Tuesday, September 30, 2014

A Little Known Fact about Pleiadian Women

Hello All:
A reader wants to know how he can go about finding a Pleiadian woman for Pleiadian sex. I'm sure there are plenty of you out there who wonder this. Let's face it; inter-galactic romance is sexy! But to my fellow earth brothers who seek a Pleiadian girlfriend; I need to clue you in on a secret--a little known fact about Pleiadian women.
Reports from the late George Adamski about how beautiful the space sisters are with their long, flowing beautiful, blond hair leaves much to our imagination. We conclude that these women must be absolutely fantastic!
And then we have plenty of modern-day images of Pleiadian woman such as the famous Semjase as seen in the photo. Surely you've seen her in various web searches.
Keep in mind that our Lyran space brothers and sisters (Pleidians, Andromedans, Orions, etc) live for many centuries. Through their advancements in science, technology and health; they’ve certainly learned to extend their lifespan to the point of experiencing abundant health and youthfulness for many centuries. But they haven't mastered everything. They haven't conquered death. And there still remains the age span that limits when women can have children. Yes, just like Earth women, space sisters go through menopause.
Understand that the reports and images that you see of gorgeous space sisters with beautiful, long hair are that of younger women. To distinguish their youthfulness and age of childbearing, young space sisters wear their hair long and natural. After a certain point in their life,
a space sister chooses to shave her head. Yes, she makes herself bald. Rest assured she remains young and beautiful. Have you ever seen an Earth woman who embraces the radical fashion of shaving her head? It's interesting and surprisingly very attractive. It almost gives her a look of purity and of having reached a certain spiritual level.
So if you are looking for a Pleiadian girlfriend, rest assured there are plenty. But chances are very high that her head will be shaven. You will not be able to convince her to wear a wig for you because a shaven head is a highly-respected fashion statement in her space-aged society.
So how do you go about finding a Pleiadian/Andromedan/Orion space sister girlfriend? Simply visit your local park and sit down at one of the picnic benches. Pull out a marker from your pocket and write some graffiti on the table, "Looking for a Pleiadian woman for some hot, Pleiadian sex." Be sure to leave your cell number.
Eventually a space sister will find your message and might text you. "Umm... I'm not Pleiadian, but I am Andromedan. Will that work for you?"
To which you will reply, "Of course!"
It's that simple!
The Sex Lives of the Pleiadians
Lyrans, more commonly referred to as space brothers / sisters, are sexual creatures just like we are here on Earth. Genetically, they are the same as us. And just like us Humans here on Earth, space brothers and sisters are different from the animal kingdom in that sex serves a deeper purpose than to simply procreate.
These are highly evolved people; socially, economically, technologically and spiritually. These are people of magick who certainly understand the power of intimate touch as well as the energetic exchange of orgasmic ecstasy.
As for space sisters, they are nothing less than naughty sex kittens! And their male counterparts are perverts! In one way or another, your typical space brother will think of sex every seven seconds! And they can't help themselves! Space sisters are beautiful and have no reservations in wearing clothing that clearly reveals their gorgeous asses and tits. They love the attention and enjoy knowing that they have driven a space brother crazy. Most often for the space brother, however, his "spank bank" is merely considered filled. He must find a secret place to imagine the space sister who has filled him with so much arousal, and masturbate to finally release all that energy.
Space sisters do plenty of their share of masturbating. For men and women, alike; this practice is strongly encouraged and considered crucial in their overall development. Space brothers and sisters learn what feels good and what they desire through masturbation.
Of course what fun is all that sexual energy without actually having sex with another person? As said before, for space brothers and sisters, sex servers many more purposes than just procreation. And sex isn't limited to just intercourse. It starts off with plenty of French kissing—the very intimate act which space brothers taught Earth women many centuries ago when visiting and having secret love affairs with French and Spanish women. Space brothers are fascinated with Earth women who have olive skin, dark hair and dark eyes. Since space sisters usually have a fair complexion with blond or red hair and blue eyes; darker women are mostly unseen in space. And so while enjoying these darker toned women, space brothers taught them the art of French kissing. (I suppose it was the French who were first known for performing this beautiful act, which might be why it's called "French kissing")
Oh and there is plenty of Australian kissing between space brothers and sisters when making love. Australian kissing is similar to French kissing, except it takes place down-under. Yes, space sisters love having their pussies explored and adoringly kissed and sucked—even having a tongue slipped inside. She usually teaches her male lover of what she needs because every woman is different, and every woman has her own needs.
As for the male, he thoroughly enjoys this activity. He won't limit himself to just oral sex, however. A space brother thoroughly enjoys squeezing and sucking a space sister's tits. He'll kiss her entire body, and sometimes rub himself against a space sister's gorgeous ass. This practice should not be confused with anal sex. This “butt love” is one of the best alternatives to releasing on a female as-if having intercourse.
When it comes to actual intercourse, this act is considered sacred and typically reserved for marriage. However, sometimes, a woman just needs a really, good screw. And there are situations when a space sister is older and past the age of child birthing. Is it so wrong for an older woman to simply desire to be loved and fucked?
A favorite sexual practice between space brothers and sister involves meeting at an isolated location where no one can hear, perhaps out in nature such as the forest. The space sister is ordered to remove her clothes, and is then tied to a tree with ass facing her lover. The space brother then takes a soft whip (delicate enough not to damage skin) and repeatedly flogs his space sister's ass. With every crack of the whip, she screams. Sometimes she even sounds angry. But she loves every minute of it.
This activity is incredibly arousing for a space brother. Eventually he drops the whip, manhandles the space sister in the right position, and then drives his throbbing, hard dick right up her pussy and fucks her like wants! At some point the sadomasochism game fill its purpose, and the space sister is untied so they can make beautiful love. They might choose missionary position, maybe doggy style, or even a favored position in which the space sister straddles her lover to go for a ride.
Space brothers and sisters love each other very much and have great sex together.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Johnny Switchblade

Hello All:
This morning, shortly before my alarm clock woke me up, I was having a most-unusual dream. In it, I was jumping up and then kicking the ball of my foot on the hardwood floor upon landing. I would alternate feet every two kicks; and while doing so I sang a silly song that went, "Bone, bone... Bone, bone... Bone, bone... Bone, bone..."
That's when my alarm clock woke me up.
Why was I reaming that?????
It's been a very, productive week for writing. I know you wonder how I could possibly say that with this being only my second blog update for the week. But keep in mind that I am feverishly creating five new short stories for Halloween week. If we're going to celebrate Halloween at the Literary World of Tom Raimbault, then it needs to be done right! We do so in the form of high-quality horror stories. I am currently in the middle of writing story number four. It's my objective to have nothing but ghost stories for you, all written in my trademarked "Freaked out Horror" style.
I managed to create a new short story for today. I bring you Johnny Switchblade. He's a total badass who carries a switchblade in his back pocket. He has collection of personal nudey magazines, and smokes Kool cigarettes while walking home from school.

