See the other bloggers’ Wordless Wednesday posts by clicking the links below:
Today’s blog post is kind of a gimme. We’re supposed to write about what’s on our minds. But because of a family privacy issue, I can’t talk about what’s exactly on my mind. What I can say is that medical issues suck and I’m so beyond sick of this year.
So, what I can talk about…
I’m getting ready to re-release my first book. Originally called Second Chance at Love, it’s been re-titled Stay and will be out July 13th through Torquere Press. Kris Norris did the cover and I’m pretty freaking in love with it.
My writing has taken a backseat for a while, but in the last two months I’ve managed to write 22,466 words in addition to all the editing I’ve done. My online presence has suffered some, but I’ve also been taking a mental health break from social media after everything that’s been going on in the world lately.
I’ve been on the computer a little too long today working on edits. My daith piercing had to be taken out because I accidentally tore it when I rolled over in my sleep and ripped the hole. It got infected, and it was too painful to wait for the medication to take care of it. My migraines have come back in full force and I’m working on one now. I think I need to go get a new one this week. I can’t and won’t live in Migraine Hell again.
Read what’s on the other bloggers minds by clicking the links below:
Today’s topic should be fairly simple for me to write. I mean, everyone gets angry at something every now and then, right? I could probably talk about VA bullshit all day, but that tends to go into “oversharing, entirely too personal” territory. So, what/who do I write an angry letter to? Mother fucking Nature. Because Texas is flooding again.
Dear Mother Nature,
You are a bitch. Yes, I said it. And I mean every single syllable.
Yes, I realize that my hometown used to be a swamp. A really fucking long time ago, but it started out as a swamp. We’ve poured concrete over everything, but it’s still basically at or below sea level all over the place, so when it rains (or someone spits on the ground) it floods like crazy. So we prepare the best we can, but when we go through years of drought, suddenly you lose your damn mind and send several feet of water at the same time. Yes, FEET. Don’t believe me? Look:
If you can’t see the pic clearly, that’s a ROAD. Which has likely been washed out because of all the goddamn rain that turns into a river, which has a tendency to wash away all the concrete. I know, our fault for pouring the shit to begin with, but still. We need to be able to get to our homes, and even though we live in Texas, we don’t all drive big honkin’ trucks. Even if we did, those get washed away too. I saw a couple of 18 wheelers under water in the last few months. Because we’ve been flooding off and on for a few months now.
I’ve lived in Houston for 27 of my 33 years. We’ve never flooded this much and this long until the last year or so. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, MOTHER NATURE.
Just checked the weather for the week. Today is gorgeous. Yesterday was gorgeous. The rest of the week? More fucking storms.
Watching the news, it has POSSIBLE FLOODING on Wednesday (I’m writing this on Tuesday). Mother Nature might as well tell everyone in Houston that she fucking hates them and she wants us all to die.
Kiss my ass, Mother Nature.
Want to read my blog sisters’ angry letters? Click the links below:
This month’s song prompt is “Far Away” by Nickelback. Laugh all you want, but I love Nickelback, and this is one of my favorite songs by them. Music video can be found here and lyrics here if you somehow have no idea of this awesome song.
“You’re kidding right?”
Jared had the audacity to look dumbfounded. “What do you mean your birthday is today? You told me it was in December!”
I barely resisted the urge to smack him on the back of his stupid head. I mentally counted to ten, then twenty. Fuck it, this isn’t working.
“I have never once in the history of ever said that my birthday is in December. It is November 24th and has been for the last thirty freaking years. When we first started dating, you joked that my birthday was in December to try to keep me from finding out about the surprise party you threw me. And somehow it stuck in your stupid head and you’ve forgotten every single year!” I tried to breathe, I really did. I could feel my face turning red with rage and wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam gathering around my head as it blew out of my ears. “I can handle you forgetting when it’s Thanksgiving. That’s kind of a big deal and takes precedence over birthdays. But when it’s your girlfriend’s thirtieth birthday and you’ve listened to her make plans for a huge party, it’s kind of expected that you not forget.”
I turned and left the room, leaving him standing there with his mouth gaping open. I nearly tripped over his cat and I swear the stupid thing laughed at me. If he weren’t laughing at me, it was only a matter of time before he started. Or peed on my side of the bed again. Morgan—as in Captain Morgan, Jared named all of his pets after alcoholic beverages—and I had an interesting relationship. I fed him, gave him water, changed out his litter box, and he did everything in his power to make my life a living hell.
