Poem: Enduring Flame

Enduring Flame

At seventeen, you caught my eye
My ardor burst in flame.
I wooed and won, you with a sigh
Ignited just the same.

My soul is kindled by your smile
Sad heart singed by your tears.
Some loves run hot, then cold a while,
Ours more than burns - it sears.

The glowing embers of our nights
Light up the days between
Hot passion every glance incites
Lust sparks against the screen.

But what cold future lies ahead,
A passion doused by time?
Fear not, we'll burn until we're dead
In ashes we'll recline.

Writing my first romance novel

For a while, I have been intrigued by the idea of writing a romance novel. I've written a few romance short stories, but I am very impressed by those who plot and plan their way to a good romance. Done well, it certainly rivals a mystery for planning, with a much greater demand for emotional intensity and understanding of human dynamic.

That said, I can't just write a contemporary romance. I need to pull in some of my other writing energies, so I am writing a gritty urban fantasy romance... with mermaids.

The working title is Deep Embrace. I am hoping to do this more transparently than some of my other writing, meaning occasional updates here on both progress and challenges.

Flash fiction: The Best Little Whorehouse Above Texas

The Best Little Whorehouse Above Texas

There are places where whoring and carousing are commonplace, places like Denver and San Francisco. People around those parts think nothing of a lady of ill repute strolling up to their carriage and inviting herself in.

Not here in Waco. In the Bible Belt, we believe in Christian temperance, which is a damn shame. That attitude leads to more than bible thumping; it leads to quite a few sore and abused sheep. Least it did before Madame Curry flew into town last year in time for the 1879 Waco Fair.

That's right, flew in. Madame Curry ("hot and spicy") and her girls flew in a dirigible, as they called it, right over the fairground. They were the most delectable and curvaceous fillies ever to grace our fair town.

It would not be lying to say every last tallywhacker rose to attention. Menfolk were used to decent Christian women; Madame Curry's girls were something else.

Madame Curry floated that dirigible down to the bandstand, and hovered there. "We're open for business, boys," she shouted. A red-haired vixen, Sally Mae ("and probably will"), lifted her dress to show how open they were.

The line formed quicker than spit dries in July. One by one, men climbed up that ladder, and came back twenty minutes later with shitfaced grins.

Of course, in every pigsty, there's one damn pig who don't enjoy mud. That was Reverend Goodfellow. With a sour look, the Reverend hightailed it off to find Sheriff Owens. It took a while, because the sheriff was fifth in line at Madame Curry's. When he found the sheriff smiling like a fool, the Reverend demanded that Madame Curry's be shut down. "It's against the law to run a whorehouse in Texas, and it's your job to enforce the law."

Sheriff Owens couldn't see any flaw in that logic, and with a disappointed expression, he walked up to the dirigible and called out, "You got to close down. It's against the law to have a whorehouse in Texas."

Madame Curry smiled. "I know it is, Sheriff, but we ain't in Texas. We're above Texas, and there ain't no law about that."

The Sheriff grinned and went back to the Reverend, but the bible thumper was having none of that. With the fire of God in him, Reverend Goodfellow strode up to the dirigible and demanded that the sinners be cast out.

Still, Madame Curry didn't look perturbed. She said to the Reverend, sweet as can be, "Reverend, it's true we have sinners up here. We could sure use your help casting them out." She gave a flirtatious wink.

The Reverend frowned, and swore the harlot would burn in Hell. "Ah," said Madame Curry knowingly, and was joined by a blond young man. "Are you certain, Reverend? This young fellow, Johnny Hardpecker, is in sore need of some hands-on healing."

Now, I won't tell tales, but that floating whorehouse is still above Waco. All I can say is, a whole lot of sheep are grateful.

*Originally printed in Pill Hill's Daily Flashes of Erotica

Poem: A Distant Drum Roll

A Distant Drum Roll

We stand in full regalia
In solemn ranks under the sun,
All mindful of the same idea,
Our duty clear, we cannot run.

Though fear may gnaw inside each breast
No outward sign will brave men show.
What painful inner doubts attest,
We grit our teeth, let no one know.

The line stands firm, as each awaits
A distant drum roll, marching feet.
What lies beyond those stony gates?
Our victory, or grave defeat?

But hark, the drum roll beckons us
The rigid line begins to move
In quiet wonder, no more fuss
It's time for valor now to prove.

The gates are open, we approach
With heads held high and manner cool.
Our courage is beyond reproach.
We start the year at our new school.


* Across from my office window is the school where all 5th and 6th graders in Shaker Heights go, leaving their familiar elementary schools behind.  Every year, I watch as the brave new 5th graders wait in line for the opening bell.

