Posts Tagged ‘prose’

Autumn-themed Books

Searching through Goodreads to find ideas for this post, I noticed a trend.  There were horror stories, and then there was everything else.  Par for the course, I suppose, since this is the season of Halloween, with all its attendant ghouls, ghosts, and ghastly stories.  I was hard pressed to decide what to write about, or how, and finally, in an inspired moment, I decided that nine was a good, round, witchly (yes, I made that word up just this second!) number of books to share with you, in a mixture of horror and other, and in typical fashion, to make some kind of poem of them.  It’ll be silly, even stupid, at times…rhyming invariably brings out the wacko in me.  And my ideas of what constitutes “horror” are decidedly skewed, as you’ll see.  Wish me luck…and see if you can match the descriptions in the poem to the nine novels listed below.


September brings much more, you know,
than cooling Autumn breezes.
There’s Labor Day, and barbecues,
and final summer sneezes.

To keep your mind on other things
than the approaching Winter,
mayhap you should distract it with
light reading — get your printer!

A young boy learned to wield his wand,
two others saved their city;
an ancient vampire sought fresh blood;
a Creature’s not made pretty.

A woman loved a priest who left her
with a darling infant.
A vain young man did sell his soul
to keep old age well distant.

Ambition drove a warrior
to murder and deception.
A great physician “played with fire” —
it changed his whole reception.

There’s just one more — and different,
in quality and content –
A brighter color might have made
her stay, and give consent.


Copyright 2015

1.  Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
2.  The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
3.  Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James
4.  The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
5.  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
6.  The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
7.  Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
8.  Macbeth by William Shakespeare
9.  Dracula by Bram Stoker


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She had always loved to see that particular action…the fingers grabbing the sheets, her beloved wrestling with total loss of control. Making love, having sex…fucking…should ALWAYS be like that, she thought, else why bother? To see a MAN grabbing the sheets…THAT was priceless! It meant his lover knew how to take him to the edges of his control, to strip it away from him, to leave him wanting, needing, hungering…lost in the moment.

THIS man was on his belly, his legs spread wide, his lover’s hands kneading his muscled flesh, cupping his tender sac, sending that finger just far enough to touch HIS special spot, a hungry tongue licking his sweating skin, teasing the crease between his tightly-muscled butt cheeks. She could almost hear the groan that tore from his throat, deep – a growl really – as he was tortured and tormented and exquisitely loved. She could hear his hisses as his lover worked his prostate, winding him up, building the scream he soon would not be able to contain, as his ball sac tightened, and he felt the orgasm building and raging up his spine, filling his aching cock which he fought to stop himself from grinding into the soft sheets under him.

She closed her eyes for just a moment, to savor the sexual high that she felt building in her own blood at the sight before her, and then opened them as he began to shout out his climax. His ecstasy was excruciatingly beautiful, wild, sensual, driving her own need to have him. She watched his fingers tighten on the sheets, saw his eyes close in tortured pleasure, heard him call her name. That was always her cue to take over, to take him, to make him hers…again.

She turned to look at the one who had thus prepared him for her, and with an almost imperceptible nod, relieved her proxy lover.

“Turn over,” she ordered him, her voice hoarse with the strength of her own arousal.

She loved this game that he let her play with him, and she knew that he loved it too, because it pleased her. He did anything she asked, because he wanted to please her. And when she was pleased, he was pleasured beyond anything he could possibly imagine. Today, after she rode him to her own first climax, she would show him the depth and strength of her love for him. He had no idea how well loved he would be today, and from now on.

Her proxy watched as she straddled him.

“Keep your eyes closed, and your hands in the sheets, my love!” she whispered, because she couldn’t speak more loudly if her life depended on it.

When she slid her wet center down over his still raging erection, she saw the muscles of his belly clench, saw his fingers once more wrestle with the sheets, saw his eyes roll beneath the closed lids. and felt the jerk of his cock, a breath away from unloading his seed inside her.

“Hold on to me, now, lover mine, but don’t come till I say!”

She squeezed him inside her, trying at once to help him keep control, and to arouse him past fever pitch. His tormented groan rocked her, and his upward plunge shook her to her core. She leaned over and bit him hard where his neck joined his shoulder.

“Not until I give you leave, my love!” she said, her tone admonishing. “I promise, it will be soon!”

He gasped when she rocked herself on his hard rod. He growled when she raised herself almost completely off him. He groaned again when she slid back down his length, seating him inside her to his balls.

“Ah, fuck!” he said, his fingers tight in the sheets. She had had the foresight to use a stronger cloth this time, as the last time he had shredded the sheets with his bare hands.

She chuckled, a shaky sound at best, given her own aroused state, his cock jerking inside her.

“I’ll let you fuck me soon enough, my love! Let me fuck you now, okay?”

