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Art, Graphics & Creative Writing => Horror Fiction => Topic started by: unknown on January 05, 2008, 05:48:08 pm

Title: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 05, 2008, 05:48:08 pm

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 11, 2008, 11:11:11 am
Silent Noir
By Wayne Peake and Kelli McMilin

Warning: This story is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for those under the age of 18.


Lane Donovan squirmed restlessly on the long walnut bench that was lined with bibles and well-worn hymnals. The bench was freshly polished and just as slippery as the high road for the vainly self-righteous. In other words, as slippery as hell, and if your feet weren’t firmly planted on the path you were bound to slip off, and the fall could be quite nasty, really.

She appeared as if she had been awakened into reality from a dream, by a tender kiss placed softly on Botticelli canvas. In other age, in another time, she would have been considered the feminine ideal, but unfortunately for her this was not another time. She had pale skin and red freckled shoulders, not exactly in vogue at this moment in history.

In fact, she looked more like a modern incarnation of Boudica, Queen of the Icini, than an emaciated Kate Moss wanna-be. She was tall enough to be a model, with the long legs and regal bearing. But she was far too earthy; she just wasn’t delicately feminine in any way, shape or form, at least not on the outside. Inside however, was another matter entirely, a fact she usually tried desperately to hide.

So being slightly plump, Lane envied Donna Covington’s slim almost boyish figure. Donna had been her friend since childhood; they had practically grown up together. But as friends often do, they had grown apart over the years since high school. She was surprised when she got Donna’s call, and really shocked to hear that she was marrying Harold Gantry. Harold was the burly, balding owner of the ever greasy and perennially dirty, Eats truck stop out on route nine. Why was Donna settling for that knuckle-dragging, hairy-butted troll? Half the men in town wanted her. He must have a huge thing, Lane decided with wicked smirk.

Donna had looked stunning in her white wedding dress. Her long black hair had been double braided and covered by a thin white veil that hung nearly to the floor. The bridesmaids were decidedly less than stunning in their salmon pink chiffon dresses. Of course, it is unusually bad form to show up the bride on her wedding day, but this was just ridiculous. With all the unnecessary frills and do-dads they looked more like circus clowns than members of an actual wedding party. If Lane hadn’t known better she would have sworn that Donna had made them look goofy on purpose. But that would have been uncharacteristic for Donna, she just didn’t have Lane’s flair for practical jokes.

Donna had a nasty reputation, deserved or undeserved as a home-wrecker and there were rumors that she swung both ways. All the women in town were unabashedly relieved to hear that she was finally settling down. Lane didn’t blame them, not really, but Donna was her friend and nobody better say anything bad about her while she was around, not if they wanted to keep all their teeth.

Donna had begged and begged Lane to come to the wedding. Lane made a dozen half-ass excuses why she couldn’t be there. She was afraid to tell her friend the real reason. Donna’s father always made her feel freaky… like she had one big eye in the center of her forehead or something. The way he looked at her made her really nervous and edgy, hell he didn’t even have to look at her, just being in the same room with him gave her the creeps. But she loved Donna and had finally given in, so there she was…

At the little church of St Edgar’s it was practically standing room only for the “blessed union,” nearly everyone in the town of Omen had managed to show up for this little shindig. Now that the ceremony was over the guests were too busy kissing blushing cheeks and congratulating the bride and groom to notice her. She felt alone, surrounded by people, but alone. She tugged her bottom lip unconsciously between her teeth.

All that kissing and hugging made her uncomfortable, anyways, and all those smiling couples holding hands, ackkk, that practically made her sick. Then she noticed Donna’s father patting the ass of the tender flower girl wrapped in pink chiffon. A rolling wave of stomach turning nausea assailed her. She fought back the gorge rising in her throat. She angrily shook off the feelings and began twirling her wispy fox-red hair about a finger, trying desperately to look natural and waiting for the sickeningly “happy people,” to clear f*** out. 

She followed behind the rest of the wedding party as they made their way out of the little white church on the pine bluff, trying to be small… and invisible, trying to escape the cheery greetings and awkward, well-meaning, but embarrassing questions. She just wasn’t in the mood to talk, not to anyone, not even Donna and by God she wasn’t going to the damn reception. Spend the night beating off the unwanted advances of stumbling drunks and assholes who thought they were slick, not tonight, no thanks, been there done that, got the t-shirt.

