flash filled the room and sent Leonard falling from his chair. When he scrambled up, Frank and Kathy were gone. His computer rested on the cushion where Frank had been.

Game over, the computer said. You lose. He thought he heard Emilys voice snicker as he stepped up to the sofa and gingerly retrieved his computer.

The faculty lounge door opened.

Where are Frank and Kathy? Emily smiled at him. Leonard shrugged.

Do you like your present?

Leonard nodded.

Come on, Ill walk you to your next class.

Leonard closed the computers lid and, as he took Emily by the arm and followed her to the door, he suddenly needed to laugh.

This is the best present ever, he said and met her lips with his.

No kissing in the halls you two, Franks muffled voice called out from inside Leonards computer.

Shut up, Frank, Emily said. You just keep fighting dragons and trying to rescue Kathy if you two ever want to get out of there.

The computer was silent.

In the hall, hilarity bounced over Leonards tongue.

You have a contagious laugh, Mr. Stevens. You should use it more often.

Leonard agreed as they walked hand in hand to his next class.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

The Crying Stump ( a start)

JackCleveland — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 23:27:32 GMT

   She could feel them. Watching. Waiting. Some waiting to see if they could hurt her and bring her world of strength tumbling down. Some standing by to hold her, that they might be the one to console her and be her rock to keep her steady. She knew what they wanted and their reasons, for good or ill, were enough for her to never give in. They waited like vultures for her to cry. Their eyes would focus on her with barely restrained eagerness whenever bad news was delivered.
     Laura sat behind her desk at the collections agency and watched one of her employees, Sarah Tonkin, stand up in her cubicle. Her eyes had already started glistening, putting the scent of need in the air. Three of Sarah's nieghbors had already picked up the scent and had swooped over to touch her shoulders and one gave her a hug. The vultures had the scent of pity in the air and there was no stopping the intricate dance of predator and prey both reinforcing each others need. Laura watched Sarah put her hand to her face.
     Laura felt that the world had turned histrionic. She saw it everyday, a carnival of caricatures with japanamation facial expressions. A quivering lip. One eye staring larger than the other. Shakespeare wrote that all the worlds a stage and the people in it merely players. Actors. Everyone of her fellow "actors" were William Shatner.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

Short Story- First Attempt

dansimpson — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 21:39:23 GMT

The Bridge

Thomas was woken by sobbing. He peeled his eyes open and saw a pair of sensible brown loafers about 7 feet away. He exhaled loudly, like he did every morning as soon as his brain registered who he was and where he was. He focused on the man, spectating him as if he were at the theatre. Thomas spoke, 'Ive lived on this bridge for nearly two years. You're not the first to be standing there contemplating the jump'.

'Re-a-lly!!' stuttered the man in between sobs.

'Certainly not!' said Thomas 'In fact you are the second this month. You see this bridge has a bit of a reputation.

'O-h yeah, what kind of reputation?' spluttered the man almost child-like

'Suicides', Thomas said bluntly. You're the third one this year, and considering we're only in March, that's quite an astonishing figure- don't you think?

'G-g-guess-s-s-so' said the man, his voice no longer a splutter, more of a panicked pant.

Thomas reached for his bottle which had no label, took a huge, loud gulp, cringed and said, 'So, what's the reason you're up here?'

The man glaring back at Thomas, dumfounded at this homeless fifty-something man sitting there with his mangled dirty hair, his fingerless gloves, the wretched stench he could smell from where he was standing. The man chuckled at the thought of this tramp just might be the last person on earth that he come into contact with. That thought it self nearly pushed him over the edge. But, it didn't. He was still there. He peered down, it looked like a thousand feet, He saw the traffic underneath rushing by so fast that through his it seemed like a continuous blur of dozens of colours. He imagined the point of contact, and a wave of nausea crept over him. He looked back at the homeless man, his face pale verging on grey. The homeless man stared back at him with a hint of arrogance and smugness written over his face.

'I shouldn't of done it', said the man still a foot away from the edge.

'Do what? You can tell me'.

What the homeless man failed to mention was: In the two years he had been dwelling there. he had witnessed a few people contemplating the jump (the exact number, he couldn't recall.) And all these people, he felt a certain degree of sympathy for. He managed to talk three people down. Involving the three circumstances, money was the main factor. The homeless main felt strongly that money was such a silly, trivial reason to jump. But, there was something about this man standing in front of him that was different. He couldn't quite get his head around it. So he went about getting more information:

'Come on no-one else is here except you and me'.

'He was a good kid. I thought I was doing him a favour"', stuttered the man through the tears.

The homeless man didn't say anything, just nodded his head, as if to say, "carry on, it's OK"

'I was a teacher at a secondary school in town. I taught mostly 13-16 year old kids. I always knew they thought i was "cool" and "understanding".I was more a friend than a teacher. i mean, you have to be these days to earn their respect,

The homeless man still listening carefully with a kind of knowing look in his eye. The man continued,

'One afternoon, after class, this kid, Oscar, came to me saying he was going a party and he needed something to help him through the night. He said that if i couldn't it was fine but begged me not to let it go any further.'

He fixed his eyes on the homeless man for the first time since he started telling his story. He had his eyes mostly fixed on the label-less bottle on the floor.

'Well?'

'Of course I could, I do them every Saturday night.'

The homeless man nonchalantly shook his head. He felt a slight twinge of pity but he decided to reserve judgment until he knew more. He again give him the nod: "carry on"

'I gave him my address and told him come round, I'll sort something out. Sure enough, he came round- I felt a sense of pride that I was helping out one of the cool kids- i gave him 5 ecstasy tablets from my own personal stash. He offer me money, I didn't take it. I mean.... he was only a kid........

The homeless man interrupted. I'm guessing that isn't the only reason your up here.

The man sobbed uncontrollably for a good five minutes, the homeless man sitting there, waiting patiently for the inevitable twist.

The man, no longer crying, his voice nearly a whisper, 'The day after, it was on the news, that a 15 year-old boy named Oscar had died from a drug over-dose at a friends party.....

The man continued on, but, nothing more was to be said. In the homeless mans mind, he deserves to jump, all alone. No-one could could live with that guilt.

The homeless man began to speak, but he was gone, no noise apart from the faint screeching of tyres below. The homeless man shrugged and reached for a cigarette and his label-less bottle.

The End

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

Retribution Ch 1. All comments very much appreciated.

bates61 — Sun, 17 May 2009 04:50:16 GMT

CHAPTER ONE

Week One

Walking calmly across the car park and down the ramp leading to the basement of the hospital, the light from outside faded and my heart began thumping, when what felt like a big knot started to form in the pit of my stomach and the adrenalin began slowly seeping into my blood stream. God, I love this rush. I thought. I searched through some laundry bags left in a trolley and found what I was looking for. A white coat, that at least looked clean. I stuffed my Glock 9mm down the back of my trousers, put on the coat, and headed for the service lift, once inside I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to help calm my nerves and pushed the button for the fourth floor. Having visited two days earlier acting as the marks relative, I found out his location. As luck had it, he was in a private room, but did have a guard sat outside. The lift stopped and the door slid open, immediately the smell of antiseptic wafted through my nostrils.

