Excerpt

1

Here’s That Rainy Day

Any pilot will tell you the safest maneuver in aviation is the one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. Mark Robinson needed to turn back many things in his life, but not this day. He looked below to watch his aircraft’s shadow mutate from Baja’s desert floor to become a blue-black dot on the Sea of Cortez. The water’s surface was not its usual glassy pale blue; it was covered with whitecaps, like pop corn. Robinson looked up at towering cumulus ahead; he did consider turning back- for half a minute. One night in Calexico wouldn’t hurt; but he shook his head and maintained his southbound heading. He needed the bucks.

The next two and a half hours Robinson white-knuckled his controls in turbulence was so severe, negative G’ forces robbed his color vision. When he emerged into clear, stable air he spotted a northbound aircraft below. Robinson clicked in the aircraft-to-aircraft frequency to and hailed the aircraft. The northbound pilot, also an American, came back with a strong signal. He told Robinson a force-four hurricane was approaching the Mexican mainland from the Pacific. “Before Guaymas tower closed,” he said, “they estimated it to hit the mainland in a couple of hours. Say your destination?”

Robinson keyed his microphone. “Topolobambo.”

“Can’t do it, friend. Federales have closed all non-international airports …coming down hard on drug traffickers.”

Robinson sat up straight, glaring at his fuel gauge.

“It’s the new law,” the American continued, “all flights must land at international airports now.” They exchanged weather and visibility each had flown from. Robinson warned the American of nasty turbulence ahead.

“Moderate?”

“Robinson yelled, “severe!”. He advised the American to descend just over the water, thanked him, then signed off, “blue skies.”

“So long, pal.”

Robinson tried to contact Guaymas then Manzanillo. He only received recorded broadcasts. He stared at his fuel gauge then checked his chart. “Mazatlan was the nearest International airport. “Mazatlan tower. How do you hear?”

A lady controller came back with a chirpy, “Loud and clear, Sir.”

Robinson identified his position. When she confirmed radar contact. Robinson told her his fuel was low; “Es serioso!” She remained professionally calm, “Continue present heading. Expect clearance in four minutes.”

During his descent for the approach, Robinson looked below on the Pacific. A dozen fishing trawlers, silhouetted in blinding coppery sunlight, fought heavy seas; each pounded, sprayed and rolled, all in a desperate race for the harbor. The big ferry from La Paz plowed behind. This may be an omen. Robinson thought. Tomorrow those skippers would sell their lobster at any price. Oh-Jesus-Oh God he had to pee!

Robinson had the runway in sight; he dropped landing gear and flaps. “Three-Zero-Yankee is on two mile final.”

“Have you in sight.” She cleared him to land.

Robinson’s tires kissed the runway; he stared at his fuel gauge with relief too wonderful for words; any minute the engine would die of fuel starvation. The controller instructed him to hold short for a taxiing Beech Barron. The Barron taxied past left to right. Robinson remained on his brakes holding his crotch. The controller spoke to the Beechcraft pilot in the familiar, calling him “Senor, Freeman.” Robinson pressed his knees together.. Ah-geese-lady-Come-on! Palm trees around the terminal building were doubled over in stiff wind, the sky almost black. Echoes of his exchange with the American played through Robinson’s head. The flight lines were packed with aircraft, all anchored with six and eight-point tie-downs. Where could he tie down? Beyond his right wing Robinson spotted an empty hanger; its open doors yawned in a beckon. Robinson mouthed the name, “Freeman.”

Sounded like a gringo-person to him. He switched frequencies, “Is this freeman?”

The Beechcraft pilot came spoke with a Texas drawl, “That’s a roger. Who’s callin’?”

Robinson identified his field position. “Just landed from San Francisco. Is that your open hanger?”

“Affirmative,”

Robinson asked if he could park his aircraft inside. “I’d be happy to pay.”

“Keep your bucks, partner. Stay long as ya like. I’m headed to La Paz till this thing blows itself out.” Robinson thanked him then tuned-in the lady controller. “Proceed,” she said with a soft laugh. She seemed amused by his salesmanship.

When his Cessna Centurion’s tail section cleared the hanger doors, Robinson locked his brakes, killed the engine, then rushed outside. He caught a ride to the terminal with a fuel truck.

The men’s room was empty. Robinson hummed the last lines of a Count Basie tape he’d listened to in the cockpit. Pain eased from his bladder into the urinal. He didn’t hear the door open.

A small Mexican man walked up to him, a wannabe charro wearing hand-tooled boots, tailored jeans and a two-hundred dollar sombrero with a hand-tooled silver band. “Do you be the owner of the red and white Centurion, just land?”

Robinson shot him a glare. “You mind?”

The little man’s intense dark eyes filled with rage. “I say the pinchi questions, gavacho!”

Robinson shoved him aside to wash his hands. “Watch your mouth, little man.”

The stranger pulled out a handful of American dollar bills “”thousand dollar bills. “I pay you fifty-thousand for that ol’ Gaviota. Cash, amigo.”

Robinson snatched the money and jammed it in the man’s fancy jeans. “I don’t deal with narco-traffickers!” Robinson gripped Napoleon by the butt and threw him out in the corridor. “Be gone, sir! Make haste I say!” Three men stood in the corridor.

Before Robinson dried his hands the little man returned, with a pistol. He shoved the muzzle in Robinson’s nose. Robinson sucked air through his teeth. “Okay-okay! Let’s see your money.”

The little man slipped the pistol in his fancy jeans; with a satisfied grin he pulled out the roll of bills. “I thin’ purty soon you listen.”

While the stranger was preoccupied counting money, Robinson looked up at an open transom above the sink; it looked large enough for him to crawl through. Punks like this guy always had backup. They waited outside “”he was certain. Robinson seized Napoleon by the wrist, plucked the pistol from his jeans, squeezed the little man by the back of his neck, and slammed his head three times into the porcelain urinal. The little guy man collapsed in a pool of blood. Robinson took the rounds from the pistol, buried the gunl in the trash, and sat the little man on a toilet. He closed the stall door, stepped up on the sink and squeezed through the transom. No one had seen him except the fuel truck driver. Robinson hurried toward the hanger but did not run. It was dark; it was raining. White light from the open hanger spilled onto the shiny wet ramp. When he was inside the hanger, Robinson opened his cargo hatch; he retrieved his backpack and books. His hands trembled.

A white-haired old man shuffled over. “Senor,” the viejo piped, shaking his head, “you cano’ park in thees hanger, “Es privado, it belong to-”

“Freeman. Right?”

The viejo nodded in surprise. “Correcto Senor, pero-”

“Freeman said I could park here.”

The old man arched his thick white brows. “Okay for me,” he said with a dismissive shrug, “he say is okay-is okay.”

Robinson slapped wheel chalks under his tires; the old man tripped a switch. The steel hanger doors closed with a sonorous clang. The old man ran home two heavy bolts. He offered Robinson a ride into the city. Robinson stared at the primeval Chevy van, his hands still trembled. “Yeah, sure.” He tossed his gear in back then took a seat beside the old man.

When they were on the highway the old man looked Robinson up and down. “I am Morelos.”

Robinson forced a smile and offered his hand. “Me llamo Marco.”

“You have a good flight from el norte?”

Robinson shook his head. “Muy malo.”

Morelos asked how long Robinson had known Freeman. Robinson, sometimes a little careless with the truth, told him he’d known Freeman over a year. “Freeman wants to invest in my seafood business.”

“Oh, Si.” Morelos nodded, “Senor Freeman, he make lotta deals. Where you go, Marco?”

“Crazy Horse cantina.”

“I know thees place.”

Robinson leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Sure as hell that drug-monkey had   connections. How many? Maybe he’d killed the punk. Robinson knew he’d be in Mazatlan at least three days! Those animals would stop at nothing to get a bush plane. Major angst burned through his brain; Robinson wanted to laugh then cry then vomit. He sat on his hands and held his breath for control. But, then, no one had seen him. His Centurion was locked in a private hanger… a hanger registered to another man who was gone… a no-brainer. And, the hanger had no windows. Robinson opened his eyes to the splash and swish of passing traffic. His hands had steadied; rain peppered the windshield. They were in the city. Soon guitars, marimbas, and beer would end his unspeakable day. Robinson could almost taste the first Negra Modelo. The last time he drank at the Crazy Horse he spotted an empty piano in the corner.

Tonight, after the musicians left, he’d hold a buzz and play all night.

Morelos pulled in front of the Crazy Horse’s blue neon light blurring in the rain. Robinson gathered his gear; he must call his partner in La Paz, before the phone lines blew out. He shook Morelos’ hand then passed him a hundred pesos.

The old man waived it off. “Por nada.”

Robinson smiled then tucked the money in Morelos’ shirt pocket.

“Senor Freeman, he say I can use his van for my other job. I use for taxi at night. I go now to the ferry terminal.” Morelos studied Robinson’s drained face. “Later you like I take you to hotel?”

Robinson shook his head. “Thanks. I’m staying with friends.”

Morelos pulled into traffic; he waved and shouted, “Asta luego, Marco.”

Robinson waved back. He’d need a hell of a lot more than luck.

2

Soon One Morning

DR. LOURDES CONTRERAS, a dentista from Mulege, in Baja Sur, stood on the ferry’s port side. Her cheeks puffed with a deep sigh of joy as she promised herself this night was to mark the transition from dream to action. Lourdes walked forward to the bow. This was the end of the second day of a two-week leave from her clinica. Crossing the Sea of Cortez had kept her nauseous from heavy seas. Now, inside Mazatlan’s harbor, she wanted to watch the big ship glide to its mooring. Was it the damp night air? Lourdes felt a surge of unexplainable magic. Maybe it was the play colored lights on the water or the sweet smell of blossoms after so long on the Pacific. She looked up at the approaching dock. In a few months Prudencia, her twelve-year-old her sister, would be able to attend school and have friends.

Looking down from the dock above, taxi drivers, porters, customs officers and ticket agents lined the rail; their eyes were on the ferry. Some pointed, others cackled like pelicans. The measured movement of the hull seemed to fascinate them. She laughed inwardly at their hilarious facial expressions. Some clenched their teeth; others had pinched faces from the irritating screech and whine of the hull against the pilings. Lourdes reached back for her sister’s hand. “Prudencia?” she called, “listo?”

Prudencia had been preoccupied with gangplanks being lowered and locked with clangs and clicks. “Si,” she said with a nod, “I am ready.”

Lourdes pulled in an excited breath. Thick tropical air felt like a wet blanket. “Mazatlan,” she said, “Sometimes I did not think it would happen.” People in Lourdes’ Pueblo of Mulege, always said she was mature beyond her twenty-seven years. But this night the little girl hidden inside went wild with imagination. They might see cinema stars or magazine celebrities. Lourdes tied customs tags to their luggage. “Stay close, maija.”

A customs officer directed them from the terminal, pointing to a gate.

Inside the lobby, a white-haired old man approached them with a bow and a wheezy, “Muy Buena noche, Senoritas.” In a thin, tired voice, he offered to carry their bags. Lourdes paused. Behind the old man, young taxi drivers stared at her with wanton hunger in their faces. The old man softly persisted, “You go into the city, yes?” He lifted their bags. “Only twenty-two pesos,” he said, “it would please me take you to a fine hotel.”

Her eyes were still on the men; Lourdes nodded, “Si, por favor.”

The old man smiled politely. “I am Morelos.”

Lourdes observed Morelos’ broken teeth “”but then she would. “Esta bien.” She nodded. They followed him to the parking lot. Prudencia complained of sleepiness. A police officer waived them through the gate. Lourdes and Prudencia stood in the dark rain beside Morelos’ old Chevy van. The Viejo fussed with a windshield wiper. “The rain feels good,” Lourdes said, “how long has it been raining?”

