‘Grab her by the pussy,’
that’s locker room talk *cough* not intent!
Where men are gathered
these things are always allowed.
Boys can only be boys
*wink* a truth even science admits.
Why must you blame me
for something that’s in my blood?
Women all up in arms –
why? *shrug* I’ll never understand it-
it’s a compliment
not a degrading putdown.
It’s just admiration.
Of course I mean no disrespect, but
their bodies, well, *grin*
…they’re everyone’s playground.
©Sierra Kummings 2016
Denial’s Demise
When her bags are all packed, what say you then,
as she’s leaving?
Pretend you tried each and every way you could?
The years of pleas for couples counseling…
oh, I suppose you’ve forgotten,
it was you who kept refusing to go.
Your successes will continue on, and
of this I am certain,
you’ll lose little to no sleep adjusting to your new life.
But when the truth finally brings its demons,
how deep will it burn,
when you’re forced to confront each and every
single
horrid
one?
(c) Sierra Kummings 2016
And my body cries…
The rain, it’s a comin’,
so proclaimeth my bones,
an ache that lives
and breathes
in their very core.
Like a weary ole house,
these joints frail doth protest
but the chill, well,
it wins
forevermore.
(c) Sierra Kummings 2016
For twenty-four long hours
my story will wait
marinating in plot while I live my real life.
One day out of the year
how hard can it be
to push my other worlds aside?
An open bottle of wine
on the counter does breathe
beside an already half-empty glass.
In just a short while it will be time for cheer—
time for family—
but for now, it’s time to stuff a dead bird in the ass.
“Shut up!” I yell,
to the voices in my head.
I’m not a writer today, can’t they see?
But only laughter answers while I complete my tasks—
those who refuse to be silenced
delighting in my misery.
“I’ll show you!” I yell, yet again,
sticking to my schedule,
as any good chef would do.
All I need is a little luck,
and enough wine to drown them out,
and the meal should all be ready by two.
An ambitious feat for sure,
but I’m far from scared
I’ve got this, or didn’t you know?
The turkey will be succulent,
the potatoes oh so buttery,
and my pumpkin pie, well, that’s known to make people moan.
A culinary masterpiece it will be
when it’s all said and done—
that’s not vanity, just pure and simple fact,
only thirty minutes in
already heaven flirts with my nose,
and the empty wine bottle is now heading to the trash.
Gluttonous sin will be had by all
in nothing but a few short hours
and for one day I’ll be revered the best spouse ever.
Common forgetfulness for things like birthdays,
and paying bills… all a dream.
I mean, really… Me? I would never!
“But what about me?” a voice cries.
“Shut up!”
“—Not a chance,
it’s my turn, I once had a family, too.
They died in a fire,
though not all in the same one,
and ten years later, I now stand accused.”
And just like that
a new story idea explodes,
urging me to my laptop that’s never far away.
A quick session, I promise,
besides what’s the harm,
just a mere five minutes out of the day.
It will only take a few,
I’m a professional, remember?
Lightening fingers fly as they pen a perfect opening.
One with a character so flawed,
so damaged, so complex,
dare I say, this might be my most compelling story.
I know this, of course,
because circumstances as they were,
I wrote ten more additional scenes,
and it’s possible, just maybe,
that included therein
lay a detailed outline for a three-book series.
What about the meal, you ask?
It obviously went off without a hitch—
we surrounded a table as happy glutinous sinners.
Sure fireman might have been called,
but it’s research, you see,
and really, the local diner serves a magnificent turkey dinner.
(c) Sierra Kummings 2015
As silent as I’ve been lately, I promise it’s for good reason. Sage Morrow is demanding her story be told in a way that has drowned out most other requests… even those made by my family–wife of the year, that’s me.
So here’s a little something to tide you over until I can devote the attention here you all deserve. (As always with my excerpts, this section is a first draft and subject to edit/deletion before print.)
