So I’ve had this idea that I wanted to write a Sci-fi type of story for awhile. I start to think of something, plan out my galaxies and other-world type sha-bang-ga-bang and than it fizzles. A great deal of it has to do with the fact that I can get obsessive when I research things and my tangential mind starts to wonder off into a variety of places and I forget what my origin of thought was. Yet, I’ve been circling the wagons of this Sci-fi concept for awhile and when I got a gentle nudge (I’m not being sarcastic, it was actually a flattering nudge) from Nicole Kurtz over at Mocha Memoirs Press to submit something I committed myself to focusing and getting it done.

But it seems my imagination went on hiatus. I couldn’t finish my stories Tasty Bits or Fire and Ice for Beautiful Trouble Publishing and my poor little sci-fi story got neglected again. Even cycling into another round of insomnia couldn’t be used for anything productive. I was at a great lose until I decided, “Fuck It”, if my creative center didn’t want to be found than it could stay lost. I had a plethora of things I could be doing instead. Now, what is that saying, when you let something go, if it comes backs it was yours or meant for you or…whatever, the point is where ever my imagination went it brought something back for me.

It’s actually so strange that I couldn’t help sharing. Now it may never become more than what it is but if it does, I swear Nicole, it’s yours, if you want it of course (now that’s my gentle nudge).

Unedited Excerpt


When the end came it wasn’t a great shock. Like the slow rolling wave of change it seemed to envelop everyone before they’d realized they’d been swallowed. The cry “The End is Nigh” lost it’s resonance when people accepted “The End” had always been there. It was of no fault of their own that they didn’t notice. One has their life to live, planning for its conclusion can take up far too much time. Now as the masses finally awoke to the reality of their situation, was there panic, a post apocalyptic existence of hidden dwellings and the anarchist pledge? Hardly, it was rather anti-climatic, because like the great master of evolution the human race had become, it adapted. After all, life had to be lived, planning for its conclusion would have to wait.

But I digress from the real purpose of my tale. This isn’t a story about “The End” but more of “The Beginning”, not quite the “Once Upon A Time”, but a “Happily Ever After” of sorts. This is the story of one man and one woman, brought together during this time of change that didn’t seem so different. A comedy if there is an allowance for tragedy, because what would a story of the human condition be without both. The story of two people that realize endings are often the start of great beginnings.

Hola mi amor,

I recently experienced a bump in the road of wedded bliss. The argument was so trivial that it doesn’t bare repeating but the feelings that it left behind do require some reflection. The gist is both Sig Other and I were left holding hurt. Mine because he hurt me and his because he hurt. There was the “conversation” in which we both explained how we felt and held accountability for our actions. All the hard work that needs to be done to maintain a healthy relationship. During this conversation I stated my boundary and drew a firm line in the sand about behavior that would not be tolerated from either him or myself. To which he replied, “I guess it’s true only mother’s love unconditionally.”

The statement was so fascinating to me because after almost 10 years of being with him I learned something new. We think of love differently. In the conversation that followed he explained how he would love me regardless of any action I did to him, therefore loving me unconditionally. Needless to say I was shocked because my love does have conditions. It requires trust, honesty, and respect. It requires that you care for me, and treat me, yourself, and our relationship with integrity. It requires you value me as an individual as much as you value yourself. When explaining this he nodded and agreed but still felt that when all those things failed to exist he would still have love for me because his attachment is so deep that the roots of it could not die (this is me taking artistic license with his words but you get the idea).

That night as I slept next to this person whom I love as much as my next breath I wanted to cry because my love could never be like his. My love is fierce and true but if it is not fed, if it is not nurtured, it will wither away and die. Rolling over I snuggled up to the one that I have chosen to give my love to and in that moment I realized that “loving” was not going to be enough, it would take work.

As always I find solace and inspiration in poetry and here is a one by Pablo Neruda that articulates most eloquently how I feel.