It was five long years ago now. Five years of hell and torment since her groom had shuffled off the mortal coil. Five years of guilt and self-recrimination. She knew he was on a path of self-destruction. It wouldn’t have mattered what she’d done. She could have been the perfect little kiss-ass Stepford wife, wouldn’t have mattered, not in the least. He’d pushed so hard. But she had promised never to leave him. She’d known what he was like.

The Cemetery

A windstorm was gathering beneath the glow of a hazy moon. The clouds rolled quickly in ever changing shades of deep blue and solemn gray. Her white cotton sundress was gathered enticingly just below the breasts. It billowed out softly in the wind, like sheets on a clothesline. She drew her richly embroidered shawl of deep purple and gold in tightly around her shoulders, against the cold.

The leaning, rusty iron-gate creaked dismally as she forced it open and slowly entered the old cemetery. Row after row of tombstones jutted forth out of the dark earth, stark, and somehow tall and naked in the growing twilight. There was something comforting about the old cemetery and she needed that now, just one damn moment of peace. How long had it been since she had a good nights sleep, hell, she couldn’t remember the last time.

She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. Her feet wandered aimlessly or so she’d thought, and then she realized where she was. The grave, his grave, the grass had grown long around the tombstone and the little brass pots for flowers lay empty and forlorn. She stood there for a long time in thought letting the memories flow.

First she sensed it, a presence, like a gentle caress, a soft light surrounding her. She looked up. A man with a determined stoic countenance was etched in full relief by the waning moon. He wore a long black trench coat that flapped restlessly in the wind, with a sound that reminded her strangely of bats in flight.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. After all, her mind always seemed to roam curiously dark paths, she seemed inevitably drawn to the horrific, her imagination, even her dreams wandered there. Dreams filled with unholy phantoms, nameless monstrosities that frolicked so shamelessly, cavorted so wickedly in the shadows, waiting, always waiting just beyond the reach of the banishing rays of holy retribution.

She looked up into his fierce willful eyes. A familiar burning sensation welled up inside her. Like a cloud ready to burst; tears formed at the corners of her eyes and began to fall as silently as raindrops.

“Death stalks us all,” He said, with calm assurance.

“What?” She asked wiping the tears away, biting down on her lower lip.

“Death stalks us all and there is no escape. But he can be held at bay for a time and that time is all we have.”

“Who the f*** are you! What do you want?” She yelled, as a sudden gust of wind went rippling through her hair.

“My name… just another box, as dismal as a coffin, as limiting as an eight by six prison cell. What is a name, but a straightjacket binding the individual in tightly wound straps of strangling definition, confining the spirit within the bounds society can control, and thus feel comfortable with? Names come and go… with time and circumstance, I am son, I am brother, I am friend, I am lover and I am master. If you must have a name then pick one.

“How bout nut job! Now leave me -- the f*** alone.” She said, her heart racing she bundled her fist and crouched slightly, ready for anything.

“Ha, ha, my you are spirited… perfect!  Your eyes mirror the skies, exquisitely, do you ever wonder about fate, my Stormy One? What brought us together on this lonely hillside beneath the waning moon and the ancient starlight? Aren’t you curious? Will you throw away this chance, believe me, fate opens its’ doors but rarely and closes them suddenly, unexpectedly.”

Her mother had told her often enough that her eyes changed with the sky, and more than one childhood friend had excitedly pointed it out to her. She hadn’t really thought about it in years, but that remark hit far too close to home. She was curious, but she knew all too well from experience what curiosity did to the metaphorical cat.

“Well? What the f*** -- do you want?”

“Come to me… bind yourself to me. You will not be alone.  You will feel… feel the cleansing fires of pain and for a time you may forget… forget the wrongs done to you and those you have wrought. You shall come to know yourself... your womanhood and my manhood... you will know pleasure. You don’t have to answer right now just take this card. If you don’t call, Lane, I will be very disappointed.”

The days went by and a half a dozen times she nearly tossed the card away, once on the bridge over St. Mary’s, and several times in the parking lot of Jeff’s Party Store. But for some inexplicable reason she just couldn’t bare to let it go. Every now and then she would take it out and look at the simple inscription etched in gold, “Lorne C. Ambrose,” with the phone number printed in a smaller font beneath it. Who was she kidding? She was holding onto it, for dear life. As if it were her last desperate hope of escaping into another reality, even an impossible dream is better than none at all, she told herself.