Morelos slapped the wiper blade on the glass. “Two, perhaps three hours.” he opened the passenger door. Lourdes took the front seat; Prudencia took the back seat. It amused Lourdes to watch the old man beg and pray to the engine. She turned to the back seat, pressed her hand on Prudencia’s knee and rested her other hand on the leather case on her lap. The Chevy coughed to life. They bounced over ruts, making their way to the highway. Morelos drove slowly; he attempted to break his passenger’s shyness by explaining his theory of the first hurricane of the season. “This is only June yet we have the first hurricane. This of course is because of global warming.” When Morelos was on the highway, he accelerated. “Tomorrow,” he continued, “the morning will come fresh and clear, but in the afternoon, ah,” he cried with a long asthmatic laugh, “the winds will come so strong, it will drive the rain sideways like bullets.”

“We love the rain,” Lourdes said, “we live in the Baja desert.”

Light from his rearview mirror illuminated the old man’s face. Repulsive shock was apparent in his expression. Morelos had been sneaking looks at Prudencia.

Take a good look old man, Lourdes thought; you are one of the last people to see her face like this.

The splash of passing traffic forced his eyes back onto the highway. Morelos seemed to know she had seen him. “Where in Baja?” he asked.

Lourdes was used that too, the uncomfortable change of subject. “Mulege,” she answered.

“Ah,” Morelos cried with a waive of his hand. “Baja.” He pretended sarcasm saying Baja was only a frontier.

Prudencia interrupted from her back seat. “Do you not know?” she piped, “Baja is the newest state in Mexico.”

Lights from a passing bus illuminated the old man’s face; Lourdes saw the playful expression in his eyes. She laughed.

“I have a friend,” Morelos said, “she lives alone.”

“Your friend has a room to rent?” Lourdes teased, “Yes?”

“A casita,” Morelos wheezed, “behind her hacienda. La Senora Vargas charges less than half the hotel rates.”

“Sounds attractive,” Lourdes said.

“Your voice sounds deep,” he said, “You have a cold, Senorita?”

Lourdes was used to that too. She laughed. “It is my natural voice.”

La Senora Vargas spoke lyrically, harmonizing with a bolero from a time-scratched LP. Vargas looked directly at Lourdes to avoid the girl. “Thirty-five pesos a night,” Vargas said, her full lips phrased with the music. “Come. Let me show you.” Vargas led them onto her patio across her small yard. Lourdes glanced over her shoulder at Morelos. The old man was feeding fruit to Emiliano, Vargas’ blue parrot. Vargas tossed her long single braid behind thick shoulder and fussed with her bra strap; her eyes darted from Lourdes to the girl then back. “You will like it,” Vargas chimed, “I know.” The sky glowed with the pulse of lightning forks. Vargas’ sandals scuffed across the tile. Vargas opened the small colonial style door.

Lourdes gasped, “Perfecto!” Patterned curtains matched small throw rugs on a spotless floor, both made from the same material.

“Tranquilo, no?”

Lourdes opened her purse. She had not expected a dollhouse. She handed Vargas two hundred pesos. “I cannot say how long we will stay.”

Vargas’ face beamed with a gratified smile. “Time is a widow’s wealth.” She tucked the money in her bra, admiring the blossom in Lourdes’ hair. “Coffee and pan in the morning.” Vargas said good night, then closed and locked the door.

They were alone. Lourdes put her hands on her hips with a wordless joyful stare at Prudencia. For some odd reason she felt at home in Mazatlan. Perhaps it was the boleros. “You never believed this day would come, did you.”

Prudencia’s face brightened with a lopsided smile. “We both knew it would.”

“Excited?”

Prudencia hugged her big sister. “Cannot wait.”

When Prudencia was asleep Lourdes sung softly with the notes drifting from Vargas’s phonograph. The pattern of rain on the patio seemed to embroider the music. Lourdes drew the covers over Prudencia and ruminated about Doctor Santiago. What would he be like? An older man to be sure, she supposed; such an experienced plastic surgeon could achieve his reputation only with age. Dr. Santiago would not be ordinary. Lourdes reached into the leather case, a case so emblematic of their years of correspondence. She drew a pen and paper then started a list of questions. Prudencia’s records were her chronology. Dr. Santiago could ask nothing Lourdes had not documented. Her list complete and in her purse, Lourdes took the blossom from her long black hair. Its fragrance was still fresh; she would wear it tomorrow. She undressed, a little bothered by her thin figure in the mirror. She promised herself to eat four times a day. In a city like Mazatlan, the restaurants must be wonderful. The music from Vargas’s phonograph provoked memories. If Lourdes had a calculator, she could never count the times she’d performed this same song in cabarets …La Paz, Loreto, Los Barriles and Cabo San Lucas. And the touristas? Many stood to applaud, with kind comments of her personal interpretation. Lourdes thought of the tips she had saved. Four years… four-hundred-sixteen weekends. Lourdes stared at her purse on the chair. Seventy-five thousand pesos waited for Doctor Santiago. She yawned, slipped beside Prudencia and fluffed her pillow, closed her eyes and touched her mother’s rosary. “Tomorrow.”

Read more about Dove Tale and Bruce Payne HERE.

Copyright 2010 AUTHOR’S NAME. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Half an hour later, a knock at the door startles her. “Come in,” she softly answers.

Malone steps into the bathroom, appearing quite large and overbearing surrounded by everything floral and feminine, makeup, hairdryer, bath and body products, he looks totally out of place. Nikki covers her bodily essentials with her washcloth, glancing around to make sure she didn’t leave any undergarments scattered on the floor.

“Yes?” she asks, making sure her breasts are covered. The punani is securely covered by mountains of bubbles, her washcloth not quite doing the job, Nikki places her hands over her breasts.

Look at her, trying to be modest, Malone thinks, just makes her look sexy, more alluring. Any other woman would’ve had her legs open so wide you would think she was about to give birth to twins! Oh, what to do
with Nix? My man, Ty messed up royally, his lost, my gain.

“Making sure you were doing as told.” He sits on the toilet seat, uncomfortably, with clasped hands, peering at her.

“I’m taking a bath,” she announces.

“I can see that,” he nods. Malone grabs a tangerine-colored washcloth out of the wicker basket and commences to lathering it up with shea butter soap, washing her back, gently as if she might break at his touch.

“Thank you,” she says, leaning forward.

“My pleasure,” Malone replies. His hands glide up and down her back. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” He was like a big ol grizzly bear, his size made him seem ferocious, dangerous but his tender actions proved that he had a little bit of a tender side.

“No, you’re not hurting me.”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Baby, I gave you my word. We will get through this together.”

“I don’t want to get through it, I just want to die. Crawl under a rock and wait for death to kick in.”

“You don’t mean that-“

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Malone speaks, with a harsh voice. “And I’ll tell you why. You have a beautiful little boy who is going to need you to tell him how great and honorable his Uncle Jay is. Only you, baby will be able to tell him stories about growing up with Jay, so that he can adapt those same principles and morals.

He stands up to his full height. “I want you to finish up. There’s something for you in that pink bag by the sink. Get dressed and meet me in the room.” She nods her head.

“No. We do not nod our head anymore. I thought we were past that stage.”

“Get out of here so I can clean my butt.”

Hmmm, I wonder what he has planned. Malone acting like he’s gonna get some sex. I don’t think so, buddy. He’s gonna have to work much harder than buying a few things at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. I want to be wined, dined, romanced. No more Ty means no more wham bam, good night. Plus, he’s white, so you know Malone’s not packing like a brotha, and if by chance he is, then jack rabbit sex is gonna be involved. Thanks, but no thanks! So you might as well put the box of condoms back on the shelf, lover boy. The most you’ll get to do tonight is cop a feel and kiss me goodnight.

The moment she steps into her bedroom all previous thoughts evaporate into thin air, like poof! Shoot, jack rabbit sex might have to do. Her bedroom and sitting area are engulfed with white candles from The Body Shop inside of tabletop hurricane vases, a whiff of the scent reveals a fragrance of fresh rain on a beautiful spring day, the mood lighting casts a magical glow both enticing and inviting to her. The bed is completely covered with peach rose petals courtesy of his mom’s online store petalsbymadison.com, with a single peach rose strategically placed on her pillow. This is the most romantic thing I have ever witnessed, she thinks dreamily to herself. The fabric covering her canopy bed moves slightly against the cool breeze. The shadow makes the silk dance on the walls like long lost lovers.

Wearing a rose-inspired, Dolce & Gabbana chemise that Malone terrorized all the sales reps seeking, looking for the perfect ensemble for Nix, she steps deeper into the room. She takes calculated advances toward this handsome man as he sits in a dark corner of the room. He watches her every move, her reaction from the moment she opened the door to the look of surprise as her eyes swept the décor and finally resting on him, sitting in the chair, her mouth agape. The look she gave him was as if he was the only man alive. Malone fixates his attention on her every movement, from the sway of her hips, the way her breasts jiggle, even the way she stood, one leg profiling, while the other bent seductively, girlish like. My God, her beauty leaves me speechless; he thinks so loud to himself, he thought she might’ve heard him.

“Did you say something, Malone?” she asks.

“Come here, sweetness.”

She walks toward him, and without thinking drops to her knees, crawling to him. Her breasts jut right along with her, ass sticking out in the open air, the length of the material halts just so, leaving much to the imagination. This is too much, Malone thinks. He rearranges himself, like whoa.

Nikki begins her journey to him. Now what are you going to do with all of that man once you get over there? Better think of something quick. Damn, his thing looks like its about to come out of his pants! Guess that eliminates the Eeny Weeny Whiteboy Penis Theory.

She looks seductively into his grayish-blue eyes, becoming lost in them, like a stranded ship out at sea waiting to be rescued, saved, from the waves and man-eating sharks. Still on her knees, her hands on each of his thighs, she rubs her hands up and down to fight off the nervousness she was feeling. Licking her full lips, she stares deep into his eyes, knowing that there is no turning back. Malone pulls her close to him, wrapping his powerful arms around her. He gently strokes her hair as if he never touched a woman’s hair before.

Her lips part as his tongue eases inside of her mouth, tasting his tongue, she feels a shudder of excitement trickle down her back. He kisses her hungrily, with passion and a fervor that held no limitations. It was like being away from someone for an eternity and then finally seeing them again, you want to hold onto them and never let them go, fearful that if you blinked an eye, they would disappear once again, for another lifetime. Never to be seen again. To feel that touch. Well, that’s the feeling that transpired for these two. She removes his shirt, kissing his chest and neck as they are exposed for her to do as she wished.

He whispers in her ear, “I’ve missed you.”

Opening her mouth to speak, she stutters, “I, uh, I…”

“Tell me, Nix. Talk to me, tell me what you’re feeling. Its just me and you here.”

I don’t want to tell him what I’m really thinking. Yeah, Malone, I want to like marry you and have ALL of your children. She answers, “I feel like we’ve been here before. Together.” She looks on at him, hoping he felt the same thing. They kiss again just because their lips missed each other. They stand together, he presses her up against the wall, kissing her sensually, Nikki’s body trembles as their combined lust intensifies.

Nikki wraps her legs around him, grinding herself against his throbbing erection. I’m about to explode out of my pants, if she don’t slow down, he thinks to himself, his heart beating a mile a minute.

“Oh, Malone,” she moans, running her fingers through his hair.

He slides his hands down to feel the smoothness of her bottom, his fingers grab her to pull her in as close as possible. Malone wants to feel her as if she was his second skin, a part of him. He runs his fingers all over her ass, very hypnotic like, in small, feathery, light circles.

Nikki lets out a gasp, the beginnings of an orgasm taking place, from Malone’s touch alone. Lowering her feet to the ground, he plants kisses down her neck on his way to showing her breasts the attention they deserve. He caresses each breast as his hot tongue and lips bathe each one. Nikki’s excitement grows as Malone’s mouth works its way down to taste the best dessert of all time. Better than Mom’s apple pie.

