Craving Kit

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Kit

Henry woke to the sound of a motorcycle rumbling outside and squinted at the digital clock, grumbling,

“2 a.m. on a Tuesday. Don’t the neighbors know I have to work in the morning?”

He rolled over pulling a blanket with him when he heard knocking at the door. For a moment he hesitated but urgency propelled him from his bed. It was an uneasiness he hadn’t felt in months. Henry fought to surface from his dream-laden sleep talking to himself, attempting to recall,

“Not since I was seeing,”

He cut short his thoughts and pulled the door open to find Kit leaning against the door-frame wearing a familiar look; one that seemed to say, “What took so long, asshole?”

He smiled despite himself. She was the only woman he couldn’t read but even entirely disheveled, with her hellfire-hair wind-blown and tangled, she was a vision.

Kit incited feelings in him that were utterly endearing, if somewhat disquieting. She was woman and child; part fully grown, tougher than nails, strong in her own right, temptress and vixen, yet part playful, silly, wide-eyed, innocent, coquette and wild child. He studied her wondering whether to fold her into his protective arms or pin her to the wall and ravage her. He could never quite discern what was veiled with practiced stealth behind her eyes.

When they lived together briefly, he surmised that she meant to send no obvious message, intentionally leaving him to wonder whether she wished to appear mysteriously alluring or had, perhaps, arranged for his early demise. Her turbulent sea-storm eyes, and lips that only turned up slightly at the corners could mean one of two things, his greatest joy or worst fear realized.

Had he been Superman, she would have been Kryptonite. Kit loved with intensity that left him gasping in astonishment, and in the space of a breath, she could be the embodiment of tornadic wrath swirling around it’s entirely too attractive eye.

You may be the death of me, he thought, remembering that she had always been a volatile creature, albeit an enticingly beautiful one. He was certain she had been a mythical Siren in a past life. She had certainly lured him with her charms and left him in emotional peril with his hopes dashed.

Even entirely disheveled, Kit was stunning with fiery locks framing her angel-face. He had nicknamed her “Hell-cat” for the riotous red waves she could never quite tame. Merged with her given name, she was his “Kitkat.”

Henry shook his head clear and steeled himself,

“Kitkat! What brings you here?”

“I can’t believe you remember that,” She laughed.

“Of course I do. You never forget a moment of your first love. It seems appropriate now. You’re stunning. Wow!”

Henry froze, certain that her heart slammed shut the moment he said ‘love.’ It was a hard and fast rule for her. Kit couldn’t handle love.

Ironically, by way of reply, she flew into his arms kissing him hotly, ardently pressing her slight frame to his and raking her nails down his back.

Instinct urged him not to question his good fortune as all reason deserted him, but there had to be more to this picture, more he wasn’t equipped to handle at this hour. Henry struggled to extract himself from his hormonal cocktail, feeling as though he were in the  vice-grip of something much stronger than himself. After a heated moment locked in passionate embrace, he managed a step back and rummaged his thoughts for a plausible excuse,

“Kitkat, this is a very welcome surprise,” he informed her, “but I have company tonight.” He glanced toward the stairs holding his breath.

She paused, smiling at the nickname he’d given her, and immediately called his bluff. With one eyebrow cocked and eyes sparking challenge, she flatly said, “Get rid of her.”

Again, Henry wondered if her eyes flashed lethal lightning or promiscuous promise. He loved Kit, always had, but he wasn’t going to hand her this ‘win’ on a silver platter,

“Why,” he questioned, feeling every inch the liar he was.

Kit felt his defenses weakening and stated with calculated deliberation, “Because I’m more.”

Henry understood what she had short-handed and knew it to be true. She was more of everything he wanted, needed and desired whether it was best for him or not.

They were thrown together years ago. She was forever in his heart and he in hers. Their lives were irrevocably entangled. Together they were a force to challenge Heaven, though the match may have been the design of hell.

Without waiting for reply, she marched through the house and into the kitchen. By the time he caught up, she was pouring Coke into glasses and asking where he kept the rum. He  stood behind her smiling, enjoying the sweetest derriere he had ever admired, lost in a flood of memories. He could never accuse her of a single dull moment. With his libido barely in-check, he relented,

“Okay, I give. Be quiet and I’ll go get rid of her.”

