This post has been moved to the author’s private manuscript site! Thank you for looking!
and just when I thought writer’s block was just a square of wood decorated with chickenscratch scribbles… LOL… Seth appears… you inspired me to toss my block in the river, sir- thank you.
It’s time again for you to write the caption. In the Your Story series, I ask each of you to write a story, a poem, your feelings or even just one word for one of my pictures. You all do such a wonderful job and I enjoy reading each comment. You never cease to surprise me with your wonderful stories.
Put your writing cap on, find your best pen and start writing.
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Past Your Story blog posts:
This chapter is called “Desperate Hungry Souls” from the first book of the series. The words are not quite placed as they are in the Kindle edition but you’ll get the gist.
I would love to share this snippet with all of you and welcome all feedback and reviews.
Waking up from the most amazing dream, I find myself tangled in sheets and comforter as if I’ve fought a tiger- or, made love to one.
For once, I slept all night.
A first for me since forever.
Baby Blue is operatically twittering away in its nest outside my window as the sun leaks the first hot rays over the distant, misty hills.
Grunting, I want no part of the morning to-do’s and how-are-ya’s.
My hangover is supremely painful in its thumping rhythm, carved intensely into the bones of my cranium.
I flip my happy blue bird, the birdie; and of course Baby Blue sings its little heart out regardless.
It’s having a duet with some sultry downy-breasted female sparrow on the branch.
God, even Baby Blue’s lookin’ for love.
To me, it sounds like migraine jazz mixed with the reverberating bongo drum of my pounding head.
Yet I laugh a little, imagining the cross-breeding of little sparrow-headed bluebirds if Baby Blue’s successful.
I curl back up under the sheets, inhaling the stuffy air, knowing the tell-tale scent of my wet dream layered between my laundry detergent, my acrid booze perspiration and cigarettes.
He did it to me again, I didn’t get sick.
God, I love this.
Murmuring the name tastes so sleepy sugary sweet slipping through my barely parted lips, even if it is barely past six.
Gazing dreamily off into deep thoughts, I let my fingers trace the links of the chain and circle around the stone that rests at the dip of my throat.
The stone that’s driving me crazy, wondering if he somehow gave it to me…
Wondering if I’m losing my brain cells even more, weaving this fictitious man into a confusing soul mate dream connected by rocks on silver strands.
My fingers drift down, trailing around tingling nipple peaks, traveling south…
I almost feel his lips…
A phantom memory trembles through my flesh, of roughly stubbled cheek against my inner thigh, nibbling down, lower…
I almost feel his warm sighs…
My mind floats away as memory ignites, imagining my fingers tensing into his soft auburn hair as he slips lower…
As I slip lower…
Letting my fingers explore where he was…
Remembering the hot pink, his wicked tongue plunging alongside…
I sigh…give in…
Under the layers of bedding, my toes curl ever so slightly as my hips rise, begging for his phantom mouth to claim me…
I feel so alive…
The orgasmic shimmering waves coursing through consume me as I cry into the blankets, surrendering to the white hot voltage of my own doing.
Hips drift down…
Gasping, I pant for air under the covers, feeling naughty, slightly ashamed and blushing.
Michael’s just a dream, Tina.
I cuddle undercover a while, hugging pillows tightly, feeling confused and lonely, yet satiated and iron-gutted.
Nature finally calls me out of bed along with an intense desire for coffee.
I emerge, tousled hair and pasty-breathed, drawing the slightly fresher air of my studio deeply into my lungs.
As I stumble half-asleep towards the john, tripping over my empty bucket and last night’s empty Forget, I catch the faintest whiff…
It stops me dead in my tracks.
The scent is so slight that I wonder if I imagined it. I know that nauseous scent because I smelled all over Officer Guire yesterday.
God, the pig took a bath in it.
But there’s no way, I argue with myself.
It’s just a yesterday memory. I’m still groggy.
Wake up, girl.
Smell some coffee.