I glared at the overweight orange ball of fur. I guess there was something in my gaze that warned him not to fuck with me because he slunk away without so much as a single meow. I tried not to slam the door since our landlord hated loud noise, but my hair trigger temper had never made me what one would call serene. The door shook on its hinges as I flung myself on the bed, dashing at the hot angry tears on my cheeks that only served to piss me off more.
Okay, so that made me feel thirteen again, but there was just something about the comfort of your own bed when you’re upset.
Except this wasn’t my bed. Jared had insisted that my bed was too small, so we—and by we, I mean he—got rid of my bed when we moved in together and brought over his king size. The gunmetal gray sheets were mine, but the copper and blue comforter scratching my cheek had belonged to him.
I sniffled and hated myself for crying over something as stupid as my birthday. Yes, it was my thirtieth and might’ve my parents and me, yes. But Jared and I weren’t married, nor had we ever even talked about getting married.
And I doubted we ever would.
Jared wasn’t the marrying type. I knew this when we first started dating. I tried to talk myself into thinking it when he finally agreed to move in together, but who the hell was I kidding? It was nothing more than a fantasy. One I’d indulged in for far too long.
I got up from the bed and walked into the bathroom, where I splashed my face with cold water. My blotchy red face stared back from the mirror, and I barely recognized the girl starting back at me. The blonde hair her boyfriend had insisted would look great on her framed her pale face. Dark circles under jade eyes told endless stories of sleepless nights after argument after stupid, pointless argument.
Where did I go?
I turned the white and silver handle so hard, I wondered if Jared would be able to turn it on again and realized that I no longer gave a shit. And wondered when the last time I actually gave a shit about what he thought was.
My big red suitcase sat in the back of the closet, empty since our last trip to Las Vegas. I’d foolishly psyched myself up for a surprise wedding while we were vacationing. His mother, father, sister, brother, and their spouses had all come with us. What else was this but a surprise elopement?
But when we’d boarded the plane back home, my ring finger was still bare and I was still pretending that he hadn’t proposed because he wanted my mother to be there.
The suitcase bounced on the bed, the shoes I’d forgotten to unpack clunking around inside. Looks like I found the flip flops Jared had been looking for last month. Also looks like I don’t give a fuck. I threw the shoes in the closet, not caring whether or not they were in perfect rows of five or whether they were matched with their mates.
Too many years of disappointments. Too many years of being relegated to third position behind his job and his family. Too many years of being spoken to like I’d never finished second grade, much less earned my Master’s degree in education. I was the youngest English professor on staff at the college, for fuck’s sake!
Bitter tears burned my eyes as I folded my clothes and set them in the suitcase. There was no way I’d be able to pack them all, but I’d have to come back and get the rest, along with the few items still left from the Great Purge of Kimberly’s Belongings. I’d have to borrow my dad’s truck and pray my couch would fit. While I had enough money in my bank account to rent a moving van, I had no idea how to drive one and didn’t fancy the idea of begging my parents for any more help than I was going to have to anyway.
My mom hated Jared. It’s funny, because she’s the one who set us up to begin with. He was a friend of the family, had a great job, was funny and charming whenever he was around them… what wasn’t to like? But when he got behind closed doors, or around his jackass friends, he turned into a completely different person. His silly jokes turned into mean, hateful barbs he thought were hilarious but really just made me want to hide in a corner. Or punch him in the throat. Lately, it had been far more of option two than I wanted to admit. And maybe that should’ve been a sign that things just weren’t working.
The zipper on my suitcase wouldn’t close, nearly bringing me to tears again until I sat on the top while I both cursed and prayed. My slightly smaller suitcase was still in the closet and I pondered whether or not my shoes would fit. Probably not. If I left a few of my older beat up tennis shoes, I wouldn’t be too upset over the loss. I had at least three other pairs of them anyway.
I shoved as many of my shoes as I could into the bright red suitcase and huffed as I struggled to zip it. This one probably weighed as much as I did. I somehow doubted that Jared would help me bring these down to my car. Not that he’d helped me do much of anything around the apartment for the last five years anyway.
Jared didn’t even come out of the spare bedroom where we’d set up his home office as I fumbled my way through the apartment with two very large, very heavy suitcases. I left the cell phone he paid for on the kitchen counter next to my house key. If the clothes and shoes missing from the closet weren’t enough of a clue that I was done, surely this would show him just how serious I was.
I’d have to pick up a new phone at some point before the weekend was over. Apartment hunting would have to be rushed since finals week was coming and I’d be up to my ears in term papers. I really hoped that my mom would be okay with me staying at her house for a week or two.
When I showed up at her house, tears staining my cheeks and my clothes suitcase at my side, she didn’t say a word. She just opened the door, held out her arms, and let me cry.
