tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91563344645858948572024-02-20T16:45:41.718-05:00Oh Get A Grip!Ten erotic authors tell it like it is...Ashe Barkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390519279886657608noreply@blogger.comBlogger3217125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-40791551411566319632020-01-01T08:18:00.002-05:002020-01-01T08:18:33.221-05:00Happy New Year, and Farewell <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJ7rixpzZ4iB3KzXCkczFtpgNb8R2P4V30c1Y6K9hSRpbAFNAE1LgrR0VRmvHzMW_cCy9hrfGUq0ZVy_hxo0yjtNS3I1yXxzyHdbNen8eJINYu3BfcZXqLkofxquF6tnW_H2okBIcclvZ/s1600/farewell-3258939_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="time to say goodbye image" border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJ7rixpzZ4iB3KzXCkczFtpgNb8R2P4V30c1Y6K9hSRpbAFNAE1LgrR0VRmvHzMW_cCy9hrfGUq0ZVy_hxo0yjtNS3I1yXxzyHdbNen8eJINYu3BfcZXqLkofxquF6tnW_H2okBIcclvZ/s1600/farewell-3258939_640.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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<b>Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/geralt-9301/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=3258939">Gerd Altmann</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=3258939">Pixabay</a></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear
Friends and Followers -</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If
you’ve been reading our December posts, then you probably already
know that the Oh Get a Grip blog is closing. It’s been fun –
challenging – scary, sometimes – but we, the contributors, have
collectively decided to call it a day. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
a decade actually. I’ve been running the Grip for ten years! It’s
hard to let it go. On the other hand, it’s probably time for
something new.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Commenting
is now turned off, but you can still browse past posts, for the next
few months. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
hope that you will continue to follow all the great authors who’ve
helped make the Grip great. You’ll find their bios, links and
latest release information over at my personal blog, Beyond Romance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2020/01/goodbye-to-grip-transitions-blogging.html">https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2020/01/goodbye-to-grip-transitions-blogging.html</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy
New Year!</span></span></div>
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Lisabet Saraihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05162514190572269660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-67513671680456880782019-12-27T21:10:00.000-05:002019-12-27T21:10:26.518-05:00Farewell to Old Frontiers, with a Side-Eye to New Ones Sacchi Green<br />
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This is my last post for Oh Get a Grip, and several other aspects of my life are changing, so I guess I can claim to be facing New Frontiers, which is our theme this week. It feels more like leaving behind Old Frontiers, although calling a frontier old is a contradiction in terms.<br />
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(You can skip my musings on Frontiers if you'd rather scroll down to the story I'm sharing. It's an old one of mine, but new here, and, for a change, it's bisexual erotica instead of strictly lesbian.)<br />
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It’s true that I’ve been in a fairly pleasant rut for quite a few years now, writing short stories and editing anthologies, both of which appear to be in decline in the world of publishing. My main publisher for years no longer has much interest in anthologies, for good reason.<br />
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It’s also true that I haven’t kept up with advances in technology. I don’t even have a smart phone, just a flip cell phone for emergencies. I only managed to work out the bare essentials of having a Blogger site, and never did figure out why the bio I posted on mine appeared in a vertical rather than horizontal axis, but I managed to do a moderate amount of posting there over the years. Now I’ve suddenly been reminded, just today, that I have a longstanding Wordpress account, one set up for me by someone else, and I’m struggling to figure out how to do things there. I did manage finally to find out how to post something, but how to change the pagetop image (or add any photos) is still eluding me. I’ll probably figure things out there in time.<br />
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So I’m definitely faced with New Frontiers, or at least new ones to me; as I said, I’ve been terrible about keeping up with technology. I’ll have to go the smart phone way very soon, because it’s getting so that there are too many things one can’t do at all (call for an Uber ride, for instance, or post on certain photo sites,) without one.<br />
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There are other frontiers, new or otherwise, that call to me. I used to be voracious reader, but now I have a very long to-be-read list of ebooks on my computer, and an even longer list of books that I see reviewed and think I’d like to read, but don’t (except on the rare occasion that I see one on the new books lists from the library, especially if they’re audio books on CDs that I can listen to while driving.) I should take a vacation from writing, and do some serious reading.<br />
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What I really should do, in these chaotic times, is get more involved in activism. We’ll see. I’m not up to, say, on-your-feet-all-day Washington or NYC marches, but we have some local ones, pretty much preaching to the choir.<br />
<br />
Well. So much for New Frontiers. Here's my bisexual story, which would be a New Frontier if I hadn't written it at least ten years ago.<br />
<br />
Seafood Cocktail<br />
Sacchi Green<br />
<br />
He emerged from the sea like the incarnation of some primal god, wet, powerful, gleaming like dark, polished rosewood. When he spoke his voice was deep as thunder, smooth as rain.<br />
"Hey, Lexie, where do you think they've hidden the cameras?"<br />
I rolled out from under the boat's inverted hull. "Come on, Max, you think they could fake a storm like that? Even if the technology existed, they wouldn't pay for it. The beauty of reality shows is the low overhead."<br />
"You're probably right," he admitted, turning away to block a full frontal view, oddly shy for someone who'd signed away all rights to privacy for a chance at fame and fortune.<br />
I still got the benefit of his muscular butt. Droplets of seawater trickled over its curves, forming jaunty question marks. Several intriguing answers occurred to me.<br />
"You'd think they'd still cover all the bases," he said over his shoulder. "Including any island we might get ourselves shipwrecked on. Otherwise, why let us have a boat, even a chicken-shit one like that?"<br />
He might have a point there. Besides the one he was keeping out of view. "I just hope they know this sand spit exists," I said, peeling off my sodden T-shirt and shorts and spreading them next to his on the hull to dry. "You can search for cameras all you like--I'll even help after I wash this sand off. But our first priority should be figuring out how to survive until they come to get us."<br />
I walked into the whispering wavelets of the lagoon, feeling his eyes on me, and feeling my body move in ways subtly different from the strides I would have taken under the gaze of another woman. A tingle spread across my ass and around to my belly and upward to my breasts; it had been a long time since a masculine presence had had that effect.<br />
I swam out until the water was smooth enough for me to float on my back. Images of last night's chaotic storm coiled into and out of each other, like oil on the surface of a whirlpool. The one clear memory was a sexual current intensified by fear. Max and I had huddled through the night under our meager shelter, bodies pressed so tightly together that our clothes, saturated with rain and sweat and sea water, were no barrier to the pounding of each other's heart. But Max, in spite of the arousal his wet jeans did little to conceal, had done nothing to take it any farther.<br />
I had a pretty good idea why. He had witnessed my girlfriend Tonya's explicitly steamy farewell at the plane and drawn the obvious conclusion. But Tonya had known perfectly well that potential sex was written between the lines of the show's contract, and she'd still pressured me to sign it. I'd only agreed to do the "Marooned" show for my indie-producer girlfriend's sake. If I could get a bit of notoriety, she figured, she'd have a better chance of getting backers for our films.<br />
But last night, while the pounding rain made our shelter into an impenetrable cave, Max's arms around me and mine around him had seemed absolutely right. The lightning flashes outside had built an electric tension deep inside me until I'd been at the point of jumping him myself--when he'd started snoring.<br />
Men! But he'd saved my life more than once in the last few hours, maybe even a time or two more than I'd saved his. Instead of interrupting his exhausted sleep, I'd amused myself with working my hand gently, gently between jeans and skin and teasing his heavy balls and straining cock just lightly enough to make him writhe and groan in his dreams, until, ultimately, his pants were soaked with something thicker and sweeter than sea water. And all without waking up.<br />
I drifted onward in the lagoon, savoring a gentler tension. Unless Max had more reason for resistance than figuring me for a hard-core dyke, being marooned was going to get very interesting, very soon. I swung upright, my toes just touching the sandy bottom, looked around, and saw I'd drifted close to a tiny islet near the entrance to the lagoon.<br />
A maze of underwater rocks suggested mysterious lurking creatures, maybe octopi. I could see, too close to pass up, clusters of what I was pretty sure were oysters. I wished I had pockets; my built-in ones winced at the thought of rough oyster shells. I dived and grasped a large one in each hand.<br />
Back on the beach I loped up the slope to where Max knelt. He was piling palm fronds under a lean-to built with the boat and some pieces of driftwood.<br />
"Hey, Max," I called as I ran; he turned and got the maximum effect of my jiggling breasts. It wasn't wasted on him.<br />
"What's up?" he said, and turned quickly back. I resisted commenting on the obvious.<br />
"I found an oyster bed out there. Might be a little hard to get them down raw without lemon or Tabasco, but better than starving. And better than the rats they're eating back at the main base." I tossed my prizes on the sand.<br />
"I guess," he said, clearly not really focused on eating of that kind.<br />
I pressed my thigh against his shoulder. "I don't suppose we'll be here long enough to starve, anyway. But there are things I'd really, really like to fit in while we're still here. Alone."<br />
He'd pulled his pants back on, but not his shirt. I leaned on his broad back and nuzzled his neck. He knelt, unmoving, supporting my weight, until I began chewing lightly on his muscular shoulders. "Did you know that oysters can switch their sex?" I murmured against his rigid jaw.<br />
"Lexie," he said, his deep voice getting even deeper, "What do you think you're doing?"<br />
"If you can't tell, I must not be doing it right." I brushed my hardening nipples across his back.<br />
"But I thought..."<br />
"I know what you thought. And I know what you're thinking now. Drives you crazy, doesn't it, envisioning what women do with each other." I reached around his chest to flick his nipples; they sprang to attention. An interesting effect on hard muscle instead of soft curves.<br />
"If it didn't before, it does now," he muttered. I worked one hand down inside his jeans, over the bunched muscles of his buttocks and then in between; suddenly he twisted under me and ended up on his back with me astride. "Damn it, Lexie, you'd better be going somewhere with this!"<br />
There's something about a deep, deep masculine voice. A woman's voice can stroke like a warm, wet tongue, but Max's voice set up reverberations that seemed to liquefy my bones.<br />
"Trust me," I said. "I never met an erogenous zone I couldn't appreciate." I rode the huge bulge in his pants, appreciating the hell out of it. "Check me out, if you need proof." I lifted myself just enough for his hand to test my natural lube. His digital enthusiasm was touching, if a bit clumsy, but I pursued other interests, sliding backward until I had his zipper far enough open to insert two fingers. Then slowly, slowly, the gap widened until my whole hand curved around his hot, hard cock, still trapped by the pressure of his belt.<br />
His hips rose, his hands scrabbled at the belt buckle, and I caught the tip of his cock in my mouth as it jerked free.<br />
I savored it with just enough in-out action to keep him breathing hard without rushing things. Then I hitched my body along his until my knees clutched his hips. My own hips moved as my cunt lips slid back and forth over his swollen, eager cock. Too bad, I thought, that our sense of taste is limited to the mouths we eat with. And a taste was all I was going to get.<br />
"Max, you wouldn't happen to know what the Swiss Family Robinson used for condoms, would you?"<br />
"No, damnit. They must have cut that part from the movie to get a 'G' rating."<br />
"Don't worry." I played him with my hand, stroking from the root of his balls all the way up his shaft. "Just lie back and let me run this fuck."<br />
"You're the boss," he said, his voice rising into a gasp. I had pressed my knuckle firmly below his scrotum and was working my thumb back toward his asshole.<br />
"I'll bet you'd like something really kinky," I teased, "to tell your grandchildren."<br />
"I'll bet you have inside information," he said, not too steadily, "about what Robinson Crusoe used for sex toys!"<br />
"Is that a challenge?" I watched a gleaming pearl of pre-cum form at the slit in his cock. "If so, I accept."<br />
I yanked the belt from his shorts; he lifted his head in alarm. His expression went from apprehension to horrified awe as I leaned over to grab an oyster.<br />
The belt buckle was just the tool for prying open the tough shell. "No pearl in this one," I said, bringing the opened bivalve close to his erection. "Maybe you could share." I tapped his cock; it jerked. I just managed to catch his dewdrop on the oyster, while some of the liquid cupped in the shell dripped onto his balls. I bent to lick it off, then touched my tongue to the glistening shellfish.<br />
"Hmm, needs more sauce." I slid the oyster into my mouth and held it there, excitement balancing revulsion, while I worked Max hard, inexorably, with both hands. At the penultimate moment, when his deep moans rose in pitch and nearly flowed together, I worked my full mouth down over his cock. I barely managed to keep the slippery oyster from being rammed down my throat until Max's storm of cries rattled my bones and the hot flood of his coming burst over my tongue.<br />
Swallowing had never been quite like that before.<br />
Finally Max regained enough breath to speak. "Lexie," he said, "it's your turn." He was trying not to look at the remaining oyster. It was a very large, very juicy oyster. I plucked it from its shell. Liquid dripped between my fingers into my lap and seeped downward to mingle with my own juices.<br />
I leaned back and spread my legs. The oyster was cold against my tender heat, but I kept pushing. Between its slippery coating and my own wetness it slid in easily. My cunt tried to grip the slick, yielding pressure, and the teasing subtlety of the stimulation began to drive me crazy. "No, it's your turn," I said, gasping, "so eat!"<br />
"Well, considering the gourmet dipping sauce...." And he ate, his willingness to learn exceeded only by the length of his truly phenomenal tongue. It was a long time before I realized that the throbbing sounds filling the air weren't all coming from me.<br />
"A search helicopter," Max said, and wiped his mouth.<br />
"Damn!" I groped for the belt buckle and rolled over until I could reach inside the prow of the boat. I started gouging the splintered wood around what seemed to be a bolt; then Max's large, dark hand took the buckle and finished the job.<br />
"How long have you known it was there?" he asked, when the tiny camera lay at last cupped in my hand.<br />
"I noticed it when I woke up," I said. "Want me to send you a copy on disc?"<br />
"You'd better," he said. "Not that I'm likely to forget any of it."<br />
"Not as long as there are oyster bars in the world," I agreed.<br />
"I don't think I'll be eating any more oysters," Max shouted over the increasing noise, "unless that special sauce comes with them."<br />
"Sauce for the goose as well as the gander," I called, but my voice was swallowed by the roar of the rotors. The chopper was so close now we could feel the wind. I scrabbled for my clothes.<br />
<br />
From high above, the little crescent of sand and rock seemed to smile in the liquid embrace of the ocean. I shifted in my seat in the helicopter, new waves of tingling overlapping the residual glow between my legs.<br />
The camera was in my pocket. I knew where I could hide the chip later, if I had to, to get it home; I might even manage the whole miniature camera, if only briefly. I grinned to myself. Max probably thought I was thinking of him, but I was really filled with images of how Tonya would get the most out of a cuntcam.<br />
It was a damned shame, though, that she was allergic to seafood.<br />
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Sacchi Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10801164916418570059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-82763751231006255422019-12-24T00:01:00.000-05:002019-12-24T00:01:10.379-05:00A Bittersweet Farewell
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">By Tim Smith</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Since this is my last post for Oh Get a Grip, I wanted
to leave you with some seasonal fan fiction featuring one of my series
characters, former cop-turned-private-eye Vic Fallon. This is a romantic trifle
to get you in the holiday mood, and to say Thank You for allowing me to be a
part of this great group of writers. I’ll miss you all!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“One Lonely Christmas Eve”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Late December on northeast Ohio’s Lake Erie coast was
consistent from year to year. The winter chills rolled in a couple of weeks
before Thanksgiving and hung around until the first of March. Along with the bitter
lake effect air came snow, usually measured in feet instead of inches. Great
for snowball fights, terrible for driving.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic Fallon had lived his entire life in the lakefront
town of Sandusky, and knew how to cope with slippery streets. More importantly,
he had learned how to avoid those who suddenly forgot how to drive when the
snow fell. He recalled a trip he had taken to Dayton one winter. An inch of
snow came down, and people acted like it was a blizzard.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He sat at the counter in Dianna’s Deli on Christmas
Eve. The place was decked out in decorations that evoked a sentimental feeling.
An old foil-lettered banner that spelled out Happy Holidays was strung over the
doorway, wreaths adorned the walls, and a three-foot-high artificial Christmas
tree with cheap decorations and tinsel sat on a table just inside the door. Holiday
music played in the background, the soothing tones of Como and Crosby adding a
touch of nostalgic comfort. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic sipped his coffee then glanced at the clock
mounted on the wall behind the cash register in the nearly empty restaurant. <i>6:45,
and it’s pitch-black outside. Not that much traffic, either, especially in here.
Guess most people have had their pre-holiday dinner and gone to church, or
decided to pack it in for the evening to wait for Santa by the fireplace. I
should do the same, but I don’t really want to go home to an empty apartment. </i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Denise Del Florio approached inside the counter, with a
glass coffee pot in hand. “Refill, Vic?” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic’s gaze traveled from her head to her feet then back
up again, taking in her trim form encased in snug black slacks and a white
shirt with a name tag. Her light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and a
few wisps carelessly hung over her face. Her hazel eyes seemed to take on an
extra bit of sparkle when she looked at him. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Thanks, but I’ve had enough for one night.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She exhaled a deep breath. “Good decision. We’re
getting ready to close, and this stuff would take the paint off your car.” She
stretched. “I’m definitely ready to get off my feet after today.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I’m surprised you aren’t busier.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Denise poured herself some coffee then took a sip.
“You should’ve been here earlier. It was non-stop from lunchtime on. People stopped
in for their holiday pie orders, and decided to eat while they were here.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Sounds hectic.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She shrugged. “I didn’t really mind. It kept me busy,
and I made a fortune in tips.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic laughed. “I figured that’s why you volunteered to
work the holiday shift.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Denise gave a shy smile and cast her gaze downward
briefly. “I keep forgetting what a good detective you are.” <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He finished his coffee. “It wasn’t hard to figure out,
Denise. I suspected you didn’t mind working tonight for the same reason I’m not
going home yet.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She looked into his eyes for a moment. “I’m not ready
to face an empty house, especially this holiday.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“The first one alone is always the hardest.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She was silent for a few moments. “How long did it
take for you to…” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Still working on it,” he finished. “I’ve been divorced
for eight years, and there are some holidays I don’t look forward to. But I
know it’s different in your case.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She drank some coffee. “Yeah, you could say that.
Divorce is one thing to adjust to, but losing your life partner in the line of
duty is something else.” She paused. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Where else would I be?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I heard you’ve been seeing someone. Thought you’d be
with them.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“So happens the young lady is spending the holidays in
Louisville with her family. Why do you think I only came here to check up on
you?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Because I know you, Vic. You and Tony were close friends
before you had to leave the police department. Even after you went private, you
kept in touch, and you were there for me when he got killed earlier this year.”
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He cast his gaze down. “Guilty as charged. Maybe I was
worried about you.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Denise placed her hand on his and squeezed. “I
appreciate that, more than you know. You gave me a shoulder to lean on when I
needed it, and you’ve been there ever since. That means a lot.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic felt embarrassed. “Come on, Denise. I was just
doing the right thing. Tony and I were patrol partners before I became a
detective, and we were fishing and drinking buddies.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“You might not know this, but he really valued your
friendship, and so do I. We both enjoyed all the cookouts and fishing trips we did
together.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic suddenly felt nostalgic. “I enjoyed those times,
too. I always thought of Tony as one of my best friends.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“He was.” She flashed a playful smile. “Hey, I’ve got
an idea. I’m alone, you’re alone, and neither of us is in a hurry to get home
tonight. Think we can find someplace where two good friends can have a drink?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic brought her hand to his lips then kissed it. “I
think there must be someplace out there that caters to people with nowhere to
go on a lonely night like this.” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Sounds like a plan.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic stood, put on his coat and scarf, then went to the
register to pay his bill. Denise rang it up then hesitated for a moment,
looking upward. Vic followed her gaze to the sprig of mistletoe hanging above
them. Denise took hold of his scarf with both hands, pulled him close then
planted her lips on his, giving him a lingering kiss that took him by surprise.