The cheapest coffee on God’s given earth, and I buy it anyway, because by the time I’m done with it, its foo-foo fairy-fied and I probably get high off the sugar more than the beans.
But ohhh, I love it.
I steal a cup before the brewing process ends, doctoring it up, sipping it slowly, relishing the steam rising, loving the sweet heat flood my mouth and slip down my throat as easily as the shot of Forget I just did.
I didn’t really need the shot.
My hangover already feels distant, happy to be fed a little.
My eyes focus on the tip of the cigarette as I angle the flame with slightly trembling fingers, ignite the end to a hot ember, drawing the first hacking drag though the girlishly long filter.
This is my morning routine, absent the masturbation coupled with serenading by the bluebird of Crappiness, of course-
and usually, I’ve barfed at some point, but not this fine morning.
I could almost go for some breakfast.
Peeking in the fridge is an eye-opener; it is as forlornly empty as my belly. It looks like I’ve spent most of my cash on Forget. Forgoing a shower, I slip into some wrinkled clothes, checking the time. Too early for the grocery store, but the corner stop’s open.
Overpriced chicken embryos and milk and bread can be had there for desperate hungry souls like me.
Baby Blue and downy-breasted sparrow whistle gaily from their branch as I walk down the uneven sidewalk in the calm morning, headed to the next corner, a few bucks in my jean pocket.
Caffeine, nicotine, and Forget swirling in my empty tank hit me hard. I was more than slightly dizzy by the time I reached the corner shop.
Hell… I’m slurry stupid.
Luckily, though I’m not in there for Forget, like I sometimes am.
I grab my purchases as quickly as I’m able to, despite the thickness of my head.
The clerk barely eyes me. It seems he’s seen me before and he’s used to all kinds of odd ducks in the wee hours.
Tearing the steaming wrapper off the microwave sandwich with my teeth, I step unsteadily out the front door, not noticing the unmarked police car prowling by on the street.
All I see is misty morning sun in my eyes, the sandwich steam filtering my vision, and a very small man hunkered down on the pavement a few steps away.
My stomach’s growling voraciously. I haven’t sunk my tipsy teeth into the piping hot overpriced meal yet. But I can see the man is much worse off than I.
The dirty, tattered clothes, two sizes too big, hang off of his bones. His cheeks and dull eyes show countless days of lean undernourishment.
I’ve seen him around before. I don’t know what his story is, but he looks bad.
He’s a desperate hungry soul in need.
Hunching down beside him, I silently offer it to him. He needs it more than I do.
He pauses for a moment, his weary fingers lingering in the soft bright morning light before he takes it.
I can barely handle the stench, I can barely tolerate the closeness, but his sad smile tugs at the coldest parts of my heart as he begins to slip the wrapper down to take a first bite.
Maybe today won’t be a waste…
And then in a blur, he’s up on his feet, bolting behind the building with the sandwich clenched in his fist so fast that I blink.
I sit there in a daze, wondering what I did wrong, looking blankly ahead as a car’s tire squeals to a roaring stop a few feet from my face.
The polished black shoes and the navy polyester suddenly in my vision fill my soul with so much dread.
I don’t even need to whiff that nauseating cologne.
I am so fucked.
“Ma’am, hands on the car, please.”
Guire efficiently runs his probing hands over my entire body, causing me to flinch involuntarily as he frisks me in the early morning light.
Save for a lighter, pocket change, and my buzzes swirling uncomfortably on an empty tank, I’m clean.
Yet that doesn’t seem to satisfy the officer, for he wordlessly ushers me into the passenger side of the unmarked cruiser, shutting the door, trapping me inside.
Even caught in the grip of my own fright rising, paranoia grows as rampantly as a weed within me.
Is he following me?
The driver’s seat opens and Guire’s weight settles in the seat comfortably as he shuts his own door, and starts the engine.
He leans past me, turns the broadcasting radio down, lets his hand drift down to my denim-covered knee, squeezing it slightly.
My cheeks flame from his unwanted touch and my knee responds, pulling away.