Excerpt: Ragnarök (apocalyptic scifi)

Excerpt: Ragnarök (opening scene)

 

“Don Newton ragnacked last night.  Closed the garage door and turned the car on.  I can’t believe it.”  Ken stood in the sunny kitchen, telephone still in his hand, forgotten in the moment.

Carla shook her head, looking dismayed but not terribly surprised.  “Irene must be so upset.  I’ll give her a call later.”

“Don’t bother.  Don left a note.  Irene ran off with that piano teacher who’s been giving lessons to their daughter, Marcia.  What is the world coming to?”  

As if he had to ask.  Everyone knew what the world was coming to, and even when.  The mother of all asteroids, estimated by scientists to be six times bigger than the one that killed off the dinosaurs.  The astronomers called it Asher-Lev 14, but some joker had nicknamed it Ragnarök, and the name stuck. 

Within days, the name spawned its own vocabulary.  Rag off: run away from your spouse with a new lover or old flame.  Ragnabber: person who ransacked and looted to get things he or she had always wanted.  Ragnack: take your ending into your own hands.

“I don’t get it.  Three weeks to live, why kill yourself now?”  Ken stared at the phone, which had started beeping, and slammed down the receiver. 

“I understand it.”  Ken could barely hear her.  Carla leaned against the wall as if she couldn’t hold up her own weight.  She stared out the window at Lucy, playing in the back yard.  After a silence she continued, “It’s the waiting that’s so bad.  Waiting and knowing what’s going to happen.  Lucy’s the only reason I keep going, wanting her to have a last few happy weeks, but watching her…  She’s never going to get to grow up.”  Carla looked at Ken with tear-streaked eyes.  “She’ll never have a first kiss, or go to Prom, or have a baby of her own.  She’ll never know any of that.”

Ken crossed the small kitchen and put his arms around Carla.  While she cried, he murmured reassuring words he didn’t believe.  Mostly, he tried not to shake.  A couple of times a day, he found himself shaking uncontrollably, unable to cry, unable to do anything.  As Carla’s sobs subsided, he turned her to face him and said, “We need to get out of here.  Take Lucy and get away, away from all the craziness.”

Carla shook herself free, not angrily, but with determination.  “You know we can’t do that.  We can’t leave your mom; she’s too sick to travel, and she won’t leave her church now—she spends most her days there, praying.  Besides, Lucy needs to be near her friends.  This is all confusing enough for her.”  She wiped her eyes and put on a resolute, if lopsided, smile.  “Lucy’s not going to get a whole lifetime, but I’ll be damned if she can’t have a few happy weeks of normal childhood, or as normal as I can make them.  Besides, maybe the experts are wrong.  Maybe this is all a big mistake.”

Ken tried to smile, but couldn’t.  “Yeah, maybe it is.”  He knew it wasn’t, and she probably did as well, but why push the issue?  There were plenty of doubters, or had been when the news first broke on the internet. 

A couple of Chilean astronomers blogged about the asteroid, and nobody would have paid any attention if not for the U.S. government’s ham-handed efforts to deny the rumors.  By the third Presidential press conference in a week denying the reports and expressing simultaneous complete confidence in the U.S. military, everybody knew.  By the time the President admitted the truth, the internet was overflowing with evidence.  Somebody even set up a live astro-webcam at the Mt. Hamilton observatory in California.  Watch your doom approach in real time!

To read the rest of Ragnarök, visit Smashwords at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/81721 or wait a day or two and it will be up on Amazon and B&N. Only $0.99, Ragnarök celebrates the ability of the human spirit to transcend the ultimate catastrophe.

Mistaken All Week - poetic paean to dates who are duds

Mistaken all week - a poetic paean to dud dates

(from the lady's point of view)

My life seemed boring, something seemed amiss
I craved adventure, so I told my Sis.
But Sis thought I was crazy, she said, “Hon!
You’re quite mistaken. Strangers are no fun!”

Limerick Letdown
On Friday, I went out with Mickey
Who thought he was terribly tricky
He felt it romantic
To fumble, quite frantic.
And end up the night with a quickie.

My Sis said, “Told you so!” without remorse.
So I went out and tried again, of course.


Haiku Hangup
On Saturday night
I discovered with sadness
That Hung Lo – wasn’t.

My sister laughed and said with bawdy wink,
“He was so short, sometimes you have to think!”


A Cinquain in the Park with George
Sunday
I dined with George
Whose eloquence promised
A night of sensitivity
…or not.

I’m glad to say that Sis was somewhat kind..
She’d dated George herself, “I liked his mind”


Acrostic between a Donkey and a Snake
L eonard asked me out on Monday
A nd I said I’d happily go,
R elieved ‘cause we went out for sundaes,
G oing well meant going slow.
E ventually we went to his place
B ut we still just sat and talked
U ntil finally we got started
T hen his lordly member… balked.
L usting for his apt proportion
I  tried things not taught in school,
M ade an effort, tried extortion,
P roduced naught but flaccid tool.

