WARNING: The following haibun contains graphic depictions of sex and murder along with religious and spiritual themes that may offend some readers.
Sex & Death
Sex and death caress
Comes the sharpened steel through flesh.
She stands naked at the open bedroom door with nothing but the bible and a bloody knife. Sweat beaded on her brow, her chest heaved with heavy breath. Her heart was empty of emotion, but her body was beyond orgasmic. Sex and death were no longer separate.
Her lover lies dead; he penetrated her, she penetrated him. They both came. The scent of sex and iron filled the small apartment.
The bible dropped from her hands (why was she holding it?). The knife was held firm, bloodied and bent.
Rain falls on bare skin,
Lovers touch and kiss.
Cheap liquor and refried cigarettes rest on his breath; it’s heavy and rhythmic.
Her tongue tastes of whisky.
They’re both wet from the rain and heavy petting. Clumsy they fall upon the steel steps to his building, pain shoots from his spine, but his agony only makes her more excited. Despite the pain he can’t stop, his wet hands reach up her shirt and tear at her bra. His nails scratch at her nipple. It’s cold and erect.
Lone drop of water
Sultry eyes follow its path,
Her eyes follow a single drop of water down the green painted metal rail. It shimmers from the lights of the passing cars. She bites him, but her eyes still follow the drop. Only when he pulls her through the door does she stop following its singular beauty.
The hall lights flicker. Her ecstasy is what he wants.
He’ll get it.
They’re not quite making their way down the white corridor, the neighbors were disturbed.
She ran her nails down his chest with his back to the apartment door, red lines cut deep and he bleeds but takes no notice.
He fumbles with the lock while she follows the bloody marks with her tongue. It tastes of iron, pineapple, and sweat.
His white shirt is stained red and wet with rain.
delight from his forceful touch.
Torn, her shirt removed.
The apartment door swings open and they both fall into the small living room. Pain shoots down his back originating from his previous injury. He arcs with the sharp pain. She gets excited, opens his fly and rubs her palm hard against his erect penis. He forgets about the pain.
Drunk on whisky and weed, she lets her ecstasy consume the woman she was to become the beast she is. She tears open his cheap white shirt, grasps his nipple violently and kisses him, not as a lover but as her victim.
Rage and arousal,
The beast within emerges,
But for a moment.
He begins to feel concern, this woman who so eagerly wants to fuck. The power of lust suppresses the concern quite easily when her bra is removed and her breasts are free. She places his face between them and he licks the skin between; one hand holds her back, the other grasps the mound of beautiful flesh.
She pulls him to his bedroom. He’s oblivious to her familiarity.
Forgotten by desire.
Salvation by flesh.
A bible sits on the disheveled bed.
He throws her to the mattress. He removes her pants; she removes his. Neither wears underwear.
He goes down. He’s gentle and tender to her and makes love to her with his tongue. He’s good, but she doesn’t want love or tenderness, she wants rough. She wants to fuck not make love. She grabs his head and pulls him into her vagina. He can barely breathe. She cums.
He gets up and puts his dick in her, he learned his lesson and puts it in hard and deep.
No love, only fuck.
The serpent rises within,
She has been summoned.
He thrusts inside her, she rips at his skin. She can taste the blood. She can feel the violent pleasure.
They turn and she rides him like the animal he is. She arches’ her back, her hands grasping his legs. Her breasts look to the heavens. The moisture beads and the light refracts. She is the image of heavenly pleasure.
pleasure rises through her, pure.
The serpent rises.
She feels the power.
“I’m gonna cum”, he whispers.
“No yet”, she demands.
Somehow, through the power of her will, he holds back the force screaming to explode.
And she rides longer and harder; the serpent rises higher within her and with each bite comes a shiver or a seizure, she can’t tell nor does she care. It’s a power within her, an enlightenment from raw sexual power.
She can taste his blood.
She feels the throbbing within.
The serpent’s ready.
