Preditors & Editors

The year-end polling results are now official, and once again:

everybody's hero



Thanks for your support!

everybody's hero

an errant knight, shining rogue
e'er ready with chivalric sinew
to shelter or defend or buoy
through flirtatious charm

a damsel wondering
wandered into his demesne
intrigued by the valor
of emotional pas d'armes

dwelling in his heart's caisteal
she now withers on the inside
waiting for what's available
only to those on the out

and she wonders
if she should wander
in search of a soul
upon which to lean

or summon the will to e'er stand
and watch with sorrowful pride
as he strives to be
everybody else's hero

~ ~ ~

Lovin' This!

LISTEN!

Lefty McGee

I'm really starting to believe this man breathes poetry. Here are two of his "blurts" from Literotica:

(1)

There was a momentary pause,
the phone rang but she missed it...

The opportunity cost of missing that call,
was the sound of his voice caressing her
in ways that seem gentle,
at times.
But there is a timbre to his voice
that vibrates her thoughts
and her body,
that mixes the pleasure of the moment
with the pain of separation.
Bittersweet melody of a memory
as his words guide her hands in ways
mostly sensual, defined as erotic,
and certainly not sensible,
she finds herself sensitive to the touch.

What could have, would have.
Perhaps the phone will ring again…

(2)

I know nothing of the world you two are sharing. The slow words about nothing as you speak more with silence and hidden smiles. The suffering of the touch that is almost but not quite there in every word. The hidden thoughts of despair when you are unable to speak, and relive old conversations to pass the time until the next call. And each laugh you hear is an epiphany of emotion, love, lust. Innocuous though the words may be, all too soon each thought borders or embraces decadence. There are no secrets, no unknown desires, no hidden agendas when you fulfill your wishes and meet in person. Just the silent sounds of clothing as it puddles on the floor, until the first gasps for air some hours later...

Like I said, I know nothing of the world you share. But I have heard...

~ ~ ~

I'm so honored to have some of his work in Coming Together.

30 Seconds

One of the first stories I ever posted on Literotica. It's journal-style 1st/2nd person, but if you can forgive that, the rest is still decent ...

30 Seconds
© Alessia Brio

~ Friday evening, 9:00 p.m.

Our group is jovial, enjoying the camaraderie that typically characterizes such gatherings. There is plenty of laughter, occasionally interspersed with serious threads of conversation about pressing issues. We've been at the restaurant for a couple hours already, running the poor waiter ragged with our random orders for food and drink.

He can't figure us out. We're a diverse mix, and he wonders what we have in common. You can tell by the tentative way in which he approaches us.

You and I are seated across from one another in the semicircular corner booth. Currently, there are four at our table, including the two of us, although that number has fluctuated throughout the evening, further frazzling the waiter. Oh, well. It's his job. We'll make sure he gets a handsome tip.

The talk turns to movie favorites, but I'm not really listening. I'm watching you. I'm watching your mouth, your hands, and your eyes. I'm thoroughly enjoying thoughts of just what you could do to me – and, conversely, what I'd like to do to you.

You have intrigued me since the moment we met, several years ago. I feel this overwhelming desire to just be with you, in any context – in person or online, in dull committee meetings or lively social settings, in your thoughts or my dreams. It's an ache that I am powerless to resist. You excite me, incite me, invite me, delight me. I can't get enough.

~ Friday evening, 9:40 p.m.

One of our party is leaving – the one seated between us – and as you rise to let her pass, several others return. You sit back down and scoot around the bench to make room for the additions, which brings us together quite cozily. Our thighs are touching, and the contact makes me shiver.

For a few moments, I can focus on nothing beyond that delicious contact. It's too infrequent, and it's far, Far, FAR too chaste. Innocence aside, I know I will feel your leg against mine for quite some time after the contact is broken. You have that effect on me. I have vivid memories of every instance we have touched – casual hugs hello or goodbye, fingers touching inadvertently when passing the salt, shoulders rubbing in the cinema. It's all I have of you, in the physical sense, so I treasure these moments – and I want more.

