Pouty, Perfect Lips

Billie smiled at the poor schmuck sitting at my bar. Of course he flushed redder than the shade on her pouty, perfect lips. Damn, her. Even her smile was indecent. If you saw Billie, you’d understand. She took great pleasure knowing how frustrated guys became around her.

In all fairness, Billie is no siren. She’s just your ungodly, curved in-all-the-right-places gal with hair thick as a mare’s mane and legs almost equally as long. When Billie walks into the room, all men instantly revert to prepubescent boys, clumsy and tongue-tied.

I’m the only one immune to her charms. I grew up with Billie when she was my little brother.


Thom host 3WW. This week's words: frustrate, indecent, understand. Not happy with my title. Any suggestions? Read more entries here.

Summer Groove

As summer approaches, I often think of childhood memories, but not always. Sometimes, summer conjures up those wicked nights spent at the festivals off the waterfront. My early thirties were my Indian Summer. I was young then, a working professional with no commitments. One year at the African World festival I spotted a fine brother, the kind of man, what is it they say in those novels, arresting, yes he was arresting.

He was sporting an Isaac Hayes dome. He was smooth milk chocolate (cliche but everything you think of when you think chocolate, he was). He wore a loose fitting shirt, you know, the kind that billows in the wind as you walk along the shore. Sported matching linen pants, loose but not so loose I couldn’t detect the gluteus maximus that only a brother who diligently squats three times a week and runs five miles a day before dawn has. I watched the rhythmic roll of his hips to the drums of a funky Latin beat, yes, I know it was African World but I know it was Latin because he told me all about the group later, but I’m jumping ahead here. Everybody was feelin’ the groove and the groove was bumpin’. I slipped into that sea of warm bodies and prayed to the deities of lust to be kind to me. Let Isaac find his way to my full swaying, tangerine hips. I wanted to share his heat….

And how did it turn out? Let’s just say everytime I look at my 70s inspired, striped hip hugging robe, I smile, and I remember the night the gods were kind to me.

Every week at 3WW, Thom assigns three words. This week: arresting, wicked and rhthymtic.

3WW

The news of another member being afflicted
is like the sloshing in a pitcher shaken
by an unexpected bump against its table.
We’re dangerously close to spilling our keepsakes
onto an already dirty floor.

Each week, Thom gives us three words to craft a work. This week, we have restless, dangerous and keepsake. To see more, visit 3WW.

3WW: Mama Lockdown: The Beginning

The battle of between D-town and the Hills had been fierce. City folk and suburbinites fought over what was left after the Burn of '44. If the polticians had been treacherous before, what each side's army did to each other was worse. I'm not talking bodies. The Burn took care of that, I'm talking wasting what few resources we collectively were depended on: the freakin' land, metals and textiles. In the end neither side ended up any better off: both sides lacked enough resources and we remained co-dependent whether we liked it or not. Now the city folk actually had the upper-hand. You know the joke, poor folks know how to make do. So after the Burn, those in the epicenter got busy plotting out community gardens, establishing neighborhood turfts and making pacts with micro gangs for protection.

And while the burbs were slow on the uptake they weren't without their wits. The ex Suits knew when it was crunch time, you had to act on your feet, be efficient. Instead of looking to optimize profits, they pooled intellectual property. City and Burbs bartered their best assets. Necessity will make bedfellows out of estranged partners.

Now this is Auntie's sanitized version. Auntie says if folks had been reasonable and sane, we wouldn't have had the Burn to begin with it. Besides, she says no sense in wasting more time than necessary to explain what has happened. Auntie has no time for blame or tears. She says neither will feed us nor protect us.

My name is Tyemba, I'm eleven, and I live with my Auntie, Mama Lockdown. Auntie is no joke. She thinks she's cool and don't get me wrong, she is but she's my Auntie. Even with her cool outfit and superpowers and all, she's still the woman who wiped my butt as a baby. Know what I mean?

Anyway, gotta go. Auntie sent me on an errand, and if I'm not back when she think I should be back she won't have to use no super power to make my butt hurt. I'll holla at you later. Peace.

p.s. Nobody and I mean nobody calls her Auntie but me. Last thing you want to do is piss off my aunt. So if you meet her, show mad respect. It's Mama Lockdown to you.