“I can’t hold it,” he screams.
She doesn’t hear him, she’s ready. He cums with a beastly roar. She cums and the serpent strikes.
Bodies burst black flame
Flesh becomes that of dark light
The world, forgotten.
She stands naked and alone in the open shower. The water pours over the goose-bumped skin washing away the blood and cum. The water follows her dark hair down as she rubs herself. His body still on the bed opposite the wall.
Masturbation recalls the memory and emotion.
Touch, the serpent stirs.
She wiggles in the tall grass,
Coiled and ready.
He lays flayed, spread out on the mattress. She stands over, still naked and dripping from the shower. Her clothes are spread out through the apartment. Her shirt, missing. She takes one of his. It’s too big and you can see her black bra through its cheap white cotton. She doesn’t care.
Someone knocks at the door.
She can’t find her panties.
The door knocks again.
She remembers she wasn’t wearing any.
The door knocks a third time. This time she looks through the peephole. An attractive young blond woman stands. She looks aggravated. She looks like she’s been crying.
She doesn’t answer the door
“Tony, you there?” The blonde behind the door whimpers.
Tony, she didn’t know his name. She put’s her pants on but stumbles in the process.
“Shit,” she mumbles under her breath. But the blonde behind the door remained silent, or maybe she’s gone.
A crucifix hangs above the door.
She has no remorse,
Nothing is holy under
The sacred profane
I finally have a working title for the book, Alien Fields. This may not be the final title, however it’s working for me at the moment.
This whole project has become much more ambitious than originally intended as the world around the story grew, my notes have gone from a few scribblings to no less than a large appendices with its own six hundred sixty-eight day calendar and custom zodiac.
My progress is slow, but the primary text is complete. Currently I’m working on the second draft and playing with some style details.
I no longer see having a finished product by the end of January as feasible, however if you’re interested in being a beta-reader, when we reach that stage, please let me know.
Well I didn’t make it to 50,000 words my the end of November, so I failed at #NaNoWriMo this year. However it’s not a complete loss. The reasons for my failure were:
1. I got distracted by life. Seriously, who decided national novel-writing month would be November? Though that’s just me making excuses. I realize that #NaNoWriMo is a world event and should not be hindered by American holidays. I can still bitch though.
2. This is the biggie. My novel actually concluded itself at around 40,000 words. The natural progression of the words I had written led to an early ending.
Now, this does not mean I will abandon the novel. I believe a lot that was written has potential and the story entertains me. So I will continue to work at it and I’m glad to say progress is being made; currently I’m working on the second draft using yWriter5. I hope to have a finished product by the end of January.
I plan to post a plot and cultural synopsis soon, but for now I will tell you that it’s a sci-fi coming of age story that borders on the slipstream genre with many fantasy elements throughout.
I’ve reached the halfway point in my NaNoWriMo novel, no quitting now. Here’s another excerpt to celebrate. Again please note this is a raw and unedited first draft, so please forgive any mistakes, misspellings, and dyslexic moments. Enjoy:
We kept to the night, to keep out of sight of the raiders and the sun. Phobos lit our way with what little light he provided. The way was filled with the black and gold dunes, that were common in the Arabia, though these were smaller than the giant dunes of the eastern desert of the stories of old. So we walked carefully on the ridges, keeping care of our footing, knowing to fall into a dune valley could spell disaster by entrapment, quicksand, or many other fates un-thought of. We camped when the sun was up, using canvas for shade and skins for bedding. We traveled mainly in silence as the desert air carries sound.
And though the night was our day and slowed the consumption of water, the supply was slowly dwindling. So we watched an listened for the roving thieves perhaps to raid the raiders. As luck would have it the neighing of a horse sounded from north-east of us.
From up top a dune we spied down with the rifles scope on a small plane of rock. A small group of five camped near the foot of a dune around a small fire by what looked like a well, the horses tied to a porous boulder, barred a blue sash with a red snake.
