as I gorged – feasting on last night’s pumpkin pie, sweet yam, and cranberry sauced ham,

my fingers wet with insatiable appetite,





as I thought of you and

the blue of sapphire,

the blue of that moon one mid-autumn night,

the blue of the three gold crested buttons on your left sleeve.

The blue of your eyes

They all seem so –


Hollow to me now.



That Year When

It was as if the year when that happened didn’t happen. Mom sat at the table counting the bills and wrinkling the meager check she got in the mail. Mom would often say if only they would hand her the check in person and give her the money they used to buy the stamps. Of course, that would never pass.

Mom didn’t really liked to talk about it. She tried to keep quiet because it was not anything glorious to boast about, but Mom’s New Boss was the nosy type and there was no way he would let such juicy gossip slip away.

So Mom told him about that year when she still worked at the fry shop. Mom’s Old Boss was the nasty type who liked to keep Mom in his office so he could say all sorts of perverted things to her. Mom always took it like a champ because she needed the paycheck. One day he came into the shop and called Mom in. Mom just got this gut feeling that he was up to no good. Sure enough, he started to put the moves on her and tried to force her to do things with him. So Mom kneed him. While he was grimacing on the ground, she grabbed a number 2 from his desk and stabbed his hand so hard it went through and I heard he needed surgery to patch that hole up. Mom also slapped him, but that was beside the point — he had a lot of explaining to do to the police.

Mom came home today after telling her New Boss about that year. She told me she got a promotion and an increase in salary. She said if she knew, she would have told him the story much earlier.

please understand that i am in no way, shape or form encouraging those in similar situations as described above to “take it like a champ.” be a real champ and report that bastard. 

That Year When


Not bad at all, she thought, giving it a rough count, fingering the leaves and riffling the pages. And I did not even have to do anything kinky.

A knock on her door, a twinkle of ears and the kitty stirs in her lap.

“Hush baby,” she purrs.

She saunters over to the door, swaying her hips side to side. The cat tiptoes behind.

The bronze doorknob twists and the door creaks open. A puff of smoke immediately suffocates her. She lets out a dry cough and stuffs a roll in his good hand.

His cigar hangs loose between his lips. He cracks a toothless smile:

“You aren’t going to invite me in?”

She swallows and backs up a little. He brushes by her and she can smell on him the mix of tobacco and rain. She holds back the urge to puke. He indulges in another puff and continues:

“Listen, I’ve got a bigger offer. A politician.”

She quickly eyes the remaining cash on the table and slaps the green in his hand.

He pulls her face closer and hisses:

“It’s got to be a lot more than that. Why not just obey, huh? After all, you are just a whore.”

He dips his head lower; she wraps her leg around his. His hand slithers up her thigh, pulling at her undergarment. With one hand, she hooks the nape of his neck and gifts a long kiss. With the other, she reaches behind her for something cold.

He clasps around her waist and plunges into her as she plunges it into his neck.

His eyes a piercing blue, his face turns pale and blood sprouts out as if from a broken water hose. With a quiet thud, he drops on to the floor.

The kitty sneaks over, one paw at a time, white fur dripping with red, and sticks out her raspberry tongue to lick at his wound.

She loses her grip and murmurs:

“You are the real whore.”