adult content

“Easy as a Spring Dress” – a Pinky Black prequel!

So I’ve been sitting on this one for several months. Submitted it to a flash fiction zine, but it didn’t get picked up. Since I have since taken the character I invented here and fleshed him into the noble savage that is Pinky Black, I thought some of you might like to see the very first aspect of our hard hitting friend of Jimmy the Gent.

Here’s “Easy as a Spring Dress.”

It was a quarter past one, and the heat of the sun beat down from a brilliant, clear sky with only slightly less fury then what my fists had just finished delivering to the poor sap on the ground in front of me. I nudged him with my foot. He groaned. Good.

Wasn’t dead.

Yet.

I bent down and looked at the bloody, broken mess that fifteen minutes before had been an asshole named Danny. He thought he was a tough one, I guess. Dressed like it. Walked like it. Talked like it. But when it came time to throw down, he’d merely gone down, like a sack full of cinder blocks and questionable evidence in a deep bay. I kicked him a bit harder, for good measure. He coughed up a bit of blood, and sobbed. I probably should have felt bad for that. I didn’t.

“Last chance, Danny,” I said, slightly louder than a whisper, but no more. He deserved having to strain to hear me. “I told you once before, if you ever touched her, I’d hurt you.”

I took a breath, looked over my shoulder at the girl cowering against the alley wall. Her face wore hurt and terror like a spring dress, loose and comfortable. That did make me feel bad. I hated that she’d run out here to see this, but you know? Maybe that was good, too.

“Believe it or not, Danny, I don’t like violence. I’m just good at it, see? I tried, I tried real hard, to let you off easy last time, but you didn’t listen. So you bought this, Danny.”

He groaned again. I sighed.

I didn’t make it a habit of being a hero. Wasn’t my gig. I was much better at being a low man, a hard man. And men like me, well, we don’t make good heroes. But there are some things I can’t abide, and one of them is beating on someone who couldn’t defend themselves. I guess I had a little streak of soft in me. Marbling in the meat, if you will.

“This is my last talk with you, Danny. I’ll be watching. I see another bruise on that girl, and you will never lay a hand on another living soul again. She so much as trips and skins her knee, and I’m going to assume it was you. No more warnings, no more beatings.”

I paused, leaned real close.

“No more Danny. You have my word,” I whispered.

He shook, and the sharp smell of piss confirmed that he’d gotten the message. I stood up, picked his jacket up from where he’d dropped it before the fight, and used it to wipe his blood off my fists. The girl stared at me the whole time, as I brushed off the dirt from my knees and cleaned his gore from my boot.

That’s when I saw it.

In her eyes, I saw a glimmer. The blossoming of something wicked, dark. I saw her picking a fight, saw him walking away. Saw her remembering my words, and acting on them. He didn’t have to hit her. She could bruise herself just as easy. But I’m a man of my word, if nothing more. Danny better hope he sees that glimmer too. Better hope he recognizes it, and doesn’t piss her off. Or else he’ll find out just how easily that sack full of cinder blocks goes down, with him as the questionable evidence.

I left him there. Her too. As I walked out of the alley, I saw her smile.

And that hurt, that terror? It fell off her, easy as a spring dress.

“Bad Parents” – Chuck Wendig’s Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge. TRIGGER WARNING

Just in under the deadline, here is my story for Chuck Wendig’s challenge from this past week. A story about “Bad Parents”, 1000 words or less.

This is not the story I originally intended to tell. That one I wrote, rewrote, rewrote again, and then finally deleted. I’m not ready to tell that one yet.

This one is dark, very dark. I give you fair warning now that it is about child abuse, murder, and such like things. If this is the kind of thing that upsets you, skip this one.

No one ever tells you about the smell. The movies, the shows, they make it look almost…glamorous, when you shoot someone. A bang, a puff of smoke, a bright light, a splatter of pretty crimson that paints the wall like that abstract painter guy…Jackson-something. Mom always liked his stuff. I didn’t get it. The smell is terrible. Like copper and shit and sewage. Maybe it’s different if you shoot them somewhere other than the balls and lower stomach?

