WRITINGS IN THE WORKS
FICTION
MIRRORED
Prologe
He liked seeing her on her knees, her panties seductively tangled around her Salvatore Ferragamo pumps. A touch of pink lace providing an excellent backdrop to her Susan Hanover golden ankle bracelet. She came from money. She smelled of it. Tasted of it. I am KING! he thought to himself, feeling the power building inside. “Are your handcuffs to tight?” he asked so…charmingly? A trace of silver twinkles from around her wrists. His muscular body revealed through his open Cremoux, her fingers lightly tracing his rippled abs to his navel, drawing a small sensuous circle in route to… She peers up into his dark eyes, eventually focusing on his lips. “Those lips. Elvis lips. He was amazing. He…” what was she thinking, this animal, this demon!
“I am KING!” again the thought materializes. “Are the cuff’s to tight?’ he asks once more. Astonishing, a demon such as this could be so charming, intriguing. She had read of this complex, the Stockholm syndrome. The captive falls for the captor. “Impossible” thinking to herself shaking her head trying to clear the thought. She couldn’t believe it possible. She was educated and strong, firm, and decisive. Yet she found herself waiting in anticipation for his visits. They made love passionately; afterwards standing wrapped together in front of the full-length Mondrian mirror, their bodies silhouetted by candlelight.
The movement was swift as an assassin. A faint glitter of blade. Her soft, sensuous throat offered little resistance. The pearl handled straight edge was honed to perfection. She fell to the hardwood floor with a sense of beauty and grace. Beauty. Dead beauty.
“I am KING!”
More to come...
Cover design by Layne
NON-FICTION
MY TRIP WITH MOM
A JOURNEY THROUGH ALZHEIMER’S
I have tripped both physically and metaphorically speaking many times throughout my life. Nothing was to prepare me for the journey I embarked on November 17, 2008. That is the day I was unwittingly thrust into the greatest health care crisis of our time, Alzheimer’s.
More to come...
FICTION
LIFE OF A BOY THROUGH THE EYES OF A TROLL
I would like to tell you a story of a boy I have had the pleasure, most of the time, to watch grow, live, hurt, die, and live again all in a very short time. My name is simply Troll and I met this boy in 1969. A time in American history that was full of turmoil. He was in existence prior to our meeting, 10 years to be exact, so the time prior I will try to fill in the best I can from what I have overheard through conversations, private sad moments we have shared, drunken rages that I have seen.
In 1969 America was deeply embedded in the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, the beginning of the end for The Beatles, the end of innocence. Instead of Woodstock in '67 we had Monterey in '69, a free Rolling Stones concert that led to death of a being by the hands of the Hell's Angels, hired for security... what could possibly go wrong!
When I met this boy, I was a soldier in the U.S. Army (If he would have kept me in my uniform and in my box I would be worth a small fortune today, but he didn't. He discarded the box frantically to play with me and a year later made me my very own red felt, "hippie" outfit, complete with side-split pants and a big white tassel button for the shirt, all with the help of his mom, she was an amazing seamstress.
We were brought together by tragedy, his mother bought me for him when the boy saw me in the hospital, were he had currently received stitches to the back of his head, one of many trips to come, all compliments of the sharp pointed tip one the living room magazine rack. He wanted to show grandma and family how he could spin in circles, something he loved to do. Early tendencies for tripping?
More to come...
