Where Beauty Sleeps

I want to remind you that, but for a very few exceptions, these stories do not run consecutively. They are not dependent on one another. They came to me at different times in my life, so if you notice a change in the descriptions of the players, or the style of writing, that is why. This one may seem a bit more ‘familiar’ to some… at least the lover may. *smile* But I think I was far more brave when I wrote it, not too long ago. Blushing ahead. Be prepared. But then, I really am very shy and blush easily. SC/sc F rom the crystal lamp resting peacefully in the centre of the wooden night stand, there is a warm, yet somewhat wan glow bathing the small room in liquid, amber light. It mingles serenely with the silver beams of moonlight that make their way through the tightly closed slats between the Venetian blinds that stand as stoic guards of the solitary window, hiding the two figures within from prying eyes and the curious gazes of feathered watchers outside. Hung with lace curtains tha...

I assure you, I’m not fickle in the least. When I love, I love completely. However, sometimes, life moves people in and out of our embrace and the heart feels what it does as time passes and we grow, seeing things differently. This will seem alien to some, but he was and remains my first love. And he never really liked to dance. Besides, it’s all just fantasy anyway. Suggested song: I Don't Dance' by Lee Brice SC/sc T he office was spacious though hardly enormous.  One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with neat rows of various recordings on CDs, tapes; even old records were arranged in sections that lead easily to shelves of movies, videos and a variety of other assorted media.  A stereo system was fitted neatly among the paraphernalia, though the room was silent but for the shuffling movements of the two people inside. A large, mahogany desk sat along the wall opposite the stuffed bookshelves.  In stark contrast to the neatness of the shelves, the desk was a mass ...

Where We Are Going A long time ago, I used to write. For enjoyment. For entertainment. It cost me a great deal. So I stopped. Stopped sharing my writing, that is. But the urge to set down the words remained. It consumed me to the point of disruption. I can be driven to write by any number of inspirations... a dream, a fantasy, a portrait, music, the single line of a song that touches me and moves my spirit, the patter of the rain falling against the window.  Sometimes, the urge is so strong I need to cease even my work to capture the idea. Sometimes I like what I write.  Sometimes I hate it. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is banal or hum-drum, repetitive or ugly. Some of it may make you blush... they make me blush. Some may make you cry or laugh or angry.  If you feel something, that's good.  It means you're alive. I make no promises. I don't take requests. Sometimes, I may suggest a song you should hear while you read or include a photo, just because. Most like...