Christ. I can hear him still. I wish he’d die but I don’t have the stomach or the will to shoot him again. And maybe…maybe I kind of want him to suffer, even if each groan that escapes his lips makes me feel like vomiting. Even through the door, I can hear him dragging himself across the floor croaking a strange, strangled, gurgling noise like some sort of sick frog. Disgusting. Bleeding and shitting all over the floor, no doubt. Mom is going to be so pissed off.

After all, he is…was…her husband.

I look down at the gun in my hand and I wonder how many bullets I have left. I never really learned about them. I mean, I knew the basics, but I didn’t even know how to load or reload or whatever you are supposed to do with them. I do know you point the dangerous end and you flip the safety thing and you pull the trigger. And not the button that makes the bullet-thingy fall out. I guess TV is good for something after all, huh? There’s always that ditzy girl who points the gun and presses the wrong button. Or gets reminded the safety is on. Dumb!

I wonder if I should shoot her too. Mom, I mean. Part of me screams at the idea, revolts. Another…not so much.

She let it happen, after all. She had to have known. No…she did know. I can’t make excuses for her. She knew. I told her. I told her what he was doing, how he was touching me…there. I feel sick again, just thinking about it. Have to force myself to stop. She knew, but she didn’t do anything about it. He was husband number three, after all, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She said that all the time.

So she put up with the shit. The laziness. The yelling. The name calling. The slaps, the punches, the bruises. The way he looked at me, her daughter. She listened when he lied and when he locked himself in my room she bought that the door must have “accidently” locked itself. When I would find any excuse I could to be with her, she said I was just too clingy. Seperation Anxiety? Really Mom?

I didn’t tell her at first. I was scared. Scared that he’d hurt me worse, hurt her worse. He threatened that he would. Said that if I told he would beat the shit out of her, break her, make sure no other man would ever want to be with her again. Did I want that? Huh, sweetie? You want your mom to have to earn her living lying on her back for ten dollars a pop, cause she sure as hell wouldn’t make more than that when he got finished with her.

But then one day she found me. Crying. Rocking. She took me in her arms and she rocked with me and she asked me.

“Cass, sweety? Is there something wrong?”
And I felt warm. Safe. I told her.

I still feel the sting of her hand. The bruises have faded but I still feel each punch. My hair still hurts when it remembers her dragging me through the hall, screaming and calling me a liar, a whore, a filthy little tempter. It was my fault, see. I shouldn’t dress like such a slut. She burned my makeup and my music and most of my heart that day.

“Casssss.”

What’s left of my heart plummets. He moans out again.

“Casssssss…c…c…call…..9…”

He stops, coughing. I hear something thick and wet splatter against the wood floor, and something in me snaps.

I open the door.

He’s right there. The smell is even worse now. The floor doesn’t look like a pretty painting. It looks horrible. Dark. Brownish. I gag. He looks up at me. Kind of looks like one of those monsters, zombies. I don’t know…I don’t like those shows. Too gory. He reaches out his hand.

“Cass…sw…sweetie…”

There is a pop, a shockingly loud pop and a ringing in my ears before I even realize I’ve shot him. There is a strange, gurgling rattle, and then he’s quiet. The only sound is the ringing in my ears.

I close the door. I cry. I can’t help it. God, what am I going to do? I sit there, at the door. I sit there for a long time.

And then I hear it. Keys in the lock. Mom is home. I look down. How many bullets are left?

I don’t know.

Maybe just one.

My hands tremble. I am so fucked. So, so fucked. The door begins to open. For a moment, it really is just like the movies. Everything is slow, deliberate. I look at the gun and I think, yes, maybe there’s just one more bullet left.

I raise my arm. The gun is so, so heavy. Heavier than I thought it would be. The door swings wider. I sit straighter. Proper. Ladylike. She walks in all fake smiles and empty cheer and an arm full of crap. She looks at me.

“Cass, sweetie? Is there something wrong?”

I smile. I press the gun beneath my chin, and I wonder.

Will she believe me now?

“People F#cking Suck” – from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder… (NSFW, AC, TRIGGER WARNING)

It’s time once more for a prompt from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder…

This week’s prompt is a darker one, indeed.

#814. Write from the perspective of a people trafficker.

