I have been a long-time fan of The Police. When Kellie approached me about posting this Q & A of hers with 
Stewart Copeland, I was thrilled and honored. Make sure you visit Kellie — she’s a Most Excellent writer, and she has a unique voice I quite admire.
Thanks, Kellie, for this. You totally rock, mygirl.
Stewart Copeland has been evacuated from Lebanon, locked up in Zaire, and inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. He has performed with Sting and Andy Summers in the Police, Les Claypool and Trey Anastasio in Oysterhead, and Gene Simmons and Stephen Stills in his youngest daughter’s grade school fundraiser. He has composed scores for opera, film, and ballet, acted, directed, danced with Pygmies, judged a reality TV talent show, and whupped Prince Charles on the polo field.
Copeland’s life has been anything but ordinary. It comes as no surprise that his life’s story isn’t either.
In September Copeland added book author to his already impressive, if haphazard, resume with the release of his memoir, Strange Things Happen: A Life with The Police, Polo, and Pygmies. Relayed as a series of anecdotes, the book’s loose narrative details select adventures and misadventures of his life, from his childhood in Beirut as the son of a CIA spy through the last notes of the Police’s thirtieth anniversary reunion tour last year. Written by a man who “instinctively say(s) yes to almost any creative endeavor,” this drummer’s memoir goes well beyond sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.
Thanks to the Friday Project, the U.K. publisher of Strange Things Happen, I had the opportunity to submit a few questions to Copeland about his writing experience. Here he talks about his background as a writer, the stories that inspired the memoir, and the decision of which tales to tell-including what he says is the real reason why he glossed over the formative years of the band that made him famous.
1. In a conversation with Rachel Burden for BBC Radio 5, you mentioned that when you were younger, you didn’t expect to become a musician: you said you had gone to college, started a magazine, and thought you would end up either in the entertainment industry or as a publisher. Please tell us a little bit about your background as a writer. How did you get started? Did you write stories as a child? Did you have any formal training or plan to pursue writing as a career?
Just about the only thing I got good grades for in school was creative writing, but no, I never saw myself as a writer. I wrote copious stream of consciousness journals, but that was just to untangle my mind. Publishing the magazine (”College Event”) was fun, but the writing was all technical.
2. According to reports when your book was first announced, HarperStudio approached you about writing a memoir after reading a few of the “Dinner Tales” and tour diaries you had posted on your website. What, if anything, motivated you to write those stories down and post them online? Had the possibility of writing a book ever crossed your mind before?
Some of these adventures were so inspiring that they had to be witnessed on the spot. As one escapade followed another, I began to amass a growing folder of these stories. Even amateur writers need to be read, so I started posting them on my little website. It only took the slightest clamor to inspire the grand vision of a whole book. Just as I was getting started, the Police reunion tour happened, and the last chapters wrote themselves.
3. The structure of Strange Things Happen made it possible to be selective in which events of your life you chose to include or exclude. The early history of the Police, for example: you jump from the beginning of the band as narrated in the voiceover from your film Everyone Stares: The Police Inside-Out to the aftermath of recovering from the band in just the turn of a page. Later you dedicate some very funny pages to brief hours spent with Incubus, the Foo Fighters, and Rage Against the Machine, but you don’t talk at all about your two or so years with Animal Logic. How did you decide which stories or periods of time to represent and which to omit? Are there any you wish you had included but were unable?
When I hit the 80,000 word mark, the publisher started groaning, and I had to put down the pen. I’ve probably got a whole ‘nuther book with just the stories that have been suggested since I finished this one. Jamming with Alice Cooper, publishing that magazine, sky diving in Rio, Animal Logic, Ben Hur, and many more. I’ll get to it.
