Category Archives: Original Fiction

Web Serial: Kneaded (Episode 3)

I close my eyes as I work, letting my fingers “see” where the muscle needs work. Corded muscle rolls from between my fingertips at the joinder of neck and shoulder. I repeat the action until the muscle submits and stays in the pinch grip. Making a fist, I press with firm, deep pressure from shoulder point to the back of the ear.

His head doesn’t move. I apply a bit more pressure at the back of his head. He pushes back against me.

“If possible, relax a bit for me, okay? Your head should be loose on your neck.” I release pressure against the occipital ridge and reverse the pass to the acromion. I learned a long time ago when you say the word “relax”, clients always tense, especially those with physical or psychological trauma, type “A” personalities or, well, just about anybody.

The second pass goes a little smoother and his head rolls a bit to the side. His forehead doesn’t have the deep crease between his eyebrows.

Success.

I gently lift the mass of his shoulder to slide my hands beneath and use his body weight to get a little more pressure in the trapezius. I don’t need much distance. I cup my fingers to get into the muscle. This loosens the muscle before I get into the back. Makes my job so much easier.

Except when he brings his shoulder off the table to “help” me. And then leaves it there. I rest my palm against his shoulder. When he doesn’t drop to the table, I apply a little pressure to coax him down. His shoulder shakes and then lowers. I work from the origin of the trapezius toward the shoulder with a “come hither” hand motion, then up to the neck. The second pass takes me from the origin along the spine.

From the table in the corner, his cell phone blares out an obnoxiously loud ditty one could hear in the parking lot. Through the noise of traffic and the lawn crews with leaf blowers. I startle, then catch my breath. Definitely too loud for a small room with low lights and soft music. I continue once my heart falls from my throat. No matter how many times it happens in a day, I nearly leap out of my skin every time.

The phone stops. I can finally hear the wood flute in the background. Why people don’t silence their cell phones when they come in is beyond me. One would think having a relaxing session, an hour without interruption, would be top of their priority list. Or that they would at least think of the other clients in other rooms since we’re a multi-therapist business. Or the therapist in their room who chokes on their tongue every time it rings.

Another ring. I bite my tongue and resist the urge to turn his phone off for him.

“Sorry,” he finally murmurs. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I don’t bother with a polite smile.

Advertisements

Web Serial: Kneaded (Episode 2)

I scrub from my fingertips up to my elbows. Once my forearms are clean, I lace my fingers together to scrub between and the webbing between my fingers. For the first appointment of the day, I scrub my fingernails with a nail brush to make sure no dirt or funk is hanging out underneath. Once everything is soapy, I rinse from elbows to fingertips. I completely dry my limbs. Stretch the hands, wrists and neck.

Same routine before every massage.

I listen at the door for the rustle of clothes or blankets. Hearing nothing, I knock.

“All set?”

A muffled ‘ready’ comes from inside and I push through the door. Bare toes wiggle at me from the corner of the table. I hide behind the door.

“Mark, are you between the sheets?”

“Oh, am I supposed to?”

I’m a dumbass. I forgot to tell him. I was too focused on his phone. If we don’t tell people how to be on the table, if we miss even one time, they’ll be buck ass naked on top of the blanket when we walk in.

“Yeah, if you could just slide between the sheets there. I’ll wait until you’re settled.”

He shifts in the sheets. His toes disappear under the fleece blanket. I step in and shut the door tight behind me. I grab a bottle of oil from the shelf and tuck it in the holster on my hip. I take a pump of oil and warm it between my hands as I settle onto my stool.

He has the goddamned bolster under his neck. I can’t help myself. I roll my eyes. He wasn’t listening. At least he doesn’t have his phone in his hands.

“Okay, I’m gonna have you lift your head for me so I can get into your shoulders.” With oil on my hands, I grab the leather covered foam bolster and slide it from under his head. I lift the sheet and blanket at the foot of the table and shove the end under. “And now lift your knees for me.”

