Me to Penny: panic, fascination, release, a whole jumble of feelings I cannot and shouldn’t disentangle. It was a purity, a rawness before the Word. And yet it is language. And I wondered which images you were calling to mind before you exorcised them. At the end, I saw a woman who was exhausted, yet purified, somehow.
Penny to me: I had to psyche myself up for a few weeks.
Ladies & Gents,
Courageous, Primal
Garden of Snow:
In the morning when I coyed your skin
it felt
like velvet fur
your Nubian lips glossed
by the yolk
of the rising sun.
You made me sigh
I made you
cry…
you showed me all your graces
your fire and desire
you made me sigh…
I
made you cry but
kissed such
tears
away.
Wearing on mine
your pith turned child
beautiful bright boy
my prince
some being born out of the
queen in flight
dark
as the night was warm
was thinly clothed
with shy whispers
crumpled by the
wrath of sheets.
You showed me the
soft side
the
dark side
showed me
the wildcat
poised
beneath that
African pride…
disclosed your
every shade
of woman
to my man
who kissed away
lone tears
who cradled that
fragility till anxiety had
faded
bodies cascading
in moments
stretched
to years
(from The Red Room)
Children’s librarian Amanda Lloyd values privacy above all else. Three years ago her wedding ended in disaster when her groom was arrested at the altar and the story of the ‘Embezzler’s Bride’ appeared in the supermarket tabloids. The experience has left her determined to avoid being caught in the public eye again. Until she meets a sexy single dad with a scandalous past.
Ex-racer Mitch Delaney is a public figure whose life has been plastered across the tabloids more than once. But he believes that anything worth doing is worth a risk. After the death of his ex-wife, he moved to Southern California to take care of his son Josh. He doesn’t need the complication of a woman in his life, especially since Josh’s grandparents have filed suit for custody. But Josh is on the hunt for a new mother and he has his heart set on Miss Amanda, and Mitch can’t fault his son’s taste.
Against her better judgment, Amanda finds herself falling for both of the Delaney men. When she agrees to accompany Mitch to a high-profile movie premiere, they draw the attention of the tabloids. Overnight Amand’a private affair becomes very public, threatening her job and Mitch’s custody suit. She’s waited twenty-eight years for the right man. But will happiness come at too high a price?
(Previously published as Private Affair, Kensington Precious Gem #121. Also: Golden Heart Finalist, Short Contemporary category)
*
His head was nestled in her lap. Amanda gently smoothed back the hair that had tumbled into his eyes. He sighed contentedly and gazed at her with soulful blue eyes.
“You really are a love,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine why I was ever nervous around you.”
The living room was quiet now, except for the soft crackling of the fire. Shadows played on the walls as the flames danced in the fireplace. Dinner was over, the kitchen cleaned up, and Josh was upstairs asleep. It was the first really relaxing moment Amanda had had all day.
“Is that mutt bothering you?” Mitch asked as he stepped into the room.
“No, we’ve been getting acquainted.” She smiled and scratched Albert behind the ears. He looked up at her adoringly. Then, as if aware that three was a crowd, he sauntered over to the fireplace and flopped down with a large sigh.
“Never thought I’d actually be jealous of a dog,” Mitch muttered, sitting down on the couch next to her.
Amanda laughed. “But he’s the sweetest thing.”
Mitch murmured his agreement, then said, “You’re sweet, too.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“For tutoring Josh, I mean,” he said quickly.
“There’s nothing sweet about that. I expect to be paid the going rate for my efforts.”
“You will be,” he assured her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “In fact, there may even be a bonus in it.” He leaned closer, a teasing gleam in his eyes.
“What kind of a bonus did you have in mind?” Amanda knew she shouldn’t have asked when his look changed to one of desire.
Pulling her closer, he rubbed his thumb along her lower lip and her lips parted instinctively. She looked deeply into his eyes and saw a new tenderness she hadn’t seen before. Her body ached in anticipation as he continued caressing her mouth and gazing at her from hooded eyes that promised a world of pleasure in their blue depths.
*
The final novel this month in the Rocking Summer Romances series, this is the only book I’m proposing that’s been co-written. Lyn O’Farrell is in fact Anne Farrell and Linda McLaughlin, putting their heads together. Taking the risk. I can’t imagine what it’s like to co-author a novel, and when I’m reading this one, I catch myself asking who’s contributing what. Can’t find any obvious seams, can you? Then maybe I should get back to the story as a story, and enjoy! The twosome aren’t taking any risks as far as the law’s concerned, which is why this sample’s more PG than erotic. Only one way to find out how hot they really get:
Can’t help wondering, though: are you two a couple in any other sense as well???