Sometimes at night she would feel a presence surrounding her, a light that touched her, gentle and reassuring like in the old cemetery. Why the hell was she even contemplating this!  It was crazy, but she’d done crazier things before and more often than not, from an over-active and dangerously powerful sense of curiosity. What did she really know about this man? How had he known so much about her?

She open the trailer door, it flopped open banging against the wall, were the doorknob had left an incriminating dent over the years. Damn thing still isn’t painted; she shook her head in disgust. Linkin Park boomed from the doorway, “What I've done, I face myself. To cross-out what I've become, Erase myself, and let go of what I've done. What I have done.” 

She struggled, dragging the reluctant trashcans down the long bumpy gravel road to the curb. She was startled by scratching, snuffling noises in the darkness; she dropped the trashcans. They clanged noisily, spilling their contents on the road. “f*****g raccoons,” she saw them scuttling off into the darkness of the surrounding wood. She began picking up the trash and shoving it angrily back into the cheap aluminum cans, “What and leave all this!” she shouted with desperation into the heartless twilight.

It was time for her nightly ritual, one of the few luxuries she refused to do without. She lit the candles and poured her bath beads into the water, she liked it hot, hot enough so that steam rolled off. She looked in the mirror, took the decorative golden comb from her hair, and began slowly undressing, posing and posturing in the unforgiving mirror. Then she stepped in and tried to wash away the oppressive guilt and ease the burden of her self-imposed penance.

The Nightmare

She rolled and stretched restlessly, sighing and moaning trying to get into a position comfortable enough to relax. One side of the bed was piled high with clothes and books and that really didn’t help, but she was too tired to deal with it now. Tired as hell but unable to sleep, a familiar theme that played itself over and over in her young life, just twenty-eight but it seemed as if she had already lived through many lifetimes worth of pain and trauma.

She was dressed in her slinkiest silk negligee it was silvery-white with spaghetti straps, cut low over her chest. Her hands roamed over her bare arms and legs. She sighed, as her arm brushed over a breast. Her hand cupped her warm mound and her imagination went out to the stranger who seemed to be always waiting, in the back of her mind. She saw his face again and imagined how his hands would feel on her bare skin. She pulled her panties aside and touched herself tentatively at first, imagining what it would be like to have him inside of her, the rising and falling of his buttocks as he slipped inside her. She liked it rough. She liked to feel dirty; needed it that way. Her fingers moved quickly now over her swollen bud, her butt rose arose away from the bed in that familiar ancient primal dance. “Oh, f***, -- Lorne,” she cried out, convulsing suddenly in wet slippery release.


Her awareness shifted and suddenly she found herself, bolting upright on her king-sized bed that just barely fit in the tiny room. It floated in a strange bottomless abyss, but the room was just as she’d left it, the clothes still packed high. She wondered how she was able to see in the dark, it must be moonlight straining through the thick curtains, she mused. The shadows in the corners stretched rising up over the walls. She watched fascinated as they swelled into… disturbing shapes, they coalesced into strangely elongated humanoid forms, soon the little room was filled with raspy whispers, garbled mumbling and a lone insane tittering that echoed dimly in the darkness.
The scene seemed to tilt obscenely and her husband Jacob was standing there huge and imposing in the doorway, but there was something off about him. He moved slowly towards her, crawling up the bed, he poised over her, looking down into her eyes. Then he whispered her name… memory slammed into her, of the funeral, the burial, the empty years since his death.

She tried to struggle, against the paralysis that held her. But she couldn’t move. His eyes were blazing in the darkness. A crooked smile twisted his features as he bent to kiss her lips. By the sheer force of will she just managed to turn her head aside at the last desperate moment before his mouth covered hers.

Rearing back in frustration and squealing like a stuck pig, the demented shadow being angrily ripped open her nightgown, scratching her breasts with nails of a clingy tarry substance. He forcefully held her down as his dark shade oozed over her. Just as the grotesque squishy black member stretched obscenely towards her, nearing the horrific moment of penetration. Lane heard an undeniable voice commanding her to awaken.

