10.06.04: short fiction
Tara K. Bloom: Cinco de Mayo |
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| How slowly my blood plods pulsing through my limbs, unrolling
with the industrial certitude of the double-red-line depiction
of the interstate system on a pastel map. A document, yes, my
body is a chart of fluctuations, incessant demands, consistent
needings and excretings, all quantifiable. Everything can be
weighed, measured, calibrated by the ounce or by the pound. I
need a pound of flesh, a good pounding, the hell pounded out of
me. My spouse mi esposo my husband, Otto Wistler, is not
doing it for me. I consider this as I suck on the cigarette,
the dry vegetable dust of the burning tobacco amplified by my
discontent, sensitive to the ricochets of every particular molecular
pellet plummeting to my lungs. If touched, I will explode. |
10.06.04: short fiction
Jolan Sulinski: Guided Tours |
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After some time, May sat up next to Lewis. He was taunt with desire,
eager for her to release him. But she made no move to touch him.
“I can give you guidance, Lewis, but in the end, you have to
find your own way.”
“What if I get lost?”
“Maybe you’re already lost.” |
05.17.04: short fiction
Misha Ferer: Unorthodox Gigolo |
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"Where's your husband now?"
"Probably with some Gentile hooker."
Making love like it was the last time in her life, she screamed
so loudly, bottles of beer were exploding in the apartment below.
She was insatiable. In her taste for loving she was gluttonous.
Three thousand years of tradition was being shattered one thrust
at a time. |
05.17.04: short fiction
P.S. Haven: Scratch |
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| I remembered how, from time to time, we would all fall suddenly
quiet for just an instant before resuming, the eye of a noisy
storm, when only our labored breathing and the slapping together
of our sweaty flesh could be heard. I remembered how rough he
was with Jamie, much more so than I had ever dared be, and how
she struggled to keep her mouth on my cock as he fucked her. |
05.17.04: short fiction
Jolie du Pré: In Lola I Trust |
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After several attempts to get in on my own I fuck Delia and voilá;
I'm hired. In exchange she got an ornament, blond hair and big
tits, the only type that gets her off. I've seen photos of her
former girlfriends. We all look the same.
Dating a rich and powerful dyke was fun, at first. She spent
a fortune on me. My diet improved. My clothes improved. I traveled
to places I had only dreamed about. |
05.17.04: short fiction
Leah Makuch: Diner |
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| "What'll it be, sugar?" she asks and he knows, yeah, he knows
what's cookin' behind those big ol’ brown eyes tonight. She's
got one button too many undone and that shirt serves up her breasts
like dessert, ripe and fruity and just-so sweet. He orders coffee
and a raspberry tart. Her lips are plum wine red and he could
eat them, one then the other like strawberries in mid-July, sipping
their nectar into his mouth and swallowing her heaven. |
02.13.04: short fiction
Tara Alton: Zoe Clark |
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I decided I needed more fashion dolls. I went garage sailing far
away from home and Justin, where I found what I needed. After
I paid for them, I started stripping them in the driveway. I didn’t
need the clothes. Onto the pavement dropped a green spandex disco
outfit, a pink tutu and a mermaid skirt. A little girl came up
to me and asked me why I was taking off their clothes.
“I don’t need them,” I said.
“Why?” she asked, her eyes big.
“Because they are naked performance artists,” I said. |
02.13.04: short fiction
R.M. Conroy: Behold the Man |
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| The priest bent forward on his hands and knees and began to crawl.
Jenny slipped her shoe back on and walked silently behind him.
She looked at this man, crawling along the grubby carpet, the
flesh of his thighs and belly wobbling as he rocked from side
to side. She slowly raised her whip arm high above him, brought
down the thongs in a long, wide arc, cutting deep into his bottom.
The thongs curled, bit deep into the cleft, clawed at his scrotum.
He whimpered. |
01.28.04: short fiction
Tara Alton: Perilous Penny, Part Time Pornographer |
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| In my story, I had the two girls in the dressing room hook up
after the confession with admiring glances of long limbs, lots
of lace and garters. In real life, I had been trying on a yellow
rubber duck design nightshirt, and Constance had been trying on
a boring white slip... Now she kept leaving me voice mails, asking
me to get together for lunch and lingerie shopping. |
01.28.04: short fiction
Donna Storey: Spring Pictures |
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Kimura hesitated. He bent closer to Anna and whispered, “This
action sounds very interesting, but strictly speaking, it is not
in the picture you chose.”