Excerpt from Morrow’s Choice, Sage’s story…
…She slowed her steps on her way to the door in an attempt for calm. Knowing her luck it’d be one of her sisters on the other side instead of him.
She peeked through the peephole, holding her breath.
The first sight of him had her heart rate picking up a faster rhythm. Flannel shirts were a thing of the past now that summer was almost upon them, but he still wore untucked buttoned down shirts and jeans that did nothing to showcase the ass she knew he had.
Yet he wore the clothes with swagger.
Sexy, panty-dropping, pussy-clenching swagger.
He always had, despite her many attempts to deny it.
The lock clicked as she turned the knob, and it was as if he stroked her clit…
— That Sage sure knows how to have fun, doesn’t she? Hope you enjoyed it, and I’ll see you back next week for another peek 🙂
A few weeks ago on social media, I asked for suggestions for blog posts, as I’ve been focusing most of my attention lately on the series I’m writing and seem to keep coming up with blanks whenever I come to do updates here. And I think I finally figured out why. Death and my own mortality have been weighing on me heavily the last few years. Watching my grandparents near the end of their lives, two people I’ve always thought of as immortal, created an emptiness I didn’t know how to fill.
When in the last few months serious health concerns with other family members surprised us, it opened that void even further.
It took that post on social media, and a friend’s suggestion to write another short story, for me to realize why I had been drawing a blank in regards to everything else. I found that I had no desire to talk about social issues, or even my life, because I had another story besides the Morrow sisters brimming in my head, just under the surface.
For a while now, I’ve wanted to write something that honored the kind of love my grandparents have for one another. The kind of love that still has them holding hands in their eighties and brings light to their eyes when they remember their beginning. To be able to have witnessed that growing up, I think, is what instilled my love for romances, as my grandparents are the quintessential romance story. Though Annalise is not in any way an account of how they’ve lived their lives or the people they are, I hope, in some small measure, I’ve been able to capture the way that they’ve loved.
Let me know what you think in the comments, I’d love to hear from you.
Annalise
He’d clutched her hand as the life wheezed out of her, that one final moment between agony and nothingness. Just as he’d held her hand the entirety of her torture. He’d never known how long a human body could hold out under extreme duress, but he had his answer now.
Four years.
Four years, three months, two weeks, and five days to be exact.
He pocketed his watch and waited for the doorbell to ring, staring at the bed in which she’d died.
Despite her wishes, her death hadn’t been valiant. She’d barely gone out with a whimper—not close to the bang she’d wanted, begged, pleaded to make.
Kill me now had become her daily chant the last few years. Use your daddy’s shotgun, something he’d learned to tune out as poison ran its course through her body. As selfish as it made him, a life without her, after having lived in her light for so long, had been beyond him to give.
His thin shoulders shook from the weight of her cries. Even absent, there was no relief.
She was gone.
Gone!
Emptiness settled in his bones.
He’d never wanted to be her tormentor. Would have run the other direction in his twenties if he’d known what his life had in store for him. Straight into the barrel of a locked-and-loaded gun. And back then he’d foolishly believed he was strong. Strapping shoulders, thick neck, arms that had gotten him into more than one whorehouse on the waterfront before he’d turned fifteen.
A lifetime ago.
Back when his bay town had been no more than a speck on the landscape of New England.
Back before he’d met the woman who would change everything for him.
His love of the written word had given his parents false hope he’d leave the family legacy behind as they had, continue his education, be more than them, or at the very least a farmer by their side. But much to their dismay, the ocean had called him.
At sixteen, he’d left school to work on a boat from sunup to sundown next to his grandfather and uncles. His dreams had been simple then. No wife. No kids. Just him, his shipmates, and the open sea. To be landlocked on his parents’ farm was a sentence worse than death for a sailor like him. Even now, fifty years from the water, his legs still rocked with the motion of the waves when he moved.
Fifty years.
Fifty years since he’d stepped foot on a boat.
