Meandering Soul

Zine Review - The Lab Int'L No. 12

2007-06-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - The Lab Int'L No. 12

Number 12 begins with “Grrls are Gonna Riot!” and keeps that powerful mentality rooted in your brain as we dive deep in the Riot Grrrl Blogs, Music Grrl contact info and then a heaping helping of reviews, Interview with Apocalypse, For Years Blue, God Fearing Nation & If you’re lucky. Damn good writing, and defiantly a positive force in the music zine community.
Contact The Lab directly at:

The Lab International

POB 934

Republic, Wa 99166

Myspace.com/thelabzine

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Other things you might find of interest:

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com / www.carolineatigeress.com / www.indymediareviews.com

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum / BookCrossing

Myspace / LJ / Xanga / WritersCafe / DeviantArt

My Online Etsy Store, with Zines and other handcrafted items

Zine Review - The Lab International No 11

2007-05-08T07:41:00.000-07:00

A revision of a revision of a revision, Doodle Z shows that sloppy editing has no place, and is continually trying to refine the work so that a clean professional product is what we see, and does an excellent job of it. The Lab, as usual, is packed with articles running the gaumet from “WTF is Gong on Over there? to the Standwood Metal bash. While the Lab’s focus is mostly on music there’s some awesome poetry and lots of band connections to get you through the night. Contact The Lab Directly at:

The Lab International

POB 934

Republic, Wa 99166

Myspace.com/thelabzine

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Other things you might find of interest:

Zine Review - University

2007-02-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - University

Elizabeth Rabbit’s step from her familiar home in England to the University in Edinburgh is fraught with insecurity, doubt and curiosity. She takes all of these things on, and gives us a very, very personal zine that details her first year. From getting settled to her new flat to making new friends and foes, Elizabeth’s writing is clear and very interesting. Filled with interesting things from the local establishments with too-high-priced drinks to a very interesting piece about Trainspotting, this thick zine clearly documents 9 months in a person’s life, and is very fulfilling reading. Two bucks and worth every dime.

Snippet:

Lying motionless on the art college’s grassy courtyard with Donna’s head on my legs, I couldn’t help laughing and wondering why I was ever seriously considering moving back home. I’d never had this much fun in my life. The night air was forcing my brain back into working order, but for some reason everything seemed to be bone-shakinglyu hilarious, or so Donna thought and I couldn’t help but agree.

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2

Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com / www.carolineatigeress.com / www.indymediareviews.com

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum / BookCrossing

Myspace / LJ / Xanga / WritersCafe / DeviantArt

Zine Review - Nobody can eat 50 eggs #25

2007-02-07T07:45:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Nobody can eat 50 eggs #25

This huge issue is by far one of my favorites, and has a lot of Steve Steiner artwork in it, but the real hilarity is in the writing. “How to be a Mad Scientist” is very, VERY funny, with such sub notes as, “Physical Traits of a Mad Scientist, Perfecting the Evil Laugh, Setting up a Laboratory, Assistants & Henchmen, Obtaining test subjects, Experimentation / Evil Schemes and Fighting the Government” and ends with the cool quiz, “What kind of criminal are you?” Very funny, can be had by contacting him directly:

http://www.myspace.com/eat50eggs

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No. 3

2007-02-02T06:03:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No. 3

Rose keeps the Long format, and continues to write long sweeping epic poetry. It’s almost all bittersweet, but clever, with her clever notes that hang in the air like the sound crystal makes when tapped. It’s enjoyable to me to read, smooth and easy like a good table wine. A buck and a half and very enjoyable

Snippet:

“If I could relive a time of sorrow or joy,

If I could choose to know all of my life’s sorrows gone.

What Joy could I then recall without the loss, what could I call gain.”

Linkie Linkie for more info

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No. 2

2007-02-01T06:13:00.000-08:00

Rose has changed her format to the long fold one, which really seems to fit her way of writing – very quick and easy to read. This isn’t really a poetry zine like before, but instead one long and interesting story about bigotry and making value judgments. Rose’s mentality is clear here, about demonstrating tolerance and love to her fellow human being. A buck and a half and this zine just keeps getting better and better.

Snippet:

“When people are reduce to ‘those and you,’ it hurts the soul of the world. Whoever sees their world this way must surely have a dark empty hole in their own souls”

LinkieLinkie for more info

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No. 2

2007-02-01T06:04:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No. 2

Snippet:

“When people are reduce to ‘those and you,’ it hurts the soul of the world. Whoever sees their world this way must surely have a dark empty hole in their own souls”

LinkieLinkie for more info

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No 1

2007-01-24T14:00:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Rose Gardens of Life No 1

Rose Young’s initial foray into the zine world brings us a lightly collaged poetry zine, very simple and very evocative. Her poetry is direct, and it’s intention is to cause the reader to think and feel. From works based upon battles to finding herself, this little quarter/rough zine is a bit like life itself – a bit of this and a bit of that. A buck and a half and a very good little poetry zine.

Snippet:

“Finding myself, with every single breath

Finding my way, in a tide of rage.

The way I was raised.

Breaking and Shaking, my crystal cage.

Watching the pieces shatter,

To the ground.

Each piece a glittering treasure

But so very dangerous, too.”

LinkieLinkie
for more info...

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Poems from July No 26

2007-01-16T07:31:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Poems from July No 26

Jessy Kendall’s poetry zine is a very surreal experience. It’s the kind of thing that you want to read before you go to sleep, because you know you’ll get some killer dreams about it. When we open it, the first poem we see the text is distorted, and looks very cool. While not limited to poetry by any means, this zine is very stream-of-consciousness and has heavy mail art type collage in it. It’s free for the asking, and you can contact Jessy at shirkATriseupDOTnet Very cool.

Snippet:

“I’m drunk walking with vinnie george

And our drums to the gypsy camp trying to fill

The glass piece just given to me.

I look down this corridor of black

With points of soft light”

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 4

2007-01-10T08:17:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 4

Ben’s back and as funny as ever, with the, “Refreshingly Retro Pineapple Tart Issue”. While I’m not sure what Ben’s been dropping these days, his writing is every bit as funny and clear as the first three issues. From Maritza’s extended television viewing schedule, to Dance Dance revolution contests, Ben dances the gaumut of topics with his dry wit. I favored Hennepin’s article about Johanna Edina. Good work as usual, Ben and only a dollar and a half

Snippet:

“Walking so early in the morning reminds me of school. Having to ride the cheese bus. It’s the crispness in the air. Ooh, step on the leaf again…I adore that sound”

LinkieLinkie

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2

Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works
www.northwestzineworks.com / www.carolineatigeress.com / www.indymediareviews.com

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum / BookCrossing

Myspace / LJ / Xanga / WritersCafe / DeviantArt / email me, dammit

ChapBook - Mental foreplay for the classics, a brief memoir of Veronica

2007-01-06T16:48:00.000-08:00

ChapBook - Mental foreplay for the classics, a brief memoir of Veronica

Brandon Follett’s collection of poetry has a nice color cover and has a nice heavy cardstock heft to it. Brandon’s poetry is emotive and rich, it’s like drinking a good Chianti. His topics are varied, and run the gaumet from lap dances to poetry readings. Brandon’s poetry is solid and the zine is well put together. If you're into poetry, this is a very good selection of work.

Snippet:

“Our relationship was a drinking binge

In a windowless basement.

Sometime when I awoke

I’d open the door

And it would be pitch black

Except for the glow of the full moon,

Other days I’d wake blinded by sun.”

Half sized, Five dollars

Order it right here

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Volcano

2007-01-05T08:15:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Volcano

William Davidson returns, this time with an odd comic panel sequence, beginning with a female nude whose image is altered from panel to panel. It’s an interesting transformative set of panels, while certain images might be disturbing, if you look at this artwork as a whole unit, it’s very interesting and evocative. Quarter sized, twelve pages for a buck and a half.

LinkieLinkie

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2
Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com / www.carolineatigeress.com / www.indymediareviews.com

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum

Zine Review - Yee Ha!

2007-01-04T08:18:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Yee Ha!

William Davidson’s Yee Ha! Is a quirky little artzine. The drawings are crude and have overtures toward cubism, but appear to be done with charcoal or crayon. Completely image based, this issue appears to focus on various states of laughter. It’s an interesting piece of work, and is much like walking into a museum; you have to view the whole show to make up your mind what you like. Quarter sized, twelve pages for a buck and a half.

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Heart Beating for 168 Seconds

2007-01-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Heart Beating for 168 Seconds

Brought to us by Ivana Stab and Jasmina Berber, Heart Beating for 168 Seconds is a heavily collaged multi-layered quarter sized zine. With text and images working well with each other, this work really shows us how simple and good a zine like this can be. Their writing is thought provoking, and allows us an unflinching look into the mind of a young Aussie Zinesters. I like this work, it’s a one-shot though, I really think it would make a great series. It shows what people can do when they take their time with the glue stick & paper.

Snippet:

“Nothing seems real

People, songs, stars in the sky

We dissolve into the night

Becoming a salty memory for each of us to smile at

For each of them to scorn at

And for the morning to erase”

Two bucks and worth every dime.

LinkieLinkie...

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2
Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com / www.carolineatigeress.com / www.indymediareviews.com

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum

Zine Review - Reality Ranch #1

2006-12-29T08:15:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Reality Ranch #1

Scott Erickson’s entertaining litzine, Reality Ranch leads with a funky article about biking in Portland, and moves on to a humorous account of the creation of the saxophone. Reality Ranch deals mostly with absurd parody, and carries such article titles as, “Potatoes into Poetry”, the one-minute version of Star Wars, Hard of Herring. Scott’s writing style is easy to digest and flows well. The zine is laid out well, and it’s a pretty quick little read. I’m currently out of stock, but you can contact Scott Directly for copies:

Scott Erickson: dancingscott @ hotmail . com

Snippet:

“I’ve been biking long enough to have devolped something like a seventh sense about impending trouble (My sixth sense is the one that causes me to get crushes on lesbians.)”

Three dollars.

LinkieLinkie

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2

Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

www.indymediareviews.com/

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum

Zine Review - The Quick and the Dead - August 2006

2006-12-28T08:06:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - The Quick and the Dead - August 2006

The Quick and the Dead, August 2006

Hannah Ridge’s per/litzine, The Quick and the Dead is a fun little read. It’s quarter-sized and begins by thanking the reader for being there. I always like to see this in a zine, because our community is so small, we need to give respect to those that support it. Her handwriting is clear and easy to read, and then transfers to text. Hannah’s writing is clear, and emotional, she talks a lot about being unnecessarily shielded, and about true and genuine anger. I liked her segment about haircutting and how it can be very cathartic, and the segments after that deal with more emotions. Hannah’s a really enjoyable writer, and her work, while mostly in the first person, is refreshing on the eyes. This is a British Zine, a very good one at that.

Snippet:

“Eventually the pretending would become so complete that it was as if you were not sat there, ostentatiously striking matches and flipping pages, as if every third beat would not be followed with a foot tap, carefully timed to annoy us as it filled that space.”

Only two dollars, and a very cool read.

LinkieLinkie...

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Soixante Neuf No 1, No 2

Diamond in the Rough No 6, No 7

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

www.indymediareviews.com/

Photocopied Hearts, a Zine Community Forum

Diamond in the Rough No. 7

2006-12-20T07:59:00.000-08:00

And now more from the shameless self-promotion department...

Diamond in the Rough is my perzine, and this issue chronicles some of the most emotionally turbulent time in my life, the breakup process that Touya and I went through. I thought long and hard about some of the things that are in here, but it was very cathartic for me.

This issue begins with a very yummy vegan veggie goo recipe, a brief restaurant review and then heads into a compulsive eating episode. It describes 'dumping syndrome' - the effect that
happens on a stomach that has had the gastric bypass when you consume too much refined sugar. It's much like having a heart attack, and something to be avoided. Discussions about
biking to a second job, cake frosting, and loosing a good set of marker pens follow. Things turn strange when a follow up story about people who keep their children's umbilical cords

and other pieces of biological material. Articles on getting older, dreams, and being accosted in the street by religious idiots are intersparsed with snippets about verbal and emotional pain that occurs during a breakup process. Text & handwriting heavy, with short pieces of poetry make up the sum of the issue, and of course the now traditional LilWitch comic strip.

Here's a quote:

"I love him, don't get me wrong, and the idea is that he might come back one day. I doubt it."

Forty Pages, two bucks.

Single Copies at my etsy store for $2.00 each + shipping

Distro packs of five at my etsy store for $5.00 each + shipping

Distros, Reviewers and Libraries who would like a consideration copy may email me directly: carolineATcarolineatigeressDOTcom

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Other Goodies you just might like:

Zine Review - Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 5

2006-12-14T08:12:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 5

HHDS 5 begins with an interesting discussion about Cell Phones in the HipHop community, then follows with an Article entitled, ‘the wonders of possibility’ which discusses writer’s block. I suffer from writer’s block from time to time, so found the article very interesting. I like Tyler’s article about goals, it’s very introspective, just like much of his writing. Good stuff, as usual.

Snippet:

“Lucky for you dear reader, I’m not such a jerk that I don’t TRY to remember who the people I meet are. It’s just that I’m not that good at remembering names, but now that I’ve actually identified this behavioral problem within myself it is something I’m working on. A new year’s resolution of sorts; something to write home about to make my mother proud. Dear mom, I’m meeting tons of new people, and I even remember some of their names! She would be happy for me, I’m sure”

One Dollar

Click Here for More Information

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get
Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review - Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 4

2006-12-13T06:57:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 4

Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 4

HHDS 4 begins with a critical look at postmodernism, and how Tyler reconciles it in his personal life. I like that kind of introspection in a person, and Tyler follows it up with a few paragraphs about writing on the backs of envelopes. Articles about Flags of the World and design concepts, a humorous bit about a falling skeleton, and some bits of collage conclude the work.

Snippet:

“This has seriously created many problems for me. I’m stuck analyzing all sorts of media I used to like and asking if they have substance. What do I do when I find bands that I like that are all style? Do I stop listening to them or do I fully embrace them and life a full and happy life as a pomo sort of guy? Is it ok just to ignore it and hope for the best?

One Dollar

Click Here for More Information

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review - Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 3

2006-12-11T07:44:00.000-08:00

Hiphop Don’t Stop Number 3

Hiphop don’t Stop is a smorgasbord of interesting ideas and concepts, with short interesting bits. I like how Tyler leads with a byte about sonic collages, and Kevin Eder’s article about Summer is pretty cool. Tyler’s bits about work, and sensory overload are equally interesting, the limericks are cute, and I really liked the back collaged cover – show Tyler’s wry sense of humor.

Snippet:

“sometimes you have to take highways and byways to get to noisecamp, record stores, and nerd stores tobuy cheap 15 for $5 comic books, sometimes it rains and its hard to drive at 5am when all the car can do is hydroplane because you are so tired and the tires are bald.”

One Dollar

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Boxcutter Number 14 / Fall 2006

2006-12-08T07:05:00.000-08:00

Boxcutter Number 14 / Fall 2006

As usual, Boxcutter doesn’t fail. This small sized zine with it’s lavender color grabs you hard and doesn’t let go. Tomas’s writings, especially the first piece, dealing with his own feelings about entering a third world country, and how it’s important that he understand he’s detoxing from America to a slower, more mellow pace of life. Fatima Luna Y Saskia Ledezma’s article regarding life in Chiapas is fantastic, with several sharp photos to support the story. I was very touched by the way she paints faith with words when she goes to the temples and waterfalls. Dylan’s poetry / essay, “insomniac” is nothing short of incredible, and is followed up by a very frank discussion about talking to your partner regarding intimacy. I could go on and on about this fantastic little zine, but I’d rather you read it for yourself.

Snippet:

“It really does come down to money doesn’t it? I mean, you can try to stick to your guns but in the end, it’ll come back to haunt you for ever believing you could live on your talents for long (meaning w/out proper contacts, exposure, a ‘name’ that carries upon the winds, a solid gold résumé, and experience in the specific area that you wish to pursue.)

A buck and worth a whole heck of a lot more.

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed

Get Linked / Advertise at the Zine Works

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 3

2006-12-07T03:35:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 3

“The Atomically Charged Strudel Issue”

Benjamin Castle’s witty perzine, Jelly Cake gets a visit from the Jelly Cake Alternate Universe. His wry observations about life being by being introspective about his own behavior, getting a job, being bored, store transactions and a motorcycle theft make for an entertaining read. The internal dialogue he has reguarding his own desires to be a sith master versus the morality of the Jedi made me chuckle. Of course, running into a pole while watching a sexy biker is pretty darned funny too.

Snippet:

“The disrespect that I am receiving will not be tolerated! A creature as fine as she, clearly was given birth to wed me! Face your doom you wicked fool! Cursed is you this day, for you will die!”

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 2

2006-12-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 No 2
The Nervous Large peppermint Eclair issue

Ben’s Back, this time with a nice handful of giggles and nods. I favored in this Issue Hennepin’s “Peter Aqualuna Sabrina” and may well have thrown a bottle cap at him for making the observation that in fact bottle caps do not have corners, much less faded ones. Grasmere’s video game grab reminds me of many real life retrogamers I’ve known. It’s a good little read, although I favor number one to this issue.

Snippet:

“We may not specialize in the highest form of insightful and educational journalism, but we are a far cry from your gobbledygook. As to your inquiry for employment: No thank you.”

A buck and a half

_______________________________________

Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 no 1

2006-12-04T07:00:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Jelly Cake Vol 1 no 1

Zine Review – Jelly Cake Vol 1 no 1 “The Geiger Muffin Issue”

Initially, I found Jelly Cake to be oddly confusing, but then I realized this was the concept of it, that it’s the accounts of five New Yorkers who coexist in their own little world. It works. Castle’s more than mildly amusing, and his snippets echo real life in more than one genre. I favored the discussion between a tomato and a potato, the Creative Writing assignment and the two act play between Amy and Harold. Very fun little zine.

Snippet:

“Tomato:

No one eats a potato. You take too long to cook. Forever will you be a shadow of your former self. Chips, fries, salad, you’re a convenience food. Pathetic. You’re very presence is a mockery to all vegetables. Slice me, dice me, sauce me, a million and one uses I have. And I’m ready to serve.”

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Zine Review – Elephant Mess #17

2006-11-30T06:02:00.000-08:00

With a cool flip-up format, Elephant Mess emphasizes stream-of-consciousness, the pouring output of one person’s mind. Yet, unlike many zines with this format, the ideas have been refined to the point of being literature, and not purile tripe. Dan Murphy makes it work, with a sweet sequence of concepts that makes you think about his world without being arrogant or ordinary. Dan likes to make you ponder, and I like that in any good piece of writing.

Snippet:

“Fact or fiction? Isn’t that one of the deepest, most perplexing of life’s questions anyway? It only makes sense to perpetuate the mystery by playing into the myth, right?”

A mere fifty cents, an excellent value.

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Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

Book Review:An Evening with JonBenet Ramsey:A Play and Two Essays by Walter A Davis

2006-11-28T07:47:00.000-08:00

An Evening with JonBenet Ramsey:A Play and Two Essays by Walter A Davis

I first heard about Walter Davis on Kboo.Fm, where he appeared as a guest. His unflinching attack on the Mass Media I found fascinating, and when he left a e-mail address we had a brief corrispondance. I told him I wrote reviews for indymedia, and he was kind enough to send me an autographed copy of this book.

The book is thick with facts, the essays are rich and full of verifiable, in-your-face anti-corporate mentality. That’s not what will attract you to this reading, however useful the information is.

The play, the first part of the book, “An Evening with JonBenet Ramsey” explores the what if JonBenet had survived her ordeal, and then grew up.
That needs to scare you, because as JonBenet grows up in this mythology, she becomes aware of the sexual object that she was glamorized into, and she is able to look at her parents, our culture, our world with biting sarcasam and acidic lips. She tells the story of her childhood and life experiences as only she can, from her first-person perspective.

