Tag: Contemporary

Writing Exercise: Priming the Pump

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of the NaNoWriMo hive mind on the Internet

Sometimes, somedays, you just can’t get started. You and the blank screen pixels have become one. Maybe you are between works. Maybe you are coming off of editing. Maybe you don’t know where to go with the work in-progress (WIP). Maybe work was exhausting. Maybe you suffered a loss, an argument, you’re sick – mind or body or emotions just ain’t working yet.

And sometimes …. sometimes there is just nothing.

You may need to Prime the Pump. Just do a simple little exercise of 100 words. That is all you got to write. One hundred words. Maybe with 100 words you can write 100 more. Once the brain gets moving in one direction, it continues moving.

Collect a couple ideas and set them aside in a “Prime the Pump” list. You need to prepare in advance, because you likely won’t think of anything when you are in the middle of the ennui.

Examples for the list would be:

  1. 100 words of a character fault
  2. 100 words of a scene description
  3. 100 words of a motion like a kiss or a punch. Whatever is the next movement the character should be making.
  4. 100 words of why the character in the scene is fighting having the scene written. Dialog between me and him/her.
  5. 100 words of why I think I can’t write right now
  6. 100 words of what the kid did today
  7. 100 words why the spouse makes me happy
  8. 100 words of what I’m cooking for dinner and why I like the idea.

An Excel file should work just fine for the list. These are not meant to be an opus or even a sellable item. Just 100 words to kick start the day of writing. When you hit 100 words, switch out. Save the bit into the Prime the Pump folder with the day’s date and then go to the project you should be working on. Maybe have it already open, so you don’t even have to think about the switch. Just close out on the Prime the Pump file and go-go-go. The object is to get writing anything – so you can write something. 

For date formatting, I would recommend year-month-day format, that way the list appears in date order. Example:

2014 10 22 – Where I sit
2016 09 22 – Want to cry
2019 10 22 – The Kiss

By the way, if priming the pump doesn’t keep the words flowing after the switch out, give yourself permission to stop if you need to. You wrote something. Only 100 words, but if you are heartsick, or stressed, or whatever it is your brain is occupied with instead of writing, trying to write Product may not be happening today.

Give yourself permission because you tried. You actually put words on a screen. You tested to make sure it wasn’t just enough to start typing.

On the other hand, the attempt of Priming the Pump may keep you typing for hours – which is why you tested yourself. You never know which it is until you tried.

WRITING EXERCISE: Create a writing folder for Prime the Pump. Then create a PrimeThePump.xls (Excel) file. Record ten ideas. Write one of them and post it below.

***

My Attempt: Where I sit when I am typing

Despite the heavy gray curtains, the afternoon sun shines in my eyes and overheats my face, interfering with my ability to concentrate on the computer screen. Glancing left and right , blinking the spots out of my eyes, shelves of books and towers of CDs and DVDs beg me to waste time with them. Studiously ignoring them, I curl my toes against the smooth wooden floors and bang out another 100 words. (72 words)

Flash: Join the Herd

Erin Penn

Image provided by alexisdc at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“I still don’t know Phillip.” Ezekiel rubbed the back of his neck. The two best friends would be walking on stage in moments for a fundraiser, in reversed outfits to match their nearly opposite looks. Ezekiel wore black linen slacks, a midnight silk shirt, and white suspenders making his pale white skin that much lighter and his dark hair into a shard of night.

Putting the final shine on his white oxford shoes, Phillip, long used to his partner’s pre-presentation nervous breakdowns, smiled at his reflection in the leather.  His white linen slacks, with a crushed white silk poet’s blouse unbuttoned to show off his prematurely white chest curls against his African American skin was perfectly set off by the black suspenders. “It’s for charity. Just get out there, sing a little karaoke, play to the audience to drive up the price, then we take the old lady who wins the bid out for dinner next week at  American Soul and Steak.”

Zeke started pacing in the small space set aside for them. “I’m too Sexy?” he whined.

“It’s a song you actually know and in a key you can sing.” Phil leaned back in the solitary chair and put his shiny shoes on the box doubling as their table. “I had very limited options.”

“We could have tapped dance.”

