Butt Stuff Preview

Hello, much neglected masses...or rather the two people that read my creative writing blog.

I'm currently working on a short story for Kinky.com.  Recently, I had stayed up in San Fransisco where I luckily got to scratch an itch I've had for a long time.  That itch was for butt stuff. 

See what I did there?

Lucky for my readers who don't come here for the hanky panky, I'm not going to wax poetic on my marvelous experiences with butts.  However, I must warn you folks that the short story I'm working on does include butt stuff.  Not too much of it.  And no worries, the butts are all tastefully discussed.  I'm using this story was a way to push my limits as a writer, as I have never written a short story.  Also, I'm using this project as the vehicle through which I could touch on certain aspects of sexual realities. 


Enjoy this sneak peak of "Butt Stuff:  A Love Story"

The completed story will be posted on Kinky.com.

Mia

Meet and Greet

So it's about time I shittily keep my word.  Internet eons ago (months really) I made a promise to fans that I would host a meet and greet once I reached 10k followers.  And then I reached 10k followers, but a date was hastily set without much forethought.  With the burden of not having planned, the date came and went.  Shitty Mia, being shitty.  To lower my shit stock, I planned ahead and made sure that every calendar I had had allocated time just for this meet and greet.

At long last, the Mia Li Meet and Greet will happen on Thursday August 14.  Prepare to be underwhelmed.  Seriously though, this is my excuse to picnic at a beautiful park in San Diego.  I just have to sit about for two hours playing my ukulele contemplating what the hell I'm going to do if I have x amount of sandwiches left over.

Please come by.  Say hi.  And chill for a wee bit.  If you wanna talk books, I'm your gal.

I'll be pic-a-nicking on the West side of the Botanical Building from 3-5pm.  I trust you folks know how to read a map.

Love,
Mia Li

Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?

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One #RelationshipCreeper: Dessert things or dinner things

A Note to the Readers:  I know that Brenda and Howard need some loving, but I'm currently stumped.  Tonight I went out to eat as I'm want to do.  A friend, who was my dinnermate tonight, suggested The Cheesecake Factory.  The restaurant has the alternate name of The Place Where Relationships Go to Hell.

I live tweeted some of the events to what I suspect will become a Twitter series and The Euphemistic Minister blog things.  Take into consideration I had a lovely friend who shouldn't have been neglected in favor of eavesdropping.  There are lapses in the story because I don't know the whole story.  This is because the story is wrought from creeping.

In the future I hope this grows into something I could recruit comic drawers, flash artists, and other folk from my community to collaborate on.  However, I don't want to go into details because once I put it to word I feel like an asshole for not following through.  I'm the sort that tries to keep her word.

Enjoy the first rough draft of installation One #RelationshipCreeper!
Mia

"Dessert things or dinner things?"

I was intrigued by this couple because they appeared well matched.  Both young, Asian, and with enough vitality to sport cat eye makeup and that socal college dude haircut respectively.  After just catching random bits of their conversation early on, the dissonance was apparent. 

It didn't start smoothly.  Onset conversation revealed that he had invited her to the Cheesecake Factory because he believed it was a special restaurant.  It's later confirmed that tonight was their first date.  Her words, "First and last date."  The choice in restaurant and her displeasure was quite the show of force for a first date meal thing. 

Unfortunately he misstepped by admonishing that he had eaten already at work before their rendezvous.  Her claws are unsheathed at this point.  She interrogates him on his thought process of picking such a restaurant for them.  Pissed that she might be the only one eating, she grills with the pattern of "Why did you...We could have..."

Let's pretend their server found an opening to get their drink order.  Thereafter their bubble of greasy silence grows.  The Cheesecake Factory is fucking noisy.  There are absolutely no TVs in this joint to dissuade the patrons from passive-actively ignoring each other in favor of HD stimuli.  You actually hear people's voices in this restaurant and not the echoed droning of whatever sport.

And yet.  Their bubble grew and stretched until it was lanced by her angst.  She remarks that they could have just gotten fast food.

"This place [Fashion Valley] doesn't even have KFC...or Taco Bell.  We could have just had KFC."

