A Fantastic Nightmare

I recently submitted my first finished horror piece to Short Story America. Let’s see how it goes. Wish me luck, pretty please. If I could publish some or all of the story here, I would. But, unfortunately I need to keep it completely unpublished for now.

Doesn’t matter. Let me tell you about how Home Burial came to be.

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Recently, I thought about where I was in my own career – sex work and writing – and I realized that I’m 24 years old and while I have been very fortunate to do well as a sex worker, it’s not the direction I truly intended for myself. » Read the rest of this entry «

Here we see the ideal: A hot vampiress biting into the thigh of a gorgeously-chested woman (Funny, so far the female vampires bite near the thigh, as if just inches from the cooch… and yet I haven’t the male vamps go down at all. Hm). As this indulgent devouring commences, the flamboyant Russell reclaims his reign of terror. With a quick rip of a reporter’s spine, he reassures our fears and pretty much shits all over the romance of the vamp.

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Recently, I’ve been asked what I believe women want or need. And I thought… oh silly rabbit. You’re looking for answers in all the wrong places.

Firstly, it’s a sad assumption that all of our gender is looking for one thing. I dare not impede upon another woman’s wants because I know hers are most likely different than my own. And I wouldn’t want a man who think he has a clue; it only means he assumed way too much and deserves a right proper kick to the balls and/or shin  (if you want to be nice about it).

Here I’ll explain my own wants, which change as most things tend to do over time.

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Hello friends!

So I wanted to take a break from writing essays about feminism and sex and slut theories to talk about what’s going on my side of the computer… with a focus on my e-book in particular.

I do have an e-book available for purchase, and it’s only a dollar! Not bad, eh? Well, currently I’ve finished an expanded version, adding about 20 new short stories (:-0) I know! I’m through the second draft of about 20 or so of them and I just have about 10 more to revise! I don’t know if that seems like more than I make it out to be or what, but I’m not writing anymore and I’ve moved on to a whole new process… one that’s a step closer to getting that sucker published!

And yes it will be published. But I do want to keep a multimedia version available online for purchase. It will include some new photographs I’ve taken, one of which I’ve included up below! Hope you enjoy

I also hope you enjoy this excerpt from one of the completed drafts. This chapter took the original idea from my sporfucking Post nd expanded to a few thousand words. It’s nothing like the original post! Rewriting these pieces are cathartic because I begin to remember details that I can now talk about and imagine… hmmm…  I really like the result, but I won’t give you too much of it now! I need to keep my stories slightly elusive! Here’s a taste of it for now. » Read the rest of this entry «

Working hard in my little hole, sometimes my only outside leak is the lovely, lovely internet and its infinite library of insane and offensive footage. As I tried finding footage of Stephen Clancy Hill’s fatal plunge, I stumbled upon Jezebel’s article about the documentary, Exxxit: Life After Porn. Just shown this past weekend in L.A., the film briefly follows the lives of former porn stars. » Read the rest of this entry «

This is the surprising conclusion to “Heather and the Dog”. Read part one of this exciting story or listen to the entire story here. (Click on “Read More” to activate links)

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You can read part one here or listen to the entire story here. (Click on “Read More” to activate links) » Read the rest of this entry «

In my most wildest fantasies, I’m an all-knowing and powerful writer who is just years away from suffering a mental illness and finally being revered as one of the greatest thinkers of her time… and, obviously, I have sex with plenty of rich and powerful people. Indulge me, because this is about indulgence.

But, then I remember that I’m a writer, and writers aren’t rock stars. And, as a female writer, I’m further removed from the rock star status than the other fellows. » Read the rest of this entry «

Since all of this based on some form of scientific realism, I need to make crucial changes to the chapters I’ve written thus far. But, here’s a chunk of it for your amusement/criticism/feedback:

Before Lana’s horrible nightmare, she was never alone. She had hundreds of bodies to choose from. Lana could slip into another life and discover a new assortment of friends and families. She had been through many of them. But that night, after her talk with Jake, Lana could imagine being in only one body. And that body belonged to Marguerite.

Marguerite was 88 years old. When Lana had first entered her body, Marguerite was sitting in front of a mirror in her bedroom. When Lana had opened her eyes, Marguerite was staring back at her. And, she smiled.

Marguerite’s body was frail. Lana could feel the weight of so many years gone by eating away at Marguerite’s small frame. But, it was a simple life to lead. In the morning, Lana would take a shower, blow-dry Marguerite’s beautiful white hair, then braid it. She spent the rest of her morning in the garden. It was hidden in Marguerite’s garage. The rest of her land was rather plain. She kept the grass cut short and the pathways clear; but, taller buildings nearby overshadowed the sunlight. So, Lana had to maintain a garden in the shed. Unraveling the green beneath the surface, the lights rigged above the plants illuminated the soil. A beautiful explosion of mint and basil, fresh plump tomatoes on vines and fresh vegetables decorated the corner of the shed. Lana hadn’t really seen anything like it. If Marguerite hadn’t left detailed instructions, she would have been wrought with guilt at letting it all die. But, while Marguerite enjoyed Lana’s youthful body, Lana enjoyed tending to Marguerite’s plants.