“I don’t feel right just attacking,” I whispered.
“I understand,” was her reply.
“A test of character?”
She responded with an acquisitive look.
“A helpless woman lost in the desert, stumbles down a dune,” I added.
She almost let out a laugh of excitement, then took the plunge with a scream of the stereotypical female victim.
Her fall was an act on par with the greatest of actors. The fall and stumble down the sand was chaotic and deadly to those who’ve never seen Miki in action. Each tumble was an act of grace in chaotic form. When she reached the bottom she removed the katana, sticking it in the sand with her hand still berried, grasped to the hilt.
I moved the scope to follow the five men. They were up and moving towards Miki’s still body. The walked without care or concern. I saw and heard the men laughing, some spoke but I was too far to make out words.
At Miki one bent down and checked for a pulse; a good sign, the only one. He slapped her face and said something. Another raider went to one of the horses, removing a roll of rope. When I returned my site to the rest, they were all circled, looking down at her. The man who knelt cupped Miki’s right breast; bad move pal.
I put my finger on the trigger.
Then the man with the rope returned.
Another man kicked Miki gently and started caressing her. Anger filled me. I decided to take the initiative, and pulled the trigger on the caressing man. The thunder of the rifle carried in the air as the bullet landed in my target. He fell back to the ground and twisted. The others jumped back in surprise.
Miki jumped up spinning and tossing the sand that hid her weapon in all directions; blinding one. Two were running back to the camp. Miki sliced down on the one that fondled her, removing the offending hand, then twisted up slicing open his belly, disemboweling the raider.
I moved back to the fleeing two, finding them at the horses; one removing a rifle the other a pair of blades. I lined the cross hairs on the one with the rifle; triggered pulled. He fell back into one of the horses and sadly the horse fell too.
Sites back to Miki, her last opponent headless, she rushed the bladed man who was rushing her. They collided with the mans blades slicing down, Miki blocked, spun with the blue-black blade digging deep into the raiders spine.
With that I slid down the dune.
We plundered the bodies, refilled our supply of water and stole the four living horses. Good, well bred desert horses. We rode off back into the dunes silent and fast.
I promised my self I’d do a blog post when I hit the 10,000 word mark for NaNoWriMo. So not to distract me too much I’m just going to copy and paste a small part here. Please keep in mind this is completely raw unedited and prone to dyslexic moments (that does not just mean mis-spellings). I hope you enjoy this small moment:
I sit lotus in black void and soon the stars begin to pierce. The expanse is forever and time is without meaning. A cosmic loneliness settles into my being. In this vast expanse nothingness is forever. Ages crept. Motion is without meaning but shapes come into view; a small sun shines, a world is below.
I am exposed within eternity.
Cities shine in it’s dark side in webs of light with vast oceans.
I am another world, smaller and barren, and made of Iron. I can feel the fear from below as knowledge of death settles. Escape is an option.
Small jets of light and smoke flee into the void, heading towards hope closer to the sun. Repeatedly they make good an escape. I approach slowly.
I am the coming extinction.
I am Thánatos, my mother is Nyx.
I come because it is time.
I am Śiva the destroyer and transformer.
I come because I must.
Two worlds become one. We are consumed by fire in holy unity. Two souls becoming one in a transmutation from the passion of our joining.
From our ecstasy comes death.
From our two bodies comes one.
Our friction is the fire that consumes and this fire lasts for an age. But we are no longer we; now a new me. A once living, now dead world with two awkward moons.
I am more.
I am a fertile egg waiting for the seed of life that comes from my sister.
Eventually the seed comes. Life begins again.
You can also find another NaNoWriMo excerpt here.
An enlightened night brought dreams of dark days under the desert sun. Times do not come when called, and the thirst builds to an apex of desire. Ride the sand, the reaper instructs. And a dance is summoned; my feat fly to the inviable song. Spots jump in my eyes. A scream is called from parched lungs. Death.
