Dream Roomspiration: Stoves & Ovens

There's nothing quite like finishing off the interior of your dream kitchen with the perfect stove & oven. It just makes you eager to come home get your hands dirty cooking dinner!

Dream Roomspiration: Stoves & Ovens 

Would you be eager to reach inside ones of these ovens?

Barbie would!

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

H a i r

Better the devil you know... Well once you get used to someone you realize they're no devil at all. You might find they're a pretty swell guy.

Anyhow, here's a new 300 and possibly the beginning of a new series inspired partly by one of my favorite devilishly handsome, talented & taken photogs... But only time will tell if it becomes more. I won't be using all his images this round. I'm inspired to shoot my own. Thank you! 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Tuesday 

 

He says the way it falls just below the small of my back reminds him of the first time we met. But I say nothing. Keep brushing and listening to the sound of his words. Reminiscing because it’s Tuesday instead of Wednesday and he thinks I forgot what day it is. I could never forget. But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t need to know that while I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat about to purr for another taste of sound from his tongue. 

 

Sounds they spill out quietly as he takes the brush from my hand. Gently he brushes the length of my hair and tells me the rest of the reason why he’s taken a trip down memory lane. Between strokes he mentions the color and curls that caught the light from the lamp before telling me how much he loves me. I know he loves me and it’s more than apparent without him telling me. Each gently stroke of the brush sends a small warmth down my back. 

 

The warmth of his hands brushing against my neck reminds me of how much I’m going to miss him. I’m already missing that face, those hands, his mouth and the sound of his breath. Soft sighs escape between whimpers and I know that he’s already thinking that I’ll be gone too long. I know I shouldn’t stop him but I can’t help but reach for his face. All I want to do is get lost in his eyes the same way we got lost the first time we met in that dark colored room between the most beautiful lights. I want to lose him in a kiss that lasts for all eternity in a memory that we can travel to through words when I return to him without delay. 

 

Backflash

Backflash... Lately, I've been thinking about all the shows I've gotten to see over the years. Mostly because I'm trying to go see a photography show in the next week. If you know me pretty well then you know I've loved art, design, & music for a long time; Graffiti, Photography, Paintings, Sculpture, Tattoo and more. I used to hit up a lot of shows in my downtime which is hard now that I write, photograph and work a day job. With the poaching of my photo clientele/friends I haven't shot much but after wrapping up of a new book of stories and a new series of dresses sketched/painted/sculpted I now have time to adventure again. Yes I'm publishing another short ebook soon! I will tell you more in a later post! 

Here's a couple of shows I was able to see a few years back...

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Where oh where? 

5-3-2011

Where oh where could I find myself this week?

Sunday mornings are typically for brunches and discussion. After the morning chitter-chatter of Saturday Night’s events you’ll find yourself running into a person or two from the previous engagement between heading to meet up with the remaining usual characters for some mandatory window shopping before you finally end up visiting the family. However, this Sunday I found myself trekking down the state toward the lovely Los Angeles skyline to see… what else? Art. 

Two galleries in a matter of hours…

Art in the Streets. 

Graffiti in the Streets Gallery. LA. 2011.

Where can you find Keith Haring, Retna, Lee Quinones, Spike Jonze, Banksy, Shepard Fairey, in one place? At the MOCA. Primarily at The Geffen Contemporary at MOCA. Los Angeles’s version of the Modern Art museum is currently housing an exhibition that pays tribute for the rise of graffiti as an art form. This exhibition began its run April 17th and will continue until August 8th. I was informed that this is the first major historical exhibit encompassing street art and graffiti to be held in an American Museum. The focus here is on the origins of the style and how it has changed, evolved and merged with other cultures across the world over the course of time.

The exhibit is astounding and quite breathtaking to any admirer of the art in the street. Not only does the art demonstrate its significance in trends it shows how it has united itself in music, film, television, dance and culture. The overall exhibit remains a bit traditional in the sense of a museum. There are two floors that allow you to take in both the sheer scope of work on a ground level and an above deck level. Beneath the roof there are mock-ups from artists across the globe that chronicles the early beginnings of street art to the where it is now. Amid the visual encompassment of the street art you find yourself among film screenings, lectures, artist discussions related to the main event. 