“Forget the fucking picture,” Anna snapped in Japanese, her breath
coming fast. She’d picked up street slang from some of her less
refined customers. |
01.28.04: short fiction
George Monk: The Thief and the Glove |
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| She remembered lying on her back, her legs wrapped around somebody,
she didn’t know who, her eyes had been shut. He was burrowing
into her with quick short movements, and then he slowed and made
long movement– in, stop, out, stop, in, stop, out. She opened
her eyes, her arms wrapped around his neck pulling him closer.
She remembered the folds in the sheet, the spaces between the
folds. How everything changed when she moved. |
12.14.03: short fiction
Ann Regentin: e-mail to Venus |
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| He caressed it, drew things on it, talked to it, kissed it, sang
to it. Rubbing cocoa butter into it was his job and his alone.
When the baby got large enough, Jason played with him, rubbing
his back or tickling his feet through my skin. Even before I
started to show, my husband would keep one hand on my belly when
he fucked me, as if he were reminding himself of something. |
12.14.03: short fiction
Matty Jackson: Blood |
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Then she would sigh. That was almost always her first utterance.
An expression of release. Like the first drink at the end of
a long stressful day or arrival at one's destination after a long,
noisy train trip. Just the sort of sigh I could sense she felt
all the way to her spine.
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11.09.03: short fiction
Marie Drennan: Synergy |
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| Imagine, then, what a real kiss would feel like to a Synerge.
The flood of sensations would be too much to bear: her own added
to the force of his, projected into her mind and drenching her
consciousness with the molecules and electric zings of sexual
arousal. Because to her brain and nervous system, the lust that
comes from outside of her is just as real as her own, as is the
response of her body; the rush of serotonin, the feeling of electricity
on the skin, the delicious swelling of lips and breasts and clitoris
-- all real. |
11.09.03: short fiction
Ryan Kamstra: Last Trick Before the New World |
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| Jeff had lost everything in the dogged pursuit of his grief. The
man from the funeral agency who officiated had spoke kind, if
general words. In the graveyard before the casket was lowered
Jeff had distracted himself watching a few fighter jets streak
across the sky, turn arcs, their high frequency screaming sounding
a moment later. There was an air show going on that day and a
war overseas. He remembered the leaves of the tree that day. Their
crispness and circumference. |
09.30.03: short fiction
Debra Hyde: Under the Frog Bridge |
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| Like that other word my grandmother would use, liebeskind. But that word had dark beginnings. "Nothing good will come
of this," she had hissed to my mother when first she held me,
before she welcomed me into the family with her kisses and her
cooing. Liebeskind -- me, the child tainted by an accident and abandonment, cherished
despite the shame. As the cock shuddered within me, I choked on
my shame, knowing that that man’s orgasm had fulfilled my grandmother's
old world prediction. |
09.30.03: short fiction
Jane Noel: Becky and the Candidate |
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| They were wrapped up in what they were doing, oblivious to their
surroundings, oblivious to right and wrong. He touched her shamelessly
as they kissed, his hands growing even bolder, roaming up and
down her thighs, pushing her skirt up. As if undecided, he returned
to her breasts. Becky had nice breasts, and I’d seen men look
at them before. I hadn’t noticed the candidate do it, though.
Not until that night, and he was doing a lot more than looking. But I was looking, too. |
08.27.03: short fiction
S.M. Mannix: Barbara and the Butchers Son |
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| As tempting as her matriarchal beauty might have been, they knew
well that she was a destroyer of men's lives. Daring young men,
who wore clean shirts to the bars on Saturday nights and played
as much as they worked every other day of the week, admired Barbara
recklessly. Her sumptuous beauty was too tempting, and their
experience of female power too limited. |
08.27.03: short fiction
Tulsa Brown: Flesh on A Woman |
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| Lightning strike of shock and desire. Fattened up, like a goose
or a piglet. The decadent, thrilling threat of it was beyond
my fantasies. I twisted and writhed with apprehension while my
clit rose up, a hard bullet of pulsing want. I could have mounted
him in the kitchen. |
08.27.03: short fiction
Amanda A. Gannon: Wings |
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| But alone, alone it was another story. In the dark, her husband
asleep, she’d squeeze her thighs together and think of him, and
think of her wings. At night, surrounded by shadows, it seemed
they enfolded her. Superstitiously, she did not even pleasure
herself. Her denial sharpened her other senses. Denied satisfaction,
she found continual desire. |
08.27.03: short fiction
Cinthia Ritchie: Clean |
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| I've come too many times, with too many men, for it to hold any
surprises anymore. Though of course it still does, it will.