Have a great weekend. Oh... I wouldn't recommend trying my little dance as described from my dream. I did this shortly after waking up and actually hurt the ball of my foot. “Ouch!”
Johnny Switchblade
Johnny Switchblade is a total badass that you don't want to mess with... at least in his mind he is. Ten-years-old and in fifth grade, he explores his inner, bad self when Mother and Father are out.
"Johnny, we're going to grocery store and will be back in about an hour." Mother announces.
"Okay..." he answers. He sits in the front room as his parents leave and waits for the car to back out of the driveway. When the car is finally no longer in sight, Johnny runs into Mother and Father's bedroom, right to Father's dresser and opens the top drawer.
There's an assortment of items in Father's drawer—sort of a junk drawer of valuables. One of those items is a cloth sack filled with various knives that Father collected when touring the world in his time spent in the military.
Johnny reaches in the bag for a black switchblade and presses the button which automatically releases a four-inch blade. Then he closes the knife and walks over to the dresser mirror where he presses the button again. He definitely looks like a badass as the blade comes switching out. People would know that he means business when wielding a knife like that.
Satisfied, Johnny Switchblade runs into his bedroom where he changes into a black t-shirt, and is sure to leave it un-tucked over his denim jeans. He has a dark-brown jacket that he puts on to highlight the ensemble. Although a leather jacket would have a better effect, the dark clothes definitely suggested that he is a true badass.
Johnny Switchblade reaches over to the bedside radio and turns on his rock station of choice that currently played one of his favorite songs, "You Got Another Thing Comin'" by Judas Priest. This is the perfect moment to whip out the switchblade from his back pocket and dance around the room with it. A tough guy always keeps a switch blade in the back pocket—never the front. While dancing through the room and wielding the knife, Jonny Switchblade fantasizes situations in which he would have to use his knife. If some older kids were stupid enough to try to bully him around and beat him up at the park, Johnny would pull out the switch blade. Everyone would back away because nobody messes with Johnny Switchblade!
By now Mother and Father are probably in the produce aisle of the grocery store and have plenty of shopping to do. Why not hop on the BMX bike and cruise around the neighborhood in his getup with switchblade in back pocket to look for trouble with people who deserve it.
Several minutes later while cruising down a neighborhood street with the wind blowing through his hair and the mind-blowing guitar solo with guttural call of Judas Priest pumping in his brain, Johnny Switchblade feels like a total badass! Nobody would mess with him now.
A ride past the park is a bit of disappointment. There’s no one there. Maybe word hit the streets that Johnny Switchblade is out and looking for trouble. That's right! Johnny Switchblade owns these streets and, people know to stay in their houses.
It was a boring Tuesday after lunch as Johnny Switchblade sat in his desk at school. The teacher was giving a lesson on some stupid math problems. He didn't want to be there; hated school.
That's when Johnny Switchblade started to think about those Fredrick's of Hollywood catalogs that he pulled from the kitchen garbage at home. There were about three of them that he hid under the mattress of his bed. All badasses have nudey magazines hidden in their bedrooms from their parents. A guy like Johnny Switchblade needs to look at naked women whenever he wants. But the problem with Fredrick's of Hollywood catalogs was that the women who posed in sexy lingerie weren't 100% naked. Johnny Switchblade wanted to see some bare breasts with nipples and maybe some furry bush down below.
He flipped to a blank page in his notebook and began to sketch a picture of a naked woman stepping out of the shower. He gave her enormous breasts that hung down to her abdomen, complete with juicy and pointy nipples. Her bush was so furry that an army of commandos could get lost in there!
"Okay, so we all understand how this works?" asked the teacher to the class while pointing at the problems on the white board.
"Yeah!" answered the class.
"Johnny?" called out the teacher. "How about you?"
"Oh, yeah!" he answered while momentarily looking up from his second sketch of a naked woman with large breasts lying in bed. "I get it."
"I hope so." cautioned the teacher. "There's going to be a test on this. Try to pay attention."
But Johnny Switchblade was too busy creating his own, personalized nudey magazine with women that were so naked that... that... they were just so naked and pretty! He nearly completed a third sketch of a woman who stood with her round, juicy buttocks exposed. But then he was interrupted.
"Okay, everyone put your notebooks and textbooks away. We're going to have a little quiz on this material."
"Ugh!" cried the classroom, including Johnny Switchblade who was unable to complete his sketch of the queen of butts beauty.
The quiz was passed from the front desk, all the way down to where Johnny Switchblade sat. He looked at the problems, but didn't understand any of them. "Bah!" he thought to himself. When am I ever going to need to do factoring trees?" While all the other kids anxiously solved their problems, Johnny Switchblade wrote random values in the answer spaces without showing any work. This, of course, resulted in him finishing the test early. It was best not to go up and hand it in just yet.
To pass the time away and look like he was still working, Johnny Switchblade drew a little sketch at the upper right-hand corner of his quiz. It was that of a big, bad dinosaur; a tyrannosaurus rex—the baddest dinosaur of them all! And to make him all the more bad, the tyrannosaurus rex soon had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth!
The hand-drawn cigarette caused Johnny Switchblade to think about the high school aged kids who got off their school bus around the same time that he did. The kids were older and much bigger; usually wore leather jackets with denim jeans and had their hair greased back. Surely they were true badasses; for they immediately lit up a cigarette and puffed away while walking down the street.
This is what Johnny Switchblade needed to start doing. Of course he couldn't get his hands on real cigarettes. And maybe it wasn't such a great idea to smoke a real one before going home because Mother would smell it. But he could roll up a small piece of paper so that it resembled a cigarette, and save it for when he got off the school bus. He wouldn't light it. He would just pretend that it was lit and contained real tobacco as he puffed away like the high school kids do while walking home.
Soon the other kids in the classroom began to stand up from their seats and turn in their quizzes. Feeling it was safe, Johnny Switchblade did the same. But for some reason, the teacher was eagerly waiting to see his quiz.
"Wait!" she shouted. "Johnny, come back here!"
Nervously, he turned around and carefully approached.
"Over here!" the teacher shouted. "Come on!"
When finally near, the teacher pointed to the answers on the quiz. "Johnny, you didn't show your work. Why?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know...'
"The answers are all wrong. Weren't you paying attention?"
"I don't know..."
Then she pointed at the dinosaur at the top of the page. "It seems like you are too busy drawing pictures of dinosaurs with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. I think it's time for me to give your parents a call and set up a little conference."
Soon it was time for the teacher to give her history lesson. She stood up at the front of the class and began to explain to her attentive students, "The colonies felt that they didn't have to pay taxes to the British. They wanted to be their own country that was independent from England."
Johnny Switchblade wasn't paying attention. Instead he hid a small piece of paper on his lap and rolled it up to form what looked like a cigarette. With brown marker he colored one of the ends to look like the filter. With a red marker he colored a small cherry on the other end to make it look like his cigarette was lit. Then he wrote on the body the word, Kool.
Kool: that was Johnny Switchblade's brand of cigarettes because he was cool.
A couple hours later, Johnny Switchblade sat in one of the seats that were located at the center of the bus. Although in his fantasy world, Johnny Switchblade was a total badass; but he wasn't bad enough to claim one of the seats at the back of the bus. It was no problem for him. He had a Kool cigarette tucked in the inner pocket of his dark-brown jacket. Johnny Switchblade couldn't wait to get off the bus and puff away. He really needed a cigarette after his hard day at school—all those ridiculous demands put on him to learn factoring, history and junk.
The bus reached his stop, and Johnny Switchblade nearly leapt off. As it rolled away, Johnny reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out that Kool cigarette. While walking down the street he puffed away and occasionally flicked the imaginary ashes on the ground.
All the bigger kids in high school who smoked real cigarettes probably took notice of Johnny Switchblade and thought he was doing the real thing. The probably even thought he was cool.
Before getting too close to his house, Johnny Switchblade was sure to extinguish his pretend cigarette and flick it in the neighbor's bushes. Mother couldn't know.
The End!