She certainly wasn't expecting a dessert thing or dinner thing sort of date.  And further, she isn't at all amused that he ate dinner at work because, "why come here if you ate already?"

I lost track of things here because a cell phone was launched to the floor at the foot of my dinnermate.  We returned the phone to its owner. 

And this is where we break because something was happening at the phone launcher's table. 

(Intermission)

This couple started their The Cheesecake Factory experience by having their server  check the balance on their The Cheesecake Factory gift card.  The man in white returned confessing that the card wasn't reading in their machine, but he could get a manager on it to check the card in the system in the back against the official The Cheesecake Factory intelligence grid.

It sounded very promising.  Over the Hill Ken, the man half of the couple beside us, was clearly pissed.

He and his wife with the feathered blond bob fell into a heated and semi-whispered conversation turn debate turn whisper shout off. 

I'd like to pretend that it was over soap opera-esque domestic tensions.  Maybe they're in a crisis over an empty nest.  Perhaps they were facing the music of being the only two meat sacks in a once burgeoning household.

It was really over calming Ken down after the gift card conundrum.  He was that pissed.

They weren't in focus for much of my relationship creeping, so their shouted whispers and heated argument wasn't too decipherable.  I know it escalated to the point that feathered bob refused to make eye contact with old Ken.  Her eyes were glued to her phone where she was fervently texting.  Their chatter was very aggressive white noise compared to the clarity of the Asian couple on the other side.

Old Ken's angry tone was hot gravel under your feet after soaking ocean too long.  It seethed and left impressions that made it hard to carry on.  She reacted with a violent gesticulation that launched her Samsung Note Mini to the floor. 

I didn't consciously confirm that they were fighting until after the phone was returned. 

I think she started crying at a point because when I looked over a ways into my complimentary bread, he pulled her close and her face was wrenched from the heartstrings. 

Her mouth and face creases were pulled in a way that make your mirror neurons ache around your heart.  At this point I looked away.  I didn't want my empathy to color my meal sad even though it made my gravy taste a little blander.  I felt badly for the woman.  She had ordered the shrimp scampi. I didn't feel bad because of her order.  It's just that I remember is how horrible it is to eat while you're crying. 

Sadness bleaches the vibrancy of flavor.  

To be continued...

Brenda and Howard: I hear you breathing when you sleep

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Brenda and Howard: Meet Brenda Part 1

*Updated on January 22, 2014 because I failed to edit the original last paragraph that probably read as random...I mean, there was no mention of going out to dinner.  In the next installation they're staying in.  Whoops.  Spoiler alert.*

Hey there readers,

I hope that those of you that celebrated the holidays had a fabulous time and didn't have too many regretful New Years Eve trysts.  If you did, I hope it was worth it.  For the last twoish weeks I've been contemplating the direction of the Brenda and Howard series.  Am I just going to write through Howard's perspective?  Whose story is this really?  How is Brenda going to fit into this story?

I'm still tackling many questions, but that's part of the fun in writing.  I have a general direction, so it's time that I wrote that way and see where it goes.  For those of you who comment, please let me know what you think of Howard and the story so far.  There isn't too much yet on Brenda, however I promise you will see more in the pieces to follow.

Best regards,
Hermia

P.S. Enjoy!


Note:  Please read the first installation of the Brenda and Howard series here.

Meet Brenda Part 1

Luckily the break room at Howard's work had an usual variety of Cliff bars, a Keurig, and some left over celebratory whiskey in the freezer.  His lunch tasted like a blueberry hangover.  The Cliff bar and Irish coffee he had were dancing a pagan ritual to god of Saturn deep in his abdomen.  Each pulsing drumbeat matched the throbbing over Howard's right temple, which was neatly framed by his immaculate hairline.  With fumbling hands, he dug in his briefcase for anything minty.  His endeavors encounter stray wrappers of long consumed cough drops, adventurous paper clips, and a tin mints Brenda snuck into that particular pocket.  The mints were as stale as his marriage.

