Alice: Free Form Short Story

‘No one needs to know’ is what she says, her hazel eyes wide, darting, searching – for what?

He disagrees, steadies her, tries to make sense to her.

‘People do need to know, Alice.’

It doesn’t make sense, his words. She’s drunk, he’s not even close to drunk.

Alice. Who can say Alice without thinking wonderland? Who can say say Wonderland without think- god, she’s something else, the way she smiles, the way her face brightens, first with her teeth, how absurdly perfect, then with her eyes, beaming. Alive. Alice is Alive.

Alice regards him with that smile, curling her index finger around her dark brunette hair. Round and round it goes, coiling, weaving, winding.

Her other hand, her other index finger, is hooked under the right side strap of her light blue dress, a dress covered in the sunny print of sunflowers.

He notices her right hand, resting under the strap as they walk, her stumbling, him taking her weight as they walk.

‘People don’t even get this chance. We should act. We should.’

Alice stresses the word ‘should’ even though it comes out slurred. She stumbles again, falling against the tree behind her – a weathered thing, it’s bark aged, ancient.

Behind them, the party lingers, casting noise that the trees whisper amongst each other. The trees are alive, he thinks. Alive. Alice. It spooks him and the shivers come, just as Alice laughs – and it’s a beautiful thing. Uproarious, hearty. Throaty.

‘Where is your car anyway? We should do it in a car. You can do it. Be my first.’

The little girl that lived up the road, the one that he believed to have thought him gay, a loner, a weirdo, was now a teenager staring down adulthood. Alice turned eighteen today. Alice is alive.

Her first. It catches him off guard, just as her dress did. She bends to catch her breath, revealing the shapes of her breasts. He averts his eyes, closing them, squeezing them – thinking she Once was a girl that thought him gay, a loner, a weirdo.

Alice stands back up, her eyes frazzled, dazzling. Another laugh comes. Her hair, something sorted so perfectly only hours ago, is in a tangle.

How did he even get here, he wondered.

‘Your first?’ He finds himself saying, his mouth moving ahead of his brain, his thoughts.

‘Yeahhhh.’ She drawls Out, her voice becoming a squeak. Like this fact is so obvious.

They’re moving again now. His car is just up ahead. He’ll drive her home.

Alice skips along aside him, and there’s something still so youthful about her, he thinks. Something child-like and yet not somehow.

Her blue dress, loose, free flowing, hugs her legs as she skips.

‘Alice…’

‘Mmmm?’

Her skips come to a stop, yet she dances to a tune only she can hear.

I’m in a dream, he thinks. This isn’t real, and I’m in a dream. I’m gay, a loner, a weirdo and this isn’t real and I’m in a dream.

‘Have You had any water?’

Alice stops, so he stops. She thinks, putting on an exaggerated thinking noise as she does.

‘Hmmmmm..No!’

The ‘No!’ Comes Out merrily, like she’s found something humorous only she is aware of.

‘When we get you home, we’ll grab some okay?’

‘After you fuck me?’

‘What?’

‘Pleaaaase? You’ve been gone forever and now your back and I’m 18 and you’ve been gone forever and you’re sexy!’

She’s walking alongside him now, into him. It’s a warm spring evening and he can still feel the heat radiating off her body. He thinks about this, about pushing her away, but leaves her there, as she forcibly links her arm to his.

‘Don’t worry about him.’

An exaggerated sigh comes.

‘He’s prolly working late or fucking some girl and here comes another excuse.’

Every word comes out hard, every syllable drawn out as she walks, stamping her feet, walking into him.

There’s a pang of guilt. And something else.

‘I’m sure you two can sort it out.’

‘Nahhhhh. I don’t really want to. Being here is what I feel like, Mhm!’

He can smell her breath, can smell the sourness of alcohol mixed.

With this, he can smell her perfume. A giddiness comes to mind, the same he feels at the start of summer – cosmic heralding of new beginnings.

They reach the car, her stumbling into him, weaving her index finger around her hair, him supporting her up, carefully keeping his hand on her back and not an inch lower.