Now that I have the bolster back where it belongs, I settle back on the stool and work the oil onto his shoulders. I use the bare amount of oil; just enough for my hands to slide but not enough that I can’t get purchase on the muscle. I prefer the oil to be almost absorbed into the skin once I have the warmup done so I can get a good deep strip through the muscle tissue. When you first pick it up, the tissue is like unworked clay. In order to get the tissue pliable, you knead. Start with a little lighter pressure and work your way in. Let the tissue melt, then increase your pressure once it softens. Work the tissue until it becomes like warm clay. Begin at the humeral head just behind the tuberosity, between the clavicle and the acromion process and strip the trapezius from origin to insertion.

This is my Zen.


Kneaded is a serial story about a massage therapist. Each post will be around 500 words and will be posted on Mondays via my blog. You can find the table of contents here.  [Continue to Episode 3]

Web Serial: Kneaded (Episode 2)

I scrub from my fingertips up to my elbows. Once my forearms are clean, I lace my fingers together to scrub between and the webbing between my fingers. For the first appointment of the day, I scrub my fingernails with a nail brush to make sure no dirt or funk is hanging out underneath. Once everything is soapy, I rinse from elbows to fingertips. I completely dry my limbs. Stretch the hands, wrists and neck.

Same routine before every massage.

I listen at the door for the rustle of clothes or blankets. Hearing nothing, I knock.

“All set?”

A muffled ‘ready’ comes from inside and I push through the door. Bare toes wiggle at me from the corner of the table. I hide behind the door.

“Mark, are you between the sheets?”

“Oh, am I supposed to?”

I’m a dumbass. I forgot to tell him. I was too focused on his phone. If we don’t tell people how to be on the table, if we miss even one time, they’ll be buck ass naked on top of the blanket when we walk in.

“Yeah, if you could just slide between the sheets there. I’ll wait until you’re settled.”

He shifts in the sheets. His toes disappear under the fleece blanket. I step in and shut the door tight behind me. I grab a bottle of oil from the shelf and tuck it in the holster on my hip. I take a pump of oil and warm it between my hands as I settle onto my stool.

He has the goddamned bolster under his neck. I can’t help myself. I roll my eyes. He wasn’t listening. At least he doesn’t have his phone in his hands.

“Okay, I’m gonna have you lift your head for me so I can get into your shoulders.” With oil on my hands, I grab the leather covered foam bolster and slide it from under his head. I lift the sheet and blanket at the foot of the table and shove the end under. “And now lift your knees for me.”

Now that I have the bolster back where it belongs, I settle back on the stool and work the oil onto his shoulders. I use the bare amount of oil; just enough for my hands to slide but not enough that I can’t get purchase on the muscle. I prefer the oil to be almost absorbed into the skin once I have the warmup done so I can get a good deep strip through the muscle tissue. When you first pick it up, the tissue is like unworked clay. In order to get the tissue pliable, you knead. Start with a little lighter pressure and work your way in. Let the tissue melt, then increase your pressure once it softens. Work the tissue until it becomes like warm clay. Begin at the humeral head just behind the tuberosity, between the clavicle and the acromion process and strip the trapezius from origin to insertion.*

This is my Zen.

 

*Repeat that in layman speak: start from the point of the shoulder, work between the collarbone and the shoulder blade and use slow, deep pressure from where it starts to where it attaches at the back of the head.

Web Serial: Kneaded (Episode 1)

“Mark?”

He glances up from his cell phone to acknowledge me, but he continues to be enveloped by the plush sofa cushion and punch buttons on his iPhone. I wait for a few seconds as he furiously types his text or email or whatever the hell he’s doing. The clock reads straight up ten thirty. His ass should be naked on my table by now. Every second wasted I can’t get back.

“Mark? Are you ready to come on back?” I repeat in case he only looked up because I was standing in front of him and hadn’t heard me call his name. I’m soft spoken. Sometimes people don’t hear me.