Undaunted, Guire pulls my knee back to him as he breathes shallowly, spreading his long warm fingers out until my kneecap is swallowed under his palm, as his thumb violates the underside.
I should have been triggered by now, but not yet. Phoenix is still asleep.
I’m on my own.
Instinctively I nurse on my lower lip while I steal a sideways glance.
My eyes, my thinker, are getting a whopper of the most confusing, sensual visual as he slowly unzips himself, allowing his lusty male beast to spring free from its fly.
It seems so surreal having this corrupted man of the law stroking his manhood so casually next to me in broad daylight behind the darkened windows, yet so blatantly, as though he’s daring the world to catch him being bad.
An unbidden thought crosses my mind that despite Guire’s crudeness and predatory behavior, his erection was as magnificently wicked as he was.
Like telling the Devil he’s got a nice ass, what the hell, Tina?
Guire begins talking, although at first it doesn’t register. I’m still grappling with my own confusing thoughts, trying to sort them out.
His soft, lilting tone belied the heaviness of his words. “That man you were cavorting with is a convicted drug dealer, and we’ve been watching him.”
He lets go of his swollen aching beast to grip the steering wheel, and we begin to drive away from the corner shop.
My eyes lock on his open zipper…
The gleam of teeth…
Zip tongue hanging down…
no… not again…
Something so vaguely comforting flutters deeply in the darkest hours of my mind, wrapping around the déjà vu, swallowing the memory whole with its thick grey gulp.
No remembering today.
Phoenix stirs in her slumber.
Thank you Lord.
It’s about fucking time.
Turning the wheel, Guire takes the car around a corner, we shift slightly left together and his long fingers leave my kneecap to burrow between my thighs, causing me to gasp sharply.
My body tenses.
A nearly inaudible whimper curls out of my tight throat as my eyes shift to the outside window.
Guire’s breath stumbles from his throat in a graveled whisper as he softly growls with his finger’s delightfully moist find between my legs.
“Goddamn, ma’am… I don’t want to run you in.” His voice falters, maybe from hearing his own words. “Don’t make me say I saw you passing drugs. I will… Please don’t make me.”
The words slide out of me quietly, hoarsely, before I can gobble them back. “Leave me alone…”
Phoenix, please, c’mon.
Guire licks his dry lips, seemingly perplexed with his own primal urges as a light bead of sweat trickles down his furrowed brow. “Let me take you home… please, Tina.”
With a rough flick, his fingers undo a button off my jeans, slide in, and the moan escapes his lips as his fingers claim the essence of my orgasm from my morning romp. Guire’s breath draws in shakily from his high state of arousal.
“Holy Hell, ma’am…” The words sound so garbled as if his tongue threatened to suck down into his windpipe.
The chill has barely begun on my fair skin. Phoenix and the grey are taking their sweet time.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, praying for the grey to hurry up, letting my mind drift as far away as I can while he fondles me…
Against my will, my thighs part a little, letting him go even deeper, powerless to keep this predator from humiliating my femininity as we roll solemnly down the street on our four law-enforcing wheels.
Guire’s breathing is becoming more ragged as the tinted windows begin to steam slightly inside against the coolness of the outside morning.
Sandman… Save me.
My mind grips tightly to the dream- to his tender arms, his beautiful dark blue eyes- and for a few precious moments, the dream blots out Guire’s violating fingers.
I sigh… Michael…
Suddenly, my wits snap into play and I look around, aware of just how deeply I’m in it. We have been sitting in front of my apartment complex, motor running, with the man of the law’s hand so deeply down my pants that he might as well be certified as my gynecologist.
I don’t understand why I’m aware, but feel disconnected. I’m barely in control of myself. No one’s at the helm. I’m caught in between the grey. Mutiny’s afoot.
I barely feel the anger, red, hot, rage coursing through my veins.
I barely shock myself when my hand grabs his wrist, yanking his hand out of my pants and flinging it away from me as I hurl snarling insults his way.
I don’t know if Phoenix is behind this, or me. At first, I don’t care… I’m so numb.
