Table for Five, Part 1 A free Read from Silver Shorts Week 12

Whoops, forgot to put up last week's free read.

I have a 5 part short story running in Silver Publishing's wonderful free weekly anthology, Silver Shorts. It's a romantic fantasy comedy about a ancient Archmage who received his heart's desire via a delicious prank. Here's part one.

 

Table for Five, Part 1

S.A. Garcia

The duo of desire planned my fate.

During the dreary endless meeting, the scheming men glanced at me and whispered in their subtle fashion. My lovers knew their playful glances irritated me. My piercing glares shot across the high-ceilinged stone chamber but my scolding seldom affected my exuberant twosome. The kissing cousins had endured my icy glares, stares, and regal expressions since they arrived at my castle for magical training. Over the years, the decorative pair had failed as wizards, but they excelled at other, more physical pursuits, indeed, they excelled to a fault.

My lips offered them a sickeningly sweet smile. The expression felt alien. Ah ha, my expression gained me their full attention before they returned the silly expression twofold. They knew me all too well. Better to use my ugly glare against them.

Perhaps they spoke of trivial matters like tonight's dinner or tomorrow's hunt. How sad, my ancient mind always sought conspiracies and trouble. The concept never bothered me since paranoia had allowed me to remain breathing for many decades. I trusted my instincts.

Today their limited attention span seemed justified. The exceptionally dull meeting strained my legendary diplomatic concentration. William Anders, Steward of far Northern Allrich, droned on in such tiresome detail that I desired a calendar to see if we had been trapped here for months.

The temptation to snore teased me.

Unfortunately, napping during a crisis meeting did not fit into my persona. If I fell into a snoring slumber, rumors describing my addled condition would travel across the continent in seconds. Unfair. In my mind, I performed marvelously for a 700 year old Archmage.

Anders' voice rose in real anger. I arched my brows in interest and focused on him.

One finger pointed at the carved ceiling. "My friends, due to too many failures last century, a storm is brewing in poor Allrich. Supreme evil plagues my fair nation. Once again, the deadly Tubron clan has violated the Crimson Peace. They raid my nation. The savages take unholy pleasure in butchering helpless citizens. Archmage, you have helped in the past, but I fear your force did not strike enough fear into the foul barbarians."

I blinked and sat up. Anders openly criticized me? How novel. Surprising to learn that the man owned a stiff spine. I waved my hand in dismissal. "My dear man, yes, ten years ago my brave Southern warriors failed to grind the tiresomely violent Northern barbarians into blood sausage. But their sacrifice did gain your realm ten renewed years of peace."

Butchering and sausage reminded me that I missed lunch. Dreadful.

I held up one finger. "I also recall you asked me not to deploy certain magics along the border. This year, I advise you to reconsider my offer." I trained my gaze on Lord Voltan. "My lord, would you be so kind as to offer your advice on focused border magic? I believe we were quite successful in defeating that scorpion plague set on you by the Dismal Sphere."

"Of course, Archmage." Voltan stood and stole the meeting from the blustering Anders. Splendid.

My mind drifted again. Damn, I wanted to wander in my lovely hybrid roses. This week they looked spectacular in shades of midnight purple and cobalt blue. They needed their monthly pruning.

Hmm, wait, I sounded like a doddering old codger playing in the dirt. Still, my gardening soothed my soul. A week without a merry muck in the mulch meant wicked evil plagued the continent. Indeed, much like this week.

My bored stare monitored the two imps whispering again. Off to the right Lord Mangkut, the third in my trio of terror, offered me his completely blameless look. An exaggeratedly innocuous vision of wide blue eyes and wavy golden hair met my sudden glare. I never told Mangkut how his intense innocence increased his guilt. I kept that observation close to me. My dear Mangkut achieved his innocent zenith.

My random gaze shifted to Kiwano, West Solonia's splendid young prince. At sensing my casual glance, the young Prince's radiant smile instantly blinded me. Hmm, was it my imagination, or did his smile appear more seductive than normal? Or did I think with my suddenly stiff cock? I certainly wouldn't mind stripping Kiwano naked and licking his flesh. I dreamed that his smooth skin tasted like whipped cream, lemons and sunlight.

The flustered Anders started talking over Voltan. Sigh. Enough listening to the droning bore. I stood and clapped my hands. "Alas, an urgent matter just made itself known to me. Excuse me, I must make haste. Please carry on."