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Wait for me?” she asked.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He palmed her cheek and peered into her soft eyes. “Don’t
be too long.” <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-74088481201159285882019-12-23T07:30:00.000-05:002019-12-23T07:30:02.044-05:00Doing the Gingerbread Man<div style="border: none; caret-color: rgb(95, 95, 95); color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
As my last post for Oh Get a Grip and as sort of a good-bye/holiday pressie, I had intended to bake gingerbread men for you lovely lot — you know something nice to share over our Christmas morning coffee. I’d never done it before, but I thought it would be fun. How hard could it be, right? As with the best made plans, the undertaking turned out to be a bit more of a challenge than I had expected. I found a recipe, made a grocery list and discovered that not a single grocery store in all Guildford had any ground ginger. Not one to be deterred, I decided to be a little more creative and make my gingerbread man fictional. I didn’t need ground ginger for that, and you can still have your Christmas morning coffee and enjoy my gingerbread man. The story is short, very sweet, and complete. Oh yes, and it’s plenty naughty.</div>
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<cufon alt="Doing " class="cufon cufon-canvas" style="display: inline-block !important; font-size: 1px !important; height: 20px; line-height: 1px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; vertical-align: middle !important; width: 66px;"><canvas height="26" style="height: 26px; left: -2px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; top: -4px; width: 83px;" width="83"></canvas><cufontext style="display: inline-block !important; height: 0px !important; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden !important; padding: 0px; text-indent: -10000in !important; width: 0px !important;"></cufontext></cufon><cufon alt="the " class="cufon cufon-canvas" style="display: inline-block !important; font-size: 1px !important; height: 20px; line-height: 1px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; vertical-align: middle !important; width: 39px;"><canvas height="26" style="height: 26px; left: -2px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; top: -4px; width: 56px;" width="56"></canvas><cufontext style="display: inline-block !important; height: 0px !important; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden !important; padding: 0px; text-indent: -10000in !important; width: 0px !important;"></cufontext></cufon><cufon alt="Gingerbread " class="cufon cufon-canvas" style="display: inline-block !important; font-size: 1px !important; height: 20px; line-height: 1px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; vertical-align: middle !important; width: 130px;"><canvas height="26" style="height: 26px; left: -2px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; top: -4px; width: 147px;" width="147"></canvas><cufontext style="display: inline-block !important; height: 0px !important; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden !important; padding: 0px; text-indent: -10000in !important; width: 0px !important;"></cufontext></cufon><cufon alt="Man" class="cufon cufon-canvas" style="display: inline-block !important; font-size: 1px !important; height: 20px; line-height: 1px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; vertical-align: middle !important; width: 42px;"><canvas height="26" style="height: 26px; left: -2px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; top: -4px; width: 53px;" width="53"></canvas><cufontext style="display: inline-block !important; height: 0px !important; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden !important; padding: 0px; text-indent: -10000in !important; width: 0px !important;"></cufontext></cufon></h2>
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It might have been too much mulled wine, or perhaps a sugar high from eating damn near as much of my holiday baking as I … well as I baked. It might have been just a longing for a little bit of that holiday magic I remembered from my childhood. Whatever it was, on a whim, I decided to bake gingerbread men. I mean why should kids have all the fun. I was alone over the holiday and I had decided that I was going to make the best of it, that I was not going to feel sorry for myself. I was going to have a good time if it killed me, and that good time involved making, decorating, and eating gingerbread men.</div>
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The recipe I found online not only promised that my ginger bread men would be tasty, but that they would also be chewy. My mouth watered at the thought. I had all the ingredients, and in my cupboard I found red hots for buttons, dried cranberries for lips and slivered almonds for eyes, plus I had several tubes of icing in primary colors all ready and waiting to spiff up those men when I took them out of the oven.</div>
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The recipe was supposed to make sixteen gingerbread people – gender of your own choosing, but I never was great at following a recipe. I reckon they’re just guidelines anyway. Instead of the requisite sixteen biscuit boys, I opted for one giant, macho, gingerbread man, one that would fill the entire cookie sheet. By the time I had the dough mixed up, I’d switched from mulled wine to Prosecco. Truth be told, most ginger bread men were entirely too unmanly for my taste. I intended to create a testosterone charged, hunk of a gingerbread man, one that would seriously make my mouth water and give me something to wrap my lips around. I wanted my big GBM – something that size had to have a name — to have bulging biceps. I’m a commercial artist by trade because it pays the bills, but I’m artsy fartsy by nature, and well-<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-12565" height="180" src="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Christmas-Holly.jpg" style="border: none; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 2em 2em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="280" />shaped biceps and decent pecs and abs sculpted from liberally-sampled ginger cookie dough were not beyond my artistic abilities. Strangely enough the more Prosecco I sipped, the more creative I became. In no time at all I decided GBM didn’t need red hots for buttons because GBM wasn’t going to wear a shirt. I was having visions of Magic Mike by the time I got down to GBM’s trousers. I had plans for a little blue frosting thong with just enough pouch to cover GBM’s junk. But then I decided maybe I didn’t want said junk covered. After all this was a private performance for an audience of one. “It’ll be much easier for me to eat you and taste your yummy gingery goodness without frosting,” I said to my creation. “Besides who needs all those extra calories?” I could almost swear I heard a low throaty moan, but then more than likely it was my own. I raised my glass to my buffed biscuit boy feeling a bit like Dr. Frankenstein in her laboratory as I polished off the glass, rubbed my hands together and went to work on making sure GBM was … um…err … anatomically correct.</div>
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When a girl has her hands on a man’s cock, and she gets the feel for it, the shape of it, the way it responds to her touch, well how can she not get a little wet, a little squirmy, a little hot and bothered, and who would have thought that was true even with a gingerbread cock? I’ll admit I took time out from my efforts for a little browsing of the internet researching just exactly how I wanted GBM’s cock to look, making him wait on the table unformed and unfulfilled while I checked out schlongs online. I decided to go for heavy, somewhere in between flaccid and semi, resting languidly against GBM’s golden tan belly so as not to obscure the view of his weighty balls.</div>
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I remember as a little girl secretly pretending that my Barbie and Ken were fucking, even though poor Ken didn’t have the equipment for the job. I only ever did that when my rather conservative mother wasn’t home, and even then I felt guilty. Not tonight though! Tonight I felt empowered. Tonight was all about indulgence, all about my fucking pleasure, and here I was making it up to poor Ken by creating right proper, and proportionately substantial, bits for GBM, shaped to suit my very active fantasy life. For a long time now, my sex life had been solo, so my fantasies tended to be doozies. That meant I saw and heard sexual innuendo everywhere in everything, and eating a hot gingerbread man was just too delicious not to fantasize about.</div>
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When I finally got down to serious hands-on with GBM’s meat and two veg, my buzz was way more than alcoholic. I was the queen, I was the creator, the dominatrix, I was GBM’s goddess and he lay before me passive and obedient to my will. And then the true artist in me came out. In my imagination, the feel of a cock became almost tactile. I imagined a man asleep not yet aroused to my touch. I imagined sliding close to him, under the blankets, all naked and needing, needing the feel of maleness — of maleness needing me back. In my mind’s eye, I traced the silken smoothness of hard growing beneath soft. I cupped the weighty sac, slightly cooler to the touch, full and tight, resting in my hand. My mouth watered anticipating the taste of maleness, ginger and spice and everything nice, everything so fucking nice.</div>
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<em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-12561" height="225" sizes="(max-width: 225px) 100vw, 225px" src="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM2.jpg" srcset="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM2.jpg 225w, https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM2-150x150.jpg 150w" style="border: none; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 2em 2em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="225" /></em></div>
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<em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh trust me, my little humunculous, you don’t want to run from me, not when I have your cock in my hand. Oh yes, I can see that smile on your face. You can’t fool me. I know what you want, and when I’ve made it so hot you can’t stand it, I’m going to eat you.”</em></div>
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I would have considered taking a break to tuck my set of shiny love balls up inside me, to jiggle and tease me while I worked on my creation, but I couldn’t leave him alone in such an unsatisfied state. Instead I stood at the counter hunched over his prone body, shifting from foot to foot, pressing my thighs together. The heady smell of ginger and heat flaring my nostrils and filling my mouth with saliva as I touched and fondled and formed the cock of my dreams. Lust heated the kitchen far more than the oven did. Sweat trickled down my spine, and thoughts of Pygmalion, in love with his own creation, thoughts of breathing life into grain and spice, leavening and oil connected me to an age old story of wanting, needing to create something to love, something that would love me back, something that I knew intimately because I had touched him as no one else had or ever would. Even in my state of arousal, my state of need, I found myself waxing all Biblical to GBM, with my slightly enebriated, more than a little bit self-centered version of Psalm 139.</div>
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<em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">For I created your inmost being;</em></div>
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<em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I knit you together on my kitchen counter.</em></div>
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<strong style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </em></strong><em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You are fearfully and wonderfully made,</em></div>
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<em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Even if I do say so myself</em></div>
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In the heat, I had shed my shirt and jeans, standing before my man in my red Christmas knickers and bra with a sprig of mistletoe in my damp hair, anticipating some serious mouth action when GBM was complete. At last, pleased with the shape of him, I got down on my knees and tuck him on his non-stick surface into the oven raising my arms to the heavens as I shut the oven door and steamed the glass all but shouting, “live, damn you! Live!”</div>
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Okay, now I know this sounds insane, but the second I did that, there was a flash of lightning and the electricity buzzed popped and crackled, and then went out, leaving me in the dark with GBM in his super-heated prison. But never fear, my oven is gas, and while I lay half naked curled on my side with my fingers in my panties, GBM got hotter and hotter and more and more ready, and I swear, his cock got bigger and bigger. Okay, yes, I know that’s the result of baking soda, but you gotta remember, I was in an altered state, I was just this side of Nirvana, I was having a religious experience.</div>
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<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-12563" height="183" src="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Christmas1.jpg" style="border: none; float: left; margin: 0px 2em 2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="275" />Perhaps I passed out. Perhaps I really was temporarily traipsing around Nirvana. I had to be dreaming, though, because when the lights came back on the oven door burst open and wow! GBM crawled out all bronze and rippling and fully grown. Some parts of him were way more fully grown than others. And what do you think? The first words out of his mouth were, “I want to eat you, my lady, and then I’m going to fuck you.”</div>
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I always figured I’d be a beneficent creator, so I laid back in front of the oven and let GBM open my legs and run his hot, gingery, very talented tongue all over my juicy landscape. And just when I was writhing and grinding and guiding his ginger head closer to my itch, he pulled away, and I got my first look at that magnificent spicy, bronze cock, raised for the occasion.</div>
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The heat of him all but scorched me raw as he shoved his sizzling thickness up inside me and began to hump and thrust, filling the whole kitchen with the spicy, humid scent of sex and ginger – some of it his, but a good bit of it mine. He rode me until I knew I’d have bruises on my ass, and I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs around his floury ribs and met him thrust for thrust, slipping and sliding up and down his well-buttered torso. When I came, he pulled out and straddled me, holding his heavy staff up to my lips. “Eat me. Eat me now,” he said. I barely managed a few delicious licks and sucks down his gingery length before he came in buttery, spicy purts at the back of my throat. “I heard you love cream fillings,” he managed as he exploded again and again until butter and ginger and crème ran down my chin and onto my tits and I sucked and slurped and mewled like a kitten. How could anything taste so good?</div>
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“There. That’s better, isn’t it?”</div>
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I came to feeling a little singed around the edges and looking up into startling brown eyes. I blinked, not sure but what I was still dreaming, then I blinked again as I took in the total package, looking up into an outdoorsy tanned face with strong cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose that looked as though it might have been broken at one time. There was a full-lipped smile and a dimpled chin and the whole lot was topped off with bed-headed ginger-bronze hair and matching stubble.</div>
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“What happened?” I managed through a parched throat.</div>
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“You had me really worried there for a minute,” his voice was a toffee rich baritone I could have eaten with a spoon. “I think it was some sort of an electrical surge, or something. I heard it from outside and saw this bright flash of light. When your door was standing open, I feared the worst.”</div>
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“I was baking.” I did a quick glance at my oven, then did a double take only to find that the cookie sheet was empty and smoking heavily.</div>
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“Mm,” the man said, glancing first at the recipe for gingerbread men on my phone, which now lay on the floor next to me. Then he stood, grabbed a potholder and pulled the empty cookie sheet from the oven with a hearty chuckle. “What happened, did your gingerbread men run away?”</div>
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“I guess maybe he did,” I replied, looking around the room, as he offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. “I did threaten to eat him, after all.”</div>
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“Him?”</div>
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“There was just one. A big one.” It was then that I noticed my state of undress. “Oh god, I’m sorry. It was, well it was really hot in here, so I …”</div>
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“It is, hot.” He said, the smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he looked away to give me a little privacy. “Could have been all the heat that caused the electrical surge.”</div>
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<img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-12566" height="225" sizes="(max-width: 225px) 100vw, 225px" src="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM3.jpg" srcset="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM3.jpg 225w, https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM3-150x150.jpg 150w" style="border: none; float: left; margin: 0px 2em 2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="225" />“I’m sure that was it.” I replied.</div>
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“I’m Nick, By the way,” he said, still keeping his eyes averted. “I just moved in next door.”</div>
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“Janet,” I replied, zipping my jeans and turning to face him. “Welcome.”</div>
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He shot me a quick glance and when he saw that I was decent, he offered his hand. “I was just delivering a little Christmas cheer.” And then he gave me a flirty little grin that made me feel hot all over again. He nodded to the plate of gorgeously perfect gingerbread men setting on the table. “Perhaps these’ll make up for the one that got away.”</div>
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“Thank you. I had my mouth set for gingerbread men.” Then I added quickly, “sometimes my imagination runs away with me.” I looked around, half expecting GBM to be peeking out from behind the pantry door. “With the size of the one I made though, I imagine he’d still be gooey in the middle.”</div>
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“Gooey in the middle is all right as long as he’s hard where it counts. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that.” He ran a hand through mussed ginger curls.</div>
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“Well you can hardly be blamed under the circumstances,” I replied. “What with finding me in my underwear all sprawled on the kitchen floor in front of the oven.”</div>
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He looked around. “You don’t suppose he has something sinister in mind, this giant runaway gingerbread man of yours, do you?”</div>
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“I did feel a bit like Dr. Frankenstein when I was making him,” I said. “It’s possibly he’s now out on the street running amok.”<br />
“If the villagers all turn up with torches and pitchforks later tonight, we’ll know why,” he said.</div>
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“Best be vigilant.” I put on the kettle and nodded him to sit at the flour dusted kitchen table, still wondering what had happened to GBM. “So what do you do for a living, Nick?” I asked.</div>
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“I just opened a bakery down the street. While I do seriously delicious cookies and cakes, my specialty is breads.”<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-12562" height="227" src="https://kdgrace.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/GBM4.jpg" style="border: none; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 2em 2em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="222" /></div>
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“Oh my God,” I dropped into the chair next to him, feeling like I’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone. “You own <em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Ginger Bread Man</em>?”</div>
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He raised his brown eyes to meet my gaze, and a smile split his face. “Yup, that would be me.” He pointed to his hair. “I <em style="border: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">am</em> the ginger bread man.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy Holidays to all of you, and all the best in 2020! It's been a pleasure blogging for Oh Get a Grip! </div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />K D Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02623197044690751762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-89442523309193296842019-12-21T00:58:00.000-05:002019-12-21T00:58:36.717-05:00Come Away With Me, a post by @GiselleRenarde<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="475" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKt__-zqqMYUs7Ri2EyCu4zrzfAb6U8AOFUJhi87Ssvc_wsQ8h4kRjeffXfoMWLjDOwlkSbXv3ZVCS-WXUS9QwcJGAHAvv7k78odWb-NAyj1YG96AHyBs7uaaqbYS2ZYG6n7Rd6P6OSGE/s640/DonutsDesiresBanner.jpg" title="Donuts and Desires blog icon displaying Giselle's sexy butt in red lace panties" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Thank you for reading my musings over the years. It has been a pleasure bringing my thoughts to you and I'm honoured you've taken time out of your days and nights to read my words.<br />
<br />
Today's will be my final post here at The Grip.<br />
<br />
Not because I'm done with writing.<br />
<br />
Not because I'm done with blogging.<br />
<br />
Not because I'm finished sharing my life with you.<br />
<br />
I've been <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/GiselleRenardeErotica?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica" target="_blank">writing erotica professionally</a> for nearly 14 years, and I'll continue to do so. I hope you'll <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/GiselleRenardeErotica?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica" target="_blank">keep reading</a> the words I put out into the world.<br />
<br />
I've maintained my <a href="https://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Donuts and Desires blog</a> for well over a decade. I'll keep updating that site with new works as they emerge.<br />
<br />
I celebrated 10 years on <a href="https://twitter.com/gisellerenarde" target="_blank">Twitter</a> this September. You can still <a href="https://twitter.com/gisellerenarde" target="_blank">find me there</a> most days.<br />
<br />
In June, I started <a href="https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">a daily music blog</a>. I've published over 200 posts there this year, and I plan to keep at it. Yes, that's right: I'm there every day. <a href="https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">I hope you'll join me</a>.<br />
<br />
You can also <a href="https://www.patreon.com/audioerotica" target="_blank">support me on Patreon</a> for access to <a href="https://www.patreon.com/audioerotica" target="_blank">weekly audio erotica</a>: my stories, my voice.<br />
<br />
I'm not going anywhere. I just won't be here. But you can still find me all over the internet.<br />
<br />
Go to your local library's website and search the name Giselle Renarde. See what pops up.<br />
<br />
I tell you, I'm all over the map.<br />
<br />
And if all else fails... <a href="http://eepurl.com/R4b11" target="_blank">subscribe to my newsletter</a>?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IzH3xrEerNEneqAnEpckwMl3hphPxQanw_liiIrEaTW2Woe-ULM7DSGirowjNTDOZpHKTEwyRb1_ANVOLIkFe1QkXtiUcMM3iG448cYzdPK0am26tQRKUq56gABu2n07tWHgH72hI5U/s400/FriendlyMusicVisitorAD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Giselle Renardehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955755448116234634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-71294272759503748162019-12-20T09:02:00.000-05:002019-12-20T09:02:03.208-05:00Gay Love and Other Christmas Magic (#newrelease #gayteens #gayromance)by Cameron D. James (and his YA pen name Dylan James)<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuw5hVjMjvUMCWDHYUk4BPzcsi3fkzZfOAGibYgLbiC0mKQus8aZk3qt11L_oMPQroofMRicgTu3NTmTzQ39ZUcvwBK8qSuZcS4sHwa3105irtHpziabfpyf15Cu6AqOW7BHyVREtSzo/s1600/Gay-Love-and-Other-Christmas-Magic-Dylan-James-2400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1108" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuw5hVjMjvUMCWDHYUk4BPzcsi3fkzZfOAGibYgLbiC0mKQus8aZk3qt11L_oMPQroofMRicgTu3NTmTzQ39ZUcvwBK8qSuZcS4sHwa3105irtHpziabfpyf15Cu6AqOW7BHyVREtSzo/s320/Gay-Love-and-Other-Christmas-Magic-Dylan-James-2400.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
<br />
<h2>
Gay Love and Other Christmas Magic</h2>
<h3>
Dylan James</h3>
<b><i>Can Christmas magic reunite two sets of young lovers before the night is over?</i></b><br />
<br />
It’s been six months since Benjamin finally came out and publicly declared his love for his long-time best friend Jordan. And in those six months, so much has changed. They’ve both moved out, living in the university dorms, and they’re both overloaded with homework.<br />
<br />
Although heading home on separate flights for the holiday, they still plan to spend this Christmas—their first as a couple—together, making up for the months of limited boyfriend time. But, when the snowstorm of the century hits New York City, Benjamin is stranded at the airport, with Jordan trapped at school. Unable to get in contact with each other, this very special first Christmas seems destined to be the worst one ever.<br />
<br />
While Jordan is devastated, believing Benjamin to have already left the state, Benjamin is determined to get back to the dorms and into the arms of his boyfriend. The perilous trek through New York City is beset with obstacles all along the way, and he worries he’ll never make it back to Jordan. Yet, a little Christmas magic, and help from a few strangers, teach Benjamin not only is the impossible within reach, but that his relationship with Jordan is the best Christmas present of all.<br />
<br />
This very special holiday follow-up to the bestselling <i><a href="http://www.deepdesirespress.com/gay-love-and-other-fairy-tales/" target="_blank">Gay Love and Other Fairy Tales</a></i> is a heartwarming journey that uncovers the true meaning of Christmas.<br />
<br />
<b>Purchase your ebook copy now:</b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://getbook.at/GayChristmas" target="_blank">Amazon</a></li>
<li><a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/gay-love-and-other-christmas-magic/id1490888549?mt=11&app=itunes" target="_blank">Apple Books</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gay-love-and-other-christmas-magic-dylan-james/1135443241" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/gay-love-and-other-christmas-magic" target="_blank">Kobo</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/994515?ref=DeepHeartsYA" target="_blank">Smashwords</a></li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<b>Purchase your paperback copy now:</b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://getbook.at/ChristmasMagicPB" target="_blank">Amazon</a></li>
</ul>
Cameron D. Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05825600675668853636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-68030203082418744062019-12-19T11:02:00.000-05:002019-12-19T11:02:26.756-05:00So long, and thanks for all the fish #AsheBarker<br />
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There are two problems with this post. The first, it’s a day
late, which has become something of a habit, sadly. The second, I am departing
from the agreed theme of Fan Fiction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I have no quarrel with Fan Fiction, it’s just that it’s not
really me. And today is not the time. I did toy, briefly, with the idea of a
short piece where Christian Grey and Heathcliff meet in a pub to compare notes,
but maybe I’ll save that for another occasion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Instead, and given that this is to be my last post on OGG, I
wanted to say a little bit about my journey over the last decade or so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to work in a regeneration company. I was a Director,
so I was well paid, I suppose, but it was basically admin. High level, but
admin all the same. Signing holiday sheets, dealing with disciplinary issues,
financial forecasting, Board reports. Nothing especially inspirational, but
beck in 2009, just as the crash started to hit and everyone was worried about
their jobs, it seemed important to stay employed. A job’s a job, you stick at
it. Right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I decided otherwise when everyone at my level was handed a
sheet of paper with their redundancy entitlement on it. It seemed they were prepared
to pay me a year’s salary just to go away. I didn’t need asking twice. Someone
else could worry about the paperwork. I took the cheque and I went.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There followed <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a couple
of lean years. The life of a self-employed regeneration ‘consultant’ is hard. Fierce
competition for contracts and clients who wanted their pound of flesh and more
besides took their toll eventually. Times were hard. I loved being my own boss,
working from home, but I had bills to pay and hardly any income. Reluctantly, I
began to look around for a new job.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, something happened that set me on another course, one
I hadn’t ever considered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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E.L. James published <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I read it,
as did pretty much everyone I knew that summer. I loved the brash, out there
BDSM themes, but was less than blown away by some aspects of the book. Did the hero
have to be so tortured? And such a dickhead? And why was the heroine so
terminally stupid? I decided I could write something better, something with all
the raunchy bite of Fifty Shades, but with central characters I’d actually like
as my friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I sat at my desk and started to write. The result, three
months or so later, was the first draft of <i>The Dark Side</i>, my first novel
and probably still my favourite. My hero, Nathan Darke, was wealthy and
successful, a nice bloke (mostly) who was into BDSM because he liked it. He
wasn’t ‘damaged’, just turned on by non-vanilla sex. My heroine, Eva Byrne, had
an IQ off the scale, a brilliant musician, mathematician and linguist, she was both
fascinated and terrified by the enigmatic Nathan. And he couldn’t keep his hands
off her. The attraction between these opposites was electric, and the sexual
chemistry explosive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZVGu3Gw-QrrN5BUT2hQBrEciCYw3ewkrBvT-NBhcqfqxs_d8UZizKjgA_d5Vd_yaYmF72DbHPd09tcwnpxbpM11UwNB6qVPdPvT6qIJCY_COqsp7yS9ga9H2DfMtNXA3T3fF_5-A5WzG/s1600/darkening_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZVGu3Gw-QrrN5BUT2hQBrEciCYw3ewkrBvT-NBhcqfqxs_d8UZizKjgA_d5Vd_yaYmF72DbHPd09tcwnpxbpM11UwNB6qVPdPvT6qIJCY_COqsp7yS9ga9H2DfMtNXA3T3fF_5-A5WzG/s320/darkening_800.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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I wrote it in a sort of vacuum, not knowing if anyone but me
would ever read it. Was the writing any good? Did the story work? I knew I
liked it, I’d buy it, but would anyone else?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I got lucky first time. Totally Bound liked it and offered
me a publishing contract. I’ll never forget the joy when I received an email
asking me to send the rest of the manuscript to one of their editors. Nor the
delight with my very first book cover. The rest is history. A hundred or so
titles and three or four publishers later, I think of myself as a ‘proper’ writer.