Every week Thom at 3WW gives us three words. This week's words are treacherous, efficient and optimize. I was late writing mine and must have been fate. Read a post about a contest and make your own superhero and here we go. Did I mention I met up with my nephew this week, too, so life's little episodes led to this. I think I'm going to ask for his input for future installments. To read more go here.

3WW: Streaking

So I’m sittin’ there watching Trisha the newsgirl with the great set of headlights when, “BOOM”! I bolt out the back door and standing there looking both nervous and happier than an alley cat caught with a rat in its mouth, is Leonard staring up at white streak in the sky.

“Boy, what the….”

“Hey, Pop. Remember last week when you came out here and asked me who I was bickerin’ with and I told you I was talking to myself- that’s how I process. I was frustrated because I having trajectory problems. And you said, "Son, shoot, don’t take a genius to figure that out." You were right. I’ve been out here working at it and sure enough turned out it was a minor glitch in the fuel line. These fine hands, Pop, worked it out. Tonight, my rocket lit up the sky!”

“Alright Boy genius, great, wash up and get in here for dinner.”

Every week, Thom gives up three words for 3WW. This week we had to use: bicker, nervous, trajectory. In spirit of my current discussion with Doret about Dr. Truelove I came up with this. To read other contributions, go here.

3WW

I'd Bleed For You

Flash like a fine blade maligns cleanly.
Red beads stain the flesh before the cut is felt;
bleeding isn’t cryptic.

*Every Wednesday, Thom gives us three words. This week I opted for poetry. This week's words: cryptic, flash and malign. Find more contributions here.

I am Cretian, I am Male!

"And I'm Having Your Baby"
part 1
part 2

It had been a fortnight since their talk. Some talk. It had gotten ugly almost instantly. Their quarrel was brutal. Krell told Trekia he was pregnant and while he expected her to be shocked or numbed, what he didn’t expect was for her to go all sexist and traditional on him. She took a deep breath and then said that she wanted Krell to come with her to see her parents. She would have them draw up a contract immediately and she would take care of him and their offspring.

Krell lost it. What, you roll around in the grass a few times with a female, get knocked up and she assumes the guy wants to get married? He wants her to save her from shame and make him a respectable, male Cretian! What a crock of dung! Because she was upper caste and an attractive female she assumed that Krell would want to be contracted to her for the rest of his life? He hissed at her. He told her she wasn’t worth two dead flies to him and under no uncertain terms would he have her as his provider. He told take her double humped, three-footed tail and slither off under some rock and don’t look back.

Trekia just stared. Her mouth gaped but silent. He knew he had been cruel. Yes, he had a right to be angry but there had been no reason to have gone off. He had treated her as if she were an enemy combatant. Trekia blinked hard and turned away.

Krell stood there that night shaking and panting hard for several minutes. He climbed back to his post and thought hard about what he was going to do with his life and the one he was carrying.

Cretian pregnancy cycles were fast and furious. There was no time to waste. The following evening meal, he told his family. His mother was unbelievably stoic and silent. The blood completely drained from her face. She stood up and left the room. His brothers’, after recovering from shock, pleaded with Krell to accept Trekia’s offer or terminate the pregnancy. He refused. Eventually, they accepted his decision and told him they supported him. His father, was teary-eyed, but held it together. He said he loved him and then he went fishing. His sister, well, she unleashed the wrath he had expected. She hissed at Krell. Told him she had always known he’d turn out to be worthless and she only hoped that he disappeared quickly before shaming the whole family. Then she stormed out of the module.

Continued.... (this is a link, folks)

I'm Having Your Baby- 3ww continued

Continued...

Before his next shift, Krell went to see a certain general to call in a very large chip. Being a night guard had its perks. Having caught said general rolling around in the bush with a fellow general, Krell was sure the general would do all he could to avoid a nasty divorce and public scandal. Krell explained to the general that he needed an honorable discharge immediately. Say it was due to medical or whatever credible reason he had to, but he needed it done now.

And here he sat, finishing out his last night of duty. He sighed heavily, wondering how had his life spiraled out of control. Sure, he wanted more, wanted differently. Two ebolutions ago when he had signed his enlistment papers for required military service, he knew this wasn’t the life he wanted. He didn’t want to be the contracted male of a female who was obligated to care for him and their offspring. He didn’t want the very beige, suburban life that his parents had willingly accepted.