Upon entrance you find yourself looking directly at two vehicles covered from hood to trunk in painted paraphernalia. They lay straight in the middle of the exhibit. Along corridors you have paintings, sketches, and murals telling the story of their world. There is more to the look by the art of the street and there is so much more to be told from it. The significant story that can be seen by these varying styles is UNITY. Rarely do we see a united cause across any culture except in art. 

Among the maze of rooms and hallways you find yourself immersed in sound as well as visual cues. Along a hallway a bank of mirrors are lined up with sprayed on messages. Upstairs photographic essays tell the tales of the earlier days of streets art. As art goers make their way through the maze of street arts best and brightest they are welcomed to a visual buffet. Some portions are complete homage to the street scene including alley ways, shop windows with complete interiors and replicas of vandals in action standing upon cars and ducking beneath trees. You can turn a corner to find yourself in a dark alley tagged complete with false front buildings, sleeping homeless man and flickering lights. Several artists came together to create scenes that are spread throughout the gallery. 

Banksy. LA. 2011.

One might ask of the draw or appeal to visit such an exhibition. For me it was simple, I’ve been a strong admirer of street art and graffiti for nearly a decade. Upon hearing that Banksy was a part of this exhibition it became clear that I must attend. Personally I’ve never come face to face with his work and had always wanted to. After missing a gallery in the UK two years ago I’d always pressed that I might someday make the endeavor to see his work in some capacity. The MOCA showing gave me the opportunity to do so. 

For others it almost seems educational if not mandatory that they visit a museum. Our perception of art is based in the knowledge that we have already created everything by traditional means and that is that. This idea seems restrictive. To embrace the beginnings of something new and undisciplined to our mind is to encourage our creative capacity to grow. It might seem biased to say that people neglect to realize how influenced our culture is by something such as graffiti. But they do. It is through our understanding of new art forms that will allow us to grow culturally as a combined people. 

If it’s not your cup of tea to look at the influence of street art on our culture, I encourage you to at least step into a museum to understand the origins of art. Art affects politics, music, dance, television, film and life in more ways than seem relevant to mention. Art is a reflection of the times we live in. 

Life is Not a Fairytale. 

Where can you enjoy a glass of Unicorn tears, play ping pong ala Man Who Fell to Earth with a spaceman, and get a glitter kiss blown to you from a girl trapped across the void of the photographic frame? At the gallery of celebrity photographer Tyler Shields.

Quite frankly, life isn’t a fairytale. And this is the last place you should expect to find one. But don't be surprised if you find so much more than that. 

Life is Not a Fairytale. Tyler Shields. LA. 2011.

The man behind the camera has garnered a reputation for the eccentric with his avant-garde work that borrows influence substantially from pop culture. Much like Willy Wonka opening the gates to his factory, Shields opened the doors on his work and made it public for one day, May 8th minus the need for golden tickets. And much to my own admission I was intrigued and equally excited when the announcement for a public gallery came up as I’ve been an admirer of Shields work for a few years now.

Like many photographers and artists, [among my favorites Avedon, Warhol, LaChapelle] the need to see the work up close is very necessary. You can visit the artist’s website at anytime, www.tylershields.com but to be honest that never comes close to what it’s like to look at the photography in person. However on this particular instance it happened to be more than simply photography on display. Videos, artwork, a bit of performance art, and a blood creation comprised the gallery. 

Entrance is greeted by a spaceman dancing through street along with his own space theme. Once inside you’re looking to the left at a cow in a stall mooing with words EAT ME painted on. Standing next door in another stall is a pile of bright yellow barrels painted with toxic waste symbols. Look head on and lift your eyes to find yourself staring at a giant teddy bear hanging and holding a whip while three lovely masked nudes look down from the wall. The sheer scope and size of the photograph murals are jaw dropping in person. Among the smaller pieces there are a dozen or more large mural sized pieces that fully grab your attention. And of course free with entry limited edition poster prints are handed out like a door prize that you might receive at the Fillmore West after a concert. An idea that is indeed very rockstar as opposed to photographer which speaks for itself.

The Blood Painting. Tyler Shields. LA. 2011.

Move a little more into the scene and you’re greeted by the Pièce de résistance: The Blood Painting. I’ve mentally realized that its a tribute to the artist' friends while watching the “making of” video. It’s truly a love letter to those who donated as it could not be created without their gift of blood. The donators look a bit squeamish as they are drained for art in the video but the piece is given life through their small sacrifice. Although I’m uncertain of the artist’s plans for the piece, it would be nice to see its proceeds go towards a charitable cause.

