Stacy thought about the inevitable and uncomfortable stretch of afternoon before her mother returned home.
Janice stood on the edge of the bridge, her toes clutching the cold metal. She had thrown her shoes over only moments before to test the wind and her resolve. She hoped the impact would kill her. If not, she knew the water would.
The Harken Bridge had been built in 1941 by a dozen flat-footed boys eager, but unable, to serve their country in the war.
In their zealous haste, they neglected to properly amend the suspension brackets on the center beams, and several years later, under the weight of a parade caravan of returning soldiers, the bridge collapsed.
Four soldiers, two wives, and a child died. The bodies were carried several miles by the swift current before they were retrieved.
Miles Miller saw the woman floating face down in the river. She did not seem to be swimming for neither her arms nor her legs were moving.
He thought perhaps she was playing, though what game, he was not sure. He pulled her body to the shore. Her clothes were wet and heavy, and it took all his strength to roll her onto her back.
Her face was bloody, and her shirt was ripped. He could see her breasts, white, and round, and completely still.
Her shook her shoulders, and her arms, and pinched her cheeks, but she would not move.
He did not know what else to do, and so he ran home, never speaking of the woman to anyone. He was so skilled at forgetting the woman that he did not remember her until his second year of college when he was in the backseat of his car, unbuttoning his girlfriend's blouse.
Magdalene Mabry was in no way a prude though, to her dismay and sometimes regret, she was a virgin. This truth on its own would have bothered her very little, but she could not deny her ripening age or the confining shackles marriage would bring.
The loyalty she would show her husband would be absolute. She had no doubt in that regard, but she did not have a husband or even a serious boyfriend, and so her loyalty, unlike her pussy, had time to remain untested.
Of the men she dated, Miles was the sweetest and, she was almost certain, a novice like her. She took comfort knowing he would lack the means to judge her performance, which would afford her the practice she was convinced she needed.
She knew provoking a man's desire was a simple task though she had no concrete notion of what came after, so she leaned in close, slid off her blouse and bra, and whispered softly in his ear.
"I'm so wet," she said.
Immediately he recalled the woman in the river and her white, round, and completely still breasts.
It was only then that he realized she was dead, and he began to cry, uncontrollable and without regret.
The bridge was soon obsolete and remained in disarray due to the newly constructed freeway.
Drowning had not been her first choice. A gun would have been more dramatic, but she did not have a gun, and even if she had, the thought of missing at such a close range terrified her.
Pills had been her second choice, but she hated cliches and child-proof bottles. So instead, she inched her way onto the farthest ledge she could reach.
Many years before, two brothers, Ricky and Ryan Rothman, climbed the metal outcroppings and peered over the edge as a juvenile stunt.
The crowd of excited classmates jeered and hollered for them to jump. The two brothers, easily provoked and more than willing to prove the hardiness of their spirit, leaped from the dangerously high ledge.
The observers faint-of-heart screamed for the police, for God, for their mothers, but not one of them jumped in the water to aid the two brothers.
Molly Mabry had been one of the many classmates following the Rothman brothers, though her avid pursuit was not aimed at entertainment, but duty.
She clutched her bible and rosary tightly and prayed as vehemently as her fearful heart would allow.
She did not wish for the two boys to be harmed, and where her lecturing failed, she hoped, and knew, God would succeed.
Just as God had changed the heart of Pharaoh, he would convince the two brothers to find a proper avenue for their daring and charisma, particularly Ryan Rothman who she felt would be a potent and pleasant addition to the church, and her side.
The recurring dream she had was as much a fantasy as it was a fear. Each night, with only the light of the moon, Young Molly laid restlessly in her bed, hoping to stave off the moment sleep befell her, but, like judgment, there was little she could do.
In her dream, the world was in its final days, full of madness and decay. The devout believers where being pulled up into the heavens, ascending to the glory of God, but she was not among them.
She was weighed down by something, a hand clutching hers. She already knew its owner for she had had this dream so many nights before. It was Ryan Rothman pulling her close.
She screamed to him that the world was ending, that they should pray or run, but suddenly, somehow, she was naked, and he was touching her, and kissing her, and...
...and she was awake, and wet, and out of breathe, and smiling.
When the two brothers disappeared into the dark and swift waters, she dropped to her knees and prayed more fervently than she had ever before, not enough to sweat blood, but her knees quickly became dirty and sore.