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

This poem was taken from PoemHunter.com. http://www.poemhunter.com

Well Howdy,

I’ve been gone for a hot second but dear readers you must know that I haven’t forgotten you. That job I’ve been planning to leave for quite some time just won’t let me go. Quite mob like it is, just when I think I’m out it keeps sucking me back in. BUT, through it all I’ve been able to complete the third story in my Goddess Chosen Series, Time For You And Time For Me is over at Beautiful Trouble Publishing waiting anxiously for you AND a fun little ditty called Love’s Bloom at Shara Azod’s house, apart of the A is for Amazon series, sits with bated breath hoping you’ll arrive. Yes that’s right, even with adversity I rise up and whip out the prose for my adoring fans. Selfless I am, so selfless.

Anyhoo, I’m now sick (shocker) and have been sequestered to my bed all day. Yawn. The majority of my enjoyment derived from reading the post in the Jayha and Jeanie yahoo group. One of the threads that caught my attention the most today was the horror movie one. I LOVE to be scared and contributed to that one in particular with great gusto between my bouts of pain induced unconsciousness. Now this got me to thinking about a short little scary story I’d written, just a few lines strung together for my morbid amusement, and I decided to share because…well because sharing is caring. A select view have already seen how the inner workings of my brain can twist toward the macabre but so bolstered by the fervent agreement of my fellow horror lovers I thought it only fair to extend to it to all you wonderful people. (this is the point where eerie music begins to swell up) Muahhhhaaahhhaahh

Untitled and Unedited Scary Story
Janet Eckford

“They say another girl has gone missing,” I tell my husband while making his eggs.

“Um, damn shame,” he answers absently while he reads the paper.

“That’s the third one this year,” I say as I continue watching eggs firm and crumble.

He likes his eggs that way with just a little bit of crispness around the edges. Sometimes as an added bonus I put cheese in them. He loves cheesy eggs.

“Um, damn shame,” he replies still as absently.

Turning from the stove I carry the steaming plate of eggs to the table. Smiling up from his paper he places it down on the chair next to him and rubs his hands together in anticipation.

He really loves my eggs.

“They say they found her in that old ravine on the other side of town,” I’m obsessed now and can’t seem to stop.

Spooning food on his plate he gives another non-committal response with a variation on “damn shame”. I watch him as I’ve watched him these last twenty years. You see this is not the last girl, I know there will be more.

They say they never know. Some give adamant denials, while others have that stone face resigned stature of the shocked and awed. Others weep, sobbing to the jury of public opinion. They say they never know but they do.

How can you not when you love a monster.

“I hope this is the last,” I say staring at him.

He takes a bite and smiles a sad secret smile.

“Um, damn shame.”

A Special Occasion
By: Thirteen

Writing a review seems like such a personal thing to me because how do you quantify something you like. Preference is so unique to the individual that when I suggest a book to someone I feel as if I’m giving them a little window into who I am. What if they don’t like what they see? Which I really can’t fathom and immediately has me questioning why I associate with that person at all, because frankly how could you not like anything about me. But I digress….

A Special Occasion is an interesting book for me to have read and to review because it is within a genre of erotic fiction that I struggle with enjoying. Frankly I think I’m far to neurotic to enjoy a menage story because I keep thinking, “Someone is going to get left out.” At which point I spiral into thinking about logistics. For example, do they all sleep in the same bed, are they only allowed to have sex as a threesome, and useless bits of nothing that having nothing to do with what I’m reading but my obsessive personally begins to latch on.

A Special Occasion was very unique because I was able to enjoy it for what it was, a fantasy within a fantasy. There was the happy couple that share a sexual experience that instead of driving a wedge through their relationship makes them stronger. Sweet and simple I allowed myself to get lost in this concept of people being so grounded in their love for each other that they could bring in another and it would only make them stronger.

I described this as a fantasy within a fantasy because personally I am far to selfish to even consider sharing what’s mine and knowing Sig Other the conversation couldn’t even be broached without the angry red face making an appearance. BUT wouldn’t it be kind of cool to at least try it once;)*

Check out the excerpt and book at http://www.beautifultroublepublishing.com/.

*Sig Other this was me being cheeky and I have no intention of instigating a threesome…with you.