That restlessness in the pit of stomach is what had led him to the rebels in the first place. While he still didn’t hold the same romantic notions they held, he knew he didn’t want the traditional life either. Despite how it happened, this was Krell’s opportunity to choose his own path. He laughed, “Why is my life playing out like a bad b-rated reel?”

He didn’t know why, but he felt Trekia would come tonight. This whole confidence and assurance was new. Everything was new. Like how with little provocation he could go off on a tirade or break down into a crying fit. These emotional swings were worse than his premenstrual symptoms and before now, he didn’t think anything could be worse than emotional deviant he became during his cycle.

He needed to see Trekia. He owed her an apology. While he had no desire to be contracted, he did care for her. He wanted to tell her about his decision to have their offspring; that he was leaving soon for the commune outside the city. He wanted her to know that if she still wanted him, she could find him there and together they’d decide if they wanted to spend their lives together. He’d tell her he wanted a partner, not a mother figure demanding to be obeyed. He would not be anyone’s underling. Either they were equals or they were nothing.

"Krell?"

"Trekia"

"We need to talk."

Each week at 3WW, Thom posts 3 words. This week's words are quarrel, opportunity and service. Then we have at it. This is the conclusion of a three part story. To read more entries, go here.

3WW

"An Age Old Tale"
First installment is here.

Krell swore an oath to himself. He would not give into her deceit nor indulge his own desires. It had been three shade cycles since he saw her last. He worried why she had stayed away. Had he been dumped?! The thought stung. Just then he saw her. Her scales glistened and her eyes, polished Khoal bore into him. She moved languidly as if world was hers for the taking. Reflexively his tail began to stiffen but he held his resolve.

"Trekia we must talk."

"Can't we talk afterwards?"

"There's not going to be an afterwards . We need to talk."

Krell climbed down from his post. He told her to recline. The dull ash on his scales and worried expression on his face told her something was wrong. She lowered herself and curled her tail around full rear.

He sighed and then he began.

Each week at 3WW, Thom assigns three words. This week we're to use deceit, indulge and oath. I won't leave folks hanging with this story. I'll tie it up in 3 no more than 4 installments. To read more submissions, go here.

3WW

Krell sat brooding on his perch on the high wall. He was furious. He had given into her again. This was the third shade shift he had spent with her. He swore he wouldn't let her seduce him again but what young, cold-blooded Cretian could resist her? Trekia was double humped, and she had a three foot long tail! Now, modern Cretian males like to think they are sosphisicated and above banal instincts but the truth was, length does matter.

When she came to him tonight, she was even more alluring. Her scales were glistening in the moonlight, a vivid red, the color of human blood, and by the gloss of them, she had recently been buffed. Trekia, was high-class, the kind of Cretian female who took her grooming seriously. She kept her scales manicured, razor sharp and emaculate. And her tongue, the first time she parted her exceptionally thin lips and flicked her split tongue at him, Krell thought he'd faint right there. She only had to look up at him, and like an obedient off-spring, he came down from his post. Just being near her, he could feel his tetee glands swelling. He desperately hoped he wasn't going to secrete lubricant all over himself.

She hissed demurely and he followed her behind the boning tree. When they were done, she disappeared like a shadow without a whisper. Krell climbed back to his post and began to fret. In the aftermath of their caledestine meeting, Krell's scales vibrated involuntarily and his tail was still rigid. He talked to no one, to himself.

What if tonight she broke my membrane? What if I've been fertilized? How will I explain this to my family? Tek, Leke and father will moan and be overcome with shame. Mother and Shelea will....I don't know, but their reaction would be severe. How could I be so stupid? Why did I let those idiots talk me into stop taking my hormone suppressant pellets? And having stopped the suppressants, how could I even consider not taking my anti-fertilization grass? What if I am carrying a sac of larvae and in twelve ebo cycles, I'm going to be an uncontracted father!

In Cretian society, coupling had become a matter of the State. Male and females were assigned mates, unless they were the elite and it that case, families contracted unions. Copulation was considered a necessary biological function, but an wholly unpleasant affair that only lower life forms enjoyed. Of course, there was a growing movement among young Cretians and the die-hard old guard that pined for the times when mating was decided by the sexes, and copulation was a deliriously satisfying activity.