Technically, the play could easily be produced, but I’m unsure if any theater groups have the balls to do so. Fortunatly, we can simply buy Walter Davis’s book and get the whole thing in our hands.
Brilliant writing, but not for the faint of heart or illiterate, Davis writes up, not dumbed down for the masses. If you want a piece of solid, meaty, anti-corporate writing, then this is it.

http://www.walteradavis.com/

Snippet (selected from his website):

"I remember, in high school, I'd lie awake — after — rigid but my mind racing, unable to halt the rush of images that projected themselves on the ceiling above me like pictures on a screen, a home movie superimposed on the idiot wallpaper Mitzi'd chosen for my room, a collage of Disneyfied monkeys, ducks, and mice grinning. It was like I was exploding out onto the ceiling, thrown from myself then coming back at myself in a whirl of images. But as dark shifted to shadow and become dawn I'd slow it down until there was a single picture, a snapshot preserved, refined, and stored here (tapping head) as a tablet against forgetting.

That I did it — to myself. The pageants. To myself, ten cents a dance. That I would do anything — to win your love. That you let me do it. Saw I was doing it and couldn't stop yourselves. I was a child, how could you let me do that to myself —"

_______________________________________

Now Available:

Soixante Neuf #1, Soixante Neuf #2

Diamond in the Rough #6

Get Reviewed / Get Distroed / Get Linked

www.northwestzineworks.com

www.carolineatigeress.com

CD-Review - Jug Fusion

2006-11-27T09:07:00.000-08:00

Music Review:Jug Fusion!

When it was my intention to begin reviewing indymedia professionally, music, while an obvious choice was not the first thing to come into mind, and while surfing the ‘net one day, I came across a quirky bit of history, that guitars in poorer parts of the nation (and world) were once made of Cigar Boxes. Googleing further, I found out there were dedicated communities to the music of the time, skill, and art of making cigar box guitars.

This led me to a few myspace pages, and signing up on a yahoo group where I lurk, and listen. The subculture as a whole is quite fascinating, and imagine my surprise when one of those people starts mentioning that they want to write a zine about primitive music creation.

I immediately emailed the author and we struck a deal, a fat packet of zines for some cd’s. Thus, the story as to how I got my hands on a copy of, “Jug Fusion: Box Set”
To try to describe this music in common terms is impossible. It’s clear that these artisans of, ‘Primal-Phonic Sound’ are gifted musicians without par, but also that their twangy, bluesy, rockabilly concepts are on home made instruments just blows my mind.

From the gospel (a genre which I have to admit I’m not up to par on), to good ol’ fashioned blues, this particular cd runs the gamut of talent and skill. I have to admit, I’m partial to their tagline, “Sounds like Fat Albert on acid”. I’d go one further and say it sounds like Acid on Acid. This music grabs you by the bra straps and says, ‘bitch you’re not going anywhere.’ While no one person will like all tracks on all cd’s, this one’s a winner in my book.

Here’s a direct link:

http://www.cigarboxguitars.com/features/Jug_Fusion.php

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - Nobody can eat 50 eggs No 27

2006-11-16T08:03:00.000-08:00

Nobody can eat 50 eggs #27

Steve goes from the glossy to the half bound, this one could easily be called the, ‘cartoon’ issue, because it’s a thick fatty beast of his best work. While his art style is a touch difficult to see in this smaller format, I feel the volume offsets it. I like the narrative style that he tells his stories in, it makes it easy for the reader to follow, and also I like at the bottom under each cartoon of breaking the fourth wall, it really allows me to enter into Steve’s world and not be an outsider. His insights reguarding the work place are fascinating, and the bits with his Myspace addiction are very funny. Tastes like: Doritos (classic Nacho Cheese, if we must be specific)

Soundbite:

“For her birthday, I got Jennifer a sketchbook and a DVD of the movie mean Girls. At the bottom of every page in the sketchbook I wrote something for her to draw (like ‘surly pirate’ and ‘suspicious kitty’), The idea came from a conversation we had where she had said she would draw in a sketchbook but never knew what ot draw. She has not draw in the book to date.

Review only, contact the author for copies:

Eat_50_eggs @ hotmail . com

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - Nobody can eat 50 eggs No 26

2006-11-14T13:49:00.000-08:00

Holly heck, is this guy for real? He needs to be on stage. I’m serious, one word:

FUNNY

For a mere three bucks you get a professionally printed glossy zine that it’s pretty clear someone put some love and care into. This just might be one of those few zines that you’ll see cross from being a zine to a magazine. I wish that All Jaffe (mad magazine) would hire this guy, but it might make the mainstream humor media actually funny again. His images, and artwork are sketchy, loose and very cartooney, in an odd sort of Charles Aadams way, but with good use of spot coloring (yes a color zine folks). My personal favorite was a multi-page article, ‘Get rich the EASY WAY’ which advises ladies to marry rich old men. Great layout, good use of illustration and just plain laugh-out-loud funny. Tastes like: Fritos

Tidbit:

“The fun and games soon end though. During the night, the giant croc attacks their camp. A helpless cameraman is drug off and is never seen alive again. In vain, Steve tracks the blood trail only to discover his friends’s mutilated body. He takes careful note that the crocodile didn’t feed on its prey. It’s almost as if this is a warning of sorts”

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - Introvert Number Four

2006-11-09T07:51:00.000-08:00

Zine Review - Introvert Number Four

First of, I love this cover. The skull faces in the embrace, the white on black, thin scratchy lines, it’s bold, it’s dynamic and a good use of shape and form. Inside we have the usual apologies for the lateness of the issue; this is normal with zinesters, but Nicole is honest in saying it’s been six years since the previous update. A darned shame, I say, because Introvert is a zinesters zine, lots of text, lots of photos, lots of everything that makes zines fun. The intro story I found interesting and sweet all at once, with a good use of visual dialogue. Nicole’s writing is varied, something as an author I respect, and with the next work, we see precisely how varied. This whole zine is like that, flitting from topic to topic, but always with good, clear writing, and a great use of imagery. I’ve been told number five is on my way to my mailbox, so look for that review soon. Tastes like: Sourdough toast with good real butter. It's merely a buck, so please try this one out, you won't be disappointed.

Tidbit:

“She doesn’t pardon herself. Just gathers her old grin and memories and heads for the door. No matter the urge, there’s no reason to compromise her mind. With the fifth of whiskey poking from her back pocket, it’d eventually be easy to do so. But not tonight, it’s just not worth it to her anymore.”

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - The Hss Reader No 5

2006-11-05T11:55:00.000-08:00

Another thick issue, HSS Reader is what many mainstream (maga)zines strive to be. Informative, witty, and downright cool, this issue was considered the, ‘Easy’ one due to the high volume of submissions – it’s no wonder why, who wouldn’t want a piece of their work in it. Of course we still have the same high production values, 40 pages for a buck. One thing I like is about how Olivia tells you how she’s trying to improve her zine – an ever reaching quest for something better – that’s just something mainstream media will never admit to. Of particular interest is, ‘stumble into fame’. Bad idea / Better idea, is great as usual, and should be common sense – but it’s obvious that it’s not, so it’s here for all to see. The usual good stuff, crafty bits, music, lit & art reviews. Travel story (great as usual – this time by Celeste Tabora), interview (tightened up considerably), Comics & Credits. Brill work as usual, keep it up Olivia. Tastes like: Dark Chocolate with nuts.

Snippet:

“If you know who we are at HSS you know why there is no time for hobbies such as writing, editing, cutting, gluing, copying, shopping, folding, stapling and labeling each and every issue we send out - usually along with a hand written letter. It’s fun believe us you, but between all the jobs, the people, the demands of city life, and the other hobbies we play favorites with, it’s hard to make this thing a regular publication. But we will try our damnedest to make them more frequently.”

One buck, and worth much more. Email the creator directly, until I get stock in.

Hssreader AT hotmail DOT com

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - The HSS Reader, Number 4

2006-11-03T07:58:00.001-08:00

A fat little culture zine bursting with information and a wide range of it. At 40 pages for a mere buck, this quarter zine is hefty. With its’ own mail section, Jokes, Website reviews, Crafty bits, Lit Reviews, Music reviews, Bad idea, better idea (love the whole toilet paper rant – makes so much sense…!) Raquel Mendoza’s Travel Diary is particularly good, Olivia Arrow’s interview with Pink Bloque is very, very in-depth. An insider’s guide to cities afar and comics conclude the issue. Tastes like: Really good See’s Candy

Snippet:

“We are focusing on women this issue just for fun and because we recognize the effort of certain ladies and like what they do. Some people call this action ‘giving [one] props’. Being believers of equality, there are also many boys in here, so nobody is feeling ostracized.

One buck, and worth much more. Email the creator directly, until I get stock in.

Hssreader AT hotmail DOT com

_______________________________________

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Diamond in the Rough #6

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Zine Review - The HSS Reader, Number 4

2006-11-03T07:58:00.000-08:00

Snippet:

One buck, and worth much more. Email the creator directly, until I get stock in.

Hssreader AT hotmail DOT com

_______________________________________

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Diamond in the Rough #6

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Zine Review - Portmanteau Word Web (part 2)

2006-10-25T15:20:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Portmanteau Word Web (part 2)

Another entry from Zeben, and like his other works, it’s blunt and unflinching. I favor the layout of Portmanteau a bit more than Orchestra of Machines, it seems this is an evolution of the work, there’s a lot of white-on-black-on photography, very industrial kinds of photography. The text can be eerily haunting in this manner, and reinforces the work as a whole. Rough cut, which fits the concept. Tastes like: Rye Toast

Snippet:

“His mystery misses all the twinkles from the light reflections, distant and acute but, solid. Freckles frame and old & barely sacred window, from the home of windows, tasting twice, the simple ray’s of dawn, he did.”

Two bucks

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - The Temple of Sinew & Other Short Stories

2006-10-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - The Temple of Sinew & Other Short Stories

Of Zeben’s work I’ve seen, this one I favor the most. The nice torn letter cover makes a powerful, graphical impression. This one has a bit more art on it, much of it reminds me of some of the works found in Equilibrium. The text is varied in size and format, and lends more interest to the eyes. Again, blunt, uncut, unedited, stream-of-consciousness style writing is Zeben’s forte. Tastes like:Almond M&M’s

Snippet: “The view was excellent; Mymind had somehow conquered ageless barriers and had definitely slipped and fell upon this new form of a human race, built on top of basins of rubber and plastic. There was a main source humming in front of my eyes, down the hill, raising from out of the ground, resting in plastic basins; a giant bubble or half sphere as well as thirty four or more similar structures, glowing in hues of orange blurring pollution that made the way only slightly into my retina as I walked.”

Two bucks, an interesting read

_______________________________________

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Zine Review - Part I from the Orchestra of Machines

2006-10-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Part I from the Orchestra of Machines

Zeben Perhaps, the author treats us to a powerful piece of stream-of-consciousness. His writing is unflinching, and brass, with powerful overtones. Not much subtle with these works, Zeben allows us an unfiltered view into the human mind. Best described as “short” stories, these can be short (The Entrance to the Trinity) or longer (Slipped Discs and Kinship) having only one, or multiple segments. This zine is rough cut with a color cover, and invites commentary. Tastes like: Sweet & Sour Chicken

Snippet:

“Bitter ugly frame holds the corpse up, filled structure in an old city, or the bitter chew tasting my throat, collapsed and quiver with rubble caught in stagnant air. ‘They’re poisoning our sacred space’, and old man whispers to me, walking by with posture withered down of its youth.”

Two Bucks

_______________________________________

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Were you chosen last at sports in gym class or on the playground?

2006-10-22T16:36:00.000-07:00

Judy is writing a book on being chosen last on the playground. It's an interesting concept and she's looking for people with stories to tell. She's also doing an email writing workshop, so that's kind of interesting too.

I would appreciate a link to the Chosen Last blog anywhere you think would spread the word:

http://chosenlast.blogspot.com

Were you chosen last at sports in gym class or on the playground? Does it still affect you, in subtle and not so subtle ways? If so, please join me in exploring this issue, with the goal of writing a book about it. This book will give people a chance to tell their stories, focusing on healing from, and moving beyong the effects of childhood shame and trauma.

Something of note: Small Press Newsroom

2006-10-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

From Allen Freeman of Slam Bang, I've been promoting his stuff for a while. Allen's a great guy and I hope you all get a chance to check out his site.

Yeah, it's just another dumb BlOG, this time about comics I get in the mail. No big deal. Just me rambling about books I get and how great or un-great they are. Then people can decide if they should order them or not. No big deal. So send your books to me for a review or email me for a free plug in a BLOG no one will ever read or care about. Ho-Hum.
http://smallpressnewsroom.blogspot.com/

And if you really have tons of free time to waste join the Slam Bang Groupsters Group. Yeah, just another Yahoo Group. This time it's all about Slam Bang and who is contributing and who needs an artist or story for their contribution. You know more of the same old boring stuff you see all over the internet except limited to Slam Bang the Explosive Anthology. Photos, links and news and stuff. Join the already mind boggling 6 members!
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/slambang_groupsters/

Zine Review - City of Roses No 1 – Prolegomenon

2006-10-16T13:24:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - City of Roses No 1 – Prolegomenon

A high-end chapbook series, City of Roses first caught my attention at the Portland Zine Symposium where I bought a copy. It’s bright color cover stood out head and shoulders out of a lot of the black and white medium and really shines. Inside, are a series of tightly packed, well written shorts about a group of characters who reside and revel in living in the City of Roses (in this case, Portland, Oregon). Layout is tip-top, although the print is just a touch small for these old eyes. Every chapter is full of interesting dialogue and well-written scenery, and it’s a very good read prior to bedtime. It’s my understanding that this is the first of a series, and I’m going to be looking forward to them. Tastes like: A milkshake.

Quote:

“The inner office is dark except for a white-shaded baker’s lamp shining on a leather-topped desk. On the desk a silver pen and an ivory-handled knife with a wide blade of tarnished bronze. The man looking out the window at the street below has thick, unruly white hair, and wears a white shirt and a white tie. A cigarette is pinched unnoticed between the thumb and forefinger of his pale right hand. The window is open. Up from under the drip of the rain comes the washing susurrus of a street-sweeper.”

Three bucks and worth every dime.

_______________________________________

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Fiction > Sci-Fi > Enter Mindbinder

2006-10-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Enter Mindbinder

Tuesday 7 April 2054, 15:08

Outskirts of Harville, Iowa

The rural back roads of Iowa rarely graced a limousine. Usually, they took on older, 2030's style four and six wheel drive vehicles. Today however, was an exception. The Military Limousine cruised quietly, doing just over the speed limit on the country roads. Its driver was human, for General Kinomoto did not care for robotic drivers. Even with gas mileage at an unheard of high of fifty miles per gallon the distance between Gigopolis and Harville gave the driver a chance to pull over at a self-service pump in order to fuel.

General Kinomoto took the opportunity to look up from his work and see the quiet town of Harville. According to military intelligence, an unimpressive town should have dried up years ago when the first gigopolis was created in 2042 on the site of old Chicago. He sighed to himself, muttering about hicks and people who did not have enough sense what was good for them. These were the sorts of people that frustrated him immensely. These were the sort of people that, in many ways, he lived for.

General Kinomoto had a calling in life. He had a skill, a talent as an orator and as a debater. His ability to manipulate was incredible. Coupled with his mutation, the ability to influence other people's minds made him a very valuable commodity. He liked that. He liked to feel in control, he liked to feel that he was worth something. It was an honor to serve your country, he thought. God, Mom, Freedom, Apple Pie in about that order. He was fighting the good fight. Doing the right thing. The driver filled up, and turned briefly toward the passenger's section.

The General lowered the window about an inch or so.

"I've gotten specific information leading to the subject's location, sir. Our ETA is approximately fifteen minutes." The General Nodded by way of acknowledgment. Lieutenant Harris was becoming a very capable assistant, understanding that the General liked these little updates.

No more than sixteen minutes later, the long, sleek automobile pulled into the small farm front. There was a large, sprawling ranch house, close to fifty years old. Its front porch was rotten in places and the General knew to the penny how much these people were in debt. He knew how many days Marie McComber's husband had to live if he did not get a heart transplant, and he knew the relative value of her son, Charlie. He had come calling about Charlie.

The driver opened the back door, and the General stood, in full dress uniform. Every medal, shined, every ribbon perfectly placed there by the General himself, ever cord, every honor. General Kinomoto could look very impressed when he tried, and there were few days he did not try.

The dusty screen door opened as a dog barked in the background. A woman wearing an old country dress with dark hair pulled back tight into a bun was opening it. She looked stern, as if she were a schoolteacher of two centuries ago.

"Marie McComber?" He asked.

She gave a half smile. "General Kinomoto. I am glad you made it. I'm still not quite sure what all the fuss is about, but do come in."

He entered into the hallway. The smooth polished wood of the interior was immaculate, not a speck of dust anywhere. The General approved. "Beautiful home." He commented.

"We'll we've still got a lot of work to do on it. Just bought it a few years ago, before Roscoe took sick. Just you have a seat in the living room, and I'll bring out the tea."

He did as he was asked. After all, he was on her turf. No need to be rude, or even pushy. Gentle soft persuasion was all he needed. He was like that. The General generally only asked people questions. He did not really need to demand much of anyone, so confidant he was of his capabilities.

She brought in tea in a perfect silver set. Offered him cream and sugar. He broke the ice.

"So Mrs. McComber, your husband, is he well?" He looked at her through the thick, dark glasses he wore.

Her lower lip twitched. "No. They say he has a month or so at most to live. His Jarveck 12 artificial heart is failing, and the supporting valves around the implant are too fragile to support another artificial unit."

He nodded softly. "Your only hope would be a cloned cardiac system, I'd imagine. I'm not a doctor, mind you." He said in a folksy sort of tone, trying to read her more.

"We'll we're on the list for that, but it's a long wait. They say he'd die before the cloned heart was available."

He was a master of observation and mimicked her lower lip twitch, looking very concerned. "What about Charlie's heart? He could take an artificial for the time being, while they cloned him a new one. Medimerica has done that sort of thing before, I believe." He was referring to the North American Universal Health care system.

"Charlie's heart is too big. It would not fit in Roscoe's chest. It was one of the first things Charlie thought of. My heart is too small, and I have a minor heart defect."

General Kinomoto made a slight tilting motion and then looked about, “where is Charlie, anyway?"

She looked at him.

"Where he always is, General. The Barn. He sleeps out there. The house is not very easy for him to get around in. The Barn is much more comfortable for him. He's fixed it up nicely and he can work on his trucks."

The General gave a slight smile. “Boys and their toys.” He commented softly, and recalled one of his own first automobiles.

“Charlie's very handy with a wrench. Being oversized comes in handy in the mechanical department, being able to lift and such. He can turn on his radio and get lost. Frankly, he has been doing a bit too much of that. He doesn't like to be seen in the daylight, not even by me.” She bit at her lower lip. “I'm not sure which one of the boys that I'm more worried about.”

“Mrs. McComber, as you may have noticed, I'm from the army. I am a liaison to the Gteams project. Do you know what we do?”

She looked at him awkwardly.

“No. I remember there was some sort of anti-terrorist task working under that name, which was in the papers. But that was ten years ago.” She responded, after much thought.

“We're still around. You might know us by our brainchild, Team America.”

“Team America? The government mutants?” She asked.

He smiled. “Yes. I am from Team America’s heartland division. We run out of Chicago. You might have seen them on the video. Crone? DarkStarr?”

She nodded slowly, “Crone I've heard of. She stopped a burning building a few towns away during a terrorist attack. I saw something on the news that DarkStarr had almost been killed.”

He smiled. Got something to work with now. “Crone is our senior trainer. She currently does not have an apprentice. I'd like Charlie to fill that role.” He smiled.

“Charlie? My Charlie? He is not a mutant. He's just big for his age.”

“Come, come now Mrs. McComber. Charlie is nearly seven feet tall at the age of fourteen. According to his pediatrician he can curl on the high order of three hundred pounds.”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “Doctor Sanders told you that? He's not supposed to go around telling people like that. We could sue him.” She growled.

He sighed and pretended as if he was tired. He closed his eyes and removed his dark glasses, and rubbed where the bridge met his nose. He replied to her, still with his eyes closed, “In accordance to the mutant reporting act of 2037 he had no choice, Mrs. McComber. He acted within the bounds of the law.”