She thrashed on the bed wrestling against an unseen foe, gasping for air. As if she had been nearly strangled to death, her lips were tingly-blue from lack of oxygen. There was a man in the doorway, “Oh, f*** no…” she moaned, quivering with terror and despair. “Not again.” Then she recognized Lorne.

“You’re f****d,” he said.

“Screw you Lorne, it was just a nightmare, I have them all the time.”

“They’re coming for you, Stormy.”

He gestured toward her ripped nightgown, smudged with unwholesome stains. One soft breast was fully exposed, the nipple hard, erect. Her chest was streaked with red scratches, lightly smeared with blood. “Could a nightmare do that, Lane?” 

“Self inflicted,” she whispered, turning her head away, blushing in shame.

Suddenly he was beside her; she sucked in her breath, and swallowed the yelp that tried to force its way from her slender throat. She seriously began to wonder if she was still dreaming, no one could have moved that damn fast. He gently stroked the hair away from her face and looked probingly into her eyes. “Oh Stormy, of all your wounds that one is most assuredly not self-inflicted.” He held her head against his chest and cradled her softly in his arms.


She mumbled a vicious curse against the hated morning sun. The light streamed through the curtains and woke her rudely. She pulled the blankets over her head to escape the intrusive beams and felt with one groping hand for Lorne. He wasn’t there, “s***,” she sprang upright off the bed in one fluid motion. She stormed angrily through the little trailer looking for him. No, he was gone, gone like a shimmering mirage of water in the desert… gone, like a childhood daydream when the bell rang for recess. Gone like the wind, ha, ha. Was he ever here at all? “Fucker,” she grumbled, plopping down on a kitchen chair and lighting a cigarette. Then she noticed a note left on the dining room table between the half empty jar of Jeff’s Homemade Peanut Butter and a dog-eared copy of Woman’s Day magazine. It featured her article on housewives “breaking in,” to the writing biz. The note said simply, “Call me when the sun goes down,” and it was signed, “Lorne.”

The Call

Her heart beat in her ears as she tried to dial the number for the third time, God, she was sooo… nervous. It rang. It rang again, a third time. She was just about to flip the lid and say the hell with it, when she heard a voice, soft as a breeze, but with an aura of radiant power.

“Hello, Lane. I have been waiting for you.”

“How did you know? How did you know I blocked the number?”

“Calm yourself, take a deep breath. -- I assure you -- I’m not stalking you.”

“s***! I knew you were some kind of a creep!”

“Then why did you call?”

“Why did you want me to call? So I would phone-f*** you till you shot cum all over yourself.”

“Ha, ha, -- ha, ha, ha -- Oh Gods below, I haven’t laughed like that in -- well, ages. Seriously, stormy, would you like me to tell you, why you called, my dear?”

“Sure smart-ass, tell me, I am just dying to hear this.”

 “Because somewhere deep inside, you sensed something in me, something you need, something you want desperately, but have never had.”

“Where did you get that line, a bathroom stall? Sounds like a pick-up line for limp faggots to me, use that one often do you?”

“The pain eats at your heart. You cannot sleep. The pain has grown big and full inside you, until you can’t imagine your life without it… you fear that there is nothing left inside but the pain, nothing else to hold onto. Nothing else is real and so you never allow your wounds to heal.”

“f*** you!”

“Stormy, I can help you. You’re in over your head. For now all I ask is that you meet with me… someplace safe, someplace with lots of people. Then if you say no, I will never darken your doorway again.”

“I can’t,” she whimpered.


“Your so f*****g smart you tell me!”

“Because you are afraid.”


“Believe me Lane, I am not the one you need to fear, meet me at Crimson Rose, eight o’clock tomorrow night, there will be a table reserved for you. Don’t wear anything too provocative and don’t mingle with customers. Be there, there’s more at stake here than you know.”


Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 11, 2008, 01:11:20 pm
The Crimson Rose

Don’t wear anything provocative! What a control freak. I’ll wear whatever the f*** I want. She pushed through her closet, looking at the collection of Hard Rock Café t-shirts and jeans. Then pulling them forcefully aside, to get at the dresses near the back. All the ones she owned were either too frumpy, formal or let’s face it, too damn slutty. Then suddenly she remembered the purchase at Kay’s boutique… the dress she never had occasion to wear. She went and got a wobbly aluminum chair from the kitchen. She put it in front of the closet, balancing precariously on its’ uneven legs and began rummaging excitedly through the boxes on the top shelf.