That's one thing I can count on, look forward to, when I finally
break down and fuck another man. That wonder, that terror: the
way I will come. |
07.25.03: short fiction
Ralph Bravo: 99 Bottles of Beer |
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| I have never used alcohol as an accelerant to ignite lust into
a brilliant, short-lived, incendiary explosion of flickering tongues,
bodies pinned against doors, skirts ripped, and cocks spearing
open spaces before finally hitting the soft, wet folds of hot
cunt. I have on occasion accepted the more conventional side effects
of alcohol when attempting to seduce a woman to admit me into
her body. |
07.25.03: short fiction
Sarah L. Walters: Chaconne |
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| "It's amazing, it's unbelievable. Seventeen minutes of eight notes!
Listen - B-flat, now." The living room is overflowing, filled
with violin and light. She lays there, his hand on her forehead,
and feels every note, every touch of his fingers in her hair.
Seventeen minutes. When it is over, she reaches up, without saying
anything, and plays it again. |
07.25.03: short fiction
S.F. Mayfair: The Bookseller's Dream |
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| I locked the door to the shop, turned the closed sign over, and
pulled the blinds. When I turned around, Alexi had taken off her
sweater and blouse. She was rubbing the open pages of the green
book against her hardened nipples. It was then I knew that everything
in my life had changed. Those nipples were omens. |
06.18.03: short fiction
P.T. Krys: Brothel Art |
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| The actual horror of it isn't so much the abject brutality as
the plain fact that you, me, anyone, can disappear into this desert
just like that. Baker, beggar, alderman, thief, it makes no difference.
That dry, sumptuous lady of colors, she kisses your feet with
her tongue of sand, raises your eyelids and sews them open with
the brilliance of her sunny fire, drenching you in the infinite
wounds of her sky and raining salt down upon the pain and loneliness
of every hollow, animal hunger. |
06.18.03: short fiction
Becky Tuch: Delicious Mouth |
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| The edges, just where her lips become the inside of her mouth,
are darker-a juicy crimson color. They are most sensitive right
there, on that edge, where the nerves become moist. All along
her tongue are the tastes of coffee, skin, water. |
06.18.03: short fiction
Cate Robertson: The Joy of Handymen |
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| His digital dexterity is astonishing. Even when you’re standing
back on to him, he’ll push his big thumb against your clit and
his slippery middle finger into your cleft, and when he begins
to clench your pussy in that wide, warm palm of his while his
other hand kneads your breasts, he can generate waves of heat
that will prickle and boil up through your writhing ass and explode
in stars across the black roof of your skull. |
06.18.03: short fiction
Geoff Cordner: Clowns |
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| Clown Town had dirt roads he reckoned, ramshackle wooden houses
with ripped screen doors half off their hinges, damp laundry getting
soaked in the drizzle on clothes lines, broken down cars stripped
and abandoned on grassless yards, dirty clown kids running around
screaming -- and he'd be stranded, sucked into Clown Town, forced
to work in a circus, probably never see his friends and family
again. |
05.05.03: short fiction
Nicholas Urfé: The Arb |
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| Like now: like now, we aren’t thinking, I didn’t consciously plan
to be lying back in the cold grass, kissing Eva as she lies back
against me, she didn’t have to think to sit in my lap, lie back
in my arms, Jamie isn’t thinking as she kneels again to finish
what she started, her shirt’s gone, her bra’s gone, and she didn’t
care about how her bare ass would be hanging out in the night
air like it is now when she unbuttoned her jeans and shoved them
over her hips so that I or Eva, I forget which, could ease a finger
into her cunt. |
05.05.03: short fiction
Jenni Miller: Smut |
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| He was so beautiful, I can't tell you. He had this strange energy
around him that attracted people in ways I felt, at seventeen,
I never would. He was free of parents, of high school, of applying
to colleges, of everything that made my life overprivileged and
embarrassing. I wanted to not care about anything; I wanted to
be him. If I couldn't be him, then perhaps I could fuck him. That
was good enough for me. |
05.05.03: short fiction
Evelyn Augusto: Body Paint |
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| What part of her body would he begin with: his favorite or his
least favorite? Do men have least favorites? She couldn’t remember
his. The room smelt of citrus. The skins of many tangerines lay
carelessly among mugs filled with paint. (He will begin with my…) |
03.23.03: short fiction
R. Gay: This Far Inside |
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| She looks at her hands, and I glance downward. She has the most
wonderful hands of anyone I’ve ever been with. I’ve memorized
every line, every texture that her hand has to offer. When we
hold hands, I fall in love with her all over again, because as
my thumb brushes across the back of her hand and her thumb brushes
over mine and our fingers clasp together, I feel larger than whole.