When the authorities arrived and the boys still were not found, she wandered home in a daze of disillusionment and doubt.
The authorities searched the river for several days, but failed to retrieve the bodies. They feared the current had taken the boys as far as the ocean.
The following Saturday the two brothers, battered and weary, walked into town alive and grinning.
She enjoyed the irony of her overly-caution climb, as if falling would have been somehow different than jumping.
She said a short prayer for Stacy, her daughter. Then she stepped into the air.
She was alone with him, her mother's friend. His hairy arms and heavy voice lumbered through the hallways like trees slowly growing.
There was a goldfish, two hamsters, and a cat buried underneath the plum tree in the backyard. They did not belong to Stacy or her mother, and would have remained decaying in quiet solitude had it not been for Janice's strong hatred of plums.
Babble and Ace, confined to a cage and diet of green pellets, had lost, or perhaps given up the spark that once ignited their relationship.
Chewing blocks of wood, a task they once enjoyed together, had become tedious to Babble. Even the metal spinning wheel could not stave off her disinterest in their tiny two-tiered prison.
She curled into a corner, refusing to eat or drink despite Ace's pleas. She became thin and weary. She would not leave the corner even when the tiny door to the cage was left open.
Ace tried nuzzling pellets of food to her, even chewed them into smaller pieces for her weak digestion, but she would not eat.
He curled beside her and died several days after her body was taken from the cage.
Adley stared at the empty cage, more disappointed than he had anticipated. The experiment with the hamsters had been a failure.
He hated using the word 'failure', but there was not a single shred of useful information to glean, except that it did not work.
He had hoped his serum would make the tiny creatures more intelligent, vigorous, and affectionate, in other words, more human, but instead they showed symptoms of slothfulness and disinterest.
After several weeks of meager and substandard results, Adley gave two of the specimens to his nephew before the government cut his funding and fortitude completely.
nephew's family loses money must move -- sells house to man and Stacy's mom...
She had decided, after careful deliberation, that the tree was the cause of her dark and deep-seated depression, and so she took an axe to its trunk and a shovel to its roots.
Stacy, at first and foolishly, believed the bones belonged to an ancient Indian shaman who used them for spiritual rituals and glimpsing the future.
A bone thin man with long, braided hair sits in front of a large fire. He spits into the dirt and mixes the bones of small animals into the mud until peculiar shapes and patterns illuminate the outcome of future events.
He leans over to his young and spiteful apprentice. The bones in his spine are old and beginning to fail him. He knows the boy beside him is not ready, nor will he ever be.
The chieftain expects the old shaman to work a miracle by awakening the boy's inner fire, but the boy does not have fire, only wet kindling.
He points to the symbols made by the bones. They contain truth and power, but the boy only sees mud, and bones, and sterile traditions.
The old shaman tries to conjoule the boy's inner sight, but it will not be shaken from the roots that have grown around it.
The old shaman knows that without an apprentice, he will be the last of his kind. All that he is will die, and nothing of his heart or hopes will remain.
In desperation, he glimmers the bones and the spirits for a being who is worthy of his knowledge. Instead he sees only the flicker of lives to come, lives that are brief and inanely violent like the ripples of the river collapsing into one another.
A great hunt, a war with pale demons, the roar of metal horses, a young girl that will dream of his old and wrinkled face.
She carefully catalogued each of the pieces and kept them boxed and sealed in her room until her mother found them and threw them out.
It wasn't that she didn't like him, for he was friendly enough. The truth was, he scared her in a strange and unprovoked way like the figments that linger in shadows.
She often imagined that he had squeezed the life out of a poor, young girl with his large and rough hands. She had never actually felt his hands for he kept them carefully positioned at the center of his lap or half tucked in his pockets.
Before he died, Stacy's grandfather would squeeze the plums that grew on the tree in the backyard and throw them over the fence into the neighbor's pool.
On Sunday afternoons Enzo lays in the plastic lawn chair and watches his young and beautiful wife swim the length of the pool.
Once she is thoroughly exhausted from her swim, he dives in beside her, shoves her head under the water and lightly chokes her.
As she coughs, and gags, and claws at his arms, he fucks her hard, until he feels her thighs and stomach jerk from pain and arousal.