He holds up a finger at me like I’m an undisciplined dog pawing at his crisp ironed suit. As much as I try to be understanding and compassionate with my work, but sometimes clients make me grit my teeth until they squeak. I love my job, I really do, but occasionally I wish I could grab a client by the shirt and shake them.

Mark finally puts his cell in his jacket pocket and rises from the sofa. I notice he doesn’t turn his phone off. I hope he’s already silenced the device as he follows me.

We pass through the maroon halls, my bare feet padding the soft, short nap gold carpets. Mark’s slick soled shoes tread behind me. I stop before the door to my office and gesture him inside. The electronic screen once again illuminates his face as he steps into the low lit room.

“I’m Eva. I’ll be your therapist today. What can I work on for ya?” The door goes partially closed behind me so everyone in the clinic can’t understand what’s being said. Client confidentiality.

He looks up from his phone and regards me for a moment. His gaze travels from head to feet and back again. I’m used to this, not because he’s checking me out, but he’s sizing me up. I’ve found a lot of clients will base their pressure requests on my body type.

“I’m always sore in my back and shoulders.”

“More upper back or lower?”

“Both.”

“Okay. Do you want me to do a full body or just upper body?”

“Upper. You won’t have time to get through everything.”

I note he doesn’t check the clock. He’s still staring into the glow of his cell phone.

“Upper body, focus on neck, shoulders and back. Usually with low back pain, the gluts can be involved. Do you want me to work on that, too?”

“If you have time.”

“Okay. So I’m going to start you face up. You’ll be between the sheets with your head at the top of the table and this guy under your knees, staring up at the ceiling.” I always pat the tall lump toward the foot for emphasis. I can’t count how many times I’ve walked in and people have been upside down thinking the bolster is for their heads.

“Okay, thank you.”

He still isn’t looking up at me when I shut the door firmly behind me and give a second tug to make sure it’s closed. Once the rustle of clothes comes through the oak, I turn for the sink to wash up.


Kneaded is a serial story about a massage therapist. Each post will be around 500 words and will be posted on Mondays via my blog. You can find the table of contents here.  [Continue to Episode 2]

Web Serial: Introduction

I want to be regular about blogging. Unfortunately, I’m terrible at it. Without a schedule or some idea what to post, I flounder until I am broadsided by something terrible I have to comment on or I post book reviews and stuff about other authors.

This doesn’t tell anyone anything about me or my writing, however, and I need to be more diligent. Yes, I will still post reviews and author spotlights, but I won’t be doing quite as much. If you are interested in the author interviews and book blurbs, you can check out my website Yeah Books! where there will be a lot more of that information available.

I plan to write an off the cuff web serial about a massage therapist (since that’s what I do in my day job). I’ll post unedited versions just as it comes to me. I might do something about repetitious words or something or I might do some fill in work later.

Each section will be around 500 words and I’d like to post every Monday. I’ll have links to all the serials from my Free Stuff page.

Comments? Suggestions? Lemme have ’em!

Flames: M/M Flash Fiction Blog Hop

1-1-medium_722932525

 Ferdinand brushed a hand over his sweat soaked skin to loosen clinging strands of hair from his face. Heat spread over his hips and thighs and settled at the base of his spine as he urged his lover to bury himself deeper inside. He moaned in pleasure as Hunter’s muscle flexed, body ground against body, and sweat glistened across his tattooed flesh. They moved in tandem against one another, connecting again and again in blazing passion. Pleasure surged through his body, swelled and crested. Ferdinand clung desperately to his lover and trembled as he came.

Hunter collapsed atop him in the center of the bed as they both struggled for breath, limbs tangled in an intricate knot. Their lips met and parted, issuing proclamations of love and sweet nothings between heated kisses. Sex with Hunter was more deeply satisfying than any meal Ferdinand ever killed. Tonight would be no more lonely hands roving his flesh and bringing himself to orgasm. When they came together, the promise always kept: they spent three days in bed, fucking and cuddling and feeding each other whatever takeout delivered. There was nothing quite like being remembered and falling into his lover’s arms.