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Mechanical Doll

Hello All:
Just yesterday you received a fresh haircut at the barber shop. Now all the women are checking you out and smiling at you like they could eat you up! My, it's amazing the effect a simple haircut can have on your appearance. Or maybe it's that intense workout routine and diet that you've been religiously following. Every time you walk past the mirror, you can't help but admire how fit you look--much better than some months ago.
But what's this? Recently you took a selfie and were horrified by what the camera revealed. That haircut really didn't help matters! In the unflattering photo you can see the top of your shiny scalp right through your thinning hair! There are blotches all over your face with unattractive bags and wrinkles! As for appearing physically fit; maybe that was all in your head. You look bloated and overweight in your picture!
Well before you have an anxiety attack; understand that cameras can play tricks on the mind. Lenses and shutters are designed to draw in as much light and mass of the subject being photographed. Because of this, the camera can actually distort; even reveal something completely different than what people see in real life.
911 Selfie!
Recently I took a harmless selfie to use as my profile pic for company email."What the heck is that???? Is that me?????" I nearly lost my mind at how ugly I looked on camera. Every morning and throughout the day I'm sure to check myself out in the mirror. I usually look pretty good. But now that seemingly-harmless selfie I took with my phone revealed that I was hideous in appearance.
The above experience sums up a growing mental illness that is sweeping the world called body dysmorphic disorder. And you can thank our favorite cultural pastime, selfies. The phenomenon of viewing (what the subject believes to be) unflattering photos causes an obsession in which it is necessary to take countless selfies, and compare them to what is seen in the mirror. But the mirror, too, can play tricks on mind and cause the viewer to distort what is truly being seen.
Fortunately there are many apps for your Android device that can be downloaded (many for free) to help correct those nasty flaws that are grossly exaggerated by the camera. Remember that horrible selfie I took for company email? Well I recently downloaded the free app, YouCam Perfect. It automatically corrects selfies and then allows the user to make additional modifications.
Does your face look a bit bloated? No problem! YouCam Perfect allows you to reshape your face.
Do you have a zit or some blemish on your face. No problem! YouCam Perfect has a function for that.
Bags under your eyes? Yes, YouCam Perfect can remove those.
Don't slick hair back!
Contrary to what psychologists tell us, selfies can actually be used to improve our appearance or even accept who we are. I take pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror while getting ready for work. Since doing this, I’ve quickly learned not to slick my hair back because it makes me look like a twelve-year-old boy with premature male-patterned baldness. I've learned that it's best to pull the bangs down a bit so the onlooker can see hair. When dressed and ready for the day, I take a final selfie and then touch up the image with YouCam Perfect.
Now, I will say that I'm not 100% satisfied with how I look in the final selfie. Either I look possessed or like some sort of pervert, etc. But you see; this is how to strengthen your confidence in viewing pictures of yourself. Go ahead and take that final picture, and post it to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. With all the camera flaws gone, you can learn to accept and love how you look in pictures.
Be sure to download the app, YouCam Perfect, and start taking selfies. Get obsessed with how you look!

The Mechanical Doll
Dining at a restaurant one evening, I glanced out the window, near my table, and took sight of what appeared to be a handicapped individual get out of a van. Initially it appeared as though an older man was helping his daughter (or granddaughter) out of the vehicle. Although walking, she was doing it much slower than you and I, appearing to have some difficulty.
The couple finally entered the restaurant where, from what I could see at a distance, the elderly gentlemen spoke to the hostess. I would soon learn that he and the young woman with difficulty walking would be escorted to a table not far from where my wife and I sat. And as they approached the dining area, I couldn't help but notice how unusual the young woman appeared. Closer and closer she staggered, her features took on an increasingly frightening appearance; nothing hideous, but perhaps likened to a walking corpse. I quickly learned that this was no person; this was some sort of life-like mechanical doll that the elderly gentleman was bringing into the restaurant with him. It drew many double takes from the patrons. I, in particular, contemplated if this was a paralyzed person utilizing some new robotic technology; or if she was a life-size, life-like mechanical doll. Her facial features were beautiful, almost deliberately formed to give the appearance of looking quite real. But the absence of organic and biological construction yielded a frightening similarity of being something dead.
The elderly gentleman pulled a chair out and proceeded to help her in the seat. Something apparently wasn't going well because she kept bending her legs and then straightening them as if not sure of how to sit down. The gentleman apologized to the waitress, "I'm sorry; she's having difficulty sitting down." Eventually he was successful in helping the mechanical doll sit and then he scraped the chair forward so that she sat at the table.
Every patron in that room now stared at the strange man who brought an object that emulated a human to dine with him. To this day I don't even know if I made the correct perception of what it was, and I'm sure many others who witnessed the event can say the same.
The manager approached his table, "Excuse me sir; is there a problem here tonight?"
"No, no problem. You see; this is my date, Rita, and she will be joining me for dinner tonight. Isn't she beautiful?"
The manager was taken back, "Sir, just as long as you don't disturb the guests, your date is welcome to stay."
And the mechanical doll talked, actually drank, and enjoyed the appetizers with the elderly gentleman! And if being able to eat and drink wasn't amazing enough, it was almost as if the thing was intelligent to carry on a conversation. Certainly not perfect; the doll required guidance through a discussion and appeared to require key words to trigger certain responses.
And then the havoc began. While eating the steak and lobster, the mechanical doll began to exhibit childlike behaviors. She wasn't eating her potatoes and the elderly gentleman dictated, "Eat your potatoes, Rita. Rita, be a good girl and eat your potatoes!"
The thing shook its head, "no", and produced loud barks, resembling that of a seal—such a performance! The elderly gentleman was embarrassed and quickly tried to hush her. "Rita; no! No Rita; we don't do these things in public, remember?"
Sadly, for the elderly gentleman; the manager approached his table and asked that he leave the establishment and never bring the doll back again. Escorting the barking doll out of the restaurant was quite a sight in itself. I wonder how many other public places of eating have had similar experiences.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Gypsy Knife