The unexpected move surprises Guire, draining the blush of desire from his dimpled cheeks. His eyes glitter so coldly blue that I instantly sense the sheer consequences of my defiance, feeling myself shrink down past nothing.
I’ve just pissed off the law.
“Let me out.”
My words sound so small and hollow, so childish, as I mumble them. The crushing sense seeps into me of how miniscule I am compared to this man. He is capable of more than even this, I fear.
A sheer cold sweat breaks out freshly across my skin as a horrible sneer creeps across Guire’s tight lips.
I could throw up any moment.
The door’s electric button clicks.
My clammy hand quavers against the door handle as I test the door. It opens.
He’s letting me go.
Thank you God… he’s letting me go…
The sudden grip around my arm is hard enough to bruise.
My escape route is open- fresh breeze stirring my morning mop-top, the sound of a dog barking behind a fence.
Sweet, sweet freedom is within my grasp. But yet Guire won’t quite release me.
Rubbing verbal salt into the wound, Guire whispers wickedly, “Not so fast, ma’am.”
I knew it…stripping me of my dignity…
His manicured thumb busily circles over my bare flesh under the tee sleeve, wearing on my skin to a crawling flu-like madness, while his soft words carve through me in the utmost dehumanizing way. “When I come tonight I trust you will leave your door unlocked this time.”
I cringe, crawling a little more inside of myself as I recall the cologne.
He was there.
“Or I will steal more than your sweet pink lacy nothing off your floor, ma’am.” The words rolled effortlessly off his whispering tongue, as if he’d rehearsed this moment. “You’re a good woman, Tina. Just give me everything I want, anything I ask.”
When I first began the book, I shifted in and out of writing styles, thought processes, along with my mother’s cosmic wedgies (thanks, Mom) and literally living in the emotional moment of what I was writing at the time. It was chaotic, intense, and I had to split the book in two.
I’m still testing the waters of what’s appropriate to post but I would like to share a VERY ROUGH DRAFT of one of the upcoming chapters. Trust me, it’s as raw as a slab of fresh red meat, I haven’t edited or polished it yet.
For privacy purposes, this post has been moved to the manuscript site. Thanks for looking!
Twenty-two years ago, my passion for writing was sparked by a friend whose heart had been cruelly torn to shreds. Furious with how she’d been treated so callously, I pounded out my first short story, “The Trouble with Women” in about two hours. Although I never published it for my own reasons, I surprised myself that day. I’d written my first erotic horror short at the tender age of 20 and I absolutely fell in love with the empowerment of turning a real-life trauma into a fictional victory.
From that day forward, I wrote many stories that I kept to myself, mostly children’s novels. My dream was to publish and illustrate my own book one day, start to finish, but writing kids books just wasn’t quite filling the void I felt- for at heart, I’ve always been a fan of thrillers and horror, and I also have an extraordinarily vivid imagination when it comes to under the covers.
My books are a little deeper than just steamy encounters, for I cannot resist the lure of a dark romantic story with a delicious twist to it. Blame it on all those times I read “Night Shift” by Stephen King, my secret literary love affair with Dean R. Koontz, my admiration for Anne Rice’s dark streak.
“Finding Tina” is a special series I began writing to recover from abuse I’d endured long-term. There is something deeply, wonderfully healing about twisting a hopeless situation around just by writing fiction.
My biography includes a long work history of graphic design, sign-making, tattoo flash design, murals and art commissions, and three art-based businesses since 2003.
Just barely a week ago, I released “Finding Tina 1” into the wilds of the internet. Sharing with the world has been a thrilling, scary, exhilarating experience and I cannot thank all of you enough for taking the time to read it! You can read my Amazon Author page and also take a peek at the Kindle edition on Amazon.com or join my Facebook author page.
Please take a moment to blog, review and chat about how the series makes you feel…good, bad, or other! It’s a darkly wicked erotica thriller with a twist.
Don’t have a Kindle? Amazon makes it super easy by offering a free app to read a Kindle book from nearly any device!