He scrounged through a drawer, looking for the photo hidden long ago. The love affair he’d been forced to silence. Even back then, she’d made him a killer.
He shrugged off the all too familiar anger of the last three days. How could he blame someone for being gone when they’d been too good for the world to start with?
The photo, bent from age and handling, teased his fingertips, and he shoved his hand further into the drawer, grabbing hold of his prize in triumph. Undergarments flew to the floor as he removed his hand with a flourish.
The ache began in his heart and seeped out his eyes.
With tender adoration, he caressed the worn picture that bore as many lines as his own weathered face.
The Whitney.
His boat.
The one his grandfather had passed down to him on his twentieth birthday.
His first true love.
How different would his life have been had he been allowed to continue his romance? If he’d left that day with the others instead of sleeping off too much ale the night before? If he hadn’t staggered into the diner for the town’s guaranteed hangover cure.
Sadness gripped him so tight he sunk onto the bed where death still clung to the sheets, wrapping him in a merciless hold.
Death and memories.
He shut his eyes and welcomed the embrace. Let them both claim me.
****
1930
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? All grimy and … smelly. McGavern, you are a real treat for the ladies, all right.”
“Can’t you just for once, shut your trap, June?” The cool bar of the empty diner called to him, and he laid his aching head on the surface, plopping onto the nearest stool.
“Aw, someone can’t handle his spirits. Don’t you worry, ole’ June’ll take care of you.” She leaned down to pat his ear.
Thank Neptune! At last the woman found her sense.
A death shout cracked next to his ear. “Order up. One Mornin’ After Special.”
“Dammit woman!” But his curse sounded paltry croaking from his dry throat.
June agreed. Her cackle followed her, the swinging double doors to the kitchen swallowing both her enormous form and the sound once she entered.
Quiet.
Blessed quiet.
Ever so slowly, he wrapped his arms around his head. Without containment, it would surely explode.
How many drinks had he had?
About four times as many women he’d bedded. And it’d been a good night.
His smirk was cut too short when The Waverly’s door opened with a bang. Heels clicked a path straight into his skull on the uneven floor.
“No good … good for nothing … humph.” Righteous mumbling landed at the end of the bar. A voice too prim-and-proper for Cape Roy. “Lying, cheating, sea captain scoundrel! If I ever see him again, well, I’ll, I’ll string him up. And you, sir, you look just like him.”
Shit. A girl from last night? Truthfully, he didn’t remember the third. Or fourth. Much.
He braved opening one eye.
Filtered sunlight screamed his mistake. Dirt crusted windows did nothing to hide the mid-morning glare. It splintered his skull from every angle.
“Never trust a man whose feet aren’t firmly planted on solid ground. That’s what Momma always used to say. She’d roll over in her grave if she could see me now.” The piety in her voice faded into soft cries. Little hiccups that spoke more of pain than the wail of a young widow.
He sucked in a breath and forced himself to turn toward the woman.
Heaven greeted him. A heaven he’d never seen in the likes of Cape Roy before.
An angel in a navy blue dress that fell to her ankles complete with fur at the neck and waist. In the dead heat of summer. Her sobs rippled the fabric like waves. A different kind of sea calling to him.
Hair the color of twine escaped the many pins atop her head and fell in rivulets to the top of that ridiculous fur.
She caught him staring and sniffled daintily, inching as far away as she could on the narrow stool. “Don’t you dare judge me. I bet a man like you leaves broken hearts up and down the coast. Different port, different promise, right?”
The need to defend himself brought his head all the way up. What right did she have to judge him? He’d had his fair share of women, but they were always willing. And they damned sure knew the score. Well, most of the time. When he wasn’t too boozed up to tell them. “What makes you think you know me?”
A full bottom lip accentuated a small overbite. The urge to suck that pinkness between his teeth said that she might be right.
“Clearly you’re a fisherman.”
Something about the way her lips curled around the word, as if it were an insult just by utterance, had him strangely wanting to deny his very essence. “Now who’s being judge?”