Should you find yourself thirsty while visiting the factory there are water dispensers complete with bottles of refreshments. One contains Unicorn tears and the other Vampire tears. Have a drink? Pick your poison. Although I doubt either is poison.

As you find yourself winding around the mayhem of imagery there is a ping pong table along with spaceman playing, a room of videos streaming and music that seems as though it never stops. The artist’s taste in music is demonstrated in his video portraits, which on display they run silently with the eeriness of an old film against a metallic wall. The videos are predominantly unreleased material weaved with the usual suspects. Anyone thinking they’ve seen it all. Think again. When you almost want it to end the reel keeps going. I spent in excess of 25 minutes waiting for it to restart. It did not. 

Shields photography is a cohesive collection that is uniformly spread in large across two rooms at the gallery. There are mostly individual pieces on display. The “never before seen” imagery rests alongside the general standards that Shields belts out on his website regularly. However there are a few collections that fit together nicely. Aside from the B/W masked nudes one includes a bizarre Batman, Superman, Catwoman threesome that looks like fun for some on a Saturday night. Another includes a vampire Lindsay Lohan complete with victim and fellow vampire Michael Trevino hanging on the wall above a red lined wooden coffin. Among the pieces that stand out for myself… Zachary Quinto being dragged through the dirt, Lyndsy Fonseca dancing amid a wind farm, the trio of B/W masked ladies (large), Stop Wasting Time (large) and of course Life is Not a Fairytale (large)…  just to name a few.

Overall Shields has created a world that steps beyond the ordinary in his first public gallery. None of which could be possible without the hard work the artist dedicates and the commitment of the people in his photos. A few pieces ask you to entertain the notion that the images can reach out and pull you in. And for the moment you do. You let them tell you their story while you stand in awe. One of my favorite quotes of Shields, “your imagination can only run wild if you let it” and in this instance I think that’s exactly what the artist has done to the best end result.

As an artist slash photographer Shields has definitely made his own mark in the visual world and will now continue to push the envelope with work in television and film. It will be impressive to see what comes next from Tyler Shields. 

My advice? Next time you find the factory open without a golden ticket, go and see for yourself. It won’t be a waste of time. And as long as you aren’t expecting to find a fairytale there you won’t be disappointed.

Needless to say LA was lovely and Sunday was a fun-fun day, in a manner of speaking. My eyebrows are raised thinking… Where oh where will I be next?

kisses.

 m.

Sculpture

“Dancing is creating a sculpture that is visible only for a moment.”

-Erol Ozan

Don't Fall

Real friends catch you when you need them to... Some friends aren't real because they promise to catch you but then let you fall. And other real friends know when to let you go cause you're ready to soar and catch yourself. There's nothing wrong with being able catch yourself without anyone.

Hopefully you at least have one real friend who would catch you and let you go when you're ready. And hopefully you don't have a fake friend to hold you back or put you in a position to rely on real friends to catch you before you fall. 

Here's another from SMOKE!

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Fall

Fall. 

They all fall down. 

Over and over again. 

The silly dames keep it up. 

Toss. Release. Catch.

I take a long drag off my death stick

While watching the acrobats drop and catch. 

It's a pack of Marilyn Monroe or Jane Mansfield impersonators.

These gals look more like quarterbacks in a skirt than Norma Jean 

“Sometimes they fall,” he says.

“Twice.” I tell him and offer him a smoke.

“Never touched the stuff” he waves me away. 

“Well I hear you got a favor to ask me...” I hint at my need for the job.

“Babe Bixby,” he starts, “she's been working afternoons as a spotter.  Now she's MIA.” 

Two men toss Jane and Marilyn again and the doll lets her hit the ground. 

Wide open arms look convincing on your real friend until they don't catch you.

“So what's my angle?” I puff a big cloud of smoke at him.

“Harlan, she's got a sister that's living in suburbia. Talk to her. Name's Angela Reynolds.”

“I got a sister up there. She wouldn't rat me out for nothing. What makes you so sure?” 

“I'm not. Just hoping you can get the bird to sing. Find out where Babe is.”

“What's the trouble, Mac?”

Dropped like a brick.

Marilyn just hit the pavement hard. 

This makes Jane a pretty lousy friend.

“Babe is a ringer for her sister. They're twins. Identical.”

“Mac,” I say slowly and I'm interrupted. 

