The Writer’s Hollow Reads: The Masked Songbird by Emmie Mears

Hello everyone! It’s been a while again (and even this post is a day late). I thought I’d do something different this week and share my space with Lovely Human Being and All Around Good Egg, Emmie Mears! If you don’t know her, you should. *stares with beady little dragon eyes until you do* So without further ado, here she is. –Dragon

 

 

Find Your Time

Sometime in high school, I realized that whatever gene was in charge of wiring my daily schedule must have been out to lunch on the critical presentation day. It’s no secret or mystery that most teens seem to revile the Morning Beast, but for me it was something else. I could barely function before 10 AM, and while I thought I’d grow out of it, I never did.

Fast forward to 2009 when I was teaching special education in DC, with the dream of writing novels for a living still fluttering inside my chest. My job was 45 minutes away, which meant I had to leave the house at about seven in the morning if I wanted to arrive on time. I frequently was at school until late afternoon, and I also had grad school classes until late some nights. Two months into the school year, I was exhausted and anxious. Christmas break went by so quickly that I was already yearning for summer – and none of it was really the job itself.

In spite of getting up so early every day, I was constantly awake until two or three in the morning. Couple that with my longstanding sleep anxiety (I get panicky when I know I am not going to get enough sleep, which makes me unable to relax and get any), and by the time April rolled around, I was lucky to get three hours a night.

A week later, I was in a bad car accident and was knocked flat on my back.

For five weeks.

Five weeks I couldn’t work and could barely move. Toward the end, I started noticing improvements. I was still up until two or three in the morning, but I was able to sleep until ten or so. I was getting a full night of sleep for the first time in what felt like decades.

That car accident, awful though it was, may have been the best thing to ever happen to me. It forced me to leave teaching, because there was no way I could go back to that kind of schedule. I needed a job where I wouldn’t be working 70-90 hours a week. I took the summer to recover, and in September I started waiting tables.

It wasn’t the most romantic notion, to be slinging beers and burgers as a college graduate, but my life improved dramatically. I was writing again. I finished another novel. I had a job I could leave at work, and I was able to get the sleep I needed.

So much of the world functions around the 9-5 schedule that I’d thought there was something wrong with me for a very long time. I’d thought that I could teach and write at the same time, but because the schedule never allowed me to take care of myself, the many little vacations and breaks we got were spent sleeping off the pent up exhaustion.

There’s no one way to be productive in your writing. Most of us who want to write have to have day jobs; the only way around that is judiciously applied lottery winnings or being independently wealthy or being the fraction of the fraction of a percent of writers who score a massive book deal right out of the gates. This means that we have to find a time that works for us to get our writing done. Some work best in the wee hours of the morning just after waking up. Others work best in the wee hours of the morning once everyone’s gone to bed. Some are afternoon writers, others write at lunch. Some scribble words in every spare minute; others need to carve out giant blocks of time.

Writing – especially as a career – is a persistence game. And it’s really hard to be persistent when your daily routine has burnt you to crispy critter status and the sound of your alarm clock triggers only negative feels and a string of expletives inside your skull.

Plenty of people will tell you to do it their way; I’m here to tell you to find your own. If my way works for you, use it. But if it doesn’t, you’re your own you…and the only you who can figure out which time of day makes your words flow.

 

Blurb:
Mildly hapless Edinburgh accountant Gwenllian Maule is surviving. She’s got a boyfriend, a rescued pet bird and a flatmate to share rent. Gwen’s biggest challenges: stretching her last twenty quid until payday and not antagonizing her terrifying boss.

Then Gwen mistakenly drinks a mysterious beverage that gives her heightened senses, accelerated healing powers and astonishing strength. All of which come in handy the night she rescues her activist neighbour from a beat-down by political thugs.

Now Gwen must figure out what else the serum has done to her body, who else is interested and how her boss is involved. Finally—and most mysteriously—she must uncover how this whole debacle is connected to the looming referendum on Scottish independence.

Gwen’s hunt for answers will test her superpowers and endanger her family, her friends—even her country.

Bio:
Emmie Mears was born in Austin, Texas, where the Lone Star state promptly spat her out at the tender age of three months. After a childhood spent mostly in Alaska, Oregon, and Montana, she became a proper vagabond and spent most of her time at university devising ways to leave the country.

Except for an ill-fated space opera she attempted at age nine, most of Emmie’s childhood was spent reading books instead of writing them. Growing up she yearned to see girls in books doing awesome things, and struggled to find stories in her beloved fantasy genre that showed female heroes saving people and hunting things. Mid-way through high school, she decided the best way to see those stories was to write them herself. She now scribbles her way through the fantasy genre, most loving to pen stories about flawed characters and gritty situations lightened with the occasional quirky humor.

You can preorder THE MASKED SONGBIRD here (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JD7TWZK)! Released in a box set, you get four great paranormal and urban fantasy books for less than $4!

Follow Emmie on Twitter @EmmieMears and join her on Facebook!

Emmie now lives in her eighth US state, still yearning for a return to Scotland. She inhabits a cozy domicile outside DC with two felines who think they’re lions and tigers.

 

Emmie Mears

 

 

Author of THE MASKED SONGBIRD (Harlequin 2014)

EmmieMears.com

Searching for SuperWomen: Geek Girls Getting Loud

Cautionary Tales: *insert appropriate “jumping too soon” metaphor*

It seems the Midnight Types have been stuck at 11:59 for a really long time, so hopefully this post gets the old clock wound and ticking again. It’s been a busy season of writer-related goodness, between the RT convention in New Orleans, BEA in New York, and half a dozen other exciting things in the last few months, we’ve been having trouble keeping up. It’s exciting to get back to somewhat-normal. 🙂

Yeah, I’ve been thinking about Salvador Dali a lot today. Sue me. It’s a good metaphor. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. Shut up.

My cautionary tale for this week is something I’m still learning, nearly three years after sending out my first query letter. The scariest part of this story, at least for me, is that I was SURE I’d learned this lesson long ago. For all I know, I’ll still be learning it in another three years. Or another thirty. It’s that kind of lesson.

What chilling horror story could be so difficult to understand? Well, the very nature of horror stories gives the reader more information than the characters. That’s why they’re so terrifying to read. Surprise jump scares are scary for a split-second, but real terror builds up over pages and pages, and culminates with that awful-wonderful moment when the characters realize how deep in shit they are and how much worse their lives are about to get. THIS is the kind of intensity I’ve been hit with regarding my chosen topic. And here’s the words that strike panic into the hearts of anyone who’s ever handed their wordbaby over to an agent only to learn said wordbaby had a leaky diaper at the time. *insert Jamie Lee Curtis screaming*

During that first round of rejection, I kept writing. And I kept writing. Some agents showed interest, but asked for a rewrite. I rewrote, and resubmitted. Still, ultimate success was just out of reach. By this point, I had three novels in a series, and had rewritten the first novel twice. Well, I thought I’d rewritten it. Turns out, I sort of polished up the edges a bit, but I never understood what a real rewrite meant.

I’d always heard you should put the novel down for a while, then go back with a clear head to straighten out problems and catch plot holes, character issues, etc. I laughed at the idea of putting a novel away for an entire YEAR in order to get enough distance from it to be truly objective. I’d been waiting maybe a month between drafts, and during that time I wasn’t really distancing myself at all. I was still writing about the very same characters! It took a weird piece of advice, oddly coming to me from several different agents in the span of about a week, to go back to the beginning and write the main character’s backstory. I snort-laughed myself silly over that. Of course I can write her back story. I can write out her entire life story (pretty good for a 1900-year-old character), and it’s not even boring! She’s a warrior! She once fought Vlad Drakul! She bested the freaking Roman Empire! She’s awesome! The writing began.

It took four months of writing, researching, and rereading everything I’d written about her to realize how badly I’d treated her, writer to writee, in the first novel I wrote about her. She has this beautiful life story, and I’d reduced her to a 300 page caricature. In writing her grand history, I learned so much more about her, her abilities, her history, her personality, and what drives her to do what she does. And I learned that, dammit, I need to give her a better story.

What did I do with this revelation? I shoved everything– the entire 400k-plus words I’d ever written in that particular universe– into a box and then shoved said box under my bed.

For a year.

Does that mean I didn’t think about them? Of course not. I spent hours daydreaming new starts to her story. Days were wasted angsting about how to shuffle the major events of her life around to accommodate the story I’d already written. And I do mean wasted. Because I couldn’t rearrange her whole history to fit my already-written words. It took MONTHS to realize I had to rewrite my words to accommodate her story. It’s only fair, considering I dragged her into this world.

I’m just starting to pull everything back out again. The lengthy back story I wrote will be woven into the text. And as far as rewriting goes? Yup. Entirely rewriting. Every. Single. Word.

So now that summer is upon us, this Midnight Type will be burning midnight oil. It’s better for my scales than sitting out in the sunshine anyway.

