Til Death Do Us Part

EXT. COMMUNITY POOL. AFTERNOON
There is a lot of noise: kids screaming, parents yelling, water splashing. A family of six is entering into the pool area. The family consists of four girls and their two male cousins. The girls are, according to their age: Carmen, 14; Annie, 13; Irene 10; and Erica, 8. The male cousins are: Stefan, 13, and Wes, 10. They are making their way to the dressing rooms.

INT. FEMALES DRESSING ROOM. SAME
The girls are pulling off their upper layer of clothes. They already have on their bathing suits.

CARMEN
Erica, I don’t want any trouble out of you.

ERICA
What? I didn’t cause any trouble last time.

IRENE
Yeah, right. The incident on the high board? Let me guess, wasn’t your fault.

ERICA
Nope. I know how to dive off the high board. The kid in front of me didn’t.

ANNIE
It wasn’t her fault that the kid didn’t know how to dive. He was a wuss.

CARMEN
Annie, she pushed him. The kid barely knew how to swim. He ended up belly flopping into the pool and nearly drowned.

ERICA
He didn’t nearly drown! He was a pansy!

CARMEN
Point is, don’t get banned from the pool this time.

ERICA
Then tell David to stay out of my way on the high board.

They put all the clothes into one locker.

EXT. POOLSIDE. SAME
The sun is beating down on the pool attendees. Wes and Stefan are already in the deep end, diving under the water and seeing who can stay there the longest.
Carmen lowers herself into the deep end. Annie goes to the high diving board. Irene slides off the side of the pool into the shallow end. Erica stands at the side of the pool, scanning the water. Irene splashes water at Erica.

IRENE
Get in, Erica! Don’t be looking for that boy.

ERICA
I’m just making sure he’s not in my way.

IRENE
C’mon! I wanna do handstands!

Erica jumps off the side of the pool and swims over to Irene. In the midway of her swim, a boy splashes Erica in the face. David is 10, like Irene, and in Irene’s class.

ERICA
Stop it, David! I’m not playing with you!

DAVID
You tried to kill me last week.

ERICA
Did not!

DAVID
Did too!

ERICA
I’m going to try today if you don’t leave me alone.

DAVID
I’m gonna tell your sister Carmen. You’re gonna get in trouble and wont be able to come back to the pool for a year!

David splashes Erica again. Irene swims up.

IRENE
David, leave my little sister alone!

DAVID
Your little sister is a murderer!

ERICA
Am not!

DAVID
Are too!

ERICA
Am not!

IRENE
I hope she does murder you so we won’t have to hear your pansy ass crying like you did last week.

Erica splashes David and swims off. Irene follows. David watches. Irene and Erica perform handstands in the shallow end of the pool, mimicking synchronized swimmers.

David swims out to the deep end. Erica decides to go diving. Annie swims over near Carmen on the side of the deep end.

ANNIE
She’s about to do something crazy.

CARMEN
That boy isn’t around, is he?

Carmen and Annie are scanning the pool.

ANNIE
I don’t see him. Oh! There he is! Right in her jump zone!

EXT. POOL DEEP END. SAME
Erica is on her final jump off the diving board.

ERICA
Cannonball!

She plunges in a cannonball, aiming right at the startled boy in her jump zone. David screams. Erica lands right on top of him and they both sink into the water.

She opens her eyes under the water to see him still sinking. She dives further to grab his hand and drag him up to air.

David is crying when he reaches the side of the deep end where the life guard pulls him out. Irene’s laughter can be heard off screen.

CARMEN and ANNIE
Erica!

ERICA
What? I didn’t know he was in the zone.

The life guard is pulling on Erica’s arm. She breaks away.

ERICA
Stop! I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t know he was in the diving zone!

LIFE GUARD
Kiddie Pool, Now!

ERICA
I’m not a kid! He is! (pointing at the soaked and crying David) He ought to be in the kiddie pool!

LIFE GUARD
Kiddie Pool, Now!

Erica swims to the edge and the life guard pulls her out.

LIFE GUARD
You better be happy I know Carmen. Otherwise you’d be banned for a month. Get in the kiddie pool and stay there till I tell you to come out.

EXT. KIDDIE POOL. SAME
Erica goes reluctantly to the kiddie pool. David follows behind her since he was demanded to go to the kiddie pool as well. Erica tries her best to stay away from David. But David comes over and kisses her cheek. Erica grabs David’s foot and pulls him down in the “deep end” of the kiddie pool. Erica is splashing around in the “deep end” of the kiddie pool when a shadow falls over her.

STEFAN
Get off of him.

Erica moves over to the side. David comes up for air, once again crying.

