The Redemption of Thomas McMann.

By Caroline Tigeress (C)2006, all rights reserved.

4903 Words

Thomas McMann stood in the small cement room. A wooden bench, affixed to one wall held two paper sacks, the sum total of the possessions that he had on his person when he was arrested seven years ago. In his left hand was a backpack, made from an old pair of jeans. It had in it a few hand-written journal pages, and a couple of small momentos from a fellow inmate of his. Beside the paper sacks was a plastic bag, and it contained the clothing he wore when he arrived at the Oregon State Prison.

One last time, he took off all his clothing in front of a guard, and then put back on the black jeans and white t-shirt that was in the plastic bag. Once dressed, the guard smiled.

“I don’t want to see your ass back here, Tom. You’re better than this.”

Tom smiled, and nodded. “I don’t think you will. I’ve done my time, paid my debt. I’ve got a few things I want to do, and I’ve got a few more things I’ve got to work through.”

The guard, a stocky, powerful man proffered him a sheaf of paperwork. Tom took it, and looked over his discharge papers.

“You’ll need to check in with your parole officer once you reach the halfway house. I know you aren’t going to be on parole for very long, but you know the drill.”

“I’m just thankful that there’s work in the area. Eugene’s not a big town, but I’ve been told that the skills you guys gave me are in demand.”

“We didn’t do anything, Tom. You worked hard, kept your nose clean. Heck, I’ve had harder times sitting my six year old.”

Tom chucked.

“I made my mistake, I pled guilty. You have to stand up for what you do even when it’s the wrong thing. I don’t claim to be innocent, but I do claim to be honest, and to try to do the right thing.”

Officer Hiram Nelson put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“You’ll make us proud, Tom. I know it.” He turned toward the closed-circuit camera in the room and then tilted his head toward the door leading to the exit room. “Open out”

A series of hard, mechanical clicks followed, and Tom picked up the paper sacks, the plastic bag and his backpack and walked out into the adjoining room. No one waited for him. He was alone in this world. Officer Nelson followed.

“You can leave when you like, the bus runs from out front in about twenty minutes.” He handed Tom an envelope containing eight hundred fifteen dollars, and a dozen bus tokens. The money Tom earned while working in the prison construction program, at little over a dollar and nineteen cents per day. The bus tokens were complementary. Both men turned as a secondary door opened into the room.

Officer Nelson smiled, “Warden.”

Tom came to a semi-attention posture, when Warden Banks put her hand down.

“Just wanted to say goodbye, Tom. You’ve done well here, and it was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, however, let’s make it coffee at Barnes & Nobles or something like that.”

Tom chuckled, “count on it, ma’am. No more forgery for me.”

Warden Banks smiled at him, her weathered face had seen many men come and go, and she could tell those that would come back, and those who would not. She would even put money on it with the other guards, but not a single one of them would bet that Tom would be returning to prison anytime soon.

There was silence as he put on his jacket, loaded everything into his backpack and shouldered it. It was her turn to look at the camera.

“Inmate release.”

The clicking sound followed, and she opened the door for him.

Typical for Oregon in March, the cloud cover was thick in the mid-morning. Tom walked out of the facility, toward the north a block and found the bus stop. In mere minutes, he had gone from having to take his clothing off in front of total strangers to complete freedom, and he realized that it was going to take some getting used to.

The instructions on his sheet were clear, and he did not get lost enroute to the halfway house. He checked in, was show his room, given the rules, then called his parole officer, and made his initial appointment, day after tomorrow. He sat on his bed, and thumbed through his cash. A single tear ran down his left cheek, his throat trembled.

Carefully he took the entire sum of money, removed twenty dollars and put it in his wallet. He walked outside, found the local Bank of America, opened a savings account and put the rest in, getting a temporary ATM card. He walked the streets of Eugene for a few minutes, just being an ordinary person. He marveled at how he knew he was an ex-con, but no one else did, and that gave him hope.

Walking away from the center of town, he did not realize he was going closer and closer to some of the more residential areas, and stopped himself when he saw a schoolyard crossing sign.

His heart began to beat harder, and his throat ran dry when he saw the parochial school, St. Rose’s Academy. A cluster of children played on the equipment, yelling, running, jumping. Immediately, he turned away, his throat running dry. He closed his eyes.

Tom was a pedophile. He knew it. It was his deep, dark secret. He had never actually had sex with a child, but he knew what he was, what he liked. He knew it would be the wrong thing to do, to molest a child, the way he had been molested. His hands trembled, and he walked at a quick pace, back into the town proper, and into a Seven-Eleven. The cold cherry Slurpee served to take the edge off his pumping heart, although the sugar rush was intense to someone not used to it.

Tom vowed that he would now be able to get some help for this problem. He knew better than to say anything to anyone in prison, but here, outside, he could get help. Some counselor, some therapist, someone could help, and he knew it. That kind of thinking kept him safe, kept him sane. Now, anonymously, he could go get some help, and move on.

For today, however, he had his freedom, and that was something special. He bought a newspaper, corn dogs, corn chips and a two liter of soda, and took them back to his small room, with its’ comfortable bed, and relaxed for the rest of the day.

From his room on the second floor, Tom watched people, which was a hobby for him. He, like one of his great heroes, H.P. Lovecraft, would watch people go back and forth, and would imagine the things they did in their lives. Unlike Lovecraft, Tom did not consider himself much of a writer, but from time to time would pen dark poetry. He spied in the alleyway an interesting person, and jotted down some notes for a short piece of fiction.

The man in the alley wore tattered jeans, a patched jean jacket, was tall, and had dark olive skin and brown dreadlocks with a touch of grey in their roots. His beard was neither long nor short, and through his appearance alone it looked like he drifted at the fringe of society. When he opened up the dumpster to the halfway house, Tom became concerned. He had seen a lot on the news about identity theft, and knew that people got a great deal of information through the trash. Tom thought some more and then went downstairs to the kitchen.

Mrs. Anna Hartman, the halfway house’s owner stood against her sink, her back toward the window, drinking a glass of water.

“Getting settled in, Tom?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah. Um, Mrs. Hartman, there’s some guy in the back rooting through the dumpster.”

“Oh?” She said. She turned, and looked through the window. “That’s just Jay.”

“Jay?” Tom asked.

She shrugged. “Some bum. I’ve seen him picking up cans in the alley, and when he saw me take my garbage out one morning, he asked if he could have the cans and bottles. I said to knock himself out, I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Tom said.

“I shred the important stuff, but the cans and such, I figure are fair game. Especially here in Oregon, you can get a nickel each.”

Tom nodded.

“He’s an alright guy, homeless I figure. He takes the cans, puts everything back, doesn’t make a mess, asked first. Real polite. I see him walking the streets from time to time with a big bag full of cans. Heck, as far as I’m concerned, he’s doing us a service.”

“Oh,” Tom mouthed.

“So you’ve got your first PO appointment set tomorrow, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, you’re off to the right start.”

Tom smiled and nodded. He wanted to succeed at the rest of his life.

* * *

Tom awoke with a start from the street noise early the next morning. His eyes were fuzzy for just a second, unused to his surroundings. Today was his first appointment with his parole officer, at nine o’clock. He got out of bed, stretched, and then made the bed out of habit, if nothing else. He felt weird, locking the bathroom door behind him, and realized this was the first shower he had taken without someone watching him for seven years. Having a sense of privacy was going to be an odd change.

Breakfast was a quickly consumed fast food meal, and he was grateful for the strong, acidic coffee. The halfway house manager gave him bus directions, and he made his exchanges without difficulty. At eight forty-five he checked in with the receptionist, and at precisely nine o’clock a neatly dressed man came down the hallway.

“Thomas McMann,” he called.

Tom stood, “right here.”

The man extended his right hand. “Henry Barker, I’ll be your Parole Officer for the next six months. Come on back to my desk.”

Tom followed Henry back to a small cubicle, filled with bookshelves, diplomas and stacks of charts. One of them was open on his desk, with a picture of Tom, his police record and fingerprints. There were also two letters on top.

“I see you’ve got your resume all figured out, that’s good. I know that in prison you were on a few of the construction crews. I also have two letters of reference from the warden and the teacher there. I don’t see this kind of thing very often, so I’ll spare you the, ‘straight-and-narrow’ speech.”

Tom gave him a half smile. He had no idea about the letters of reference.

“I have an interview lined up for you this morning; it’s with a construction crew. Problem is right now they have too many people, so what they might do is put you on a landscaping crew for now. It wouldn’t be what you were trained for, and it won’t be as much money.”

“No problem.” Tom said. “If it’ll get me working, that’s all I care.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Henry said. “Nothing like a go-to attitude to get you hired.”

Henry picked up a manila envelope and put in photocopies of Tom’s resume, and the letters of reference. To this he paper clipped two business cards, one of his, and one for the job, and handed the entire thing over to Tom.

“Most of his jobs are pretty local, you get dropped off and picked up from their central business. Mostly commercial, some residential, but they won’t have you doing that initially, I don’t think. Anyway, good luck, and call me if you need anything. I’ll need to see you again in two weeks.”

“Thanks Henry,” Tom said.

“You’re welcome.” Henry replied.

Tom left.

By noon that day, he had a job, and in a week he had come to earn a slight bit of trust with his employer. He showed up on time, did as he was told, and a little extra. He was on a lawn maintenance crew and liked it. He enjoyed being outside, could care less if it rained. Tom spoke enough Spanish to be able to understand a lot of what the immigrant workers were saying, and was able to translate back and forth to his immediate supervisor.

* * *

Over the course of a few months, he made friends with his co-workers, his supervisor, and even the owner of the company.

Unlike many of the other former convicts, Tom had no tattoos, his hair neatly combed back, and he could mingle in white-collar culture without much difficulty. It was for this reason he was held back one day from the normal construction crew, and asked to go into the main office.

“Tom, I’ve got a job I need to assign to someone I can trust, and I think you’re that man.” Ricardo Mendez, the owner of the company said.

“Sure thing, Rick.” Tom replied.

“My daughter’s school has hired my company to do their landscaping, but they need someone clean cut. I can’t put many of the ex-cons on the crew because they look like hell. You don’t. This is a one-man gig. Think of it like a permanent solo assignment. You check in with me every couple of days.”

“Hey, I can do that,” Tom said happily.

“I thought you could. You keep this up, and the next time I need a crew chief, I’m gonna be thinking about you real hard.”

Tom smiled. He felt proud of what he was able to do since his release, and his life was looking up. Rick gave him the address and told him to check in with Father Mulcahy this morning, and then report. He scribbled the address to St. Rose’s Church on a post-it and handed it over.

It was not until Tom got there, did he realize that the Church was attached to the parochial school he had walked away from a few months earlier.

The children played there, innocently.

Tom’s heart pounded.

He closed his eyes.

Stalwartly, he walked past them, crossed the street to the Church proper, and walked in. Tom wasn’t Catholic, and did not cross himself as he entered. This subtle non-action drew attention from one of the priests, a tall, thin man with Sandy graying hair.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“I’m looking for Father Mulcahy. My name is Thomas McMann. Ricardo Mendez sent me over to do some landscaping.”

“I’m Father Mulcahy, welcome to my parish. Please, let us discuss what needs to be done in my office.”

“Certainly, Father.” Tom said.

Over steaming mugs of hot coffee, the men poured over an elaborate redecorating scheme. This particular design had come from a lot of planning and would take many months of work to achieve the effect that was sought over. With different layers of blooming flowers carefully mixed with one another, it would be beautiful, a piece of living artwork. Tom knew he could do it, and knew that it would be glorious when he was finished.

“Ricardo usually employs ex-cons, so I was somewhat trepidatous to hire his firm. May I inquire what your line of work was before you came to work with him?”

“Prison, seven years. Forgery.” Tom said blankly. He put it bluntly in such a manner, hoping that Father Mulcahy would simply fire him before he was ever hired.

“Forgery?” The Priest said. “Nothing violent, then.”

“No. I’m not a violet person, by my nature.” He heard a child squeal in the background and his hand softly trembled. He had come so far. Maybe, just maybe this job could work out. If he could suppress these urges here, then he wouldn’t need to see a counselor. He’d made it this far, he reasoned.

“That’s good to my ears. I had enough violence in Korea to last me a lifetime. As you won’t be around any financial matters, I don’t think there will be an issue, but I will be honest in saying that we will be keeping our eyes on you as a matter of habit. I’d ask that you please keep your appearance as tidy as you can, with the children around an all. Appearance is very important. Not like some of the bums that are out there.”

Father Mulcahy gestured outside as Jay walked down the street, bearing an enormous load of cans in a clear garbage bag. He waved at the children who giggled and waved at him. He shook his long, floppy dreadlocks in the sunshine, and his load of cans made an odd clanking noise as he walked. The children squealed in delight, as two nuns glowered at him.

“Jay’s all right. He does odd jobs at my halfway house.”

“You know him?”

“We’ve met once or twice. I know him by name, but I’ve never had coffee with him or anything like that.”

Father Mulcahy nodded. “He asked me if he could dig in our dumpster for cans, and I told him that digging in the garbage is a filthy habit and that he should get a job and cut his hair. He laughed at me, and said that he would take that as a ‘no’ answer. I’ve tried to give him money and food since, but he refuses. Some people are very difficult to help.”

“Father, the only help I want is a job. Ricardo Mendez gave that to me. Maybe I can talk to Jay, if I see him around.”

Father Mulcahy smiled at him. “Excellent idea, Tom. So when can you start work?”

“I have to go see Ricardo after we’re done talking; I’d like to take these diagrams with me. I’ll need to walk off the footage to give him some rough measurements of what kind of bulbs and seeds you’re going to need.”

“Excellent, excellent. I won’t keep you then. If you need anything, my door is always open.”

“Thank you father, but right now, I’d like to get to work.”

Tom left, returned to the office, and spent the rest of the morning discussing the project with Ricardo. They estimated the different types of plants needed.

“I think I’ll start over here,” Tom said, pointing to an area on the opposite side of the church, the farthest point away from the playground. “I can lay out some tarps tomorrow morning before you have the peat moss delivered, that way we can set up a work space that’s out of the way. Keep the whole project looking nice.”

“Great work, Tom. Why don’t you go get some lunch while I get someone on these orders. Heck, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

Tom looked stunned.

“You mean it?”

“Go catch a movie or something. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow, nine, I’ll have the trucks at the church, so be there at eight to get it all laid out.”

“I’m on it, Ricardo,” he smiled.

* * *

The first three days of the project were very busy, Tom supervised truckload upon truckload of materials to be delivered to a cordoned off area of the parking lot. Once the materials were arrived, Tom carefully began to cut the sod around the north end of the church. He learned a walking route that took him four blocks out of his way, and deliberately went around the playground area and school. He thought that he had things under control.

One lunch, he sat on the concrete steps just outside the church, eating a bologna sandwich and drinking a soda. He had made it a habit to eat in this location, although it was in view of the playground. He’d close his eyes from time to time, and the thoughts came. They were nasty, vile demons, and he fought to retain control.

One girl, in particular he felt attracted to. He saw the distinctive shadowing under her eyes, and knew she had downs syndrome, and was probably an orphan of some kind. His mouth watered, and his hands trembled. His sandwich finished, he stood up to go back to the dumpster to throw the bag away, and get away from the temptation.

He flipped open the top, tossed the bag in, and then turned away, thinking he could get to watch her in her little plaid green jumper for just a few more minutes. He did not see Jay in the alleyway walking toward the end of the street; Tom was lost in his own little world.

Carefully, Tom returned to his spot. His lower jaw trembled. He came to an important conclusion, that this was not a good place for him to be. No, this was a mistake. A bad, bad mistake. He had to figure out a way around this, some sort of accident. Yes, that would be it. A cut on his hand or something like that, just to give himself some kind of breather.

Happy with this plan, Tom stood up and left the front of the church, returning toward the back. He eyed the brickwork, and then smiled. It would hurt, but it would be worth it – anything to get away from this place, and these temptations.

He looked in the church’s windows, saw no one was in the offices, gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward as hard as he could smashing his face into the wall.

His jaw and face screamed in pain, and he bled from his nose. He tripped and slammed his head right into the concrete curb, adding to his self-injury. His skull made a sickening sound, and momentarily, he lost consciousness.

Jay ran from the dumpster to him, and carefully rolled him into the grass.

“Tom? Tom can you hear me?” He said.

“Ugh,” Tom replied. His front teeth were chipped and he felt blood trickle into his mouth.

“Let’s get you into the bathroom buddy.”

Tom gagged on the mixture of blood and mucus forming at the back of his mouth and spat it out on the grass.

“I think we need to call you an ambulance or something,” Jay said. His voice was preternaturally calm.

“Uh, no, probably just to go home, lie down or something.” Tom said, regaining his voice.

Jay helped him up, and had Tom use him as a brace, getting the two of them into the men’s room. It was clear that Tom’s nose was broken, and he was shivering.

“You really do need to see a doctor, Tom.” Jay said quietly.

“No, uh, gotta go home.” Tom said. He realized that this accident did nothing for his feelings. Nothing at all. He realized his injury did not put him off. Suddenly, he started to cry from years of his emotions being pent up.