I adored using that classic escape method. Only this old mage could use it to great effect.

I needed to walk among my roses for a few minutes. How fun; compatriots who hadn't see me in a few decades remarked on how relaxed and cheerful I now acted. Blame my attitude adjustment on pranks—a series of extremely sexy, amusing, and dangerous pranks orchestrated by my trio of lovers. How they treated me wasn't anything I wanted to share with my realm; I didn't want everyone knowing how the lofty Archmage of Southern Solonia had discovered a taste for being tied up and teased. The revelation seemed unwise.

My lovers forced sexual fun on me. They grew expert at surprising me. A previous prank, one I filed under dangerous, involved securing me to a secluded fir tree and using my body for archery practice. Madness. Arrows dipped in rare red honey thudded into the surrounding bark but, due to their archery prowess, the barbs never pierced my skin. After the sticky mess splattered my body, my captors licked away the vermilion sweetness. Slowly. Deliberately. Three hot wet tongues simultaneously stroking my delighted flesh made me whimper like a happy ancient baby.

The torment by hair prank was another classic. There was nothing like being drugged, stripped naked, chained, revived, then tickled by long silken hair. For hours. I laughed in such intensity that the next day's speech emerged in a ridiculously hoarse voice. I sounded like I had swallowed a pound of river gravel. During those blissful hours, I had orgasmed until I feared my old balls might rupture.

Naturally, the pranks improved my spirits.

I smiled and sniffed a rose. The Western Solonia Prince's frequent visits also improved my spirits. King Jenar preferred to remain in his castle and wax hysterical about the blight infecting his forest kingdom. Not that I blamed him for acting hysterical. If a poisonous plague of black salamanders cavorted in my heavily-spelled back yard, I'd also act twitchy. Nothing like an inter-dimensional spell gone wrong to spoil a pretty green realm. I had warned Jenar not to trust a Wizard from inferior, disorganized East Solonia. Tsk-tsk, welcome to an irksome problem. Sad. The entire continent has grown messy from too much amateur spell casting.

I wondered how cranky, twitchy Jenar had created such a serene son. Prince Kiwano regarded everyone as fascinating, which made judging his actual preferences difficult. Kiwano treated me with perfect courtesy and well-mannered respect. How screamingly dull.

I wanted to ask him to join me for a candlelit dinner on my private seaside terrace, but my uncertainty crippled me. Disgraceful. Unfortunately, I wasn't accustomed to handling rejection. Rejection never came naturally to a well-respected Archmage.

Of course I could force him to desire me, but come now, this old mage owned moral standards.

I shook my head. Time to escape before someone caught me not attending to a mystical emergency.

Five minutes later I sat on my terrace sipping mead and staring at the sea. Blessed relaxation swept through me. But wait... I blinked in instant suspicion. No. Rambutan, you old idiot, they did it again! This was the second time they had spiked my mead. When I tried rising, I thudded into my chair. My legs became useless jokes. Everything merged and bled together into a wash of extremely odd colors better suited for exotic jungle blooms. What did they slip me this time?

Bother, just give in and give up...

To be continued...

Daffodils from the Past

This might sound odd, but one of my favorite things to do is to pick daffodils from old homesteads. This started years ago during Spring trips down to Avalon, NJ. We’d take back roads which passed battered farms. Hardy daffys still surrounded the ruined homes.

I’d stop and pick the blooms.

Over the years, many properties have been purchased. The battered old houses and the daffys have by and large vanished from our yearly journeys.

But last Thursday the astonishing weather and my partner’s spring break goaded us to take a jaunt to Maryland’s eastern Chesapeake Bay shore. We visited a few county parks and odd empty beaches. Eastern Neck National Wildlife Refuge was a lovely place, serene and largely deserted, the silence broken by the sound of peepers (frogs) and birds. We saw trumpet swans, red headed woodpeckers, bluebirds and two bald eagles.

An hour before sunset the weather still bumped 70 degrees. We drove around just admiring the landscape. As sunset claimed the sky we passed a derelict farm graced by daffys.

Oh yes, I decided to return.

The next morning brought sullen skies and showers. The daffys still nodded in golden splendor. I picked a grand little bouquet, wrapped them in wet paper towels and nestled them into a plastic cup I had brought along just in case such bounty appeared to me.