Malone gently parts her legs, giving him access to her beautiful sex. Slowly, he laps her up like an ice cream cone; her wetness excites him beyond reason. He picks up the pace as Nikki shivers at the slurping sounds generating from between her legs.

I can’t believe he’s doing that! I never let anyone go downtown on me. Maybe I should tell him to stop. Aw, hell no! This feels too good. Her mind drifts until Mr. Mann proves that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He rolls her bud around with his tongue, pressing it between his lips, squeezing it ever so tightly enough to make her jump. Claiming ownership, he pulls her crotch into his face as he attacks her with his tongue, violating her in every imaginable way possible, her sweet juice dripping out over his tongue. He slides his fingers inside of her, pumping, slowly then faster and faster, running his fingers upwards like a hook, hitting every nerve on the way as he pulls out and slides his finger back in.

Her moans get louder, deeper, guttural. She has no control of this glorious, mind altering rollercoaster ride. Hearing her pant and feeling her writhe Malone kisses his way back up her tummy before locking into a passionate kiss with her again, as they kiss they feel their bodies touch, the heat, the excitement is damn near unbearable.

Nikki thinks to herself, I need to feel you deep inside of me.

While Malone thinks to himself as if answering her on cue, I will not disappoint you, but I’m not going in you just yet.

He positions himself behind her ass, caressing her softness and curves with his fingertips and with the back of his hands. Long strokes travel up from her thighs over her butt cheeks, and down again, moving up along the outside and down along the inside, feeling her lips on his way down. Nikki moans deeply experiencing this wondrous, luscious feeling. Give it to me, please, she begs mentally in an attempt to stir up some synergy.

Malone reaches over and embraces her from behind, his hands on her full breasts. Nikki feels his stiffness straining against the fabric of his trousers, pressing up against her mound. Malone nestles it between her ass, stroking back and forth. Exquisite torture.

They continue touching each other. Nikki faces Malone caressing his chest, slowly encircling his nipples with her hands and tongue. She’s driving me wild running her nails up and down like that, damn, that feels good, he thinks.

Nikki arches her back as he plants kisses on her inner thighs, her toes curling in anticipation of his touch. She reaches down and takes his head in her hands, guiding him up pass her “home” and kisses him again. He senses even more passion from her. He knew if he looked down at that very moment, he would see that his pants were probably already soaked from his pre-cum, she excited him just that much and then some.

Moments later she sets him free of his clothing, he stands there naked before her, as she wraps her fingers around his manhood, stroking its length and thickness, feeling the slick pre-cum over the tip. She gently works its silkiness down the shaft, leaning forward rubbing her lips on the head of his swollen cock. He moans as she does this, her soft lips touching him like this. His breathing quickens as Nikki accelerates her movements.

Sliding her hot mouth down onto him, tasting him for the first time, her hand cups and massages him, back and forth. She teases him with her teeth, tongue, mouth, hands while toying with the rhythm of her movements, fast, slow, hard, soft, furious and gentle.

She can feel his sense of excitement as he pulsates against her mouth, she swirls the tip of her tongue around the tip. The sensation of skin against skin, soft against hard, Malone simply cannot take it anymore.

He leans forward pushing her from him as his excitement reaches an ecstasy-bound plateau. He has more things he wants to explore on her lovely body. She feels his hand slide back up her body, pushing the lingerie completely off her body. Suddenly, she feels fully exposed, her legs spread wide and her body very naked. He looks deeply, even wildly into her eyes. “Nix, baby. I need to be inside of you. I want to feel all of you, make love to you.” Her fear is soon overcome by excitement. The moment the tip enters her domain she inhales anticipating the best is yet to come. She waits patiently, then bam, it hits her with such ferocity, she wants to feel every last inch of him all up in her body.

He feels so good inside of me like that, she thinks to herself.

Malone feels her hips roll as she wiggles beneath him, damn, did she just have an orgasm that quickly, he questions.

Reaching for a condom, Malone picks up that she does not require further encouragement. Without shame or hesitation they did things that night that one had only read about in books.

Hours later, laying next to each other, Malone props his head up, admiring her blissful glow. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Pausing, she looks at him, into his eyes, “I want to remember this moment, forever.” I love this man, she says internally at the very core of her heart. Ooh, that may be the awesome sex talking, but I will say that I love making love to him.

Bright and early the next morning, the sound of birds chirping and the sun blaring in the bedroom wake up Ms. Sleepyhead. Recalling the previous night’s events and early morning sessions, she smiles warmly to herself, basking in the feeling that for the very first time in her life, she was made love to, not fucked, screwed or sexed, but completely made love to as if she was the only woman on the planet. Moving her legs to stretch, she discovers that Malone left her with a nice little “ouch”, the kind of pleasurable pain that makes you feel as if your lover was still inside of you.

With careful movements, she reaches for a note left on her pillow, she props up in the bed, reading: “Good morning, sweetness, I want to make it clear, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world. Being away from you and Baby Jay the next couple of days is going to be rough. My interest is only for yours. I miss you already. We have to solidify some things when I return to make this a more permanent relationship. In the interim, work on your speech besides nodding and moaning. Love, your man, M.

Holding the note tightly in her hand, she grins, he said your man, thinking about his kisses, the feel of his body, his strength puts Nikki in a permanent state of total blisshood.

She prays silently, Dear Gods, all I ask is for a slice of a dream, that’s not much, is it? I always get the crumbs, and sometimes not that much. I want everything to go right for a change. No sadness, no tragedies, no fears, and for once…no tears.

The memory of Malone’s strong and loving touch lingers all over her, the intoxicating scent ever so mindful as she relives his kisses, the feel of him, his essence, arousing her walls to a wetness that wouldn’t quit. Malone put in some serious work last night, he hit all the spots and then some. I had numerous powerhouse orgasms, back to back that make you wanna say, I can die happily now, she reminisces.

Nikki finally caves in to her body’s calling and decides to take matters into her own hands. Slinking her hand down toward her mound, she feels the softness of her body, dipping one finger easily into the folds of her body, she lets out a low, soft moan. Mmmm, this is the best feeling in the world, so soft and wet. Getting the go-ahead from her body’s response to her fingers, Nikki dips her finger in deeper. BRRNNG! BRRNGGG! Damn phone interrupting my moment, she thinks. “Oh, just let me enjoy this a little bit longer, please.”

Reluctantly, reaching for the phone, “This better be an emergency.”

Copyright 2010 Monica Madison. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

“A doctor will be right with you,” the female nurse said quietly. “Wait for the transponder to vibrate. It will signal you when it’s time.”

“The doctor” I whispered.

When the nurse began walking back to the reception desk I stood up and went towards an orange door on the right.

“Sir!” the nurse exclaimed. “You aren’t allowed in there at this time. The doctor must see you first.”

“I don’t understand,” I mumbled.

“You’ll feel much better after visiting the doctor.”

“Wait!”

“Mr. Baumer! I assure you, everything will be fine.”

“There is-”

“I must ask you to please remain calm. Wait for the transponder to signal you.”

“I can’t hear-”

Suddenly the transponder vibrated. I felt the device warming my hand gently as the nurse escorted me through a wide hallway into a room.

“There now. Doesn’t that feel better? Lie down on this bed. Everything will be all right. Close your eyes and imagine floating on a calm sea. Feel the waves moving your body in a direction you always wished to travel.” “Right side,” I said, trying to open my eyes. “Don’t go through the orange door.”

My muscles began tingling. My extremities tightened and became numb. There was an overwhelming need to stretch my arms.

“What’s going on?” I managed to say.

“Stay still, my boy. This will only hurt a bit,” said a strange voice. “He’s coming out of it! I need an intravenous S Mood and Temperament (SMT) with 250 g of chilled water.”

“Doctor,” I whispered. “Where’s the doctor?”

“He’s regaining equilibrium doctor,” the nurse said. “We’ll perform the mental assessment for his SMT shortly,” said the strange voice.

“Get me a doctor,” I whispered.

“Hello Carson,” said the strange voice. “So glad you could come to see us. Sit up and drink this water. It will make you feel better.”

“Doctor?” I asked.

“It’s me,” the doctor said. “We must now assess your mental state. Then you may perform the fluid sample. This will guarantee the effectiveness of our supplements.”

“What are you talking about?” I glanced around the room. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a safe place,” the doctor replied. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again. The nurses were quite surprised when you decided to explore. You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” “Who knows what got into me. I’m usually more careful than that. Can you tell me what might have caused this irrational behavior?”

“Please don’t make an attempt to express your problems. It doesn’t do anybody much good. At 26 you still look very young and admirable. We just need to perform a mental analysis for your SMT treatment.” I looked down from the bed. Two female nurses were standing by the door. The doctor left, giving each nurse something I couldn’t recognize. Both nurses wore solid green uniforms and white hairnets. Each nurse had a small digital name tag that displayed a seven-digit number in shining red letters. The numbers were exactly the same on both name tags. The nurses did not move too much, and both made direct eye contact with me. There were shelves arranged with clear jars in numerical order. All the jars were easily accessible, most of them sitting above my bed. I turned around, noticing a plaque that hung in a secluded corner next to a locked cabinet. Inside the plaque was a rather long document, typed on unusual golden paper that looked nothing like any seldom-available papers did today. It was framed elegantly and covered under thick, clear glass. The entire document had a small typeface, except the first sentence, which said, 200 years after forming the Association for Humanistic Psychology in 1961, we are still faced with a crisis. I leaned closer, trying to get a better look, but couldn’t reach it.

“Mr. Baumer!” a nurse exclaimed. “There’s no time to waste. We must get to the examining room immediately.”

The other nurse flipped a switch by the door, activating two ventilation fans that dispersed a slightly sweet scent all around me. “Please take a deep breath and relax,” the nurse said. “Don’t you know the doctor is ready to see you in the examining room?”

“The doctor?” I asked.

“Yes,” both nurses replied, and one of them approached me. “You’ve been waiting for him all this time.”

“Really?” I replied while trying to stand still.

“Of course you have,” she replied. “He knows just what’s causing your thought disruptions.”

“My legs are tired.” I held on the bed.

“There’s no reason to stress yourself out now-”

The other nurse flipped off the switch and approached me. “That should do it,” she said after whispering something to the other nurse.

“Doesn’t that feel better?” they both asked. Both nurses took my hand and a strange metallic device produced soothing sensations on my palm. They walked me towards the door. We went down the wide hallway, which could accommodate three people side by side. On each side were private waiting rooms with large windows, similar to the one I had entered. All windows were covered by metallic screens, and computerized ID numbers flashed next to them. Three-dimensional images of molecular structures rotated on a flat screen right above the doors. Each room had its own image and seven-digit ID number. Both nurses were still holding my hand as we approached silver double doors shiny enough to create a clear reflection. The nurses removed their name tags, swiping them across a security sensor in unison. After a five-second delay, both doors made a hissing sound then opened automatically. They escorted me inside and that familiar, slightly sweet scent entered my nostrils. The corridor-like pathway became narrower with every step. One of the nurses gently released my hand and an instant later the other nurse also let go. “Hello?” I asked. “I hear you-”

Clicking sounds were coming not far from me. I looked around, but it was pitch black. Nothing was visible. “I can hear you in there,” I said. “Answer me.”

It seemed as if a faint voice was talking to me. I tried extending my arms to touch something, but there was nothing.

“He seems to be going out of- hmm,” said a strange voice suddenly.

“What?” I asked. “Please show yourself.”

“Pattern one assessment,” that same voice said. “Look at him. He’s so tiny.”

“I know you’re here. Please come out.”

I tried walking but it seemed like I was glued to the wall horizontally. Soothing sensations continued running throughout my body. “Let me out!” I cried. “Why are you singing? Speak to me! Hello?”

“Welcome back, Carson. All done,” the strange voice said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Who are you?” I asked. “The doctor?”

“I’m right here. Swallow this.” He handed me a round tablet about the size of my fingertips. I looked at its smooth surface, but did not swallow.