“But,” she started to speak.

“Mrs. McComber. Please. I have seen this sort of thing before. Really, there is nothing wrong with your son. In fact, you might even say that Charlie is the next step.”

He waited for the silence. He played it like a long, gentle strum of a classic guitar. He leaned forward in the couch, and brought his head up, eyes still closed. He could feel her attention upon him. He spoke in a soft, hollow tone, it was almost mechanical.

“Your son, Charlie is a very valuable young man.” He opened his eyes. There were no visible pupils, iris, or lens, no white of the eye. Where his eyes would have been visible there was nothing but blackness and a field of stars. He looked straight into her eyes.

“He has a talent, your boy does. A skill that very few other people do. Your son is a Mutant. He is a valuable asset to your family, your community. Your country.”

Her eyes went blank. A sharp, jet black, speckled with stars, mimicking his. He continued. “I think you understand how valuable he is, and we at the government are willing to do much for you and your family. Your husband will be taken care of. Charlie will be educated. You will be provided for. Your government will take care of you.”

The corners of her lips curled up, almost like a sneer, the eye sockets bulging out in a comical, harlequin like manner. She repeated a bit of his last sentence, “will take care of you.”

He sat back, like an experienced angler with a fish that had just bitten the line. She was completely within his mental grasp. He could have ordered to slit her wrists at this point, and she would not have objected. It was a special ability, this degree of control he had. He had only met very few other people, one of those closest to him used it to steal. General Kinomoto was not a thief, and detested thieves all his life, but he was not above using people.

“I will have a government team of scientists working on your husband's heart condition. I do not believe it will pose much of a problem to them. You and your farm will be relocated. You will lead a long, quiet, uneventful life, basking in the glory of Charlie's heroism. Your son will have people looking up to him for quite some time. He's going to be a good man.”

She nodded, eagerly. “Good man.” She Agreed. Her face was a mask of happiness. He smiled to himself and put back on his glasses. Over three or four minutes, the stars faded from her eyes.

“General this is a kind and gracious offer you've given us. I'm sure Charlie will jump at the chance to be a part of Team America.”

“I was hoping you'd say something like that, Mrs. McComber. It's Americans like you that make our country a great place. I have some documents that you will need to authorize.

She nodded and he offered her a small thin sheet of plastic. He tapped upon a corner of it, and up popped a sheaf of legal documents and a square at the bottom. “Your thumb print will do. We'll have a crew come in to help with your and Charlie's relocation. Her eyes glazed over. While the relocation package was incredibly generous, it did have its faults. Best to do this while she was still, as he put it, 'in the fog.' She did not even bother to read the documents. This actually worked to his disadvantage. The sheet computer would scan where her eyes tracked, and in a court of law, it could be used to her advantage. He prompted her.

“Go ahead, take a few moments. Read it over. I'll have another cup of coffee if you don't mind.” Coffee was one of his favorite beverages.

“Oh, no, not at all. Help yourself.” She said, and promptly read every word of the document. It took her all of ten minutes. She handed back the sheet computer and they chatted idly. He learned that Charlie's current project was a fifty-year-old truck called a Freightliner Classic, whatever that was. He was swapping out the diesel engine for a third-generation hydrogen cell engine, modified for heavy hauling.

At a subtle pause in the discussion, he thought now would be a good time to reinforce what a friend the government was to her. “Mrs. McComber, with your husband being so ill, I'd like to go ahead and make his transfer to Cape Canaveral now, if you don't mind.”

She blinked at him.

“Today? Now?” She inquired.

“No time like the present. Once they get him into orbit his heart, will only half to work half as hard. They can anesthetize him for the trip there, and augment his circulatory system during the journey.” He pulled out a small black stick and held it to his ear, and spoke into the microphone. “Call Adjunct.” He intoned. When his assistant outside in the car answered he instructed him to initiate transport as soon as possible. The doctors had only given him four days to live. Six precious hours of which would be taken in transporting him into space. He had already started the cloning procedure for Roscoe's heart two weeks before. The General knew the value of time. He understood that time was a way and a method of manipulating people.

He spoke again to her. “He'll be transported within the half hour. They will probably use the East Coast space elevator for the sake of convenience.” He sipped coffee as she gushed about how nice he was and how good the government was to its people. At a suitable pause, he interrupted. “I'm sure Charlie will be excited as well. In fact, I should be moving along. You'll want to tell him the good news.” She gushed more as he stood, finished his coffee, and began to thank her profusely. He made it seem as if she was doing him the big favor.

She walked out to his limousine, and out of one of the dark glasses, he caught, just for a moment, the outline for a figure, as the large double door of a barn opened a touch. The figure was huge, a good seven feet tall. He pretended not to notice and got back into the car.

As they pulled out of the driveway, he ordered up the output from a real-time surveillance satellite and watched as she went directly to the barn. He knew his height and weight from the Doctor's report, and had a face shot, but still, it would be good to see what he was dealing with. For only an instant, he made out a looming figure, having the face of a child in an immense body. He had the computer clarify it over, and over, and noted the figure looked much more like mom than dad did. He smiled, knowing he had made the correct choice.

Zine Review - Walking Man Comics Presents Special #28

2006-10-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Walking Man Comics Presents Special #28

Matt Levin’s “Flights of Fancy”. Matt’s whimsy is heavy in this issue, he talks about faith, changes in perspective and how those things cause us to imagine, and allow us to create. A simple little bit of prose, but one that doesn’t fail to make you smile. This particular work caused me to think of the work and legacy of Fred Rogers. Another fine work from Matt. Tastes like: popcorn with cheese on it. Seventy five cents plus postage, a very uplifting read.

Zine Review Walking Man Comics Presents Special #44

2006-10-12T13:02:00.000-07:00

Zine Review Walking Man Comics Presents Special #44

Zine Review - Walking Man Comics Presents Special #44

Matt Levin’s quiet, philosophical storytelling is very clear in this issue. “Climbing the Walls” the feature story is deep, talking about many issues and obstacles that face all of us – using one single metaphor of climbing walls to discuss just about any problem you may be encountering in your life. Tastes like: A light salad that stays on the palette. Seventy five cents plus postage, a very good read.

Fiction > Erotica > the bet

2006-10-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

It was not often the bartender saw a woman as beautiful as her. When she slipped into the hotel’s bar, virtually every head in the room turned.

She was dressed in a short, yet tasteful black dress, a small leather clutch in one hand. Her legs were perfectly shaped, and met with her hips, dipped into her waist for a shapely hourglass figure.

Her cleavage was well formed, with what looked like large, but not huge breasts that moved with her gracefully. Her long, crimson locks draped down with their luxurious soft curls to about her mid-back.

Her heels clicked politely as she walked, and she went down to the quiet end of the bar, away from the television screens blaring the Mariners game, and eased onto a barstool, her eyes playing up to the CNN broadcast.

The bartender was standing at the opposite side, having just filled a scotch order from a short, heavy-set, nearly bald man who had introduced himself as Henry, an insurance salesman from Hoboken, New Jersey in town for the convention.

“Who’s that?” Henry asked, breathlessly.

“I have no idea,” the bartender said.

“She’s beautiful,” Henry said, staring.

“Yeah and defiantly out of your league,” the bartender said.

“Hey,” Henry said, nearly squalling.

“Look dude, I see it all the time. Pretty girl comes in, she soaks you for some drinks, plays with your head, and then she goes to powder her nose. Save yourself the heartache. Save your wife the heartache too.” He said.

“How do you know I’m married?” He asked.

“You may have taken the ring off, but you’ve still got the mark from it on your hand. I see it, she’ll see it.”

Howard glared at him.

“Hey, fine, whatever man. I’m just trying to save you some grief.”

“Whatever,” Henry said, and ordered another double scotch.

The bartender brought it to him, and then chided himself. He certainly killed Henry’s tip, but he wanted a crack at the redhead for himself. Softly, he slid a napkin in front of her, and gave her his winning smile.

“What can I get for you, miss?” He inquired.

She smiled at him, with well-formed, crimson lips that shined softly.

“Traditional Martini,” She said her voice throaty and breathy. She looked him straight in the eyes and batted her long, thick eyelashes at him.

“Coming right up,” He said, smiling back.

Yes indeed, tonight would be his lucky night. He could keep her going with drinks, maybe get off early, and take her home. It was a Thursday and only a couple of the regulars were in. They wouldn’t care if he closed about ten. He could get her back to his studio and peel that little black dress right off.

He juggled the bottles with a flourish and rolled the Martini Mixer in his hands, giving her a spectacular performance. He knew she was watching her, out of the corner of his eye, they always did.

Henry the insurance salesman glared at the performance.

The Martini was delivered to her with nary a drop spilled and she smiled by turning up the corner of one of her lips. Her left hand was in her lap and she sipped softly at it, holding the bowl of the glass in her perfectly chiseled acrylic nails.

He hovered over her for just that extra amount time to make sure that she was enjoying her drink.

She looked at him sexily as the mixture of alcohols entered her mouth. She sipped petitely and made a soft slurping noise as the glass pulled away from her lips.

“Is that okay?” He asked in his home-down, folksy manner.

“Just fine, sugar,” she replied, again in the breathy tone.

He smiled back at her, thinking to himself that yes indeed, that he was going to get lucky. He wandered back to Henry who had nearly finished the scotch.

Henry just beckoned his fingers at him and pointed to the scotch.

“’Nother double?” He asked, with a smug look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Henry said. He tried to straighten out his rumpled shirt and squared his tie some. The bartender brought him scotch and a bowl of popcorn as a consolation prize.

Henry the insurance man grunted at him, and muttered something, drinking at the scotch.

“What’s that, Henry old boy?” The Bartender said.

“Send her a drink,” He said.

The bartender snickered and said, “Hey it’s your nickel.”

With no flourish, no razzle, nor dazzle, he presented her the second drink saying, “It’s from that guy down there.”

She arched a brow at him, and then looked in the bar mirror to try to say who she was talking about.

“You mean the guy by the entrance, next to the pool table?” She asked.

“No, the guy down the end of the bar.” She tilted her head and saw a man standing at the bar’s rail waiting to be served.

“Him? In the blue shirt?” She whispered.

“No, farther down. The insurance salesman.” The bartender said flatly.

Her mouth opened partially, to make the letter, ‘o’. The bartender shivered slightly, imagining those lips wrapped around his cock.

She tilted her head a bit more, to meet Henry’s eyes.

Henry would be the first one to admit, he was nothing special. He was middle aged, had sold insurance for all of his professional life, alternated between having a horseshoe and shaving himself bald. His wife had to pick out his clothing and match it, for he was helpless when it came to colors and cloth. His kids always gave him ties and cologne for Father’s Day and Christmas, as he was incapable of purchasing these things for himself.

Yet, he had a certain charm he would like to think.

She looked at the bartender, and bit on those beautiful red pouty lips.

“I suppose I should send him something back, huh?” She looked at him with her cool, emerald eyes.

“Well I wouldn’t. You’d only encourage him.”

“Do you know his name?” She asked.

“His name is Henry; he’s an insurance salesman from Jersey in town on a convention.”

She looked at the bartender, clearly curious.

“Hey, I’m the bartender, people tell me stuff,” he said.

“Hm,” she grunted softly.

“Yeah well, I tried to warn him. Didn’t want you to break his heart and all that.” He said.

She eyed him in a friendly manner and replied, “Well be nice to him then. Don’t need to be mean.”

“Miss, I’m serious, this guy will be all over you.”

“Well let him cool for a bit, then.” She said.

When the bartender turned to serve the man in the middle, it blocked Henry’s view of the Crimson-haired goddess, but it made no difference, her delicate white face was etched into his memory forever.

For her part, the redhead swiftly consumed the remainder of her first martini and started to work on the one Henry had sent her. When the bartender moved, he could see this, and smiled. He beckoned the bartender over.

“See?” He said.

“Look dude, I’m here to tell you this is just not cool.”

“Who are you to say, huh bud? I’ll make you a little bet.” Henry said, full of himself, the scotch putting him in a proud, defiant mode.

Henry pulled out his wallet and folded a crisp, new fifty-dollar bill on the counter.

“Fifty bucks says that I’ll put her panties on the bar.” He said.

The bartender looked at him coolly.

“You’re serious.”

“There it is. Fifty bucks. You’ve got that running around in tips, I know.” Henry said. His fat forehead was sweating, and the bartender could see he was getting a bit riled up.

“Alright Henry, you’re on. I’m closing at ten-thirty, sharp.” He pulled out a shot glass, peeled a fifty out of his own wallet, jammed it and Henry’s into it, and tucked it under the bar just out of reach.

Henry offered his sweaty, beefy hand.

The bartender shook it.

The crimson haired goddess went to the bathroom, came back, and found a third drink. The bartender explained it was yet again from Henry.

She looked at the bartender, “well I just can’t ignore that. Send him something. What does he drink?”

“Scotch,” He said.

She made a face and said, “Paint thinner. Send him one anyway.”

Henry smiled as the liquid courage flowed his way. He lifted the drink to give her a cheer from a distance.

The bartender frowned at him.

“Look, Henry, she’s just trying to be nice,” he said.

“Yeah, and I appreciate it. In fact, I think I’ll go and have a little chat.”

With that, he picked up his rumpled coat, laid it over his arm, grabbed his drink, nearly spilling it, and headed her way. He clambered onto the barstool next to her, and offered his hand:

“Hi, miss. I’m Henry Peterson.”

“Well Henry Peterson, I’m Michele.” She replied at him, cool, yet polite.

The bartender wondered if he could get Henry drunk enough to make a fool of him and still make himself out to be the hero. Yes, indeed, that was the ticket. Nothing like being the hero.

He brought them another round.

Henry thanked him, and she looked at the pile of glasses and put her hand up, cutting herself off.

“So Henry, what brings you to the Rose City?” She asked.

“Insurance convention,” he said. He launched into a long, utterly boring, and completely trite discussion about term versus whole life.

She listened politely and nodded at appropriate points.

The bartender took it all and then thought to himself that this would be the easiest fifty bucks he ever made and he’d get laid to boot. It was a good life.

As Henry talked, mostly about New Jersey winters and the traffic on the turnpike, one of the restaurant servers came in bearing a platter of hot food and laid it in front of another patron.

Henry’s stomach grumbled and he suggested he buy dinner.

“Oh, no, Henry, I wouldn’t want to impose upon you,” she said, loud enough for the Bartender to hear.

Henry insisted and had menus brought. They migrated to a corner table, and she got giddy half way through the third martini.

The bartender watched them both, growling. Fortunately, the bet was for her panties to get onto the bar, not for him to get her into his room. Over dessert, he softly started to rub at her hand with his pudgy fingers and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Henry made his move.

He whispered softly into her ear.

She turned crimson, to match her hair and nearly shrieked with laughter. At this point, the bartender had realized he wasn’t the one that was getting laid.

He watched her squirm as Henry discreetly tickled at her hips, and her breasts jiggled invitingly.

She leaned over, kissed him on the nose, and scooted down to the ladies’ powder room.

Henry smirked at the bartender.

And waited.

The bartender was the one smirking at Henry, and then was shocked as she returned. She had touched up her hair, and went from being the giggle girl, to the crimson-haired goddess that yet again turned the head of every man when she came through the doorway.

She walked seductively, purposefully, with intent, desire, and hunger to Henry.

She slid into the booth and pushed the side of her bosom against him.

Henry whispered something into her ear, and then she nodded, giggling softly.

The bartender could not believe this.

Henry fished for his room card-key and walked up to the bar and said, “I’d like to pay please.”

He flashed the black satin panties she had peeled off in the restroom.

“Damn,” The bartender said, and slipped him the fifties.

Henry and Michelle made their way into the exterior glass elevator. Michele was more than slightly drunk, and felt the salesman’s shaking, beefy fingers on her petite ass. He knelt down, had her bend over slightly, and reached up with his mouth.

Softly, Henry’s dexterous tongue began to probe her needful folds. She wasn’t overly wet, but certainly produced the pheromones that drove his lust farther.

He lapped at her from behind, even softly nuzzling her tart ass, and when the bell rung, both squirmed to upright, decent positions as someone else entered the car.

Henry got her to her room and she smirked at him with a sly, knowing look.

Henry did not bother to turn the lights on, and once she’d crossed the threshold, closed, locked, and bolted the door. He picked her up bodily which made her giggle even more.

Tenderly he laid her on the bed, and lifted up the dress, her pubic hair neatly trimmed into an inviting triangle.

His hot breath along was enough to make her squirm, and he took his sweet time, softly kissing her inner thighs on both sides, before running his tongue up the length of her blood engorged mons.

She gasped as the tip of his tongue met with the side of her clitoral hood, gently lapping at it, and causing her to go from squirming to moaning.

With her juices flowing freely, his tongue became more insistent and flicked deeply into her wetness. She writhed and began to gasp.

Like a hunter and its prey, he knew that she was close and he stood, and unbuckled his belt.

His stiff, uncut phallus poked out from his middle-aged tummy, seven inches of uncircumcised manhood that he teasingly rubbed against her labia.

She wiggled her butt against the bed and he loomed over her, the head of his tool softly pressing against her clit. With little care, he slipped the straps form her shoulders and exposed her creamy white breasts with their perky sharp nipples.

Henry mounted her grabbing both nipples at once, thrusting in her in a single, powerful shove of his manhood.

Her head arched back against her bed as best it could and her breasts pressed into his fingers as if they had a life of their own. She pressed back against him with her hidden muscles, feeling his tool invade her.

He pumped solidly, his sweat permeating the room, mixing with her musk and creating the scent of mating throughout the room.

They fucked hard, her clawed fingers digging into the comforters, his balls slapping at her ass. His hands twisted her nipples and her ankles locked behind his back.

She writhed, she moaned and Michelle climaxed powerfully, screaming like a wild animal.

Henry was no better, for the throbbing of her thick vaginal muscles finished him off, and his semen fired a huge, thick load into her wanting body.

She gasped for air, and looked at him dreamily.

He smiled and rested for a few moments, and then softly filled her over, unzipped her, and stripped her nude. He then discarded his own clothing, and pulled the comforter and sheets back for her.

She kissed him on the cheek.

He grabbed at the nightstand for his wedding ring.

“I’d better not loose this,” he said, “My wife would kill me.”

She looked up at him, her breasts inviting him for round two.

“You’re right,” she replied. “I would.”

fiction > sci-fi > The scarlet letter M

2006-10-12T10:29:00.000-07:00

"The Scarlet Letter M"

Thursday, June 12th, 2053. 14.25

Harriet Tubman Middle School, special education division, room 065

Harville, Iowa

Charlie’s lip trembled, as often it did when he was nervous. He tapped his right foot and squirmed uncomfortably in the undersized desk. He had only one day of school left before summer, and he didn’t want to be here. The seventh grade wasn’t an easy place for anyone, and Charlie wasn’t just anyone. At thirteen years of age, and six feet six inches tall, weighing over two-hundred and seventy pounds, Charlie didn’t think he fit in anywhere, especially in the public school system.

Charlie’s seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Newman eyed her six charges critically. Charlie sat to her far right, for he was the least of her worries. To Charlie’s left was his best friend, Ken Palmer, who sat at mock attention, idly watching the video playing on the wall panel. The four other children displayed a more than a passing interest in the animated film. Charlie had seen this particular feature at least a dozen or more times, and he and Ken had been quietly blue toothing each other via their pda’s.

Mrs. Newman’s desk terminal monitor had intercepted these transmissions of course, but as it was nearly the end of school, she let it slide. Not that she wouldn’t have anyway, for Charlie and Ken were the only two children in her class that were capable of communicating with one another. By forcing them to use their pda’s to communicate, she achieved two goals that were high on her list.

The first one was to help develop Ken’s hand-eye coordination. Ken had a mild case of cerebral palsy that mostly affected his inner ear and cerebrum, he couldn’t walk well, and generally used a wheelchair. Despite this, he was a very gregarious, outgoing child who had not one ounce of fear in him.

