Muirghein S. ​Tarot​



“Be serious? Seriously? Alright, I’ll give it a try.”

A fan of books and reading from around the fourth grade on, I have devoured a huge library of published works by a vast variety of authors in a dozen genres. This leads me to the simple fact that I love to read. If I love to read, I must love to write, stands to reason. So, I gave it a try right out of high school. Let’s simply say the results were not great.

While at that time I did possess a greater knowledge of technical grammar than I do now, what I lacked was the seasoning of life. I had not lived and was trying to write about life. And that lack of “seasoning” showed clearly in a dozen rejections and some humbling comments from people who edited/proofread for me.

So I let it lie, still reading like a fiend anything I could get my hands on. Sci-Fi/fantasy was my go-to choice, but I read all types of stories. Westerns, classics, murder mysteries you name it, I would give it a look. I also began to gather to me a collection of erotica novels, the better part of them Victorian style, published under Anonymous. Those were harder to find on the used book store shelves than Piers Anthony and Robert E. Howard. That difficulty, in the end lead me to a website. Literotica.

I went there. Read the stories. Enjoyed what I read, some of it anyway. And, around my fortieth birthday, I began to think of giving writing a try again.

Since then, I have posted more than a hundred stories. I’ve won contests, wrote stories that stand in that website’s Hall of Fame and have earned myself a place in the Top 250 Author’s List on what is the largest erotica website online.

But more than that, I made friends. Other erotica writers, without whose support you would not now be reading this, short bio. Their enjoyment of my writing and encouragement has given me the confidence to attempt to go even further with my writing. Beyond my comfort zone, to distant unsighted shores, to places where the waters are no long familiar and even the stars are strange. That’s where I’m going; come join me.


I specialize in forbidden romances set within any story type or setting. Erotic Horror (been told I need a warning label), Nonfiction (author support/advice/ motivational)


Self Published Indie Network (SPIN)

— 2013 Literotica, Summer Lovin’ contest : Second place for the Mature story “Party Replanned”

Best Erotic Seasonal Story 20 13 :2nd place Clitoride award for the Interracial story “Southern Heritage”

Short Erotic Story of the Year 2013: 4th place Clitoride (honorable mention) For the Mature story “Brass Beds”

2014 Literotica Survivor Contest 9th place

2017 Literotica April Fool’s Day contest 3rd place for the story “Life on Short Notice”

Hall of Fame stories on Literotica.

Top 20 Interracial (H.O.F) for the story “Southern Heritage”

Top 100 Mature (H.O.F) for the story “Love in the Lights”

Top 150 Mature (H.O.F) for the story “Grey Iron”

Literotica’s Top 250 Author rank #146



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GoodReads Author page






My mistress forgives me my moment of fear all those years ago. I know now that she has been waiting for me to return all this time. I curse the coward Edward that kept me from her.

She enwraps me in the hard hot feeling of her power! I cry out in pleasure at the soft kisses all over me. I fall back clutching at a wall when I feel her tongue run down the length of my hard cock. Like the flapping of butterfly wings, I feel the silky feeling of her tongue slick and warm lapping at my skin. Then her teeth are nibbling at my balls. Her fingers are caressing my thighs and ass. I scream as I feel her sucking at me!

I dig my fingers into the drywall at her touch. The burning paper giving way under the ecstasy. I hear the sirens in the distance over the singing of my mistress. I give them not a thought. They will be too late to stop her now. She grows in power around me. Her lust consuming this place again! The new façade of paper, plastic, and glass beings to crumble under her passion heat and the old burns and blacking being to show itself again.

I hear howls of pain in the air around me. I open my eyes and see dozens of spirals of flame dancing like ballerinas made of flowers in the radiant blaze. I hear the voices of women crying in passion!

Grabbing my Mistress, I ignore her need and thrust myself into her hard. I revel at the pain this sudden penetration causes me. Her cries of lust echo around me

I hear the dark laughter. I ignore it, as much as I ignore the pain racked sobbing of Edward. He was always such a fool! The touch of the mistress is a thing to be sought after not feared!