“K,” she acknowledged with off-the-cuff nonchalance, as if there hadn’t been another option.

Henry climbed the stairs and pretended to gently remove the fictitious suitor from his bed and escort the figment out the door, then remembered to place a noisy kiss to the back of his hand for effect.

Kit had perfected her ‘Whistler’s Mother’ smile long ago. Her countenance gave nothing away. Her expression could be infuriatingly ambivalent. On more than one occasion he couldn’t have guessed if she’d just won the lottery or totaled his car.

Silently, he laughed at himself, knowing this was the source of his unease; her unpredictability and capacity to touch him profoundly, without physical contact.

I should have known, he chided himself; we have always been connected somehow. I’ve always known when she was hurting or when she really needs me.

Kit broke her silence and his train of thought,

“Hi, Henry, I’ve missed you.”

Her affectionate lilt sent him reeling headlong into his own hard-won defenses, like a wrecking ball into walls it had taken years to erect.

For a half-second, he wondered if she could hear the noise; the explosion of brick and mortar walls, the racking sobs that rivaled cumulative wailing wall cries, the rending of woven fabric into separation, his shredded heart screaming its’ excruciating pain, the shattering of personal safety; an illusion that lay in quivering, bloody chunks of self; of labor, heartache and tears whimpering in the spaces between them, with the illusion of self-protection now thrashing on the floor, dying at her feet …and he wondered,

Does she know? Can she feel it, hear it, or is this a one-way connection?

He swallowed around the enormous lump in his throat and fought for composure,

“Hi Kit, how have you been?”

Henry was well aware that being raised by wolves would have been preferable to the rearing she had received. It was the pink suede elephant perpetually in their personal space. She had spent too many years trying to escape what was done to her in the name of love, family, relationships and obligation.

He had no doubt that she loved him but was fully conscious of the fact that she had no acceptable definition of it. She had only a few diseased examples for comparison and all of them made her feel sick, trapped and suffocated. If she couldn’t avoid the feeling, she had certainly stricken the word from conversation.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Kit, you always say ‘fine’ when you’re not. What is it?”

He hadn’t meant to blurt it or care as much as he did but she was here, and in her presence, he was suddenly invested again.

“You know, just stuff. Life happening.”

“Yea, I hate it when that happens,” He laughed, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’ll drink to that,” She quipped, relaxing into the overstuffed couch.

Jack checked the time already knowing he would never make it to work as expected and there would be no untroubled sleep tonight. He went to replenish their drinks asking over his shoulder, “How about we have another and we’ll watch your favorite comedy? I can play hooky tomorrow.”

“Sounds heavenly. It’s okay to crash on the couch?”

“As long as you don’t mind if I pull out the sofa bed while we do.” He held his breath wondering if she had just changed her mind or would change it now and he remembered,  Kit can downshift faster than the speed of light.

With so much of her youth being lost to mental enslavement and emotional blackmail, she had sought out the only love she could relate to. At eighteen, she left home and became  involved with several abusive men.

Later, she took refuge in a motorcycle gang. They were warm, welcoming safety in numbers, able and willing to abuse anyone who mistreated one of their own. They ‘had her back.’ Ultimately, they were the family she never had.

A precious few had been lovers but all afforded her protection; gave her a semblance of stability, shelter and succor. They accepted her unconditionally. She belonged solely to herself and with her chosen family. As long as she owned what was left of her battered mind and body, they were balm to her wounded soul. She understood love only in that context. She was safe with them. Anything resembling obligation or commitment made her want to run screaming into the night.

Kit studied him with an expression that could fill with infinite affection, guileless innocence, or wanton lust as quickly as she could drop an iron curtain veiling malice, venom and murderous intent.

Henry risked a timorous guess, testing the waters, in making the couch bed into a comfy sanctuary. Kit seemed content, and thankfully, ill-prepared to bolt. He sensed she needed a cozy hideout in a formidable fortress. She came to him for consistency and stability.