I’ve never told her this, and now, there seems no point, but more
than anything I want to take her hand in mine, so I can feel good
again, so I can care about caring about us. |
03.23.03: short fiction
Alexander Renault: The Particle House |
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| Thousands of nights have been slept through in this place. Various
owners, their families and friends, the occasional interloper
between the transfer of deeds from one person to the next, all
cast their spell. At times the rooms have echoed the sounds of
painful childbirth, the clunk of a falling drunkard, the moans
and gasps of teenagers learning how to pleasure one another for
the first time. The painful, thrilling pop of the cherry, the
virginal blood, the mad pumping to a rhythm only the cock and
the house itself understand. |
03.23.03: short fiction
C.E. Staples: Colors |
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| The first time he blushed that night was when he pulled out his
cell phone to call his driver. In the backseat of the limousine,
he held me, but never so tight I couldn't flee. When were stuck
in traffic a few blocks from his apartment, he nibbled my ear
and begged, "Touch me." |
03.23.03: short fiction
Philip Hickey: Midnight Session |
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| For a moment, Ghiger pulled away, studying Lucy’s face with a
surgeon’s scrutiny: as though he had something of profound importance
to tell her. Instead, he just smiled, acknowledging with his ashen
eyes the burning in Lucy’s cheeks, blushing to the brilliance
of ripe plums. |
02.14.03: erotic fiction
Rahne Alexander: Natural Bridges |
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I traced a thin line with my fingernail up her neck. She craned
backwards, just out of my reach and said Not lately. She resumed her rightful position. You're awful bold for such a pretty girl, she said.
Well, I said, I know what I want and I know how to get it. |
02.14.03: erotic fiction
Geoff Cordner: Meat and Potatoes |
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| It was meat and potatoes sex. She was the meat and potatoes and
he was the plate. She'd push him on his back grab his head and
mount it. There was no seduction. She always had coarse stubble
-- everything about her was coarse, even her beauty, and she really
was beautiful. His face would get abraded. She'd grind and push
and rub and grind and push and after a while she'd come with a
grunt and a gasp and a hard sudden thrust, and after the second
or third time he figured out to push forward on her ass at the
crucial moment so that his nose would slide into the wet softness
of flesh and not be smashed by the stubbly hardness of bone. |
01.26.03: erotic fiction
Tara Alton: The End of Daphne Greenwood’s Travel Career |
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The next day, I decided to add someone else to my voodoo box.
Crystal. She had been sexually harassing me for the longest time,
and I was finally fed up. You wouldn’t believe the things she
said to me like: I love it when you wear purple. I like it when your hair is all
wild like that.
Women don’t say things like that to one another. They say “cute
skirt” or “nice blouse.” |
01.26.03: erotic fiction
Saachi Green: Of Dark and Bright |
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| I wanted to lay my hand on your thigh, take your hand and press
it between my own thighs to show you how every inflection of your
voice, every tilt of your chin above your strong, smooth throat,
every shift of expression letting beauty flash across the angular
strength of your face, made the denim crotch of my jeans get wetter
and wetter. It seemed impossible that you couldn't sense, and
scent, my arousal; it seemed, now that you were more than a personification
of my fantasies, just as impossible that you could share them.
|
12.23.02: poetry
Jianda Johnson |
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- sometimes i think you're a moviestar and i'm
- the last starfucker on earth.
- "roll over, sweetheart," you command me. "help me wash off my
wings."
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11.25.02: erotic fiction
Tenille Brown: What It Looks Like From the Outside |
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To the guy hiding behind the bushes watching my head thrown back,
hearing my husband’s short, quiet grunts, we are lovers who can't
get enough of each other. To Ms. Bessie across the street, we
are deep in the throes of passion and simply cannot make it inside.
This is what it looks like from the outside. |
11.25.02: erotic fiction
Stephen Elliott: Tears |
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I open my mouth but only make small, animal sounds, and it's stuck
with long strands of spit. The tears come long and fast now, and
the moans and cries. It seems endless. I feel like I could cry
forever, choking. I feel the weight of her on my chest, the comfort
of the ropes keeping my limbs apart. I feel her climbing from
me. Her feet on the floor, her hands stroking my stomach and the
air rushing into my mouth and nose. "It's OK," she says. "It's
OK."
