The writings of Hunter Coch

fiction

A Game

 

A dim light shines through,

Illuminating her curves

On burgundy sheets.

 

Nude upon the Egyptian cotton, her breasts exposed. The air moves gently across her nipples and along her dew dropped curves. She shivers at the sensation. She knows she’s watching.

 

Life, you twisted thing,

New adventures in the night,

Under watchful eyes.

 

She stands by the bed watching her nakedness in motion. Her hand move across the body’s contours, stopping at the mounds of flesh topped by light brown nipples, circling, playing with the silken skin, then moving down to the deep places where she blooms in damp delight.

 

On a bed she’s watched,

Woman looking on woman,

Game of desire.

 

She’s watching her perform. She stands, she quivers. Her eyes follow her hands. Her hands follow her eyes. The watcher is being watched and in time her hands move down to bring herself in tune with the laying beauty.

 

She stands by the bed,

Nude in the soft yellow light.

Above watchful eyes.

 

They gaze. They touch without touching. They love. They make love through thought and inaction. When their minds meet, a climax of infinite lust erupts into a fluidic waking dream. Infinite desire, infinite lust. Beautiful tension.

 

And then, with a kiss

Begins a bodies bonding.

And then, with a touch . . .

 

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Its Eyes Looked Beyond

Forest of twilight,

With trees thick, the path’s overgrown

To the hidden grove.

 

What light shines through the canopy leaves comes only in small rays that highlight the vibrant hues and make shine the tiny particles trapped within its beam. Small beasts scurry unseen in the dense foliage. Dead leaves crackle underfoot.

 

Vines crawl its stone face

Through lycan and moss of greens,

This ancient form stands.

 

The air is thick and heavy. Shadows move in unnatural ways and it feels like insects are following. The knowledge of time is gone. We walk the way disoriented, searching for the ancient rumor as the birds call from above.

 

The ancient idol

From beyond man’s memory

Waits for those who come.

 

What will we find? What lies at the end of our paths? What people would come to this hellish place to build in such a hostile environment? Do we seek a sacred grove of ancient wonders? What will we learn of this ancient people?

 

Into the distance,

It sees in shade and shadow,

It knows who’s coming.

 

The past is gone, the way is lost. We know neither direction nor distance. But we hear a call from afar, the distance song that sings to our dreams. We see a light in our mind’s eye. I fear, but we must move forward.

 

Light through broken leaves

Shines light on forgotten stone.

The way is open.

 

We stand up on a hilltop clear but for tall grass and a single stone idol, large and imposing. The sky is a light was fire; as the sun descends the stars flicker into existence. Filled with excitement, anticipation, and fear, he approached unwillingly.

 

Eyes of stone look deep,

From a time beyond knowledge

And civilized man.

 

My friends are gone. Hope is gone. We came in search of lost civilizations. We came to understand our own past. But this was not of human hands. I now know what lies within stone. I am gone.

 

Alone in the woods,

Stands an ancient stone idol,

Its eyes look beyond.

 


Sex and Death

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.

Agonies beauty.

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,

Forgotten inhibitions,

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,

Sensual shiver.

 

Time slows.

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.

 

Anticipating

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.

 

Religions power

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.

 

Intensity, pure

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


The Lonely Walk of Madness

On a night-time walk,
To clear this mind of sadness,
For a woman lost,
Became a tale of madness.

Through old oaken groves,
On a chilly starlit night,
Thick mists snuck in and
Words that brought consuming fright.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.

Beats sound from unknown
Corners as shades come by fog.
And fires flutter,
Scented embers brought gray smog.

Fetish sits center,
Hooded circle come about.
With barbarous chants
The alien minds call out.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.

Barren head of death,
Carved with sigils great and small.
Idol of power,
To the ancient ways recall.

With the heart’s rhythm
The shadows begin to dance.
Smoke rises to heights
The daemons begin to prance.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-Formeum-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-Armeum-Yast.

Faster the beats rise,
Frenzied are the shadow beasts.
Fog and smoke and heat,
Drunk on the mystical feasts.

Intoxicated
By beats and chants and thick smoke.
Blue and black fire,
The gifts of gnosis evoke.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.

Deathly fetish glows
As a dark liquid light spews.
Burning cold and thick,
Shifting with unearthly hues.

