The lady you see in the background was a sculpture I created way, way back, my junior year of high school. I was ever the wilful child turned into obstinate teen and did not take direction well. My art teacher warned me of clay thicknesses. I didn’t listen. The sculpt, 3 feet in length, did not live long. All that remains of her – a few photos that I treasure as a reminder- there is always more to learn from others – listen well and learn – always learn
“Included in ‘Nine New Lit Mags You Need to Read’ as one of “nine new journals that appeared on the scene within the past couple of years and have already made their mark on the literary landscape” in the November/December 2016 Issue of Poets & Writers.”
the buck moon
there is a moon where newness emerges
from above the forward brow line placid black almond eyes
antlers and smooth skin twist
against harder things
strip away velvet underpinnings wrap the chilled arms of night air
forest canopy dulling shadow dancing silhouettes vague and slippery
vulnerable newness pressed to pounding chests
no light forecasting the future
suckle the dark together
how embarrassing, had to redo this because I always screw up “past” vs “passed”
just in time for Halloween
I’m honored to be included in Chicago Literati, with my flash piece, The Dipping Bread
I hope you enjoy reading, as much as I enjoy writing about vampires and their victims 😘
THE DIPPING BREAD
It happens at the Fondue Palace. Near the cheese fountain. Two lovers twirling their fondue forks suggestively. He’s been ignoring his inner voice all evening. “Something is very wrong with your date, John.” The very same voice that hours before implored him to make an escape out the backdoor. Get out before it’s too late. Too late.
Suri’s sultry eyes are vacant things. John can’t gaze into those shining black planets orbiting his date’s face. He turns away from the closeness of her flawless skin. She giggles and flicks her tongue into John’s exposed ear. He laughs nervously. He senses a curious warm spot on his cheek. Crimson droplets appear on the dipping bread. His hand touches his face and traces the warmth down to his neck. The wetness tints his fingertips. He slides his thumb and middle finger together. Then apart. His eyes focus on what he sees. He’s unable to wrestle out the weak cry pinned behind his gum-line. Other unwitting customers continue gleefully stabbing at bread cubes. Drowning baked dough in pots of hot liquified cheese.
No words will leave John’s chained voice. Suri’s fondue fork finds her date’s palm. She guides the two-pronged metal, like a serpent’s fangs, along the meat of John’s hand then sweetly plunges the sharp points into his flesh. She guides his limp fist up to her wine-colored mouth. Her satin skin smells like ancient ice. A burning sensation shoots from John’s brain to his groin. An explosion unlike any erotica he’s ever experienced.
Suri’s slim, powerful hand slides beneath John’s shirt. His sweating back is buckling. She holds him up effortlessly with a polished finger. John clenches his jaw. His uninjured hand reaches around his date’s cool neck. Forceful and swift–he pulls her face to his. He kisses this “woman” in a manner unfamiliar to his own lips. Their mouths sucking like uncontrolled siphons. Lightning between his legs. Shockwaves ripple inside his thigh muscles. Metallic saliva flows back and forth between their twisting tongues. Cold bliss blankets John’s dying instincts. It’s blood, John. It’s blood.