Your voice brings me back to Earth, "Hey! What in the world are you thinking?"

"Sorry. Just daydreaming," I stammer, feeling as if my thoughts are on display for all to see.

"Must've been good. You're blushing," says the guy to my left, which results in a rather lively and risqué discussion of fantasies in general. I get a few tantalizing hints about your preferences in a lover, and I file them away. If and when I ever get the opportunity to get you off, I'll have a better idea how to thoroughly please you. I've a few ideas of my own, as well. I'm pretty sure you'll like them.

At one point, after realizing that we share a somewhat unusual desire, you throw your arm around me and tease, "Let's go get a room!" Mmmmmm. Had we been alone, I may very well have answered with quite a bit more enthusiasm than you were expecting. Instead I just grin at you, hoping that you can read the invitation in my eyes.

One of these days, I vow to myself, I'm going to get over my fear and tell you precisely what I want to do for/with/to you. Consequences be damned! You'll either respond in kind, or never speak to me again. Either way, this torture will end.

~ Friday evening, 10:55 p.m.

After another hour or so, things begin to break up. Damn! I hate the thought of separating. My senses are heightened by the prolonged contact, and I feel an intense pang as it is broken. There is just something so cosmically RIGHT when we're together – and it is amplified when we touch.

I don't want the evening to end, but we each have plans for early Saturday morning. We divvy up the tab, everyone tossing a couple twenties on the table and leaving it for the waiter to sort out. It's more than enough, undoubtedly, even with a generous tip. I would pay five times that much for the pleasure of sitting so close to you for a few more hours.

As the others peel away to their cars, you ask if I'd like to take a stroll through the park to clear our heads before driving. Of course, I'd say yes even if my head was not in need of clearing – just to be with you a while longer. As it stands, we've each had several drinks and neither of us is feeling any pain.

The park is virtually deserted at this time of night, although we pass a few couples holding hands or making out on the benches along the secluded path. We walk without speaking, but without any trace of the awkwardness that silence can sometimes bring. Occasionally, your hand brushes mine – and I want to grasp it.

~ Friday evening, 11:20 p.m.

"Tell me," you say, breaking the silence, "what you most want. Not for anyone else – just for yourself."

My inhibitions lulled by the spirits, I blurt, "I want to kiss you. And I want to touch you. And I want to taste you." Instantly, I am certain I've just thoroughly and irreparably fucked up our precious friendship.

Time stops. You are staring at me, seemingly stunned. I am paralyzed – like a deer in the headlights.

In the kind of slow motion you only see in movies, we draw closer to one another. The unmistakable recognition of shared passion passes between us, palpable and magnetic.

Our mouths meet as if they are made to be together. Our tongues dance. Our hands explore. Your low groan as my hands grab your ass is so incredibly enticing. Every nerve ending is alive.

"We can't do this," you say, pulling away slightly. You sound as if your head is trying to convince your heart – and not succeeding.

"I know. But please, don't wake me up just yet," I plead. "Let me dream for just 30 seconds – then we'll stop, okay?"

Your response is to pull me in for another exquisite kiss. Your hands move under my shirt. My nipples are aching for your touch and your teeth. I snake my hand into your pants and am swept away by your evident desire. We are so close to the edge. So close.

Somehow, as if a cosmic timer went off, we manage to stop. It takes a phenomenal pull to disengage, so strong is the magnetism. Without a word, we resume our journey along the path – both lost in our thoughts about what just transpired – both still at the heights of arousal.

~ Friday evening, 11:30 p.m.

I finally work up the nerve to speak. "Not to sound cliché, but how can anything that felt that right, be wrong? Do you feel guilty?"

"I know I should, but I don't – and that is disturbing in and of itself."

I had no response to that, as I am torn between my desire for you and my desire for you to be true to your ideals.

"I need to sort this out in my mind," you explain. "It's been there a very long time, but we've crossed a line this evening."