“You could have tapped dance; I could have fallen flat on my face.” The black man stretched out his full length, nearly six foot three inches of hard broad muscle, most leftover from his college football scholarship days before he and Zeke dropped out their junior year as their second start-up blew the roof off their niche in the computer industry. “Beside tap dancing isn’t sexy. I don’t want to be the lowest bid winner in the Hot Bachelors for Protect and Immunize. That would be embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing is performing like monkeys. We could have just donated money; I’m sure they would have been happy with a check with four zeros following the one.”

“Not really. Half of the battle for immunization is getting the word out, and sex sells best. Word from an attractive mouth, which yours qualifies for bro,” Phil made a kissing noise toward his friend, “has tons more value in that part of the battle than anonymous dollars. That is a full house out there, and everyone out there has either proven all their immunizations are up-to date or just got a booster tetanus and whatever else they were missing before sitting down for their overpriced baby hot dog rolled up in some biscuit batter.”

“You know, I think they would be happy with just one of us, we should go talk–”

The door opened, and one of the female volunteers at the annual event popped her head in, “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” Phil jumped to his feet and grabbed his reluctant friend.

“I need to button–”

“Nope, if you wanted to do that, you should have done that earlier instead of dripping sexy all over me in there. Carlie, tell Ezekiel that the women in the audience don’t want buttoned shirts.”

Rushed with a thousand details, the woman responded on cue with a voice delivering flat, matter-of-fact reality like a doctor telling a patient to turn his head and cough. “Mr. Blaze, just keep your pants on, and the women will swoon. Otherwise we will need to break out the firehose.”

“Have you ever broken out the firehose for the fundraiser?” Zeke asked, fascinated at the prospect.

“Just keep your pants on. Both of you” Their escort waved from the wings at the announcer, a politician known for her maverick tendencies and her staunch support of all things health care. “Break a leg and thank you.” And like that, the woman was on her way to collect the next charge. Twelve local bachelors had volunteered in all.

 

*****

 

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Freedom whispered behind her hand to her friend, bodyguard, and adviser during the lull in the auction, cupping the words with her magic so they carried directly to Jane’s ears.

Jane tipped her chair back, away from the minuscule two-person table where they sat in the shadows, until it hit the wall beside the fire exit. After looking either direction along the wall, and doing another full sweep of the room with her slanted green eyes, she responded to her mistress, charge, and close friend, “You need an escort next week, someone worthy of a princess but from this world, that is if you want to keep these lands out of your brother’s greedy hands.” Switching out of the magic whisper, since this world lacked the eldritch energies needed to maintain spells for anyone but royal blood, the fire sprite continued in accented modern speech. “We are already half-way through; you will need to make a choice soon if you are going to make one.”

Freedom rolled her dark eyes and responded in flawless American English. “You are always rushing me.”

“You are always needing to be rushed.”

“A princess is always on time. Everyone else is either late or early. You told me that yourself.”

“I also taught you to respect the worth of others.”

Giving her councilor a quick, mischievous smile, Freedom responded, “That you did, but I fail to see how this … spectacle … gives proper value to anyone.”

“The value is in the worth it brings to humanity.”

The auctioneer, the woman who had originally invited Freedom and Jane to the event, activated her mike as the next bid stepped on stage. The immaculately dressed black man who immediately drew the attention of the room with a glamour and charm usually absent in humans, raising Freedom’s interest like none of the other handsome men before him. That one could possibly stand up to her brother and parents when they visit to see how her negotiations were coming. Her eyes drunk in his broad shoulders and the muscular chest peaking through his partially opened shirt. Very possible.

Behind him rushed a disheveled half-dressed white man hunched over, who stopped in the middle of the stage and stared at the audience. His hawk-like features froze, not in fear so much as realization of others. His shoulders settled back and attention snapped from the first man to him. A small half-smile turned up the left side of his lip. Snapping his unbutton shirt wider, he spun like the floor was ice, ending with a flourish where he went on tiptoes, thrusting out his knees, perfectly balanced for a moment. Then rocking back. Freedom’s mouth watered.

He went over to stand by the first man. The black man towered over Representative Cutter, and the white man added another six inches to that, well displayed now he was standing straight. Nowhere near the pure muscle mass as the first man, they were likely of weight but Freedom could count to six on either of their bellies.

“The next in our Herd is the only pair of the night. Y’all know Phillip Morrow and Ezekiel Markow, boy geniuses and bachelors about town, about to sell their newest startup to Space-X. Before we see what other talents these men have, I think we should set up our baseline.”