I can live off my royalties. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Yee ha!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I really knew I’d made it as a credible writer in my genre
when Lisabet Serai contacted me to ask if I wanted to join the small but
perfectly formed bunch of authors who contribute to Oh Get A Grip every month.
I was flattered and delighted to accept. I’ve loved writing pieces on many and
various themes, topics I probably wouldn’t have thought of myself. It’s been a
blast, but even the best things come to an end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaety8WxJL8kCKABE6TKQtJSCh7HMJ5Q5in7qdnSQ8x1NyrCh97LIhurUEZD8v_1UyjH4xk0wNXCiMLSICaPHZYqr0FH7oynHJPMzizzvK1lQ6na8E4D9_7Cjh0d3FZ8VBfjT3fg6WDcaq/s1600/SoLongAndThanksForAllTheFish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaety8WxJL8kCKABE6TKQtJSCh7HMJ5Q5in7qdnSQ8x1NyrCh97LIhurUEZD8v_1UyjH4xk0wNXCiMLSICaPHZYqr0FH7oynHJPMzizzvK1lQ6na8E4D9_7Cjh0d3FZ8VBfjT3fg6WDcaq/s320/SoLongAndThanksForAllTheFish.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>
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So, I am bowing out at the end of 2019. This will be my last
post and I wanted to say a huge thank you to Lisabet for inviting me in, and to
the other OGG contributors whose wit and wisdom has inspired me month after month.
I’ll miss the routine of sitting down to write a few hundred words on some
truly wonderful topics, but I know the blog is continuing and will be in safe
hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thanks also go to the readers who have dropped in to read my
ramblings. I hope I amused you, perhaps inspired you occasionally, and managed
not to bore you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My sincere best wishes to you all, for Christmas, for 2020,
and for all the years to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>So long, and thanks for all the fish.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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Ashe<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Ashe Barkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390519279886657608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-91007739859769094102019-12-10T00:30:00.000-05:002019-12-10T00:30:02.371-05:00Sex, Steam, and Snow--"Meltdown"<br />
<br />
I think this had better be my last month on the Grip. I've been repeating myself, struggling to think of new approaches to themes, and then rambling on too long when I think of something. This time, on my final promo post, I'm still going to go on too long, but with a complete story that I may only leave up through December. It appears in my collection <i>Wild Rides.</i><br />
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"Meltdown" is a very seasonal story, not about any holidays, but feeling exceptionally appropriate right now since I've already coped with eighteen inches of snow from a single storm this year. Too bad I don't have access to a real sauna like the one in the story, or, even better, to characters like the ones here in complex couplings. Then again, since I've created them, I guess I do know them, and can sweat in the steam and roll in the snow with them better than anyone else could.<br />
<br />
Fair warning: A friend has mentioned I seem to specialize in stories with characters who are already in relationships, or at least have histories with each other. That's certainly true with this piece, and in fact I've written two previous stories about one of the couples. I've found that many fans of romance don't like to bother with established relationships, so if that's your opinion--well, try this one anyway. <br />
<br />
<b>Meltdown</b><br />
Sacchi Green<br />
<br />
“Some piece of work you got there.” Sigri jerked her head toward the door. Or maybe she was just flicking a trickle of sweat out of one eye, since her hands were occupied with hammering a rod of red-hot iron into submission. She’d been wearing goggles but shed them when we came in. “Ought to keep a shorter tether on your toys, Roby.”<br />
It was just as well Maura had already flounced out in a snit when she realized that we weren’t going to focus on her—although Maura’s every movement was far too elegant to be termed “flouncing.” Even when she’d knocked over a short trollish creature built using trowel hands and garden-rake teeth, tried to right it, got those long auburn waves that had sold ten million crates of shampoo tangled in another contraption, and knocked that one over, too, her taut ass was as elegant as it was enticing. She could have been modeling those stretch ski pants for a fashion spread in Vogue. Probably had been, in fact, when she’d been here in New Hampshire in October for an autumn leaves photo shoot. Now, in January, the outfit suited the snow coming down outside.<br />
Sigri’s boi, Rif, edged deftly among the metal sculptures, righting the ones Maura had knocked over, touching some of the others as though they were friends. Or lovers. In their shadows, her slight body and pale short hair were nearly invisible. She hadn’t spoken a word since I’d been here. Now, at a gesture from Sigri, she followed Maura out of the barn.<br />
Maura needed to be the center of attention. Someplace deep inside being in the spotlight terrified her, but she still craved it. She didn’t know how lucky she was that Sig and I had been ignoring her, catching up on old times and our lives over the past twenty years. She’d brought us together for her own convoluted purpose and pushed me over the edge of anger into rage once I knew what she was up to. Could have been part of her plan; Maura’s plans were never straightforward. I didn’t care whether she was listening outside the door or not.<br />
“I’m not her goddamned keeper!”<br />
“No? Somebody sure ought to be, and I get the impression she thinks it’s you.”<br />
I perched gingerly on the seat of an antique hay baler stripped of its wheels, waiting its turn to be cannibalized into parts for the scrap metal beasts and demons Sig sold to tourists and the occasional high-end craft gallery. “Not a chance. Don’t tell me she hasn’t been trying you on for size.”<br />
Sig concentrated more intently than necessary on the metal she was bending across the edge of her anvil. “‘Trying’ is the word, all right.” Her hammer came down hard. “The magazine crew was doing a photo shoot down the road with my neighbor’s big black Percheron mare close by and sugar maples in the background. Rif hung around watching, kind of dazzled by the glitz, I guess, so when Maura asked about the weird iron critters out front here, Rif dragged her to the barn to see more. I knew you’d worked with her—Rif keeps some of those fashion mags around for some strange reason, and I don’t deny taking a look now and then. Just to see whether your name’s in the small print as photographer, of course. Not for those skinny-ass models.” That brazenly lecherous grin was just the way I remembered it.<br />
“Yeah, Maura has a thing for sharp scary things, the weirder the better. So I guess one thing led to another?”<br />
“One thing led to—zip! Nothing but some crazy maze of ‘yes…no…wait, maybe…’ Does she have any fucking idea what she wants? Won’t negotiate, won’t submit, won’t bend, likes to be hurt but mustn’t be marked anyplace it would show when she models bikinis. I tell you, Roby, I don’t have the energy anymore for games like that. No topping from the bottom.” One more hammer blow and a curse, and then the warped metal was cast into a tank of water where it hissed as it cooled. From what little I’d glimpsed, I didn’t think it had turned out as Sig intended.<br />
“She doesn’t know what she wants until she gets it,” I said. “Looks like just now she thinks she wants it from you.” And she has the gall to want me to show you how to give it to her. I’d given in to Maura’s pleas to come back with her to the Mount Washington Valley in New Hampshire for a long weekend visit with my old friend Sigri, which did sound tempting, and then just as we arrived at the farmhouse, Maura had told me casually that she wished I’d teach Sigri the right way to hurt her. I had never come closer to hurting her in all the wrong ways.<br />
“Screw it. I wouldn’t have bothered at all if Rif hadn’t been all for it.” Sig pulled off her heavy leather apron and straddled a wooden bench. “Why’d she drag you here, then? Not that I’m not glad to see you. Every time I see your name on one of those photo spreads in a nature magazine I think about getting in touch, but somehow I never get around to it.” She considered me for a moment, the fire from the forge casting a red glow over her square, sweaty face and muscular arms. “Good thing you moved on from the fashion ads racket. Your stuff is too good for that.”<br />
“The fashion biz pays better.” I didn’t quite meet Sig’s gaze. “I still do it once in a while.”<br />
“You didn’t come when Miss Fancypants threw a fit last October and insisted they had to get you because she wouldn’t work with anybody else. So why now?”<br />
“I was in Labrador on assignment from the Sierra Club magazine! And next month I head for Patagonia. In any case, I do have my limits. The guy they had here was good and needed the work.” I looked her full in the face—a face I’ve seen in my dreams through the years more often than I’d like to admit. “This location is a big draw, though. So many memories…”<br />
“Ohhh yeah!” Her smile this time was slow, reflective, and genuine. I wondered what she was remembering. My second most vivid image from those days was Sigri’s fine broad, muscular butt in tight jeans twenty feet above me on the face of Cathedral Ledge.<br />
We’d been casual friends, members of a fluctuating group of dykes renting this very same farmhouse for a few weeks in the summer while we hiked and climbed, and again in the winter as a ski lodge. Both of us usually had a girlfriend in tow, but when it came to rock climbing, we trusted each other and no one else. Even on easy climbs with iron bolts not more than twenty-five feet apart, when you take the lead with a belaying rope and call "Watch me," you damned sure need to know that when your partner on the other end answers "Go for it, I've got you," she has absolutely got you, her end of the rope firmly anchored, and will hold on if your grip fails or a rock edge breaks away and you start to plummet down the unforgiving cliff face.<br />
We’d only admitted to figuring in each other’s fantasies back then as mead companions, playing at being Viking warriors ravaging villages side by side as we bore off not-unwilling maidens. She still wore her yellow hair in that thick Viking braid down her back; I couldn’t tell in this unreliable light whether there were silver strands mixed in with the gold. My own dark cropped hair was still more pepper than salt, but not by much.<br />
“Well, you’re here now, and I’m glad. No need to let that glitzy bitch spoil things.” She put away her tools and adjusted the damper on the furnace to let the fire die down. “Think we could make her sleep out here in the barn?”<br />
“Not unless we made it seem like her own idea. Which isn’t impossible.”<br />
“Never mind for now. Rif’ll show you your room, and once you’re settled in, we’ll eat dinner. She’ll have it the oven by now.”<br />
“Rif sounds like a real treasure.”<br />
“More than I deserve, that’s for sure,” Sig muttered, almost too low for me to hear. She made for the door. I followed, admiring that rear view the way I used to when no one was looking. Just a bit broader now, but even more muscular since she’d turned to blacksmithing. The front view had been admirable, too, but harder to enjoy covertly. Back then butch buddies did not openly ogle each other’s chests, and things hadn’t changed in that department. I could tell now that it was still remarkable, even hidden behind the leather apron shielding her from any runaway sparks or splinters of metal.<br />
Snow was building up fast along the short path from the barn to the house, piling the existing banks along the sides even higher. Good thing we didn’t have to drive anywhere tonight. Maura had damned well better not make me wish we could get away.<br />
Dinner was maple bourbon-glazed salmon with hot cornbread, mushroom risotto, and tossed salad with pecans and dried cranberries. Perfection. Rif was perfection, too. Maybe too perfect. Her cooking was excellent, and her serving of it—well, let’s just say she epitomized service in more ways than one while managing to sit for long enough to eat her own food. Quiet, efficient, never speaking without being spoken to, anticipating our needs, all with downcast eyes, at least whenever I glanced at her. Just the same, I could feel her gaze on me from time to time, and I was pretty sure she was sizing up Maura, too.<br />
Maura was sizing up Rif right back, maybe taking notes on how to appeal to Sigri. At least she was putting on a pretty good demure act. Sig and I were wallowing in nostalgia, swapping recollections of cliffs we’d climbed, mountains we’d summited, ice walls we’d conquered, and après-ski orgies we’d enjoyed the hell out of.<br />
Finally, when we were about done eating our desserts of individual pumpkin custards and sipping Rif’s excellent coffee, Sig turned to Maura like a good host. “How about you, Maura? Done any climbing?”<br />
“Oh yes, I’ve been on some jaunts with Roby out in the Sierras.” She gave that trademark toss of her head that made strands of chestnut mane drift across one or another of her perfect breasts. Her navy silk shirt was conservative but clingy in all the right places. “You know how it is, though, hiking with somebody so much older, having to take things slower than you’d like.”<br />
Sig shot me a “what the fuck!” look.<br />
Okay, Maura was asking for it. I smiled, genuinely amused, but also irritated as hell. “Got a mouth on her, hasn’t she. Don’t worry. It’s just that insults are the best Maura can manage as foreplay.”<br />
“So how does that work out for her?”<br />
Maura’s glare in my direction was weakened by her belated realization that Sigri was just as old as I was.<br />
“Depends on the circumstances. The last time she called me too old, she was already spread-eagled, tied to the four corners of a tent frame, and demanding to be gagged.”<br />
Rif’s eyes flashed wide open for just a second. Sig nodded judiciously. “I can see getting a little something out of that.”<br />
“What I got was a bent tent frame. What Maura got was my mark in a place even a bikini won’t reveal.”<br />
Maura apparently decided to go with the flow. “Isn’t it cute,” she said with a sultry smile, “the way old folks’ memories get so fuzzy?”<br />
Sigrid leaned forward and looked from Maura to me. “More foreplay?”<br />
“Well, she seems to think so. It’d be cute if it weren’t so juvenile.”<br />
Sig almost asked another question, thought better of it, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Rif, how about you kids go take a walk while Roby and I have a nice chat about grown-up matters.”<br />
“Is it still snowing?” But I knew perfectly well that it was. “They could just stroll around inside the barn, and Maura could decide which sharp-edged, long-toothed demon there she’d most like to fuck her in her dreams.”<br />
Maura managed to stifle a smartass retort. Rif stifled a smile, then went to stand beside Sig with head meekly bent, speaking softly, before leading Maura away. Sigri and I moved into the cozy living room to sit by the fire and savor our after-dinner port, like any Old Country lords of the manor. Except that, instead of port, we savored excellent home-brewed mead a friend had given Sig and Rif at Christmas.<br />
While Sig bent to pour a little of the golden elixir into my genuine bull-horn cup set in its own wrought iron stand, I felt her closeness with a jolt that startled me. In the old days, no matter what girl I was with, if Sig was in the room, I was more aware of her than of anyone else. Comradeship, sure, but I couldn’t deny that there’d been an intensely sensual element as well. Now she was so close I could have reached out and touched her breast, guarded now only by flannel instead of the leather apron.<br />
“Your work?” I switched my gaze quickly to the elaborate Celtic swirls of the cup stand. “And this?” I ran a finger over the spiraling dragon shape carved into the horn cup in exquisite detail.<br />
“The metalwork, sure. The carving is all Rif’s, though. She’s an incredible artist, hands steady, fingers strong and flexible, every stroke precise…”<br />
Sig might or might not have seen the slight quirk of my eyebrow. The reddening of her face might or might not have been due to a sudden flare-up of the fire. She went on in hurry, “She did these in the tenth-century Norwegian Ringerike style, but she can do just about anything.”<br />
“She’s really amazing, isn’t she? I hope Maura isn’t giving her a rough time.” If Rif had been dazzled by the October photo shoot and “all for” some D/s play between Sig and Maura, it would be a shame if Maura’s rudeness shattered her fantasies.<br />
“Don’t worry. Rif can take care of herself, and then some. She—” Sig shook her head. “Well, enough about that. Tell me more about Maura. Did she really let you make a mark on her precious skin?”<br />
“You might put it that way. It’s not just vanity. Her agency takes out insurance on every inch of her, and at the slightest marking, the agency collects and she gets fired. It’s a clause from the days before everything and anything could be photoshopped, but they still demand it. Sometimes she really, really wants to be marked and hurt, to feel like a real person instead of a very expensive commodity. Even dreams of a scar on the face that the world sees so it will be all her own again. But she doesn’t want any of that enough to give up the life she has, and she trusts me to take her almost as far as she wants to go without going over the edge.”<br />
Sigri was shaking her head by the end of my revelations. I picked up my drinking horn and took a sip of mead. “As you said, that’s enough about that. Too much, in fact.” Another sip. “Hey, this is really fine stuff! Smooth and intense. Wish we’d had something this good back in the day.”<br />
“Nah, we’d’ve been too dumb to appreciate it.” She sank down on the couch by my side, took a longer sip than I had, licked her lips, and looked slantwise at me. “We were too dumb to appreciate a hell of a lot.”<br />
“No kidding.” I raised my horn. Hers met it halfway. “Here’s to our wasted youth.”<br />
A few more sips of mead later, I was on the verge of blurting out a maudlin confession, but Sig beat me to it.<br />
“That pool.” She looked into the fireplace, not at me. “That day…”<br />
I finished for her. “We bushwhacked off the Slippery Brook trail, discovered that huge gorgeous pool, and went skinny-dipping. The goddess place, I called it, and you told me not to go all woo-woo.”<br />
“But you did. And you scrambled naked back up that rock to where we’d left our stuff before we jumped off, got your camera, and yammered on about how the rocks on each side of the little waterfall looked like spread thighs, and the knobby stone in between with moss on it was the pussy, and the—the water of life, I think you said, was pouring into the sacred pool.”<br />
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I said. And you dived into the deepest part and came up with handfuls of pebbles that you kept throwing at me while I tried to get pictures from just the right angle.”<br />
“Well, maybe I was as bad as your Maura at foreplay when it came to somebody like you. Girly types, no problem, but you? I figured you’d either laugh in my face or punch it if I made a move.”<br />
I shook my head in self-disgust. “And I just kept on yammering to keep from jumping you and getting slammed for it. Talk about dumb kids! When you got fed up and left, I was desperate for the chance to jerk off, fantasizing about what it would feel like to be in a clinch with you.”<br />
“Hah! I only made it to that other stream coming out of the beaver pond before my hand was in my pants. If you’d caught up with me then…”<br />
I reached for the decanter of mead, poured us each a little more, and raised my horn again. “Well, here’s to the years of steamy dreams inspired by the sight of you naked in that pool.” Just as well not to reveal that I’d snapped a picture of her from behind that day, right when her muscular body arched, butt high, into the dive that got her those pebbles to throw at me. I’d carried a print of the photo around with me until I literally wore it out.<br />
We were half facing each other by that time, up close. Somehow my left hand had reached over to her nearest thigh, and her right hand had done the same to me.<br />