“Tom.” Jay said.

Tom blubbered.

“Tom I watched you from the dumpster. I watched you smash your face into the wall. Why?”

“No, no.” Tom’s eyes became pinpoint pupils.

“I won’t tell anyone, Tom, but if you want me to help you, to get you to a place of safety, to get you cleaned up, you’re gonna have to be straight up with me.” Jay said. His soft brown eyes looked up from the thick, round locks, and they comforted Tom like a father would his young child.

“Don’t wanna… Hurt.” Tom said.

“You don’t want to hurt, or is there someone you don’t want to hurt. I’ve seen you on those steps, watching those kids, Tom.”

Tom’s cry went from soft tears to a malicious choking sound as it all poured out of him at once, gagging and gasping for air.

“Let it out, Tom. Let the pain out. It doesn’t do you any good inside, does it? All cooped up in there, rattling in your skull.”

Tom cried harder than he ever did at any time in his life.

He babbled on about how good the little girls looked to him, how their skirts caught his eyes, and how he never, ever wanted to hurt any of them, but he had these feelings, and had always had these feelings, and he didn’t know what to do and now he was going to get fired, or go back to prison, or something.

When he paused, exhausted, Jay spoke to him quietly:

“Okay Tom, now listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice,” he spoke in a monotone and clasped Tom’s hands together, putting his own around them. “I want you to imagine all those feelings you have are right here. Right in your hands. Imagine a dark ball with all of the evil, and all of the vileness you can possible create.”

Tom’s eyes widened as in his mind, a black river poured into his palms. It gushed over both men, onto the floor, covering the tiles.

“That’s it,” Jay said. “Let it all out. Let it all go. I’ll take it from you, okay? I’m good at this kind of thing.”

Tom nodded. At a certain point, the blackness in his mind ran empty, and the last droplets of it, came out of him.

Jay waved his hand, and the black ooze of the floor jumped up at his beck and command. Slowly, it all pooled into his hand, compressing into a ball, like a fish tank of ink.

“Away we go,” Jay said. He poured the stygian blackness from his hand to a urinal and flushed. Jay then washed his hands.

“Can we get you cleaned up now? I think the worst of it is over, eh.” Jay said.

Father Mulcahy came into the bathroom, startling Tom.

“What’s going on here,” he demanded.

“He hit the brickwork, and then the curb,” Jay said.

“And you just happened to be standing there, helping him go down, I imagine.” Father Mulcahy said.

“That’s a very unkind thing for a man of the cloth to be saying, Father.” Jay said. “I think we should call an ambulance.”

“And the police. Assault is a serious matter, Jay, or whatever your name is.”

“He didn’t do anything, I tripped.” Tom spoke up.

“Tom, you don’t have to defend him. He’s just a drug dealing hippy.”

Jay bit his lips and took a deep breath, “Father, I won’t be going anywhere, so please, let’s get him taken care of. Then if you wish to verbally spar with me, we shall. First things, first, please.”

Father Mulcahy pulled out his cell phone and called 911. When the ambulance arrived, Tom walked out to greet them and sat on the stretcher. They had parked in front of the church, and the children stared at the group of them, their fingers clung to the chain link fence. Jay never left Tom’s side, and Father Mulcahy never allowed Jay to leave his sight.

Tom felt much better, and looked over at the kids staring at him. He expected the tide of thoughts, the desires, the urges to come, but they did not. He felt his breathing stay calm, felt his pulse not rise. Some how, Jay had helped him through this. He turned to thank him, and as he did, his peripheral vision caught the movement of a ball, rolling from the play area to the street.

The little girl whom he had found so attractive as little as an hour earlier ran after it. Instead of being sexually aroused at her he had feelings of protection, wanting to defend her.

A car came careening down the street, at several times the speed limit.

Tom leapt off the gurney, and into the street, where the child stood frozen with fear, her eyes transfixed upon the driver who was talking on her cell phone.

Jay was the only other person to act, and saw that Tom’s reaction time was just a fraction of a second off, that while he would knock the little girl out of the way easily; the speed of the car would strike him square on. With a subtle motion of his hand, he caused Tom to trip on an unseen object, in essence shoving him forward a few feet. Instead of the car running square into him, it merely glanced. The little girl cried once she hit the ground.

The police arrived and cited the driver. In the confusion, Jay hefted his garbage bag full of cans, and headed out to redeem them.

The next day, Jay read the paper while having morning tea. The headline was about an ex-convict who saved an orphan girl from a drunk driver. He stopped by the half-way house on his way out of town, knowing Tom wasn’t there, and asked Mrs. Hartman if she would be kind enough to tell Tom that he had to leave, that the work that he needed to do here was done, and it was time for him to move on. Mrs. Hartman said that she would deliver the message, and that she was sorry to see Jay go.

“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” Jay said. “Too much for one man, certainly, but it’s good to help when you can.”

Mrs., Hartman smiled at him, watched as he put on his tattered jean jacket, hefted his backpack, and began to walk down toward the highway.

Zine Review - World Salad #2

I wasn’t sure it was possible, but Comyn delivers again, giving us a double-sized portion of the mental health care system from those who can talk about it the best, the people who have survived it. This issue was actually the first I bought before I carried it, and it has a permanent place in my collection. Beginning with, “Souviners of Childhood”, continuing on with, “Surviving Restraints” and “Ghost of Christmas Past” the works in this zine are without question some of the most powerful writing you’ll read in any periodical. I cannot say enough good things about this zine because the English language is not powerful enough to deliver the plethora of emotions you get when you experience this title. Tastes like: Word Salad. Two bucks plus postage, worth twice as much for half the content.

Chapter 4:  Out and About

 

                Trin drove confidently in the Arizona traffic.  The sky was overcast, highly unusual for mid-June.  Violet was in the passenger seat and clinging to the dashboard for dear life.  During the half-hour trip from their northern suburban duplex to downtown, Trin had cut off six people, flipped off two of them and narrowly avoided being smacked by a bus.  Violet did not care for Trin's driving and often closed her eyes.

                Parking in the underground complex twenty minutes before her weekly appointment with Nancy, Trin extricated herself from the passenger's side of her battered old nova and lit a cigarette.  Violet raised an eyebrow.

                “I thought you quit?” She poked.

                “I have one pack a month, I just make it last,” Trin said, while holding the smoke in her lungs.  The Indonesian Clove Cigarettes gave off an odd, spicy smell.

                “You don't have to work tonight, right?” Trin said, desperate to change the subject.

                “Nope,” Violet replied. 

                Trin smiled her catty smile.

                “What are you up to?” Violet asked.

                “Me?” Trin asked, putting her manicured hand to her chest.

                “You,” Violet said flatly, putting her hands on her hips.

                “Oh, I thought we might go out after you met Nancy.  I found this cool little place to hang out.  James can watch after himself for the afternoon.”

                “Okay,” Violet said.  She hefted a Steven King novel and they headed for the elevator.

                Nancy was waiting for them at the reception desk and she smiled as she was introduced.  Violet felt somewhat uncomfortable, for she did not like therapists, and was thankful that Trin did not insist she go back.

                “So there she is, my woman,” Trin said happily.

                Nancy smiled and was happy for Trin as she babbled along for quite some time about this and that, mostly about their ever widening sex life.

                “And then,” Trin said with a huff, “the kid found out.”

                “James, her son,” Nancy affirmed.

                “Yeah, he wigged out, ran off for a few hours.  I was going to go hunt his butt down, but she damn near tied me down.  She put me on my knees for crying' out loud,” She bellowed.

                “You're complaining, why?” Nancy shot at her.

                “I didn't say I was complaining,” Trin said.  “I'm not used to it.  There's a lot of stim coming from her in a lot of ways, and when James ran, well I felt it was fucked.”

                “But he came back,” Nancy pointed out.

                Trin nodded. 

                “We talked a lot, laid down some ground rules.  We're going to be cleaning up the house a lot, and Vi and I are going to move into the back bedroom.  Get a big bed and be a couple.”

                “Did you ask her to Pride?” Nancy's eyes flashed.

                “Yeah we talked about it.  She says she's not quite there yet.  I think maybe she's somewhat just settling into the whole lesbian thing.  I'm going to go, but just for the t-shirts.” She said, smiling.

                Nancy nodded, half a loaf was better than none.

                “So do you feel comfortable with the relationship?” She asked.

                “Yeah, real good.  I mean it's still in the early stages, we'll need to roughen out some edges.  Heck, that's what you have to do with any relationship,” Trin replied.

                Nancy nodded.

                “So how would you like to delve a little deeper into your psychology?” She asked.

                “Um, how do you mean?”

                “I'd like to introduce into your care plan some discussions about your addiction.”

                “I don't smoke that much,” Trin protested.

                “I'm not talking about cigarettes,” Nancy pierced.  “I'm talking about food.”

                Trin's face went stone cold.

                “What?” She gasped.

                “You my friend use food like others use pot, alcohol or meth,” Nancy stated.

                Trin's mouth went dry.

                “What did you tell me you were going to do after you left today?” Nancy asked.

                “Take Vi out for lunch, and we're going to go out to this spa place I know.”

                “When did you have breakfast?” Nancy inquired.

                Trin looked at the clock.  Twenty minutes into the session.  Damn.

                She replied, “I had two, Bagels at eight, and Vi about ten, but I just teased her.”

                Nancy avoided Trin's attempt to change the subject.

                “Are you hungry?”

                Trin swallowed.

                Nancy waited patiently.

                “No,” Trin concluded.

                “So why are you eating, then,” Nancy asked softly.  She sensed Trin's fear.

                “I, uh, don't know.  It's lunchtime.  I'm taking her out, it's our one-month anniversary for Christ's sake,” she defended herself.

                “Has Violet ever said anything about your weight?”

                “No,” Trin stammered.

                Nancy pinned her.

                “Did Ravi?”

                Trin's tears fell.  She shivered, and could only nod in the affirmative.  She lowered her face to her hands and sobbed her long, gasping sobs.  She took in long, gasping lung fulls of air, trying to be able to speak.

                “This is a big deal for you, huh?”

                Trin nodded.

                “They used to pick on me, in school.  All the time,” she voiced.

                “So you just ate more.  You ate to hide from your rapes, and you ate to curtail the pain from Ravi's death.”

                Trin nodded as the tear factory started up again.

                “Trin,” she called.

                Trin returned to her deep breathing, to try to be able to reconcile herself.

                “Are you in pain now?”

                “Normal aches and pains.  Hips, knees, back.  Crap like that,” Trin admitted.

                “Do you think any of that might go away if you were packing a bit less weight?”

                Trin shrugged.

                “I guess,” she admitted.

                “I'll make you a little deal,” Nancy said.

                “I'm going to cut you loose a little early so you can go diddle Vi.  In return you're going to track what you eat, a food journal, so to speak.”

                Trin would have signed a deal with the devil to get out of that room.

                “Every fucking crumb,” Nancy looked into Trin's eyes.

                Trin nodded.

                Nancy picked up her scheduler and looked at Trin.

                “Same time next week, right,” Nancy asked, pencil in hand.

                “Noon, Wednesday,” Trin affirmed.

                Nancy smiled at her cattily and said, “have a good time.”

                Trin managed only the weakest of retorts with a simple, “Fuck you.”

                Nancy smiled her sweet smile and replied, “That's fuck you, ma'am.”

                Trin gave her a half-grin, all she could muster.  It let Nancy know Trin wasn't actually upset.

                Violet saw Trin amble down the hallway toward the waiting room, her eyes red and puffy.

                Trin handed her the keys. 

                “You're driving,” she said.

                “I'm driving?  This from the woman who picks on my navigational skills.”

                Trin glared at her with the redlined rims.

                “Please,” she gasped.

                Violet grabbed her hand and let her into the elevator.

                “What happened in there?” She demanded.

                “Put me through the fucking meat grinder.  She'll do that ever so often.”  Trin got her cigarettes out in the elevator, and lit one the very second the doors opened.  She inhaled and exhaled, getting hits of nicotine down as quickly as she could.  In the time it took for them to walk to the elevator to her Nova, a good quarter of the clove had been consumed.  Trin walked to the driver's side.

                “Am I driving, or what?” Violet said, in a playful manner.

                Trin reached out for the keys.

                Violet smiled, “Good, I hate city traffic anyway.”

                Trin sat on the side of the car, and smoked the clove to about half way.  Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the elevator open, and Nancy stepped out, lighting a smoke of her own.  The two women sized each other up from a distance.

                Trin offered the olive branch with a nod, and Nancy returned with a half smile.  Violet had already gotten into the car, and honked the horn to speed Trin's fat ass up.  Nancy stuck her tongue out at Trin, and Trin flickered her tongue back at her.  Nancy laughed, and waved as Trin slumped into the Chevy and fired it to life.  She glided along the underground garage to the exit onto Main Street, and maneuvered the Nova to a small row of Chinese stores and restaurants.  Both she and Vi loved Chinese food.

                “All right!” Vi exclaimed happily.

                “Now Vi,” Trin said after they had ordered.  “I know you like to be in control, but I'm going to ask that you trust me for the next couple of hours.”

                Violet looked at her.

                “You are up to no good, aren't you?”

                “Yes, I am.  On top of that, I've spent a good deal of money to continue to be up to no good,” she said, laying it on thick.

                “So what are we talking, here?”

                “It's a surprise,” Trin said.  “You wouldn't want me to spoil it.”

                “Sure I would,” Violet retorted.

                Their soups were served, a delicate egg flower for Violet and a potent sweet-and-sour hot spicy for Trin.  She happily chewed on the Tofu.

                “One thing,” Violet said, gesturing with the soupspoon.  “No tying me up.”

                “No, nothing like that.  It's a sweet sort of thing,” Trin added.

                Violet sized her up.

                “Trinity, sweet to you means you kiss the paddle before it hits your ass.”

                “Like you've ever used a paddle in your fucking life,” Trin retorted.

                Violet had to admit she hadn't.  Trin wondered if she could smoke in there and then decided against it.  She heard the sizzle of a plate out of the corner of her ear.  The two women sat back against the booth as a huge platter of honey chicken was set down.  It was followed by a large platter of mushu pork, with a large bowl of rice.

                Trin's eyes were glazed as the smells hit her nostrils, and she closed her eyes for the barest of moments and gave thanks to the goddess for all the things in her life, even the ones she didn't like.  Trin felt that all of her experiences made her a better person.  She also gave thanks to the animals’ lives that had been lost to supply her with this meal.  Violet in the meantime had dumped copious amounts of the honey chicken on her plate, followed by rice.  Trin had gotten a hold of the MuShu Pork first and piled the cabbage-laden dish onto her plate.  She only took a couple of pieces of the chicken, for the deep fried foods she didn't really care for.

                “Mmmh,” Violet said.  “This is fantastic.”

                Trin nodded, the pungent, fiery pork rolled over her tongue and palette and she was lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

                “One of my favorite places,” Trin said.  “You think this is good, the Pad Thai place down the street, and they are as good, if not fantastic.”

                Violet raised an eyebrow.

                “You eat out a lot, don't you?”

                “Yeah,” Trin admitted.  “Most every day.”

                Violet nodded, nonjudgementally, and Trin was thankful for the topic change.

                “James got his schedule for next year.  He made the tenth grade.”

                “With three F's,” Trin said in disbelief.

                “Got to love no child left behind.” Violet said.

                Trin snorted, and had often compared both Bush presidencies to the reign of Adolf Hitler.

                “So is he going to get a job or something this summer?” Trin asked.

                “He's fifteen,” Violet said.  “Nobody will hire him.  He's got to have a work permit.”

                Trin nodded, “I did a lot of baby sitting and stuff.  Can't he mow lawns or something?”

                Violet conceded he could, and they plotted about things he might be able to do.  Trin pointed out James inherent tendency toward slothfulness.  Both women had seconds, although Trin's was again, huge.  She ate speedily, barely chewing as she listened to the current gossip at the nursing home.

                “I told them how James had run out.  The other nurse says that her oldest daughter doesn't have anything to do with her,” Violet said.

                Trin nodded and then said, “I just don't think that will be our problem.”

                Violet shook her head in the negative, “You've always been part of our family, from when you moved in before.”

                “Although,” Trin pointed a fork at her, “He took a look at those bruises and was pretty impressed.”

                Violet frowned at her.

                “I thought you were covering those up.”

                “You're the one that left the door open,” Trin said.

                “It was late.  Early.  I was tired,” Violet protested.

                “Tired enough to make me take off your clothing with my teeth,” Trin noted.

                “Will you be quiet!” Violet hissed, not entirely upset.

                Trin leaned over, “My, my, someone's still in the closet.”

                “Hey, be nice.  I'm still new to this.  It's only been,” she thought, “a month.”

                “A month to the day, exactly,” Trin said wolfishly.

                Violet nodded her head, agreeing, and then leaned over, “And a happy anniversary to you, too.  Now where the hell are we going?”

                Trin smiled smugly, “you'll find out.”