I'm looking at Marilyn get off the ground & start fighting with Jane. While the two young men tossing them try to break things up I finish my question, “Mac, got a pretty picture?”

When he hands it over, I realize I'm looking for a dame that matches the two fighting across the way. 

One gal breaks away from the other only to...

Fall.

Favorite

This doll simply sees that perhaps some people over think things but... it's up to them what to do. She keeps her favorite dolls and Kens around for adventures without a second thought or care what others think! 

Anyhoo, here's an 8 words... About a guy who is thinking over things, imagining in that he can change things. Maybe with his favorite girl? Who knows??? Well it's been revised a bit. It was originally written a little darker. Idk. Most things I've written have a 2nd version that is lighter. And quite a few are written as from the perspective of a man... Writer drag! Ha!

Are you loyal to the favorite people in your life and have the best adventures with them? 

This doll hopes so!

Enjoy! 

Kisses, m.

Little Heart

At the bottom of the cliff she dwells.

She would not leave there without a kiss.

She puts the weights into my little heart. 

She’s all right but can't come out tonight.

I'll be still to hear your call either-way.  

I will surprise you some way. 

I'll come around.

I might make me handsome. 

Give you me. 

Pull you in close. 

Wrap you up tight. 

Tell you that you’re mine to break the ice.

It's different now that I'm older and aging.

I got plenty currency and I’m heaven sent.

I come in singing. 

You call me a liar. 

I'd only ever lie to make you smile.

I lack the things to which you relate.

But you're so cute when you're frustrated, dear.

All that you’ve known be as it may.

It's time we give something new a try.

Don't waste time when there's words to tell.

I see that you've become irresistible to me.

We’re spending time and money.

You're lovelier, more timeless than money.

It's too late to be this locked inside myself.

I'll take time with myself in preparation tonight. 

You have two chances where you can

Make me lose my balance, make me spin.

Oh, oh and move heaven behind those eyes.

Look in my eyes. 

So sweet. 

So surprised.

All your mysteries are moving in the sun.

I need sunlight to keep me above you.

You can see the gazing eye won’t lie.

Teach me. 

Meet my desires with some grace.

Tell them your pleasure’s set upon slow release.

Your heart makes me sing. 

Makes me smile.

Eyes are spies. 

Intimate slow hands. 

Killers for hire. 

I’ve got this soul. 

It’s all fired up.

I could walk through. 

Shake up your style.

Inside like a wrecking ball,

Through your eyes.

Follow the speed in this star swept night.

Please explore my heart's endurance and stay today.

Be Fabulous Always!

Are you a drag or in drag??? Dont ever be a drag... Especially if you decide that you look your best in drag! Be fabulous always! It's far more appealing... Love yourself more! 

Kisses, m.

Noxeema Jackson: When a straight man puts on a dress and gets his sexual kicks, he is a transvestite. When a man is a woman trapped in a man's body and has a little operation he is a Transsexual. 

Miss Chi-Chi Rodriguez: I know that. 

Noxeema Jackson: When a gay man has way too much fashion sense for one gender he is a drag queen. 

Vida Boheme: Thank you. 

-To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

After Dinner

Are you spent after dinner? If you're wondering the pieces from SMOKE are set in a different time period because so is the book... Can you guess which era? 

Here's another from SMOKE! Can you figure out how many characters there are? I've given you most of them! Everything I've been giving you is extra content... The book is already written.

Enjoy!

Kisses, m. 

After Dinner

After dinner.

I'm spent.

Wanting a cigarette.

They've all packed up.

I'm wasted away on the bed.

Thinking of sneaking a smoke.

It's been at least nine years since I smoked one.

Gaps of time and cocktails.

Babies and an affair with the neighbor's husband.

All evening it transpired.

The looks of love across the room.

A man that appears to be the same one I married. 

I love him.

Two beautiful children.

I'm so ashamed but I love him.

I don't know if it's love or boredom.

The thing that makes me want another.

My brain circles in wonder as Rich sends the neighbors away.

I think of his spare smokes in the back of the nightstand.

Cheap. quick. resolution.

A long cool drag.

He's still downstairs.

Lost on the past.

It's intersecting my future.

We're going to Paris.

Always what I want.

It's grown old.

Boring.

Like him always agreeing.

I think him screwing his secretary might be exciting.

I love him but it's routine.

I'd like him to come upstairs

And catch me.

Smoking.