Hello All:
You asked for more Gypsy tales of love and glory. Well I took some time this week to deliver for you. I bring you a brand, new Pias the Gypsy story. If you've been following this series (see the links below) then you know that Pias has been haunting fifteen-year-old Melanie in her dreams. He wants to make her his Gypsy bride, and won't give up.
Gypsy Wife
Today we are invited into Melanie's home where she lives under the cruel reign of her rotten-bitch mother. Melanie hates her mother and for good reason. She just might want to run off with a Gypsy and become his Gypsy bride.
Have a great weekend. The first day of autumn is just around the corner. Be sure to enjoy the weather.
Gypsy Knife
Fifteen-year-old Melanie lives in a giant secluded castle in the middle of a dense forest of gnarly trees that are interwoven by thicket and thorn. Her home is more of a prison. Confined mostly to her third floor bedroom; it doesn't even offer a turret balcony that she can look out of. The only way out of this giant castle is through the front door, and down a long driveway which only leads to a major highway. There are no sidewalks to take to a nearby friend's house and certainly no public park to play at.
Monday through Friday mornings, Melanie can walk to the edge of the driveway where a school bus picks her up and takes her to high school. There she can experience a taste of life outside the prison-like castle where there is only the reign of Mother and Father—especially Mother who is more of an evil overlordess.
In the afternoon, the school bus brings Melanie home where she walks back up the driveway and into the castle-like prison. She opens the heavy door and enters the foyer where she is most often greeted by Mother.
Often is the case when Melanie is interrogated of her day. "How was school?" Mother asks.
"Just fine? Did anything happen?"
"Do you have homework?"
"Say yes!" orders Mother.
"Can I see your school bag?"
Without saying a word and nearly rolling her eyes, Melanie hands the bag over to Mother who quickly opens it on the foyer table. Poor Melanie can't even remove her shoes and jacket while Mother sorts through all the books, papers and schoolwork. She can only stand there and wait for more interrogating while answering as to why she didn't receive a perfect score on some quiz or test.
"Melanie, how did you miss that?"
"I don't know..."
"Well, weren't you paying attention?"
"I just missed it, I guess."
"Well you just can't miss things, Melanie!"
Poor Melanie is hungry and wishes she could simply go into the kitchen and make a snack, maybe listen to music or relax in front of the computer after a long day at school like the other kids. Instead, she lives under the rule of an evil overlordess of a mother who interrogates and badgers her to no end.
"Are you going to be ready for your history test?" asks Mother.
"Say yes!"
"Do you have any other homework?"
"I have some geometry problems to do, and I have to start on a research paper."
"Well, then you better get upstairs and start your homework."
But Melanie has just come home from school. She's tired and hungry; wishes for a small snack as an afternoon pick-me-up. "Can't I go into the kitchen and make a quick snack?" she asks Mother.
"No! Dinner will be in about an hour and half when your father gets home. You can eat, then. In the meantime you need to get upstairs and do your schoolwork. You're a young woman, now, and can certainly exhibit self control."
It was afternoons like this that Melanie hated her mother. Home was definitely a prison and a place where Melanie could not relax and unwind. She stamps her way up the stairs with book bag in hand.
"Lose the attitude!" a warning is shouted from behind.
"Yes Mother!" Melanie slams her bedroom door and drops the book bag on the floor.
Unlike most kids in America, Melanie does not have a normal notebook computer with access to the internet. Oh, she has one that links up to the wireless router in the house. But with the exception of the school's resource website, some educational sites and Wikipedia; she can access nothing entertaining. Poor Melanie doesn't have a Facebook account, Instagram or Twitter. She can't browse the latest videos on You Tube. She can't purchase and download music on ITunes. As for a cell phone; she has only a basic model that allows her to make and receive calls.—no texting! The only connection Melanie has to the outside world is a bedside clock radio in which she can listen to top 40. But really, Mother would prefer that Melanie doesn't do this. Melanie should be studying and doing schoolwork. And when there is free time, Melanie should be practicing her cello.
Perhaps this prison-like world where Melanie lives is the reason why she has been having strange dreams about an older Gypsy man, named Pias, who wishes to make her his young bride. In the last dream, Pias told Melanie a story of a young girl about her age who he abducted and turned into a Gypsy bride. But the marriage went sour which left Pias divorced and lonely.
It was an unhappy Wednesday morning as Melanie was preparing to leave for school. Just then, Mother entered her bedroom.
"I don't think so!" exclaimed Mother. "Change it!"
"What?" asked Melanie with a note of annoyance.
"Your blouse!" clarified Mother. "It reveals your cleavage, and no one wants to see that! That's disgusting!"
"Mother!" Melanie shouted while stamping her foot.
"Change it, now!"
Poor Melanie just wanted to look nice for school. She has a nice pair of breasts and wished for the simple right to have pride in them. But Mother insisted that breasts were to be hidden because they were disgusting. Left with no choice, Melanie changed into a turtle neck shirt and left the house.
She stood at the edge of the driveway, facing the highway, and waited for the school bus. After about five minutes, the familiar yellow bus could be seen rolling in from a distance and up to Melanie's house. When near it flashed the warning lights and opened the stop sign so that motorists would wait until Melanie had loaded and took her seat.
Much to Melanie's surprise, she had a new bus driver who stared and smiled at her as the side door opened. He was an older man with salt and pepper hair, and a matching mustache. His skin was dark Roma olive-color that was beginning to leather and age a bit. And then there were those deeply set eyes that seem to long and hunger for something. He wore loose and baggy clothes that were an odd choice of color with designs that reminded Melanie of something that an Egyptian would wear. The new bus driver was no other than the man who haunted her in her dreams, Pias the Gypsy! At least it looked like him.
"Good morning!" he warmly greeted with a peculiar accent.
Melanie did not answer while passing. She only sat in her usual seat and looked out the window until the bus started to move forward.
Was it really him? Did the creepy Gypsy step out of Melanie's dreams and become her new bus driver? She cautiously looked up towards him just to confirm if this man truly resembled Pias the Gypsy.
The bus driver must have sensed Melanie doing this; for he immediately glanced up in the mirror back at her and smiled. Of course he couldn't maintain eye contact for too long. He was driving a bus, and had to pay attention to the road. But it was no bother for him. With eyes fixed back on the road, he began to sing a peculiar song that was seemingly directed at Melanie. The words were unrecognizable—perhaps they were chanted in some archaic language—but completely understandable by Melanie. It was an old Gypsy song that men of antiquity casually sang when in the presence of a young woman who was being courted. It called to mind that these were the sweet moments; the threshold of a new romance that would grow deep and true.
"This new bus driver is weird." whispered a nearby girl to another.
"I know... he's creepy..."
The new bus driver, who Melanie assumed to be Pias the Gypsy out of her dreams, drove the kids home from school that afternoon. And when he reached Melanie's driveway, he spoke to her before she exited. "So this is your house, huh? You have a beautiful home."
Melanie did not answer. She couldn't get off the bus fast enough. Now Pias the Gypsy knew where she lived. And he was relentless with his chase. He might even trespass on the property and try to appear out of nowhere like he did in Melanie's dreams.
It was another typical afternoon home from school.
"How was school?" Mother asked.
"Just fine? Did anything happen?"
"Do you have homework?"
"Say yes!" ordered Mother.
"Can I see your school bag?"
Twenty minutes later after being interrogated, badgered and scolded by Mother; Melanie was ordered upstairs into her bedroom where she would do her schoolwork and practice her cello. Father wasn't to come home until later that evening around 7:30pm. Dinner would be late. And even though poor Melanie begged for a quick snack from the kitchen, that evil overlordess of a mother denied her the simple right of satisfying hunger.
Today, Melanie was exhausted. She sat down at the bedroom desk, and put her head down for what was supposed to be only for a moment. But she quickly fell into a deep sleep and received another visit from Pias the Gypsy in her dream.
It was as-if he stepped out of the shadow and approached Melanie. "Don't be frightened." reassured Pias. "You know I would never do anything to hurt you. Is that what you are? Are you a frightened, little girl?"
Melanie answered nothing in return.
Pias reached into his back pocket. "I want to show you something—something that you should have and learn how to use." He pulled out a folded knife with thin handle and a blade approximately six inches in length when opened. "It's called a navaja." said Pias. "Some people might call this a Gypsy knife, and for good reason. Every Gypsy is sure to have one of these and learns how to use it. You see; in the Gypsy culture it's necessary to learn how to fight, use force and steal. Stealing and fighting is the way of the Gypsy. We have no real home or real possessions. Our culture goes against what many people deem to be moral and good. So when I was a boy, my father gave me this navaja and taught me how to use it. For many generations, the father passes down the skill of Gypsy knife fighting. It can be considered a rite of passage into manhood. And sometimes even young women learn Gypsy knife fighting. I think you should learn how use this knife so that you feel stronger and more confident."
Suddenly, Melanie felt a strong shake to her body.
"Melanie, wake up!"
It was Mother who was outraged that her daughter had fallen asleep at the desk.
"Oh, I'm sorry." apologized Melanie. "I must have been tired and fell asleep."
Melanie's apology was not accepted. "Did you get any of your homework done?"
"No, I just put my head down for only a moment and fell asleep."
"Well it's 6:30 in the evening." informed Mother. "You were sleeping for a quite a while. Is this what you do when you come home from school? And you didn't get any of your schoolwork done or practice your cello?"
"Mother I was tired. It was an accident. And this is the first time it ever happened."
"Well you can forget about joining us for dinner, tonight. You have a lot of catching up to do. Later I'll bring a cold sandwich up to you and check on where you are at."
Melanie hated her mother, terribly. What she was doing had to be illegal—overworking and starving a child. The words just rolled out of her mouth as-if possessed by pure hatred. "Damn you, Mother! I hate you!"
Mother hauled off and smacked her disrespectful daughter across the face. "How dare you?"
The smack hurt and caused a nasty sting to Melanie's cheek. She put her hand to her cheek and cried.
"How dare you say something like that to me?—you disrespectful child! After all that I do for you..."
Driven by pure rage and hatred, Melanie began to shout. "Mother, I can't take it anymore! You push me too, damned hard. I'm tired and I'm hungry, and you won't let me eat dinner. I hate you! I've always hated you!"
It only resulted in another smack to the face.
Melanie screamed, loud enough for Pias the Gypsy to hear her. Surely he was outside and saw everything. He probably climbed up the tree near her window and was watching, waiting for the moment to dive through the window and rescue her. Pias used to work in the circus and was surely acrobatic. He could dive through the glass window and roll onto the floor where he would spring up in front of that bitch, Mother.
Mother would probably put her hands up in refusal with her usual look of disapproval.
But Pias would wield his Gypsy knife and threaten her with it to show that he meant business. Then Pias would pick up his lovely Melanie and climb out the window, down the tree and escape.
They would run away, together. Melanie would become Pias' gypsy wife, and they would live happily, ever after.
Interesting thing: Melanie was maybe a little nicer to the bus driver the following morning when being picked up for school.
The End

