Flash Serial:V18 Voyeur ~ Realization

Voyeur sees things.  Not ghosts or spirits, Voyeur sees those interactions people imagine are private.  Stolen kisses, gropings on the bus, passion interludes stolen in the shadows.  And she seeks them out.

Intimacy is much easier to handle when its someone else’s.

Voyeur is now published through Republica Press.

Advertisements

Introducing a new novella

It is my great pleasure to introduce my first eBook, Slipping Time, a f/f erotic novella, available now at Smashwords!  It’s not on Kindle yet, but will be soon, so hang tight if that’s your chosen format!  For $1.99, cheaper than a cup of coffee at Starbucks, it’s all yours!

You’ll be here soon, dear.  Don’t chafe so.  Then we’ll have a month to laze around.  Don’t forget the key, it’s my only spare.  I’ll try to be home before your flight arrives, but, just in case.  Semester end and all, who knows how long I’ll be meeting with students trying to excuse their incomplete work.

Advice – catch a cab and come straight to my place.  You’ll be too wiped to sightsee.  My cottage is yours…make yourself at home, take a nap, I’ll wake you.  I’d love to come home and find you in my bed.

I know this is the last word you’ll have from me before your flight, damn the time difference, so let me remind you.

I can’t wait to see you.

I can’t wait to touch you.

Yours,

Tessa

A shiver of arousal traced the length of my spine and I swallowed around a lump of nerves.  Four months of anticipation and planning built up for this day, this moment.

And, because it took some prompting for me to finally get up the nerve to do this, go check out my partner in crime, T. Elle Harrison.  She’s published a novella as well, and it is HOT!

A Day for Thanks

Family

Friends

Health

All these things I am thankful  for and more.  The past year has been a year of quiet challenges for me, internal ones that have seen me find the woman I was, once upon a time.  The next year will be the most challenging of my life, I think.  I’m thankful for the friends I’ve found, for the support they offer as they share in my celebrations and my struggles.

little things that make my life full…

my cat’s purr, a down comforter, the twitch of a baby bunny’s nose, the sunrise over the wind turbines, the sunset over the barn, clouds rolling over Lake Erie, fresh coffee, hugs, that warm voice on the other end of the phone, that twinkling smile that says you know what I’m thinking…

Flash Serial:V17 Voyeur ~ Quiescence

Voyeur sees things.  Not ghosts or spirits, Voyeur sees those interactions people imagine are private.  Stolen kisses, gropings on the bus, passion interludes stolen in the shadows.  And she seeks them out.

Intimacy is much easier to handle when its someone else’s.

Voyeur is now published through Republica Press.

You Know What I Mean…

You know that person you just want to grab ahold of and sit down?  The fidgeter, the worrier, the pacer who’s constantly moving in your peripheral vision? 

That’s my muse right now.  She’s ancy, nervous, twitchy.  She won’t sit down and absolutely refuses to talk about it.  I’ll hiss at her to stop and she’ll freeze like a rabbit hoping the predator will pass her over and the moment my attention is redirected her toe starts to bounce again or her fingers to tap.

I’ve really no explanation for this happening. 

The absofantabulous Sommer Marsden posted a TED conference video yesterday that made me rather sigh in relief a little.  While Elizabeth Gilbert was talking about people viewing creativity as from within themselves, I’ve always personified mine.  If I’m not writing something(as I am right now) then my muse is not letting me in on what she’s doing.  If she were, I imagine I might be writing poetry, to judge by her level of angst and agitation.  If I wake in the middle of the night at a jolt of inspiration I will tell you that my muse woke me up.  And I rarely, ever, claim my work, instead saying that I’m merely channeling my characters at the bidding of my taskmaster of a muse.

 

Check out the video.  It’s amazing.

And hopefully my muse will clue me in on what’s wrong, so I can get back to writing soon.

The Path Forward Is Paved With Broken Glass

The last two nights I’ve dreamed the same theme…

The maze was in my dream again last night and the night before.  At first I walked its path easily, the maze nothing more than a design worked into bricks below my feet.  I could stand and look forward, tracing my turns to avoid back tracks.

The longer I worked the maze though, unraveling its answer, the more it changed.  It morphed from a pattern to one foot walls funneling me through.  There was evidence of cheating, bricks kicked loose  from the mortar, dusty footprints atop the walls.  Still I traced my path with my eyes, trying to avoid deadends and make my way across.

