Wednesday, May 25, 2011


By Anna

Garth shook the bottle in in his hand and the funny little humans - pickled for eternity - were so compacted they hardly moved. He found it hard to comprehend that a species so primitive would be viviparous, thinking that they surely would lay eggs.

His father had given him a passel of the ugly little things for his fifth birthday, and he had watched them develop and multiply in the glass farm that had sat on his bedroom desk, for what seemed the eternity of his childhood. He had found their mode of procreation odd then. But then they were mere insects and intellectually dulled life forms, but yet seemed industrious and he had marvelled at their efforts to achieve betterment, this always thwarted by their predilection for battle.

It was in his late teens that he had considered they might be a food source - a bar snack - and his idea had progressed into that of pickling them in red hot spices. He loved the way they looked in the bottle, reminding him of foetuses bathing gently in amniotic fluid awaiting birth.

"Garth the quondam loser - now the man of the hour," he sighed happily. He picked one out. "Hello son," he grinned as he popped the tender morsel in his beak. Garth you are a genius! he thought. Big taste, bigger bank balance!

Copyright ©2011 Anna. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.


This story was originally published on the puzzelicious plus site on May 13, 2011.


If you like this story, check out Anna’s other stories, published on this site: Compulsion, Retribution and Simkins.



I'm a mother, friend, nurse, wife and lover! I think I have always been 'creative' drawing, painting, writing stories and poetry from an early age. I am moronically happy as I don't see the point in being miserable and find life - 99% of the time - wonderful.

Monday, May 23, 2011

**One of my stories, Dis/satisfaction, was republished on the Leodegraunce site

One of my mainstream, super-short stories, Dis/satisfaction, got republished on the Leodegraunce site. (Be warned there's a female nude/non-sexual picture next to it, not my doing.)

Dis/satisfaction won't be archived - that is, it'll run on the site until Sunday (5/29/11).

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Theobromine bitch blues

By Steve Isaak

Our clock starts ticking the second she arrives “but not this time,” Megan says, her collie features radiant.

Megan strips off her slinky dress, her Lassie-light head a color-perfect blend with her lush human body.

Megan laughs. “My husband, Mr. Eddie Pitbull, was always sniffing, drooling over chocolate that can kill us, and I. . . indulged his curiosity. That son of a bitch is as cold as that bucketed champagne. The money – everything – is ours!”

I go cold, thinking back to a fellow waiter’s warning when he first saw me ogling Megan, three months ago. “Watch out. She’s more than she seems.”

Megan laughs again. “Relax, you know I always get what I want. Now mount me.”

I can’t run – not without telling her that I'm leaving her.

# # #

I wake, sweaty and sex-sticky, to a strange, disturbing noise – something like a thump, mixed with a bone crack.

A short, bulky shadow stands over Megan’s side of the bed, something long and blunt in his hand. Warm liquid, from the area of Megan’s moonlit, bashed-in head, rills onto my side of the bed.

My beat-acelerated heart leaps into my atrabilious throat, and I start to rise; that’s when I sense another, shit-reeking shadow on my side of the bed, and something hard smashes onto the side of my face, knocking me into dark, throbbing sleep.

# # #

“Love can be a bone-splintering thing, my dachshund friend,” the shit-breathed pug thug says, as he snaps my other arm. My nerve-endings are white-hot electric, my yelps bouncing off warehouse walls.

“Mr. Pitbull told me to tell you ‘good try,’ that this is his ‘final tip’ to you,” the pug chuckles. His breath makes my gorge rise.

Nearby, another pug thug chops up Megan’s bloody body, readied for the incinerator, our final laying place.

Copyright ©2009, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in 2009.

Monday, May 16, 2011

**Several of dani harris' pieces were published on the Photo Prose site, March - May 2011

dani harris, whose prose-poetic story, Camellia, graced this site last week, has had several other pieces - two stories and a poem - published on the Photograph Prose site recently.

Here's the links:

A Member of the Family


Please Exit

**One of my stories, Shagging Oozing Smashing, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

Shagging Oozing Smashing, one of my older speculative fiction/erotica stories, was republished on Every Night Erotica: it details what happens when the Supreme Being looks for a hook-up in the Mission District in San Francisco.

As stated before, this is a sexually-explicit/"for mature audiences only" work.

If you're so inclined, check it out and comment on it. =)

Wednesday, May 11, 2011


By dani harris

between raindrops, a light scent of musk drifted through the air reaching a man sitting alone. as though in a dream, the irresistible scent drew the man to a beautiful tree where dark pink flowers with delicate centers called to him, waiting to be plucked. one blossom stood out, untouched by the rain, glowing as if lit from within. the man held the fragile flower ever-so-gently in his hand with no memory of how it got there.

the man walked back to his cottage, lay down upon his bed and lightly began stroking its petals. he teased the center nibs, feeling them become erect under his fingertips. softly he stroked the deepest center of the bloom. a small sigh caused petals to flutter. the man could not resist licking the deep center with the tip of his tongue. a sweet nectar began to flow and, greedily, he licked every drop.

the man became intoxicated by the heady scent of musk and the ambrosia upon his tongue. closing his eyes for just a moment, the man opened them upon a wondrous sight. next to him lay a beautiful woman. her luscious pink lips smiled at him. they kissed, igniting the fires of a fierce passion. there was no choice but to give themselves over to their desire.

long slow kisses... licking... tasting... nibbling. hungry for more. hands exploring... caressing... stroking... pleasuring one another. their bodies joined. passion grew until it could be contained no longer. an explosion shook their world leaving them spent, content in each other's arms.

the man was awakened by sunlight streaming through the windows. next to him lay a dark pink blossom, wilted but still beautiful.

he smiled.

Copyright ©2011 Dani Harris. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.


This story originally appeared in poetic form on the my heart's love songs site on April 26, 2011.


If you like this story, check out dani’s other stories, published on this site: Bugged, guardian angel {sorta} and haboob {another creepy tail}.



dani {not a boy} began writing poetry in January 2010, opened her blog my heart's love songs in February 2010 and is now venturing into prose, though terrified. It seems her terror manifests itself in much of the prose, becoming a short tale with an element of horror or fantasy. Despite her blog's title, Dani does not write only haiku. Her sensual poetry is never too explicit whatever the length.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


By Nick Nicholson

Michael Robeson was fated to be an outcast when he performed fellatio for the first time on October 10, 1987, at the age of 16. He silently vowed never to do it again but three days later he returned to Kings Cross and quickly found another customer. In a matter of weeks, Robeson had established a reputation around the Cross, his dark, dream-laden eyes earning him the moniker, “Moon Boy”. On July 1, 1989, Moon Boy moved into a small flat in Darlinghurst with “Bianca”, 19, a prostitute he’d befriended three weeks earlier. She and Moon Boy soon became lovers. On lazy afternoons, they would share stories about their clients: the good, the bad, and the lost souls. It was the lost souls (the “heartbreakers”, as Moon Boy and Bianca called them) that they liked the most; there was something about them that got under their skins. On the whole, the relationship proved to be reasonably stable, all things considered, but after three years, Bianca had grown bored with Moon Boy and on November 30, 1992, she left him. Moon Boy was devastated. Five days later, his body was found washed up in a tangle of seaweed on Cronulla Beach.

© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.


This is the seventh part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.

Next Travelogue story: Tangier

• • •


Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.