Yell.

Get excited.

Turn him on with a switch.

Set his passion on fire.

Forget the kids

Grab me.

Kiss me.

Tell me how much I remind him of the bad girl who made him quit smoking.

Let my mind wander. 

Take in the smell of his shirts.

I want to tell him how the other touches me.

I want him to touch me that way.

Lonely housewife and she's hungry for her husband.

But here, he won't.

Won't climb those stairs passionately.

Won't hold me.

Won't touch me.

He'll kiss my forehead. 

Tell me how great I was.

Such a wonderful wife.

Disregard the smoke and new garters.

He's Spent. 

House a mess.

Tell me to take myself a rest.

After Dinner. 

Inspiration is forever!

Inspiration is forever! Love yourself more! Real writers and artists don't truly get blocked... They will admit this. You are your own obstacle! And well if you are truly creative then you don't wait for inspiration. Creatives live and experience life and it always inspires them. If you've run out of ideas maybe you shouldn't be writing anymore!

Here's one about getting a block as a writer or rather meeting the end of your writing career! Ha!

Just a thought!

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

They're all dead...
(1-3-2010)

“They’re all dead… Every last one of them.” A faceless intruder reaches through the phone with these words. The line falls silent immediately after the cryptic message has been delivered.

It’s 1:15 A.M. I’ve been up and unable to sleep. Hours spent stalking the house looking for anything to do. Anything to fill the last moments before I fall asleep. Most nights after experiencing much anxiety I find myself settling down in the study. Amidst the four oversized bookcases filled with volumes after volumes I find myself sitting quietly in the dark and listening for the sounds that aren’t there. The room is nothing more than a blanket of shadows illuminated by the light of the full moon that breaks through the blinds. The mahogany desk rests beneath the darkest shadow almost invisible to the eye. There’s a slight chill in the air reminding me that I’m dressed far too lightly. My silk nightgown and robe are no match for the icy temperature. Despite the gooseflesh that dances up and down my arms, I continue to sip my Chianti and hope for a rest. When the line jumped with this familiar voice, I was completely surprised. They’re all dead.What did it mean? Worry fills my mind.

I’m restless. Unable to finish my work tonight. Stuck. Blocked. Wide-awake. Damn. Nothing can calm my nerves. This edge will not pass. Every ounce of strength in my being is nearly gone. Each physical movement hangs on a tremor. Muscle spasm. Try to put out my cigarette but it’s very clear that I can’t shake this anxiety so I light another. My head swims with uneasy rationalizations. Could it be them coming for me? The ones I’d killed. Perhaps they are to blame, for this plague is in my mind. STOP! They are gone. All of them. You killed them. Put an end to this once and for all. Gone. With the simple yank of a plug. Zip. The screen snapped blank. Nothing. White reduced to a small dot in the middle of a black expanse. No more voices. No desires. Conquests. Dead.

With a quick flick of the wrist I shake clear the ash now resting at the tip of my cigarette. It’s nearly burned down to the paper. My thoughts are so consuming, I hadn’t noticed it was simply burning. Before taking another drag, I shift my weight in the oversized leather wingback chair. Slowly I lift my eyes to resume their stare at the oversized desk as it becomes something foreign in the darkness. Smoke gradually circles around me and climbs toward the light in the room before dissipating.

“My dear woman, you know that isn’t good for your health.” An earnest voice speaks from the darkness breaking the silence in the room.

Sensing that I’m no longer alone in the room, I pull the robe tightly around my waist. Clear as day I know that voice. Like an old friend haunting my ears the sound deliberately calms and frightens with its unknown intention. “Percy?” From the tone and diction of his controlled speech, it could be no other than Percy Sandoval. But it isn’t possible. He isn’t even…

“Yes. Oh I can assure you, I am very real indeed.” And just like that there he was sitting at the partially hidden mahogany beast. Same as I’d remembered. Tall, thin, devastatingly handsome, and charming as ever. Clothing meticulously set in place. Hair pushed back neatly. Those green eyes were the only thing that I could lock onto in the black.

“How?”

“Let’s not get into that just yet.”

“Why? What? You’re dead!”

“Ah, we’re back to that again. I’m very much here. The reason? We will get to that momentarily. I can see how you would assume the worst. Since the last time you laid eyes on me I was in fact toppling off of the Empire State Building.”