Well, I told Sis I’d stayed home, watched TV.
There’s some humiliation I don’t need.


Epigram Telegram
On Tuesday I went out with Ray.
Turned out he was charming and… gay.

My Sis, she harkened back where she’d begun,
“You're still mistaken. Strangers are no fun!"


Take me out to the Etheree
On Wednesday, I went on a date with Sam
He took me to the ball park to see
The Indians play the Yankees
We sat in the second row.
He drank way too much beer.
He tried to grope me
Out in public!
I slapped him.
Fuck off,
Sport!

I went back to my sister and I cried,
“I’m done”, I said, but thankfully I lied.


Thursday Sonnet
With heavy heart, uncertain and depressed,
I planned to stay at home and count my woes,
But then a call from Mike, whom I’d impressed
When he met me last week; my spirits rose.

He asked if I would come out to a play
He said he’d pick me up at half past eight
I felt like I did not know what to say
I dressed and paced ‘cause I could hardly wait.

I knew I should stay calm and circumspect
My failures of the week should sober me
But when he came he showed me such respect
My mind went blank – don’t know what came o’er me.

He held my hand and gazed into my eyes
And when we kissed, explosions lit the skies.

I must have looked like I had lost my head.
I grinned so wide and to my sister said,
“Dear Sis, I’m glad to say that I have won.
You’re quite mistaken. Strangers can be fun!”


* The contents here are fiction. They do not represent any real people or events, although they may reflect real emotions.

*Notes on formats*

A Limerick is a rhymed humorous or nonsense poem of five lines which originated in Limerick, Ireland. The Limerick has a set rhyme scheme of : a-a-b-b-a with a syllable structure of: 9-9-6-6-9.

A Haiku is an unrhymed verse of Japanese origin consisting of three
lines of five, seven, and five syllables (5, 7, 5) or 17 syllables in all.

A Cinquain is a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines.

An Acrostic is where the first letter of each line spells a word or multiple words, usually using the same words as in the title or relating to the title.

An Epigram is a short satirical poem, usually a rhyming couplet, ending with either a humorous retort or a stinging punchline.

An Etheree consists of 10 lines of either 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables or 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 syllables.

A Shakespearean Sonnet consists of 14 lines in iambic pentameter as three quatrains and a couplet, and rhymes abab cdcd efef gg.

The discussion between the sisters is in iambic pentamber couplets rhymed as aa bb ...

Excerpt #7 from Savage Fire

Now that Savage Fire has been out for a bit, I thought I'd post another excerpt. There have been six reviews posted on Amazon (five of them 5-stars, one 4-star), and two of the reviewers have singled out Worth Watching as of special interest. To thank then, I have included an excerpt below from the beginning:

Start of Worth Watching, an excerpt from Savage Fire:

It was a sunny day. Ned peered out at the sky, but there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Nonetheless, he slipped on his galoshes and raincoat and tucked a small black umbrella into his pocket. Ned stepped outside, checking both ways for bicycles or unobservant pedestrians.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stepford smiled and waved, and Ned gave a half-hearted wave in her direction. In his opinion, it was the ones who smiled and waved who were most likely to trip you, steal your wallet and leave your battered carcass in the alley behind the dumpster. People like that needed watching. He glanced back several times to check on Mrs. Stepford before turning the corner.

“Morning, Ned.”

“Hey, Ned! Dressed for the weather, I see. Ha ha.”

“Ned, need a paper today?” 

It was like any other day, and after placing his rain gear near his office door, Ned scrubbed his hands for a good five minutes. The germs you don’t see are the ones that kill you.

Using a tissue to hold the mouse, Ned scrolled through his new messages. Two spam messages and an email from his mother went into the Trash folder, but he read one titled Twenty Thousand: Thursday with interest. He checked his calendar, nodded and typed a short reply. A quick squirt of hand sanitizer and Ned was ready for business.

Ned carefully planned his approach. It was essential that no detail be left to chance; danger lurked around every corner. Ned wrote nothing down. One never knew who might snoop.

Satisfied, Ned left for home after putting on his galoshes and raincoat, and checking that the umbrella was in its place. He stepped back out into the bright sunshine, looking both ways as he did.

Would you like to read more of this and the fifteen other stories in Savage Fire? Pick up a copy on Amazon.com or BarnesAndNoble.com or Smashwords or most other digital bookstores. You can also buy it here with Paypal or a credit card, and have a personal dedication added if you like. (See right sidebar)