Once out of the lift I stood still for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright light emanating from the busy ward, I scanned around looking for a room with a guard outside. Moving slowly through the corridors I tried not to look suspicious, although, it was so busy, no one was interested in who I was, or what I was doing. Finally, I turned a corner and through the glass of a swinging door, I could see the guard. He wasnt in uniform, but it didnt take much to realise what he was, and what he was doing. I was in luck, he had a paper cup he was still drinking from, I moved towards him at the same time removing a syringe containing a tasteless fast acting laxative from my trouser pocket. As I neared the guard, he immediately placed his cup on a table beside his chair and stood up with his hand tucked inside his jacket. Wearing a dark blue suit and sporting a dark black goatee beard, he gave me a thousand yard stare. I just looked at him thinking, everyone seems to have a goatee nowadays, it must be the fashion; maybe I should try it.

Excuse me doc, who are you? I havent seen you around here before.

Placing myself between him and the cup, I slipped in the laxative. Oh, sorry this is my first day, and Im trying to acquaint myself with the ward. Leaning forward I whispered into his ear. This is a big chance for me; I dont want to screw it up by getting lost on my first call, if you know what I mean?

He took his hand out from under his Jacket and smiled. I understand, but Im afraid you cant hang around here.

No problem, I wont bother you again, and thanks.

I carried on through another set of swinging doors, noticing there was a toilet on the other side. I figured if I made my way back round to the first set of doors Id be able to watch the guard going to the toilet once the laxative set in. This should take only a couple of minutes, and would give me just enough time to enter the room, do the job, and get out.

Once at the door I Peeked around the corner, it wasnt long before I saw the guard lean forward in his chair holding his stomach, by the grimace on his face, I could see he was in pain. Clutching his stomach, he dashed for the swinging doors, once I saw him enter the toilet I made my move.

Opening the door to the room, I could see the unconscious body of a man in his seventies laid on the bed with tubes coming from his arms and nose. I stood for a moment staring at the wrinkled faced, grey haired man thinking. He looks no more harmful than my own grandfather. However, this old man was about to turn Queens Evidence and send many people down. I quickly snapped out of it and took out another syringe filled with Potassium Chloride. After removing the green cap from the intravenous drip, I placed the syringe into the opening, and pushed down on the plunger, forcing the liquid into the drip. I removed the syringe, replaced the cap, turned off the heart monitor, and left the room.

It would take a matter of seconds for the Potassium Chloride to stop his heart, and considering his age, they would most likely suspect a heart attack. I got back into the service lift and down to the loading bay. I quickly placed the white coat back into the bag, and moved briskly out to the car park. As I climbed into my car, I could hear sirens in the distance getting closer with every second, sending butterflies fluttering throughout my stomach. I started the car and drove slowly out of the car park and onto the main road. As I moved down the road, I could see flashing lights in my rear-view mirror; I let out a deep breath and began removing my disguise, another job well done. I thought.

******

A week later, I received a phone call from my Father, telling me my ex wife Julie had died in a car crash, and that my daughter Clair had been placed into foster care. He said, hed tried to get in touch with me earlier, to inform me of the funeral; but could get no answer. He explained that, if it wasnt for the fact he was so ill himself, he would quite happily of taken Clair in. However, he was not backward in coming forward in telling me where he thought my priorities should lay.

Although I really enjoyed my work, and it did pay well, I made the decision to give it up and take on my responsibilities as a father. Julie and I split up five years ago, she was fed up with me being away all the time, and felt I had become emotionally detached; she was right of course. Finally, I found out, she was having an affair, I couldn't blame her really, I hadn't thought of her sexually for some time, but more of a readymade mother to our daughter.

I sent a coded message over the Internet, informing all my clients of my immediate retirement. This would piss off a good many people, but they would just have to live with it. I started gathering all my assets, moving my money from the many banks abroad, and placing it into one off shore account. I sold all my stocks and shares; doing everything possible to distance myself from the seedy world, I was once part of. If I was going to be a proper father, the last thing I want is for this shit to come back and haunt me in a few years time, and more importantly, put my daughters life at risk.

I prepared to collect Clair from the childcare authorities. I decided to move from London into the country, this would make it harder for my old life to catch up with me. I chose a small village on the coast of Cornwall. I figured kids always like the seaside, and it would be peaceful. I looked into the best schools for my daughter and bought a modest sized house, there was no need to advertise how well off I was. People always want to know how you made your money, and I didnt need any awkward questions.

******

The feeling of apprehension was alien to me. With all the jobs Id done in the past, Id never felt scared, or remorseful, sometimes nervous, but I put that down to the adrenalin, which I thought kept me sharp. Now, on the Eve of meeting Clair, I was feeling all of these. I left for the care centre. Just as I entered the lift, the phone in my room began ringing. I was just about to go and answer it when the lift door slid shut, forget it. I thought. As I arrived at the care centre, I could see two police cars in the car park; I got out of the taxi and asked the driver to wait for me. The building was very overbearing, Elizabethan looking, on three floors and painted white with black beams criss-crossing the frontage.

I entered the building and went to the front desk. The middle-aged woman behind the desk was speaking to a young policewoman who was standing with a note book in her hand. She looked over at me, and then turned to the woman behind the desk.

You can deal with this Gentleman for the moment.

Hello sir, what can I do for you?

Im here to pick up my daughter.

What is her name?

Its Clair; Clair Crane.

The woman suddenly turned toward the policewoman, who at this time had turned to face me. Did you say Clair Crane?

Yes thats right, why, whats wrong?

I think you better follow me sir. That look on her face, I knew it. It was the look everyone makes when they are about to dish out bad news.

I followed her into a waiting room, where there was another police officer questioning a woman. The policewoman went over and whispered into the officers ear. He turned and looked at me. Can you finish up here please constable? he said, then walked over to me.

Can you take a seat and tell me your name please sir?

I sat down. My name is Curtis Crane.

Mr. Crane, Im Inspector Evans of the Metropolitan police force. Im afraid your daughter appears to have gone missing. We tried to phone you earlier but got no answer.

Yes, the phone rang just as I left my hotel room. What do you mean gone missing, has she run away or what?

Were not sure at this moment in time; were still questioning everyone who was in contact with her. Can you tell me please, when you last spoke to your daughter?

I cant be specific; its been a number of years. Ive been dealing directly with the authorities, and was supposed to be collecting my daughter today to start a new life together, as her mother just died.

Im sorry to hear that. Well, for the moment there isnt a lot you can do here, so what I need you to do now Mr. Crane, is to go back to your hotel room and wait; I promise we will be in touch once there are any new developments.

And just how long do you expect me to sit around in my hotel room doing nothing?

I know its hard, but there is the chance that your daughter or other persons may try to make contact with you. That is why for the moment we need you to stay put, and I dont need to tell you that if you are contacted, you must get in touch with us right away. He held out his hand. Heres my card, dont hesitate to call me day or night.

I took the card. Other persons? You think shes been kidnapped, dont you?

Mr. Crane, at this point we have no idea what has happened, but we have to look at all possibilities. Now I suggest you go back to your hotel.