Hunter ran his hands over Ferdinand’s face and neck, seeming starved for the sight and feel of him.

“Did you miss me?” Ferdinand asked his usual question as he plucked at the corner of the sheet. His feigned disinterest never fooled Hunter. Hunter’s laugh was deep as he responded as he always did.

“Like breath.”

“Not just the sex?” Ferdinand pulled his lover’s full weight atop him. His lover worried of crushing him, but no human weight had ever been too much for him. Hunter bit Ferdinand’s shoulder playfully. Sweet Hunter. Quiet and introspective and deeply thoughtful, all conveyed through his voice. Hunter reminded him of someone Ferdinand’s age in a young, mortal form.

“No, not just the sex.” His tone was gentle, amused and slightly irritated as he shoved his arm under Ferdinand’s shoulders and the pillow beneath his head. He shifted to rest on his hip and moved so Ferdinand had to meet his gaze. “I mean that.”

“I know you do.” He wrinkled his nose. “I enjoy hearing it.”

“Is that why you always ask me the same question?”

“Of course.” Ferdinand twisted the long strands of Hunter’s wavy brown hair into half braids. “Would you expect anything less? Or different?”

“I might worry about you if you didn’t.” Hunter rubbed his cheek against Ferdinand’s before rolling toward the table beside their bed. “Are you going to open your present? You didn’t seem interested when I first came home, but I think you’ll appreciate your gift now.”

Ferdinand sat up against the headboard and took the brightly papered package. The gift had probably been wrapped before Hunter left the store. Ferdinand slipped the ribbon off and dropped the curled strands to the bed between them. He gingerly loosened the tape on one end. He wanted to save the wrapping. He had dozens of boxes lining the shelves that he’d re-wrapped. The little things kept him human. He never lost the appreciation of thoughtful details, even in as long as he’d been alive.

Without tearing much of the paper, he retrieved the small white box from inside the wrapping and lifted the lid. Inside the box nested a rather large golden heart. Hunter pressed a button near the chain and the face opened. Inside was a small snapshot Hunter carried of the two of them, nose-to-nose and forehead-to-forehead, smiling. A faint song played. Ferdinand lifted the trinket to his ear.

“Is that…” He listened again. Ferdinand snaked his arms around Hunter’s neck and hugged him tight. The locket swung from his hand.

“It’s our song,” Hunter whispered, his lips brushing Ferdinand’s ear. He bowed his head, hair covering his face, but Ferdinand saw him smiling. “Do you like it? I thought you might think it was silly.”

“Sentimental,” Ferdinand corrected. “I’m rather fond of sentimental. You really must have missed me.”

He wasn’t sure Hunter fathomed how old he was, happy as lovers and friends. He didn’t need blood often. When he did, his meal always came from safe sources. Although Ferdinand thought Hunter suspected, he would not raise the question. The little vampire was quite content holding Hunter while he had him and watching while he slept.

He held the locket out by the chain and lifted his hair so Hunter could fasten it around his neck. His fingertips were warm where he brushed the back of Ferdinand’s neck. The cool chain settled on his neck and the weight of the charm carried the small anatomical model to the center of his chest.

His task complete, Hunter shifted and curled down into the bed. He pulled Ferdinand with him, spooning around his back. With a yawn, he tucked his chin over Ferdinand’s shoulder.

“A ring seemed overdone, and so did a proposal,” Hunter murmured sleepily.

To read more hot M/M flash fiction, visit the blog hop page.

Snippet from the yet untitled WIP

I’ve been working on a Steampunk submission call from Jupiter Gardens Press. Right now it’s a REALLY rough first draft and unrevised and unedited, but this scene made me giggle. I thought I’d share.

 

You don’t have to meticulously clean everything you touch. Will you just put the damned wrench on the damned nut and tighten it down?” Cecil rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead to knock away the perspiration rolling down his face.

