More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (9. Shameless Hussy)

XIX. The Sun. Glory, gain, riches, pleasure … enough of that, let’s get to the appropriate ones … shamelessness, arrogance, and vanity.

Did you miss me? I spent the whole weekend on a binge write – the one that I mentioned in my last post. I’m not going to describe it here, but you can find it at http://ericajohnstonesobsession.wordpress.com/ . That’s my punt at glory, gain and riches.

Well, I didn’t blow the entire weekend on it. I had rehearsals and a concert on Saturday, as well as another on Sunday afternoon. I do have to work, you know.

When I wasn’t writing I was being bad, very, very bad. Puddle-duck told me so. I still smell like corn oil. Saturday night wasn’t too bad, safely deluded … err, secluded in the privacy of my bedroom. Why oh why did I mention that it was unseasonably warm on Sunday? Believe it or not, it was Lore’s suggestion that I take it outside. She’s usually quiet, but she can be the most cruel, as if she is testing me for my suitability for their sisterhood. Outside, under the full moon, drenched in corn oil, screaming obscenities when I came at 2 am. I’m normally quiet, but they pushed and pushed until I let it slip … um, rip … well, both actually.

I fortunately have a fairly large back garden, so when I woke the neighbours, they didn’t get much of a show – not much, but their son did. The teenager got a good view out his back window.

Unfortunately, Lore wasn’t finished with me. While the boy watched, I took it off the mat and into the mud. (It had rained all day and my garden was a swamp.) I wasn’t all that noisy the second time, but the boy knew what I was doing. The moon was so bright, almost like daylight, and I left a light on above the back porch that illuminated me enough for the camera (and the boy).

What am I doing? It’s like an addiction. I can’t say no, and I can’t stop once I’ve started. I need help, but will I get it? No. I don’t want it. I do, but I don’t, if you know what I mean.

I’m trying to pour my soul into Erica Johnstone, but I’m afraid there is precious little of it left. Buffy (you know who I mean – from my novel) lost it to Alaron who vaporized. It’s gone.

What more could they have in store for me tonight? I can’t tie myself up, and I’m too afraid of the sight of blood to cut myself. (I hide all my knives in drawers in the kitchen. I’m really paranoid about it!) Am I ready for induction to their clit, err cult? No paradigms … paragraphs … paratroopers … (???) … uh, paraphernalia tonight.

I fear that even more.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (4. Hung up)

I could have predicted my card today:

XII. The Hanged Man. Sacrifice, punishment, loss, failure, perhaps even death.

We’ll just forget about the redemption-through-sacrifice part. I’m strung … hung up, and unable to move forward. It isn’t really stagnation. I’m being punished for what I’ve done. I’m being punished centerfold … err, three-fold for cheating on Allen, and until I either come clean or the gods have exacted my teeth … um, their payment in full, I’ll be sitting in front of my webcam making myself hot and bothered for Max and whoever else is watching on the other end. (I’m even more certain that he isn’t alone now. I heard someone cough in the background tonight.)

Why do I keep doing it, even if Max doesn’t reciprocate? I can get it off on my own without provocation … prevarication … predjudice … hmm … or an audience. Perhaps it is the peanuts in it (where did that come from?) … danger in it, or maybe I’m just cruising towards my nourish– … punishment. That would be par for the course for me. At least Max didn’t get the boob … err, job, so I won’t have to ever seem him again in person. (Maybe I should get a boob job! But it is probably too late for me.)

Do you remember the book I was writing during my last series of late night folly? I sent it out to an editor, who has just given me loads of amendments, so many that I’m tempted to just drop the book in the recycling. But that would waste the $4000 that I invested in the editor. She thinks it is good enough to publish … with some tweaking, that is. They say you will rewrite your trash … uh, book several times before it is ready. That will mean more late nights for me – several hours of editing (if I don’t have a big … err, gig) then a wank for Max, before laying my soul bare for you in my blog.

Out of the Frying Pan (Ch 1 draft, excerpt)

Lena crouched behind a filing cabinet. It was the only item of furniture in the office that hadn’t been riddled with bullets. Shards of glass had flown everywhere, making crawling along the floor treacherous … and then there was the blood and the bodies, littering the floor of the main open plan work area.

Where was Bruce Willis when you needed him?

She had miraculously survived the initial onslaught, having crawled under her desk to retrieve a pencil just as the … she didn’t know what, who or how many they were … opened fire from the doorway with AK-47s. Bullet flew, ricocheted, killed and maimed for at least ten minutes as she hid under her desk. When it fell silent, she dared not breathe as the killers combed the room looking for survivors. One of the walls of her cubicle had fallen across her desk in the melee, saving her from closer scrutiny.

The few that remained alive were shot through the head as they pleaded for mercy.

“She’s not here,” complained a vaguely familiar voice.

“You said she was always here at this time,” accused the leader. “She is the only one who can cross through, you imbecile.” A shot rang out, and a body thumped to the floor. “Find her,” he growled. “Kill everyone in the building if you have to. No one must leave here, especially not her.”

At once, they were out the door. Not daring to move, Lena listened as women screamed and more shots rang out in the distance, as the killers checked individual offices, conference rooms, and toilets looking for this mysterious woman. Not having heard anyone nearby in ten minutes, she peaked out to see if anyone remained to guard the room.

No one. As carefully as she could, Lena had crawled out from under her desk silently. By the door, she found a body dressed in all black sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. His balaclava was torn where a bullet had shattered his skull: Dean Tracer, or what was left of him. He’d worked in the office for only three weeks, and in that time he’d hit on her at least four times. She wasn’t interested. Her instincts detected a sliminess about him that she couldn’t explain. He was good-looking and dressed well. Her friend Shona fancied him, but he wouldn’t give her the time of day.

Shona was dead now.

An AK-47 hung over Dean’s shoulder, but Lena dared not touch it. The pistol in his hand looked more straightforward to use, although she had never shot a gun before. As she picked it up, she heard footsteps approaching in the hallway.

“She must be here!” the leader snarled from the top of the steps.

Lena ran into a side office to the relative safety of her filing cabinet. The acrid smoke from the weapons’ fire was the only thing that kept her together. She couldn’t cry now.

Not now.

Crouched with the gun against her cheek, she peered out into the office, where they had turned their attentions to a specific desk: hers.

Shit!

She was the only one who could cross through. Cross through what? They had killed the inhabitants of an entire office complex, just to kill her.

“Footprints!” someone hissed.

Lena groaned. She had stepped through the puddle of Dean’s blood, and the prints would lead right to her. How much ammunition did she have? Not enough against their arsenal. She didn’t even know how to check.

“In there!” another shouted.

Lena wasn’t going to die without a fight. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath, half-pulled the trigger, and shouted, “Hell-fire!” taking a step around the corner and squeezing the trigger.

Pffffft.