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Ekaterina's Log Cabin in the Woods

Hello All:
For nearly five years I enjoyed a particular area of forest preserve that was quick and easy to access when commuting to work. I would simply pull over onto wayside of the highway, exited my vehicle and hike for about fifteen minutes or so. This is the same area of forest where my nymph friend lives. Occasionally I visit her. Once I even left a cupcake for her.
Two mornings ago I had in mind to enjoy a nice morning hike in this very area of woods. But what was this? Upon pulling my car over onto the wayside, I discovered that a new sign had been installed that read, "No parking anytime."
"What? Since when? Why?" I exclaimed.
The stupid "No Parking" sign was shiny and brand new. It must have been installed within the past few days.
"Well that sucks! How can I get to my favorite place in the woods? How can I visit my nymph friend?" Disgusted I could only drive off. "Well, there's another area of forest that I haven't been to in a while. Maybe I'll go there."
The other forest was a nice change; sort of like seeing an old friend that you haven't seen in a while. I descended a ravine and walked the bank of a creek until reaching the area as shown in the photo. This was taken a couple of years ago through the reflection of a pond.
Suddenly, I discovered what appeared to be a small log-cabin hut made with branches and small logs. Maybe it belonged to a strange, old witch who lived in the forest... someone like my fictional Ekaterina in my Mapleview series.
"You've got to be kidding!" I said out loud. "I've actually found Ekaterina's log cabin?"