The moral of this story is that I still might not have it right yet. I still might not be able to tell the best story for my characters yet. There might be a lot more work to do, even after essentially starting right back at the beginning again. The thing is, the only way for me to find out is to just sit down and do it. And that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever written.

Caption Friday!!

Alright! So we’ve got a creepy cool picture for you to caption!

Remember, winner gets the opportunity to have a short story posted alongside our next caption contest!

The winner will be announced Monday, in our Writer’s Hollow post. Please leave your caption in the comments section below. C’mon guys, amaze us with your wit! 

Inspire Me Watson! Write what you feel.

I saw a quote online last week that’s really stuck with me.

“Writers don’t write from experience, though many are resistant to admit that they don’t. I want to be clear about this. If you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.”

—	American activist, writer, educator and commentator, Nikki Giovanni

I’ve been thinking a lot about that. If we all only wrote what we know, there’d be a bazillion incredibly boring autobiographies on the market, and very little else. Writing what you know is only going to get you so far. But how is it possible to write about something you DON’T know? Easy. The situations and experiences we write about might be fantastical, but human emotions and reactions are pretty much universal. We all understand joy, anger, betrayal, love, loss, longing, fear, and a thousand other feelings. The trick is writing characters and situations with that understanding in mind.

Let me explain. No, it’s too much. Let me sum up. Most people are familiar with the works of Stephen King. I’m reasonably certain that he has no first-hand experience as a pyrokinetic teenaged girl, a rabid dog, a psychotic murdering clown, or a head-injury-induced psychic. Even still, he writes all of these characters with such care that we can see them as actual, three-dimensional people rather than as faceless paper dolls. It’s not scientifically assessed and meticulously assembled facts about the characters or situations that draw us in to their worlds, but the fact that, despite strange powers or otherwise unbelievable plots, we respond to the humanity of their situations.

So that’s what I took from this quote. If you can build your stories around the sorts of things we can all identify with as human beings, readers will be drawn to even the most inhuman of characters. And as a dragon, that makes me happy.

 

Writer’s Hollow: NaNoWriMo and Pitch Slam!

by Chynna-Blue, a.k.a. The Vamp

 

April’s NaNoWriMo has begun! If you didn’t get the memo, you’re only 7 days behind, so if you feel like taking part you can sign up here.

If you don’t want to officially take part, you could always use the premise to build up the word count of your current WIP. Give yourself a 1,000 word a day goal for every day until the end of April and voila, you’ll have a finished draft by the end of the month.

 

To make April even MORE exciting, Pitch Slam starts this month! This year the pitching process has a rockstar theme, as if we needed another reason to be excited!

Leatrice McKinney gives an excellent rundown of the rounds participants will have to make it through, starting with auditions on the 20th April beginning at 12AM EST. I sincerely recommend you check out her post if you’re thinking of taking part.

 

If you have any interesting news you’d like to share with fellow writers, drop it in the comments. Peace!

 

Lovesick by Meghan Schuler! #BleedingHeart2014

It’s Friday! Halle-freaking-lujah! Once again we’ve all managed to make it to the weekend in one piece. Apologies for the hiatus–as I’m sure you’ve heard, some of us here have been dealing with some serious shizz. Accept our heartfelt virtual flowers.

Last time you heard from us, OH so long ago, we brought you a short by our own Jessie Devine. Today, we give you a Bleeding Heart courtesy of the Queen of Horror.

Meghan Schuler is one kick-ass chick, and if you’re not following her on Twitter, you should be. If you love her hauntingly excellent story (which you will!) please leave a comment or hit her up online. We’ve even given you little links because we’re just that nice. Enjoy!

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LOVESICK

By

Meghan Schuler

I drummed my fingers on the desk, tired of the silence, tired of waiting, my chin propped on the heel of my hand. He’d left me nearly three hours ago to speak with Father about marrying me. I’d missed my first demonstration of the evening waiting for him. Henry returned, but instead of embracing me or offering me a shred of what had transpired, he’d avoided me, rushing upstairs to do God knows what before returning to me. My elation that he was finally going to ask Father for my hand was now a black mass of uncertainty and sorrow in my chest, pouring over my heart like tar. He caught me watching him, his thin figure moving along the rows of jarred specimens, hands searching.

“Anna, are you all right?”

“No,” I said. “Henry, why won’t you talk to me? What happened?” I stood from my chair, smoothing my hands over the black fabric of my dress. Black hid any stain a surgeon could come by, but I couldn’t hide the blood etched around my fingernails. Henry’s hands looked much the same as mine, his long, tapered fingers suited to his profession. We were a pair, he and I. My worry earned me only a peck on the cheek.

“Anna, there’s little to talk about.”

“Little? Father kept you for hours, Henry. What did he say?”

He kept his back to me, his black coat stained on the right sleeve. “He said he was pleased you were doing so well at your studies.”

I groaned. “Not about me, about us! You did ask him, didn’t you?” Henry’s face took on a curious blank, as if we hadn’t discussed this a dozen times. “Didn’t you?” I repeated, hoping for a smirk, or a light in his eyes, anything.

Another kiss was all I was granted.

“Henry, I have my reputation to uphold. I can’t keep claiming to be on-call when I’m with you.”

His expression turned worried. “You don’t regret what we—“

“No,” I said, cupping a hand to his jaw. “Absolutely not.” I had no remorse for my actions, our actions. I loved Henry dearly. My floppy-haired surgeon meant the world to me, but his tendency to ignore the obvious drove me insane. Did he not see how his silence killed me?

“You did speak with him, didn’t you?”

Instead of giving me my answer, Henry looked at his pocket watch. “You’ve a cardiology lecture, don’t you?”

I sighed, turning away from him to blink back tears. “Henry, if Father denied you, just tell me. We’ll think of someone else. We’ll elope if we must.” A terrible thought came to me, chilling my blood.

“Oh God, Henry, he didn’t find out, did he? That we…” I couldn’t finish, my throat dry.

He put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his eyes to mine, reassurance in their blue haze. In the dim lighting, they appeared nearly black, like the sea during a storm.

“He knows nothing, Anna. Not about us, anyway. Our secrets are safe.” He kissed me then, a soft brush of his lips against mine. “Sadly, we’ve no time for kisses. We’re late.”

He returned to the specimen rack and collected two jars, one empty, the other containing a bisected human heart. I’d made that one the year we’d met and Henry insisted we take it with us. His sentimentality melted me a bit, but my love was overshadowed by longing. I wanted his answer, Father’s answer, but it appeared I would not be getting it.

I followed him up the narrow staircase, one hand resting on my bodice. I felt ill, angry. How difficult was it to say, ‘Yes, Anna, I can ask for your hand,’ or ‘No, your Father has denied me?’ I followed on instinct, ignoring the blurs of black-clad figures in white masks passing us on the stair. For a moment I wished I still wore that mask, but I was no longer a mere observer in this place.

The third floor housed my cardiology hall, a small room set like a theatre in the middle of a garden. Nothing grew inside, but dirt helped absorb the blood from the cadavers. Henry set the jars on my surgical table, beside the glistening box of scalpels and blades he’d given me for my birthday.

He loved me. In every touch and smile and sidelong glance, I knew. I only wished he’d understand my reason for being upset. He vanished into the storage room, leaving me with the tools of our trade and a body in need of dissecting. It was funny to me that tonight should be my cardiology lecture. I picked up the jar containing half a heart, turning it over in my hands.

Nearly two years earlier, on this same day, I’d managed to animate this heart for nearly ten seconds. I’d rushed through the college to find Henry, then my mentor, and show him what I’d done. He smiled at me and demanded I show Professor Starling, but as the only woman enrolled in the surgical school, I wouldn’t be taken seriously. He refused to let me doubt myself, called me unapologetic, fearless, confident. He believed in me, and I fell for him fast, holding a beating heart in my hands while losing my own to him.

I had preserved it out of sentiment, a reminder that I’d made cardiology my field by force and will.

The lights flickered in the chamber and hastily I tied my apron around my dress. I could see the onlookers filing in from the doors, a black tide against the dim light, stark white faces peering back at me. I tied my hair back, the braid doing little to keep my hair in place. Henry nodded from his position by the door. I tilted the operating table up slightly, making sure the body was secured.

“This man will demonstrate to you the workings of the circulatory system. The way blood is moved through the body in a series of circuits is what maintains our body temperature, keeping the organs warm and functional,” I intoned, picking up my scalpel. The blade slid through the flesh with ease, but a suture near the lower ribs caught my eye. It wasn’t unusual for a body to be checked before dissection, but the cut was fresh.

I continued, pinning back the skin. “To access the heart, one must break through the sternum. This requires precision and power. Once broken, the bone can be separated to expose the heart.”

I did just that, the snap of bone loud in the silence. Blood ran down the sides of the man’s chest and I mopped it away. The heart moved erratically, the atypical rhythm obvious.

