In this exercise Sara asks us to tell the reader six things about a character through the actions they take and the things that they say rather than a narative.
She ducks a fraction as she enters the country hostelry. Not that she needs to; as even in the moderate heels she always wears, she would have cleared the doorway. It is an unconscious habit.
She pauses and glances around the warm environment; spots the seat she is going to occupy and walks directly to the bar. She gives the young barman a wide smile – “she always does this kind of flirtatious grin;” he thinks as he looks at her eyes sparkling at him. Despite her being at least twice his age, he finds it infectious; it makes him smile back every time.
“Good day?” he enquires, as he begins to pour a large glass of Merlot. She screws up her face and giggles “the worst! – You?” He shrugs, and asks her for the price of the wine. As always, she says “one for yourself”.
She pays with loose change that she fishes out her coat pocket, and puts the remaining copper in the charity box for Chernobyl children. She picks up her glass and makes her way to the corner seat where she can easily see the bar entrance. She shrugs off her padded jacket and hangs it over the back of the wooden bar chair. She leans against the chair and slides her bottom backwards to fill the seat space, her long black stockinged legs following in its wake. She wiggles as she pulls her shortish black skirt, down over her knees.
Almost settled, she takes a slurp of wine. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Ugh! “You’re the spitting image of your father” – she hears in her ear. And she reflects; as always; what girl really wants to be the spitting image of their dad? He is tall like her, has poor skin like her, and is a little pigeon chested; just like her. Or is that her like him!
To compensate, she always wears her hair as big as she can in the fashionable moment, and completely unlike dad who slicks his back with oil. The 80’s was the best era for big hair but there comes a time when the poodle perm is just not acceptable. The smirk reappears and in her reminiscing, she misses her husband who enters the pub.
He too, grins at the barman who pours his usual pint. He pays, nods to two or three people he vaguely knows and heads over to the corner to join his wife. The two Labradors he has in tow slow his progress when they stop to sniff; meet and greet anyone and everyone in the way. There is one Black and one Chocolate. Each when they catch her scent launches to greet her as if they hadn’t seen her for months. She smiles benevolently, slides off her seat to greet all her boys as enthusiastically. “Good day?” her husband asks – “the worst” she replies.
Friday, 7 November 2008
Monday, 8 September 2008
The story of Songthrush
In this exercise Sara asks us to write an extended metaphor and write a fable with a poignant outcome.
Prelude to the Turdidae Network:
In late spring, the Turdidae Network meets just before dawn at the edge of a wood in the south coast county of Dorset. Each chorus begins when Blackbird; striking with his yellow beak, sends out his mellow song. Then Robin and Nightingale join in and by sun up the network is in full symphony.
There are striking calls from the hungry for food and others to maintain contact with their flock, whilst other sweeter songs attract mates and discordant ones defend territories.
This is the Song Thrush Story:
Whinchat hopped along the ground, stopped, tipped his head as if he were listening intently. He didn’t stop over on the South Coast often. However, on the odd occasion it was quite the place to pick up some useful titbits of information. He had just arrived in from Central Africa. Whinchat pecked at and early insect thoughtfully.
He was listening to the Fieldfare laggards, who were poised and hopping purposely, but fruitlessly pecking at the barren earth for worms. Their social outlook was much admired in the network community.
Every so often, another chuckling flock of Fieldfare alighted at a hawthorn hedge, to partake in berries for their journey north and join in the chatter.
“Haven’t seen Song Thrush for a long time, anyone seen what’s happened to him?”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.
“He is such a boring bird; he has this terrible habit of repeating the same song phrases over and over and over and over”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.
“His eating habits leave a lot to be desired too. Whilst none of us is that keen on snails; smashing them against a stone with a flick of the head is going a bit far in polite society don’t you think?”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed
Just then, Song Thrush appeared from under the hedgerow.
“Hello, I say, hello!” he called to the Fieldfare. “I say hello, hello, I say,” he repeated.
The Fieldfare closed ranks just a fraction and ignored the interruption.
“I say fine Fieldfare,” continued Song Thrush, “Fine Fieldfare I say, I have just flown in from a field, I say, a field, not far from here; a ploughed field, I say, where there are, wiggling worms a plenty.”
Delighted with the thought of a food fest, the Fieldfare stood to attention and listened.