So what about The Police Round One? The official excuse is that the story has been told by all three of us already with two books [Sting’s Broken Music and Summers’ One Train Later] and a movie. But really the truth is that I did try to write some Police Tales from back in the day, but the pen just would not move across the page. I was grumpy for too much of that time, and the poisons began to re-circulate whenever I tried to conjure up the scenes. The reunion tour fixed all that, and I just didn’t want to go back to status quo ante. And there are those two books and a movie.
Kellie M. Walsh is writing a book about a flag that stalked Stewart Copeland around the world. Read her essay “My Love-Hate Relationship with River Phoenix” featured recently on PopMatters, and follow her on Twitter.
Yeah. Well, that wouldn’t be freelancing.
Although I love it and I can’t see me doing anything else at this point, if you think writing and/or editing full-time is a glamorous job, let me put it to you straight.
You are outside your mind.
It takes Ballz of Steel. Endurance and stamina. A twisted sense of humor helps, and so does Mad Organizational Skillz. You must have discipline, and an endless supply of coffee.
And, if you happen to write fiction as well as non-fiction, you must be able to juggle many objects in the air. For me, I find it impossible to do both at the same time. It’s like a switch from the left brain cell to the right brain cell, and if I try to run both at the same time, I flip the breaker or blow the fuse. I try not to do that. It’s such a mess to clean up brain goo.
Feast or famine in the Freelance Universe, that seems to be one of the universal laws. Therefore, since lately I have had demands for my writerly services of a non-fiction type, all fiction (to include the last three chapters of Athena’s Promise and Flash Fiction Friday *sob*) have come to a screeching halt. So has Twittering (double *sob*!) and Facebooking. Priorities, yanno.
So, as I sit here with a pile of articles to write (thank ya Jeezuz, for the work, I really need it) in my pajamas after being up all night with the pukkies, the word “glamorous” is not even in my vocabulary. Deadlines will be met No Matter What, money will exchange hands, bills will be paid and hopefully, at some point, I’ll be able to dive into my fiction world once again.
In the meantime, I’m rolling in words like a pig wallows in mud, and I’m just as happy. I never was the glamorous type.
Kel Spencer calls himself the “Warrior Poet” but that’s not what sets him apart from other artists.
Kel Spencer has worked with such big names as Will Smith, Wyclef John, Mary J. Blige, and MC Lyte – but that’s not what sets him apart from other artists, either. He’s been dubbed “The best rapper you’ve never heard of” by DJ Jazzy Jeff and “The Hip Hop Moses”. This definitely puts him head and shoulders above a lot of rappers, but it’s not the only thing.
There are several things that set Kel apart from other rap artists. Number one among them is that he listens. What he has heard has inspired him to create a novelty album, “Salon Stories”, due to drop October 20th. It’s a collection of music inspired by the stories he’s heard over the years as a sympathetic and empathetic friend to the women in his life who would come to him with questions about the nature of guys and why things haven’t always worked out. He knows what women want, he says, and he hopes to inspire women to make better choices for better relationships.
“I’ve always been the guy girls came to with questions,” he says. “They were asking the same questions, over and over, questions like why doesn’t he call me, or why is he acting the fool? I’m a dude, I see it from both sides, and I’d tell them the truth, try to bridge that gap.”
In Kel’s opinion, today’s crumbling society can be attributed to one thing – the demise of the family unit. He says the general message he means to get across to both men and women with “Salon Stories” is to foster success in a committed relationship, and it all boils down to one simple idea: pay more attention to each other. He freely shares his “Spencerisms” on Twitter, in which he dispenses nuggets of wisdom from his own experiences and asks provocative questions of his followers to make them think and respond.
“In my opinion,” he says, “Rap is a storytelling device that hasn’t been utilized to its greatest potential.”
Which brings us to another thing that sets Kel Spencer apart from other artists. He owns an indie record label (3rd Power Music Group), and he’s quite familiar with the challenges any indie artist faces, whether in print or in music, and namely, that’s marketing and reaching an audience. Not only is he on the radio on a regular basis, dispensing his wisdom, but he’s all over the social networking sites such as Twitter, MySpace, Facebook, iLike, and YouTube. Over half a million people are followers of Kel, due to a savvy marketing strategy and his ability to appeal to the “salon crowd”.
