short shorts: May 2016

Monday, May 30, 2016

Dream Time Dancing

It was another dreadful Monday in Milwaukee. The day was very grey without yielding to any warmth or sunshine, after all this was winter in Wisconsin. I was back at work as a data entry clerk. Take one column of numbers from one log and enter it into yet another log. Column after column, day after day. I had learned to dull my brain enough to make this repetitive task almost endurable. By doing thisbrain exercise, I became very good at my job.

When I went home, I ate a light dinner and sat down on the bed. I found that if I looked over my shoulder, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other place. That place of magic where fairy tales live. If I fell back quickly into that space, I could go there, not just look. It was the escape that made my life at work bearable. I could dance all night with one handsome prince after another.

There were no conversations just beguiling smiles and an occasional wink. At one point I began to feel as if I became heavier while dancing. As if something was sitting on me making it difficult to move. Almost as if someone was standing on the train to my gown. Suddenly I felt lighter and a new Prince appeared. I had never seen him at the ball before. We danced and I recognized him. He was the man who delivered the office mail. The man who brought me the endless columns of figures. In the real world he was a pimply kid, but here he was actually handsome Prince, my Prince.

That morning when I awoke, my tattered dancing shoes were on the floor, and my Prince was asleep beside me. He woke and we smiled. Sometimes fantasies can be shared. We had stayed on in that other world and would never have todeal

with numbers again.

First published: May 2016
© All rights reserved by the writer
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Googling Down Memory Lane

Sandy Vrooman

The day begins and the muse, I have missed as of late, shows up for breakfast asking questions. Is that fluffy bread you are eating really qualified to be called a bagel? Look at your feet.

Looking down, I see my Grandmother’s toes and memories flood my mind. Now I am the one that has trouble reaching my toes in order to trim them. At the time I watched her pedicure process, it was the end of the Great Depression.

A child of ten again, I remember growing up in Chicago’s south side in the shadow of Midway Airport in one of the yet to be developed neighborhoods. There were only seven houses on our side of the street, eight across the street and behind them “the prairie”.

The muse says, “Try to Google your past, isn’t everything you need on the internet?” Finding memory lane clogged with change, I found the area where I had lived packed with houses and a large park. Now my youth seems farther away than my toes.

The trips to Maxwell Street, one of the largest open air markets in the states, comes into focus. The surrounding neighborhood was referred to as the Ellis Island of the Mid West; a melting pot of cultures - Greek, Italian, Jewish and Black - living side by side with acceptance. We frequented the part called Jew Town the most. It was the place where almost anything could be found at a bargain.

My Mother wouldn’t let us buy bagels from the open stalls, twelve hard, small pieces of bread sold on a string, but Grandma would take a 2 hour bus ride each way to get them. To be careful as possible, she would wash off any probable contamination from the bagels before we could eat them.

There was the semiannual excursion from our house on Kostner Avenue to Jew Town to buy coats. It took over an hour to get there by car back then, now a Goggle map says 17 minutes if you take the Dan Ryan expressway. Our travels would take us up and back between several stores trying on coats. My Mother kept bargaining with the merchants to lower the price, waiting for that moment, as we were walking out the door, to finally agree to a cost she would accept as reasonable…oh, the embarrassment of it all.

The prairies are gone, Maxwell Street has been moved to accommodate the University. Google says the mile I walked to school is really only half a mile, but my toes are still there. The muse suggests a professional pedicure before she leaves for her next appointment.

First published: November 2015
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Carving, aRewarding

Hobby

Sandy Vrooman

Stitch is my street name, ‘cause I like to cut people, who need stitching. Sometimes I leave them barely alive but so disfigured that they would be better off dead. Their suffering gives me a thrill. I’m a psychopathic killer.

Some jerk offed me. Maybe he got his kicks that way. One thing about being so called crazy is that I see the world different. I see those parts that keep the world turning, but you guys have never heard of them. You normies can’t see them, the spirit world maybe obscure to you, but not to me. I know this unearthly place and I’ve managed to escape several times.

When people die, they go back to the agency for an overhaul and a reissue. We newly dead and preborn mingle for a while, exchange some information or talents. The preborn go out and the newly dead become preborn. I’ve escaped several times. This time I was too anxious. There was someone I just had to kill in the worst way. She said I had a tiny dick and I wasn’t a real man. So I jumped an unborn and took a quick ride out.

Now the administrators at the agency didn’t catch me. That is I didn’t think they caught me until I was born. I had nine months to plan the killing. It would be a slow torture and near the end she would beg me to kill her, or maybe not. If she craved death I would deny her. I would find a basement and duct tape her to the wall. Then cut off one of her fingers with the axe, quickly stuff it in her mouth and do a quick duct tape so the finger stayed in her mouth, bleeding. I stuffed her toes up her cunt, the other fingers up her ass one at a time. The horror on her face is so luscious.