“Fifty!” Shouted from the audience. The same person who had bid fifty for the previous six men. She never bid any further, but seemed to be having fun. Everyone laughed, expecting the bid at this point.

“Five hundred,” came a different voice. Two of the early sales had stopped at five hundred, not started there. Several women who had been raising the sticks with the round numbers, laid them back down. The white man grabbed the black man’s arm when the bid had been placed. The black man put his hand on the other, before brushing the hand down.

Interesting. As much as she hated court intrigue, Freedom had been raised on it. These two men would be hers. She tapped Jane’s hand indicating bids may be placed on her behalf. Jane didn’t put anything forward yet, because now wasn’t time to enter the fray, but soon.

“Five hundred from Ms. Eerdman of Securities, Listings, Underwritings, and Trades.” Maxine repeated from the stage. “That is a great start.” With that line, which she had repeated after each initial bidding cycle, the state representative handed the microphone over to the man dressed in white. A woman dressed completely in black ran out a second mike for the other man.

Once they verified their microphones were working, the white man spoke in a raspy, deep, panting voice, with a beat like he was drilling into a woman and whispering into her ear “I’m too sexy for my love.” Next black man started making sounds unlike anything Freedom ever heard. A drumbeat formed, and guitar string plucked from nothing. Against the deeper voice still rocking in her chest and vibrating through her body, the drumbeat pounded opposite beats keeping Freedom off kilter and wanting more. On stage, the man dressed in black spun and danced, playing with his white suspenders, slowly buttoning up his shirt.

Freedom glanced at Jane, and her bodyguard ran her tongue around her lips. Around them older women started dancing to the music, as though it brought back memories of a younger time.

The growl continued, talking about cars and pussies and loves. The voice beat and instrument supported the monotone, making it throb.

“I’m too sexy for this song.” Then all sound stopped.

Freedom partially collapsed on the table.

Someone in the audience immediately cried out, “”Two thousand,” instantly topping the highest bid of the night.

Representative Cutter hustled across the stage to grab her mike back. “I hear two thousand from number thirty-nine.”

“Five.” “Five thousand five hundred.” The bidding continued until reaching ten thousand, again placed by the lady from the securities firm.

The final three bids had bounced between her and a much older lady who sat at a table with three men, one her age and two clearly her sons. The woman had earlier bid on the second bachelor of the night, also clearly related to the family but another generation younger than the sons. The grandmother hadn’t won but had raised the price by an extra two hundred dollars. The woman who had won the bid afterwards had gone over and kissed the gray-haired woman on the cheek and plucked the $200 the grandmother held out before going to pay for her winning bid.

Neither Freedom or Jane raised their paddles during the auction as there was one more piece to the performance based on previous parts of the show. 

“Thank you all.” Representative Cutter shivered. “This is so exciting. But before we place the final bids on these hot bachelors, let’s find out why they wanted to ‘Join the Herd’ tonight. Phillip, why don’t you go first?”

Freedom returned to sitting straight, prepared to be bored with prepared speeches about helping others and a chance to give back to the community. Bread-and-butter shit she heard all the time when home, but essential for the smooth running of politics. She had mastered looking politely interested in hearing someone say essentially the same thing for the fifth time in an hour.

The black man took the microphone. A rich baritone poured out cheerful, yet serious. “During my time at college, Go Bulldogs,” some of the crowd roared the cheer back at him as the man punched his fist up, working the crowd with rare skill, “I traveled for exhibit games in Europe and Africa. There I got to see children with polio, yellow fever, and a host of other diseases we have … had … kicked in America. We can’t let these killers back into America. It must stop now, we need to draw our line in the sand, and that line starts at the health centers around the nation.”

He passed the mike to the other man who waited for the clapping to end. After the adoration for the much better than average bread-and-butter speech died down, his hawk-like cheekbones sharpened, his white features drained of color. He stared at the audience until some started shifting in their seats. Then his toe-curling deep voice rumbled its raspy fingers down everyone’s spines. “I don’t know how many of you remember the year of the H1N1 flu strain. My mother was pregnant at the time, after years of trying with my step-father. I was twelve. Both he and I had gotten our shots in October, but several people at Mom’s workplace didn’t think it was necessary. They never got sick. No, for them it wasn’t a problem. They only carried the disease. To the one person who could not get the shot that year. H1N1 killed pregnant women. Herd Immunity would have saved my mother, instead we got to bury my three-month premature brother and mom side-by-side. Get your fucking shots. Save everyone while saving yourself.”