When he lets her up, she curses his name, and slaps him, and staggers back into the house bottomless, leaving her bikini floating on the water for him to carry inside.
Elise thought about marriage the way the postman thought about other people's mail.
She did not think Enzo would purpose nor that she would say yes, but he did, and she had.
The wedding was loud, and bountiful, and overly intoxicating. She agreed to whatever whims he conjured; her dress, the music, the food, even the guests, though, in honesty, she did not have many of her own to invite.
She was idly complacent with his demands until two weeks later as they perused vacant homes. "A pool," she insisted. "We must have a pool."
Elise watches her sister get raped in a pool or ocean, river? Harken River
the moon reflects off her sister's naked white skin
Enzo thought little of her request, except that he would enjoy swimming in warm weather, and so he bought her the house with a pool.
As they packed up their tiny one room apartment, Elise thought about swimming late at night as the moon reflected off the water and her naked, white skin.
The next Sunday, she dives into the pool, waiting for him to lounge in the plastic lawn chair and stare at her white thighs splashing against water.
Then he would watch as the young pregnant woman struggled to pull them out with a net. He would smile each time she grunted or quietly cursed.
Her husband, Enzo, had not noticed the leaves and rotten fruit accumulating in the pool, nor her attempts to remove them. Since she had gotten pregnant, he had little interest in dipping into the cold water, or her.
Most nights he returned from the office smelling of alcohol and other women's perfume. She had tried more than once to entice him, but not even her fanatical hormones could unseat his coldness.
Elise laid on the kitchen table, spread eagle, and naked, and hungry to be fucked.
It had been months since her heart or pussy had been touched by Enzo's rough and forceful hands. She had longed for them in subtle ways, gently touching his shoulder as he sat sipping his coffee in the mornings, or letting her hip brush his as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt before bed.
Enzo is scared to fuck Elise because she's pregnant and instead begins to fuck a woman from work...
She was pregnant, she knew, but was she beautiful? Was she wanted? Needed even? How could she know if he did not tell her?
And so she laid naked, and eager, and nervous for Enzo to return home. He would take off his jacket and his shoes, walk to the refrigerator for a beer, and when he would see her, she would moan the way he liked her to, and she knew he would be overcome with lust and insanity for her.
But he did not return home at 6pm, or 7pm, or 8pm, or that night.
She laid on the table naked, and cold, and pregnant until sleep overtook her.
It had been two days since her mother had brought him home. It was not unusual for men to come (cum) and go, but they seldom stayed through breakfast.
While her mother was still curled in bed with an empty bottle of tequila and a slight ache between her thighs, Stacy sat at the table eating a stale bowl of cheerios.
Stacy did not care for cheerios, but a man the day before had cooked what was left of the eggs. He was nice enough to share them with her. Not all the men were so generous.
He bought a carton of orange juice too. It was so good that the two of them drank it all before her mother got up.
And he had a tattoo on his arm. It was of a beautiful dark-skinned woman. He said nothing of the tattoo, but his expression was heavy and sad when he saw Stacy staring at it.
Asella Salazar slid the plate of pancakes and eggs in front of him. It was the same thing he ordered every day, for the past two months.
It was not unusual for folks to have routines like that. The diner was in the direction of a lot of different places, and people had to eat.
But he ate slow, too slow for a routine. The pancakes were not something to be enjoyed. They had a similar consistence and color to packing foam. Even her dog had to think twice before eating the ones she brought home.
But this man showed up at the exact same time, on the exact same bar stool, and ordered the exact same meal, everyday.
Each day he asked her a new question, and only one, about her life, and family, and fears, until finally he asked her to run away with him.
"Come with me," he said.
The diner was busy, and she did not have time to indulge his playfulness.
"I'll do anything," he said.
She did not believe him, and so jokingly she said, "Then help."
Immediately he got up, took orders, cleared tables, cooked and delivered meals. He was not exceptional at these things, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for with passion and brutish devotion.
She was not impressed, but she was moved. And though she would not run away with him as he had wished, she would allow him to walk her home and ask her as many questions as he could think of, which he did up until the moment that she died.
how did she die? a car hits her?
After he washed the dishes, he shook Stacy's hand and left a pile of twenty dollar bills on the table.
Stacy wished he would return and cook her breakfast and shake her hand again, but he never did.