But that’s not all. While many artists have established a presence on the internet social scene, Kel actually interacts with his fans, keeps in touch, and handles much of the action himself. He does have a small staff to help him, but the majority of the work he takes on himself.
“Every blogger counts,” he says, “every fan, every person.” It’s that kind of personal philosophy and work ethic that makes Kel Spencer unique. He believes in practicing what you preach, and has a social conscience and a need to make a difference, make his world a better place through his extraordinary storytelling talent.
Kel Spencer may be the best rapper you’ve never heard of – but you’re going to hear a lot about this talented artist in the days to come.
Kel’s Free sampler!
Salon Stories Listening Party, Episode 1
Salon Stories Listening Party, Episode 2
Salon Stories Listening Party, Episode 3
Follow Kel on Twitter, MySpace, or Facebook.
This has been a crazy-insane work week. I’m not complaining, but it really has cut down on fiction time and I HATE that.
Sometimes, as we all know too well, it’s not the work that interferes but the muse. She has this annoying habit of sticking her nose in when you’re most involved in other things, then taking off for parts unknown when you need her most. Here is a conversation I had with my muse. It’s a love/hate thing we have going on. Heh. Yeah, her name is Al. Don’t ask.
Rotten bitch.
Say what?
You heard me. I didn’t stutter. Where the hell have you been?
Hey, I have a life. You think you’re the only one in this relationship? You don’t tell me where and when to go.
I have needs! Needs that you don’t seem to care about!
So what? I have needs too, and you’ve been totally ignorant of that fact.
Like what? You never say anything, how am I supposed to know what your needs are if you never say anything? You’re so frustrating.
Like, you never feed me anything but junk, and then complain because I’m out of shape. You don’t take me anywhere, we don’t do anything – I get no exercise. You expect me to do all the work then sit around and whine because you don’t think I’m living up to my end of the bargain. I’m sick of it.
That doesn’t tell me where the hell you’ve been. You’ve been gone for *weeks*, not even a phone call , an email, or even a damned postcard. People are starting to talk.
I couldn’t care less what other people say. You used to think that was part of my charm.
Again, you sidestep the issue! Where have you been?? Please tell me you haven’t been…
I don’t answer to you or anyone else. Where I’ve been is none of your business – I came back, didn’t I?
Yeah, but for how long? And for what? To bitch at me for my shortcomings, most of which I know only too well? What kind of help is that?
There you go again, whining, always whining.
Roll your eyes at me one more time….
And what? You need me. Aww, don’t cry. Come here, let me dry those tears. Maybe we can work something out.
I’ve missed you.
Well, I’ve missed you too. That’s why I’ve come back. No one executes my suggestions like you do. Now, come here and sit on my lap and let me whisper in your ear….
Hear that?
It’s the sound of my self-inflicted deadline whooshing by. I missed it by three chapters — no excuses, just paying work has to take priority, gods rot it.
I’d set another goal, but I hate the sound of them as they collapse.
I don’t want to rush it because I don’t want to get sloppy just because I want to finish to make a deadline I set myself just to prove a point.
Still, I am a little upset with myself. Still, only three chapters to go, and I’ll get there.
****
That’s the deal. I’d write more, but if I don’t hump this hump day there won’t be a paycheck or worse — there won’t be a Friday Flash Fiction.
Horrors! 
This piece was inspiration for the WIP (now working on Chapter 22, can you say hallelujah?), but more for the “voice” than the actual story, although one of the characters does make an appearance, and their storyline is slated for one of the books in the series (did I just say “series”?? Someone call the men in the white jackets with the good drugs!). I take names and their meanings very seriously, if you want a clue.
This was also the result of a writer’s prompt — the cliched phrase that’s used as the opening. I know it’s generally frowned upon to start a story with dialog, but sometimes it just fits.