As he open the passenger door, she’s pulling the dress strap on her right shoulder down.

Alice’s shoulder comes bare, the curve of her right breast comes bare, it’s lightly pink areola hinted at.

‘Alice, no. I’m old…and decrepit.’

He’s stirring but so is something else. Something of good possessing him.

Alice giggles, not of frustration, but of playfulness.

She sits down in the seat, her dress riding up. The action catches his eye, and before he looks away, he sees her panties, yellow and lacy.

‘Fuck me here. This would be perfect.’

Out comes another giggle.

He doesn’t say anything, just closes the door gently and walks around to the driver’s side.

He steps in, pulls the door shut and gets the belt on. Alice is looking him – no – pouting at him, her lips, soft no doubt, curled up in staged sadness. Her eyes are different too. Hurt. Watery.

He watches her, feeling his frown coming on, then her face shifts into a giggle and she leans forward to open the glovebox compartment.

‘What does a sexy, sexy man have in here?’

He starts the car as her face curls into a frown.

In a moment she’ll give up looking and focus her gaze back on him, looking at his face, unhooking her dress.

In a moment she’ll be away from her own party and back home. Safe and sound.

——————————————

I don’t know where this really came from. And it’s not entirely erotica, but my mind lead me down here. Just a little story, a moment in time, in my mind and in the life of the spirited Alice.

Sometimes that’s the best ones, the stories that come vividly. Alice was indeed alive when I wrote this. I hope she has a smashing life after she wakes up.

Penny

Nineteen year old Penny stands quietly in her bedroom adorned with posters of The Doors, wearing a thin grey singlet top and nothing else.

Her dark blonde hair is untied, reaching back down to the tips of her shoulder blade.

The room is low lit – her small white lamp sits on an old chest of drawers covered with gothic romances and old fairytales.

There is no sound in this room – she’s stopped her run of Love Her Madly, per the request of her mother, who is heading to bed. On top of that, she should really be studying for her psychology exam tomorrow anyway.

The temperature in the room is just right, a blend of warm with the slightest hint of a breeze.

The breeze, of course, tickles the back of her legs and skims across her inner thigh. She can feel the breeze where she has shaven herself.

From the study table to her left, a brown, ancient thing that has been in the family for decades, she grabs her metal ruler. The sharp edges scrape across the inside of her hands.

As she steps to her double bed that fits snuggly in the corner, she absent-minded slaps the metal ruler against her lightly tanned ass to the rhythm of Love Her Madly.

In a heartbeat, everything she had been thinking about – tomorrow, exams, Jim Morrison – disappears. All that remains is the feeling of the metal ruler against her ass. That cold slight sting.

Penny is standing in the middle of the room, her shadow quivering, as of coming to life on its own. Like electricity, the idea hits her and sizzles it’s way down her body in one pulsating sweep.

Smack. It happens sudden.

The cold hits — then gives way to pain.

Smack. More stinging. This time the ruler scraped at her skin.

The thick sound of the ruler on her right cheek fires off amidst the silence.

THWAP! SMACK!

Another, and another.

Chills race down from the beads of sweat on her forehead to her nipples hardening underneath her singlet.

She can feel her pussy tingle with each smack. And with each smack, the sting begins to throb.

When she’s done with her backside, she’ll work on her front.

SMACK!

Penny shifts gears, the ruler comes down in a series of strikes, one after the other, the rhythm akin to an old Slayer tune – thrash on her skin. Smacksmacksmacksmacksmack.

It begins to overwhelm her, transporting her mind to a haven she’s only seen in the patterns when she closes her eyes.

There’s nothing out there but her amongst the void – her striking her ass.

Each strike is a pulse only she can hear, a reminder to chant low and meditate. She’s losing ground, her feet slipping.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

She can smell her own scent.

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

Penny stifles her cries,

Smacksmacksmacksmack.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘What the bleeding ‘ell are you doing, Penelope?’ Her mother asks groggily through the door.

Penny almost trips but rights herself, finding solid ground. She roses the metal ruler on her bed.

‘Just..uh…nothing’

‘Right. Well. Stop doing nothing.’