The man that stumbled from her mother's room was long, lanky, and naked.
He smiled at Stacy, leaned over, and pinched her right nipple. "Maybe when you're older kid," he said with a wink. He took the box of cereal, returned to the bedroom, and made certain the door was shut behind him.
This strange man had yet to leave and had not once jostled the springs on her mother's bed. It was the latter fact that left Stacy particularly disturbed.
"I'm your father," he said with a rough and awkward whisper.
William had partied hard through his twenties. He had fucked a lot of women, a full journal's worth, a page for each one -- names, dates, locations, positions.
"213 Women" was the title of the book published by William's oldest daughter, Jenna, after she discovered his journal.
Jenna had been rummaging through her father's things hoping to find a Playboy magazine. She had no interest in looking at the naked women.
Instead, she planned on planting the incriminating book in Thane Hodges's backpack so he would get expelled before Friday's football game.
He had acquired her ire when he decided to kiss Gwen Cooper at Jonny Jacobs's party instead of her.
Her embarrassment was sharp and obvious. With a pang of heartache and hellfire, she swore vengeance on Thane Hodges and his misdirected cock.
This vengeance would quickly be forgotten as she became utterly and uncomfortable immersed in her father's journal. The things he had done and the things that the women allowed him to do revolted her. More than once she came close to vomiting, but still, she could not put the book down.
men try to get her to do all the things in the book because they think she likes it, but she doesn't and she can't find someone to love her honestly
She knew its captivating qualities would be even more potent to readers more perverse than her, and so without her father's knowledge or permission, Jenna found an agent and publisher.
The book became a best-seller and within the first year had been banned at numerous libraries and academic institutions for its graphic and profane content.
He was scrupulous with his notes hoping one day, when his dick was soft and impotent, to relive his wild and irresponsible exploits.
He could not remember exactly when it had happened, but he had changed from Willy into William, and the journal remained on the shelf of his study untouched, that is, until the afternoon Janice called.
He saw that they had fucked four times, consistently without protection. It was very possible, given the date and age of Stacy, that he was her father.
It was August. The afternoon heat had stripped the women's shirts and the men's inhibitions.
The beach was crowded, and the sharp static buzz of sex and skin pulsed through the cherry college students like cold waves splashing against the sand.
They wanted one last night of freedom and fucking before mediocrity and math books consumed their time.
Janice was not enrolled in college and had no interest in such a thing. She was only just starting her senior year of high school and the prospect of one more year was more than daunting.
She had gone to the beach knowing full well what the boys wanted from her, and she had every intention of giving it to them, assuming they were cock enough to handle it.
So many of them were easily and quickly finished, sometimes before she could even get undressed.
She told these boys what they needed to hear. "I think it's such a compliment."
Or sometimes she would tell them what they wanted to hear.
"It's so big. Be gentle, I've never done this before."
Her voice was always soothing and tender, full of a love that was nestled deep within her chest.
Willy was different. The way his hands did not immediately grab at her nipples or ass.
There was no hesitation in his aim, but he took his time, lulling her with clever words and soft glances.
She had planned only to fuck, but she did much more than that. Love was not the right word, but it was the closest approximation.
Willy loved this brief moment of the year, watching these few minutes before the clock counted down to cold weather and colder people.
He could get away with anything during these few weeks if he spoke in the right way, and not too much.
That's when he met her, Janice with no last name. They fucked hard, and soft, and strangely, and without hesitation as if all the oxygen in the world was bleeding out of a hole in the atmosphere.
Willy devoted three pages in his journal to Janice with no last name, more than any other women he had or would ever meet.
She had no reason to believe him.
"Your mother's gone," he said. "I'm taking you with me. I have a family in San Diego, and you're a part of it now."
She crossed her arms and did her best to look disinterested.
He handed her a photograph, which she didn't take.
A man with a bohemian beard and an expensive camera shouted derogatory commands behind the walls of her mother's room. He told her mother to bend, and move, and twist until the camera was satisfied.
Whether it was art or obscenity, Frank could not say, and in truth, did not care. He had gone to the exhibit with the singular purpose of investing his money in a piece that would be worth double or triple the asking price years later.