He stood up and walked over to the policewoman. I sat in a state of shock, thinking I have never felt so helpless and useless as I do now. As if in a trance I found myself sitting in a taxi being driven through the busy streets of London, but hearing no sound at all.

On returning to my hotel room, I removed my Jacket and lay back on the bed. I had chosen to live out of hotels since my split from Julie. This meant I could move around easily and it would be hard for anyone to keep a track of me. I tried to conjure up images of Clair, only to find I held no memory of how her face looked. Jesus! What kind of father am I? I cant even remember what my own daughter looks like. I thought. I tried so hard to remember that I fell asleep, and woke up in the dark. I turned on the bedside lamp, and was about to open a bottle of whisky when I saw an envelope that had been pushed under the door. I picked it up, typed on the front was my name, and inside was a note saying.

If you want to see your daughter alive again, dont call the police. We will be in touch within the next twenty-four hours. I suggest you dont leave your room; we will only call you once, there will be no second chances.

I looked at the note, trying to think who could be doing this. It has to be someone who has no intension of allowing me to retire. But how in the hell do they know who I am and where I live? I racked my brains to come up with some kind of answer; the one thing I felt sure of was it had to be one of my old clients, but which one?

Ive never actually met any of my clients, part of the way we work is to ensure there is never any physical contact between the client and me. All correspondence is by coded messages over the Internet. For now, all I can do is sit and wait for them to make the next move. The one thing I was sure of was not involving the police. Going by experience, the police always mean well, but getting them involved is like letting a bull loose in a China shop. They just dont have any idea how to handle these kind of people. The last thing kidnappers are scared of is the police, the only thing these people understand is violence, the one thing Im very good at, and if I get the chance Im going to exact violence like these fuckers have never seen before.

For the first time ever, I was beginning to regret getting into this sordid business, up until now it has treated me well, especially financially. It was all beginning to fit into place; why I spent these last few years emotionally detached from all that should in any normal world, have really held some meaning to me. You just cant let feelings of this nature interfere, or you just cant function properly. At least thats how I used to think, however, Im now beginning to think thats all just bullshit, something I picked up from some crazy action movie. Who in the hell do I think I am, Rambo or something? I felt like slapping myself in the face to bring myself back to reality.

For fuck sakes, when are they going to call? This suspense was driving me up the wall, I felt like I was going to explode. Id lost count the number of times Id paced up and down this frigging room. God, I hate not being in control of a situation, and getting used as someone elses puppet. As I waited for the dreaded phone call, I again tried to think who was doing this cowardly act.

I still didnt understand how these people found out my identity and where I lived, it just didnt make any sense, Id been more than careful with all my clients. As far as I knew, Id had no physical contact with any of them, I mean; I sure as hell dont know who any of my clients are. The only thing that makes any sense is that someone must have been watching me while I carried out one of my contracts. However, I never let any of my clients know when, where, or how I will carry out a contract.

Then it suddenly occurred to me, may be this wasnt one of my clients at all, and that its just someone who knows what I do for a living. However, its not as if I had an advert in the local paper, or registered my profession at the local job centre. It had to be someone who hangs around in the same circles, and is completely aware of how this business works. But who? Just then, the phone rang; my heart immediately began racing. I dived onto the bed and stretched across to answer it.

Curtis Crane here.

Mr Crane, this is room service, will you be requiring an early call again in the morning sir?

I laid there in amazement, and laughed. Ill let you know later, now clear the line. Slamming the phone down, I let out a nervous laugh. I dont believe it, their timing couldnt have been any worse if they tried. I thought.

Come on; what the hell are these people playing at, apart from trying to really wind me up? I jumped up off the bed grabbed, my Jacket and opened the door; I was just about to walk out when I came to my senses. What in the hell am I doing, I thought. Shit, I slammed the door shut and hung my Jacket back on the door, opened the fridge and took out another small bottle of Jack Daniels, poured it and knocked it straight back. I turned on the TV and flicked through the stations, not paying any attention as to what was on. I turned it off and continued pacing.

Forum: General postings for comment/critique

This is not for Children

susanjxp — Fri, 01 May 2009 01:09:51 GMT

Can someone tell me how to post part of my manuscript for viewing. It is adult content, not anything like porn, but the subject matter is hard even for adults. Help, please!

Thanks,

susanjxp

Forum: General postings for comment/critique

Please Read My Story, its true

susanjxp — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 07:44:03 GMT

This is the story of my life. Sometimes I will narrate; sometimes I will talk to you, the reader. Sometimes I will just talk to myself.

What I am about to tell you will all probably seem like fiction and Ive had many people advise me to present it as such.

CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL

The Palace Hotel had become home to me. The three-story building first opened in 1896. The bar and restaurant occupied the first floor, two floors of empty hotel rooms were above, except for the managers apartment that was converted into suitable living quarters on the second floor. It was August 1976. I had endured living with my father for nine long torturous months.

Now, I had to get us out of there. My little brother, Paul had only moved in with us a month ago and he was already in grave peril. Dad had begun hitting him for just about anything. This convinced me even more that I had to plan and the plan had to succeed. I started squirreling away money from tips I made in the restaurant and bar downstairs. I finally gathered enough to buy two bus tickets back home.

The plan would be; we would run to the bus station seven blocks away and catch the last one leaving for Amarillo. I could not wait to get down the stairs and outside the hotel. I couldnt wait for my sweat to touch the cool night air. I knew I had to do this. I had to take this risk. I was going to get my little brother and me far, far away from that monster.

The plan was so fail safe, I could almost see my heart thumping through my shirt! Dad would be working downstairs and would not know we were gone for several hours! I was so excited; I could not keep the smug grin off my face. I tucked Baron, my tiny dachshund into my black leather jacket. I zipped it up until only his head was sticking out. He was used to this; we traveled like this all the time.

Then the door opened. I could not believe it. I would not let myself believe that the squeaky knob on the door was turning. It was as if in slow motion. My vision zoomed into the knob. Yes, it was definitely turning. The attempt to escape instantly evaporated. My perfect plan to run away had just fallen dreadfully short. How could he have known?

Where do you think youre going? The look came over his face. That is when the real insanity began. After he saw my luggage and the bus tickets in my pocket, everything began to turn red. I honestly watched this man turn into his demon. As he took it all in, he slowly shook his head and said Tsk, tsk tsk.

The fist that hit my jaw was so lightning fast I didnt realize it knocked me to the floor. All I knew was that I was no longer standing and I was staring at the ceiling. Oh my God. Ive done it. I am going to die tonight. I felt like a Jew who had just been caught by the Nazis. I knew it was over. After enduring hours of torture, I did not care anymore. Just finish it. Please just finish it. That is when he won.

A dog only needs to be beat once but thoroughly for a transgression. It will never make that mistake again. It learns instantly. My father became kind and sat the bottle of whisky down next to me. I had never been so grateful. I would never, ever try to leave him again.

When I woke up, I wasnt sure if I were dead or alive. The last thing I remembered was my dad putting a gun to my head, his eyes ablaze in a scotch soaked rage. He was screaming that he had nothing left to live for. I knew I was going to pay dearly for standing up to the psychotic empire in his head. He had a reality that was completely his own; it would not to be challenged under any circumstances.

