Love for the Evil One


If that clock didn’t tell her the time so accurately, Sofie would have taken a hammer to it long ago. Why else would she have kept it?

But she needed the clock. It gave her the idea.

She pulled Meta’s box out from under the bed and opened the lid and removed the papers as carefully as unwrapping an unsolicited gift given by a macabre client. She placed them on her writing table.

Sofie inhaled the scent of moth balls Meta had placed inside in what seemed like ages ago. Those spherical balls of cedar had kept her bonnets, kerchiefs as well as her revealing words from being eaten and destroyed by those tiny winged creatures, the ones who did not distinguish between good or evil longhand.

Regardless of the pungent smell of cedar, regardless of the desertion she felt, Sofie could still take in the scent of Meta’s lilac-fragranced soap on her young, thin hands, could still imagine Meta’s right hand dipping the pen into the ink in order to recreate the unusual bizarre events of her young life.

Sofie looked down at her hands, still somewhat youthful for being eight years older than Meta and still attractive. But she felt old at almost twenty-eight, old due to the wear and tear of her insides from the constant thrusting and prodding of too many men. At least her so-called clients were transparent. They wanted one thing, a warm twat to comfort themselves, or if they were worried about disease, a warm and wet mouth to surround their growing phallus. Such control she had over that one simple bodypart.

But she was tired of that now. Only if she was in great need of money or a favor, would she sucomb to pleasing one of the hairy oafs. Besides, it was Meta who taught her about love. But it was also Meta who had done those awful things.

Excerpt from The Edges of Two Fields, an unfinished novel.


Daily word prompt: Recreate

Photo credit

Miss Proper meets Crude


At some point during the evening, Sadie had removed every stitch of her nightclothes. I turned away while she threw on a blue peignoir.

As we Descended the stairs together, I secretly wondered what it would be like to sway my hips down a staircase, to have men ogle at me with carnal designs. To have a body like Sadie’s. Only curiosity, of course. I often pictured myself in alternative scenarios—a famous writer, a composer, a student of nature and all living things. And, of recent, I pondered working as an advocate for women’s rights.

The kitchen abuzz with chatter, I took a seat next to Sadie.

“So you worked up an appetite did you, Sassy Sarah?” Miss Fannie grinned.

“Yep, sure did.”

Miss Reba refilled Sassy Sarah’s coffee cup. “Sounds like Lawrence P. came last night.”

Sassy flipped her red hair to the side. “He came alright. And came and came.”

While everyone laughed, I felt the heat of my cheeks and turned my head.


Excerpt from The Last Bordello


Daily Prompt: Descend

Meta pretends she’s a prostitute


His lips mashed together into a thin line. “Hey, wait just a confounded minute. Did you say…? They didn’t hire you to, you know…”

Retaliation. “Yes! I got a job there, and I know I will love it. The clients can be quite challenging. Last night, when I had to explain that I wasn’t warmed up yet—”

“I don’t want to hear more. Hell, I might be street-smart, but I haven’t even turned fifteen yet. Porca miseria!

“Porca what?”

“Just practicing on not saying ‘shit’ all the time. Ma doesn’t like it, and my little sister thumps me between the eyes when I say it. It’s a little Italian cuss word that means pig misery. Like saying ‘damn.’ Where you off to, anyhow?”

“My Aunt Amelia’s. Would you care to accompany me, Mr. Scallywag? I found a job because of you, did I not?”

He tore the cap off his head and rubbed his greasy black curls of hair. “Stop saying that. I had nothing to do with you getting that job!” He pointed his finger eastward and accelerated his pace.

“Oh, but you did,” I said, hurrying to catch up. “If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be tingling with avidity for this evening to arrive. That’s why I’m going to visit Aunt Amelia, to tell her the good news.”

“What’s avidity mean? Wait, you’re going to tell your great-aunt about your new job? At Fannie Porter’s?”

“Of course. She’ll be thrilled for me. Besides, she knows I’m good at it. I’ve been doing it for years now.” I muzzled the smile aching to form.

His eyes widened into a dumbfounded glare.

