Poetry competition CLOSED 27th August 2015 8:28am
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Story Time!

gapchenko
Strange Creature
Joined 24th Feb 2015
Forum Posts: 5

It was a mid October morning, an eerie shroud of mist fell upon the solemn hill top. To the east the sun was rising just above the leafless and almost lifeless tree tops. The only sign of life from the trees came from a single crows calling, its voice drifting along the bleak English countryside hand in hand with the ghostly mist. It was almost as if the mist itself was calling, calling out in warning. Hurry, it says, close your doors, keep your windows shut this morning, the damp air is coming and with it comes an unforgiving coldness. It seems that all the inhabitants of the small town had heard this warning and obediently done as it asked. All it seems but one, one sole villager ignored the crows warning of the mornings mist.

She stands atop the hill, dressed all in black and clutching a single red rose. However this was no rose freshly picked from a blooming rose bush, nor was it bought from the local florists that sat opposite the town's church. This rose, was dead. Its petals had faded in colour, its once blushing cheeks had been drained of its life, its leaves now turning brown and drying up like an old woman’s skin. Yes, she may have had the most beautiful skin in the enter country but with age and the harshness of seeing many seasons her skin now becomes a husk of its former glory.

The woman twiddles the rose in her fingers for a few seconds. The black satin cloth of her gloves getting occasionally caught in the rose's thorn. She looks down upon the open grave that lies in front of her. Her eyes gaze on the name plaque, emotionless, lifeless, she stares. She stares and twiddles the rose as the cold damp mist encircles the hill and gradually begins making its way upwards to where she and the grave remain. Almost staring back at each other, a stand-off between the woman and her husbands grave. The mist now wrapping its cold deathly hands over the hill top, encasing this uncomfortable stand-off. It was almost as if the entire countryside around her knew what was going though her mind and decided to close the curtain. Giving her privatesy but at the same time chaining her to this moment. She could no longer leave the site of the grave, she was trapped, she had to go through with it. She knelt down on the wet grass and tossed the dead rose on top of the coffin. It rested just below the name plaque, nestled itself into a clump of dirt that was laying on top. Slowly her right hand raised its self and slid quietly into her handbag that was hanging off of her slender shoulder. The bag was clearly empty as her hand didn't need to do much rummaging. It briefly touched a small blank envelope that contained one hand written note before it found what it was looking for. Her fingers wrapped around the neck of a small clear label-less bottle. She squeezed it tightly and pulled it from her bag in a way that almost resembled a old knight unsheathing his sward before his final battle against an old foe. The deadly stare whilst doing this action meaning only one thing; only one of us is going to walk away from this alive. Her left hand came up to meet the top of the bottle, its finger ran slowly around the top of the cap in a clockwise direction. Almost counting down the time until she got the courage to grasp the top of it and twist. In a moment the bottle was now open, the cap tossed into the grave and its top now pressed against the woman's red lips. Her lips where the only thing of colour on her. Her pale skin and black dress complimented each other. Her pale blond hair seemed even more colourless this morning, due to the white mist maybe, or perhaps the colour had just simply drained away like the colour of the rose that laid on her late husbands grave. With the bottle pressed against her lips she closed her pale blue eyes and drank. One final crow squawk echoed out of the forest, around the hill and then down towards the town. One final warning to be heard on this cold October morning.

The woman fell on top of the casket in much the same fashion as the rose did, the woman was now dead in much the same fashion as the rose is. Her empty bottle that contained poison left sitting where she was kneeling. This grave that once held just one body and was marked by just one single item now contained two bodies. It was now marked by two items, a solemn wooden cross at its head and the loan empty bottle at its feet.

ImperfectedStone
The Gardener
Tyrant of Words
United Kingdom 28awards
Joined 10th Oct 2010
Forum Posts: 1347

Pilgrimage of the Recidivist


[Present tense, first person.] * I hope you like it, always nervous with these sorts of writes.

The boat quivers above softer water than I can recall in days, it bobs and dives to play games against itself with no change of heart despite the casting storms. She washes her hair and her face, upfront, bathes her breasts and binges in the spray. I lean at the back, watch the ants pull, rig and drink. I imagine being quite land-borne, studying Eka and her dark, horse-wild eyes, the large lips on such a little face. I divide myself, sparingly here, greedily there. Easily, I tease myself with the idea of her, and of freedom, and a dog and son. The boat hits shore abruptly, people begin the harder work, I don't aid. The captain studies his current whore lying nude on the deck, strewn. The boys have had a bashing, she's sore but by the by keen for his approval. He's absolved of her wiles.

