Class Field Trip

“Stop running around the pool!” She blew a faint whistle to call attention to the frantic children splashing in the water daring Jason to cannon ball.

“If I have to tell you one more time, I’m sitting you in the bleachers,” she struggled to vocalize above the high-pitched squeals.

“Mrs. Halton, can I come out of time-out now?”

She nodded, and Ronnie sprinted toward where Jason was preparing to jump.


But his heel had already slipped, his head slammed against the tile. Jason’s knees buckled as Ronnie crashed into him, and they both tumbled into the clear blue water.


ll_poolDive into this week’s prompt for Literary Lion…


Literary Lion: Tease

Ice trailed down her spine, leaving
behind erect strands of thin blond hair
sprouting from goose bumps. She arched
her back underneath the pressure of
his tongue, cooed as he lingered
at her posterior breathing heavily
over the single cube as it melted
into a shallow pool. He slurped
water inside his mouth, kissing her—
cool, moist lips against sultry, smooth skin.


This hot and cold piece was inspired by the prompt for this fortnight’s Literary Lion:

Literary Lion: Peak

The edge of the blade
felt like ice on his skin.
It cooled the hot blood
pouring from his wrist,
spilling into the bath water,
turning it crimson.


The feline has growled, and this fortnight’s Literary Lion prompt is:


Aphrodisiac Anticlimactic

He claimed to be a master of sex;
sent her naughty pictures through text.
She fed him Thai shrimp.
His penis went limp.
Swollen tongue was its only effect.


This fortnight’s Literary Lion prompt is “limerick.” I couldn’t resist writing one. 😉

And This Is Why I Do Not Go To Clubs

Because twerking is not dancing
and please hold your applause
until the final curtain call,
not when she bends over, and
no, I am not aroused by that
stick in your pants, in fact
I can’t even feel it. You’ve
sold yourself short, buddy.
We’ve returned to middle school
dances where we stand at arm’s
length. Encroaching fingers are
not welcome inside my pussy. Pour
your liquor down your own throat.
Keep your spotted tongue in your
mouth. Refrain from calling me
baby, sexy, hoe, trick, bitch.
This is not a rap video. Auto-tune
and weed do not make you an artist.


Written for this week’s “dance” theme over at Literary Lion. Head on over to check it out.

Literary Lion: King Henry

King Henry VIII married six wives
who only birthed him three children.

The precious boy died a child.
The abandoned firstborn’s brief reign
ended in the pouring of heretic blood.
The fiery redhead, disputed to be his,
sealed the dynasty’s fate with the closing
of her legs.

How does a king, obsessed
with leaving an heir,
marry six women
(half named Catherine,
all but one distant cousins,
only the second beheaded for incest)
and have three children?

Did Catherine of Aragon really bed Prince Arthur?
Was Anne Boleyn truly a witch?
Is it too convenient that Jane Seymour died in childbirth?
Was it physically possible for Anne of Cleves to resemble a horse?
Was the horny, teenaged Catherine Howard expected to behave as a Queen?
Did Catherine Parr remain barren until she married Thomas Seymour?

King Henry VIII married six wives
who only birthed him three children.

Did his Queens all fail to recognize their duty?
Lie on thy back. Receive the seed!
Or was poor little Harry less of a king,
and more of an impotent fool?


Written in response to this week’s prompt for Literary Lion

 img_6306Writing this poem makes me want to binge watch The Tudors. I have the entire series on DVD. Looks like I have my weekend plans set! 😉

Literary Lion: Bathroom Affairs

I am the product of too much Eggnog and Bourbon balls consumed before 10pm. Conceived between the flimsy, paint-chipped walls of a men’s bathroom during the office Christmas party. Under the mistletoe, he breathed into Mama’s mouth that he had to take a piss, and she, drunken by his words, followed, not even allowing enough space between their trips to avoid curious glances and scandalous whispers from their co-workers.