 Hello My Darlings,

I’ve been in a particularly foul mood today which is surprising because I’ve had a great couple of days. I finished the third Goddess Chosen book which actually has a title, Time for You and Time for Me, and a short little ditty that Ms. Azod so graciously asked me to pen (must always be nice to the despotic ruler). So when BAM out of no where I had visions of throwing the package of batteries I was carrying in my hand at Sig Others head in Best Buy, I knew something was wrong. I was promptly chauffeured home after a minor tantrum and given Girl Scout cookies and juice.

Much better now I still felt like I needed a little purge and flipped through my Book of All Things Depressing and decided to post a sad poem I’d written awhile ago.

After all, sharing is caring.

Janet

This is All That Remains

I’d destroyed all that I had written about us together,
And found this is all that remains.
It is not the best nor the brightest of poetry and prose that I’d created for you.
I must apologize because in fact it is quite plain.

I had written of love so deep that the end was never in sight.
I had written of passion that burned like fire to light up our nights.

But this is all that remains.

The truth.

That deep love was actually shallow, an illusion in a black bottom pool.
That fire, a spark ignited by the kindling of hope.

That you loved me.
That you could love me.

After you left I’d written of pain so raw, I bled from just the thought of it.
Tears that filled cups that runneth over.

But this is all that remains.

The truth.

The pain was a mere cut on flesh grown tough by the lessons of life.
Those tears, they only filled a cup worthy of sipping.

And in the end I destroyed it all.

Because this is all that remains.

The truth.

Me without you.

Ciao Bella’s,

With my allergies so rudely interrupting my Sunday sleep in I thought I’d stalk myself on the Internet until Sig Other drags me away to do chores. I’m always interested in what people have to say about my work and except for my one star experience it’s been pretty positive. Well to my surprise I finally found my critic and was actually excited by what they may have to say. Alas, it was just a “Don’t buy this crap!” sort of review.

I really don’t know what to do with something like that. Don’t buy it because the character’s were unrealistic, or the dialogue sucked, there was too much sex, or not enough sex. If you’re going to critique someones work please give them something to work with. Since the day I got my toy typewriter as a child I’ve been compelled to put my thoughts on paper. I understand that not everyone is going to like what I have to say but could ya please tell me at least why.

As a reader I usually look at the negative reviews first and if the majority of them are “Hated it” than I start to question the validity of the review. Reviews in my opinion are not only there for the other readers to look at to help with informed choice while buying but I really think they help the author connect to their audience and develop their craft.

Anywhoo, my rant is over, mostly because Sig Other is trying to lure me with lunch only to whisk me away to do laundry.

Until my next little tangent.

Janet

Hello My Lovelies,

With my Dirty 30 fast approaching (it’s Sunday actually) I find that I really don’t have the money or motivation to do something big. Sig Other started asking me back in December what I wanted to do and I’d thrown out some ideas that I just didn’t have the energy to execute. I should back up and say that since December I’ve had the flu three times and various allergy flareups along the way. I decided to take an online class that seems to have sucked all of my time and work has been particularly busy with me doing stuff. I say stuff because I couldn’t even tell you all that I’ve done because as soon as I’m finished with one thing it’s time to take care of something else.

What I’ve found interesting is how anxious my friends are becoming each day I don’t have something planned for my birthday. There’s been a lot of blah, blah, blah about how important it is and what a milestone. Don’t I want to do something? Sig Other is a bit disgusted with me because I told him I’d rather buy a Mac Book than have a party. Partner in Crime keeps saying I need to have something where my friends can come and celebrate me. With my general apathetic reaction to all these comments everyone has started to assume that I’ve slipped into a depression at the idea of entering a new decade of life. Frankly it’s so far from the truth that trying to explain it just makes people believe it even more.

With all this hoopla over my birthday I started thinking of those that have passed and realized that I only have one memory of the Best Birthday Ever and that would be my seventh. Interesting because in the birthday milestones seven doesn’t even get an honorable mention. But for me when I think of the birthday I will always carry it’s that one.

When I woke up my parents and sister sang happy birthday to me. My birthday outfit was waiting for me on my bed after I came out of the bathroom. It was pink pants, a white shirt with cap sleeves and little red hearts on it, and pink slippers that looked like ballet shoes. The interesting thing about the outfit was I actually really disliked pink and was more of a purple girl but that day, that outfit was the best outfit ever.