“Pray tell us where we might find such a meal?” They begged Song Thrush.
When Song Thrush had given them detailed directions, the Fieldfare thanked him honestly and flew off, leaving none but Whinchat in their wake.
“You heard what they said about you Song Thrush? Why did you help those hungry Fieldfares?” Whinchat chirped.
Song Thrush paused and quietly offered articulately, “Whinchat my chum; friends may come and they may go but enemies accumulate. So, make many, many friends and excuse your enemies. Be grudge not and never, never in public.”
5.1
Prelude to the Turdidae Network:
In late spring, the Turdidae Network meets just before dawn at the edge of a wood in the south coast county of Dorset. Each chorus begins when Blackbird; striking with his yellow beak, sends out his mellow song. Then Robin and Nightingale join in and by sun up the network is in full symphony.
There are striking calls from the hungry for food and others to maintain contact with their flock, whilst other sweeter songs attract mates and discordant ones defend territories.
This is the Song Thrush Story:
Whinchat hopped along the ground, stopped, tipped his head as if he were listening intently. He didn’t stop over on the South Coast often. However, on the odd occasion it was quite the place to pick up some useful titbits of information. He had just arrived in from Central Africa. Whinchat pecked at and early insect thoughtfully.
He was listening to the Fieldfare laggards, who were poised and hopping purposely, but fruitlessly pecking at the barren earth for worms. Their social outlook was much admired in the network community.
Every so often, another chuckling flock of Fieldfare alighted at a hawthorn hedge, to partake in berries for their journey north and join in the chatter.
“Haven’t seen Song Thrush for a long time, anyone seen what’s happened to him?”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.
“He is such a boring bird; he has this terrible habit of repeating the same song phrases over and over and over and over”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed.
“His eating habits leave a lot to be desired too. Whilst none of us is that keen on snails; smashing them against a stone with a flick of the head is going a bit far in polite society don’t you think?”
“Mmm yes!” Many agreed
Just then, Song Thrush appeared from under the hedgerow.
“Hello, I say, hello!” he called to the Fieldfare. “I say hello, hello, I say,” he repeated.
The Fieldfare closed ranks just a fraction and ignored the interruption.
“I say fine Fieldfare,” continued Song Thrush, “Fine Fieldfare I say, I have just flown in from a field, I say, a field, not far from here; a ploughed field, I say, where there are, wiggling worms a plenty.”
Delighted with the thought of a food fest, the Fieldfare stood to attention and listened.
“Pray tell us where we might find such a meal?” They begged Song Thrush.
When Song Thrush had given them detailed directions, the Fieldfare thanked him honestly and flew off, leaving none but Whinchat in their wake.
“You heard what they said about you Song Thrush? Why did you help those hungry Fieldfares?” Whinchat chirped.
Song Thrush paused and quietly offered articulately, “Whinchat my chum; friends may come and they may go but enemies accumulate. So, make many, many friends and excuse your enemies. Be grudge not and never, never in public.”
5.1
Monday, 11 August 2008
Something Borrowed; Something Blue
And now Sara challenges us to look outside a window, and to descibe what you see using metaphors. The weather she says is particularly good for metaphorical musings.
It is just before seven on a normal week day morning. I am up, dressed, and ready to go. I give my husband a quick peck on the cheek, fetch my keys and leave the cottage.
The sky is a brilliant blue, yarn-dyed taffeta. It has a wonderful crispness. The fabric is not entirely flat, it has a gentle ripple effect yet; the colour is constant. A flock of doves dart across the blue, it looks like a string of pearls against the taffeta sky. The air is damp with dew.
I take my first tentative step. It is mid autumn and golden confetti is strewn casually underfoot, so I assume great care as I walk towards the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition and glance at the dew drop sequins glistening on the windscreen. They gently sparkle in the early morning sunshine, as the wipers try, unsuccessfully, to flick them away.
Suddenly the country church bells peal, welcoming a congregation (that isn’t there) to God’s morning. I jump as I always do. It is seven o’clock of course!
I take a momentary look at the imposing architecture, beyond the church wall. Three rooks that had been perching in an old oak tree scream their disgust at the disturbance and flap around before settling back on their branch. I am glad they calm down quickly, they are a blot on my landscape this morning.