The day begins with internal silence. This morning I’m animated, feeling healthy. My mind is a jumble, and usually this is quite normal; this dawn is no different. The voice isn’t there, no whispers, no screams, only me and the happy silence ling in bed with my love. I hurt, but its that good pain.
Waking up ( . . . please no).
Eyes open, no longer in sleep. A spiders web directly above, no arachnid, no proprietor attached, clinging to no walls, a strand of silk floating in the still air a specter haunting or a ghostly snake slithering across the still air, stalking the innocent mouse; perhaps a trail of smoke from sacred frankincense. Yes, a snake; its tail lost somewhere in its sentience. Life seemed to eminate from the shifty creature as it levitates into a sly dance on the slight draft of my open door; teasing and intoxicating, lingering and laughing, seducing the space around my being and trying to weave its way into my thoughts (no). Again it tries, phasing in and out of my reality, folding the space it occupies. Continue: In my head and out again (no). Again it tries, hissing and screaming, pleading for this young mind to accept it in (no). “Please no,” then stop; silence, and a seeping pain in my being.
“No . . .” The voice returns like the silent sound of an echo escaped from the origin. Th echo falling back to the ether until silence was, once again.
A sad disappointment emanates as the snake levitates into the darkest corner of my room. It disappears into a shadowy corner (vortex). A light flashes. Confusion.
I get up.
Her face and body buried in pillow and blanket; still asleep in deep dreams, bare back dry to the touch and smooth, it rises and lowers; her breath in harmony with her heart, her heart in sequence to the clock. The clock seas sin . . . no six in the morning, by mind seas high noon; my corps has had its time to be rested. The clock is correct.
Stepping outside I saw no sun. A thick fog sheets the streets. Awesome is the fresh, brisk air; the river scent still hangs.
The fog lingered and waited and watched.
Shivers shook my spine. The damp cold touched my skin. Dim light shone in a glow through the ground layer clouds. I stood still feeling the uncontrolled rattle of my body; stop, stretch; my back, shoulders, and a few joints popped to my pleasure.
Back inside. kind-of dark; no lights were on and the blinds are shut. Apples and oranges and bananas all rotted in a basket on the partition. The neighbor baby is crying, odd; they have no baby. Mrs. Black, nice old lady; she always makes lemon pie and usually shares. That’s where the sound was coming from. Probably just a grand child.
I need a shower.
A diamond back rattler shedding it’s skin, a mammal in spring loosing its winter coat, as I am naked, exposed; not for sex but to cleanse.
The knobs are cold; the sound of the artificial rain, water falling, skin preparing for the for the wonderful feeling of searing , stimulating pain.
Stepping into the stream of water, almost burns the skin; just the way I like it. Ten thousand beads lash my skin and flow down the invisible fissures of my back, wetting me. The liquid deluge pours over me, breaking off impurities, rinsing away the stench of last nights ecstasy. Steam blankets bathroom as the rolling fog outside, everything is blurred, my mind id a cloud [small stumbles and quick steps] . . . vertigo.
Washing with soap. The bottle squeezed, ectoplasm essence lathers my body. Soft movements of slithering liquid, traveling droplets at war with the filth. I am becoming; clean. Sharp pain from the wounds. One weary traveler snakes his way down; a forest it finds, deep and thick; the traveler dispersed, never to be seen again.
Dried blood is being removed my wounds sterilized. The rushing water removes the soap. My hare is wet [hands run through then fall to the side, face looking down to the tiles]. Water, milky and pink, it coils, falling and dragged to the dark vortex.
Standing motionless, five minuets pass.
The heat is poison passing through the heart, weakening; the cold is an antibody that returns vitality.
Move [head lifts].
Water still pouring, then the temperature alters. I turn the shower off. Knobs hot. I feel faint.
“You still in there” She asks.
I remove my-self and dry. “Yea, be out in a sec”.