You can read all about Ekaterina and her home in the woods in the second book of Amber--sex magick. Oh... and did I say that it's free to download in the major catalogs? Let's enjoy a sample.
Ekaterina's Log Cabin in the Woods
Ekaterina reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the keys needed to unlock the door. For being merely a hut-like cottage in the forest, the building was locked and secured quite well.
The inside of Ekaterina's home was warm and safe from the brutal, Mapleview winter. From what Jim could see while standing at the entrance, the cottage was nothing more than a large kitchen with a smaller room next to it that—as Jim speculated—might have been Ekaterina’s bedroom.
At the center of the kitchen was a potbelly stove. This apparently radiated enough heat to be felt throughout the home. There was a kitchen table constructed with more lumber collected from the forest along with two chairs made with the same. Makeshift shelving that was nothing more than bound lumber was attached to the wall with pots, pans, dishes, glasses and necessary cookware resting on top. There was what appeared to be an antique ice box at the corner of the kitchen. Obviously the cottage had no electricity, and the ice box preserved any perishables of Ekaterina's. Finally, there was a third chair by a window with another forest lumber table at the side. On top were a few old books and an oil lamp.
The afternoon forest light glowed through one of the windows, but was not enough to illuminate the inside of the cottage. Because of this, Ekaterina lit two candles in the kitchen; one on the table and the other on her cupboard shelving. Then she bent down near the potbelly stove for a couple of logs and loaded them in the soon-to-die flames. Within a minute they caught fire; more heat to be enjoyed in the safe cottage on a winter’s afternoon.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Dollification of Mrs. Martz

Hello All:
Have you ever experienced a moment of overwhelming sadness, disappointment or outrage; only to forget what thought had caused that particular feeling?
My daughter experienced this the other day. She came into the kitchen and announced, “I was really sad about something, but I forget what it was."
"Oh, try not to worry about it, Honey." I answered. "Sometimes when your guardian angel notices that your thoughts are about to cause some undesired perceptions or actions, he or she throws a brick at your head to make you forget."
You see; a guardian angel knows, precisely, where to throw a brick at your head--just enough to wipe out a bad thought or memory, while at the same time not causing too much damage. Why it happened to me just a moment ago! I had some sad and depressing thought. Then I suddenly wondered what I had thought about to cause that sadness.
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "My guardian angel must have thrown a brick at my head to make me forget. It probably wasn't important, anyway."
If this ever happens to you, it's best not to try and remember--unless you wish for another traumatizing blow from a brick!
I discovered a funny search engine phrase in my blog stats this morning. Someone was looking for pictures of Kim Martz, naked.
I thought to myself, "Hmm... Are they looking for pictures of my fictional character, Kimberly Martz, from the short story, The Dollification of Mrs. Martz?"
It just couldn't be. It had to be only coincidence. But a search online reveals no one by the name of Kim Martz who poses naked. Apparently, people are wondering what my fictional Kimberly Martz looks like in the nude. I'll have to create some artwork in the future for people to enjoy.

Speaking of fictional characters in the nude, I do have a sketch of the naked corpse of Isabelle Dortan from the short story, The Gravedigger's Infatuation. This short story appears in the book Freaked out Horror. I removed the sketch at the last moment out of fear that the book wouldn't be published. But I still have it. Maybe during Halloween week I'll share it with you. Wouldn't you like to see the naked body of the beautiful Isabelle Dortan as she lays in the coffin, dead?
The Dollification of Mrs. Martz
It was a typical, Tuesday morning as Kimberly did her usual weekday routine. Her husband and two children prepared for the day as she made breakfast for the family. And once the hustle and bustle of time-pressed people left, Kimberly planned out her day which would begin with a high-impact walk in the woods. Kimberly Martz was in the best shape of her life, and wouldn’t go a morning without some kind of exercise to burn off those calories from breakfast.
Only a five minute walk through her subdivision brought Kimberly to the entry path of the local forest preserve. Once inside, she enjoyed the rolling hills and steep inclines to add variety and intensity to the exercise. Within minutes, she experienced the mild bliss that most hikers and joggers experience while being alone with nature. Briskly walking along the path in her autumn attire, she was unaware of the danger that lurked some distance ahead.
It was the startling sight of two shadowy apparitions, wearing ski masks that finally signaled the danger. But it was too late; they seized her with overpowering strength while one of them quickly held her mouth to cover the screams. Her extremities were quickly bound by duct tape and her mouth was wrapped as well. Then she was thrown into a large, wooden box with the lid sealed shut.
There was some kind of vehicle, a truck as Kimberly assumed. It must have been hiding in the deep woods, waiting to transport the abductee. It could be heard slowly approaching with the "wub, wub, wub" noise coming from the muffler. The wooden box was lifted and set in the vehicle and then took off. Needless to say, being in the woods made for a very, bumpy ride. Where were they taking the now terrified Kimberly, who was still in shock of her sudden abduction? She had no idea; but as the ride picked up in speed and traveled along smoother roads; Kimberly realized it was a place some distance from the woods.
It was far away from the woods and her neighborhood; she was in that box for a long time, about an hour in her estimation. All the while the anxiety of being confined to such a small place mixed with the fear of wondering how the day would end.
After some time, the truck slowed down and came to an abrupt halt. Then she could hear the sound of the driver and passenger doors slamming shut. Kimberly could feel the box being lifted and then carried up some stairs until set back down on the ground. She assumed they were in a room or some kind of workshop; but what were they going to do with her?
Several minutes later, the top of the box was lifted and overlooking her were two hideous-looking women with the most absurd makeup jobs. As she was lifted and set on a table, she soon realized that the two women were actually people dressed up in doll costumes. Neither of the dolls spoke, but the commanding voice of an unseen woman, some distance from the table, could be heard. "She's perfect! Go ahead and untie her then dollify her."
Kimberly was drawing some conclusions of what it meant to be dollified, but she was not comfortable with what was taking place. Once her legs and arms were unbound, and the tape removed from her mouth; the dolls proceeded to pull down Kimberly's pants, while the other lifted up her sweatshirt.
"Hey! No! No! Get away!" Kimberly kicked the doll that was nearest her feet. Out of nowhere, four men approached the table and held her arms and legs down. Then the woman, who dictated that Kimberly be dollified, walked over and taped her mouth back shut. It was the first time Kimberly got to see the woman behind the commanding voice. She was an older woman, perhaps in her mid 50s, with an elegant appearance that suggested wealth.
"Honey; no, no! Dolls do not talk. Calm down; I am really serious about this. As a doll, you cannot talk or make noise. If you have a hard time following that rule, I will keep the tape on your mouth. Do you want the tape removed?"
Kimberly nodded her head, yes.
"Okay, I'm going to remove it. But you have to cooperate with us and not make any noise or fight. No one is here to hurt you. We are just going to dollify you."
The tape was removed, and the four men released their hold on Kimberly. She realized that fighting was pointless as there were so many of the captors in the room. And further defiance would only result in being held down and tape, once again, applied to her mouth.
The two dolls approached the table and continued to undress Kimberly. Once fully naked; a very, tight corset was uncomfortably pulled over her, almost painfully tight despite her very thin and petite figure. If the tight corset was not enough, she was next outfitted with a rubber-like pair of pants. Looking down towards her feet, she could see it was some sort of flesh-colored skin suit. And before the matching top was applied to her upper-body, she was fitted with breast-forms to make her bust perfect. The flesh-colored, ultra-tight top was stretched over her upper-body so that Kimberly was no longer naked; only appeared, in her imagination, as a doll waiting for clothes. The top of her head and face were soon shrouded with a tight, rubber mask, followed by a wig.
But the dollification process was not over yet! Kimberly was forced into a very, tight dress that snugly fit over her ultra-tight, flesh-colored skin suit. The costume was very warm, and would probably cause her to sweat. Would she dehydrate? How long would she be made to wear this ridiculous costume?
Kimberly announced, "I think I need water."
She was immediately grabbed by the commanding woman. "I said not to talk! Dolls do not talk! I will put the tape on your mouth if needed!"
She concluded this to mean that dolls don't drink water, either. Were they going to permanently make her a doll forever, until she died of starvation and dehydration?
"There, all done. You look beautiful. I think I will call you Daisy."
Daisy? What sort of name was that? Kimberly could see she was wearing a yellow dress, but the name was ridiculous. And Kimberly had short, brown hair; not blonde—as the name, Daisy, suggested.
"Why don't we take you over a mirror so you can see how lovely you are?" The commanding woman led Kimberly over to a mirror where she could see she had a new appearance. She looked like a life-sized doll with rubber skin; long, curly, blonde hair; blue eyes and wearing a tight, yellow dress. She was soon directed to step into a pair of sparkly high-heels.
"Now, let's see Daisy walk around. I bet she's gorgeous when she walks."
Kimberly took a few steps and certainly felt restrained behind her tight wear. But whatever she was doing, the commanding woman seemed delighted as she quickly approached the Daisy-Doll to reassure her of how great she looked.
"You're beautiful!" Kimberly's arms were held out. Her hair was stroked. Her rubber arms were lightly caressed. "Just like a real doll!" The commanding woman gave the Daisy-Doll a gentle squeeze to her firmly-set doll breasts. Kimberly was not comfortable with the assault, but remained still, realizing she had no choice.
The commanding woman walked behind the Daisy-Doll and patted her butt. "Such an adorable, perky little doll-butt; it's nearly lifted in the air!"
Kimberly was next escorted out of the room, through a hallway and down a flight of stairs to a marble-tiled grand entrance. In the grand entrance were several large, wooden boxes that were painted white with flowers, hearts, butterflies and other girly adornments. The fronts of the boxes had see-through plastic which exposed life-sized, living dolls that were just like Kimberly—or the now Daisy. Each box had a name such as Ginger, Bambi, Lilly, Sunshine, Cookie, Robin and an empty box that said Daisy. Needless to say, Daisy was brought over to her box and ordered to get in.
She assumed the position that she saw the other life-sized, living dolls standing in the box. And then she waited for quite a while as she watched people bringing in clothed tables, decorations, hors d' oeuvres, bar for drinks and equipment for music. The aroma of food could be smelled in the air; and despite her very strange ordeal, she was getting hungry. Kimberly hoped that whatever event she was part of, it would allow her to eat. It seemed like a nice party.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Linsey in Spirit

