Tag Archives: sex

Right! What you know!

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My Dear Inspector Abberline,

I forward to you this, in abstentia, my congratulations and best wishes on your retirement from the infamous Pinkerton National Detective Agency. You have had my utmost admiration for your tenacity and perseverance, and while you did not reap the true reward you sought for for so very long, I hope you do take some consolation that I stopped way before you did.

As far as you know.

This missive is a parting gift, if you might take it as such, as you retire to chilly Bournemouth with that delectable Mrs. of yours, the former Emma Beaument. It is a pity that she and I never met, but, really, she and I would never have had the opportunity to cross paths. Straight and narrow, inspector…straight and narrow.

How fitting that my “final” prize, Mary Jane Kelly, for “Fair Emma” was indeed worthy of my skills. Inspector, she was a beauty, and fallen as she was, it was a pleasure to make her acquaintance. Mary was tall, slim, fair, of fresh complexion, and of attractive appearance, but…you only met her after my work was done. I doubt you found her very appealing once you came upon her, prone and vivisected as she was, but trust me, Frederick (I do hope you don’t mind I call you that), she was very attractive.

Very attractive indeed.

How puzzling the insides of a woman are, the extra parts, the bits and pieces that make up the female form. I hope you appreciated the aesthetics of the beauty I left,   the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera, the displacing of the bosoms, the flaying and intricate incisions that transformed “Fair Emma” into a work of art…a work of art I left for you and the stalwarts of Scotland Yard.

All these years later, the cases still open, and you now in retirement…are you still pondering why? I know you think you know the who. It wasn’t poor mad Georgie, I’m sure you realize now. Yes, he did poison those young ladies (of which you only pinpointed three; he had a much higher count) and paid for his “crimes.” Not mine, Frederick, not mine.

Why? I must admit, I loved them all, in my own way. Especially Mary. I keep her heart with me, always.

There were others before, and many, many after those attributed to me. Each throat cut, ever organ removed, every slice given live with me even now, Frederick, and while you wile away your time by the sea shore, think on this:

You were never, ever close in catching me. Pity. It was fun.

Hug your Emma, Frederick, but never worry, for she is as safe from my knife as the purest child in the church of the lord our God. Love her, as I love mine. I shall be enjoying the rewards of my memories, and those that I still come to know.

With fond regards,

“Jack”

Leda and the Swan: National Flash Fiction Day

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Man Ray: Leda and the Swan

A swan walks into a bar…

No, not really.

A God walks into a bar…actually, the once King of the Gods…well, Greek Gods…and not King for a pretty long time…

…and it’s not really a bar, per se, but the bar in a disco, The Metamorphoses.

He’s not really Zeus anymore, either,  having given up that name for quite a while.  Too many just don’t believe in him and his anymore.

Zeus took flight and has  lived a long time as Mr. Swan.

So…A Swan does walks into a bar…

Mr. Swan saunters to the Metamorphoses bar and his burps dissolve into the loud music; his gastrointestinal expulsion is showing  his appreciation of a fine meal. He had just come  from the Olympus Diner, where he had:  an appetizer of Spanokopita; a generous helping of Lamb Souvlaki with rice; and he followed all that by two large slices of Baklava, dripping with extra honey (the waitress was enthralled, naturally, without knowing why). His stomach was happy, well sated. But…the diner had no liquor license (he’ll fix that in the morning). Swan wanted to get drunk…and he was looking for a little bit more pleasure.

The dancers were staying alive on the multicolored lit floor, the pulsating music swarming around the enclosed room. He scooped up a double Ouzo the bartender (a lithe blonde he intended to revisit) had set down, snorted a line of coke that was offered to him, and settled in. Swan scoped the place out, dazzled by the gyrating young flesh moving to a beat that stirred him in a number of ways. Sipping his drink, a smile playing around the rim of the glass, Swan found what he was looking for.

His eyes locked on a tableau: she was tall, curvy, long legged and teased out brunette hair. She had stylish (“for this age”, he thought) earrings, was not chewing gum, and best of all…she was alone. Downing his Ouzo and taking the replacement glass that was immediately in front of him, Swan boogied on down the steps of the bar/lounge area, across the dance floor, and up to his prey’s high top.

Chatting her up wasn’t all that hard, music blaring or not. Her name was Leda, she was a Broadway wannabe, and just had a fight with her boyfriend, Ty. She came with her girlfriends to let off some steam, and why was she telling him this and more, but Leda could not stop, nor could she refuse the copious amounts of Ouzo that Swan ordered for her. They talked, she laughed, he flirted, and they took it all to the dance floor.

If you ask anyone who was there at the Metamorphoses that night, no two stories would be the same, except for one thing: that night was magic. Everyone spilled out onto the dance floor, hours upon hours of drinking and drugging and sweating and laughing, taking things to an extreme that had never been experienced before.

And sex. There was a lot of sex that night.

Leda found herself with Swan in a ladies room stall. She wasn’t the only one that evening, but she was his main event.