Lane was dressed in a backless white evening gown cut low in front exposing her deep cleavage. A long white shall with white feathers hanging from the v-cut corners was draped over her shoulders, nearly covering her back, which otherwise would have been naked to the world. White thigh high nylons adorned her shapely legs and her very high-heeled white sandals made her round bottom even more enticing than usual. The straps wrapped proactively over the nylons and about her ankles. She looked good, Lane had to admit and how could this be provocative, she smiled wickedly, it’s virginal white after all.

Her pumpkin-yellow Nova rolled lopsidedly on worn out suspension around the circular driveway of the Crimson Rose, smoke belched forth from its' rattling muffler. Lane cursed up a storm, slamming down hard on the brakes, realizing she hadn’t timed it right and would have to run the little car up over the curb to bring it to a familiar jarring halt. She’d meant to get the damn brakes fixed, but there was always something, if it wasn’t one thing it was another.

A boyishly handsome attendant wearing a red tailored suit lined with gold braids and buttons, opened her door. His eyes lingered on her, just an instant too long to be just casual interest. Lane was slightly embarrassed, but flattered that the young man found her desirable. She pulled her dress aside and slipped clumsily from the car. “Good evening, Miss Donovan,” he said. She dropped her keys nonchalantly in his hands and he drove the rusty little pumpkin in among the haughty upper crust vehicles. The parking lot was well lit and elaborately fenced, and looked as if it had been designed around the old trees that grew stately there.

The Crimson Rose itself, was an elegant four-story brick building with a wrought iron balcony nearly surrounding the entire third floor. It was built sometime in the early thirties; by a local mob boss and one of the most elegant and renowned nightclubs and speak-easy’s of that era. Lane remembered her grandmother telling her stories about the gangster, how he always left a single red rose on his victims. The roses placed beneath delicately crossed hands, over still chests, just the way a mortician would pose a corpse for family viewing.

An enormous red awning with The Crimson Rose emblazoned in gold letters covered the doorway; Lane realized it matched Lorne’s card. A public place, huh, a little sneer darkened her features, momentarily. She walked down the red carpet; it was lined with gold braided ropes. She wondered what the hell a small town girl like her was doing in a place like this. This wasn’t McDonalds or Pizza Hut. She toyed unconsciously with a tendril that escaped the cascade of curls pinned high upon her head.

Two incredibly large black men that looked more like lineman for the Bears than doormen, opened the stained-glass double doors, trimmed in gold.

The hostess stood before a medieval tapestry in a little nook that blocked off the view of the rest of the club and opened out onto either side. She was tall, her black hair cut short, pageboy style. As she came out from behind the podium Lane saw she was dressed in a scandalously short black mini skirt that showed her every modest curve to advantage, especially her small, but pointy breasts. She ran quickly up, as Lane entered. The hostess was trying desperately to hide the shocked look on her face at Lane’s appearance. “Good evening, Miss Donovan your table is waiting, right this way.”

A strange kind of music boomed through the room. It reminded her of fakir charming a treacherous pet cobra; with the primitive backbeat of tribal drums and the feel of techno pop somehow mixed in and blended seamlessly, enchantingly together.

Lane let out a gasp as she entered; she had never seen anything like this before there was a bar on both sides of the room and stairs led down to a dance floor. The room was lit around the edges by soft warm white light, but the dance floor was ablaze with flashing colors, which blinked off and on in time with the music, each color assigned to a different spectrum of sound. Nearly naked wildly painted female dancers hung from golden cages above the crowded dance floor. It was a place of opposites, were formality and wild abandon shared the same abode and mingled uninhibitedly.

Lane could almost feel the stares from the room as she looked around. She saw the startled looks, and conversions that sprung up suddenly and she knew she was the object of much speculation and from her point of view, unwanted attention. The dance floor lights flashed distractingly as the Hostess led her to the table, it was secluded and had an excellent view of the entire club. Incredibly life-like Crystal trees surrounded it and the centerpiece was exquisite with a single candle in the center. It was obliviously the best table in the house. She wondered if she had been invited to a costume party by mistake. The patrons of the Crimson Rose where dressed outrageously in a weird combination of haute couture and Noir Leather gear. Suddenly, Lane realized she was the only one in the room wearing white. 

“Can I take your wrap, miss,” the hostess asked.