“Look, Percy. I’m sorry about all that, but there was no other way. How could it continue? You were, ahem, ARE the villain. Good vs. Evil. Right vs. Wrong. The villain gets it in the end.”

“Silly, isn’t it? See we all thought you’d see it that way. After all you tried to kill us, each and every one. Well, that’s why they chose me to speak?”

“Who?” I question and continue to entertain the notion that I’m not talking to myself. Gracefully, the most charming character I’d ever met, actually created, gets up from the desk. Walking over to the small bar in the corner he sets out to make a drink. I’m either completely sound asleep or finally lost my mind. The silence is overwhelming.

“Do You?” he picks up a bottle of 40 year old scotch and shakes it in my direction. I don’t drink the scotch. It was a gift to Jack and since he left, there it sat in the corner of the room. I look over at the remains of my Chianti and shake my head.

“No.”

“No Thank you. Manners are never an inconvenience.” He steps around the desk and looks about the room. “My word, this is quite a collection. You have a beautiful library. There must be over 10, 000 tomes here. Am I correct?”

“Yes. You would be correct.” Swallowing hard I brace myself for his answer. I know its coming, yet he’s continued to sidestep the issue.

“A.L. Knight. Why there is quite a bit of those? An entire shelf to be exact. Nearly two dozen. But you already know that? Right, A.L.?”

Nodding my head. I’ve carefully pulled my legs up into the chair. The beat of my heart has begun to intensify and I can hear it pounding fiercely. The thoughts of the unknown spin frantically through my head while I watch him. He’s methodically examining the room as he edges nearer to me. Slowly walking. He gently spins the globe with his free hand as he continues across the center of the room. Stopping. “May I?” He motions at the chair across from mine.

“Yes. Of course, make yourself at home.” Although he already had.

“Now I have questions for you. Wait. Before you interrupt, I will answer yours. You must, however, humor me further."

Decidedly this is madness. But I continue to humor this dark thing sprung loose from my imagination. Seated across from me sipping his scotch, he pauses before starting in, “Pardon my arrogance, but how much do you know about me? For that matter how much do you know about yourself?”

Puzzled and completely caught off guard I remain still until it’s clear that he’s waiting for an answer. “Forgive me. I’m not sure what you possibly mean by these questions. Can you be a little clearer?" The words seem childish and mediocre as they cross my threshold of speech.

“My dear woman, I can not be clearer with my intent. Don’t you understand? Please try to remember. Let me see… Here. How long have you lived at this residence? Or for that matter can you recall your tenth birthday?”

Foolishly I began to give in. I can certainly remember when I moved into this house. It was after I’d sold the first book. As I strain to recall the details of my childhood I realize that this is no ordinary figment. My mind is blank. I have no childhood. “Percy, where are they?”

“Do you understand? That they aren’t real. Think about this. A. L. Please realize you have a lot to answer for.” He sternly scolds me while continuing to swallow more of his scotch. “This is a superb bottle. I must say you’ve really outdone yourself on this place.”

Something is wrong. The colorful pictures that were once vivid in my memory are no longer there. Only the words. Black upon white. Pages upon pages filled. The last ten years merely composed of text and imagery. Words. All that makes up the world I stand in. My marriage. The children. Only words. “Percy what do you mean? What is going on? Who sent you? Explain.”

“Not until you understand. Once you do, the heinous crimes you’ve committed will become clear. Try thinking about your first book.” He laughs and toasts me with his scotch.

At this moment I probably look like a small child about to burst into a thousand tears. Slowly I feel as though I’m mentally shattering into pieces. The first book. Percy came to life. It was so incredibly liberating. So many characters. Liberty Sandoval. Caldwell Adams. But that isn’t it. Reminiscing about the first one feels like going home all over again. That small house on Sendana Ln. The horrifying origins of a killer. Crawling backwards in my mind. Looking for it. Her. Anna Leiss. Oh, dear, it was her. No dream. Only a long forgotten memory coming to life. I gasp out loud with the sheer horror and wait for him.

“Proceed my dear…”

“I understand. I just forgot. You must be furious. The others. I can’t even…”

“Now we’re up to speed. Since you understand. You know who sent me. They’re not all dead. Not even close to it.”

“I’ll go back now. I’ve overstayed my turn. Unless? Percy. You aren’t here to?”