Mr. Swan walked out in the early hours of the next morning bedraggled but beaming. He kept the music alive in his head and an arm around the blonde bartender, heading back to the Olympus Diner for some eggs, disco fries, ambrosia,  and the still enthralled waitress (her shift was over when she paid for his bill). The three of them had a fun morning.

Leda found Ty sitting in front of her apartment door. He as ten times ten apologetic, taking all the blame and asking her not only to take him back, but to marry him. He was an idiot, he admitted, and…and…and…

Leda said yes later that afternoon, after the two of them got out of bed and got dressed. They went for lunch at the diner (missing Zeus..um…Swan drop off the waitress by minutes) then got in his car and eloped,  driving to New England.

Nine months later, they had twin girls: Poly and Helen. Leda never questioned, Ty never knew, and the both of them loved to love their babies.

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From the UK comes the first ever Flash Fiction Day (National should become International, but that’s for another time).

What is Flash Fiction? Well, you can read about it HERE or HERE or even HERE.

My working definition: It’s a very short piece of work, not normally considered a short story (which usually has word counts under 7,500 words). Flash is basically considered anything from a few words to one thousand (give or take). It cuts out meandering sentences, extra words, and run on sentences, as you, as the writer, are forced to focus on being as concise as you possibly can. Unlike this explanation. 🙂

Most of what I write here on Tale Spinning has been Flash Fiction (without my announcing or championing it). I really discovered what FF is thanks to Lisa Vooght, author of the aptly named blog, Flash Fiction. She’s also the one who let me on that there was a National Flash Fiction Day. There are many others out there, and it’s been a pleasure finding them, bit by bit. Might be a blog post just on other FF blogs to find, but again…that is for another time.

You have 16 more days to read my Swan Rise series before it comes down on June 1st. Click HERE for all the links to the 26 stories. (and no…this story is not part of Swan Rise).

Pollination in the Parking Lot (#AtoZChallenge)

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Welcome to the A to Z Challenge : 26 Stories during the month of April

Welcome to… The Apartment Building: Swan Rise

(For Links to the previous stories, CLICK HERE)

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The cars in the parking lot were blanketed in yellow gold pollen. Microgametophytes, the seed plants wind borne gift of life, did not all reach its intended destinations, but settled onto the vehicles, giving their drivers a morning’s unwanted dusting. Some sneezes, a cough, a brushing onto pants and shirts, light jackets for an early spring morning…the plants and flowers were trying to mate, and the autos and Swan Rise residents got in the way.

This was a yearly occurrence, some worse than others. Intrusions into the day to day that most knew were coming but dreaded all the same. Pollen counts were always “the worst we’ve seen in years,” forgetting other years when the same statement was proclaimed. The cars got washed, the allergy sufferers suffered, and the parking lot doings went on.

Other mating rituals could be found through most of the year, but it was only the “damned yellow seed” that bothered many. Building dogs tried to mate, sniffing around each other (at least those that had not been snipped), and cats yowled during their seasons, the feral cats drawing their housed brethren to the window sills high above. Birds nested on the overhang and the roof, and bugs of all types found solace in cracks and loose mortar. No one talked about any rodent problem: there was NO rodent problem, even if the Laundry Room Mafia ladies said they saw a few quick scamperings while their salvo of gossip swirled the stagnant hot laundry room air.

There has long been a legend in the building of a prostitute that took up shop at the darkened edge of the lot. A large elm tree spread it’s branches and leaves over a large section, encasing the trunk and roots in deep shadows. A few coming-in-late dwellers said they were approached for “a date” by a young woman. She was tall in her stilettos, leggy and curvy in “all the right places” (said one of the husbands in the building, who asked to remain anonymous). All the tales said she was rebuked and sent on her way but prying eyes saw, some car tops had distinct imprints,  and the police came and reports were made, but this intruder was never caught.

She came in on an evening breeze, a pistil to the desires of the movements of the stamen, and like pollen, she only lasted so long.

Are not you he? (*Updated)

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He was that merry wanderer of the night, the despoiler of milk and beer, the prankster, the goblin, the puck…and she could not take her eyes off of him as he cavorted in front of her, boasting of his deeds, swelling with pride at his misdeeds, and his being falsely obedient to his king. The fae watched and listened, and sunk her fingers into the flowery beds and ate their nettles, and lapped up the nectar. They were as delicious as he.

Her gaze never left the hobgoblin while the King and Queen of the Fae, Oberon and Titania, hissed and danced around each other. Her Queen called for her attention, but it was the first time she could not truly obey. Robin Goodfellow-for that was the puck’s true name- leered and cajoled, goaded and swayed, all the time following his liege while mocking those around him. While sometimes mocking his king, behind his back.

Peaseblossom, fairy and attendant to the Queen of Fairy Land, was pleased as much as she was afraid. Oberon could be foul and full of wrath, and a fight between the two factions were not at all what she was feeling at the moment. To fight the Puck, yes, but not in the way the King and Queen of fairies fought. Not with anger and petty jealousies, but…a tumble through these woods? Aye, that was a fight to think of.