                The fortune cookies arrived, the leftovers were boxed and Violet carried the brown paper sack in the car.  Trin peeled out of the parking lot, and deliberately drove around in almost random directions for a good twenty minutes.

                “You're lost, aren't you?  Just say it, you are lost,” Violet said.

                “Nope, I don't get lost,” Trin replied.

                “Bullshit,” Violet said.

                Trin swung wide, flipping a U-Turn across five lanes and then pulled behind a Subway Sandwich shop.

                “Be right back!” She said, leaving the car running.

                Trin scooted around the corner, past the subway and entered into the front lobby of, “Sam's Spahouse.”

                The proprietor, an old grizzled Dyke who called herself Sam was waiting at the counter.

                “Back door's open, girl.  You got four hours, I've got the sauna all warmed up, and the candles are all lit.”

                Trin smiled madly, “You're the best, Sam.”

                “Anything in the name of romance,” Sam said, high-fiving her.

                Trin forced herself to bypass the Subway and hopped into the driver's side, pulling against some trees.

                “Okay, Vi.  This is where I really need your trust,” Trin said to her, seriously.

                Violet nodded.  She could see Trin's intent in her eyes, and could feel the fire in her heart.

                “Come out of the car, and turn around, facing it.”

                Violet did as she was asked, and Trin slipped a sleeping mask over her eyes.

                “Hey!” Violet objected.

                “Just trust me, okay?  If you don't like it, we'll leave immediately, I promise.”

                “Promise?” Violet stated.

                “I give you my word,” and with that, led Violet by the elbow.

                Sam opened up the back door, and held out a key for Trin.  Trin handed it to Violet, and led her down the suites all the way to the end.  She'd taken two additional commissions just to pay for the next four hours.

                The scent of the room was the first thing Violet sensed.

                It smelled like roses, a flower that Violet loved.

                She breathed in deeply, and then heard the gurgle of water.

                Trin closed the mirrored door behind them.

                The room was small, about ten by ten, with a sunken hot tub and adjoining sauna.  It had heavy shag carpets and wonderful fluffy towels.  The room was illuminated by candlelight.

                “Where are we?” Violet asked.

                “Almost done,” Trin said. 

                She was hustling her clothing off and then instructed Violet, “kick off your shoes.”

                Violet giggled and felt the carpets, thick and lush.

                “ooh!” She smiled.

                “Arms up!” Trin said, smartly.

                Trin picked up the hem of Violet's shirt, and peeled it and her camisole off. 

                Trin could see the arousal of Violet's nipples.

                “There better not be a crowd of people!” Violet exclaimed.

                Trin drug her pants down to her ankles and had her step out.  Vi grabbed her for steadying, and realized that Trin had already become nude.

                “Okay, so where are we?”

                Trin put her hand on the metal bar leading into the spa, and then took off the mask.

                Violet's jaw dropped.

                “Private spa.  Through that door is a Sauna, the hottest one they have.”

                She knew Violet loved a Sauna.  Trin would only be able to take a few minutes of it, but she could enjoy the tub.

                “Aw, Trin!” She turned around and kissed Trin right on the lips.

                Trin grinned like a Cheshire Cat, and helped Violet in.  Trin nearly slipped, and had to use the bar like a crutch, and half fell in, laughing all the way.  Violet could not help her self and let loose a belly laugh.  Trin was the eternal clown, and made fun of herself.

                Violet came toward her as she got settled, moving gracefully in the water, and grabbed at Trin's now wet hair.  Their lips met, Violet was hungry for her woman, and she nipped onto Trin's neck.  The kiss was not enough to mark, but enough to re-take charge.  Trin lay back happily, her arms stretched out against the tub, grasping onto the edge.  Violet trailed down her neck, putting her face into the water, and dipped down, holding her breath, to chew on a nipple tenderly.

                Trin had positioned herself behind onto a jet, and moaned as between it and Violet she was getting it from both sides.  Violet came up for air, and as she did, Trin moved, a wicked smile upon her face.  Violet cleared the water from her eyes, to find Trin gone, behind her, teeth sinking into her shoulder.  She moaned, her knees bucked as Trin's lips hit their mark.  Trin slobbered her way up to Violet's ear, a tried and true erogenous zone for Violet.

 Violet felt Trin’s hand twist her nipples, and she used her hands to float herself, leaning against Trin, writhing and moaning.  Trin guided her fingers into Vi's soft folds rubbing, while still sucking on the earlobe.  Her hot breath caused her Vi to quiver.  She felt some sort of seat, about knee level.

                “Lean forward,” Trin instructed.

                Violet put her knees on the bench, and Trin controlled her pelvis, gyrating her against the edge of the water jet.

                “Oh!” Violet moaned.

                Trin frigged Violet as the thrusting pulse of the jet caught the edge of her mons making Violet moan again.  It was like having a dozen warm throbbing tongues on her at once.  She grunted ever so her hips humping toward it.  Trin guided once more, this time feeling the edge of the water jet throbbing against her attention-starved clit.  Her hips moved involuntarily, humping the jet as Trin slipped under the water.  With one hand, she split Violet's butt apart, and licked her tiny rosebud with her tongue.

                Violet's eyes flared open, the tongue in her anal area a powerful stimulant.  She bucked, cried out and quivered.  Trin's mouth chewed her anal area tenderly, and it drove her to climax.  Trin felt the convulsion and stuck her tongue deeply into her ass, as far as it would go, and felt Violet orgasm twice more, with smaller, lesser throes of ecstasy.  She then felt Violet's body sag, and she moved lest she be sat upon.  Violet had to move, for the stimulation was becoming painful and half tripped on the rising Trin, moving to a quieter area of the tub.

                Trin smiled at her.

                Violet gave her a dazed, yet happy look.  She petted her left side, and Trin snuggled under her arm.

                “That was...wild,” she gasped.

                Trin smiled and kissed on the cheek.  She was very aroused and very horny, but also happy, and calm.

                “Just think,” Trin said, “we've got this room for another four hours.”

                Violet's mind turned that over and she leaned over onto, gotten her second wind.

                “Works for me,” she whispered, kissing Trin, and plotting further how Trin could service her in the warm, humid environment.

 

Zine Review - Word Salad #3

Three time’s the charm? Is it possible that Word Salad could get better? Comyn’s done it again. From his lead article, “Boxes Boundaries and Bullshit: A reckless deconstruction of public mental health system culture” Comyn takes the mental health system to task. What is as powerful, however are the follow up articles, Mademoiselle Marie’s, “The Salve of Sisterhood,” Joe Randall’s, “Adventures in antidepressants” and Beth Sholtis’s “A Life”. At least a half-dozen articles follow, each from real live human beings who have been through the system and survived, Word Salad #3 continues on its way to deliver the truth about the strengths and inadequacies of the mental health care existence. Tastes like: Word Salad. Two bucks plus postage, worth twice as much for half the content.

Violet's Tit:A Novella of Lesbian Erotica

Chapter Five: Pride goeth before the fall

The Phoenix Saturday Market was located just off one side of downtown, several pedestrian-only blocks cordoned off for a huge array of craftspeople and artisans. Trin and Woofer spent the morning meandering around them, alone. Violet had yet again declined to come, and after she explained to James where she was going after the market, he wanted nothing to do with it.

She glared at him whenever he used terms like, 'queer', 'fagot' and 'gay' in a derogatory manner. She tried not to flare at him, tried not to rage at him, and yet, she wanted to. She wanted nothing more than to smack the shit out of him. She had asked him what he would do if someone called his mom a Dyke.

It stopped him in his tracks.

He had shut down on her, emotionally, and took him a while warm back up. They had talked about trying to respect other people. Violet had watched the conversation, and did not interfere. Trin had gone from her coarse, tone to a warm, motherly speaking voice. She had been confused how Trin could do this, but she did it nonetheless.

Woofer sniffed the air as a sausage vendor came into smelling range, and she wound up the leash tight. Dogs were allowed in the open-air market and she made sure that he had done his business before they left.

She tapped at her breast and looked at him when he pounced up on her.

"Woofer wants a snack?" She asked hopefully.

Woofer responded by licking her square on the lips. She smiled and then led him over to the small booth.

"Two sausages, one on a stick, one on a bun," she ordered.

He looked at her, and then at Woofer.

"He's on low-carb," she explained.

The guy taking the order looked at her and then as the joke set in, laughed. Woofer woofed. Trin lathered hers in hot mustard, relish and onions, taking plenty of napkins and sat on a bench against a building. Before even unwrapping hers, she tore his into very small pieces and set them in the napkin.

She had barely gotten two bites of hers down when he stuck his big Irish Setter nose on her lap.

"Oh come on," she said.

His soft brown eyes layered with the beautiful dark eyelashes blinked at her. She chewed four inches away from his muzzle. He couldn't stand it, and licked at her face, his tongue hitting the mustard and a bit of chopped onion stuck to the side of her face. The hot mustard hit his sinuses and he sneezed, then looked at her coldly

"Serves you right, mutt," She said.

Happily, she devoured the hot dog and sipped at a soda. She held the cup for him as he drank a twenty ounce cup of ice water sloppily, spattering her without care. She scratched his ears and told him he was a goofy mutt. He licked her on the face with the chilled tongue.

"Yuck. You brush your teeth as much as the teenager does."

Woofer woofed.

"Yeah, yeah. Com'on, let's go putter around."

Trin went from booth to booth in the market, and found all sorts of interesting items. Glass knick-knacks, leather wallets, copper rings, silver necklaces with stone inlays. She bought some interesting polymer clay beads that caught her eye and some hand blown glass beads for Violet. Beads had always been an interest to both of them, back when they all lived in Portland, Oregon, they would often drive to Long Beach, Washington and buy beads at the coastal shops.

Trin thought about this, and realized she missed the beach a lot. There was something wonderful about the cool, crisp ocean air. Already at ten-thirty, it was getting hot, and unpleasant. She wasn't looking forward to it, and had come early to try to get back about one or two.

Still the shiny beads caught her eye. Woofer, on the other paw was unamused. He lay down on her feet as she poked through the white plastic trays and thumped his tail as the shopkeeper scratched him on the ears. n Trin ended up plunking a good forty dollars down for them and was happy.

Woofer looked up at her as if to say, "it's about damn time."

Trin, of course had to stop a mere three booths down to look at the stickers, and selected a small assortment, including two that were triangular with a bird motif in blue, black and white. Woofer tried to ignore her as much as possible as she looked at a doggie shirt that read, 'I'm proud of my gay mommy.'

Trin decided against it, and then circled the block to find the actual opening to the Pride gathering proper. It was in a long park, cordoned off. Donations were being accepted, and Trin dropped a fiver into the box as she walked past.

Woofer snuffled at passers-by, and was happy when Trin stopped for a burger. Without the spicy mustard, he managed to mooch a good half of it easy, and attempted to look contrite when she called him a 'greedy gut.'

Trin passed by and got her annual pride purchase, a set of rainbow rings. She had four sets so far, and had them around a BB chain that she wore infrequently, with a dog tag that read, ‘Trinity’ in the middle. She thought for a moment, and got a set for Violet too. On impulse, she got a key chain for James that said, “My mom's a Dyke. Bite me.”

Trin's next stop was the Basic Rights Project, a group that she always liked seeing out at events. She got the usual bright blue and yellow sticker and made a donation. She passed by the local queer newsie, “The Lavender Network” and picked up the current copy. As she walked, she laughed aloud, reading her favorite stripe, 'Dykes to Watch out for'.

Past these were another food stop, a soda for her, and water for him. She passed a button booth and bought a handful to stick on her bulletin board. One lapel, she pinned a button that said, "Meandering to a Different Drummer." On the left she put, "I am in shape. ROUND is a shape." The rest she'd pin up in her office, although favored on in particular which read, "war is just terrorism with a bigger budget."

Trin ambled down along the group, seeing large displays from Hewlett Packard and other queer-friendly corporations, and noticed the Log Cabin Republican booth were empty. They were across from the Libertarians and the two booth vendors would glare at each other as the crowds swarmed to the Lavender Donkey booth.

She took handouts from a variety of vendors, and stopped to peruse a women's book booth, acquiring a copy of Pat Califa's, "Macho Sluts". She had felt that Doc & Fluff wasn't really Califa's best work, and was hoping that even when she became Patrick Califa he would still produce good porn.

The selling girl piped up, "I got to move, so I'm selling it all."

"Oh," Trin inquired, "where to?"

"Portland," she replied.

Trin smiled, "I'm from Portland. One stop at Powell's and you'll have all these back and more."

"Powell's City of Books, right?"

"Yup. Off of Burnside. One of my favorite places to go." Trin said. It had been a couple of years now since she'd been there, and she longed to smell it again.

The girl grinned, "that place is the bomb."

"You bet, and across the street is Rocco's pizza. Serious sliceage," Trin declared.

"I'll have to give it a try," the girl replied.

Trin stuffed the book into one of her goodie bags she'd acquired and then moved inward more, seeing a women's leather playgroup.

She ogled a selection of floggers, one in leather and one with rubber strands. The smell of the rubber one attracted Trin to no end, and she ran it through her fingers.

The woman running the stand was tall, wearing a leather corset, leather chaps, and a leather bikini bottom. She watched Trin intently. She watched as Trin's nostrils flared as Trin ran the leather flogger through her fingers. She saw Trin's long skirt shimmer ever so softly as Trin slapped it against her open palm. Trin was lost in her own little world, feeling the wide, flat strips, imagining what they would feel like as they grazed her back, her buttocks.

The tall woman spoke, "you should come play with us."

Trin's head snapped as if someone had smacked her.

The tall woman rose, her cool, soft brown eyes looked down at her.

Trin shivered ever so softly, and then proffered a card.

'The Women of Phoenix,' the card read. It had only a telephone number.

"We meet at private homes. Ladies only. Discreet, civil play."

Trin swallowed the saliva in her mouth.

"Once a month, under the full moon we have a night session."

"I'd love to," Trin's mouth betrayed her. "I'm not sure my partner is ready."

"That's okay. We play safe, sane and consensual. Sex, no sex, whatever you like. Personally, I have an affinity for ponies."

She pointed to an 8 x 10 glossy photo of a woman who had some sort of hoof-like shoes on her feet and her hands were covered with gloves that mimicked a horse's hoof. She was nude, other than some sort of headdress where her hair was manipulated not unlike a mane, and a tail somehow affixed into her rump.

Trin gasped.

"We also have a kitty player, if you like. It's my understanding she's very partial to heavy cream, and has an incredible tongue."

Trin's eyes widened.

Woofer nosed his way between the two women and stuck his muzzle at Trin's hand.

"No zoo play, however." She said.

"That's okay, Woofer and I have a private life." Trin said, not missing a beat.

The woman smiled.

"Come see us. Bring your girl. We have a potluck on Sundays, first of every month. Be a nice little social outing."

Trin nodded.

"I'll talk to her. No promises."

"Under stood. I have to admit, I have a thing for larger women. I like the way they jiggle when the crop strikes."

Trin shivered again.

"Like that." The woman said.

Trin mustered her courage and asked, "how much is the leather flogger."

"One-fifty. For you, one twenty-five."

Trin took it from the wall, held out her left arm, and gave herself five lashes. Her arm had a slight pink tinge on it.

"One hundred," Trin offered.

"If you show up, I get to work you myself," she challenged.

"Deal." Trin said, her mouth again betraying her.

The woman proffered Trin a plastic case and Trin fished out a crisp, new c-note.

"What's your name, hun?"

"Trinity," Trin said.

"I'm Hannah. I'm one of the doms."

"Like that's a surprise," Trin retorted.

Hannah replied silkily, "little girls with smart mouths get them shut."

"I'm not across your lap, yet. Sir." Trin regarnered her courage.

"You'll be with us. I know this, Trinity."

Trin backed up a step, and then replied, "only if she agrees. I could never betray her."

Hannah dropped the dominatrix mode. "Perfectly understandable. Seriously, just come have Sunday brunch with us. It would be fun, get your girl used to the folks."

"Thank you, Hannah. She's still new to everything. I'll talk to her."

"Is she here?" Hannah gestured toward the crowd.

"No, we've been together just over a month. I'm her first woman, we're just coming to terms."

"That's cool. Hopefully we'll see you around, Trinity."

"Thanks Hannah."

Trin's heart beat a bit quicker as she walked past.

There were other displays of bondage items, but nothing like the friendly, sultry Hannah. Trin bought some silk scarves from an artist, priced a stockade. The flogger lay in her bag. Some art prints were layered on it, and a couple of pro-queer bumper stickers.

The heat was bearing down on her and Woofer, and Trin sat under a tree, drinking yet another soda, and having gotten thirty-two ounce water for Woofer. She rubbed his ears as he drank, and rested, getting ready to make the break to the car. She'd left it in an underground garage six blocks away. That was a momentous walk for her.

"You both look a little flustered," a voice spoke.

Trin turned.

Violet stood there in a pair of cutoffs and a t-shirt.

"Vi?" She gasped.

Violet sat next to her.

"It's after two, Trin. I was getting worried."

"Vi I'm quite capable of getting around."

"I know that. I was... concerned. You haven't been able to move well as of late."