What!

I was being born and when they handed me to my Mother, I screamed. It was my arch enemy! The woman I had sworn to kill was now my Mother! My anger boiled over with a passion I didn’t know was possible. When they put me to nurse, I bit her tit as hard as I could, then continued to scream.

They had to put me in a special nursery, so my screams would not disturb the other patients. The diagnosis was severe autism. I was locked in a cement room with bars on the windows

. The spirits came to taunt me. The only way out was to bash my head against the concrete floor. I lost consciousness several times only to hear their laughter again. Finally I heard nothing.

First published: November, 2013
© All rights reserved by the writer
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What We Want the Most

Sandy Vrooman

As fairy god-madam I get to play with all the sexual fantasy requests phoned into our agency. I get to use the candidates first to see if they have potential. My turn on the night shift in New Orleans brings out the weird ones. Take Jerome Prince. If he could clone himself that would be his ideal lover. He wanted a woman that matched all his physical characteristics except she would be the opposite gender. I had tried to talk him into the same gender with a hair dye job and colored contacts, but no…he wanted what he called the real thing.

Just describing what he wanted started both him and me panting, six foot,slim

with small but definite boobs, hair cut like his, a need to dominate, and to dress him in her clothes. She would be wearing a custom leather corset that covered her body from arm pits to knees. It would lace up the back (I just had to try this on with or without his conscent), and stiletto heels. He wanted the underwear to be a surprise. Something he could fantasize. Would it be slippery wet looking pink satin, very transparent white lace, or even shiny black leather? He would imagine the different sensation each would bring. The tactile smooth slide of the satin, lace just inviting to be torn off with the mock innocence it represented, or the strong dominant leather.

Oh the shoes…platform stilettos, with the highest heels possible. She would have the arrogance to dress like a bottom with a defiant look that would melt his heart and raise his cock. He had parties to show off these women. I told them to leave by midnight or lose the fee. They ran across the back patio and would lose one or both their heels in the soft asphalt.

I had been working on the case for three months and was ready to give up until I found Cindy. She would do anything for a man who would lick her shoes. She was slim but still feminine. Hot enough that I thought of keeping her for myself. Well they hit it off, I know, I was there, I got to watch them both get hot. So hot, the party ended early and Cindy led Prince off to his room on a penis leash. I had a camera hidden in Prince's room (wanna see the video?). It was a match made in hell and they lived in a pain filled ecstasy for ever after.

First published: August, 2012
© All rights reserved by the writer
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All By Himself

Sandy Vrooman

I watched him, watched from my hiding place. If he had known of my proximity he would have picked a different site. I watched as he analyzed the area and chose. He cleared the site and began to build, bringing in materials from various sources. A self-reliant guy, he stepped back and admired his work. Then and only then, he flew off to find a mate.

I watched from behind the curtain, out thewindow

. My old apple tree had some deadwood that was good for carving. He picked the spot on the underside of a trunk with an old twig for a perch. It was a very well thought out design.

I had a fleeting sensation that this was the woodpecker's first nest. I wonder what it is about a survival system that lets him bang his head into a wall repeatedly and be able to still function. There were obstacles he addressed and removed, like trying to get a long twig into a small hole. It took him several tries before he turned the twigs sideways.

He found her, and wooed her, and they moved in. In no time, mornings were announced by the demanding cheeps of baby birds.

Fall came and the family left. This winter finally turned to spring and the birds tried to return but, the tree had rotted too much, and they moved on. It was for the best, the local cats seemed to have stepped up their vigilance.

First published: May, 2012
© All rights reserved by the writer
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When Wishes Come True
Sandy Vrooman