Shoving the microphone back at the representative, the man stepped out of the spotlight. After wiping tears from her face, Maxine tried to resurrect the party atmosphere by reiterating the catchphrase of the night, “Join the Herd. Wow. Thank you Zeke.” She coughed, clearing the emotions from her throat. “So the present bid is $10,000. Yes, Mrs. Rovin.” She nodded at the old woman with her family who did a couple quick finger motions. “$15,000. I hear $15,000. We will be raising in thousand dollar increments. $15,000.”

“$20,000,” yelled out Ms. Eerdman.

“$20,000, I see number sixty-eight,” Jane had finally raised her paddle, so the auctioneer took the bid to the next price up. “$21,000.”

The security woman sent a death stare at their dark corner and raised her paddle. 

“22,000.” The white hair lady fingers danced again while she raised her paddle. “25,000. Thank you Mrs. Rovin.”

“Fifty thousand.” Ms. Eerdman screamed, her voice raising into the hysterical octaves. The room silenced at the outburst.

Mrs. Rovin nearly raised her paddle again, but her husband put his hand on the wood handle.

“I have 50,000. Going once.”

The securities woman sat back in her chair, smug as a rockendrabble in the berry patch.

“Going twice.”

Freedom took a particular dislike to the woman and raised her paddle.

“I see sixty-nine, raising to 51,000…” Representative Cutter stopped as Freedom rocked the paddle like she had seen others do when the price being quoted didn’t match what they wanted.  “Yes, Lady Veresuo. How much do you want to bid?”

The quiet room filled with sounds of moving cloth as those in the know, turned in their seats to peer toward where the Representative looked. Capable of easily projecting over the noise to carry to the furthermost corner of room, Freedom stated, “There are two of them. I would like to bid $51,000 … each.”

The security lady threw her paddle across several tables in anger.

“If I am understanding the bid correctly, the present bid for the Team M&M is one hundred and two thousand.” The representative stared into the shadows until Freedom nodded. Ms. Eerdman, realizing her error, stood to retrieve her paddle. Once the auctioneer received the affirmative to her price, she went into verbal overdrive before the security woman could take two steps. “One Oh Two thousand is my bid. Going-once-twice-sold!”

Very intriguing, Freedom thought again, watching as each of the women in the room reacted differently to the turn of events. She would need to come to more of these functions if her court expanded to this country.

(words 2,592; first published 9/29/2019)

Flash: Falling for Aspen

Erin Penn

Photo by Sean Odell (Unsplash.com)

Rating: Mature

Dozens of golden maple leaves fell around Andy as Aspen leaped into his arms, kissing him after his proposal. He didn’t expect such as strong reaction to his invitation to shack up together. They had reached the point something needed to change, and he knew it. He didn’t want the change to be them breaking apart.

After several kisses, Aspen slid down his body until both her boots were back on the sidewalk. “Thank God, I thought you were going to ask to marry me.” She said leaning against his chest.

Andy winced, reaching his arms to hug her tight. “Don’t you want to marry me someday?”

“Good grief, no. Marriage never goes well in my family.”

The man held her tighter, thinking back on the two divorces Aspen’s mother had gone through since they started dating back in high school, from husbands four and five, and the family gatherings he had been dragged to during their ten years of dating (today being the anniversary) with the dozens of children brought by her sisters, aunts, cousins, grandmothers, and the original matriarch, her great-grandmother, none with a single father in common. Most of the married femlaes sporting visible bruises from their husbands.

“I’m not like anyone else.”

“Not now, Andy, but you would be,” Aspen smiled up at him, the happy escaping a little from her eyes, shading them with the sadness never far from her crystal blues in recent months, “But maybe we can beat the curse. Love without marriage. Just promise to never ask to marry me.”

“What if I ask?”

Color drained from Aspen’s face, like winter following autumn. “I would have to say yes.”

Blinking, his mind stuck at the thought, both ecstatic and deeply scared. Eventually, Andy asked, “Have to?” emphasizing the lack of choice.

“Part of the curse.”

“Okay. Maybe we should talk about the ‘curse’ before moving in together.” Andy dropped his hands down and took a step back.