“The Lord of Devils Night! I Am the Lord of Devil’s Night!” I scream it to the heavens as I feel myself spraying cum deep into my lover.

Gasping for air, I breathe in only her perfume.

I drop to the floor unable to support myself any longer.

But she is as insatiable as ever and does not stop. She follows me down riding me, clawing at me, kissing my lips, handling me roughly till I harden again.

I feel her touch all over me now. No place is untouched by her. In ecstatic joy, I caress her as she rides me harder and harder. I watch her moving above me, feeding herself off of my flesh. I see orgasm after orgasm racks her beautiful body with quivers of lust!

The tables nearby shake and shatter throwing glass around the room in sparkles of light as the bottles explode under her touch. In the shrapnel, I see a little girl watching me.

“I told you the Dybbuk would come. It likes fire.”

Then she is gone and I fall back lifeless to the floor. Exhausted.

Still my Mistress demands more from me! I try; I truly try to satisfy her need.

I feel her anger building as I weaken.

Then the whips begin to land around me. The soft caress of finger becomes the harsh clawing of fingernails.

I scream in a pain filled ecstasy as my Mistress finds a way to make me do her will. I claw myself back to my knees and apply my tongue to her hot sex; I lap at the slick warmth I find there. I drink in her juices burring my face in the strong smell of her.

I claw at her body as she whips my back to make me lick harder. I suck in her clit and feel myself glowing with pride when I hear her orgasmic scream fill the hallway.

Her perfume so thick around me I fall away from her as she steps away from my wasted body. I can sense her lust is sated for now at least, but I know it will grow again in the seconds to come. I try to will myself to recover quickly enough so that when she has need of me I will be ready.

The Lord of Devils Night will not disappoint his Mistress. Never Again!

A burned and blackened hand appears on the tile floor before my eyes as I try to pull myself down the hall after her. I stare at it. I try to lift my hand to touch it, but it moves away before I can reach it.

I lift my head when I feel the thunder of feet through the floor. I try to drag myself after my mistress, but I can feel her lust shifting now that others have come. I look up and see the shadow looking down at me from by the sprinkler pipes. With eyes that glow like coals, it looks down at me with a sarcastic humor. I roll over till I’m on my back. The hard lashes marks from her whip dig into me, but I don’t have the strength to move again.

Like a thousand drops of rain, I see the sprinkler turn on and begin to wash the smell of my mistress’s perfume from my face.

I curse it as it steals from me the taste of her. Crying at the loss, I look up and see the shadow.

It’s laughing at me. Its face split into a hideous grin of flames. Turning my head, I look down the hallway and see the men in the heavy coats coming towards me. They drag their long hoses through the hall spraying more of the water. Chasing my mistress even further from me. I cry out to her!

“Hey, we got a live one here, Get a paramedic!” The men walk past me as I cry. One kneels down on the water-flooded floor.

“Don’t more. Don’t move!”

I settle myself even further down onto the tile floor and cry that my mistress is gone.

Then I stop the tears. I must be strong. Strong to keep Edward from coming back, and hiding us away from her again. I feel my mind already going to what I can burn next year to bring her back, as I drift into a gentle sleep under the rain.

“Stay with us! We’re going to have to move him!”

So soft the rain.

“I’m losing him!”

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“Hey, sport!” Reaching over, I ruffled my nephew’s hair making his spiked up rooster comb disappear.

He huffed and started using both hands to slick it back up. Grinning, I reached to do it again and he backed away. “Stop that!”

“You look like The Miz!” I told him knowing he likes wrestling.

“That’s the idea. I’m the Miz and I’m…” he struck the pose like he was holding a mic.

“AWSOOOMMMEE!” I said along with him. I laughed “Go get your board; I’ll take you down to the Skate Park.”

“Cool!” He tore off at a full run back up the hall, towards what I guessed was his room.

Walking over to where Melinda was, I stepped around all the different bottles of cleaner that must normally live under the sink, knelt down and looked into the cabinet under the sink. “So what’s the problem up under here?”