As I picked the stems, I wondered who had planted the masses of cheerful blooms. I wondered who had once lived in the battered old mansion. To me the flowers carried a sense of history, of grace, of a desire to make this farm a little more cheerful.

Now the flowers rest in assorted vases in our home. They brighten my life.

I thank whomever planted those bulbs for placing a little joy into my life.

All or Nothing A Free Read from Silver Shorts

 Hey, kittens, the 8th edition of Silver Shorts is out now for FREE at Silver Publishing. Here's my contribution to the fine collection. Click on the Silver Shorts icon to score your free copy containing stories by Diane Adams, Freddy MacKay, Julie Lynn Hayes, Karyn Gerrard, L.M. Brown, Lily Sawyer, Nicole Dennis and T. L. K. Arkenberg.

 

All or Nothing

S.A. Garcia

Scott lit the twenty-fifth white candle. He glanced around his snug studio apartment and bit his lower lip. After adoring his handsome boss for months, tonight Scott planned to reveal his emotion to Thomas.

If Scott's lunacy caused unemployment, so be it. Hell, Scott needed to tell manly Thomas the truth, or quit his job.

The architectural photographer checked the Pinot Grigio again. There, chilled to perfection. Scott hoped Thomas appreciated the Italian vintage; at $95.79 a bottle, the wine should pour itself into the stemware. He prayed he wouldn't drink the wine alone.

He needed a last glance at his romantic speech. Scott plucked the post-it note from under the living room table and tried conquering his nervous squeak. "Thomas, when I gaze into your eyes, I lose myself. I fall into your confident gaze like a feather falls onto a tranquil river. I cannot believe how good falling in love with you feels. I sense our river of love will support us and take us places I've never explored. I love you."

Fuck, the words sounded like a simpering greeting card. Too bad, he spoke the truth.

The buzzer's harsh tone blared. Scott nearly pissed himself. His poor heart thudded so hard he feared for his skin. Splat, thud! Why had he picked such a humid night for this seduction? Liters of sweat erupted under his armpits.

He inhaled a centering breath. Scott buzzed Thomas up. His knees stuttered in terror. Stop!

An authoritative knock attacked the front door. Scott whimpered and hugged himself for luck. He opened the door and tried smiling at Thomas.

Ga-goo-omigod-help! Scott's speech scampered under the futon. The drool-worthy Thomas wore a red silk muscle shirt. Dark brown arms shone in the candle glow. Snug black jeans displayed Thomas's big, bold bossman's basket to the world.

Their gazes crashed and burned. Thomas arched one thick eyebrow in playful confusion.

Fuck it. Scott lunged forward. He shut the front door, pulled Thomas close and kissed his sexy boss's lips in aching, desirous desperation. He licked down his cheek until he bit the protruding Adam's apple.

He stepped back. "Shirt. Off."

Instead of protesting, Thomas raised his arms and let Scott yank off the shirt. Mmm, the dark, muscular torso demanded worship. As he slid to his knees, Scott nipped, nuzzled and savored Thomas's enchanting smell. His world eclipsed down to Thomas's reacting cock. Scott's teeth pulled down the zipper. A thick cock filled his bliss-struck mouth. When Thomas moaned in surprised pleasure, Scott sucked until he almost dislocated his jaw.

Hoarse laughter sounded above his head. "Are you asking me for a raise?"

Scott laughed against Thomas's stiff cock and glanced up. "Can I have this big bonus first?"

Fingers ruffled Scott's fair hair. His smiling boss licked his lips and winked. "Only if I can return the favor, sugah."

The smitten Scott decided his silly speech could wait until Valentine's Day.

The End

Diva Faboo and the Fine Art of Obsession

I posted this at Clare London's blog but why not post it here? *thumps forehead*

I’ve discovered something weird about how I handle relationships and love in my scribblings. At some point in the story, a character always acts obsessive about their object of hot desire. Characters always begin worrying that something dreadful will happen to their lover.

Granted, my characters own a perfect right to worry. Something dreadful always threatens to attack their lover. It might be a penny dreadful instead of a hundred dollar dreadful, but it will happen on one page or across twenty pages or in every other chapter. Romance writers, or maybe I should speak for myself, act brutal in the zeal for whipping characters through the nasty angst paces.