“You know that time when we arm wrestled a couple of nights later?” Sig’s grip on my thigh tightened. “The only time you ever beat me? Shouldn’t count as a win. I only lost because I was so distracted remembering how you’d looked naked, like a tougher, stronger version of those nymphs in old paintings. But I paid for that round of drinks anyway.”<br />
“No kidding? I thought I only won because I was so mad at myself for thinking of you in pretty much the same way, and the adrenaline gave me extra strength.”<br />
“How about—”<br />
“A rematch? Not a chance. I’ve been hiking and toting my camera gear over some pretty rough terrain, but you’ve been hammering iron. No contest.” I set my cup back on its stand on an end table to free up a hand so I could grip her bicep for emphasis—and for something more. But Rif’s dragon carved into the horn seemed to be looking right at me. I paused. “Rif…” I said uncertainly, and as though the name worked a magic spell, the outside door opened and Rif herself came in. A brief gust of cold air blew right through the entrance hall, past the dining room, and into our cozy fireside haven.<br />
She came right to Sigri, looked for a moment as though she were going to kneel before her, then thought better of it and just bent her head. “Excuse me, but Maura thinks it’s getting too cold in the barn with the forge turned so low, and anyway, I started up the fire in the sauna hut a while ago, like you said I could, and it should be getting nearly hot enough.”<br />
“You still use the sauna? Great!” I hadn’t moved my hand from Sig’s thigh, so I gave her a squeeze, which she returned with interest. “All those rocks we dragged up from the river and the logs we cut!”<br />
“We’ve upgraded it a bit since then, but yeah, the same old place. We use it quite a bit, and this time I’m pretty sure Rif thinks it’ll be the easiest way to get Maura’s clothes off.”<br />
Maura herself came in just in time to hear that last part. “The fastest way, at least,” she said companionably, and from the look she exchanged with Rif, I figured they were up to something. If it got us all naked in the sauna, it was definitely a step in the right direction. And if they were in it together, I didn’t need to worry. Right?<br />
“Upgraded” was an understatement. Besides the structural improvements, there were birchwood benches with armrests carved like voluptuous mermaids, leering gargoyle heads at the ends of the towel bars, and the coatracks where we hung our clothes looked like giant sets of antlers with minidragons twining through them. Not that I noticed all these details right away in the shock of coming into intense heat out of the cold and snow outside and then the delirious distraction of such a variety of naked bodies.<br />
Maura’s delectable form was, of course, familiar to me, far more than it was to viewers of her photos even in bikini ads. Rif’s slim body seemed more graceful in the freedom of nakedness than it had clothed; she could easily have been a sprite or nymph out of mythology, and her open smile and gleaming eyes gave her face a kind of elfin beauty.<br />
Sigri…I’d seen her naked often enough in this same sauna years ago, but now I hardly dared look at her, and when I did, a flush of heat beyond anything the fire pit could produce swept through me. We’d both changed over the years, Sig with somewhat more flesh and a lot more muscle, me with some shifting of what flesh and muscle I had in spite of gym workouts when I’d lived in the city and strenuous trekking once I’d switched my focus to wilderness themes; but I’d never needed so intensely to get my hands on her. And in her. I could already feel her eyes on me, sharing that hunger.<br />
But we both glanced toward Rif, who stood between Maura’s spread legs gazing down at the shaved, smooth pussy on display. “That’s the mark?” Rif said. “What does it mean?”<br />
Sig went to look, too, with a lingering stroke across my flank as she passed me. I knew what they saw on that triangle of smooth skin just low enough to be covered by the skimpiest bikini bottom; four tiny curving arcs, not quite meeting, formed a delicate circle like a secret mandala. Maura just smiled mysteriously and leaned far back, her long hair flowing downward, her face clean of makeup, beads of sweat beginning to show between her breasts, looking more beautifully alive than any fashion ad could ever show.<br />
We were all sweating by then. Rif took down two of the birch switch bundles hanging on the wall, laid one across Maura’s lap, then approached Sigri with bowed head. “May I be of service?” she asked in a low, formal tone. Sigri looked toward me, shrugged, and took a position facing the wall with her hands braced against it. Maura was suddenly there beside me with her own bundle of switches, gesturing at me to do the same. I went along with it. We’d done this same sort of thing in the old days, ratcheting it up well beyond the traditional therapeutic usage. The idea of letting Maura use the switches on me was a bit disturbing, but at least it might distract me from the urge to shove Sigri hard against the wall and rub myself against her.<br />
Apparently Rif knew all about the ratcheting-up part, and so did Maura. The sting of the pliant birch twigs went up and down my back, lingered on my ass, then traveled down my legs and up again, over and over, more stimulating the harder they struck. All I could think of beyond my own throbbing backside was how red Sigri’s must be, and how hot to the touch.<br />
Sweat ran down my face, between my breasts, along my spine, between my ass cheeks, and down my inner thighs, although I couldn’t be sure how much of that last substantial trickle was sweat and how much wild arousal. Any second I would pull back, turn around, get to Sig—but just before I tensed to move, another movement distracted me—Rif darting between our arched bodies and the wall. Suddenly a rope was pulling me toward Sig and winding around her as well while Maura shoved me from behind so that I faced Sig and Rif tugged at the crossed rope ends so that Sig faced me.<br />
We had to clutch at each other to keep from stumbling, and then the clutching seemed like such a good idea that I dug my fingers into the clenched muscles of her butt while she yanked me by my shoulder blades hard up against her big breasts. Resistance was so futile, it ceased to exist.<br />
The girls wrapped more of the rope around us, but we scarcely noticed. Sigri’s mouth tasted of fine mead, and mine must have, too, but however intoxicating that contact was, there were other places that needed tasting. I licked sweat from the hollow of her throat and then down between and around her breasts while she kneaded my back and as far along my birch-switched ass as she could reach until she pushed my torso back enough to work her tongue and teeth down my chest to my belly.<br />
Standing ceased being an option. The rope loosened, and a burst of steam swept over us. Someone, probably Rif, had poured water on the white-hot stones of the fire pit. As the steam cloud rose upward, Sig and I rolled on the floor, where there was slightly more air, first one on top, then the other, one knee thrusting and sliding between the other’s sweaty thighs until the positions reversed. Finally Sig growled “Dammit, Roby!” and held me down with her greater weight. What the heck, she was the host here. I let her big hand work into where I needed it most, arching my hips to meet her thrusts with equal force. A wave that had been building for over twenty years swelled, crested, and crashed down over me, through me.<br />
In its ebb, still quivering and scarcely able to breathe, I swung above her, grabbed onto her wide hips, and went at her with tongue and mouth and teeth and, for all I know, nose and chin until she was as spent and breathless as I was. With all the meager strength we had left, we pulled each other upright, hands sliding along our sweaty bodies, and made for the door.<br />
The snow was powdery, deep, and searingly cold on our superheated flesh. Just what we needed. We rolled together, still hot where our bodies pressed together, melting mystical runes into the white surface touched by our backs. When we finally chased each other back into the lingering heat of the sauna hut, Maura and Rif passed us, laughing, on their way out. Whatever they’d been up to, which wasn’t hard to guess, they’d clearly had a fine time.<br />
Later, dressed again and heading back toward the house, Maura tugged me aside along the path to the barn. “Don’t you want to know which demon I picked for my dream lover?”<br />
The others followed us into the dim space, now only slightly warmed by the embers in the forge and lit only by a single naked light bulb by the door. Maura proceeded along rows of strange figures made even eerier by the shadows. She paused once in front of a creature with a horned helmet, long braid made of straw-colored rope and sled-runner arms holding a shield made from a woodstove door embossed with a dragon silhouette, considered for a moment, then shrugged and moved on.<br />
She stopped at last before a figure in the corner, limbs constructed from tent poles, one hand a saw-toothed adze blade used in ice climbing, and the other with a single digit, seven thick inches of spiral-machined, nickel-plated steel rod. She touched the tip of her own delicate finger to the tip of that rod where four tiny curving arcs of metal, not quite meeting, formed a delicate circle like a secret mandala.<br />
“I might as well stick with this one,” she said casually.<br />
“An ice screw! I knew it!” Sigri muttered behind us. Rif tugged at her gently and led her away, maybe thinking Maura and I would have some kind of tender interlude.<br />
What actually happened was that Maura said, almost as casually, “I got a call yesterday from my agent, right before you picked me up at the airport. She said I got that movie role I was after. Not a lead, just the “bad girl” character, but terrific exposure. We’ll be shooting mostly on location in France and Switzerland.”<br />
“Good going, kid,” I said, and put a comradely arm across her shoulders. We didn’t have anything close to what Sigri and Rif had, and that was fine with me. Maura three or four times a year was about all I could handle, and if she really needed me in between, she knew that I’d come. Even from Patagonia.<br />
<br />Sacchi Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10801164916418570059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-8765789013025262032019-12-09T07:30:00.000-05:002019-12-09T07:30:00.280-05:00Rodin and Darkness<div style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/">K D Grace</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">This is my last month of writing for Oh Get A Grip, and while I have enjoyed it immensely and found it endlessly challenging, all good things have to come to an end and the time comes to move on. For me that time has come. Perhaps there’s no time better than in December when the year closes in on itself and darkness rules while we all wrap ourselves up in memories of warmth and dreams of the returning light and the new beginnings the New Year brings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to attend an exhibition at the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://britishmuseum.org/" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">British Museum</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">. While any visit to the British Museum is a little slice of paradise, this particular visit was even more so because it was<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/exhibitions/rodin-1.aspx" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Rodin and the Art of Ancient Greece</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">. One of my very favourite sculptures ever is Rodin's The Kiss. One of my very favourite exhibitions to visit regularly in the British Museum is the Elgin Marbles. Imagine my delight when this special exhibition turned out to be an intermingling of the two with the focus on how the Parthenon and a trip to the British Museum influenced all of Rodin's work. Seeing Rodin’s works displayed next to some of the exquisite pieces from the frieze of the Parthenon was not only enlightening, but inspiring and thought provoking. Add to that the wonderful insights into the heart of a creative genius by another creative genius,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainer_Maria_Rilke" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Rainer Maria Rilke</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, who was briefly Rodin's secretary, and the afternoon was a treasure trove of inspiration that just keeps on inspiring me long months later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">What I had not known before and what I found most insightful was the darkness that Rodin never shied away from in his work. As a writer, I feel it's my duty also not to shy away from the darkness, even, maybe most especially, when I really want to. The darkness is quite often the journey of passage into new beginnings, and therefor maybe the most terrifying treasure for any artist, anyone, who must pass through it to the other side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Much of Rodin's work found its beginnings in his<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gates_of_Hell" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Gates of Hell</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, which was to be a representation of Dante’s Inferno. The sculpture was commissioned in 1880 for a museum that was never built. But Rodin was so pulled into the effort, so inspired by it, that he continue to work on it and off until his death in 1917. Many of his most famous sculptures, including The Kiss and The Thinker, were inspired by and taken from the Gates of Hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">That got me thinking that perhaps I am inspired by my own gates of hell, perhaps we all are. The recurring themes of darkness in my stories are, as was Rodin's Gates of Hell, less about sin and punishment than they are about the human condition, my own condition, the fragmenting of self and the constant reworking of that self. Which raises a question I have often asked myself, and especially this time of the year when the days are dark and short. Are we inspired by the darkness to seek out the light, or is it only the presence of the darkness that allows us to see the light? I’m leaning heavily toward the latter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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K D Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02623197044690751762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-37451580795488339512019-12-07T00:01:00.000-05:002019-12-07T00:01:00.779-05:00Yuletide Homicide<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">By Tim Smith</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I made an interesting discovery at a recent book
signing event. One of the books I was pushing was my release from last year,
“The Other Woman” (Vic Fallon Book 4). This is a private eye murder mystery
that takes place during the Christmas holiday season. When people saw those two
elements together under one cover, it sold well. Perhaps they were tired of the
Hallmark holiday movies and wanted something with a different kind of action. It’s
a throwback story featuring an old-school private eye in a contemporary setting,
with something for everyone who enjoys noir-ish crime capers—action, quirky
characters, plot twists, snappy dialogue, vivid atmosphere, a romantic
triangle, and steamy sex. What more could you ask for? </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Former cop Vic Fallon only wanted to get home to
Sandusky, Ohio in time for Christmas after completing his latest private eye
assignment. A chance meeting in the Atlanta airport with a U. S. Senator from
his hometown thrusts Vic into a murder investigation when the man turns up dead
shortly after they speak. The unwanted case produces more questions than
answers. Why did the Senator ask Vic to deliver a Christmas card for him rather
than mailing it himself, and why does the recipient react with hostility when
she finds out who it’s from? Why is the FBI looking at Vic up close and
personal when he wasn’t involved in the killing? And why does a police detective
from Atlanta show up in Sandusky, asking questions that have little to do with
the murder investigation? Vic’s life becomes more complicated when the woman he
delivered the card to is arrested after an accidental shooting, and he feels a
responsibility to prove her innocence. Add the strain that the case places on
Vic’s current romantic relationship, and it results in the holiday from Hell.
Can Vic solve the multi-pronged mystery he’s found himself in the middle of and
repair the damage to his love life? Or will the other woman cause a permanent
rift?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">The original title for this book was “Yuletide
Homicide,” but at the last minute I thought that was too cutesy for a romantic
private eye mystery, even though it’s lighthearted and humorous. For those who
didn’t keep up with the first three installments in this series (and shame on
you if you didn’t!), Vic Fallon is a former police detective who lives in
northern Ohio. He took a disability separation after being shot in the line of
duty and now takes on cases when he’s intrigued, bored, or broke. As with all
good gumshoe stories, there’s a hot and heavy romance with a sassy, sexy femme
fatale. Here’s an example:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Michelle snuggled closer to him and rested her hand on
his thigh. “Did you get your work done in San Francisco?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Yeah. I found the guy I was looking for, along with
the diamonds he claimed had been stolen, and I turned him over to the police.”
He put his hand in the air then pulled it downward. “Cha-ching! Another fee!” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“So what did you bring me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic chuckled. “You’re worse than a kid. Why do you
think I brought you anything?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Because if I went out of town on business and left
you home, I’d bring you something.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic kissed her, letting his lips linger against hers.
They were soft and tasty and knew how to embrace another pair of lips. “You’ll
have to wait until Christmas, little girl.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She curled up closer and gestured at the partially
decorated tree in the corner. “You didn’t finish decorating your tree.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Because I had to go out of town. What’s your
problem?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“That tree is like you—incomplete. You never finish
anything you start.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“If you keep insulting me, I’ll ban you from the
premises.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She pulled him in for a deep kiss. “If you do that,
you won’t get to see me in the elf costume.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“What elf costume?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“The one you picked out at the boutique. You said you
liked the short skirt because it would show off my ass and legs. Coming back to
you now?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Yeah, it is. You’ll wear the boots?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She flashed an impish grin. “Of course.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk525397682"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">No detective caper would be complete without the hero dealing
with former cop buddies, shady crooks, and people with hidden agendas. These
encounters give him an excuse to engage in wisecracks and witty banter. To wit:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He heard footsteps approaching and turned around fast,
coming face to face with Dubois. Vic looked him up and down, seeing his hands
shoved into the pockets of his heavy coat.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Good evening, Mr. Fallon. I thought we might have a
little chat.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“It’s kinda late and I’m tired. Why don’t you catch me
tomorrow? We’ll do lunch.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Dubois pulled a gun from his pocket and leveled the
muzzle at him. “Tonight would be better. Let’s take a walk.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the .357 Magnum
revolver. He judged the distance between them and realized that jumping Dubois
would likely get him shot. He accompanied him outside, then zipped up his coat.