STEFAN
Life guard said you can come back into the big people’s pool.

Erica skips back over to the big pool, turning to stick her tongue out at David. She jumps in and joins Irene in handstands. David stands at the gate, clinging to it, still crying and watching Erica.

INT. DININGROOM. NIGHT
Erica is now 28 years old. She, her family and her friends are gathered around a long dining table, telling stories about the good ol’ days. She is seated at the middle of the table. Some couples are cozied together. The table is somewhat clear, despite a plate here and there and glasses, some filled, some nearly empty of wine. Some silverware is still on the table. She sips from her glass and puts it down.

ERICA
You know, I still couldn’t get that fucker to leave me alone, even after the fourth attempt to take his life at the pool. (looks over to her left) I still think he’s a crying pansy today.

David gently touches her hand. Their wedding bands clink as he clasps his hand over hers. Erica grabs her butter knife and attempts to stab David’s hand. David quickly draws it back.

DAVID
She still loves me.
---------

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2009

Let Freedom Ring

CHARACTERS (All Males):
JOHN NIXON
GEORGIA
SPECTATOR 2
NEW HAMPSHIRE
SPECTATOR 4

1776: The Liberty Bell Rings in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the Liberty Bell rang out from the tower of the Pennsylvania's old State House, summoning citizens to the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence by Colonel John Nixon.
The Spectators, Georgia and New Hampshire are standing near the back of the crowd, listening to the reading.

JOHN NIXON: When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

GEORGIA: Boy, this is truly an exciting day for America! We are justified!

SPECTATOR 2: Quiet down! I cannot hear the speech.

GEORGIA: Lordy Lord, this is our declaration of independence from King George. I can’t help but burst at the seams over the pleasure. Freedom!

JOHN NIXON: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. …

SPECTATOR 2: I know this is exciting for you, but please, quiet.

NEW HAMPSHIRE: Oh no! No! No! No! This can’t be. This is treacherous! What of those who don’t want independence? My goods come from England. My money is made from English items. I depend on England!

SPECTATOR 2: Not you, too. Keep it down!

JOHN NIXON: … than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government...

NEW HAMPSHIRE: This is a lamentable day! What if King George doesn’t want us to be free? Where will I get my goods? What will happen if this sparks outrage in King George?

GEORGIA: No need to fret. You got the materials in America. You got crafted men to make goods for purchase. God can only be on our side if it means freedom.

NEW HAMPSHIRE: They have already started fighting. We can’t go to war with England! We are but a minute nation. Their armada is vast!
SPECTATOR 2: Silence, you two!

GEORGIA: You be silent. Freedom is upon us, by God. This man has worries where there should be none.

NEW HAMPSHIRE: I have a young son. I cannot go to war. I am no soldier. I’m a merchandiser. I sell goods. What do I know of fighting?

JOHN NIXON: … He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people….

NEW HAMPSHIRE: Those sound like charges against the King! No!

GEORGIA: My Brethren, we must fight for our freedom of tyranny placed upon us by King George!

SPECTATOR 2: SHHHHH!

NEW HAMPSHIRE: This cannot be. This will surely bring war upon this tiny nation of ours. Even united, as the states we are, we will not be able to defeat England’s military force. There are soldiers already stationed within my home. I have been raided twice, despite no evidence. But I supply them and they supply me with safe transit of my merchandise from New Hampshire.

GEORGIA: I‘m a farmer from Georgia. My plantation may be one of the smallers of the state, but them Georgia boys are ready to fight for our property! Even the Negroes are up at arms on the matter. They dare not lose their luxuries!

NEW HAMPSHIRE: But freedom from England? War against England over property? Pay the damned taxes. Keep the peace. The King is busy, he’ll get to the laws. We are miles away and everything cannot be rushed.

JOHN NIXON: For imposing taxes on us without our consent. For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury.

NEW HAMPSHIRE: They make the King’s rule sound criminal. It is for sure he’ll combat against our pathetic nation of farmers and whiners. I will be stuck in the middle, doomed to die. All because I would like to keep my ties with England. I shall perish. My son should perish. My wife.

GEORGIA: But think of the possibilities. Your son won’t have to pay unfair taxes to England to have a say in government. Your grandchildren won’t have to depend on England’s system. They can have their say. They won’t need England to tell them what to do with their property.

SPECTATOR 2: I swear! You two need to keep it down!

NEW HAMPSHIRE: This is treasonous. Such treachery will be dealt with swiftly by the King. He will not allow such charges to be brought against his reign.

GEORGIA: I’ll continue to produce my cotton and tobacco. I’ll have bountiful harvests and not pay one half-penny to the (sarcastic) Almighty King George. I’ll drink my tea without taxation, and watch the Negroes haul in the tobacco.