Apparently the time they had spent together really melted the boundaries of personal space and ownership of briefcases to a point of intimacy.  The color of the post its in his desk drawer were chosen by her.  The vast majority of her flats were chosen by him.  They had met at a pep rally in Brenda's senior year in high school.  She had a vague, post-romantic relationship to the remnants of his old clique.  He was a freshman in a far away college visiting his alma mater.  Although he told himself he would never visit home, he found himself looking for something familiar as a reprieve from collegiate experimentation.  She was a go-getting star senior already accepted into her reach schools and looking for an adult romance.

Sitting at his desk rather unproductively, he flung rubber bands at a framed photograph that stood sentinel by his computer monitor.  Brenda and Howard were dancing closely in the shot from a college friend's wedding.  He recalled being genuinely happy playing at an ingenuine relationship.  Anger and nausea rose like waves while he reminisced on his secret trysts, his missed opportunities, and his relationship with Brenda.  One of his rubber ring missiles knocked it's adversary to the ground.  A call from his secretary distracted him from replacing it. 

Due to a strangely awkward spin class, Howard didn't get home until 8pm.  As he pulled into the driveway, the front door of their raised ranch house flew open.  When he saw Brenda standing in the front doorway silhouetted against the lights from within, he realized that he hadn't called or texted her to confirm and celebrate their new situation.  In truth he left his cell in his car all day, still plugged in and currently playing Moby.

Fuuuuuuuck

Brenda launch herself from the stoop at Howard.  From the lack of light to perceive her facial expression, he tensed as her robe clad arms snaked their way around him.  He registered this as affection and not an attempt to squeeze him in contempt.

"I thought there was an accident," Howard heard from the wavy bob smothered against his chest.  A long rambling lost itself in muffled expressions of distress and explanations that his secretary told her he had been sick.  Just when he was starting to believe that her head couldn't get further buried from worry into his chest, Brenda looked up.  Her arms were still belted around his waist.

"If you were sick, I'm assuming you didn't eat lunch.  I know how food upsets your tummy when you're unwell." Howard's ears perked at the all too ready alibi for his lack of celebratory flowers and enthusiasm for the news he allegedly hadn't received.  How best to twist this turn of luck?  With a pseudo contemplative kiss to her fringed forehead, he conveniently and romantically suggested a dinner out because the night was too beautiful to not enjoy.  Luckily the sky was clear enough to kinda-sorta see the stars.

Brenda didn't bring up the pregnancy as she flitted between the kitchen, where she was working on soup for him, and the bedroom, where he semi collapsed on the bed still in his gym clothes.  She rambled on about the end of the year faculty meeting and proposed goals to improve next year as she ushered him into the bathroom to coax him into the shower.  He smiled as she walked away on silent feet clad in flats he chose for her.  There was no mention of maternity leave or plans.  Surely she would drop that news soon enough? Her uterus bomb won't go off for at least another seven months.  Seven months was plenty of time for Howard to evacuate ground zero.

Brenda and Howard: Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

Note to the Reader:  I've been struck with a great idea for a 7 part serial following two characters and their married life.  Trust me, it'll be a bit more interesting than that description.  Enjoy!

Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

            There's a day in a man's life when his wife's usage of two simple words cause an internal apocalypse.  On a June Tuesday morning after 5 years of marital bliss, Howard's wife Brenda handed him his lunch with the usual good bye kiss on the cheek.  What was unusual was the extra weight in a usually light sandwich ladened bag due to the celebratory beer she had packed for him.  A beer celebrating the two words she had scrawled on a neatly folded paper towel.  Two words that oozed the scent of Sharpie, mustard, and turkey--"We're pregnant". 

            In Brenda's excitement hours earlier, she squeezed yellow lines of mustard into a smiling face before layering on lettuce and lunchmeat.  She subscribed to the belief that love made sandwiches better.  Howard's face was anything but happy sitting behind his glass desk behind glass partitions.  In fact for the last four months of their trying to have a baby, it was really a one sided venture.  Sure sheets were grasped, the appropriate cum faces and cuddles were done, but Howard was dreading the fateful day Brenda's urine would become potent with baby indicating hormones. 