"I understand," I respond, and I really try to do so. With our bodies on fire, it's not easy for either of us. I know you would never intentionally hurt me, and I know you want me every bit as much as I want you.

"Before we go though," you add, wrapping your arms around me once more, "I need another 30 seconds."

~ ~ ~

Ah, the complexities of adulthood
10/12/04 By: [deleted user]
A story for adults. Subtle, sexy, alluring, perhaps even true?

Oh my gosh!
12/05/04 By: lalai
I felt I was there. Sexy! :)

This one is ...
12/07/04 By: foehn
*magnificent*
how about changing your user-name, now?

sorry, couldn't find anything higher than 100 ...

Intriguing and complex
02/12/05 By: BlackShanglan
I really enjoyed this story for reasons that to be honest, I can't entirely put my finger on. It's subtle, complex, and provoking. After a short "hmmm" period pondering the lack of concrete physical images, I found my puzzlement turning to grudging acceptance and then slowly to impressed appreciation. This is a story with a long, complex finish, to graft on some wine terminology - a story to be savored and rolled smoothly over the palate, letting its richness and depth really penetrate. Marvelous work.

30 seconds?
02/15/05 By: Anonymous
wow that was a damn good tale,
I agree magnificent, fabulous and ...
Impressive! I see a zen master write here
bows humbled, honored to read your words
hehehe >>> great story ...
I needed the muse

Provocative
02/16/05 By: neonlyte
My kind of story. Full of subtlty and promise, an aching desire powerful enough to tip the scales.

Well done.

I too agree.
02/16/05 By: Bridget69 in Canada
Such a deep, subtle tale of repressed urges, desire, anticipation and fleeting moments of intimacy. Loved it!

Good one imp.
03/01/05 By: rgraham666 in Canada
Such a nicely told tale of want and brief satisfaction.

Well done.

This nails it
03/23/05 By: Anonymous in Margaritaville
so much resonance here. So many things I identify with in the dangers they are contemplating. Wonderful. You are a dangerous and devine writer with way too many keys to so many of my locked doors.

You have written what I feel towards someone
04/19/06 By: Anonymous in USA
You have managed to capture my feelings towards a certain someone on paper! I loved your story, it really hits home! The person that I want and desire in my life is off-limits to me but I know (as does he) that we are perfect for each other.

Thank you for sharing!

Wow!
12/21/06 By: SimonBrooke in Scotland
That's just perfect. And so different from what I expected from the title. And, indeed, much, much sexier.

Here's to the Imp!

The mind is the sexiest organ...
03/09/07 By: amicus in Oregon
A most enjoyable foray into a writing device one might be tempted to experiment somewhere down the road. The introspective first person narrative, the fantasy over time, the dreams the imagination and then the long awaited event finally about to occur.

I do question where, in a couple places, you referred to him as 'you', which felt to mean like a shift to omniscient POV and stepped away from the first person.

And being a bit old fashioned and admitting it, I was a little put off by your ass grabbing and the hand down the pants so early in the relationship since you had been so reluctant to initiate contact prior to him sitting next to you and touching thighs.

Be that as it may, a thoughtful piece and well down and thoroughly enjoyable...thank you...


amicus...

~ ~ ~

Where

And where are you
as I crumble;
as I teeter on this emotional
abyss?

Wait!
Don't answer.
That's not the important
question.

I doesn't matter where
you are.
What matters is where
you aren't.

So,
why aren't you with me?

~ ~ ~

* Apologies for the self-indulgent crap. I'm having a breakdown today, TYVM.

Sunday Mornings

I sigh on Sunday
mornings, dawning clear
cold with realization
that my life
be not as it should
and my love
be not as it could

emptiness lies
where once lived trust
and armor guards
against its return
scars of bleeding hope
a constant ache
in my hollow whole

the shroud is heavy
yet it skins my wounds
and I wonder if ever
without it I'll walk
again

I awake with a start
and start with a sigh
crying not for what is felt
but feeling what is not
on Sunday mornings

~ ~ ~

Thank you!