Hello All:
Midlife crisis has officially begun for me... 'er... something like that. At least maybe that's what my kids might have thought yesterday afternoon when I brought home my BMX Redline racing bike and proudly rode through the house on the hardwood floors with it.
"Check it out! I've got a BMX Redline racing bike!" I exclaimed.
“So what's with this bike?” you might ask? “Why do I have it?”
Well, many years ago when my brother worked at a local Schwinn, he assembled this bike for me from spare parts and gave it to me as a birthday present. All in our late teens and early twenties, we were playing with BMX racers and jumping them at the dirt hills. The summer ended, the bike was put in the garage for many years where I totally forgot about it.
"Hey, do you want your bike?" my father asked when visiting this past Labor Day weekend. "If you don't want it, I'm going to throw it out."
"Bike?" I asked. "I have a bike?"
That's when my mother reminded me of the BMX Redline racer that I used many years ago.
I started thinking, "Hey... Yeah, I do want that bike. It's small enough to put in my car and take to the woods to use as a mountain bike. And that's exactly what I did!
For the past two mornings I've been mountain biking through the woods on this little bicycle that looks like something a kid would ride. But looks can be deceiving! This is NOT something that you would give your grammar school aged kid as a starter bike. This is a professional racing bike.
I've had many years experience with biking of all sorts--long distance cruising, mountain biking and BMX jumping. Let me tell you that using a BMX racer as a mountain bike is unlike anything you've ever experienced. They are designed to increase speed very quickly. As seen in the photo (sorry about the graininess; it was still a bit dark when I took it), they are light, small-framed, and have tires with a small diameter. And being that they ride so low to the ground, it's very easy to maneuver any terrain that the wilderness can throw at you. I suppose in the world of mountain biking, using a BMX racer would be considered cheating. You can do things on a racer that would be impossible on a mountain bike.

Are you on your way to work, and wish you could pull over off the highway and do some quick biking in the forest or prairie? A BMX racer might just be the solution for you. Simply lay back the passenger seat, lay down a tarp to prevent mud from ruining the interior of your car, and then thrown the small bike in. It's so easy--less than 20 seconds-- to unload the bike and start tearing down the trail of your choice. And when it's time to leave, simply throw the bike back in your car and resume you commute to work.
Throughout the major catalogs, my Mapleview series is now free. Today we offer an excerpt from the first book in the series, Amber--the death mask. Learn just what this death mask is.