For some reason the continuing toll seems so much more celebratory today. Up until now, there has been a marriage between sound and vision and I want that to continue.
I thrust the gears into first and look to my right. A golden band of sunlight dances in the wing mirror, which reflects back a diamond solitaire. I check the rear view; there is nothing so I move off. As I reach the end of the road, I indicate left past the Scott Arms and turn to take the mile long drive from Kingston into Corfe.
It is then that I take my first proper look at the world this morning through the windscreen of my car, and gasp. There is the castle, a tiara sitting on top of a discarded sea-mist veil. Corfe is nowhere to be seen; just the veil and the tiara. So still; so silent; so utterly serene.
4.9
It is just before seven on a normal week day morning. I am up, dressed, and ready to go. I give my husband a quick peck on the cheek, fetch my keys and leave the cottage.
The sky is a brilliant blue, yarn-dyed taffeta. It has a wonderful crispness. The fabric is not entirely flat, it has a gentle ripple effect yet; the colour is constant. A flock of doves dart across the blue, it looks like a string of pearls against the taffeta sky. The air is damp with dew.
I take my first tentative step. It is mid autumn and golden confetti is strewn casually underfoot, so I assume great care as I walk towards the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition and glance at the dew drop sequins glistening on the windscreen. They gently sparkle in the early morning sunshine, as the wipers try, unsuccessfully, to flick them away.
Suddenly the country church bells peal, welcoming a congregation (that isn’t there) to God’s morning. I jump as I always do. It is seven o’clock of course!
I take a momentary look at the imposing architecture, beyond the church wall. Three rooks that had been perching in an old oak tree scream their disgust at the disturbance and flap around before settling back on their branch. I am glad they calm down quickly, they are a blot on my landscape this morning.
For some reason the continuing toll seems so much more celebratory today. Up until now, there has been a marriage between sound and vision and I want that to continue.
I thrust the gears into first and look to my right. A golden band of sunlight dances in the wing mirror, which reflects back a diamond solitaire. I check the rear view; there is nothing so I move off. As I reach the end of the road, I indicate left past the Scott Arms and turn to take the mile long drive from Kingston into Corfe.
It is then that I take my first proper look at the world this morning through the windscreen of my car, and gasp. There is the castle, a tiara sitting on top of a discarded sea-mist veil. Corfe is nowhere to be seen; just the veil and the tiara. So still; so silent; so utterly serene.
4.9
Ziggy (Starburst)
In this exercise Sara asks us to look up at the night sky for two minutes. Check out a star formation and write a legend for that cluster. This is mine:
Ziggy was the faithful servant of Pasch, an Egyptian Cat goddess and protector of children and all cats of course. Most often, Ziggy could be found curled up beneath the rich tapestry chair of Pasch, her beloved goddess, in the great hall.Ziggy was a beautiful cat in her own right. She had vibrant tortoise-shell markings that were not dissimilar to the male tabby. She had a big belly. It wobbled when she walked, but her perfect face and peaceful nature made her a must stop and pet for all Egyptian children on their way home from their schooling.
As it was, in Egypt, Ziggy often accompanied Pasch on royal hunting trips. Here, she would retrieve fish and fowl from the marshes and ward off snakes and rodents. One such late summer hunt, the Royals had flushed out some significant game. Ziggy was returning triumphant having picked up a large perch.
Her bright eyes spotted an asp within immediate striking distance of the youngest prince. Dropping the fish in a flash, Ziggy leapt between the asp as it lunged at the child. In that instant and courageous moment she bit off the asp’s head! But not before, its venom was expelled. It coursed through her small frame swiftly.
The hunting party scooped up the small prince and watched in horror as Ziggy gasped her last tormented breaths.
Later that night, the Royals shaved off their eyebrows in recognition of Ziggy’s sacrifice and their deepest grief. Ziggy’s beloved goddess, Pasch, took the shavings in her paw; and blew gently. Each shaving twinkled, as it touched the night’s sky and the infant stars replicated Ziggy’s form. They have sparkled ever since; watching intently over tiny children and other cherished cats.
Saturday, 8 March 2008
Exercise 10 - The Sound of Words
In this exercise Sara asks us to consider the sound of words and how they can effect the atmosphere of your writing. This is my very short entry this week.
Pong of a Cow Pat
Don’t you just love the title of this piece?
