Author Archives: M. Bradley

Out of Retirement

Posted on by under Short Stories

The printer began to whine as the paper jammed again. He grabbed the machine, gave it a violent shake, and pushed a primal scream through his clenched teeth. Every fiber of his being wanted to lift the printer over his head and throw it out the window. But that would blow his cover.

Caleb Trent, once more famously known as the armored guardian Vigil, now lived as Carl Turner, an insurance claims processor in the small town of Elkridge, Oregon. Every morning, he woke up at 6:15, ran two miles through the quiet, pine tree-lined streets, packed his son Ethan’s lunch, kissed his wife Amanda, and sat in a cubicle pretending to care about auto collisions and roofing damage. It was the quiet life he’d never thought he’d have. The one he never believed he deserved. And while he enjoyed being just another dad on the sideline at his son’s field day, a small part of him was slowly going insane from the lack of action.

Five years ago, he faked his death after stopping the megalomaniacal villain Nightmare’s bio-plague from reducing the eastern seaboard to ash. His final battle leveled a quarter of Boston’s industrial district. He’d emerged from the fight with four cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and a face that the world thought had been incinerated. As usual, the Agency was ready. They buried Vigil in the headlines, gave Caleb a new name, and hid him where no one would think to look, a sleepy town with no skyscrapers to scale, no shadows to stalk, and no one who had ever spoken about superheroes without either talking about comic books. Until the letter came.

At first, he thought it was junk mail. Or maybe accidentally delivered to the wrong address. It was just a bright red envelope; no name, no postage, no return address, no branding of any kind. But the detective inside of him made him hold it under a black light. That’s when he saw the word “Vigil” scrawled across the front in jagged handwriting. Immediately, his stomach dropped to his feet.

Inside was a single Polaroid photograph. It was of Amanda and Ethan, standing in the parking lot of the Safeway on Eastbridge Avenue. Ethan was holding a McDonald’s cup, smiling up at his mother as she loaded groceries into the back of her SUV. On the back of the picture was a handwritten time stamp from yesterday afternoon. Underneath it was a simple message: “Warehouse 16 tonight or I introduce myself to the wife and kid.” The envelope slipped from his grasp as he felt his entire world come crashing down around him.

His instincts kicked in instantaneously. He sprinted through the house, checking every door, every window. He swiftly pulled the blinds closed. Then he went into the closet of his home office and pried up a handful of loose floorboards. Beneath them sat the remnants of his old life: two metallic gauntlets, still slightly scorched from the last time they saw action, an aluminum briefcase containing encrypted communications equipment, a USB drive wrapped in a cloth. His cowl and cape had been destroyed by the Agency as part of the cover up for his retirement, but the man it symbolized still lurked inside him. And now, he was begging to get out. He stared at the gear, his heart banging against his ribcage like a war drum. The air in the room grew heavy. Someone knew.

The Agency had promised the relocation was airtight. A complete and utter identity rewrite for him and his family. Background, education, digital trail, all scrubbed and rewritten. Amanda and Ethan were told that Caleb had been a “whistleblower,” he had agreed to testify against his former employer and given a new life in exchange. As far as he knew, only his handlers at the Agency knew who he really used to be. But someone else knew.

He fired up the encrypted laptop, accessed the ghost network the Agency had taught him to use only in life-or-death emergencies. The screen buzzed to life, and within minutes, he saw it. An old signal, an alias not pinged in half a decade. The name sent a shiver running down the length of his spine.

Nightmare had been his archnemesis. More than just a villain, a nearly unstoppable force that had almost cost Caleb his life on more than one occasion. He was a former Naval psy-ops agent and biochemical weapons engineer. He became infamous for using hallucinogens and neuro-tech to turn people’s deepest fears against them. He’d vaporized federal buildings in a number of different cities. Turned school buses into rolling bombs. Their battles over the years had left an indelible mark on Caleb. The last time they fought, Caleb dropped him into a reactor core. He had watched Nightmare burn. Or at least he thought he did. Now, the ghost of his past was whispering again.

That night, Caleb told Amanda he had to go back to work to finish a review audit. She kissed him on his cheek and begged him not to work too hard. Ethan was laying in bed, reading a book. Caleb went in to his son’s room and Held him a little longer than usual. Then he slipped out the front door and vanished into the night.

A few moments later, Caleb arrived at Warehouse 16 of Elkridge’s abandoned shipping yard. It reeked of oil, copper, and mildew. The streetlight above flickered like a dying star. He waited in the shadows, watching, listening. Then he heard it. That laugh. High-pitched, deranged, almost musical. From behind a stack of rusted crates stepped a figure: tall, slender, draped in a stained trench coat. His face was hidden behind a porcelain mask with a large crack running across the mouth. As if it had tried to scream but instead broke from the effort.

“I knew you wouldn’t stay buried, my old friend,” the figured cooed, spreading his wide as if expecting to being lovingly embraced. “No one with power ever does. We weren’t meant to live the quiet life, you and I.”

Caleb stepped out into the open, the soft glow of his power gauntlets pulsing in a dull blue light with each heartbeat. His makeshift suit was matte-black ballistic mesh with reinforced carbon Kevlar plating, far from the theatrical look he had become known for in his past life but it would get the job done. No cape, no cowl, no emblem. Just his motorcycle helmet with a balaclava underneath. Tonight wasn’t about inspiring people or being a beacon for hope. He was here to finish something he started five years ago.

“You should’ve stayed dead.” Caleb’s voice came out low, steady, brimming with rage.

“I tried,” Nightmare replied, “But I missed the fireworks.” At that moment, Nightmare was flanked by four mercenaries, each one augmented with cybernetic implants, their skin laced with chrome filaments, their eyes glowed like bloodthirsty wolves ready to hunt their prey.

“You’re older than I remember,” Nightmare continued, his voice distorted through the crack in the mask. “A little heavier in the shoulders, slower in the eyes.”

“I’m still fast enough to put you down,” Caleb growled through the helmet.

In a flash, the first mercenary lunged at Caleb. Years of training and experience took over in that moment. Caleb deftly dodged the attack, grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing and gave it a twist. A stomach churning crunch followed, and before the brute could scream, Caleb drove a knee into his gut and followed it up with a vicious overhand right. The mercenary slid into the support beam a few feet away and didn’t get up.

The next came at him with a monofilament whip, the weapon sliced through an overhead steel beam like a knife through paper. Caleb ducked, rolled, and activated the magnetic tether in his left gauntlet. In the blink of an eye, the whip was yanked from the mercenary’s hand and tangled around his own neck. Caleb flicked his wrist, then a loud crack rang out. The man dropped right where he stood.

Just two more to go. Caleb fixed his gaze on the men. One had a shoulder-mounted railgun, the kind usually only seen on gunships in science fiction movies. Caleb dived behind a forklift as the weapon fired, ripping holes through steel. Sparks exploded everywhere. A shard of metal lodged itself in Caleb’s right arm, causing blood to spill out of the wound.

“He’s bleeding!” Nightmare sang out, almost gleefully. “The great Vigil is human after all!” Caleb pressed a small button on his right gauntlet. A short wave EMP burst pulsed out from his location. The railgun’s electrical systems fizzled. The mercenary’s eye implants went dark as he staggered, disoriented. Caleb didn’t hesitate. He charged in, slammed both gauntlets into the man’s chest with a kinetic discharge, and sent him flying backward into the wall. He didn’t move again. The final thug backed away, dropped his weapon, and ran. Caleb didn’t bother chasing him.

Nightmare clapped slowly, theatrically. “Bravo. Still the performer, I see. But you’re out of breath, and out of time.”

“You dragged my family into this,” Caleb snarled, “You have no idea the kind of monster you just woke up.” Nightmare pulled something from the pocket of his coat – a small vial of green liquid that had a sinister glow to it.

“It’s the same serum you stopped me from releasing five years ago, but a perfected version. Wanna know what it does now?” He threw the vial in Caleb’s direction, the glass smashed on impact. Instantly, the liquid began to vaporize. A cloud ominous green smoke began to fill the air. “It makes your worst memories feel real. Real pain. Real screams. Real guilt.”

As the mist spread, Caleb staggered, looking for a way to escape. He tried to hold his breath to no avail. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst. When he opened them, he was back at the nuclear power plant. Back on that final day. The reactor melting down. Workers screaming as they ran past the charred remains of those less fortunate. His lungs seized. His heart pounded against his chest. He could feel the fire roaring around him.

But then, a memory overrode the illusion. Amanda’s face. Ethan laughing, drawing dinosaurs in crayon. Amanda reading a book in bed, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. The quiet things he had grown to love. He shook free of the serum’s effects and saw Nightmare charging at him. Caleb let out a primal scream, launched forward, and tackled the villain.

They slid across the ground, Caleb’s fists pummeled Nightmare’s face, cracking the porcelain mask with a single strike. He snatched the remnants of it away, revealing the gaunt, smirking face of his foe underneath – burned, surgically held together.

“You’ll never be free,” Nightmare whispered, blood pouring out of his mouth, “You think you can just go home?” Caleb drove both fists into Nightmare’s chest, releasing another kinetic discharge, breaking all of his ribs.

“I am home,” he said as he rose to his feet. And he left him there, broken and writhing in a pool of his own blood and lies.

A few moments later, Caleb arrived back at his home. He came in through the garage, quietly. Ethan was still asleep. Amanda sat in the dark at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of untouched coffee. When he walked in, she didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him – torn jacket, blood staining the makeshift bandage around his arm.

“Where is he?” She asked softly. Caleb turned to face her and removed the motorcycle helmet.

“Warehouse district. I called the Agency and told them where to find him,” Caleb replied, “It’s over.”

“You said that five years ago.” She stood up and made her way over to her husband.

“I know.” He winced as she examined the wound to his arm.

“I watched you come home every night for the last five years, pretending like you weren’t waiting for something, anything, to drag you back into the fight. You were never out, Caleb. You were just dormant.” He finally looked up.

“You knew. All this time?”

“I’ve always known.” Her voice softened. “You think I married an insurance adjuster named Carl Turner? No. I married Caleb Trent. I married Vigil, the man that jumped out of a third story window to save a bus full of kids. I’ve never needed the mask to see who you really are.”

He swallowed hard. “I never wanted Ethan to see that side of me.” But it was too late for that. Ethan stood in the hallway, eyes wide, his dinosaur pajamas hanging off his skinny frame.

“Dad,” he whispered, “Are you a superhero?” Instantly, the world stopped spinning. Ethan knelt down to look his son in the eyes. “I used to be.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because I wanted to be your dad more.” Ethan blinked, the nodded, like it all made perfect sense to him. “Well, are you gonna go away now?”

“No son,” Caleb said, “not if I can help it.” Amanda crossed her arms, tears quietly streaming down her face. “You need to decide, Caleb. Are you going back to that world? Or are you staying with us?” Caleb looked at both of them. His family. His real superpower.

“I won’t chase it,” he finally said, “but if danger comes to our door again, I will protect you.” Amanda studied his face, she knew he meant it. Then she lunged into his arms. Ethan joined the embrace, wrapping his arms around his dad as well. For now, their world was safe again. But in the closet, behind boxes of tax forms and dusty books, the gauntlets waited, quiet and ready. Just in case.

The Endless War

Posted on by under Short Stories

Nobody knows when, or even why, the war started. All they knew was that it had been going on for generations. For as long as their histories stretched, the Varakai and the Xel’Tharim had been fighting one another. Their war spanned countless millennia, consuming stars, worlds, numerous civilizations, entire solar systems. It was not a war for resources, nor ideology. It wasn’t even a war for the expansion of the respective empires. It was simply war, forged into the very fabric of each species’ existence, passed down like an inheritance of blood.

The Varakai, an insectoid species with chitinous armor and bioengineered weaponry, viewed the war as sacred. Their ancient scriptures, passed down through generations of warrior priests and scribes, spoke of an eternal conflict decreed by the long-extinct Elder Queens, the original rulers of their planet and species. To fight was to fulfill the will of their ancestors, to prove their worthiness in the eyes of destiny.

The Xel’Tharim, a race of towering cephalopod-Like beings with luminous, shifting skin and minds capable of bending reality, saw the war as something else entirely. To them, it was a cycle, a fundamental law of existence. Their prophets spoke of the Great Pattern, an ever-turning wheel of creation and destruction. Peace was nothing more than an illusion. The only true constant in the universe was war and conflict.

And so, the fighting never ceased. Star systems burned in battles that lasted centuries. Some planets had been fought over so many times that their surfaces were unrecognizable, reshaped by weapons that had cracked their land masses. Entire civilizations and species, neither Varakai or Xel’Tharim, had been annihilated for their allegiances or, in some instances, just existing in the great war’s path.

There were no negotiations, no ceasefires, no treaties, no attempts at peace. If either side had ever sought to understand the other, that knowledge had long since been buried under eons of rumble and generations of bloodshed.

On the war ravaged world of Kel-Varesh, another battle had just ended. The once-thriving colony was now nothing more than a graveyard, its atmosphere thick with smoke, the land scorched by countless bombardments from orbital weaponry. Varakai and Xel-Tharim forces had clashed here for weeks, neither willing to relinquish an inch of ground to the other. But in the end, both fleets had been destroyed, leaving only two surviving fighter pilots that had crashed on the planet’s surface.

Commander Sharkar Var’Zuun of the Varakai pulled himself from the wreckage of his crashed fighter, his rugged battle exoskeleton cracked, his secondary arms broken and mangled at his sides. He smelled the burning remains of his weapons officer, his body reduced to a smoldering husk. His pulse quickened with rage. His only instinct, his sole reason for existing was to fight, to kill, to fulfill the purpose ingrained into his very being since he was birthed. That’s when he saw her.

Captain Althira Nex of the Xel-Tharim stood among the ruins, her elongated form shifting with subtle bioluminescent pulses. Her tendrils curled around her in a defensive posture, her telepathic abilities probing the ruins for any sign of remaining threats. Like him, she was alone on this now-barren planet.

For a long moment, neither moved. Millennia of war dictated that they should strike each other down without hesitation. Yet, exhaustion had settled in on both of them. Their armies had been obliterated. Their weapons had been spent. Their ships reduced to nothing more than burning debris raining down from the heavens. For the first in ages, a Varakai and a Xel-Tharim faced each other, not as soldiers engaged in battle, but as survivors stranded on the same deserted, ruined world.

Days passed. The first was spent in absolute silence, each keeping their distance, watching the other for any sign of an impending attack. The second, testing the opposition for any weakness that could be used to end this standoff. By the third, they both acknowledged their unspoken truce. They needed to survive, and that could happen if they helped each other. Or at the very least, weren’t consumed with the other’s destruction. Food was scarce, the planet’s ecosystem poisoned by centuries of war. They scavenged what little they could from the wreckage of the war machines around them, their survival instincts momentarily stronger than their inherited hatred for the other. On the tenth day, they found The Archive.

Buried beneath the ruins of a once-great city, it was a vault of ancient data, so old that neither of their species should have been able to understand it. And yet, the symbols were eerily familiar to both of them. On a podium in front of them, there were two touch pads, one in the shape of each of their hands. They exchanged an unsure glance as the reached out towards the panel. Together, they activated the massive machine in front of them. A holographic figure flickered to life, its form neither Varakai nor Xel’Tharim. Instead, it belonged to a species neither of them instantly recognized, a long-thought extinct race that had vanished an untold number of eons ago. Then it spoke. The language was from neither of their empires, yet they both understood it perfectly.

“To those that remain, we leave this recording as testimony. We were the Vorni, the architects of an empire that spanned the known universe. We created the Varakai and the Xel’Tharim, brought them together to be allies, bound to each other by unity and servitude. But as we basked in the glow of our creation, we grew arrogant. We sought to control them, shape the course of their futures. And in doing so, we did the unspeakable. We turned them against each other for our own selfish and small-minded reasons.”

The two beleaguered warriors looked at each other then back at the hologram in bewilderment.

“We erased their histories,” the hologram continued, “sowed false memories of betrayal, and set them on a path of endless war and destruction. Why you may ask? For our own entertainment. Two species, pitted against one another for the viewing pleasure of our populace. Because it was easier to rule them as enemies than as allies. But in our arrogance, we did not foresee the destruction of our own world, the annihilation of our species.”

Neither Althira Nex nor Sharkar Var’Zuun could believe what they were hearing. Yet somehow, they knew the words were true.

“Now, we are gone. And yet, the war continues. If you are seeing this, then know the truth: the was never yours. It was never meant to last. You fight each other for a ghost’s deception.”

And just as quickly as it had the started, the message ended and the hologram disappeared. Silence fell on the chamber around Sahara and Althira like a bomb, a silence heavier than the weight of the ruined planet they found themselves marooned on. Everything they had known, been taught their whole lives, every battle, every death, every sacrifice had been built on a lie. They stood together, unable to muster the words to describe what they had just learned. Then they turned to face each other, a lifetime of taught hate bubbling over like a cauldron on an open fire. But instead of attacking, a Varakai and a Xel’Tharim embraced for the first time in either’s known history.

For them, standing in that chamber, the war was over. There was no need to fight. But the war was bigger than them. It had consumed the lives of their species for generations. Brought about the destruction of entire civilizations. They both knew they had a sacred duty to deliver this information to their people. But would their people believe them? Would they want to believe? As the ruins of Kel-Varesh burned around them, they knew that knowledge alone was not enough. The war was all either planet had ever known. Could the truth end it? Or had the hatred created by a long dead race of beings become so real, so forged into the souls of their species that it could never be undone?

Black Joy is Revolutionary

Posted on by under Piss Off the World, Rants & Random Ramblings

Man! I haven’t done this in a WHILE! And not for a lack of topics to discuss, purely because I’ve been focused on a multitude of other issues in my life. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that I decided to really rededicate myself to my writing (and by extension, this blog.) By the way, how y’all like the new URL? Make sure y’all tell your friends to come read something. Thanks!

Normally at this point, I would give y’all a rundown of what’s been going on in my corner of the universe since we last spoke. Honestly, I just don’t feel like doing it, Plus, it’s way too much to go into right now. Maybe we’ll do that another day. So let’s hop right into it, shall we?

I know you’re looking at the title of this post and the accompanying picture and probably thinking, “This dude wrote a blog about a hoodie?” Well, kinda. Maybe a little backstory will make it make sense.

So I bought the hoodie in question a few years ago. It was right after COVID really kicked the world in the teeth and we basically all lived in nothing but pajamas and loungewear. As most of us probably did at that time, I spent a lot of time scrolling social media and buying stuff I probably didn’t really need. It’s not like I was spending my disposable income on going outside and having fun, so I might as well build an impressive collection of hoodies. If you ever get bored, scroll my IG to see it.

But one night, I come across this post with this hoodie that truly spoke to me. BLACK JOY IS REVOLUTIONARY. Even the website name had a powerful message behind it (here’s the link, go support)

https://blackmensmile.shop

So I buy the hoodie and in my mind, it was the most magnificent thing. We as black people have rarely had anything to celebrate or be joyous about in the country. But somehow, some way, we still find a way to be happy. And for people that look at our history in this country, they can’t fathom why. It truly leaves some people flabbergasted that we don’t burn the whole fucking country down. And that’s not to say that we don’t have our moments of rage. Especially recently. Nor does it mean that we don’t have movements that are seen as the polar opposite of black joy.

But on a daily basis, no matter what the universe throws at us, we still find a way to be completely and utterly unbothered. There’s no better example of this than the pockets of blackness on social media. We take absolutely NOTHING serious! Any and everything can be made fun of! And that jovial spirit stands in full defiance of a country that has enslaved, brutalized, murdered, subjugated, and exploited people that look like me since the first slave ships landed on the coast of Western Africa in the late 1400s.

But I digress, we’re not here to have a conversation about Critical Race Theory. At least not today.

For the past 3+ years, this hoodie was my silent protest. I’d proudly wear it whenever and wherever. Black folks would see me out and show their approval. Some less melanated people had a less supportive reaction. But I gave not a single fuck. Thank my dad for that, I swear I hear his voice in my head every time I start talking about some black shit.

Fast forward to present day. We all see what the current administration is doing to our country. And while quite a few of us saw it coming and tried to be the opposition, the majority of the country either didn’t see what was in store (we really don’t know how) or wanted it to happen. Either way, the shit has hit the proverbial fan. Folks fucked around, and now they are finding out. And they’re becoming outraged, and rightfully so. Elected officials are employees of the people. Their job description is to serve the public, not just the wealthy elite. And don’t get me started on what that weird son of a bitch from South Africa is doing. No one voted for his Nazi saluting ass, yet he really does seem to be the guy running the country. He even sold cars to the President on the White House lawn. I tend to think I have a pretty vivid imagination, especially for a writer, but even I couldn’t have come up with a story like this.

Through their outrage over what’s occurring, the pig mentally challenged financially strapped former supporters of the current presidential administration have looked for allies in the very people that they once sought to keep oppressed. And to their credit, most black folks have opted against taking to the streets to voice their disapproval with the status quo. Some have even gone a step further and made sure to carefree they are in the face of what’s happening. Because what can really come of us taking to the streets en masse to show our disdain? In getting upset and raging against the machine? Not. A. Fucking. Thing. It’s exactly what they want. They want us to give them a reason to really bring back the pre-Civil Rights Era of this country. So by sitting this one out and showcasing our happiness in these troubled times, we are truly protesting. In this moment, our black joy is revolutionary.

See what I did there? Until next time, peace and love. And stay revolutionary.

Friends

Posted on by under Short Stories

“You can’t start a story with a flashback,” she snapped, “And you damn sure can’t start it with dialogue!” Unfazed by her full on negative Nancy vibe, I kept writing. If there was only one benefit to being best friends for the last 20 years, it was knowing how to get under each other’s skin. I took pleasure in knowing I could aggravate her with nothing more than a glance or facial expression. The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and nostalgia. It had been been our spot for the length of our friendship.

I stirred my cappuccino absentmindedly, staring at the soft glow of the computer in front of me. On the screen in front of me was the beginning stages of the first draft of my next novel. Beside that was my notebook filled with scene and dialogue ideas. Across from me, Claire sipped her drink, her sharp eyes scanning my notes with the precision of a surgeon.

“It’s not going to make sense!” I shrugged my shoulders as I kept frantically pounding away at the keys. I could see the anger and frustration bubbling up inside of her. I glanced up and caught her staring at all the people full engrossed into screens round us in the busy Starbucks. “So you’re just not going to listen to me at all?!”

I peeked up from behind my MacBook only to let her know that I wasn’t unintentionally ignoring her, then rolled my eyes at her. The look of disgust that exploded onto her face let me know that she fully understood my intentions.

“For someone who’s so damn smart, you act like a fucking idiot!” I pulled my hands from the keyboard and let out a heavy sigh. For as much as I loved getting under my best friend’s skin, I valued her opinion even more.

“Fine. Why can’t I start a story with a flashback? Or dialogue?”

She placed her venti half-caff caramel macchiato on the table in front of her and grabbed my laptop. “Well first of all, it’ll confuse the reader, right? How will they know when the story actually started?”

“That’s why they have to keep reading, Claire. Allow the story to develop. This is a novel, not the Sunday morning comics.”

“Well, I think it sounds stupid, but you’re the writer. I’m just here to keep you focused.” I hated it when she said things like that. It made me feel like one of those kids you see out in public that are on a leash. I didn’t need someone to reign me in. Just needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

“And this female lead of yours,” she started back up, as she thumbed through my notes, “She’s… what’s the word I’m looking for, Ethan? Unbearable!” Her newest critique landed with the subtlety of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I was rendered briefly speechless, only able to communicate through wildly blinking. “Unbearable?!” The word came flying out of my mouth like projectile vomit.

“She doesn’t feel real. She’s too perfect, too composed. It’s like you’re afraid to let her be messy, vulnerable, real. And don’t get me started on the dialogue.” I let out a slow breath as I searched for the right response. “Claire, you know I value your opinion, but…”

“Do you?!” Her eyebrow arched. “Because this feels like your writing a fantasy of a woman, not an actual person.”

I couldn’t help but frown, so I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself some time. Claire had always been brutally honest, it was one of the main reasons our friendship worked so well. She never sugarcoated anything, and she would rather die than allow me to slip into her complacency. Her words, not mine. But there were times that her bluntness was down right infuriating.

“I just think,” she continued, spinning the MacBook around to face her, “that you’re playing it safe. Don’t get me wrong, Ethan. You’re a wonderful writer. You weave these incredible worlds filled with spies and high-stakes drama, but sometimes your characters, especially the women, don’t always feel… fully fleshed out.”

I ran my hand across my freshly shaven head. “So what? You want her to be more flawed? More complicated?”

“I want her to be more human.” Claire slid the laptop to the side and leaned forward on her forearms. “You know what your best characters all have in common? They make mistakes. They contradict themselves. They don’t always say the perfect line at the perfect time. Real people stammer, hesitate, say the wrong thing, regret it later.”

I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “You mean like us?”

“Exactly like us!” An enormous grin pushed her cheeks up to her eyes. “Look, I’m not saying its bad and you know how brilliant I think you are. But sometimes, you hold back. I’m not really sure why. But if you hold back in storytelling, what’s the point of doing it?”

I let out a heavy sigh and stared down at my notes. Claire’s words stung like a bitch, but they also settled somewhere deep in my subconscious. And that’s when the voice in my head decided to chime in. She’s right, you know. I took a breath, closed my notebook, and slid it across the table to her. “Okay then. Show me where she falls apart.” An even bigger smile exploded across Claire’s face as she cracked her knuckles. “Oh, you’re going to regret this.”

Regret

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Short Stories

I was sitting on the couch watching TV when there was an unexpected knock at the door. I paused the movie I was watching and made my way to the front door. “I wonder who it could be,” I said to myself as I bent down to look out the peephole. To my surprise, it was Elise, my ex-roommate’s girlfriend.

“Hey Jonah, I’m sorry to stop by like this.”

I stepped back from the door and paused for a moment. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a reason for her to be outside my house. We hadn’t been particularly close when Matt and I lived together, kind of just existing on the edges of each other’s lives through him. But I decided to open the door anyway.

“Come on in. You want something to drink?” I heard her close the door behind herself then, softly reply, “No thank you.” I went back into the living room and slumped back into my spot on the couch. She shortly followed and sat down right beside me.

“We missed you at the funeral.” My heart sank to my feet as I took a good look at her. She was dressed in a modest black dress with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Matt’s funeral was today and I had completely forgotten about it. Even though it had been a few months since he moved out, the two of us remained close. I stumbled over the words of my apology before she finally told me it was okay.

“I figured you probably weren’t gonna come, but I thought I’d stop by and check on you anyway.” She briefly gave me a run down of what happened at the funeral. She said the entire scene felt a bit suffocating – too many people, too many condolences that felt rehearsed, too much silence that would’ve drove Matt insane.

When she was done, we sat in awkward silence for what seemed like forever as we each tried to decide how to navigate the uneasy tension that had fallen on the room like a wet blanket. Eventually, I convinced myself to go into the kitchen and fix myself a drink. To my surprise, she was right on my heels.

“Great minds think alike, huh?” I nervously joked as I poured some vodka into a glass. We both let out a small chuckle that seemed to let some of the air out of the room. We went back into the living room and talked for a while. As she talked, I could tell that it was weighing on her. With the deft precision of a blunt instrument, I tried to change the subject to something a little less emotionally draining. Instantly, she was mass of sobbing humanity in my arms. I squeezed her tightly and did my best to console her through what was obvious an inconsolable moment.

“I’m so sorry to come over here and dump on you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” The stream of tears running down her cheeks was reminiscent of the Mississippi River. I didn’t say anything, I just hugged her tighter as my eyes began to spring a leak.

After what felt like eons, we released our hold on each other. But something else seemed to be drawing us closer to one another. I wildly shook my head, as if trying to free myself from a hypnotic trance. “Another drink?” She forced a smile for my sake and eagerly nodded as she handed me her glass. I decided to grab the bottle and return to the living room.

We drank in silence at first. Then came the stories – small fragmented pieces of Matt that we were clinging on to. We laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that cracked at the edges. But the third drink, Elise had stopped laughing. By the fourth, she looked at me with something unreadable in her expression and said, “I don’t want to go home.” And I knew what she meant, even if neither of us said it out loud.

We got up from our seats on the couch and slowly made our way towards my bedroom. Not because we were drunk, but because of the unspoken hesitation that I felt between us. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was too much vodka playing tricks on me.

When we reached the door to my bedroom, it was like something snapped. Elise reached out for me, fingers clenching at the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling me into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. It wasn’t soft nor sweet. It felt like her grief had turned into something tangible – something she could sink into, drown in. I quickly lifted her up, my hands gripping her thighs as I kissed her harder than she had kissed me, like I was trying to erase the taste of vodka and sorrow from both of our mouths. She hooked her legs around my waist, pulling me closer to her. We fell back on the bed while Elise’s fingers fumbled with my drawstring, tugging at it impatiently before dragging her nails across my back. It hurt, but maybe that was the point.

In an instant, our clothes were a mess on the floor, and the only sounds between us were sharp breaths and the rustle of bedsheets. I unsteadily traced my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, leaving a trail of gentle kisses that would have almost been reverent if it weren’t for the vice grip I hap on her hips. Elise pulled me closer, her body arching into mine as if she needed more of something, anything. Every touch, every kiss, every movement between us felt like a plea – don’t stop, don’t think, don’t feel anything but this.

We moved together with the kind of desperation that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with forgetting. Everything about it was rough, feverish, our bodies colliding with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. Hands roamed freely, nails left marks, teeth grazed over skin – small, fleeting reminders that we were still alive, that we could still feel something, anything, even if it was only for the night.

Afterward, we laid together, our bodies slick with sweat, the air think with something neither of us wanted to name, let alone acknowledge. Elise laid on her back and traced a path across my chest while absently staring at the ceiling overhead. I laid beside her, my arm draped above my head and stared blankly at the TV mounted on the wall in front of me. The room smelled like a mixture of vodka, sex, and sweat. But the air between us had shifted, thickening with the weight of what we had just done. I could still feel the ghost of her skin on mine, taste her lips on mine, but the comfort our actions had given us both was already fading. There was nothing left now but the cold, creeping realization that it wasn’t going to make either of us feel any better.

“This was a mistake,” she whispered. I let out deep sigh, relieved that she said what was bouncing around in my vodka soaked mind. “Yeah.” But neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us. But unlike before, there was a weight to it, much heavier than before, almost to the point of suffocating. Eventually, we lost our individual battles with sleep.

By morning, the feeling of regret was unbearable. It almost felt like Matt was standing in the corner, casting judgement on us. I woke up first, but pretended to be sleep so I wouldn’t disturb her. When she woke up, her hand immediately covered her face, I can only imagine that she was replaying the previous night’s events over in her head. She slipped out from under the covers in what I suppose was an attempt to not disturb me. Then she quickly got dressed and bolted for the door, never looking back to see that I was watching her the whole time. Maybe I should’ve tried to stop her, or at least said something. But what exactly? The only reason I didn’t do the same thing was because we were at my house. Once I heard my front door close, I quickly got in the shower and tried to scrub away the guilt and regret.

And just like that, we became strangers again.

The Syndicate: “Peaches”

Posted on by under Short Stories

Outside, the neon lights flickered above the entrance to Sugar & Spice, casting a pulsing glow onto the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the scent of sweat, body spray, and cheap whiskey lingered in the air, blending into the haze of pulsating music and murmured conversations. Deeper in the bowels of the gentlemen’s club, Peaches rummaged through her locker. She knew she had put her favorite g-string in her bag the night before but now it was nowhere to be found. In her two years of working for The Syndicate since her sorority sister, Samantha, recruited her out of Howard University, this had been her least favorite assignment. She’d spent the majority of her life studying dance, including stints at Baltimore School for the Arts and Julliard. But despite all that experience and training, Judith Stone thought it best to stick her in this measly strip club in the middle of Mississippi. “Remember the job, it’s the only thing that matters,” she could hear Sam telling her over and over.

With a heavy sigh, she returned to searching her belongings for the lost g-string. But just as she was ready to give up, she noticed another girl, D’Nasty, wearing it. Every fiber of her being wanted to snatch D’Nasty, who’s really name was Dianne, by the 26 inch platinum blonde ponytail hanging from the top of her head and drag her all around the dressing room. “Even if I weren’t a trained assassin, it wouldn’t be a fair fight,” she told herself. Instead she shot daggers from her eyes as the costume thief bopped around the room. After what could’ve been an eternity, D’Nasty finally looked in Peaches’ direction. “Hey girl, I hope you don’t mind me borrowing this,” she said as she popped the g-string on her hip. “Nah girl, it’s all yours,” Peaches replied. With a grin on her face, D’Nasty ran over and embraced Peaches in a giant bear hug. Just as she could feel the anger build up inside her, Peaches heard the DJ call her name over the intercom.

Peaches adjusted the strap on her barely-there black lace corset and stepped onto the stage, her every movement calculated. As she wrapped her long legs around the pole, arching her back with practiced ease and the grace befitting a classically trained ballerina, she scanned the crowd. Men sat in tattered leather chairs, their gazes locked on her, but she wasn’t looking for them. She was making sure she had eyes on her target. She had spent the better part of the last 6 months infiltrating Sugar & Spice, earning the trust of the dancers, the bouncers, even the club’s sleepy owner. She had mapped out every escape route, memorized every camera angle.

After her set on stage, Peaches returned to the dressing rom to take a quick shower. As she was getting dressed , she heard her phone vibrate in her locker. She retrieved the iPhone out of her bag and checked the notifications. She had received a text message from her employer, Judith Stone. She quickly opened the message and was greeted with the picture of her target. It was none other than D’Nasty herself. “I’d almost be willing to do this one for free,” she said to herself as she looked at the picture. Just then, she received a notification stating she had just received an email. She opened the email and read the instructions contained in it. She wasn’t to kill Dianne, as she was not the target. The target was her father: the leader of a radical militia group in the area that had plans to storm the state capital building in an attempt to start a revolution.

Just then, a few of the other girls entered the dressing room. Peaches, who was born Prudence Miller, quickly stashed her phone back in her locker and finished getting dressed. “A few of us are going to Waffle House after we get off tonight, wanna come?” Prudence smiled and nodded her head as she closed her locker and headed for the door to her car. She quickly threw her bag into the backseat of the car, then went to the trunk to grab her gear. She fished her Glock 26 and holster out of her tactical bag, then looked up to see if anyone was watching her. Once she was sure the coast was clear, she removed her Nike track jacket and slipped the holster onto her shoulders. She put the jacket back on as she continued to scan her gear. Since her assignment was to kidnap Dianne, she needed a non-lethal way to take Dianne down. That’s when she noticed the glass vial full of a milky white substance. Prudence grabbed the vial and slid it into her jacket pocket.

A half an hour later, the ladies from Sugar & Spice had turned the local Waffle House into a PG-13 striptease show. As the dancers twerked and bounced around the restaurant, Prudence devised a plan to get Dianne alone. She quietly sat back and watched her target stumble around the building in a pair of worn out Reebok Classics. She’s so drunk, I won’t even have to drug her. She slyly crept up behind Dianne just as she was about to take a tumble. “Come on girl, let me take you home.” Dianne didn’t say anything, she just nodded softly as she seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.

Prudence quickly got Dianne into the passenger seat of her car then drove them away from the restaurant. The small town’s street lights blurred past as she navigated towards an are that they wouldn’t attract attention. Dianne attempted to sit up in her seat and meekly asked where they were going. “Somewhere quiet,” Prudence responded and refocused on the road ahead.

As soon as they reached the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, Prudence turned off the engine. Before Dianne could react, Prudence moved, fast and precise, stabbing a syringe filled with the milky white substance into her arm. Dianne attempted to struggle against the drug coursing through her veins but she went limp within seconds. Prudence exhaled sharply as she hoisted Dianne’s unconscious body over her shoulder. She carried her inside and secured her to a chair with zip ties.

About an hour later, Dianne began to stir, blinking against the dim light overhead. Her breathing hitched when she realized she was bound.

“What the hell?!”

“Good morning, sunshine,” Prudence quipped, arms crossed. Dianne’s eyes darkened. “Peaches, what kind of sick fucking game is this?!”

“First off, I fucking hate that name,” Prudence growled as she leaned in, “And I’m not too fond of you either.” A scowl spread across Diann’s face. “Is this about me wearing your g-strings?”

Prudence rolled her eyes. “I know who you are. And better yet, I know who your daddy is.”

Dianne’s lips parted, but she stopped just short of speaking. She took a moment to think. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Prudence let out a small chuckle. “Save it, sweetheart. I did my homework. Victor Montague, the militia leader. Word is he has plans to overthrow the government of this… charming state of yours.” Dianne flinched as if she was physically assaulted by hearing of her father’s plans.

“You see, the problem is, I need your father,” Prudence continued, “And you? You’re my leverage.” Dianne shot daggers at her from her eyes. “You think he’ll come for me? He won’t. I haven’t seen him in years. Shit, I probably hate him more than you do.”

Prudence tilted her head to the side and fished a small knife out of the pocket of her jacket. She quickly flipped the blade out. “Maybe not willingly. But if I send the right message, he won’t have a choice.”

Hours passed and neither woman said anything to the other, their jaws locked close in defiance. And while Prudence admired the resolve of her prisoner, she knew she was running out of time. “You don’t get it,” Dianne finally blurted out, “I ran away for a reason. If you take me back, he’ll kill me.” Prudence furrowed her brow at the idea of a father wanting to kill his own daughter. Memories of her relationship with her own father danced around in her head.

“Why? Why would he want to kill you?”

Dianne swallowed hard and leaned her head back on the chair. “Because I stole something from him.”

Prudence was intrigued. She took a step forward as her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“A ledger. He called it his manifesto. It has the dates and locations for different attacks he’s planning. Names of his members. If it got into the wrong hands, a lot of powerful people could go down.”

Prudence put the knife away and wringed her hands. Her heartbeat quickened as a sly smile stretched out across her face. “So where is it?”

“You let me go and I’ll tell ya.”

Prudence let out a small sigh. This wasn’t how she planned things going, but she knew when to improvise. And she knew bringing in that ledger would be a game-changer for her. “Fine. But if you double-cross me, I will make you regret it.”

“Trust me, I believe you.”

Prudence untied Dianne and they drove to greasy roadside motel outside of town. Dianne led Prudence to a battered suitcase hidden in the A/C vent in one of the rooms. She pried it open, revealing a leather-bound notebook filled with handwritten notes. Prudence feverishly flipped through it, scanning the pages. She saw names of state and federal politicians, judges, law enforcement officers, and even the newly elected President of the United States. This was it, the evidence that could dismantle the entire network.

“Now what?” Dianne asked.

“Now I make a call,” Prudence responded as she pulled her phone from her pocket. But before she could finish dialing the number, she heard the clash of metal against metal. She looked up and Dianne was holding a small pistol.

“Seriously?!”

Dianne’s hands were shaking slightly, a mixture of the drug and her nerves left her grip a bit unsteady. “You were never going to let me go, were you?”

“I told you, I’m not after you and I don’t kill innocent people.”

“Tell that to the girl you drugged and tied to a chair.” Dianne readjusted her grip on the gun.

Prudence couldn’t help but snicker. “You got a point.”

Silence fell over the room for what felt like an eternity before Dianne sighed and lowered the gun. “I don’t trust you,” she sneered.

“Good, because I don’t trust you either.” The two women stared at each other, both unwillingly participants in an unexpected game of chicken. “Let’s go take down dear ol’ daddy,” Prudence said as she slipped the ledger into her jacket. Dianne hesitated for a brief moment then nodded. Together, they walked out of the fleabag motel room and into the night, uncertain allies bound by a common enemy.

The ride to Victor Montague’s compound was tense. Dianne sat up, stiff as a board, in the passenger seat, arms folded tightly across her petite frame, her jaw clinched. Prudence could tell that she was still contemplating betrayal, so she kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other inside her jacket, wrapped around the handle of her Glock 26.

“You realize we probably both gonna die tonight, right?” Dianne muttered halfway under her breath.

“What’s life without a little risk, huh? You only live once.” Dianne fired off a death stare. “You got jokes. My daddy is a paranoid psychopath. If he even thinks that something ain’t right, he’ll kill you where you stand.”

“I guess its a good thing I have a plan.” Dianne scoffed. “Care to share?”

Prudence righted her grip on the steering wheel. “You’re his daughter, his own flesh and blood. He might wanna kill you, but he’s gonna want to hear you out first. You go inside and play the prodigal daughter, and I’ll make sure we both walk out.”

Dianne let out a hearty laugh. “Girl, you don’t know shit about my old man.”

“Please enlighten me then.” Dianne hesitated for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “My daddy don’t care ‘bout family, he only cares about power. He only cared about me until I stopped being his obedient little girl. When I ran away from home, he didn’t send men to bring me back. He sent them to kill me because I took that book.” Prudence quietly drove the car, letting the information she just received sink in. “If that’s true, why are you helping me? Why not just make a run for it?”

Dianne’s expression turned to stone. “Because I wanna see that fucker dead just as bad as you do.” Prudence looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Okay. But if you double-cross me, I’ll put a bullet in your head my damn self.” Dianne’s expression lightened as she stared out the window at the country speeding by. “Take a number, honey.”

Victor Montague’s compound was nestled deep in the Mississippi countryside, an isolated fortress surrounded by acres of thick forest. The kind of place where a person could disappear and nobody would ever think to come look for you. Prudence parked a few miles away from the main gate. She hopped out the car, opened the trunk and retrieved an assault rifle from its case. Then she grabbed a small backpack and slung the strap over her left shoulder. Dianne stood and watched her in amazement, so Prudence fished the knife out of her pocket and handed it to her. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Knives are inconspicuous. You don’t daddy dearest would be concerned if you showed with a gun?” Dianne shrugged. “I guess you got a point.” Together, they slowly made their way up the winding dirt road towards the compound’s main gate. Once they were in sight of the main gate, Prudence slinked away behind the tree line as Dianne continued on. The guards at the front gate tensed when they saw her walking towards them and instinctively lifted their guns into a ready position. “Tell my father I came to talk.” The guards exchanged wary glances before one of them grabbed the radio from his hip. After a few moments, a loud buzzer sounded and the heavy metal gate began to open. Dianne cautiously approached as the guards side stepped out of her way. She was escorted inside the main house and to a large sitting area, walking past numerous confederate flags and portraits of Civil War era southern leaders. As she walked past the pictures of the men, she look at each and shuddered.

Meanwhile, Prudence had made her way undetected to the back side of the compound. She quickly scanned the area for any kind of surveillance equipment. There was none to be seen. “Paranoid psychopath my ass. This is easier than sneaking into the dorms at Howard.” She found a gap in the wall and squeezed her way through it.

Dianne sat in the house’s makeshift assembly hall and waited for her father. The air smell of cheap cigars, body order and something sickly sweet that she couldn’t quite make out. Just as she thought she knew what it was, Victor Montague’s appeared in the doorway. He was an older man, what was left of his salt and pepper hair stuck out from underneath a bright red baseball cap with white writing on the front. “Dianne, what the hell brings your scrawny ass back here?!”

“Hey to you too, Daddy.”

Victor pulled a large revolver from the holster on his hip. “What’s to keep me from killing your treacherous ass right where you stand?” Dianne’s whole body tensed up as she felt herself staring down the literal and metaphorical barrel of her impending doom. “If you kill me, you’ll never get your book back.” Victor let out a heavy sigh, returned the gun to its holster, removed the ball cap, and rubbed his head where he once had hair. “Where is it, you conniving you little bitch?”

“It’s somewhere safe, that’s all you need to know.” Victor slowly worked his way back onto his feet and started to approach his daughter. As he did, she discreetly fumbled around in her pockets for the knife that Prudence gave her.

“And what the fuck do you want?” Dianne braced herself for what she anticipated to be her father’s next move. “Well Daddy, I want you gone.” Victor let out a hearty laugh as he took another step towards his daughter. “If that was the case honey, you would’ve come here with the army in tow.” At that exact moment, the power went out.

Gunfire erupted sporadically around the room that Victor and Dianne were in. Without hesitation, he grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall behind her. “WHO THE FUCK DID YOU BRING HERE?!” Dianne struggled to free herself from his vice grip to no avail.

“Nobody Daddy,” she gasped. He tightened his grip around her throat as he pulled his revolver. “Don’t lie to me or I’ll blow that stupid fucking ponytail right off your fucking head!”

Somewhere else in the house, Prudence calmly navigated her way through the darkness with the help of a set of night vision goggles. And with each of Victor’s men that she encountered, she handled with deadly efficiency. After a few moments, the lights came roaring back on. Prudence expertly closed her eyes and pushed the goggles up to her forehead. And that’s when the chaos really broke out. The tactical team that Prudence called in stormed the gate. And while Victor’s men weren’t any slouches, they were no match for an ambush of well-trained soldiers. One by one, they fell in a haze of smoke and gunfire. Victor, however , was on the move. And he had a hostage with him. Prudence spotted him pushing Dianne through a side door and out into the compound’s main yard.

She pursued them out the door and past stacks of crates containing all sorts of supplies and weapons. And while he was quick for a man of his age, he was undoubtedly slowed down by the human shield he had in tow. Prudence finally caught up with them in the garage, where he was trying to shove Dianne into a SUV. “I hate to tell you that you came all this way to die, you black bitch!” Victor turned towards Prudence and raised the revolver. But before he could fire, Dianne stuck the knife in his stomach. Victor gasped, his eyes widened. The look on his face could only be described as utter shock. He instinctively backhanded his daughter and she flew back into the car. He turned his attention back towards Prudence and, before he could move again, she fired 3 shots into his chest. Victor dropped his gun and collapsed to the ground beneath him. Prudence lowered the assault rifle and rushed to the open door of the SUV. “You okay?”

Dianne rubbed her cheek and said, “Yeah, I think so. That summabitch hits like a tank.” She kicked the body of her newly deceased father that laid at her feet.

The tactical team swept through the compound, securing any surviving members of the militia and any pertinent information they came across. Prudence and Dianne stood outside the gate as smoke billowed towards the heavens. “What now?”

Prudence looked over her shoulder at the destroyed gate and then back down the road towards her car. “You’re free.”

“What about you?”

Prudence sighed. “I go back to home and see what my employer has lined up for me next.” Dianne looked her up and down, then said, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“God, I hope not.” They both laughed. And with that, they went their separate ways – two survivors in a world of shadows, bound by blood and betrayal.

You and Me Against the World

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Poetry

I know we’ve going through this for a while now

And it seems like we can’t make each other smile now

But I can’t imagine life without you by my side

I’d die for you because for me you’re always down to ride

Everyone says that our love is doomed, we should get out while we can

Last time I checked a relationship consisted of a woman and a man

And if no one else can see that what we have is meant to be

Then it’ll be just you and me against the world

You

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Poetry

You’re breathtaking, my jaws down to the floor

I am so, what’s the word I’m looking for

Not quite love but way more than lust for you

I always catch myself daydreaming of you

You make me smile, that’s why I love spending time with you

And a simple kiss to the forehead is all you gotta do

Smooth cocoa brown skin, damn shawty you a 10

What I’m trying to say is can I be your boyfriend

But…

Why Did I Get Married? (Inspired by the Movie and Real Life)

Posted on by under Love & Relationships, Poetry

Here I am

Standing here at the proverbial fork in the road

And all that’s on my mind is

Why did I get married

On one hand, there’s my kids and my wife

The loves of my life

On the other, there’s all the strife

The arguments and fights

In terms of this marriage thing, I haven’t been at it too long

But I swear sometimes it just feels all wrong

Then there are the times when it feels oh so right

Because I love this woman with all of my might

So I’m faced with a dilemma, a decision I must make

At this point of my life, which path should I take

To the left, the single life

Freedom, the ability to go with the motions

To the right is my wife

My family, love and devotion

Is this a trick question, which is the right way

Life as a family man or a return to my playa days

I remember that part of my life with conflicting emotions

Not a care in the world, cool as a breeze on the ocean

And you always could find me up in the club

Because my nights were lonely, I was missing love

And that’s where she came in

The keeper of my heart, the queen of my life

My best friend, my confidant, my beautiful wife

Who am I kidding, my choice has been made

My life is about more than trying to get laid

I’ve laid a foundation on which to build my legacy

That’ll last much longer than fleeting moments of ecstasy

A woman that’s worth some anger has gotta be worth some effort

Right?

Plus, I wouldn’t be able to breathe if I left her

And God blessed her, with the patience to deal with me

So that’s means our union is meant to last for eternity

Untitled

Posted on by under Poetry

I am a sexual warrior

I dance with my sword in one hand

And my heart in the other

You are my Goddess

I kiss your neck, you suck my tongue

I touch your breast as you look into my eyes

You see me, feel me and taste me

I shall protect you, I am your king

We shall create a life together

Into you I go; slowly, softly

For you have given me your most sacred gift

Your love