Subzero, Fahrenheit -451outside my window, but that’s really just me whining; we’ve been promised a high of 0 degrees F today, but the sun is shining hard through my south-facing windows to make my black cat’s fur hot. Continue reading
cat
Just-Jot-It-January (Jan 4-7)
So, this month I’m doing a challenge to write a micro a day, for Just-Jot-It-January. Thanks to Linda G. Hill, bloggers in the “Play Group” have proposed a one-word prompt for each day. Today’s prompt, “TEMPEST” was my suggestion! We share our responses back to Linda’s page, and are able to read what others come up with. I’ll post my responses every few days in bundles, to respect your in-boxes. But if a prompt tickles your imagination, please click its connecting link to read more!
Jan 7: Tempest
Eye of the Storm
It’d been one hell of a night. She came home from the evening shift to find the kitchen sink full, with dishes, as well as soapy water. This suggested an attempt had been made. Baby steps, she told herself, and opted to leave the mess for tomorrow. Continue reading
Make Love, Not War
There’s a spot on the jaw, and under the chin,
That my fingers can touch, when he truly leans in.
Then his eyes squeeze shut and his head tips way back,
And I’m turning the tables with The Method Attack.
Nourish
Library Cat
Ms. Lillian’s shoes padded down the archived stacks, overhead lights cooling to darkness in her wake. “Here Rainbow kitty! Time to go. There’s a bowl of kibble at home with your name on it!” Continue reading
Friends With Benefits (or The Monster Inside)
He looked like death warmed over. That is, if death warmed over was a once-in-a-lifetime, luscious lothario. Lean and broad-shouldered at 6’3’’, he towered over my compact 5’3”. His eyes gleamed intense as the full moon above, his collar-length hair swept back in lines of seafoam white over ocean dark. Still good, even though a little worn around some edges and drooping a little in others; well worth the awkwardness of one more date. Continue reading
Cat-Amore
She rolls over, the soft hiss of middle-aged flesh sliding through 300-thread-count cotton announcing her change in position. She is surprised by the darkness of her bedroom and the numbers on her clock. The sunrise should have happened by now. She groans and swears and flops on her back, squeezing her eyes shut. Continue reading