On the other side of the maze was a bridge.  I could hear rushing water far below, the rift in the land projecting the roar skyward.  I kept looking up at that bridge as I woved back and forth through the brick walls.

My maze grew taller.  If I looked at the bridge another line of bricks would be upon the walls.  The same happened if I looked back.  The walls were at shoulder height before I realized the correlation.  I tried to avoid the issue, focusing instead on the task at hand.  I could no longer see my path, relying instead on the old standby of making consistent turns.

Layer after layer of brick grew upon the wall, stopping when it reached six feet.  I was glad they didn’t grow taller or the sky would have been blocked.  Still I walked.  I was tired.  Keeping focused on my path became difficult.  My feet hurt and I was thirsty.  I’d been walking for a long time.

I turned a corner then immediately turned again, going back the way I had just come but on the other side of the wall.  The brick here was in poor condition, mortar crumbling in the joints and crunching underfoot.  The roar of the water suddenly seemed louder and I looked up.  My path was clear, the brick walls unbroken for a hundred feet then opening to the left.

My pace hurried.  I couldn’t help it.  The angle of the sun had changed significantly since I began the puzzle.  When I got to the opening I gasped.  I was through the maze!  I stepped out and frowned as something crunched and tinkled under my feet.  The lane from the maze to the narrow bridge was paved with broken glass.  The shards glinted in the sun, a shimmery fractal rainbow, hemmed in by a stacked stone wall.  Rich, lush green grass spread out on either side.

“There is only one path to the bridge.”

I jumped and spun around.  The maze was nothing but a fancy brick terrace again and a woman, eyes cloudy with age, thin skin pale and wrinkled, leaned on a cane at the edge.

“I don’t understand,” I answered.  She nodded and stepped closer.  She smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, like she’d just walked from her kitchen where cookies cooled.

“If you wish to reach the bridge there is only one path and you must exchange your shoes for this.”  She pulled a needle from her blouse, a thread pulled through its eye, and offered it to me.  “It is the only way you’ll make it.”

I looked over my shoulder at the glass then at the bridge.  I needed to cross it.  My eyes tracked to the lush carpet of green on either side.  Couldn’t I walk there?  In the way of dreams, I knew I couldn’t, and that the woman was guiding me true.

I slipped my shoes off, settling my feet carefully onto the glass.  She reached out and pushed the needle through the fabric of my blouse over my heart.  “You’ll know when you need it,” she said before stooping to retrieve my shoes.

I nibbled at my lip, watching her walk back across the brick maze with no regard to the pattern.  Sighing I turned and began to walk.  Each foot I placed with care among the shards of glass, trying to avoid cutting myself.  It was a futile endeavor.  I imagined  the soles of my feet glittered like gemstones before I had made it halfway along the path.

I hummed to myself, trying to distract my mind from the pain.  I was beyond the point where stepping hurt.  There was so much glass embedded in my skin my nerves screamed constantly.  I could feel my body trying to react, flooding me with endorphins.  I had stopped crying and as the end of the path approached I was faced with the prospect of the bridge.

A stone bench waited for me at the edge of the cliff.  The glass was gone from the path, but still in my feet.  Bloody footprints stained the ground before the bench, testament to others who had made the trek before me.  I sat down and carefully picked the shards from my skin.  The wounds healed as soon as I cleared them of glass.  After a while I rested my feet on the ground and wiggled my toes.   The echoes of pain lingered, but gone were the sharp stabs of agony.

I nibbled on my lip, anxious.  The bridge belonged in a horror movie.  It was a great ugly beast of twisted metal and wood, an old railroad trestle.  The broad railroad ties remained in random spots, but there were more missing than remained.  My stomach knotted and I pushed myself to my feet, bracing for the crossing.

The roar of the water below was deafening.  The bridge stretched out into a bank of fog.  I couldn’t see the other side.  Far ahead of me I could see others making the crossing.  I fingered the needle, making certain it was still there.

I would need it soon.

I woke as my foot took the first step onto the bridge.

Flash Serial:V16 Voyeur ~ Point of No Return

Voyeur sees things.  Not ghosts or spirits, Voyeur sees those interactions people imagine are private.  Stolen kisses, gropings on the bus, passion interludes stolen in the shadows.  And she seeks them out.

Intimacy is much easier to handle when its someone else’s.

Voyeur is now published through Republica Press.