It's just like she said in her ad. Dacryphilia, arousal from tears. |
10.28.02: erotic fiction
Jane Noel: Absence, or the Triad of Mourning |
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| It was a sullen little hunger in the afternoon, a teary ache that
never receded. She could finger her nipples, touching herself
as she’d done since she lay in her bed in a pink and white Seventeen-magazine
bedroom. Touch like a novice musician hearing the miracle of melody
for the first time, finally understanding how to put it together.
Touch in changing tempos: quickly and furtively, or carefully
and slowly, testing pleasure in the palette of its debut. It all
had felt so good. Nothing had really changed; pleasure remained
as tempting as ever. But she had a taste for it now, had learned
to live with it as her due. But she couldn’t suckle. |
10.28.02: erotic fiction
Tara Alton: The Sweater |
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| By the time I got there, Paula had already gone to bed. I went
to my room and put away my clothes. Like a fifteen year old boy
craving his first crush, I smelled her sweater. A summer afternoon
filled my senses. It was her softener sheet, I realized. |
10.28.02: erotic fiction
Amanita Rand: Sunburn |
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| I watch as he descends. I can't see his eyes, but I picture them
-- a shade of blue that makes me think of skies and oceans. And
lies. They're liar's eyes. They go well with his lips. The frisson
of anger that I'm hiding makes me hotter, makes me want him more.
As his lying lips and tongue circle my stomach, I writhe under
him, pushing my hips toward his face. |
10.10.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Anne Tourney: The Motel Donna Maria
Episode Six |
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Joel feels a surge of dislike for their absent hostess. When Donna
Maria confronted him with the full force of her self-righteous
anger, Joel had wanted to grab Carly and get the hell out of there.
Instead, he had rolled over, showing Donna Maria his belly. She
had been more than happy to leave him in that position as she
roared off in her pickup truck.
So why is his cock so hard that he's stumbling? |
08.29.02: short fiction
Nicholas Urfé: Somewhere (Not Here) |
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| I blew out a breath full of half-voiced syllables, nonsense sounds.
Homina, homina, afazza frazzlefass. Let my head droop suddenly.
Held still, above her. Arms trembling. Shivering. Her hand on
my neck then, pulling me down, a weight. I let her, collapsing
onto her, her arms around me, her thigh brushing my hip as an
ankle locked with my knees, squeezing. “Oh, baby. Oh.” |
08.29.02: short fiction
Sacchi Green: Alternate Lives |
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| My arms tightened around her tense body. Her cheek pressed against
mine; her words vibrated directly into my bones. "So you understand
how I came to be waiting for death on the ice." |
08.29.02: short fiction
Gwynne Garfinkle: Junior Little |
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| Junior Little (whose real name was Peter–"Peter Little, ha ha!"
Debby chuckled, "but his isn't!") was a twenty-four year old truck
driver with a blond buzz-cut and an earring. The night we met
him at a punk party in Ventura County, he wore a tight black vinyl
jumpsuit, and Debby's eye jumped from Eddie to Junior. Pretty
soon the cops came (the music was too loud); and Debby, Hillary
and I ended up drinking 151 in Junior's car. When he went to
take a piss, Debby turned to me. "Do you like him?" |
08.29.02: short fiction
Skian McGuire: The Chick Magnet |
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| I staggered out of the men’s room into the arms of the tall blonde.
My nose collided painfully with her collarbone. She didn’t bat
an eye. She held out a bubbly ice-filled glass. |
08.01.02: short fiction
Debra Hyde: On Hallowed Ground |
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| Mark's idea came to him during one day during a boring jack-off.