Towel wrapped around my waist, I open the door. “Love?” My hand on her hip, pulling her close for a kiss, “no hot water”.
“Thanks”, she replies. Sarcasm? “I like cold showers”, without deceit. A smile on her lips, her hand to my cheek, peck on the lips, removed then into the bathroom; door shuts behind along with her contact except for a touch of spirit left by her kiss and a shot of energy from her to me. I stand for a minuet with my back to the door, probably less.
I move to the kitchen.
I cook breakfast.
I am a seeker on walkabout, on a journey through vast lands of beautiful groves, hidden cities, and burning furnaces, whose keepers feed the vortex fires.
I stand at the edge of a valley blanketed with high thick grass and yellow patches of mustard; everything moist with mornings dew. Scattered oak trees twisted and sublime spot the nest. At the center stands the largest and oldest of the ancient oaks; tall and grand. In its shade shimmers a still pond of pure water, fresh as if it just fell from the heavens, tall reeds at an edge.
On a bank, still but not stagnant, a log lays, half submerged in purity, twisted, sublime and wise. That twisted old log by the pure pond, resting in the shade of the king of trees sits an old woman drinking from the pool with cupped hands.
I now stand in the center of the valley, a distance of hours to walk, in a blink. A single bird sings his song, insects buzz in the distance; me and the old woman an audience. She splashes cool water on her face and with a look in my eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, a flute is raised by her liver spotted hands then she adds to natures melody. Chirp sings the bird and the insects chime in time, out of the void the womans flute begins and brings the harmony of natures voice. The old woman, in gypsy like rags, sits cross-legged on the twisted log, her eyes closed, her instrument begins an ancient tune.
“I want to see,” I say, “I want to listen to the harmony that can be between humanity and nature”. I feel the need to learn the way that may be, but is not. I want to learn from the old woman, hair of long silver strands, sitting cross-legged on the twisted log, in the shade of the king oak, by the pond of the pure water, ancient, sublime.
She smiles with glee, not loosing step with the song.
As the melody transpires, as the woman puts her breath into the song, I sit listening to the play between the musicians, the harmony of humanity and nature, nature and humanity, beast and beast, life to life and back again; to add more wonder to this magnificent setting the stage changes. The valley grows dark; filled and shaded by redwood trees growing high above low-lying ferns. Darkness consumes but not the darkness of night but a cool shade in a thick forest. The ground grassless with mulch, mud and mushrooms.
The melody never stopped but is in harmony with the metamorphosis of the habitat. The bird still sings, the bugs still buzz, the lady still plays by the pond under the old oak.
I look to the canopy, fog swims through the branches above, but no motion is felt. The leaves move, but without a breeze. They move with intention. Butterflies; ten thousand. They hold in clusters to the branches and groups; individuals flutter from bunch to bunch; ten thousand butter flies to a cluster with ten thousand clusters; truthfully uncountable.
Continuing metamorphosis: a sharp scent invades, the air dries, mud and mulch turn to dry hard dirt. Redwoods no longer; eucalyptus.
The monarch butterflies, flutter high and flutter by; a dance in the air to melody performed by flute and chirp, chirp and buzz then stop.
A single sound interrupts, like solid wood against hollow. Another strike, then another. Three strikes and a stomp. Across the pond the woman stood still in gypsy like rags but no longer old, beautiful and lithe, mischievous appearance, mischievous smile, in a sultry stance and a naked leg stretched from beneath the colored rags, flute to her full lips.
Strike; Strike; Strike; with each strike she stepped, steppes, stepping and to the end of her stomps the strikes begin again, each faster than the last, and each step of hers becoming a hard dance on the dirt floor. Each beat faster in the rhythm of passions spirit and in step with the percussions heart. No longer the harmony of nature but passions of the wild and she plays her flute in step with her wild dace to the beat of the invisible percussionist.