“The aorta is the major artery keeping blood flowing from the heart,” I continued, trying not to broadcast my worry. “Puncturing the aortic arc will lead to death in three heartbeats. With nowhere for the blood to go, the patient will bleed out.”

The slightest groan sounded from the operating table. Henry moved from his position against the door, concern painting his features. I looked at my patient. His head lolled against the metal table and his once stable heartbeat sped up. Something caught my attention, and I leaned closer, eyes narrowed. Like the sutures in the flesh, the man’s heart also bore an anomaly: a single row of nearly invisible stitches. I was losing control. I had to salvage this demonstration.

“Increased pulse occurs in when the body is not getting the oxygen in needs. This can result to over oxygenating the blood,” I stammered, trying to hide my nerves. The man opened his eyes and I stepped back, watching the fog clear and his brain register the vision of his chest torn open. The lungs expanded and the screaming began. I cursed myself for not having sutured his jaw shut, but with Henry on my mind, things had slipped away from me. I tried to still him, but he arched his back, my scalpel piercing the aortic arc. I couldn’t stop my own cry as the blood covered me, staining my dress and matting my hair. I wiped as much as I could from my face, but the man was dead before I could do anything. Three heartbeats.

In three heartbeats, Henry had crossed the room to my side, a clean towel in hand. The observers filtered out. I’d no doubt that if they could speak in these rooms, they’d be denouncing me. I sank into my chair, covering my face.

Henry touched my shoulder. “Anna, we’ve all had vivisections go poorly. It’s a difficult task, especially in front of an audience. No one gets it perfect all the time.”

“Constants and variables,” I muttered, glancing back at the ruined body on the table.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about,” he said, kneeling beside me, a hand on my knee. “You remember my first demonstration. I had to cut the lungs out of that man just to keep from screaming. He managed to get a leg free before he died. Kicked me in the jaw.”

I sniffled. “I remember. You were bruised for a month.”

He lowered my hands and brought the cloth to my cheek, wiping away the blood. “Anna, you are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You’re brilliant, and you are good at what you do. I even love you when you’re covered in blood, perhaps especially then,” he said, and my heart fluttered in my chest. “I know what will make you feel better.”

He rose and crossed over to my newly-deceased cadaver. I watched him, his long fingers cradling the heart while his other hand severed it from the chest cavity. The blood ran over his cuffs, leaving new stains I’d never be able to wash out. He presented the heart to me, a smile on his lips.

I shook my head, feeling a trickle of sticky wetness slide down my ear. “Henry, I’m not much in the mood for further dissection.”

“It’s not for science, it’s for fun,” he said, handing me the blade. He looked so pleased, I couldn’t turn him down. He knelt beside me again as I cut into the tissue, the usually smooth incision proving vastly more difficult. I tore it open, venting my frustration, anger, and worry in one mad slice. A tiny black box filled the crimson chambers of the left ventricle. I pulled it from the muscle, dimly connecting the oddity with the stitches on my patient. Henry tilted his head, and at his command I opened the box.

A silver ring sat on the black cushion, filigree running the edges to accent the diamond set in the center. I pressed the back of my hand to my lips, not caring I was still bloodied. Henry drew my hand away and held it, taking the ring from me as well. The mishap with the demonstration vanished as the grin spread across my face.

“How?” was all I could manage.

Henry grinned fit to spite the devil. “Of course your father approved. He tried to throw us together the first time I called on you,” he answered. “I rushed back to prep the body. He wasn’t going to last long in either case. I can only give you my heart metaphorically, but I can find a spare one or two in effigy.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him tight before splaying my fingers across his cheeks and kissing him.

“I hadn’t meant to upset you, Anna. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

I reached for the cloth to clear my finger marks from his face, but he caught my hand again, sliding the ring onto my finger.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I teased. He’d tormented me all evening, and I’d be damned if he didn’t say it, even if he already knew my answer.

He blushed, looking away for moment, his handsome face made more darling by the blood on his cheek. I bit my lip, fighting the urge to bite his.

“Annabelle Victoria McKittrick, will you marry me?”

---

 

*Amazing, no?*

If you think this was as good as we do, don’t forget to show Meghan some love by leaving a comment or hitting her up on social media. 

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The Most Romantic Evening of My Life by Christian Rogue #BleedingHeart2014

Hey girls and boys!

I trust you are all well…

So, today on the blog it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Christian Rogue, awesome author of our latest Bleeding Heart story, The Most Romantic Evening of My Life. You know the drill, if you enjoy Christian’s story as much as we did, don’t forget to let her know in the comments below. And of course enter our awesome giveaway to win free books. 

And now, without further ado, take it away Christian…

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The Most Romantic Evening of My Life

by

Christian Rogue.

Zane: Ready for the most romantic evening of your life?

I hit the hold button on my phone. Yeah, right. I know what that means. Some cheap Italian restaurant that he says has character. I’m sure he’s googled it, and it gave him three stars and a groupon. Classic, Zane. 

Me: On my way out the door.

I adjust my black beanie and make sure my lipstick isn’t on my teeth. There’s skull earrings and a streak of red in my dark hair. It’s Valentine’s Day after all, might as well go out in style. 

Outside, it’s raining buckets. It’s the kind of weather that makes me wish I could wear more sensible rain boots, but my leather ones seem more appropriate for date night.

 Zane’s beater car is ghastly. If it were a dog, someone would have rescued it from a shelter because it only had two legs and a missing eye. I slide in, and he’s talking on his phone.

“Right, I have a reservation in five minutes. We’re going to be late-“ he says and let’s out a sigh. “Oh hey, Saph-“ He leans over and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Yeah…” He backs out of the steep driveway. Another car honks and just barely misses the bumper.

Zane flips him off, which the guy can’t see because the back window is fogged up, and he’s already gone.

 “-Jerk.”

 Buzz. Tylie (aka best friend): How’s the date?

 Me: Words can’t describe this hell.

 “Great!” Zane says, pulls the phone back and hangs up. The car is in the street and ready to go. “Hold on a second. I have to call somebody.” He turns the wheel and drives, dialing and swerving as he goes.

Instead of phone tag, we play people tag instead. I continue texting Tylie to keep from going insane. Giving her the play by play until she tells me that’s she’s watching Game of Thrones and can’t be disturbed. Someone is dying, and she’s absolutely horror stricken.

 By then, we’re at the restaurant.

 “Sorry, about that, babe,” he says. “Now are you ready for the most romantic evening of your life?”

 “Does it come in Vegan?” I ask him.

 “Yup,” he says with a smile that insists that I forgive him this instant. “Made sure.” He wiggles his phone at me.

 “Picture, so we won’t forget,” I say. It seems proper to memorialize this moment forever. We lean in and the camera flashes. He looks slightly perplexed, and I look pissed. Dorky Zane and shady Saph, the usual.

 Inside, it’s cozy like a rom-com and makes me want to puke. There are wooden tables with lacy tablecloths and red doilies. I didn’t think those things existed outside  Amish country. Beyond that is an open kitchen where a fat chef makes food.

 It’s warm inside, so I take off my jacket, and cross my arms. My hand grazes the skull tattoo with a red flower.

 A host stops us at the door.

 “Reservation?”

 “Zane Wright.”

 “Yes, right here. Come with me,” he says and leads us to a table. Zane orders the wine as I check out the menu. There’s a vegan section as promised.

 The clunk of a hammer pulverizes meat in the back. Vomit tickles my throat. The chef’s hammering is hard and methodic.

 Everyone else in the restaurant is lost in small talk. Their heads are close together. The buzz of a few drinks make the distraction of a man with red-rimmed eyes pounding juicy meat meaningless.

 “Zane…”

 “Yeah, babe?” He snacks on a bread stick and plays on his phone.

 “This place doesn’t seem funny to you, does it?”

 “Character, Saph. You know, I bet he’s the best cook in town. Some jerk probably wrote a bad review, because they didn’t like the way he dressed or isn’t a…”

 “A what?” I raise my eyebrow and kick him in the knee. He grins. “He doesn’t seem funny to you, at all?”

 “Like how?”

 A man coughs in the back.

 “Here are your drinks,” says our new waiter. “What can I get for you today?”

 Zane orders one of the brick oven pizzas, and I order the vegan pasta. The waiter leaves us.

 “We’re running behind in the kitchen…maybe an appetizer?” offers another waiter after a few minutes. Zane is checking the scores for some stupid game on his phone.

 The baked raviolis aren’t vegan, so I’m not eating them. He digs in and enjoys them as the guy in the back starts coughing worse. It sounds like his guts are coming up.

 “Are you sure you should eat that, Zane?”

 Someone else starts coughing too. Then, there’s the repeated sound of the mallet smacking the meat. I feel a migraine coming on as I touch my head.

 “It’s fine. Seriously, I’m so hungry,” he says still stuffing his face. It’s eerily lit by the candle and his phone.