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Hands in your pockets, if you don’t mind,” Dubois
said then indicated a secluded, darkened area by the nearby ferry dock. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic walked in that direction with Dubois close behind,
his pistol pressed against Vic’s back. Vic scanned the area, looking for a
place where he could break free to duck and run. Dubois grabbed Vic’s arm when
they reached a bench by the fishing pier.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Let’s have a seat so we can talk,” he said. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic sat, keeping his hands in his pockets. Dubois sat
a couple of feet away, turned to face Vic, and kept his gun pointed at him. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic eyed the gun. “If you shoot me it’ll be tough to
explain, since I’m unarmed. Is that how they do things in Atlanta?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Dubois chuckled. “Ever heard of a throwaway gun? First
thing they taught me at the academy was to carry one for situations like this.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I’m sure they did.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, though, since you
seem like an intelligent, reasonable man.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Okay, we’ll talk. Maybe you can tell me how they
celebrate New Year’s Eve in Atlanta. Is it true that they drop a large praline
from the tallest building at the stroke of midnight?” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Dubois slowly shook his head. “It always amazes me how
northerners like to make fun of people from the south. I came here in good
faith and you have yet to hear me utter one Aw, shucks or Golly-gee. Frankly,
Mr. Fallon, I’m insulted.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I’ll make a note. What’s so important that you felt
compelled to abduct me at gunpoint?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Right to the point. I like that. When you were in the
airport, the late Mr. Hendricks gave you something. I’d like to have it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Do you collect souvenirs from unsolved homicides?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Dubois laughed softly. “I have to admit, you do have a
wicked sense of humor, although you pick the damnedest times to show it. Let me
rephrase my request—give me that card Hendricks slipped you and I’ll be on my
way.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Vic looked at him for a few moments. “Dubois, you may
find this hard to believe, but I don’t have it.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Dubois raised his gun to within several inches of
Vic’s chest. “You’re right—I find that hard to believe.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“What’s so important about that card?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“To me, not a thing. To other parties, it has a lot of
value.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“How much of that value are they sharing with you upon
recovery?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“That’s unimportant. We could play a game of chicken
or Russian roulette, if you prefer.” He pressed the muzzle between Vic’s eyes
and cocked the hammer. “Or you could just hand it over.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Can our hero talk his way out of this dilemma? Will he
crack the case of the dead Senator and restore harmony to his fractured love
life in time for New Year’s Eve? Read “The Other Woman” to find out. </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07HWRJLCQ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p1_i0">"The Other Woman" Amazon </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-15066557713087421162019-12-06T09:38:00.003-05:002019-12-06T09:38:59.904-05:00Re-prioritizing timeby Cameron D. James<br />
<br />
Followers of The Grip likely saw <a href="http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/2019/12/hello-i-must-be-going-newfrontiers.html" target="_blank">Lisabet's post a few days ago</a> where she said she's on her way out the door. Unfortunately, I'm on my way out too.<br />
<br />
I originally joined The Grip back in October of 2015 with my first post being about <a href="http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/2015/10/forks-in-road.html" target="_blank">"Forks in the Road"</a>. It was a post about how something simple and small can make a huge change in your life. I wrote about back when I wasn't out to myself yet, happened to meet a man who was interested in me, gave it a whirl, and later ended up marrying that man -- and along the way moved from writing sci-fi to writing gay erotica.<br />
<br />
My life continues to go down this uncharted path in the woods, all thanks to meeting that man over eight years ago. We now, as regular blog followers likely know, own a <a href="http://www.deepdesirespress.com/" target="_blank">publishing company for erotic romance</a>, as well as a <a href="http://www.deepheartsya.com/" target="_blank">sub-imprint for queer young adult fiction</a>. Following this path has taken me in interesting and unexpected directions, such as now writing queer young adult fiction and doing better at it than I ever did with gay erotica.<br />
<br />
But with those changes come further subsequent changes.<br />
<br />
My time is precious to me. I have a ton of work to do and not a lot of time to do it in. I've been thinking of leaving The Grip for a while now, because the time I spend writing a post could be time spent doing other things -- and I find I rarely have the time to read the other posts and comment on them, so I often feel like I'm not pulling my weight around here.<br />
<br />
I am very grateful to The Grip and Lisabet for bringing me into this community. I eagerly accepted the invitation in 2015 because I knew it would get me blogging (which was an important thing to do back in the day, though I'm not sure if it's as crucial anymore) and it would get me interacting with other erotic authors, which I'm always keen to do.<br />
<br />
I'll be back once more on the 20th -- my promo day of the month -- to share my new Christmas young adult novella that will be published soon.<br />
<br />
Thank you for having me.<br />
<br />
❤️❤️❤️Cameron D. Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05825600675668853636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-10563589810514843742019-12-04T11:05:00.000-05:002019-12-04T11:05:42.631-05:00Cosima's Diary: My Life as a Unicorn, from the #Lesbian #Diaries series by @GiselleRenarde<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1710688440?tag=dondes-20" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1187" data-original-width="1600" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2MFOwXO9rLA83eB4VUnNcGetgFDpir3b7yJz25WRMJbvrEHfL6aZ7Osq9TvItiJW_z7o5jj2GDttWipgFbIPQiS7Lexziq7Zndlu6p8fuMBWEfOymcSDPipCMf08GBFnOxXyeZ7aC1I/s640/CosimaPRINT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The third book in my Lesbian Diaries series is now available for your reading pleasure--and it's a good one!<br />
<br />
Remember, you don't need to read these diaries in any particular order. Each book is about a different set of characters, so start with whichever story rings your bell!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/992145?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEC9MezrpF0gGwuatnHcbK1Yuie6eKXvavicrJ65M2S7Oae_1RV8ELKM126tajdk1ikSs9cogKqZzT03uRKpzcp8aUyML9nM796DeFbqRJc7I6gsYjfBj4cXjb_lNNT4TqhyphenhyphenAIMdoGATI/s320/CosimasDiary.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<b><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/992145?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica" target="_blank">Cosima’s Diary</a></b><br />
<b>My Life as a Unicorn</b><br />
<b>by Giselle Renarde</b><br />
<b>Series: The Lesbian Diaries</b><br />
<b>Book: 3 </b><br />
<br />
Cosima is a paid unicorn. No, not the mythical creature, though women like Cosima are almost as rare—that’s why she’s so much in demand. Cosima consorts with married couples. It’s not just a job, to her. She thinks of it as a calling. That’s why she’s so torn when she meets Lenore: part-time barista, part-time nurse, full-time girl of Cosima’s dreams. Lenore’s not so sure she wants to date a woman she has to share. Can Cosima choose between the vocation she loves and the woman she wants?<br />
<br />
The ebook is available from many retailers, including...<br />
Smashwords: <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/992145?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/992145?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica</a><br />
Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B081RK5SJX?tag=dondes-20">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B081RK5SJX?tag=dondes-20</a><br />
Kobo: <a href="https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cosima-s-diary">https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cosima-s-diary</a><br />
Google Play: <a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=XWe_DwAAQBAJ">https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=XWe_DwAAQBAJ</a><br />
<br />
You can also get the paperback from Amazon! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1710688440?tag=dondes-20">https://www.amazon.com/dp/1710688440?tag=dondes-20</a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qdHn1F3rU_c" width="560"></iframe></div>
<br />Giselle Renardehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955755448116234634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-9578042315774240662019-12-03T03:00:00.000-05:002019-12-03T03:00:06.066-05:00Hello, I Must Be Going - #NewFrontiers #Blogging #SocialMedia
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlpXlBWW_rMBf-rPPXWScXMnayrvfzsQ_3AXr-aQM6W6Y6Qudv23f8Kk3x0MmYSg6Y7R1vA3UzfFGcNH9REF_5wdp9dOenugQO2UrZ9RIX6LPFtkkFcOWusH59QTIS6zOMlwums1DXMD2/s1600/Animal_Crackers_Movie_Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Marx Bros movie poster" border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlpXlBWW_rMBf-rPPXWScXMnayrvfzsQ_3AXr-aQM6W6Y6Qudv23f8Kk3x0MmYSg6Y7R1vA3UzfFGcNH9REF_5wdp9dOenugQO2UrZ9RIX6LPFtkkFcOWusH59QTIS6zOMlwums1DXMD2/s1600/Animal_Crackers_Movie_Poster.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By
Lisabet Sarai</span></span></b></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Almost
exactly ten years ago, I took over the Oh Get a Grip blog from a
group of romance authors who had been its founders. At the time, I
was just getting my feet wet as far as marketing and social media
were concerned. Blogging was all the rage, but I didn’t think I had
the time or the level of commitment needed to start my own blog. When
an offer of a guest post on Oh Get a Grip morphed into a suggestion
that I become the blog admin and find new contributors, this seemed
like a sign.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It
has been a fantastic decade. At various times, the members of the
Grip have included many of my favorite authors, and many friends. If
you scroll back through the earlier posts (they’re all there, all
3000+ of them!) you’ll like see many names you recognize.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
the good old days, the Grip got lots of traffic. I’m amazed when I look at posts from five years ago. When I went to the Blogger
dashboard and randomly chose a page with a 100 posts from 2014, I
found we averaged about a dozen comments per post. <a href="https://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/2014/09/contrary.html">One
of my posts</a> actually got 40 comments. </span></span>
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">These
days …. we’re lucky to get two. And that’s usually from another
member of the blog.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Personally,
I think this has to do with a shift in the way people consume
information. In this age of Twitter and Instagram, words are a
liability. Our posts have always tended to be thoughtful, measured,
carefully crafted, and pretty long – in the 1000 word range or more
(except when we played around with flash fiction). These days, nobody
wants to put in the effort to read that much text. </span></span>
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
least, that’s what I believe. Recent posts are as insightful and
challenging as the older ones, but we don’t get readers (or
commenters) because, sadly, people don’t care.</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway,
I’ve decided that after ten years, it’s time for me to move on.
The Grip is experiencing a shake-up, and about half of the current
contributors plan to leave at the end of 2019. However, there’s a
contingent who wants to salvage the Grip, maybe changing its format
to better fit the preferences of today’s audience. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
really haven’t decided yet. But don’t delete your bookmark. There
may be amazing things ahead in 2020.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For
me, though, this is the end of the road. Ugh, that sounds final,
doesn’t it? In fact, if the Grip continues, I’ll likely be
around, commenting as well as assisting the new admin. I’m not the
type to keep totally silent. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">However,
this will be my last formal post for Oh Get a Grip. I’ll do a
marketing post on the 17<sup>th</sup> as well. After that – well,
you know I’ll be writing sexy stories. And you know, I think, where
to find me.</span></span></div>
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</div>
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</div>
<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }a:link { }</style>Lisabet Saraihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05162514190572269660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-80950004000171115392019-12-01T09:41:00.000-05:002019-12-01T09:41:20.128-05:00#DeedsNotWords #AsheBarker<br />
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This month's promo post is shamelessly seasonal but with a slice of feminist history thrown in.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuCBse4xxtB2TsWosD_M1nwspog1WbuJvWDNxnF5bSdhVKgLBKaFgOWKw14s5y1RfomGcK9JoY6vVcrgN5OS7V9VqtFZfCMBkl2CLECgCrKdryv8eVXylUotcZT8h7IEpGyXkxbJXuDjf/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuCBse4xxtB2TsWosD_M1nwspog1WbuJvWDNxnF5bSdhVKgLBKaFgOWKw14s5y1RfomGcK9JoY6vVcrgN5OS7V9VqtFZfCMBkl2CLECgCrKdryv8eVXylUotcZT8h7IEpGyXkxbJXuDjf/s1600/download.jpg" /></a>Exactly one hundred years ago today, 1 December 1919, Lady Nancy Astor became the first woman to take up a seat in the British parliament. Although not connected herself with the Suffragette Movement, she was far posher than most of them, Lady Astor's ascent to political power was a direct result of that struggle, and every female MP who has come after owes her place, in part, to the women who fought and sometimes died for the cause.</div>
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When I was invited to contribute a story to the anthology which is currently sitting at #1 on Amazon, <i>Once Upon A Christmas Wedding</i>, and mindful of the anniversary looming, I couldn't resist setting my story against the backdrop of the Suffragettes. </div>
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The title of my story, <i><b>Deeds Not Words</b></i>, was the slogan of the Women's Social and Political Union, and still has resonance a century later.</div>
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About the set:</div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Do you love a Christmas romance? And weddings?<br /> Grab the mistletoe and the confetti! You're in for such a
treat.</h4>
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Twenty-seven lovely historical romance authors, including me, have come
together to create a collection connoisseurs of sexy romance won't want to miss. <i>Once Upon A Christmas Wedding</i> brings you 27 heart-warming, sensual romances, all set against a backdrop of the festive season.</div>
<br /><br />
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">'Tis the season... for wedding bells!</span></div>
<span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">But, the path of true love never did run
smooth... as our brides and grooms soon discover.</span></div>
</span>
<span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">From the snowbound Highlands to candlelit
ballrooms, follow our fearless heroines as they scorn etiquette and defy danger
in pursuit of their heart's desire.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqWoeZkC_6pIX2qQRYLZ9moO3b3AkHvRg2VodpBXddVwxr0mi5UUWYEtZKNY9FuyeDEETOXFcFRxjPdkRZXDSaDyAqN8E2Ji1F8q-chaylJ9kp90AUqQjzDFggd26Sp2GbVLFA7o55V6K/s1600/71215737_2430290920564888_2711651469462863872_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1600" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqWoeZkC_6pIX2qQRYLZ9moO3b3AkHvRg2VodpBXddVwxr0mi5UUWYEtZKNY9FuyeDEETOXFcFRxjPdkRZXDSaDyAqN8E2Ji1F8q-chaylJ9kp90AUqQjzDFggd26Sp2GbVLFA7o55V6K/s320/71215737_2430290920564888_2711651469462863872_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Merriweather",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Merriweather",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="background: white;">The set is available from <a href="http://viewbook.at/ChristmasWedding" target="_blank">Amazon, on KU</a>, or can be yours for just £4.99 or around $6.50</span></span></h3>
<h3>
<br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="background: white;">Here's an excerpt from <i>Deeds Not Words</i>. Enjoy.</span></span></h3>
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Merriweather",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Clarissa is in Holloway. Again.” Victorine sniffed
her disgust and reached for the butter knife. She regarded her brother with a
disapproving gaze as she slathered her morning toast. “That girl is a menace,
and I hold you responsible.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She had him at ‘Holloway’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">James narrowly avoided showering his half-sister with
coffee and settled instead for a fit of helpless coughing as he fought to clear
his airway. When, at last, he felt sufficiently restored to reply, he glared
across the breakfast table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Holloway? Clarissa? What the devil for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What do you think? She’s been keeping bad company,
got in with those monstrous women. The ones who set fire to innocent folk’s
property and attack decent, law-abiding people. We could all be murdered in our
beds. The girl deserves locking up, along with the rest of them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What on earth are you babbling about? Clarissa wouldn’t
hurt a fly. She’s too tiny for one thing. And never has her nose out of a book
for another.” He checked his copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Times</i> for stray coffee stains, then folded the newspaper neatly, relieved
to note that he hadn’t made too much of a mess when his half-sister saw fit to
drop her ridiculous bombshell. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters
requiring my attention.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He made to rise. Victorine was never especially
pleasant company, but this morning she seemed more than usually waspish. James
often found it difficult to credit that they had shared the same mild-mannered
father. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Victorine’s mother, Sophia, had been Edmund Smallwood’s
first wife. She had passed away following a particularly virulent dose of
influenza when Victorine had been just seven years of age. Edmund had observed
a suitable three or four years of mourning before remarrying. His second wife,
Alice, was quickly pregnant, and James had made his appearance within a year of
their marriage. For as long as he could remember, Victorine had bitterly
resented her father’s second marriage. She made no secret of it. James’ mother had
spent most of her married life dealing with the barbs and hostility hurled her
way by her stepdaughter. For the most part, she managed to rise above it. She
was Viscountess of Smallwood, and there was nothing Victorine could do to
change that, however much she might wish to. James, too, had learned early in
his life that Victorine was best avoided, and failing that, ignored. As an
adult, he barely tolerated her, but blood was blood. She was his half-sister,
and in truth, Smallwood Manor was her home, and she had nowhere else to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He gathered up his newspaper and briefly considered
the sanctuary offered by his study. No, with Victorine in this mood he would do
better to put more distance between them. He had not intended to go into his
office today, but perhaps he might find a reason to drive into Town, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But Victorine was not finished. She fixed him with one
of her withering glares and continued her tirade. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly? That’s
what you think. You’ve been away too long, James. While you were gadding about
in America, your cousin was busy miring the lot of us in scandal. She was
thrown in jail for a month last year, but it seems that wasn’t enough. This
time it’s to be fourteen weeks, I gather.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He sank back into his seat. The level of detail
provided by Victorine lent an air of veracity to this preposterous tale. Could
it really be…?” He raked his fingers through his hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Very well. Tell me what has happened.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“She was arrested with a bunch of others trying to set
fire to the offices of Smalley and Haslewood.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A firm of lawyers, he recognised the name. Their
premises, as far as he could recall, were in Chelsea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Why would she do that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Because she does whatever that dreadful Pankhurst
woman says. Besotted, she is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Are you telling me that Clarissa is a member of the Women’s
Social and Political Union? The Suffragettes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, I am. And a more violent, immoral, and lawless
crowd of females I have never heard of. They are outrageous, every last one of
them, quite beyond the sensibilities of decent society. How a girl of her
breeding became mixed up in such wickedness I can hardly imagine, but she has.
And it’s your fault.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“My fault? And how do you arrive at that, Victorine?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You should have got her married off three years ago
when you had the chance. Mr Rigby was keen enough, and he would have soon
brought her to heel. What Clarissa needs is a firm hand, a husband who can
curtail her wild ways. Mr Rigby would have been perfect.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He’s a brute. His current wife has left him after
less than two years of marriage to return to the sanctuary of her family and is
petitioning the courts for a legal separation. Clarissa did not wish to marry
him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What does that have to do with it? You were her
guardian at the time and could have permitted the match. A spot of discipline
would have done her the world of good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Perhaps, at some stage, you might see fit to join the
rest of us in the twentieth century, Victorine. Gone are the days of forced
marriage, of treating women as though they were a piece of property. Clarissa
chose not to wed Rigby, and I don’t blame her. Of course I opposed the match.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And now look how things have turned out. Instead of
remaining at home and behaving as a young lady of this family should, involved
in charitable works, perhaps, or assisting in the running of the estate, she
ups and goes to London. Takes rooms on her own, and the next we hear, she’s
hurling petrol bombs and attacking policemen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://viewbook.at/ChristmasWedding" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1c577d; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 16.0pt;">viewbook.at/ChristmasWedding</span></a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Merriweather",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="background: white;"></span></span>Ashe Barkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390519279886657608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-20134585379924932602019-11-28T19:47:00.001-05:002019-11-28T19:47:53.351-05:00Rescue Needed iin a Sea of TroublesSacchi Green<br />
<br />
Rescues are fine topics for fiction. You can pit heroes against villains, or against the vagaries of nature, or even against their own less heroic natures, and save their victims. While the old damsel-in-distress plot is overworked, it’s ever popular. I personally prefer turning the tables so that women (damsels doesn’t seem like the right term here) do the rescuing, especially when the characters involved turn out to rescue each other in different ways. But in fiction, all the rescued and rescuers are contrivances, creations, under the control (more or less) of the author.<br />
<br />
In the all-too-real world, there are so many needs for rescue that I feel overcome, useless, drowning in a sea of troubles that I can do little or nothing about. Right now I get over a hundred requests a day in email for contributions to organizations political, charitable, and environmental, and of course any actual contribution leads to more and more requests, and gets me on more and more lists. The political organizations, especially, seem to be proliferating so wildly and duplicating each other’s messages that I get to wondering whether some of them are jumping on the bandwagon to make profits for themselves. Environmental groups seem somewhat more sensible, each with a slightly different focus from the others, such as wildlife or national parks or sustainable energy sources, although there’s still some repetition. The charities have proliferated, too, in response to world events that leave millions of people in desperate need of rescue.<br />
<br />
So what can an individual with very moderate resources do? I join some local marches, but those are preaching to the choir around here. I contribute what little money I can, prioritizing a few carefully vetted political organizations on the assumption that replacing our current government, which is doing its best (or worst) to erase what slow advances had been made in environmental and civil rights matters, is the most important and urgent thing to accomplish. Without that, everything else will get even worse, and some things are going to get worse no matter what, so we need a government that can at least handle those crises better than he chaotic mess we have now. But the desperate needs of charities, some of them responding to crises our own government has helped to cause, can’t be ignored, so I try to help a few, without being able to do much on that front, either.<br />
<br />
I’m currently in the last phase of settling the estate of my father, who died last March at the age of 99. It’s a moderate estate from the sale of his house, not yet eaten up by the cost of the care he needed in his last year or so, to be shared with my two brothers. Both of them have agreed that I can use a small portion of that to contribute to charities that our father favored--I still get mail addressed to him from the many causes he supported in a small way. He leaned toward things like Save the Children and Care, and medical research and some Native American causes. I’m still debating how to distribute what isn’t a large amount at all, but I know he’d like me to send some to the church my family attended (a very progressive, diversified one even when I was a kid,) and to the small-town library where my mother was head librarian for nineteen years.<br />
<br />
The last two don’t qualify as rescues, since neither of them is in any danger, but I do consider contributions to charities and some medical research to be rescue attempts, and these days the political ones as well could be seen as attempts, however feeble, to rescue all of us from the “clear and present danger” that threatens us and our future. I’ll keep on donating to those I favor, even though the small amounts I can give won’t make any difference.<br />
<br />
I’m generally pretty practical and rational, but once in a while I toy with an illusion that the more people there are supporting a cause, even in very small ways, the more others will pitch in, too, which makes every effort all the more valuable. Sometimes we need illusions, once in a while. But I’m sure of one thing: if we don’t work to rescue ourselves, we won’t be rescued.<br />
<br />
[Writing several hours later]<br />
I’m in a more mellow mood now, a pleasant post-feast, replete kind of mood. Our family worked together, as always, to produce Thanksgiving dinner, ate and talked and joked and commiserated together, enjoying the companionship that comes with all being pretty much of the same mindset. No political or social arguments. We’re all on the same set of pages. That in itself is something to be grateful for. We all share a sorrow, too, that for the first time my father wasn’t with us, and never will be again. That’s the normal way life goes. But being together, especially with my bright, lovely thirteen-year-old granddaughter who should have a great future ahead of her, gives me even more determination to do whatever I can toward rescuing her, and all of us. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sacchi Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10801164916418570059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-70600381745385954582019-11-24T00:01:00.000-05:002019-11-24T00:01:06.934-05:00Rescue Me From a Sugar Overdose
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">By Tim Smith</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Each December, we are bombarded by holiday-themed romance
flicks on TV. Christmas and romance go together like cookies and hot chocolate,
and I release a new story each year, but the networks take it to the extreme. Last
year, the Hallmark Channel set a new record of 39 Christmas-themed romances in
December alone. Lifetime started their run of these seasonal soapers in early
November. I try to catch a few, but some of them threaten to push my blood
sugar level into the diabetic danger zone. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">To that end, I submit my own list of favorite holiday
movies, the ones that are part of my yuletide tradition. Some of them focus on
romance, but most are just good holiday cheer. How many of these have you seen?
