WIP-Equinox

Since finishing Aura my brain has been filled with nothing but ideas so after much protest from my husband, the sequel, Equinox is well underway. So far 22 chapters are in first draft with an expectancy of about 40 chapters in total. I know that sounds huge but the chapters are short as they alternate between the view points of Grace and Evan, getting my readers excited about hearing what Evan has to say.
Equinox follows the trials and tribulations of Grace and Evan's new life together as they battle to keep their new family safe from something they never perceived to exist. What that is, I can't tell you just yet, but let's just say we haven't heard the last from our old friend Thomas.
Focusing on family values and continuing with Aura's primary theme of unconditional love, Equinox is sure to have you valuing the sanctity of family and praying that your family doesn't have secrets quite like these!

LHxo

Grace's opening chapter on Wordle

And now Grace has her turn. Looks like there's only
one thing on her mind! I can't blame her.

Evan's opening chapter on Wordle

Just for a bit of fun... These are the most commonly used
words in chapter one of the sequel to Aura, Equinox,
written in the male protagonist's point of view.

Terminal

Clang of doors, bang
Rumble of turbines, ding of the bell
Sleep sleep

Shriek of a child, mum
Hum of the sweeper, click of high heels
Sleep sleep

Warm on my face, sun
Cotton in my mouth, dry, itchy skin
Sleep sleep

Growl in my belly, pang
Burn of my eyes, ache in my heart
Sleep sleep

Portrait of a Kiss

I bet he loved his job, painting all the pretty women that lined up on the street. They all adored him but they didn’t know just how shallow he really was. He would strut along the pavement on audition day:

“Too skinny, too ugly, you look like a boy...”

He was one to talk with his round belly, balding head and bad personal hygiene. These young women were paying him to paint their portrait. It was disgusting. I changed my mind about the audition and headed off down the street. A young man, not much older than I turned the corner a few yards ahead. I pulled my coat in tighter and bowed my head. I prayed to God a gust of wind wouldn’t blow my jacket up, exposing my scant under garments beneath my thick grey pea coat. The man doffed his golf cap and I smiled politely under my flapper hat, not making eye contact. I walked on, my heart thudding with worry as I imagined my backside being revealed by the unkind breeze but it almost stopped dead when he spoke.

“Ma’am?”

I froze on the near deserted street. Why did he want to talk to me?

“Excuse me?” he called again. His voice was soft and gentle. I turned slowly toward him.

“Yes?” My voice was thin.

“Did he reject you?”

His curious words caught me off guard. “I-I’m sorry?”

“If he rejected you he is a moron.” He was so sincere.

“Oh.” I lifted my head a little higher. “Well, no, he didn’t reject me. I left.” I tilted my hat so I could see him better. He was a handsome man with a square yet soft jaw and smiling grey eyes. Loose brown curls protruded from the bottom of his cap. He wore beige slacks and a waistcoat, his hands in his pockets. His rolled up sleeves exposed his forearms.

“You have beauty and brains.” His smile lit up his face like lights on a stage.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I felt rude asking but he seemed as if he knew Mr Westley the unsavoury artist aforementioned.

He extended his hand. “I’m Jonathon Wicks, Mr Westley’s assistant.”

I shook his hand gently, as all ladies do. “Evelyn Scott, it’s a pleasure.” I withdrew my gloved hand.

“Evelyn, what a beautiful name. Why are you leaving?”

Now I smiled, more to myself. I’d tell him the truth.

“Mr Westley is a pervert and I don’t even like his art.”

“That's a bold first impression. Then why were you auditioning?” A cheeky grin crossed his ridiculously handsome face.

My only response was to blush. He laughed heartily.

“Let me show you my own art.”

“You’re an artist?” I scoffed.

He shrugged. I spied his hands. They looked soft and delicate, his nails all short and even. They were creative hands.

“What kind of art do you specialise in?”

“I paint nudes.”

I turned away in disgust but he grabbed my arm gently.

“Mr Wicks! Take your hands off me!” I didn’t yell but he should have understood I was rather displeased with his uncouth behaviour towards a lady.

He pulled me in closer to his face. He smelled sweet and I was surprised to find I didn’t feel the need to pull away.

“I’m only asking you to look, Ma’am.”

I examined his diamond like eyes. They were so kind and gentle looking. Eyes like these didn’t lie. He released my arm and turned away. I followed him, as he had expected.