“Take it,” the doctor said.

The tablet had a slight bitter taste as it ran down my throat. The doctor reclined, focusing his attention on me.

“We have targeted the cause of your erratic behavior. As your doctor I’m putting you on SMT treatment, starting today.”

“Anything for you. I want to improve myself quickly, without too much effort.”

“Good then. I see we’re making progress.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re all done with your session today. Here are the SMT tablets. Take them once a day with a glass of water. You must make sure not to skip a dose. That would tamper with the long-term effects.”

I took the clear jar of round, pale yellow tablets. It wasn’t very big and only had one label, which read Universal SMT, 20 Tablets, 1 Daily. “Is there anything else I should know about this supplement?”

“They’re safe, effective and chemically engineered for your specific need.”

“What’s ‘Universal’ supposed to mean?”

“Does anybody live with you?”

“Not really.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem then. It’s really nothing, believe me.”

“Okay, but only because you’re my doctor.”

“You should get going. The nurses will take you to the analysis facility for the final step.”

I walked out of the examining room through a purple curtain. The two nurses were standing outside. They took me through the wide hallway and I realized that some of the red ID numbers were either different or turned off completely. The nurses walked me past the rooms and turned right towards the orange door. “Please stop here,” the nurse on my right said.

The other nurse approached the orange door and entered some kind of code. Seven faint rings sounded as she entered something on a keypad. “Please go in now,” she said. “Follow the directions given.”

I walked inside. A scrolling LED banner was mounted above the far right wall. It read Being in this room shows that you’re willing to improve yourself. Below the banner, three tubes led from a small reclining chaise directly into the wall. Besides each tube stood a mass spectrometry machine upheld by a shiny metallic pole. All three tubes were roughly a foot away from the chair, and about ten inches in diameter. Each tube was a certain color. In front of the chair was a yellow tube, which was attached from the floor to the ceiling. Two red and green tubes were connected to a sturdy hollow aluminum rod that suspended the chaise from the floor. Those tubes went straight into the sides of the wall in opposite directions. I sat down on the chaise. A female computerized voice said, “Welcome to our Sample Analysis Center at the Heming Mood and Behavior Conditioning Facility (HMBCF). Please pick up your remote. Then press the green button to put your seat into testing position.” I pressed the green button and my chaise reclined a bit.

“Press 1 to release the arms. Place your palms on the screen for ten seconds.”

Two arms came forth from the side and turned to reveal a couple of seven-by-seven inch screens. A faint blue light shone through the glass. “473 nanometers,” said the female computerized voice. “Perspiration rate, check. Surprise stimulus, check. Central Nervous System activity, check. Sympathetic Nervous System, check. Stress response, check. Psycho-mimetic Simulation Exam Completed.”

The arms of the chaise turned around and tucked away inside their original position.

“Please place the oral collection device located behind you inside your mouth. Press 7 to start the sample collection process.”

I took the device and found it to be lightweight and cold. It consisted of a thin plastic handle attached to a spherical rubber tip about a half an inch in diameter. I put it in my mouth and pressed the button.

“Fluid accumulation will begin in three, two, one- gathering fluids.”

At this point the device was rubbing all around my mouth very gently. “Supercritical fluid extraction in progress. Please wait a moment- distributing fluids to appropriate receptacles.”

All three colored tubes activated themselves simultaneously, emitting a low buzzing sound that would only be audible in a quiet room.

“Fluids deposited successfully. Please press Adjust to reset and sterilize testing equipment. You may now exit the testing facility. Goodbye.”

When I opened the door there was increased activity in the hallway. Pairs of nurses with different colored uniforms were escorting a single patient down the wide hallway. My two nurses were still dressed in their green uniforms, leaning against the wall to make room for others. “Are you feeling better now?” one of them asked.

“Much better. Are there usually this many people here?”

“As the night approaches we get more demand for treatment,” said the other nurse.

“Why is that?”

“It’s a mystery,” they both said.

“Mystery?” “Heming is a huge city. At night people’s feelings accumulate towards things we help out with.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’s too complicated to explain right now,” one said. “But aren’t you happy to go home? You’ve had an exciting day and are feeling much better about yourself.”

“Definitely,” I replied. “I don’t even remember what was bothering me…but that’s normal I guess.”

“It’s our job to help. Everybody benefits from our service here-at no charge.”

“I want to thank you for-”

“Please,” interrupted the other nurse. Wouldn’t you like to go home now? Remember, we’ve placed your SMT tablets into your left pocket. Make sure not to skip a dose.”

“It’s coming back to me,” I replied, tapping my left pocket.

“Very well. Please make your way towards our red exit sign on the left. A voice command system will guide you outside.”

I walked away from the nurses without saying another word. After approaching the exit sign I turned around, and they were no longer there. I began to walk forward in a slow pace.

“Please go straight,” said an automated female voice.

The exit way was tidy and well lit. I noticed that the carpet was a nicely saturated shade of purple and the walls were painted with a faint orange color, almost peach. “Please make a right towards the exit, leaving HMBCF.”

I stepped out into the warm breeze of a beautiful summer night. Despite the great weather, it was getting late, so I decided to go home. I walked over to a nearby Alfatauri Escort Station (AES) to summon a ride home.

“Welcome to the 6B HMBCF AES. Press 1 for directions or press A for transportation service. You have selected A. Please state number of parties. You have selected 1. Please select destination. You have selected 1st Heming District, Main Street. Step to the blue curb. An Alfatauri vehicle will be here in approximately five minutes.”

Read more about Vindication City and David Garyan HERE.

Copyright 2010 David Garyan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

INTRODUCTION

Returning to “Go” With Will Rogers
It’s only the inspiration of those who die that make those who live realize what constitutes a useful life.–Will Rogers
I was lying on my back on one of the flat, gray concrete banisters that edged our front steps, watching the stars flicker to life in the Kansas summer twilight. The lightning bugs were in flight, and the rhythmic buzzing of locusts in the trees across the street filled the air.
Dad sat on our porch swing, quietly smoking his favorite cigar, a Roi Tan. From time to time, a trail of well-formed smoke rings expanded into the still air. Then for no apparent reason he asked the question I have so clearly remembered all these years: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Being a grown up was not as yet a burning concern for me. Although at times I did manage to see myself somewhere in the future as a cowboy, a fencing Musketeer, an African explorer and big-game hunter, a Mississippi river boat captain–all subject to change based on the next exciting adventure movie at the local Paramount Theater. Sometimes the image of a song-and-dance man in vaudeville slipped in, but only fleetingly. I knew vaudeville was not what it had once been. Besides I could not carry a tune. As for dancing, I’d never tried.
For the moment, however, Dad’s out-of-the-blue question touched a reflective nerve. I looked inside myself as deeply and as seriously as an eleven-year-old is able. As I gazed up into the darkening sky, thinking, Will Rogers, everybody’s hero, came into my mind.
He had seemed special to me for some time. So many things about him I liked. Not lost on me was that others liked him, too. Before he died, only a year or so before, much of the townsfolk’s conversation had included quotes from his newspaper columns and radio programs. Many of his sayings were still being repeated, always with the same effect: a smile and an approving nod. I never heard anyone say a bad thing about him.
“What do you call someone like Will Rogers?” I asked. “A humorist.” “That’s what I want to be–a humorist.” Even now I recall that those words revealed my deepest heart-
felt secret. I had just offered Dad my pearl of great price. However, as we were in the middle of the Great Depression, Dad’s response, although a disappointment to me, was probably predictable: “You need to be practical.” That ended our discussion about my future plans without either of us giving any thought to what being a humorist might have meant to me. Had I been asked I would have been hard pressed for an answer. However, I was aware that Will Rogers was a man who made people feel good and that he drew them together. At some level, I knew I wanted a part in that togetherness.
I continued to admire Rogers, but never to the point of idolizing him. I did have sufficient interest in the humorist to make him the subject of a college sociology paper. The prof scrawled on the cover sheet: “Good statement of a philosophy of life, but this was not the assignment. C–.”
Later, after college and out in the real world I read a couple of Rogers’ biographies. I could sometimes come up with one of his quotes when an occasion suggested it. My old conversation with Dad sometimes surfaced when I tried my hand at humor writing. Still, I found other humorists to be as enjoyable and of equal interest, if not more so, writers such as Robert Benchley, H. Allen Smith, James Thurber, O. Henry and Ogden Nash.
It was not until a half-century after my evening conversation with Dad that I began to realize how central Will Rogers must have always been in my life. This awareness came only slowly after I had decided to portray this great humorist and initiated the required research and study to do so faithfully.
My journey with Will Rogers began as a portrayal of the importance of play for the individual. Play is a resource to transcend the limitations imposed by society and life. In his autobiography, renowned psychoanalyst Karl Jung described a personal crisis during his mid-thirties. He discovered that reconnecting with the play of his childhood helped him clarify his thoughts and situation. He said of this reconnection, “That was the turning point of my fate.” I began to incorporate some aspects of play into my hospital counseling, and eventually developed a small-group experiential workshop I called Playlife: Rediscovering the Secrets of Childhood which was meant to introduce people to the importance of play in adult life. This effective program helped participants to revisit their own play experiences and bring them into the present, and showed clearly that playful energy can transform the humdrum and mundane, into thrilling, stimulating, creative events that excite the imagination. Playfulness belongs to all of life, not just youth.
I had a chance to put it to the test personally in the late 1970s. I had been working at a full-service hospital with over 400 beds. I was the entire chaplain department. For twelve years, whenever needed, I was present in emotional and traumatic situations. Suddenly without warning, I felt a gut-level message: “Enough!” I realized I could no longer deliver the quality of service that patients and hospital were entitled to, and I resigned, moving into an uncertain future. The transition was neither smooth nor swift.
Driving home following my last day of work, I realized my identity was no longer connected to the hospital. Another thought came and began playing tag with the first. This was the first time in my adult life my identity was unrelated to some institution, business, or organization. As the department head of a state mental hospital, the pastor of such and such a church, a U. S. Marine, a representative of a financial institution, or a university student, I always had identified myself in terms of something that was not me. It was a sobering realization.
What was my identity? Who/what was I–as a person–in my own right? The thoughts tumbled through my mind as I came face to face with one of life’s most confounding questions: What does it mean to be a human being? Or as it is sometimes asked: Who am I? Why am I here? What can I do about it?
Fast forward. Fall 1991. I am immersed in a book project to incorporate some hospital experiences and my independent studies in humor and play. But the very spirit the book was to celebrate seemed missing. It was simply pages of thoughts without soul. As in a failing marriage, my labor of love had turned into drudgery. I felt the irony in losing my way while trying to describe the very workshop I had designed to encourage playfulness and spur creativity, imagination, and ingenuity. The natural thought was to engage myself in one of my own workshop’s activities. If that didn’t bring renewed vitality to the writing, perhaps I had no business offering it to others.
I found myself making a “spider” from a pencil eraser, held by a bent straight pin, and wrapped with four dangling legs cut from a rubber band. The spider was suspended from a thread. Immediately I was transported back to the balcony of the local Paramount movie theater in the hometown of my youth. There I would tie the spider to an extra long piece of thread wrapped around a pencil stub. Leaning over the rail from the front row of the balcony, during the movie, I would lower it slowly in front of an unsuspecting moviegoer seated below. Gratified results guaranteed! Being smart for my age I never used the spider twice during any one show.
My spider triggered something else. The image of Will Rogers burst suddenly into my mind. Instantly, in an intuitive moment, I knew there was a connection to my moment of playfulness and Rogers’ special connection to the American people.
I immediately turned to re-read a biography I had not looked at in years. There I discovered, or re-discovered, halfway through the first chapter, that Rogers had learned to rope at the age of four. Roping each day was a normal part of his adult life, and he became one of the world’s most accomplished fancy trick ropers. I realized that Rogers, who had been thrust into my consciousness by some unexplained presence, had, throughout his life actually lived the play process.
Reading about Rogers’ childhood roping was my Eureka moment. It linked Will Rogers to my investigation and developmental work in the experience of play. The more I read, the more I discovered that Rogers epitomized every one of my theories concerning personal fulfillment. Often his life enlarged the concepts behind my theories.
I began to revise my presentations on the nature of play. I decided to incorporate, as best I could, a brief Rogers-style monologue, which I would script from published quotes, to convey his playful nature to those who had little or no knowledge of his Oklahoma cowboy persona. This would, however, mean learning to rope.
Finding a spinning rope became an adventure of its own. They were not stock items, even in western-wear stores. A trick roper could have given me the information I needed. But I didn’t know any trick ropers, and they are not hanging around just any street corner. I was on my own.
Eventually, I found a pre-packaged trick-roping kit. Printed across the top of the package were Rogers’ portrait, his autograph and an action picture of him doing a rope trick. Included with a 12-foot, 100% cotton spot cord rope was a 52-page instruction booklet: Will Rogers Rope Tricks, by Frank Dean, who had been a friend of Rogers.
One of my earliest Rogers presentations was given to my Lions Club, and I asked for the members’ written comments afterwards. One particular comment, from a friend of mine, was a turning point. He wrote, “We would like more of Will Rogers and less of you.” I first laughed, then thought: “Of course, why should I tell Will Rogers’ story? Let him tell it himself.” I found myself taking one of the most reluctant steps of my life: performing as Will Rogers on the stage.
As I continued to learn more about Rogers, I became more aware that the social dynamic embodied in the spirit of play was active in Rogers’ relationship to the American people. When children engage in spontaneous play, often without any or very little discussion, they intuitively group themselves around the essentials for any meaningful interaction: Fairness, caring, respect for one another, trust. Indeed, group play has its own ethics.. This, I realized, was what went on between Rogers and the people. It was this ethics that bonded Rogers and the people. The exuberance of his playfulness connected with the natural spirit of play that resided in others and they formed their own community of trust. The people gave him their trust, a trust he never violated. He in turn gave his to them, believing in the hopeful realities of a people-matter society.