Still, I wonder about my character’s obsessive romantic qualities. What a pack of worrywarts! Of course the easiest thing is to blame my bizarre muse. Wonky Diva Faboo has been with me for some time in both my visual and written work. The muse is a sloppy mess mainly because she refuses to clean up her empty bourbon bottles. Worse yet my muse is a controlling fury who excels at biting ankles. Faboo is capable of biting me elsewhere, but her half passed out position on the floor is more suited to ankle biting. When she reaches full creative froth, her long tongue lashes higher. Wait, when isn’t she in a froth? Oh right, when she’s passed out during the daylight hours. Yep, carousing Diva Faboo is a dreaded night muse, helpful only after sunset. No wonder a few vampire WIPS lurk in the wings.

Right on cue Faboo’s influence sneaks in when someone falls in love, because they instantly fear that said lover will fall down the stairs, be captured by corporate villains or be tortured by a high Duke of Hell. The Hell torment is a legitimate worry. That is nasty stuff. Time after time Diva Faboo enjoys making a character’s mind snap, crackle and pop from romantic stress. Mental torment is her supreme amusement.

Diva Faboo also enjoys forcing characters to internalize their obsession. She compels obsession to leak out in little places, like checking to see if the apartment door is locked, or if the seat belt is fastened. My characters want to keep their lovers safe from harm. Inside them lurks the knight in shining armor prepared to battle potential dragons, even when they arrive in the unassuming form of a cranky, bigoted grandparent. Face it, those monsters are worse than dragons.

Sometimes Diva Faboo surprises me and lets a character sing out his obsession. In a shockingly understanding moment, Diva Faboo allowed poor Alasdaire, Canes and Scales’s half Elf, half human love slave, to enjoy a grand emotional outburst in the following scene:

Glass walls sequestered me away from my torment until they shattered in silver truth. My Linden needed to stay here. I lunged forward and reached for him. “My Prince, no!”

My Prince whirled from exiting into night’s bleak control. I ran toward my lover. Guards grabbed me. “Let him go!”

Arms dropped way. Linden accepted my frantic embrace. My arms pulled his head toward my lips. I whispered my words to him. “Lover, there’s something wrong.”

The pure sympathy in Linden’s eyes asked me to stop hurting him. “Alasdaire, please, I know you want me to stay here with you but…”

How could I make him understand what dread I felt? “Linden, I feel danger around you. I don’t know how it is possible but I know what I feel. Do not leave the manor. Please listen to me!”

Wow, Alasdaire was lucky to enjoy such a big-scale emotional release. Diva Faboo must really adore him.

She raised the ante in Temptation of the Incubus. Amando, my wild and wonderful hybrid demon, is so obsessed by his lover that he dies for him. Honest. Faboo forced his decision:

After I cursed vengeful Hell and the obviously not keeping track Cloud Party, I stared at my lover's pale, beloved face. His noble heart continued struggling within his firm chest like a frightened mouse clawing for final freedom. His heart halted struggling. I screamed in agony. No, please, anything listening, anything owning an ounce of compassion, no, let him live! To my relief, Mads's muscle flickered on for a few more seconds of life.

Suddenly I knew what to do. How utterly obvious. Why did I delay the process? I was such an ancient dolt!

My trembling fingers caressed Mads's thick blond hair one last time. My choked voice whispered free. "Goodbye, my eternal love. The world is a better place with you in it. You are fine, sweet and good and I will always love you no matter what happens to me. If I can, I shall watch over you for eternity."

My tawdry existence meant nothing. Mads deserved what I gave him. I hoped my demonic power proved potent enough. I hoped I wasn't too late to the rescue.

I panicked, pressed my lips down against Mads's cool perfection and freely gave. I opened as wide as my ancient being allowed and directed myself into Mads's primeval universe. His downed body possessed enough life awareness to accept my stolen force. My plan would work. Epic relief coated my tortured mind.

My revitalized demon allure snarled in competitive fury. I smacked the force down and ordered it to focus on healing Mads. My love-bound will refused to be denied. My feeble new humanity surged forth and ensured my final act. Lord Death needed to back the fuck off.

As you can see, wicked Diva Faboo burped, tossed a bottle aside and told Amando, "Go ahead, sweetie, obsess love to death in a extremely real and morally binding way." Yeah, I just watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Their silly influence on my writing is a whole other wheelbarrow of words.