She sighed. “The sink is clogged. I’ve tried three different drain cleaners and it’s not budging. I thought I might take the U drain thingy there off and see if I could clean it out.”

“U drain thingy? Okay, that’s a new one. You should write those down. So why the so out of character cussing I heard?” I asked with a grin.

She looked embarrassed for a second then frustration showed. “I can’t get it to turn.”

“Okay, that’s easy to fix. Out the way girly girl…let Muskuls try.” Crawling past her when she moved, I grabbed the pipe wrench and got a solid grip. The cabinet I noticed smelled heavily of Melinda…her peach body wash, vanilla deodorant, and a hint of sweat. Well, okay her and some Ajax cleaner.

“Uncle Ash, I thought we were going skating?” I heard Cory say with disappointment in every word.

“We are, sport. Just give me a second to help your Mom out.” I told him, as I started to apply pressure to the stuck nut at the top of the u-bend.

“But you’re not a psychiatrist.”

The wrench slipped and I slowly leaned down to look out at him. He had a shit-eating grin going and his mom, knelt by my knees, looked to be in very much a popping mood. “Damn that was good.” I leaned back in shaking my head. “That was really good.”

“You’re having a horrible influence on him.” Melinda said tartly, then she chuckled, poked me in the side, and stood up. Her bare foot brushed my thigh, her toes touching the exposed skin by my knee before she moved it quickly away. I whistled silently, having enjoyed the sensation, and went back to work on the stubborn pipe. “Cory, go get your pads and helmet,” she told her son.

“Ah Mom! Those are for sissies!” he complained.

“Hey, who are you calling a sissy?” I said from under the sink, as I pushed the wrench harder. The wrench moved and I got a better second grip on the lower nut. “I know I’m going to be wearing mine.”

“So, see, there you go. Go get them! You can’t have your uncle being the only one there looking like a sissy.” Melinda’s voice carried her smile to me.

“Ha, ha, hardy, Ha, ha!” I said, as I heard Cory go running off. “Gack!” The nuts come loose, the u-bend fell away and I was suddenly awash with a sink full of cold water! Drenched, I crawled back out from under the sink. I sat there looking up at her with water dripping off my chin. “Got it.”

She looked at me about to pee herself laughing.

I spit out a bit. “Drano? Good choice.”

“Let me get you a towel,” she said, tears rolling out her eyes.

“That’s normally my line,” I said wiping my face down with my finger.

“Uncle Ash you’re all wet!”

I looked up at my nephew then gave my head a slow shake. “Go wait by the truck!” I told him softly, my voice grim. He walked away laughing. Getting to my feet, I grabbed the neck of my T-shirt and pulled it out from my skin. “Damn it,” I muttered.

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Hearing a key in my door, I looked over only mildly curious. Only a very few people had a copy. As the door opened and Mom walked in, I sighed.

“Dad came and got the tools so I guess, you’re here for the kitchen appliances?” I took a sip of my beer to wash a bad taste out my mouth. “The crock pot’s in the cabinet by the stove and your blender is on the counter by the fridge.”

Mom dropped her purse on the couch. She walked past me without speaking, into the kitchen, and dragged back one of the chairs from the little Formica-covered table I never eat at.

“I came to talk,” she said as she sat down.

“Isn’t it a bit early in the morning for that?” I asked, and killed the rest of my beer chasing bread and cheese out of my mouth. “I mean it might–”

“Ashley, will you please be serious.”


“You know… people keep asking me to do that a lot lately and then don’t seem to like it when I am.” I looked over at her then grabbed the remote and turned off the TV “Sure why not, serious Ash with a side order of getting sick of being told to do it already.”

“Will you please calm down?”

Bringing my hand to my eyes, I rubbed them and then pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah … sorry. It’s been a hellishly long night.”

“Ashley… I love you. You’re my son and I love you, I always will. I cannot watch you doing this without at least trying to talk you out of it. It’s stupid.” Mom looked around the little apartment. Her eyes came to rest on my skateboards in the corner. She pointed to them. “ I feel like I’m watching you about to go off on one of those silly things and I just know in my heart that you’re coming back with at least something skinned up … or more likely with something broken.”