Another pebble beach, and we're not meant to be here. The captain strolls on land, spends time arguing, charming, coercing a few local middle-aged men of property and sea knowledge. It's agreed we can have a buoy in the harbour for a few days, it's away from the rest but a solution is a solution. The winds are excited and unsuitable for sailing. The wooden lady smirks at our ill-fortune. I travel up the rockery to the quaint fishing town beyond, traipse through, find a small Tavern, people are bustling outside. A lady buys bread, stops, stares at me, I go inside. There are two cavities within, a quiet room at the back, so it seems, and the livelier point of drink. The boys will be causing havoc, lapping up the services and the life. I head in further for the smaller room. It's adorned in wood and the windows haven't been washed for weeks, months perhaps. Around the edges are bar stalls and dismal tables. It wreaks of pennilessness and poverty. A lady in soft, crushed velvet drinks something amber in the corner, she looks too moneyed to be here though her back is to me. I ponder whether she is an ashamed divorcee or a wealth weary widow. The keep glares at me, with a delicious contempt.
“Port.” It comes out more clay-like than I intend, probably the lack of using my voice for a day or two. The only friend on ship I had was Grackle, built large and drank heavy, he was suffering from an illness which the more intelligent of us, Peath, said we were not to go near him.
I drink the first, thick and friskily, request another and begin a bewitchment with the velvet collar and the auburn hair.

 “You alone?” She stares at me, soft and frozen and unsurprised, for a second, like she knows me, like she sees into my primary wire.
“Can you see anyone?” Her lips curve at the side, I don't entirely understand the sentiment but I sit on the pew opposite her and gaze upon her. Her breasts are adorned in a dark lace, her wrists to her ankles in navy velvet. She is mine in these moments, unable to leave and unable to speak and unable to avoid.
“What is your business here?”
“You. Yours?” She is terribly plain and her eyes are blue, illuminated blue.
“Force.”
“Of course, and what else brought you here?”
“Water.” I chuckle. She doesn't, she sips what smells like rum.
“They'll be coming soon, if they see you with me it will be a free for all.” She isn't wrong, the boys, mostly, are young and sick-minded.
“Shall we leave? Where can we go?” She envelopes my hand with hers, places a spare finger over her mouth as if to ensure hush and we delve, behind the bar and down, down into the cellar. The keep shuts the door behind us.
“Lay here. Be silent.” I feel a fever, fearful even, on the spot. She undoes her dress, becomes pale, curved, boned, godly. There is screaming above. “I need you to tell me your name.”
“I can't, however I will tell you theirs, they are the Fleet and they will find us here, it's not a good spot.”
“I have bought us time, tell me your name.” She's above me, stroking my bearded face, removing my waistcoat, unbuttoning my shirt. She strips me of everything and I am nothing.

 “Boer.” The floor is damp. The walls are bare. She is consuming me, whole, with her eyes.
“Boer, I love you. You have to know, I have gone to great lengths to meet you here. I have dragged myself through cascades of men, I have fallen far, have played on my own strengths to find you. You must see.”
“Who are you?” I fumble, her body is glowing, it is liquid gold. The door above begin to shift. It happens as if a flood of oxygen re-enters the room. They take her, drag her backwards by her hair. She doesn't scream or cry, not like the others, she writhes a little as I try to remove them. One after the other I pull until I am adrift, in the middle of the rough. They hit me, again and again and again. Blood rushes from the skull, blood rushes from the groin, it rushes and rushes. There is a story I remember, a meeting upon a meeting upon a meeting or something like that. I am born new and whole and clean. It is hot here and there are echoes in the medical corridors, of you.



Offensivelyme
Lost Thinker
France
Joined 12th Aug 2015
Forum Posts: 25

Sunshine

I kissed slowly and tenderly, while she was just laying there on my laps, her face slightly colored by the cars and buildings’ lights from the road. She then smiled, it wasn’t one of those smiles she wore to fight depression and pretend everything was right. It was filled with pure happiness, light and hope. And at that very moment I knew an adventure was ahead of us, and this kiss was a sunshine after a thousand years of rain in her devastated mind.