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_eu48FPIjBt9YbB23gOeMZbsSgROH1PPWMsWCcWLEHUmwlSIBrkosS0GCFL_VzmcDsjhTN4yRXtk15SamIKiyWv_tU1iu3i0C1aq4YbfgBp8W3oxxKyVIUdjZF2frcOG0u5LHNnrLCp2/s1600/51qd%252Bo%252B334L._SY445_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="289" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_eu48FPIjBt9YbB23gOeMZbsSgROH1PPWMsWCcWLEHUmwlSIBrkosS0GCFL_VzmcDsjhTN4yRXtk15SamIKiyWv_tU1iu3i0C1aq4YbfgBp8W3oxxKyVIUdjZF2frcOG0u5LHNnrLCp2/s320/51qd%252Bo%252B334L._SY445_.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Holiday Inn” (1942) – The first onscreen pairing of
Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire introduced “White Christmas,” “Happy Holiday” and
“Easter Parade,” among other holiday-themed tunes by Irving Berlin. The concept
was cliched even then (two show biz partners break up the act, one opens a
nightclub while the other tries to make it as a solo, they fight over the same
girl, etc.) but it’s still fun to watch for some of the best dancing Astaire ever
put on film.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“White Christmas” (1954) – This was originally intended
as a reworking of “Holiday Inn,” again featuring Crosby and Astaire, along with
some new Irving Berlin songs. The plan changed when Astaire read the script and
wanted nothing to do with it. Donald O’Connor was then chosen to be the dancing
partner but he became ill and had to drop out. Danny Kaye replaced him. Kaye
let it be known that he wasn’t happy about being third choice, and wasn’t about
to take a back seat to Crosby. Some people on the crew described the production
as “eight terrible weeks of shouting and screaming.” Despite that, it was the
top-grossing movie that year and has remained a beloved holiday staple. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“The Man Who Came to Dinner” (1942) – This film
version of the Broadway comedy hit came along when America was in the thick of
WWII, and the country needed something to lift its spirits. Monty Woolley is a
snobbish radio personality who becomes injured while visiting an Ohio home during
a lecture tour. He must remain there through Christmas, and imposes his
eccentric lifestyle and demands on his unwilling hosts. The whole thing is
performed at a fast pace with snappy dialogue and situations that are still
funny. This was updated for TV in the early ‘70s with Orson Welles in the title
role.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Grumpy Old Men” (1993) – The reunion of Jack Lemmon
and Walter Matthau turned out to be a surprise hit. Two childhood friends who have
been feuding for years live next door to each other, but barely get along. When
carefree spirit Ann-Margret moves in across the street, the competition for her
attention gets intense. This movie is a delight, with hearty laughs and
insightful observations about relationships, aging, and holidays with estranged
families. Burgess Meredith is a hoot as Lemmon’s father. After the ending,
stick around for the outtakes over the closing credits.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” (1988) – Here
we have Chevy Chase doing his hapless family guy persona, Beverly D’Angelo as
his long-suffering wife, and a situation where anything that can go wrong probably
will. While you’re watching this, think “How many of these things have happened
to me?” I can always come up with a few. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“A Christmas Story” (1982) – “I triple-dog-dare ya!” This
one brings back many of my own childhood Christmas memories, especially Darren
McGavin’s hilarious portrayal of The Old Man. And how many of us lusted after
that one special gift we just had to have, like Ralphie with his Red Ryder BB
gun? I was guilty of the “F-dash-dash-dash word” thing when I was his age,
too.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>If you can’t catch this one at
least once over the holidays, you’re probably living on Mars. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk25246360"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“When Harry Met Sally” (1989) – Rob Reiner’s ode to contemporary
romance makes the list because the big finish takes place on New Year’s Eve.
Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan are besties who avoid a relationship because they
think two friends who become romantically involved can’t possibly make it work—or
can they? Nora Ephron’s script contains her usual insightful prose, and the
music by Harry Connick, Jr. sets the right mood. And let us not forget “I’ll
have what she’s having.” </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“The Bishop’s Wife” (1947) – This overlooked Christmas
gem stars Cary Grant, Loretta Young and David Niven. A church Bishop (Niven)
neglects his wife, family and congregation because of his single-minded pursuit
of building a new cathedral. Along comes Grant as a suave angel named Dudley to
remind him of the true meaning of the season. There are laughs, charm, and some
genuinely touching moments. Remade as “The Preacher’s Wife” with Whitney
Houston and Denzel Washington. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Planes, Trains and Automobiles” (1987) – More in the
league of a National Lampoon satire, this John Hughes movie for grownups is a
lot of fun. Steve Martin is a businessman trying to make it home to Chicago for
Thanksgiving, but one thing after another gets in the way. The main distraction
is John Candy as a well-meaning but overbearing salesman whom Martin ends up
traveling with. Lots of laughs abound as Martin makes getting home his personal
crusade, in spite of the albatross around his neck. Watch for the “Those aren’t
pillows!” scene about halfway in. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“A Charlie Brown Christmas” (1965) – Not technically a
movie, but a sentimental favorite nonetheless. I’ve been watching this every
year since it first premiered in 1965 (where I saw it in glorious black-and-white—talk
about dating myself!). The simplistic animation adds to the charm, as does
Vince Guaraldi’s jazzy soundtrack. This was the first attempt at animating
Charles Schulz’s beloved Peanuts characters, and it hits home. The message
about the real meaning of Christmas still resonates, and hopefully influences a
new generation of kids each year.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-69380433925629076822019-11-23T07:30:00.000-05:002019-11-23T07:30:05.898-05:00A Ghost, A Succubus and NaNoWriMo<div style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;">Two of my favourite characters in all of my novels are Anderson, the ghost from my Lakeland Witches Series, and Cassandra, the succubus who becomes his lover in the second novel of the series, </span></strong><strong><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/books/lakeland-heatwave-book-2-riding-the-ether/" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Riding the Ether</span></a></span></i></strong><strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;">. Of all the incredibly erotic, deliciously fun love stories I’ve ever written for my character, theirs was maybe the most fun. The whole Lakeland Witches series was one of the most fun series to write as well. Since this month is NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month, it seems appropriate to share something that had its roots in NaNaWriMo. <i><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/books/lakeland-heatwave-book-i/" style="color: purple;">Body Temperature and Rising</a></i>, novel one of the series, was my very first NaNoWriMo success. This year I’m doing NaNoWriMo for the fifth time, with three of those novels having been published. The other two aren’t quite ready for the world to see yet. I hope you enjoy Cassandra’s observations of and reflections on Anderson. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;">Book two of the Lakeland Witches trilogy (Click here for:</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"> </span></b></span><strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/?p=1256" style="color: purple;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Book One</span></a></span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"> </span></b></span><strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;">|</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"> </span></b></span><strong><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 12pt; padding: 0cm;"><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/?p=3515" style="color: purple;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Book Three</span></a>)<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Cassandra Larkin keeps her ravenous and dangerous sexual appetite secret until she seduces Anderson in the mysterious void of the Ether. Anderson is the sexy, insatiable ghost who can give her exactly what she needs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">But sex is dangerous in a place like the Ether…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">When the treacherous demon, Deacon, discovers the truth about the origin of Cassandra’s powerful lust, he plots to use her sex magic for revenge on Tara Stone and the Elemental Coven, who practice their own brand of sex magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Cassandra must embrace the lust and sexuality she fears and learn to use its power. Will she stand with Anderson, Tara, and the Elemental Coven against Deacon’s wrath or suffer the loss of friendship, magic and love?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Excerpt Riding the Ether:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">CASSANDRA WOKE TO THE cold mist of her own breath rising in the room above the mattress and pulled the thick duvet up tighter around her. She had expected the fire to be out by the time she returned, though she had banked it as best she could. It was then she realised she had the tiniest bit of a headache. The fact that she had a headache at all caused a clench in her stomach that was far more painful than her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She never had headaches unless she had taken too much. And she never, ever, did that. Not any more. She hadn’t done since she was in uni, and then she hadn’t known any better, hadn’t known what would happen, hadn’t known how to control herself. And once she did know what would happen ... She pushed that thought out of her head. Still, how could she have taken too much? She had been so careful with her research, so careful with her training. Anderson was a ghost, and they’d been in the Ether, and he had seemed fine, had said he was. He’d certainly seemed all right when she had left him. More than all right, actually. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Suddenly, the clench in her stomach and the ache in her head were both overshadowed by the rhythmic thrumming between her legs that buzzed up her spine. It was the feel of him. The feel of his energy still on her, still in her. She reached between her legs and felt his wetness still there. Even though they’d been in ethereal bodies, sometimes a bit of the Ether escaped back into the World of Flesh. Fooling the Ether, her grandmother used to call it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even the feel of his semen against her fingers tingled. She brought it to her mouth, strangely scentless for semen, but that was the curse of ghosts who wore the flesh. They could generate no scent. She wondered if he had been able to smell her scent on him after they’d left the Ether. There was always a scent on her when she came back from the Ether. It was the scent of high- altitude cold and metallic bite. She hoped it was more than that that lingered on him when he left. But then it would be, wouldn’t it? Much, much more, though she wasn’t sure about scent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She licked his juices from her fingers and instantly she knew that he was indeed all right, if a bit confused. He was very all right. She slid her hand down for more, feeling the buzz of energy relax the knot in her stomach and clear her headache until her whole brain felt like a window, open to all she needed to see, to feel, to experience. And fuck, it was amazing! It had always been amazing, like a drug she dare not allow herself for fear of becoming addicted to it, but this was bloody awesome! It was more than her research had ever prepared her for, way more! </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">With little more than a stroke, she came, trembling all over as she reached between her legs for more of his juices, unable to hold back shudders that led to moans and, embarrassingly, nearly to bellows that vibrated her whole body. With each clench and tremor, her pussy forced out more of his delicious essence, and she wiped it, rubbed it, slathered it all over her body. Great Christ, she wondered what the man must have smelled like when he lived. He was ... He was a rider of the Ether. And he had been for damn near ever. He was power and virility and physicality in ways she had only dreamed of. And she could make love to him. She had made love to him. Great Goddess, how she had made love to him! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">With her orgasm mellowing to ripples, she sent out her fetch, that magical part of her that was, in itself, almost like a ghost, her essence, sent forth to explore beyond her body, sent forth whenever she rode the Ether. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She could have never breached the protective magic of Elemental Cottage before. But now she was connected to Anderson. She wore his essence inside and out. She passed through those boundaries and protective spells like water. And she would be able to find him anywhere, in the flesh, or not. She paid no attention to the house, took no time to marvel at the domain of the witches she so admired. She was sure it was amazing, but she had no time for that. She had sent her fetch out for one thing, and one thing only, and that was to find Anderson, to look, just look at him, to reassure herself that she hadn’t dreamed such a man, such a coupling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And he was there, exactly as she knew he would be. He slept in the arms of his high priestess, slept the deep, even sleep of dreams, dreams which he didn’t need – and yet he chose to have them, in the vulnerable act of sleep that he also didn’t need. He slept wrapped around her. They had had sex. Though Cassandra could not smell him, she could smell the woman, earthy and slightly piquant from the labour of lovemaking. He slept, but the woman, Tara Stone, did not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She could sense the woman’s worry, her restlessness, but that didn’t concern her at the moment. It was Anderson in his unnecessary sleep that interested her, fascinated her, drew her. He was erect. In a thought she felt was worthy of a teenager with a crush, she wondered if he was excited by dreams of her. She could find out easily enough, but she never invaded people’s dreams on purpose. She never entered people’s private places. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She ran her hand along his flank, feeling her own essence against his flesh as surely as she felt his on her. She could take him now while he slept and he would never know it. She could give him such sweet dreams of her, such passionate dreams that he would come in his sleep, and she would wear the energy of his release, the energy of his dream, like a tight- fitting skin – a skin that would nourish her, give her strength in a way her own never could. That she could do such things frightened her. That she still wanted to do such things frightened her even more. She bent over him and pressed her mouth against his parted lips, breathing a kiss against them, and he sighed softly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The woman started and sat up, looking around the room. Cassandra couldn’t imagine that she was able to sense her presence, but she knew Tara Stone’s reputation so just in case, she quickly pulled her fetch back to herself, back to her own bed, and her flesh felt all the more vibrant, all the more alive for having been with him, even if it had been from a distance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her clit felt heavy. Her nipples ached, and she masturbated again. It was in the receding tremors of orgasm that she noticed the ghost watching her, peeking around the edge of the hanging blanket that separated Cassandra’s sleeping space from the rest of the bothy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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K D Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02623197044690751762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-80869685290428158172019-11-19T17:46:00.001-05:002019-11-19T22:46:11.914-05:00Jean Roberta: Rescuing "La Chatte Blanche" [Jean Roberta has been having trouble posting here, so I'm doing it for her--Sacchi.]<br />
<br />
Jean Roberta<br />
<br />
The theme this month is "Rescue." So here is a fairly long passage from "Madame Blanche," my fairy tale based on "La Chatte Blanche" by the Countess d'Aulnoy. In my version, a transman trapped in a female body and a noblewoman trapped in the body of a cat must rescue each other.<br />
"Madame Blanche" is in my story collection, Spring Fever, available here: https://www.amazon.com/SPRING-FEVER-Other-Lesbi…/…/B07T9FCFC<br />
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Val rode through one village after another on her quest, and the people addressed her as “Your Lordship.” But the only dogs she saw were thin or half-wild and clearly not fit for a King, and so her quest seemed fruitless. As though Nature herself wished to discourage Val from riding ever farther from her own hearth, the autumn winds blew cold and gray clouds often hid the sun.<br />
At length she came to a dark forest, and her horse was reluctant to go forward. But Val knew that many wonders can be found in such wild places, and no one ever overcame a challenge by surrendering to fear. She urged her horse to pick his way between the trees until they arrived at a clearing that reflected the light of precious jewels: glowing rubies, sapphires as blue as the sky, cool green emeralds, golden topaz, brilliant diamonds. She found herself staring at the walls of a small but exquisite castle made of gemstones, with golden doors and crystal windows.<br />
"Who lives here?" she asked aloud, and her horse neighed as though he were perplexed as well. No gate or sentries impeded her approach, so Val dismounted and strode bravely to a shining door with a great knocker in the form of a lion showing its teeth.<br />
The clang of the knocker echoed deep within the castle. Slowly, the door swung open although no one could be seen within. A sweet voice called out:<br />
"Welcome, Traveler. Have no fear.<br />
Here is linen, meat and cheer."<br />
Val peered into a dark foyer, and saw no one. "Who welcomes me?" she called loudly, knowing she had come to a place of enchantment. She was wary, but determined not to surrender to fear.<br />
The clear voice answered:<br />
"One whose truest form must be<br />
Concealed until her heart is free."<br />
Val felt she had heard herself described. Whoever dwelt in the wondrous castle was surely afflicted, as she was, with a body which did not represent her true self.<br />
To her surprise, a pair of hands floated through the air to seize the bridle of her horse and lead him to an outbuilding which appeared to be a stable made of copper. Another pair of hands seized her by the sleeves and gently pulled her inside, as though honored by her visit. Val’s curiosity and her determination to face every challenge prompted her to accept the strange, unspoken invitation. As soon as she had crossed the threshold, the door closed behind her with a ringing crash.<br />
A hand holding a torch led her into a grand hall whose walls were entirely covered with murals of cats on wooden horses hunting mice, cats dancing upright in elegant clothes, cats fighting battles with drawn swords, cats seated around a table, looking as serious as judges. Val had no time to study the curious images before the hands pulled her firmly to the door of a bedchamber in which all the furniture was decorated in green silk. The pale hands lit the fire and the lamps, then exited. When Val tried to open it, she found herself locked in.<br />
No matter, she assured herself. I have a comfortable bed for the night, and my horse doubtlessly has food, water and clean straw. She would not willingly have deprived the beast of nourishment, although her own appetite had quite fled. Whatever awaited her in the enchanted castle, Val knew that rest would help her to preserve her strength. She removed her clothes and donned the soft nightshirt she found folded on the bed before climbing under the coverlet and falling into a deep sleep.<br />
When Val awoke refreshed in the morning, the door opened, and the hands presented her with a savory meal of venison and dove’s eggs on beautifully pattern china, with fragrant tea and cherry juice to quench her thirst. No sooner had she eaten and drunk her fill than she regretted giving way to her hunger. Would she be held in this place forever by a cantrip?<br />
As though in response to her questions, a pair of hands tugged at the nightshirt which was her only covering. She held the fabric in one hand as she used the other to repulse the hands as though they were weapons. At length, the hands laid a washbasin, soap and a comb on a beautifully carved table before her, and placed a powdered wig and the clothes of a court gentleman on a silk-upholstered chair. A pair of fine, buckled shoes, too small for most men but just the right size for Val, were placed on the carpet beside her feet. Then the hands made an elaborate shrug in the air, floated to the door, and disappeared. Val knew that her magical attendants were waiting to escort her to their master or mistress. When she was fit to be presented to others of her rank, she opened the door and followed the beckoning hands.<br />
Val was led back to the great hall with its painted scenes, which was now filled with cats large and small, all dressed as rich nobles and twitching their tails at the sight of her. She marveled at the sight before her, and then she held her lips tightly closed to prevent a laugh from escaping. The most awful meowing echoed off the walls and the ceiling, and the Princess realized that the assembled company must be discussing her in their own language.<br />
A small, graceful figure covered in a black veil and matching gown came forward, walking on hind legs.<br />
"Welcome, Visitor," said the figure, whose French was as perfect as that of the court in which Val had been raised. "We so rarely have a chance to offer hospitality to strangers that we are grateful for your company. Though you may leave whenever you choose, I hope you will stay with us at least until spring returns. I shall not demand your true name or your position in the world, but I will tell you mine. I am Blanche, and I am the chatelaine of this place."<br />
"Pardon me, my Lady," said Val, "but can all the members of your court speak as humans do?"<br />
"We can," answered Lady Blanche, "but amongst ourselves we prefer to speak as cats."<br />
Val felt very self-conscious, being the object of so much curiosity. Many pairs of green and golden eyes stared at her openly. For once, she felt too large. As she had often felt the lack of a tail in front, she was now keenly aware that she also lacked one behind.<br />
Lady Blanche turned her head to confront her too-curious courtiers, and at once all the other cats looked elsewhere as though searching the wainscots for mice. “Please forgive our incivility, Sir,” she asked her guest. “Will you join us in the hunt this afternoon? Hunting rats is great sport, and it discourages them from invading our larders.”<br />
“I would be honored.” Val thought this the most diplomatic reply.<br />
“And now will you join me in my private quarters? We may converse more freely there.”<br />
Val gladly assented. By now, she suspected Lady Blanche and her court were humans of high rank, all under an evil spell. If they were so cursed, Val hoped she could restore the lady and all her courtiers to their true forms by fighting a dragon or perhaps an old witch: whoever had changed them to cats. And perhaps in return, Blanche could help her win her father’s favor and inherit the kingdom which she knew to be rightfully hers.<br />
The other courtiers scampered hither and yon in a way that looked startling to Val, who was accustomed to human etiquette. Lady Blanche skipped lightly on four paws to lead her guest out of the room, glancing back to make sure she followed.<br />
They came to a charming room outfitted in teakwood and rose-colored damask draperies, where Lady Blanche curled up on a loveseat. Like all cats at ease, she seemed to be waiting to be stroked, but Val did not dare presume to touch her. Val sat as closely beside her hostess as she thought seemly.<br />
The little cat used her forepaws to lift her black veil over her head, revealing a furry white face with delicate whiskers. Val could have sworn the cat was smiling. "What am I to call you, my Lord?" asked Lady Blanche.<br />
"Prince Val," answered the visitor. "In thanks for your hospitality, my Lady, I will explain how I came to enter your domain." Looking at the cat’s sympathetic little face and gently-moving tail, she found it easy to recount her father's dilemma and the strange challenge he had given to his three offspring.<br />
"Ah," replied Lady Blanche. "As you may have noticed, dogs are not welcome here. However, you may ask me for a favor before you depart, and I will do all within my power to help you."<br />
"You are most gracious, my Lady. Everything about you leads me to think you are really a noblewoman in the form of a cat. May I not help you to return to human form? I am fearless in battle, even when fighting magical enemies."<br />
"I have faith in your courage, Sir," replied Lady Blanche. A small pink tongue delicately flicked out between two rows of sharp little teeth. "But do not ask me to tell you my history because I cannot. That is part of my condition. We will not speak of this again."<br />
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<br />Sacchi Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10801164916418570059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-7069464235134092062019-11-18T12:46:00.000-05:002019-11-18T12:46:26.169-05:00#Rescue Never Give Up On a Dog, Ashe Barker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Meet Ethel. Today was her three monthly wash and brush up so
she is looking unusually clean and tidy. The lady who works this miracle, Cera,
comes to our house and spends an hour or so making Ethel and Saffy, her
daughter, look fit to be among decent folk. Naturally, we chat during all of
this, and she tells me about the dog rescue charity she runs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It never ceases to amaze me how uncaring and downright cruel
people, can be to animals. Thank goodness for Cera and people like her who
intervene to give these luckless souls a second chance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It reminds me also of another friend of mine. Sarah used to
be the PR consultant who worked with the company I was once employed at. We met
frequently during the course of work and became good friends, a friendship
which endures to this day even though our paths parted professionally over a
decade ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sarah had a rescue dog, a cute little mongrel which used to
come with her to meetings. Lizzie was very sweet and would curl up under the
table while we dealt with the business. Sadly, no dog is immortal and Lizzie died
of old age about five years ago. Sarah was devastated but determined to get
another rescue dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most of us trot along to the RSPCA or the Dogs Trust. Not
Sarah. She went one better and rescued her dog from the streets of Romania.