"I just take it slower and easier. I'm okay."

"Where's James?" Trin looked about.

"Back at the Saturday Market. He's mad at me right now."

Trin cocked her eyebrow.

"I had told him earlier in the week that I wouldn't be going. We had a long talk about it."

"So why did you? It's not like I need a fucking escort."

"I needed to see it," Violet said. "I wanted to see what it was about."

"I got stuff for you," Trin said, putting the bb chain with the rainbow rings around her neck.

Violet looked at it.

"The colors represent diversity of different kinds. We're all one people. Also got some cool buttons."

Violet seemed pleased and leaned over to Trinity.

Trin reached her lips up for a kiss.

Violet was scared, but nuzzled Trin. She was unused to public displays of affection.

Trin wrapped her hands around her and pulled her down.

Violet scolded, "TRINITY!" In a hushed voice.

"What?" Trin grinned at her and nuzzled her.

"Not out here!"

"I can't hug my girlfriend in public?" She said, quietly.

Violet relented and lay upon Trin's comfortable corpulence.

She felt both comfortable, and uncomfortable. She felt safe because of Trinity, but also scared. She wasn't ready to be out, and yet, a part of her brought her here.

Trin's eyes glazed; through her dark glasses, she felt the waves of heat, the tiredness. She smelt the perfume that was Violet's soft hair, the comfort that was her wonderful body. For the briefest of moments, she dozed.

"Trin? Trin?" She heard a voice call her.

Her head moved softly, slowly.

She felt her body become warm, and wet as she contemplated licking Violet into pleasure.

The darkness fell over Trinity's consciousness as the heatstroke took her.

Violet screamed when she realized Trinity would not wake.

Zine Review - Beat Motel #5

A very cool newsprint British zine, Beat Motel has a little bit of everything for everyone on it. This issue spreads the gamut from classic punk goodliness to an inserted Dilbert cartoon. Layout is both chaotic and easy to read, giving the eye lots to pick and choose from. I particularly favored Steve DIY’s column, “Giving it to you straight” which is subtitled, “The Horrors of Guantanamo” a fact based treatise on the horrors of the American military system from the British perspective. “A Celebration of Blokeyness” and “HelpDesk” are incredibly funny, as is “Conversation with my friends’ belligerent cat”. Zine reviews, distro lists, lots and lots of band interviews and a huge heap of cd reviews. This is one of the most solid punk zines that I’ve seen, it’s fat and thick for a mere three bucks. Tastes like: Fish & Chips. Three bucks plus postage, and a damn good deal.

Chapter Six: Recovery

Trin did not like being bedridden. She detested being waited upon, and she sure as hell hated the compression stockings affixed to her thighs. Since she got home from the hospital, she would doze all day with Violet, and then allow herself to be dressed. Together they walked outside for a set number of blocks, and then returned home. Violet had installed an air-conditioner into their room despite her own discomfort.

Trin was withdrawn. She did not do much, mostly nodding and spoke few words. Violet and James catered to her, which she resented. Woofer lay on the bed at his mistress's feet unless they were walking. It was evening, and Trin watched Violet as she was getting dressed, and beckoned toward her with her left hand.

Violet came over, thinking Trin might need help going to the bathroom.

Trin reached out both hands, bear hugged her, and rolled, pinning Violet under her.

Violet gasped and looked in shock.

Trin's rumbling voice spoke:

"Do you still love me?"

"Of course!" Violet gasped, astonished.

Softly Trin's mouth brushed Violet's lips, the tip of her tongue licked at her teeth.

"I need affection," Trin said.

Violet wrapped her arms around Trin and they rubbed noses. Trin relaxed and Violet took advantage of it. She flipped Trin's massive body over, and then stood. She closed the bedroom door, and tapped at the newly installed slide lock. Trin's eyes watched her as she peeled off the top, and she stood before Trin in her tattered sports bra and scrub bottoms.

"You haven't touched me since my stroke," Trin said.

"I'm sorry. You scared me," Violet said.

"I scared you? I'll be back to normal in a week, the doctor said so."

"Trin, this is a lot more about one stroke. This is about your life. You're killing yourself."

"Boy you know how to talk romantic," Trin replied.

Violet sat at the end of the bed.

"I tell you this because I love you, and I want us to be together for the long run. I want to be able to go to many more prides."

Trin looked at her. She noticed Violet was wearing the bb chain with the rainbow rings. Trin reached out for her, and Violet nosed the outstretched fingers, chewing on them softly. Trin smiled, and took deep breaths. She scooted herself up on the bed, using her hands, sitting up and beckoned for Violet. She was wearing a white satiny nightdress that covered everything but was easy to maneuver in.

Violet crawled up on her and laid her head on Trinity's obese tummy.

Softly, Trin stroked her coarse, thick, brown hair.

Her fingers explored Violet's plain face, her angular, pert nose, the wells of her eyes, and those wonderful lips. Violet stayed very still, she understood Trinity needed to touch as much as she needed to be touched. While she was a nurse, in this setting she was in a difficult position, for Trinity was far more than a patient, she was her lover.

Trin's pudgy, strong hands, felt the wellspring of tension in the based of her neck, and dug the base of her thumbs into the neck, rubbing in circles. Violet shivered and not from the air-conditioning.

Trin spread her legs, causing Violet to squeal in surprise as she sank into Trin's crotch. Trin leaned Violet back, and put her mouth to the nape of her neck. Tenderly she sucked, tasting salt from her skin. She pulled back for a moment, and licked her lips.

"I really need a shower," Violet said.

"Yes, you do," Trin whispered and licked at her ear lobe drawing it into her mouth. Her seeking tongue flicked the lobe. Trin felt Violet quiver as the hot air from the big woman's mouth roll over her ear canal.

Violet couldn't take any more, and flipped on top of Trin. Her mouth sought Trin's wanting tongue, sucking it into her oral cavity. Trin's hands yanked at Violet's sport bra, growling hungrily. Violet not to be undone, rubbed her breasts into Trin’s face, teasing her.

Trin purred happily, as her mouth caught one of Vi's jutting teats, sucking the nipple in up to the aureole. Hungrily she chewed, mouthed, slobbered and tried to drink from Violet's Tit. Violet shivered with ecstasy, grinding her upper torso into Trin's face, fucking her face with her breasts.

Trin grabbed at the string of her scrubs, untying it, pulling at the elastic of her panties. She wanted Violet's bush in her face, needed to feel useful, and needed to feel wanted despite her invalid state.

Violet lifted back, and wriggled out of the bleach-stained scrubs and her tattered undergarments. Her black mass of pubic hair caught Trin's eyes, and she stared at Violet's thick, ruddy lips as if they were steak tartare.

Violet growled with need, climbing onto Trin, regardless of injury, and forced her unwashed, odiferous mons into Trin's nose. Trin didn't bat an eye, and teased Violet by using the tip of her tongue to roll around Violet's clit, sucking softly, drawing the hood with her lips. She locked her lips onto Violet's clit itself, feeling the soft, silky, nerve-encrusted pearl of her womanhood.

Violet churred like a big cat, pumping at Trin's chubby face, rocking the bed against the wall, slamming Trin's body mercilessly. Trin could care less, and slipped three fingers into Violet's soft, sloppy wetness using her knuckles to stimulate Violet's lips.

Violet pulled back, and then grabbed at Trin's head, forcing her nose into her unclean nether regions, rolling her slit vertically, grinding her juices into her lips. Trin licked at her snatch, driving her tongue into the musky smell of the dominant woman. Her tongue reached in deeply, her nose often brushing against her clit, as Violet used Trin as a fuck toy, humping her face madly.

Trin took one of her slick, woman stained fingers and dilated Violet's butt with it, causing her to shriek.

"Cunt," Violet growled.

Trin responded by latching her lips onto Violet's clit, sucking, flickering and making an obscene series of noises. Violet pressed harder, nearly suffocating Trin, and let off a long, shivering convulsion of pleasure as she climaxed, flooding Trin with her skank.

Trin drank it all in, until she couldn't breathe any more, having to pull back to get a breath of fresh air. She went back in just as quickly, and licked at Violet's unwashed crotch like a starved woman.

Violet relaxed back on her haunches after a few moments.

"Slut," she said.

"Bite me," Trin replied.

Violet’s mouth violated Trin’s neck that had only recently healed up, causing Trin to scream in pain. When she pulled back, her face was the mask of domination that Trinity craved.

She pulled up Trin's nightdress, baring her pale, pink quivering flesh, leaving only the thigh-high compression stockings. Over her head it went, and she jammed her knees into Trin's pits, forcing her arms up.

Violet fussed with the dress a moment, then tied Trin's hands together, and then to the wooden backboard. Trin's eyes lit up, as she understood she was bound, and she wiggled her legs in defiance.

"Oh don't you think so, bitch. I have a few words to say to you.”

She slipped down to Trin's smooth, beaver, her mons purple. Coldly, she reaches to the side and grabbed the fleshy part of Trin's ass, flipping her to one side. Trin's eyes widened as she saw the arc of her open palm, with no warning, the pain of the spanking came.

SMACK

"This is for exhausting yourself."

SMACK

"This is for making James and I wait for your sorry ass in the hospital."

SMACK

"This is for not taking care of yourself."

SMACK

"This is for not knowing you're still loved, you fucking cunt," She raged. Her tears poured down her cheeks.

Trinity was in shock. She felt on a primal, deep level.

Violet flipped her back on her back, and removed each compression stocking.

She tied them to Trin's ankles, and then to the bedposts.

Trin was crying from the pain of the spanking, her emotions poured out of her. She blubbered and bawled.

Violet went into a plastic bag, and pulled out Trin's flogger.

"Oh yes. I found this. I also read those books, Trinity. I know what you want."

Trinity quivered when she saw it.

Softly Violet dragged the leather over Trin's face and danced it over her nipples. She gave a soft, nonviolent stroke and stimulated both simultaneously.

"Do you want this, Trinity? Do you?"

Trinity nodded.

"You have to earn it. You just don't get it."

Trinity's face blubbered, her voice croaking with tears, "h-how?"

"Once a week, I will send James to run errands. For every mile you have walked during that week, I will smack your beautiful fat ass. You control it, Trinity. You want a spanking, god dammit, you'll get it."

Neatly she flipped the flogger in her hand, its leather knob she rubbed against Trin's nose.

Trin quivered.

"Lick it."

Trin licked. Softly her tongue reached out for the sweet taste of the cowhide and she suckled on it as if it were a huge, sheathed cock. Violet teased her, and then pulled it away, enjoying Trin's bondage, her desire to serve. She had never known anyone so devoted. She got an evil idea, and rubbed the knot of it at Trin's spread mound. Trin hissed, for the knot of the flogger was huge, easily the size of a lemon. Violet rubbed her lover's cunt with it, grinding it until the dilation was great enough to just barely take it.

"What do you want, Trinity?"

"Please," Trin begged.

"Please what?" Violet smiled cattily

"Please ma'am, please." Trin gutturally begged.

The flogger struck again, across both nipples.

The handle this time went into Trin, as Violet's tongue flickered at the big woman's clit, her lips drawing its thick hood and nub against her teeth. The handle pumped into Trin fucking her rudely, screwing her more than any man had ever considered.

Trin did not take long, and she did not squeak when she climaxed.

She roared.

Her bound body raised itself out of the bed, her strong abdominals lifting Violet's head up. The flogger popped out of her body with a soft, slick, sucking sound.

She breathed heavily, gasping for air.

Violet looked down at her partner, smiling.

Trin grinned at her.

Violet made her lick the flogger off, and then she hung it off the doorknob in their bedroom.

"Next Friday. One per mile."

Trin nodded, and snuggled under Violet's arm needfully.

Violet kissed her fine, sweat-scented hair and whispered, "I love you."

Trin turned, noses her softly and said, "I love you too. Ma'am."

Zine Review - Just that good 13

Subtitled, “The place for friends issue”, Becca focuses this issue on the internet phenomenon we call myspace. Becca has gone and done herself a myspace survey, and a bit of history – she digs up the original myspace website, describing how Tom Anderson takes it from a file sharing website to the whirlwind it is today. She describes how there are many possibilities as to how myspace got to be so popular, and exactly how the media has been either glorifying it or vilifying it. (depending on if you’re watching fox news or 60 minutes…) She is clear in that people who have issues with myspace need to take some personal responsibility (who’d have thought it…) Becca rants nicely, and makes her point clear. The zine has a nice hunk of myspace profile reviews, some facts from her mini-survey and of course a link to her own myspace account. Good work, as usual. Tastes like: smarties. Two bucks plus postage.

Zine review - Solid Gould

Suzy Greenberg’s initial entry into the perzine world gives us a good, solid read about Suzy’s life and loves, with a strong emphasis on her Judaism. I like her lists, her pet peeves are entertaining, and those all-so-inviting Dirty Little Secrets. I like how she names her cars, lists television shows, movies and boys all within a few short pages. The crying vegan was entertaining and gives us some insight into how a real person who leans toward the green lives and reacts in our meat-based culture. A good, solid gould perzine. Tastes like: peanut butter on toast. Two bucks plus postage.