 I’m giving myself 20 minutes to write this. Wish me luck.

**Done with 8 seconds to spare. Thank God. I feel more than a little slimy after writing this.**

***WARNING!!! TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE FOLLOWING FICTION!!! DARK SHIT AHEAD!!! THE AUTHOR WAS ATTEMPTING WRITING FROM A DISTASTEFUL PERSPECTIVE BUT DOES NOT ENDORSE THE BELIEFS FOUND HEREIN.***

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

“People F#cking Suck”

Most people would call me a monster. I don’t know, though. I’ve seen monsters. Real ones. Guys that do things that make even the most hardened badass in some Central American backwater prison have nightmares about. Heavy shit, man. Fucking crazy shit. Me? I just traffic people. Move em from point A to point B, pick up a little green (both the spending kind and the smoking kind) and that’s that.

Yeah, yeah, oh my god, don’t I realize they’re people? Yeah, of course the fuck I realize they’re people. That’s why the job pays so well, isn’t it? Thing is, you live long enough in this world, long enough in my world, and you begin to realize something. People fucking suck. They do. All of them. You, me, and the trembling little girls in the back of my van. We all suck.

I won’t lie, I used to have empathy for them. Most of them. But a lot of these girls? They come from places that would make you vomit just to walk a hundred yards from, let alone live in. These girls aren’t random kidnap victims, enslaved brutally like the movies would have you believe. Ok, well, most of them aren’t. Most of the girls I move were sold to us by their own families. Their own fucking families. You get that? Their own mothers or fathers or siblings or aunts or uncles or fucking grandparents brought them to my employer, who paid a ridiculously small amount of money, and then gave them to me. To move.

You know why they sold them? Two things, usually. One, simple greed. People fucking suck, remember? And greed runs the world, buddy. Greed runs the world. You wouldn’t believe it, but the highest call for these little packages are to some of the richest bastards in the wealthiest, most “civilized” countries. They fucking suck too. So much god damned money they sometimes literally wipe their ass with it. They get bored. They can have anything, so the get anything. Including fresh young girls to play with, till they get bored with them too, and then bam, back in the van, and off to the next dude who can’t quite afford first pick. Sick, sucky people.

Reason two? The place they came from was such a god awful hell hole that there literally was nothing better in the world for them than being sold into slavery for sex. Their families believed, no, fuck that, knew that the only chance they had for a better life was one spent on their back in some foreign city, carted around by some fuckwad like me and staying just a step ahead of the authorities. Sure, some girls get scared. Some find ways to get loose, escape, get to the cops wherever the fuck we are. They ruin things for the rest of em. We have to pack up quick then. Get em on the van and move before we all get fucking hung.

Thing is, that one girl, that one stupid selfish girl who had to run off? You know what she did for her “sisters”? She fucked em, royally. See, when we set up someplace new, when there’s no feds or government types sniffing up our asses, we have the time to vet some of the customers. Not all of them, mind you – go back to reason one if you want to know why – but a lot of em. Enough that the girls we set up don’t have it all that bad. Sure, they gotta spread their legs at someone else’s whim, but fuck, how’s that any different from marriage in the fucking warzone they came from? At least with us, they get cleaned up. They see docs. Gotta keep the good healthy, after all.

But when a girl gets loose, we gotta pull stakes. Yank the other girls from whatever situation they are in, some of them pretty cozy. We gotta hit the road, and more often than not, ditch the merchandise at the first chance we get. That can go one of two ways too. Either we sell them to some cheap fucking pimp who’s gonna use em, abuse em, and then ditch them when they are too broken, bruised, or diseased to be of use. Or we kill them. Simple as that. Take them out in a desert and just leave them in a locked van. It’s easier that way.

So that girl, the one that got away? She fucking sucks. The pimps? Fucking suck. The johns? Fucking suck. The families? Fucking suck?

But me? I’m just a guy who drives a van.

And yeah. I fucking suck.

Another prompt from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder…

#848. Reincarnation is a reality; you’re on your tenth reincarnation and remember all your previous lives. You realize that in each body, you’ve been murdered.