He loved her more than the salvation of his soul, and was wholly convinced she had been a mythical Siren in a past life. She certainly had the capacity to lure him in and leave him in emotional peril with feelings raw and hopes dashed. With certainty, he knew they could climb to ecstatic heights of incomparable pleasures founded solely in genuine love, as certainly as he knew she would be gone before he woke.

He had wanted to give her the world but she already had her world on her terms. What he learned the hard way, and only just realized, is that he wanted to give her his world, on the condition that she share it. He would ask her to bend after a lifetime of bending and breaking. His idyllic view of family would be her certain death. Finally, he accepted that clinging to her freedom was no more selfish an act than asking her to love him in the fashion he would visit upon her.

How could I expect her to conform to my definition of love and family? She comes from her own little war zone; her own personal hell with that exact prerequisite.

He had wanted to give her the love she longed for and so obviously needed, but in a flash of understanding he realized that the kindest, most loving thing he could do for her is let her go, no matter how many times he would have to. Bikers were her family and for the foreseeable future, he was her home.

As they rested spooned together, safe in the night with all other appetites satisfied, her words came back to him, “Because I’m more.” She was absolutely right and wrong. He closed his eyes slipping into sated sleep, whispering, “Because you’re everything.”

Kit smiled softly. With her need of affirmation and acceptance; with her craving finally fulfilled by the only man she ever truly loved, she fell into a more peaceful sleep than she had ever thought possible. She was home.

 

By Wildfire8470

© copyright 2014-09-30 19:11:31 UTC – All Rights Reserved

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Earth Mother Meets Her Match

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Forces of Nature

Janie partook in the college graduation festivities before packing and preparing for her flight to a new life. Once an awkward, skinny girl, she was now a force of nature. Friends described her as being filled with life, vim, vigor and inspiration. She was, in fact, very beautiful.

Janie smiled often and talked easily with anyone. She looked like a model, had an enviable eye for photography, a 4.0 average, and possessed the personality of an extremely dear friend. Janie’s closest friends called her Earth Mother. She could write her own ticket and did.

In the early a.m., she crept from her dorm to pile all her belongings into a cab, all but her precious camera. It was a permanent fixture, dangling from her neck through years of tests, parties, cram sessions, roommates and trials and celebrations. Wisely, she knew that life would hand her unique opportunities to shoot in the most mundane of days. She was never unprepared.

Janie sat quietly dreaming in the back seat of a cab, thinking of her destination and how exciting it would be to experience the USA and to join a team of journalists, reporters and photographers unequaled by any, in her estimation. She squirmed in her seat anxious to get there, to put her talent up against the tenure of the best and more than ready to prove herself.

She arrived at Schiphol Amsterdam Airport and boarded the flight nearly buzzing with excited anticipation. Once airborne, she extracted a small radio and donned headphones. Janie stayed abreast of the news and breaking bulletins where she was headed.

There was news of terrible storms that spawned tornadoes while the death toll climbed. She deplaned in Missouri, found her luggage and hailed her last cab of the too long day still preoccupied. What, exactly, would the face of horror or terror look like?

Janie scolded herself for her dark thoughts, not yet noticing that the cab had slowed to a crawl, nor did she see the monster just beyond them chewing up a field and closing in, until a second later. Good God, it’s living evil, she thought as she sprang into motion,

“Wait,” Janie yelled, “Stop! I have to shoot this!”

“But, Miss,” He began urgently, “Do you know how fast it could…”

“Damn it! Stop the cab,” she ordered half jumping out to lunge for the tripod.

He slammed on the brakes uttering an oath as he leapt out and ran to catch her. He eyed the length of several football fields between the twister and Janie as it leveled everything in its path,

“Come back,” He shouted, “There’s no time! Come back!”

Janie set the wide-angle lens on auto-shoot as the driver ran to move the car to safety, muttering, “Crazy lady doesn’t care if she gets killed,” as he shoved it into reverse and floored the gas pedal hard.

Janie froze in fear, not realizing that the wind would whip her camera to capture the true face of terror locked in a single frame with the beast, before it closed the gap and claimed its prey.