“Two Year Debt” By Caroline Tigeress

Gayle sat on the tattered couch, buffing her sharp nails in the seedy one bedroom brownstone apartment with Tasha, her three-year-old daughter. Their tiny living room was scattered with few toys, and the walls had brown paper sacks taped to the walls for the little one to draw on. The apartment reflected two things: love, and poverty. They had the space for a little over two years now, and Gayle went to school taking twenty-two credit hours a semester, with little Tasha being watched by a neighbor's teenage daughter.
In the late sweltering days of September, the only relief was a box fan drawing hot air out of the room, creating a minor draft. The fan was half-way falling out the window, threatening to crash on the fire escape below.
Tasha was dressed in a sundress and her mother in a matching one. Each dress had uneven stitches with a few puckers here and there, as Gayle's amateur sewing skills would allow. The fabric, purchased at the local Goodwill as a mill end for ninety-nine cents a yard, the patterns Gayle downloaded from the internet during a visit to the college library. Gayle was teaching Tasha how to sew, passing the knowledge from mother to daughter like parents and children had done for many generations before them. It gave them some purpose together, a way to bond, an excuse to hold, cuddle, and learn from each other. They would talk about what sorts of things they wanted to sew next, about dresses and skirts, and blouses and things that girls and their mothers spoke of.
Gayle looked across the room to a hanging calendar, which had a picture of big bird holding the letter S on it, and today's day highlighted. She knew it would not take Sam long to find her, despite being in jail for the last two years.
Sam was a vicious individual who lifted weights, was quick, agile, and everything in life had to be Sam's way or no way. Gayle had enough two years ago, and fled to this seedy apartment after going to the cops and explained everything to them, clutching the infant Tasha in her arms.
She testified in closed-circuit camera, but having no way to escape the poverty of the city, the best she could do was move a few blocks, and try to know a few years of peace. Peace she knew would be shattered in the days to come.
One last afternoon, she thought. One quiet afternoon with Tasha, of bouncing the little one on her knee, snuggling her nose, and making her sock puppets talk. She had so hoped to graduate nursing school before Sam got out, but the chemistry was very hard, and she had to repeat the class twice before she was able to memorize some of the formulas she was required to know.
Gayle had never considered herself a bright woman, by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew that the only way to her dreams, her goals in life would be to get a higher level of income than she had now. Welfare, she had heard more than once, was a ticket to nowhere, and once she became determined, once she had broken through her fear, not only did she leave Sam, but also she put herself on the road to happiness. She began to believe in herself and the woman she wanted to be.
As the evening drew on, and the shadows became longer, the din of the busy street that ran outside of her apartment started to die down. Tasha yawned a few times, and Gayle made sure she ate a few slices of apple, and bites of carrot. Gayle's stomach churned a bit, as she knew the top ramen she would make later for herself would not fill her belly that much, but she always made sure Tasha ate fresh fruits and vegetables.
Tasha was falling asleep as Gayle bathed her, and barely kept her eyes open for the first few verses of, A. A. Milne's, 'Winnie-the-pooh'. Tasha stroked her daughter's hair, and then, even in the stifling heat, walked over, closed, and locked the window. She left the room, leaving on Pooh's glow-in-the-dark face night light plugged into the floor outlet by the door.
She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and pulled off her sundress. She looked at herself critically in the mirror behind the door. Her breasts were small, jutting things that could barely fill a small sport bra, but her stomach was nice and flat. She turned on tepid water, slipped off her ratty panties, and put them and the dress in the hamper.
The shower felt good, but she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, something bad was going to happen. Her mother, when she was still alive, always honored her women's intuition, and Gayle was not sure if she could have women's intuition or not, but she still had a bad feeling. Quickly, she dried, wrapped the towel under her armpits, and then started to brush her teeth.
The single bare bulb in the bathroom dimmed as the power company fought the blackout. When people came home to turn on air-conditioners, personal computers, and the myriad of other toys that modern America runs on, it became too much, and the dimness yielded to complete and utter darkness.
Gayle shivered, not from the water droplets still on her shoulder and the dampness in her hair. She was nyctophobic to a certain degree and immediately opened the bathroom door to try to glean what little light she could from the windows of the front room.
The darkness offered no comfort and she padded into the hallway, her bare feet against the cheap carpet caused her to quiver a touch. She fought her fear only long enough to make sure that the door to Tasha's room remained closed and felt her way to the kitchen, keeping her hand clutched to the knot in her towel.
She rummaged in cupboards and in the utility drawer; she finally found a small penlight, and a battered AM radio. In the dim light of the flash she fiddled with radio, and found it dead. She slipped off the back, and in the dim view of the penlight, she realized that it took the smaller 'AA' batteries, just like the light.
Her heart began to pound and a choice presented itself, to have either light, or information. The calming voice of a newscast, and possibly music for comfort was a strong foe to have against the darkness. Stronger, in her mind, than the rapidly fading penlight.
She clicked the light off, and began to unscrew the back hen she heard a soft thudding noise, coming from the living area.
Her eyes dilated as she moved slightly, peeking around the corner. She couldn't see much, there was only minimal illumination from the stars outside. She had the 'AA' batteries in one hand and then a hand reached out from beside the hall and slapped her face.
Gayle shrieked.
"Cunt." Sam said.
"Suh-suh-Sam," she stuttered.
The massive form of Sam was like an eclipse of what little starlight that filtered through. She could see only the outline of Sam's short, butch hair, her huge muscular arms, and her pendulous breasts. Sam was a mountain of a woman, more than capable of doing damage to anyone, male, or female that happened to get into her way.
"Well bitch, I'm here. Where's my little girl? I told you I'd come back for her!"
Gayle's face went white, and she stuttered in her frail voice, "She's not here."
"Liar," Gayle said, and backhanded her, sending her tumbling to the floor. Sam landed atop her kneeing her in the solar plexus pushing air out of her lungs, and causing her to gasp for breath.
Sam felt the knot of the ragged towel at Gayle's front and pulled it open, baring Gayle's breasts to her on the linoleum.
"Well cunt, did you get it done yet? Hm? Did you have your little snippy snip?" Sam teased.
Gayle quivered as Sam's gloved hand pulled hard at her nipples and then moved down her ribcage, following the dip of her tummy, onto her shaven pubis. With a hard pull, one that made Gayle wince, Sam twisted the remnant of Gayle's manhood, a diminutive penis.
"Guess not. It's a shame, I was looking forward to fisting your snatch," Sam said.
Gayle caught her breath and clocked Sam right in the stomach, but the big woman shrugged it off.
"You always did punch like a girl, even when you were Gaylord. I never knew what I saw in you, you pathetic weak ass little bitch," Sam replied, her gloved hand slapping Gayle's face, causing her nose to bleed and her left eye to blacken.
Gayle's hands went to her face, and then lay there, as Sam rained blows on her. Her punches were strong, powerful things that battered Gayle's face, splitting her lip and now swelling both eyes, she could barely see and Sam sat back on her again. Sam's final indignity to her former husband was to spit on her.
"Now I'm gonna go take Tasha, and raise her right."
Gayle's blood ran cold, and she shivered, screaming, "NO!"
Sam laughed, "what makes you ever think that you could be a mother, much less a woman, you fucking little freak."
Gayle's tears started to flow as Sam laughed harder, pressing her body into Gayle's, pushing the air out of her lungs. Gayle's arms flailed, and by accident, she smacked one of Sam's breasts, which caused her some momentary pain. Another fist rewarded this, one to Gayle's jaw, causing a tooth to come loose.
Something in Gayle's mind gave way, as she realized she was facing loosing her daughter. She also realized she was fighting Sam as if she was a man. She believed in herself, and her femininity. Then she remembered something someone had once told her. She balled her fists back and punched Sam square in the breast causing the big woman to howl in pain, and shudder.
"Bitch! I'll kill you for that," Sam hissed, and reared back with a cocked fist
Gayle followed up with her left fist, another punch to the breast, causing Sam to loose her momentum. Over, and over her punches flew, no longer in fear, her adrenaline and endorphins fueled her courage. She raked Sam's face with her sharp nails, digging into the flesh, gouging at an eye, tearing at the big woman's nose.
Sam grabbed at her face pulling to one side as Gayle squirmed free and then pressed her attack, clawing at her with all the force she could muster, scratching at her neck, tearing at Sam's shirt, and raking at her arms, and shoulders. She kneed Sam into her chest and grabbed at both of her huge nipples simultaneously, causing the enormous woman to squall banshee like a banshee.
"You're nothing but a bully, Sam. A weak, bully who has to pick on people smaller than you are." Gayle said. Her voice had become quiet, and the darkness that she once feared was now her strongest ally. She backed from the kitchen.
Sam's breathing was ragged, her blood dripped in small spatters on the kitchen floor. Gayle waited for her in the living area, and heard Sam reach in the drawers. Gayle's heart pounded harder, knowing Sam wanted to kill her for making her bleed. She forced herself to remain calm, and stood in front of the window, her silhouette like a piece of bait.
"Well, Sam," she called with a breathy voice, "I'm right here. You take me out, and there won't be anything standing in your way from Tasha."
"Damn straight," Sam said, and charged from the kitchen, the butcher knife rose, catching a glint from the stars in the night sky.
Gayle waited until she heard the footsteps tromped closer, followed by the yelp as Sam tripped on the box fan that Gayle had set flat in front of her. That was all the warning Gayle needed to merely step aside.
Sam crashed into the window, her face shattering the cheap glass, blood spattering everywhere, as it sliced her jugular like a hot knife through butter. The butcher knife swung aimlessly, managing only to give Gayle a minor gash in her right thigh.
The crash, however, managed to waken little Tasha and she cried out at the top of her lungs, "mommy!"
Gayle slipped past the body and into the hallway, easing the door open.
"Momma, it's the boogey man!" She screamed.
Gayle responded quietly, without entering into the room, just her calm, collected, levelheaded voice speaking to Tasha as if she were the only little girl on the planet.
"Yes, honey, it was the boogey-man. Mommy beat him up, though, so he won't be back again." Gayle said.
Tasha's eyes were as wide as saucer plates.
"Momma beat up the boogey-man?"
"Yes, Tasha." Gayle said. The power came on, and her Winnie-the-Pooh night light came back on. "You see? The boogey-man's gone because Pooh is here."
"COOL!" Tasha said excitedly.
"Now I want you to lie down for a few minutes. I need to call a police officer so they can come take the boogey-man away. Then mommy will come in and read you another story, okay?"
"The one about the heffalumps?" Tasha asked.
"I think we can do heffalumps," Gayle responded. "Heffalumps are just fine with me."

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Music Comics #4

Matt Levin strikes again, this time with a simple rainy day in this rubber-stamped bit of sheet music. His quiet folk style shines in this particular edition, with a tenderness that forces one to hold still for a moment and nestle into the arms of those that care for us. Tastes like: A creme soda. Seventy-five cents plus postage.

“This Choice We Make” By Caroline Tigeress

Cynthia Anderson looked down at the body of her best friend and lover, Anne Banner. Anne lay in a plain, white hospital bed with her eyes closed. Her right arm held an intravenous feed of glucose and an automatic blood pressure machine. An oximeter was on her middle finger, and the wire ran to a large machine that automatically displayed the oxygen content in Anne’s brain as well as her pulse. Her face was swathed in bandages, as was most of her upper torso, her left arm, amputated at the forearm. Anne’s pulse was a slow forty beats per minute, with her oxygen content at ninety-five percent. She could stay in this vegetative state for hours, days, weeks, months, years or even decades. There was no brain activity. The drunk driver that had taken their happiness away had also died in the crash.

Cynthia, who never wore a seat belt, had been thrown clear. She landed against the side of the roadway, and until she sat up, the paramedics had thought she was dead. She watched as they took Anne to the hospital, and refused to go, evading both them and the police easily.

The next night, she returned to Anne’s side and the doctor pulled spoke with her.

“Her chances for a full and complete recovery are very slim. According to her living will, you are next of kin. In all honesty, I would consider pulling the plug. It might be kinder, both to her, and to you.”

Cynthia nodded, and signed the necessary paperwork.

“For insurance purposes, I can’t let you do it. When you’re ready, let me know.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Cynthia said in her calm, cool voice. “I appreciate all that you’ve done.”

The Doctor looked into her emotionless eyes and nodded.

When the Doctor left, Cynthia sat down on the visitor’s seat.

“Anne, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said. It took a great deal but eventually she began to weep softly.

“You know, I have a choice. I have never loved anyone in all the years I’ve been alive in the way that I loved you. You are more recious to me than any one person, or thing. I cannot bear to loose you. I hope you can forgive me for what I have to do now.”

Out of the corner of her eyes through an internal window, Cynthia caught sight of a Nurse’s Aide wandering through the corridor. It took her back to when she and Anne first met, five years ago in the Vista Rose Nursing Home.

* * *

Around the first of December, Cynthia had secured a job as a Night shift nurse. Because of her extreme Porphyria, or light sensitivity, she could only work at the dead of night, and had to be mindful to any exposure to the sun, for fear of quick acting melanoma. Anne had been hired part time, from eleven o’clock to five in the morning, covering lunches and breaks for the other nurses and the aides.

Anne was an aide. She often wore soft lavender and purple scrubs, with bright colorful tops that made the few residents that were awake smile. Sometimes they kidded her about how she would wear her pajamas to work. Anne was kind and considerate to all those that she met, and worked overtime shifts, even double shifts when necessary.

Cynthia took her in as just another one of the staff until one early morning when she went to leave and found her custom van, vandalized. She closed her eyes and went back inside the nursing home, clearly irritated.

Anne greeted her with her irreverent smile, “forget something, Cynthia?” She inquired.

“No.” Cynthia replied, coldly, “Some jerk wrecked my van. Smashed the windows and knifed the tires.”

“That’s terrible!” Anne replied with honest disdain.

“I need to get a cab, I need to get home. I can have someone pick up the van.” Cynthia said.

“Well I can give you a ride. Where do you live?” Anne said.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she replied. “I can get a cab.”

“She’s right, the cabs don’t run that late out here,” Carolyn, the charge nurse said. She had been inside a room working with a patient, and had heard the entire exchange. “I’d take you home myself, but you know I can’t leave the building. I can tell the day shift that there was a problem and that Anne had to leave early. Really, Cynthia, it won’t be any problem at all.”

Cynthia looked exasperated. She was a private person, and felt embarrassed about her disability, and all that went into it. She realized she wouldn’t get home before dawn any other way and then relented. “I’d appreciate it, thank you.”

Anne smiled brightly, grabbed her coat and purse.

Cynthia followed. “I really appreciate this, Anne. It’s very frustrating for me to have to go through this.”

“Oh no problem. I love to drive. Where do you live, anyway?”

“Out in Brush Prairie. It’s a bit of a drive, I can give you some money for gas.”

“Brush Prairie? Cool, I live out there too. We could carpool!” Anne said happily, ignoring the offer of gas money.

Cynthia’s eyes contracted to slits, she had hoped that no one lived near her that worked in the facility. She was a private person at the best of times and didn’t like to mix her work life and her home life. Her nostrils flared in irritance still, this woman was going out of her way to help. It would do her no good to be rude.

“When did you move out to Brush Prairie?” Anne asked.

“A couple of years ago, I bought a small piece of property with some inheritance I had and decided to settle down in the country.” Cynthia replied.

“That’s cool,” Anne replied, “I’ve lived out here all my life.”

Anne’s driving was fast and careful, she took the winding country roads at seventy miles per hour without thinking, and Cynthia smiled. She, too, loved driving at night at excessive speeds on the long winding passes that led from the city of Vancouver, Washington to Brush Prairie.

Cynthia’s large home was set back on some acreage. There was an ornate gate toward the front of the acreage, surrounded by a stone wall, over eight feet tall.

“T-This is your house?” Anne asked.

“Yes. My quiet little country retreat. Took me a while to have the stonework brought in, but I think it gives a nice touch to it, don’t you?” Cynthia inquired.

“Um, yeah. It’s beautiful.” Anne said.

“I must thank you again, Anne. I really appreciate it,” Cynthia said. On an impulse, she reached out and touched Anne’s shoulder, trying to smile, trying to be friendly.

Anne grinned back, despite the physical coldness of Cynthia’s touch. “Anytime, besides, I got out of work early. I can cruise around back to my place in about five minutes. It’s too bad you can’t stay later, we could carpool.”

“Perhaps, when my illness is better under control,” Cynthia replied.

Anne asked, “When do you have a day off? I usually go hang out at the Spot Tavern on my nights off.”

“I only work a few days a week. I have tomorrow and the next night off.”

“Well come down, and shoot some pool with us.” She said, gesturing, “There are a lot of locals that work night shift.”

Cynthia tilted her head. The idea of camaraderie was foreign to her, but perhaps Anne was the exception, rather than the rule. “That’s in downtown Brush Prairie, right? Down by the Thriftway?”

“Yup, that’s it. I head down for supper, about six, and stay until they close. I’ve been kind of lonely since Marie left.”

“Marie?” Cynthia asked.

“Um, uh, my uh, roommate,” Anne replied.

Cynthia’s eyes bored into Anne’s. It was as if she could see the lie as clearly as a neon sign.

“Well we were friends, too. Real close friends.” Anne said slowly, almost in a surreal tone.

Cynthia’s eyes did not waver. They pierced deeper.

“We were lovers. It was a hard breakup. She liked to hit me,” Anne said.

“I don’t like abusive people, Anne. Especially to a kind person such as you.” Cynthia moved her gaze away, and Anne blinked her eyes, trying to shake off the stupor. “I thank you again for the ride, Anne. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’m sure my van will be in the shop for a few days, I can take my other car.”

Anne nodded as Cynthia left.

The gate opened as Cynthia approached it, and closed afterward, responding to the remote control on her keychain. It looked very impressive to Anne.

The next night, about ten in the evening, a solid black Stingray pulled up outside the Spot Tavern. Cynthia slipped out. The pale white full moon mirrored her milky skin. She wore a black short leather skirt with black boots, a red silk top and a thin black leather jacket. Her keys and the remote control to her gate she hung off a belt loop. Slowly she walked in, making very little noise.

The Spot Tavern smelled of old, rich wood, cigarette smoke and stale beer. The lights were dim, mostly because the cheap fluorescent tubing. The bartender was a thick, beefy man, bald who was cleaning a glass with a rag while watching the replay of a baseball game on one of the many wall-mounted levisions.

Tables and chairs were to her immediate right and to her left, was an open room containing four billiard tables. Anne waved at her and called out, “Cynthia, over here.”

Cynthia turned her head, and slipped off her Ray-Ban, folding them neatly and putting them on the interior of her coat. She moved with an unearthly quietness. Most of the crowd wore blue jeans and t-shirts. The men and a few of the women stared. It had been a long time since anyone had wore that kind of an outfit in The Spot.

“Glad you could make it, let me introduce you to the crowd. This here is Brian, and that is Will. Over there is Henry and James, and on that other table are Marilyn and Penny,” Anne said, introducing her friends one by one.

Cynthia smiled and wondered if perhaps she had been a bit too hard on herself, isolating the way she did.

“Got to warn you about something, though. Someone said that Marie might come by tonight, and that will mean trouble. They hadto toss her ass out last time when she took a swing at me,” Anne said.

“These things happen, I’m sure. Perhaps just some basic reasoning might convince her to stay away, or at least be less abusive.” Cynthia noted.

“I don’t want anything to do with that bitch. She’s hurt me a couple of times, and that’s two too many.”

“I agree with you, but as a general rule, I don’t like violence. It has been my experience that when you promote violence, it only increases. That doesn’t mean you should be trod upon, by any means, but violence serves no one but those who make the weapons.”

“You sound like a pacifist,” Brian said.

“Not entirely. I believe that people should be aware of the power of weapons, the finality of shooting someone with a gun, or slashing at them with a knife. I have a concealed carry permit, and on occasion, I have used it. If you’re prepared to take a life, that is the only time that you raise the barrel. You must first exhaust all of the other possibilities first,” Cynthia said.

Brian merely grunted. “Well I’m not going to let anything happen to Anne.”

Cynthia nodded. She truly did not like confrontation and was happy to leave it to others.

Anne poured beer as they began to talk about the job of nursing, and Cynthia asked her if she knew how to play pool.

“Well a while back I was over in England, and they played a game like pool, called snooker. I was okay at that, but never got to play much. There were some excellent players there and they really killed us newbies pretty badly.” She said smiling.

“We play 9-ball around here. It’s a very simple game, you just have to shoot the balls in order,” Anne explained, racking the balls.

“I’ll watch this one, okay? Give me a feel for the game. Let me get us a round of beers.” Cynthia said, slipping back up to the bar. She came back with two pitchers of dark, rich Obsidian Stout.

“You drink the good stuff, huh?” Brian said.

“I acquired a taste for darker beers and lagers in Britain. They are more commonplace there than here. Some pubs even brew their own beer, which can make life very interesting as you move about the country.” Cynthia replied. She poured the immediate group of four a round.