I refuse. I was taught if it can be cleaned, it should be cleaned.” Ethan rubbed the crescent of the wrench with a heavily soiled cloth to remove the remnants of the sealant that leaked from between the pipe fitting and the bolt.

Cecil’s teeth squeaked and he squeezed his eyes tight shut. Behind him a thick line of sealant oozed down the piping. Ethan leaned over the railing and gathered the drops before they could drip onto the machinery below.

Will you be more careful? If you get sealant into the engine, it breaks down sooner.”

Those two drops of sealant isn’t going to get into that engine from all the way up here.”

Are you blind?” Ethan gripped Cecil by the back of the head and forced his head down over the edge of the railing. “What is that big silver and steel thing down there, hm? Is that, or is that not, the engine?”

Yes, but–”

Are these pipes over the engine?”

Well, yes, but–”

Then anything dripping off these pipes can, in fact, get into the engine. Please, for the love of all things holy, will you clean up after yourself?”

Two drops of that sealant is not going to cause the engine to malfunction.”

If it’s only two drops, no. But how many times will only two drops get into that engine? I have counted SIX in the time you have been repairing pipes. And, I might add, your idea to fix them while the ship was in motion is asinine .”

 

Whiskers

From the time I was small, I had cats. When I was little, my mom kept a pair of black cats. They followed her wherever she went. Their yellow-green eyes glowed in the dim light of her study. They slept in the shadows of her bedroom and would take turns curled up at the foot of my bed when I was small.

When I would sit at the dining room table after school to practice my letters and numbers, they would tickle their whiskers across the bottoms of my feet. As I got older, their whiskers traced lines higher and higher on my shins.

Once I hit high school, too much homework and too great a social life left me with little time. They rubbed the length of their body across the pointed folds of my blue jeans and curled around my calves, dancing between the rungs of the chair in typical feline grace until I bent down to scritch their heads. When the requisite petting had been met, they would either curl up before the drawer of my desk or in the footwell over my toes.Their scrubbing around my legs went with barely a notice as I worked with facts and figures or scribbled an essay before running off with friends.

Once I got to college, the accustomed feline rub wasn’t anything I missed or even noticed until I felt the familiar shift of my pants leg in my dorm room one afternoon as I typed a paper. The sensation passed over me three times before it registered what I felt. Someone must have smuggled a cat as a pet despite the ‘no pets’ rule.

When I looked down, however, there were no cats. Nothing could have simulated the press of the body or the faint purring I heard. My door was tightly closed. I went back to my word processor with a shrug. I must have missed home a little more than I thought. I became ensconced with my writing once again only to feel the scrape of whiskers against the bottoms of my feet that were planted flat against the floor.

Snippet

“Winter, since when did you have wings?” Baby’s blue eyes opened and he looked up at her with a strange light dancing in their depths. “How long have you had wings?”

She had to have misheard him. “Wings?” She didn’t have wings. She would know.

“Wings. Big white ones. I sense them. Maki has them, too. Big black ones. Black like raven feathers. But yours are white. Like unicorn hide.”

Winter scowled at him. “I sparkle?”

“Like a Cullen.”

A snippet

Image courtesy of [thaikrit] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Image courtesy of [thaikrit] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

Earlier today I was thinking that nobody would really care if I were gone. They would eventually get over it because their lives would go on. I would be forgotten over time and just allowed to drift out of memory. Everyone would forgive and forget and I wouldn’t have to deal with anything anymore. I wouldn’t have to be a disappointment or a shitty parent or shitty girlfriend or whatever else it is I am to everyone. I could just go and do whatever it is we do after death.

But something happened. People started talking to me on twitter. Having conversations with me. They recognized, out of hundreds of thousands of people, that I was there and speaking. And they spoke back.

That was when I got up and made tea and thought of you and sat down to talk to you. Because I think you would miss me a little bit, too.

%d bloggers like this: