She was young and white—not your typical nail salon attendant. Her hair was red and long with green under layers, her tattoos were many and a little messy, with blurred lines and disproportionate animal heads and bodies. Her clothing was from the cheaper stores at the mall, the hippie/whore variety. Her nail tending techniques were stellar, however, her craft clearly more important than her look. She buffed and polished as if she had done it a hundred thousand times. She stared out of the large salon windows a lot, causing me to look out onto the street with her, hoping to see what she saw, what she longed for, what ever it might be that would change the empty expression on her face. She didn’t seem bored, she seemed alone, accustomed to, but not necessarily comfortable with, her singularity—which was a guess on my part, as she offered no clues as whether or not she had a mate.

“Do you have any pets,” she asked me. There was a clue.

“No,” I replied. “For the first time in my adult life, I have no pets.”

“A pity,” she said. “I have a cat.”

She sanded my feet some more, she sighed, she stared out the window, and then he came in and she straightened. She licked her blackish lipstick lips and smiled a half-coy smile. He winked at her but went straight to the other attendant and kissed her on the neck as she sat hunched over another pair of feet.

My redhead turned back to the task in front of her. “Are you married,” she asked me.

“I’m separated,” I replied.

“A pity,” she said again. “I have a husband.”


photo credit:


start to finish




“You’re prettier than I remembered.”

Really? Is that a compliment?

“Yes, well, I can’t speak to your memory, but I think I’ve always been pretty.”

“Well, yes, of course, you are.”

Not a good start.


“You never brought a house gift for these guys. We’ve stayed here many times. You’re keen on social graces, maybe a little something.”

“I’m not accustomed to bringing house gifts. We just tipped the servants. That was enough.”

Really? I know how you grew up.

He left them a $100. bill.


“My son went to school with Muslims. They are smart and caring, lovely, productive, tax paying citizens, assimilating very well, thank you. One out of every ten Muslims in the United States is a doctor. Chances are you will be saved by a Muslim rather than killed by one. I’ve hugged and kissed them at their graduation, I’ve danced with them at my son’s wedding.”

“They are no better than terrorists. Cut from the same cloth.”


The End.


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“After a hungry stillness, like intermission at a wolf dance, rhythms were established. You were socked into one another now, it had been acknowledged and approved, and so you arched and pushed and corkscrewed and jackknifed, softly but with pronounced cadence. Finger fucking is an art. Men indulge in it; women excel at it. Ohh. Fireman save my child!

You felt is if you hand were up a jukebox, a flesh Wurlitzer spewing colored electrical sparks as it played itself to pieces on the Dime of the Century. Your clitoris was a switch without an “off.” She snapped it on on on and further on. You crooked your tongue around an erect nipple. She smiled at your quiverings as she parted your asshole.”



Even Cowgirls Get the Blues – Tom Robbins

Thanks to New Urge Editions for posting the cowgirls page


photo credit:


true confessions




If I’m going to eat-pray-love-it, if I’m going to share pieces of this journey of mine, take you from point A to point B, I feel I have to start with how crazy I am. I really don’t want to share this, but it seems to be what people like to read—tell me how crazy you are, give me the crazy, I can relate!—and really, who wants to read about the normal. I can start by saying I have so many addictions I’m afraid to list them all. The good news is I’m trying to wean myself from a few, or at least in this down-time, I’m feeling a little less dependent. Two weeks ago, I was smoking pot 5 or more times a day. I smoked cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. I drank 2 pots of coffee everyday and took sudafed all the time. I don’t like prescription sleeping pills, but I could take 3 excedrin p.m. easily, or excedrin p.m. with some bendryl. I masturbated a lot, a lot. All of this has eased. The cold sores in my mouth and circles under my eyes are clearing up. I’m coming down.

There is lots more crazy that I will share in time, crazy behavior and stinkin’ thinkin’ that needs tender examination. I have a lot of craziness with regard to men (what woman doesn’t!?). I’m leaving my husband and my muse. They failed me, they almost sucked the soul out of me, I hope they miss me, I hope they’re thinking about me when they masturbate. As you maybe can tell, I have a whole lotta healing to do, and we have to confess all kinds of crap to heal, right? Isn’t that part of religious mantra? Alcoholics Anonymous, anyone? Housekeeping, clearing out the junk to make room for the good. And fyi, I’m also addicted to hair spray, just in case you think I should put that in the crazy column.


photo credit: / Incomplete Portrait of the Woman Face

I am in love with both the art and the title – pn


it just got real


tumblr (1)


Subtitled: for those who follow this blog, and wanna-be writers, including myself.


When I asked my mentor to help me get unstuck with my fiction, for advice as to how I ditch the same old protagonist and stale erotica and move on to better writing, she told me, “write a new story.” I jumped a little bit, startled maybe because no jewel fell from her lips. That’s it? That was the best she could come up with? But by the fifth second of startledness, I caught on to the metaphor and realized she was addressing my personal life, that I create the environment, the atmosphere, the aura, the relationships, the experiences that make up the next chapter of me. Change my behavior and the change in my craft will follow. And I chose to change big time. I chose to change my marital status and address—and it just got real. The questions are creeping in, I’m second guessing, but I’m staying the course, keeping the vision of a life imagined dead center. There will be no more apologies if my writing slips into diary mode. This is an adventure and you’re coming with me, and I will be writing about it on occasion—my slightly skewed, eat, pray love for the mature woman.

And for those who want to write (and keep in mind that I certainly don’t have the experience or talent to tell you what to do in that department…but), when I’m away from home and alone—when my girlfriends, or co-workers, or husband, or anyone or anything that happens to be relief or habit or familiar is not there, when there is no one to talk to—I make up stories about the people I see on the street, in the stores, the people I know nothing about. Fiction becomes my friend, and my fictional characters become the people I talk to.

Bring it on, I say. I’m writing a new story. Thank you, Laura.


photo credit: tumblr


a writer on vacation


Working on the Beach


While I don’t consider Atlanta, Georgia a vacation destination, I do consider myself on vacation (time with my family, away from home, work, chores and responsibilities), and I just happen to be in Atlanta, so there you go—my vacation spot. It’s hot as hell and there’s no pool, ocean, or water of any sort here, but I do have my absolutely perfect grandson and amazing children, so what’s a little sweat? We eat like kings, we laugh, watch movies, watch the baby, we visit sites we’ve never seen before and revisit sites that we love. For writer me, I see faces burnt and beaten by the toll of the south, I see hard times and good times in the lines at the grocery stores, I see different plant life and hear different birds, I see buildings and highways both beautiful and derelict—the inspiration is everywhere—but my heart belongs to a family right now and I need, I crave that softness—writing is on hold.

So, pardon me while I refuel, pardon the reposting. I am on vacation, and while I continue to compose in my head, I am not ready to put anything to paper. May you enjoy your vacations, your friends and family, the inspiration and education that comes with travel, and the delicious divergence of not producing a damn thing.


photo credit:


sweet and kind and good


Apologies for another re-posting, but think of it as re-freshing, and considering our uncertain world, we certainly need to refresh our brains with that that is sweet and kind and good.




Below are passages from a lovely book titled, A House Blessing, by Welleran Poltarness. The book is a bit saccharin, but still beautiful in it’s writing and illustrations, and it crosses my mind every now and then. I’ve carried it to two different homes and soon will take it to a third, but I also know two other ladies who will be changing their dwellings, and I send them these thoughts as I take the words and turn them over in my own heart.


All who live and visit here shall be friends. Kindliness and harmony shall be the watchwords.

Let this be the place of peace, offering refuge from chaos and doubt, and manifesting in its orderliness, a model for the larger world.

May all celebrations be, in this house, feasts of creativity and companionship.

Let those within it share numberless passages of the sun and moon, and happiness fill them to overflowing.

I wish for you, in this sheltered place, the freedom, calm and leisure to play and explore.


photo credit: amazon


A House Blessing






Tonight I sit on my deck and savor my most favorite summer evening—an evening where I am blissfully high, where I sit alone, outside in the dark, and allow, and beg for the night to take me to the fantasy place that only the dark can inspire, when what you cannot see becomes what you imagine. Where I am a sex kitten on the wall, hypnotizing all creatures with the waving and lifting of my tail and the luxury of my scent. Where I am the wise old owl, keeping a high watch on the night and the fools below, smart enough to know that the night is my friend. Or maybe the sly fox, skittish only until the moment I find my prey, when I then capture my fancy and make it mine.

The wind is perfect fantasy wind—it lifts my hair just enough to frame my face, it ruffles my gown softly and only on occasion. The temperature is seductive, cool enough to require coverage, warm enough to ask that it be sheer. I like that there are others awake—a distant laugh, a whiny snap of a single firecracker, a lonely motor on the river—each of them a story moving through the night, maybe some are high, or tired, or thinking about making love or thinking about their lives or their fantasies. The moon is becoming lost in the clouds. I am lost to all things imaginable.


art: etsy