LobodeSanPedro
Tyrant of Words
Sierra Leone 109awards
Joined 16th Apr 2013
Forum Posts: 3304

Serving Time

"When the moon winks at me in the dark, I make sure I blow it back a kiss"

"Something an old boyfriend use to tell you?" Arturo asked.

"No, my brother," I mused. "He was a thief"

But so am I.

I was sitting with my crew spilt between two trucks waiting for this gordo rent a cop to take his usual 10:17 p.m. dump.

We'd have less than nine minutes to get in and out; maybe an extra forty seconds if his wife had packed his usual banana pudding for dessert.

"Vamos," I whispered, and with that my crew of eight were on the loading docks of another Fairway grocery store, third score of the night.

The assembly line we formed was militarily efficient.  After eight minutes I gave my guys the wrap it up signal.

It was better we finished early than late just in case that Pillsbury Dough Boy was on a diet, not likely, but why chance it.  I didn't need any of my crew caught and deported.

Speeding off I couldn't help but look back at the grocery store and think back to when I ran with my brother's crew.

Back then, we'd have found our way inside that grocery store safe for the cash, and hacked their system for credit card information.  We'd spilt the cash, and sell the card numbers.

Now, brother's dead, knifed by a guy who later gave us all up.  I'm still on probation, and I'm a mother to an eleven, going on thirty year-old daughter.

The green I steal from grocery stores is not dead presidents; it's lettuce, cucumbers, and cabbage.Perfectly good food thrown out by the ton because it's cheaper than donating it.

Screw that.

My crew and I take care of five food pantries in the barrio with fruits and vegetables for hurting families.

The next morning we're at St. Gabe's dropping off their cut of the night's haul.

"Buenos dias Galla," I hear someone calling as I help unload the truck.  I didn't look back but I knew it was Chef Marco.

"Buenos dias Chef," I coolly smiled.

"And what goodies did you bring me today?" he asked.  His smile trying to draw me in.

"Just what you see."

I loved watching his mind work as he picked and poked through what we hauled into the kitchen.  He took pictures of the food too with a digital camera he had.  He'd make prints with his recipes on back for the folks we'd serve.  It was the same way when my brother planned a job.  I envied their attention to detail.

"Let's see," he said pondering as he passed between crates. "With this I'll make a shaved Brussels sprout salad with maple Dijon vinaigrette for lunch."

Then moving towards the last of the boxes we brought in, he scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers, "shaved asparagus salad with shallots and fried eggs for dinner.  Does that meet your approval Galla?"

"Me?" I started laughing.  "Look maestro I told you before my mom is Brazilian and my dad Cuban, so the basic requirements of our diet is it adds five pounds to a woman's ass and ten pounds to a man's gut, and don't tell either one they're not sexy, especially the men."

"Well I've told you, no, I've begged you to let me take you out and show you some of the kitchens I create in.  Just say 'Yes' so I don't have to keep embarrassing myself in front of everyone here.  Besides you wear the five pounds well.  In fact I'd have only guessed three, four tops."

"Oh you sweet talker you," I laughed. "Besides I told you I don't date guys I work with."

"But technically neither of us work here. We're volunteers."

"Well if you're volunteering here then that means you aren't getting paid.  And she's gotta be fed remember," I declared smacking the side of my hips a few times for effect.

Everyone was laughing now.

Just as the laughter was dying down, Arturo my jefecame in and whispered in my ear.

I nodded and within a moment everyone followed Arturo out, leaving me alone with Marco.

He was smiling awkwardly, like a gangly teenager asking for his first dance.

"Look Marco you've always said you wanted to come with us on our runs when we pick up from our donors.  We've got a big job at that Piggly Wiggly Super Center on the north end, and I'm short handed on this one."

I figured it'd give us a chance to talk.  I liked Marco, but I'd paraded one loser after another past my daughter over the last two years breaking my heart,and hers along with it.

I needed to know he had some backbone.

"Great. What time?" was all he said.

Like the night before my crew and I sat stealthy near the grocery store platform waiting for Sheriff Woody to leave the toy chest so we could raid it.

But best of all waiting gave me a chance to talk with Marco, about everything and nothing at the same time.

