Thoughts on death…

I weigh constantly what is too dark and what is too painful to write. What is too personal? As long as I don’t share names, does that make it safe? Once upon a time, writing was the only release, the safe place to feel every emotion that comes with painful experience, and sometimes it just feels too raw to put it into font. Sometimes I have to force it onto the page in front of me. Sometimes I try to look away as my hands move, like maybe if my eyes aren’t on it, I won’t have to feel it as hard.

I deal with death daily. Most often in my field it is animal death. But I also work in a field with a skyrocketing suicide rate. Death is a gift I have personally given to patients. It’s a looming weight I’ve held on my shoulders trying to save lives. The support I would offer any human in my life struggling, that is a heavy weight too. Every day, I choose to carry that. Because they deserve it. They deserve that caring.

I’ve come to realize I’m getting to an age as an adult where I will ultimately be losing more people I love. To age, to illness, to mental health. 

When an animal dies, we think of all of the things the pet did in it’s life that made it a happy pet. Did that cat like hoarding fake mice? Did that dog thump its tail every time an owner approached? Did it chase balls and fetch? Did that pet have the time to live the life a dog would want, no matter the age we ultimately say goodbye?

When humans die, people worry about things unsaid. Things undone. Did that person know peace in the end?  I’ve seen some painful people in my life. Illness notwithstanding, I’ve seen the loss of those who have struggled with addiction, lack of self-worth, victims of abuse and circumstance. These are the ones that hurt my heart the most. The ones who never could seem to get on top of their pain. And what hurts, is the worry that they didn’t know they deserved so much more. They deserved the happiness they couldn’t find. They deserved warmth and love, even when they couldn’t see it had been there for them all along.

Maybe peace in the end makes up for that pain. Maybe that warmth at the end makes up for the cold they knew before. Maybe their pain is all left behind, and exists as grief in the hearts of those that feel the loss.

And when you’re there… Where the hell are ya?

Every time I post, I end up writing the words “it’s been so long.” It’s true. But I’m done apologizing for it. I will write when I write and no amount of guilt will help me.

I worked with a veterinarian for a good while, and he would often ask the open ended question “and when you’re there?” I never knew the right answer, but a coworker always answered with “where the hell are ya?” And now it’s always been in the back of my brain. “Where the hell are ya?” We often had days with no patients to see, and instead of reading a book like my coworkers did on their alone days, that was when I started really writing. Stories. Roleplays. That’s when Mercy started. In my head I could see the scene on the overlook. I could see the shitty strip club. I could daydream and conjure up lives and plotlines.

Then there was my car. I was taking college classes at the time, and rather than drive 40 miles home and 40 miles back, I chose to spend a few hours in my car. Not only had I scored myself some personal “quiet” time, I had heated seats, a good pen, and a notebook. I’d hook my phone up to the car, blast Spotify and make playlists for every bit of the stories. I’d build soundtracks as compulsive writing fuel. For two or three hours a couple times a week, I had freedom. To fantasize. To daydream. To play any song I had a craving for. To write anything too dark or depraved–no judgement, no signifying. I had time to find a passion in my life again. In those free periods I had time to get to know myself. I wrote 90% of Mercy in my car.

Fast forward to when my life fell apart, I was mostly homeless for a good while. Going home meant just going where I stayed at the time, to sleep. Or to basically just say I “lived” there. I drove to random parking lots. I sat. I wrote. Most of my day outside of work was spent in my car. Eating tornadoes dipped in McDonald’s ranch dressing. Gas station coffee. Too many cigarettes. Scribbling in notebooks. On the days I didn’t want to sit in my car. I’d take a bus downtown to people watch and scribble more. I’d sit at a coffee shop editing for hours until it was too late to be out and then take a taxi home.

Writer’s block hits hard. I haven’t written much in four years. I’ve had a home now, an apartment. I’ve gone with and without vehicles. I’ve struggled hard to maintain the facade of responsible adult and forgot all of the things I once thought I learned about myself. I broke–was scared to look at all of the darkest things that fueled my writing. Was afraid to feel my stories. Was afraid my writing would be insignificant. My writing would only mean something to me, when I strive to have them felt by my readers. I repeat the words “my writing” for emphasis. My writing is me. I should have never turned away from my writing.