In a very small voice, Aspen said, “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. I love you too much.” Her head tilted sideways looking up at him. “But maybe Glassy can, she hates your guts.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Douglas, or Glassy to her friends and family, was Aspen’s next older sister and had done everything in her power to break up Aspen and Andy, including sneaking into his bedroom one night naked and taking pictures before he was awake enough to realize which sister was in his arms as he came awake. He was fourteen and like most boys that age, not operating much higher than hormone function at the time. It was the first and only time he punched a woman.

“Yeah,” Aspen took his hand and they started walking again, enjoying the autumn colors. “You know, as much as I would love to live with you all the time, buy that house we just saw and settled down, it’s just a bad idea.”

“No, it’s not.” Andy squeezed her hand, “I want to have children with you, grow old with you, and not marry you if you don’t want to.”

“Me too.” Aspen leaned against his shoulder.

Sighing, Andy looked around to see where they were in town. They had meandered around for hours just talking, like they did whenever he picked up her from her mother’s house and they didn’t go out for food, or straight to his house for other activities. Today Aspen was on the rag and both of them had had a holiday function at lunch leaving them both really full even after work, so they walked.

“We are two blocks from Glassy’s house. Let’s get this over with.” Andy turned at the corner. Aspen hesitated, then squared her shoulders and followed.

Far too soon for the butterflies in his stomach, the two of them were knocking on the purple door interrupting a screaming fight. Glassy’s first husband, married right out of high school when she had gotten knocked up, had left her years ago. After suing for abandonment, she had bounced around between losers until she found the present gem she married during the summer. The jerk opened the door in the overly appropriate wife-beater shirt and sweatpants, the later trying to escape from his belly overhang. “What?!?”

Behind him, in the living room the very pregnant Glassy wiped at a bleeding cut on her lip.

Aspen sent her sister a look and Glassy shook her head, shrugging her shoulders like, “what can we do?”. Frowning, Aspen talked politely to a man who clearly had just hit her eight-month pregnant sister. “Hello Matthew, I was wondering if Andrew and I could talk with Douglas.”

“No.” And Matt tried to slam the door in their faces.

Andrew’s hand stopped the door, and Matt couldn’t move it an inch further. “I think you need to go for a walk and cool down.”

“Fuck you.”

“Either that, or I can give you fat lip to match your wife before I knock you into next week.”

“Andy…” Aspen cautioned.

“Glassy, call 911 if this fucker lays a hand on me.” Matt’s lips curled back in a challenge.

Andrew, nearly three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than the older man, stared back. Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Glassy, I mean to marry … no, wait … live with your sister in sin in that house on South Water Way, fucking her nightly instead of when your mama approves, as soon as we can pool our money. She says you need to tell me something before I do that.” Andrew took a step closer, pushing the door wider, making Matt take a step back so both he and Aspen were in the house.

“Aspen?” Glassy sounded sadder than Andrew had ever heard the bitch sound.

“I’ve got to try Glassy.”

“You’ll just end up…”

“I know.”

“And he…”

“I know.” Aspen swallowed audibly. “But I got to try.”

“Matt, take that walk.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now.”

Andrew still staring into Matt’s eyes, saw them unfocus. The man dropped his hand from the door, stepped around Aspen and him, and walked outside in his socks. Blinking his dry eyes, not sure what to think, Andy watched as Matt walked down the gravel driveway and turned right like a automaton when reaching the sidewalk.

“Did that give you pause, puppy-boy?” Glassy growled, crossing the room to a box of tissues, snapping Andy’s attention back to the house. “Because there is more. Lots more.”

Andrew eyes assessed the room, seeing if the new data changed anything, lingering on Aspen. He kissed her on the lips, took her hand in his and went to the couch to sit down. He would likely need to sit down for the rest of this. Once both he and Aspen were sitting, he squeezed her hand with reassurance, kissed her one more time, before turning his full attention to Glassy, who glared at him with pure hate. “Shoot. What is the curse?”

“My God, Aspen, you told him about the curse?”

“Only that there was one. Tell him, please.”

“The curse great-grandma Wiggins dumped on us, her decedents, a fallout from a war with another coven, is as follows – near as we can tell, because it ain’t like the other coven wanted us to know how to untangle this mess. Because we tried. None of them are alive now, so the curse can’t be broke.”

“You killed them.” Andy started rubbing Aspen’s knuckles with his free hand.