She crossed her arms under an ample chest, an eyebrow lifted in question.
With discipline only the sea could teach, he kept his gaze focused on her face. “You’re quick to assume I’m a fisherman.”
“A logical assumption given your attire.” She waved at his dirty coveralls and rubber boots.
He let his sneer equal hers, irritated more than he should be considering she was right. “What other attire would you expect in a fishing community?”
“Proving my point.” Her nose tilted in the air with enough disdain he moved closer, letting her see the play of muscles in his biceps and thighs as he shifted. Her eyes widened, but it wasn’t fear that poured off her.
He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “How, exactly is your point proven?” Cinnamon tickled his senses, making him want to taste her neck where the scent had been dabbed.
A soft sigh escaped parted lips. “Well fishermen do make up a fishing community, don’t they?”
Laughter caught him off guard, rumbling from deep in his chest, and reminded him his head had seen better days. Naivety and feistiness. His siren song. “And what about the bankers, the butchers? Do they have their own communities as well?”
Pink heightened rouged cheeks, an adorable contrast to her harrumph. “So, Mr. Non-fisherman, tell me what you do then, seeing as how you don’t fish?”
Not a chance, little lady, you’d hightail it out of here faster than an adulterer in a whorehouse. And damned if he didn’t want her to stay. He silenced the voice that added ‘forever’. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself first? That way I don’t make the same mistake and judge you based on your appearance.” He waved at her abundance of fur.
Shyness more natural than her bold statements cast a demur tilt to her head. “And what’s wrong with my appearance?”
“Nothing a smile wouldn’t cure.”
Sure enough, two dimples peeked out at the upturn of her lips, and all his ailments were cured.
“Hurry up, Jonas. There’s a grumpy sailor waitin’ on me.” June’s voice broke the spell and caused a cold sweat to break out on his arms.
As soon as the rude matron returned, she’d out him, and Miss Sad Eyes would disappear for good. He held out his hand. “Come on. This place isn’t classy enough for a woman like you. I’ll make you a deal. You tell me about yourself, and I’ll buy you breakfast.”
Her gaze strayed to the window and the sunlight streaming in. “You mean lunch, mister. But no thanks.” At the immediate droop to his shoulders, she turned, facing him fully for the first time, laying one hand lightly on his arm, and one protectively over her rounded belly. “You don’t understand. I’m damaged goods. You don’t want anything to do with me.”
Half an hour ago he would’ve agreed. “How far along are you?”
“Roughly four months. And newly single as of this morning when the man sworn to love me ran off on the closest ship.”
Rage the likes he’d never known threatened his ability to reason. “Your husband left you? Pregnant?” He stood up so fast, he knocked over his chair, and her in the process.
She didn’t put up a fight, just slumped to the ground. “Seems I’m nothing more than the town trollop, giving it away for a promise instead of a ring.”
Broken sobs ripped through him as if they’d come from him. He helped her to her feet, offering comfort in a brief embrace.
“He told me to meet him here in port, we’d wed. And I was the fool that believed him. Sold everything, moved away from home, all to find out it’d been just another line he’d given to yet another girl.”
“Do you love him?” For some reason he couldn’t explain, the answer mattered more to him than anything ever had.
Self-deprecating laughter broke through her cries. “Wanna’ know the worst part? No, I don’t think I do. Momma had just died when I met him, and I…”
When she didn’t finish, he tucked her hand in the crock of his elbow. “Well, then. Now that that’s settled, I do believe I owe you lunch. And you owe me your story.”
“Didn’t I just tell—?”
“Nope. That was some unlucky bastard’s story of a lifetime of missing out. I want to hear yours.”
Eyes the color of whiskey held his command.
“McGavern, don’t think you’re getting away without paying.” June ambled out from the kitchen, as fast as her weight allowed.