I took a long deep breath, biting down on the words I wanted to say, and let that breath out slowly.

“Mom … I’ve had my heart broken before…”

“I know you have! I was there to patch it back up. Then the second time and the third, and I don’t know how many it is now. I’m running out of duct tape!”

I chuckled.

She sighed.

“I don’t like Melinda. Your brother was two years younger than you are now when he met her … but he was doing pretty well for himself. He had a good job, was getting together a nice little bit for a down payment on his first house.” She shrugged. “Yes, he was car happy but what boy just out of high school isn’t. Then he met … her.”

I moved the empty beer bottle around in my hand, simply for something to do with my hands.

“He met her … then, just as suddenly, she was pregnant! Then they were buying that huge old house. It was really too big for them but I figured… you know maybe they would have a big family. I always loved the idea of a lot of little grandchildren running around.”

“Thanks for the guilt … oh yeah I’m supposed to be being serious.” I set the beer bottle on the table and slid forward in my chair till I was sitting on the edge. “Okay, let’s be serious. You know what I remember from then? I remember my brother introducing me to … the… most … beautiful … woman in the world.”

Mom started to shake her head. “We knew you had a crush on her. You were only a young teen. Those come and go like chicken pox! If you don’t scratch at them too much, they don’t leave a scar.”

I sat blinking for a half second and then, with a shake of my head and a hand held up to stop the conversation, got up and walked into the kitchen for a second beer. When I walked back, I picked up the shoebox I keep by my stereo.

Twisting off the top from the beer bottle, I send it spinning into the plastic bucket in the corner. It landed with a chime on top of the hundreds of its brother tops already there. Collected for some vague idea of a beer cap coffee table top cover.

Mom eyed the beer with disapproval, but the box with curiosity.

Opening it, I pulled out the stack of photos. Quickly sorting through them, I started to drop them on the table one by one.

“Michele … Tiffany… Kelly… Andrea … oh yeah, there’s Cindy. Do you remember her? I barely do, but then we only went out for about a month.” I flipped through the rest and couldn’t find the other two. Then I remembered. “Sorry, the rest were digital and I erased them. There they are, all of my steady girlfriends since I was fifteen. Notice a pattern, Mom?”

While she looked, I absently pushed the photos around till the women were in the order that I had dated them. Their faces bringing back memories, not all of them good.

Mom’s brows knit. “They could be sisters.”

Reaching for my wallet, I pulled out a photo I got yesterday and sat Melinda’s picture above the rest.

“They could be her sisters!” I sat back and took a long sip, forcing the beer down past the lump in my throat. “Does it seriously look like I ever got over my little crush?”

Mom’s eyes went from photo to photo and then she looked up at me, her jaw falling open. “I –”

“I was in love with her. I had just turned fifteen when she and Bobby divorced.” I interrupted whatever she might have had to say. “I felt like a prayer had been answered … a ray of light from heaven, just for me. I hopped on my board and rode over to the house and knocked on the door going to tell her how I felt. I was going to ask her out.” Chuckling, I shook my head at my younger self. “She was in her twenties and I was this geeky kid all elbows and knees. Luckily Melinda wasn’t there for me to try.”

Taking a sip of the beer, I grinned at my own stupidity.

“How was I going to take her out? On my skateboard? I didn’t have a car! Hell, I didn’t even have a learners permit. And then …” I clenched my hands to keep myself from tossing the beer bottle across the room. “Then that fucking shit storm hit … my god! Every time I heard the phone ring I wanted to cover my ears. It would be Bobby screaming on the phone; him calling her every name in the book. Or Dad would do the same if he could get to the phone quick enough. I hoped you would be the voice of reason but no. You were not as crude, but you were just as vocal … only not to her face! And if I tried to say anything in her defense I was told to stay out of it, that I was too young to know what was going on!”

Mom started to say something but I interrupted her.