After having breakfast my favorite female cousin came over and helped my parents get our backyard ready for the party and my grandmother petted and cooed over me as I waited for my friends. As my little friends filed in I was presented with yet another gift, my best friend from pre-school was there. She’d moved away before we started kindergarten but had recently moved back and our mother’s had reconnected and there she was for my birthday.

There was playing and gifts and I had friends and family galore. Even as I describe it I can’t pinpoint what made the day so great for me and watching the home videos it looks like any other kids party but it was the Best Birthday Ever!! So aside from nostalgic ramblings I’m curious my dearest readers, what was yours?

Janet

Well I’ve been tap, tap, tapping away at trying to finish the third book in the Goddess Chosen series after the evil, evil cliff hanger I left all of you lovely people with. While simultaneously trying to finish my newest book Fire and Ice (no description at present because I could just change my mind and don’t want to disappoint). Just doing my thing and letting the prose flow until a vicious and vile cold has left me practically incapacitated (yes I’m dramatic but go with me).

The worst part is I’m tired during the day but some how the little parasitic bugger that has chosen to house itself in my body utilizes the night to gather rest and to wreck havoc on my immune system in the day, leaving me without the ability to sleep at night.

What does that have to do with us you ask, well it means sad stories because I don’t seem to have the capacity to be creative for anything else. So with out further ado, here is our favorite couple and their unrequited love.

“Mmm…” She moans as I pull away from her mouth.

“You like that?” I whisper against her lips, gently running my tongue against the dewy bottom.

Giggling she pulls me closer and kisses me with the abandon and passion I love. Working my hands through the thick mass of her glorious curls I cup the nap of her neck as I devour her mouth. This game we play, tongues and lips dueling, soft chuckles between kisses, eyes peeking through lowered lashes, it is ours, unique to us, frozen in the time or bodies connecting with one another could only create. I want to touch her, I need to touch her, but I wait. I know that the longer I prolong the inevitable it will only make it better, make it last longer, because I never know when the touching will be again.

“I guess you do like that,” I whisper, squeezing the nap of her neck gently.

“I think you may have to do it again to be sure,” she teases, soft breath brushing against my lips.

This close I can see the rich embers of her dark soulful eyes. The light freckles across her nose and the tiny crinkles at the corner of her mouth. There is a dimple there also. I lean in and kiss it gently, I love that dimple. The way it peeks out when she is pleased, pleased with me. Stroking my thumb against the base of her head I see that dimple peek out to greet me.

Good, it will be my beacon when this is over. When the dark embers of her eyes no longer shine with love and laughter. When the pain of what we create with our stolen moments and kisses becomes too much. When those cute little freckles I love to place small soft kisses upon no longer stand out against skin flush with pleasure but instead anger. When those lines created from smiling at the absurd oddity of our paring are instead creased from frowning because the absurdity is far to real and serves to create a gulf between us. I will have those dimples to think about, waiting to greet me. Welcoming me back into the bosom of her regard.

As I kiss her holding her ever so close I know that whatever displeasure I may cause I will always have some power to please her.

Janet

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” http://stores.lulu.com/mochamemoirspress . I have a story in Shara Azod’s new Vamp series called “First Impressions” http://www.sharaazod.com/book-series/vamp.html 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).

Enjoy

Janet

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.

I love my HEA as much as the next person but there are times when I just want to be sad. I want to cry over the unrequited love and sigh over the chances missed. I try not to indulge too much but some times I just can’t help it. When those urges get the best of me I write these sad little narratives of lovers that are doomed for heart break.

Since I am incapable of working on the last story in this trilogy I’ve planned I thought I would just post one of my sad little narratives instead.

Janet

“Are you tired?” I whisper against her skin.
She pauses with that secret smile that holds the key to my heart upon her lips.
“No,” she replies, nuzzling deeper into my embrace.
“Are you sure?” I ask but my question requires an answer I know I’m not ready to hear.
“Yes,” she says, cupping my cheek and rubbing her thumb gently against my chin.
I pause with that secret smile that will break her heart upon my lips.
“Good. Come here so I can kiss you again.”
And she does.