“Overstayed would imply a couple of days overdue. Anna you have broken our laws. There are consequences. Why they sent me should be perfectly clear.” He reaches into his pocket and flashes a small paperback in front of me. “Last copy.” He gently thumbs through it until he reaches it. Page 203. “Refusing to return wasn’t enough of an insult. Then begin the killing your own kind. One by one, book after book, eliminating each of us. Anna. What did you think would happen after that final destructive blow? Did you honestly think we could be eliminated so easily?”

“Percy please, I’ll go back and explain.” My words have no more meaning than that of a child throwing a temper tantrum. He reaches into the book and tears out the page. 203. The one I know so well. The place I was born. My home. The first time I took a breath. Out of the book it comes.

“Anna it wasn’t your turn to stay this long. I can not bring you back. There is no return. You've been written out. You can thank yourself for that A.L. Knight. So consumed by the destruction of others, that you are no longer a part of our world. Except on page 203. Your predecessor’s swan song. As you said before there is no other way.” He strikes a match on the book’s edge. Carefully lights one corner of the page followed by another and another, before dropping it to the ground.

“No. Percy. Wait!” I can feel the heat of it beneath my feet. The imaginary fire crawls along my legs and reaches up my torso. Burning. Terrifying. This is why they sent him. Sadistic. Cruel. “Please, PERCY!”

“Anna, such a shame. You were always one of my favorite characters. Such a lovely well developed protagonist,” he goes on with the false complements as he tosses the entire book onto the flame. “No harm. I wasn’t in that one,” he says with a slight elevated laugh. “And don’t worry I won’t let the entire library burn to the ground. I wouldn’t mind keeping this collection for myself.”

“P-e-e-r-r-c-y,” I beg as the phantom flame swims around my face I can only make out the fine lines of text that comprise his figure. “D-O-O-O-N’T!”

“Anna, I really do like you. Fighter to the end.” Reaching over he dumps a vase of flowers, spilling water upon the burning mess. For the moment I can breathe again. My flesh feels the colors of pain and the words are no clearer than before. “HAHA.” His twisted laugh booms throughout the room. “I’ll think about writing you back in without all the burn marks. Until then, you’re dead, every last one of you.”

Perfection

Perfection. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder... If something is perfect then you should never change a thing about it. You shouldn't have to alter anything for its true beauty to show through... Love yourself! Here's another blur from SMOKE!

Enjoy! 

Kisses, m.

Perfection

Perfection.

A single cigarette.

Waiting. 

Wondering.

Watching.

It's my idea of perfect. 

Waiting to give him pleasure.

After a long day he's wasted more time.

Time & minutes I can count as the cigarette ashes fall to the ground.

Silently I listen to the sound of smoke.

Filling the air.

Touching my bare skin.

Goose flesh.

Hard nipples. 

Nothing like being bare waiting for his touch.

Bad wig.

No need.

I'm taking it off. 

Taking it all off for his pleasure. 

The cool air dances across my skin.

I watch the infrared glow of the lights in the darkroom.

I've left the door ajar.

Carried away thinking of him.

Film can wait for developing.

The flavor in my mouth can't wait.

Tasting him with his favorite smoke in my mouth.

Thinking of his hands running across my ass makes me wonder how long I've been waiting.

When I think I've been waiting far too long. 

I know it's not long enough. 

The clock is still ticking up to six.

Tick. Tock.

Hips rock.

Legs shake.

Can't wait.

So I sit.

The seat of his chair is cool.

Soft to the touch of my legs.

Anticipation.

Take a drag.

And rest.

Just my smoke.

Circling.

Leaning back I think of his smile.

That dirty grin that lets me know he's in.

He's in. 

Deep in my mind.

Just watching for me to react.

I can't help but react.

Wanting the one thing that makes my heart jump. 

Him.

His fingers touching my bare skin. 

Sliding them gently up my legs until they reach my ass and spine. 

Once he circles my breasts I remind him with my mouth that the pleasure is all mine. 

All mine to please him. 

Pleasing him with my hands across his waist. 

My lips trailing across his neckline. 

Removing his clothes to nurture his tired body

Letting my hands wander downward along his chest until they find home.

My free hand is already occupied thinking and wanting his body.

Outside movements stir and shake my mind back to now.

My body knows. 

The sound of the key in the door

Sends shivers up my spine.

A quiver in my lip.

I hold back from running over to greet him.

Wait for that grin.

The sheer pleasure of watching him walk into the room and look at me with his hair slightly covering his face...

Perfection.