Check out the other ladies’ prompts by clicking the link below:
Today is a Promptly Penned day (as if you couldn’t tell by the pretty banner above). Usually, we have a prompt that we have to incorporate into the story, but this is kind of a “Tell this story” kind of thing. My original thought had me literally writing three lines of text and being done with it. But, that’s not who I am as a writer, so I went all in.
The Prompt: Write about the three things he could never tell her.
Ryan and Annie had been together for twelve years, eight of which they’d spent in marital bliss. Well, mostly marital bliss. Every couple had their ups and downs, right? At the end of the day, what mattered most was that they loved each other and they were a team.
Other couples envied the hell out of their ability to communicate with simply a look. Annie’s raised eyebrows when Ryan went to grab another piece of pie at the Mikaelson’s dinner part last week stopped him in his tracks. He’d simply shrugged and said, “Got to watch my cholesterol,” with a pat to the left side of his chest.
Or when Annie’s cheeks flushed red when Ryan shot her a smoldering gaze across the room before bedtime the night before. That particular look had been witnessed by their children, who promptly pretended to gag and ran upstairs to their bedrooms with a shouted, “Good night you gross old people,” over their shoulders.
Certain things didn’t need to be said between them. They just knew.
But there were a few occasions where Ryan felt as though he couldn’t tell Annie what was on his mind, for fear of breaking her heart. Or her issuing a swift kick to his shins.
He hated her pot roast. There, he admitted it. In his mind, in the corner of the bathroom across the house from where she currently stood, spicing up the meat he’d shovel down his gullet and pretend was the best damn thing he’d ever tasted. But in reality, it always tasted a little like shoe leather. From a boot that had been worn on the filthy streets of Rome. In the middle of summer. But she was so goddamn proud of that particular dish, that he ate it with a smile and always asked for seconds. He never cared that he’d end up having to down an entire roll of Tums after–because the smile on Annie’s face when he told her how amazing it was made every second of discomfort worth it.
Their first date had been an accident. It might’ve seemed like a funny story to him so many years later, but he knew deep down, it’d embarrass the hell out of her, and there was no way he’d ever intentionally do that to her. So, Ryan had let her go on believing for twelve years that he’d meant to ask her out, rather than her best friend Miranda. Annie’s face had lit up so beautifully when he asked, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he meant the girl sitting next to her. And the way her entire face bloomed with happiness…well, he’d seen her in a different light that day. And he made it his mission in life to make her smile like that every day, since.
The job she thought he went to every day was a lie. Ryan had first been recruited by the CIA when he’d just graduated college, about a year before he met Annie. Of course, when he signed on to work for The Agency, they’d given him specific instructions never to tell anyone his actual job. Annie thought he went off to some big IT firm where he sat at a desk all day helping people reboot their computers. In actuality…well, he probably shouldn’t have even been thinking about what he did, since she’d always had a way of figuring out when something was bothering him.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Ryan, honey? Are you in there?” Annie’s voice carried through the bathroom door.
He straightened and flushed the empty toilet. “Yeah, baby. Just washing up for dinner. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Water gushed from the tap as he twisted the antique porcelain handle of the faucet. The scent of almonds filled the air as Ryan dutifully washed his hands and prepared to choke down his beloved wife’s pot roast.
Read the other prompts by clicking the links below:
Also, happy birthday to me.
So, my lovely friend Siobhan Muir has this contest she hosts called Thursday Threads Flash Fiction. Each week, a bunch of writers get together and write 100-250 words based on a prompt–usually a line from the winner’s flash fiction the week prior.
This week’s prompt was, “He could do no more.”
So, I ran with it. And somehow…I won. Yeah, you read that right. I won! How awesome is that?? I’m Kermit flailing like crazy at home right now because I thought there was no way I’d beat Deelylah’s submission (my crit partner and bestie). I still think hers is freaking fantastic. Click the badge to go to the site and read the other entries, because they’re definitely worth reading.
Week 215 Winner
Paige Prince | @Paige_Prince
Marci says: It’s tight and a complete story. Very succinct and well written.
*Break it off, or you’ll both be sorry.*
The crude block handwriting had been meant to obscure the identity of the blackmailer, but he had a pretty damn good idea who’d taken the pictures. Who had balls the size of Texas enough to send shit like this in the mail but her?
Ice clinked against the glass as he reached for his scotch. His father would roll over in his grave in he’d known that Mark took his alcohol any way but neat. Or that he’d married a fucking banshee who had no compunction about blackmail after he’d literally given her everything they’d ever purchased as a married couple—and some things he had before he’d ever met her—in the divorce. Mark swallowed the lump in his throat along with a hefty swig of Macallan.