His studio was small but bright and airy. A red velvet chaise stood in the corner, shimmering in the sunlight that poured in from the window like liquid gold. A plain wooden stool sat before the open window and an empty easel and a table of brushes, jars and tubes of paint at its side took up the rest of the floor space. A closet full of canvases spewed colours of the rainbow, predominantly peach, bared buttocks and breasts the main theme.

I stepped closer to the canvases while Jonathon placed the easel to the side. His paintings were wonderfully tasteful and the realism of their faces captured my heart.

“These are incredible,” I whispered, looking through the art.

Jonathon stepped inside the small room and began fishing through the frames. He pulled out a somewhat small piece portraying a black haired woman reclined on the velvet chaise. Every tiny detail was painted so intricately, he must’ve studied her for countless hours.

“She is stunning,” I gasped, reaching to the frame for a closer inspection. Indeed she was with her full red pout, dark eyelashes and amazing blue eyes.

“She isn’t real,” Jonathon confessed with a smile.

“Pardon?” I said, a little surprised.

“I didn’t use a model for the painting, for many of these paintings. These are women in my head.”

I stared at him in bewilderment, clutching the canvas. “I don’t believe you!”

“But you must! I normally paint portraits of the interesting but less attractive women that pass through Mr Westley’s studio.” I set the black haired woman aside as he pulled out a less than perfect girl. Her eyes were staring in different directions – one inwards, one straight ahead - but she was very pretty. Again the detail was incredible.

“Paint me,” I instructed, folding my arms and facing him.

He pursed his lips and pulled them to the side ever so adorably. He folded his arms and examined me from a comfortable distance.

“What are you wearing under your coat?”

I willingly opened it and pulled the shoulders back. A black silk bustier and matching knickers and suspender belt covered the majority of my torso. However, my stockings were uneven and my shoes were splattered with dirt. My attire was a little saucier than I would have intended for an unknown artist. I was slightly embarrassed by the state of my shoes. My tram had stopped right by a puddle and two unruly boys splashed mud on me.

Jonathon, unperturbed by the feet turned away and stood by the window in thought. I buttoned my coat and perched on the nearby stool. I too gazed out the window, waiting patiently for a response. Scant drops of rain sparkled in the orange sunlight.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right,” I smiled, folding my hands. “What would you like me to do?”

He tugged the chaise over to the window and I moved out of the way and removed my coat. The fresh air dried my sticky arms. He carefully positioned the lounge so the light was just right then began rummaging through a box under the table of brushes. He pulled out a red boa and wound it around my neck. I went to remove my hat but he shook his head.

“Leave that, it’s perfect.” His words were just a whisper. “Lay down for me.”

I slid onto to the lounge and he began arranging my limbs like a puppet. I giggled as he fiddled, the boa's feathers tickling my nose. He rearranged that too and stepped back a few paces.

“Now don’t move.”

He fetched a blank canvas from the closet and settled it on the easel. He opened his waistcoat and unfastened the buttons on his shirt then began sketching with a piece of chalk, his face peeking out from the white fabric frequently. He then exchanged the chalk for a brush and began dabbing it in the pools of black, red, yellow and peach. His eyes followed the lines of my face along with his brush. He worked silently, beautifully. The San Francisco summer rain pitter-pattered gently on the rooftop creating a special kind of music. It was very relaxing, laying in the sunshine listening to nature's music. Occasional drops of golden rain sprayed me unexpectedly from the open window. Jonathon’s silver eyes examined my face, my body so professionally. His forehead glistened and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room had become stuffy with the heat and rain.

Several moments later Jonathon threw his brush on the table in annoyance.

“I have to stop,” he called through the canvas. He sounded very disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, still not moving in case he changed his mind.

“This weather is too wet, the paint isn’t drying enough and the colours are blending. You can relax now, Miss Scott.”

I sat up and removed the infernal feather boa that not clung to my skin. I covered myself with my coat, even though I was insanely hot, and joined Jonathon by the easel. He lit a cigarette and the smoke danced in circles. He stood with one hand by his head, the cigarette hugged by his index and middle fingers while his other hand met his bent elbow. He examined his work. I too looked to the canvas. My mouth opened.

“Jonathon!” I gasped.