The money had been the result of several years of cheating, gambling, whoring, and investing -- none of which Frank did directly.
about one of the whores, she gets beat up and he decides to be a better man
He had worked twenty-five hard years to accumulate the small fortune that he enjoyed, perhaps his dealings were shady and morally ambiguous, sometimes even illegal, but he had earned every penny he possessed.
He was frugal when he needed to be, and smart. He paid his taxes. He stayed placidly under the radar. He committed only the crimes that were required. He did these things not because he liked them, for he did not; he did them because he knew carving a place in this world required a sharp knife and a steady hand.
the time he cuts someone...for cheating? because they're going to kill him?
But that life was behind him now. He was a different man, a good man. He was wealthy, and more importantly, retired.
He would make a few final investments and then live, quite comfortable, on the interest.
He had brought two consultants and his checkbook, ready to purchase something he would keep boxed in a temperature controlled bank vault.
He stood, for nearly an hour, staring at the photograph of the sullen woman spread-eagle on a cheap mattress. Her eyes pierced his chest and stole the air from his lungs.
There was something dark in her, something that he saw in himself but could not articulate.
He bought the photograph, and the negative, and all the prints of the woman.
He hung the photograph in his study, and stared at it while he drank, and smoked, and contemplated his lonesome life.
He was a brutish and artificially melancholy man motivated by an artistic principle that he shoehorned onto the mundane.
Stacy did not mind his mismanaged rants or temperament because his photographs were interesting, and he let her touch his cameras.
She had posed for him once, slowly lowering her cotton top as he commanded until her mother returned home, knocking over the lights to throw a blanket over her exposed daughter.
The man did not return to finish the photo shoot, and Stacy always wondered if she had the charisma he said his camera so desperately needed.
The camera was old, and heavy, and badly scratched. It had suffered a flood, two tornadoes, and several dozen drops.
It had rained for five days straight, and the river swelled faster than the sandbags could be piled. Soon the streets and yards were submerged, and the water gushed through the gaps between doors.
Even the parked car engines had been flooded, and the people were forced to stay uncomfortably snug in their attics or second story bedrooms.
two people or a family that gets "snug"
They remained there three more days until the rain stopped and the water receded.
By the time Heath had inherited it, the images it captured were jagged, and small strands of light bled through the case onto the film.
Even the buttons stuck and sometimes required a screwdriver to maneuver.
Heath loved the camera and the weary way it captured people.
"That's your mother. And that's me when I had hair."
Stacy felt a strange and imaginary needle prick her heart. It was as if her whole body tingled with rage and prehistoric survival.
The plastic stegosaurus that sat on Stacy's windowsill had been a gift from Albert, the son of the apartment manager.
Albert was a nice, though easily frightened, young boy obsessed with dinosaurs and crying.
The muffled screams and violent groans coming from his father's room kept Albert up late at night.
Mr. Palani brushed back his receding hairline and stared at the naked girl bound to the seatless wooden chair.
She screamed for him to do it, to hit her, to hit her hard and shamelessly.
He admired her figure, the womanly curve of her thighs, the subtle pout to her lips, and of course, the round and voluptuous shape to her breasts.
Without hesitation, he slapped her across the left tit. Nikki whimpered with surprise and eagerness.
Mr. Palani soothed her, "It's alright. It's alright." Then he hit her again, and harder.
Her skin was red and tender.
He let his fingers lightly caress her arm. She looked like such a sweet girl with her clothes on. What was she now, besides quivering and bound?
Excited? Or was it terror? He smiled and let his hand slowly travel down her back. She was helpless, and he was hard, and the night would be long, and so would he once she started screaming.
He imagined his father valiantly fighting the boogeyman, or ghosts, or hairy monsters with thousands of teeth, and though he was very proud of his father, the noises terrified him immensely.
He said the names of all the dinosaurs he knew. He repeated the long list again and again like a monk chanting a mantra.
Eventually sleep would overtake him, or his tongue would become too tired to speak.
Stacy had been tasked with babysitting him while her mother and Mr. Palani discussed the overdue rent with a bottle of cheap wine and a locked door.
Albert told Stacy the names of all the dinosaurs he knew: triceratops, pachycephalosaurus, brachiosaurus, pterodactyl, ankylosaurus, t-rex... And then he showed her the large collection of tiny plastic figurines his father had bought for him.
Mr. Palani, despite the harshness he showed toward women and tenants, had a great deal of love for his son.