The second, and far more difficult task was to break Charlie McComber out of his shell. At the beginning of the year, Charlie hated being a mutant, hated being different, hated being over six feet tall and hated just about everything and anything around him but recess and physical education. He resented being stuck into a special education class when he was reading at the senior grade level, and was intelligent to understand the underlying bigotry that he was going through. By the end of the year, he’d made a friend.

They had just passed a very less than politically correct joke between the two of them, and while she did ponder jumping down Ken’s throat, the smile on Charlie’s face kept her away from that action. Ken had started to giggle almost uncontrollably, and Charlie was looking around suspiciously to see if anyone had figured out that Ken had just let out a fart that was wafting through air at the speed of teen.

Mrs. Newman opened her mouth to give a minor admonishment when she noticed an indicator on her terminal begin to flash at her. It was a message from Vice-principal Carlson. Mrs. Newman swallowed and wondered what she wanted.

She read and re-read the message a couple of times and then spoke, “Charlie, could you please come here.”

Just loud enough for Charlie to hear, Ken said softly, “busted.”

Charlie’s eyes bugged out of his skull. He looked astonished, and frowned. “I didn’t do nothing,” he muttered and slid his undersized chair back, making a screeching noise. He lumbered forward, his eyes toward the ground.

Mrs. Newman cleared her throat. She spoke in a clear, quiet tone, one that she wanted to keep from the rest of the classroom.

“Charlie, Mrs. Carlson would like to speak with you.” She said.

His eyes looked at her fleetingly.

“Oh. Umm.”

“I don’t know why. Do you know why?” She asked him.

“No ma’am. I haven’t got into a fight with anybody or nothing, honest.”

She nodded, she believed him. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Carlson would like to speak with you.”

“Yes ma’am.” He said.

Charlie trudged toward the door, stealing a look to Ken. It was a loose shrug, the shrug of someone in trouble, and worst yet, having o idea what the trouble was about. Just as Charlie was about ready to pass through the door, Mrs. Newman had no choice but to remind him to take his hall pass, a large red Frisbee which had the letter, ‘M’ stamped on it. He looked ashamed as he went out the door and down the hall, taking a left, out of the portable and down the ramp. From there, along the outside of the school, and into a side hallway. As the hall pass that had an RFI id chip in it, none of the automated hall monitors stopped him. He trudged, rather than walked, his oversized hands trying to cover the “M” in case someone should see him.

One at the office, he stood at the desk until one of the human secretaries turned to him.

“Um, ma’am, I’m here to see Mrs. Carlson. My name is Charlie McComber.”

She looked at him coolly, “have a seat, Mister McComber.”

Charlie took one of the seats against the wall, and waited. And waited.

Arva Carlson sat at her desk, looking at Charlie through one of the many cameras mounted in the ceiling. She pulled up his personal profiled, and, more importantly, she pulled up the request of his mother for alternative education. She realized that Charlie’s mutation, Homo Mutatus var Strongaria made him an obvious target. In reading over Mrs. Newman’s reports, she had to balance this with her suggestion that Charlie not go to alternative education, that he be mainstreamed. Such things, of course, were out of the question in this day and age, but Mrs. Newman was an old school teacher. It didn’t take her long to reach her choice, all the while Charlie sat outside and stewed.

After twenty minutes or so, she tapped at her panel, sending an indication to the front secretary who then spoke to Charlie.

“Mrs. Carlson will see you now, Mister McComber.”

Charlie swallowed as she pointed to the door with the Vice-Principle’s name on it.

He stood, gingerly opened the door, ducked his head low through the doorway and looked at her half in, and half out of the door.

Mrs. Carlson looked at him and nodded, she gestured to a chair, “Mister McComber, do have a seat. This won’t take long.”

“Yes ma’am,” Charlie replied.

“I’ve been looking over a request regarding you on my desk, and I have to weigh some difficult decisions about your future in our public school system.”

“I didn’t get into no fight, honest, I didn’t!” Charlie gasped, his heart rate elevating.

“I know. I also know your reading, math and comprehension skills are all well above the special education classroom you’ve been placed into. Yet, when you’re placed into a standardized classroom, your peers ignore you, or bully you. Clearly, Charlie, that’s not a healthy place for you, either.”

Charlie blinked his eyes a few times, processing that. She continued.

“Your mother, on the other hand, has just finished up enough supplemental education so that she can receive her assistant’s license. She and I have been working out the details about her working as an extension of Gigopolis U.”

“You mean like a home school?” Charlie asked.

“Not exactly. More like a long-distance learning. Your mom would be available locally in order to answer questions and give you direct instruction, but you’d be under direct daily supervision from the University. I’ve been told they have an excellent mutant rural outreach group there.” Mrs. Carlson replied.

“Well, yeah, that’s what my ma told me. She said when I got old enough that I could probably go to school there without any problem.”

“Look at it this way, Charlie. You don’t have any more worries, you don’t have to get up, come here on the transport, get picked on, get into fights or worry about fitting through doorways.”

“So you’re like, throwing me out of school?” He asked.

“Look at it like a transfer. Next September, when you start your education again, it will be via the internet, not in a brick-and-mortar school.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Just try to not get into any fights between today and tomorrow, okay?” She said, smiling at him.

“I won’t ma’am. I haven’t fought any for like since before Thanksgiving. Mrs. Newman says I been doing real good.”

“Yes, you have, Charlie. Good luck in your new school.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Charlie said.

Charlie stood, stooped through the doorway and went back to his classroom, Frisbee in hand, taking the same cautious route that he had before. Sullenly, he returned to his seat.

Mrs. Newman eyed him and tapped a message to him from her desk. The movie still played, and school would let out in all of fifteen minutes.

“Are you okay, Charlie.”

He shrugged at her, by way of reply. Ken too, was worried.

“Dude, what happened,” he whispered.

“I ain’t coming back,” Charlie said. His lower lip quivered.

Ken’s eyebrow arched. “They kicked you out?”

“Well she didn’t say that,” Charlie said, speaking loud enough for the classroom to hear. It didn’t make any difference any more. “I got to take internet classes now.”

Mrs. Newman closed her eyes and shook her head softly. Charlie watched her, his teen eyes soaking in every emotion. He knew she was displeased, so he also knew that she either didn’t want this to happen or had somehow tried to fight it. He knew then that she was really on his side, and not just telling him crap to shut him up. He wished he’d believed her sooner, but now, it was too late.

“So like, um, tomorrow is it?” Ken said.

“I won’t come tomorrow, man. What’s the point?”

Ken’s eyes got big, and despite the teen’s confidence his voice trembled, “dude, man, that’s not cool, just show up for the last day, okay?”

“I’m a fucking mutie, Ken. I’ll always be a mutie. They can always rebuild your legs and spine man, but there’s nothing they can do for a mutie. Fucking nothing, man.”

The bell run, Charlie picked up his knapsack and walked out on a heel. As a last parting shot, he slammed his fist into his desk and cracked the lexan top. His face was a mask of something between anger and tears. He boarded the, ‘short’ bus, reserved for special education students with physical needs. He was only able to sit in the far back, and used a special harness for safety. The journey took just under an hour.

He trudged up the road to his house, knowing there would be no one home, which suited him fine. He went into the back barn and turned up his music very, loud and cried. He hated being a mutant.

Zine Review - Music Comics #4

2006-10-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

Music Comics #4

Matt Levin strikes again, this time with a simple rainy day in this rubber-stamped bit of sheet music. His quiet folk style shines in this particular edition, with a tenderness that forces one to hold still for a moment and nestle into the arms of those that care for us. Tastes like: A creme soda. Seventy-five cents plus postage.

fiction > two year debt

2006-10-07T12:01:00.000-07:00

“Two Year Debt” By Caroline Tigeress

Gayle sat on the tattered couch, buffing her sharp
nails in the seedy one bedroom brownstone apartment with Tasha, her three-year-old
daughter. Their tiny living room was scattered with few toys, and the walls
had brown paper sacks taped to the walls for the little one to draw on.
The apartment reflected two things: love, and poverty. They had the space
for a little over two years now, and Gayle went to school taking twenty-two
credit hours a semester, with little Tasha being watched by a neighbor's
teenage daughter.

In the late sweltering days of September,
the only relief was a box fan drawing hot air out of the room, creating
a minor draft. The fan was half-way falling out the window, threatening
to crash on the fire escape below.

Tasha was dressed in a sundress and her mother
in a matching one. Each dress had uneven stitches with a few puckers here
and there, as Gayle's amateur sewing skills would allow. The fabric, purchased
at the local Goodwill as a mill end for ninety-nine cents a yard, the patterns
Gayle downloaded from the internet during a visit to the college library.
Gayle was teaching Tasha how to sew, passing the knowledge from mother
to daughter like parents and children had done for many generations before
them. It gave them some purpose together, a way to bond, an excuse to hold,
cuddle, and learn from each other. They would talk about what sorts of
things they wanted to sew next, about dresses and skirts, and blouses and
things that girls and their mothers spoke of.

Gayle looked across the room to a hanging
calendar, which had a picture of big bird holding the letter S on it, and
today's day highlighted. She knew it would not take Sam long to find her,
despite being in jail for the last two years.

Sam was a vicious individual who lifted weights,
was quick, agile, and everything in life had to be Sam's way or no way.
Gayle had enough two years ago, and fled to this seedy apartment after
going to the cops and explained everything to them, clutching the infant
Tasha in her arms.

She testified in closed-circuit camera, but
having no way to escape the poverty of the city, the best she could do
was move a few blocks, and try to know a few years of peace. Peace she
knew would be shattered in the days to come.

One last afternoon, she thought. One quiet
afternoon with Tasha, of bouncing the little one on her knee, snuggling
her nose, and making her sock puppets talk. She had so hoped to graduate
nursing school before Sam got out, but the chemistry was very hard, and
she had to repeat the class twice before she was able to memorize some
of the formulas she was required to know.

Gayle had never considered herself a bright
woman, by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew that the only way
to her dreams, her goals in life would be to get a higher level of income
than she had now. Welfare, she had heard more than once, was a ticket to
nowhere, and once she became determined, once she had broken through her
fear, not only did she leave Sam, but also she put herself on the road
to happiness. She began to believe in herself and the woman she wanted
to be.

As the evening drew on, and the shadows became
longer, the din of the busy street that ran outside of her apartment started
to die down. Tasha yawned a few times, and Gayle made sure she ate a few
slices of apple, and bites of carrot. Gayle's stomach churned a bit, as
she knew the top ramen she would make later for herself would not fill
her belly that much, but she always made sure Tasha ate fresh fruits and
vegetables.

Tasha was falling asleep as Gayle bathed her,
and barely kept her eyes open for the first few verses of, A. A. Milne's,
'Winnie-the-pooh'. Tasha stroked her daughter's hair, and then, even in
the stifling heat, walked over, closed, and locked the window. She left
the room, leaving on Pooh's glow-in-the-dark face night light plugged into
the floor outlet by the door.

She went into the bathroom, closed the door,
and pulled off her sundress. She looked at herself critically in the mirror
behind the door. Her breasts were small, jutting things that could barely
fill a small sport bra, but her stomach was nice and flat. She turned on
tepid water, slipped off her ratty panties, and put them and the dress
in the hamper.

The shower felt good, but she could not shake
the feeling that something was wrong, something bad was going to happen.
Her mother, when she was still alive, always honored her women's intuition,
and Gayle was not sure if she could have women's intuition or not, but
she still had a bad feeling. Quickly, she dried, wrapped the towel under
her armpits, and then started to brush her teeth.

The single bare bulb in the bathroom dimmed
as the power company fought the blackout. When people came home to turn
on air-conditioners, personal computers, and the myriad of other toys that
modern America runs on, it became too much, and the dimness yielded to
complete and utter darkness.

Gayle shivered, not from the water droplets
still on her shoulder and the dampness in her hair. She was nyctophobic
to a certain degree and immediately opened the bathroom door to try to
glean what little light she could from the windows of the front room.

The darkness offered no comfort and she padded
into the hallway, her bare feet against the cheap carpet caused her to
quiver a touch. She fought her fear only long enough to make sure that
the door to Tasha's room remained closed and felt her way to the kitchen,
keeping her hand clutched to the knot in her towel.

She rummaged in cupboards and in the utility
drawer; she finally found a small penlight, and a battered AM radio. In
the dim light of the flash she fiddled with radio, and found it dead. She
slipped off the back, and in the dim view of the penlight, she realized
that it took the smaller 'AA' batteries, just like the light.

Her heart began to pound and a choice presented
itself, to have either light, or information. The calming voice of a newscast,
and possibly music for comfort was a strong foe to have against the darkness.
Stronger, in her mind, than the rapidly fading penlight.

She clicked the light off, and began to unscrew
the back hen she heard a soft thudding noise, coming from the living area.

Her eyes dilated as she moved slightly, peeking
around the corner. She couldn't see much, there was only minimal illumination
from the stars outside. She had the 'AA' batteries in one hand and then
a hand reached out from beside the hall and slapped her face.

Gayle shrieked.

"Cunt." Sam said.

"Suh-suh-Sam," she stuttered.

The massive form of Sam was like an eclipse
of what little starlight that filtered through. She could see only the
outline of Sam's short, butch hair, her huge muscular arms, and her pendulous
breasts. Sam was a mountain of a woman, more than capable of doing damage
to anyone, male, or female that happened to get into her way.

"Well bitch, I'm here. Where's my little girl?
I told you I'd come back for her!"

Gayle's face went white, and she stuttered
in her frail voice, "She's not here."

"Liar," Gayle said, and backhanded her, sending
her tumbling to the floor. Sam landed atop her kneeing her in the solar
plexus pushing air out of her lungs, and causing her to gasp for breath.

Sam felt the knot of the ragged towel at Gayle's
front and pulled it open, baring Gayle's breasts to her on the linoleum.

"Well cunt, did you get it done yet? Hm? Did
you have your little snippy snip?" Sam teased.

Gayle quivered as Sam's gloved hand pulled
hard at her nipples and then moved down her ribcage, following the dip
of her tummy, onto her shaven pubis. With a hard pull, one that made Gayle
wince, Sam twisted the remnant of Gayle's manhood, a diminutive penis.

"Guess not. It's a shame, I was looking forward
to fisting your snatch," Sam said.

Gayle caught her breath and clocked Sam right
in the stomach, but the big woman shrugged it off.

"You always did punch like a girl, even when
you were Gaylord. I never knew what I saw in you, you pathetic weak ass
little bitch," Sam replied, her gloved hand slapping Gayle's face, causing
her nose to bleed and her left eye to blacken.

Gayle's hands went to her face, and then lay
there, as Sam rained blows on her. Her punches were strong, powerful things
that battered Gayle's face, splitting her lip and now swelling both eyes,
she could barely see and Sam sat back on her again. Sam's final indignity
to her former husband was to spit on her.

"Now I'm gonna go take Tasha, and raise her
right."

Gayle's blood ran cold, and she shivered,
screaming, "NO!"

Sam laughed, "what makes you ever think that
you could be a mother, much less a woman, you fucking little freak."

Gayle's tears started to flow as Sam laughed
harder, pressing her body into Gayle's, pushing the air out of her lungs.
Gayle's arms flailed, and by accident, she smacked one of Sam's breasts,
which caused her some momentary pain. Another fist rewarded this, one to
Gayle's jaw, causing a tooth to come loose.

Something in Gayle's mind gave way, as she
realized she was facing loosing her daughter. She also realized she was
fighting Sam as if she was a man. She believed in herself, and her femininity.
Then she remembered something someone had once told her. She balled her
fists back and punched Sam square in the breast causing the big woman to
howl in pain, and shudder.

"Bitch! I'll kill you for that," Sam hissed,
and reared back with a cocked fist

Gayle followed up with her left fist, another
punch to the breast, causing Sam to loose her momentum. Over, and over
her punches flew, no longer in fear, her adrenaline and endorphins fueled
her courage. She raked Sam's face with her sharp nails, digging into the
flesh, gouging at an eye, tearing at the big woman's nose.

Sam grabbed at her face pulling to one side
as Gayle squirmed free and then pressed her attack, clawing at her with
all the force she could muster, scratching at her neck, tearing at Sam's
shirt, and raking at her arms, and shoulders. She kneed Sam into her chest
and grabbed at both of her huge nipples simultaneously, causing the enormous
woman to squall banshee like a banshee.

"You're nothing but a bully, Sam. A weak,
bully who has to pick on people smaller than you are." Gayle said. Her
voice had become quiet, and the darkness that she once feared was now her
strongest ally. She backed from the kitchen.

Sam's breathing was ragged, her blood dripped
in small spatters on the kitchen floor. Gayle waited for her in the living
area, and heard Sam reach in the drawers. Gayle's
heart pounded harder, knowing Sam wanted to kill her for making her bleed.
She forced herself to remain calm, and stood in front of the window, her
silhouette like a piece of bait.

"Well, Sam," she called with a breathy voice,
"I'm right here. You take me out, and there won't be anything standing
in your way from Tasha."

"Damn straight," Sam said, and charged from
the kitchen, the butcher knife rose, catching a glint from the stars in
the night sky.

Gayle waited until she heard the footsteps
tromped closer, followed by the yelp as Sam tripped on the box fan that
Gayle had set flat in front of her. That was all the warning Gayle needed
to merely step aside.

Sam crashed into the window, her face shattering
the cheap glass, blood spattering everywhere, as it sliced her jugular
like a hot knife through butter. The butcher knife swung aimlessly, managing
only to give Gayle a minor gash in her right thigh.

The crash, however, managed to waken little
Tasha and she cried out at the top of her lungs, "mommy!"

Gayle slipped past the body and into the hallway,
easing the door open.

"Momma, it's the boogey man!" She screamed.

Gayle responded quietly, without entering
into the room, just her calm, collected, levelheaded voice speaking to
Tasha as if she were the only little girl on the planet.

"Yes, honey, it was the boogey-man. Mommy
beat him up, though, so he won't be back again." Gayle said.

Tasha's eyes were as wide as saucer plates.

"Momma beat up the boogey-man?"

"Yes, Tasha." Gayle said. The power came on,
and her Winnie-the-Pooh night light came back on. "You see? The boogey-man's
gone because Pooh is here."

"COOL!" Tasha said excitedly.

"Now I want you to lie down for a few minutes.
I need to call a police officer so they can come take the boogey-man away.
Then mommy will come in and read you another story, okay?"

"The one about the heffalumps?" Tasha asked.

"I think we can do heffalumps," Gayle responded.
"Heffalumps are just fine with me."

Zine review - Solid Gould

2006-10-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

Zine review - Solid Gould

Suzy Greenberg’s initial entry into the perzine world gives us a good, solid read about Suzy’s life and loves, with a strong emphasis on her Judaism. I like her lists, her pet peeves are entertaining, and those all-so-inviting Dirty Little Secrets. I like how she names her cars, lists television shows, movies and boys all within a few short pages. The crying vegan was entertaining and gives us some insight into how a real person who leans toward the green lives and reacts in our meat-based culture. A good, solid gould perzine. Tastes like: peanut butter on toast. Two bucks plus postage.

Zine Review - Just that good 13

2006-10-05T14:57:00.001-07:00

Zine Review - Just that good 13

Zine Review - Just that good 13

Subtitled, “The place for friends issue”, Becca focuses this issue on the internet phenomenon we call myspace. Becca has gone and done herself a myspace survey, and a bit of history – she digs up the original myspace website, describing how Tom Anderson takes it from a file sharing website to the whirlwind it is today. She describes how there are many possibilities as to how myspace got to be so popular, and exactly how the media has been either glorifying it or vilifying it. (depending on if you’re watching fox news or 60 minutes…) She is clear in that people who have issues with myspace need to take some personal responsibility (who’d have thought it…) Becca rants nicely, and makes her point clear. The zine has a nice hunk of myspace profile reviews, some facts from her mini-survey and of course a link to her own myspace account. Good work, as usual. Tastes like: smarties. Two bucks plus postage.