It was absolutely stunning. In the short time I was laying there he had a nearly finished painting of me, navel up gazing out the window. He captured my brown waves of hair wonderfully, my red lips and pointed chin. My dark lashes and thin brows were almost identical. I could see his interpretation of sun's golden rays across my face. The paint still shone wet and fresh. I noticed the sections where it began to mash - between the red from the boa and the black from my bustier.

“Once the details go into the eyes, the nose... and then finish the rest, it will be better.” He mumbled when he spoke, his disappointment apparent.

“Better?” I shrieked. “You are so talented! You are much better than that fat old man!”

He smiled coyly as he inhaled a smoky breath.

“If you’re flattering me because you have no money, please stop.”

“I am not joking, Mr Wicks. You are gifted.” I said this as seriously as possible but he still chuckled softly.

“All right, if you insist.” He turned to his brushes and began cleaning them.

“I do insist. Please, let me come back so you can finish it. I will pose again for you whenever you like. Please, Mr Wicks. I want to help you. I want to get your name out there so that everyone can enjoy the beautiful art you bring into this world.” I sounded desperate, and I was.

He shook his head as he rinsed his brushes, wiping them in the direction of the fine bristles. His cigarette hung precariously between his lips.

“Fine. You may pose for me again.”

“Thank you!” I cried victoriously, grasping his arm. He set his clean brushes aside and turned to me. “How can I pay you? How much do I owe?”

“Never mind the money,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his cigarette laden hand. "I don't want it."

“No, please. It’s the least I can do.”

He lowered his hand from his face after taking a long drag. He blew the smoke towards the window out of the corner of his mouth.

“You want to pay me?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

I nodded.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me ever so gently with a slightly open mouth. His lips lingered on mine for a moment long enough to feel the wet warmth of his face soak into mine and the scent of his subtle cologne to dance in my nostrils. He slowly pulled away leaving me dazed and wordless.

That cheeky smile crossed his face again.

“Consider your debt paid.”