 “Do you think it’s dead yet?” I demand. He looks up, sniffs, coughs and clears his throat. At first, he doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. Then, he hears it over the coughing. The sound of the hammer hitting flesh.

 “Whatever, it smells…appetizing.”

 “You’re so sick sometimes,” I mutter. He smiles that smile again, but it’s different, sexier and hungrier. “When are you going to pay attention to me?”

 He slides out of his bench into mine, and I know that I’ve got him. I grab his phone while he’s left it unattended.

 “Hey!” he says. “Give that back!”

 “You like it…” I say and text naughty things on his Facebook. He wrangles it from me. Then, he bends toward my cheek and steals another kiss.

 “Ow! You bit me!”

 We look up and standing about ten feet from us, is a man in a white shirt with copious amounts of blood soaking through it. He holds his ear, and his fingers are covered and can’t contain the dark red flow.

 “Are you okay?” Zane asks.

 A moan escapes from the bench where the guy came from. It’s not an I’m hurt moan. It’s more animalistic and strange.

 The chef still beats at the meat as if nothing has happened, and there’s not some guy bleeding in the middle of his restaurant.

 “Can we help you, sir?” the waiter asks. “Someone call…”

 A woman across the room screams. Each shriek is staccato and laced with panic. The woman in the bench with the bleeding man leaps out onto him. She knocks him over and bites into his face. Her lips and teeth drip red as she chows down on the jagged hole of her lover’s face. It’s a make-out session straight out of hell.

 I climb onto of the table. My heart is in my throat as she begins digging into his stomach, pulling out guts and jamming them into her mouth like a hungry kid over pasta. I gag and cover my mouth.

 “No, no! No!”

 “Saph! Saph!” Zane says. “We have to-“ He coughs and not a little cough either. He doubles over. I realize that I can’t hear the meat being beaten anymore. The screaming is too loud. I swallow as panic threatens to overwhelm me in the chaos.

 When Zane looks up at me again, I realize I’m not going to get the attention I want tonight. His eyes are red-rimmed and hungry.

 I hear another moan, another scream, and the ripping of flesh.

 I’m standing on the table with a rabbit scared waiter staring back at me.

 Then, I look at the door. Zane slides closer. I feel his breath on my calf under my fishnet stockings.

 “Babe…I’m hungry…” he says. His lips tremble. His tongue touches his lips and inhales. “I’m really hungry.”

 “Stay away from me, Zane.” I glance at the door, but someone’s eating the host now. Then, I look toward the kitchen. I see the fat chef, pounding away at the meat. There’s a row of butcher’s knives behind him.

 Yoga, don’t fail me now. Zane reaches up. His hand grazes my calf.

 I leap to the top of the first bench. There’s a shaky moment before I find my equilibrium. The girl looks up from her feast. She has a dark face covered in blood from her chin to her breasts. She smiles at me. She’s ready for more.

 She crawls over her man with a strange boneless grace. My foot plants right in the middle of their pizza, and I leap to the next bench top. Then, I jump to the counter.  Plates scatter and break. Heads rise and turn in unison to look over the booths.

 The screaming has died down. I leap from the counter and charge to the back wall, grabbing two of the butcher knives in each hand.

 “Aren’t you hungry?” the chef asks, scratching his thick belly under the stained, white apron. “Not hungry for my food?”

 I tighten my grip on the butcher knife.

 “Stay back!” I say. His fat fingers squirm.

 “I’m hungry for you, Saph,” Zane says. “Only for you.” I look up. He and the woman are on the counter, crouching like animals. Both of their eyes are laced with thick red veins. The girl decides she’s hungrier and dives at me.

 I throw the cleaver, and it clunks right into her chest. She looks at it, eyebrows rising. She staggers back into the counter from the force and slides down as she coughs up more blood. It dribbles thick down her chin.

 “I’m leaving now. You guys…just stay put,” I say, brandishing the cleaver. The fat chef grabs a poker from his oven. He goes to ram it through me, but I duck and slam the handle of the cleaver into his knee. He staggers.

 I grab a knife from his counter. The metal slides across the granite counter top, and I close my eyes when I stab him in the belly. My trembling hand sinks to the hilt of the knife, pressing against him. I stagger away. My back presses against the counter.

 He brings one foot under him, flesh jiggling, and he grabs the knife. Blood soaks through the apron. Then, he pushes himself up with a grimace.  He slaps me across the face with his meaty hand, and I fall.

 Zane dives on him from behind, biting into his fat neck. Blood spurts out, and they’re both covered in it. Zane keeps digging, until I’m sure he’s reached the spinal chord. The fat chef slides to his knees, eyes rolling up into the back of his head, and convulsing.

 Zane has flipped from distracted boyfriend to Dexter in seconds. I slam myself into a corner, get myself on my feet, and look around for another weapon. I go for a pot lid. It’s closest.

 Shield, axe, demon boyfriend. Right. I’m Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.

 The chef collapses on the ground, and Zane stands up with a satisfied smile on his face. He looks like a vampire, blood on his cheeks and neck, but he’s no vampire. He’s hungry for meat.

 “Not hungry?” I ask him, hopefully.

 “Only for you, babe. Only for you,” he says with a twitchy shrug and grins at me.

 All’s forgiven, right? Especially when a fast-acting bacterial infection makes you hungry for human flesh. Right, babe?

 He charges. “I want you!” I slam the lid into him. He hits me at full force. My elbow bumps the counter, goes numb, and I drop it. He backs away, eyebrows invisible under his soft brown hair. The cleaver is embedded in his chest. Blood gushes from his body and splatters on the white, greasy linoleum tiles.

 “Oh! Sorry, Zane!” I tell him. “It was an accident!” He looks at me, and then, at the cleaver. He slides down to his knees. This will be a first, breaking up with a guy via meat cleaver. It’s the most romantic evening of my life.

***AWESOME! We LOVE! Thanks, Christian!!***

About the author…

Christian Rogue currently lives and works in Spain, but her roots are firmly planted in Missouri. An adventurer at heart she’s learning languages and helping people abroad. In the meantime, she enjoys reading and writing anything YA, science fiction, or fantasy. When she’s not writing or working you can find her doing high kicks and sparring at the local dojo.

Her current manuscript is Beastia, a dark contemporary retelling of Beauty and the Beast. She enjoys nothing more than challenging the system and turning any and all stereotypes upside down.

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The Tell-Tale Valentine by Jessie Devine! #BleedingHeart2014

Seeing as it’s Saturday and we’ve all managed to make it to the weekend in one piece, we at The Midnight Type thought you deserved a brand new Bleeding Heart to play with.

Last time we gave you an explicitly good short by the mysterious Violet Skies. Today, we have a story by one of our very own.

Devine in name, divine in nature, Jessie’s THE TELL-TALE HEART tips its hat to Poe in epic Valentine style. If you love it (which you will!) please leave a comment or hit him up online. We’ve even given you little links because we’re just that nice. Enjoy!

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THE TELL-TALE HEART

By

Jessie Devine

The Tell-Tale Valentine

“Valentine’s Day. Do you think it’s totally nerdy to go to a Poe exposé?”

Coral pops her gum. “If she can’t handle the nerdy, she can’t handle you.”

I string the strands of black and pink hair over my shoulder with my fingers. “I s’pose.”

“You should get her to model for me. Then I could meet her.” She peeks around her canvas and gives me the stink-eye.

“Quit your bitchin’. If I survive tonight, you’ll meet her.”

Coral quirks her turquoise eyebrow. “Survive?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t get dumped.”

Maybe “survive” is the wrong word to use in our enormous Brooklyn loft. It’s been kind of creepy in here since Elizabeth died. Not that there’d been any sign of a break in, or even foul play. Still. Dead. The image of her quiet face as I pulled back the blanket that partitioned off her bedroom haunts me incessantly, and I don’t mean that like a pun. It’s like her ghost, and the only way I remember her anymore.

Though, I did meet Arlet just a day later. What’s that about karma? Out with the old, in with the new, I guess.

Coral rolls her eyes. “Girl, you aren’t getting dumped. If she’s as wonderful as you say she is, she’ll love it.”

“Hope so.” I slide off the corduroy couch. “Any idea when Noah will be home?”

“Think he and Casey are staying with Rob tonight. So we have the place to ourselves.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Hooray.” My voice is flat. When I said it was creepy, I meant it.

***

Arlet is eyeing me sideways, her slick little smile around her straw. My heart’s beating in my ears. It always does when she’s around. “You look nervous.”

Her platinum dreads have sparkling beads in them, and today she’s added red feathers. I occupy my eyes with the Pit and the Pendulum game. There’s a swinging blade over a hospital bed with someone tied to it and screaming. His girlfriend is laughing at him. “Come on, let’s try that. I bet we can win.”

Arlet’s heavily-mascaraed lashes flick up and down as she studies it. “That blade’s not even real. What do you have to do?”