JOHN NIXON: He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

GEORGIA: I got a new shipment of Negroes, from Africa, coming in from the Caribbean. Boy am I glad they didn’t get caught by the armada this time. I hate to lose such good merchandise. I hear these are great Negroes from the middle of that dark, savage continent. That’s the merchandise you ought to be selling.

SPECTATOR 2: Oh Dear God! I swear! I’m moving away from you two! (leaves)

GEORGIA: Good riddance!

JOHN NIXON: He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands.

NEW HAMPSHIRE: I cannot sell another human being.

GEORGIA: They’re hard workers. And the lazy ones will do anything asked with a strike of the whip. Why I had one the other day ask what their pay is. I walloped him good with the horse whip. He no longer asks for pay.

JOHN NIXON: … that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states;…

NEW HAMPSHIRE: Those are not goods that I could sell.

JOHN NIXON: … And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

GEORGIA: Course you could. You just gotta keep them in line. I read this letter from ol’ Willie Lynch. It’s is an old document, four years, I reckon. He tells you how to keep them in line. I do it and they do everything I say.

SPECTATOR 4: I couldn’t help but overhear, Georgia. This speech, Sir, this document they are reading. “all men are created equal,” “certain unalienable rights,” “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” What happens when your Negroes declare themselves independent as we have today?

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2009

New Definition of Pea Coat

Daedalus is on the phone with her mother.

DEADALUS: I’m done with guys in this city, Ma. Every time I think I’ve found the right one, they end up being a damn potatohead! Yeah I tried dating … again. Why are guys such friggin’ idiots?

No, I met this one at Macy’s. He seemed so … spiffy. I was talking about Calphalon pots with Lakesha. Yeah, I know she’s a hooker, Ma. Anyway, he’s working the house wares. He comes over and starts reciting, verbatim, the Calphalon training manual. He smelled great, Ma. I don’t even think they sell Claiborne’s Spark anymore. Just from his clothes and cologne, you would reckon he had some sense.

Boy was I ever wrong, Ma. We got to talking. He was talking about the Harry Potter books. “Oh my God, I love those books,” he says. So I suggest a date to the new Harry Potter movie. Naw, Chamber of Secrets, Ma. It’s the second one. Yeah.
So we get to the movies, Ma, and he’s got no money. None! I’m talking moths flying the wallet. But, you know me. I don’t mind paying. So I buy the tickets.

But, guess what. This douche bag decides he wants fucking concessions, too. Sorry, Ma. I don’t mean to curse. Blame Dad. He made me the potty mouth, you made me the diva. So now you’ve got a potty mouth diva as your youngest kid. Anyway, he wants concession. I tell him he’s got to get that on his own. He’s got the nerves to get mad at me. But we eventually make it to the seats.

Now mind you, Ma, it’s the middle of winter. He’s only got on a friggin Member’s Only jacket. And here I am wearing my new Ralph Lauren navy wool peacoat.
Yeah, that coat, Ma. So, he decides he’s cold. I let him drape my coat over him during the show. You know, to keep him warm. Did you know that motherfucker leaned over and asked who Harry Potter was? Idiot! Not you, Ma, the guy.

So during the movie, he takes my hand. I’m like, “aw, this is sweet.” But then he’s moving my hand slowly underneath my coat. Yeah, Ma! No fucking kidding! My friends were thinking the same thing, “This dude wants a hand job in a kid’s movie.” And on the first date!

Not me, Ma! You know I don’t play that. I started beating the shit out of him where he sat! UGH! I mean, all I could think about is this fucking bastard’s dick is touching the inside of my new peacoat! It’s not funny, Ma! That’s my favorite coat!

Don’t tell dad, Ma. He’ll fucking flip. Ok, Ma. Go to bed. Talk to you tomorrow.
--------------

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2009

Who’s the Fairest of Them All?

One state fair attendee realizes it is time to stop sowing memories and to start reaping reality.

The leaves are just beginning to change colors. They are not quite ready to give up the ghost on their summery green leaves. But browns, reds and yellows stick out like premature grey hairs on a young man. The sky, once shielding itself in a veil of clouds, begins to slowly strip its fluffy coat for twilight. The rotund, topaz moon peers over the horizon, inspecting each of the million Georgia pines. It is a beautiful weekend, gorgeous enough for a two-hour drive to Perry, Georgia. This is the time of year for full harvest moons, falling leaves and agricultural exhibits. This is state fair season! Like college football, Georgia State Fair is inhaled into the nostrils like the tantalizing aroma of tailgating grilled goodness and swirled through your blood vessels like brain-freezing, cherry 7-11 slush until it settles in your heart. It pauses there for a second, loads up more passengers, and zips like rollercoaster through your soul.