Ursu was in his middle years when she first saw his picture on a website. He
had been a street dog his entire life and distrusted people – with good reason.
When he was eventually rounded up there seemed to be little hope for him, but
Sarah knew better. After long and protracted negotiations with a rescue charity
specialising in rehoming Romanian strays to the UK, a deal was struck and Ursu began
his journey across Europe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sarah tells the tale of arranging to meet the courier who
would bring him to the UK in a motorway services on the M1. The charity would
deal with all the paperwork, veterinary care, health certificates and such like
to ensure everything was nice and legal, but a dog like Ursu needs special
care.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bring a lead” they said. “A strong one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sure enough, the moment the crate door was opened in that
car park, the dog made his leap for freedom. It took three of them to wrestle
him into Sarah’s car, and he yowled the entire way back to her house. Once
there, they had to almost drag him inside, then lock all the doors because if
he got loose they would never see him again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The following weeks were somewhat harrowing as Ursu became
accustomed to his new life. He had never lived indoors. He was scared of the
television, and absolutely petrified of the vacuum cleaner. He couldn’t manage
stairs and would leave a huge puddle on the floor if anyone came to the house.
He was friendly enough, but painfully timid.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Months passed, and he became calmer. He got so that he could
venture out of the kitchen to explore the other rooms. He could even go outside,
though to this day no one would think it wise to let him off the lead. He
enjoys chasing his squeaky toy, and even took a dip in the sea.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ursu probably won’t make old bones. No amount of pampering –
and he gets plenty of that these days – will compensate for years of near
starvation and neglect. But his life is happy now. He lives with people who
adore him, and a more affectionate dog is hard to imagine.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being something of a wordsmith, it was natural that Sarah
would want to tell his story. Her book, <b><i>Ursu: Never Give Up On A Dog</i></b>
is available on Amazon and is a must read for dog-lovers everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ursu-Never-give-up-dog/dp/0995788103/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Ursu%2C+Sarah+Napier&qid=1574096697&s=books&sr=1-1">https://www.amazon.com/Ursu-Never-give-up-dog/dp/0995788103/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Ursu%2C+Sarah+Napier&qid=1574096697&s=books&sr=1-1</a></span>Ashe Barkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03390519279886657608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-77467109926856119142019-11-17T03:00:00.000-05:002019-11-17T03:00:09.037-05:00An unlikely savior - #HolidayRomance #SelfPublishing #Homelessness
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For
my promo post today, I have a bit from my story <span style="color: #990000;"><i><b>Slush: A
Holiday Romance</b></i></span>. This title represented my very first foray
into self-publishing, nearly five years ago. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
lot of books under the bridge since then! I’m still fond of this
gentle tale, though, about a rich guy who’s rescued by a homeless
young woman.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
can get a copy (only 99 cents!) at <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/499356">Smashwords</a>,
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Slush-Holiday-Romance-Lisabet-Sarai-ebook/dp/B00QNMYV5O">Amazon</a>,
<a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/slush-lisabet-sarai/1120878118?ean=2940046447880">BN</a>
or <a href="https://www.kobo.com/gr/en/ebook/slush-a-holiday-romance-1">Kobo</a>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Blurb</b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hot
shot Boston lawyer Ian Pierce has everything but peace of mind.
Christmas Eve finds him alone, wading through the slush to his BMW so
he can drive back to his lonely luxury apartment. Then everything
goes black. He awakens with an aching skull to find himself in a
freezing, boarded-up garage occupied by a street kid. At first he
blames the dodgy-looking youth for his troubles, but before long he
realizes the raggedy girl who rescued him from the gutter may well be
a Christmas angel in disguise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Excerpt</b></span></span></span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hey,
mister – you okay?” </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
youthful voice filtered down the deep, dark hole to Ian’s
flickering awareness. </span></span>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Urgh.”
That was his own voice, a groan that kicked up pounding echoes in his
head. Irritated by his own incapacity, pushing the pain aside, he
tried again.</span></span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
– uh – I don’t know...” He forced his heavy eyelids open,
blinking to dispel the maddening blurriness, and tried to focus on
the pale face hovering over him. “What – what happened?”</span></span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
think you were mugged. I found you unconscious in the alley, lying in
the gutter next to some fancy car.” The teenager had a thin face
with a toothy grin. A knitted Bruins cap pulled low over his ears hid
the kid’s hair. His breath condensed into white clouds when he
spoke. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
shiver wracked Ian’s body. Even that slight movement exacerbated
the throbbing at the back of his skull. <i>Damn, it hurt! And it was
freezing in here!</i></span></span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Where
am I?” Ian tried to sit up, impatient as always with any kind of
weakness. “Ow – shit!” </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
sank back onto something yielding, breathing hard. A damp smell of
mold assailed him, mixed with hints of motor oil and wood smoke. </span></span>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Better
not move,” the kid counseled. “You might have a concussion.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ignoring
this advice, Ian managed to work himself into a half-sit. The
softness beneath him was an old mattress, covered with a stained
woolen blanket. He leaned against a plywood wall. Cold seeped through
the thin barrier from the winter night outside, all the way through
his coat and his shirt. His back muscles cramped and he shivered
again. He glanced around the dim, crowded space, noting that the
other walls and the floor were bare concrete. </span></span>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here
– try this.” The younger man grabbed a thick wad of newspapers
from a pile in the corner</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tilt
forward – yeah – that’s right.” He slipped the papers into
the space between Ian’s back and the wall. They worked surprisingly
well as insulation. The kid smiled, showing those even white teeth
once again. “Better now?” </span></span>
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<br />
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<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ian
nodded, then regretted it as the pain in his head surged. “How did
I get here?” </span></span>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
teen’s laugh was high and girlish as he gestured toward a rusty
supermarket cart parked near the door in the plywood partition. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
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<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You’re
joking!”</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nope.
A sled might have been better on a night like this, though.” </span></span>
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<br />
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“<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
how... why...?”</span></span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
kid gazed at him, hands on his hips. “I couldn’t leave you there
in the slush, could I? You would’ve froze to death, no question.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ian
peered more closely at his savior. The teen – well, he might have
been twenty, twenty one at most – looked plump in his miscellany
of sweaters and sweatshirts. Underneath the bulky layers, though, he
was slightly built. His hands, wrapped in orange mittens, were small.
Bright red long johns showed through the holes in his ragged jeans.
Despite the inclement weather, he wore no boots, only dirty sneakers,
which looked soaked through. That observation made Ian realize how
wet and cold he was in his own clothing. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
shivered again. “Don’t you have any heat in here?” </span></span>
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
kid shrugged. “I could light a fire, I guess. I don’t like to do
that too often – makes it more likely someone will figure out I’m
in here. But I suppose nobody’s going to be prowling around on
Christmas Eve, ‘specially when it’s so miserable out.” </span></span>
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He
dragged a battered oil drum with a deeply dented lid into the center
of the room and started piling on bits and pieces of wood from a box
near the newspapers. Then he crumpled some of that paper onto the top
and struck a match. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
merry flames made Ian feel marginally better. The ache in his
occipital region faded a bit and the numbness shrouding his brain
cleared. He began to remember, brief impressions at first, then whole
scenes. </span></span>
</div>
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<br />
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<div style="line-height: 125%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Lisabet Saraihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05162514190572269660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-78398596667913894222019-11-12T06:09:00.001-05:002019-11-12T06:09:44.911-05:00"To Play" A rescuing story . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDuL34n7C7Lx4qaM3jRFSzgXtACII7XInlab3N90TvtD2Eonzu_GfbzAtbe0cbYzwHed4zT14oTYk3Eh98pR2umcMx4siPmOhY1m4s5GUJUZGzZM6VsdvRCCnehE6v673v4jSkfOARP4/s1600/wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="852" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDuL34n7C7Lx4qaM3jRFSzgXtACII7XInlab3N90TvtD2Eonzu_GfbzAtbe0cbYzwHed4zT14oTYk3Eh98pR2umcMx4siPmOhY1m4s5GUJUZGzZM6VsdvRCCnehE6v673v4jSkfOARP4/s320/wolf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Snow falling. The endless snow that reminds me of the haunted midnight forests of my old Bavaria. I turn my head up to the silver night sky, the glowing iridescent clouds and the snow falls straight down into my cold eyes like a shower of tiny meteors all aglow.<br />
<br />
On the crest of the hill, I smell him, it is a big male, a gray wolf such as my Uncle Snorri sometimes hunted and killed and hung on the gatepost of the sheep pen as a warning to other wolves. I smell the wolf. The wolf smells me. We two indolent hunters, passing in the night. His blood is as warm as any, but his nobility protects him from me. We are too much alike. A large furred beast. A small thin woman with snow colored hair; my pellucid face glows as white as the snow, so that without the blood in my eyes I might vanish in the wasteland like a ghost.<br />
<br />
He doesn’t know what to make of me. He sees human. But his excellent nose confuses him – the girl standing under the pine tree is not human. Does he feel that? A little out of tune? He must wonder what I am to be so strange. If I wait, yes, he comes now. He can’t stay away. He wants to know. It’s the craft and curse of my kind. What does a <i>nosferatu </i>do best but fascinate?<br />
<br />
He comes close to me, as though he were my own gorgeous dog, but then stops. Growls, snarls and shows his teeth to me. I have remarkable teeth too, wolfie dear. I brush the unmelting snow from my icy and bloodless skin and snarl at him showing my long sharp canines and he backs off, baffled.<br />
<br />
Now he is frightened of me, because I am small and thin. Just a girl, easy meat and I should be afraid and I am not. He knows that’s wrong. Suspicious. Beware <i>herr </i>wolfie, when they are not afraid of you.<br />
<br />
I gauge the distance. One leap. Say, two for the snow. Three if he runs. I would have his neck in my hands and teeth. It’s as hard to attack a wolf as a sheep, because they have so much hair over the throat. You can’t reach the vein at all unless you first kill and then peel them like fruit. It’s a mess.<br />
<br />
And besides, aren’t you beautiful <i>herr </i>wolfie? Play with me, wolfie. Look how I’m all alone, and no one to play. I hold out my hand, stretch my fingers. Come. Come, come. He only watches, never taking his golden eyes from me.<br />
<br />
I met Daniel on just such a night. I tried so hard to kill him. He won my heart with snowballs.<br />
<br />
Wandering the haunted woods near his home in Maine, which forests I loved, he rather smelled of death and depression like a beacon. A crazed and tired mind. What must I have looked like to him standing in the trail in the falling snow. Buxom, ragamuffin girl. Hungry little matchstick girl, with matchstick arms and legs who has lost her matches, preserved in my ever girlhood like a frost maiden.<br />
<br />
He never feared for me, because he was so sure I was not real. A drug dream or hallucination. He talked to me in the thickening storm, and I bided my time pretending to listen. I longed for him even as he disgusted me. The snow in his hair like jewels. I took my fatal step towards him, dull eyed I was, whispering when he took up a wad of snow and threw it straight up high in the air. I looked up just as it burst on my face. Masked in snow, I stood shocked into waxwork stillness, sparkling like a Christmas tree. I awoke. I threw snow at him. He threw a ball at me, and again, hitting my face every time. I chased him round a tree; we tumbled together like wolf pups.<br />
<br />
He did not lust for me as men do in the beginning. Nor hate me as men do at the end. He played with me. That’s all. No one had played with me, ever.<br />
<br />
I chased after him, in German cursing; far onto the ice, laughing. Throwing snow. Forgetting my fell purpose.<br />
<br />
Into the ice he dropped through some fisherman’s hole. Clawing at the snow barehanded, fingernails scratching blood he held on. He discovered he wanted so badly not to die, after all. Because he had to know if I was a real girl.<br />
<br />
I came up to him, with cruel slowness, showing him my true nature, deciding it was time to end our game.<br />
<br />
His imploring grappling finger tips. I poked at them with the toe of my old tennies. He looked up at me, baffled. I had a notion that his frozen heart, crushed flat would look like a pressed blood flower. It would be my Christmas treat.<br />
<br />
My white face reflected in his fading eyes like a star.<br />
<br />
What do we know of our lives? Who will save us or why? Who will finally pay the price of our salvation, not once but many times?<br />
<br />
As he slipped under the black water I kneeled and reached his hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
The wolf sees me. I see the wolf. In my hands a big snowball packed tight. It hits him on the muzzle and he barks and jumps back, shaking snow from his eyes. Now he leaves. So. So, go away then, who needs you. Stupid old wolf.<br />
<br />
Alone again, rejoicing in the silent music of this cold choir, I give myself over to the storm’s embrace of desolate quietude. Fall snow, cover me. I will not melt you, not even in my cold mouth. Bury me like a proper corpse, on my maiden back, imagining a bridal bed of white lilies, as I am until dawn.<br />
<br />Garceushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11160407485298015371noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-58089380739373627402019-11-10T00:09:00.000-05:002019-11-10T00:10:21.349-05:00Rescue and RevivalSacchi Green<br />
<br />
Sometimes I really don’t know where my stories come from. No, scratch that “Sometimes.” All of the stories that I think of as my best come through characters who are nothing like me, with lives nothing like mine, but whose voices come naturally as I write. One of the best examples of this, in my biased opinion, happens to fit our current theme of “Rescue” quite literally, so rather than trying to figure out whether I’ve quoted from this story here before, I’ll just go with the serendipitous flow and offer an excerpt from a story that appeared first in Kristina Wright’s anthology <i>Duty and Desire</i>, and is now reprinted in my recent collection <i>Wild Rides.</i> <br />
<br />
_______________ <br />
<br />
Sgt. Rae<br />
<br />
Sgt. Rae was so strong she could carry me at a run through gunfire and smoke and exploding mines. Two years later, she’s that strong again. With just one hand she can keep me from getting away, no matter how hard I struggle. Even her voice is enough to stop me at a dead run, so it doesn’t matter that she can’t run any more. And anyway, I’d never want to run away.<br />
I’m smaller, but I’ve got my own kind of muscle, even if it doesn’t show. A mechanic in an armored tank unit has to be strong just to handle the tools you need, and if you’re a woman doing the job you need a whole extra layer of strength. I’m not an army mechanic any more, but I can still use tools; Sgt. Rae isn’t an army Sgt. any more, but she’ll always be in charge. At the town hall where she’s the police and fire department dispatcher, they tell me she’s got the whole place organized like it’s never been before. <br />
In our house, or in the town, I’m supposed to just call her Rae these days, and mostly I remember. I’m just Jenny. In the bedroom, we don’t need names at all, except to wake each other when the bad dreams come, and whisper that everything’s all right now. Or close enough to handle, as long as we’re together.<br />
Out here, though, on this trail I’ve made through the woods and across the stream, we play by my rules, and that means I’m Specialist 2nd Brown and she’s the ball-buster Staff Sergeant, even though neither of us has any use for balls. <br />
She’ll be coming along the trail behind me any minute, coming to see what new contraption I’ve constructed. What she expects is something like the exercise stations I’ve built for her into every room in the house, chinning bars and railings and handgrips at different levels, and in a way that’s right, but with a different twist. She expects I’ll want her to order me to drop and do fifty push-ups or sit-ups, or run in place until I’m panting, but this time I want something else.<br />
I check the gears and pulleys one more time, even though I already know the tension is set right. It’s my own tension that’s nearly out of control. The posts and crossbars are rock-solid, while I’m shaking in my old fatigues, so nervous and horny that I can’t even tell which is which.<br />
I hear the motor now. I could’ve made it run quieter, but if you’ve been where I’ve been, where we’ve both been, you want to be sure you know who’s coming around the bend.<br />
She’s crossed the rocky ford in the stream where no regular wheelchair could have gone. I salvaged tracks from old snowmobiles at the repair shop where I work, and they’re as good as any armored tank tracks, even though they’re made of Kevlar instead of steel. Fine for this terrain, and even the steel kind got chewed up in the desert sand in Iraq.<br />
Mustn’t think about the desert now. Here in New Hampshire, green leaves overhead are beginning to turn orange and red. This stream flows into a river just beyond our house, and we can watch canoes and kayaks pass by; no desert in sight. This is home. We’re together. Safe. Except that safe isn’t always enough, when you’ve known—had to know—so much more. <br />
Now I hear Sgt. Rae veering back and forth through the obstacle course, steering the mini-tank around trees, stumps, boulders, right over small logs. With a double set of the tracks on each side, the only way to steer is by slowing one side while accelerating the other, and that takes strength. I think of her big hands on the levers, the bunched muscles of her arms and shoulders, even stronger now than in the army because she insists on a manually powered chair anywhere but in these woods. Gloves help, but her hands get calloused from turning the wheels. Calloused, and rough, even when she tries to be gentle… Anticipation pounds through my body. <br />
I kneel on the ground, close my eyes, try to clear my mind—but on the distant bridge over the river a truck backfires, and in spite of the leafy dampness the desert flashes around me again, the clouds of dust, the explosions, the machine gun fire on that final day. I think of Sgt. Rae’s powerful voice, how it cut through the pain and confusion and kept me breathing when I didn’t think I could last another second. “Brown!” she bellowed, again and again, coming closer to where the shattered truck cab trapped me. “Brown, damn you, report!” That sound gripped me, forced strength into me, so that I moved, just a little, no matter how much it hurt, and she found me.<br />
I never remember what happened next. I don’t think Sgt. Rae does, either, but somebody told me later they found a bent assault rifle barrel nearby, and maybe she levered the truck cab up enough with that to drag me out. I just remember being slung over her shoulder, feeling her run and swerve and run some more, and hearing her voice drilling right through to my heart in a tone I’d never heard before. “Jenny, Jenny…hang on…”<br />
Right then, with bullets still screaming around us, it was like I’d died and waked up to a new world. Ever since the day we met, Sgt. Rae had mesmerized me, obsessed me, and I’d worked to hide my foolish longings behind hard work and casual jokes and chatter. But in that moment, as her strong voice shook, a window opened in the midst of hell and gave me a glimpse of a heaven better than anything they’d ever preached about in church.<br />
I passed out when she set me down behind a sand bunker some of our guys had piled up in a hurry. Maybe I heard somebody say another soldier was still out there, or maybe I just heard later how she went back into that hell. Either way, I know she went.<br />
It was a month before I saw Sgt. Rae again. I was still bandaged but up and walking. She wasn’t. At first, when I stood beside the hospital bed, I wondered whether she was really there at all, inside, until she saw me.<br />
“Jenny?”<br />
I could scarcely hear the word. But then strength came back into her voice, and the power I’d always felt surrounding her was there again as though a light had been switched on. “Specialist Brown, report!”<br />
So I did, listing my injuries and treatments and recovery, even though her half-smile softened the formal order. Later, when she’d had her meds and fallen asleep, I pumped the nurses about her injuries and prognosis, and from that day I was never away from her for more than a few hours. There were some rough parts, and sometimes I had to be the strong one to get her through. A nurse or two caught on that there was more to it than just that she’d saved my life, but they never made any fuss. It helped that I could fix mechanical glitches in the orthopedic ward’s equipment, and even make some things work better than originally designed; I think somewhere along the line they claimed me as an adjunct physical therapy technician.<br />