“Let it touch you, I guess.” I clear my throat. The prize is a couple’s massage, but I’m not sure if she thinks we’re a couple. My heart beats louder.

She tosses her soda in the trashcan and takes my hand. Her smile returns. “You know, Poe’s my hero. I would’ve ended up here tonight if I hadn’t met you anyway.”

“Ah, great. I brought you somewhere you’d go if you were single.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “That’s bad?”

I shrug. “I dunno. Seems lame to me.”

“No, silly. I wouldn’t’ve had as much fun. Come on.”

We walk over to the Pendulum, where the wuss is walking away with his girlfriend. There are a couple volunteers milling about. This isn’t a very popular booth. Which, yeah, with all the screaming.

“You want to give it a try? You have to sit through the entire run. No screaming. No asking to get off. No begging for mercy.” He smiles. “I mean, if you want to win. Who’s first?”

Arlet jumps into the bed, and the staff straps her down. She winks at me as it lowers until she’s flat, and the blade starts swinging.

At first, it’s like three feet above her body. My eyes are glued to it, swinging back and forth. It’s just like the story, except it’s dropping visibly every time. And we’re not in a dungeon.

The blade comes closer and closer. Finally, it swings down and hits her in the chest. She cries a battle cry, laughing, and the volunteers unstrap her. She hops out of the bed. “What do I win?”

“Nothing yet. She has to do it too.” The staff guy nods at me.

“You got this, hot stuff.” She flutters a kiss onto my cheekbone.

My heart beats out of control. This thing is so silly. It’s not real—for obvious reasons—and I just watched Arlet do it. Plus, it’s totally my thing. Poe, gore, the like. I have no reason to be scared.

But I am.

I climb into the hospital bed, feeling like they’re strapping me to death. I can’t even look at Arlet as they lower me down, and I clench my eyes shut when the blade starts swinging.

Arlet’s catcalling at me, but I won’t open my eyes. I’m afraid I’ll scream, and then I’ll look really stupid. After I feel like I’ve held my breath for ages, the shiny plastic bumps into my boobs, and the staff releases me.

“Congrats. First couple to do that all day.” The staff guy pushes a red envelope into my hands.

Couple. First couple to do that all day.

I flip my hair back. “Really? I mean, it’s just plastic.”

Arlet’s already found something else she’s interested in, so I smile at the staff and run to catch her. The couple’s massage is in my back pocket, and it’s burning on my tongue to ask her out. It’d be pretty romantic. We could go to the wine bar afterward, maybe listen to some music.

But it’s a couple’s thing. Strictly a couple’s thing. It even says so. Couple’s massage. And I don’t know if that’ll freak her out.

We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. We even kissed once. But . . .

Maybe I should just ask her straight out. Are. We. A couple. But what if she says no? I squeeze her hand on accident and she squeezes back.

“Not scared, are you?” Her eyes glitter.

I clutch the red envelope in my fingers. “No. Hey, I want to ask you—”

“Oh! Look, this is my favorite story.” She tugs on my arm.

“Wait, Arlet. I have a—”

“Come on!”

She drags me inside the Tell-Tale Heart display. It’s dark in here, like a haunted house, and I’m not usually scared of the dark, but my heart pounds into my throat. I take a huge breath. “I gotta ask you a question.”

“What, what?” she laughs.

There’s something peculiar about this room. Not just the fake old man sitting up in bed with a slit of light over a gross-looking eyeball. No, it’s just, “It’s really quiet. Why aren’t there any staff in here?”

In the darkness, I can barely make out that sly grin. “I might’ve had a friend manning this booth, and he might’ve closed it just for me.”

“Oh . . . what for?”

Her head tips back, and she laughs in her gut. “You’re adorable.” She slides her hand into the back of my hair and pulls. I gasp, and her lips touch mine.

Like that, she kisses me. Her red lipstick is sliding off her Christina Aguilera lips onto mine, and for a second I despair that I’ll look like a kid with a Kool-Aid mustache.

But Arlet is kissing me, the world is falling out from under me, and my heartbeat is so loud I think she must be able to hear it. Her tongue twists with mine. I take her tiny, hourglass waist in my hands and pull her hard against my hips. Her breath hitches. Heat flares in the base of my spine and sets me lightheaded. Her hands tug at my hair, and I kiss her collarbone. She smells so good, like lavender and vanilla. I wonder how she tastes.

Her laugh interrupts my fantasizing as she falls to the floor.

“Arlet! Are you okay?”

She gives me puppy eyes and pats the ground next to her. I snort, and sit down. “Ah, that’s better.” She straddles me and pulls me to her by my lapels.

Her lips don’t quite touch mine. They tease. I can feel her breath, and it brings mine up short. I reach for her.

Darkness encases her as she rolls off of me and under the bed, giggling.

“What on Earth are you doing?” I can barely see her, but she beckons to me slowly with one finger. A thrill races up my back. “Why are you under there?”

“Because I want you under here with me.”

Breathless, I belly crawl under the bed until I’m pressed up against her. “Arlet.”

“Yes?” She slides on top of me and laces her legs between mine. Her thigh presses up into my crotch. There’s not a lot of room between the bed and the floor. We’re extremely close.

I kiss her again. “Wanna get a couple’s massage with me?”

“Are we a couple now?”

Thankfully, she can’t see me blush in the darkness. “I was hoping.”

“Alright.” She kisses me again, harder. Her teeth take my bottom lip in her mouth, and her hand slides over my jeans between my legs.

I moan a little. “Arlet.”

“Elizabeth,” she says into my neck.

My eyes snap open. “My name’s not Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I know, honey.” The sultry romance is gone from her voice. She pins me down, and reaches for the bed leg.

Elizabeth’s gray face flashes in my head, and my heartbeat grows louder. “So, why’d you say that name?”

“Because I know what you did to her.” Her legs are still between mine, but my blood has run cold. She jerks on the leg of the bed, and it inches across the floor.

“What? How? No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The last bit trails out of my mouth none-too-gracefully, and she smiles saccharine. She knows it’s a lie.

“I think you know very well what I’m talking about.” She heaves the bed up with her shoulder, and I’m too stunned to move. How does she know? She can’t know.

Suddenly, the wooden foot is smack in the center of my chest. The weight of it squeezes the air out of my lungs. My heart throbs against it, echoing in the darkness like a bass drum. “Wait, what are you doing? What do you know?”

“I know you killed her.” She rolls away and shoves the bed down like a stake through my sternum, silencing my hideous heart.

---

 

*And as usual, Jessie kicks ass!*

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Sex: A Survival Guide by Violet Skies. #BleedingHeart2014

Good afternoon, Ladies and Gents. I trust you’re all well…

Today on the blog we have a new Bleeding Heart story for you to sink your teeth into. So grab a drink, sit back,  relax and read Sex: A Survival Guide by the fabulous Violet Skies.

Don’t forget to let Violet know what you think of her story in the comments below, and please feel free to enter our awesome giveaway!

We love you, as ever!

Take it away Violet…

I’m afraid of social networking sites. If you want to find me, check beneath your bed. I’m probably hiding under there.

Sex: A Survival Guide

by Violet Skies.

 1.

I  look  ridiculous.

Mr. McFake Name  needs  to  put  down  the  porn  and  pick  up  a  book.  British  school  girls  don’t  wear  plaid  cut  up  to  their  assholes  and  Latex  waistcoats  that  can’t  contain  their  tits.

I  shove  my  hand  up  under  the  cheap  plastic  and  shuffle  my  chest  about  until  my  breasts  at  least  look  the  same  size. I’d  bet  next  month’s  rent  that  the  Latex  will  leave  a  rash.

I  hate  Valentine’s  Day,  it  always  brings  out  the  weirdoes.

“What’s  taking  so  long?  I’m  not  paying  you  to  take  a  piss.”  Five  fat  fingers  curled  into  a  fist  thump  against  the  door.  This  dude  is  a  real  prince  charming.

“I’ll  be  out  in  just  minute.”

He  walks  away,  muttering  something  repulsive  about  his  erection.

Before  I  unlock  the  door  I  check  my  phone  to  see  if  Gwen  has  sent  me  any  Ben  updates. I  don’t  usually  worry  about  my  boy  when  I’m  working. I  know  he’s  safe  with  Gwen,  but  this  afternoon  he  had  a  wet  cough  and  I  can’t  help  but  worry. Strep  throat  is  going  round  his  school — which  reminds  me,  I’ve  got  to  make  fifty  cakes  for  a  bake  sale  on  Monday. I  set  a  reminder  on  my  phone  and  make  a  note  to  pick  up  some  stuff  from  the  store.

I  leave  my  phone  unlocked  and  sit  it  on  top  of  my bag. It  has  to  be  easily  accessible, just  in  case  I  need  it. Normally  I’d  have  pepper  spray,  but Ben  was  whimpering  at  me  before  I  left  the  house,  I  was  all  out  of  sorts  and  forgot  to  snatch  it  up  off  the  counter.