Penny listens but her mother says no more. One second more and footsteps begin to fade. Penny gets back to studying.

Valhalla, Ch. 11 – Past Lives

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

PAST LIVES

 

 

 

Ryan came to.
His chest felt heavy and his vision was a blur.
He could make out the table across from his room; he could definitely make out the light that flooded in through the open window
Did you open that, mum?
And he could feel the breeze on his exposed feet that stuck out the side of the bed.
Had someone woke me? He wondered, rolling on his back to face his bedroom door, expecting to see Eira.
No one came.
As he sat up in bed, he felt a dull pain crisscross against his chest. As if someone had held the handle of a…knife…against his chest tightly.
That’s when his eyes fell upon the item resting on the bedside table. It was a piece of parchment, faded yellow.
Ryan swung his legs out of bed and scooped up the parchment, his eyes scanning the jet-black ink.
The writing seemed feminine, he noted, as he began the first line.

Ryan,
I have been summoned by my All-Father to
Seek out a new soul.

Please forgive my absence, I

Shall return shortly.

 

In the meantime, training

Resumes as normal. Do see

Battle Mistress Mist if you require

Any assistance.

 

Eira

 

 

Rubbing his chest where it still felt constricted, Ryan re-reads the letter.
A new soul.
Does that mean her loyalty now belongs to this newcomer? Or do we share? Or…
Ryan dismissed the thought. He had to get dressed.

 

***

 

Ryan found Mist standing to the sides of the large empty field. Around them, men and women sparred, their grunts echoing across the field.
Ryan looked to his left, then to his right.
The field he was standing on was as large, if not larger, than the Etihad Stadium in Melbourne.
In the distance he could see another group of gathered warriors, their cries echoing back down to him.
As he stood in the shadow of Valhalla, still stretching inward from the morning sun, he watched the woman and man spar. The woman, a fellow warrior Ryan noted, swerved to the right and out of the man’s swing, meeting the attack with a fierce jab of her elbow.
With a cry, the man fell back on his ass. The woman laughed and cracked her neck.
All Ryan could think of was that he could never fight like that, like her.
“You are the one Eira brought recently.” Came the stern voice beside him.
Ryan turned in the direction of the voice, only seeing Mist, her back straight, hands behind her back rigidly, as she regarded the field.
“I am. Uh, Ryan. Ryan K-“
“You look concerned.”
Mist’s head moved in his direction, her body staying perfectly still.
“Well, I’m not a fighter, I guess. The last fight I was in was when I was eight. I…”
“All this can be taught. What matters…is the spirit. Which is why you are here…”
Ryan wasn’t a fighter. He had avoided any of that. The only fights he had been in was any high school jock picking on him as a teen, in which they did most of the punching. Ryan always took it. He didn’t know how else to react.
Anything after high school were verbal confrontations, defused with words or separation.
The last fight, his fourth physical fight in his lifetime, ended his life.

“Remember the past. Acknowledge it, even. But move forward, strengthen yourself.”
“Do you re….”
Mist was watching him closely, her deep blue eyes intense and focused.
“I do.”
She remained stiff, never faltering, never relaxed.
“Not every fighter, not every Valkyrie recalls their life. Some have fragments, some grow consumed by it, and some choose to forget. I choose to remember what we are fighting for. What I am fighting for.”
Mist turned her gaze from him and bowed as warriors approached Mist and bowed themselves, before beginning their duel.
“In another life, I was took part in the Marines. My squad featured some of the fiercest warriors I have ever met, some of them were even chosen to serve the All-Father along with me.”
There was a ghost of her smile on her face.
“Líf was one of them. “
Líf stood thirty metres away on the field, fighting against another Valkyrie. From where Ryan stood, she was a blur.
“My life would come to end earlier than hers, however. Amidst liberating Kuwait, something searing hot-“
Mist’s face drew into a scowl as she spat out the word hot. Her eyes became fierce.
“Clipped my neck. I woke up her. Before the All-Father and Mother themselves.”
“And you remembered?”
Ryan asked, his mind racing with thoughts.
“Not at first. The All-Mother spent some time guiding me on what they were trying to achieve. After the first few months, the dreams came. And after a while, so did the memories. Now…”
Mist turned to face Ryan once more. “I choose to remember. I just do not let it control me…”
She turned back to face the field, raising her hand in the air.
Líf, who had beaten her opponent in the spar, saw the signal and headed towards the two of them.
“Ragnarök is coming, Ryan. We need all you can give to us.”
Ryan felt a lump lodge in his throat as Líf approached. She fell on one knee.
“Battle Mistress…”
“No need of formalities, Líf. Care to spar with this gentlemen here?”
Líf’s golden eyes fell upon Ryan and her face lit up in a smirk that was strangely charming.
“Gladly, old friend.”
As Líf cracked her neck, Ryan gulped.