Pong is such a descriptive word,
you can almost taste the smell! Pah! Pooh!
Just think how different a pong is to a whiff.
A whiff wafts; it is hardly pungent like a pong is.
A pong impregnates your lungs
so that you really sense that you have smelt it!
A reek is quite bad but it tends to sneak up on you;
whilst a stench and a stink are totally putrid.
The pong of a cow pat however,
places you squarely in the countryside where;
when shit happens it is - merely manure.
Pong of a Cow Pat
Don’t you just love the title of this piece?
Pong is such a descriptive word,
you can almost taste the smell! Pah! Pooh!
Just think how different a pong is to a whiff.
A whiff wafts; it is hardly pungent like a pong is.
A pong impregnates your lungs
so that you really sense that you have smelt it!
A reek is quite bad but it tends to sneak up on you;
whilst a stench and a stink are totally putrid.
The pong of a cow pat however,
places you squarely in the countryside where;
when shit happens it is - merely manure.
Monday, 4 February 2008
A journal entry.
In this exercise Sara asks us to describe a mundane journal activity. In this we should attempt to convey not only what we see, but what we hear, touch, feel and smell in detail.
Getting up
The alarm is searing through the early morning stillness. It’s screaming to be silenced. I get up with my eyes half closed. Being somewhat short-sighted, I think that squinting aids my ability to see this early in the morning.
Unfortunately my periphery vision is now limited and I trip over something on the floor. I land heavily with a thud and the floor boards creak. Shhh! I am not sure exactly what it is. It is likely to be a pair of shoes, disguised by yesterday’s clothing that was discarded, shortly before I clambered into bed last night.
Slightly off balance I stagger towards the en-suite and trip over something else en route. Shhh! I really must tidy up today.
Iain, my husband snuffles, rolls over and starts snoring softly.
I rebound off the architrave as I enter, so I catch hold of the sink to steady myself. After a few seconds I rub my tongue over the front of my teeth and reach for the toothbrush. I have to squint again to make sure I pick up the right one.
Steadier now, I turn to gently click the door shut. Turning back, I pick up the toothpaste, take off the lid and squeeze the tube from the bottom. The paste pops into the gaps in the tube where Iain has squeezed from the top; it then splodges from the nozzle. Half of it lands on the side of the brush, the rest blobs somewhere in the sink. Shhh! I can’t see it and mentally shrug.
I turn on the cold tap and swish the brush underneath it and start scrubbing my teeth rapidly. I turn the water off whilst I brush as global warming crosses my mind. Then I turn the cold water on again and I clean off my brush. It chinks as I put it back in its place. I cup my right hand under the gurgling stream of water and bring it to my mouth to rinse and spit out the minty residue.
I wipe my hand around the inside the bowl in the vague hope that I might whoosh away the toothpaste blob, then turn off the tap.
As I step towards the shower, I glance over to the towel rail ladder. There are four rungs one for each of the different towels we use daily. Shhh! Iain’s one is there, as always draped over the rail, not folded neatly like I want it done. But my towels, the one for my hair and the one that I wrap around my body are in one of the piles on the floor in the bedroom where I left them yesterday. Shhh! That means they will be slightly damp still.
I slide open the door to the shower which rattles on its rails and lean in to press the on button. As the water starts to pump through, red and blue lights flash to indicate that it is not yet warm enough to climb under. There is time enough to re-enter the bedroom to seek the pile with my towels in it. Each pile has had to be investigated by touch and feel. Shhh! I kick something that is solid. It’s dark and I can’t see without my glasses.
I attack a third pile and finally find what I am looking for. Triumphant, I make my way back for my shower. I am steadier this time; my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I chuck the towels on the floor in front of the shower – not much point in hanging them up neatly now is there? I reach down to grab the bottom of my night dress and drag it from the hem up and over my head. It turns inside out as I do this. So I screw it into a ball shape and lob it into the washing basket.
I glance at the red and blue lights, they are not flashing now – it is safe to slide the door open and get under the steaming cascade.
That’s it! I smile – the first one of the day. In five minutes I’ll be out the shower, spraying antiperspirant and drying my hair. Time for Iain to be getting up – me thinks.