So here I am. It’s 6am, and I don’t have to work for another two hours. Where the hell am I? Sitting in my car in some random parking lot a couple miles from home. I’ve got a playlist on repeat for my current Work In Progress, currently titled “Houndsman’s Curse.” I have my favorite colors of marbled composition notebooks, and I have my favorite pens. I have a gas station coffee. Sure, I could probably write at home. But my car is my bubble. No responsibilities in here. Just my thoughts. My music. My words. My writing. And I want it back.

Mercy is LIVE!

On CyberMonday, Mercy went live on Amazon, available as an ebook for Kindle readers for only $2.99!

Mybook.to/Mercysjt

What is Mercy? 

Its a story of two people, who think they are doing just fine on their own. On their own, their demons stay tamed, and the closeted skeletons stay layered with dust, only rattling when a breeze blows through. They meet, and sparks fly. But as the passion ignites and they struggle to know each other, they delve further into themselves and the past becomes a precarious present. 

A stalker, an alcoholic, a cool-tempered roommate, a man and a woman both afraid to admit their weaknesses, and a fight to keep the public image a separate entity from what the night cultivates. What could go wrong?

Predator vs. Prey

Oh, I’ll drop to my knees at a simple order. A rare gift to you in response to that growl. My eyes upward, there is only focus. Only this. This is trust. And this is submission.

To you I am prey. A little scrap of meat to sink your teeth into. And I…belong to the one above me. I am your possession.

There was something there, that digs deeper beyond thought process and reason. Its the sensation that tugs just below the navel, the presence that pushes me down to the most primordial part of my being. Its the instinct that tells me of power and command, and one worth obeying.

Claimed and chained and rightfully tamed. Let me unleash my claws just for you. Release me into that thoughtless creature that howls for a taste, cries for a touch, and screams for more pain. Because I heat at the thought of control. The fantasy, of you standing over with my heart pounding and my eyes looking up to you in surrender, makes me shake with anticipation.

My skin dampens with anxious perspiration while I wait. Itching to beg for my next punishment, feening for another display of complete power. The power to rule over a puckish slut, the strength to hold me down when I climb too high. The sadistic twist in your eyes when you know better what I need and push me further into chaos. How you’ve trained me to ask for it, and made me into whore willing to grovel at your feet.

Predator meets predator, and the true alpha will always come out on top in the struggle. Here I am, a possession, a slave to what you do, pleading for the slightest taste, for the pain of your grip.

And you are mine, my predator. The one who has earned the drop to the knees. You’ve proved your right to hear my screams, to bring me to tears, and make me forget my name in the fall.

Then, my predator, I ask and you give. Have I asked for what I deserve? This combination of pleasure and pain with lack of fear overwhelms my mind. That sweet moment when there is no doubt I am yours.

My throat tells me that I cannot speak, and my body stiffens, knowing that it alone can ask you for mercy, and yet it refuses. Because at my core I know that this is all at your mercy. And this body lets go, falling into rapture at your hand, at your heat. So when it fades it flashes into color and that complete submission. The taking of what is yours.

When awareness returns, aside from confusion, there is the high that spins the room, with the focus point above me. Your expression, Sir. Somewhere between assessment and caring, and it befuddles all the more. Somehow, between the violence of our fuck, and my newfound craving for the pain you inflict, that I can awaken with such a profound flood of adoration and love in every single nerve that feels, and it rocks me to my soul.

When you get that itch…

​No, no, no… not THAT itch. The itch to write.

Been feeling the need over the past couple days to write a blog post. But I couldn’t think of what to say. Most of the ideas were too depressing and dark, and that’s a beast I don’t really want to tackle today. So, as I’m wandering downtown, viewing Artprize venues, it leads me to ask the questions: Where do you find your inspiration? Where do your stories come from?