If he didn’t want to lose the woman at his side, he needed to get her out of there now. “Put it on my tab, Juney. You know I’m good for it.” He tipped his hat at the matron’s flounce and guided his date to the door. Her steps were hesitant, but they kept up. It took them rounding the corner for his heartrate to calm. When they were safe enough away, he pointed to the restaurant on the next block. “Let’s start with your name.”
****
After a three hour lunch had stretched into an evening stroll, he’d dropped her off at the boarding house with a promise she’d meet him the next day.
That night, he’d gone home to his parents’ farm and never looked back.
Not when they’d buried the two year old son he’d raised as his own.
Not when they’d buried their eleven year old daughter.
Not one damned day in fifty years.
Until now.
The day he was to cremate his Annalise.
A knock on the door roused him from the bed they’d lived and loved on those fifty years. In the shuffling gait he’d grown accustomed to since entering his seventies, he slowly advanced to the door. The car service was early, but what else did he have to do but wait. It hardly mattered if it were in their home or at the undertakers. Every minute for him from here on out would be spent waiting. Waiting to die. Waiting to be reunited with his family again.
A man dressed in a business suit met him at the door. Fancier than he’d expected from the local cab company.
He reached for his jacket ready to go when the stranger held out a letter.
“You McGavern?”
He nodded, taking the offering.
“Sign here.”
His elongated chicken scratch made the man’s foot tap an impatient beat.
“Have a great day, sir.”
Without a reply, he shut the door in the man’s face. A looping cursive addressed the envelope.
Annalise.
Multiple paper cuts sliced the tips of his fingers as he tore it open with trembling hands. A legal document fell out first. His poor eyesight made it hard to read the fine print, but the bold words DEED OF SALE were clear as day. As was the picture of a twelve foot schooner with the name Annalise printed in fire red on the side.
The accompanying note shook in his hands.
Kind sir,
It seems I’ve waited all my life to say to you what fear and social stigma
didn’t allow me to that first day at The Waverly. But now my body is free, and
this world has no ties for me other than the one you have on my heart. Your
love gave me wings and as selfish as it makes me, I can’t for one minute regret
that my love took yours. In your arms, I’ve lived a million lives, and even though
my time is over, I selfishly want more. So this time, my love, we live your life.
This time, it’s your story that deserves to be told. I’m finally ready, sailor. Take
me on the voyage of my life.
Your lover forever, A
Of course people in Cape Roy had talked about his past as a fisherman, and she’d come to find out while he’d been courting her. He’d almost lost her that day, until he’d shown her the ring and the deed to a small acre of land on his parents’ property he’d purchased the same day he’d sold his boat. The day after he’d met her.
Years later, he’d found the photograph she’d kept of The Whitney in her nightstand. Fearing it’d strike another argument and she’d leave for good, he didn’t ask her about it until the cancer had consumed most of her. As he’d bathed the woman he loved as part of their nightly ritual, she’d confessed.
“I needed the reminder, when life got hard, of everything you gave up to be with me.”
Her words had spoken of such remorse, he’d immediately dug in his own drawer to find the equally worn photo he kept.
“What’s that?”
His answer had been as easy then as it had the day he’d made the decision. “My reminder of everything I’ve gained.”
He pulled that same photo out of his wallet now.
Light splintered through the window, a break from the month’s endless clouds, much as it had that first day, haloing the portrait he’d had made of her in her twenties, a young mother of two, with nothing but hope in her eyes.
Impossible, but that same hope stirred in him again. “Better get your sea legs, Mother. I’m about to show you the world.”
(c) Sierra Kummings 2015
I thought I’d lucked out when I entered the sex club first thing this morning and didn’t see my normal purveyor of torture. Without him there, only three tiny females and one male ruled in the room. Since two women and two other men held the male’s attention, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Feeling confident, I strutted about the expansive space. Even in pain, I could take the chics out if I had to. My last candy bar weighed more than them. Clearly that meant I was safe, right? In store for only light play before the fun happened?
I should’ve known better.