“And avidity means eager, like being Avid about something.”

“I gotta go,” he said, turning away.

One more chance at deception. “Giovanni? You said you were fourteen?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, you are too young to be entertained at Miss Fannie’s. However, I’ll ask her if you can watch me perform sometime.”

His jaw dropped, his dander standing taller than his five-foot-five stature. “You want me to…watch?”

“Ah, we’re here. Thanks for the company.” I trotted off with the last laugh.

From The Last Bordello, historical fiction set in 1901




Happy Birthday, Raphael. But What?

Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio), was born on this day in 1483. This painting, La Fornarina, was of of his mistress, Margherita Luti. Raphael’s premature death was said to have been caused by excessive sex with Margherita the night before. Hmm…




St. Catherine of Alexandria

From sex to an Insane Asylum


Earlier, I had been sitting at the piano, thinking of my deceitful yet productive visit with Mr. O’Connell, when Sadie shared her story in the kitchen. Horrifying as it was, curiosity forced me to stay. I heard every word. When she finished and said good-bye to Sheriff Tobin, I crept upstairs to our shared room. I opened my novel but the words blurred without meaning. (Meaningless)

I awoke to find the room I shared with her different, salty and sticky. No wonder Miss Fannie worked so hard to keep Sadie out of jail. It wasn’t just about her guilt or innocence but about Sadie’s demise if she were locked up again, secluded from the rest of the world. I wondered if the man who had raped her knew where she now lived.

I tried to imagine a girl of only fifteen placed in an asylum with no one to defend her, comfort her, or give her hope. Yes, she had been too young to have sex with Timothy, but that didn’t make her crazy enough to be thrown into a madhouse.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello



Lustful jelly-mixing?


“Daddy says that an almost fourteen year old boy might want something more than an almost twelve year old girl might want to give.”

Now it’s Miss Helen’s turn to puzzle her face. “A thirteen year old boy tried to take advantage of you?”

“Take advantage?” I say.

“Sit down, child.”

I start thinking we’ll be late for school.

“Emma June,” she says. “Boys that age don’t always think above their neck.” She sees the look on my face and says, “Let me continue. They have this jelly that runs through their veins and makes them look at girls with lustful eyes. Pay attention now, you’re not leaving till I’ve had my say. Anyhow, I don’t know if they can help it or not, but a boy trying to grow into a man wants to touch every part of a girl trying to grow into a woman.” Miss Helen leans back to peek in her family room where Mr. Leonard is sitting. “Well, grown men are kinda the same.” She mumbles and turns back to me. “Now, as girls get older, they get their own kind of lustful jelly. But girls need to keep that jelly under control and wait until they’re married to mix their bodies with a man’s.” Her hands fidget with that ugly, flowery, ruffled apron around her waist. “Clear?”

About as clear as thick chocolate cake.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket


Not such a Vivid response, is it?

“Boys that age get a little carried away”

I muster up Miss Brave. “Daddy? Can an almost twelve-year-old have a friend that’s almost fourteen?”

“Of course, Sugar Pea.”

“Even if it’s a boy?”

Daddy sighs and creases his forehead. He places both hands on my shoulders. The pressure feels like serious is coming. “Emma June. Boys that age get a little, a little, carried away sometimes and don’t always think with their heads. Do you know what I mean?” His eyes beg me to understand.

I think of Frank who got carried away with his need for moonshine money and blackmailed me to get it. I think of the man behind the flea circus tent who told his girl, “We’ve been friends a long time now. Time for something more.” Then Carla and me Heard a loud smack across his face and the man yell, “bitch”.

“Boys want more than a girl might wanna give,” I say.

“That’s right. And a boy hasn’t got any right to take it if a girl says no.”

“But what do I have to take?” I never let Frank take my dollar. And I didn’t let Brandon dance with me at the carnival.

Daddy sighs again. “Maybe, since your Mama is away and all, this is something you should ask Miss Helen. In the meantime, don’t let any boy touch you.”

I don’t tell Daddy, but he’d be proud knowing I didn’t shake Frank’s spitty hand.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket


She Mopes Loud!