When Albert's mother died, Mr. Palani felt as if a heavy weight had dropped from his shoulders. He loved his wife on paper and in some deep corner of his heart, but his dark passions had never found an outlet in her.
He spent his well-behaved days feeling fatigued and disinterested. However, quickly after she was gone, he discovered his energy and cock had become unappeasable.
He was rough and wild with the women he brought home, whether they were prepared for it or not.
The deep and primal noises that erupted from their wallowing and weary mouths were the only thing that kept him hard. He pushed them to their limit, and if possible, much farther.
In the mornings he was pricked by a subtle sense of guilt, not for what he had done to the women, but for the baffling terror that struck his son.
During the more difficult mornings, Mr. Palani would give his son a tiny plastic dinosaur in the hopes of calming his agitation.
Stacy liked Albert and his dinosaurs.
When he asked about the upsetting noises coming from the other room, Stacy told him it was just grown-ups talking about money, and love, and rent.
She pulled a knife from the wooden rack on the kitchen counter and thrust it into the man's chest.
He toppled over the armchair in shock and pain.
Stacy watched the blood soak the carpet around his body in a widening pool, then she went to her bedroom to pack her things.
Stacy had thought about running away many times before, though at her current pace, walking was more accurate. She did not think about the man dying in her living room, or the knife in his chest, or her fingerprints on its handle.
Detective Phillip Michaels arrived on the scene at 11:30pm, shortly after a pregnant neighbor called 911.
The body was cold and had been for some time. A stabbing, or so the knife in the man's chest would suggest. Michaels would still have to wait for the coroner's report before he could make an official statement.
William Wanlass had been dead for nearly seven hours, and of those, the press was keenly aware of the latter three.
The speculations and rumors were already fierce in some circles, and soon enough those views would be reflected in the news.
Given William's bestselling book, "213 Women," most people assumed (and enjoyed doing so) that his death was a result of some depraved sexual act gone horribly wrong. Or perhaps one of the many women in his book had decided on vengeance.
In any case, the hearsay quickly became vile, and the more it became vile, the quicker his book sold. Unsurprised, his publisher and daughter did little to stop the slandering of his reputation.
He took a step back and looked away. He still couldn't stand the sight of blood. Dead bodies weren't as bad, but blood, he was already starting to feel dizzy.
Though Detective Michaels was hard-working, he was in no way hard-boiled. The thought of violence made him nervous, and for three of his five years as detective, he had deliberately left his pistol locked in a safe at the floor of his closet.
The only reason he remained in homicide and continued to receive commendations was due to his uncanny ability to gather and assess evidence.
While driving home from a high school football game, Young Phillip Michaels's car slid across a patch of black ice and collided with a tree. His body was not discovered until the following morning.
The paramedics, with a sudden jolt of terror, were surprised to find him alive for his wounds and the severe cold should have proven fatal.
The truth was, young Phillip Michaels had died for a very brief amount of time, and his spirit had, in fact, left his body to traverse the surreal spirit realm where he conversed with a multitude of extraordinary and terrifying entities.
When he was revived, it was as if a part of that world had returned with him, and he was able to see and sense where the two overlapped. The strange and secret skill would serve him well as a homicide detective.
From the relatively clean state of the room, a struggle was unlikely, and given the close nature of the killing, the victim knew his killer. The usual culprit would be a scorned ex-lover, but a single blade thrust would suggest a cold and controlled kill, certainly not an act of passion.
Still, the case was not exceptionally unusual. If anything, it would be a well needed break from the investigation of Karen Ward's disappearance.
possible link to Karen Ward story
She had taken the path along the freeway heading north. If she did not stop, she might reach the diner in about five hours, sooner if she could hitch a ride.
The diner was the furthest she had been from home, and she thought it would be the best springboard for her new life, a life absent of her mother.
In the past, her mother had vanished for weeks at a time, returning slightly drunker and with far fewer clothes.
Janice stumbled into the table, knocking over a chair and a plate. Her crotch ached from fucking, and her breath smelled like vodka and cock.
Wade was of average proportions, though this would hardly have been guessed at given the pull of his magnetism.
He was of average height and build. Common in appearance and strength except for his mouth which cut across his face like a long and ragged canyon.
Mary took a knife to the pig's throat and spoke to it soothingly as it bleed into the metal tub.