I found out he was smart. He told me was saving to get his own food truck, from there a restaurant.

He was funny.  I nearly peed myself laughing at his jokes.

When his family came here from Croatia to escape the blood letting, St. Gabe's gave them shelter so that's why he volunteered.

Then just as I was about to trust him with my own confessions, a tidal wave of blue and white lights hit us. Four cops in two patrol cars were blocking our trucks.

One cop asked for my ID while his partner questioned Marco.

The next thing I knew Marco was out the truck and talking with both cops.  A moment later they were shaking hands, then both squad cars were gone.

As Marco got back into our truck he said, "I guess this thing pays off after all," showing me his police badge.

"You're a cop?"

"Galla," he said softly, "those folks at the center don't need a cop, they need me to be a chef, so that's what I am.  Tonight, I was a cop so your guys didn't wind up in a detention center."

And then he smiled and winked, and so I kissed him, gently.

"Thank you," I whispered, the teenage girl grateful for the dance.







PoeticPisces
Lost Thinker
United States
Joined 13th Aug 2015
Forum Posts: 9

The days are now dark not because the sun sets at 5:30 but because it's been an eternity since we've​ spoken those 3 words out of emotion and not habit. The monotonous pattern of our "I love you's" match the mundane conversations that used to be filled with excitement and vibrancy. The spark of a new flame has now dimmed to a dull ember fighting to stay alive. We pretend it's all still there but it's not. On the last day we went to that park where it all started. The same park where we spent so many days laughing and in love is the same one where it all stopped.  The words we spewed were a mix of anger and regret. I can see the exhaustion in your eyes from trying to keep this alive as clear as the cold air in our breath. The same exhaustion that I've felt for months. My ears are red and my fingers are blue because my body has never been able to handle the cold well. I'm shaking not from the freezing temperatures but from the reality that this is really it. And as I walk away my whole body is numb, not because my heart is struggling to provide adequate amounts of blood but because I know you're not there to keep me warm anymore. We've both seen this coming for miles but it's still hard to believe that it happened to us because at one point it was real and we were invincible. I guess time was our kryptonite. 

Grace
IDryad
Tyrant of Words
122awards
Joined 25th Aug 2011
Forum Posts: 16069

http://th00.deviantart.net/fs50/200H/i/2009/315/6/4/Narig_the_fairy_land_by_jaybatuta.jpg
They Never Found Debbie

Debbie looked out of the window, listlessly. This was one of the worst days of her life she thought. How can her mother palm her off to her grandmother Lily like this? Damn it, she was fourteen, almost fifteen. In a couple of weeks anyway. She could make a decision for herself now. The decision was, No to staying over at Grandmother’s.
She sighed stood up and walked out the front door and looked into the horizon.  This is like in the middle of nowhere, she thought. Trees and trees and fields and in the distance cows and goats. Who even want to have such a world of nothingness, she thought.
She hated her mother at that moment. It was bad enough that she divorce dad, when she was ten, and then she had to remarry!  Harry was alright as a person but as another dad…ewww. With his super white teeth and curly hair, he was a travesty of maturity. Now they were on their honeymoon; a month in Bali and another month in Bangkok. Who goes to those places for honeymoon, anyway? They eat crickets in Bangkok. Ewww…
Debbie decided to go for a walk. Her second day in the farm and she was already gasping for breath. She wanted her friends, Kitty and Jade and she wanted to go for their usual sleepover and talk about when they become models or film stars. She wanted the mall where they could wander forever while their parents worked…. She stamped her feet in silent anger.  She wanted to do fashion dress up in the internet, she wanted to play the Sims…it’s no fun here! Nobody to play with and her grandmother did not know the difference between a mouse and a bird.  Besides there was an interruption on internet service…She wanted her damn pillow. In fact she wanted her own bedroom, with her books and computer and the posters on the wall.
Her bedroom at grandma was cool, all wood and stuff, but nothing beats her own bed!
Debbie walked towards the woods where a gentle brook flowed.  She remembered it from previous visits, and she distinctively remembered how good it was to splash there.  But she was just a baby then, her mind protested, even as she walked briskly towards it.
She came to the stream and sat down on a large rock, looking at it bubble away. It was a nice shady place with low-branched trees around. Fall was about to show and the yellow and red leaves were in abundance. It looked kind of cool, but Debbie was determined that it was all so awful. In fact it was so crappy she could not imagine anything else crappier.
She sighed, cupping her chin and staring into the bubbly stream. She wished she was at home where everything worked. School holidays and she was wasting it in a farm. It was not even a working farm, just some animals on a tract of land.  
She stared into the water not really seeing anything except for her resentment. She was jerked out from her reverie by a resounding splash. Somebody had thrown a rock into the water.
“hey!” she yelled, looking up. She stared into the greenest pair of eyes she had ever seen. A girl her age was standing in front of her, smiling.
“Who are you?” Debbie asked looking at the girl up and down. The girl was about her age, thinner and taller,  but definitely her age. Her unruly curly hair cascaded over her shoulder, and freckles bridged her nose.
“My name is Marylou,” the girl said extending her hand; Debbie shook it once and said her name.
Debbie gaped at the other girl, not so much because she looked unkempt, but because she wore a dress, a long one, with frills at the bottom and bulbous sleeves. She even looked like she wore more skirts under her dress. Who wear them like that! New fashion? She have not heard or seen anything like those, although Lady Gaga might not be averse to such costume. Not that she liked Lady Gaga...she is so Old.
She stood up and followed the girl into the tunnel made by a canopy of thick branches. They held hands like they were old friends, and indeed it felt like that; that they knew each other since time immemorial.
They never found Debbie. The posters of her laughing face are still stuck in posts and boards across the State.  