I tried to ignore the crash from upstairs—the third one now. Reba shook her head, her smile fading. “She still up there caterwauling and hurling things ’cross her room. Poor chil’ don’t never seem to get a leg back up ’fore it drops back down again.”

But Sadie Dubois was damn good at spreading them. Employed at the bordello longer than any of my other girls, Sadie brought in the most money. But last night, she had morphed into a puddle of anguish when her best friend left with Harry Longabaugh. Better known from the wanted posters as “the Sundance Kid,” he had hefted giggling Etta on the back of his mare and trotted away. “Other girls still sleeping?”

“Don’t know ’bout now, but when I went upstairs to check on things, three of them bedrooms was quiet. But that first one on the left? Phew! What a racket.”

“She’ll be fine, Reba.”

“And a hen’s gonna grow teeth. Her waters run deep. ’Sides, you knows well as me that after Sadie’s done with her conniption fit, she gonna keep spewing a pout.”

“She’ll buck up when she needs to.” Even with a sordid past, Sadie could pull a charade better than most.

Three years ago, when Sadie was seventeen, she arrived dressed as a boy during a ferocious storm, her aquamarine eyes pleading for entry. I knew then that Sadie could wear a flour sack and still be a looker—curves in all the right places, blond hair that Reba called “thick as good gravy.”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello


“Fanatics” Against Prostitution!

Greta, one of Sadie’s fellow prostitutes at the bordello, tries to comfort her after they learn members of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union are coming to town to Protest against vice. (From The Last Bordello)




Greta put an arm around Sadie. “I love you truly, truly, dear,” she sang.

“Stop it!” Sadie unclenched her fists long enough to wallop her palms on the table. “Your piping doesn’t help.”

Greta puffed her cheeks and blew out a huff. She placed her hands around her throat. “Geez, kill me now. You’re actin’ like you been slurpin’ asshole soup again.”

“Hypocrites, all of them.” Sadie’s face reddened. “Those protesters make me sick. Religious fanatics who can’t mind their own damn business, preach like they’re better than us.”

Her last comment, barely a whisper, I knew Sadie was thinking about her religious nut of a mother. She rarely spoke of her, but when she did, she referred to her as Lucinda the Lucifer. The woman had forced Sadie to recite Bible passages before allowing her to eat and preached the sin of men’s unbridled passion until her ears burned. Who wouldn’t run away after that kind of upbringing?




Sadie, before becoming a prostitute

At age fifteen, Sadie Sated Timothy – from The Last Bordello.


It started the day Timothy and me sat on a gentle slope on the banks of Geronimo Creek between the honey mesquite and Texas spur grass. He’d snuck a bottle of whiskey from home and had been thoughtful enough to bring crackers and a small chunk of cheese to our Sunday afternoon picnic. I was smitten with the boy, the twin to my best friend, Kat.

He spread the blanket and, for the first time, I spread my legs. The weight of him, slight as it was, felt like a made-to-fit blanket.

He was finished before I had the chance to feel him inside of me. “I might only be fifteen,” I said, laughing. “But I don’t think that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Offended at first, Timothy managed a grin. “Then I guess we need to try it again.”

Then I caught sight of the ugly housedress that Lucinda, my so-called mother, wore almost daily. Ugly like her character. Ugly like her words. Stupid like her Bible-mouth that preached how Jesus would protect her yet Lucinda wouldn’t get up on a ladder if her life depended on it.

She split us apart, yanked me up by the hair, and ruined my favorite dress as she dragged me home.

“You miserable bitch,” I screamed. “Just because you couldn’t keep my father at home doesn’t mean I have to be a spinster. I love him! Love him! Any time Timothy wants me to pleasure him, I’ll be willing and ready.”

Lucinda slapped me. I slapped back, harder. She fell on the warped flooring of our kitchen and dabbed a finger at the corner of her bloodied lip.

For the next two weeks, we didn’t speak. Still, I heard her mumble on occasion, “Ticktock, ticktock. They’ll put you under key and lock.” I didn’t pay attention to those words. I should have.