It must have been quite disconcerting to him when I collapsed unconscious in a corner of the small main room in the flat above the bar. Like a pathetic doomed rabbit, it seemed as if my heart had burst before things went to black. It was in that corner that he left me, not quite knowing how to handle a situation that he did not completely control. Theres no telling how long he looked at me before he sat down on the day bed that doubled as a couch and poured another drink.

I found him passed out in the bedroom obscenely exposed and snoring with gusto. I could do it, I thought. I could end this right now. However, as much as I hated him, I did not have the nerve to look for the gun. He could have woken up at any time and it would be best to act as if nothing had happened the night before. So I threw away my ripped clothing and quietly unpacked my bag, silently hanging my belongings in the closet he had built especially for me in the bedroom where we slept.

It was just before 7:00 am. School was starting in an hour and a half. It is enough time to clean myself up and gather my senses. A bath was soothing, but it didnt console me. With a towel wrapped around me, I looked into the mirror. I did not recognize who was looking back at me. I bent down and brushed my teeth, not looking at the mirror again. I got dressed and proceeded to embark on another normal day.

I met Paul downstairs in the restaurant kitchen. He was preparing his favorite breakfast, a chunk of French bread drenched in half-and-half, heated slightly. He was hunched over, not daring to find out who was approaching, but it was me. When he realized it wasnt my dad, he looked up at me with painful, searching eyes.

So it didnt work, I said, as if he didnt know already. Paul trusted me and I let him down. I felt worse than shit.

As some sort of consolation I said, Dont worry, he doesnt think you had anything to do and its going to stay that way. I promise.

I saw his shoulders relax a bit. Then he turned his face back down to the bowl of milk and bread and I watched as huge drops of tears fell into the bowl. He would not look at me as I started chiding him.

Stop it! I mean it! Do you want us to get caught? Get out of here! Hurry up and get to school!

I was getting mad now. I knew my Dad was almost comatose upstairs, but if he did come down and see Paul like that, he would go nuts. He would assume Paul was a co-conspirator in my desperate plot to leave. He would probably even accuse him of planning the whole thing and persuading me to go along. The scenarios in my head were taking on multiple lives of their own. I really did not need this right now.

I said move it, now, before he wakes up. PLEASE!

With that, Paul dropped his spoon, got up and dumped his bowl into the trash. Thanks for trying, he whispered. The failed plan would always be our little secret. Dad would never learn of Pauls involvement, I held that promise. It was a meager way of protecting him that helped me feel a little better about all the times I couldnt.

I had mixed feelings when my mother thought it would be good for Paul to come stay with us. Though my father seethed over this, he could not come up with a legitimate excuse to disagree. The better part of me thought it was a bad idea. However, another part of me thought it could possibly turn out to my advantage.

My optimism evaporated after learning it would not stop the abuse. I thought that since Paul would be living with us, Dad would not have the opportunity to make me sleep with him. I was wrong. He made Paul move into one of the hotel rooms down the hall and Dad would allow him in our flat only at certain times.

Dad hated him and showed it in numerous ways that grew worse and worse. I had already become used to my living conditions and I accepted it as normal. However, to see my little brother, only twelve years old, be abused so cruelly was crushing me. I did not know he would have to endure this for another very long year.

Throughout that next year, Paul changed. He learned that his survival depended on the ability to stay invisible around my dad. However, as much as he tried, Dad would seek him out. It was worse than a cat with a mouse. It was not just physical, as if that were not bad enough. Watching my brother being pulled around by the ear everyday made me turn away, ashamed that I was glad it wasnt me. But it was almost more painful to listen to the taunts, jabs and put-downs my dad would hurl at him every time he had the chance.

It always started with some vague accusation. My dad would come up with something, anything, real or imagined and start his attack on my brother.

One afternoon, I reached the second floor of the hotel and turned down the main hallway leading to our flat. I paused at the top of the stairs as I heard my fathers voice. I saw him standing in the doorway of Pauls small hotel room. I froze; all I could do was watch and take it all in. Trying to understand was impossible. I stored it in my mind, filing it under I cant believe this is real.

I crouched down into a ball. I tried to protect myself; I shut my eyes tight, forcing my tears back down inside myself. I couldnt do anything for Paul. He was on the way to another senseless trip to hell.

I watched my dads profile as he began screaming into Pauls face. I want to know who left the mess on the kitchen table downstairs!

What mess, Dad?

You know what mess! Its got your finger prints all over it!

But Dad, I didnt do anything!

After denying the offense, my dad twisted Pauls reply into yet another reason to lambast him.

Thats the point, you lazy little slob, you never do anything around here!

With that, he slapped Paul on the side his head with an open hand, hitting his ear and temple, knocking him slightly off one foot.

Dad, Ill go and clean up the table.

Theres no bother now, you idiot! I already cleaned it up. You think I would leave a mess just sitting like that? No! Do you want to the inspection people to come shut us down, just because you were too fucking lazy to clean up after yourself? God, when are you going to grow a brain, Paul?

With that, he shoved Paul hard on one shoulder, so hard that Paul stumbled off balance until he landed on the floor.

God you disgust me. You cant even stay on your feet, you clumsy little piece of shit! Dont come into the apartment tonight. I dont want to see your face until tomorrow.

Dad pulled Pauls door shut, leaving him stunned, lying on the floor, not sure of what had just happened. My dad always hit him where it wouldnt leave obvious bruises, his favorite being the smack on the side of Pauls head. I knew what that felt like. I had experienced it too, just not as often. My dad used a closed fist on me, but less frequently.

The head slaps were starting to affect Paul. He told me they always gave him an instant headache but those eventually subsided. However, he had developed a ringing in his ears that wouldnt go away. He said it was constant, now, and getting louder and harder to ignore.

I watched this type of exchange almost everyday. Dad constantly put Paul in a lose-lose situation. He would accuse him of some made up mistake just to chastise him. It never mattered what Pauls response was, that wasnt the point. Paul endured the abuse for the sole purpose of satisfying my fathers enjoyment in hurting him.

I didnt know what to do. My helplessness left me so frustrated. I tried praying and all that did was leave me wondering why God hated us so much.

Dad wanted him around as little as possible, so there was no question he would enroll in school. It gave Paul a respite from my dad, but he was instantly recognized as a new kid, one with no friends or affiliations. The schools student body was mostly Mexican and Indian children whose families had been in the area for several generations. A new, soft white kid was an easy target.

He was always attacked after school, in the alley behind the hotel. I found this out one day while preparing for the coming nights shift. I was performing my normal prep chore of taking garbage out to the dumpster in the alley. I saw Paul trudging towards me with a pack of kids following him. They were taunting him until finally one of them pushed Paul from behind. As he stumbled forward, he looked up and saw me. And I saw him.

I was already marching towards him, until he waved me off. Dont Susie, stay back.

His tone was not familiar to me. He looked behind him at the pack of tormenters. He slowly shook his head, still looking at the ground.

I heard him mumble, God, not again.