            The sandwich was dumped and the PBR can drained.  Howard, who was unaccustomed to drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at 11:30 in the morning, promptly speed-walked to the office bathroom to vomit.  He got as far as the ladies room sink.  With the taste of alcohol and half digested oatmeal fermenting in his mouth, he stared at his exceptionally groomed face in the mirror.  The furrow between his well maintained eyebrows belied the waves of self loathing and anger.  Anger at his life long cowardice.  You see, dear reader, Howard was a closeted homosexual. 

Guest Post: War is Hell, and Sinning is Delightful (Part 1)

Some Insight for the Readers:  Let's speak on length and content.  This serial already was a huge monster of text before I got my grubby, bloggy hands on it.  When I made the agreement with my writer friend, Nonny, to take that monster and share it with the world, I had the stipulation of 500ish words.  I'm not too persnickety about the 500, but I wanted to keep the serial to have enough content to make your brain-gonads want more.  This is a two parter, which was divided by Nonny.  In regard to content, this is definitely a food for thoughty installation.  Really digest it.  Read it a few times.  Then curse Nony for not moving the story along.  Yeah, he can suck a monkey for drawing this sucker out.

Enjoy!

What a piece of work is man?

War is Hell, and the Sinning is Delightful. (part 1)              

               The whole concept of "Sin" has lost all its weight in western culture. I'm not weighing in on this from a political or religious stand point mind you, just an objective observation. With the rise of secularism in the world, the idea that individuals, cultures, and even whole nations could be rewarded or punished based on the merit of their actions and behavior has been shrugged. I would have to write a rather novel book to answer all the critics on that statement, but stick with me here.

               With so many atheists and faux religious people in this world who have no idea what sinning is, the dynamics of human interaction have changed a bit and next to no one has noticed this.  

               I'm sorry... I do not know how to put this gracefully, so I'm going to just cut the shit.

               People just don't understand the gray miasma which is now ethics. There are a few things that I need you to be aware of so you can see why I had to put Bill and Ted down in front of a 18 year old girl, but not before letting them scare her for a bit.

               Out of over 3 million people, only 1.4 million serve currently in the US military. Out of that number, only about 200,000 are female. As you might imagine when deployed in places like Iraq or Afghanistan there are very few women around. Now think about the goings on of war throughout history. In my blunt summation, it was mostly a brutal and all too imaginable rape orgy. Especially if the motivations of the people involved were religious in nature. 

               In the days of occupation post the 2003 Iraq War and long after the President had declared "Mission Accomplished", which I guess is a modern way of declaring armistices, the American economy was booming. The news media was painting the ongoing conflict as sloppy, bloody, and increasingly unnecessary. The truth about poor equipment, neglected troops, and crimes against humanity made recruiting for the war effort difficult for the military.

               In light of this the Marine Core and Army began to wave their recruitment restrictions. The bar to which these standards were lowered makes me wish this were fiction. Any who was willing was recruited, scrubbed, and shipped off.  It mattered not if on their glowing CV was a list of prior drug charges or violent crime convictions.  Although throughout human history it was normal for the military to accept a the ragtag rapey type, but unique in today's secular and capitalist world. The truly hilarious thing is, they started paying outrageous bonuses to men who would agree prior to ever touching foot in boot camp, to go through boot camp and go straight to Iraq.

               Hell, up to and over six figures was offered to get Special Forces quotas. Despite all this, they still couldn't get enough people.

               Naturally, some very unsavory types were drawn into this sort of work.   

By: Nony

Regret

Note to the readers:  Because I'm attempting to keep the pledge I made to my blog readers, I'm going to not watch Vampire Diaries Suits right now.  I had a physically miserable day yesterday because of some bad decisions disguised as a good idea.  I went through something I really never had before.  If you're unlucky, it's a something you may experience time and time again.

Regret

Regret.  It's a hard thing that grows and swells in your gut like a miscarriage waiting to happen.  The rolling of its shoulders and the kicking of its feet punch the breath out of your body.  Perhaps you'll find yourself lying awake at night mulling over all of your decisions leading to this inexorable pain.  Pain that chokes your throat and clenches your bowels. 