poet Anonymous

<< post removed >>
poet Anonymous

Art is No Excuse

"Hey, hey, you are over reacting baby!"  Said the man. "An artist needs a muse!"  

"I thought I was your muse.", she said.

"Mmmm, let me try to explain", he said, lying back in his chair and touching his chin
thoughtfully.

"My inspiration has many layers, you are the foundation, the energy that sustains my ability to create."

"Without it, I am gassed, lost, and out of power!"  He was now standing, looking out of the Flat’s window, arms raised in exasperation.  

"She is my balloon, she lifts me from this gravity of dullness and gray doldrums that breed inactivity."
"I have no physical contact with her, she won't have me as a lover...I am too old for her."
"So you have come on to her!", she said disgusted, yet already knowing the answer.  
"I fucking knew it!...You son of a bitch!"
"I left school to follow you here to Paris so you could chase your fucking dream of being an important artist and this is what I get!"  "Fuck you!"

She ran past him into the kitchen, and used the counter top to stop her from falling to the floor.

"Baby, listen to me", he said standing now,
but keeping his back to her, as he looked
out of the window over the dark Parisian skyline.  

"You knew me, you know my spirit!"

"Shit, he said, I met you nude modeling for my anatomy art class!"  

"We have been together for a year, the rationalization continued, "you've seen me paint dozens of naked women,
where is this bourgeoisie jealousness coming from?"

"You never wrote any of those women poetry", she screamed, her voice cracking in places.  
She suddenly felt a redness come into her heart, like the redness that breaks before the dawn comes.  

"You never gave those women the words you give her!", she felt her spirit leaving her, she saw her future melting into the night.  

She had gambled her heart's last reserves on
this man, a man she had felt such passion and hope for.  
She had her suspicions about him, she knew his type.  She was not a stranger to love and sex nor man's fickle nature.  She had abandoned the idea of perfect love, but had hoped for the next best thing. Her discoveries of his affair had been a kind of non-event, friends had tipped her off.  

Paris is not an easy town to have an affair in when you are in the artistic community or in her case, a girlfriend of a man who had fancied himself an artist.  It seemed all too cliché, too scripted.  He could not have just used a crappy tourist hotel to fuck her in, he had to use the haunts of the struggling writers, painters, and sculptors who walked in the shadows of real giants.  Who chased the ghosts of Fitzgerald, Giacometti, Doisneau...  Places where the eyes of hundreds of the worst gossips in Paris could see and report.  

It all did not matter anymore, she had time to prepare for this moment, hours in fact.  Time to visit his gangster friends in the Bastille District, time to make purchases she thought she could never make.  Time to learn how to shoot a pistol and recover the spent shell casing. Time to learn how to wipe down the gun and ditch it in the Seine, preferably under one of the bridges where thousands of tourists go.  