“I was fifteen! I wasn’t a child. I knew what was going on! I knew it all too well. The woman I loved was being spoken about like she was trash in front of me and I couldn’t even defend her!” Wiping at my eyes, I took a long drink of the beer, finishing half of it. “I hated Bobby. I truly did. I still to this day don’t forgive him. Not for what he said to her. And after last night–”

“Ashley, you were seeing it from the outside! You weren’t there in the middle of it like he was. Like your dad and I were when the lawyers came after your brother’s hide!” She took a deep breath. “I loved Melinda. She was the daughter that I never had. I would spend hours on the phone helping her, telling her how to do things around the house. She had no idea how to be a wife, but she was trying. Then Cory was born and Lord, she was calling me left and right asking what to do. I loved her.” Mom bit her bottom lip, slowly shaking her head. “Then she did what she did in that divorce … it was like a knife in my heart.”

Slamming the bottle down, I moved forward and caught my mom’s hands. I pulled her to me till we are nearly eye to eye.

“You’re a young woman. Hardly even into your twenties. You have a three-year-old child. Your parents had you late in life, and they are in poor health. They don’t have a spare dollar to give you any help. You’re in school to become a teacher and you had to loan a huge amount for your student loans. And then your husband, your wonderful husband that you truly love, who promised that he would never leave you, just went behind your back and filed for divorce.”

I turned loose Mom’s hands.

“Now you tell me … honestly, tell me! What you would have done differently?”

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My Observations

# One Anyone can be a writer.

You have the same opportunities that any big name writer you have ever heard of had. Every one of them stood where you stand now, a want-to-be writer. Simply a dreamer with a dream, and a voice longing to be heard. To make those dreams come true, you have to write. And to make that voice be heard … well, you have to work till your eyes burn, your brain hurts, and your fingers are numb. Remember this, the only thing that can hold you back is yourself.

# Two Writing is a Job, which means it takes “Work.”

At no point in the life of a writer (be it a person who simply wants to write as a hobby or a multimillion-dollar best-selling author) will you ever have enough time to do what you wish to do. You must find that time, make that time, or chisel that time free from other places. And when you get that writing time, you must work. Those precious moments are minutes of your life you are dedicating to making a dream come true. Do not waste them.

Also, know that your only reward for all that time and hard work will be–(like most jobs)–more work. But it can become the job you love to wake up and go do.

# Three Understand that being a writer is not a reward.

You were not given a piece of paper that said, “This person is a writer.” No one got together and determined if you deserved that title. Your actions, I’ll say it again, your actions are moving you forward as a writer.

No matter what the end goal you have in mind is … it will be you that gets you there. Or not …

“99% of all writers kill their own dream of becoming a writer.”- Jim Butcher

# Four Writing is not a solution, but it can become a problem.

There is no cake walk. There is no free lunch. If being a writer is what you want to be, then be it, but don’t expect it to take care of all that you want to take care of. Most mainstream writers hold a second job or have a spouse that supports their endeavor financially.

Yes, there are writers that do nothing but write and they bring in large sums of money. I’m sure you know a handful of them … because that is about all of them there are.

And that level of writing is a life commitment. You put your soul into it. It becomes what you wake up in the morning for. Ever have heard of people that have taken small companies and made them into huge mega-million dollar corporations? They worked from their garages. Mortgaged their houses, bet the whole farm on a roll of the dice. Their marriages sometimes suffered, their families looked at them like they had gone mad. But in the end, they made it big.

But for as many that made it, ten times that number failed.

Now, knowing those odds, and realizing it takes that level of commitment and equally that level of not knowing what the end of the day may bring, why write? Why try? Because all that you can hope for is that, in the end, you leave the world with something like this to remember you by.

“Till shade is gone, till water is gone,

into the Shadow with teeth bared,

screaming defiance with the last breath,

to spit in Sightblinder’s eye on the last Day.” –an Aiel Oath, The Wheel of Time series, by Robert Jordan

“Step right up and shoot the pasties off the nipples of a ten-foot bull dyke! Win a cotton candy goat!”– by Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.” –Friedrich Nietzsche

“To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee; For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee.” –Herman Melville

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Contributed to two Anthologies with favorable mention in the reviews.