Titles are important in flash, and I think this one implies a lot more than the simplicity indicates.
Long Time
“Long time, no see,” she said.
Upon hearing that voice, my whole body stiffened, including Mr. Happy. What can I say? I’m a guy, and that’s what happens to guys when a beautiful Goddess sneaks up behind you and whispers something like that in your ear.
I didn’t turn, because I didn’t want her to see how she could still affect Mr. Happy that way. Although, I’m pretty sure she was more than aware.
“Lilith. Wouldn’t you know it. I knew this was going to be one of those days when I cut myself shaving.”
“Aw, Samuel,” she breathed in my ear. I could feel the heat of her body steaming. Christ, what did I do to deserve this? Okay, I should probably go to church every Sunday, but it’s not like I kick puppies or slap old ladies. “You’ve missed me, I can tell.” Her evil chuckle, for some reason, made Mr. Happy even more happy. Shit.
I resumed bussing the table and tried to speak as if all the blood in my body had not just pooled into my groin area. “Nope. Haven’t spared you a thought since…well, since the last time I saw you. Whatever you want, I’m not interested. See ya.” I wiped off the table and picked up the tub of dirty dishes and finally turned with the tub strategically placed for maximum coverage.
She looked exactly the same. The woman oozes sensuality like a fat man sweating in a sauna. It should be illegal, and I expect it is in many states. Including my state of confusion and arousal. “Go on. Leave me alone, I’m not interested. Once was enough.” I attempted to push by her, but she put her hand on my arm, stopping me dead in my tracks. What’s a guy to do, I ask you?
“Please. Just five minutes. Surely you have a break coming.” She batted her eyelashes, the green of her eyes sparkling like shards of glass. Then, she smiled. Oh, shit. I could feel the swelling of Mr. Happy becoming painful, and I almost dropped the tub of dishes. I didn’t even hear the clattering of the diners anymore, and I think I might have drooled. Just a little, though.
I never thought I’d say this, but thank the Gods my boss came walking up. “What’s goin’ on here? C’mon Sam, there’s three tables at station 12 that need…oh.” First time I’ve ever seen the old bastard derailed. It was kind of funny, actually. “Who’s this pretty lil’ girl?” Hah. If he only knew.
“Lilith, meet Bob. Bob, Lilith.” I took advantage of the distraction to ease around the two of them, leaving Bob to Lilith’s tender mercies. She never could resist an easy mark, as I knew all too well. I took off for the kitchen, tossed the tub of dishes in the sink and shed the crummy apron. On my way out the door for the last time, I saw Lilith draw Bob over to a quiet spot of the restaurant, and counted my blessings.
The bus station is just down the street. I’m on the very first one out of here, destination unknown and I don’t care. Oh, she’ll find me again. But, just because you have a Goddess hunting you down doesn’t mean you have to make it easy for her.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a link love post, and my bookmarks are out of control. So much linky goodness out there, and I love to share.
Help And News For Writers
As a writer, at some point you’re going to need a Facebook Fan Page for your best-selling novel, right? How do you do that? This article gives you the basics, and it’s never too early to start. For the hardy souls who are thinking of attempting the madness that is NaNoWriMo this year (yes, I may be one of them, depending on circumstances) I found this article with helpful links and David Wilson seems very approachable if you have any questions that aren’t answered by his most excellent blog.
For my non-fiction friends, it helps to have more than one weapon in your arsenal, as we all know. Here is a simple guide to writing white papers that makes it look easy. Follow the steps, and it is.
Self publishing is a hot topic everywhere, it seems, and Editor Unleashed explores this topic and much more. There’s also information how to use Twitter to your best advantage, how to write a query letter, and tips on good blogging practices.
If you’re interested in the path to publication, visit Barry Lyga. In two parts, he lays it on the line and tells you how it is. Eye-opening and valuable information here you really need to know before you embark on that journey.