Mr. McFake  Name  is  laid  on  the  bed,  naked. Guy  is  as  horny  as  fuck, but  Ima  need  a  magnifying  glass  to  find  his  dick.  From  this  distance, I’m  not  even  sure  he  has  one.

It  doesn’t  take  a  genius  to  work  out  that   his  size,  or  lack  thereof,  is  the  reason  he  pulled  his  car  up  to  my  street  corner  and  offered  me  five  hundred  dollars  to  dress  up  and  ride  his  ass  over  the  edge  tonight.

“Happy  Valentine’s Day,”  he  says,  with  a  grin.  I  swallow  back  the  little  bit  of  throw  up  that  rises  in  my  throat.

Think  Johnny  Depp  thoughts. Think  Johnny  Depp  thoughts.

I  walk  over  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  chin  to  my  chest,  looking  up  at  him  through  plastic  lashes.  I’m  trying  to  channel  sexy, but  the  cellophane  wrapped  around  my  knockers  is  squeaking. My  head  is  abuzz  with  thoughts  of  my  little  boy,  a  bunch  of  dry  cleaning  that  still  needs  to  be  picked  up  and  this  ugly  ass  blue  vein  that’s  sprouted  on  my  left  breast.

“Well,  don’t  just  stand  there,  Sweetheart. Sit  on  it.” He  snatches  hold  of  my  wrist,  gives  me  a  yank  and  I  fall  on  top  of  him.

I  don’t  like  it  when  they’re  rough.

I  fling  my  leg  over,  and  snatch  a  quick  glance  over  my  shoulder  at  my  bag  sitting  by  the  bathroom  door.

It’s  possible  I’ve  underestimated  Mr. McFake  Name.

I’ve  only  been  doing  this  job  a  couple  of  years,  but  I  can  usually  tell  which  guys  want  to  get  rough  and  which  just  want  to  get  laid. I  took  one  look  at  the  follically challenged  Mr. McFake  Name,  with  his  pudgy  exterior  and  ever  prominent  speech  impediment  and  assumed  he  was  just  looking  for  some  good  old  fashioned  lovin’. He  snatches  the  tops  of  my  arms  and  forces  me  down. Now  I’m  not  so  sure. I  curse  myself  for  leaving  my  bag  so  far  away.

“You  like  that?”  He  asks  through  gritted  teeth.

Like  what? He  thinks  he’s  inside  me  but  he’s  barely  scraping  the  surface.

He  starts  thrusting  beneath  me, breaks  a  sweat  in  the  first  ten  seconds  and  I  decide  to   give  him  ten  out  of  ten  for  effort.

I  lean  forward,  snatch  hold  of  the  bedstead. He  salivates  all  over  my  neck  while  I   make  pictures  out  of  the  damp  patches  breeding  on  the  motel  wall.

We’re  maybe  five  minutes  in when  he  decides  he  wants  me  to  sit  back  up,  poker  straight.

“I  want  you  lookin’  at  me  when  I  fill  you  up,”  he  says.

Dude  is  wearing  a  rubber,  but  whatever. The  quicker  he  gets  off,  the  quicker  I  can  get  home. “You  could  look  a  little  more  lively  for  $500,”  he  tells  me.

$500  will  get  me  Ben’s  chest  meds.  It’ll  get  my  groceries,  my  dry  cleaning  and  tomorrow  night  off.  Plus,  I’m  kind  of  grateful  that  he  hasn’t  tried  to  shove  it  up  my  ass. I  oblige,  pursing  my  lips,  squeezing  my  tits  and  making  yummy  noises. He  bucks  like  a  bronco  between  my  thighs. I’m  still  not  convinced  it’s  in.

My  mind  hasn’t  been  on  this  job.  Not  at  all,  and  before  long  I’m  back  thinking  about  the  color  of  mucus  Ben  was  coughing  up  and  whether  or  not  I  should  get  my  blue-boob-vein  checked  out  when  bam,  something  smashes  into  my  face. I  see  spots.  I’m  spitting  blood  and  chewing  on  my  own  teeth.

 “Ignorant  bitch,”  Mr. McFake  Name  declares  as  he  throws  my  startled  body  to  one  side  and  climbs  off  the  bed.

My  brain  is  stuck  to  the  back  of  my  eyeballs. Pain  radiates  in  my  cheek,  like  red  hot  pokers  stabbing  at  my  skin. I  twist  my  head  to  the  side  and  try  to  blink  the  room  back  into  focus.

“Dumb  whore,”  he  growls. The  fuzz  clouding  my  vision  fades  away  and  I  see  him  standing  over  me,  a  glass  ashtray  in  his  hand  and  my  blood  rolling  off  it  like  rain.

    I  just  have  time  to  clamber  out  of  the  way  as  he  lifts  the  makeshift  sledgehammer  above  his  head  and  smacks  it  down  on  to  the  bed.

He’s  trying  to  kill  me.

My  legs  are  shaking,  feel  limp  like  boiled  spaghetti,  but  strength  comes  from  somewhere  and  my  foot  connects  with  Mr. McFake  Name’s  jaw. I  hear  a  crunch  and  he  cries  out.

I  crawl  across  the  covers,  but  it’s  like  treading  sand. The  sheets  are  rope  winding  round  my  legs  and  I’m  getting  nowhere  fast.

I’m  dead,  I  think,  when  he  catches  hold  of  my  ankle. My  heart  is  hammering  in  my  head  and  dry  blood  is  crisping  on  my  chin. He  drags  me  back  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  flips  me  over. He  snatches  my  neck  with  one  hand  and  forces  my  legs  apart  with  the  other. He’s  wearing  a  grin  from  ear  to  ear,  big  enough  to  swallow  space.

Now  I  can  see  his  dick.  This  is  the  kind  of  shit  that  gets  him  hard. Unfortunately  for  him  I’m  not  quite  the  dumb  whore  he  assumes  and  while  he  tries  haphazardly  to  navigate  himself  inside  me,  my  hand  is  scouring  the  bed,  looking  for  the  glass  mallet  that’s  now  missing  from  his  hand. My  fingers  find  blood  first,  my  blood. I  want  to  yelp,  curl  up  in  a  corner  and  cry,  but that’s  not  an  option. I  grasp  the  ashtray,  lift  it  high  and  bring  it  back  down  on  the  back  of  his  head.

He  expels  a  moan, flashes  me  the  whites  of  his  eyes  before  he  collapses  on  top  of  me. I’m  crushed. A  rush  of  oxygen  rattles  as  it  leaves  my  lips. I  roll  him  off,  but  instead  of  falling  back  on  to  the  mattress  he  plops  on  the  floor  like  a  ten  ton  sack  of  shit.

That’s  when  I  realize  he’s  dead.

2.

“What  the  fuck  are  you  wearing?”  Gwen  says  when  I  answer  the  door.  No  time  to  explain,  I’m  scared  someone  will  walk  by  and  see.  I  snatch  her  wrist  and  haul  her  boney  ass  through  the  door.

“You  look  like  a  hooker.”  She  exhales  a  mouthful  of  cigarette  smoke.

“I  am  a  hooker.”

“Yeah,  but… you  know,  you  don’t  usually  dress  like  one.” Her  nose  puckers  as  she  stares  at  my  waistcoat  and  heaving  bosom. “This  is  a  request, right?  Ugh. That  shit’s  going  to  give  you  a  rash.”

“Gwen,  where’s  Ben?”

“Sam’s  watching  him.” I  exhale  relief. I  was  worried  she  might  have  brought  him  with  her. “Little  worm’s  not  so  sick  now  by  the  way. What  did  I  tell  you? He’s  nearly  eaten  me  out  of  house  and  home…”

“Gwen!”  I  snap. “I  need  to  tell  you  something.”

“Geeze,  Louise. Calm  your  ass  down. What  happened?  Did  he  not  pay  you? You  know,  this  is  why  you  should  have  a  word  with  Gary. His  girls  are  always…”

“Gwen!”  I  cut  her  off  before  her  New  York  accent  slices  through  the  remaining  threads  of  my  sanity. “Would  you  shut  up  for  a  second? I’ve  done  something  stupid.”

“What? No  rubber? You  gave  him  your  real  name? What?”

“I  killed  him.”  The  words  explode  from  my  mouth. Gwen  chokes  on  the  drag  she’s  just  inhaled,  and  then  she’s  scouring  the  room,  in  search  of  his  body,  cigarette  held  high  between  her  pointy  fingers.  She  turns  the  color  of  chalk  when  she  sees  him. A  beached  whale,  laid  out  on  the  floor.  Lips  pale, a circle  of  blood  expanding  under  his  head.