If the ordinary folks of the land could not exercise their own playfulness as readily as Rogers, they could at least experience it vicariously through him. It was said the people could look in a mirror and more nearly see themselves as Will Rogers than as any other person on the American scene. Perhaps they could not execute the desire, but they could feel themselves freed from the negatives, freed from trying to control others, to control events, to control life– liberated from the trappings of power, status, position. And so freed, what else is there to do but to radiate hope, joy, trust, and seek satisfaction in the moment–just as Will Rogers did.
As part of my research into Rogers, I visited the Will Rogers Memorial Museum in Claremore, Oklahoma and experienced another rediscovery: Will Rogers was part Cherokee and was raised on the Cherokee Nation. This heritage would prove to be a principal landmark guiding my future thoughts. When a friend recommended Forgotten Founders by Bruce E. Johansen, I came across a new insight into the American way, and into Will Rogers’ impact on the American public. Our cherished American way is in fact a blending of important American Indian cultural values and the emerging European value of individualism. I realized that the values Will Rogers expressed were inherent in the value systems of many American Indians. And that it was those values—fairness, tolerance, the importance of community, compassion and caring for others—that struck such a deep chord with the American people during the Great Depression. His commentary and observations were common-sense ways these values related to the events of the day, with people saying, “He’s right about that.” It resonated with their inner wisdom.
I found myself again looking at the importance of an active spirit of play in a functioning society. For Rogers, his playfulness grew naturally out of the values he learned from his Cherokee mother and others around him during his childhood. His spirit of play helped keep his people-matter values foremost in his living, even in desperate times. I began to understand that a healthy spirit of play also creates and sustains community. Together the playful individual and the caring community form an environment of trust in which human life flourishes. In Will Rogers one sees that personal fulfillment and creating a better world is a matter of child’s play.
As children, many of us were admonishing to “Grow Up!” And we did. Will Rogers showed us the wiser command would be, “Grow Young!” Fortunately, it’s never too late to do that.

Read more about WILL ROGERS and E. T. (Cy) Eberhart HERE.

Copyright 2010 E. T. (Cy) Eberhart. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Practical, easy-to-follow guide, inviting parents and teachers to be active participants in understanding boys, communicating with them, and channeling their exuberance!

Excerpt

Boys Alive! Bring Out Their Best!
By Janet Allison

Bring Out His Best at Home!
Less is More
Less words.  Less questions.  Less requests.
-    The more you ask, the less he’ll say.  Use fewer words and give him time to respond (up to 60 seconds!)  Give him time between your requests.  Use gestures rather than words.  Post written rules.
-    Silence is golden.  Be comfortable with it.  Not everything needs to be analyzed and discussed (save that for your girlfriends, Mom!).  A man once told me he feels closer to guys he plays sports with and doesn’t really talk to.  Share a common activity together, enjoy the quiet companionship.  Find something to do side-by-side and you may find that conversation will more easily flow but don’t push it.

-    Write it down.  A friendly reminder on his mirror, a note in his lunch box.  Be specific in your praise, describing exactly what you noticed, and how it made you feel.  “I saw you help your brother with his backpack this morning.  That freed me up to get the car ready to go.  Thanks for doing that without being asked!”
-    “Hmmm”. -  Sometimes a curious and interested, Hmm, from you is enough.  He may just need to say something and really doesn’t need (or want) a response from you, he just wants to know you’ve listened.

Adapt your Home
When the environment suits your boy, you may find he is more relaxed and you are too!  Viewing your home through your boy’s eyes may reveal areas that could benefit from a change.
Outside Time
Lots of outside time is crucial for boys to process their feelings and release excess energy.  Make sure they have a safe place to play and let them go!
I recently visited a friend’s beach house and the entire back yard had been turned into a giant fantasy land complete with moats, islands and bridges.  Let creative play rule the day!

Inside Time
Your boy will be most comfortable with an uncluttered place to play, allowing him to use his creative ingenuity and release his excess energy.

-    Stow your antiques.  When he is grown you can bring them out again.
-    Install a hanging bar across a doorway.  Tie a long, strong cloth around it.  This hammock can be a climbing structure as well as a cozy place to sit.  It satisfies both large muscle movement and the need for touch.

-    Mini-trampolines allow an acceptable energy release.  You may find that he likes to bounce and talk to you at the same time!

-    Squeeze balls release energy while helping him keep his body still.  He will be able to listen even better because his hands are busy.
-    Uncluttered play space with lots of room to spread out his open-ended toys will encourage his imaginative play.

-   Adjust your expectations of his behavior.  Remember that “every behavior is useful in some context” and look for the benefits of his exuberance.

-    Limit media.  Boys are easily susceptible to overstimulation.

Enlist Him
Invite him to be a full participant in family life and decision making.

Problem solving – When there is a problem, state it clearly and neutrally.  Ask him to help you find a solution.  Boys are creative and innovative and he may have a solution you wouldn’t have thought of!  Acknowledge his feelings while limiting his behaviors.

Boys need rules – Boys crave structure and security.  When he has a structure he can count on, he can relax.  Boys want to know-
o    Who is in charge?
o    What are the rules?
o    Will the rules be fairly and consistently enforced?

Meaningful work – Boys thrive on meaningful work.  Just as he seeks relevance in his learning, he wants to know that his work is useful.  For instance, as young as 3, give him the job of putting silverware on the table.  You may have to remind him but do not do it for him!  When he forgets and the family sits down to dinner without silverware, he will see how important his work is to the family.

Responsibility – The less you do for him, the more responsible he will become.  Do not carry his stuff!  Help him pack his own lunch.  Show him how to do the laundry.  You are teaching him habits and your parenting job is about to get a lot easier.  Plus, he’ll be the envy of his college roommates.  And think how happy his future partner will be!

Siblings – The tone that siblings establish with each other (controlling or considerate) stays about the same throughout their lives.  Situational studies find that siblings between the ages of 3 and 7 clash about three times per hour.  Only 1 of every 8 of those conflicts ends in a compromise or reconciliation. Otherwise, one sibling withdraws while the other “wins”.  Many siblings simply lack the skills of how to initiate play on terms that they can both enjoy and how to graciously decline if they don’t want to play.  Parents can teach these social skills, allowing siblings to enjoy each other.

Read more about Boys Alive! Bring Out Their Best! and Janet Allison HERE.

Copyright 2010 Janet Allison. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Sunny Boy and Little Sunny is a story told mostly by photographs of an incident involving a wild mustang family. The story takes place in northern Wyoming on Bureau of Land Management land east of the town of Cody, Wyoming.
This family unit includes a mare, a baby colt she had given birth to sometime during the previous night and the babies’ father.

The book has many pictures of the wild mustang on the move after being spooked by three large trucks that drove through the preserve. The horses were especially nervous due to previous round-ups and took off running from the noise and the trucks.

As the herd gathers momentum the father of the new born baby seeks out the mare and the baby. He stays with them as the herd takes off leaving the family behind.

At one point four stallions from the herd seek to take the babies’ mother for themselves. The father, Sunny Boy, seeing what is happening circles around and attacks all four stallions to preserve his family.

Read more about Sunny Boy and Little Sunny and Phyllis Waltman HERE.

Copyright 2010 Phyllis  Waltman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Life is precious dear, don’t you think.” He said in a chilled tone that caused her blood to turn ice cold through her veins. She clutched the phone to her ear, contemplating the next step to take. He was across the seas, nearly a day away by flight. What could he possibly do?

Harm her family, her mind answered the frightening question left hanging as she refocused on his successful attempt to scare her into submission.

“Yes, I know life is precious. However, I strongly doubt whether you do” she said. Ashanta Kenani was a proud woman but pride would not solve her dilemma. She sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders back with mock courage. Her mind could not process this scene fast enough to register the threat lying behind his words.

His light-hearted laughter could have fooled someone else but not her, not anymore. She pulled the phone from her ear as if it were poisonous.

“Call it what you may, I promise you this, cross me and someone will die,” he said.

The following silence caused her more concern than his threat.

“But,” he continued, sarcastically, “I doubt you will take my words seriously, with you being in the states and all. So let me send a message that translates well in any language. Would you hold dear, someone wants to speak with you?”

Ashanta sprang to her feet and began to pace the floor. Who could it be? The passing seconds felt like hours. What did she get herself into? How would she get out of it? And how many people where going to pay for her stupidity?

The muffled voices on the other end of the line caused her to lean closer into the phone, as if it would help her recognize his surprise guest. It helped. What she heard caused her eyes to burn as her determination melted into pure fear. Then hatred.

“Don’t…don’t”

Ashanta had a death crip on the phone as she recognized her mother’s cries. Her frail voice cried in the distance surrounded by the commotion of wrestling.  The phone dropped.

“Momma?” Ashanta screamed into the receiver hoping her ears were failing her. What was he doing with her mother?

“Hello?” A strained voice seeped through the line.

“Momma?! What are you doing there?”

“Shani, Shani, I’m scared.”

“Shut up! Either do as I say or your you’ll lose more than your finger. Now, pick-up the phone and tell your daughter hello for us all.”

“Don’t I promise?” Ashanti wanted to show him that she would comply with his wishes. “I promise I will do whatever you want just leave my mother alone. Please…please don’t do this.”

Amidst the commotion, she could hear him laughing. The laughter was not one of mutual amusement but of the devil-playing cat and mouse games. And unfortunately she was the mouse, trapped.

The sound of metal sliced through the air. Ashanta held the phone as tears streamed down her face.

“What was that? Answer me damn it. Momma?” Ashanta screamed for her mother, for him, for anyone.

The line went dead.

Ashanta let the tears fall. Who would pay? She heard the question ringing in her mind as she stared blankly at the receiver. She took several deep breathes attempting to slow her racing heart. The answer was clear, her family would pay the price for her ambition. He would harm her mother, her father, and even her young sisters if it served his purpose. She now knew her naivety and determination made way for her sealing a deal with the devil.