Will broke and shot two balls in. Anne managed to drop two more balls and they alternated back and forth until Will dropped the eight ball in and left with good position to drop the nine ball.

Cynthia spied a deep tanned woman come in through the front and the bartender beckoned her over as she entered. It looked as if he was giving her a stern lecture. Her response was to smile and nod and put up her hands in a palm-up gesture, an indication of submission. She gestured to the pool cue she had in a case. The bartender glared at her and then nodded. Cynthia heard Anne gasp and watched Brian and Will’s body language become a bit more protective.

Cynthia turned and whispered directly into Anne’s ear. “Marie, I presume.”

Anne nodded.

Marie went to the table opposite the quartet and began to shoot pool with another group of people. She said nothing to Anne, but once, when she thought no one was looking took a long, hard stare at Cynthia. Cynthia felt this look and stared back with her cool glance. Marie responded to this with a sneer.

In four short hours most of the patrons had gone, leaving only Cynthia, Anne, Marie, Brian and the bartender. At two o’clock in the morning, the bartender called for a last round and informed everyone the tavern closed at two thirty. Marie left.

Brian looked at Anne.

“See? No problem. She just needed to be told that no meant no,” he said. He was mildly drunk, and put a friendly arm around Anne.

Cynthia watched the two of them, and concluded that Brian had a serious soft spot for Anne, and was hoping to get lucky that night for all his hard work.

Anne stopped that quickly by giving him a friendly hug saying, “Thanks Brian. I think I’ll be okay now. I appreciate it. You’re going to make someone a good husband some day.”

Cynthia had to bite her lip to prevent from chuckling.

Brian’s inebriation allowed him to take it well, and he wished them both goodnight and left. They watched him get on his motorcycle and drive away, as the bartender locked the doors. The two walked out to their cars, chatting idly.

“Bitch!” Maria roared, leaping out from beside Anne’s car. “I’ll tear you and your little cunt friend apart!” Anne didn’t have a chance to respond, when a fist struck her upside the face, she slammed into the pavement, crying and bleating like a stuck pig. Maria turned toward Cynthia, pulling the heavy end of her billiards cue out of its case. “You I’m going to mess up good.”

Cynthia replied coolly. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Like hell I don’t!” Maria sneered. “I’m going to mess your pretty face up so bad, she can see you when she goes to work.”

Maria swung the pool cue. Cynthia merely stepped back a few inches.

“Anger is a weapon only to one’s opponent.” Cynthia stated.

Maria roared like a wild animal, swinging madly, striking and missing, the pool cue making a loud swooshing noise. Cynthia did not move, but waited, softly wagging a finger at her, baiting her toward the darker parts of the parking lot. She backed away from Maria as she swung again, and again, each strike getting closer and closer. Only when Cynthia felt her back against the bar did she side step one of the blows.

The pool cue struck the side of the building with a loud thunk; the vibration of it against a solid surface bounced it out of her hand. Cynthia caught it as it flew past, and balanced it in her fingertips, rolling it like a baton twirler, and then cast it away into the night. “One last chance, Maria. Anne and I are only friends. I do not get out very much, and she was trying to be kind to me, inviting me out. I’m a nurse, and if you just walk away now, I can get Anne patched up and we can forget this ever happened.”

“Fuck you!” Maria said, alcohol fueling her courage. She threw a punch straight toward Cynthia’s head.

Cynthia caught the punch at Maria’s wrist, in a fluid, twisting motion, used her inertia against her, sending Maria sailing toward the side of the building where she crashed headlong into some garbage cans. Maria was stunned, and Cynthia did not allow her any quarter, following her into the deeper darkness, her eyes having no trouble finding her target even in the stygian night. A few, short, powerful punches and Maria acquired two broken ribs and two black eyes.

Cynthia crouched down and spoke, holding her head by her hair, shaking it for effect. “Ever come after her, or come around here again and I’ll personally hunt you down. I will enjoy hurting you, I will call a few of my friends to help, and we will all take turns on you. You will beg for death, and we will not give it to you. Do you understand me? Do not even think of calling the police, because I have people there too. Go home, lick your wounds, and stay away.”

Cynthia turned on a heel, gracefully, without waiting for an answer. Anne had managed to right herself up and was crying softly.

“Come with me.” Cynthia said.

Anne merely nodded, getting into the Stingray.

Once past the gate, Anne could see that the house was large, easily six or seven bedrooms, a mini-mansion of sorts. Cynthia eased her to a large, plush couch and gently applied ice wrapped in a towel. She gave Anne a half smile, “don’t you worry, I’ll vouch for you at work. We were out at the tavern and you hit a doorstop. Real nasty mess, too.”

“What about Maria?” She gasped.

“I don’t think she’ll be around much. I saw her take a header into some garbage cans. Looked painful. I was more concerned about getting you to safety.” Cynthia said.

“I saw her swing at you, with her pool cue,” Anne replied.

“She was a lousy shot,” Cynthia replied. “It never connected with me. I guess she was too drunk.”

Anne started to sob softly, “I really loved her, you know? It’s just she was so dominant. She wanted to control my life. I don’t need that.”

Cynthia swallowed softly and gently sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her. While her hands were cold to the touch, there was the essence of humanity in them, of simple kindness from one person toanother. Anne nearly fell into her arms and felt safe in them.

“It’s going to be okay, Anne. Really, it is. I’m here, and Maria won’t be back, okay?” Cynthia said, her icy composure weakening.

Anne nodded softly and took the pack off. The side of her face had a stunning purple bruise on it. She set it on the floor and used both hands to hold Cynthia tight. Anne responded by holding her as if she were a child and the two women merely cuddled each other in the darkness, letting silence bind wounds and heal maimed spirits. Cynthia reached down with her face to say something, and on impulse, Anne reached up. By coincidence, their lips grazed each other.

Anne pulled back as if scalded, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m not offended, Anne,” Cynthia replied, stroking her hair.

Anne licked her lips, and Cynthia could see them glisten in the starlight streaming through the open windows. Softly their lips met like two pairs of a scissor, closing. Their lips parted and met again, with soft tenderness. Cynthia’s mouth and lips were cool, a sharp contrast to Anne’s warm, bubbly nature. Their kisses became passionate. When they broke again, Anne softly nuzzled into Cynthia’s neck, nipping.

Anne’s brilliant white teeth glinted in the night as she felt the hot breath against her throat. From somewhere, deep inside her a guttural moan let loose, a vocal expression of emotions and feelings long dormant, longing to be free. Anne chewed softly. She was slow, and teasing. Cynthia’s voice became ragged as her normally calm pulse quickened. Her head lowered down and softly nipped at Anne’s forehead, away from the bruise.

Anne’s hands softly unfastened the top part of Cynthia’s blouse, her warm fingers softly trailing along her breastbone, gently rubbing against the satin fabric of the top of her bra. Cynthia looked down to watch, and nodded gently. With a flip of her wrist, Anne’s dexterous fingers undid the center clasp of Cynthia’s bra, and her beautiful ivory breasts fell free. She had bright pink puffy nipples which pointed out and looked like chocolate kisses. Anne’s mouth found one of them and suckled gently, her tongue flickering softly at the teat, teasing it into erection.

Cynthia’s strong hands gently rubbed at the back of Anne’s neck, encouraging her to suckle more. Anne did so, and was paid with a soft, moaning, “yes…”

Anne smiled and kept her mouth on the breast while softly unbuttoning the rest of Cynthia’s blouse, peeling her open like an onion. Her other hand massaged Cynthia’s free breast. Cynthia squirmed gently in the couch, and softly Anne’s lips traveled lower, trailing tender kisses to her navel, her nose eventually ending at the front button of Cynthia’s skirt. Her eyes looked up, asking.

Cynthia could only nod. It had been many, many years since anyone had ever wanted to pleasure her.

Softly Anne slipped off the couch, her hands gently reaching up the skirt to run the backs of her fingers along the dampness of her black satin panties. Cynthia’s hips moved with a life of their own, her feet kicking off the heels, thighs spreading wider. She could feel Anne’s warm breath trail up her inner thigh, and felt the first traces of Anne’s tongue as it worked its way nearer the cloth barrier.

Anne smiled to herself, feeling good that she was able to make someone else feel good, knowing somewhere deep inside Cynthia would never abuse her, never hurt her. With only her lips, she pulled at the thong underwear, tugging hard. She manually moved Anne’s legs in order to slip the underwear down, and was rewarded by the sight of a neatly trimmed bush. Anne’s mouth softly moved forward and her tongue tenderly rolled up Cynthia’s outer labia, tasting her tender, succulent juice.

Cynthia moaned louder this time, egging Anne on, her hips softly rocking into Anne’s mouth. Anne licked deeper, with a flicking motion, working up and down the inner labia, then gently nosed up softly to her clit, tenderly rolling its hood with her lips. Anne’s tongue found the tender bundle of nerves and with great care gently started to tease Cynthia’s blood engorged nub.

Anne slipped three fingers into Cynthia’s tight dampness, her lips and tongue still teasing her womanhood. Gently she rocked her face in time with her hands, pushing deeper into Cynthia’s pubic region, sucking hungrily as if she were a child at a mother’s breast. Cynthia’s body convulsed, as if shocked by a bold of lightening. She quivered, moaned and outright screamed in ecstasy, having her first orgasm by another person in well over twenty years. Her juices splashed Anne’s face, causing her lips to shine. She pulled her face back and smiled at Cynthia, with a look on her face not unlike a puppy dog that had just pleased its mistress.

Cynthia panted for just a moment, then looked down, and licked her lips.

“I’d like you to spend the night. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had the pleasure of sucking on another woman’s pussy.”

Anne grinned.

“I have only one rule. Don’t open the blinds or curtains during the day. My skin is so sensitive, it will literally burn.”

“I understand its okay. I work night shift because I like the darkness. My eyes are a bit photosensitive,” Anne said.

“The curtains and blinds are all set to timers. They will close about a half hour before dawn, and open after dusk. We can go get your car tomorrow night.” Cynthia said, her eyes meeting Anne’s.

“I understand. I won’t touch them,” Anne said, sincerely. In the pitch-blackness, Cynthia led the way to a bedroom where a huge canopy bed awaited them.

In a few months time, Anne moved in. Cynthia relied on Anne to take care of things for her during the day, and Anne helped Cynthia repair her damaged self-esteem. Together, they formed a friendshipand intimate relationship based upon trust, and love.

Until the drunk driver hit their car, five years later.

* * *

“Anne,” Cynthia whispered, looking down at her love. “I’ve come to my decision. I have decided I would rather be judged by you, and your morals and values, than loose you. I hope you understand. I am not going to give you new life, but a curse. It will bring you back to me, because I don’t want to spend eternity without you. I hope you understand.”

The only response in the hospital room was the cold beeping noise of the pulse monitor.

“You’ve always suspected what I’m going to show you was the truth, but we never needed to talk about it. We always had our understanding. My past was that, my past. You accepted me, loved me, and desired me for the person I am. I cannot give that up. I’m truly sorry if what I’m going to do now offends you, but please, understand; it’s only out of love that I do this thing.”

Cynthia stepped back into the room. She slowly closed the blinds to the interior and exterior windows, and turned off the lights.

She lowered the side rail to the bed, and gently draped Anne’s right arm across her chest.

She tilted Anne’s head to the left. It moved easily, as if it had been broken.

Cynthia took a deep breath, and let the smell of Anne’s life flow into her body. Her hand she placed upon Anne’s breast, and felt the soft thumping noise of her heartbeat.

Cynthia’s mouth opened, and from sheer force of will, her sharp canine teeth extruded an inch.

She bit into the side of Anne’s throat, feeling the hot spray of her blood into her mouth, drinking it all down like a glutton, swallowing every drop from her body. At the moment of death, Anne’s eyes opened. Her pupils flickered a soft red tone. Their first vision was of Cynthia’s lips, softly dripping with vitae, her fangs still out.

“I had to do it, Anne, please, forgive me. You weren’t going to wake up.” Cynthia said, nearly sobbing.

Anne nodded, her body softly cooling. She looked at the stump of her hand and softly felt the tissue start to regenerate itself.

“I’ll teach you all you need to know to live as a child of the night, if you will only stay at my side. I’ve never loved anyone the way I’ve loved you.”

Anne spoke softly, “I understand.” Her mouth trembled as she felt her fangs softly grow out.

“I’m cold, and hungry.” Anne said.

“Let me get you home,” Cynthia said.

Anne nodded. They both fled, out into the safety of the night.

"The Scarlet Letter M"

Thursday, June 12th, 2053. 14.25

Harriet Tubman Middle School, special education division, room 065

Harville, Iowa

Charlie’s lip trembled, as often it did when he was nervous. He tapped his right foot and squirmed uncomfortably in the undersized desk. He had only one day of school left before summer, and he didn’t want to be here. The seventh grade wasn’t an easy place for anyone, and Charlie wasn’t just anyone. At thirteen years of age, and six feet six inches tall, weighing over two-hundred and seventy pounds, Charlie didn’t think he fit in anywhere, especially in the public school system.

Charlie’s seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Newman eyed her six charges critically. Charlie sat to her far right, for he was the least of her worries. To Charlie’s left was his best friend, Ken Palmer, who sat at mock attention, idly watching the video playing on the wall panel. The four other children displayed a more than a passing interest in the animated film. Charlie had seen this particular feature at least a dozen or more times, and he and Ken had been quietly blue toothing each other via their pda’s.

Mrs. Newman’s desk terminal monitor had intercepted these transmissions of course, but as it was nearly the end of school, she let it slide. Not that she wouldn’t have anyway, for Charlie and Ken were the only two children in her class that were capable of communicating with one another. By forcing them to use their pda’s to communicate, she achieved two goals that were high on her list.

The first one was to help develop Ken’s hand-eye coordination. Ken had a mild case of cerebral palsy that mostly affected his inner ear and cerebrum, he couldn’t walk well, and generally used a wheelchair. Despite this, he was a very gregarious, outgoing child who had not one ounce of fear in him.

The second, and far more difficult task was to break Charlie McComber out of his shell. At the beginning of the year, Charlie hated being a mutant, hated being different, hated being over six feet tall and hated just about everything and anything around him but recess and physical education. He resented being stuck into a special education class when he was reading at the senior grade level, and was intelligent to understand the underlying bigotry that he was going through. By the end of the year, he’d made a friend.

They had just passed a very less than politically correct joke between the two of them, and while she did ponder jumping down Ken’s throat, the smile on Charlie’s face kept her away from that action. Ken had started to giggle almost uncontrollably, and Charlie was looking around suspiciously to see if anyone had figured out that Ken had just let out a fart that was wafting through air at the speed of teen.

Mrs. Newman opened her mouth to give a minor admonishment when she noticed an indicator on her terminal begin to flash at her. It was a message from Vice-principal Carlson. Mrs. Newman swallowed and wondered what she wanted.

She read and re-read the message a couple of times and then spoke, “Charlie, could you please come here.”

Just loud enough for Charlie to hear, Ken said softly, “busted.”

Charlie’s eyes bugged out of his skull. He looked astonished, and frowned. “I didn’t do nothing,” he muttered and slid his undersized chair back, making a screeching noise. He lumbered forward, his eyes toward the ground.

Mrs. Newman cleared her throat. She spoke in a clear, quiet tone, one that she wanted to keep from the rest of the classroom.

“Charlie, Mrs. Carlson would like to speak with you.” She said.

His eyes looked at her fleetingly.

“Oh. Umm.”

“I don’t know why. Do you know why?” She asked him.

“No ma’am. I haven’t got into a fight with anybody or nothing, honest.”

She nodded, she believed him. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Carlson would like to speak with you.”

“Yes ma’am.” He said.

Charlie trudged toward the door, stealing a look to Ken. It was a loose shrug, the shrug of someone in trouble, and worst yet, having o idea what the trouble was about. Just as Charlie was about ready to pass through the door, Mrs. Newman had no choice but to remind him to take his hall pass, a large red Frisbee which had the letter, ‘M’ stamped on it. He looked ashamed as he went out the door and down the hall, taking a left, out of the portable and down the ramp. From there, along the outside of the school, and into a side hallway. As the hall pass that had an RFI id chip in it, none of the automated hall monitors stopped him. He trudged, rather than walked, his oversized hands trying to cover the “M” in case someone should see him.

One at the office, he stood at the desk until one of the human secretaries turned to him.

“Um, ma’am, I’m here to see Mrs. Carlson. My name is Charlie McComber.”

She looked at him coolly, “have a seat, Mister McComber.”

Charlie took one of the seats against the wall, and waited. And waited.

Arva Carlson sat at her desk, looking at Charlie through one of the many cameras mounted in the ceiling. She pulled up his personal profiled, and, more importantly, she pulled up the request of his mother for alternative education. She realized that Charlie’s mutation, Homo Mutatus var Strongaria made him an obvious target. In reading over Mrs. Newman’s reports, she had to balance this with her suggestion that Charlie not go to alternative education, that he be mainstreamed. Such things, of course, were out of the question in this day and age, but Mrs. Newman was an old school teacher. It didn’t take her long to reach her choice, all the while Charlie sat outside and stewed.