At least Mama wasn’t slutty enough to do it in the urinal. She stood barefoot on the seat of the toilet, not wanting her high heels to slip on the porcelain, stretched her other leg over the wall, posing like a cheerleader atop of a pyramid. He climbed aboard, balanced one foot on the seat, the other leg wrapped around her waist, foot pressed on the tank cover. He never took his pants off, just unzipped his fly, flung out his dick and rhythmically thrust it into Mama for a minute and a half until his convulsing body caused him to slip and flush the toilet with his big toe.

If only it had flushed half of me down that drain, but his DNA was already mingling inside her fallopian tubes, racing for an egg to fertilize by the time the water returned and Mama was pulling down her dress.

The company hasn’t invited temps to the Christmas parties since.

Mama was never that smart. She was hired because she was cute, fired for the same reason. Maybe it was a pitiful joke to herself, or a vindictive reminder to her non-child support paying, married then divorced bathroom lover, or maybe she just couldn’t spell. Nevertheless, she named her only daughter Merry Crystal. I was cursed before I ever exited the womb—feet first, I might add.


This is in response to Literary Lion, hosted by I Smith Words. This week’s prompt is merry. It’s quite difficult to avoid the Christmas theme. 🙂


Literary Lion: Bloody Nails

My husband binge watches vampire movies every Halloween. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Interview with the Vampire, Queen of the Damned, Vampire in Brooklyn, even Twilight, although he always goes off on rants about how vampires don’t sparkle in the sunlight, they combust.

“This is what happens when you write a classic monster story for frilly teenage girls!” he’d say.

His obsession turned my seven-year-old daughter against me. Cuddled against his side, knees pulled to chin, peeking through her fingers, drawing connections between myself and the demons on screen.

A mosquito bit my neck, and she believed the marks were puncture wounds from fangs.

“Vampires change into bats, not mosquitos, sweetheart. And if a vampire drank my blood, how am I still alive?”

“Then it turned you!” she screamed, pointing her finger, her outstretched arm taut. She leaning back, head and neck stiff. I squatted down for a hug, to assure her that I was still mommy, but she scurried off, hiking the stairs, two at a time, to hide under her father’s bed as he napped.

I followed after her, sat on the edge of the bed where I knew she lay underneath. My weight dipping the mattress over her little body. I took a bottle of nail polish from the nightstand and began painting my nails, my daughter watching between my ankles. The crimson liquid dripped slowly from the brush, and I heard her sharp gasp. Her confirmation of what I was, and that I wore my victims on my toes.


This is in response to Literary Lion, hosted by I Smith Words. This week’s theme is bleeding.


Literary Lion: I Once Was a Rapper…

I’ve joined another blog link-up…. Literary Lion, hosted by I Smith Words!

This week’s theme is “morning,” and while I’m a bit drained of creativity on this hot, humid Hump Day, seeing this prompt did take me back to a time when I used to be a rapper.

When I was a kid, my dad and I did all kinds of creative things together. He’s the reason I’m a writer today. We wrote stories, songs, hosted a kids talk show with my brothers and four of our favorite stuffed animals using my kiddie tape recorder, and for a short time, we tried to be rappers.

I can’t remember my stage name, but his was 95 cent (like 50 cent but add a quarter and two dimes). His signature verse was, “95 cent! Aye, keep the change! Drive by your house and blow out ya brains!” Lame, right? He sucked as a gangsta rapper. Wonderful guitarist, though.


Anyway, we only wrote one song in our brief time as rappers, and it was actually just a hook and first verse. It was called, “Kids Got a Hard Way.” When you read these lyrics, try to imitate that urban, fresh, early 90s style of rap (think of Will Smith aka the Fresh Prince). Do you think we would’ve been famous?

Kids got a hard way to go to school.
Kids have a hard time to learn the rules.
Kids got a hard way to go to school. (da, da, dun, da)

Verse 1:
I’m a kid,
And when I wake up in the morning,
I get my head fixed,
To get my learnin’ on aaaand
I brush my hair, brush my teeth,
And get something to eat
Before my daddy starts to fuss,
“Hey kids, head to the bus!”