The pond was still and clean; air filled with the dry stinging scent of eucalyptus; the king oak proud, watching. The beat continued, the song quickened, and she danced and shipped and the air was saturated with butterflies fluttering by and dancing in tune with the music. The woman skipped, her bare feet kicking up the dry earth into clouds that caught the rays of the hot sun as the monarchs fluttered through.
I am surrounded by fire.
All became silent.
Then a kind womans voice said, “when you awake, run to the western mountains, though the mountains wont hide you . . . Seek the cave that’s shelters the adversary”.
Butterflies flutter by and around and around and around as the voice fades into memory; bright orange and black merge into streaking flames. Hot is the dust and wind in my lungs and it consumes my being. Floating in the vortex of flame searing flesh and burning hair. For only a moment within a moment, found in the flying flames, like the burning bush, floats a face. Its eyes hot with passion and malice and pleasure for my agony. It smiles with ash and smoke and embers of the deconstructed.
Some nights I sit alone thinking of existence and experiencing loneliness as only pond lilies and the sages do. Other nights I go out, socialize and play with great excitement and joy, injecting myself in to the hole of the moment. Now I am an infant ant the point of birth.
I see the chaos, the chaos takes me.
I am naked.
Bright flames, an iridescent shell. I am the fetus within; hunched over, exposed and protected. All dark and comforting, but a light is calling me.
I am born.
I am awake; naked, wet, bald and exposed. Under a glaring sun, on hot asphalt.
A frightened voice to my right, curses and the sound of feet running away.
In the sky, high above, orange and black butterflies rise.
Coyote corpses littered the ground around my nakedness. Sirens sounded in the distance. Sitting up a ghastly sight welcomed me. Crucified on the cliff-side was D. His insides piles the ground below his limp legs; vivisected.
Many running feet heading this way.
Chapter 2: In the Autumn of Apathy
A loud voice came to me one day like the sound of waves crashing on a midnight beach; it was born a whisper in the morning light, now it’s later, near midnight. I was sitting alone writing; young and living. My body ached. Alone is all I know, empty inside, just writing and waiting. Apathy fills me, all I see is the emptiness in the words.
I am naked. The smell of hormones burned on this bare body. Awake after the physical representation of love, sex, copulation, pleasantly violent, bleeding scratches on my hips, expression of my inner aggression and sexual gratification, I just enjoyed. An arm reaches around and grasps my upper chest. Her hair floats against my skin, as ten-thousand webs would wander through the nameless void. It feels good.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing”, I can feel her soft nipple on my back. Lips, tender, brush the back of my neck (that special spot). Eyes close, I can feel her soul.
A moth rests on a white wall.
“come back to bed.” She bites hard, on that spot bordering my shoulders on the right side of my lower neck, almost breaking skin [extention].
A hand clenched on my cock [harder], leaving the story on the floor, hardly dry from the last engagement.
Picking her up, skin so soft, and taking her to the mattress; a quick toss and she’s down with a bounce. The bed screams with a squeak, the energy of the collision is stored for a moment in the metal springs, then released causing a leap back; metal on metal, the voice of the inanimate. She giggles. I follow her; she pushes me off. Her foot leaves a trace on my chest.
Now the fun begins.
Lunging in counter offense, her arms are mine, now pinned to the sheets. A tan breast my lips encircles ((lower) go lower), a naval, then to the side, ((kiss) a kiss), soft flesh, a hate-filled bite (Hate?). The bite feels good, the flesh broken under my teeth, moans from outside my, maybe a scream, perception; I don’t care, blood in my mouth, just a little bit.
Am I alone?
The voice gets louder (at noon it grew to maturity).
I release her arms, I go down, lower to her pleasure. Minuets later she grabs my hair; it hurts. Yanked to her face, a sweet kiss, it’s hard and bonding, then slow and soft as she pushes my chest with both her hands, her fluid still on my lips; i’m thrown against the wall.