The Darkness Next Door (hot summer reads)

All of this aside, it’s not really me I want to talk about. It’s Cyrilla Love, my next door neighbor for the last five years. Her family moved into the vacant house right before I went off to my first years of high school. I remember when I first saw Cyrilla. One day there was a truck out front of the house, then a work crew was there fixing it up. Then a for rent sign appeared on the front lawn. Two months later the Love family moved in.

Now by then, Mom was on her own and we were both keeping to ourselves a lot. The neighborhood was too dangerous not to. Mind your own business, and the “businessmen” won’t mind you. We weren’t the only white people living there by any means but we were one of the few in a growing sea of different skin tones.

Not that it matters to me, I went to East Benton High School, I saw the rainbow on a daily basis, but to some people what color you are is all that it takes to get your ass kicked… or shot dead.

Anyway, the Love family were nice enough, at first. They had a son, Curtis, who was a year or so older than me, but he thought he was Lord Gangster of the Hood. He was going to be either a rap star or an NBA basketball star. He joined the “Let’s pick on the white boy” club as soon as he got to the high school.

To say he and I didn’t get on well is being kind.

Now, my mom and Mrs. Love, they got on well, at first till mom started to go down hill, then my mom wanted nothing to do with her neighbor and vice verses.

Cyrilla was the next oldest child, the only daughter of a family of five children. She was entering her freshman year when her brother Curtis was already out of school and I was a junior. She was nice enough but a bit standoffish. Not just to me but with everyone. That earned her a lot of bullying at school from the popular girls and the thug want-a-bees.

When Mom overdosed, and I was left alone Mrs. Love would sometimes wave at me when she saw me, but other than that my nearest neighbor might have been a mile way for all we interacted with each other.

Then the economy dropped out from under the country. Suddenly everyone was out of work and every house seemed to have a foreclose sign out front. The standing on the side of the street thug population doubled and then tripled overnight.

So did the gun fire.

A new sound began to be heard in the dark of those grim nights as well. The sound of angry shouting, and then the cries and screams of children from next door. Not every night, but it was an all too familiar sound before long.

Then the children would not go to school for a day or so.

It was after one such that I really met Cyrilla. By then she was in her senior year and I was a distant memory to my teachers. I was on my porch playing my Dobro guitar when I I noticed a scent of Fels-Naptha laundry soap and a burnt vanilla smell that reminded me of a time when my mom burned a batch of cookies. Looking up, I saw her standing in the shade of the big pecan tree by her house. She was leaning against the tire tread like bark of the tree, watching me. When she saw me look up she put her hand over her left eye. Even from my seat on the porch, I could see it was nearly swollen shut. She went to run to her house.

“Wait.” I called to her. She stopped and looked back at me frightened. “Your daddy isn’t home, is he? Your momma neither, right? You don’t have to be scared, I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”

I went back to picking a slow song, just mournful enough to be the blues, while my eyes stayed on her face. She slowly lowered her hand a little and I saw the terrible swelling.

“That hurts doesn’t it?” I asked knowing that it did. “Want something for pain, and maybe an ice pack?”

After a second of hesitation, she nodded.

Leaning my guitar against the wall, I got up and went inside to the bathroom medicine cabinet. Grabbing my aspirin, I headed to the kitchen and filled a bag with ice from the trays and got her a cold bottle of soda to wash the pills down with. I have to say I was almost surprised to see her still standing there when I got back.

“Here you go. It says to only take two, but a few more than that won’t hurt you. You look like you could use them. Here.” I handed her the Coke and the ice pack. Sitting back down I picked back up the old guitar.

“You play very well,” she said softly.

“Well, thank you. I try, but I’m still learning,” I said, as I took the slid and slid it to the fret. The old Dobro purred out a pure note. “With music your always learning. It’s a school you never graduate from.”