Then all became still,
And the ghostly creatures stared.
Alone in the dark,
Motionless, afraid, impaired.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.

Shades and shadows fade,
Silence comes and the fog clears.
Dare I ask what came
Dare I look in deepest fears.

By the light of dawn,
Arrives the deep cleansing rains,
And clearing quickly,
Eyes widen to what remains.

Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.
Etu-Autu-FormeUm-Dast
Bentu-Cutu-ArmeUm-Yast.

Deep scars and pale rotting stains.


Novel Update #1: Alien Fields

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.


#NaNoWriMo, I Failed yet I still Win

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.

Cheers
-Hunter


Halfway Through #NaNoWriMo

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.

 


#NaNoWriMo and the big 10,000 update.

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 die.

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.

Eons pass.

Eventually the seed comes. Life begins again.

You can also find another NaNoWriMo excerpt here.


Stream of Consciousness: A Dark Day

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.


Story: The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #2 . . . #WesternWednesday

The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #1 can be found here.

What does your soul sing when the sparrows fly west?
What hope does the desert eagle bring?
What sleeps in the nest?
What songs do the coyote sing?

A dread mist fills the streets and alleys. A fog of sloth brought by wrath; the dark man brings vengeance to the town that defiles a muse. And the rolling thunder would come again and again; Only Ximena new it was that dark man whom dwelt in the storm.

By the next performance the fog lingered; people are forgetful & apathetic . . . They will never forget again after this evening. A big night was planned. More than one performer and Ximena was to be the star, the one to close the night.

The dark man walks down allys unseen; hat hung low, collar turned high. One in each hand hangs the steaming colts. Though many saw him, none would remember the man who walks in the fog. The only remembrance comes in the form of dark terror and rolling thunder.

Crime of lust in the storage rooms, seeds spilled under the cellar door. Dark deeds in the minds of patrons filled with golden spirits. Music plays gently in the night air. Moisture stifles the sounds in the distance, but are still herd in the east by the riders who approached; comancheros on painted steeds.

Bandits of the waists, and the people of the desert town welcomed them (or rather welcomed the stolen wealth). Apathetic malice rode in the five hearts, whores and rape, opium and booze, the core of desire; and the big show.

Three notes began the show, two hard, one soft.

Nona Magaera began with a stomp on the bar she stood upon, then walked extending the legs gracefully but with great exaggeration with a wide swing of her hips. A sinful smile perked the corner of her lips as she sang a song of innocence defiled and virginity ruined. One could almost tell she was pregnant.

Then they walked in, the five bandits of the waists. Room was made for them. Seats were given to them. Whiskey was served. And as Nona danced and sang, a tear fell as she looked at the youngest of the comancheros but she covered it with a skillful swipe of her hand against her cheek but as the hand fell it caressed the very slightly protruding belly. The young bandit looked up in recognition, smacked his companion then pointed at the poor Nona, laughing with villainous pride.

The performance ended with the second woman leading in as None ran back to her room.

Decima Tisiphone came out with a rage in her eyes, even though she had a matronly look. Beginning her number with a scream that was either the sound of vengeance satisfied or sexual climax. Her song was not slow, her song was not sultry, but was more like a hard but satisfying fuck. It brought a new level of drunkenness to the crowd. A Dionysian dream was taking hold; which lead to next act as Dicima, instead of returning to her room, stepped down into the crowd and accepted the drinks offered.

Morta Alecto was a woman of dark attire, silk and lace in shades of black, magenta, and violet. She wore crimson on her lips, the color of blood. Skin pale like the high desert snow.

Her song and dance was slow, but her skill seemed off as if she waited for one set of eyes in particular. The performance was unlike any sung that night, more of a summoning than a song; but that would be correct. The object of her calling now stood in the large door. Then her song really began, as the dark man seemed to nod in response to the calling.

Fire was in the voice of Morta Alecto, and the Dionysian fever gained in heat.

One of the eastern bandits beat on Nona’s door, not the youngest who was now perusing matronly Decima, but no man longed for Morta though she shined with more beauty than all but one who now took her steps down the long staircase into the cravinous crowd.

She did not see him at first, but on the third step his pale grey eyes fond her hazel. He smiled pure wrath; pulled his pistols and let loose the rage . . .