~ ~ ~

Preditors & Editors Polling

The year-end polls are up, and yours truly is again nominated. Last year, both I and my poem Tapestry finished in the Top 10.

Please visit the site and cast your votes in the following categories:

Poet published in 2007...
Alessia Brio [ VOTE HERE ]

Poem published in 2007...
forked [ VOTE HERE ]

Thanks, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

~ ~ ~

Past Perfect

Past Perfect was accepted for publication by Torquere Press and Clean Sheets. It also appears in Coming Together: With Pride.

* * *

December

A poem I wrote for a December-themed contest on Literotica's Poetry Forum. It bombed there ... with a resounding *thud* Can you identify all of the December events it references?

Hark how the silver celled
slay balls ring
'round the rosy viral garland
white ribbons and yellow massacre
for whom the death tolls

an immaculate concept, imagine
there's no pearled harbor
full of tea or Bulged battle
as a creamed cigar flickers
in the menorah of velvet revolution

impeachy secession, schnapping the chain
reaction of a nuclear bus boycott
while a bull sits no more
and an ear hears naught
the screams over Lockerbie

brothers take flight, wrapped
in the twelve daze of candied caning
one Pole effected, another elected
and a mad monk sunk
in the river of impunity

press passed and Bhopal gassed
amnesty for the civilly warred
and freedom for the civilly whored
frequency spans the waves
wireless words celebrating

the son and the seven
the Sagittarian solstice
and the year's sunset
lest history disremember
December

~ ~ ~

EPPIE Finalists Announced!

WOOT! Phaze in Verse is an EPPIE finalist in the Poetry category. I have half a dozen poems in this collection.

For the complete list of finalists, visit the EPIC site. (If that doesn't work, Emily Veinglory's posted the full list on the EREC blog.) Winners will be announced at EPICon in March. Hope to see you there!

forked

so scream the choices, the choices
made with every breath
drawn
to hold and to having, hide
the depth, the breadth
of forever's façade

so scream the choices, while promises
made on whispered breath
echo heart's desire
to have and to holding, shout
with enough integrity
to love me out loud

~ ~ ~

a poster of this poem is available

~ ~ ~

CANDY!

Work begins today on this collaborative effort ... as does the search for a publisher (ebook & print):

Stripped

A gift I created last Christmas ...

Love Me Out Loud

I don't know where else to put this ...



~ ~ ~

auricle

I once fell in love with the heart of a poet
the systole of his verse
pushing through my mind
like emotional cock

I once desired the heart of a poet
the diastole of my dreams
aching for such devotion
to fill my whole

I once believed in the heart of a poet
until the arrhythmia of truth
revealed that his whispered words
echoed only in my hollow chambers

I now know that the heart of a poet
beating in secret silence
sucks blood hope from my soul
and life from my love

~ ~ ~

This is one of the first stories I ever posted at Literotica. I cringe at all the "to be" verbs, but it's nice to see how I've grown as a writer. ~ Imp

~ ~ ~

Legally Binding

Bruce wasn't quite sure how he had landed in his current predicament. However, he was quite sure he didn't like it. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Sunny, seventy-five degrees, light breeze. On days like today, he was supposed to be sailing on Lake Michigan with his lovely wife. Instead, he was literally shackled to the enormous antique desk in his basement home office – a cuff around his right ankle was connected to a similar cuff around the leg of his desk by a heavy six foot chain. He was captive – which, of course, was Tamara's intent.

There was a formidable stack of work to be done. Work that he'd put off, admittedly, for far too long. Legal briefs to finish. Cases to prepare. Depositions to review. Phone calls to return. Due to the past two weeks of gorgeous spring weather, coming on the heels of a brutal winter, the "to do" list had gotten rather lengthy.

Tamara, who also served as his business manager, was completely fed up with his procrastination. Being the one who answered the phone, she had to deal with all the irate clients. They'd call at all hours of the day and night. She was feeling the pressure, and now she was making sure Bruce felt it as well.