“Serial Murdered”

I guess he fucked up this time. Sure, he pushed me off the roof, but I got lucky in the fall. Parts of me are broken, badly, but I’m alive. And more important than alive…I remember.

It must have been the knock I took to the head when I landed. I remember before it, the shock of horror, the rush of the ground as I flew towards it, and then…so much more. Memories flooding my mind, like simultaneously watching nine different movies ut being able to understand and comprehend every single one. And the star of the movies? Me.

Sort of.

You see, I recognize myself in every image, every memory, even though every image is from a different person. In this one, I’m a pilot in some war…WWI perhaps? I keep thinking “the Great War” when I see them, so it must be. In that one, I’m an escaped slave, I think. That’d explain the broken chain and the shackles. In another, a…well, let’s just say a lady of the evening. I won’t explain how I know that one.

All different people. All me. All with different lives, with one thing that ties them all together. I get murdered, every time.

I wonder if it’s the same for him, the guy who shoved me off the roof. I’ve seen him wear ten different faces, but just the same, I can tell it’s the same guy. We share that, I can tell. This strange connection, this cosmic magnetism that draws us together and always ends violently. Does he consciously know why he’s doing it? In some of my memories, it is clear that what he intended. The vile bounty hunter, taking my head in a dark swamp in the heat of a Georgia summer. The wicked cowboy with his hands around my throat as I struggle to scream. In others, he is more dispassionate. The German ace on the wing, his guns sputtering out a hail of death, nobly saluting as my life flees my body. The cop whose barrel still smokes as he cuts me down for the crime of stealing a piece of candy – maybe he thought it was a weapon? It doesn’t matter. Every one ends the same. Him, the murderer. Me, the murdered. Every time a clean, if brutal death.

Not this time, though. This time, something changed. I don’t know how I survived the fall, but I did. I can hear the sirens coming, and somehow, I know he’s fled. He won’t stick around to gloat. That’s never been his style. I didn’t even see his face this time, he fled so quickly.

But I live. I do…and now I know what I have to do. I have to stop this cycle. This is my one chance, my one hope to get him before he gets me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste it! This time, I’ll win. I’ll kill him, I’ll make him feel the way every death has felt to me. Make him live with the pain, the horror, the guilt, everything.

God, I fucking hurt, though. Can’t move, but I feel. I’ll be on my feet soon enough, and then I’ll end this. The ambulance is pulling up now. Just in time…my vision is fading. I must have jarred an ocular nerve or something. No matter. Even blind men can have revenge.

I smile when they lift me on to the stretcher. I try to laugh, but it comes out as painful coughing, as they put me in the back of their truck. I feel the engine start, hear the sirens wail. They’ll have me patched up good as new soon, I know it.

“This is going to hurt.”

A woman’s voice. Strange. Dispassionate.

I feel a sharp burn as a needle pierces my arm. A hot pain suddenly shooting through my veins. My eyes flutter, my sight returns.

Oh God.

It’s him. Except, he’s her. But no…no! The pusher? The guy on the roof? It has to be…

“Shhhhh.”

Her finger touches my lips.

This is new. This has never happened.

In his/her face…mercy.

Next time…

Next…

…time.

 

 

(Link to the book!)

My first…

Her name was Ellie, and she was my first real crush.

She was taller than the other girls her age, a little plump, with shoulder length natural red curls blooming from her head, eyes of pale blue-green, and a speckling of freckles that dashed from cheek to cheek and over her nose like a playful flick of tannish paint against her pale white skin.

She was a tomboy when we first met. She didn’t have a lot of friends because she had always been the rough and tumble type and other girls picked on her for her weight, and I didn’t have a lot of friends because I was new to town and not into typical boy things like football or soccer, and I was, perhaps, a little immature for my age – more concerned with playing games and imagining then sports and girls and wishing I was old enough to drive. At first, our friendship was totally innocent – playing tag, hide and seek, going on adventures through the woods near our houses, playing at being knights (she didn’t want to be princess), and things like that. She liked to hit me a lot, not violently, but often would punch or pinch or tackle me. Looking back now, as an adult, I realize that this was her way of flirting, much as young boys often do to young girls, but with the genders reversed. As the year went on, the teasing and chasing continued, with free periods involving her chasing me all over the school grounds, until I finally ran to and climbed a tree to “escape” her.  She’d climb up, we’d sit together on a branch, and talk.

