Give thanks.

She stood behind the fire's light as it itself into the unknowing void of ashes. Her face lit dimly. The glow of embers casting weird shadows up to her forehead. It didn't not suit her. But then there was nothing I could think of that didn't suit her.


Yeah, I guess you'd be right in assuming I was in love. It 'twas weird stuff, to be such. I still can't say it with ease. But there it is.

And then she turned away. The glow turning her white slip colors; a rosy twilight. Twilight suited her. Wither it be, morning or evening.

She turned to look behind her. She turned to look beside her. She turned and found my eyes and gripped them with hers. And she smiled, the mischief rising from her heart to breasts to shoulders to neck to chin to lips to tongue to nose to cheeks to eyelids to eyes to forehead and fell down her back as she released her hair to the wild.

Now with her hands she reached her shoulders, a bit of goose flesh following in her finger's wake. She plucked the thin straps of her white silk slip gently between her thumbs and fingers. She guided them with slow diligence, like an admiral positioning her ships, she laid them to rest on her upper arms. Her nipples began to appear under the silken fabric, springing from silk as tulips do when the earth livens from frost.

Her majesty, darling of my heart, leaned over, carefully avoiding flinging her long hair into the fire pit. The tops of her breasts being lit gently by the remaining glow. Her pulled her arms free of the straps and crossed her arms quickly over the slowly descending garment, halting its progress. My id booed. My ego cheered. My erection grew.

She stood up straight, and shook her hips. She slowly approached, alternately popping each hip with a step.

A few steps more, and all that covered her smallish breasts, were her slight arms. The garment now only being held up by her hips. A shimmy or two and nothing would keep it from the ground. With each frolicking step, she caused my cock a smallish seizure. I reached forward hoping she would had finally stepped inside the boundary. She was close. By straining against the ropes holding me fast, I somehow manage, with my big toe, to pull her petticoat over the ledge of her hips.

She quickly stepped back, removing her right arm from her left breast, she scolds me by shaking her finger and giving me a stern look. Her expression could not keep up with her left nipple. As her breast jiggled with the shaking of her finger, her nipple was the conductor of my orchestra, keeping time with my cock's pulsations, my balls vibrating, my heart pounding.

She laughs and her arms fall down to her side, now tugging at the waist of her white lace topped, silk panties. I watch as a spry little love hair rises over the waistband, and then I am hit with the smell of her sex.

I try to stand, my eyes widen, my cock surges, the hunger hits me. I want her, NOW! But the ropes hold me fast and prevent me from standing.

She has seen my erection grow and laughs at my struggles. She pulls down her waistband a teeny bit more. A flock of black hairs comes tumbling out and gets pressed against her pubis as she lets go the waistband, and another wave of her scent.

She laughs again as I go through the same motions again.

Post-Feminist Masculinity

FUCK!

Here it comes.

There you go.

Another project left undone.

Another job gone.

I blame society.

I blame you.

You're a fucking bitch.

I'm fucking perfect.

I lie.

You burden me with truth.

Some sorta post-post-modern-ancient-future tale of changing and things.

I lie awake at night and think about the spore that created me.

How did it come to pass this transformation into otherness?

Why am I under this Voodoo?

Who will know the things I have seen, feel, smell, when all is done?

What is the nature of consciousness; will mine become lost?

When it is done, will the pain end?

---

One day I awoke a bit stuffy and pale. It was approximately noon, a bit early for me to rise. Jumping out of bed, I noticed the tile floor under my feet was a bit squishier than usual. Having gone drinking the night before, I at first chalked it up to yet another hangover. I climbed the stairs to the bathroom across from the basement door. Every step was curiously, softer.

I relieved myself, and started the descent towards the solace of my bed. Then something clicked in my brain. I rushed back to the bathroom mirror I had passed. I looked. I stared. I tried to slap myself in the face. It didn't have the same impact as usual. I went back to gazing.

I was a mushroom.

Well, an anthropomorphic mushroom. I still had features of a human: legs, eyes, arm, mouth, all in the right places. Everything seemed intact. Yet, I now had gills growing in my neck and was puffy.