Linsey in Spirit
Amber was getting impatient. When would the moment finally come when she and Michael grew closer together? They shared a destiny; and Amber was to be so much more than a caretaker.
Throughout the days, Michael remained upstairs, behind closed doors in his office. He made phone calls and worked on finances or reports. But there were many hours when non-work related activities were done.
It began by creating what could be considered a death mask of Linsey's statue-head. A thin cloth was placed over Linsey's statue-face so that Plaster of Paris could be applied in the exact same way of creating the original mask.
While doing this, Michael reassured his deceased wife, "Don't worry, Linsey. I'll be extra careful with this... Almost dried, then you can go rest some more."
The second mask would certainly lack the resolution and fine detail of Linsey's original mask. It was only a copy, something to destroy once its purpose had been fulfilled. For you see, Michael could not afford experimenting with Linsey's statue-head while finding the proper flesh-colored paint that would reflect the soft, pink coloring of Linsey's face. When the perfect colors had been found, Michael would finally apply these to Linsey's original statue-head.
The second mask was built up into a full head so that Michael could begin testing various paints. He stood outside on the office balcony, spray painting the copied statue in various places until the perfect blend of sprays produced Linsey's exact coloring.
When the perfect blend had been found, the nerve-racking task of spray painting Linsey's original statue-face underwent. At some point, Michael thought he had ruined his wife's face, forever! The colors weren't blending as well as before, and he nearly broke down in tears. It was pink that needed to be applied first, and then peach. A few layers of spray corrected the original flaw. When fully dried, Linsey's blush was applied. Finally, the work was fully complete; and Michael was satisfied with the result.
It was a Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock, nearly a week before Thanksgiving. Amber and Paulette sat in the family room, watching trashy talk shows that showcased the lives of trailer park America. Trista lay napping on the loveseat.
Michael carefully descended the staircase and into the foyer while carrying Linsey's statue-head. As he approached the family room, Paulette noticed Father and soon the statue-head in his arms. The statue-head was too real! It was so real, in fact, that it looked as though Father had simply decapitated Mother and carried her head into the family room.
Amber, too, noticed Michael entering the family room with his recently completed piece of art. She recognized it as being Linsey and quickly flipped off the TV. His work of Linsey was very important to Michael. Amber wouldn't allow a trashy talk show to highlight the background of Linsey's presence.
Linsey was placed on the side table next to her photo. A candle was lit, and Michael sat down on the sofa beside Linsey. He softly announced, "Finally, Linsey is complete." He combed his fingers through her hair. "Isn't she beautiful? She's with us, but merely sleeping."
Paulette looked upon the statue-head in horror. It radiated the very color of Mother's beautiful face before she had gotten ill. Father truly lost his mind. Why was he tormenting himself and her with a frightfully realistic head of Mother? It sat on the table, and just as Father said, appeared to be merely sleeping. It looked as though at any moment, Mother would open her eyes and speak.
"It's two o’clock in the afternoon." said Michael. "Linsey would always sit in the family room at this time of day with a cup of tea, just watching the scenery outside. If it was a nice day, she would sit outside on the deck. Amber, do you like tea?"
"Yes, I drink it sometimes." She looked upon the man she loved with compassion. There was something important about this moment, Amber knew it. She offered, "Would you like me to brew us some tea?"
Michael was delighted, "Would you? Oh, during this time of year, Linsey enjoyed a cinnamon stick with her tea. Please be sure to bring one."
Amber left the family room for the kitchen. Ten minutes later, she returned with a tray containing a pot of hot water, four cups, four tea bags and cinnamon stick. She set the tray on the coffee table, and then she looked at Paulette. "I thought maybe you would like a cup of tea as well. We'll let it cool off. Oh, I forgot a straw."
Amber opened all four tea bags, set them in the cups and then poured steamy water over the bags until the cups were filled. Then one cinnamon stick was placed into a cup and handed to Michael.
While Amber did this, Paulette noticed for the first time that Amber's long hair was styled very much like Mother’s had been. And it may have been coincidence, but Amber's nurturing, compassionate behavior towards Father was suddenly alarming.
Outside, the cold, autumn air that tossed leaves throughout the yard and gray, overcast skies suggested a day to stay indoors. The candle next to the statue-head provided a warm, peaceful environment along with what was becoming a close-bonded group of people who enjoyed tea.
"Thanksgiving is a week away." said Michael. "Linsey would insist on having Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years here. It was so easy to fly family out here and put them in hotels so they can join us for the elaborate celebration. We've been invited to join family this Thanksgiving, being that Linsey won't be hosting the celebration. It’s so kind and thoughtful of everyone. But I think I want a small celebration this year. Amber, it would mean so much to me if you and Trista would join us for Thanksgiving dinner. Do you have any prior obligations?—family, I'm sure."
“I would love to join you and Paulette for Thanksgiving!” Slowly, but surely, Amber was finding her way into Michael’s heart.
Being that it was Thanksgiving, Michael was sure to take the weekend off from overseeing the business. Throughout the morning and afternoon, he and Amber enjoyed one another's company while cooking those items for Thanksgiving dinner. They laughed together, told brief stories of one another's lives; overall acted like a couple who were falling in love. At some point, Paulette took notice of how happy Father was. Perhaps she was being unfair. Perhaps Amber was the best thing that could have happened to him since Mother died.
And then Amber did the unthinkable. In the heat of the kitchen amidst the smell of turkey, candied yams and pumpkin pie; she set the table for five people. Three place settings were certainly needed for Father, Paulette and Amber. A fourth place setting with a height chair would have been needed for little Trista. Who was the fifth place setting for? Paulette was afraid to find out.
As Father stood, looking out through the family room window, Amber approached and put her hand on his shoulder. "Michael, why don't you have Linsey join us? It's only right."
"Really; would you mind?"
"Of course not. See, I have a place setting for her."
Clearly out of his mind, Father was ecstatic with Amber's offer. "Oh Amber, thank you so much. You don't know how much this means to me." He ran up the flight of stairs and into his bedroom. Moments later, he returned with the realistic statue-head of his late wife, Linsey. "There you go, Linsey. You're still with us, and certainly part of Thanksgiving dinner.” He pushed her plate forward, and gently set Linsey down on the table so that her head faced the table as if anyone else who sat down for dinner.
Amber soon brought a candle to the table to be lit and set next to Linsey.
Linsey often felt that Pinot Grigio went well with Thanksgiving turkey. Of course Michael went into the wine cellar for two bottles and returned. "As you like; Pinot Grigio!" Michael poured a glass for Linsey in addition to three others for himself, Amber and Paulette.
And so as Paulette was wheeled to the table, it was necessary to take sight of the most disturbingly real replica of Mother, who faced everyone at the table. She looked to be merely sleeping with her eyes that could have opened at any second.
Father led the blessing. "It's been a very, sad couple of years for us; the saddest being the recent loss of Linsey..." Father looked at Paulette, "... your mother. But I believe we have much to be thankful for this holiday. All of us are in good health, Paulette has a friend who can take care of her throughout the day; and it feels as though we have new members of the family—Amber and little Trista. Despite our unfortunate loss, we still have much to be thankful for this year!"
Although this was a special holiday dinner along with what was turning into a warm, fuzzy day between her and Michael; Amber hadn't put the duty aside of feeding Paulette first. Mouthfuls of turkey, cranberries and stuffing were nearly forced into Paulette’s mouth; all the while the frightening replica of Mother watched intently from across the table. For so many years the family had visited church every Sunday. But there was a new god in the house, a twisted idol of the woman who had given birth and raised Paulette until her life's end. The new priestess in the house attempted to be an incarnation of the woman this idol represented. With the appearance of the statue’s eyes being closed, the occasional change of lighting that was brought on by dance of the candle flames sometimes made it appear as though Mother had no eyes. During these eerie seconds, Paulette's brain would fill the gap with some missing expression that she assumed Mother would have at the moment.
The thing glared from across the table, "Eat your Thanksgiving dinner, Paulette! That's it; eat every bite of it! Trust the priestess who leads the family into my worship!"
Even Mother had gone mad.