He could do no more. Either Marilyn would be satisfied with what he’d already given her, or she’d turn the pictures into the board. But he wasn’t going to be her fucking lapdog anymore.
Today’s topic is What I Wanted to be When I Grew Up. Well, that’s a little all over the map, for me…
At first, I wanted to be a doctor, because I’d be able to help people. And pay my mom’s light bill.
Then, I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, because I’m excellent at arguing.
For a while, my aunt convinced me that truck driver was the way to go.
I wanted to be a nurse for a long time.
I decided on x-ray tech instead of nursing because I didn’t want to work 12 hour days and I think bones are freaking cool (this is not how we take x-rays, by the way).
But my dream has always been to be a full time author/editor. Because that’s what I love to do above all else.
Click the links below to see what my friends wanted to do when they grew up:
This month’s prompt made me think entirely too much of the weather that’s been plaguing us of late. Houston has been hit with several days of rain, causing disastrous flooding around the city. So, rather than write something dark like I tend to do with images like this, I decided to write something more fun. And it just happens to fit with the book I started writing on Friday, so that helps…
Beep! Beep! Beep!
I reach for my cellphone on the nightstand, slapping blindly for the sparkly pink iPhone amidst the clutter of random shit. Except, I don’t knock anything to the ground, and that awful beeping doesn’t sound a thing like my alarm.
I bolt upright, sending blankets flying.
Where the fuck am I?
I take in the dark green comforter pooled around my thighs, the giant TV attached to the wall just above the dresser at the foot of the bed, the paintings I’d never seen before…definitely a man’s bedroom.
Flashes of the night before come back to me as I find the source of the beeping and shut off the alarm. The bar. Talking to Professor Frazier over drinks. Flirting with him. The shared Uber ride home. Oh, God. The sex. So much sex. So much really good sex.
I push a hand through my hair, wondering where the hell he’d disappeared to. Pulling up the sheets to cover my—oh my God, naked—breasts, I peer around the room, trying to uncover some clue as to where he could’ve gone. What I assume is the bathroom door stands slightly ajar, and if I know nothing else about Professor Frazier…Mark…he’s nothing if not appropriately behaved.
Until you get him alone. In his bedroom. Then, all bets are off.
The door to the bedroom is wide open, giving me a view down the hall into the living area. The gray light coming through the windows doesn’t provide much visibility. The storms that channel 2 have been predicting for the last three days must have actually rolled through. Score one for the weatherman. Unfortunately, that means it’s going to rain heavily, and Houston tends to flood when someone so much as spits on the ground.
Climbing out of bed, I begin to hunt for the clothes I vaguely remember Mark peeling off me the night before. When I hear a key being inserted into the lock at the front door, I freeze in place. All I’ve managed to gather are my socks, and those don’t do much to cover anything.
I think about diving for the bed to hide under the blankets, but if memory serves me, there isn’t much he hadn’t seen. Touched. Tasted. A shiver runs through my body at the images floating through my mind. Heat floods my core, and my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
Should I get back in bed? Finish finding my clothes?
The front door opens and closes, bringing a flash of lightning and the sound of rushing wind with it. It’s definitely storming outside, and judging from the sound, it isn’t going away any time soon. I need to check the news to see if there’s a way I can get home–and out of this house–without drowning.
Deciding it’s better for him to find me still in bed rather than standing in the middle of his bedroom, clutching a pair of socks like a lifeline, I dive for the bed and fling the covers back over me. I can hear him setting something down on what I assume is the kitchen counter before the sound of his soft footfalls on the carpet alert me to his approach.
I want to look like one of those women on TV, who wake up with perfect hair and makeup. Who probably don’t have morning breath that taste of sour vodka and pizza. Who, in all likelihood, probably don’t have sore muscles from vigorous sex the night before. Which I definitely do. And oh, God, it’s a delicious ache.
Mark appears in the doorway, his feet bare and wearing low-slung jeans, a rain spattered t-shirt bearing his alma mater, his hair adorably ruffled and dripping, two coffees clutched in his hands. Is his hair still messed up from my fingers the night before? Or had the wind done that? I prefer to think he still bears the mark of my hands on him, but with the weather as bad as it was, the latter is more likely.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes sliding over me lying there in his bed. The heat in his gaze makes me shift, squeezing my legs together in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure his presence inspires.
I chew on my bottom lip before speaking. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” he says, almost shyly.
Is this really the same man who told me just last night, in graphic detail, all the delicious things he wanted to do to my body? Morning After Mark is almost as adorable as Professor Frazier. And I want to eat him up.