Too many other examples of Diva Faboo’s obsession with obsession infect my writing. In my dark romantic comedy To Save a Shining Soul, demon Marius obsesses about protecting Tristan, the unfairly damned divinity student, from the referenced Hell torment. Divine Devine’s Love Song finds hacker Sam Devine obsessing about protecting himself, his friends plus the entire city of Manh until he falls in love with the warrior Po and gains someone new to worry about in life. Living in a post-apocalyptical world adds extra spicy worry to a character's mind. Damn, someday Faboo will learn how to spell apocalyptical in less than four tries. Oh, she’s still sleeping. No wonder she’s no help. Then again spelling isn’t her thing.

When my new romantic comedy An Elf for All Centuries arrives in May, kidnapped supermodel Elf Prince Fabion (gee, wonder how he received that  name) turns epic self-obsession into obsessive love for a sexy Elf King. Granted Fabion obsesses over surviving in an ancient age sans hot water and facials, but at least he learns how to love someone else in an obsessive manner. He had to or else Faboo would have conked a bourbon bottle over his thick skull.

I do believe I understand why poor Diva Faboo obsesses over life. Hold on, wait, good, she’s still snoring. You know what, I think too many frustrated writers grew sick of her woozy midnight musings and tossed her aside in writerly snit fits. That’s why obsession haunts the poor old dear. She’s worried about her current musedom position. Her under confidence leaks into her writing advice. She sucks at editing. Her notion of editing is to add three paragraphs of description. No wonder she keeps being tossed.

Still, here the crazy muse doesn’t need to worry. I’ll take a sloppy, obsessive muse over a practical, play by the book dullard. After all, I need someone to keep me company at 3:00AM. But I do need to introduce Diva Faboo to the wonderful world of recycling. Wish me and my ankles luck in that upcoming battle.

Well, better to pick up after her. Faboo does work hard for me.

I owe the poor dear a few favors.

Hello, I’m Patrice, Write About Me Or Else

 

Ever have a character spring into life without your permission?

In the course of writing new characters always pop into existence. A neighbor who has never emerges from their house opens the front door and wham, becomes an important secondary character. The one liner mailman worms his way into his own storyline. A gallery owner created to supply comic relief evolves to the point where he’s special enough to deserve a spin off story. Those good events always take place in a story.

In my cluttered mind plots pop into existence on a regular basis. Fleeting plotlines needing major work received a polite one line work-up and might, if they’re lucky, emerged in another decade. Serious plotlines kind enough to arrive complete with a title, tentative beginning and end deserve an outline to keep the story alive. Some plots are generous enough to supply logical chapter breaks. They own a far finer chance of future development, like before next decade.

But what do you do with a character who struts across the mental stage sans plot or storyline? The character who snap, has a name and location but nothing more? The character not vetted by your muse?

One such pushy little bugger just arrived in my mind. Patrice. The bold man introduced himself. He owns a bar/cafe, likes black leather pants paired with red stiletto boots and fills in as a waiter. Patrice is proud of his round beer belly and seldom wears a shirt at the bar. Hard belly pinches turn him on. He’s swarthy, black-haired, green-eyed and handy with a switchblade. He’s hiding a tattoo. Judging by his attitude I know where he’s inked.

Patrice keeps haunting me. He struts across the dimly lit bar carrying a menu to a man sitting at a back table. At least this character hasn’t named himself. The waiting man hasn’t even ordered food since Patrice never reaches his table. Patrice keeps walking across but never arriving.

He performs this act on a regular basis. I often “write” myself to sleep, trying to work out a scene or where a story might go next. Just before deep sleep Patrice insists on strutting across the bar with his menu.

I try to ignore him. Many other words need attention. Needy characters already wait in line for development.

Patrice is determined to strut to the line’s front. Should I let him deliver the menu to the man at the back table? Damn, you know the second the menu slides into that man’s hand, the bold dude will name himself.

They’ll gang up on me. They’ll line jump. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they have a place in one of my many plots in progress. Yes, I believe they do. The concept just bonked me between the eyes. I know where they fit in.

Do you think they’ll be happy with my promise?

Cross your fingers. I do worry about Patrice’s switchblade skills.

If he struts tonight I’ll have my answer.