Rober Kahn reports in an interesting case about author Elaine Scott suing Scribd for copyright infringement. This could have huge repercussions on the digital publishing field, so it’s a case you might want to keep your eye on.
The Urban Muse, voted one of the best websites for writers by Writer’s Digest, is chock full of tips, tricks, and inspiration regarding writing copy and blogging. Even if you’re familiar with some of the material, there’s always something new, or an angle you may have missed in the information presented.
If you’re stuck for inspiration, visit the Schenectady Steeple and roll the bones.
The Odd And Teh Funny
I’m a redhead, so I have a soft spot for redheads. This particular Ranting Redhead cracks me up, especially when she goes off on panties. You have to read it, really. Hilarious.
Although I love cake, I would not be able to eat any of these cakes. Just sayin’.
This is another reason I’m glad I don’t work with other people anymore. Srsly. Although the last scenario made me laugh pretty hard. She was so worried about her hair!
Speaking of eating, this website made me laugh so freaking hard I couldn’t breathe. This guy is not only hysterically funny, he’s crazier than a shithouse rat. Lord have mercy.
Last but not least, the wookie’s got moves! Who knew?
Don’t forget to stop by Friday for #fridayflash for some flashing goodness. Next weekend I hope to be posting a very interesting interview with a musician who has found a unique way of channeling his storytelling abilities. He’s got some entertaining insights and some really great ideas about the leverage of social networking you might find helpful in your own writing endeavors.
Never a dull moment. Okay, maybe there’s a few. But thanks for reading and sticking with me anyway.
It’s #FridayFlash! Check out the link for even more flashy goodness and visit the House of Archives. Please visit these talented writers, and leave some comment love if you are so moved. This is a very talented bunch, and you’re sure to find something that speaks to you.
Enjoy the scenery.
****
I wrote this as an experiment in literary devices. Not that I’m literary, but it seemed like a fun idea to play around with some of the toys laying around that I normally don’t think of when I’m actually writing. This piece has gone through several edits, and I really struggled with a title. I’ll let you decide if I got it right.
****
She’s lonely and she doesn’t want to be lonely. You look at her and see a successful, sexy woman with a hard exterior and that’s all you see. You don’t see the little girl inside whose daddy didn’t think she was good enough, or whose mother was eternally disappointed and indifferent by turns. She hides the damage done by the nasty “uncles” that came and went and by the bad choices made for her and the ones she made for herself. You see the chip on her shoulder but not the huge wound in her heart. You don’t think she has a heart.
Why should you see it? She doesn’t see it herself, and she has been building the layers, one at a time since she can remember. The layer of sarcasm, of indifference, the layer of cruelty all building up until she can’t feel anything anymore.
The little girl cries inside, inconsolable and alone.
“I love you” is meaningless and there is no such thing as permanence.
#
He sees her from across the bar, a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other. She looks provocative; he takes a chance, little knowing she eats his kind for breakfast. His pick-up line is neither original nor funny.
She takes his measure through slitted eyes and watches him squirm. She isn’t afraid he will walk away; to the contrary, she knows she’s even more of a challenge in his eyes and she yawns. She is so bored by it all, the same routine. They’re all alike.
His ego stung by the yawn, he blurts out the unforgivable:
“What has happened to make you so cruel?”
She freezes, her eyes locked on to his. The jukebox blares on, unheard by either of them. He looks deep, and she flinches. He sees too much; that too is unforgivable. She’s angry with herself for being caught off-guard. She tries to tell him to move on, but to her horror, the words are stuck in her throat and won’t come loose.
He asks her to dance.
They move to the dance floor as if in a dream. She breathes in his scent. It triggers a feeling that is unfamiliar and yet most familiar; she avoids categorizing it, sensing it’s dangerous to do so. The arms around her are warm and comforting.