That's how she found herself at 2 in the morning.  She awoke beside her ex in sheets that were soaked in sweat and other shameful things.  The last few hours had been spent in revelry, the press of warm bodies, and mind altering substances--all to the tune of food and drink.  A desire for gluttony and hedonism was the excuse they gave to spend time together. 

Everything in excess when the world was ending, so they told themselves. 

She had been battling the pain in her mind and body beside his restless silhouette.  The emotion she had been denying was growing too large for her to ignore, let alone coherently contemplate.  It was as if the first shared bite of that evening's dinner sealed her fate to internal damnation. 

It wasn't that she was not accustomed to pain.  Nicks, cuts, broken bones were merit badges she collected as she walked through life.  But pain that sizzles, pops, and explodes to fill your body like a bag of mating snakes was something new.  Something that snuck up on her after too many bad decisions albeit among good company.  Regret poisoned her and infiltrated her every nook with each bite of food shared with the sleeping man beside her. 

Regret gestated within her as they lost themselves in a tangle of bodies to the tune of a TV turned down.  It lied in wait until sleep sucked her under and made her vulnerable.  When her eyes snapped open hours later she realized what she had done, and she fled to her only escape.  The bathroom.

Quiet with a door that locks, the bathroom was her sanctuary.  She gave herself over to the pain and vomited until even her soul was scraped out from the bottom of her gut.

Staring into the newly flushed toilet water as the porcelain sighed, she condemned herself to a sleepless night. 

After all, food poisoning is a demanding bitch.

Guest Post: More Meat, Less Potatoes...And a Rant from Your Blogger

Hello, the two people who read my blog. 

Firstly, I apologize for missing my posting schedule, which was this past Wednesday.  Ironically, my guest poster managed to send me his entry on time.  Show's you how easily I'm one-upped.  I will be going to Florida soon enough for work, where I will be divorced from distraction.  I promise a slurry of posts that are hopefully less shitty that their predecessors.

Now that the obligatory, yet sincere apologies have been dealt--a rant from your blogger:

So, this guest poster of mine promised me that the title of this next post would be apropos.  More Meat, Less Potatoes implies that the story of the lone gunman, the two stalkers, and oblivious lady friend would move along a bit more laterally than it has been.  Frankly, I had a key board smashing moment while I was editing this bit.  It's good, but that fucker needs to get to something a bit more meaty before wasting such a good title with a misdirect. 

Enjoy the third installation of the Nony serial. 

So I was watching my two former co-workers through the scope of my rifle when-

More meat less potatoes.

               She came into view.

               I was perched far and away, but within perfect view and range to witness or intervene in the fateful scene that was about to unfold. 

               There she was, the adorable and care free product of a unwittingly sheltered life.  She came bursting out of the woods.  She engaged in various childish high jinks with the freedom of someone not aware that she's being watched and with the abandon of someone very much certain she's alone.  With that certainty, she pranced along the riverside and leaped semi-Disneyfied from boulder to boulder. Funny how when viewed from far enough away, like bacteria seen through a microscope, all human activity tends to resemble childishness.

               All the while, hungry wolves were circling the fawn.

               She picked a large flat sun exposed rock, promptly dropped her top, and laid out to bathe in the sunlight.

               Now, this is a perfectly normal and even natural behavior for a woman who thinks she is alone to take in and enjoy nature in a perfect world. Oh, but if only people would look around and see that the world we live in is not only far from perfect, and it's all our own fault.

               (Not their real Names)

               Bill and Ted stood off in the distance, watching her with... a familiar look.

               How is your understanding of Einstein's theory of Relativity? My favorite laymen parallel is the novel notion that a moment with a beautiful woman slips by like sand through your desperately clutching fingers, but when you place your hand on a hot stove time seems to stretch on forever.

               I bring this up so that you might apply that principle to me at that moment and thus understand and appreciate the convoluted emotional storm I was experiencing. I was both an observer of and an ambiguous participant in the scene I have described to you. I do hope you know that it is truly impossible to know the mind of any man, but I want to show you mine as honest as I can, twisted as it may be so you might better learn.

