Thursday, January 26, 2012


     The moon smiled over the mountains like a disappearing Cheshire cat in the deepening night sky. Trees along the horizon were swaying in the heavy wind. Headphones on and coat closed, Deanna soldiered on through the weather.
     Soft granola rock was calming her nerves and slowing her pulse, while she stepped briskly back to her apartment across town. A cigarette was determinedly hanging onto her sticky red lips and a soft, thin scarf was doubled up and wrapped around her neck. Both hands were firmly stuffed in her pockets with stiff arms pressing them deeper until the fabric started to protest. The outer jacket was a loose and long leather coat that repelled the gusts, while the under jacket was more like a knitted hoody or sweater.
    The nights take had been low. New bouncer, new cocktail waitress and a new crowd had made for tentative tipping. Not even her low-cut lace shirt, push-up bra and thick cosmetics had not helped today. Some nights were like that, though. Things would pick up, eventually, but for now she had other things to worry about. The wind was slowly dying away and the ash on her cigarette was getting dangerously long.
     Stopping in the crook of a building downtown, she pried the cigarette out of its sticky trap and tapped the ash on the curb. The movement was small, but it was enough to notice that someone was behind her. He was tall with a similar coat to hers. He was also smoking. She waited there for a moment, just out of view of the street light until he came up closer. Luke stopped in front of her and took a long drag of his clove cigarette.
     He knew how much she loved that smell. What he probably didn't know was how the smell of cloves actually affected her. Luke had a distinctive smell to him to begin with, but the combination of Luke's natural smell, his cologne and the cloves was almost enough to send her right over the edge of reason.
     Deanna didn't know the effect that she had on Luke either. In the half-light of the building's edge, her red lips and deep eyes shined with otherworldly delights. Her lips were parted in a half-grin that was full of promise.

Monday, January 23, 2012


   There were flecks of light on the ceiling. Laying on my back, as I was, it was easy to see them dance across the popcorn flecks. Shards of broken mirror were all around, it wouldn't have been a problem to cut myself further, had I wanted to. No. For the moment, laying here was enough.
    Why was I laying there? The last thing I could remember was the glass: cutting, ripping, and shining. Sparkling on the walls, the wood varnish of the furniture, and finally gleaming faintly on the ceiling.
    The light was changing now. Changing hues from pure white to a rosy tone. My eyes were so heavy, but I had to keep them open. Why did my head hurt so much? Blinking hard, alligator tears ran thickly down my face, mixing with the blood on the floor. Trying to move my hands was harder than I thought. It disturbed the glass on the floor, and drove the pieces still embedded in my skin a little deeper. Moving my head was harder still, and within moments of starting the movement, the world went scarlet with pain. Then nothing for a long time.
     White light was everywhere now. Beautiful and blinding. There was something else too. A soft, rhythmic beeping.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Yet another blog...

The secret to writing is getting things out. Like other art forms, its not necessarily the content, but that you've put it out there. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. I like what I do, but others may not.

This doesn't mean that what I'm doing is less valuable. I enjoy it... and in the end, that is really the point of creating. Plus, this blog gives me a good outlet for the various ideas that run through my head that have absolutely nothing to do with everyday life. Also, it gets my creative juices flowing for the stories that I'm not ready to share.

Well, here we go:

     The new bite still itched. Washing the bed, apparently, had not been the answer to the bug bite situation. Four bites over the course of three weeks. One bite would start healing and stop itching, and then a new one would appear. Always discovered upon waking, and never in the same general area.
      Navel, right buttock, left breast, right calf, and left forearm. Sometimes on the back, sometimes on the front. They weren't from clothing allergies, or from her sheets being dirty. Add it to the list of awesome annoyances.
     Stolen sticky notes, missing pens, bug bites and bad coffee. Seems things were just adding up again. She itched her forearm absentmindedly as she eyeballed the pile of new paperwork on her desk and the steaming cup of swill the office manager had the nerve to call coffee.
    Reports that needed completion and filing. What kind of joke was that? A person joined an actionable (and undeniably sexy) industry like corporate espionage to go out and do things. Not sit at a desk and push papers around and drink disgustingly bad coffee. It wasn't like the movies or television shows. There were no hot "misunderstood" loner types with their sloe smiles and covert glances, ready for action at all times, even up against the copy room door. Actually, there wasn't even a door to the copy room at all.
     The closest thing she even had to an office romance was the strange tension between her and the new office assistant. It was a no-go, however, seeing as he was both much too young for her and smelled like garlic almost constantly. She sighed into her swill and started filling out reports.
     By 3:30pm, it was time for her weekly one on one with her superior and then she would be off to the gym to let off some steam. The meeting was a necessary, albeit boring evil, and would clear her plate for another uneventful weekend.
     A brisk knock on the heavy mahogany door signaled her entry to Mr. Stanton's office. He had long given up on her waiting for permission to enter, and had been expecting her in any case. Mr. Stanton shared many qualities with his door and all of the other decor of his room. He was hard, utilitarian and overall a deep shade of warm brown. There was no warmth in his eyes or his tight lipped smile, almost as if he had been carved out of wood himself. That he was smiling at all was a very foreign and foreboding change.
     "I have a new assignment for you." He picked up a manilla file from his desk and handed it to her. "I want you to go to the South Pacific, to these coordinates." Latitude: -46.00615, Longitude: -84.16602 approximately 400 miles off of the coast of Chile. According to the terrain mapping of the ocean floor, there was some sort of extinct underground volcano.
     "As exciting as this seems, what possible use could this be to the company..." She eyeballed him from over the open file. "Sir."