Time to let go of her pure soul forever.  

"Bourgeoisie jealousness".....those words lingered in her mind like the smoke lazily drifting from the end of the pistol.
Upwards toward the ceiling of the perfect Maisonette apartment, in the perfect building, in the perfect arrondisment, in the perfect city.  The shot had been softer than she expected, the extra 200 euro for the silencer had been worth it.

The bullet made a dime sized hole in the back of his shaved head and had exited out of his forehead, blowing out a three inch piece of his skull.  She felt high, like on the best weed, mellow and slow, like a burning candle wick.

"So much potential", she muttered, tasting the acrid gunsmoke, "...all over the parquet floor, what a waste", she put the gun in her purse and left.  

No longer sad, she felt the cool autumn city air fill her lungs as she made her way to the nearest Gendarmerie.
She felt no guilt, but a kind of righteousness that comes with righting a great wrong, like putting out a forest fire or finding a lost child.  She would ponder this in prison she thought.  She suddenly remembered his touch on her shoulder when they would be in bed together and the it hit her.  He was dead and she was alive, to be alone forever and without a life of freedom.  Her energy changed again, she found herself at the traffic circle at the Arc de Triomphe, mad with buzzing cars and trucks.  Hundreds waited for the signal to change, to safely cross.

The idea came to her as a whisper, "yes", she said out loud.  "I will come with you", the witnesses said the woman smiled and held her hand out to an invisible stranger before she stepped in front of the lorry.  It hit her full on and at speed, knocking her 20 feet into the circle where a Renault ran over her torso.  

"So happy she looked", said the old woman to the cop taking the report, "like she was meeting a friend."  

The traffic continued around the scene, the lorry driver sat on the curb, head in hands,

"Mon Dieu!, surely now I will lose my job", he said to himself, "what will my wife say!"

Astyanax
Ceejay
Fire of Insight
United Kingdom 9awards
Joined 23rd Feb 2010
Forum Posts: 748

Eugénie

Eugénie grew up in an orphanage in Paris. Pretty and precocious, she married into money. In later life, a wealthy widow, she took young lovers. One deceived and ruined her. Poverty-stricken, she fell ill and died in a crumbling hospital on the outskirts of Paris. It had once been an orphanage.


teodornnn
Lost Thinker
Joined 24th Aug 2015
Forum Posts: 12

i like it so much!
short and full

Astyanax
Ceejay
Fire of Insight
United Kingdom 9awards
Joined 23rd Feb 2010
Forum Posts: 748

A fragment:

The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America - A Guide to Field Identification

Which of us, when traveling the highways and by-ways of New England or the eastern seaboard of our great country, has not pulled our Winnebago into the side of some quiet road to study a stray shopping cart standing quietly in the grass alongside the highway? Or perhaps you’ve encountered a cart lying on its side, lost and abandoned in some lonesome mountain stream bubbling down from the Adirondacks. And when this happens, what’s the first thing you say to your wife as she clambers from your vehicle to take a photograph? ‘Nice picture, honey, but what model is it?’ Yes, you’ve left your copy of ‘ID That Cart’ at home, and you don’t know the name and number of the store it came from, so you can’t call them on your cell. Is it a Sears’ ‘Goliath’ or a Wal-mart ‘Juggernaut’? How can you possibly tell, stuck out here in the boondocks? But hey, don’t panic, because this guide is designed to give you a few simple tips for you to memorize so that you’ll be able to identify any stray cart from just a few simple-to-learn features.

First, you can forget about the color – it’s just not a crucial feature in id-ing a cart. Instead, let’s look at the wheels. How many are there? Do they all swivel or just the front ones? And what sort of storage space does it have underneath the basket? You see, it’s becoming simpler by the minute!

(to be continued)


calamitygin
Jennifer Michael McCurry
Tyrant of Words
United States 28awards
Joined 22nd June 2015
Forum Posts: 2047

An almost unbelievable tale of Hillbilly lust
Let me start by swearin my attraction to an occasional dusty ol juke joint was no cliche preachers daughter rebellion.      
A good American girl, loved my Daddy, Jesus,  and both their good names.      
But the appeal and anononimoty of the sin and frolic rockin 'n rollin out those doors! Too much.    
Was just the temptation to do me in.      
At least i had respect enough to scratch that itch three counties away.      
I had needs to be met.      
     