               When I see naive innocence about to be introduced to truth, I feel a slurry of things:  Pleasure--the one I am least proud of; ethical panic--the one that usually ends up determining the outcome.

               Shall I be brutally honest about what went through my mind as I watched this girl through that scope?  

               I have seen so much violence in my life, and have been on both ends of it, that I honestly don't know any more what is the right or wrong thing to do or feel about anything anymore.

               My first bitter angry thought, "Good, let the arrogant bitch get a life lesson."

               I'm not proud of it.  Sometimes I forget that people, who aren't as close to the follies of man as I am, are not silly, self centered cunts for getting themselves into these situations.

               My second thought, "Am I legally or ethically allowed or obligated to intervene here?"

               At which point I'm starting to get a headache that I am pretty sure a few untraceable trigger pulls would have remedied.

               My third and favorite thought was, "How much reality should I let this girl be exposed to before snapping the curtains closed?"

               I mean after all, had I not been there to protect her from the situation that she had unwittingly stumbled into all on her own, she would surely suffer a horrific fate.

               Shouldn't I let her get a little taste of reality to help her better protect herself in the future?

               But, alas!  We just assumed that Bill and Ted would do harm didn't we? Until I interjected this bit of rationality you were about to condemn Bill and Ted to execution along with me, weren't you?

               How do you know you can trust my telling of the story? If you don't understand things from the larger perspective, then you might argue I was out looking for trouble.  

               Maybe I should tell you a few things about Bill and Ted first...

Guest Post: Nony Series--First, a Totally Related Tangent

Note to Readers:  If you haven't started reading the Nony series from last Saturday's post, read it here before this one.  Although this post is titled First, a Totally Related Tangent there are still spoilers.  Be sure to read the first one.

Enjoy!

So why was I stalking her?

First, a Totally Related Tangent. (That might prove I'm not entirely crazy)

               Life is Suffering.

               I had a rough childhood.  I will gladly spare you as much of the whiny details as possible, and instead just gaily prance to the pearls of wisdom retained from so much "real world experience". Without much option, I naively turned to the military who decided Iraq would be the perfect place for me to resolve my adolescent issues. As you might imagine it didn't help all that much.

               Despite the waking nightmare that has been my life, I am the inevitable and well adjusted statistical anomaly you get from child abuse. Too frilly? In other words, nature abhors a vacuum, if 99.9 percent of children who are abused go insane, then it stands to reason that .01 will come out as well...

               I'll want you to decide for yourself as to what I am.

               I will tell you that at least in my own mind I feel that I am fabulously well adjusted, albeit darkly twisted in my sense of humor.

               But is there a fringe benefit to all my suffering?

               A sort of bullshit detector that makes my skin crawl such as when the President told Americans that the most important thing they could do to contribute in the War on Terror was, as I may paraphrase, "spend more money, and keep a close eye on your neighbor" at which point he cackled and exited stage left.

               Before I go much further on this tangent, you need to understand that I am a strict atheist and skeptic.

               I come from a family of Christian morons, whose idea of accountability was that personal responsibility was trumped by angels and demons.  Domestic violence caused by demonic possession?  Yeah, didn't buy into that either by the umpteenth time the back of his hand popped a welt on my sister's cheek.  Worse yet, I was raised in the ghetto that prescribes to exorcism attempts on my entirely sober father.  At that point in my childhood, I started to wise up.  My father's abuse paired with sobriety and distinct lack of demons belied an individual who was the epitome of a piece of shit.

               Nope, no need for personal responsibility, it's just the demons.

               That said... did anyone else notice that the "Five Pointed Star of David" on the Republican (GOP) Party's elephant mascot became inverted into a pentagram right about the time the War on Terror kicked off?

               As you may ask, what does all this have to do with stalking this woman?

               Well, I was stalking two men originally, two blokes I worked with in Iraq when I discovered they were stalking her. This caught my interest for a number of reasons.  Reasons that would make me wish retrospectively that I had stayed the fuck out of her business, but not really.

               Anyways, it was at this point I decided to thrust myself in her life. 

               For her own good.

               Opps.

---

 [SA1]Weave this throughout the story in later installments.