So I’ve been quite the busy bee since the last time I posted. I wrote a story in Mocha Memoir Press’s Beauty and the Geek Series call “I Heart Geeks” . I have a story in Shara Azod’s new Vamp series called “First Impressions” and I just finished three short Christmas stories that will be compiled into a book called Holiday Hookups to be released by Beautiful Trouble Publishing, which will be coming out pretty soon. I always have little stories swimming around in my head so who knows what will be coming out next;)

What has made an appearance lately are my sad little narratives. I’ve come to realize that I have this couple in a tragically beautiful relationship that want me to keep telling their story. I can’t tell it in a traditional beginning to end fashion as the rest of the work I produce because even I have a limit to my emo tendencies. But I just can’t seem to stop collecting these little moments of their relationship and tucking them away in my journal of sad things, of beautifully tragic things, and in some cases the scary stuff too. Sig Other told me the most beautiful quote by Ernest Hemingway the other day, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.” That I feel best explains what these short little bits mean to me. I am capable of donating a pint or two but anything else might require a transfusion.

So for you I bring another snap shot of our lovers (I say our because in sharing them with you I can’t claim them entirely for myself).



I run my lips across the soft slope of her hips, back up to her waist, and rest at the very base of her belly. Her skin is damp and as I blow upon it goosebumps pebble up to the surface from my actions. They remind me of how precious she is, how fragile. Held together by the promise of my love.

The slow strokes of her hand through my hair calms me. I didn’t plan it but we find ourselves here again. Pressing my face closer to her I want to capture this moment, bottle it in a jar and keep it for posterity. Better yet, release it into the sea so another can bare witness to what must always be kept secret.

“What are you thinking?” She asks softly.

It’s interesting she asks because we both know the answer to a question that is the riddle of us.

“Of you,” I answer honestly, rubbing my cheek against her oh so softly delicate skin.

I love the softness of it and the smell that covers it that is so uniquely her until moments like these when it is me too.

“I’m thinking of you also.”

I pretend to not catch the hitch in her voice nor feel the slight tugging as her fingers run through my hair. I have gotten good at that, we have gotten good at that.

Sighing I move from my position of warmth and safety until I’m balanced above her. Pressing my body into her’s I watch her assess me. Her eyes asking what her lips dare not speak. Will you tell me the truth tonight? Will you tell me what I don’t want to hear tonight?

I look back at her, lowering my head and kiss her softly, gently, and answer with actions because I do not have the courage to speak tonight. Maybe never.