 

***

 

Líf beat Ryan, to be sure. By the time they broke for lunch, his buttocks were sore from falling over and his legs were aching from practicing the stiff defensive stance.
Yet through all that, Líf never grew impatient. She encouraged him, helped him up where he fell. Gave him pointers on reacting to her blows.
Despite all this, she did not hold back her blows, landing several hits that Ryan could tell would welt by the morning.
By the evening, Líf left Ryan at the entrance to his bedroom with a formal bow. She had asked if she would be needed for the evening, but Ryan politely decline, causing her eyes to darken and her brow to frown. Regardless, she bowed again and continued on down the hall.
When Ryan collapsed on his bedroom, he could feel the familiar dull ache of his chest. It was still tight from the morning, hanging around with that familiar dull ache.
It didn’t take long for sleep to find him.

 

***

The following morning, Ryan sat by himself in the great hall, around a table that smelled of mead. It was too early in the morning for him for mead, however, so he settled on a coffee, hoping for a caffeinated boost to the system.
Eira was still absent. Kára too, he noticed. Both must’ve been given the task of accompanying a new soul (or souls) on their journey to Valhalla.
When the doors to Valhalla creaked open, silencing the music and the hall itself, Ryan joined everyone’s head in turning to see who was arriving.
A group of Valkyries stepped forward, their soul either standing beside them, or behind them. Ryan tried to count as they stepped forward and got as far as ten before he saw Eira emerge, walking beside another woman outfitted in a pale grey dress. The woman brushed the dirty blonde hair out of her eyes as she looked around the room, her eyes widening.
Eira searched the room, her face in a frown.
It was only a matter of time before her eyes found Ryan, sending chills up his spine for reasons unknown.
Was it that she found him amongst the crowd? Or that he was thinking that this new woman might be Eira’s new focus?
Ryan hoped the coffee had the answer and would provide him with it shortly after the caffeine boost.
Eira didn’t make her way over to him, Ryan noticed. Rather, she stood in a line amongst the Valkyries, bowing her head.
Ryan’s eyes moved to the front of the great hall, where Odin sat, his piercing grey eye looking out amongst the newly arrived warriors.
In stepped more warriors and Valkyries, and more still. Ryan stood watching, cradling his coffee, thinking on what Eira said about the size of Valhalla and how many warriors it can hold.
Amongst the crowd, Ryan spotted Kára step through the doors, walking with a posture as perfect as Mist.
Beside her was a man.
The man who had ended Ryan’s life.
Ryan’s chest began to ache.

 

The End of the Chosen arc.

 

 

And now, some notes:

For some reason, I have designed Valhalla like a comic book, divided up amongst several arcs – with one leading into the next and continuing little plot points that I had been building to.

This chapter acts as the end to the introductory saga (as a draft anyway!) with more to come in the near future.

I don’t know what to do with this series just yet. I have, as of March 2018, 25 chapters planned of this story, characters and their relationships and I am considering a novel, or just putting all this away in a box in my house because maybe it’s not good enough.

 I mean, maybe it isn’t? Maybe it just needed to be written. It is still a draft, one I will no doubt be rewriting to the end of time, but being the perfectionist anxious bugger I am, I don’t know how skilled or entertaining I am of a writer.

 

In any case, this is going on hiatus for now.