Fiction - Erotica - F/F - "Violet's Tit" Chapter 06

2006-10-05T14:57:00.000-07:00

Chapter Six: Recovery

Trin did not like being bedridden. She detested being waited upon, and she sure as hell hated the compression stockings affixed to her thighs. Since she got home from the hospital, she would doze all day with Violet, and then allow herself to be dressed. Together they walked outside for a set number of blocks, and then returned home. Violet had installed an air-conditioner into their room despite her own discomfort.

Trin was withdrawn. She did not do much, mostly nodding and spoke few words. Violet and James catered to her, which she resented. Woofer lay on the bed at his mistress's feet unless they were walking. It was evening, and Trin watched Violet as she was getting dressed, and beckoned toward her with her left hand.

Violet came over, thinking Trin might need help going to the bathroom.

Trin reached out both hands, bear hugged her, and rolled, pinning Violet under her.

Violet gasped and looked in shock.

Trin's rumbling voice spoke:

"Do you still love me?"

"Of course!" Violet gasped, astonished.

Softly Trin's mouth brushed Violet's lips, the tip of her tongue licked at her teeth.

"I need affection," Trin said.

Violet wrapped her arms around Trin and they rubbed noses. Trin relaxed and Violet took advantage of it. She flipped Trin's massive body over, and then stood. She closed the bedroom door, and tapped at the newly installed slide lock. Trin's eyes watched her as she peeled off the top, and she stood before Trin in her tattered sports bra and scrub bottoms.

"You haven't touched me since my stroke," Trin said.

"I'm sorry. You scared me," Violet said.

"I scared you? I'll be back to normal in a week, the doctor said so."

"Trin, this is a lot more about one stroke. This is about your life. You're killing yourself."

"Boy you know how to talk romantic," Trin replied.

Violet sat at the end of the bed.

"I tell you this because I love you, and I want us to be together for the long run. I want to be able to go to many more prides."

Trin looked at her. She noticed Violet was wearing the bb chain with the rainbow rings. Trin reached out for her, and Violet nosed the outstretched fingers, chewing on them softly. Trin smiled, and took deep breaths. She scooted herself up on the bed, using her hands, sitting up and beckoned for Violet. She was wearing a white satiny nightdress that covered everything but was easy to maneuver in.

Violet crawled up on her and laid her head on Trinity's obese tummy.

Softly, Trin stroked her coarse, thick, brown hair.

Her fingers explored Violet's plain face, her angular, pert nose, the wells of her eyes, and those wonderful lips. Violet stayed very still, she understood Trinity needed to touch as much as she needed to be touched. While she was a nurse, in this setting she was in a difficult position, for Trinity was far more than a patient, she was her lover.

Trin's pudgy, strong hands, felt the wellspring of tension in the based of her neck, and dug the base of her thumbs into the neck, rubbing in circles. Violet shivered and not from the air-conditioning.

Trin spread her legs, causing Violet to squeal in surprise as she sank into Trin's crotch. Trin leaned Violet back, and put her mouth to the nape of her neck. Tenderly she sucked, tasting salt from her skin. She pulled back for a moment, and licked her lips.

"I really need a shower," Violet said.

"Yes, you do," Trin whispered and licked at her ear lobe drawing it into her mouth. Her seeking tongue flicked the lobe. Trin felt Violet quiver as the hot air from the big woman's mouth roll over her ear canal.

Violet couldn't take any more, and flipped on top of Trin. Her mouth sought Trin's wanting tongue, sucking it into her oral cavity. Trin's hands yanked at Violet's sport bra, growling hungrily. Violet not to be undone, rubbed her breasts into Trin’s face, teasing her.

Trin purred happily, as her mouth caught one of Vi's jutting teats, sucking the nipple in up to the aureole. Hungrily she chewed, mouthed, slobbered and tried to drink from Violet's Tit. Violet shivered with ecstasy, grinding her upper torso into Trin's face, fucking her face with her breasts.

Trin grabbed at the string of her scrubs, untying it, pulling at the elastic of her panties. She wanted Violet's bush in her face, needed to feel useful, and needed to feel wanted despite her invalid state.

Violet lifted back, and wriggled out of the bleach-stained scrubs and her tattered undergarments. Her black mass of pubic hair caught Trin's eyes, and she stared at Violet's thick, ruddy lips as if they were steak tartare.

Violet growled with need, climbing onto Trin, regardless of injury, and forced her unwashed, odiferous mons into Trin's nose. Trin didn't bat an eye, and teased Violet by using the tip of her tongue to roll around Violet's clit, sucking softly, drawing the hood with her lips. She locked her lips onto Violet's clit itself, feeling the soft, silky, nerve-encrusted pearl of her womanhood.

Violet churred like a big cat, pumping at Trin's chubby face, rocking the bed against the wall, slamming Trin's body mercilessly. Trin could care less, and slipped three fingers into Violet's soft, sloppy wetness using her knuckles to stimulate Violet's lips.

Violet pulled back, and then grabbed at Trin's head, forcing her nose into her unclean nether regions, rolling her slit vertically, grinding her juices into her lips. Trin licked at her snatch, driving her tongue into the musky smell of the dominant woman. Her tongue reached in deeply, her nose often brushing against her clit, as Violet used Trin as a fuck toy, humping her face madly.

Trin took one of her slick, woman stained fingers and dilated Violet's butt with it, causing her to shriek.

"Cunt," Violet growled.

Trin responded by latching her lips onto Violet's clit, sucking, flickering and making an obscene series of noises. Violet pressed harder, nearly suffocating Trin, and let off a long, shivering convulsion of pleasure as she climaxed, flooding Trin with her skank.

Trin drank it all in, until she couldn't breathe any more, having to pull back to get a breath of fresh air. She went back in just as quickly, and licked at Violet's unwashed crotch like a starved woman.

Violet relaxed back on her haunches after a few moments.

"Slut," she said.

"Bite me," Trin replied.

Violet’s mouth violated Trin’s neck that had only recently healed up, causing Trin to scream in pain. When she pulled back, her face was the mask of domination that Trinity craved.

She pulled up Trin's nightdress, baring her pale, pink quivering flesh, leaving only the thigh-high compression stockings. Over her head it went, and she jammed her knees into Trin's pits, forcing her arms up.

Violet fussed with the dress a moment, then tied Trin's hands together, and then to the wooden backboard. Trin's eyes lit up, as she understood she was bound, and she wiggled her legs in defiance.

"Oh don't you think so, bitch. I have a few words to say to you.”

She slipped down to Trin's smooth, beaver, her mons purple. Coldly, she reaches to the side and grabbed the fleshy part of Trin's ass, flipping her to one side. Trin's eyes widened as she saw the arc of her open palm, with no warning, the pain of the spanking came.

SMACK

"This is for exhausting yourself."

SMACK

"This is for making James and I wait for your sorry ass in the hospital."

SMACK

"This is for not taking care of yourself."

SMACK

"This is for not knowing you're still loved, you fucking cunt," She raged. Her tears poured down her cheeks.

Trinity was in shock. She felt on a primal, deep level.

Violet flipped her back on her back, and removed each compression stocking.

She tied them to Trin's ankles, and then to the bedposts.

Trin was crying from the pain of the spanking, her emotions poured out of her. She blubbered and bawled.

Violet went into a plastic bag, and pulled out Trin's flogger.

"Oh yes. I found this. I also read those books, Trinity. I know what you want."

Trinity quivered when she saw it.

Softly Violet dragged the leather over Trin's face and danced it over her nipples. She gave a soft, nonviolent stroke and stimulated both simultaneously.

"Do you want this, Trinity? Do you?"

Trinity nodded.

"You have to earn it. You just don't get it."

Trinity's face blubbered, her voice croaking with tears, "h-how?"

"Once a week, I will send James to run errands. For every mile you have walked during that week, I will smack your beautiful fat ass. You control it, Trinity. You want a spanking, god dammit, you'll get it."

Neatly she flipped the flogger in her hand, its leather knob she rubbed against Trin's nose.

Trin quivered.

"Lick it."

Trin licked. Softly her tongue reached out for the sweet taste of the cowhide and she suckled on it as if it were a huge, sheathed cock. Violet teased her, and then pulled it away, enjoying Trin's bondage, her desire to serve. She had never known anyone so devoted. She got an evil idea, and rubbed the knot of it at Trin's spread mound. Trin hissed, for the knot of the flogger was huge, easily the size of a lemon. Violet rubbed her lover's cunt with it, grinding it until the dilation was great enough to just barely take it.

"What do you want, Trinity?"

"Please," Trin begged.

"Please what?" Violet smiled cattily

"Please ma'am, please." Trin gutturally begged.

The flogger struck again, across both nipples.

The handle this time went into Trin, as Violet's tongue flickered at the big woman's clit, her lips drawing its thick hood and nub against her teeth. The handle pumped into Trin fucking her rudely, screwing her more than any man had ever considered.

Trin did not take long, and she did not squeak when she climaxed.

She roared.

Her bound body raised itself out of the bed, her strong abdominals lifting Violet's head up. The flogger popped out of her body with a soft, slick, sucking sound.

She breathed heavily, gasping for air.

Violet looked down at her partner, smiling.

Trin grinned at her.

Violet made her lick the flogger off, and then she hung it off the doorknob in their bedroom.

"Next Friday. One per mile."

Trin nodded, and snuggled under Violet's arm needfully.

Violet kissed her fine, sweat-scented hair and whispered, "I love you."

Trin turned, noses her softly and said, "I love you too. Ma'am."

Zine Review:Beat Motel #5

2006-10-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Beat Motel #5

A very cool newsprint British zine, Beat Motel has a little bit of everything for everyone on it. This issue spreads the gamut from classic punk goodliness to an inserted Dilbert cartoon. Layout is both chaotic and easy to read, giving the eye lots to pick and choose from. I particularly favored Steve DIY’s column, “Giving it to you straight” which is subtitled, “The Horrors of Guantanamo” a fact based treatise on the horrors of the American military system from the British perspective. “A Celebration of Blokeyness” and “HelpDesk” are incredibly funny, as is “Conversation with my friends’ belligerent cat”. Zine reviews, distro lists, lots and lots of band interviews and a huge heap of cd reviews. This is one of the most solid punk zines that I’ve seen, it’s fat and thick for a mere three bucks. Tastes like: Fish & Chips. Three bucks plus postage, and a damn good deal.

Fiction - Erotica - F/F - "Violet's Tit" Chapter 05

2006-10-04T08:56:00.000-07:00

Violet's Tit:A Novella of Lesbian Erotica

Chapter Five: Pride goeth before the fall

The Phoenix Saturday Market was located just off one side of downtown,
several pedestrian-only blocks cordoned off for a huge array of craftspeople
and artisans. Trin and Woofer spent the morning meandering around
them, alone. Violet had yet again declined to come, and after she
explained to James where she was going after the market, he wanted nothing
to do with it.

She glared at him whenever he used terms like, 'queer', 'fagot' and
'gay' in a derogatory manner. She tried not to flare at him, tried
not to rage at him, and yet, she wanted to. She wanted nothing more
than to smack the shit out of him. She had asked him what he would
do if someone called his mom a Dyke.

It stopped him in his tracks.

He had shut down on her, emotionally, and took him a while warm back
up. They had talked about trying to respect other people. Violet
had watched the conversation, and did not interfere. Trin had gone
from her coarse, tone to a warm, motherly speaking voice. She had
been confused how Trin could do this, but she did it nonetheless.

Woofer sniffed the air as a sausage vendor came into smelling range,
and she wound up the leash tight. Dogs were allowed in the open-air
market and she made sure that he had done his business before they left.

She tapped at her breast and looked at him when he pounced up on
her.

"Woofer wants a snack?" She asked hopefully.

Woofer responded by licking her square on the lips. She smiled
and then led him over to the small booth.

"Two sausages, one on a stick, one on a bun," she ordered.

He looked at her, and then at Woofer.

"He's on low-carb," she explained.

The guy taking the order looked at her and then as the joke set in,
laughed. Woofer woofed. Trin lathered hers in hot mustard,
relish and onions, taking plenty of napkins and sat on a bench against
a building. Before even unwrapping hers, she tore his into very small
pieces and set them in the napkin.

She had barely gotten two bites of hers down when he stuck his big
Irish Setter nose on her lap.

"Oh come on," she said.

His soft brown eyes layered with the beautiful dark eyelashes blinked
at her. She chewed four inches away from his muzzle. He couldn't
stand it, and licked at her face, his tongue hitting the mustard and a
bit of chopped onion stuck to the side of her face. The hot mustard
hit his sinuses and he sneezed, then looked at her coldly

"Serves you right, mutt," She said.

Happily, she devoured the hot dog and sipped at a soda. She
held the cup for him as he drank a twenty ounce cup of ice water sloppily,
spattering her without care. She scratched his ears and told him
he was a goofy mutt. He licked her on the face with the chilled tongue.

"Yuck. You brush your teeth as much as the teenager does."

Woofer woofed.

"Yeah, yeah. Com'on, let's go putter around."

Trin went from booth to booth in the market, and found all sorts
of interesting items. Glass knick-knacks, leather wallets, copper
rings, silver necklaces with stone inlays. She bought some interesting
polymer clay beads that caught her eye and some hand blown glass beads
for Violet. Beads had always been an interest to both of them, back
when they all lived in Portland, Oregon, they would often drive to Long
Beach, Washington and buy beads at the coastal shops.

Trin thought about this, and realized she missed the beach a lot.
There was something wonderful about the cool, crisp ocean air. Already
at ten-thirty, it was getting hot, and unpleasant. She wasn't looking
forward to it, and had come early to try to get back about one or two.

Still the shiny beads caught her eye. Woofer, on the other
paw was unamused. He lay down on her feet as she poked through the white
plastic trays and thumped his tail as the shopkeeper scratched him on the
ears. n Trin ended up plunking a good forty dollars down for them and was
happy.

Woofer looked up at her as if to say, "it's about damn time."

Trin, of course had to stop a mere three booths down to look at the
stickers, and selected a small assortment, including two that were triangular
with a bird motif in blue, black and white. Woofer tried to ignore
her as much as possible as she looked at a doggie shirt that read, 'I'm
proud of my gay mommy.'

Trin decided against it, and then circled the block to find the actual
opening to the Pride gathering proper. It was in a long park, cordoned
off. Donations were being accepted, and Trin dropped a fiver into
the box as she walked past.

Woofer snuffled at passers-by, and was happy when Trin stopped for
a burger. Without the spicy mustard, he managed to mooch a good half
of it easy, and attempted to look contrite when she called him a 'greedy
gut.'

Trin passed by and got her annual pride purchase, a set of rainbow
rings. She had four sets so far, and had them around a BB chain that
she wore infrequently, with a dog tag that read, ‘Trinity’ in the middle.
She thought for a moment, and got a set for Violet too. On impulse,
she got a key chain for James that said, “My mom's a Dyke. Bite me.”

Trin's next stop was the Basic Rights Project, a group that she always
liked seeing out at events. She got the usual bright blue and yellow
sticker and made a donation. She passed by the local queer newsie,
“The Lavender Network” and picked up the current copy. As she walked,
she laughed aloud, reading her favorite stripe, 'Dykes to Watch out for'.

Past these were another food stop, a soda for her, and water for
him. She passed a button booth and bought a handful to stick on her
bulletin board. One lapel, she pinned a button that said, "Meandering
to a Different Drummer." On the left she put, "I am in shape. ROUND
is a shape." The rest she'd pin up in her office, although favored
on in particular which read, "war is just terrorism with a bigger budget."

Trin ambled down along the group, seeing large displays from Hewlett
Packard and other queer-friendly corporations, and noticed the Log Cabin
Republican booth were empty. They were across from the Libertarians
and the two booth vendors would glare at each other as the crowds swarmed
to the Lavender Donkey booth.

She took handouts from a variety of vendors, and stopped to peruse
a women's book booth, acquiring a copy of Pat Califa's, "Macho Sluts".
She had felt that Doc & Fluff wasn't really Califa's best work, and
was hoping that even when she became Patrick Califa he would still produce
good porn.

The selling girl piped up, "I got to move, so I'm selling it all."

"Oh," Trin inquired, "where to?"

"Portland," she replied.

Trin smiled, "I'm from Portland. One stop at Powell's and you'll
have all these back and more."

"Powell's City of Books, right?"

"Yup. Off of Burnside. One of my favorite places to go."
Trin said. It had been a couple of years now since she'd been there,
and she longed to smell it again.

The girl grinned, "that place is the bomb."

"You bet, and across the street is Rocco's pizza. Serious sliceage,"
Trin declared.

"I'll have to give it a try," the girl replied.

Trin stuffed the book into one of her goodie bags she'd acquired
and then moved inward more, seeing a women's leather playgroup.

She ogled a selection of floggers, one in leather and one with rubber
strands. The smell of the rubber one attracted Trin to no end, and
she ran it through her fingers.

The woman running the stand was tall, wearing a leather corset, leather
chaps, and a leather bikini bottom. She watched Trin intently.
She watched as Trin's nostrils flared as Trin ran the leather flogger through
her fingers. She saw Trin's long skirt shimmer ever so softly as
Trin slapped it against her open palm. Trin was lost in her own little
world, feeling the wide, flat strips, imagining what they would feel like
as they grazed her back, her buttocks.

The tall woman spoke, "you should come play with us."

Trin's head snapped as if someone had smacked her.

The tall woman rose, her cool, soft brown eyes looked down at her.

Trin shivered ever so softly, and then proffered a card.

'The Women of Phoenix,' the card read. It had only a telephone
number.

"We meet at private homes. Ladies only. Discreet, civil
play."

Trin swallowed the saliva in her mouth.

"Once a month, under the full moon we have a night session."

"I'd love to," Trin's mouth betrayed her. "I'm not sure my
partner is ready."

"That's okay. We play safe, sane and consensual. Sex,
no sex, whatever you like. Personally, I have an affinity for ponies."

She pointed to an 8 x 10 glossy photo of a woman who had some sort
of hoof-like shoes on her feet and her hands were covered with gloves that
mimicked a horse's hoof. She was nude, other than some sort of headdress
where her hair was manipulated not unlike a mane, and a tail somehow affixed
into her rump.

Trin gasped.

"We also have a kitty player, if you like. It's my understanding
she's very partial to heavy cream, and has an incredible tongue."

Trin's eyes widened.

Woofer nosed his way between the two women and stuck his muzzle at
Trin's hand.

"No zoo play, however." She said.

"That's okay, Woofer and I have a private life." Trin said, not missing
a beat.

The woman smiled.

"Come see us. Bring your girl. We have a potluck on Sundays,
first of every month. Be a nice little social outing."

Trin nodded.

"I'll talk to her. No promises."

"Under stood. I have to admit, I have a thing for larger women.
I like the way they jiggle when the crop strikes."

Trin shivered again.

"Like that." The woman said.

Trin mustered her courage and asked, "how much is the leather flogger."

"One-fifty. For you, one twenty-five."

Trin took it from the wall, held out her left arm, and gave herself
five lashes. Her arm had a slight pink tinge on it.

"One hundred," Trin offered.

"If you show up, I get to work you myself," she challenged.

"Deal." Trin said, her mouth again betraying her.

The woman proffered Trin a plastic case and Trin fished out a crisp,
new c-note.

"What's your name, hun?"

"Trinity," Trin said.

"I'm Hannah. I'm one of the doms."

"Like that's a surprise," Trin retorted.

Hannah replied silkily, "little girls with smart mouths get them
shut."

"I'm not across your lap, yet. Sir." Trin regarnered her courage.

"You'll be with us. I know this, Trinity."

Trin backed up a step, and then replied, "only if she agrees.
I could never betray her."

Hannah dropped the dominatrix mode. "Perfectly understandable.
Seriously, just come have Sunday brunch with us. It would be fun,
get your girl used to the folks."

"Thank you, Hannah. She's still new to everything. I'll
talk to her."

"Is she here?" Hannah gestured toward the crowd.

"No, we've been together just over a month. I'm her first woman,
we're just coming to terms."

"That's cool. Hopefully we'll see you around, Trinity."

"Thanks Hannah."

Trin's heart beat a bit quicker as she walked past.

There were other displays of bondage items, but nothing like the
friendly, sultry Hannah. Trin bought some silk scarves from an artist,
priced a stockade. The flogger lay in her bag. Some art prints
were layered on it, and a couple of pro-queer bumper stickers.