As an avid state fair attendee, I work my way around the fair, casing the joint in a fierce crime scene investigation manner. After entering the ticket booth, I swing a hard left to the main exhibit hall. This is where they harbor the fugitive archives of 4-H exhibits and crafts from fairs prior. Reminiscent of exhibits I once displayed when I was a girl, they remain the same: lightning effects, animal feed versus table scraps, recycling, energy conservation, etc. The appointment with state fair past is interrupted by the waft of livestock stench. I break through the lines of vacationing farmers and nomadic families to the animal exhibits.

God knows you never eat before visiting the animals. Off to the side lays a splash of undigested funnel cake and corn dog splayed on the ground like a decaying dead body. I step over it carefully. No one wants that mixture on a brand new pair of Skechers. The gory smell expands as you got closer to the kennels -- Pigs. One tends to hurry through the pig display because of the smell. Onward, I walk to the goats, with their alienesque features: long head with two big orbs and a little mouth that makes the most awful, whiny noise. Cows are my favorite animals. They fan their wide bodies with a whip-like tail, docile and steadily chewing. I slice up each one with a mental blue USDA ink as to what parts were which.

Emerging from the rows of animals I'd like for my teeth to maul to bits, I decide it is time to consume a beast. My prey of choice is ... what else ... a polish sausage dog, wearing a warm comforter of grilled onions, bell peppers and mustard. In between chewing and swallowing, a rinse of Coke creates a mudslide of chewed bits for my stomach to finish off. Sometimes I think I come to the state fair just to eat. I do not want to take the grueling hour to prepare this same feast on a grill.

Walking turns into a cross-country endurance trial after a polish sausage dog. However, I make my way towards the midway. The prizes are irrefutably retro. Mirrors bear the image of Stone Cold Steve Austin, Beyonce or Maroon 5. The same mirrors in the 80’s were diagonally etched in latex with Michael Jackson's face, Def Leppard’s insignia or Bon Jovi’s name. The stuffed animals get larger each time. The gargantuan, pink teddy bears are equivalent to the “bling” of a five-carat diamond ring. It has always been a time-honored tradition to receive a giant Scooby Doo (minus the trademarked S and the actual words "Scooby Doo") from the captain of the basketball team to his trophy cheerleader girlfriend. In my family, girls with large stuffed animals are prone to be ensnared by teen pregnancy. I never will have use for stuffed animals.

It is hard to tell a difference in the rides. There are some new ones and some old favorites. My body is not what it used to be. I am too old and weak to withstand the g-force orbit of the Gravitron. It is a spinning, top-like, gravitational pull ride. Who would want to risk the nauseating effect of being wrung out like laundry in the spin cycle? I get motion sickness in a car on the way to work! In my youth, I would sit in the Zipper, a flipping, wire cage ride that perform somersaults. I would beg for more. Now, I have claustrophobia in a two-door car. While I still love the feeling of falling, I will not risk it on the Sea Dragon. The Sea Dragon is a huge pirate ship set in motion like a pendulum. The effect is the riding of large storm waves on the open seas. Too many stomach flips during my alcoholic college days warn me to not even try it. Besides, did I mention I just ate a funnel cake?

Low and behold before me stands the epitome of survival warrior rites. The Super Loop! As a child I prayed for height, just to be "This Tall" to ride this ride. With hypothesized fear of sliding from the guardrail or plummeting to my death, my teeny child body stood on the sidelines watching the Super Loop. Of all the unlimited rides I could conjure with my bright-orange full-access armband, I was denied passage to the Super Loop.

When I had become a pre-teen and was tall enough, I climbed the stairs to the Super Loop. Thinking of past explanations as to why I was never able to ride before, I became hesitant.

"You'll fall through the grate."

"You'll lose all your money on it."

"You're just too small."

My blood boiled. Damn it! I was going to ride this brute. The clink of the guardrail reminded me how small and insignificant I was. I watched the carnie turn the safety key and punch the giant-mushroom green button. The car veered backwards, pulling me into an abyss. The car lunged forward, pushing me into the future. In front of me, teenagers made that whooping sound. There was something to be awed about on the Super Loop. I was nervous. I feared the warnings of falling through and losing my life and my money. However, I had safely tucked my carnival nest egg away in the bottom of my sneakers. Once that sensation of falling kicked it, I began to wonder.

"They let me ride the Sea Dragon all these years, why not this?"