After twenty minutes or so, she tapped at her panel, sending an indication to the front secretary who then spoke to Charlie.

“Mrs. Carlson will see you now, Mister McComber.”

Charlie swallowed as she pointed to the door with the Vice-Principle’s name on it.

He stood, gingerly opened the door, ducked his head low through the doorway and looked at her half in, and half out of the door.

Mrs. Carlson looked at him and nodded, she gestured to a chair, “Mister McComber, do have a seat. This won’t take long.”

“Yes ma’am,” Charlie replied.

“I’ve been looking over a request regarding you on my desk, and I have to weigh some difficult decisions about your future in our public school system.”

“I didn’t get into no fight, honest, I didn’t!” Charlie gasped, his heart rate elevating.

“I know. I also know your reading, math and comprehension skills are all well above the special education classroom you’ve been placed into. Yet, when you’re placed into a standardized classroom, your peers ignore you, or bully you. Clearly, Charlie, that’s not a healthy place for you, either.”

Charlie blinked his eyes a few times, processing that. She continued.

“Your mother, on the other hand, has just finished up enough supplemental education so that she can receive her assistant’s license. She and I have been working out the details about her working as an extension of Gigopolis U.”

“You mean like a home school?” Charlie asked.

“Not exactly. More like a long-distance learning. Your mom would be available locally in order to answer questions and give you direct instruction, but you’d be under direct daily supervision from the University. I’ve been told they have an excellent mutant rural outreach group there.” Mrs. Carlson replied.

“Well, yeah, that’s what my ma told me. She said when I got old enough that I could probably go to school there without any problem.”

“Look at it this way, Charlie. You don’t have any more worries, you don’t have to get up, come here on the transport, get picked on, get into fights or worry about fitting through doorways.”

“So you’re like, throwing me out of school?” He asked.

“Look at it like a transfer. Next September, when you start your education again, it will be via the internet, not in a brick-and-mortar school.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Just try to not get into any fights between today and tomorrow, okay?” She said, smiling at him.

“I won’t ma’am. I haven’t fought any for like since before Thanksgiving. Mrs. Newman says I been doing real good.”

“Yes, you have, Charlie. Good luck in your new school.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Charlie said.

Charlie stood, stooped through the doorway and went back to his classroom, Frisbee in hand, taking the same cautious route that he had before. Sullenly, he returned to his seat.

Mrs. Newman eyed him and tapped a message to him from her desk. The movie still played, and school would let out in all of fifteen minutes.

“Are you okay, Charlie.”

He shrugged at her, by way of reply. Ken too, was worried.

“Dude, what happened,” he whispered.

“I ain’t coming back,” Charlie said. His lower lip quivered.

Ken’s eyebrow arched. “They kicked you out?”

“Well she didn’t say that,” Charlie said, speaking loud enough for the classroom to hear. It didn’t make any difference any more. “I got to take internet classes now.”

Mrs. Newman closed her eyes and shook her head softly. Charlie watched her, his teen eyes soaking in every emotion. He knew she was displeased, so he also knew that she either didn’t want this to happen or had somehow tried to fight it. He knew then that she was really on his side, and not just telling him crap to shut him up. He wished he’d believed her sooner, but now, it was too late.

“So like, um, tomorrow is it?” Ken said.

“I won’t come tomorrow, man. What’s the point?”

Ken’s eyes got big, and despite the teen’s confidence his voice trembled, “dude, man, that’s not cool, just show up for the last day, okay?”

“I’m a fucking mutie, Ken. I’ll always be a mutie. They can always rebuild your legs and spine man, but there’s nothing they can do for a mutie. Fucking nothing, man.”

The bell run, Charlie picked up his knapsack and walked out on a heel. As a last parting shot, he slammed his fist into his desk and cracked the lexan top. His face was a mask of something between anger and tears. He boarded the, ‘short’ bus, reserved for special education students with physical needs. He was only able to sit in the far back, and used a special harness for safety. The journey took just under an hour.

He trudged up the road to his house, knowing there would be no one home, which suited him fine. He went into the back barn and turned up his music very, loud and cried. He hated being a mutant.

It was not often the bartender saw a woman as beautiful as her. When she slipped into the hotel’s bar, virtually every head in the room turned.

She was dressed in a short, yet tasteful black dress, a small leather clutch in one hand. Her legs were perfectly shaped, and met with her hips, dipped into her waist for a shapely hourglass figure.

Her cleavage was well formed, with what looked like large, but not huge breasts that moved with her gracefully. Her long, crimson locks draped down with their luxurious soft curls to about her mid-back.

Her heels clicked politely as she walked, and she went down to the quiet end of the bar, away from the television screens blaring the Mariners game, and eased onto a barstool, her eyes playing up to the CNN broadcast.

The bartender was standing at the opposite side, having just filled a scotch order from a short, heavy-set, nearly bald man who had introduced himself as Henry, an insurance salesman from Hoboken, New Jersey in town for the convention.

“Who’s that?” Henry asked, breathlessly.

“I have no idea,” the bartender said.

“She’s beautiful,” Henry said, staring.

“Yeah and defiantly out of your league,” the bartender said.

“Hey,” Henry said, nearly squalling.

“Look dude, I see it all the time. Pretty girl comes in, she soaks you for some drinks, plays with your head, and then she goes to powder her nose. Save yourself the heartache. Save your wife the heartache too.” He said.

“How do you know I’m married?” He asked.

“You may have taken the ring off, but you’ve still got the mark from it on your hand. I see it, she’ll see it.”

Howard glared at him.

“Hey, fine, whatever man. I’m just trying to save you some grief.”

“Whatever,” Henry said, and ordered another double scotch.

The bartender brought it to him, and then chided himself. He certainly killed Henry’s tip, but he wanted a crack at the redhead for himself. Softly, he slid a napkin in front of her, and gave her his winning smile.

“What can I get for you, miss?” He inquired.

She smiled at him, with well-formed, crimson lips that shined softly.

“Traditional Martini,” She said her voice throaty and breathy. She looked him straight in the eyes and batted her long, thick eyelashes at him.

“Coming right up,” He said, smiling back.

Yes indeed, tonight would be his lucky night. He could keep her going with drinks, maybe get off early, and take her home. It was a Thursday and only a couple of the regulars were in. They wouldn’t care if he closed about ten. He could get her back to his studio and peel that little black dress right off.

He juggled the bottles with a flourish and rolled the Martini Mixer in his hands, giving her a spectacular performance. He knew she was watching her, out of the corner of his eye, they always did.

Henry the insurance salesman glared at the performance.

The Martini was delivered to her with nary a drop spilled and she smiled by turning up the corner of one of her lips. Her left hand was in her lap and she sipped softly at it, holding the bowl of the glass in her perfectly chiseled acrylic nails.

He hovered over her for just that extra amount time to make sure that she was enjoying her drink.

She looked at him sexily as the mixture of alcohols entered her mouth. She sipped petitely and made a soft slurping noise as the glass pulled away from her lips.

“Is that okay?” He asked in his home-down, folksy manner.

“Just fine, sugar,” she replied, again in the breathy tone.

He smiled back at her, thinking to himself that yes indeed, that he was going to get lucky. He wandered back to Henry who had nearly finished the scotch.

Henry just beckoned his fingers at him and pointed to the scotch.

“’Nother double?” He asked, with a smug look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Henry said. He tried to straighten out his rumpled shirt and squared his tie some. The bartender brought him scotch and a bowl of popcorn as a consolation prize.

Henry the insurance man grunted at him, and muttered something, drinking at the scotch.

“What’s that, Henry old boy?” The Bartender said.

“Send her a drink,” He said.

The bartender snickered and said, “Hey it’s your nickel.”

With no flourish, no razzle, nor dazzle, he presented her the second drink saying, “It’s from that guy down there.”

She arched a brow at him, and then looked in the bar mirror to try to say who she was talking about.

“You mean the guy by the entrance, next to the pool table?” She asked.

“No, the guy down the end of the bar.” She tilted her head and saw a man standing at the bar’s rail waiting to be served.

“Him? In the blue shirt?” She whispered.

“No, farther down. The insurance salesman.” The bartender said flatly.

Her mouth opened partially, to make the letter, ‘o’. The bartender shivered slightly, imagining those lips wrapped around his cock.

She tilted her head a bit more, to meet Henry’s eyes.

Henry would be the first one to admit, he was nothing special. He was middle aged, had sold insurance for all of his professional life, alternated between having a horseshoe and shaving himself bald. His wife had to pick out his clothing and match it, for he was helpless when it came to colors and cloth. His kids always gave him ties and cologne for Father’s Day and Christmas, as he was incapable of purchasing these things for himself.

Yet, he had a certain charm he would like to think.

She looked at the bartender, and bit on those beautiful red pouty lips.

“I suppose I should send him something back, huh?” She looked at him with her cool, emerald eyes.

“Well I wouldn’t. You’d only encourage him.”

“Do you know his name?” She asked.

“His name is Henry; he’s an insurance salesman from Jersey in town on a convention.”

She looked at the bartender, clearly curious.

“Hey, I’m the bartender, people tell me stuff,” he said.

“Hm,” she grunted softly.

“Yeah well, I tried to warn him. Didn’t want you to break his heart and all that.” He said.

She eyed him in a friendly manner and replied, “Well be nice to him then. Don’t need to be mean.”

“Miss, I’m serious, this guy will be all over you.”

“Well let him cool for a bit, then.” She said.

When the bartender turned to serve the man in the middle, it blocked Henry’s view of the Crimson-haired goddess, but it made no difference, her delicate white face was etched into his memory forever.

For her part, the redhead swiftly consumed the remainder of her first martini and started to work on the one Henry had sent her. When the bartender moved, he could see this, and smiled. He beckoned the bartender over.

“See?” He said.

“Look dude, I’m here to tell you this is just not cool.”

“Who are you to say, huh bud? I’ll make you a little bet.” Henry said, full of himself, the scotch putting him in a proud, defiant mode.

Henry pulled out his wallet and folded a crisp, new fifty-dollar bill on the counter.

“Fifty bucks says that I’ll put her panties on the bar.” He said.

The bartender looked at him coolly.

“You’re serious.”

“There it is. Fifty bucks. You’ve got that running around in tips, I know.” Henry said. His fat forehead was sweating, and the bartender could see he was getting a bit riled up.

“Alright Henry, you’re on. I’m closing at ten-thirty, sharp.” He pulled out a shot glass, peeled a fifty out of his own wallet, jammed it and Henry’s into it, and tucked it under the bar just out of reach.

Henry offered his sweaty, beefy hand.

The bartender shook it.

The crimson haired goddess went to the bathroom, came back, and found a third drink. The bartender explained it was yet again from Henry.

She looked at the bartender, “well I just can’t ignore that. Send him something. What does he drink?”

“Scotch,” He said.

She made a face and said, “Paint thinner. Send him one anyway.”

Henry smiled as the liquid courage flowed his way. He lifted the drink to give her a cheer from a distance.

The bartender frowned at him.

“Look, Henry, she’s just trying to be nice,” he said.

“Yeah, and I appreciate it. In fact, I think I’ll go and have a little chat.”

With that, he picked up his rumpled coat, laid it over his arm, grabbed his drink, nearly spilling it, and headed her way. He clambered onto the barstool next to her, and offered his hand:

“Hi, miss. I’m Henry Peterson.”

“Well Henry Peterson, I’m Michele.” She replied at him, cool, yet polite.

The bartender wondered if he could get Henry drunk enough to make a fool of him and still make himself out to be the hero. Yes, indeed, that was the ticket. Nothing like being the hero.

He brought them another round.

Henry thanked him, and she looked at the pile of glasses and put her hand up, cutting herself off.

“So Henry, what brings you to the Rose City?” She asked.

“Insurance convention,” he said. He launched into a long, utterly boring, and completely trite discussion about term versus whole life.

She listened politely and nodded at appropriate points.

The bartender took it all and then thought to himself that this would be the easiest fifty bucks he ever made and he’d get laid to boot. It was a good life.

As Henry talked, mostly about New Jersey winters and the traffic on the turnpike, one of the restaurant servers came in bearing a platter of hot food and laid it in front of another patron.

Henry’s stomach grumbled and he suggested he buy dinner.

“Oh, no, Henry, I wouldn’t want to impose upon you,” she said, loud enough for the Bartender to hear.

Henry insisted and had menus brought. They migrated to a corner table, and she got giddy half way through the third martini.

The bartender watched them both, growling. Fortunately, the bet was for her panties to get onto the bar, not for him to get her into his room. Over dessert, he softly started to rub at her hand with his pudgy fingers and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Henry made his move.

He whispered softly into her ear.

She turned crimson, to match her hair and nearly shrieked with laughter. At this point, the bartender had realized he wasn’t the one that was getting laid.

He watched her squirm as Henry discreetly tickled at her hips, and her breasts jiggled invitingly.

She leaned over, kissed him on the nose, and scooted down to the ladies’ powder room.

Henry smirked at the bartender.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The bartender was the one smirking at Henry, and then was shocked as she returned. She had touched up her hair, and went from being the giggle girl, to the crimson-haired goddess that yet again turned the head of every man when she came through the doorway.

She walked seductively, purposefully, with intent, desire, and hunger to Henry.

She slid into the booth and pushed the side of her bosom against him.

Henry whispered something into her ear, and then she nodded, giggling softly.

The bartender could not believe this.

Henry fished for his room card-key and walked up to the bar and said, “I’d like to pay please.”

He flashed the black satin panties she had peeled off in the restroom.

“Damn,” The bartender said, and slipped him the fifties.

Henry and Michelle made their way into the exterior glass elevator. Michele was more than slightly drunk, and felt the salesman’s shaking, beefy fingers on her petite ass. He knelt down, had her bend over slightly, and reached up with his mouth.

Softly, Henry’s dexterous tongue began to probe her needful folds. She wasn’t overly wet, but certainly produced the pheromones that drove his lust farther.

He lapped at her from behind, even softly nuzzling her tart ass, and when the bell rung, both squirmed to upright, decent positions as someone else entered the car.

Henry got her to her room and she smirked at him with a sly, knowing look.

Henry did not bother to turn the lights on, and once she’d crossed the threshold, closed, locked, and bolted the door. He picked her up bodily which made her giggle even more.

Tenderly he laid her on the bed, and lifted up the dress, her pubic hair neatly trimmed into an inviting triangle.

His hot breath along was enough to make her squirm, and he took his sweet time, softly kissing her inner thighs on both sides, before running his tongue up the length of her blood engorged mons.

She gasped as the tip of his tongue met with the side of her clitoral hood, gently lapping at it, and causing her to go from squirming to moaning.

With her juices flowing freely, his tongue became more insistent and flicked deeply into her wetness. She writhed and began to gasp.

Like a hunter and its prey, he knew that she was close and he stood, and unbuckled his belt.

His stiff, uncut phallus poked out from his middle-aged tummy, seven inches of uncircumcised manhood that he teasingly rubbed against her labia.

She wiggled her butt against the bed and he loomed over her, the head of his tool softly pressing against her clit. With little care, he slipped the straps form her shoulders and exposed her creamy white breasts with their perky sharp nipples.

Henry mounted her grabbing both nipples at once, thrusting in her in a single, powerful shove of his manhood.

Her head arched back against her bed as best it could and her breasts pressed into his fingers as if they had a life of their own. She pressed back against him with her hidden muscles, feeling his tool invade her.

He pumped solidly, his sweat permeating the room, mixing with her musk and creating the scent of mating throughout the room.

They fucked hard, her clawed fingers digging into the comforters, his balls slapping at her ass. His hands twisted her nipples and her ankles locked behind his back.

She writhed, she moaned and Michelle climaxed powerfully, screaming like a wild animal.

Henry was no better, for the throbbing of her thick vaginal muscles finished him off, and his semen fired a huge, thick load into her wanting body.

She gasped for air, and looked at him dreamily.

He smiled and rested for a few moments, and then softly filled her over, unzipped her, and stripped her nude. He then discarded his own clothing, and pulled the comforter and sheets back for her.

She kissed him on the cheek.

He grabbed at the nightstand for his wedding ring.

“I’d better not loose this,” he said, “My wife would kill me.”

She looked up at him, her breasts inviting him for round two.

“You’re right,” she replied. “I would.”

Zine Review - Walking Man Comics Presents Special #44

Matt Levin’s quiet, philosophical storytelling is very clear in this issue. “Climbing the Walls” the feature story is deep, talking about many issues and obstacles that face all of us – using one single metaphor of climbing walls to discuss just about any problem you may be encountering in your life. Tastes like: A light salad that stays on the palette. Seventy five cents plus postage, a very good read.

Zine Review - Walking Man Comics Presents Special #28

Matt Levin’s “Flights of Fancy”. Matt’s whimsy is heavy in this issue, he talks about faith, changes in perspective and how those things cause us to imagine, and allow us to create. A simple little bit of prose, but one that doesn’t fail to make you smile. This particular work caused me to think of the work and legacy of Fred Rogers. Another fine work from Matt. Tastes like: popcorn with cheese on it. Seventy five cents plus postage, a very uplifting read.