“He  started  beating  on  me.”  My  voice  trembles  as  I  scurry  over  to  him.  Gwen  takes  slow,  baited  steps,  like  he  might  rise  up  and  shout  “boo”  any  second. “I  didn’t  mean  to  kill  him. I  just  wanted  him  off  me. He  had  his  hands  around  my  neck,  squeezing. And  I  couldn’t  breathe.” Tears  roll  down  my  cheeks. “Gwen.  Gwen. Please  say  something.” I  shouldn’t  have  called  her,  but  there’s  no  one  else. The  police  would  take  Ben  away,  hand  him  over  to  the  state  and  he’d  end  up  getting  screwed  by  the  system. Gwen  is  the  only  family  I’ve  got.

“I  shouldn’t  have  called. I’m  sorry…”

“We  gotta  get  rid  of  it,” she  interjects.

“What?” I  don’t  know  why  I  sound  so  surprised. This  is  what  I’ve  been  thinking  I  need  to  do  for  the  last  twenty  minutes.

Gwen  drops  down  on  the  bed  and  pulls  a  packet  of  cigarettes  from  the  waistband  of  her  skirt. She  snatches  one  between  her  teeth  and  wraps  her  crusty  red  lips  around  it. She  doesn’t  light  it. She’s  far  too  busy  contemplating  what  we’re  going  to  do  with  the  lifeless  mess  laid  out  on  the  floor.

The  silence  swells. Maybe  it’s  because  I’m  a  mother,  but  as  I  stand  there,  eyeballing Mr.  McFake  Name, watching  his  puffy  white  lips  turn  purple,  I  start  to  wonder  if  he  has  a  family. My  skin  pricks  and  I  hug  my  torso  tight.

“Knock  it  off,” Gwen  croaks  and  my  bones  simultaneously  leap  from  my  skin.

“What?”

“You  know  what. None  of  this  hooker  with  a  heart  BS. This  fucker  didn’t  contemplate  your  life  outside  this  room. No  need  to  be  extending  that  kind  of  courtesy  to  him,  you  hear?

Gwen  could  trump  a  college  education  with  the  stuff  she’s  learned  from  walking  the  streets. And  for  a  skinny  bitch  with  chronic  asthma  she  can  really  pack  a  punch. I  decide  not  to  argue.

“We  could  take  him  to  the  river?” I  suggest. Think  pupil  trying  to  impress  her  new  principal.

Gwen  winces,  slips  her  foot  under  the  icy  back  of  Mr. McFake  Name.

“It  would  be  like  trying  to  move  a  mountain.”  She  heaves,  then  spends  the  next  five  minutes  coughing  up  a  lung. The  cigarette, still between  her  lips, bounces  about  frantically. “We’d  never  make  it  to  the  parking  lot. I  suppose  we  could  always  chop  him  up.”

“Fuck  that,”  I  bleat.  I  get  sick  watching  CSI.  She  shrugs  indifferently  while  reaching  back  beneath  her  waistband. She  pulls  out  a  lighter,  sparks  it  up.  Her  eyes  widen  as  she  moves  the  flame  toward  her  face.

“We  could  torch  the  place.”

“You  mean  set  it  on  fire?”  She  rolls  her  eyes  at  me  because  of  course  that’s  what  she  means.

“Who  booked  the  room?”

“He  did.”

“Did  you  show  your  face  in  the  lobby?”

“No  ma’am. Came  straight  here.”

“Look.”  Gwen  leaps  up  off  the  bed.  I  watch  a  little  mortified,  but  mostly  intrigued  as  she  pulls  the  sleeve  of  her  sweater  over  her  hand,  plucks  another  Marlboro  from  her  packet  and  drives  it  into  Mr.  McFake  Name’s  mouth. “Fell  asleep  while  smoking. Set  the  whole  place  alight.”

She  grins  and  I  feel  ice  slip  down  my  spine.

“Have  you  done  this  before?”

“I…”

“Wait.”  I  hold  up  a  silencing  hand. “I  don’t  want  to  know. Let’s  just  get  this  over  with.”

I  stand  at  his  head,  holding  his  wrists. Gwen  has  his  ankles. His  skin  feels  damp,  kind  of  waxy,  like  clasping  a  candle. He’s  going  rigid,  weighs  as  much  as  a  rhino.

I  feel  something  pop  in  my  back  as  we  lug  him  on  to  the  mattress.

“Okay,” Gwen  pants,  leaning  forward  on  her  knees. “You  gotta  give  him  a  sponge  bath.” She  waves  a  pointed  finger  at  his  genitals.

“What?”

“You  need  to  get  rid  of  any  DNA.”

She’s  right. Fuck.

My  lips  twist  as I  tiptoe  toward  the  bed.

“I  got  some  rubber  gloves  in  my  purse,” Gwen  says, casually,  as  if  she  were  relaying  the  weather. A  shudder  runs  through  me.

“Gross.”

“Hey,  Tits  Mcgee,  judge  me  when  you’re  not  dressed  liked  a  five  foot    prophylactic.”

Smiling  right  now  would  be  inappropriate, but  I  do  anyway  because  I’m  about  to  sanitize  the  cock  of  a  corpse.

The  room  is  so  clean  when  we’re  done  you  could  perform  open  heart  surgery  in  it. Well, maybe  not  that  clean,  but  the  fried  onions  and  cheese  stench  of  stale  sex  is  buried  beneath  bleach  and  there’s  not  a  drop  of  blood  left  on  the  carpet.

“We’re  sure  about  this?”  I  ask  Gwen  as  she  twists  the  cigarette  a  little  deeper  into  Mr. McFake  Name’s  mouth.

“Do  you  want  to  go  to  prison  because  this  guy  couldn’t  keep  his  hands  to  himself?”

“And  the  self-defense  thing  is  a  definite  no?”

She  raises  her  eyebrows  at  me. Gwen  once  spent  six  months  in  prison  for  stabbing  a  guy  with  a  stiletto. He  beat  her  black  and  blue  first,  but  that  didn’t  seem  to  matter.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t  be.” She  unscrews  the  cap  off  a  bottle  of  Vodka,  dribbles  it  over  the  bed, over  the  body,  and  I  can’t  help  thinking  of  a  Christmas  ham, seeing  an  apple  instead  of  a  cigarette  wedged  between  his  teeth. Gwen  flicks  her  lighter  and  sets  fire  to  the  wad  of  newspaper  in  her  hand.

She  holds  it  over  Mr. McFake  Name’s  chest.

“Should  we  say  something?” The  words  somersault  from  my  mouth  when  I  sense  her  grip  on  the  flaming  torch  loosening.

“You  mean  like  a  prayer?”

I  shrug,  can’t  say  yes  because  suddenly  I  feel  stupid.

“Sure. I’ll  say  something.” Gwen  smirks. “Happy  Valentine’s  Day,  Dick.”  And  with  that  she  let’s  go  of  the  newspaper.

The  cardboard  bed  sheets  go  up  like  they’ve  been  soaked  in  gasoline and  in  seconds  the  body  is  swallowed  by  angry  orange  flames. We  stand  and  watch  the  fire  consume  everything  it  kisses,  and  pretty  soon  it’s  creeping  up  the  rotting  walls. Time  to  go.

We  decide  to  slip  out  of  the  back  because  it’s  more  secluded,  leads  into  a  back  alley  instead  of  a  parking  lot.

“I  could  use  a  drink.” Gwen  says,  walking  over  to  my  side. She  hooks  her  arm  through  mine  and  we  stroll  over  to  the  window. I  wish  I  could  say  it  was  the  burden  of  guilt  slowing  my  steps,  making  them  heavy,  but  it’s  not. The  only  thing  I  feel  right  now  is  exhausted.

“What  do  you  say,  Sugar?”  Gwen  bends  her  gangly  body  under  the  shutter. She  turns,  slams  her  elbows  down  on  the  sill  and  feigns  chewing  gum  like  every  prostitute  ever  portrayed  on  the  big  screen. “You  looking  for  a  date?”  She  winks  at  me  and  I  flip  her  the  bird.

“Never.  Again,”  I  growl,  crawling  through  the  window  and  joining  her  outside.

*WOW, Violet! That was awesome!*

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Sunday Morning After by the superb Kristen Jett. #BleedingHeart2014

Good evening, you gorgeous people!

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This story is called Sunday Morning After, and it’s by the amazingly talented Kristen Jett! If you lurve Kristen’s story as much as we do, don’t forget to let her know in the comments. Oh, and enter the giveaway to win some books and a giftcard.

Take it away, Kristen…

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Sunday Morning After

by

Kristen Jett.

A blind date on Valentine’s Day. That’s what my life has come to.

How did I even get talked into this? Damn those best friends. Always meddling into my life. I’d have been just fine in my leopard pjs, watching Netflix, and drinking wine straight out of the bottle. Wouldn’t I?

I smooth down my cliche red dress nervously, trying to pull it to a height where it isn’t showing too much cleavage or too much leg. It’s useless. One or the other is going to be extra enticing. Does it really matter which? I mean, what are the odds of a real catch being free tonight and needing a blind date? I went with too much leg. At least they were partially covered by tights.