Short Ass

Tippy, Tappy and Geronimo looked ridiculous in their get up. They were their clown names of course, well, except for Geronimo. His mother was most certainly the most evil woman alive, calling her son such a name. It was bad enough he was born with Achondroplasia (a kind of dwarfism for you not-so-smarts) but to call a child such a preposterous name? No wonder he joined the circus. It was his destiny.
Me? I’m Dolores, a miniature donkey, a short ass. We were a quartet of midgets. Tippy (Gerald to be exact) was my carer. He’s a sweet guy, a little rough when he brushes my mane before a show, but he looks after me well. Tappy (Mark) was quite frankly a jerk. Some people often accuse ‘little people’ of having big attitudes. Well, this was certainly the case for Tappy. Sometimes I’d kick him and run away just for existing. He’d call me a stupid ass and then I’d poop in his bag. I bit him during a show once because he tried to set my tail on fire. We loved to hate each other.
Tonight was going to be interesting. Mark decided it would be a really funny trick to put gin in the donkey’s water. Gerald was ever so nice as to refill my bucket after I kicked it over but I hadn’t planned my revenge just yet. He had it coming to him though. Like a great big freaking freight train.
I didn’t explain the nights show did I?
Well now... We’re clowns. We do funny things to make simple minded people laugh (because people that look different are apparently really hilarious. Rude. We don’t laugh at ‘normal’ people). The trio of shrimps (I’m allowed to call them that!) run about with silly hats and shoes and gadgets that spray water and so on tormenting each other. I admit, our best show was actually a fight between Mark and Geronimo. Bickering dwarves must just be funny to watch because the crowd was going nuts. As usual, I stepped in and act as the peacemaker and the show goes on as per normal.
I usually enter on my cue and the crowd aww’s because I am so ridiculously cute you just want to squeeze me so tight my stuffing will come out. We do our Shrek act (where two of the dwarves sit on each other’s shoulders donning a blanket painted to look like the green ogre, complete with head. Then I stand beside them and continue looking cute while an overhead dialogue tape plays. Gerald gives me signals - which I’ve memorised, but he doesn’t know that – and I pretend to be the irritating little donkey. It’s rather derogatory but the kids love it and I love the kids) and I do a few little tricks then the other guys take over.
Anyhow, tonight’s show was different. These three men looked absolutely ridiculous because we weren’t in the tent tonight. I wasn’t too sure, but I think we were in a theatre. I couldn’t tell you, I was just a donkey. A ridiculously cute one. For the first time in a long time, I was nervous about a show, if you could call it that. It was really more like a nightmare. Can you imagine the Rocky Horror Picture Show entwined with Arabian Nights? We’re talking donkeys and fishnets. Gerald looked petrified. His manhood was only just concealed behind a red satin thong. I was even more concerned because I kept hearing something about ‘Tippy riding Dolores onto the stage’. Mark and Geronimo had full briefs on. Poor Gerald. What did he deserve to get stuck in the man-thong? If I earned an income from this degrading job, I’d put $20 on one of his nuts falling out. The thought of that made my skin crawl. I brayed in self pity but copped a smack on the nose by Mark. He had better watch himself tonight. In the words of Donkey I was ‘a donkey on the edge’!
I scooted to my bucket to find it missing thanks to the stunt Tappy pulled earlier.
That little man was so evil, I wanted to kick him hard in the head. Maybe that would knock some sense into him! I nervously paced backstage while the boys finished getting ready. Camisoles, boas, gloves. I had really seen too much.
My mouth was so dry I began a desperate search for water. I smelled everything carefully to make sure it wasn’t gin again and I found a glass. Being vertically challenged certainly had its setbacks. I knocked over the glass, tipping the water everywhere. No! That was the only source of water! I tried licking my lips to make my mouth water but nothing helped. Gerald (bless his heart) presumed I was hungry and shoved a fistful of hay in my mouth. He meant well but it made things much worse. I tried to spit it out but the sticks stuck to my tongue! A carrot! An apple! Anything! At least it wasn’t chaff. I think I would’ve choked to death on that. Choking to death would’ve been handy right about now.
“You’re up boys!” the stage director called.
Someone slung a veil over my head and Gerald attached my lead rope and stood beside me, stroking me gently.
I had no idea what was going on! We hadn’t rehearsed anything new! I began to panic.
I licked my lips and stretched my mouth, trying to get the sharp sticks of hay out from my cheeks. The stabbing hurt so badly. Someone finally entered the room with a fresh bucket of water. Without hesitation, I darted towards the bucket, yanking Gerald with me. I only sucked down three long gulps until I was dragged side stage by Mark and Gerald. Mark was growling as he tugged my lead rope. I needed more water. Gerald gave up and stood aside but Mark insisted I get on stage immediately before I ended up with a button fastened tail like Eeyore.
That’s it. I’d had a gutful.
I spun around and marched onto the stage with Gerald clambering onto my back and Mark tripping over himself as I shoved him out the way. I stood in the centre of the stage with the two pint sized men hanging off me. A little shaken, the boys composed themselves and Geronimo signalled for us to come back. We weren’t meant to be on stage yet apparently since a man I didn’t know stood at the front of the stage talking to the crowd. He turned to look at us and we froze. Gerald slid off my back and the crowd roared with laughter.
It happened.
Gerald spun around and corrected his wardrobe malfunction. I brayed, laughing. Mark led me back off stage, howling with laughter, his make-up smudging with the tears of laughter that streaked his face.
Take two.
Gerald was dressed correctly now and I allowed him to climb aboard. He hung on tight and his legs wrapped around my belly felt somewhat comforting.
Our cue finally came and Geronimo waddled onstage to begin our act. He gave me the signal and I walked sensibly back onto the stage. Then I remembered I hadn’t got my revenge on Mark yet. I watched him carefully as he performed his improv. The crowd laughed. Why wouldn’t they? We were funny looking right?
Mark’s shiny gold underwear was captivating as they sparkled in the stage lights. I plotted my revenge.
I waited patiently for my chance. Then Gerald slid off my back – without any more wardrobe malfunctions – and stood beside me. I was free now, I went for it.
In one quick moment I took Mark’s bloomers in my mouth and tugged. They tore away with an audible rip and I made a dash for the stage exit, gold undies in my mouth. I kicked and bounced away victoriously as Mark stood half naked and red faced with the crowd erupting into thunderous laughter.
I couldn’t believe my luck! The green room door was open. I ran as fast as I could through the door knocking over the bucket in my wake. Footsteps and yelling followed me but I continued through the maze of halls until I broke free into the night. I galloped down the busy NYC street with the gold jocks in my mouth and a cast of strange characters yelling behind me. Nothing stood in my way. My way to freedom.