At first, Bruce was pissed. How DARE she? He had considered just watching television all day. Fix her wagon! There was a big screen TV on the other side of the room. However, that plan was quickly dashed when he discovered that Tamara had moved the remote control out of his reach. This was no spontaneous decision! She had apparently thought it through. Bruce's anger slowly morphed into a grudging admiration for his resourceful wife.

Well, nothing to do but buckle down and get busy. Bruce knew that when Tamara got that look in her eyes there was no changing her mind. He'd tried before, and although he believed himself to be extraordinarily persuasive, he'd failed miserably. There were no cracks in her armor! He had no doubt that she really meant it when she said he'd not be freed until the work was finished.

After four solid hours without a break, Bruce realized he was famished! Had he known what was in store, he'd have eaten a heartier breakfast. The coffee and toast were just not tiding him over, and his hunger was making concentration difficult.

As if she'd known just when he'd run out of steam, Tamara appeared with a lunch tray. One wimpy sandwich and a glass of water. Prisoner's rations. She wore shorts and a halter top, hair pulled back in a pony tail. From the grass stains on her knees, Bruce deduced that she'd been working in the garden. (Lawyers are good at that deduction stuff.) Her forehead, cheeks, and shoulders were pink from the sun, and she looked quite fetching. For a moment Bruce forgot his hunger as he admired his wife's curves.

In an instant, she was gone again. Bruce devoured the sandwich and downed the water. It was far from satisfying, but it did take the edge off so that he could once again concentrate on the work at hand. However, before long, he realized he needed a break of a different sort.

Bruce yelled. Waited. Yelled again. Waited. No response. Certainly Tamara wouldn't leave him there to piss in his pants. Would she?

Giving it one more try before he resorted to using the empty water glass, Bruce finally heard Tamara's footsteps on the stairs.

"What is it?" she demanded, sounding less than pleased to be summoned. She had apparently been in the shower, for she was dripping wet and wrapped only in a towel. (Another one of those brilliant lawyerly deductions.)

"I gotta go."

Evidently, she had not considered this development, for her expression softened somewhat and she paused briefly before responding.

"Oh. Um ... okay. I'll get the key, but once you've done your business, it's back to the desk. Promise?"

If anything about their relationship was set in stone, it was that promises were kept. To violate one would be the end of a sacred trust. It was something they'd agreed upon very, very early in their marriage. There was no crossing of fingers behind one's back in this household. No way, Jose.

"Yeah, I promise."

Tamara quickly fetched the key and knelt to release the cuff from his ankle. Of course, when she did so, Bruce got flashed. It was simply not possible to kneel while wearing only a towel and keep one's "assets" covered.

Instantly at attention, Bruce struggled to maintain his composure. He knew that any attempts at intimacy would be flatly denied. Absolutely no diversions would be permitted. There was no mercy in this court.

What was taking so long? Tamara fumbled with the lock, all the while making no move to adjust her towel. She had to realize the effect her exposure would be having. Was she intentionally teasing him? The jury was still out on that one.

Bruce couldn't see her face, so he couldn't be sure – but he didn't think she'd do that to him given that she knew how badly he needed to pee. However, until this morning, he'd have sworn she'd never chain him to his desk either. Oh, she'd threatened to do it many times, but that was just teasing. Or was it? This was a side of Tamara that Bruce had never seen.

After what seemed to be an excruciatingly long time, the cuff finally fell free, and Bruce hurriedly ducked into the lavatory. Not only did he really, really have to go ... but he was also determined not to give Tamara the satisfaction of seeing the effect she'd had on him.

Now, however, Bruce was having trouble calming down enough to pee. Damn it! She'd know why it was taking him so long. She might even be thinking that he was "relieving himself" in another way.

"Are you okay, darling?" came a decidedly wicked voice from the other side of the door. At that point, Bruce deduced (!) that Tamara had indeed "briefed" him ... and had done it exceedingly well.

Bruce tried to think the most unstimulating thoughts ... income taxes, oozing sores, flat tires, and Supreme Court justices. Gradually, his gallant soldier retreated, and he was able to empty his bladder.