The photo was her last ‘first’ in the news game and adorned a beautiful coffin at her wake. The picture was splashed across headlines by would-be co-workers, all of whom were in attendance that day.

But perhaps the most poignant words came from a lone cab driver who made his way from the back of the crowd, choking on tears. He laid a gentle hand on her photo whispering in his grief, “You were a beautiful force of nature, Janie. I wish you hadn’t met your match. I would have liked it to be me. Rest peacefully, sweet Janie.”

By Wildfire8470

© copyright 2014-09-11 230:34:23 – All Rights Reserved

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Forecast: Tuesday 8/12/2014

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  Forecast for Tuesday, 8/12/2014

 

Brain Fog Guy

Total and utter brain fog
increasing in density
with a good chance of
zero-visibility brain fog
continuing through the night.
All avenues, in and out,
are closed for the duration.
Nevertheless, write recklessly
and with complete abandon.
Your pen knows how to
get you there safely!

Sincerely,
Wildfire8470

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It’s Not About The Ring

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The Ring

 

 

Julie squirmed in a lawn chair, facing her best friend, still wounded and angry that Brad didn’t respect her feelings.

Jerry was the only one she told her secrets to. He had never betrayed her trust so it was no accident that she would drive an hour to confide in him, rather than five minutes to be in the company of anyone else.

Jerry took a long drink of a cold beer noting that Julie looked like she was about to bust. He leaned forward to take her hand,

“What’s up, Jules?”

She threaded her fingers through his drawing comfort from his nearness, “He proposed, Jerry. My worst suspicion is confirmed. He had a ring.”

Jerry cocked his brow intrigued, wondering how she would answer. She was wicked-smart, had big dreams to fulfill and was clueless about men, “And?”

“And he doesn’t even know me!”

“Jules, come on now. He’s known you for years.”

It was horrible, Jerry! It was an enormous, gaudy diamond half as big as my fist! You know the sickening things that have happened to diamond miners and the wars in Africa. We have to make a start if it’s ever going to end. How often have I said ‘I’ll never accept a blood diamond?’”

“Yes well, there is that,” he offered, moving to the edge of her chaise, “What did you do, hit him over the head with a baseball bat, push him out of a speeding car, hire a hit man,” he asked, hoping to make her smile.

“I closed the box, pushed it away and said I would never want that ring! Honestly, he should know that by now. It’s obvious he doesn’t respect my convictions or me,” She turned tear-filled eyes away.

Jerry put a comforting arm around her saying, “Don’t worry, Jules. Brad is a good guy. He respects you.”

Julie sipped a strawberry wine cooler, sniffling as she asked, “You really think so?”

“Of course I do. This is just a miscommunication. Most people are all talk, but you live your convictions. He really thought you would want a traditional engagement ring, albeit an impressive one, but I think I can fix this.”

“Yeah? I think he’s gone forever,” She sobbed.

“No way. You just leave it to me. Now, go pick out a movie and I’ll things better,” He assured her, smiling at her youth, angst, ambition and fiery temper, thinking, Love is a bitch. It makes the most stable of us nuts.

Julie wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his forehead before hugging him to her. She rose and turned around while he resisted the urge to pinch her cute, little ass.

Watching her disappear into the house, he cleared his mind and hit the first speed-dial, “Brad?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Jerry. Listen, buddy boy, it’s not about the ring,”

Brad cut him off anxiously, “It’s not? What then?”

“Like I said, it’s not about the ring, Brad. It’s the rock.”

“Oh man! Jerry, I knew that but it’s an engagement ring. It’s supposed to be a diamond. I guess. I fucked up royally.”

“No you didn’t. It’s love. There’s a reason they call it a sickness,” he chuckled, “We’re watching her favorite, sappy, chick-flick.”

“I should talk to her.” Brad said, more like a question than a statement.

“Trust me” Jerry grinned, “Not until after the movie. You owe me a beer, bud.”

“Jerry, I owe you a 12-pack. Thanks man, you saved our butts again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grinned, “Put it on my tab.”

Jerry pressed “End” muttering, And she’d beat me with a bat if she knew I helped you shop for it.

By Wildfire8470

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