And damned those needs.    
Damn the need for the whine and moan from the likes of Hank Williams and Patsty Cline.    
Double damned the need for the warm thrill and taste of gin.      
And triple damned the need for a spin with a good ol country boy gone ornery!    
     
Pardon, a necessary preface to my hot and bothered at him walkin in the door of my good Daddy's store.      
And now i go on to the gritty of the nitty..      
     
It started a dull thing of a day, was doin payroll, startled by the chimes announcing someone comin in.      
     
I recognised him immediately from my last carouse about.      
A deep blush risin and sweatin the thought of my cover blown, i tried very hard not to stare.    
But good God he was sexy, all blue jeans and swagger, he strode right up with a wicked shit eatin grin.      
     
"Hey baby i remember that shakin!"    
He says.      
Prayin my resolve would cover the weak in my knees i answered, "I'm sure you dont!" fightin hard the smile curling up the sides of my mouth.      
He laughs "Yeah, what time you want me to pick you up?"      
"Are you kidding!? Not on your life." I heard myself sayin, unconvinced.      
The white hot flash in his devastating blue eyes nearly melted my ice bitch.    
Then he turned around laughin said "Alrighty hun, i can read the hours on the door."      
     
The rest of the day went by in a haze of tryin to focus vs. the tickle between my legs every time i thought of him.      
     
Finally it turned time to close, hatin how scared i was at the thought of him not bein outside in that parking lot.      
     
But of course there he was. Lookin so cool 'n tough. Leanin up against his rusty red pick-up truck.      
Said "cool baby, hop on in."    
     
Wasn't much talkin on the long bumpy ride to his place. Dirt roads can seem endless.      
That one sure as hell did.      
     
There was certainly no ceremony upon arrival, just a "Baby hop on out."      
He was off, no help with my door.      
     
Greeted by the blackest dog you ever saw, sniffin at my crotch and nippin at my skirt. Guess like dog like owner. I was seriously doubting my judgement at this point.      
     
The insides of his trailer left no stereotype untouched, of your corn fed Ozark's man.      
Prise fish mounted on the wall, Budweiser cans as far as the eyes could see, and a guitar laid out on the couch.      
     
Thinkin to myself, good thing this was just a fuck. I mean, this dude would play a precious Montegue to my Capulet.      
     
Opening the door to his bedroom he pointed me the way, says "Get ready sugar,  gonna make you squeal!"      
     
And after things got goin, it wasn't too long, until like a stuck pig, squeal i did!    
You can't  imagine the sounds comin outta that room. Like thunder scared livestock, huffin and pantin and snortin. Fuck! There may have been a whinney! He did ride me like Seabuiscuit. I mean rode hard and most definitely put away soakin wet.      
     
Then suddenly he shouts "Glory!" and it was over as fast as it had started.. He grinned at me and rolled over. I lay there stunned and spent.      
     
I sat up on the edge of the bed. Not sure what to think. Then noticed my name on the top of a piece of paper on the nightstand. I picked it up and immediately read.    
     
It was the fumbly beginnings of an actually quite poetic love song.      
Quadruple damned the pounding in my now softening heart.      
     
I lay back down, spooned up behind him, and kissed the back of his curly dark head.      

poet Anonymous

A Mexican Stand Off

The boss.  The drug lord.  The drug dealer.  The dope runner.  The drug pusher.  The bagman.  The hit-man.  The assassin.  The fuck up.  The innocent bystander.  The lover.  The mistress.  The wife.  The children.  Guns drawn.  A really big shoot out.  Everyone dies.  Silence.  Blood is flowing.  Flies buzz around.  The bullet riddled piñata donkey hangs by a swinging limb.  Candy is scattered everywhere.  The Federales bullshit about the massacre and help themselves to cake and ice cream.

crimsin
Unveiling
Tyrant of Words
United States 121awards
Joined 25th Jan 2011
Forum Posts: 2608

congratulations Dresdamanx on a fantastic entry :)

LobodeSanPedro
Tyrant of Words
Sierra Leone 109awards
Joined 16th Apr 2013
Forum Posts: 3304

Congratulations! Dresdamanx!

Wonderful story ... Classic "if I can't have him nobody will!"

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