Once upon a time there were three sisters, Amanda, Isabel, and Grace Buckworth. After the births of their first two the Buckworth’s had visited the old woman at the edge of the wood and wished for a normal child. Dear reader, you will understand as you delve further into the story.
The Buckworth’s were thrilled when Amanda moved out and changed her name to Domina Lash. Her kinkiness had put such a stigma on the family, they were only too happy to disassociate. Especially after the porno chamber of commerce listed her as an attraction.
Ron, the perfect gentleman, dated all three sisters, one after the other. He was someone the Buckworth’s thought would be the perfect son in law. Ron had never disagreed with a woman. He honored all of Amanda/Domina’s requests, licked her boots, and scrubbed her back as directed. She didn’t think too much of this. What good was a slave who never disobeyed you, and never needed discipline? She eventually found someone who screamed loud enough in ecstasy. She cut Ron loose, so to speak. He was not her perfect mate.
Isabel, in typical sibling rivalry, was as opposite her older sister as possible. She was so prim and proper that even she had never seen her adult body naked. Isabel turned down an invitation to join a devotional convent that took vows of chastity, austerity and silence. She though they lacked self discipline.
Ron, obeyed Isabel’s every requirement. They spoke only if they had a barrier between them. Ron stuck to the assigned topics, but the description of what Ron was contained a forbidden word, the opposite s**. Being a “he” meant Ron was less than perfect, he left at her request.
Grace, the third sister, turned out just right. The fees paid to the old woman were worth it. Their wish had been granted. This happens in stories that begin “once upon a time." Ron and Grace dated for a while and realized they had the makings of a perfect couple. She read books while he listened to sports, and he listened to every word she said. They even enjoyed shopping together. After an appropriate time of courtship, and the beginning of them becoming fuzzy around the edges, they married.
Strange, though, only their families remember the wedding (1). As Ron and Grace’s sublime existence began to meld two into one, day by day, they became more difficult to see. No one remembers what happened to them after they moved into their perfect little home.
There is no such thing as normal. Be careful what you wish for.

(1) The ink on the marriage license has vanished, City Bureau of Records, 1943, Topeka, KS.

Biographical Information & Other Works
First published: November, 2010
© All rights Reserved
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

Tricksters of the Trade
Sandy Vrooman

Mehwanomi, born to the Meskwaki (Fox) people, was the daughter of a much feared sorceress. Shunned by the tribe because of her Mother’s reputation, she lived in her departed Mother's lodge on the shore of a large lake. Accustomed to solitude, she felt no loss, but her people, pushed from their ancestral lands by European invaders, did feel loss, acutely. They felt betrayed by her mother as well.
During her solitary time, a white man stumbled into Mehwanomi’s lodge, feverish, incoherent, and hungry. She gave him some willow bark tea and a simple broth until he recovered enough to feast on her acorn and rabbit stew.
His thanks was to woo and seduce her, providing a need for closeness and affection she had never felt before. Mehwanomi thought that anything that felt that good was a gift of the Manitos. He convinced her he was also Meskwaki, one of her people, because part of his name, Jean Claude Reynard, was fox in his language.
Jean Claude, a seasoned trickster, taught her how to experience the ultimate satisfaction in their relations and how best to reciprocate. When he left, she followed. For the first time in her life there was something she did not want do without.
Jean Claude had a lodge bigger than anything she could imagine, in a village so large; Mehwanomi thought it must have no end. He taught her how to function in his world and even provided her with a servant, a Japanese woman named Kitsune, also a fox.
The two women rapidly became close. Kitsune further enlightening Mehwanomi in the lore of fox magics, something her Mother neglected to do. When Jean Claude tired of the two women and left them for new adventures, they felt betrayed. Through the power of suggestion, they brought Jean Claude's shadydealings to the attention of the authorities.
When he was hauled away, Mehwanomi felt a longing for the forest and convinced Kitsune to travel back with her. The village had been attacked, burned and abandoned and her people moved further from their ancestral home. Even though the village had shunned Mehwanoi, she felt a cord to her past had been severed. Kitsune suggested they go back to town and try their luck.
Relying on fox logic and the skills Jean Claude had taught them, they formed a business partnership. Slowly and surely by creating and collecting gambling debts, and selling other favors, they became very powerful women. Both vowed to never take in or be taken in by a hungry man again.

First published: August, 2010
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

By the Book
Sandy Vrooman

My forced retirement from Bibble and BlakeAccounting Services was an abrupt change, but; I found a little dog, a lot like me, who woke me every day at precisely six forty five a.m. - weekday or weekend. I would prepare my English muffin and tea, and give the little dog his kibble. Next we took out the trash and watered the garden.  At twelve noon, I had a boiled egg and cottage cheese, after lunch the little dog and I took a nap.  At two thirty he woke me and we checked the mail. From three p.m. till dinner time we did those things that needed to be done, but not every day.  On Monday it was laundry, Tuesday was house cleaning, Wednesday grocery shopping. On Thursday we pulled weeds in the garden, Friday we went to the library, Saturday was a day to take tea, and Sunday a day of rest and meditation.
On a morning that started as usual, it happened.  A large rat stood between us and the garbage can.  The littledog barked, but the rat would not move.  I just knew he would be there every morning. Isn’t that how things work?   We could no longer empty the trash, let alone leave the house by the back door, the best way to the outside world. I began storing trash in the basement in an orderly pattern until I found another solution.   With great reluctance, I had groceries delivered.  We could at least continue eating.
We heard the skitterings of rats below.  I locked that door and used the back bedroom for trash.  Soon I heard rats everywhere.  The little dog and I felt safest in the front bedroom.
One morning the little dog did not wake me.  He was there at the foot of the bed, stiff and lifeless.  I had to put him in the freezer. Without hisprotection, I could no longer open the door, knowing the rats were waiting. The mail box was overflowing and the house was quite full of trash.  No longer trusting even phone contact with the outside, the automatic grocery orders began to pile up on the step.  I had stopped eating.
When they came for me, I would not open the door, perhaps the rat and his minions had colluded with them to get me.  The home they sent me to felt safe with bars on thewindow and a locked door, but they didn’t bring me the right things to eat.  Imagine oatmeal and coffee for breakfast.  When they strapped me to the bed and stuck the needle in my arm, I knew everything was lost.  Those rats had won after all.