And that is how Krell fell into his current dilemma. He had been associating with a few underground members who planned to usurp the State by reproducing out of contract off-spring. They planned to build a commune on the outskirts of the Cretian chartered lands and start a new society. Krell wasn't completely sold, but he did question why citizens were required to take the hormone pellets if they had truly evolved. So now here he sits. He'll have to wait three more shade cycles before his menses is due. If it doesn't come, what will he do? Does Trekia love him? Would she go with him? Mate with him for life and live among the rebels?

Each week Thom posts three words. To read more entries go here.

Cherry-popped #999

They fall hard. I wouldn't call what happens with Cherry a crush. Nah, it's called a smack-down (you know, make you see stars kind of thing); a sap is sucked in and he doesn't stand a chance. Cherry's got it like that, a knack for making guys lose their ever freakin' simple minds. What's worse, she really doesn't do much. Well, unless you count smiling. Her smile is fatal. I'm talking lethal injection. And the guys- nothing varied about them and the outcome is always the same.

A guy comes in the Blue Light, orders a beer or a shot, hell occassionally, one even orders a glass of wine. Before he orders his second round, Cherry has worked her magic. She smiles and makes the guy believe he is special when he isn't. By the time her shift ends, he's professing his love eternal. She, on the other hand, is scooping up his keys and thinking about her trip to the Daisy Mall in the morning while he sleeps off his trip to Paradise.

It's 2 A.M. and Cherry just popped #999.

*Every week, Thom posts 3 words for us to work our magic. To read more go here.

3ww

"Clappers"

It's after War III. The US government has been re-established but there were heavy causalities; the costs to rebuild the country was beyond anything anyone could have imagined. We got it wrong telling the American people that our enemies had brown faces and funny sounding names and that they weren't anything like us. What a crock of shyte that was. Turns out the number one threat to national security is homegrown terrorism, organic domestic fanaticism. Yep, the iceburg variety in your own backyard.

Our greatest enemy are the off-spring McVeigh would have had. They sprung up like dandelions after the war. They're pissed and they're exacting their revenge big-time. Their weapon of choice, clappers, suicide bombers (hey some things don't change). A clapper usually looks like one of those kids who used to model for Banana Republic ads: blond, tanned and ridiculously thin. So much for profiling.

These days, the trappings are gone. There are no complicated schemes, no layer upon layer of strategic planning, no acquiring materials to manufacture a bomb, no orchestrating elaborate ruses to get pass security measures. And gear? That's a joke. Put on a funky, retro tee-shirt, jeans and sneakers and you're good. No bomb, no backpack. Their body is the reactive, a walking bomb with liquid nitrogen cursing through their veins, the result of six weeks worth of doses of a tasteless, odorless explosive drunk from a Dixie cup, four times a day. For six weeks, wear an extra pair of socks and don't get slapped on the back.

With directions to a designated public location, a clapper shows up for his big revival. All it takes is some old fashion, earnest church clapping and- boom! You're an instant martyr (like I said, some things don't change).

If you'd like to know the inspiration for this piece, check out Neal Shusterman's, Unwind. Clappers are his invention.

Every week at 3ww, Thom gives us three words to use. Here's putting all my YA reading to use. To read more selections go here, 3ww.

3WW & TOP

Rite of Passage

When she sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes,
I weigh my options: give in to that ubiquitious
urge and snatch her up by her whirling dervish neck
or bear down, refocus and restrain that natural
desire to curse her and the universe for the burden
of having given birth.


Submitting this for both 3WW and TOP.

3WW

Roswell waited for Pecker boy to tuck in sleeping beauty. What in bloody hell was taking so long? How can he stand the sound of that cow snoring? Let's get on with it already. The clause prohibiting him from killing her rubbed him like callous feet. While he was a patient man, a methodical fellow, a professional of unquestionable skill, this assignment was dragging on far too long. He would not let that bore of woman interfer any more. Peter Pecker would be killed tonight, and if he had a take a cut for killing her, too, to do, so be it.

Finally, Peter locked Janie's door and tip-toed the ten steps across the hall to his flat. His own head was throbbing, a dull, persistent ache the source of which he couldn't figure out. Janie had drank like a fish not he. No matter, to bed and in the morning he'd be fine.