Lorne watched carefully from across the room, curious to see how she would react to these surroundings he crossed the room slowly. As the shawl slide slowly from Lane’s shoulders, he froze mid-stride and his jaw dropped. Beneath the soft white shall were a set of wildly feathered angel wings spanning from her shoulder blades to the small of her naked back. He closed his mouth with a snap; his little angel had a tattoo, a big a tattoo. When the Hostess saw Lorne’s face she cringed and slunk off as quickly as she could, without being rude to Lane.

Lorne’s eyes passed longingly over Lanes body, feelings he thought long dead, stirred within him. He watched in growing anger as another man approached her, it was Lord Baton, one of his more wealthy and unwholesome patrons. Baton was dressed in formal evening attire exquisitely tailored to his tall slim physique, he had a goatee that was groomed perfectly and where it might have looked outlandish on other men, it seemed to suit him perfectly.

The sly fox with all his charm polished, honed, in the courts and capitals of Europe was doing his best to sweep the mid-western girl off her feet. He introduced himself with an elegant bow. She smiled and accepted his delicate kisses upon her cheeks and returned them hesitantly. Then he drew from the inner sleeve of his suit coat a single white rose and handed it to her.

Lane blushed hotly and her hand closed over the stem of the rose. She flinched, feeling the prickly thorns enter her flesh. She watched as the blood gathered, and slowly instinctively slid her finger into her mouth, sucking the blood. Lord Baton grinned wickedly and pulled her chair out for her and took the seat opposite hers. Lane could feel the touch of eyes upon her, feeling like a lost sheep surrounded by hungry wolves. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw strangely masked figures shifting nearer and nearer to the table were she waited for Lorne.

Suddenly, Lorne was there, he thanked Lord Baton for entertaining his guest in his absence, but the look in his eye was anything but, thankful. Lord Baton arose and bowed, before retreating back across the room were the masked figures gathered. She noticed them assaulting him with questions and laughing. Lorne gracefully seated the young woman, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered. “I could just beat you.” 

He took a seat across from her and said, “How is it possible that you can do all the wrong things.” She gave him an astonished look, a look that said, who me, I didn’t do anything? Lorne’s eyes stared mercilessly into hers and she dropped her head, tugging her lower lip between her teeth.

“Are you hungry, Lane?” Lorne said.

“Not really.” She sighed, looking down at the expensive red tablecloth.

“I insist,” Lorne, said, as he snapped his fingers, “You must try the strawberries, I have a hot house on the back lot, and a little farm in the valley. I go to extraordinary lengths to serve only freshest food.”

She cocked an eyebrow, “Oh, you… go to extraordinary lengths?”

“Yes, I own this place.”

“It’s very different.” Lane commented, trying to be diplomatic.

“You have no idea.”

A waitress was there before she could take another breath. “Strawberries and cream and our finest bottle of champagne.” Lorne ordered.

With an inquisitive look Lane offered him a strawberry, he took it from her gently and delicately dipped it in the rich cream and slowly lifted it to her mouth. Lane bit into the vine fresh fruit and the juices poured over her lips, slowly down her soft cheeks.

“Aren’t you hungry,” She said.

“Not for food,” Lorne grinned, he trailed a finger over those deliciously sculpted lips, and down her chin where the red juices lingered.

“I'm happy just watching you eat, Stormy.” Lorne’s eyes gleamed with an almost feral delight.

Lorne watched Lord baton carefully, he was still circling, eying Lane… everyone in club seemed to be watching them, no, not them her. Lane had never experienced such an eloquent seduction, in fact this kind of seduction was something new to her and at that moment she was feeling very willing to be seduced. Just say the words; just say the words, the mantra repeating in her head.

“I warned you not to mingle with the guests; you don’t know what you are getting into.” Lorne growled.

“Well, he came over to me, what was I supposed to do! I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Really! You’ve never hesitated to be rude with me, what was it you called me… ah, yes some kind of creep.”

“And nut job,” she mumbled with a little horrified smile, sipping her champagne shyly.

The Hostess in the black mini approached Lorne and whispered something urgently in his ear.  He got up from the table, giving Lane a harsh glare, “Don’t you f*****g move.”

Lorne walked away from the table to quell an argument that was getting out of hand on the dance floor. Lane lit a cigarette; breathing in the purifying aroma of menthol and wondering, what the hell does he want from me.