Getting up
The alarm is searing through the early morning stillness. It’s screaming to be silenced. I get up with my eyes half closed. Being somewhat short-sighted, I think that squinting aids my ability to see this early in the morning.
Unfortunately my periphery vision is now limited and I trip over something on the floor. I land heavily with a thud and the floor boards creak. Shhh! I am not sure exactly what it is. It is likely to be a pair of shoes, disguised by yesterday’s clothing that was discarded, shortly before I clambered into bed last night.
Slightly off balance I stagger towards the en-suite and trip over something else en route. Shhh! I really must tidy up today.
Iain, my husband snuffles, rolls over and starts snoring softly.
I rebound off the architrave as I enter, so I catch hold of the sink to steady myself. After a few seconds I rub my tongue over the front of my teeth and reach for the toothbrush. I have to squint again to make sure I pick up the right one.
Steadier now, I turn to gently click the door shut. Turning back, I pick up the toothpaste, take off the lid and squeeze the tube from the bottom. The paste pops into the gaps in the tube where Iain has squeezed from the top; it then splodges from the nozzle. Half of it lands on the side of the brush, the rest blobs somewhere in the sink. Shhh! I can’t see it and mentally shrug.
I turn on the cold tap and swish the brush underneath it and start scrubbing my teeth rapidly. I turn the water off whilst I brush as global warming crosses my mind. Then I turn the cold water on again and I clean off my brush. It chinks as I put it back in its place. I cup my right hand under the gurgling stream of water and bring it to my mouth to rinse and spit out the minty residue.
I wipe my hand around the inside the bowl in the vague hope that I might whoosh away the toothpaste blob, then turn off the tap.
As I step towards the shower, I glance over to the towel rail ladder. There are four rungs one for each of the different towels we use daily. Shhh! Iain’s one is there, as always draped over the rail, not folded neatly like I want it done. But my towels, the one for my hair and the one that I wrap around my body are in one of the piles on the floor in the bedroom where I left them yesterday. Shhh! That means they will be slightly damp still.
I slide open the door to the shower which rattles on its rails and lean in to press the on button. As the water starts to pump through, red and blue lights flash to indicate that it is not yet warm enough to climb under. There is time enough to re-enter the bedroom to seek the pile with my towels in it. Each pile has had to be investigated by touch and feel. Shhh! I kick something that is solid. It’s dark and I can’t see without my glasses.
I attack a third pile and finally find what I am looking for. Triumphant, I make my way back for my shower. I am steadier this time; my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I chuck the towels on the floor in front of the shower – not much point in hanging them up neatly now is there? I reach down to grab the bottom of my night dress and drag it from the hem up and over my head. It turns inside out as I do this. So I screw it into a ball shape and lob it into the washing basket.
I glance at the red and blue lights, they are not flashing now – it is safe to slide the door open and get under the steaming cascade.
That’s it! I smile – the first one of the day. In five minutes I’ll be out the shower, spraying antiperspirant and drying my hair. Time for Iain to be getting up – me thinks.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Describe a Dream
In this exercise Sara asks us to describe a dream. Describe it as it is in real time, not as you remembered it. You should not analyse or disseminate the dream just describe it as it is.
My heart is pounding!
I am sat in this rather large, black, leather chair. It has arms, but it is not an arm chair. It swivels a bit like a computer desk chair yet it is not really like one of those either. I look around; and I can see flashing computerised systems, screens, gadgets and lots of people running around, dressed in, what looks like, space-age costumes.
My heart is pounding!
“Get rid of it” people are screaming, “Before it’s too late!”
My heart continues to pound!
I run my tongue across my bottom lip. It is dry and cracked. I am dehydrated at my extremities, whilst moisture is poring out in rivulets down the middle of my back and the centre of my front. It is making me feel extremely uncomfortable. I want to rub the sweat away; but I know there are too many people watching who will notice my distress.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
I look out the space craft window to my left. I see myself looking back. I shake my head and blink twice. I look again. This time I see past my reflection and observe stars twinkling back at me. I think that it looks just like it does, from earth.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
My heart is pounding!
I am sat in this rather large, black, leather chair. It has arms, but it is not an arm chair. It swivels a bit like a computer desk chair yet it is not really like one of those either. I look around; and I can see flashing computerised systems, screens, gadgets and lots of people running around, dressed in, what looks like, space-age costumes.