I soon realized why not. The car swooshed upside down and I let out my first girlish scream. Sure, the people around me were screaming already, but this, this was like an “Oh My God, I broke a nail while cheerleading, my life is ruined and I am going to die” girly scream. All those years of hanging upside down in the Japanese plum tree never prepared me for this. My calm, deep voice that I have always admired had relinquished itself to a sound similar to saying all the vowels at once. My heart raced in my head with each upside down flip. The car was slowing down. It went back to the mere feeling that I was falling. As soon as it had come, it had gone. I stepped from the car and looked around. Everything was brighter, louder and smellier.

Like college football rivals, the Super Loop and I had it out on a yearly basis. I even mastered a one handed cartwheel because of the Super Loop. But I have to finish this fair off with one last treat from my childhood. The best ride ever invented. The Cyclone on Coney Island cannot compare. The Scream Machine of Six Flags will not understand. The Rebel Yell of King's Dominion shall not relate. With the blaring sounds of "My Sharona", no ride is as worthy as The Himalaya.

It is a glorious, spinning record ride with an unlimited supply of "My Sharona". Forward, backwards, it can go in and out of wormholes in space, as long as "My Sharona" was playing, the Himalaya was the orgasm of State Fairs. Yet, nowhere do I hear the beat of "My Sharona". It is some rap song. Music like that does not belong on the Himalaya. Don't get me wrong. I love rap and all sorts of music, but every song has its place and "Candy Shop" is not the song for The Himalaya.

For old time sakes, I will ask the guy to play "My Sharona". What seems like forever for my turn on the ride, I lean over and tap the deejay on the back. I am flabbergasted when this kid, younger than me, turns and asks, "What?"

I stare at him for a second. Where are the old carnies? The ones that look like they had served hard time, ended up on an episode of X-files or even held on to that look to be a featured guest on CSI, are gone. I have a BackStreet Boy as a deejay for The Himalaya.

I politely ask him, at 100 decibels, "Can you play 'My Sharona'?"

His forehead wrinkles up in question. He pushes the black "Go" button for the ride to start. I stand diligently in line. He looks at his collection of mp3's. He turns back to me, "Does Kanye West do that?"

Kanye West? “My Sharona”? I yell back, "No, the Knack!" He looks again. He's baffled. I'm disgusted.

He looks at me and says, "Never heard of it."

The harvest has come for my state fair soul. After sulking through the Snake Lady booth and seeing the 7-foot tall bull, I require comfort. I have already had one, but I needed another. If I cannot have "My Sharona", I crave the seductive, stick to the roof of your mouth sweetness of cotton candy. For this is my good-bye to the State Fair -- until next year.

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2008

A Little Bit of Space Romance

This is my post from a forum site that I go to. We were asked the question:
It's just you alone in a room with Tyrone and Tek...

My Sport, he knows who he is, will know what I'm talking about if he read this ...
------

Tyrone and I would already be engaged in a game of chess. I have a cozy living room, a nice plush rug by the fireplace, with a coffee table parked on it. A crackling fire would talk to us, speaking romance with the never ending Barry White CD. Our empty glasses of Crown and empty spits from roasting marshmallows would lay by the coffee table. Tyrone just moved his knight. I am on my knees, leaning towards the board, trying to find a way to kick his knight's ass. He smiles cause he knows he's winning. The CD gently melts to the next song.

"Ty," I call him, because saying Tyrone reminds me of the Erykah Badu song. Plus, I've never called a white man Tyrone before, Brian maybe, Jackson maybe, but never Tyrone. I'm sure there were some white men back in Colonial and Reconstruction periods that were abundant in the name Tyrone, but I'm a modern woman and Tyrone was a name reserved for innercity black pimps. But I'm getting off track on the story. "Why on Earth did you move your knight there?" I playful treated the game like checkers and jumped his knight.

He quickly sat up in protest of that god awful move, chuckling, "You can't move like that." He leaned in on the game, too.

I gave him 'the eyebrow', a move made famous by him, but stolen, copied and printed by me. "Oh yeah?"

Grinning, he lifted his head up from the game to face mine. His eyes were dark like the Hershey's Special Dark miniatures that I give out at Halloween time to kids who look at me like they are Werther's Originals. I stared into them, engulfing myself into an erotic daydream. His thinly pursed lips were spread in a smiling smirk. His hand touched mine as he braced himself to hover over the game as his face came closer to mine. I couldn't keep from staring at his eyes. I, too, was starting to feel pulled towards him. I closed my eyes ever so slightly and my lips instinctively opened to receive his tender kiss. I felt flushed, yet anxious. I knew where this was going, but I wanted to go there, especially since this trip was free of charge.