Young Wade stood beside her. He did not understand why one pig was chosen for slaughter over another, nor could he comprehend the silent and methodical custom his mother employed.
Instead, he had come to the conclusion that fate had divided the hogs with invisible impunity which his mother unknowingly and uncontrollably followed.
It was wide like that of a shark and curled at the corners whether he was smiling or snarling. Each of his teeth jutted from his gums like sharpened pearls, and he made a point of beaming them like a car swerving into oncoming traffic.
car accident kills his mom and dad, he lives -- he starts to see everything as a kind of gambling
He gambled for a living, and he lived well. Tonight it was cards. He preferred pool, or horses, or even darts, but tonight it was cards, more specifically poker.
He was doing well until she crossed his vision. Her tight and perfectly rounded ass caught the gearing of his brain, and he quickly failed at counting the cards and the expressions of the players.
He lost five hands before he quit.
She was at the bar lounging like an ancient marble goddess, and he could not resist bringing her stone visage to life.
how does he lure her into sex? what does he say to charm her...challenges her to a gamble? it's fate - confidence
He offered her a strong drink and a toothy smile. She took both, and soon enough his cock.
She had been wearing more than a bra, she thought. A tank-top maybe? It did not matter. She was home, and safe, and more than tired.
Stacy was in the other room asleep, she hoped. She thought about kissing her daughter on the forehead, and tucking her in, and saying a little prayer for her before turning out the light -- she thought about these things, but she did not have the heart to do them.
The little girl reminded her too much of him, and the thought of him reminded her too much of the old life, the life that was so close to being good.
Roy Kelly was, by all accounts, a good man. His vices were few and simple-minded in nature. He had spent the majority of his childhood on his father's ranch, working cattle and horses.
His only purpose for remaining so long in the city was to attend to his father's financial future and wellbeing.
father gets sick as a result of poor investments and a desire to get rich
The ranch had lost much of its value, all of it in fact, and his father had taken ill. The land, however, had increased in worth exponentially, and in order to see to his father's old age and worsening aliments, Roy made plans to lease portions of the land to a development firm eager to build offices, or malls, or things of that nature.
about the offices that are built
This agreement meant giving-up his passion and trade. He knew little beyond the world of the saddle and steer, and did not have the mind for much else anyway.
He was a rich man now, out of place, and idling unhappily. The one thing he was most accustomed to, working hard, early, and often, seemed an unnecessary activity, and he did not have the patience or slothfulness to be a gentleman.
his advisers get him to go to a gentleman's club. it's very exclusive. he meets Janice there, she's acting wild
Many ambitious types tugged at his attention and wallet, hoping for a wealthy benefactor. He understood little of what they pitched and even less of the future they envisioned, but he gave them a small sum, and a handshake, and sent them on their way.
Soon these micro-investments lead to even more money which he had grown tired of counting. He longed for the cool summer nights with his back to the ground, and his eyes in awe of the stars above.
He and Janice are on a date, he decides he loves her, relates to the following passage about Janice kissing the wooden chair
Janice slid from the kitchen table to the floor. It was cold, and comfortable, and close enough to a bed. She laid her arm over the fallen chair, and kissed its wooden back, and whispered sweet and mumbled affections to it until sleep overtook her.
The thought of being autonomous and alone was not a troubling one to Stacy for she had grown accustomed to the menial tasks of independence and even looked forward to them.
In truth, Stacy was seldom alone. The carousel of men that entered the apartment, and her mother, were a constant fixture in their home, even and sometimes especially, when her mother was away.
Roger sat half-cocked and
Charlie and Eddy had met only the night before
the men that fuck her mother become friends, hippy/commune mentality
Stacy had not thought about what she would do for money or a home, but somehow, and strangely, she had a feeling everything would work out.
By the time she reached the diner, it was dark, and she was hungry, and it was too cold to travel further, so she sat down at the counter and perused the menu.
different people sitting at the counter, suspicious man
It had been a long time since she had been to the diner, or a restaurant in general, and she was uncertain exactly how she was to go about ordering, or if perhaps she was supposed to cook the meal herself.
the last time she went to a restaurant was with her mother and father, but she can barely remember
Deciding on pancakes and eggs, she got up and headed to the kitchen to prepare her food.
still to be written...
still to be written...
still to be written...