Instead, management sicced two of the tiny females (from this point on known as Dommes-in-training) on me, and they were relentless, forcing me to do things with balls I’d never voluntarily do. Ever.
While other patrons watched me on display as they screamed out their own agony, it became apparent the female I had yet to meet was the head Mistress. Where others doled out pain, her hands induced blissful moans.
I couldn’t wait to have her hands on me.
After an hour, the Dommes-in-training noticed my fascination and giggled, telling me I was next. That should’ve warned me. And probably would have had agony not been humming its rage through my veins.
Yet as they continued to prepare me for her, my body yielded to their will, knowing pleasure was just one step away. I didn’t care that five people had already had her before me. I didn’t care that three more still waited for their turn after me. All that mattered was that soon she would be mine.
By the time they laid me at Mistress’s feet, I shook from my head to my toes, pain and anticipation warring for winner. It felt like I’d waited my entire life to know the gift of her hands, and I glided in a haze as she positioned me for her favor.
The first touch was pure heaven, I almost begged her to be my permanent Mistress and never send me back to HIM. In fact, the words hung on the tip of my tongue at the exact moment her hands morphed into ruthless talons digging at my already brutalized flesh and frayed muscles.
Four hours later, I’m still not sure how I managed to walk out of there on my own, but two things are certain: 1) I have officially renamed my physical therapist’s office “Scream My Name”, and 2) my gift to them upon my completion of my prescription to hell will be a t-shirt that reads “PT: The new S&M.”
‘What’s wrong with your daughter,’ you ask
as I stare in puzzlement –
we’re playing and swinging at the park, same as you;
smiles as big on our faces as on all the others,
yet it’s me the question is directed to.
Not one greeting to my child did you attempt to make,
though your smile and whispered hello to me were nice.
I thought, perhaps maybe, we’d made another friend,
instead of just one more curious passerby.
With warmth, I scooted over and welcomed you
to join our exclusive shade from an oppressive sun,
where you, yes you, not a medical personnel,
asked for information, and really, for what reason?
You see, we have laws in this country that protect you and I,
and believe it or not, even the most vulnerable among us –
Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPPA for short –
perhaps I should inquire about your offensive halitosis?
Now, I’ll admit that last comment was not aimed at you,
just my anger getting the best of me.
Because no matter how many well-intentions
you might have actually had,
and the effort on your part I so clearly see,
well-meaning individuals such as yourself,
ask the same question everywhere we go,
and it makes me want to scream, ‘You’re missing the point. Wake up!
There’s a child here worthy to know.’
Not just her diagnosis or things she cannot do –
in fact, that’s not her at all –
she’s light, and she’s laughter,
and the song of my soul.
And honestly? We just came here to play ball.
(c) Sierra Kummings 2015
Since #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter is trending on Twitter, I decided to compile my own list. I kid you not, these are based on real life private messages I have received on social media, my husband’s own comments, and a few myths that are just too wrong to not include:
10. You write erotica? I bet you’re a fan of anal.
9. Good writers don’t have to promote their work.
8. When will you be done with that scene? Your characters are more demanding than you are.
7. Out here in the real world we work for our living.
6. Why are you yelling at me for interrupting you? You’re not even typing. You’re just sitting there doing nothing.
5. Here’s a little inspiration for your writing *insert body part picture here*.
4. It’s so cute how frustrated you get when your characters refuse to do what you want.
3. You’ve been editing for days. Aren’t you finished?
2. Anyone can write erotica.
1. There’s no more coffee.
What would your list look like for your job?
Bent spine alone
does not my story tell,
nor the makeup-less shadow
spreading underneath my eyes.
Perhaps my scowl
reveals something other indeed
than the truth
you shouldn’t be surprised to find.
I’m not
angry,
frustrated,
hurt,
or a bitch;
or perhaps I’m all of those things.
I’d sort it all out for you
tonight if I could,
but exhaustion is
overwhelmingly tiring.
Sierra Kummings (c) 2015
Sierra Kummings 