The heat from Tyrone emitted over my blushing face. I placed my left hand on his shoulder. My right hand was holding me up as it strained to keep me from crashing into the coffee table in an erotic faint. I could feel his minty breath on my lips. My fingers curled up the back of his neck and into his coal black hair. He was so hot in his button-down. I inhaled sharply as his mouth crashed into mine.

Call me old, but he tasted like one of my favorite foods, peppermint. Mixed with my own chocolaty breath, this kiss was like ten-cent Andes mint from the register at Picadilly's while you wait for your grandmother to finish taking her pills with her half full glass of water. I savored his mouth. My fingers relished his hair. My body anticipated his next move. I wanted him so much. His hand cleared the chess board as he carefully straddled the coffee table, still locked in this kiss. My hands did their best to keep him from falling, but I wanted him too much. He came crashing down onto me as his left leg tripped up on the coffee table. I let out a soft scream as we both hit the floor. I was too happy to have been built for comfort. His left elbow was lodged in my left breast. I groaned. He adjusted his body.

"Sorry," he spoke. "I'm not as agile when there's an obstacle in my way." I didn't care if he never said another word. He maneuvered his body to get comfortable. Then he looked back into my eyes. My heart fluttered again. There was something bizarre, but so arousing about his eyes. His hand cruised down my ribs, over my curves, across my hip and settling for a handful grasp at my thigh. He gave it a quick tug towards him. I knew exactly what to do, wrapping that leg over his. My toes fiddled with the hem of his jeans and his ankle. Both of us were breathing heavy.

He went back to kissing me, beginning to trail kisses down my neck to my collarbone. I trembled at his touch as he began to undo the buttons on my shirt with just his right hand. His hands were warm. He said the same about my body. My hands were too busy with his shoulders and his hair. He put his face in the plunge of my bra and inhaled the scent of buy 3, get 1 free Rice Flower & Shea body spray from Bath & Body Works. His fingers traced the lacy underwire of my bra. My back arched, smashing my lower body against his shirt and jeans.

He reached around my back and was trying to undo the bra. I couldn't help but let out a single exhaled chuckle. He looked at me, eyebrowed with curiosity as to why I was laughing. "It's undone in the front, Ty," I replied smarkly to his curiosity. He one-upped me as he kissed the smooth valley between my breasts and then licked down it to the clasp on my bra. I buckled under him. I could feel his smile on my sternum. His teeth grasped the clasp of my bra and pulled at it.

There's something mind-blowing and erection losing about a doorbell.

Tyrone rolled over with a "MotherF*@&%#!" I rapidly attempted to button my shirt back. This was highly embarrassing, but I did tell Tyrone that I was supposed to be having a party tonight. Some of the people didn't get the cancellation notice. Unfortunately, as I looked out of the side window, Tek was one of them. Tek was very hot, not as much as Tyrone though because of his over usage of 'Solar Plexis'. That's just something you don't want to hear after making out.

I turned around to assess the damage cause by Tyrone and I, but to my surprise, Ty was on the sofa, the chess board was back as it should be and there was no evidence that we had been drinking, roasting marshmallows or making out. I invited Tek into my home, despite hearing a groan coming from Tyrone. And that was a great sentence cause it rhymed.

OK I need to do my Astronomy homework.

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2006

Sanitation Department

“Don’t go near that!” yelled a fearful young mother. She scurried as quickly as possible to her child, swatting its hand before he could touch what she feared most. Her peroxide blonde hair billowed in the gale force wind of her trot.

‘That’ was a homeless human being, a man so underprivileged by her terms that he was no longer a human. He was a thing, a ‘that,’ to her. The boots donning his feet were eventually replaced by old scraps and bundled newspaper cords attached to soles that flip-flopped when he walked. Anyone could tell that his pants were meant to be khaki and worn to work, but they had an acquired taste for the city’s filth. Plaid was made for him, judging by the three shirts he wore. He had unbuttoned them all, revealing a white shirt that had lost the war against bodily functions. The olive-green trench coat survived underneath the years of salvaging in dumpsters and living under crawlspaces. His matted dusty blonde mane, combed by gritty, calloused fingers, was at the mercy of the wind that blew around the play area. The discarded action figure of God’s toy box leaned back on the bench, useless to entertaining the world.

Everything about her appearance clashed with the tainted atmosphere of the bum. Her pink argyle sweater, crisp starched white button down and creased denim jeans made it aware that someone was out of place. It wasn’t her. She snatched the child up like a runaway orange from a grocery bag. She had spent an hour dressing the three year-old in his designer three-piece sweater outfit. Only a famous fashion designer could assemble such a configuration of colors and patterns. This bum, that thing, lounging on the park bench was no famous designer. Her hand fumbled for a wet-napkin in her purse. Her eyes carefully scanned the park bench for any movement from the filthy miscreant. Her skin paled even further than the sunless, blinding, milky gleam she already possessed. She shook the moistened towelette until it had unfolded into a surrendering flag of cleanliness.