Fiction > Sci-Fi > Enter Mindbinder

Enter Mindbinder

Tuesday 7 April 2054, 15:08

Outskirts of Harville, Iowa

The rural back roads of Iowa rarely graced a limousine. Usually, they took on older, 2030's style four and six wheel drive vehicles. Today however, was an exception. The Military Limousine cruised quietly, doing just over the speed limit on the country roads. Its driver was human, for General Kinomoto did not care for robotic drivers. Even with gas mileage at an unheard of high of fifty miles per gallon the distance between Gigopolis and Harville gave the driver a chance to pull over at a self-service pump in order to fuel.

General Kinomoto took the opportunity to look up from his work and see the quiet town of Harville. According to military intelligence, an unimpressive town should have dried up years ago when the first gigopolis was created in 2042 on the site of old Chicago. He sighed to himself, muttering about hicks and people who did not have enough sense what was good for them. These were the sorts of people that frustrated him immensely. These were the sort of people that, in many ways, he lived for.

General Kinomoto had a calling in life. He had a skill, a talent as an orator and as a debater. His ability to manipulate was incredible. Coupled with his mutation, the ability to influence other people's minds made him a very valuable commodity. He liked that. He liked to feel in control, he liked to feel that he was worth something. It was an honor to serve your country, he thought. God, Mom, Freedom, Apple Pie in about that order. He was fighting the good fight. Doing the right thing. The driver filled up, and turned briefly toward the passenger's section.

The General lowered the window about an inch or so.

"I've gotten specific information leading to the subject's location, sir. Our ETA is approximately fifteen minutes." The General Nodded by way of acknowledgment. Lieutenant Harris was becoming a very capable assistant, understanding that the General liked these little updates.

No more than sixteen minutes later, the long, sleek automobile pulled into the small farm front. There was a large, sprawling ranch house, close to fifty years old. Its front porch was rotten in places and the General knew to the penny how much these people were in debt. He knew how many days Marie McComber's husband had to live if he did not get a heart transplant, and he knew the relative value of her son, Charlie. He had come calling about Charlie.

The driver opened the back door, and the General stood, in full dress uniform. Every medal, shined, every ribbon perfectly placed there by the General himself, ever cord, every honor. General Kinomoto could look very impressed when he tried, and there were few days he did not try.

The dusty screen door opened as a dog barked in the background. A woman wearing an old country dress with dark hair pulled back tight into a bun was opening it. She looked stern, as if she were a schoolteacher of two centuries ago.

"Marie McComber?" He asked.

She gave a half smile. "General Kinomoto. I am glad you made it. I'm still not quite sure what all the fuss is about, but do come in."

He entered into the hallway. The smooth polished wood of the interior was immaculate, not a speck of dust anywhere. The General approved. "Beautiful home." He commented.

"We'll we've still got a lot of work to do on it. Just bought it a few years ago, before Roscoe took sick. Just you have a seat in the living room, and I'll bring out the tea."

He did as he was asked. After all, he was on her turf. No need to be rude, or even pushy. Gentle soft persuasion was all he needed. He was like that. The General generally only asked people questions. He did not really need to demand much of anyone, so confidant he was of his capabilities.

She brought in tea in a perfect silver set. Offered him cream and sugar. He broke the ice.

"So Mrs. McComber, your husband, is he well?" He looked at her through the thick, dark glasses he wore.

Her lower lip twitched. "No. They say he has a month or so at most to live. His Jarveck 12 artificial heart is failing, and the supporting valves around the implant are too fragile to support another artificial unit."

He nodded softly. "Your only hope would be a cloned cardiac system, I'd imagine. I'm not a doctor, mind you." He said in a folksy sort of tone, trying to read her more.

"We'll we're on the list for that, but it's a long wait. They say he'd die before the cloned heart was available."

He was a master of observation and mimicked her lower lip twitch, looking very concerned. "What about Charlie's heart? He could take an artificial for the time being, while they cloned him a new one. Medimerica has done that sort of thing before, I believe." He was referring to the North American Universal Health care system.

"Charlie's heart is too big. It would not fit in Roscoe's chest. It was one of the first things Charlie thought of. My heart is too small, and I have a minor heart defect."

General Kinomoto made a slight tilting motion and then looked about, “where is Charlie, anyway?"

She looked at him.

"Where he always is, General. The Barn. He sleeps out there. The house is not very easy for him to get around in. The Barn is much more comfortable for him. He's fixed it up nicely and he can work on his trucks."

The General gave a slight smile. “Boys and their toys.” He commented softly, and recalled one of his own first automobiles.

“Charlie's very handy with a wrench. Being oversized comes in handy in the mechanical department, being able to lift and such. He can turn on his radio and get lost. Frankly, he has been doing a bit too much of that. He doesn't like to be seen in the daylight, not even by me.” She bit at her lower lip. “I'm not sure which one of the boys that I'm more worried about.”

“Mrs. McComber, as you may have noticed, I'm from the army. I am a liaison to the Gteams project. Do you know what we do?”

She looked at him awkwardly.

“No. I remember there was some sort of anti-terrorist task working under that name, which was in the papers. But that was ten years ago.” She responded, after much thought.

“We're still around. You might know us by our brainchild, Team America.”

“Team America? The government mutants?” She asked.

He smiled. “Yes. I am from Team America’s heartland division. We run out of Chicago. You might have seen them on the video. Crone? DarkStarr?”

She nodded slowly, “Crone I've heard of. She stopped a burning building a few towns away during a terrorist attack. I saw something on the news that DarkStarr had almost been killed.”

He smiled. Got something to work with now. “Crone is our senior trainer. She currently does not have an apprentice. I'd like Charlie to fill that role.” He smiled.

“Charlie? My Charlie? He is not a mutant. He's just big for his age.”

“Come, come now Mrs. McComber. Charlie is nearly seven feet tall at the age of fourteen. According to his pediatrician he can curl on the high order of three hundred pounds.”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “Doctor Sanders told you that? He's not supposed to go around telling people like that. We could sue him.” She growled.

He sighed and pretended as if he was tired. He closed his eyes and removed his dark glasses, and rubbed where the bridge met his nose. He replied to her, still with his eyes closed, “In accordance to the mutant reporting act of 2037 he had no choice, Mrs. McComber. He acted within the bounds of the law.”

“But,” she started to speak.

“Mrs. McComber. Please. I have seen this sort of thing before. Really, there is nothing wrong with your son. In fact, you might even say that Charlie is the next step.”

He waited for the silence. He played it like a long, gentle strum of a classic guitar. He leaned forward in the couch, and brought his head up, eyes still closed. He could feel her attention upon him. He spoke in a soft, hollow tone, it was almost mechanical.

“Your son, Charlie is a very valuable young man.” He opened his eyes. There were no visible pupils, iris, or lens, no white of the eye. Where his eyes would have been visible there was nothing but blackness and a field of stars. He looked straight into her eyes.

“He has a talent, your boy does. A skill that very few other people do. Your son is a Mutant. He is a valuable asset to your family, your community. Your country.”

Her eyes went blank. A sharp, jet black, speckled with stars, mimicking his. He continued. “I think you understand how valuable he is, and we at the government are willing to do much for you and your family. Your husband will be taken care of. Charlie will be educated. You will be provided for. Your government will take care of you.”

The corners of her lips curled up, almost like a sneer, the eye sockets bulging out in a comical, harlequin like manner. She repeated a bit of his last sentence, “will take care of you.”

He sat back, like an experienced angler with a fish that had just bitten the line. She was completely within his mental grasp. He could have ordered to slit her wrists at this point, and she would not have objected. It was a special ability, this degree of control he had. He had only met very few other people, one of those closest to him used it to steal. General Kinomoto was not a thief, and detested thieves all his life, but he was not above using people.

“I will have a government team of scientists working on your husband's heart condition. I do not believe it will pose much of a problem to them. You and your farm will be relocated. You will lead a long, quiet, uneventful life, basking in the glory of Charlie's heroism. Your son will have people looking up to him for quite some time. He's going to be a good man.”

She nodded, eagerly. “Good man.” She Agreed. Her face was a mask of happiness. He smiled to himself and put back on his glasses. Over three or four minutes, the stars faded from her eyes.

“General this is a kind and gracious offer you've given us. I'm sure Charlie will jump at the chance to be a part of Team America.”

“I was hoping you'd say something like that, Mrs. McComber. It's Americans like you that make our country a great place. I have some documents that you will need to authorize.

She nodded and he offered her a small thin sheet of plastic. He tapped upon a corner of it, and up popped a sheaf of legal documents and a square at the bottom. “Your thumb print will do. We'll have a crew come in to help with your and Charlie's relocation. Her eyes glazed over. While the relocation package was incredibly generous, it did have its faults. Best to do this while she was still, as he put it, 'in the fog.' She did not even bother to read the documents. This actually worked to his disadvantage. The sheet computer would scan where her eyes tracked, and in a court of law, it could be used to her advantage. He prompted her.

“Go ahead, take a few moments. Read it over. I'll have another cup of coffee if you don't mind.” Coffee was one of his favorite beverages.

“Oh, no, not at all. Help yourself.” She said, and promptly read every word of the document. It took her all of ten minutes. She handed back the sheet computer and they chatted idly. He learned that Charlie's current project was a fifty-year-old truck called a Freightliner Classic, whatever that was. He was swapping out the diesel engine for a third-generation hydrogen cell engine, modified for heavy hauling.

At a subtle pause in the discussion, he thought now would be a good time to reinforce what a friend the government was to her. “Mrs. McComber, with your husband being so ill, I'd like to go ahead and make his transfer to Cape Canaveral now, if you don't mind.”

She blinked at him.

“Today? Now?” She inquired.

“No time like the present. Once they get him into orbit his heart, will only half to work half as hard. They can anesthetize him for the trip there, and augment his circulatory system during the journey.” He pulled out a small black stick and held it to his ear, and spoke into the microphone. “Call Adjunct.” He intoned. When his assistant outside in the car answered he instructed him to initiate transport as soon as possible. The doctors had only given him four days to live. Six precious hours of which would be taken in transporting him into space. He had already started the cloning procedure for Roscoe's heart two weeks before. The General knew the value of time. He understood that time was a way and a method of manipulating people.

He spoke again to her. “He'll be transported within the half hour. They will probably use the East Coast space elevator for the sake of convenience.” He sipped coffee as she gushed about how nice he was and how good the government was to its people. At a suitable pause, he interrupted. “I'm sure Charlie will be excited as well. In fact, I should be moving along. You'll want to tell him the good news.” She gushed more as he stood, finished his coffee, and began to thank her profusely. He made it seem as if she was doing him the big favor.

She walked out to his limousine, and out of one of the dark glasses, he caught, just for a moment, the outline for a figure, as the large double door of a barn opened a touch. The figure was huge, a good seven feet tall. He pretended not to notice and got back into the car.

As they pulled out of the driveway, he ordered up the output from a real-time surveillance satellite and watched as she went directly to the barn. He knew his height and weight from the Doctor's report, and had a face shot, but still, it would be good to see what he was dealing with. For only an instant, he made out a looming figure, having the face of a child in an immense body. He had the computer clarify it over, and over, and noted the figure looked much more like mom than dad did. He smiled, knowing he had made the correct choice.

Zine Review - City of Roses No 1 – Prolegomenon

A high-end chapbook series, City of Roses first caught my attention at the Portland Zine Symposium where I bought a copy. It’s bright color cover stood out head and shoulders out of a lot of the black and white medium and really shines. Inside, are a series of tightly packed, well written shorts about a group of characters who reside and revel in living in the City of Roses (in this case, Portland, Oregon). Layout is tip-top, although the print is just a touch small for these old eyes. Every chapter is full of interesting dialogue and well-written scenery, and it’s a very good read prior to bedtime. It’s my understanding that this is the first of a series, and I’m going to be looking forward to them. Tastes like: A milkshake.
Quote:
“The inner office is dark except for a white-shaded baker’s lamp shining on a leather-topped desk. On the desk a silver pen and an ivory-handled knife with a wide blade of tarnished bronze. The man looking out the window at the street below has thick, unruly white hair, and wears a white shirt and a white tie. A cigarette is pinched unnoticed between the thumb and forefinger of his pale right hand. The window is open. Up from under the drip of the rain comes the washing susurrus of a street-sweeper.”
Three bucks and worth every dime.

_______________________________________
Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2
Diamond in the Rough #6
Get Reviewed Get Distroed
www.northwestzineworks.com

From Allen Freeman of Slam Bang, I've been promoting his stuff for a while.  Allen's a great guy and I hope you all get a chance to check out his site.

Yeah, it's just another dumb BlOG, this time about comics I get in the mail. No big deal. Just me rambling about books I get and how great or un-great they are. Then people can decide if they should order them or not. No big deal. So send your books to me for a review or email me for a free plug in a BLOG no one will ever read or care about. Ho-Hum.
http://smallpressnewsroom.blogspot.com/

And if you really have tons of free time to waste join the Slam Bang Groupsters Group. Yeah, just another Yahoo Group. This time it's all about Slam Bang and who is contributing and who needs an artist or story for their contribution. You know more of the same old boring stuff you see all over the internet except limited to Slam Bang the Explosive Anthology. Photos, links and news and stuff. Join the already mind boggling 6 members! 
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/slambang_groupsters/

Judy is writing a book on being chosen last on the playground.  It's an interesting concept and she's looking for people with stories to tell.  She's also doing an email writing workshop, so that's kind of interesting too.

I would appreciate a link to the Chosen Last blog anywhere you think would spread the word:

http://chosenlast.blogspot.com

Were you chosen last at sports in gym class or on the playground? Does it still affect you, in subtle and not so subtle ways? If so, please join me in exploring this issue, with the goal of writing a book about it. This book will give people a chance to tell their stories, focusing on healing from, and moving beyong the effects of childhood shame and trauma.

Zine Review - Part I from the Orchestra of Machines

Zeben Perhaps, the author treats us to a powerful piece of stream-of-consciousness. His writing is unflinching, and brass, with powerful overtones. Not much subtle with these works, Zeben allows us an unfiltered view into the human mind. Best described as “short” stories, these can be short (The Entrance to the Trinity) or longer (Slipped Discs and Kinship) having only one, or multiple segments. This zine is rough cut with a color cover, and invites commentary. Tastes like: Sweet & Sour Chicken

Snippet:

“Bitter ugly frame holds the corpse up, filled structure in an old city, or the bitter chew tasting my throat, collapsed and quiver with rubble caught in stagnant air. ‘They’re poisoning our sacred space’, and old man whispers to me, walking by with posture withered down of its youth.”

Two Bucks
_______________________________________
Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2
Diamond in the Rough #6
Get Reviewed Get Distroed
www.northwestzineworks.com http://nwzw.livejournal.com/16343.html

Zine Review - The Temple of Sinew & Other Short Stories

Of Zeben’s work I’ve seen, this one I favor the most. The nice torn letter cover makes a powerful, graphical impression. This one has a bit more art on it, much of it reminds me of some of the works found in Equilibrium. The text is varied in size and format, and lends more interest to the eyes. Again, blunt, uncut, unedited, stream-of-consciousness style writing is Zeben’s forte. Tastes like:Almond M&M’s

Snippet: “The view was excellent; Mymind had somehow conquered ageless barriers and had definitely slipped and fell upon this new form of a human race, built on top of basins of rubber and plastic. There was a main source humming in front of my eyes, down the hill, raising from out of the ground, resting in plastic basins; a giant bubble or half sphere as well as thirty four or more similar structures, glowing in hues of orange blurring pollution that made the way only slightly into my retina as I walked.”

Two bucks, an interesting read

_______________________________________
Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2
Diamond in the Rough #6
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Zine Review - Portmanteau Word Web (part 2)

Another entry from Zeben, and like his other works, it’s blunt and unflinching. I favor the layout of Portmanteau a bit more than Orchestra of Machines, it seems this is an evolution of the work, there’s a lot of white-on-black-on photography, very industrial kinds of photography. The text can be eerily haunting in this manner, and reinforces the work as a whole. Rough cut, which fits the concept. Tastes like: Rye Toast

Snippet:

“His mystery misses all the twinkles from the light reflections, distant and acute but, solid. Freckles frame and old & barely sacred window, from the home of windows, tasting twice, the simple ray’s of dawn, he did.”

Two bucks
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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2
Diamond in the Rough #6
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Zine Reviews - Orchestra of Machines (chapters 1-4)

Zeben’s white-on-black with abstract art makes this one stand out amongst his work, with multiple covers and multiple interior types make this an interesting collector item. The bluntness and unedited nature of the text is a reflection of Zeben’s work, and is as consistent here as in other aspects of his writing. Rough cut, makes for interesting reading. Tastes like: Sour Skittles

Snippet:

“Swiftly collect my limes and torso, for; the matter in which surrounds us can only destroy the erotic messes, petrifying the preserved unconscious oblivion, and tossing buckets of bleach into the piles of flesh.”

One Buck
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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2
Diamond in the Rough #6
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www.northwestzineworks.com