My heart is pounding!
“Get rid of it” people are screaming, “Before it’s too late!”
My heart continues to pound!
I run my tongue across my bottom lip. It is dry and cracked. I am dehydrated at my extremities, whilst moisture is poring out in rivulets down the middle of my back and the centre of my front. It is making me feel extremely uncomfortable. I want to rub the sweat away; but I know there are too many people watching who will notice my distress.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
I look out the space craft window to my left. I see myself looking back. I shake my head and blink twice. I look again. This time I see past my reflection and observe stars twinkling back at me. I think that it looks just like it does, from earth.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
My heart continues to pound!
I know that I won’t do it. I have already told them that.
I recall the times I have been here before. There are two of them.
I picture Phil Board, the finance manager of Excel Clothing:
“Get rid of it” Phil shouted “Before it’s too late!”
I see the aged, yellow 1980 style personal computer that he is referring to. Phil, I remember, taught me how to use it in a quick and dirty way. I learned to upload my personal pictures and they remain there because for some reason, it is impossible to import those pictures from this monstrous antiquity to modern-day gadgets. That is why I keep it.
I consider the time when Phil exploded. Excel Clothing was in severe financial difficulties – if I had ditched the computer I could have saved the company and the 240 jobs; including his and possibly my own.
I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.
It is thumping now but not pounding!
Then I recall another time:
“Get rid of it” Deborah Wyatt quietly asserted “Before it’s too late!”
There are emails on my 1980’s yellowing computer that she doesn’t want others to see. But all my memories are uploaded on this computer. Additional pictures of all the people I love, my friends from school, Liz and Chris are on there, and my mum and dad who are dead now. My dog Wilbur and all of the BusinessXchange members I have cared for. Sure; there were emails that incriminated me. It was the best job ever – and I lost it because I wouldn’t or couldn’t get rid of it.
And still I can't do it won't do it.
It is still thumping and I feel sick to my stomach!
This is the only piece of myself I had been allowed to take on this outer space exploration that I had been recruited for. It is the only thing that I had from the past. Other than my memories this is all I had left of those I love. No no! I'll not let it go.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
The black hole looms. It is getting larger and larger and larger.
“Get rid of it” they scream “Before it’s too late!”
“Be quiet!” I shout back.
“Reverse thrust”
It is impossible to distiguish the individuals on board. They are rushing about so much as the ship is lured into the hole.
Too late - we are gone!
Monday, 14 January 2008
Write a portrait
Chose a photograph. Write about the character. Write whatever you can think of - what s/he its thinking or what s/he looks like. Feel free to make up past lives, psychologies, even conversations.
A Portrait in Time
Slowly; so very slowly she opens her eyes. In contrast she darts a glance around her. Had anyone noticed the passion that had suddenly and uncontrollably coursed though her body?
Her dress ripped from her shoulders leaves her barely shivering. She is slightly damp between her breasts and her form is glistening. The cooler air makes her nipples stand erect in anticipation of greater excitement to come.
With some, but not much relief, her darted glance tells her she is, still fully clothed.
Yet she may have well been stark naked. This is how vulnerable she is feeling right now. The tall, brooding yet handsome man, whose grasp is firmly around her waist has taken her there in less than four minutes; and reduced her to this wonderfully sated figure.
Why? She has not known this man until tonight.
Her hand moves fractionally down his back. As he frowns, his eyes glowers into hers deeply distained. Now is not the time to let go. Now is not the time to be faint.
A Portrait in Time
Slowly; so very slowly she opens her eyes. In contrast she darts a glance around her. Had anyone noticed the passion that had suddenly and uncontrollably coursed though her body?
Her dress ripped from her shoulders leaves her barely shivering. She is slightly damp between her breasts and her form is glistening. The cooler air makes her nipples stand erect in anticipation of greater excitement to come.
With some, but not much relief, her darted glance tells her she is, still fully clothed.
Yet she may have well been stark naked. This is how vulnerable she is feeling right now. The tall, brooding yet handsome man, whose grasp is firmly around her waist has taken her there in less than four minutes; and reduced her to this wonderfully sated figure.
Why? She has not known this man until tonight.
Her hand moves fractionally down his back. As he frowns, his eyes glowers into hers deeply distained. Now is not the time to let go. Now is not the time to be faint.
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