“You don’t touch homeless people,” she lectured the child as she openly bathed him in aloe and lanolin freshness. “They’re filthy and carry nasty, nasty germs. You’ll get sick if you touch those dirty people.” The toddler looked at his mother with excited gray eyes, giggling vibrantly.

She proceeded to wipe any infiltrating germ that may have been transferred to her little one. She unraveled another moist napkin and went along the blond hairline of her prized one. With the bath complete, she stood, picking up her child in a safety net of pink argyle. She turned her nose up while her eyes looked down at the disgusting being on the bench. She rolled her eyes and marched back to the stroller, evacuating the premises to load the all-terrain stroller into a gigantic sport-utility vehicle.

She snapped her child into the huge, plush child safety seat. The toddler’s eyes were barely visible over the puffy lap bar. He playfully banged his fist on the cloth-covered foam bar as he repeated ‘I love you. You love me.’ She smiled at her precious son. She placed a pastel gingham teddy bear between the lap bar and the toddler. He proceeded with attempting to pluck the button eyes off of the adorable bear.

Then she heard it. It was the voices of two people. She turned to see two Hispanic people walking towards her. One of them wore a kerchief wrapped around his head. She thought to herself, “Oh my God, gang members, here!”

Her body tensed, but soon reacted. She closed the humongous transport’s door to protect her son from the gang leaders with the window’s dark UV tint. She fumbled with her own door’s handle. It finally relinquished its hold and let her in. Her pink sandaled foot stepped on the floorboard. Her left hand grabbed the inside handle. Her right hand grabbed the side of the seat. She pulled herself up into the massive vehicle. She quickly adjusted herself under the steering wheel, closed the door and pushed the ‘Door Lock’ button. All of the locks on the tank-like sport utility vehicle obeyed and jumped into locking action. The ‘gang members’ casually walked towards the tank, staring at her while they walked around her safety zone. They kept going, talking. She knew they were planning their next victim since they were unable to penetrate her mobile fortress of solitude. She now had to find something for her clean, germ-free prince to eat.

The fall sun followed the young mother and her sanitized son from the park to the grocery store. She emerged clutching the immaculate toddler from the three-point safety harness in the car seat. The grocery store was not full as it usually was. She carried the child on her hip as she single-handedly pushed the shopping cart. There were no troubles navigating the minivan-shopping cart through the aisles. There were no cares as the cart rolled around neatly stacked displays. There were no worries as it was parked in the middle of the aisle. The mother and child could not have asked for a quieter shopping moment. She was in no rush. There was nothing to rush from. This store was clean.

The child pointed at several snacks. As a mother, she couldn’t allow her son to eat such processed junk. “No, Honey, those make you sick sick sick.”

The baffled kid looked up at her, then at the cartoon character on the box. “Eat!”

The debutant mother placed her child in the seat of the cart. The mother opened a plastic bag. Her French manicured nails clasped around an apple. She wiped it down with a wet napkin and offered it up as a nutritious sacrifice for her son. The toddler grabbed the fruit and bit into its juicy skin. With a full basket, the WonderMom approached the checkout.

The sterilized boy sat in the seat, swinging his legs and eating the apple. He began waving to a young black woman standing behind them. She was fair in skin, slightly speckled with freckles. Her auburn hair was curly, but neatly pulled into a puffed ponytail of fire. Argyle was the chosen pattern of this neighborhood and the black woman wore it as a lime green vest over her green pinstripe shirt. Her French manicured toes stuck out from under her baggy jeans. The black woman held up her hand to wave back at the cute blond boy. She had more rings than Saturn! This alerted the young mother. She scanned over the black woman, the newest threat to her safety. The mother never got passed the black woman’s face. “Earrings in her eyebrows,” she thought. “How ghetto.”

Her eyebrow furled a little. Her nose pointed into a pristine snob position. The groceries never exited a buggy as fast as the young mother could get them out. She fumbled the milk onto the loaf of bread on the conveyor belt. She couldn’t be concerned with crush multigrain bread. Her son was in danger. She glared at the black woman in lime green argyle.

The black woman smiled at her and then at the child. Her tanned hand waved back, dazzling the kid with her lime green sparkled manicure and gaudy rings. The blond boy reached out to the black woman, who was still smiling. The young mother picked up her angel and clutched him to her chest. Her thin upper lip curled a little. She rolled her eyes and turned away from the black woman.