Lord Baton glided gracefully across the room, a master strategist in affairs of the heart he knew exactly when to seize an opportunity, carpe diem, that’s my motto, he laughed inwardly. In one fluid motion he dropped to his knee before her and offered up a brightly polished red apple. Lane looked at him startled, and laughed as he said, “From the Master.”

She took the apple and turned it around in her hand examining it carefully, “The Master, indeed!”

She felt Lord Baton’s warm breath on the fine hairs of her neck, “This fruit of knowledge,” and moving to the other ear, whispered, “is for the wicked.”

Lane breathed out, “For the wicked,” and bit deeply into the rich red fruit.”

And then it bit her back.

It tingled on her tongue and fiery warmth spread through her loins. Lord Baton took her hand and gesturing for her to rise. Lane wobbled on shaky legs,“ Oh, it must be the champagne, please, I have to sit down.” Lord Baton helped her into her chair and He rubbed her shoulders soothingly from behind, then moved in front of her and began to caress her calves, up her legs slowly to her tender thighs. As his hands found their way beneath the soft folds of her white skirt, she whimpered. Then slowly, he pulled the silky panties down over her nylon-covered stems. He arose quickly from his knees and placed the panties like a strange trophy on the table. Then with a triumphant little smile he noted the time on his gold Rolex.

The lights seemed to float through and over Lane in streaming waves of multicolored sensuality. As if in a dream Lord Baton took Lane’s hand and led her across the dance floor, as stately and self-assured as a noble in King Louis’ Sun Palace. He held her hand to the side high between them in the ancient manner of the courtier. While masked figures slunk stealthily behind them following unobtrusively in their wake. In the back of the club was a secret stair, cleverly hidden in the brick wall. “Have you ever seen a blind-pig, my dear.”

“What?” Lane said, wondering what the hell that meant and whether she was having another of those disturbing erotic nightmares. But she allowed herself to be led into the dark tunnel by her disarming companion.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: Sarah on January 11, 2008, 03:11:11 pm
A new version. You have a co-author now?

Who is Kelli McMilin?

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 12, 2008, 11:06:11 am
Hi Sarah

Yes, I have a co-author now, Kelli is a dear friend of mine and a wonderful writer. Thanks for reading it dear, I really value your comments and suggestions.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: April Kincaid on January 16, 2008, 01:11:23 pm
I liked the next section, "the Crimson Rose" better than the first section. More happens there and it moves a little faster. Interesting work.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 16, 2008, 02:15:55 pm
Thanks April

It's a work in progress... and it needs a lot of work.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: April Kincaid on January 16, 2008, 02:56:57 pm
Do you work from an outline?

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 16, 2008, 04:43:18 pm
Hi April

Did the begining seem scattered to you?

I didn't work from an outline when I first started writing. But my last couple of stories I have, not really an outline as much as a synopsis. I am not sure how much it has helped... but, in general I think it's a good idea, it helps prevent longer stories from rambling, anyways.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: April Kincaid on January 17, 2008, 01:25:28 pm
That's very perceptive of you - yes, the beginning did begin a little scattered.  I've studied creative writing and I believe the best way to begin a story is not through characterization, but with a surprising event that just seems to grab everyone's interest. People read a lot of stories and they tend to follow you if you show them something they haven't seen before.  Then, work on the characterization.

The reason I asked about an outline is because it is best to have some kind of a framework, then deviate it if the story itself comes up with some nice things while writing it.  I hope that helps.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on January 20, 2008, 09:00:49 am
Thanks April

I will try to keep that in mind...

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: Trent on February 05, 2008, 03:10:27 pm
Anymore new work?

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on February 08, 2008, 03:11:07 am
Sorry Trent

I have really been slacking... you know I can't seem to finish any of the stories I have been trying to write lately. I will attempt to do better!

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: April Kincaid on February 23, 2008, 11:33:28 pm
Why not do some artwork?  Maybe that will lead to a story.

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: unknown on February 24, 2008, 05:37:54 pm
Hi April


I just think I need to finish at least some of the pieces that I got started before I move on to new things. 

Title: Re: Silent Noir...
Post by: April Kincaid on February 24, 2008, 05:45:38 pm
I know what you mean, it is good to have that discipline, but sometimes you just have to go with what inspires you the most.