She stood at the corner of the street, her hair red, dark, but unmistakably red. Her face was a pale slate framed by her dark hair, rounded chin, dark eyes that could bore a hole through a wall if they were to stare just a little too long. She wore a short leather jacket with sleeves that extended the length of her arms, just beyond the tips of her thin fingers. It was zipped up to just under her chin where it hugged her neck, a clasp pulled across the front and belting holding it tightly closed. Her boots were black, thick and capable. The rest of her was covered in black as well, including a skirt, but not for style, for ability. The two swords she had belted across her jutted hips said as much. The gun belted to her other hip said more.
Mugsy was an idiot.
He’d always been one. Ever since the day I’d met that fat kid, his pants so tight he wore them below his gut. They were the only pair he had for years, his mom just barely keeping her son fed, she just couldn’t afford to get him anything else. But she was a piece, that mom of his. A real caring lady that one. She coddled that sack of hers everyday of her life like he’d just come out of her. When she died he became my weight. I ‘d never known what a tub he was until that day. But I jump ahead, let me cut back a bit. Continue reading
I watch her. Shoulders bare, exposed, blessedly white. That skin of hers a milky hue, virginal, alluring, and all too tempting. She moved to taunt at my desires. Hips swaying and dropping to each side with small strides she walks away from me. It’s this dance, it calls me straight to her. I see her every day like this, and nothing about it has ever seemed monotonous, only beautiful. But I’ve never told her this. Breaking that silence, leaking that tempted desire, it would weaken me too much I think, so I hold my tongue, and I remember the night I met her. Continue reading