Inspiration is everywhere to me. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. My first story ever written was a hybrid inspired from Goosebumps and the old show Fact Or Fiction?.

“The Haunted School:

There was bloody all over. The people were screaming. The End.”

Insert a few more grammatical and spelling errors and that was the whole thing.

What gets the itch started for me is… Well… How do I define it?

Its when you see something, hear something, look at someone and think,This has meaning. This has beauty. I need to do something with this or I’ll lose this moment. I need to save this.
Its a painful experience. It breaks your heart and makes it race double-time. Manic obsession and agonizing excitement that puts the burn in your legs to run with it. Tingles in your fingertips with the desire to impress. To create.

Lena, a character from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, said, “I always felt like I had to do something in the face of beauty.” Lordy, Lena, I feel ya. And so she drew, she painted.

If you’re still reading, and care for a look into my brain, I’ll share with you snippets, memories and thoughts that fueled the flame.

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A winter night in Chicago. A dingy hotel room to contrast the glassy front. Mixture of rain and snow staining the street lights with a bronze hue. It looked so dirty, but it looked like life. 

**********

Seeing a face across the room and forgetting all sense of self-awareness and asking a person you’ve never spoken to if you could draw/paint them. She looked like an elf straight from Tolkien, with her pointed features and flawless skin. The kind of face that will never age, and eyes that would pierce any soul.

**********

The full moon is high and reflecting blue and gold off slivers and shards of night water. But the waves are broken by feet that cut into the surface and carry her into the slightest wake. Her hair dark and tousled, she wades outward, olive skin divided by the curve of her spine, puncuated with venus dimples to amplify beauty.

**********

The soft rush of a creek, fringed with green threatening it’s girth, accompanied by the song of crickets and frogs. Crossed by a beam, a railroad tie, a makeshift bridge. Worn by winter flooding and soggy with the morning dew, the carved names and years of trespassers shining on the long since oil-exuding grain.

********

Staring out at pieces of a city, smoking a cigarette late at night and knowing that this is the kind of scene that writers write about. Capturing the image of quiet thought and pensive contentedness, even if only for a flash in time.

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The moments when you feel a song defines your life. The moments you close your eyes and see a scene behind the lyrics. You drive through a neighborhood, and you know every home, every soul has it’s secrets. Those little pieces of your life, experiences that should mean nothing, but weigh on you until you’re fit to burst. Light or dark, they hold their own shade of beauty.

The first night of loneliness after a life changing decision. The overwhelming sensation of “right” when you realize alone isn’t bad. The moments you wonder “how did I get here?” and realize that it really doesn’t matter.

This is the only time you’ll ever hear, or read, me say the words: write what you know. You know your own thoughts. You know your imaginings. You know what drives you. Accept it. Flourish it. Nurture it. Create something.

What is it? What is your spark?

Happy Autumn!

‘Tis the season to write. Curling up layered with sweaters, sippin’ on a pumpkin spice coffee (yeah, that’s right–roll your eyes) that scalds as it slides down the throat, on a cloudy cool day.

Everywhere you look, the darker colors are coming out. With Halloween around the corner, everybody is showing off their inner gothic freaky side. And I love it. Oh do I love it.
For someone who loves to write the darker side of the story, the dreary days fuel my fire and get my fingers trembling with to itch to capture, to recreate and paint the beauty of it through words.

So I shall don my yoga pants and shawl, raise my steaming, coozied, cardboard to-go cup to you, and hunker down with my notebook, and find my happy place between those fine blue lines, in the happy roll of of the ink pen over the remains of a once proud and sturdy tree, and make my sacrifice to the literary gods.

Breathing through the fear…(a short)

“Do it, please.”

Her words shook, a shiver that drew down her spine, reaching the apex of nude thighs, halting at bent knees. He stood over, the towering display of power, but that is all she craved.

That hand as it met her cheek, not gentle, with a particular love she thirsted for, that wet her tongue and wet her core. Face turned to the side with the force of it. Blood rising to the surface of heated flesh. The sting, the blow elicited a yelp, and now a laugh.