What? Tatania was whisking them all away? NO! No…yes, she must obey. She loved Tatania with all of her being. She was goddess, nymph, perfect divine, and it was Peaseblossom’s duty to obey, to serve, to give her all. So, she left in the train of fairies, attending to their Queen in her vexation.

She found the bower of eglantine and musk-roses where Tatania rested, and cleaned it of the stray leaves and wild life that snuggled down in her bed. Singing her to sleep with her brethren, Peaseblossom sent a fairy kiss over her Queen’s head, set a guard to watch o’er her, and off she went into the night, in search of her good fellow.

Finding Robin with Oberon, Peaseblossom winced and made herself smaller than small. She saw the king take something from Puck’s hand, saw him smile with evil intent, and then was he gone. Robin’s malevolence was apparent, but it gave her no heed as she intercepted his flight.

Wherefore doth thou go, master. I would ask for some time with thee.”

Puck had a witticism on the tip of his tongue, but held it when he looked in her eyes. “Your wish, M’lady, is mine. Whither away?

O! O, what a night.

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The exquisite pencil drawing is by a very talented young woman Portia Burton.  It has been a  pleasure making her acquaintance on FaceBook, as she is truly a lovely soul.  This story is dedicated to her, as much forthe use of the drawing as for her love of Shakespeare and her intelligence, humor and grace.  If you’d like to contact her for art commissions, her email is:

  • portia786@hotmail.com

*AUTHORS NOTE: I was SO immersed in directing “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” this summer that when I came across Portia’s art, the two seemed to fit so well. I already knew she loved the play, and most (if not all) things Shakespeare, and AMND IS my favorite of all his comedies. When writing this, I forgot: not everyone is so in love with the play.

For those not in the know: this is set in Act Two, Scene One and part of Act Two, Scene Two through the eyes of one of the fairies. Peaseblossom is the first of the four fairies named in the play, the others being Cobweb, Mustardseed, and Moth (or Mote, depending on who publishes), and since she was named first, I chose that to be our fairy who meets Puck (or Robin Goodfellow, which is the character’s real name; a Puck is it’s own mystical thing; he’s also mentioned in a variety of ways, goblin, hobgoblin, etc.) and sets up the conflict of the play between the King and the Queen of Fairy Land, the magical forest in which they dwell. In the play, Shakespeare does nothing more than say: enter A fairy...

I hope this helps in the enjoyment. Maybe it’ll stir you to read &/or see the play. If so, let me know. I enjoyed this trip into seeing the same story through a different point of view.

A to Z Challenge: M(an Servant)

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To read the entire story…

Part 11: Man Servant

[Mid Show Interlude]

Scene:

Winston’s office.

Noon.

The window blinds are drawn. The room is lit  from the overhead array of Peyleton White Glass Tech lighting, which augments the voltage track system perfectly. The walls are white and austere, except for one painting, 32 x 48, hung plumb, of a white background intersected perfectly down the middle by a five inch wide ribbon of pure white. The wooden floor is covered by a thirty year old Heriz Persian rug, in beige. There are no plants, no chairs, except for the two Global Ergonomic  High-Back Multi-Tilter Managers Chairs, with the Air Grid backs and Metal Mesh seats, placed at the two desks. The desks are Tampa Glass, 3/4 of an inch thick frosted glass top with Dark Cherry wood frames,  and both have Electronic Control Panels for the computers.

Ms. Hemple’s desk sits at a 45 degree angle to the far left, near the door to the office, and it is empty. All of her items, the few she squirreled away in her drawers, only taking them out when she knew HE was gone for the day, were packed in the rolling luggage she brought with her to the office: her Julie Bell and Yamato Fantasy Figure collection, which she did not trust to keep at home, but reveled in  when she was alone in the office.

Ms. Hemple is sitting at Winston’s desk, in Winston’s chair, with her left leg in her FRYE Deena Harness Tall Knee-High Boots propped up on the 3/4 inch frosted glass top, the right boot (and leg) were spread out in an open male sitting position. Otherwise, she is naked. She is not alone.

A lone husky male hand, hairy knuckled, right hand, four fingers only showing, is gripping the edge of the aforementioned desk. If you look closely enough, you can see the tension exerted by the grip and the pulsing of the raised blood vessels, almost hidden by the growth of his hide’s fur.

Ms. Hemple, or as we should now know her name as Jennifer Rose Hemple, lets out a couple of “gasps” and “mmmsss” and “oh yeahs” as she stares at the computer screen. Her right hand jiggles the mouse and points, clicks, and aims, mostly on purpose, and a few times from some unexpected spasms.

This click, though, she stops, and smiles a smile the Cheshire Cat would admire. It is not a constant smile, but one of true extreme cruel pleasure.

She leans forward, her left breast smearing the frosting.

Male Hand: mljll;poohhall;

Jennifer: Stop that. I found something. STOP IT NOW!

Male Hand: (silent)

Jennifer: Oh, I’ve got you now, Mr. Wynne. You are so screwed. HEY..stop tha…mm.. oh.. oh…damn..

JRH reclines, and her eyes roll back into her eyelids.

End Scene.