A fellow writer tells me how his writing career began:
My first poem was written very early in the morning in our bathroom with a highlighter on a crumpled piece of paper shortly after I’d learned to read and write in the second grade and was literally mostly composed of the words “I am alone” written line after line. I did not write it for anyone I merely awoke in the middle of the night and expressed something that had awakened me. My mother found the piece where I had left it in the bathroom and came into my room very angry that same night probably an hour or two later.
“Your sister used to leave shit like this lying around,” she said holding my first piece and yelling to wake me. “And you saw what happened to her!”
I did not realize at such a young age why my sister had gone I just noticed one day she was not around.
“I don’t want to see shit like this lying around anymore!” She said and slammed the door.
I love my mother.
This was my first poem.
I did not write again until the fifth grade to impress a girl and when I did her boyfriend began to cut himself out of jealousy and I did not write again until high school.
I have always refused to be brought to my knees by these things any longer than is necessary to rest. I suppose I was doomed to be a tormented writer. I suppose now the only question that remains, once I can finally convince myself that I am skilled enough at what I do to be truly proud of myself, is whether I will be a tormented writer serving drinks, dropping a fry basket and barely making rent for the remainder of my life or will I be barely making rent off of the word.
This is an abridged version of the original text sent to me by W.T. Johnston. Dare we like it? Beyond the pain provoked by empathy with the child, beyond the brutality of maternal rebuke, the unanticipated wrath of a jealous peer’s sickly/sickening eruptions of emotional inadequacy in the face of so much beauty – and I may say, humility, because I have read so much more by the same author in the meantime. Dare we? I loved it.
CLEAR NIGHT
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
on the side deck and the threshold, the white keys
and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I wanted to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death,
say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
(Clear Night, by Charles Wright)
First discovered this poem on Amy Jo Sprague’s blog. The second stanza ‘throes’ me. Re-re-re-read. Like the title, the light/dark tango of it which I grew to love in the paintings of Magritte. Second stanza: re-read.
Full moon recently. Pulls in more ways than one:
TRAMP
I want to feel your nose in my lips
your nails in my flesh
your teeth on my hips
your breath in my face
your tongue –
wherever it fits…
I want to feel your dick in my ass
you come in my throat
you spit on my skin
your balls beat me raw…
your hand pin me down
and Master me
Freak? Me?
I want to hear you moan
groan
whimper
I want to see pain on your face
delight
abandon
release…
Rough me
ride me to a froth
burn me
whip me with your Man till
I spit blood
And I?
Will bathe you with the purity
of my softest womanhood
till I
oil you
rim
purring with gratitude…
But first, you polish me
if you want to see my genie
If you want to see me shine.
(from, The Red Room by Joan Barbara Simon)
Joan stays locked in when the moon’s out. Need I say why? And no, it doesn’t wear off with age. It gets worse, cos you’re still interested but who’s still interested in you? I’ve been giving my ex-wives tips on how to pull a bloke on the internet. So much for you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If I were twenty years younger, I’d open a brothel for senior citizens of both sexes, say seventy and upwards. These mature specimens of the human animal’ve got the finish line in sight, cash in their pockets, assorted ailments to forget, if only for that moment… and ungrateful brats as offspring. Above all, thirst. It’d be a runner. Especially with the women. With my neighbour for starters. I’m not taken in by her impenetrable purple rinse, her 40den tights, the orthopedic shoes or the slight limp, she’s no nice-nelly, take my word for it; course, no one’s been near her labia minora for decades but she was a real old slag in her day. Brittle hips weren’t her problem back then, I know a few who’ll vouch for that! When she did what she termed the fandango on your ramrod guess what else she clung to, calling them her castanets? Said she had him steaming like a horse after a hard race. The way she looks at me even today. Teeth tarnished. Slack wet slit where her mouth should be. Gives me the creeps. She’d pay. Bet she would.
All around rodeo cowboy and heir to the Rockin’ H Ranch, Ace Harris is determined not to fall in love. He’s only loved one woman in his life, his mother, and no one can even come close to filling her boots. Lexie Morgan thinks rodeo cowboys have rocks for brains and a death wish for a soul. A broken childhood and the death of her father and best friend leave her doubting and questioning God (despite her years of religious upbringing) and afraid of love. Can two young people who clash from the onset learn to trust in the healing power of God and find love and happiness amidst tragedy and grief?
*
Her eyes narrowed when he took a step closer. “Ace,” she warned and wielded the brush like a lethal weapon.