“It was one of those programs,” Lana said. “Switch had a program where you could mentor somebody like a senior citizen or a teenager. No young kids though. Um, that’s how I met Marguerite.”

The room was silent. Only a few seats were empty, the rest filled with 10 ghosts, soulless and pale underneath the unflattering lights. Some shifted as Lana recalled one of her favorite partner’s. She talked about the garden. And she talked about Marguerite’s white hair.

“Marguerite also had a friend,” Lana said. “He was a longtime friend who lived on the other side of town. His daughter was dying of cancer and he felt obligated to remain with her until her last breath. He loved Marguerite. But, he couldn’t be with her. And, he didn’t know if he could be with anyone else after his daughter died. Marguerite was really shy around him. She didn’t want to push him and she was so frightened and sad for him. She never told me to go to him. She was so afraid that he might be offended by her or like her less. But, I went anyway. I went and I stayed with him while he took care of her. And, I don’t know. I just had thought of that today and it made me feel good.”

Lana sat back down in her seat. The weight of everyone’s eyes upon her was disheartening. She looked at Jake, who smiled at her with a naive encouragement. Meanwhile, the leader of the meeting, a stout balding man by the name of Alex, stood up next.

“Thanks for sharing that. Anyone else?”

After a brief hesitation from the crowd, a lanky older woman with a pockmarked face stood up. cigarette burns covered her arms.

“Some of you know me. Alice.”

“Hi, Alice,” the room replied.

“I haven’t switched in, like, a couple of weeks. I know it takes a while to get used to your own skin or whatever but… I’ve hated my skin for such a long, long time. I thought I was doing okay. Huh. Felt the same way before the relapse. I thought everything would be alright if I just stopped and put it away but; I just wanted to fly away from here. When I heard one of my partners died… that’s why I did it. And I was gone for about a week. I was in three different strangers. But, they blocked me from coming back. And, well, when I finally did come to I wasn’t really the same. I got my chip removed today. Today. The day that I woke up I could’ve just taken it out. But, man, I wanted so badly to go back. Just for another ride. Anyway. The chip’s out now so I guess I’m free. Thanks.”

Everyone thanked her. Alex stood up. “We have to remember that regret in another form of self-punishment. You hinder growth by condemning your past, when we should learn from it. Take this opportunity to celebrate the darkness of your former self and use it to reflect upon a brand new you, one who can…”

Alex’s self-help speech was lost upon Lana. She glanced at Jake, who was engrossed in Alex’s oratory. She sighed and waited patiently for it all to end.

Some moments later, a few more addicts lamented about their relapse, about reliving someone else’s nightmare through a switchback. Lana sunk lower in her seat. She had imagined being back in Pasadena, in Marguerite’s secret garden. She imagined seeing her old friend and the new life he lived, if only for a moment. She remembered kissing his hand. They were in the living room of his large family home. Little Dina was upstairs sleeping.

Marguerite looked at him with teary eyes. “I feel like I’m high.”

Walt laughed. Even in Dennis’s 90-year-old body, she could hear Walt’s youth emanating through the old man’s wintry speech

Marguerite’s sad frail face broke into a smile. “What’s it like?”

“I feel like I’ve just zapped myself into the future. Fifty years from now.”

“Do you really think this will be us?”

The old man leaned in and kissed Marguerite. “If I have it my way, forty years from now we would’ve switched with young strapping bodies. Like ours. We’d just go back to being in our 20s again.”

“Shit.” Marguerite relaxed in the sofa. “Sometimes this is too overwhelming. I can’t feel a thing. I don’t really know if I’m moving my arms or not. And when I talk… it just sounds like someone is talking for me.”

He slid closer to her and slipped his wrinkled hand underneath her dress. Lana tried to push him away. “You don’t know if she would want that.”

Walt smirked. “Of course she wants it.”
“But she’s too shy around you. She might want to hold your hand first or just talk.”

He leaned in closer. “How do you know they’re not boning in our bodies right now?”

It hadn’t occurred to Lana what would happen to her body with another person inside of it. But, to imagine this old woman inside of her doing cartwheels, dancing, being the twenty-year-old that she wished she could be again, it made Lana feel all the more comfortable in Marguerite’s body.

Before she knew it, the old man kissed Lana, no, Marguerite on the lips. Lana spat him away and pushed him off of her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m not attracted to you.”

Dennis looked hurt. “What?”

“Like that, Walt.” She pointed to the old man’s body. “I’m not into him. I don’t even know how you could be into me. At least like this. Is this what turns you on?”

“No,” Walt replied. “I’m turned on by you, Lana. I know who you are. I know who I’m making love to.” Walt wiped the strands of gray hair from Marguerite’s face. “It doesn’t matter to me what you look like.”