Naughty Notions - Vol. 1
$1.99, 70 pages
Available in PDF, Mobi, Epub
Demons, Werewolves, Ghosts, Addicts, Lovers - and Heartache
From darkest pleasures to surprising inspiration, immerse yourself in a world filled with troubled children, ethereal guardians, and fanged lovers. Encounter the wayward inhabitants that challenge the limits of human resolve. Eavesdrop on a hotline where advice isn't all that bites. Debate the merits of demon rights vs. human supremacy. Submit to the will of an irate Master. Surrender to the allure of thirteen tales that will unearth the naughtiness buried within.
“Why didn’t someone stop me?” he spat at the bawling newborn, as the hammer came to rest on an empty chamber. Maybe she was his, no way to know for sure without putting his business on Front Street. “Two out of three, better odds than your mamma will get.”
Ares eyeballed each member of his three man crew, lowered the Beretta’s muzzle from baby-girl’s face, and waited to see if anyone would punk out.
Tonight was about messy business, lines crossed, no hope for redemption. Too late to grow a conscious, doubtful any of them ever had one, except for the new guy.
“Two for one, Mr. Ares?” Reese accused, while baby-girl whimpered against his chest.
“Y’all know the deal”, Ares barked. “This be butcher’s work, anyone not down with that?”
His senior lieutenants, Mike and Tom, sat stone faced in the front seats of the cramped ’76 Cutlass. One a corrupt fights trainer, the other a disgraced marine, never amounted to more than small time muscle with big time felonies. Until tonight neither thought past getting paid, props, and pussy. By morning each man would be setup with respectable fronts, well on their way to becoming under bosses of an entire city, with Ares calling the shots from behind the scene.
Reese knew about messy business. He’d lost his innocence in a knife fight while in juvie. On the outside, he got noticed for pulling off brash jobs with no signature. This soon became his calling card. Everyone knew his work; no one could connect him to a damn thing.
Ares liked the new guy, thought about teaching him what’s-what. Unlike the other two, he saw the true predator in Reese. Hungry for everything, settling for nothing, young buck might prove a true asset. Until he wasn’t.
“I’m down for whateva, wheneva”, Reese sounded off. “But puttin a hole in me and baby-girl cuz your wife played you ain’t making me feel all warm and fuzzy.”
“Screw your feminine side.”, Ares shot back. “I’m about to put down my ace-boone along with that skank. Airing out this damn car don’t mean nothing. Either you with me or not? If so let’s do this.”
Order given, discussion shutdown, each man checked his weapon before piling out of the car. Tom and Mike hustled toward their position at the rear entrance of the motel. Ares waited while Reese bundled their precious cargo in a blood stained jacket before setting her in an empty box inside the trunk.
“She’ll be fine,” Ares shouted over his shoulder, as he sprinted toward the front office.
“Yeah, baby-girl will be,” Reese mumbled while taking aim with his thumb and forefinger at the back of Ares head.
Ares chuckled, as the Beretta’s muzzle flashed from under his arm, aimed dead center at Reese’s chest. “Right back atcha!”
This is an acrostic style poem, in which the first letter of each line spells out a word or phrase. In this case "Ain't No Niggar."
A beast of burden you decreed
In shackles from cargo holds you retrieved
No better than chattel you believed
Then branded and sold you completed the deed
Niggar became our new label
One destiny, one race it did entangle
No amount of hate can deny me
Ignorance willful or not won’t define me
Generations of kings and slaves birthed me
Goodness and His will shall sustain me
America’s history wouldn’t be without me
Regardless of the stereo type, I will define me
Dedicated to my father, Rosevelt Washington. May you know eternal peace.
The respirator hose lashed at family photos like a blind snake, orange rubber caps bounced off boxes of adult diapers, as Betsy sprinted across the living room to stop her father, Pop-Pop, from ripping out the last of his tubing. Again.
Terminal illness and dementia slow ground body and mind like premium hamburger. The doctor's warned these episodes would become more frequent toward the end.
From the bookshelf loaded with enough pharmaceuticals to warrant a D.E.A. raid, Betsy snatched up his sedative, placed both hands on Pop-Pop's skeletal shoulders, and forced her father back onto the portable hospital bed. Again.
This was written for a flash fiction contest. All entries must be 100 words and contain three words from the mandatory list: blind, orange, hamburger, and puppy. As always I look forward to your earnest comments.