“Nah, the rule of three did that. What you do to others returns three times to you. Stupid fuckers. They could have stopped this at any time, but they didn’t.” Glassy pressed the dotted red tissue to her lip another time and pulled it away to evaluate the results. Satisfied she had stopped bleeding, she wadded it up and tossed it on the breakfast bar between the kitchen and living room. “All this because great-grandma couldn’t keep her skirts down around other women’s husbands.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“’Unfortunate’, puppy-boy, it’s hell. It’s hell for me, going to be hell for Aspen, and will be hell for our daughters.”

“Daughters … okay, I’m an idiot. You guys only have daughters.”

“Five generations now and counting.” Glassy rubbed her belly. “My Flora has it, both our witchy ways and the curse. And this little one will too.”

“Aspen wanted me to know about the curse.”

“I’m getting to that. But I guess I should hurry up. Matt’s walk is just to cool him down. Being away from me and my curse should do that in minutes.” Glassy looked at Aspen instead of trying to kill Andrew with her dagger eyes. “Last chance before loverboy knows all.”

Aspen leaned against him, like she wanted to somehow be absorbed into him and his strength, and pressed her lips together.

“Right.” Disgusted didn’t even capture the expression on the pregnant woman’s face. “First, we get pregnant at the drop of a hat.”

“Um, Aspen and I have…”

“I know you have; we all know you have. The coven’s been casting spells for your dates to keep that at bay. But moving in together, she is going to be as big as a tree before you can say Abracadabra.”

Red flushed Andy’s face as he realized, if what was just said is true, Glassy and Aspen’s mom knew every time they had had sex, starting when they were sixteen.

“Second, we have to have a man.” Glassy snarled. “Not the ‘one day my prince will come’ longing so you got someone to open the pickle jar. No, we get physically sick going more than two months without someone between our legs once our mense starts. Fortunately spells can hold that back for several years so we ain’t got middle schoolers pushing out the babies. And by sick, we throw up at first and then it gets to the point we can’t eat. For about a month we can force food down, but eventually we starve to death. But if knocked up, no morning sickness, so there is that.”

“I guess that is a bright side.”

“Sure is Dudley-do-right. Fuck, no. If things are typical, your girlfriend is going to pop out four different girls from four different guys, while depending on spells to keep it down to only four. We use all our circle time on damn contraception spells.”

Now Glassy’s lips twisted into something plain mean and evil. Andy had thought she always looked that way, but this was another level different.

“Now to what the curse means to you, and I am going to love watching you fail like everyone before you have. You will fall in love. Can’t help it when you fuck us. Comes free with the curse package. You are a little different because you two started dating at twelve and didn’t concemate for a very long time. Longest couple on record, but you haven’t taken it to marriage level.

“Most men ask, being in love and all, to get married pronto. For our part of the curse package, once we’ve had sex, we can’t say no to spiraling the relationship down the drain. Want a marriage – ‘oh, yes, my sweetheart’ – pops our of our mouths before we can stop it.”

Hearing the sweet girlish voice come out of Glassy’s mouth was disconcerting.

“Want a baby, ‘oh, do me now’.”

And that, Andrew could spend his entire life without hearing again.

“I need your life’s savings. We can’t fucking say no.”

“We can.” Aspen interjected.

“Not really. If it makes our men happy, we will do it. Tie me up, tie me down. Spank me. Whatever you want, dear.” Glassy slammed her fist against the wall behind the chair she leaned against. “But each time we give in, that love turns to hate. The worm of the curse eats it up. The men lose respect, of themselves and us. And, here is the killer of the curse, you will get angry enough to hit us. And once done, the second time is easier. Most men run after hitting a pregnant woman; and if they don’t, the coven removes them to protect the baby.”

“Why is Matt still around?” Andy growled.

“Because I want him to be. He is an ass, but I love him. Plus he hits like a girl, so mom hasn’t taken matters into her own hands yet. Once Fauna is born, though, he will leave. That is the final bit of the curse. The man can’t love his child. He can feel the baby’s powers developing and it drives him away. Longest man to last was Great-Aunt Maple’s Benny; the man was as sensitive as a brick. Took him until the baby’s first words to bolt, nearly eleven months. And he only had hit her three or four times before he left. The curse barely affected him.”

“Did men hang around before your line were cursed?”

“Not often.” Aspen answered from his shoulder. “Witchy ways are gender polarized, pushing males away and drawing in females.”

“Why haven’t you told me you’re a witch before now?”