In a brief mental epiphany -- the best of which always happened
when it involved his dick -- the word sex lead to hooker, which
led to Thomas Hooker. That was followed by the vision of Ramona's
face, followed by his familiarity with her tight ass, followed
by a quick tension, a long release, and a thick glob of cum which
oozed onto his belly. |
08.01.02: short fiction
Silke Shackleton: Naia |
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| She imagines him furtively touching himself in the darkness of
a night train, a third class compartment hurtling west from Cracow
or Riga or Prague, the gasp of his furtive orgasm silenced against
his fist amongst a throng of snoring passengers. Maybe he had
a girl back at home who let him fuck her standing up in a stairwell,
in an empty studio after-hours, against a crumbling wall on a
deserted street. Maybe that was only what he dreamed about. |
07.02.02: short fiction
PleaseCain: Strangers In the Night |
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| You are further charged with the idealized portrayals through
the media of recorded sound and motion pictures of the lives and
exploits of gangsters, military officers and playboys having lifestyles
as alien to yours as that of any person who has ever worked a
day in his or her life; with exploiting for personal profit the
hopes, fears and insecurities of the working masses who toil through
dreary existences of boredom and unrealized expectations; with
pursuing and perpetuating the continuance of your career beyond
its planned obsolescence... |
07.02.02: short fiction
L.E. Bland: Play Do's and Play Don'ts |
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| It all began with a simple misunderstanding over mushroom pizza.
One afternoon in a small Texas town, three outcasts learned an
appalling secret about one another. |
06.17.02: poetry
Lisa Tessendorf: Multiplicity • Emotional Upheaval • A job not so well done |
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The door of the bathroom is now the only thing
between she and I.
She, the one who occupies your heart,
while I busy your fist. |
06.01.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Five |
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| Vivian had refused to give any sign of whether she'd ever been
in a K-Mart before, but Kala suspected she might well not have,
though then again, her glazed, disoriented expression could simply
have been the usual sort of daze that came over every K-Mart shopper
eventually. |
06.01.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Anne Tourney: The Motel Donna Maria
Episode Five |
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| What about you, Donna Maria? Rick asked, the first time they made love. He was lying back
on the bed, scrutinizing her body as she tugged off her t-shirt
and pushed her bra straps off her shoulders. Even when her breasts
shimmered out into the open, his gaze never softened. How strong are you? |
05.08.02: short fiction
Vinnie Tesla: A Sex Story (with no sex in it) |
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| As she entered the convenience store, the bell jingled faintly,
and Biff, the strapping young clerk, entirely failed to look up
from his monster truck magazine. His thick, uncircumcised member
remained flaccid, a fact evident to anyone who was to glance (though
no one did) at its shape, clearly outlined through his snug bluejeans.
|
05.08.02: short fiction
Sidney Durham: The Star |
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| It's about ten a.m. and I've already gotten off three times watching
those girlie exercise shows on the sports channels. Don't they
know thatnobody really does them exercises? There's guys just
like me all over the place, watching those boobies bounce and
jiggle while they whack off. Shit, I thought everybody knew that.
Exercise show starts, come starts shooting all over the country. |
04.19.02: short fiction
Jim Martin: The Dream Thing |
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| He wants to tell her everything, the way she can draw a smile
out of him, the way he feels when he sees her, the way he feels
when she leaves. All he can manage in response is “teach me.” |
04.10.02: poetry
Laura Jent: Biology Lessons • Geography Lessons • Leaf Lessons • At the Blue
Door |
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My tongue, my hand-made canoe, drags across
the plains of her neck, in search of the Mississippi,
rewarded with the shivers, prairie winds.
A tornado develops in the bedroom,
rips across the heartland, with its molasses
and covered wagons. |
04.10.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Hanne Blank: Getting There
Episode Four |
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| It's no secret that a glance can say more than a sentence and
that some facial expressions can beggar even the most eloquently
worded paragraphs. The sticky bit is the interpretation. Faced
with the overstuffed file folder, Kala's dumbstruck stare might've
telegraphed sudden panic, a sort of overload crisis caused by
the sudden threat of too damned much impending input. |
04.10.02: bowl of serial (serial fiction)
Anne Tourney: The Motel Donna Maria
Episode Four |
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| The man on the bed is taking deep, contented drags of a hand-rolled
cigarette. The smoke merges with the perpetual haze that blankets
the ceiling. This is the one time Donna Maria has seen him, the
only time he's allowed it. Why this time, after so many others? |
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| Recently added to the subscribers archive: Astrid L: Vichyssoise • Lynne Jamneck: Suave • Helena Settimana:
Amadou • James Brock • Hanne Blank: Apocrypha • Lisa Wolfe: How
to Bake a Cake • Jackie Walker: She Prefers Plastic • Heather
Corinna • Nicholas Urfe: Silk and Amphetamines • R. Gay: Hands
on the Heart • Hanne Blank: Getting There • Anne Tourney: The
Motel Donna Maria • kris t. kahn: Ganymeade • Hanne Blank: Claudia |