“Talib, you son of a bitch, this is not over…”

Copyright 2010 JaNese Dixon. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE
Jerusalem, year 1238

The black velvet veil of the night exscinded the St. John Hospital off the day fuss, full of pilgrims’ babbling, silverware clanking and moaning of the wounded. The flickering flame of an oil lamp cast dim light onto the faces of two companions, still keeping stone vaultings and walls of the wide chamber in utter darkness. Their raiments  ‘red woolen robes, featuring very tight sleeves which symbolize social engagement abdication, and white linen octagonal crosses on the chest’ sings of chastity, indicated that their wearers belonged to the Knights Hospitallers of the St.John Order of Jerusalem. Thracian swords on their sashes served another quite eloquent testimony of that. The Order had a good fame for its victories over infidels, caring of pilgrims and healing of the wounded. However, apart from that, the Order had another mission, a secret one, and the two companions were nearly related to it.
” had to summon you so urgently, Brother Controller, interrupting your alchemical experiments in the Castle of Alamut, but this matter brooks no delay. A runner came from Rome, bringing the Pope’s bull to monsieur Bertrand de Comps. His Holiness Gregory IX threatens us with an excommunication. He accuses the Order in concluding an agreement with Hasan-i Sabbah; however, his accusations are not confined to that only… The Pope writes about using ungodly secrets of Chaldean healers, breaking the vows of godliness and the vows of not striving for fame. Our Grandmaster is gathering a convention to talk resolving this situation.”
“By virtue of the eight years of our friendship with the assassins, brother Keeper, their healers and alchemists had granted the Order the knowledge, which no one in Europe possesses. That were the Chaldeans, it were them who gave us the Holy Blood, gathered by Joseph of Arimathea. The papacy, as well as the monarchies, has sunk into the mire of luxuriance, putrefaction, and depravity. Is pontifix indeed the one to tell us about breaking the vows of godliness and poverty?  “Healer, heal yourself!” as Hippocrates used to say… What is this Pope’s bull for us? Today, in this Holy Land, the Order is stronger than anyone. It is not too long till the moment when people want us to give them the pontifices, and we shall become the masters of the Christian world.”
“Brother Controller, I fear you’ve spent too much time in the Alamut. The poisoned daggers of Hasan-I Sabbah’s assassins are fine for strengthening our positions here, in Jerusalem Kingdom, but they will be of little help for us beyond its borders. Positions of the crusaders grow inevitably weaker, and it is not far till the day when we are to leave Palestine for good. Sagacious men say that there’s no more than five years till then. As for our success in medical treatment, I fear it did no good for the Order at all… The Pope heard the rumors about the Cross with the Holy Blood, that miraculously stops bleeding, and about the magic mould, that heals purulent wounds in no time ‘all this smells just like warlocks’ sorcery for simpletons. And there’s some truth to this as well; indeed, you cannot just tell Pope that you’ve perfectly mastered the art of Kabbalah, without risk of being dragged straight to the death-fire. If Pope happens to accuse the Order of heresy, our days will be numbered. Those brothers, who are fraught with improper optimism, waiting for papacy’s soon downfall, seem to know nothing about Saint Malachy’s manuscript. It was a hundred years ago when he foretold that there would be 112 popes sitting enthroned in Rome, starting with Celestine II. So, there would be many centuries to end the papacy, and the Apocalypse as John the Evangelist foretold would begin. In the manuscript that was written under heavenly spirit’s guidance in the papal library Saint Malachy gave each of the future pontifices a short aphoristic datum. He mentioned no names, just outlined some qualities of each Pope and put us wise about what should bring the Christian world his reign. Popes hide this manuscript in their library, but our spy in Rome succeeded in bribing the librarian and rewriting the document.”
“So, what are we to do with our knowledge, Brother Keeper? Chaldean sages made us know about the way the Prince of Darkness will come to the world. Saint Malachy unfolded the time people have till the Day of the Judgment. But whom can we discover ourselves to?”
“No one on earth. We must keep our knowledge under wraps from everyone. Neither mortals are able to prevent the coming of Antichrist, nor can they intervene into his succinct reign on the Earth. But we must do all that lies in our powers to hinder the birth of Antichrist in his terrestrial body. All the Order’s possessions ‘wealth, power, fame’ all this is needed just for our secret mission to be fulfilled. So, now we shall overcome our arrogance and bow before the Pope,” answered the Keeper wanly.
“What does Saint Malachy says of the last Pope, Brother Keeper?”
“He will be a servant to the Prince of Darkness, and bear the name of the first Pope, Saint Peter the Apostle. Hold on brother, I will bring the manuscript’s copy and read you this fragment…”
The Keeper disappeared in the darkness to return after a while, carrying a vellum roll. He moved the lamp closer to himself and read solemnly in Latin:
“In per secutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pacet oues in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis civitas septicollis diruetur, and Judex tremedus judicabit populum suum. Finis.”
The two companions remained silent for a while, thinking this over. Then the Keeper finalized sullenly:
“We shall keep the Cross with the Holy Blood in secret until there’s need in it. There are still centuries till that day, but the Order shall forever remain on its guard.”

* During the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church, the Holy See will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed his sheep in many tribulations: and when these things are finished, the seven-hilled city will be destroyed, and the Formidable Judge will judge his people. The End.