I was ready to jump in at that instant with both fists flying, but it wasnt necessary. He raised his head and stood up straight. He turned and faced his antagonists. He was not the least bit afraid. The weird smile that appeared on his face was scary. His gaze said, Im crazy; I have nothing to loose.

In a startlingly calm and low voice, he let them know he was ready. He promised that even though they may beat him up, he would inflict some serious, low-down, dirty damage before the fight was through. On this day, he was actually looking forward to the challenge, which is not what most bullies expect. They looked relieved when I reached out and grabbed Pauls sleeve.

Come on, youre late, Dads looking for you!

The crowd dispersed as Paul stood frozen, in a different world. I kept shaking his coat as we watched the others disappear at the far end of the alley. Finally, he came out of this trance he was in. He looked at me and didnt recognize me at first. My voice brought him back.

Its me, Paul! Its me! Come on, we need to get inside!

I did not know this had been happening on a regular basis. Now, he was pretty much left alone. In fact, he was avoided.

I was proud that he stood up for himself. I was relieved he was not coming home with a black eye or busted lip everyday, which I had assumed were from some late night confrontation with Dad.

Still, deep down something concerned me. It started eating away at me. I knew what it was but I didnt want to admit it. It was watching the way Paul was beginning to not care.about anything.

CHAPTER TWO: THE BIRTH OF A WOMAN

It is almost Thanksgiving, 2008. I have just completed a two-month residential treatment program and I do not feel any better, in fact, I feel worse.

I am sitting in yet another doctors office many years later and still very sick. I feel my grip slipping and Im tired. My experience tells me two distinct things. First, my past may very well not be overcome. Second, the first thought is bullshit because I am still here.

So, Im left with a couple of serious questions. One: Am I going to give up now? Answer: Hell, no. Two: Is it still worth it to try? Answer: Thats debatable.

It is either my redeeming feature or tomfoolery that I am the forever optimist. I have this stubborn idea that if I share my experience with someone who really cares and understands me; then maybe I can get well. Maybe one more time someone can help me; even help me enough to want to live again. However, I do not want to just survive this time, I want to be happy.

Still, death is attractive to me for a reason, and I am fighting it for one purpose. I dont want my father to win. I want to finally stand up to him, I want to beat him. If I dont do it soon, my own harmful habits are going take the chance from me.

For most of my life, I have forced myself to receive just enough help required to remain alive. My mind has been turned over to so many experts, so many times, for so long that I almost cannot remember when I was not a patient.

The general consensus has been; first, I am an extremely flawed individual and second, it is a miracle I am still alive. Third, theres something different about me, some sort of Strength? Luck? Will? Even I cant figure this out.

Last, there is always the discovery of my segregated brain. One-half wants to live, the other wants to die. One-half wants to love myself; the other pretty much loathes me. One-half has hope, the other is a complete pessimist.

Its not the best self-esteem builder to always require aid to maintain peace of mind. I will admit though, I do seem to do better under a Doctors care. Its not a shock that Im entering therapy...again, but I hate it. I am sick of my sickness and Im growing impatient with being a patient.

My self-absorption is starting to bore me. That is when my alcoholic rationalization kicks in Actually, I am sitting in the reception area; Im not in the Doctors office yet. TGIFridays is just across the street. I can easily drain a glass of wine in less than five seconds. I would be back before anyone even missed me. Oh my God! I am pathetic! I am a damn good bullshit artist, but even I choke on this one.

I aimlessly flip through a well-worn People magazine. I need a distraction. I look down at Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. They truly make me sick. Their happy beautiful lives make me want to throw up. I roll my eyes and turn the pages until coming upon something much more promising. It is a dismal article about a guy who cut his leg off to escape being trapped in his burning tractor. Now that is more like it! I become absorbed with this mans struggle. Not only has he cut his leg off with a nail file, now he is struggling through acres of corn, unable to be seen by anyone. He will die if a miracle does not happen soon.

Susan? My hypersensitive startle response causes me to jump out of my seat. I look up and Dr. Peterson is smiling, summoning me into her office. Her eyes reveal such compassion, which feels peculiar to me. I am not used to this. She seems genuinely caring and that is what I want to think, but I am doubtful.

I immediately love her office. It is small and relaxed. The seats are low and welcoming, covered in soft comfortable leather. The subtle ambiance and uncluttered surroundings are oddly calming to me, as Im not usually calm anywhere outside my living room.

A window starting low from the floor is amazingly huge for such a small office. The view from this window is almost entirely taken up by a beautiful quiet little lake. There are sloping hills on the opposite side, beautifully manicured. I realize why when I see an occasional golf cart roll to a stop so someone can look for a lost ball.

My attention is drawn to a strange looking creature crawling out of the water and onto the bank. I am amused as I watch it stand up on its hind feet, look around and then roll over on its back to sunbathe.

Without thinking, I blurt out Is that an otter over there?

She leans over to look out the window and looks as delighted as I am. She assures me that it is indeed an otter; there are several of them living nearby.

We both watch, mesmerized, waiting for the little guys next move, which was to stretch and then scamper back into the lake. I feel like Im watching a live episode of Meerkat Manor.

It is soothing to stare out the window and I begin to see all sorts of exotic birds glide in and land on the lake in search for their dinner. As they bob their beaks into the water, most are successful. This makes me happy for them but sad for the fish.

I lose myself in all the action of nature unfolding in front of me. Then I become aware that she is pulling herself from the scene and settling back into her chair. Thats when it strikes me that we have not yet begun to formally engage with each other.

I have appreciated the diversion. Now its fading. I didnt come here to nature watch. I glance towards her. She is gazing at me intently, but I dont feel intimidated. We just shared a beautiful moment! Didnt we? Hell I dont know, I dont know much of anything anymore.

My nerves begin to get the best of me. What will happen now? I begin to shake. She notices but makes no issue of it.

Either, I go against my better judgment or go along with my worst but I begin to really, really like her. I always want to believe when someone is nice to me, they are instantly my friend. This is just one of my never learned lessons.

I am afraid that this is just another futile effort. She most likely has a misguided notion that she can help me where some have been minimally successful and others have thoroughly failed. Why would she want to take my case? Certainly, she has read my chart. I am wondering why she is seeing me at all. I wonder if she asks herself the question I constantly mull over myself: Am I even helpable?

She waits. I wait. How do you start, I wonder.

Umm, I guess I need to apologize for canceling my first appointment.

Well youre here now and thats what matters she replies, still looking at me, her blue eyes locked on mine.

So do you know why Im here? I want to know.

I feel a little cagey. I look away while waiting for an answer. She looks at her notes, then nods.

Well, youve been referred from an intensive treatment center and now youre establishing an aftercare plan. Is that right?

Yeah, youre pretty much it. All they gave me was your phone number. They said you specialized in treating trauma. Youre also a relapse specialist, right?

Mmm-hmm, she replies, tapping her pen slightly on her chin. She frowned while looking at the information sent from the Ranch. It was a thin document with sparse details.

Hmm, this not normally whats provided for aftercare, especially after spending two months at such an intensive treatment program as the one you were released from. The usual procedure would be to enroll you in an extensive outpatient program that provides daily care. Your treatment is supposed to continue in a safe supervised environment. Then also, attendance in AA and group therapy are additional tools to help you remain successful in your recovery. Didnt they prepare anything like that for you before you left?