Raising his hands where she could see them, he watched her try to brush some semblance of order to the thick mass of unruly auburn hair. The simple chore made him want to sink both fists in the silken locks and gave him a whole new insight to the word erotic.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled vivid green and spewed wrath. She glared at him as though the tangled tresses were his fault alone. Her chest quivered with each breath she took. He took another step closer and could feel her tremble. Locking his gaze with hers in the mirror, he reached around her and picked up a bandanna off the dresser. He ran it through his fingers in what could have been a caress then slid the cloth beneath her hair and left it trailing over her shoulders.
With hands that shook, Lexie pulled the ends together and tied her hair back into a ponytail. Those bright gray eyes had gone soft and warm, like liquid metal. Mouth dry as dust, she swallowed hard.
*
The familiar question in a new frock: can we change? An author I know once said: if we knew the outcome of a novel from the start there’d be no need to read the bloody book, would there!
New question(s):
i. Is change always development?
ii. Is development always synonymous with learning?
iii. Does change come from the inside or the outside?
iv. Is God essentially an inside or outside affair???
Take a maturational view of change/development/learning, then you’d go for ‘inside’. Take a catalytic view, on the other hand, you’re more likely to go for ‘outside’. I guess. I’ve heard people talk about ‘readiness’ for change, just as I’ve heard others talk about being ‘vulnerable’ to change. Also had to think long and hard about one account of change as the attempt of a complex organism to be more successful in its environment. See, I’m not some blockhead just because I choose not to speak as though I’ve got a broom up me arse. I think, seriously I do, about these terms: change… growth… vulnerability… success… throwing them into the basket with God…
And then of course you’ve got all the He-ing and She-ing between Ace and Lexie, with us readers eager to anticipate their moves. Keep changing my mind about whether or not love is over-rated…
So many ways to take this story, lick it clean, if you see what I mean. If a bloke like me who left school at fourteen can see all of that in a mere paragraph or two, don’t tell me this book won’t be worth your while.
Tempered Joy, by Pamela Thibodeaux
Just back in from work that very moment, Jack was standing in the hallway, and although he hadn’t been round the flat yet, hadn’t even taken his jacket off, although the flat was making all the noises it usually made – telly buzzing, fridge wheezing, waterpipes, the lot, he sensed in an instant –
“Nina? Ben, where’s ya mum?”
“Dunno. Said that she was going out n that you’re not the only one who’s got cronies.”
With a sigh, expelled from the caverns of his fed up lungs, Jack:
hung his jacket up next to her empty peg,
pushed his working boots into place along the skirting board next to where her outdoor shoes were missing,
threw himself into a chair in the kitchen.
Them in the flat upstairs, trampling around again. Why couldn’t their kids just
s-i-t
d-o-w-n
and behave themselves, sit down and watch telly quietly like his kids did.
“Oi! You up there!” one hand cupped over his mouth. An angry voice carries far. Propels saliva. Turns the veins that scale the temple hard, blue.
Pack of anti-social bleeders! What he wouldn’t give to get off that council estate, but it was hopeless; with only two kids? They would need another three before getting on the list for somewhere bigger. He felt sorry enough as it was that his two had to stay cooped up in the house all evening, all day when they were on school holidays, but he would not have them mixing with the kids round there. Not that he had anything against his two inviting a friend home so they could watch telly or play upstairs, but they would not be going out. A few months back it must have been by now, when Ben had run in crying because some of the boys on the estate had thrown stones at him. His father had simply tutted with even greater disdain for his son than he had shown for the gratuitous violence impregnating the headlines of his local newspaper, had just said, “Stop crying, you sissy. They’re just jealous. Riff-raff like that don’t know the meaning of the word family. Next time they chuck stones at you, you pick up a couple yourself and pelt them back good and proper.” The following evening Jack had braved the cold, had gone down with Ben to practise pelting stones at a wooden wall, some of them council kids watching at a distance.
“Look at em,” Jack head-butted their way, “gawping like they’ve never seen a son having fun with his dad before.”
Ben pelted, harder, like a cricketer, imagining them council kids yelping every time he slung a stone, every time he got them right where he wanted to, egged on by his dad, teaching him the right angle, guiding his pitch. Inside, behind the ostentatious ruffling of hair or vocabular praise, it pained Jack Dunbar to have to teach his son how to pelt other boys, poor little bleeders they were, with all the cards stacked against them no wonder they turned rough. They pelted for ages, till their shoulders ached and them council kids had wandered off, one by one, driven home by hunger and the cold. The next time Ben asked if he could play out, his father still said,
“No.”
‘Words dance, breathe, rejoice, titillate, pulsate, quiver in this brilliantly crafted volume of what may be her best-loved novel. Couldn’t put it down.’ (Amazon)
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Joan Barbara Simon Author 