He’s careful to make no threatening moves. It’s rather like holding a tiny sparrow in his hands, and he sees her heart beating in the hollow of her throat. He’s intrigued and curious; she’s frozen and bewildered.
The music envelops them and she closes her eyes. He holds a little tighter and she allows this. The swaying motion is soothing to her, and she decides to enjoy it this once, for the moment. She lets her head drop to his shoulder.
For some reason his heart thumps in answer. He’s touched and somehow knows how difficult this is for her. He wonders what life has done to her to make her so afraid and raw. He’s unsure if he wants to know. He feels if he gives his heart to this one, she’d shred it without thinking twice, instinctively, and may or may not be sorry later.
She’s hoping the only thing he is after is what’s between her legs, and not between her ears or in her heart. She’s hoping that this longing for something indefinable by her standards will pass with another martini, or two, or six. The music ends; they stand locked in their embrace for a few beats longer, then part. She avoids his gaze and walks slowly back to the bar, wondering what to do. She knows deep down what she is going to do, struggling with what deep down in her heart she wishes she could do.
He follows her back to the bar, watching her hips swaying and her hair moving gently across her shoulders. He’s remembering a girl he once knew, a girl who needed something at one time and couldn’t find it with him. This girl finally found what she needed in a bottle of pills and a quart of vodka. The young man of yesterday dreams of redemption. He’s thinking over what he should do, struggling with what he knows he could do.
They take their seats at the bar. He studies her face and she avoids his gaze. She looks at the bartender and gives a tiny nod of her head, and the bartender starts to make her another martini. The bartender glances at the man at her side, and he nods. They wait in silence. It hangs between them, pregnant with the promise of something. Hope? Redemption? Atonement?
Her face is impassive, but he can see in the planes of her face both pain and eternity. The bartender brings their drinks over; she swallows half of hers and finally looks back at her companion. Now, he sees defiance and the demon inside waiting to break free in defense of its territory. He says nothing; after all, he approached her.
She sees understanding in his eyes, and it scares her. She doesn’t want anyone to understand, it means they have gotten too close. Close means access, and access means revelation, which in turn means vulnerable. She feels the warmth of his gaze upon her, and drawing on some small reserve of strength, meets it head-on.
He is impressed.
The alcohol burns in her stomach but the acceptance in his eyes burns hotter. She’s at a loss and he sees this, and takes her hand. He speaks softly, but the words are loud and reverberate in her heart.
“I want to know you.”
Tears start in her eyes, and myriad emotions tear through her.
#
You see a man and a woman seated at a bar, smoke dense in the air and the music blaring. They are both well dressed and you assume they’ve just gotten out of work. You figure they are just another professional couple, ready to take off and do the dirty dance of anonymous sex. You don’t see the potential or the hope of the situation; you can’t see the little girl yearning for validation or the young man needing redemption.
They are lonely, but they don’t want to be lonely.
One of the quirks to not having a “normal” (and I use “normal” facetiously; as a dear friend once told me, “normal” is just a dryer setting) 9-5 job, sometimes the days run together and it’s hard to tell them apart. That’s why I think I’m such a fan of lists — it gives me some kind of idea where or when I am. I’ve taken to measuring the passage of time by past milestones, some good, some not so good. For instance:
It’s been 389 days since my momma passed away from terminal breast cancer.
My grandson (otherwise known as “Muffin”) is 369 days old.
It’s been 59 days since the Evil Gall Bladder was banished.
15 days until my self-imposed deadline for my Novel-In-Progress with four and a half chapters left to write. (MEEP!)
In 87 days I have written approximately 60,000 on said novel.
Interesting, no?
#
I have fallen into the #fridayflash fiction hole and I’m loving every minute of it. For those of you who visit here and don’t know, #flashfriday is the brainchild of J.M. Strother with plenty of support by Laura Eno and 2mara Armstrong, among a host of others.