Zoe 

Note: This is a piece I like to call part of my ‘portrait’ series, in which I focus on setting, character and emotion. Here I focus on 19 year old Zoe and I wrote her world in one sitting just now, completely absorbed by its beauty. By far, this is one of my favourite pieces because I think it’s personal in many respects. I really hope you enjoy it.


Nineteen year old Zoe slammed her bedroom door shut in a huff. It was enough force to move her hair in a quick sway.

For a moment, she stood there, gobsmacked at the sudden turn of events. 

Downstairs she could hear her parents arguing, her mum defending Zoe’s honor while her dad arguing against her mum for not defending his. 

Suddenly Zoe felt like a stupid little girl. She looked down at her faded yellow batman t shirt and grunted in frustration. 

None of it made sense anymore, not her batman shirt or her her yellow shorties she had on or her silly pixie hair cut, with sandy colour and messiness. 

She felt stupid, like a little girl lost in a supermarket and wondering what to do. 

Zoe slid down to her floor and let out a sigh, just as she heard the screeching of a chair down below. Daddy had stormed off. 

Her mum had called out to him but he was already out the door. 

This was all her fault. She started this. 

She knew better than to question her daddy on religion but something came over her when he raised the issue of sexuality. 

A celebrity came out, it made the news He said.

It shouldn’t have, he said. There’s no place for that sort of thing in the news, it’s not right. It’s not natural. 

Zoe, who was stirring her peas in her gravy, suddenly thought of Sharon Bridges’ 17th just a few months ago. 

It was an image she thought of often when she was alone, not just because it was fun and she had laughed harder than she ever had, but because of one incident in particular. 

As the party wound down and most, if not all people, were passing out or leaving for greener pastures at other parties, Zoe was looking for the bathroom. She’d ask Sharon herself, but she had disappeared, as had her other friends, into the void that was drunkenness. Not Zoe, she was pacing herself. Although by this point in time, she was well on her way to becoming tipsy. 

Zoe had found Sharon eventually, she opened one door, which turned out to be the wrong door evidently. 
Sharon was on top of a faceless girl, her head buried in this girl’s cunt while the girl below her ate her out vigorously. 

In the corner was another girl, Unknown to Zoe and watching intently, her hand down her panties. 

The three of them were drunk and lost in a primal daze of lust, the only instinct being the basic animal desire to fuck and to come.

When they heard the door click and open, they didn’t freeze or become startle, rather they gazed at who it was with a vague curiosity.

When they saw it was Zoe, they giggled innocently, their faces wet with spit and arousal.

But Zoe was startled. She closed the door before any of them could speak a word, and on wobbly legs she wandered to her tent she had set up for the evening out the back and went to crash there for the night.

In the morning, Sharon and her friends hadn’t raised it and Zoe didn’t want to go there, so she had her breakfast, complimentary orange juice and burnt toast from Sharon, and left for home.

The image of the girls, however, never left her. 

It lingered with her that whole afternoon, had woken her up that night with her sweet shaven lips pulsating as it dripped. 

She had masturbated to it more than once in the following months, but still couldn’t make any sense of why. Was she bi? A lesbian? She didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Maybe the image was just appealing on a purely objective level? But did that still make her bi? 

So when her dad raised the female celebrity coming out, she openly questioned him. 
When he said, looking her square in the eyes and saying that this was the divine creator’s word, she raised the issue of love, how it was universal. Somewhere along her impassioned speech, she had raised her voice. 

Her dad kept saying the usual – it wasn’t right, it’s not natural, we weren’t designed for that. And when her dad told her she was being silly, she took personal offence.

It was all downhill from there on, as Zoe’s dad kept shutting her down. Kept reiterating that one point: it’s not natural. 

Zoe left for her room in a huff and in her room in a huff is where she now sat, thinking how silly she had been, silly to be arguing with her dad, silly to start something. Sharon Bridges was in her mind again, her mouth devouring that faceless girl’s cunt.

With a groan, she tore off her singlet top and threw it to the ground.
Outside, thunder rumbled and Oscar, their French bulldog, complained at the thunder. 

Something possessed Zoe then, she took the singlet in her hands and tried to tear it.

