My newest book, "Lightning" has been out for a little while now, but it suddenly occurred to me that I've not really told people all that much about it. This anthology contains quite a mixed bag of flash and short stories. I'm quite proud of it (hey, I've already succumbed to Lust, so what's another deadly sin between friends?)
Some of the stories are intensely personal. Some are complete fantasy. Maybe you can pick which is which!
As a taste of what's inside, I now present an entire flash story, complete with "Director's Commentary"! This story was originally my entry for the third round of Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon. The single-word prompt to develop the story from was "stilettos".
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So, this one should have been a shoe-in, right? (See what I did there!?) I mean, who among us can deny the power of the stiletto? They create a delightful aesthetic, and seem to be a wonder of engineering, much like the women who wear them (how on Earth does anyone actually walk in those things?)
I’ve known men who react to the sound of heels on pavement like a sprinter reacts to the starter’s gun.
So in tackling this story, I began to think how something as “unnatural” as stilettos could have such a profound erotic effect on so many people. Exactly what part of a man do those shoes sing to?
On a side note, for some reason I always imagined this story being read by Kiefer Sutherland’s character from “A Few Good Men”. Where he uses that lyrical southern accent.
Father taught me young how to hunt. He stressed the dominion of man over all creatures.
“God took away our claws and gave us minds, boy. This ain’t about food. We don’t pick off the sick and injured. We take the ones in their prime. That’s how we know our worth.”
He would not admit the wolf within him. With rifle and mind he would cow his senses.
I have left the woods, and my father, behind. In the cold swarm of the city, my mind and body make peace. I hunt for pleasure, guided by movement and sound.
The click of stilettos on concrete almost has a scent. It summons the wolf, the beast that still hunts from need, not for validation.
Yet the mind God gave me sees a trophy to adorn my wall. She will take pride of place as I mount her against it.
She is young and tender, still finding her footing. Her heels scrabble at the street. She totters, a stricken doe. Her hair taunts like a tail. Thighs like throats pulse against each other, and beg for my teeth.
God may have taken her claws, but the ones on her shoes will leave trophies all over my back.
She is in her prime.
And I know my worth.
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Available from Amazon, Excessica, and all sorts of naughty places.