She stepped further up into the line to look at her total. The child adjusted himself to stare at the mysteriously colored woman. The mother twisted to block his view. The child shifted and peered over his mother’s shoulders to look at the black woman. The mother performed numerous evasive maneuvers to avoid the child looking at the black woman. “This black heifer was trying to kidnap him,” her mind screamed.

The groceries could not be scanned fast enough. When the total was finally read, the new mother ravished her purse to find the money and pay the cashier. She began to hurry along with her cart. She rolled her eyes at the black woman again and exhaled in a muffled sigh, “can’t even wear decent clothes. I swear. They really should go back to their own country.” Her expensive footwear sped her through the sliding doors.

She buckled her son back into the suburban attack vehicle, consistently gazing back at the grocery store. She watched carefully at the black woman, flipping a mental coin on whether to fight or flee if she came out to the parking lot.

The black woman was paying for her small amount of groceries. The black shoplifter looked down at her purse to retrieve her debit card. The black suspect picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the floor. The black kidnapper looked directly at the white suburban mother. The black assailant trotted as fast as she could to the parking lot.

“Ma’am!”

The urban rejecting mother opened the door to her environmentally unfriendly vehicle. She had to hurry up and get the hell out of here. That crazy black heifer was coming for her!

“Miss!”

The young mother turned around to see the black woman waving her fist frantically. She immediately closed the door and started the ignition.

“Miss! You --,” managed the black woman before the monster truck nearly backed out over her. The young, white mother watched the black woman in her rearview mirror. She put her hand down. She shook her head and started trotting back to the store.

Unknown to the fearful, sanitizing white mother, the black woman took her debit card and swiped it. The cashier looked at her.

“What was it?”

The black woman smiled. “Nothing.” She dropped the wrinkled fifty-dollar bill into her purse.

The suburban mother briefly paused at the red light to breathe a sigh of relief for avoiding a confrontation. She looked in her rear-view mirror again to make sure her baby was secure. “Mommy is going to protect you from the bad people of the world.” The toddler chuckled and hurled his stuffed animal to the floor. She drove off to her suburban oblivion, content with her moral missions for the day. She kept her son safe yet again.

Years had passed. The lectures had continued for the young student. Her prince had grown up. It was time to pick him up from school. She never understood his fashion sense. However, she came to understand the trends of his generations. She had read about it once in a copy of Teen Cosmo while waiting in the spa for a facial. She figured she’d never accept the “grunge look” for herself, but as long as her son was happy. She would let him have his fashion trend, just as long as it didn’t go further than that.

She checked her creamy complexion in the rearview mirror. She was still pale, colonial goddess white. She searched the sidewalk sidelines of the high school for her son. She never knew how much it was like finding a needle in a haystack. These teens looked all alike. Threatening. She jerked the truck at times, thinking she had spotted him at first. She knew when she had the right child. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of her son. Her mind tried to cope, “When did that happen?”

He had traded in the plush safety seat long ago for the park bench outside of the highschool. He had switched from the three-piece designer outfit to baggy jeans, oversized shirts and a thrift-store olive-green trench coat. He ran his long knobby fingers through his thick dirty blonde hair, spiraled into a million nappy dreads. The bandana he tied around his head kept the dreads from covering his face. His feet couldn’t keep still. They tapped back and forth in the once expensive tennis shoes his mother had purchased. They were worn down, complete with a hole at the big toe. His gray eyes looked to his feet, the girl next to him and then the curb in circles. His fingers rapped on his thigh nervously.

The slender teen girl next to him had her fluffy black hair tied back into a ponytail. Her striped sweater vest covered a neatly pressed white button down blouse. Long denim legs stretched to the ground to meet her sandaled, manicured toes. The grungy blonde boy tightly grasped the hand of the trim, well-dressed black girl as they sat outside the school, watching his mother slowly pull up in the enormous sport utility vehicle.

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2006

Apocalypse Speaks

You, puny humans, waste away your lives.
You bore me with your pleas to spare your
developed lives from seven sins.
It’s your time. You know this.
Deliver yourself unto me
and I’ll deliver your soul to eternity.

All walks of life, equal and same,
were given various choices.
From the reverend’s gluttony to the addict’s sloth,
each reflects badly upon the gift given to you.
The judgment I impose is not even mine,
You’re between the Two: Hell and Divine.

I am the Rapture who snatched you up.
You might not be ready for this.
Better pray now, redemption is here.
Either way it’s Up or Down.
For I am the Broken Seals in His hands,
ready and waiting to perform his commands.

(c) Copyright Xcesiv4ce 2006