It didn’t make any sense to her, she felt silly wearing it, she felt silly tearing it. 

There she was, a girl still at home, still wearing kids things, trying to tear her singlet while her small breasts smacked against her chest and each other. She hated her breasts and her nipples. The sudden stream of rage entering her mind drove her to tear harder. 

The singlet tore down the middle and she left it at that, tossing her aside. 

More thunder echoed around her as she kicked off her shorties, tossing them across the room.

They went skidding underneath her wardrobe in the corner. 

Zoe was completely nude now, her chest heaving along, her eyes darting around the room. She wasn’t right, she wasn’t natural, she was a silly little girl. A silly little girl going no where. A silly little girl working at an office answering the phones trying to play grown up. What an idiot. 

She heard her daddy start the family car, saw the lights glide across her windows as he left up the track, disappearing into the thunder.

No one knew where he went when he got into a rage, but mum had told her one time that he told her in a rare moment that he visits a small pub out the back roads somewhere. 

Zoe was still, kneeling in her room, listening to the car disappear, the thunder booming, Oscar barking. 
Her skin felt the summer heat, it was warming up her arm as she knelt. 

She rose in one swift movement and moved across her room, opening the door opposite her that led out onto the verandah outside. 

Zoe stood in the doorway and listened for the rain. It came in small pitter-patter’s first, then more heavily.
On the tin roof above her the rain played a gentle concerto, swift and at ease. 

Zoe moved to the railing of the verandah and ran her hand song the rough wood. She stood there a moment watching her hand slide along the panel, wondering what everything meant – her tastes, the past few months, where she was going in life, is she a lesbian? 

It was true that she hadn’t been able to get Sharon Bridges out of her mind. But the reasons why this was so was unknown to her, much as she tried to make sense of it all.
For if she were interested in women, what would that mean? She’d have to reset her whole perception on her life, on what family meant to her, marriage too. She didn’t even know if she wanted to get married but the option, as a straight person, was there. 

As the rain belted down and somewhere amongst the noise the cicadas sang, nineteen year old Zoe stood naked on her Verandah with her arms outstretched to touch the rain. 
Pretty soon she would hop the ledge and go run in the rain behind the house. Pretty soon, her mum would knock on her door and get no answer. Pretty soon, Zoe would enjoy the rain stinging every part of her body and see that as cleansing herself in some way – for what she didn’t know.

But for now, Zoe stood naked watching the droplets of rain smack on her open palm.

Portrait

 

 

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This one’s just a short one, born out of the notion of looking at people and thinking of what kind of life they lead. I went for intimate and short but sweet. Let me know how I went.

 

Picture this, if you will.
A blonde woman arrives home dressed in her work uniform, a dull grey top with black suit pants.
With a sigh, she throws down her purse, a simple pink thing, and collapses on the bed.
She is 24 and lives with her mother. She is single. She works Monday-Friday, nine to five, at a shoe shop. And this afternoon, she is exhausted.
Her room features walls decorated by a collection of album covers from her favourite artist – Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Cream – it was her dad that led her to fall in love with the rock and roll of the sixties and seventies.
The woman runs a hand through her long blonde hair and registers that it needs a cut. She sighs. Something else to keep track of across the week.
With that, she reaches down and slips out of her black pants.
Her legs, slender and pale, stretch across the floor, sliding against the fabric of the carpet.
She glances down at her underwear – plain bright green boylegs – and hooks her fingers around the elastic and pulls them off.
It falls to the floor twisted and crumpled.
From there, she unbuttons her top. That falls to the floor as well.
She’s wearing a black bra. It’s nothing fancy but it’s the kind of thing that becomes fancy in its plainness. Pretty soon that falls off as well, tumbling onto her blouse on the floor.
The blonde woman stretches back completely naked and feels the ceiling fan skim air down to her small breasts.
A lifetime ago, she would have hated her breasts – absolutely hated them.
Now, she thinks they’re the best thing about her.
She couldn’t describe why, perhaps it was just age that led her to see the appeal within herself.
With that, she fell into a peaceful nap.