Nope, just you.

That is really, really odd. I cannot imagine why they did that. They list your conditions, ADHD, Complex PTSD, Clinical Depression, Alcohol and drug addiction. But as far as successful treatment, nothing is mentioned. That in itself is unsettling. It does state here that you were bullied and ostracized by the other patients. That sounds quite traumatic in its self. How were you affected by that?

I cant help but smirk. The Recovery Ranch was the biggest sham. $18,000 dollars a month for what amounted to a frickin horror house. I was robbed of more than my sanity! I could not explain how much I was hurt there.

I stare out the window. Suddenly, I feel so dark.

Well, lets just say Im glad Im not there anymore. Treatment can sometimes be a real joke, a complete rip-off if you ask me!

Oops. My sudden agitation takes me by surprise. I do not mean to be sarcastic and I certainly do not want to appear rude. Nevertheless, I am still such a wreck. I am completely shattered after two months of hell in Tennessee. Obviously, I am not hiding it very effectively.

I am really shaking now. I am breathing funny. My eyes are watering, which pisses me off. I hate showing my true vulnerability.

She gently hands me a Kleenex box and sits back down, studying the file. I am relieved she does not acknowledge my outburst. If I had said something like that at the Ranch, they would be running frantically for some off-the-wall serious medication to put me into a coma. I am not kidding. It was that bad.

Hmm, from what I can glean from your chart, it looks like they did more damage than good. Now, I understand their reluctance to release your information. What they did send is so generic it is not helpful. Something doesnt seem right; in fact, sure of it. They just kind of dropped you into nowhere. That is not accepted procedure and it borders on unethical. It certainly was irresponsible on their part I am sorry you had to go through that. Have you considered any sort of legal action?

Ive thought about filing a suit but I just dont have the energy for that right now. I would rather just forget about the whole experience. Im glad they gave me your number though.

I glance up to gauge her reaction. She smiles gently and nods. Yes me too, I can understand your reluctance to take on another battle. From what I gather, you need some peace in your life. It seems like all youve had lately is chaos. You deserve break and I think youre on the right place.

I instantly think to myself; This is very intuitive woman, I like that! How does she know I feel? I fail to take into account my obvious demeanor. Im sure I appear to be on the verge of a complete mental break down.

She gazes at me with such empathy, it makes me cry harder. Dammit!

After a few more minutes of the usual formative questions required on a first therapist visit, I actually began to calm down a little. I am able to stop hiccupping. I desperately need a cigarette. Nicotine is becoming a singular obsession.

Susan, I think I can help you. I want to help you. Do you think you would like to proceed? Do you want to see me every week? Do you have an idea of what you want from therapy?

Geeez, I hadnt even thought about that.

Well, uh, hmm, well.uhh.

I trail off; trying to consider what the answers to these questions are, but I dont have a clue.

Then looking at the floor I say quietly, I dont know, exactly, but yes, I think Id like to see you again.

Now, this could not have just come from my mouth. What am I saying? I dont even know why I am here and I asking to come back. What the fuck is my mind thinking?

Thats good. Then we can start planning a proper aftercare program for you. By the way, you mentioned my experience with relapse. How are you doing with that?

Oh, God, why did she have to ask that? I cant tell her Im drinking again! When I got back from Tennessee, I felt suicidal. The first thing I did was buy a fifth of Canadian Club. Alcohol made things more bearable.

I think if I tell her the truth, she probably wont see me again. The definition of a relapse specialist escapes me. I expect immediate rejection. For some reason, I dont want to jeopardize the chance to see her again. Yet I am in so much turmoil. I want to see her but I dont know why I want to see her. God I hate that! The committee in my head was having a heyday.

I know I cant lie. Finally I speak, Well, Ive had a little problem with drinking since Ive been back.

I look up expecting all kinds of judgment to show on her face, but that is not what I see. She just nods tenderly. She stands up and moves towards her desk a few feet away and turns, resting her backside on its edge, with her legs crossed, stretched out in front of her.

That is when I notice she is just a waif of a thing, probably 5 foot 5, 120 pounds. I would later learn that she was 43. She looks so soft and undamaged. She is quite pretty, yet unassuming. Her blonde hair is soft and wispy. She has soft bangs and her small, diminutive ears are exposed while the rest of her hair falls just above her shoulders. I detect a wisdom that belies her age.

I try to hide my scrutinizing but I cant help stealing a glance as she crosses her arms and gazes out at the lake. Leaning against her desk, she looks pensive, as if contemplating something. She stays in that position for quite some time, in fact more time than I am comfortable with. I know she is mulling things over. It is obvious she is in the midst of making an important decision.

I have been in these situations before and they usually do not bode well for me. I feel like a defendant waiting for a jury that is taking waaaaay too long. I get lost in my drama and start thinking Oh the agony, the agony!

I am snapped back to reality when she lifts herself from the desk and takes the few strides to her chair. I watch as she kicks off her sandals, turns and sits back down, tucking her legs up underneath her.

Now this really does amuse me. No, it delights me! This is very, very cool. She has no hesitation being barefoot. I can relate to that. Still, it is somewhat unconventional, I think and I feel myself smiling. In fact, I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to conceal my enchantment. Then she looks at me and speaks.

Susan, under the circumstances, it would surprise me if you hadnt relapsed. Like Ive said, the nature in which you were released is completely unethical. They released you from that program with no support whatsoever. It is unheard of and it really disturbs me. You were set up to fail. Relapse is inevitable without an aftercare program in place before you are released. You need to understand I realize this. This is not your fault. Do you understand what Im saying?

Gulp. What? What? What is she saying? She gently asks me to look at her. This is not easy but finally I lift my head up. If anyone could say, I support you with their eyes, it was her. I am in a dream and I will pummel anyone who wakes me up.

With a remarkable calmness, she stands up, walks over, and studies a calendar hanging on the wall.

God, what does she do, live on valium? How come shes so..so.calm, so nice?

Well go talk to the secretary and Ill make sure we fit you in. Do you think youll be ok till then?

I dont have a true answer for this, so I lie.

Sure, Im fine. Why do you ask?

Well, Id like to give you my cell phone number, just in case you need to talk before your next appointment.

Now this is too much! It is a rare practice to provide a cell number to a new client. I dont know what to think of this woman. In fact, Im not sure about anything. I have become completely unhinged by the events of the last year and it just keeps getting weirder. I have come to expect anything, everything and nothing. But this is over the top!

She walks with me to the reception area and I am handed a card with an appointment date for the next week, with her number on the back. I walk outside with the card still in my hand. I feel like Ive just been given a golden ticket. Boy oh boy, am I confused! I feel almost happy yet, I also feel a familiar echo of sadness. I cant wait to talk to her again. I also dread coming back.

Unexpectedly, I start hoping she is not just a mirage or some small blip in the unreal existence Ive been living. Just the thought of liking her scares me, but it also puts a smile on my face. It gives me a good feeling, though Im not sure why. I know one thing. I can not make plans, that ability has escaped me. I can not keep a straight thought in my head; they are all crooked, coming at me sideways. It was an extremely caring gesture but I certainly wont be using that phone number.

