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I am trying, trying, trying to finish up a million stories for approaching deadlines.

A threesome at a Dead Head concert, a funeral-mash of dominance and submission, a lust-crush at an AA meeting, a rendezvous on a boat in the middle of the sea, an autistic girl and a swine-god…

My brain is awash with images and characters and ideas, and yet … the. words. won’t. come. It’s like my hands are tied. Or perhaps my tongue is. Or perhaps the electric sparks are just shorting out somewhere between my brain and my fingers. This is a place that I hate, when I’m churning with inspiration and have no place to put it. It leaves me feeling barbed. Edgy. Thwarted.

The words will come. They always do, taking their own twisted time. If nothing else, I can feel the deadlines approaching, their lashes whistling that sweet tune to the air before they land. I’d better hustle, I think, if I want to beat the slash of a whip. Or perhaps I can learn to write in time to their strokes along my skin…

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.


“A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.” ~Sophia Loren