The dampness of the ground soaking through my jeans brings me back to the present. Sgt. Rae is coming around the clump of hemlock saplings. It’s time, and now I’m ready, in position, on my knees, hands clasped high above my head, ropes wrapped around my wrists, head bowed.<br />
“Brown!”<br />
I can’t salute in this position, but I try to sound as though I were doing it. “Sergeant, yes Sergeant!”<br />
“What do you think you’re doing, Brown?”<br />
“Sergeant, I’m kneeling, Sergeant.”<br />
“I can see that. But do you know what you’re doing?”<br />
Without looking I can tell she’s surveying the situation. A pair of leather-wrapped rings hangs right where she can stretch up and reach them. The system of gears and pulleys is rigged to offer just the right amount of resistance and stability for her to pull herself to a standing position, brace with forearms at chest level on a crossbar, and then lower her weight slowly back down. Three of the doorways in our house have similar setups, but this one is more complex—and in this one, the counterweight is me.<br />
“Sergeant, yes Sergeant, I do know what I’m doing.”<br />
There’s the slightest of creaks as she begins to rise. The ropes tighten, and I rise, too, until I’m dangling in the air, helpless—or as helpless as I can make myself seem. My wrists are padded just enough to keep the circulation from being cut off. I could thrash, and kick—I fought off rape a time or two in the army, before I got to Sgt. Rae’s squad, where you’d better believe no woman ever had to fear attack by fellow soldiers—but now I’m sinking into sub space, wide open, vulnerable.<br />
_______________<br />
<br />
That’s about two thirds of the story, but by the end it’s even more clear how each of these characters has rescued the other.<br />
<br />
(Just a note to apologize for my lack of commenting on other posts on Oh Get a Grip, but for some time now this site—and even my own blogger site—won’t accept comments from me, even though I can manage to do new posts.) <br />
<br />Sacchi Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10801164916418570059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-91796549045311421212019-11-09T07:30:00.000-05:002019-11-09T07:30:08.623-05:00Rescuing the Phantom<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://kdgrace.co.uk/" style="color: purple;">K D Grace</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">One of my favourite novels of rescue is <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Phantom_of_the_Opera" style="color: purple;">Phantom of the Opera</a>.</i>I read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_34?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=phantom+of+the+opera+gaston+leroux&sprefix=phantom+of+the+opera+gaston+leroux" style="color: purple;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #2e52de; padding: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Gaston Leroux’s novel</span></a> long before I saw the wonderful musical. I found all the old movies based loosely, very loosely, on the book missed the point entirely. While Phantom of the Opera weaves together our worst nightmares so tightly with our deepest hopes and wildest dreams that it’s impossible to pick the threads apart, ultimately, it is the story of rescue and redemption. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think stories in mythology about seduction of mortal women by the gods are really stories of inspiration. What better description of inspiration than divine seduction. But sometimes, occasionally, they are twisted and turned in such a way that the heroine is more than just a victim of a horny god. The story of Psyche and Eros is an example. Ultimately Psyche is brave enough to rescue herself, with a little help from the gods. That doesn’t happen very often.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Leroux’s <i>Phantom of the Opera</i>twists that plot even further. There is no help from the gods, and the hero is not the dashing young viscount from Christine’s past. The god in the story is not irresistibly beautiful, but horribly disfigured. He knows the soul of an artist, and he knows the real seduction is in offering a deeper understanding, a deeper mastery of her gift, and the lovely Christine is willingly to accept what her Angel of Music offers. The Phantom’s darkness is the balance to Christine’s light, and his music of the night allows her true gift to shine. Through it all, Raul, the viscount, is clueless, convinced that he can keep Christine safe. But Christine knows the darkness now. She’s seen it, embraced it, and a part of her loves it, longs for it. Her seduction by the music of the night has a chilling price that the whole story revolves around. In the end there is no sword battle, no cunning tricks, no magic wand. In the end there is simply a kiss, far more devastating than the sharpest blade. Compassion and acceptance does what muscle and gunpowder cannot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I still get shivers when I read the descriptions of the Phantom’s lair and the dark lake under the opera house, when I revisit the terrifying scene in the graveyard. Yet throughout the whole of the book I felt an ache for the Phantom that was much more about seduction than pity. <i>Phantom of the Opera</i>is a compelling, beautifully woven mix of fear and awe and raw desire for a man who is so much more than human. But though his actions tell us he is a monster, he compels the reader to desire him, and we long for him and Christine to be together, for all wounds to be healed. We long for the happy ever after. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But there can be none. Instead, the happy-ever-after is gifted to Raul. He is to claim what the Phantom has nurtured and longed for but can never have. It is Christine, however, who earns that gift for Raul by being willing to pay the price for his life. There is no doubt she is the hero of this story. She is the goddess hidden, then revealed only at the end when a choice must be made between the death of Raul and Christine’s submitting willingly to life with the Phantom. She not only chooses, but she chooses unconditionally, unreservedly to love the Phantom, to understand him, in as much as it’s possible to understand such tortured genius. She is the true giver of the gift in this story. She restores the balance. Just as the Phantom’s darkness has infused her gift with the music of the night, her light heals him, enabling him to let go of that which he knows does not now, nor has it ever belonged to him, the gift and the possessor of that gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And what does that have to do with inspiration? In the Greek stories and myths, it takes time for the magical child to be born and trained up to fulfil the task for which he was conceived, and it is usually a he. In Leroux’s story, we aren’t told how long Christine has been studying with her ‘Angel of Music,’ but it is clearly enough to make her singing enthralling to anyone who listens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Phantom-Opera-Gaston-Leroux/dp/1936594323/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1306483861&sr=1-1" style="color: purple;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #2e52de; padding: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">Phantom of the Opera </span></a></i>is a story of the compelling seduction of the creative force. It is inspiration and hard work moving through the fear to restore balance, and coming out on the other side to places we never could have imagined. Then it’s repeating the whole process over and over again. Inspiration is rescuing the phantom in each of us, redeeming the darkness and overcoming the fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Is this what Leroux wanted his story to convey? I don’t know, but I do know that the sensuality, the deep driving hunger coupled with the fear of moving past the point of no return is something every writer encounters. Our story, my story is about overcoming our fears and rescuing our phantoms. That’s not just the hero’s journey or the writer’s journey, that’s the journey of every person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">What we create, what we bring forth is the result of passion leading us down into the depths of ourselves, the results of seducing ourselves in ways that terrify us as much as they attract us. We are changed by that passion, by that deep connection with what inspires us. Innocence is lost and something totally new is created out of our fears, and we are inspired to move forward and to face unconditionally what comes next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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K D Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02623197044690751762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-42487570062275539642019-11-07T00:01:00.000-05:002019-11-07T00:01:03.447-05:00A Early Taste of Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">By Tim Smith</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Next month I’ll be pushing my newest Christmas
Stocking Stuffer from Extasy Books, but this month I’d like to highlight one I
released a number of years ago. “Mistletoe and Palm Trees” was the first in a two-part
series I did, released in 2010. It was followed by a sequel, “Snowflakes and
Palm Trees,” which completed the story arc. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Christmas in Key Largo, Florida—palm trees, bright
blue waters, tropical temperatures, and two people feeling the sting of a bad
break-up. When Tom McCoy fled there to forget his latest romantic debacle, the
last person he expected to meet was beautiful Brooke Devlin, who is trying to
heal from a mishap of her own. Their mutual attraction is strong, but is it
real or just rebound? Will their holiday affair last beyond check-out time, or
become the stuff Spring breaks are made of?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">The genesis for this story was based on an actual
incident that happened to yours truly. I had planned a trip to Florida with my
sig other for a working vacation that included some book signings. Shortly
before we were to leave, she had an accident and was unable to travel. The
reservations were non-refundable and publicity had gone out for my personal
appearances, so it was decided that I would go solo. I thought “What if this
guy traveled to the Keys alone because he’d broken up with someone, and he
meets a woman who is there under similar circumstances?” It was a fun story to
write because of the will-they-or-won’t-they aspect. Here’s a sample:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Brooke’s eyes took on a sultry look accompanied by a
small smile. “So what’s a lonely girl to do for a week in a tropical paradise
by herself?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Find an equally lonely guy to bum around with,” Tom
answered.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Where would I find such a guy?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“They’re all over the place.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Maybe I should run an ad.” She placed her hand over
his on the table. “Unless you’d like to apply for the job.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I’d be happy to provide references.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She gave him a playful look, one that made her green
eyes sparkle. “What are your qualifications?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“I’m here, I have no plans, and I find you very attractive.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“What’s your availability?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“At your service, twenty-four-seven.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Her look turned sly. “Does that include nights?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Of course.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">She laughed. “You’re hired. How soon can you start?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Tom squeezed her hand. “I just gave notice on my last
job.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">If you’re in the mood for a fun holiday romance, reminiscent
of what they show on Lifetime this time of year, check out “Mistletoe and Palm
Trees” and the sequel, “Snowflakes and Palm Trees.” You can find them at the
links below.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004FN1WRS/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p2_i6">"Mistletoe and Palm Trees" Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ASA2UA0/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p2_i3">"Snowflakes and Palm Trees" Amazon</a></span></div>
</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9156334464585894857.post-68550942693123405522019-11-06T21:16:00.002-05:002019-11-06T21:16:48.839-05:00A Queer Millennial's Christianity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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by Cameron D. James<br />
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<i>You rescued me, rescued me</i></div>
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<i>Lord, with a love out of mind</i></div>
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<i>Oh you know I love it when</i></div>
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<i>Everyday I am rescued again</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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“Rescue”, Newsboys</div>
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As a queer millennial, I’ve had a complicated relationship with Christianity.<br />
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I grew up going to church semi-regularly. It’s a very progressive protestant denomination and the congregation is one that my family has gone to for decades and decades. That’s not really where the complicated relationship began, though, as that was fine.<br />
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Growing up, I was best friends with a kid who came from a very conservative evangelical family, and he was right there along with them in all matters of faith. Me being the shy and introverted kid that I was, more often a follower than a leader and always in need of friends, I tagged along to a lot of things with him, including the weekly Wednesday night programming for kids at his church.<br />
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I was immersed in a church environment that was very different than my own. Whereas my congregation often preached about being in relationship and conversation with God, my friend’s church was very much of the “these are the rules that God sets out and there are no exceptions” kind of thing. My church didn’t often talk of the concept of Heaven and Hell, so it was never something that really concerned me, but my friend’s church was very clear on Heaven and Hell and who was going where.<br />
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Beyond the mid-week groups that went on for pretty much all of primary school, my absorption of his version of faith continued through more avenues. His parents always invited me to pray with them. Most of his friends that I met over the years, right into adulthood, were from church or faith groups. I remember a camping trip we took where at the campfire he asked about my relationship with God and then wanted us to both share our struggles with sin with each other. And I picked up my interest in music through him — I have quite the collection of Christian rock and pop on my iTunes that I still listen to.<br />
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It wasn’t until my middle and high school years that I started to run head first into this matter of faith. In grade eight we learned about evolution. I accepted the science and had no trouble believing it. My friend ridiculed me for believing we came from “monkeys” and that I should have more faith in God. However, I was easily able to absorb evolution into my faith. If there is a Creator and They have had a guiding hand in humanity, could evolution not be a tool through which that happened?<br />
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As I got a little older, I started to struggle with this Heaven and Hell thing. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I was constantly told that I have to accept Jesus into my heart in order to be saved and go to Heaven. I remember uttering the words once when I was a kid, but out of sheer fear of the prospect of going to Hell, not out of a love of God. I mentioned this to the mid-week kids’ church group and they made a big deal out of it like I had been saved — and in their eyes I guess I was. I didn’t like it.<br />
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The struggle of Heaven and Hell, however, in senior high was about the idea of who goes where and why. If all you need to do to get to Heaven is to accept Jesus into your heart and repent your sins… well, think of the most evil person you can think of. Now imagine that person having a deathbed conversion of faith, one that allows them into Heaven under these rules.<br />
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Now imagine a doctor who has devoted their entire lives to saving people from disease. The number of people they’ve saved is in the tens of thousands. They even invented a vaccine for a deadly disease and released it for free to the world in order to save lives and they make no profit off of it. However, an evangelical has never shared the love of Jesus with this person, so they have not accepted Jesus into their heart, and so they are condemned to Hell.<br />
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That doesn’t sit right with me.<br />
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So I decided that the concept of Hell didn’t make sense and therefore it must not exist. Does Heaven exist? I don’t know, but I don’t have an issue with believing it does.<br />
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Of course I couldn’t tell my friend this. So I played along and said the things that he needed to hear.<br />
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It wasn’t until years and years later that I learned my church has a very similar position. Everyone gets to Heaven, but some believe there may be a sort of limbo waiting area for those who have done bad things — they spend some time there before moving on.<br />
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After finishing university, I got a job at my church doing youth work. Though I was working in a faith environment, I tried to stay out of faith things. I had my own version of my faith that, according to my friend, is wrong and bad. I lacked the confidence to say what I believed, for fear that it would be the wrong thing. To this day, the only person I’ve had this conversation with is my husband.<br />
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Though I enjoyed the church job, there was heavy pressure to enter into ministry. Indeed, when I left that job, almost everyone at the church thought I was leaving to go to ministry school. Whenever I occasionally make an appearance, I’m still explaining to people that I’m not a minister and I never was going to be one.<br />
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After leaving that church job, I started to explore my sexuality. Interestingly, and perhaps not so coincidentally as I like to imagine it to be, I became involved with a queer ministry in the wider church as part of their board. And when I first started exploring these feelings I’d been running from for so long, the first and only person I spoke to was the minister at that queer ministry. So obviously faith had been an important part of my life if that was who I turned to.<br />
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When I moved in with the man who would become my husband, we had great support from my church, his church, and the Bible study group he was part of. However, as it became clear that this wasn’t a phase and we were going to stay together, the pastor at his church made a few comments that made it clear he didn’t approve. Shortly after that, one of the guys in the Bible study group asked my husband to read a Bible passage about how gay men don’t get into Heaven, and then shortly stopped talking to us after my husband stayed with me.<br />
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Still, my relationship with my church endured. That queer minister became the minister at my congregation. It was made clear to me that my relationship with God is my own business. I didn’t have to explain anything or prove anything to anybody. I got involved with the church a bit again on a few boards, but found that I never really felt like I was part of the congregation again. I’m personal friends with the minister and I still send my monthly donation to the church, but that’s about the extent of my involvement.<br />
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I don’t think the answer is to go to another church. I have no inclination to do so whatsoever. But I still don’t have any urge to go to my own church.<br />
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My husband and I got married in our church. The ratio of clergy to non-clergy at our wedding was insane. In addition to the minister who led the wedding, there was another minister and two priests there to support us. There was another minister and a nun on the invite list but they were both out of town — but they made sure to celebrate with us upon their return.<br />
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Oh right, coming out. I did that. Eight years ago.<br />
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One of the people I had to tell was that conservative evangelical Christian friend. He was the last person to tell. I was more scared to tell him than I was to tell my family. I honestly didn’t know what to expect.<br />
<br />
He had one of the most positive reactions of everyone I’d told. We immediately had coffee with him and his wife. We’ve had board game hangouts. While we don’t see each other that often simply because we lead very different lives, I’ve never felt that he disapproves of our relationship. (His wife made our wedding cake.) I also don’t get the sense that he’s doing that “love the sinner, hate the sin” crap that so many Christians do.<br />
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So where do I sit with my faith?<br />
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I honestly don’t know.<br />
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My queer identity hasn’t been a problem in my church, but it’s been a problem in other areas of my faith and my husband’s faith. My being a millennial, I think, has been the bigger struggle. If I’m not sure if going to church is necessary — if I’m not sure what my own beliefs are — then do I really need to go to church? Is there a place for me there?<br />
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Perhaps. Perhaps not. I still struggle with that.<br />
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The minister I worked with when I was on staff frequently said “God loves you” in her sermons. That was the core message she wanted people to go home with. God loves you. End of sentence. No catches or caveats or exceptions or conditions. God loves you.<br />
<br />
That’s the message I carry with me everywhere. Anytime I question things or struggle with things, I remember those three words. God loves you.<br />
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And because of that, as I explore my place in this universe, I know I’ll be okay.Cameron D. Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05825600675668853636noreply@blogger.com2