I step outside into a fog, even though the sky is clear and the sun is painfully cheerful. A cigarette is definitely the answer, and I suck on it like some unfortunate, locked up over at the Stark County jail.

I take the next step to quiet the turmoil. I get in my truck and blast the stereo. Perfect. Get lost in the music, my reliable distraction that understands my pain. It relates to me, tells my story and makes me feel not so alone. It helps me swerve when my brain goes into overdrive, heading straight for a cliff.

I load my newest compilation CD. I love making compilations, thanks to free download services from the Internet. I have an endless source of musical expressions for my feelings. Mat Kearney started singing Breathe In, Breathe Out. My tears start clouding my vision. Damn! I need to turn left here! As I wipe my cheeks on my sleeve, I begin to think about why I am in this position. Why am I seeing another Psychologist? Why?

I decide I will come back. I will keep the appointment for the next week. My sadness is so deep, it weighs me down and I feel like I am drowning. Thank God, Julie is coming home. She has been gone for three weeks. Having her here makes it so much safer. It is as if she puts a shield around me and I can sleep. I love her so much.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing

General Fiction, Hairdressers' Blues

Heidi — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 14:19:03 GMT

HAIRDRESSERS BLUES By Julie Glennie

What we need are some new heads. Tristan moaned. No more limp Lucies with fluff for hair, something a bit more exotic- like that for instance, jabbing his finger at the photograph of Penelope Cruz gazing seductively from the womans glossy on the table in front of him.

Jan, Tristans co-artist and procurer of heads, nodded with pale enthusiasm,

Trouble is, she said in her airy voice, a dying patient on her last breath of pumped air, heads dont walk off the street just like that you know. We only got Maggie last time after months of advertising.

At the mention of Maggie, recently defected to another salon, Tristan snapped his scissors,

Look Jan, your defeatist talk cuts no ice with me. If Mohammad wont come to the mountain then do the other thing! Get out there. Open your eyes. Dont care how you do it; just find me some decent hair.

Tristan was a perfectionist who asked as much from himself as he did from his staff. How could he work without the right material? How could he win the hairdressing competitions that obsessed him by day and haunted him by night? It didnt matter how talented you were (and Tristan was talented with a capital T), you couldnt make silk purses out of sows ears. The problem was that the introverted seaside town where Tristan worked churned up few examples of lustrous hair, dominated as it was by the straggly, fine- haired heads of a mostly Anglo-Saxon population.

His wife was an exception, half-Scottish half-French, she had hair the colour of autumn, and soft as Scotch mist. Her hair would be perfect for his competitions. But the idea of being put on show was distasteful to her and she refused to help. And when Aileen made a decision it was impossible to argue with her.

She was older than him by at least ten years, but he didnt mind. Explaining the phenomenon to curious friends, Tristan had said,

When I first saw her she just did something for me, I cant describe it His body had quivered, filling in the gap left by his words.

Aileen was why he was still here in this grotty little town. He could have been in London by now, riding high on his competition successes. Hell, he might even have had his own T.V. show, what with his undisputed talent and cool, good looks. But Aileen didnt want to leave her friends and family, and what Aileen wanted Aileen got.

Tristan turned abruptly from Jan. The girl returned to her client, clipping away dispiritedly and wondering where she should begin her search for the necessary hair model.

The salon door opened and Tristans next customer strode in. Seeing no corresponding movement from her boss, Jan nodded at the shampoo girl to look after the newcomer. The girl buzzed around nervously, taking the clients coat and directing her to the hair-washing cubicle.

Tristan hardly noticed the two girls bustle past him, his customer grasping a towel round her shoulders. He was watching Aileen, back from her yoga class, helping out in the salon for a couple of hours before dinner. He watched proprietarily as she leant over the broom, brushing up the drifting hair. She balanced gracefully on her red heels, on legs that stretched up to her armpits. Ankles, slender as twigs, extended from moulded on jeans; jangling bracelets, presents from Tristan, symbolised Aileens ownership of him.

Aileens wiggling hips told him that she knew he was watching. Lust shot through his veins. The witch had turned him to jelly again. She turned towards him, green eyes flashed slyly at him from behind sheets of russet hair. Tristan was drawn into her force field, oblivious to his waiting customer, back in his default position of hopeless infatuation. Surreptitiously he ran his fingers down the curve of her waist. As she flexed under his touch he whispered in her ear,

You evil woman you. I can still feel your scratch marks down my back. You need punishing.

Her nails had left a hot trail on his skin that flared when she looked at him; the nerve circuitry of pain confirmed her dominance of him. He looked at her manicured nails, vermilion red as if she had indelibly printed his blood on them.

Bad boy. How dare you speak to me like that! Ill deal with you later. She gave him one of her mysterious smiles, before turning back to her work.

So dismissed, Tristan went back to his customer who was now ready for him. Jan was waiting too, an excited look on her face,

This lady hasnt been to you before, so I thought you might like to look at her hair before washing it. You know, discuss possibilities. Jan winked at Tristan. He raised his eyebrows not getting her at all. She shrugged her shoulders and wandered off back to her own client.

Ill just comb through a bit to get a feel for your hair. he said, Then we can discuss possible styles.

Wielding a large-toothed comb he went to work on the girls unwashed hair, talking automatically about holidays and soap operas, all the while casting glances at his lovely wife. After a while his concentration crystallised into professional silence. The girls hair was heavy and blonde unusual to feel such weight on a blonde head. Then his eyes connected with hers in the mirror. Startling blue light burnt into him.

Er what shall I do for you today? came out in a voice stripped-down by the vision of beauty sitting beneath his scissors.

He ruffled her splendid mane, letting it slide through his hands like spun gold, sunshine in his hands. It was all he could do to stop himself sniffing her hair, so redolent of strawberry fields and crushed herbs.

He swivelled her round to make sure. She possessed a Grace Kelly, ice-queen beauty. She was perfect the ideal model for his competitions. Tristan could barely contain himself thinking of all the aesthetic possibilities.

The girl was looking at him as if he was an alien just walked off a space ship. Then she giggled. Tristan felt suddenly embarrassed in his too-tight trousers, bottom pert as a flamenco dancer, and flounced white shirt. He began to feel self-conscious of his retro in an ironic sort of way mullet. The haircut stood stiffly on end, giving him the air of a surprised waterfowl. Perhaps the red streak that flared down the centre of his head had been a step too far.

Look mate, just cut the lot off. Its getting on my wick in this hot weather.

He had expected her to sound like gossamer and liquid pearls, not like a rum-roughened navvy. But the thing that really bothered him was the idea of cutting off her Rapunzel locks, desecrating her enchanting beauty. Shorn like that she would not make good competition material. How to convince her?

You know it really suits you long. Why dont you just let me trim it for you? Besides it must have taken ages to grow it as long as this; it seems a shame to waste all that effort.

What effort? Its not like I done nothing. All Ive done is eat and sleep, my hair did the rest without me. She gave him a withering look.

Under her slating gaze Tristan became hotly conscious of the extreme-fashion platform shoes that he was wearing.