Oh, this. This is what I wanted. Just what I wanted. And he knows.

The same hand, tangling in her hair, pulling her backwards as he stepped forward, her own arms reaching back to catch herself, legs pushed out to the front. Breaths coming faster as the laughter died to the heat.

“Why are you laughing?” his words on a sneer.

“Because you’re giving me just what I asked for. And the pain, it feels good.”

“Just the pain?”

She couldn’t answer, another sharp yank bringing her down to rest on her elbows. Attention on him, always on him.

He knelt beside her letting go of her mess of hair, taking in a sweat dampened brow, shaking his head with silent mirth at her open display of want. Another strike to the other side of her face. Another laugh that shook her shoulders, shook aroused and peaked breasts.

Position change. Prying legs apart to expose her before him, the perfectly shaved pussy spread wide and vulnerable. Kneeling between them, she tensed. This is not where she intended this to go, not yet. But he stayed clothed. Reaching behind to pull something from his pocket that had her heart racing as she inhaled through her nose.

“You will remember, that this is what you asked for.”

She nodded, eyes widening on instinct. Despite her fear, her hips twitched with need. She asked for this specifically, had practically pleaded for fulfillment.

A quiet swish of metal as he opened the knife, sharp and gleaming and smooth at the end, serrated and toothed towards the base, shining in it’s black steely way. Inhale through the nose, exhale as such. The tip of the blade touched to her skin, just below the navel, causing a flinch in instinct. He brought it upwards, circling it around, even higher. The cold flat of the steel drawn across taut nipples. She wanted to gasp, to cry out, but didn’t trust her lips to open. They would only tempt her to scream, to fight.

Higher yet had her breath held, until the edge rested on soft pale flesh of her throat. Muscles tightened in fight or flight, adrenaline coursing through every limb, spots darkening her vision. Eyes squeezed tight, as she worked herself up to breathe.

But that other hand came up, gripping her chin tight, nearly bruising.

“Look at me.”

The slightest of shakes of her head. A tear slipping from between heavy eyelids.

“Look at me!” It wasn’t a shout, but for the force behind it, it carried the power.

She obeyed and he loosened her chin. His teeth gritted, eyes narrowed, daring her to disobey as the blade pressed firmly against her neck. It hadn’t cut her, because he had control. Those eyes, that expression, had her vision locked even as her breaths came quicker. Nearing panic, but steadied by power. The thudding in her ears eclipsed the sound of a zipper, the sound of shuffled clothing.

But she felt it. Everything, his hissing breath washing hot over her. The cool edge biting her gently. The soft teasing of her sex before the sharp plunge as he took her on a forceful thrust, jarring her into dropping her arms, flattening her to the floor with her legs wrapped around. Attention focused, only on him, on his gaze, she came undone. He covered her, coaxing her with the ferocity of his fuck. She forgot the blade as her body was lost and sensation overcame, enveloped in his entirety, fear forgotten.

Little treasure…

There’s something you have
That I’ve shown you,
Let you see.
As dumb as it sounds,
It’s just a little bit of me.

You know, this is a secret.
A treasure
Few will find.
That there’s just a little bit
Of soft, a squishy piece of mind.

You don’t know its worth yet
It’s not something
To be told.
But it’s something to keep close,
And never to be sold.

Little treasures,
A fragile gift
So easily shattered.
Someday the value will be understood.
The worth will actually matter.

No title.

“Life is pain, princess. Anyone who says different is selling something.”

This is strange.
A concept unknown.
To stumble so far,
To land in this hole.

But it’s pretty here.
The darkness has it’s rosy tinge.
Pulsing with the beat of a heart.
Enough to make the poets cringe.

Some call it silly,
But I see it rather somber.
To tread through the thicket
See how deep I can wander.

There’s a fog between the trees
Its heavy and gripping.
Never thought this is where I’d be.
Even as my steps are slipping.

This is pain,
Enveloping and creeping
An agony the forest knows
The heart of wood now weeping.