Glassy interrupted before Aspen spoke again. “That would be the gag spell we put on the kids so they don’t spell the beans. Kids talk, and a lot of witches got burned because of their children had diarrhea of the mouth, so we do a preemptive strike. After that, habit takes over. Because Aspen liked you so much, puppy-boy, we kept the spell up and would have renewed it last full moon if she hadn’t made herself conveniently absent. As an adult, she had to be present for the casting.” Glassy turned her death glare on her sister.

Aspen stuck her tongue out in return, before saying to Andy, “I wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. So what does witchy ways entail?”

“Well, you two can take that part of the conversation elsewhere, because I see Matt limping up the driveway.” Glassy shoulders slumped as she looked out the window, the weight of the world returning. “I need to help him.”

“Glassy … Douglas.” Andrew stood, not sure what to say next.

“It’s too late for us.” Glassy waddled over to the door. “Too late for you too, but maybe you can pull a Benny and surprise us. You’ve been doing that for a long time already, Dudley.”

“His name is Andrew, sis.”

“Whatever.” Glassy said as she opened the door and took her husband in her arms when he came in, confused and apologetic for slapping her earlier.

Andy and Aspen closed the door behind them. Standing on the stoop for a moment, watching the leaves scatter in the wind across the still green lawn, Andy blinked against the brightness of the setting sun.

“She tried to charm me when I was fourteen, didn’t she?”

Aspen looked up, clearly surprised at the observation. “Doubleganger shapeshift, fairly easy since we are related and she had access to everything I owned, followed by a lust spell, likely from hair she pulled off my clothes. If you had done what she was trying to do, you would have loved her instead of me.”

“I shouldn’t have been able to fight it.” Andy frown at their joined hands as they stepped away. At the corner, they turned towards Aspen’s home.

“We added you to the list in the grimoire of those who tossed it off. Since we started keeping track in the 1500s, only four men and seventeen women have thrown off that spell. That includes you. Before you, no one under the age of thirty. Most over the age of sixty, the rest deathly ill. We figure being lust enhancing, you need a libido for it to work.”

“So, a no. I really shouldn’t have been able to fight it. Not then, not now.”

“Nope. But you did because you loved me.”

They walked back, the twilight changing everything around them to secrets and mysteries. A block from Aspen’s mom house, Andy stopped, drawing her close again, pulling their joined hands up between them, “I love you.”

He kissed her knuckles one by one, staring at her blue eyes hiding behind her glasses.

“Live with me, be my love. We will all pleasures prove.” Andy dropped on one knee among golden fall leaves covering the sidewalk and pulled her down onto his leg. “With curses banished, singular and always by true love’s constant kiss.” He puckered his lips to her in invitation.

“I love you.” Aspen grasped his ears, aiming her lips for his.

(Words 2755; first published 6/30/2019)

Flash: Pink Strip

Erin Penn

The strip was pink. So much for leaving Jeannie at the altar. The revenge planned for so long needed modification. He hated the bitch, but governments get antsy when babies are kidnapped out of hospitals. Cops don’t care if the person doing the taking is the true parent.

Jeannie was not raising a Katz after the humiliation she had inflicted on his sister. The wench was vile.

What could he do to get the babe and not go to prison? How to poison the spoiled princess and save the babe from the goblin queen?

Ah, the beginning of an idea started. Time to buy a rose for the monster-to, er, … mother-to-be.

(words 112 – originally appearing at Breathless Press 6/9/2013 for the 1/22/12 Sunday Fun – See the picture that inspired the story! – As I do not know the copyright permissions, I have not copied it here; Republished new blog format 6/9/2019)

Flash: Slow Learner

Erin Penn 2 Comments

Photo from freedigitalphotos.net

 

Trouble. The minute she walked through the door. It followed her wake like a noxious cloud of perfume. For a second you almost like it, the scent, the situation, her, then it just overwhelms. If she stays around long enough, you almost get used to it. When she leaves, you breathe freely and realize just how bad it got.

I dated the woman for fourteen months, nine days, four hours. And now she stood at my door yet again after two hundred days, seven minutes of clean breathing. I hadn’t bother filling the void she left. Some holes are meant to be empty and the one she had left was one.

She needed help. When hadn’t she? I stood with the door half-open, me propped against the slab, blocking the way in, debating how stupid I was about to be.

Because … damn it.

I drown in her blue eyes. And the door opens just long enough for her to slip in.

(words 162; first published 3/23/2014; republished new blog format 6/2/2019)