Walking to the side of the bed, he places the coffee cups on the nightstand and sits next to me. “You’re beautiful first thing in the morning. I wish I would’ve been here to see you when you first opened your eyes.” Reaching over, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear before tracing the outline of my bottom lip with his thumb.
My stomach clenches as a wave of desire slams into me. “I would’ve liked that.”
He leans closer to me, his lips hovering inches from mine. “Me too. But I know how much you like your coffee, and I didn’t have any. I wanted your morning to start off on the right foot.”
Professor Frazier—Mark has paid that close attention to me? I feel my heart leap in my chest when he closes the distance between us and takes my mouth in a possessive kiss. My hands fly to his chest, clutching the material of his shirt and bringing his body closer to mine as his fingers tangle in my hair.
All thoughts of the day’s plans go out the window when he yanks off his shirt, shoves his jeans off, and he grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer.
After, when he lies down next to me, he gathers me in his arms and holds me close. The minutes stretch into an hour, and soon we’re both beginning to doze. We’re both sweat slicked and sticky, but at this very moment there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Except I know that class starts in a few hours, and I still have to get back to my apartment and clean up. I need to leave now, or I’ll be as late as he usually is.
As I start to slide out of bed, he grabs my hand. “Where are you going?”
My eyes dart to the open bedroom door, into the living room where I’m certain most of my clothes are, and back at him. “I really need to go shower. Class starts soon…”
I don’t say that I need to distance myself from him, from this, because the class I’m going to be walking into soon happens to be his. It’s not a good idea for us to do this again, even with as fun as it was. There’s too big a risk—to his career, to my education—to continue this little tryst.
Mark pulls me closer to him. “It’s storming outside. So bad, I could barely see in front of me to get breakfast.” One hand covers my breast as the other grips the side of my hips and aligns my body to his. “We’re not going anywhere today, baby.”
I let out an ungraceful “Oomph” when he rolls us over so I’m straddling him. He shouldn’t be ready again. It’s too soon after the last time, but I can feel him as he begins to harden against me, and I can’t help myself when I begin gently grinding my core against him.
This is wrong on so many levels, but I don’t care. I’ve wanted this man for far too long, and now that I have him—even if it’s temporary—I don’t want to let go.
I reach into the nightstand I saw him get the condom from earlier and pull another packet from the box. It takes no time at all for me to roll it onto his length and sink onto him in one move.
The theme song to the old Batman TV show sounds from the other side of the bed and he groans.
“Something important?” I ask, slowing the pace of my hips until I’m barely moving, grinding on his cock while he’s still buried inside me.
It’s probably not fair, but when he grabs my thighs and pushes further into me, I don’t think he minds so much.
“My TA. I should answer that, but goddamn you feel so fucking good. So tight and hot and wet. You wanted this as much as I did, didn’t you? For as long as I did?”
The phone stops ringing as my affirmative reply turns into a long, low moan when he leans forward to capture my nipple in his mouth. His hands move along my sides, stroking sensitive skin that turns to gooseflesh in the wake of his naughty, talented fingers.
“Answer the goddamn phone,” I groan when it starts ringing again. “Tell him you’re busy being ridden into oblivion by your favorite honor student and to leave you alone so you can fuck me properly.”
A wicked grin crosses his face, and I think he’s tempted to say just that as he grabs the annoying phone from the other side of the bed. “What?” He growls into the mouthpiece, biting his bottom lip to presumably stop himself from moaning when I grind my hips just so.
I can hear the tinny voice of his teaching assistant asking about today’s classes.
“Have you seen outside, Ryan? It’s flooding. Class is canceled today.” His eyes nearly roll back in his head when I lean back, allowing his cock to sink deeper into me. “Tomorrow, too.”
Later, after he’s taken care of the mess we’ve made and we’re lying in each other’s arms listening to the sounds of the storm as it rages outside, I can’t help but wonder if this would’ve happened if not for the weather trapping us together.
Thank God for rainy days.
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While I never had an affair with my college professor (I was far too much of a goody two shoes for that), I did have an intense crush on one of my professors that led to some rather interesting daydreams. So, when I read this meme from Texts From Last Night, all those daydreams came rushing back to me.
I need to write a teacher/student book.
And while some of my friends who are teachers might get squicked out by the concept, the student in my head who still thinks that one professor is the studliest stud to walk across campus really wants to see what happens to the people who’ve come to life in my brain.
So, I’m writing the story. I’ve got just over 2k written today, and that’s a pretty good start for someone who hasn’t written in a while. I start my new job on Monday, so I’ll have less writing time than I’d like, but I do have my trusty notebook filled with ideas to make sure I don’t lose anything while I’m at the dayjob.
Time to get back to work. This couple won’t hook up on their own!