The night is cold, I’m warm. Scent of the river fills the air and a nightingale spins a sorrowful sonnet and the screech of an owl prevents its conclusion.
“Did it hurt?” She whispers, a smirk on her lips, and hint of euphoria.
“It hurt good” I reply and she laughs. She goes down. She bites my inner thigh . . . twice, soon after a third.
An insincere statement, “you don’t have to do that.” She didn’t stop, and I didn’t stop her. It feels good; crest to neck to base and back again.
It’s late, long past the witching hour. The voice is louder, an ancient entity, a boom in my head. I can’t make out the words, jumbled & incoherent, like a young child rambling about a subject only he understands.
She releases with a gasp of air, pushes me down, puts me inside her; crest to neck, neck to base and back again.
Her side’s still bleeding, I can feel the blood on my hands, or is it sweat. Blood. My eyes are shut (all too soon, we are at passions point). Picking her up, i’m still inside her, her legs wrapped around my body. We fall to the floor I stay inside her (fuck harder), she starts screaming and moaning and harsh breathing.
The voice has stopped.
The neighborhood is quiet. She rests. I’m still inside her, both of us still bleeding. Not a care.
Alone is all I knew.
I feel empty.
I love her.
“I love you”, she seas in perfect conjunction with my thought.
The moth on the wall crawls to a high corner, now in shadow.
And this is only the beginning . . .
Fire above crowns,
Warming social emotion,
Steel mushroom towers;
It’s cold, but the coat warms. The ambiance is natural; a pond full of koi, potted plants provide a place for private conversation. The smell is pure, but for the cigarette smoke from all around. The inside cafe opens to the outside patio. Lighting is dim for a mysterious or romantic setting. The cafe gives that nineteen twenties impression. Beatniks & bohemians recite poetry and trade in philosophy. Malevolent characters seat themselves in corners, speaking of things unheard and conspiracies not proven. Like a film noir, the characters at play on this strange stage, tormented by subconscious guilt, sit, some in sinister silence, glowering, waiting fore a chance.
Trees in soiled pots,
Life – death waxing now waning,
Cafe under moon;
The poet recites from inside on a small corner stage. Coffee is served by an attractive waitress. Thanking her and sipping the hot beverage, I’m board and they’re late.
“Hey,” she said.
“How are you,” remembering she serves me regularly.
“Your sitting alone?” She asked.
“Waiting for some friends,” I stated.
“OK,” she responded, “It seems like your always waiting for someone.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
“Who you waiting for?” continuing, but before I answer she’s called away to serve another.
A moth flutters from a tree, my conciseness follows.
Two lovers meet,
Beneath the dimming lights,
Between the two trees;
As I follow the flying messenger I saw her . . . Laughing and walking with mutual friends towards the table ware I sit by the swimming carp and under the tall potted trees. Kerry Heart pointed and waved to me, Biggs did the same. All three walked to the table, but my eyes followed the unknown woman.
They sat down, pulling out the steel chairs with friendly greetings and warm introductions for me and my desire.
“This is Sarah Klein,” said the fiery Kerry Heart with the multi blue and spiky hare, “Sarah, this is my good friend . . .”
We are blind to all others, dark eyes, olive skin, black and brown naturally curly hair to her breasts held by a black silk corset. A flowing dark dress fell to her feet. Here is your love sings in my mind.
Two hearts burn this night at the small cafe off the main street.
As you may have seen the first chapter of my serial is up, you can find it here or download it here (PDF). I’ve put allot of work into this story and I really hope you like it, and if you do please pass it around. Also any questions or comments regarding the story are welcome and appreciated. My goal after “The Lotus and the Rose” is finished is to have it published (on my terms).
Introducing the Lotus and the Rose is extremely difficult (so I wont bother). I will say this though, it falls outside a typical genre mould (though I believe it would fall under slipstream). I feel the story and the art really speaks for itself.
Again, I hope you enjoy.