My thoughts instantly raced back to the night before. Did someone slip Acid in a drink? Am I still drunk? What the fuck?

I decided to return to sleep, as this had to be a hallucination.

I returned to the basement in which I dwell, to the room below the parental units.

I fall asleep.

---

I have slept so much recently.

Nobody will wake me. The parents are gone on vacation. No one's home, except me. If someone does come by, I ignore them.

Eventually, everyone goes away.

My roots are growing deep into the mattress, on which I lay.

The puddle of piss and shit grows. It hurts too much now to uproot myself. Fortunately, I no longer eat or drink, get hungry or thirsty. But the smell is terrible. That's the worst part.

My sight is almost gone and hearing is dampened. Though I still feel, it has changed. Unfortunately, scent will not abandon me. I smell perfectly the sewer which, what I hope, is my deathbed.

Let me slip away.

dream of: dreaming the dreamer

So... there I stood at the precipice of dawn, wondering where the sleep had gone.

No dreams in the night will wake me from slumber during the day, of course. Already I am the bleeding heart of my nightmares, a succulent cross between an orange and doom.

When it comes, it comes down like a freight train on an all-night haul, and diffracts into many dimensions, not just light.

Then, when it 'tis over, a shivering mass of flesh rejects itself and finds the stargate home.

hunter

fantastic and rough i follow the road ever running down the stream of breath and life and the scent of blood, I am tracking now, I seek the flesh of those wild, my instinct leads me off the beaten game trail, into the scraggy, dense, undergrowth.

close, wounded, and frightened my prey is near, slowing now as blood loss brings them surely toward the end, I want the meat fresh though, I want the last beat of the heart in my teeth, capturing their strength and soul.

I hear a shuffling in the branches, I wait gently sniffing the air for the strong metallic scent of blood on the breeze, as I slowly turn my head back towards my origin, that heady smell comes my way, and then a low rustle,

instantly my muscle contract and release and I am airborne sharp teeth ready for the kill and revel in the moment.

outsider

And here I am, blind in the soul of magic; struggling desperately for some kind of hold on the mystic arts they claimed everyone could use. Everyone but me.

My sister at the age of two could cast fire from her fingers. I would die to produce one spark.

Mother prattles over me, saying it will be okay, some just blossom later than others. I am not some stupid flower.

Father is ashamed even to look at me. I tend to avoid him now.

In school girls giggle as I pass, the boys torture me with the same three pranks; they can't even think of something original, and I'm the one who can't cast.

I have one friend, my pet frog, Charlie.

When I fall to sleep weeping, as I do often, I curse the name of the Magus.

time outta mind

He darted between walls, keeping his cover. It was night now, much easier to maneuver and remain undetected by anyone. To him this should have been his Birthday. Being dislocated in time made it unclear. This distant future, was a bit of a sticky place to have a birthday party. Having no friends here made it even harder. He would be hunted here by many, if discovered.

Keeping his mind in the moment he came to a sticky crossing. A wide avenue separated him from his destination. Carefully he lurked in the nearest shadow studying the layout and patterns of what appeared to be motorized vehicles. A sudden bizarre fantasy occurred to him; what the DMV was like here.

Quickly he shook off his daydreaming. It was nigh the time for woolgathering.
Resuming his survey, he noticed a lengthening in the shadows from the far corner wall of the alley, where he lurked. He carefully backpedaled himself into the full cover of alley.

A strange creature slowly crossed the alley's gap. It strolled on two legs, slightly swinging its arms in opposition as it continued forward in its gait. Yet, the strangest thing was that the only fur visible was a tiny patch atop this creature's head. And then the creature passed out of his sight.

He crouched low, careful to keep his weight balanced among his legs and carefully crept forward back into view of the street. As he approached the street he noticed that all traffic had disappeared. The only thing he was able to see was the lone figure continuing away from him.

Now. He stood up straight locking his top knees, and sprinted across the open avenue, into another alley and onward to the safety of the abandoned building where he kept his nest.

One more week, one more hunt, he would be heading home.