The heat was bearing down on her and Woofer, and Trin sat under a
tree, drinking yet another soda, and having gotten thirty-two ounce water
for Woofer. She rubbed his ears as he drank, and rested, getting
ready to make the break to the car. She'd left it in an underground
garage six blocks away. That was a momentous walk for her.

"You both look a little flustered," a voice spoke.

Trin turned.

Violet stood there in a pair of cutoffs and a t-shirt.

"Vi?" She gasped.

Violet sat next to her.

"It's after two, Trin. I was getting worried."

"Vi I'm quite capable of getting around."

"I know that. I was... concerned. You haven't been able
to move well as of late."

"I just take it slower and easier. I'm okay."

"Where's James?" Trin looked about.

"Back at the Saturday Market. He's mad at me right now."

Trin cocked her eyebrow.

"I had told him earlier in the week that I wouldn't be going.
We had a long talk about it."

"So why did you? It's not like I need a fucking escort."

"I needed to see it," Violet said. "I wanted to see what it
was about."

"I got stuff for you," Trin said, putting the bb chain with the rainbow
rings around her neck.

Violet looked at it.

"The colors represent diversity of different kinds. We're all
one people. Also got some cool buttons."

Violet seemed pleased and leaned over to Trinity.

Trin reached her lips up for a kiss.

Violet was scared, but nuzzled Trin. She was unused to public
displays of affection.

Trin wrapped her hands around her and pulled her down.

Violet scolded, "TRINITY!" In a hushed voice.

"What?" Trin grinned at her and nuzzled her.

"Not out here!"

"I can't hug my girlfriend in public?" She said, quietly.

Violet relented and lay upon Trin's comfortable corpulence.

She felt both comfortable, and uncomfortable. She felt safe
because of Trinity, but also scared. She wasn't ready to be out,
and yet, a part of her brought her here.

Trin's eyes glazed; through her dark glasses, she felt the waves
of heat, the tiredness. She smelt the perfume that was Violet's soft
hair, the comfort that was her wonderful body. For the briefest of
moments, she dozed.

"Trin? Trin?" She heard a voice call her.

Her head moved softly, slowly.

She felt her body become warm, and wet as she contemplated licking
Violet into pleasure.

The darkness fell over Trinity's consciousness as the heatstroke
took her.

Violet screamed when she realized Trinity would not wake.

Zine Review, Word Salad #3

2006-10-03T08:14:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Word Salad #3

Three time’s the charm? Is it possible that Word Salad could get better? Comyn’s done it again. From his lead article, “Boxes Boundaries and Bullshit: A reckless deconstruction of public mental health system culture” Comyn takes the mental health system to task. What is as powerful, however are the follow up articles, Mademoiselle Marie’s, “The Salve of Sisterhood,” Joe Randall’s, “Adventures in antidepressants” and Beth Sholtis’s “A Life”. At least a half-dozen articles follow, each from real live human beings who have been through the system and survived, Word Salad #3 continues on its way to deliver the truth about the strengths and inadequacies of the mental health care existence. Tastes like: Word Salad. Two bucks plus postage, worth twice as much for half the content.

Fiction - Erotica - F/F - "Violet's Tit" Chapter 04

2006-10-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

Chapter 4: Out and About

Trin drove confidently in the Arizona traffic. The sky was
overcast, highly unusual for mid-June. Violet was in the passenger
seat and clinging to the dashboard for dear life. During the half-hour
trip from their northern suburban duplex to downtown, Trin had cut off
six people, flipped off two of them and narrowly avoided being smacked
by a bus. Violet did not care for Trin's driving and often closed
her eyes.

Parking in the underground complex twenty minutes before her weekly
appointment with Nancy, Trin extricated herself from the passenger's side
of her battered old nova and lit a cigarette. Violet raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you quit?” She poked.

“I have one pack a month, I just make it last,” Trin said, while
holding the smoke in her lungs. The Indonesian Clove Cigarettes gave
off an odd, spicy smell.

“You don't have to work tonight, right?” Trin said, desperate to
change the subject.

“Nope,” Violet replied.

Trin smiled her catty smile.

“What are you up to?” Violet asked.

“Me?” Trin asked, putting her manicured hand to her chest.

“You,” Violet said flatly, putting her hands on her hips.

“Oh, I thought we might go out after you met Nancy. I found
this cool little place to hang out. James can watch after himself
for the afternoon.”

“Okay,” Violet said. She hefted a Steven King novel and they
headed for the elevator.

Nancy was waiting for them at the reception desk and she smiled as
she was introduced. Violet felt somewhat uncomfortable, for she did
not like therapists, and was thankful that Trin did not insist she go back.

“So there she is, my woman,” Trin said happily.

Nancy smiled and was happy for Trin as she babbled along for quite
some time about this and that, mostly about their ever widening sex life.

“And then,” Trin said with a huff, “the kid found out.”

“James, her son,” Nancy affirmed.

“Yeah, he wigged out, ran off for a few hours. I was going
to go hunt his butt down, but she damn near tied me down. She put
me on my knees for crying' out loud,” She bellowed.

“You're complaining, why?” Nancy shot at her.

“I didn't say I was complaining,” Trin said. “I'm not used
to it. There's a lot of stim coming from her in a lot of ways, and
when James ran, well I felt it was fucked.”

“But he came back,” Nancy pointed out.

Trin nodded.

“We talked a lot, laid down some ground rules. We're going
to be cleaning up the house a lot, and Vi and I are going to move into
the back bedroom. Get a big bed and be a couple.”

“Did you ask her to Pride?” Nancy's eyes flashed.

“Yeah we talked about it. She says she's not quite there yet.
I think maybe she's somewhat just settling into the whole lesbian thing.
I'm going to go, but just for the t-shirts.” She said, smiling.

Nancy nodded, half a loaf was better than none.

“So do you feel comfortable with the relationship?” She asked.

“Yeah, real good. I mean it's still in the early stages, we'll
need to roughen out some edges. Heck, that's what you have to do
with any relationship,” Trin replied.

Nancy nodded.

“So how would you like to delve a little deeper into your psychology?”
She asked.

“Um, how do you mean?”

“I'd like to introduce into your care plan some discussions about
your addiction.”

“I don't smoke that much,” Trin protested.

“I'm not talking about cigarettes,” Nancy pierced. “I'm talking
about food.”

Trin's face went stone cold.

“What?” She gasped.

“You my friend use food like others use pot, alcohol or meth,” Nancy
stated.

Trin's mouth went dry.

“What did you tell me you were going to do after you left today?”
Nancy asked.

“Take Vi out for lunch, and we're going to go out to this spa place
I know.”

“When did you have breakfast?” Nancy inquired.

Trin looked at the clock. Twenty minutes into the session.
Damn.

She replied, “I had two, Bagels at eight, and Vi about ten, but I
just teased her.”

Nancy avoided Trin's attempt to change the subject.

“Are you hungry?”

Trin swallowed.

Nancy waited patiently.

“No,” Trin concluded.

“So why are you eating, then,” Nancy asked softly. She sensed
Trin's fear.

“I, uh, don't know. It's lunchtime. I'm taking her out,
it's our one-month anniversary for Christ's sake,” she defended herself.

“Has Violet ever said anything about your weight?”

“No,” Trin stammered.

Nancy pinned her.

“Did Ravi?”

Trin's tears fell. She shivered, and could only nod in the
affirmative. She lowered her face to her hands and sobbed her long,
gasping sobs. She took in long, gasping lung fulls of air, trying
to be able to speak.

“This is a big deal for you, huh?”

Trin nodded.

“They used to pick on me, in school. All the time,” she voiced.

“So you just ate more. You ate to hide from your rapes, and
you ate to curtail the pain from Ravi's death.”

Trin nodded as the tear factory started up again.

“Trin,” she called.

Trin returned to her deep breathing, to try to be able to reconcile
herself.

“Are you in pain now?”

“Normal aches and pains. Hips, knees, back. Crap like
that,” Trin admitted.

“Do you think any of that might go away if you were packing a bit
less weight?”

Trin shrugged.

“I guess,” she admitted.

“I'll make you a little deal,” Nancy said.

“I'm going to cut you loose a little early so you can go diddle Vi.
In return you're going to track what you eat, a food journal, so to speak.”

Trin would have signed a deal with the devil to get out of that room.

“Every fucking crumb,” Nancy looked into Trin's eyes.

Trin nodded.

Nancy picked up her scheduler and looked at Trin.

“Same time next week, right,” Nancy asked, pencil in hand.

“Noon, Wednesday,” Trin affirmed.

Nancy smiled at her cattily and said, “have a good time.”

Trin managed only the weakest of retorts with a simple, “Fuck you.”

Nancy smiled her sweet smile and replied, “That's fuck you, ma'am.”

Trin gave her a half-grin, all she could muster. It let Nancy
know Trin wasn't actually upset.

Violet saw Trin amble down the hallway toward the waiting room, her
eyes red and puffy.

Trin handed her the keys.

“You're driving,” she said.

“I'm driving? This from the woman who picks on my navigational
skills.”

Trin glared at her with the redlined rims.

“Please,” she gasped.

Violet grabbed her hand and let her into the elevator.

“What happened in there?” She demanded.

“Put me through the fucking meat grinder. She'll do that ever
so often.” Trin got her cigarettes out in the elevator, and lit one
the very second the doors opened. She inhaled and exhaled, getting
hits of nicotine down as quickly as she could. In the time it took
for them to walk to the elevator to her Nova, a good quarter of the clove
had been consumed. Trin walked to the driver's side.

“Am I driving, or what?” Violet said, in a playful manner.

Trin reached out for the keys.

Violet smiled, “Good, I hate city traffic anyway.”

Trin sat on the side of the car, and smoked the clove to about half
way. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the elevator open, and
Nancy stepped out, lighting a smoke of her own. The two women sized
each other up from a distance.

Trin offered the olive branch with a nod, and Nancy returned with
a half smile. Violet had already gotten into the car, and honked
the horn to speed Trin's fat ass up. Nancy stuck her tongue out at
Trin, and Trin flickered her tongue back at her. Nancy laughed, and
waved as Trin slumped into the Chevy and fired it to life. She glided
along the underground garage to the exit onto Main Street, and maneuvered
the Nova to a small row of Chinese stores and restaurants. Both she
and Vi loved Chinese food.

“All right!” Vi exclaimed happily.

“Now Vi,” Trin said after they had ordered. “I know you like
to be in control, but I'm going to ask that you trust me for the next couple
of hours.”

Violet looked at her.

“You are up to no good, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. On top of that, I've spent a good deal of money
to continue to be up to no good,” she said, laying it on thick.

“So what are we talking, here?”

“It's a surprise,” Trin said. “You wouldn't want me to spoil
it.”

“Sure I would,” Violet retorted.

Their soups were served, a delicate egg flower for Violet and a potent
sweet-and-sour hot spicy for Trin. She happily chewed on the Tofu.

“One thing,” Violet said, gesturing with the soupspoon. “No
tying me up.”

“No, nothing like that. It's a sweet sort of thing,” Trin added.

Violet sized her up.

“Trinity, sweet to you means you kiss the paddle before it hits your
ass.”

“Like you've ever used a paddle in your fucking life,” Trin retorted.

Violet had to admit she hadn't. Trin wondered if she could
smoke in there and then decided against it. She heard the sizzle
of a plate out of the corner of her ear. The two women sat back against
the booth as a huge platter of honey chicken was set down. It was
followed by a large platter of mushu pork, with a large bowl of rice.

Trin's eyes were glazed as the smells hit her nostrils, and she closed
her eyes for the barest of moments and gave thanks to the goddess for all
the things in her life, even the ones she didn't like. Trin felt
that all of her experiences made her a better person. She also gave
thanks to the animals’ lives that had been lost to supply her with this
meal. Violet in the meantime had dumped copious amounts of the honey
chicken on her plate, followed by rice. Trin had gotten a hold of
the MuShu Pork first and piled the cabbage-laden dish onto her plate.
She only took a couple of pieces of the chicken, for the deep fried foods
she didn't really care for.

“Mmmh,” Violet said. “This is fantastic.”

Trin nodded, the pungent, fiery pork rolled over her tongue and palette
and she was lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

“One of my favorite places,” Trin said. “You think this is
good, the Pad Thai place down the street, and they are as good, if not
fantastic.”

Violet raised an eyebrow.

“You eat out a lot, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Trin admitted. “Most every day.”

Violet nodded, nonjudgementally, and Trin was thankful for the topic
change.

“James got his schedule for next year. He made the tenth grade.”

“With three F's,” Trin said in disbelief.

“Got to love no child left behind.” Violet said.

Trin snorted, and had often compared both Bush presidencies to the
reign of Adolf Hitler.

“So is he going to get a job or something this summer?” Trin asked.

“He's fifteen,” Violet said. “Nobody will hire him. He's
got to have a work permit.”

Trin nodded, “I did a lot of baby sitting and stuff. Can't
he mow lawns or something?”

Violet conceded he could, and they plotted about things he might
be able to do. Trin pointed out James inherent tendency toward slothfulness.
Both women had seconds, although Trin's was again, huge. She ate
speedily, barely chewing as she listened to the current gossip at the nursing
home.

“I told them how James had run out. The other nurse says that
her oldest daughter doesn't have anything to do with her,” Violet said.

Trin nodded and then said, “I just don't think that will be our problem.”

Violet shook her head in the negative, “You've always been part of
our family, from when you moved in before.”

“Although,” Trin pointed a fork at her, “He took a look at those
bruises and was pretty impressed.”

Violet frowned at her.

“I thought you were covering those up.”

“You're the one that left the door open,” Trin said.

“It was late. Early. I was tired,” Violet protested.

“Tired enough to make me take off your clothing with my teeth,” Trin
noted.

“Will you be quiet!” Violet hissed, not entirely upset.

Trin leaned over, “My, my, someone's still in the closet.”

“Hey, be nice. I'm still new to this. It's only been,”
she thought, “a month.”

“A month to the day, exactly,” Trin said wolfishly.

Violet nodded her head, agreeing, and then leaned over, “And a happy
anniversary to you, too. Now where the hell are we going?”

Trin smiled smugly, “you'll find out.”

The fortune cookies arrived, the leftovers were boxed and Violet
carried the brown paper sack in the car. Trin peeled out of the parking
lot, and deliberately drove around in almost random directions for a good
twenty minutes.

“You're lost, aren't you? Just say it, you are lost,” Violet
said.

“Nope, I don't get lost,” Trin replied.

“Bullshit,” Violet said.

Trin swung wide, flipping a U-Turn across five lanes and then pulled
behind a Subway Sandwich shop.

“Be right back!” She said, leaving the car running.

Trin scooted around the corner, past the subway and entered into
the front lobby of, “Sam's Spahouse.”

The proprietor, an old grizzled Dyke who called herself Sam was waiting
at the counter.

“Back door's open, girl. You got four hours, I've got the sauna
all warmed up, and the candles are all lit.”

Trin smiled madly, “You're the best, Sam.”

“Anything in the name of romance,” Sam said, high-fiving her.

Trin forced herself to bypass the Subway and hopped into the driver's
side, pulling against some trees.

“Okay, Vi. This is where I really need your trust,” Trin said
to her, seriously.

Violet nodded. She could see Trin's intent in her eyes, and
could feel the fire in her heart.

“Come out of the car, and turn around, facing it.”

Violet did as she was asked, and Trin slipped a sleeping mask over
her eyes.

“Hey!” Violet objected.

“Just trust me, okay? If you don't like it, we'll leave immediately,
I promise.”

“Promise?” Violet stated.

“I give you my word,” and with that, led Violet by the elbow.

Sam opened up the back door, and held out a key for Trin. Trin
handed it to Violet, and led her down the suites all the way to the end.
She'd taken two additional commissions just to pay for the next four hours.

The scent of the room was the first thing Violet sensed.

It smelled like roses, a flower that Violet loved.

She breathed in deeply, and then heard the gurgle of water.

Trin closed the mirrored door behind them.

The room was small, about ten by ten, with a sunken hot tub and adjoining
sauna. It had heavy shag carpets and wonderful fluffy towels.
The room was illuminated by candlelight.

“Where are we?” Violet asked.

“Almost done,” Trin said.

She was hustling her clothing off and then instructed Violet, “kick
off your shoes.”

Violet giggled and felt the carpets, thick and lush.

“ooh!” She smiled.

“Arms up!” Trin said, smartly.

Trin picked up the hem of Violet's shirt, and peeled it and her camisole
off.

Trin could see the arousal of Violet's nipples.

“There better not be a crowd of people!” Violet exclaimed.

Trin drug her pants down to her ankles and had her step out.
Vi grabbed her for steadying, and realized that Trin had already become
nude.

“Okay, so where are we?”

Trin put her hand on the metal bar leading into the spa, and then
took off the mask.

Violet's jaw dropped.

“Private spa. Through that door is a Sauna, the hottest one
they have.”

She knew Violet loved a Sauna. Trin would only be able to take
a few minutes of it, but she could enjoy the tub.

“Aw, Trin!” She turned around and kissed Trin right on the lips.

Trin grinned like a Cheshire Cat, and helped Violet in. Trin
nearly slipped, and had to use the bar like a crutch, and half fell in,
laughing all the way. Violet could not help her self and let loose
a belly laugh. Trin was the eternal clown, and made fun of herself.

Violet came toward her as she got settled, moving gracefully in the
water, and grabbed at Trin's now wet hair. Their lips met, Violet
was hungry for her woman, and she nipped onto Trin's neck. The kiss
was not enough to mark, but enough to re-take charge. Trin lay back
happily, her arms stretched out against the tub, grasping onto the edge.
Violet trailed down her neck, putting her face into the water, and dipped
down, holding her breath, to chew on a nipple tenderly.

Trin had positioned herself behind onto a jet, and moaned as between
it and Violet she was getting it from both sides. Violet came up
for air, and as she did, Trin moved, a wicked smile upon her face.
Violet cleared the water from her eyes, to find Trin gone, behind her,
teeth sinking into her shoulder. She moaned, her knees bucked as
Trin's lips hit their mark. Trin slobbered her way up to Violet's
ear, a tried and true erogenous zone for Violet.

Violet felt Trin’s hand twist her nipples, and she used her hands
to float herself, leaning against Trin, writhing and moaning. Trin
guided her fingers into Vi's soft folds rubbing, while still sucking on
the earlobe. Her hot breath caused her Vi to quiver. She felt
some sort of seat, about knee level.

“Lean forward,” Trin instructed.

Violet put her knees on the bench, and Trin controlled her pelvis,
gyrating her against the edge of the water jet.

“Oh!” Violet moaned.

Trin frigged Violet as the thrusting pulse of the jet caught the
edge of her mons making Violet moan again. It was like having a dozen
warm throbbing tongues on her at once. She grunted ever so her hips
humping toward it. Trin guided once more, this time feeling the edge
of the water jet throbbing against her attention-starved clit. Her
hips moved involuntarily, humping the jet as Trin slipped under the water.
With one hand, she split Violet's butt apart, and licked her tiny rosebud
with her tongue.

Violet's eyes flared open, the tongue in her anal area a powerful
stimulant. She bucked, cried out and quivered. Trin's mouth
chewed her anal area tenderly, and it drove her to climax. Trin felt
the convulsion and stuck her tongue deeply into her ass, as far as it would
go, and felt Violet orgasm twice more, with smaller, lesser throes of ecstasy.
She then felt Violet's body sag, and she moved lest she be sat upon.
Violet had to move, for the stimulation was becoming painful and half tripped
on the rising Trin, moving to a quieter area of the tub.

Trin smiled at her.

Violet gave her a dazed, yet happy look. She petted her left
side, and Trin snuggled under her arm.

“That was...wild,” she gasped.

Trin smiled and kissed on the cheek. She was very aroused and
very horny, but also happy, and calm.

“Just think,” Trin said, “we've got this room for another four hours.”

Violet's mind turned that over and she leaned over onto, gotten her
second wind.

“Works for me,” she whispered, kissing Trin, and plotting further
how Trin could service her in the warm, humid environment.