Chapter 1

CYBER SUTRA

This morning turtle-like traffic of the Nevskiy prospect definitely provided the most favorable conditions for philosophic wonderings. When Alexander’s old Mercedes came to a halt in the dead jam of cars right in front of a shining ‘Baskin Robbins’ outdoor sign, it seemed to him that the center of Saint Petersburg looked somewhat unreal, almost like virtual. As if an old black-and-white photo that had been heavily treated in the Photoshop. And now pretentious, too much artificial images kept flashing on car windows like they were computer screens. Nobody remembered about the real life anymore, everyone was just childishly happy with newly painted pictures.
While turning from the Nevskiy prospect to the right to the Ligovskiy prospect, Alexander noticed that the retouching started to fade, and Saint Petersburg’s facade was turning into more and more realistic one. Show-windows of expensive stores gave way to democratic snack bars and groceries. After one more turn to the right he saw the gray building with the flaked archway, leading to the well-yard. Alexander drove into the archway and parked his car beside trashcans. At this place the reality has presented itself at full swing: brick walls with remains of plaster and rusty metal entrance doors. Alexander pressed an Intercom button and soon he heard: “Who’s there?” In answer he barked:
“As if you don’t know! Open up.”
Alexander climbed dented steps almost in full darkness, heard the click of an opening electronic lock, and entered the apartment. It didn’t actually look like an apartment in usual sense. A kitchen he entered was equipped with a single normal device that was a coffee machine, while the rest of the place was occupied by a desk with two computers lacking towers and boxes, from which cables were meandering all over the rooms. The interior of the kitchen was in perfect harmony with the yard where Alexander had parked his car. It seemed that the last time when the kitchen had been refurbished was a century ago or so.
A man, who was sat by the desk half-rose from his chair, shook hands with Alexander and said with clownish cringe:
“Greetings, boss! Reporting: everything is calm on the board.”
The optimism and humor of his partner, even in moments when there was no real reason for them, always cheered Alexander up. Ivan was just the partner to rely on. He sweated out all the studio routine the most important part of which was managing of models. Actually, Ivan became his partner right at the moment when Alexander had an idea to make this studio. Mostly, Alexander was used to work with computers than with people, and he needed a helper. However, he needed no a hired manager, punching a time clock, but a person he could trust like himself. Especially, in their business where no one trust no one.
“At ease, pal!” Alexander played along then continued in serious tone. “Any new models coming for casting?”
“Two girls are supposed to come at 11 a.m.”
“What do you think of them?”
“Oooh!” Ivan exhaled voluptuously, licking his lips and rolling eyes vividly.
He was kidding again. Ivan strictly adhered to the main commandment of their business: “Thou not to love your content”, meaning that there could be no personal attitude to their models. He was always keeping a necessary distance with the girls.
“And seriously?” asked Alexander.
“You’ll see for yourself,” answered Ivan. “Everything is set in the second room: web camera, the lights… You can tell them what to do from here, via microphone, and see the model at this computer screen.”
“What about the first room?”
“Natasha is pleasing a client there now. Check this out…”
An image of a girl appeared on the monitor. The girl was reclining on a sofa, wearing nothing but black lacy panties, while other pieces of her clothing were littered all over the sofa. At that moment the girl reached to the keyboard, perched on the sofa’s arm pad, and started typing with one finger: “I want you… fuck me”.
She wrinkled her forehead: this task seemed to require much intellectual efforts from her.
“Meh, she’s no match for a translation agency,” mentioned Alexander.
“Thanks God she came to work for us, not for some agency! Our card account is receiving ten bucks per minute now, and she’s been keeping that guy in private for ten minutes already!”
“If earning a yard in a video chat is all we can dream of…”
“Oh come on, Sasha! It’s a real business, and if only our models knew English a bit better, we’d be kings of the haircut! Almost all our clients are from the USA and Canada.”
“They’re not the type of girls to know English better. They’re such… specific girls. Even back at school they were interested in the science of love more than in any other science… Anyway, it’s not my point. You see, Ivan, today anyone is making such video chats. Therefore income decreases while risk grows. If you want to make serious money in adult, you need some new ideas and new models.”
Intercom rang. Ivan reached to the button to open the door and said:
“Here, look at our new chums, the first one is already here. I’ll go show her into the room.”
In several minutes he came back and reported:
“She’s ready; please turn on the camera and microphone.”
Alexander did it. An image appeared on the screen. A beam of light illuminated the center of the room with a lonely chair standing there. Another piece of furniture was a hanger made of a nickel-plated tube, standing in the far end of the room, about five meters from the chair. The girl, tall and slim, was standing in the middle of the room. Alexander noticed that she seemed to be confident enough in spite of Spartan ambience. He took the microphone and set a task:
“You’ll need to come up to the hanger, take your clothes off, then come back to the chair and sit down.”
The girl nodded in understanding, then graciously, as a model on a catwalk, defiled along the room up to the hanger and started to undress. She took off her skirt, blouse, and then her slip and placed them accurately on the hanger. She hesitated for a moment, pulled off her bra and panties, and placing them onto the clothes. Then she walked back to the chair. Now her pace seemed to be not so confident. After having sat down onto the very edge of the chair, she attempted to adopt an easy pose by crossing her legs.
“Bah, it’s clear with this one… She’s not a joy therapist.. She’s a hanger for clothes,” Alexander thought. However, he asked gently in the microphone:
“Would you kindly tell me how does it feel to be without clothes?”
She didn’t expect such a question. The girl hesitated, and then said with a kind of a daring tone:
“Excellent.”
Alexander saw; however, that this was far from reality. The challenge was hard for her and being naked made her feel like at a medical examination.
“Thank you, you can dress now,” he said wanly into the microphone.
Intercom rang. Ivan reached to the receiver and said lazily:
“Here goes the second one.”
Alas, he was wrong. A formal voice sounded from the receiver:
“Open up, please. Police.”
The two companions exchanged sharp looks, silently stating the fact that it was not the best moment for a policeman visit. However, can a good moment for such a visit possibly exist? There was no point in playing for time, so Ivan pressed the lock button. They went to the corridor to intercept the uninvited guests right on the threshold. There was actually only one guest, a uniformed policeman.
“Neighborhood police inspector, lieutenant Troshkin,” he introduced himself while looking into the open kitchen door with uncovered interest of a snoop.
“Please, come in!” Ivan said with false hospitality.
At that moment the room door flew open and the model that has just been tested appeared in the doorway. Thanks God she was already fully dressed. When the girl saw the policeman, her eyes rounded, and she quickly made for exit without saying goodbye. Smart Ivan flung off after her:
“Thank you so much, we shall test your program and call you back.”
“Recruiting?” the policeman asked shrewdly, gazing after the girl. “What kind of business do you have here?”
“High technologies in the Internet,” said Alexander.
“High technologies… Hmmm…” the policeman doubtfully looked around the tatty kitchen.
“Yeah,” took up Ivan. “System programming. We’re going to hire specialists, bring computers and start working at full power.”
“Programming… I see,” said the policeman, side-glancing at the companions. “We’ve received a report saying that some people rent apartments and turn them into brothels, take photos of naked bimbos… So I have to walk around and inspect every new renter.”
“I see,” said Alexander. “But that’s not about us.”
The inspector nodded in agreement but he wasn’t going to take leave yet. Intercom beeped. Alexander said joyfully, addressing to everyone present:
“Here we go, the second programmer came!”
Then he said to Ivan, meaning business:
“I’m gonna check her programming skills, and you… set everything up here.”
The programmer that appeared on the threshold enthralled the policeman’s eyes. She was blond with long straight hair, a bit fleshy. A very short leather skirt and a tight white t-shirt made her an image that was quite far from the programming. She wore no bra and pink nipples of her teasingly protruding bust could be seen through the woven t-shirt. “Size D, just the thing”, evaluated Alexander precisely. Even though this girl wasn’t the one of Alexander’s kind, her proportions were indeed ‘just the thing’ for the video chat. Due to policeman’s visit they couldn’t use the system of remote viewing, so Alexander went to the room with the girl, planning to buy some time, while Ivan was getting rid of the unwanted guest. He closed the door, met the girl’s quizzical eye and explained:
“I will now explain you what we’re doing here.”
“I know what you’re doing here,” parried the blond. “Let’s get down to business.”
Alexander realized that he would have to watch the process ‘in flesh’ and that his guest was not a bit embarrassed with it.
“The task is easy: you need to go to the hanger, take all your clothes off, and then sit on the chair over there…”
“Got it. Ain’t no rocket science,” snorted the girl and went to the hanger.
With an effort she pulled of her tight skirt, then t-shirt, under which she indeed had nothing, and nominal panties. She carelessly tossed all her clothing onto the base of the hanger and afterwards placed her shoes there as well. Once she got naked, she twisted her wrists, as if warming up, and took hold of the hanger’s vertical tube. At that moment, in such a pose, the girl looked exactly like a classic strip-dancer from old American movies, and no doubt she knew it. Preventing her intention to perform a strip-dance at the pole, Alexander said curtly:
“Now, please, go to the chair and sit down. Just suit yourself.”
The girl walked up to the chair, turned its seat towards her and put her foot on it. She remained in this position for a while, swaying her knee, as if performing an erotic dance. Then she moved her leg over the chair and mounted it, placing her breasts on the back of the chair. Alexander noticed that her nipples were connected with a very thin, almost invisible metal chain. Metal was also gleaming in her navel and even in a place where Alexander didn’t expect to see it at all. She leisurely watched him observing the metal details on her body and after asked idly:
“What’s next?”
“Would you kindly demonstrate me your reaction to a proposal of… um… virtual sex?” asked Alexander.
“Virtual?” she asked, with some show of puzzlement.
Alexander could have sworn that she’d have a normal reaction even to a proposal of some quite real sex. The girl arched her back like a cat and started moaning, caressing her breasts and licking lips. He was just hoping that the police inspector won’t come in to check out his guess about the brothel. Alexander thought that this model with her size-D breast, piercing and easy manners was just a real treasure for Ivan. By now our video chat is considered to be staffed.
“Enough. Very well. You can take your clothes on now,” he said tersely.
“So I’m accepted?” asked the girl.
“I would assume so. The project you’ll be working for is under my partner’s command, so he’ll call you.”
Alexander waited for her to dress, and then they walked out the room. In the corridor they bumped into the inspector, who was finally leaving. Looking at her bust in close-up he fell into trance. While the girl was walking out of the apartment she gave him an indifferent look and mentioned:
“Gee, you even have a security here…”
Insulted by such an assumption, the inspector coldly made farewell and immediately disappeared behind the door.
Alexander returned to the kitchen and asked Ivan:
“How was our guest’s visit?”
“Cost us five grand.”
“Not too bad.”
“However, he now knows the way here and will come regularly.”
“I know, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles… At least we can consider that we have a backing now.”
“We don’t need such a backing, but indeed, there’s nothing we can do about it now…” said Ivan. “Anyway, how was the second model?”
“I say, let’s go whacks with the inspector and open a brothel here right tomorrow.”
“I see. That’s exactly what I thought the moment I saw her.”
“Well, if we take it seriously… She is a hell of a catch for a usual video chat, but we need something different for the new project… I don’t even know how to explain it to you,” said Alexander.
“I understand that Cyber Sutra is our future, but we need to eat right today…”
“You better make up your mind on what you’re doing: eating to live or living to eat. Oh, by the way, have you solved the problem with the hosting?”
“Yeah, I’ve already paid for the hosting in the USA. The provider warned me and said there should not be anything like… you know… children or goats on our website. They’ve become very strict about such things now. I swore that we shall have only some light erotic there and uploaded the test version of the website to the server. I’m waiting just for your command.”
Alexander sat to the keyboard, typed www.cyber-sutra.com and looked at the screen. There was now a Hindu temple atop of the hill, which was illuminated by the setting sun. At the distance there was a river and jungle that reached up to the very horizon. There was a writing engraved in stone above the entrance: “IN LOVE YOU SHALL FIND LIBERATION”. Strange sounds flowed from the speakers.
“What’s noise?” asked Ivan.
“Binaural beats. They are sounds that are not heard by the ear, but detected by the brain. You can use stereo headphones for full result. This melody called as Virtual World. It will affect clients’ brainwaves to create relaxation and ultra-happy mood.”
“Some kind of tuning?”
“Sure,” agreed Alexander and kept on commenting:
“Before entering, the client is to choose his appearance… That’s how it’s done… You choose a hairstyle, eyes, nose, eyebrows, lips… now clothes… When the client comes for the second time, he will be able to use his ready-to-use outfit.”
Ivan thoroughly studied the newly created image and exclaimed:
“By God, it’s me!”
“Of course it’s you. We can’t let just anyone hang around here,” Alexander answered in all seriousness.
Ivan gave him a speculative look to make sure his partner wasn’t kidding, then murmured:
“I see.”
The doors opened to relieve a wide stair leading down. Alexander went on with the excursion:
“Now we go downstairs to the dungeon and here we are in the main hall of the temple.”
The walls of the hall, adorned with rough statues of copulating couples, were illuminated by torches.
“There it is, a goat,” said Ivan, noticing the images of animals. “Hope the provider won’t see it.”
“Never mind that. The graphic design was based on real Kama Sutra, and that’s isn’t some porn but a literary heritage.”
“Thanks, now I feel better.”
In the middle of the hall, atop a high perch, three dancers swayed in an erotic dance.
“Nice graphics,” Ivan said approvingly.
“What we fought for… Now the client can pick any dancer by clicking her with a mouse. After that she moves to a private room. Of course, to follow her into that room one will have to pay with a credit card. See that?”
The image of the dancer began to fade, then focused again and suddenly turned into a video with the girl whom they have already seen in the video chat. She was dressed in the same ephemeral outfit as the virtual dancer.
“It’s a recording of Natasha, but it’s temporal… Afterwards a program with our new virtual model is supposed to run here,” clarified Alexander.
“Featuring today’s sex bomb as a prototype?” asked Ivan.
“No, no, bless you… that model shall work in our regular video chat, she fits there just fine. The prototype for Cyber Sutra is still to be found.”
“I don’t get you… The girl is good enough for the video chat, but not good enough for Cyber Sutra? What kind of model do you seek? A film star or something?” grumbled Ivan.
Alexander thought that he was unable to explain his partner what kind of model did he need. He could feel it, but could not express that feeling in words.
“She has to be… different. I will find this model. You will see for yourself… Now, let’s talk about the techniques. When we find our prototype, we’ll use the motion capture technology, which allows imitating even the face mimics. We’ll need to place miniature sensors onto the prototype girl, and their positions will be located by several web cameras. The data from the web cameras shall be processed by the motion capture software and that’s how a virtual image is created.”
“What shall this virtual model do?” asked Ivan.
“Anything the client wants.”
“How realistic will it be?”
“That simulation will be undistinguishable from a ‘live’ image.”
“I’m not talking about the graphics quality; I’m talking about making the client’s wishes come true.”
“You mean sexual sensations?”
“Yeah.”
“To do that some special effects will be applied during the show: morphing software for overflowing images, specially picked music and color compositions. In short, we shall create every condition the client needs for total immersion into the virtual world of sexual daydreaming. After that his own imagination will take over.”
“If that imagination really works, we gonna have some hard time with booting the clients out of this love temple,” said Ivan.
“No longer than they have money on their cards. Of course, our regular customers will be offered some other means of payment, for example, a year or half-year subscription. When we start our project’s promotion, we shall set the payment system too.”
“Looks pretty solid,” Ivan hummed pensively.
“Sure thing… We see the virtual reality in a new light, and we’re creating it ourselves too. We’re the gods of the cyberspace.”
“And we shall offer them a paradise in the Internet?” asked Ivan.
“Kafka once said about the paradise: “There are two cardinal human sins from which all the others spring: impatience and indolence. It was because of impatience that they were expelled from Paradise, it is because of indolence that they do not return”. Look what’s going on in the web now. Every day hackers upload tons of viruses, Microsoft attempts to stake the entire Internet for itself, and secret services want providers to give them channels for the Internet’s total interception. Everyone tries to turn the Internet into a copy of the real world… according to his own degeneracy of course. I’m afraid, what they want to create will be nothing like the paradise.”
“What about what we’re creating? I mean Cyber Sutra,” asked Ivan.
“Let’s call it a virtual paradise.”
“Aiming high!”
“Why not? Enter any word into a search engine and it will give you from ten to several thousands web pages. If you enter the word “sex”, you will get more than three million web pages. So we can surely say that Cyber Sutra is a big chunk of a virtual paradise. What they offer in video chats today is just a baby-talk comparing to this.”
Ivan was digesting this saying, his eyes on the ceiling. Alexander lifted his eyes as well, as if offering prayers in the temple of Cyber Sutra. In his imagination this tatty ceiling in stains of dirt turned into a temple’s vaulting, covered in frescoes, melodic tune sounded in his ears. A misty image of a virtual dancer started to materialize. Even though her features remained obscure, the eyes of this dancer, black and abysmal, seemed to gaze right into Alexander’s soul. It was a strange sensation, coming from somewhere within. A new project, completely raw and undeveloped, was emerging in his mind so elaborately, as if he had already been there. Like an old program was installed on a hard drive long ago. You can forget about it completely, but when the time comes it will run its operations once again.
Sudden ring of Alexander’s cell interrupted his meditation. The caller introduced himself as Alexander’s father. On hearing such claim Alexander answered that he had no father. He said it automatically, with no hesitation. He realized at once that he, in fact, did have a father, at least before. It had been a long time since he had left Alexander and his mother on some unclear reason, and they’ve heard nothing from him since. Alexander; however, suspected his mother to have some contacts with his father but she never mentioned anything like that and he never bothered to ask. Besides, Alexander was living on his own now. He payed his mother just some occasional visits. Once his mother said that his father was doing fine, but Alexander didn’t give a damn about it at that moment and didn’t support that conversation.
“We were separated by the will of the fate, but now I would like to meet you,” said the caller.
Alexander didn’t like that “will of fate”. Besides, he had no idea how to address to his new-sprung dad. He decided it was best to call him ‘sir’, which sounded official and allowed to keep a distance. He asked father about where he had got his phone number. Father said that he had got it from Alexander’s mother, and that he had some work for him.
Alexander was quickly thinking about how to get rid of this unexpected caller.
“Work? I need no work,” he said.
“A decently paid work. Do you need some money?” asked the father.
Alexander did not need to be asked if he needed money. It was; however, still unclear what his father meant talking “decently paid”.
“What work… and what money?” asked Alexander.
“Concerning Internet… You work with this, don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t now?”
“I mean that you work with the Internet professionally and can be considered as an expert.”
“Tell me exactly what you need, and I’ll tell you if I can be of any use.”
Alexander waited for an answer to bring this conversation to an end. His father felt his intentions as well. He remained silent for a moment and then said by carefully picking words:
“Actually, it’s not a phone conversation… I’m talking about decrypting.”
“Decrypting… What kind of info?” asked Alexander.
“We shall discuss this later. So, do you work with it?”
“In some way, though I do not understand the task yet. What about the payment?”
“If you’re an expert indeed, you shall be paid as a specialist: 500 dollars for taking the job and 200 dollars per hour after. Of course a result must be achieved.”
Alexander figured out he could be an expert for such money and said:
“I think I can try this. When and where can I get the technical task?”
“Let’s say, tomorrow, at… 11 a.m., in my office. ‘Cultural Heritage’, Moyka Border Levee.”
“Office number?”
“It is a mansion. Tell them you came to me and they will let you in. See you tomorrow,” said father.
In the last phrase Alexander heard the tone that every freelancer hated so much: a commander’s one. He was about to say that he didn’t really need that meeting but heard only short beeps.