She had a lot of daddy issues, that one. Her dad was in the military, like mine, and was often away.  When he was home, he was often drunk and belligerent, and so she spent more and more time with me, wandering the fields and woods when she wasn’t chasing me around the yard. Summers came and went, and then came again. One summer finally came, and for the first two months it was awesome – we saw each other every day, played constantly, and spent more and more time wandering the fields and forests. During one such excursion, I had made some joke or another to her, and as usual, took off running with her in pursuit, her fists clenched and ready to fight. I dodged bushes, ducked under branches, jumped over creeks, and she kept on me as doggedly as any person could. As we burst into a small clearing, she bounded forward in a dash and leapt for me, knocking me to the ground.  She quickly climbed on top of me as I rolled to my back, pinning my arms and legs with her own, both of us breathing heavily as she sat firmly on my pelvis.

And that, silly as it sounds, is when I first noticed she was not so much a girl any more, but a blossoming young woman. I don’t know how I had been so oblivious to the fact before – perhaps it was because I had just started blossoming as well. As she sat over me, her breathe heaving, her shirt hanging low, I caught a glimpse of the perfect half orbs that hung beneath that shirt, and for the first conscious time in my memory, my loins stirred to the calling. I know she felt it, because the instant I hardened, I heard her breath in sharply, but there was nothing I could do but blush.  She blushed as well, but did nothing…just sat there as I came to full hardness beneath the heat of her body, the press of her skin.  Our eyes found each other, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. The birds of the forest ceased their calling, the wind slowed and died, and it was just her, me, and the warmth of an early summer day. For the first time, I saw how incredibly beautiful she was, how soft her pale, perfect skin seemed, how dazzling the gems that she called eyes were. And I could see in them that, for the first time, she saw (and felt!) that I was a young man, and that she was as amazed as I was at the discovery.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward, her mouth parting, her eyes closing. I remember how she smelled faintly of artificial strawberries, one of those “kiddy” perfumes that girls would sometimes get and pretend they were grownups with. I remember how insanely, almost unbearably hot she was, like she had been set afire in fever, especially where her thighs parted and pressed against me.. I remember the delicate brush of her hair against my face as its curls fell about me, and the sweetness of her lips when they finally met my own…ah, strawberry lip gloss as well. We kissed, soft and sweet, timidly at first, then deeper, more passionate. Her tongue and mine touched, and I remember it felt as if my heart might explode. Her hips ground against me, harder and harder, and she pressed herself closer, the soft orbs of her breasts pressing tightly to my chest.  She rocked and moaned as her tongue darted into and out of my mouth, and I could feel my own passions growing to maddening levels…and then she began to shake, her body tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing.

And then it ended.  The world came back to life, her lips parted from my own. She pulled away, and I saw that she was crying. One of her sweet, salty tears fell into my mouth, wetting my tongue. She got up then, suddenly, and took off running, leaving me there, hard and hurting from a buildup with no release, confused and exhilarated and yes, a little bit scared.  I finally found my wits, rose with a bit of a struggle (thanks to still being quite, um, intrigued down below), and went chasing to find her…but she had run somewhere I couldn’t find. I didn’t see her for a good week after that. I worried to death that I had done something wrong or bad, that I had scared my friend away. But even with that guilt, I thought about her constantly, the feel of her grinding against me, and as I closed my eyes I remembered her taste.

Then, the next weekend, she came over again, and it was as if nothing had happened. I tried at first to talk to her about it, but she never wanted to, and instead tried to chase me and punch me as we always had.  So I resumed the game, though I will admit, I made it a bit easier for her to catch me. For the rest of the summer, we repeated that first moment over and over again.  We never actually had sex, but the kissing, the grinding, the eventual groping (when she finally relented to giving me the use of my hands) lasted the rest of the summer.

Alas, she moved away that summer, when her mother finally left her father for good. There was no warning…I went over to see her, and she was gone, and her father was cussing and yelling at me for reminding him of the fact. Eventually, I moved on.

Mostly.