Zine Review - Word Salad #2

2006-10-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - World Salad #2

I wasn’t sure it was possible, but Comyn delivers again, giving us a double-sized portion of the mental health care system from those who can talk about it the best, the people who have survived it. This issue was actually the first I bought before I carried it, and it has a permanent place in my collection. Beginning with, “Souviners of Childhood”, continuing on with, “Surviving Restraints” and “Ghost of Christmas Past” the works in this zine are without question some of the most powerful writing you’ll read in any periodical. I cannot say enough good things about this zine because the English language is not powerful enough to deliver the plethora of emotions you get when you experience this title. Tastes like: Word Salad. Two bucks plus postage, worth twice as much for half the content.

Fiction > The Redemption of Thomas McMann

2006-10-01T14:57:00.000-07:00

The Redemption of Thomas McMann.

4903 Words

Thomas McMann stood in the small cement room. A wooden bench,
affixed to one wall held two paper sacks, the sum total of the possessions
that he had on his person when he was arrested seven years ago. In
his left hand was a backpack, made from an old pair of jeans. It
had in it a few hand-written journal pages, and a couple of small momentos
from a fellow inmate of his. Beside the paper sacks was a plastic
bag, and it contained the clothing he wore when he arrived at the Oregon
State Prison.

One last time, he took off all his clothing in front of a guard,
and then put back on the black jeans and white t-shirt that was in the
plastic bag. Once dressed, the guard smiled.

“I don’t want to see your ass back here, Tom. You’re better
than this.”

Tom smiled, and nodded. “I don’t think you will. I’ve
done my time, paid my debt. I’ve got a few things I want to do, and
I’ve got a few more things I’ve got to work through.”

The guard, a stocky, powerful man proffered him a sheaf of paperwork.
Tom took it, and looked over his discharge papers.

“You’ll need to check in with your parole officer once you reach
the halfway house. I know you aren’t going to be on parole for very
long, but you know the drill.”

“I’m just thankful that there’s work in the area. Eugene’s
not a big town, but I’ve been told that the skills you guys gave me are
in demand.”

“We didn’t do anything, Tom. You worked hard, kept your nose
clean. Heck, I’ve had harder times sitting my six year old.”

Tom chucked.

“I made my mistake, I pled guilty. You have to stand up for
what you do even when it’s the wrong thing. I don’t claim to be innocent,
but I do claim to be honest, and to try to do the right thing.”

Officer Hiram Nelson put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“You’ll make us proud, Tom. I know it.” He turned toward the
closed-circuit camera in the room and then tilted his head toward the door
leading to the exit room. “Open out”

A series of hard, mechanical clicks followed, and Tom picked up the
paper sacks, the plastic bag and his backpack and walked out into the adjoining
room. No one waited for him. He was alone in this world.
Officer Nelson followed.

“You can leave when you like, the bus runs from out front in about
twenty minutes.” He handed Tom an envelope containing eight hundred
fifteen dollars, and a dozen bus tokens. The money Tom earned while
working in the prison construction program, at little over a dollar and
nineteen cents per day. The bus tokens were complementary.
Both men turned as a secondary door opened into the room.

Officer Nelson smiled, “Warden.”

Tom came to a semi-attention posture, when Warden Banks put her hand
down.

“Just wanted to say goodbye, Tom. You’ve done well here, and
it was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, however, let’s make it
coffee at Barnes & Nobles or something like that.”

Tom chuckled, “count on it, ma’am. No more forgery for me.”

Warden Banks smiled at him, her weathered face had seen many men
come and go, and she could tell those that would come back, and those who
would not. She would even put money on it with the other guards,
but not a single one of them would bet that Tom would be returning to prison
anytime soon.

There was silence as he put on his jacket, loaded everything into
his backpack and shouldered it. It was her turn to look at the camera.

“Inmate release.”

The clicking sound followed, and she opened the door for him.

Typical for Oregon in March, the cloud cover was thick in the mid-morning.
Tom walked out of the facility, toward the north a block and found the
bus stop. In mere minutes, he had gone from having to take his clothing
off in front of total strangers to complete freedom, and he realized that
it was going to take some getting used to.

The instructions on his sheet were clear, and he did not get lost
enroute to the halfway house. He checked in, was show his room, given
the rules, then called his parole officer, and made his initial appointment,
day after tomorrow. He sat on his bed, and thumbed through his cash.
A single tear ran down his left cheek, his throat trembled.

Carefully he took the entire sum of money, removed twenty dollars
and put it in his wallet. He walked outside, found the local Bank
of America, opened a savings account and put the rest in, getting a temporary
ATM card. He walked the streets of Eugene for a few minutes, just
being an ordinary person. He marveled at how he knew he was an ex-con,
but no one else did, and that gave him hope.

Walking away from the center of town, he did not realize he was going
closer and closer to some of the more residential areas, and stopped himself
when he saw a schoolyard crossing sign.

His heart began to beat harder, and his throat ran dry when he saw
the parochial school, St. Rose’s Academy. A cluster of children played
on the equipment, yelling, running, jumping. Immediately, he turned
away, his throat running dry. He closed his eyes.

Tom was a pedophile. He knew it. It was his deep, dark
secret. He had never actually had sex with a child, but he knew what
he was, what he liked. He knew it would be the wrong thing to do,
to molest a child, the way he had been molested. His hands trembled,
and he walked at a quick pace, back into the town proper, and into a Seven-Eleven.
The cold cherry Slurpee served to take the edge off his pumping heart,
although the sugar rush was intense to someone not used to it.

Tom vowed that he would now be able to get some help for this problem.
He knew better than to say anything to anyone in prison, but here, outside,
he could get help. Some counselor, some therapist, someone could
help, and he knew it. That kind of thinking kept him safe, kept him
sane. Now, anonymously, he could go get some help, and move on.

For today, however, he had his freedom, and that was something special.
He bought a newspaper, corn dogs, corn chips and a two liter of soda, and
took them back to his small room, with its’ comfortable bed, and relaxed
for the rest of the day.

From his room on the second floor, Tom watched people, which was
a hobby for him. He, like one of his great heroes, H.P. Lovecraft,
would watch people go back and forth, and would imagine the things they
did in their lives. Unlike Lovecraft, Tom did not consider himself
much of a writer, but from time to time would pen dark poetry. He
spied in the alleyway an interesting person, and jotted down some notes
for a short piece of fiction.

The man in the alley wore tattered jeans, a patched jean jacket,
was tall, and had dark olive skin and brown dreadlocks with a touch of
grey in their roots. His beard was neither long nor short, and through
his appearance alone it looked like he drifted at the fringe of society.
When he opened up the dumpster to the halfway house, Tom became concerned.
He had seen a lot on the news about identity theft, and knew that people
got a great deal of information through the trash. Tom thought some
more and then went downstairs to the kitchen.

Mrs. Anna Hartman, the halfway house’s owner stood against her sink,
her back toward the window, drinking a glass of water.

“Getting settled in, Tom?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah. Um, Mrs. Hartman, there’s some guy in the back rooting
through the dumpster.”

“Oh?” She said. She turned, and looked through the window.
“That’s just Jay.”

“Jay?” Tom asked.

She shrugged. “Some bum. I’ve seen him picking up cans
in the alley, and when he saw me take my garbage out one morning, he asked
if he could have the cans and bottles. I said to knock himself out,
I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Tom said.

“I shred the important stuff, but the cans and such, I figure are
fair game. Especially here in Oregon, you can get a nickel each.”

Tom nodded.

“He’s an alright guy, homeless I figure. He takes the cans,
puts everything back, doesn’t make a mess, asked first. Real polite.
I see him walking the streets from time to time with a big bag full of
cans. Heck, as far as I’m concerned, he’s doing us a service.”

“Oh,” Tom mouthed.

“So you’ve got your first PO appointment set tomorrow, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, you’re off to the right start.”

Tom smiled and nodded. He wanted to succeed at the rest of
his life.

* * *

Tom awoke with a start from the street noise early the next morning.
His eyes were fuzzy for just a second, unused to his surroundings.
Today was his first appointment with his parole officer, at nine o’clock.
He got out of bed, stretched, and then made the bed out of habit, if nothing
else. He felt weird, locking the bathroom door behind him, and realized
this was the first shower he had taken without someone watching him for
seven years. Having a sense of privacy was going to be an odd change.

Breakfast was a quickly consumed fast food meal, and he was grateful
for the strong, acidic coffee. The halfway house manager gave him
bus directions, and he made his exchanges without difficulty. At
eight forty-five he checked in with the receptionist, and at precisely
nine o’clock a neatly dressed man came down the hallway.

“Thomas McMann,” he called.

Tom stood, “right here.”

The man extended his right hand. “Henry Barker, I’ll be your
Parole Officer for the next six months. Come on back to my desk.”

Tom followed Henry back to a small cubicle, filled with bookshelves,
diplomas and stacks of charts. One of them was open on his desk,
with a picture of Tom, his police record and fingerprints. There
were also two letters on top.

“I see you’ve got your resume all figured out, that’s good.
I know that in prison you were on a few of the construction crews.
I also have two letters of reference from the warden and the teacher there.
I don’t see this kind of thing very often, so I’ll spare you the, ‘straight-and-narrow’
speech.”

Tom gave him a half smile. He had no idea about the letters
of reference.

“I have an interview lined up for you this morning; it’s with a construction
crew. Problem is right now they have too many people, so what they
might do is put you on a landscaping crew for now. It wouldn’t be
what you were trained for, and it won’t be as much money.”

“No problem.” Tom said. “If it’ll get me working, that’s all
I care.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Henry said. “Nothing like a go-to
attitude to get you hired.”

Henry picked up a manila envelope and put in photocopies of Tom’s
resume, and the letters of reference. To this he paper clipped two
business cards, one of his, and one for the job, and handed the entire
thing over to Tom.

“Most of his jobs are pretty local, you get dropped off and picked
up from their central business. Mostly commercial, some residential,
but they won’t have you doing that initially, I don’t think. Anyway,
good luck, and call me if you need anything. I’ll need to see you
again in two weeks.”

“Thanks Henry,” Tom said.

“You’re welcome.” Henry replied.

Tom left.

By noon that day, he had a job, and in a week he had come to earn
a slight bit of trust with his employer. He showed up on time, did
as he was told, and a little extra. He was on a lawn maintenance
crew and liked it. He enjoyed being outside, could care less if it
rained. Tom spoke enough Spanish to be able to understand a lot of
what the immigrant workers were saying, and was able to translate back
and forth to his immediate supervisor.

* * *

Over the course of a few months, he made friends with his co-workers,
his supervisor, and even the owner of the company.

Unlike many of the other former convicts, Tom had no tattoos, his
hair neatly combed back, and he could mingle in white-collar culture without
much difficulty. It was for this reason he was held back one day
from the normal construction crew, and asked to go into the main office.

“Tom, I’ve got a job I need to assign to someone I can trust, and
I think you’re that man.” Ricardo Mendez, the owner of the company said.

“Sure thing, Rick.” Tom replied.

“My daughter’s school has hired my company to do their landscaping,
but they need someone clean cut. I can’t put many of the ex-cons
on the crew because they look like hell. You don’t. This is
a one-man gig. Think of it like a permanent solo assignment.
You check in with me every couple of days.”

“Hey, I can do that,” Tom said happily.

“I thought you could. You keep this up, and the next time I
need a crew chief, I’m gonna be thinking about you real hard.”

Tom smiled. He felt proud of what he was able to do since his
release, and his life was looking up. Rick gave him the address and
told him to check in with Father Mulcahy this morning, and then report.
He scribbled the address to St. Rose’s Church on a post-it and handed it
over.

It was not until Tom got there, did he realize that the Church was
attached to the parochial school he had walked away from a few months earlier.

The children played there, innocently.

Tom’s heart pounded.

He closed his eyes.

Stalwartly, he walked past them, crossed the street to the Church
proper, and walked in. Tom wasn’t Catholic, and did not cross himself
as he entered. This subtle non-action drew attention from one of
the priests, a tall, thin man with Sandy graying hair.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“I’m looking for Father Mulcahy. My name is Thomas McMann.
Ricardo Mendez sent me over to do some landscaping.”

“I’m Father Mulcahy, welcome to my parish. Please, let us discuss
what needs to be done in my office.”

“Certainly, Father.” Tom said.

Over steaming mugs of hot coffee, the men poured over an elaborate
redecorating scheme. This particular design had come from a lot of
planning and would take many months of work to achieve the effect that
was sought over. With different layers of blooming flowers carefully
mixed with one another, it would be beautiful, a piece of living artwork.
Tom knew he could do it, and knew that it would be glorious when he was
finished.

“Ricardo usually employs ex-cons, so I was somewhat trepidatous to
hire his firm. May I inquire what your line of work was before you
came to work with him?”

“Prison, seven years. Forgery.” Tom said blankly. He
put it bluntly in such a manner, hoping that Father Mulcahy would simply
fire him before he was ever hired.

“Forgery?” The Priest said. “Nothing violent, then.”

“No. I’m not a violet person, by my nature.” He heard
a child squeal in the background and his hand softly trembled. He
had come so far. Maybe, just maybe this job could work out.
If he could suppress these urges here, then he wouldn’t need to see a counselor.
He’d made it this far, he reasoned.

“That’s good to my ears. I had enough violence in Korea to
last me a lifetime. As you won’t be around any financial matters,
I don’t think there will be an issue, but I will be honest in saying that
we will be keeping our eyes on you as a matter of habit. I’d ask
that you please keep your appearance as tidy as you can, with the children
around an all. Appearance is very important. Not like some
of the bums that are out there.”

Father Mulcahy gestured outside as Jay walked down the street, bearing
an enormous load of cans in a clear garbage bag. He waved at the
children who giggled and waved at him. He shook his long, floppy
dreadlocks in the sunshine, and his load of cans made an odd clanking noise
as he walked. The children squealed in delight, as two nuns glowered
at him.

“Jay’s all right. He does odd jobs at my halfway house.”

“You know him?”

“We’ve met once or twice. I know him by name, but I’ve never
had coffee with him or anything like that.”

Father Mulcahy nodded. “He asked me if he could dig in our
dumpster for cans, and I told him that digging in the garbage is a filthy
habit and that he should get a job and cut his hair. He laughed at
me, and said that he would take that as a ‘no’ answer. I’ve tried
to give him money and food since, but he refuses. Some people are
very difficult to help.”

“Father, the only help I want is a job. Ricardo Mendez gave
that to me. Maybe I can talk to Jay, if I see him around.”

Father Mulcahy smiled at him. “Excellent idea, Tom. So
when can you start work?”

“I have to go see Ricardo after we’re done talking; I’d like to take
these diagrams with me. I’ll need to walk off the footage to give
him some rough measurements of what kind of bulbs and seeds you’re going
to need.”

“Excellent, excellent. I won’t keep you then. If you
need anything, my door is always open.”

“Thank you father, but right now, I’d like to get to work.”

Tom left, returned to the office, and spent the rest of the morning
discussing the project with Ricardo. They estimated the different
types of plants needed.

“I think I’ll start over here,” Tom said, pointing to an area on
the opposite side of the church, the farthest point away from the playground.
“I can lay out some tarps tomorrow morning before you have the peat moss
delivered, that way we can set up a work space that’s out of the way.
Keep the whole project looking nice.”

“Great work, Tom. Why don’t you go get some lunch while I get
someone on these orders. Heck, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

Tom looked stunned.

“You mean it?”

“Go catch a movie or something. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow,
nine, I’ll have the trucks at the church, so be there at eight to get it
all laid out.”

“I’m on it, Ricardo,” he smiled.

* * *

The first three days of the project were very busy, Tom supervised
truckload upon truckload of materials to be delivered to a cordoned off
area of the parking lot. Once the materials were arrived, Tom carefully
began to cut the sod around the north end of the church. He learned
a walking route that took him four blocks out of his way, and deliberately
went around the playground area and school. He thought that he had
things under control.

One lunch, he sat on the concrete steps just outside the church,
eating a bologna sandwich and drinking a soda. He had made it a habit
to eat in this location, although it was in view of the playground.
He’d close his eyes from time to time, and the thoughts came. They
were nasty, vile demons, and he fought to retain control.

One girl, in particular he felt attracted to. He saw the distinctive
shadowing under her eyes, and knew she had downs syndrome, and was probably
an orphan of some kind. His mouth watered, and his hands trembled.
His sandwich finished, he stood up to go back to the dumpster to throw
the bag away, and get away from the temptation.

He flipped open the top, tossed the bag in, and then turned away,
thinking he could get to watch her in her little plaid green jumper for
just a few more minutes. He did not see Jay in the alleyway walking
toward the end of the street; Tom was lost in his own little world.

Carefully, Tom returned to his spot. His lower jaw trembled.
He came to an important conclusion, that this was not a good place for
him to be. No, this was a mistake. A bad, bad mistake.
He had to figure out a way around this, some sort of accident. Yes,
that would be it. A cut on his hand or something like that, just
to give himself some kind of breather.

Happy with this plan, Tom stood up and left the front of the church,
returning toward the back. He eyed the brickwork, and then smiled.
It would hurt, but it would be worth it – anything to get away from this
place, and these temptations.

He looked in the church’s windows, saw no one was in the offices,
gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward as hard as he could smashing
his face into the wall.

His jaw and face screamed in pain, and he bled from his nose.
He tripped and slammed his head right into the concrete curb, adding to
his self-injury. His skull made a sickening sound, and momentarily,
he lost consciousness.

Jay ran from the dumpster to him, and carefully rolled him into the
grass.

“Tom? Tom can you hear me?” He said.

“Ugh,” Tom replied. His front teeth were chipped and he felt
blood trickle into his mouth.

“Let’s get you into the bathroom buddy.”

Tom gagged on the mixture of blood and mucus forming at the back
of his mouth and spat it out on the grass.

“I think we need to call you an ambulance or something,” Jay said.
His voice was preternaturally calm.

“Uh, no, probably just to go home, lie down or something.” Tom said,
regaining his voice.

Jay helped him up, and had Tom use him as a brace, getting the two
of them into the men’s room. It was clear that Tom’s nose was broken,
and he was shivering.

“You really do need to see a doctor, Tom.” Jay said quietly.

“No, uh, gotta go home.” Tom said. He realized that this accident
did nothing for his feelings. Nothing at all. He realized his
injury did not put him off. Suddenly, he started to cry from years
of his emotions being pent up.

“Tom.” Jay said.

Tom blubbered.

“Tom I watched you from the dumpster. I watched you smash your
face into the wall. Why?”

“No, no.” Tom’s eyes became pinpoint pupils.

“I won’t tell anyone, Tom, but if you want me to help you, to get
you to a place of safety, to get you cleaned up, you’re gonna have to be
straight up with me.” Jay said. His soft brown eyes looked up from
the thick, round locks, and they comforted Tom like a father would his
young child.

“Don’t wanna… Hurt.” Tom said.

“You don’t want to hurt, or is there someone you don’t want to hurt.
I’ve seen you on those steps, watching those kids, Tom.”

Tom’s cry went from soft tears to a malicious choking sound as it
all poured out of him at once, gagging and gasping for air.

“Let it out, Tom. Let the pain out. It doesn’t do you
any good inside, does it? All cooped up in there, rattling in your
skull.”

Tom cried harder than he ever did at any time in his life.

He babbled on about how good the little girls looked to him, how
their skirts caught his eyes, and how he never, ever wanted to hurt any
of them, but he had these feelings, and had always had these feelings,
and he didn’t know what to do and now he was going to get fired, or go
back to prison, or something.

When he paused, exhausted, Jay spoke to him quietly:

“Okay Tom, now listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice,”
he spoke in a monotone and clasped Tom’s hands together, putting his own
around them. “I want you to imagine all those feelings you have are
right here. Right in your hands. Imagine a dark ball with all
of the evil, and all of the vileness you can possible create.”

Tom’s eyes widened as in his mind, a black river poured into his
palms. It gushed over both men, onto the floor, covering the tiles.

“That’s it,” Jay said. “Let it all out. Let it all go.
I’ll take it from you, okay? I’m good at this kind of thing.”

