The Battle

The Battle

Mother Night passes her hand above the field…

A mist rises;

Warriors gather…

            The battledance is joined.

Shields clash;

            Armor to armor.

Fiery flashes as the banners catch flame

            From the sparks that fly

                        From metal grinding on metal.

Steam rises from the sweat and blood

            To mix with the mist.

                        ‘Til foe and friend alike

                                    Are obscured.

Amidst the smoke and the crash,

            A scream…

A low murmur rides the silence in its wake,

Billowing out into a victorious thunder.

First kill is made;

            The battle is won.

The mist parts and the warriors withdraw

            Into the dawn…

To sleep and heal

            And make ready their swords…

‘Til Mother Night rises again.  

Hail! The Conquering Herione (New story exceprt-- 2/12/11)

Pussy is Goddess.
Most don’t truly understand this. Not most women and certainly not most men. Many sense it on a subconscious level, but few grasp the true nature of the Goddess. Terrifying and compelling, to be consumed completely by the fires of worship. Sacrificial offerings have to be made.

The bartended set two glasses on the bar in front of us.
“What’s this?” His eyes left my face for the merest nanosecond as he reached for his glass.
“Sex with the Goddess. Absinthe and damiana liqueur.” I lifted my own glass and sipped.
He continued to stare into my eyes. “I’d rather have the real thing.”
I stood at the bar, sipping my drink. My body hummed, electric. Even though he was sitting, and I was wearing 3-inch heels, we were still eye-to-eye. His eyes were cerulean, the color of a cloudless summer sky. I held them captive with my own.  I turned my body to face him, standing in the V between his knees, close enough to feel his heat. “We’ve talked about that. Not a good idea. A dead end.”
Without responding, he reached around and cupping my hip in his hand, pulled me in close so that our torsos were touching. He took my hand and held it against his cheek for a moment. It was smooth and closely shaved and warm. Never taking his eyes from mine, he lightly kissed my fingers. His lips were as warm as his cheek. Gently, his opened my hand and touched his lips to my palm. I held his gaze with icy resolve. He delicately bit the pad of each finger in turn, sucking lightly on the thumb.
“You’re playing with matches here, little boy.”
His gaze never shifted, challenging. “What are you going to do about it?”
My eyes never leaving his, I moved my fingertips across his lips, barely parting them to feel the moist warmth within. I leaned in close to his cheek as I moved my hand up the opposite cheek, around his neck and into his hair. Flexing my fingers gently on the back of his head, I breathed slowly across his cheek, down his neck and back up, to whisper in his ear, “I’m going to burn your fucking house down.” I clenched my fist in his hair and jerking his head back and covering his mouth with mine, kissed him hard and long, drawing a low moan from him as I tested his will with my tongue.
His body’s response was the expected one, and just as I felt the vibration pass through him, I released him and stood back. “Meet me outside.”
The bartender lay the tab on the bar for him to sign as I walked away toward the door, not looking back.

She did not simply like to read. She read voraciously, fiercely, carniverously. She would lie in wait and pounce on unsuspecting books. She would rend and tear the paper-flesh of fiction and nonfiction alike, leaving barely a binding or a smear of ink, then lie down in the shade, sated. -- 5/28/2012

Welcome.  This is the place where I'll deposit those scraps of writng that wind up on cocktail napkins or the backs of envelopes.  Those bits that don't quite fit into whatever project I'm working on.  Most will be short and quirky or even randomly bizarre.  I hope you enjoy them. 

By the way, all works are my own and I take full responsibility for their content. 

Brenda