Resurrecting his injured pride, he tried flattery. But its such lovely hair. He fondled some heavy strands between his artists fingers, silken flax trailed through his hands. If it bothers you in this heat Id be happy to show you ways of putting it up out of the way.

Look mate. She sighed, and spoke slowly as if he was retarded I know youre the airdresser and all that like, but at the end of the day whos air is it anyway? Then she gave him a smug cat smile as if she had made a pertinent point.

Tristan shuffled his feet. Normally the salon was his domain; he was like Frank Sinatra making the stage his own. Women were like putty in his hands in this private kingdom, hitch-hiking a ride to the promised land of transformation. The only woman who ever dominated him on his home- ground was his wife; but there again that was entirely different and required his compliance.

A hiss of spray, and a cloud of chemicals drifted across making him splutter; he saw Aileen busy polishing the shiny trophies displayed in the waiting area. Her behind shimmied as the effort of polishing reverberated through her body. Tristan blanked out the irritating fuss, directing his attention exclusively on the beautiful girl in his chair.

The truth is, he continued with a desperate smile and a cajoling voice, Few people can carry off such an abundance of hair. With your strong features you can easily. Your large hair balances your face. Short hair would be an. He searched for the word insult to your face. The artist had spoken.

The girl was unimpressed, ere, no need to get personal. If I want short air, then thats what I should get. Im sick of all this stuff getting in my way all the time; it gives me a right headache! Her Somerset burr pierced his head like a drill.

He was about to speak again when Aileen leant across to clean the mirror, squeezing out a bruised smile,

Excuse me.

Pert breasts bobbed against the glass as she rubbed away the smears. But Tristan was only aware of blond light bouncing back from the gleaming surface. He swivelled the girl back to face her reflection. Bright blue eyes fixed on his in the mirror.

If Id known Id get all this grief, Id ave gorn down the barbers down the road. Hed give me a short back and sides, no trouble!

Tristan flinched at the mention of barber, but at least it gave him a new angle.

There you have it. You could have gone to the barber, but you didnt you came to me. You get what you pay for. Here you pay for my expertise, my considered opinion as well as a haircut.

At this rate, I aint bloody paying for nothing. Are you going to give me the style I want or no? Make up your bleedin mind.

Tristans mind drifted downstream as he contemplated the images that he could create with her cooperation; how he could win that elusive world title in Las Vegas that he so narrowly missed last year hed been robbed and he hungered after revenge.

Youre right. He enthused, You dont have to pay for nothinger anything even. I know the perfect way out of this stalemate.

Hoorah she said sarcastically. Lets hear it.

Tristan paused; the clickety-clack of a womans high heels echoed across the honeyed-wood floor.

Why dont you model for me? He blurted out excitedly. Then you wouldnt ever have to pay for haircuts. In fact I would pay you. You could have a portion of all my winnings. Just think Paris, Milan, Blackpool the world would be your oyster.

The girls jaw had dropped to the ground,

What the ecks he talking about?, addressing the salon in general, I only came in for a aircut and he wants to take me on bleedin oliday!

Jan sauntered past trying to look casual,

Why dont you show the lady your fabulous photographs? she whispered breathlessly, nodding her head and wincing.

What? the girl asked irritably.

Tristan was whisked away by an enthusiasm that he thought must persuade her,

Look around you. You can see what I do, all the competitions that Ive won.

The girl followed his gesticulating arm, above the leather and chrome chairs, above the theatrical mirrors, to a stratosphere below the vaulting ceiling where a thick band of photographs decorated the wall. She jumped out of her chair.

Wow. She sounded impressed ( Tristan smiled modestly). Is this really what you do?

Tristan nodded, grinning at her incredulity. Jan, now blow-drying on the other side of the room winked at him.

Hes very talented. Dont you think? she asked.

Tristan took his cue, smiling modestly. He didnt need to look at the photos on the wall he knew them by heart.

The one on the far right is my best yet. I won European Creative Hairdressing Champion in Berlin with that one. It wouldnt be long before she came round.

The girl examined the pictures with a scientific attention, frowning slightly. Many were of the same model, sporting a variety of asymmetrical hairstyles in a range of wild colours. The model gazed bewitchingly from the photos, sometimes smiling like a toothpaste advert, sometimes emitting smouldering glances.

Tristan and Jan waited expectantly; praise normally flowed like rivers from his customers lips. Each photo epitomised hours of devoted work, devoted artistry, genius even. Every picture told a story of artistic success.

Aileen clattered across, speaking in her husky voice, Thats Maggie his favourite model. He was so hurt when she left to work for The Hair Magician. Such a shame.

The hairdresser winced at the unwelcome reminder, Could you bring us some tea? he snapped at his wife. We indicating the blond, need to talk.

He was trying to get rid of her, she could tell. She stalked off, swishing her tail like an indignant cat,.

The girl spoke, No disrespect or nothing, but whats the point?

Tristan was speechless. How could he express the surge of excitement that every clip of the scissors elicited? How could he explain the quest for that elusive prize, perfection, more valuable than any amount of money? Best of all was the top of the world feeling that a fresh win evoked, when he was the envy of his peers, and standing proud above that insignificant worm, The Hair Magician with his smarmy smile and gimmicky tricks. Better to forget that gut-churning slide of anti-climax that all too often followed, and the bossy compulsion to start all over again. Better not to admit that he was an addict.

The point is to win. He muttered through clenched teeth.

Jan called out over the roar of her hairdryer, Some of those models were nothing to look at until Tristan worked his magic on them.

The girl looked curiously at the photos again, face pursed with the effort of concentration. Tristan smiled with relief. Now she must surely see the richness of his artwork, his sublime mastery of his medium. His heart soared alleluia!

She spoke with sharp emphasis through his reverie, If you dont mind me saying, well it all looks a bit poncey to me. I mean the model is pretty an that but she dont look natural its all a bit fake if you know what I mean.

There was a snort of laughter as Aileen hurried out to the back room. Jan froze, the hair-dryer in her hand burning her clients ear.

The man caught his reflection in the mirror, shocked as if hed seen a ghost. He felt like a ghost, an insubstantial wraith, bizarrely shocking himself, making his own hair stand on end.

The girl giggled, Sorry mate. Didnt mean to hurt your feelings or nothing.

He ignored her, looking at the photos as if for the first time. Through blurred eyes he saw a girl in too-much makeup and over-the-top clothes with a lacerated, rainbow of hair falling over one eye. The models clichd expression seemed sadly pornographic.

Aileen tottered over and stood besides him, her shoulder nudging against his, her long hair lapping against the back of his hand. Electricity surged through the maze of scratches on his back. Scarcely conscious of his actions he pushed the girl back into the chair.

Tristan took the scissors his wife offered, a gold-plated prize from one of his competitions. He looked searchingly at his image in the glass, bright red tufts flaming through jet-black hair grotesque. In the mirror he saw Jan, gaping stupidly, the hair-dryer limp in her hands.

Have it your own way, he whispered, though to whom it wasnt clear. He twisted a chunk of thick blond hair in his long fingers and made his first cut.

Forum: General Stories/Articles for Public Viewing