“Doesn’t sound like your learning.” She swallowed the small white pills. “Sounds like you know everything already.”

“Not even close,” I answered with a smile.

Down the street a car, with its muffler half shot, turned the corner. I saw stark fear cross her face until she saw it was a truck and not her Dad’s beat up old 80s T-bird.

“I need to go,” she said quickly.

“Alright. You know you’re welcome anytime right? I play most mornings about this time. It helps me to relax after work.” My hands began to absently pick out ‘Walkin’ Blues’ “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I can’t.”

I watched her as she ran off to her house. When did she get so mature looking? I remember seeing her when she first came to school. She was as curved as a ruler then. With a shrug, I went back to playing, till my hand was tired and my eyes were heavy. When the yawns were threatening to split my face I called it a day.

That night I was awakened to a young woman screaming. A scream that was very quickly stopped. I could almost envision the hand over her mouth. Getting out of bed I went to my window and looked through the thin blinds. The lights in the Love house were out, and it was quiet now. Then, through my cracked window, I began to hear a whimpering sound. The soft crying of someone trying to be quiet.

“Shut the fuck up, or I will give you some more, where that came from.” Breed Love’s voice was deep and harsh, thick with liquor. “Stupid bitch, just like your momma don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“No daddy, no.” The wind carried that pleading, begging for mercy sound to me just as a second voice began to also beg mercy. I recognized Mrs. Love.

Then there was even more cries of pain.

I shut the window, unable to do anything. Inside me was the memories of past times when I or one of the other neighbors had called the police. They would show up, everyone would deign anything happened, and then when the cops had left the crying would really start. In a way far worse than before. Only this time low, pain-racked moans, like he was daring them to make a sound. My hand went to the phone.

I wanted to make this right. To do the right thing. But I couldn’t make myself dial those three numbers, I could not be responsible for making it worse, again. Not again.

Picking up my guitar, I slowly played till I could no longer see through my tear filled eyes. Unspent rage laving trails of salt down my face. Would that they had been completely tears of rage, then I might have had the courage to go over there and make him stop. But no they were tears of pity, and remorse that I had not that courage. So I played. I played while a drunk beat his family. I played my guitar till my fingers were blistered and bleeding…. and I hated myself for that little pain making me stop when there were those close by in far more pain.

Helpless in the face of the evil I was ignoring I sat looking at nothing till it was time for me to get up and go into work. As I stepped out my door into that dew soaked, still four hours till morning I could not keep my eyes from the dark, sheet-covered, windows next door. Pushing my bike to the end of my sidewalk, I hoped on and pushed it with the tips of my boots out into and down the road a bit before I cranked it and headed into work.

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Don’t Lose Your Head (Erotica after Midnight)

My bag was right where I had left it three weeks back.

The crypt, however, was not as empty as I remember it being. But then I had been in a rush that night and not I hadn’t really wanted to turn on my flashlight too much. Using that light from my bag now, I moved over to the corner of the crypt where I saw what, at first, I had thought to be a pile of leaves.

However, a gleam of bright gold told me differently.

Cloth, rotten and so dry it fell apart at the touch. Sticks, brittle as rods of salt, they crumbled as well. But nestled in the middle of this mess was a human skull … With two gold teeth!

Picking up the old bone, I tried to pull the two golden canines out, but they did not budge. Not from fingers anyway. I needed pliers. Trying to remember if I had those in my bag, I turned quickly and to my surprise heard a rattle from my hand. Giving the skull a shake it rattled again.

“What the hell?”

Turning the old bone over in my hands, I finally had to take the skull out into the dim afternoon light to take a better look. That’s when I saw it. There at the back of the left eye socket, there was a neat clean hole. Like … A bullet hole.

“Holy shit, this guy was shot in the eye! Oh, how fuckin’ cool is that.” I turned the skull face down and tried to shake the bullet that killed him out, but it wouldn’t come back through the killing-hole. Looking around, I suddenly realized I was standing in broad daylight, in a cemetery I had been arrested in only a few weeks back, with a backpack bag full of stolen rings and jewelrytaken from the dead.