Tom nodded. At a certain point, the blackness in his mind ran
empty, and the last droplets of it, came out of him.

Jay waved his hand, and the black ooze of the floor jumped up at
his beck and command. Slowly, it all pooled into his hand, compressing
into a ball, like a fish tank of ink.

“Away we go,” Jay said. He poured the stygian blackness from
his hand to a urinal and flushed. Jay then washed his hands.

“Can we get you cleaned up now? I think the worst of it is
over, eh.” Jay said.

Father Mulcahy came into the bathroom, startling Tom.

“What’s going on here,” he demanded.

“He hit the brickwork, and then the curb,” Jay said.

“And you just happened to be standing there, helping him go down,
I imagine.” Father Mulcahy said.

“That’s a very unkind thing for a man of the cloth to be saying,
Father.” Jay said. “I think we should call an ambulance.”

“And the police. Assault is a serious matter, Jay, or whatever
your name is.”

“He didn’t do anything, I tripped.” Tom spoke up.

“Tom, you don’t have to defend him. He’s just a drug dealing
hippy.”

Jay bit his lips and took a deep breath, “Father, I won’t be going
anywhere, so please, let’s get him taken care of. Then if you wish
to verbally spar with me, we shall. First things, first, please.”

Father Mulcahy pulled out his cell phone and called 911. When
the ambulance arrived, Tom walked out to greet them and sat on the stretcher.
They had parked in front of the church, and the children stared at the
group of them, their fingers clung to the chain link fence. Jay never
left Tom’s side, and Father Mulcahy never allowed Jay to leave his sight.

Tom felt much better, and looked over at the kids staring at him.
He expected the tide of thoughts, the desires, the urges to come, but they
did not. He felt his breathing stay calm, felt his pulse not rise.
Some how, Jay had helped him through this. He turned to thank him,
and as he did, his peripheral vision caught the movement of a ball, rolling
from the play area to the street.

The little girl whom he had found so attractive as little as an hour
earlier ran after it. Instead of being sexually aroused at her he
had feelings of protection, wanting to defend her.

A car came careening down the street, at several times the speed
limit.

Tom leapt off the gurney, and into the street, where the child stood
frozen with fear, her eyes transfixed upon the driver who was talking on
her cell phone.

Jay was the only other person to act, and saw that Tom’s reaction
time was just a fraction of a second off, that while he would knock the
little girl out of the way easily; the speed of the car would strike him
square on. With a subtle motion of his hand, he caused Tom to trip
on an unseen object, in essence shoving him forward a few feet. Instead
of the car running square into him, it merely glanced. The little
girl cried once she hit the ground.

The police arrived and cited the driver. In the confusion,
Jay hefted his garbage bag full of cans, and headed out to redeem them.

The next day, Jay read the paper while having morning tea.
The headline was about an ex-convict who saved an orphan girl from a drunk
driver. He stopped by the half-way house on his way out of town,
knowing Tom wasn’t there, and asked Mrs. Hartman if she would be kind enough
to tell Tom that he had to leave, that the work that he needed to do here
was done, and it was time for him to move on. Mrs. Hartman said that
she would deliver the message, and that she was sorry to see Jay go.

“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” Jay said. “Too much
for one man, certainly, but it’s good to help when you can.”

Mrs., Hartman smiled at him, watched as he put on his tattered jean
jacket, hefted his backpack, and began to walk down toward the highway.

Zine Review - World Salad No 1

2006-09-30T12:53:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Word Salad No 1

Word Salad, subtitled, “A Journal of Mental Health Questions, New Directions and Insurrections” is a litzine compiled of personal interactions with the mental health care of people, either as caregivers or as persons who have been the recipients of such care. This zine is powerful, highly triggering, and incredibly engrossing. This first issue starts with a page from Natalie’s Journal, continues on with, “Doc’s Dead” then moves into “The Bobo Stories”. Each segment is powerful, and well written, and comes straight from the heart. The zine’s compiler, Comyn Henry contributes a few articles throughout, but lets the individual authors shine as distinct stars in the night. Brilliant concept, well executed. Tastes like: Word Salad. Two bucks plus postage, worth twice as much for half the content.

Fiction - Erotica - F/F - "Violet's Tit" Chapter 03

2006-09-28T20:33:00.000-07:00

Week Three: “Discovery”

On Sunday Morning Violet came home from her night shift job, she was tired, and irritated. She'd had to write up an aide and wasn't particularly happy about that.

As she came through the side door into the incredibly cluttered house, she dumped her large bag on the floor next to the sofa bed she slept on and stared at it. She'd remembered all the times in the last week she and Trin had spent exploring each other on it.

Trin had dubbed it the, 'couch of sucking' as it's iron fold-out body was always consuming various mattresses, pieces of bedding and cushions. Trin had a difficult time climbing on and off of it, and Violet and James both found that uproariously amusing.

She peeled off her scrub top and looked at the bed. It was lonely without Trin to cuddle against. She shrugged and slipped out of her scrub bottom and pondered taking a shower.

She quietly went down the hall in only a camisole and panties. Trin's room was in the corner, the door next to her dozing teenager. James would be out until one or two in the afternoon, undoubtedly having played video games until the break of dawn.

Trin on the other hand, might be awake. Violet smiled and thought perhaps a bit of morning fun might be in order. Slowly she eased open Trin's closed door. Woofer, her Irish Setter looked at her through a half lidded eye. He'd grown used to their tromping along and had stopped becoming excited by Thursday despite Trin's lewd moaning.

Trin was conked out cold, her body piled with blankets and the window wide open to the fresh air. Her bed was small, a child's daybed supported with cinder blocks so that it wouldn't break under her massive weight. She closed the door to a crack.

Violet sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, “Trin.”

Trin grunted.

“Co'mon, scoot over.”

Trin grunted again.

Violet laid over a bit trying to snuggle in.

Trin made a soft, 'rrring' noise in a questionable tone.

Violet kissed her on the ear.

Trin purred a bit and scooted herself against the bars of the white daybed, causing it to shake and jiggle. Violet took this as an act of consent and moved covers and sheets, exposing Trin's corpulent mass of flesh that passed for a body.

Trin shivered and muttered, “you're letting out all the warm air.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Violet said and crawled into the space. Trin's body radiated warmth, and Violet sought it out, stealing a pillow and folding it in half.

Trin grabbed the comforter and draped it over them, it was a queen size comforter, and for the two of them was a perfect fit. Trin grabbed her and pulled her tight. Violet smiled as the chubby arm reached up her shirt and she felt warm, and surrounded.

Trin growled in her ear, “what's with the clothes?”

Violet turned and kissed her, “hedonist.”

Trin half looked at her, “your point would be what?”

They talked for a while, and Trin eventually got her way, stripping Violet completely, however Violet insisted she do it without the use of her hands. This of course lead to a series of other activities, all of which Woofer ignored, and when the gasping and panting parts came, he became rather disgusted with the two of them and nosed the door open, heading toward the considerably cooler kitchen floor.

Trin decided that cuddling with Violet was far more important than anything else she could think that she really had to do right now especially post climatically. Both of them fell asleep.

At about ten in the morning, James awoke.

He stretched and yawned and turned on his Dreamcast and started to immediately play some Rogue Squadron, one of his current favorite video games. Within a half an hour or so, he was bored and went into the living room to play on the Playstation Two there.
He wasn't surprised that his mom was gone, it was normal for her and Trin to go out in the morning for coffee at the local Coffee People. He liked having the house to himself for awhile. He loved his mom and his Aunt Trin, but they weren't teenagers like him, and they treated him like he was a kid. They always told him to do stuff and wouldn't do it themselves, and it wasn't fair, not one bit.

He was playing on this really good game, one of those swords-and-sorcery one that captured his attention. He was going along at a good clip, when nature called. He'd often thought that there should be a toilet in the living room, or a bucket or something, but he had yet to convince his mother this was a good idea.

He trudged along to the bathroom, and caught sight of Woofer in the kitchen. Now that was funny, that Woofer would still be here. They always took him. Woofer paid little attention to James, unless it was an effort to bring him food. Woofer was like that, he was a dog with his priorities.

He went into the bathroom and took care of his business and came out, inadvertently looking through the open doorway of Trin's room.

What he saw was a shock. Trin was laying on her back, out cold and Violet, his mom, was resting on Trin's bare shoulder, equally asleep. He saw the bruise marks on the part of Trin's neck where she usually wore a scarf. While he couldn't see anything else for the heavy coverings, the idea was clear.

He tripped as he stumbled down the hall, and yelled at Woofer to get out of the way as he wrenched his bicycle away from the clutter in the kitchen, and took off in a huff, slamming the door rattling windows.

Trin's eyes snapped open and Violet spoke:

“What?”

“Oh shit,” Trin said.

“What?” Violet asked again.

Trin pointed toward the open door.

“Oh shit,” Violet said.

Trin scrambled for clothing, pulling on a skirt and t-shirt and rooting for her keys. She looked back and found Violet had not moved.

“Well? Co'mon, we gotta find him,” Trin stated.

“No. He needs his time, just like you did, just like I did. He has to think about it. We've sorta become normal, you know? To each other, I mean.”

Trin tilted her head and continued to root for her keys, finding them with their rainbow tags and the bdsm flag.

“Trin, I'm serious,” she said firmly.

Trin sat in the chair in front of her computer and dropped the keys on the cluttered desk. She powered the pc on, and as it booted she thought about Violet's words.

She was right, she supposed.

Violet stood and rubbed Trin's shoulders some. She could see Trin was restraining herself, shutting down. It was one of the things Trin did when she was upset.

“Hey,” she said.

Trin turned and laid her head against Violet's bare tummy. Softly her blood pressure dropped. She was worried, but she wasn't his mother. It was like a part of her had been stripped away.

She became rather distracted however, when Violet spun the chair around and sat bodily on her, her nipples bouncing about chin level. Trin took a suckle and drew a lot of the breast into her mouth.

Violet moaned softly.

Trin sucked on the other breast for a while, and then Violet tugged at her shirt, lifting it over her head and behind her neck, causing her arms to be caught up. Violet bent down and sucked on Trin's lips softly.

Trin felt better, especially as Violet started kissing her deeply while she was tied up. She lay there, the huge bulk of her body slumped in the armless chair. Only her face moved as Violet licked at it, and sucked on her lips needfully.

Trin was in a state of pleasure. She was a very oral person, and to have her mouth invaded was a premium desire for her. Violet took her time and lathered Trin's face with delicate, feathery kisses, and then nipped at her neck, making her wince.

Violet stood and tugged at Trin's hair.

Trin leaned her face over and down, nuzzling into Violet's bush, the scent drawing her.

Due to the shift in weight, the chair felt a bit unstable to Trin and she tried to stand, but her massive bulk was too much, she couldn't without using her hands. Violet grabbed her arm and eased her up, leading her back as she sat on the edge of the bed. Trin turned to sit on the bed, but Violet stopped her.

“No,” she said, authoritatively.

Trin raised an eyebrow.

“Kneel.”

Trin faltered on her feet, her knees not being able to easily bear her nearly four hundred pounds, and fell. She moved fast and hard, slamming into the carpet. Violet was aghast, and reached down to help her.

Trin ignored it, and righted herself on her knees and knelt before Violet resting her head upon her knee like Woofer would do when he wanted a biscuit.

“Trin want a cookie?” She asked.

Trin grinned a rather foolish grin, and panted accordingly, trying to drool on Violet's bare, unshaven leg.

Violet spread her legs, and Trin had her cookie.

A couple of hours later, Trin and Violet were still in the half-sleep and half-cuddle state, although coffee had been suggested. Violet giggled when Trin's stomach growled obnoxiously. It was about noon, and Trin was hungry.

"I want some food," Trin said.

"You had cookies," Violet smirked.

"Just two, and not very big ones," Trin countered.

Violet bopped her with a pillow.

"What? You had two yourself. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you liked cookies," Trin said.

Violet smacked her again with the pillow.

Trin smirked at her, an almost evil, catty smirk.

Violet reared back with the pillow, but this time, Trin caught it. Trin moved like a cat and pounced her bodily, holding up a lot of her weight by her knees, but pinning her with what she did lay down.

Violet looked at her and pursed her lips.

Trin delicately licked them.

"So do you like cookie?" Trin asked.

Violet nodded.

Trin rolled off and curled under her arm, and Violet started to stroke her hair. Trin found that to be very comforting and if she could have purred, she would have. She garnered her courage and spoke:

"I like it a lot. I like it that you're not dominant a lot, I like it that you're submissive. I'm also scared where this will lead. You don't seem to have a lot of self-control when it comes to submission."

"You're right. I don't. I don't have a lot of self-control, actually. We also haven't played hard enough to worry too much about going to far. Heck you haven't even spanked me," Trin replied.

"You'd like that?" Violet inquired.

"Y-yes," Trin said. She stuttered, which was not like her normal speech pattern.

"Trinity, look at me," Violet said.

Trin rolled over to look at Violet. She was pasty and sort of white, even more so than normal.

"What's wrong," Violet asked.

"I'm hungry," Trin said.

"Well go get food, silly Trin."

Trin padded naked into the kitchen and poured herself a soda and chugged half of it down.

While she wanted to go out, she was sure Violet didn't. Violet almost always drove when they were together. Trin had a hard time fitting behind the steering wheel of Violet's car. With gasoline what it was, Trin didn't drive her Nova unless she had to. Besides, the evil daylight was out there. Trin would only go out for food, coffee or alcohol unless she had to have art supplies.
She looked at the empty space where James' bicycle usually lay.

The rest of the soda she downed and went back to her room.

Violet turned toward her and asked:

"Better?"

Trin nodded. The sugar had hit her empty stomach, and put some color in her face. She sat in her battered computer chair and plucked at keys for a moment, reading email and downloading photographs for her business. She had three or four new clients and forwarded the emails to her work email address.

Violet watched her. Trin was a technophile in the truest sense of the term, she liked her gadgets and gizmos, had her own domain and several different websites as well as accounts on the various art servers such as Deviant Art and Wet Canvas.

"Anything new?" Violet asked.

"Three new clients, it should keep me busy for a while," Trin said.

"Good," Violet responded.

Trin spun in her chair and blew her a kiss while reaching for her clothes.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"Food. Real food, not just soda."

Violet made a face.

"Besides, Woofer's gotta do his business."

The big Irish Setter had returned to Trin's room and was doing his doggy dance that indicated he had to go and badly. It was nearly two in the afternoon.

Trin slipped into one of her billowy skirts and tossed the rumpled t-shirt on, looking presentable, or at least what she considered presentable. She kissed Violet and grabbed Woofer's leash.

Trin had a control harness on Woofer that fit around his muzzle, and while he could slip it without difficulty, he was generally pretty good about it. He led her up the back alleyway, but not before she snagged her pack of Djarums from the dashboard.

She lit one up, her eyes glazed as the clove smoke filled her lungs. Damn, these were good. Pity they made her so utterly sick after the second one. She let Woofer run to the extreme part of the lead, and used her weight to bear against him when he wanted to go farther.

It was cooler than it had been a couple of weeks ago, with some low clouds rolling in. Trin loved clouds, she could sit there and stare at them for hours as she did as a child. They always made her feel safe and away from the sun.

Woofer peed on several spots and left a very healthy solid deposit on a patch of grass near, but not quite in the neighbors yard. Trin detested her neighbors, and whenever Woofer would 'accidentally' leave a deposit in his yard, she gave him extra biscuits. Woofer hadn't quite figured out that correlation yet, but she was working on him hard.

Trin smoked down to the filter and ground the cherry out with the heel of her sandal, and tossed the butt directly into the trash. She went back in to find Violet dozing lightly.

"Coffee?" Trin asked hopefully.

"I'm still tired," Violet said.

"I'm gonna go get food," Trin replied.

"We gotta whole kitchen full of food," Violet said.

"Yeah, and I don't wanna eat any of it. Besides I'm gonna swing by the studio and take a look and see how much work I've got this week," she said.

"Okay. I'll buzz you when James gets back." Violet said, knowing Trin was worried.

Trin smooched her and gave her a soft, 'I love you' in her ear and put on her oversized sunglasses in case the clouds went away. Violet smiled and told Trin that she was loved as well.

She and Woofer drove straight to the studio. She loaded the emails into a photo processing program and set up a script to print out three or four variants of each image. This would take a good half hour and she knew the computer would shut down.

She had kept her word to Violet and then drove immediately to McDonalds. Her pulse pounded and endomorphs poured into her brain as she thought about cramming food into her mouth. She also saw a very familiar-looking bicycle on the side of the building.

Making her order she spied him in a corner, sipping a coke and reading a magazine. She wondered how long he'd been here, and wondered what to do. Maybe he did need his time, maybe she shouldn't say anything.

Her order came up and she sat at a table eating her five cheese burgers. Mid way through number three, he stood up to get a refill on his coke, and she couldn't resist. She wadded up a wrapper from one of the cheeseburgers and tossed at him, landing him right on the head.

He turned startled.

She waved two fingers at him in a quick greeting.

His mouth gaped open, he stood there, frozen.

She beckoned to him with her fingers.

He resisted until she spoke the word, "please."

He sat in next to her and she spoke:

"So will it be so bad? We've hid from you for a while now."

He shrugged like the teenager that she was and pushed fries at him. He chewed at them and then whispered:

“What do I tell my friends?”

Trin thought this was odd as he didn't bring many friends to the house.

“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” Trin said.

He looked at her, and then looked at her neck.

“Did mom...” he started.

Trin nodded.

“Got a grip like a shark, your mom does,” Trin said.

James turned a bit red.

“James,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I love you and your mom. It's just that the love between your mom and I has taken a different turn. Is that so wrong?”

“Well I don't think you'll go to hell over it,” He said authoritatively.

“Thats good, I suppose,” she replied. Trin was a dedicated non-Christian, especially after Ravi's death. Ravi had been Hindu, and Trin a Pagan.

“Why, do you want to go to hell?”

“You know me James, I hate the heat. That's why I moved to Arizona with your mom,” she said saucily.

“Yeah, why did you move with us anyway?”

“I love you, and love your mom. Sometimes when we love someone we do things that make us uncomfortable just to be closer to our loved ones. Ravi didn't mind one way or the other.”

“You still think about him a lot, don't you?” He asked.

“Every day. I want to think he'd approve,” Trin replied.

“I think he would,” James said.

“Do you approve?” Trin asked.

“I don't know. I have to talk to my mom,” He said.

“I can understand that,” Trin said. “You scared the shit out of us this morning though.”

“I'm sorry,” he said contritely.

“Why don't you head on home and talk to your mom. I'm gonna take Woofer over to PetCo for some biscuits and maybe I'll look at the fish.”

James rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh come on, they are cute,” Trin exclaimed happily.

James reply was to go back to the other table and retrieve his magazine. He stood in front of Trin as she moved the table away from her to stand up. She did so laboriously and shook out her skirt and dumped the tray. At the door she waited for him to unhook the lock from his bicycle and admonished him to ride safe.Woofer woofed at him from Trin's Nova. Somehow he understood he was going somewhere fun and was getting excited.

“I love you, James. Be careful. Tell your mom I'll be home soon.”

“I will Trin. Love you too.” He said, quickly in the teenage manner to avoid utter embarrassment.

She smiled, and they parted ways. Violet paged her a few minutes later as promised, and when she got home the three of them talked for a very long time.

Zine Review - Sharpie Scouts Masterpiece Swap #1

2006-09-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

Zine Review - Sharpie Scouts Masterpiece Swap #1

Sharpie Scouts Masterpiece Swap #1 is an artzine like no other. In it, people have created deep homage to the most holy of all marking devices, the Sharpie. Filled with pure sharpie goodness, this debut issue honors the sharpie as it is used to depict works of the great masters, both old and new. In full color, on bond paper in a horizontal format, the images have been laid out easy enough to read, big enough to enjoy, and there are a lot of them. Scout Mistress Diabla has done a wonderful job of transferring these little works of art (originally ATC’s) to a full-fledged zine. Tastes like: Whole Grain Bread with real Butter. Five bucks plus postage.