She leaned down to kiss him, sucking his tongue deep inside her hot mouth, and whispered,

“Look at me now, my love!”

He opened his eyes, and stared into hers, and the emotions she saw swirling in their depths almost unseated her.

“I love you too, my darling!” she answered his look. “With all of me!”

She began to move…


Copyright 2013

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“So what do you think would fill your hunger?”

She became acutely aware of his body the instant his question settled into the space between them.  His limbs were long and strong, and she wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if he held her close, like a lover would.  Would he be warm, and would his scent wash over her with the power of an aphrodisiac?  Would his arms surround her like bands of steel?  Would she feel his heartbeat?  Would it echo hers?

Her breathing deepened, as she suddenly seemed to need more air.  Her lungs felt tight, as though what air was there was being sucked in by him.  And yet, all he was doing was sitting back, sipping his drink, watching her.  The smile that curved his lips made her suddenly aware of her own lips, and how they felt heavy with the hunger for his teeth and tongue.  Would his kisses make her wet with need for more?  Would they drag moans of delight from her parched throat?  Would he coax his way into her mouth and ravish her there?

She swallowed at the thought of his tongue in her mouth, and immediately a vision arrested her inner eye, causing her to inhale sharply.  If what she saw were ever to come true, he would not be sitting back in a chair across from her, watching her struggle to give voice to her needs.  If what she saw were ever to come true, she would be up against the wall, the air fraught with danger around them, the anticipation of his touch a palpable thing between them.

Like a portrait, the scene unfolded before her inner eye.  Her head back, so he would not feel the telltale rasp of shaved hairs on her chin, so he had access to the scar she could not hide that marred her throat where they had removed a part of her thyroid.  Or so he could reach the little hollow behind each earlobe, where she spritzed a different fragrance each day.  Or so he could begin in the valley between her collar bones and make his leisurely way down through the gorge between her breasts to…wherever else he wanted to go for his taste tests.

She could see him lift one leg and wrap it round his hip bone, because he knew it would go no higher — she was not, when all was said and done, a ballerina, but she was limber for all that.  She saw his hands wander over the flesh of that leg, felt his fingers admire the hard muscle of her calf as he traced its curved line down her leg to her ankle.  He didn’t seem to mind that it was no longer slender, or that her toenails were unpainted.

She could feel that same hand smooth its way back up the inside of her leg, to her inner thigh, where he played with the silky, darker flesh, made so by the rubbing of her legs together, flesh on flesh.  His other hand, while he was teasing her, steadied her on the leg left on the ground.  And as his hand did walkabouts upon her flesh, as he teased her senses, both their breathing hitched.

She looked up, and his glass was empty.  How long had she sat there, a silent witness to his patient demand that she tell him her most intimate dreams?  Could she reveal the need for tenderness that rolled inside her, and made her weep with regret at the certainty of its never being hers?  Could she expose her vulnerable heart, where fanciful romantic desires had made a home, despite her ruthless efforts to dislodge them?

Someone — the waiter she supposed — refilled his glass, and he sipped again, before placing it on the table before him.

“Are you ready to tell me now?  Or will you concede that what I told you is true?  Will you agree with me that I know you better than you ever imagined, and that I know what will fill your hunger?”

She looked him in the eye, a moment before lowering it to the vision of his body making one with hers again and again against a wall, in the resounding darkness of a rain-washed night.  Her vision assailed her; his passion and power and aching tenderness…his love disarmed her, undid her, fulfilled her.  He deployed his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, his words…nothing was neglected in her seduction.  The answer to his question was there, in the things she was seeing, the things she could never hide from herself, the things he already knew. 


Copyright 2014

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You want to write of love’s offices, but find yourself hand-tied. What letters to tap on the keyboard elude you, for to write of love is to write of that with which you are as unfamiliar as you are of the depths of the ocean. No science can provide enough knowledge to help you write the things you think you ought to feel. Poems to the curve of his cheek, the brush of his hands, the depth of his voice, mean nothing coming from you…as you have yet to see or hear or feel these things in your own body. You cannot write of love because you have not felt or known or tasted of its sweetness. You cannot write because you do not feel the inexplicables which would tell you that you are there.

You want to sing of love’s beauties, but find yourself tongue-tied. What words to join together escape you, for to sing of love is to sing of that with which you are as ignorant as you are of the far reaches of the universe. No art can supply enough symphonies to help you hold the melodies you know you ought to hear. Hymns to the strength of his bearing, the pride of his stature, the wealth of his character, mean nothing coming from you…as you have yet to recognize or realize or comprehend these things in your own soul. You cannot sing of love because you have not sensed or grasped or experienced of its harmonies. You cannot sing of love because you do not hear the inexpressibles which would tell you that you are there.


Copyright 2014

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Lane Hayes

Leaning Into a Wish



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