Copyright 2010 Victor Paul. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

ROBINSON LOADED THE last lobster chest. The battery was fully charged, both wing tanks topped off with fuel. This was his lucky morning. A mechanic on the field had two slightly used fuel injectors he couldn’t use; they were threaded for Robinson’s Continental engine. The mechanic told Robinson to keep them, no charge. Robinson buried his head inside the engine to replace the injectors then felt a light tap on his shoulder. “Quien?”
“Marco,” Morelos wheezed.
“Ola, Morelos.” Robinson promised he would be out of Freeman’s hanger within an hour.
“Es no problema,” Morelos assured. He told Mark of a woman dentista and a young girl.
“So?”
“They must be in La Paz today. I say to her maybe you have room.”
Robinson locked down the cowling then rolled down his sleeves.
“Morelos, I’ve got a sick engine and a dead alternator.” Robinson shook his head. “No.”
“I say to her she can speak with you. Marco, please? She is a nice young lady. She can pay.”
Before Robinson could argue, Morelos was gone.
Robinson towed his Centurion onto the tarmac in brilliant light, beneath a sky as clear as gin. He was in a rush to get airborne. He covered the ice chests then cinched down cargo straps; a low voice called his name, a feminine voice.
“I am looking for Mister Robinson.”
The way his head pounded, Robinson did not bother to look. He said he had been looking for the same person for years.
“You are Mister Robinson?”
Robinson ducked out of the cargo hatch. “I was this morning. What can I do for you?” Oh, sweet dying Jesus! She was celestial. He revered thin women. What she lacked in flesh was compensated with a bonus of curves, curves other women could only pray for. He wanted to say something clever. What was Flaco line? ‘When did they let you out of heaven?’ But his head wouldn’t allow thought and speech. She steadied a blossom in her hair, the wind was about to sweep away.
“Morelos tells me you are flying to La Paz. This is true?”
Robinson spread lotion on his hands, “Yes, Ma’am.” Wind lifted her skirt; he caught a glimpse of her perfect thighs before she smoothed it down.
“My sister and I must be in La Paz today. The only bus to Mulege leaves tonight. Possibly you have extra room?”
Her English was perfect; obviously, she’d been educated in the States. But something about her frosty voice didn’t go with her delicate body.
“We live in Mulege and—”
“Lady you don’t want to fly in this plane.” Robinson forced a laugh, “I have to fly this pig.”
She glanced up into his face with a puzzled expression. “But if you—”
“Look, lady, it’s an airborne disaster.” Patiently, in stages, Robinson explained his ailing engine. Two valves weren’t sealing, he was down to one radio, “and that bad boy has attitude. This engine is two-hundred hours past overhaul.”
Lourdes opened her purse. “I would be pleased to pay.”
She did not look, speak, or move like any woman Robinson had ever known. No earrings—no jewelry or make-up. She didn’t need it. Robinson shook his head. He would never-ever touch tequila again! “You don’t understand, ma’am. We’ll be over the gulf—open water? An hour-maybe two.”
“But the ferry must remain in port. All commercial flights are cancelled.”
“What does that tell you? Lady, I’m not insured, no life jackets or flares. Keep your money. I can’t fly for hire; they’d pull my business permit.”
Her shoulders fell. “Forgive me.” Her eager smile melted to a pout. “I can see you are busy.”
“Geeze lady, you do have a choice.” Fresh wind molded her blouse to full formed breasts. She started for the terminal. Something about her was familiar —the voice? “Hey,” Robinson called, “you don’t remember me, do you?”
“No,” she said over her shoulder, “I don’t think so.”
He watched her liquid hips. What the hell, she couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses. “Sure,” he called, “You’re the one who sings with Octávio Sanchez. On the weekends”
Lourdes stopped then turned. “Flaco?”
“You don’t remember me. Juana La Loca’s night club?”
“You are the one who plays jazz on the piano?”
Robinson grinned then took off his baseball hat and glasses. “I’m the guy.” He motioned her over. “Okay-okay, c’mon I’ll take you. Get your sister and your bags. I’m in a hurry. I’ll wait here.”
Lourdes ran up to him; almost child-like, her knees broke with a curtsy as she shook his hand. “I am Lourdes Contreras. Thank you, Señor Robinson.”
His head felt like road-kill. Something passed from her hand to his. He let out an idiot laugh, “God will punish you if you don’t go to the potty first.”
“We’ll be right back.” Lourdes rushed off.
Robinson mopped his face with his sleeve. An odd pleasure swept through him, like Christmas. Pleasure he supposed, that comes from making someone happy. “Frailty thy name is woman.” A familiar voice broke his thought.
“Ola, Señor.”

Read more about Dove Tale and Bruce Payne HERE.

Copyright 2010 Bruce Payne. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
After rehearsal, most of the cast traipsed over to the Northwest Bar and Grille, some holding their backs, others limping slightly from the long day of dance. Allyson’s feet hurt, and she longed to take off her shoes and rub them. Of course, manners prohibited her from doing so in the middle of a restaurant.

Clark, however, plopped down in the chair to Allyson’s right and immediately began untying his tennis shoes.

“Clark!” Ginny exclaimed as she settled into the seat at Allyson’s left. “We don’t want to smell your stinky feet!”

“But they’re sore,” Clark complained. “I’m too old for eight hours of dancing.”

“Just loosen the laces, but leave your shoes on,” Ginny scolded, sounding to Allyson like a cranky mom.

Matt came in, heading for the empty chair next to Ginny, but she put her hand on its seat. “Matt, my husband is meeting us here. He’ll be more comfortable sitting next to me. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” To Allyson’s disappointment, Matt moved farther down the table to sit next to Jacob.

“I’ll keep Allyson’s hand warm,” Clark called after him, reaching for it.

Allyson pulled away and punched Clark in the shoulder with the hope that she appeared lighthearted and teasing while knowing her face was probably turning red. Touching Clark definitely would not have the same effect as touching Matt.

After the waitress took their drink orders, Ginny leaned toward her. Allyson took a deep breath, suspecting she was about to be harassed.

“So, explain what’s going on between you and Matt.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Clark offered. “Life imitating art.”

Allyson felt her brow tighten. “I honestly don’t know what’s going on.”

“Does he just grab your hand whenever he feels like it?” Ginny asked. At least her friend was keeping her voice down.

She nodded. “What do you think it means?”

“It means he has the hots for you, silly.” Clark’s voice left no room for doubt, but Allyson shook her head.

“It’s just holding hands, nothing else.”

“He hasn’t said anything? Given any explanation?” Clark asked.

“No.” Her chest was tight. On the one hand, she wished her friends would leave the subject be. On the other, perhaps they could offer some words of wisdom.

“He shouldn’t have to say anything,” Ginny put in. “He did visit you at the library, right?”

Allyson almost fell off her chair. “How did you know about that?”

“He called me to ask which branch was yours.”

“Oh.” So it hadn’t just been coincidence. The frozen ball of anxiety in her chest warmed around the edge. She looked down at her menu, not knowing what else to say.

Ginny snatched the menu away. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Allyson sighed, gathering her runaway thoughts. “I think maybe Matt is just trying to, um, get into character. He wants to make sure we mesh on stage, so he’s striking up a friendship.”

“Oh, come on!” Clark threw up his hands. “I don’t know of an actor in the universe who’s wooed his opposite purely for the sake of the show. Yes, some couples have better onstage chemistry than others, but making the audience believe you’re in love is really only a matter of eye contact. Any two people can do it. Here.”

He pointed between himself and Ginny, then stared at her, moony-eyed. Ginny returned his gaze, sighed, and propped her chin on her palm. Allyson watched as they stared in silence, seemingly thinking only of each other, until she could stand it no longer. She waved her hand between them to try to break the connection.

Ginny’s husband, Bob, picked that moment to arrive, of course. Looking at his wife and Clark, whose eyeballs were still connected, he quipped, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Hi, honey.” Ginny snapped out of lovey-dovey mode and jumped up to kiss Bob. “Clark and I were just demonstrating how easy it is to look like you’re in love. Were you convinced?”

“If I were, Clark would be on the floor.”

Allyson laughed with the rest of them, and it helped her relax a little.

“I ordered you a beer,” Ginny told Bob. “And here it is now.”

The waitress returned, loaded with a tray of drinks. Because they’d been talking rather than reading their menus, the group scrambled to settle on an order of nachos to share. Northwest served nachos on plates the size of truck wheels, Allyson knew, so there’d be plenty for all of them.

When the waitress left, Allyson racked her brain for a topic of conversation that would shift the focus to someone else, but Ginny, as usual, was quicker to speak.

“Hey, Bob, tell Allyson what it means when a man grabs a woman’s hand whenever he’s given the chance.”

Bob looked at Allyson, then back at his wife. “Is this a trick question?” Allyson shook her head no, and Ginny did, too. “Unless it’s his infirm grandmother, I’d say it means he’s interested in her. That, and he thinks the relationship is important enough to take slowly.”

Ginny raised her hands, palms up, as if to say, “See?”

Allyson’s heart soared, but quickly crashed. Even if they were right and Matt really was interested in her, he wouldn’t stay that way for long. No one ever did. Allyson just wasn’t exciting enough. She had resigned herself to that fact long ago. Matt was a good catch, though. She figured she would enjoy his company for as long as she could and would just make sure her heart stayed in a safe, locked place.

* * * *

Allyson, Clark, Ginny, and the burly man Matt presumed was Ginny’s husband huddled, whispering, at the other end of the table. Allyson looked distinctly uncomfortable. Matt had the feeling he should rescue her, but Jacob and his partner Carlton were talking his ear off about a trip to Aruba they had planned for Christmas, and he didn’t want to be rude. Then, after his food arrived, he was stuck at his plate. He hoped to catch Allyson’s eye to give her a sympathetic look, but she seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

He wondered if he should invite her to take off with him when they were finished eating. They could walk around the waterfront as the sun set or go for ice cream. He looked over again. Allyson looked exhausted, and frankly, he was pretty beat, too. No matter how casual their first date might be, he wanted it to be perfect, and he didn’t think he could achieve perfection at the moment. He should take the opportunity, though, to arrange something for later. Yes, the time had come to ask Allyson out. To make his intentions clear. He just couldn’t wait any longer.

He glanced down the table. No, she was with her friends now, and she would hate it if he asked her out in front of them. He would call her tomorrow. She might be more comfortable speaking with him over the telephone, anyway. God knew being with her in person certainly scrambled his thoughts.

Yes, a phone call would be preferable for both of them.

Copyright 2010 Kim Sheard. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.