A group of flash fiction writers post on their own blogs a sample of their flash fiction on Fridays. The link to the story is then tweeted on Twitter (say that three times fast!) under the hashtag, #fridayflash, and the writers make the rounds of reading each other’s flash and leaving comments as they feel appropriate. Stories are then tweeted and re-tweeted to the unsuspecting public. Jon is the hardy soul who rounds up all the links and posts them in a list on his blog with some help from Ms. Margarita. (Heh!)
Did I say what a fabulous idea this is? Have I told you just how much I love reading all this flash? Can I say how I’m blown away by the amount of Flash Talent out there? Or what a fine, fine opportunity to improve your craft, network with other crazy writers, or start to build a “platform”? (Something that’s becoming quite the bone to chew upon by publishers.) It is Simply Fabulous, and if you’ve read me for any length of time or know me at all, you know what a flash ho I am.
I’m happier than a pig in poop, so I am.
This has given me an opportunity to drag out my own flash from the Vault (since I’m working on getting this novel done, I haven’t been able to write anything new lately) and prance it out there for all to see. It has whetted my appetite to write more (novel first, Netta! DAMMIT!)
I’m just loving it.
I encourage you to follow, visit, and PARTICIPATE! It is so much fun!
The only qualifications are that you have a blog, and that you post a flash piece on Friday. A Twitter account helps. On Friday, just Twitter a link to your story under the #fridayflash hashtag, then read and comment on other stories. You’ll love it, trust me.
And, if you’re not sure what flash fiction is, take a look here or here. Any questions, post them and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.
#
Enough meandering. I need to write some chapters, and dive inside the Vault. I also have some paying work to do, and that trumps all, my lovelies.
I had to pull this out of the vault, because I’ve been buried in work this week. While this is a good thing, it meant I couldn’t devote time to fiction. *Sniffle*
This story was a result of a writer’s prompt. I love prompts — some of my best work has come from them. Don’t ask me where the rest of this came from, because I couldn’t tell you. All I can say is maybe I watch too much CSI. Heh.
Wickedly Smooth
Amy sits on the floor, her blonde hair falling in a curtain around her face. Her hands are busy, always busy at some invisible task. She rocks back and forth, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes so fast it’s a blur to the eyes.
I watch her. Every chance I get, I stop by the door and peer through the barred slit. My heart beats in time to her rocking.
****
Five years I’ve worked here. Amy arrived in my second week, so we’ve known each other a long time. In the beginning, she was feisty and irritated. Now she’s under control. Some may credit the medication, the therapy, or even her sessions with the shrink. Both she and I know the truth.
I saved her.
I’ll save more, but she’s my first. That makes her special.
****
Many nights I’ve pulled overtime. It’s an enormous undertaking — a calling, I guess you could say. Until I was hired here, it was difficult to fulfill that call.
It makes me feel good, to know I’m helping others less fortunate than myself. Since I started, the dreams of white, wicked teeth and rough passages have faded. As I slide in, I can feel the power of their insanity diffuse and dissipate. With each stroke, I release the demons within, and my seed sedates the evil that has possessed them.
Gender doesn’t matter. What matters is expelling the darkness. What matters is banishing what infects the helpless in order to facilitate their healing.
No one can do what I do.
****
I often wonder what task Amy is trying to accomplish. Her hands are constantly busy, but it’s the rocking that tips me off it’s almost time for another session. The faster she rocks, the more I know she’s in need. The invasion has begun again, and I feel her hunger.
****
I’ll nap before my shift. I’ll dress in my white uniform. I’ll check on Amy as she sits and rocks, gauging when the time is exactly right. I’ll secure her wrists to the bed with leather cuffs. Her face will be covered with the curtain of her silky hair, but it doesn’t matter. Each ankle will be restrained, her unholy transgressions totally exposed. I’ll gag her mouth with her panties, for Amy’s own safety. To cry the demon’s name aloud would be dangerous.
I could do this in the outside world. There are many who need my services.
But, the insane are so wickedly smooth.
What You’re Saying