While holding a human skull.

Yeah … time to be leaving. Besides, I needed to go find a pair of pliers. Stuffing the skull into my bag, and keeping the raised tombs between me and the roads as much as I could, I made my way out the St. Louis No. 3 Cemetery and off through the darkening city towards the old warehouse in the Upper Ninth Ward that I now called home. Or the closest thing I have to one since my mother was murdered.

Murdered? Yeah, murdered! By that bitch and my father. By the both of them! The further the sun sank and the longer the shadows grew across the road ahead of me, the more that made perfect sense. What the hell kind of doctor can’t see the symptoms of cancer in a woman sleeping next to him night after night? Serving him breakfast? Making his dinner? Crying in his arms as the pain grew greater and greater!

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” I screamed out into the night.

Clutching my backpack to my chest, I sank onto the nearest bus stop bench and sat crying. Begging the world to end. The pain to stop. Bargaining the darkness with my last breath for time to roll back to those early months when Mom could have been cured.

“You liar. You miserable liar.” I muttered think of my father’s words. Inoperable? Today? With what modern medicine can do? “Liar. LIAR!”

Sitting there long into the night, on that hard bench, I was ignored by passersby. With buses appearing and driving off leaving me clouded in dark exhaust fumes, I was ignored by the numerous people coming to get drunk in the nearby French Quarter bars. Even the darkness ignored me as it closed around me. Wrapping me in a cold blanket. Soon a wet blanket as a soft rain began to fall, washing my tears into the storm drains with the rest of the trash of New Orleans.

I was alone. Alone in the rain, with nothing but a bellyful of hate to keep me warm, grave-robbed trash to keep me fed … and a skull for company.

** ** **

Her perfume was a mixture of flowers, spices, and vanilla sugar. Her body was as soft as the fluffiest pillow, but firm in all the right places. She had, of course, tried to scream, but my hand muffled those desperate sounds even as my other hand went under her blouse. Grabbing warm cotton, I pulled it out the way and filled my palm with her silky breast. Oh, how she squirmed!

Fighting the tourist girl to the nearby wall, I held her by her mouth and breast while smiling at her. The twin gold teeth in my mouth drew her eyes to that smile. I loved the agonized look on her face when I painfully twisted that firm, spongy mass under my fingers.

“Hello, pretty.” I grinned at her. “Tell me is your pussy sweet?”

Turning her finger-bruised tit loose, I rammed my hand into the waistband of those stupid pajamas-looking-pants she was wearing. She shrieked into my palm as I cupped her pussy through the thong she wore and gave it a hard squeeze. Then I dug my fingertips past the edge of that silky cloth and, while she squirmed in my arms, I shoved two fingers up and into her! Oh, hell was she warm inside.


Pushing the screaming girl toward the man running at me, I took off at a sprint back into the dark alleyways I call home. As I darted past a dumpster, I grabbed up my metal baseball bat and hunkered down on the other side of the green metal box. Fast footsteps? Yes … Hero was stupid enough to follow me. Having to keep from giggling was the hardest thing I have ever done.

Cracking him in the back of the head with that metal bat by comparison? Hell, that was easy.

Keeping my eyes out for police, I rifled his pockets. Quickly grabbing his wallet, a money clip, and his expensive smartphone. Standing up, job done, I looked down at the man lying at my feet, blood leaking into a gory pool by his head. With a smirk, I brought the baseball bat down in a hard shot square on into his crotch. Even unconscious his body curled up to whimper at that painful impact.

Whistling, with the bloody bat over my shoulder, I left him to his agony and headed towards home. As I walked away I brought my hand to my nose and breathed deeply the sweet-musky smell of that tourist girl’s pussy.

~ Now wasn’t that fun? ~

Still breathing in her scent I chuckled and answered Alphonse. “Hell, yeah it was!”

~ Then we’ll do a lot more of it? ~

Laughing, I gave the backpack a shake making the bullet rattle in my friend’s bony head. “Yeah. Yeah, we sure will.”

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