Without looking directly at Tamara, Bruce stoically planted himself at the desk and extended his leg to be re-cuffed. Once again, Tamara knelt. Once again, she took her sweet time. Once again, the sleeper was awakened. Damn her! He didn't recall it taking her nearly as long the first time. Of course, the first time she was not wearing only a towel either. Be it ever so humble, that piece of white cotton was causing a time warp.

"Back to work!" she ordered as she rose and sauntered out of the room, paying absolutely no attention to his growing ... um ... predicament.

After contemplating rotting fish, Newt Gingrich, and road kill for the next 15-20 minutes, Bruce was once again able to focus on the work in need of completion. He put in a solid two hours' work before Tamara reappeared. Going over his accomplishments, she seemed rather impressed at the amount of work he'd completed, although she tried not to show it.

"I'm going out for a while," she announced. "Do you need anything before I leave?"

Yeah, Bruce thought, I need you kneeling in that towel again – a "cross examination," if you will. He nearly said it. It was on the tip of his tongue. However, from the look on Tamara's face, he deduced (!) that that would be the wrong thing to say.

Instead, he turned back to his work before his mouth landed him in trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tamara leaving the room. He willed himself not to look. He really, really tried not to watch (okay, ogle) her backside. His will failed him, however, and Bruce's gaze was undeniably resting squarely on Tamara's "closing arguments" when she suddenly turned around.

Bruce quickly looked away, but he knew that Tamara had seen. She always knew when he was watching. Always.

After a short while, Bruce plunged back into his work. The next time he looked up, nearly four hours had passed, and the work was complete. Bruce was exhausted, but exhilarated. And, as if she had somehow known, Bruce heard Tamara's car pulling into the garage.

Waiting, rather impatiently, Bruce listened as she entered the house, put away some groceries, started a load of laundry, emptied the trash, and took another shower.

Finally, he heard her footfalls on the stairs.

"I'm finished," he proudly announced even before she came into view, a big grin on his face.

She turned the corner, carrying a large shopping bag and wearing nothing but a smile, and said, "Oh, no you're not!"

~ ~ ~

Awesome!
10/10/04 by Anonymous
So realistic ... and very funny. How about a sequel, now?

Very.... um, impressive!
10/13/04 by carsonshepherd
Nice job, clever and fun.

nice
10/15/04 by Anonymous in USA
Very nice. It is so pleasant to read a well crafted story in which typos and incorrect grammer do not intefere with the flow of the plot. You also have a delightful light sense of humor. This was just a lot of fun to read.

Legally Bound
11/05/04 by Anonymous in USA
What's next?

a fun little wordplay
06/27/05 by Belegon in Southern California
and the kind of hinting story where we do most of the "work" at the end...which is not always a bad thing *grin

Launch

I'm watching the horizon for hot air balloons. It's the first year since 9-11 that the tiny, municipal airport has allowed the fall festival to launch from its lone ridge-top runway. My house sits atop an adjacent ridge to its north, mountaintop neighbors together greeting the dawn before it dips into the valleys where the mists now rise off the rivers and lakes.

Although no longer glowing with the fluorescence of spring's kiss, the foliage is still fully green. It now carries the dullness that precedes its shift into the autumnal palette: aged yet majestic in the face of its looming death, knowing that it will soon blaze in a spectacular display of dying glory. In a month, six weeks if the temperatures are mild and the winds calm, every branch will be naked and quivering.

I begin to see the arcs of the balloons peek above the trees, their bright colors a preview of the days to come, and I hear the woosh of a couple dozen fires echoing off the surrounding hillsides as they rise. The percussive symphony is rhythmic--yet random--and oddly comforting. It sings to my soul, "Rise!"

immortal

indifference hovers
outside love's window
thirsting for my need
as potential again falls
to restless night

weakened by the weight
of unresolved want
i feel the undeniable lure
of its sweet promise

to care not of todays
hope not for tomorrows
ever free of hunger's ache
in the undead surrender
of a painless peace

~ ~ ~