"Good evening, Mr. Pecker."

"Peter?"

"Bloody hell"!


*Every Wednesday, Thom posts three words at 3WW. I'm stuck. I can't figure out how to quicken the pace, use the words, and keep this compact all at once. lol To see what others have done with the word choices go here.

3WW

"Another Day On The Job"
continued

He stood outside the bar watching them, brooding over the most restrictive conditions of his employment: only the designated party may be killed and no witnesses. These were frivolous, unnecessary provisions and every time he thought about them he boiled. His mood was as dark as the shadows that concealed him. To distract himself, he slowly pulled off the nail of each digit. It should have been excruciatingly painful instead the discomfort passed too quickly and his agitation grew.

Inside the bar, among her friends Janie laughed and drank. Her girlfriends’ reaction to Peter went beyond impressed. By four beers in, her success backfired instead of feeling elated she felt the dark edges of loneliness curling around her temples. Why can’t I be open and candid with other men? Why don’t I act on impulse, take a risk with a guy I might actually have a relationship with? Peter is kind and funny, and catching him by surprised that time wearing only a towel was delicioussssssssssssss. He’s perfect except he’s gay.

“Janie, ready to go, love?”


*Every Wednesday, Thom posts three words at 3WW. We're to be creative. Today's selection is a follow up to short piece I started a couple weeks back. I exceeded under 100 words. To see what others have done with the word choices go here.

3WW

Peter nursed his drink and waited for the mayhem. Janie had cajoled him into joining her at the Gas Light for Karoke and quarter beer- a sure combination for setting off the rabble rousers. He’d rather not listen to off-key reinditions of Duran Duran, but Janie, a normally sensible girl, became a poll dancing dervish (if there were a poll) three beers in. Her hair and clothes would be in disarray soon enough. He’d call a cab, put her to bed and slump into his own next door.

Janie was pleased with herself having Peter there. By her own assestment, she was pretty enough, gainfully employed and bright- an upwardly mobile young woman. Still every woman likes attention and a little envy. When the girls from the office saw Peter, their eyes validated Janie had it all.

So Peter was her neighbor and friend, no one need know that but Janie and Peter.



Each week at 3WW, Thom posts a three word writing challenge. This week's words: rabble, disarray and validate. I've opted to continue a story. Visit the site to read more submissions.

3WW

"Another Day, Another Coin"

While the hunt had been uneventful, the pay was generous. He thought better of his complaint. He unfolded the slip with his next victim's name on it. "So, who's my next daisy pusher, hmmm?" He roared as he read it, "Peter Pecker! Ah, it seems the universe has never been kind to this fellow." He crumpled the note and then frowned. "With a name like Peter Pecker, how much nerve could this sap have"? He'd have to come up with some vile and illicit amusements to make this one fun. "Oh well, all in a day's work."


*Every Wednesday, Thom posts three words at 3WW. We're to be creative. Today's selection is a follow up to short piece I started last week. I decided to try to keep this under 100 words. Do you think this qualifies as micro fiction? To see what others have done with the word choices go here.

3 WW

"Another work day"

He wouldn’t let up, he moved as if he were strolling an estate’s gardens while she- tumbled along on limbs long past running, her icy breath jagged, slashed at her lungs like a brutal caress massaging breast and bone beneath a blank moon’s stare…

He was ruthless but swift. Bored, actually. He had grown tired of the pursuit almost as soon as it had begun. In fact, he resented it. She had been weak, small- no challenge for his prowess. He intended to complain to his employer- after he had been paid of course. After killing for centuries, one hoped occasionally the victim would make the assignment interesting.

*
Each week, Thom posts three words to be used in a piece of writing. I'm currently listening to Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. This is where my mind went. To read more, go here.

3ww

she is not delicate; she is like the night, a jaded lover turning
blue beneath a bleeding sun. she is a little warm death.




Check out other submissions for 3ww.

draft

Don’t jingle patriotism like a trinket
dangling from your wrist;
the clanking doesn’t dissolve our cynicism
and stalling is no substitute for zest
no matter how you pull the peel.



Here's my submission for 3ww. It is unabashedly political. Admittedly poor poetry, but given the news today, it does reflect my mood. To see more submission look here.