“But you’re alone on Valentine’s Day.” The whine of my roommate slash best friend’s voice repeats in my head. We’d argued over this, and finally I’d caved. I’d try out her blind date with the third cousin of her boyfriend or her sister’s boyfriend’s roommate’s friend of a friend or whoever he is. Whatever. Worst case scenario, we’re both out of here by nine, and I can still sink into a marathon of movies, binge on ice cream, and drink enough wine to regret it in the morning.

Regret. What the day after Valentine’s Day is all about. What Sunday morning afters are always about.

I eye the door nervously, trying to gauge who will stop at my table. All I really know is his name. Alex. Or Alexander. Something like that. It had sounded proper. Banker?  I think that’s what Lo said. I should’ve asked for a picture. Or a full name so I could Google him. There had to be a reason she wouldn’t give me these details, right?

The first solo guy walks in. Shorter than me in flats, receding hairline, and wearing an Hawaiian shirt. I will kill Lo if this is him. Kill. A Valentine’s murder. Perfectly justified.

He walks by me without even a glance. Whew.

Wait. He has a date, and I don’t? Somehow, this isn’t making me feel any better about myself than my planned date with the television.

Most men walking in are with someone. Naturally. How many people really do blind dates – or even first dates – on V-Day? Too cold, too suave, keeps his aviators on at night pauses for a moment in front of me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes while eying him suspiciously. He glances at his cell phone, perhaps at a picture or a text, continuing his strut to the back of the restaurant.

Next in wore a v-neck tee, not cut low enough to be all Adam Levine, but low enough that chest hair puffed over the top. Ew. It takes the right kind of man and the right kind of body to pull off a v-neck, and this isn’t it. I drag on my drink. I am so going to need something stronger if anything like this sits down in front of me.  Damn you fancy restaurants for specializing in fruity little drinks that even an underaged sorority girl could hold down. I want whiskey. I want bourbon. I want tequila on the rocks. None of that looks good when you’re trying to impress someone, who probably doesn’t need impressing anyway, but I’m a girl about doing things right. Or as right as you can while expecting this entire night to be a bust.

And I’m caught off guard when he walks in. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Just my type. Hell, maybe any woman’s type. Dressed appropriately, not too fancy, not too casual, with his shirt cuffed just enough to let me know I’d want to see what the rest of those arms look like. Maybe even what the rest of him looks like.

This? This I can handle. This might even be worth shaving my legs for. This might even be worth peeling these tights off later so he could see he was worth shaving my legs for. And everything else. Oh Gods, please let this be him. By every love deity, every lust deity, let this be my date, because this is worth leaving the home for.

Tall, Dark, and Dead Sexy stops at the table, delighting me with a nervous smile and a delicious dimple. The nervousness tells me he doesn’t know what to do. Good. Me either. “Are you Lili?”

I flash a smile I didn’t think I’d be showing tonight. “I am. Alex?”

As he sits, I’m suddenly glad for this little red dress, the push-up bra, and the cleavage threatening to spill out of it. Surprise, surprise.

* * * * *

One dinner, a bottle or two of wine, and three tequila shots later, I’m leaning on him precariously as we leave. “I had more fun than I expected.” Any other time I’d cringe at that cutesy giggle escaping my mouth. But the tequila and I don’t care.

He smiles down at me, his face just close enough to kiss. “I did too.” His hand tucks itself around my waist. To steady me? To be near me? A mix of the two?

I lean up on my stilettos, taking that opening on my tippy-toes. Men take too long to walk through doors that have already been opened. There’s a fine line between being a gentleman, and not being ballsy enough to go after what you want. Me? I always like to take what I want. Right then. The sweet kiss lingers, deepens, just enough to let him know there could be more. Should be more. All he has to do is ask.

Just when I can literally feel his need, I back off, with more tequila tainted giggles. “Well…” My voice lilts. My head tilts to the right, and I lick my lips, noticing his dark eyes tracing every movement of my tongue.

“Maybe we…could do something else?” He says it in a hurry, as if he’s afraid he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t spit it out real fast. Or maybe he’s worried I’ll change mine. Too late. I’ve already decided what I want for the night. Him.

My arm hooks onto his. Am I too tipsy to stand in my heels? Am I just trying to get close to him? It’s my favorite mystery. “Yeah?” He swallows. I giggle. “Back to your place for a movie?”

See? This is how it works. If you ask me to your place, it’s rude. I’ll make all kinds of wrong assumptions. If I ask you if I can come over, it’s A-okay, except I’m in charge of what and when and how far. Girl law.

The grin that crosses his face makes me wonder which one of us has taken the bait. Maybe he knows the games that tipsy girls play. Maybe he prefers blind dates on Valentine’s day because they’re a sure thing. Maybe I shouldn’t have done all those tequila shots.

I stumble into his car, and for a split second I wonder what I’m doing. I know absolutely nothing about this guy. He could be a criminal. He could be an ax murderer. Bundy was charming and affectionate. Isn’t that how most psychopaths catch their prey?

But then he turns to me, flashing those dimples, leaning over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind my ear. All thoughts of trouble float out of my head. It’s like he has me hypnotized. Hypnotized by dimples. That’s a thing, right?

Definitely a thing.

* * * * *

Stiletto knee high boots off as soon as we walk through the door. How long before everything else follows? I mentally shrug. “Is there somewhere I can freshen up?” Because there’s no sexy way to take off tights, no matter what they tell you.

“Second door on the right.” He smiles at me, heading to what must be the kitchen for more drinks. My liver is going to hate me tomorrow. The rest of me is going to love me.

More stumbling down the hall. I turn left at the second door, nearly falling in. Pictures plaster the wall nearly from floor to ceiling.  This is not the bathroom. I try to adjust to the dim light. All I can see is pictures. Mostly pictures of girls that look kinda like me.

 What the actual fuck?

I knew I should have at least taken a picture of his license plate. Now what? How the hell do I get out of here?

A few loose pictures hang from a line strung across the room. I squint at the closest picture, trying to make it out. Another girl with long blonde hair. So is the next. And the next. And the next – except… I gasp, pulling the picture from the clothespin. Except that’s Lo. Eyes closed. Provocative pose. In just lingerie.

 Oh, hell no.

I turn in haste, dropping the picture, just anxious to figure out my escape – and run smack into him. Of course. His smile’s still there. Is it real? Or is it the soothing look a lion has before he jumps out at you?  Note to self: stop watching so many animal documentaries. “Maybe we should have stopped at two tequila. It’s your other right.” There’s a calm laugh to his voice.

“What is this?” My eyes casually sweep around, looking for any sort of weapon, anything I can use to defend myself. Ladies and gentlemen, this is why you don’t go home with someone you just met. No matter how much the tequila makes you want to lick their chest.

“Darkroom.” When I don’t respond, he smiles again. “I develop pictures. Dying art.”

Could we not talk about dying? Not a great choice of words there, Alex. “This one…”

He glances at the picture on the floor, picking it up to inspect, before nodding. “It’s from Lo’s shoot. I think artsy boudoir shoot is what she called it. Artsy and sexy.” He motions behind me. “Most of those others are hers. I haven’t finished developing them all yet.” He grins sheepishly. “It’s an art.”

She had mentioned something about giving Bobby the best gift he’d ever gotten. Something artsy and sexy were the exact words she used. My alcohol addled brain tries to process this, even as Alex steps closer, wrapping both arms around me to pull me into his embrace.

Oh. Well if he wasn’t going to kill me, we could get back on plan. His lips trace the curve of my neck. His fingers trace the curve of my hipbone. And I’m hoping the rest of him is going to hypnotize me tonight.

* * * * *

I roll over in the morning, not even bothering to demurely tuck the sheet around me. Everything’s already been seen and felt and experienced anyway. Alex’s still in the bed, his dark head turned away from me. He doesn’t budge at all when I shift in the bed, delicately getting up to find a shirt of his I can slip into. I tiptoe over to his closet, dancing with my morning bliss, wincing just a little as the closet doors stick. He has good taste. I run my fingers down fine cotton blends, deciding on a striped oxford to drape myself in.

I catch my own face in the mirror above me, tracing the memories of where faint lines had been.

 The same dance back over to him. I run my fingers through that dark hair, the same hair my hands were locked in last night. I run my fingers over the cold skin, already fading, already losing the last feel of the life stolen last night. It’s a shame he was such a nice guy. I almost feel bad about killing him. At least he went out with a bang. So to speak. Not everyone can be buried to the hilt in ecstasy when the life gets sucked out of them.

 Fucked out of them. Whatever.

One life, one more year gained. It’s a small price to pay for my immortality, for that smooth porcelain skin, for the life of fun that any good Lilith can get into.

*Ms. Jett, you are brilliant! Are we right?*

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