First published: August, 2009
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

…Do Us Part
Sandy Vrooman

Relationships between men and women end up containing a given that is unwritten and not comprehended by either party until it is too late. In 1849 that meant, no matter how romantic the situation, a wife was the sole property of her husband.

Lilly fed the chickens and slopped the pigs after she did the laundry then went in to bathe. Jared was waiting to bind her tightly into her corset so they could stroll down the streets of San Francisco as if they were still gentry. Lilly was glad to draw on gloves. Without them, the façade of being a lady would not hold up.

She had seen Jared as an exciting escape from the vice grip that caused her Mother to take her life, the madness of a brilliant, but confined woman. By the time they went west, Jared put Lilly on a shelf and found other play things to amuse him. Being a gentleman, he would not do manual labor. His idea was to continue life as he had in Boston. He must have figured the gold would rush to him. Without a staff to support his life style Lilly now had to keep a house on her own. It was what everyone expected, except Lilly. She felt herself being consumed by her mistake.

When the out house burned down with Jared inside, Lilly was out shopping. No one suspected a lady capable of such an act. Contractual obligations fulfilled, she contemplated her new life.

First published: Aug, 2008
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

How it All Happened
Sandy Vrooman

In the beginning the gods sat wherever they wanted to, whenever they wanted to, and played marbles with the universe. The idea of the game was to keep the planets and stars out of the black hole. When they tired of the game and all the marbles were won, there was a leftover coprolite of a planet that no one claimed. It had nothing.

The gods turned away and, sat down again to add to the soup pot that was there from the beginning of time. Their bottomless cauldron fed them all, but one of the gods complained that the soup was too salty. So they dumped it on the unwanted planet and went to sleep.

Now, the gods play hard and they sleep hard, waking millennia later. Looking down at the soup-covered garbage rock, they saw changes. They saw the soup moving as if it were alive. Now they all wanted it; gods who never wanted anything before.
This new toy, this garbage planet that nobody wanted the gods kept fixing it trying to claim ownership. They created the moon to make the soup slosh from side to side. They gave it weather, made the insides grumble. To their surprise, it started belching and farting. Land appeared. Their soup stewed and roiled. Soup turned into water andplayed games with the sun, evaporating, forming clouds and then raining.
There had never been a conflict between the gods before. They were like a tight biker gang, their pack ran together. Now there were gods forming new gangs. Some minor gods we would later call tricksters moved to the tiny planet and named it earth. At the same time a group of the older male gods decided that they should be addressed with a capital "G".
Pan invented fauna and Flora invented the green stuff. Nuwa made little figures out of clay to play with and for the first time Gods and gods had worshipers. Skadi was jealous and froze solid everything that had been made. Saula melted everything, and all that was created beforeprospered. All animals had wisdom. Some two leggeds with opposable thumbs thought they were better, and tried to subdue all else. They claimed the soup as womb juice, leaving only water behind.
Now the only magic that is left is when a man stirs a woman's pot, life forms in that soup. Son, does that answer your question?

First published: May, 2008
comments to the writer: doorknobs@iceflow.com

Here, Kitty, Kitty
Sandy Vrooman

I'm one gorgeous cat. I let him live with me. He brings mates home who never purr when he strokes them. I wish he would listen, but when he most needs instructions, he throws me out.

I love to strut on point, tail high, to show I'm ready for pleasure. His last mate slams the door. We are alone.

I rub against him. He rubs my stomach. I'm in ecstasy. He says I'm more loving than any human female, wishes I could be his mate. I perk up my ears. How I have waited to hear these words. Just two more times.

I rub all over him, butt him with my head, lick his arms, purr while I writhe in his lap. His sex grows. He wishes I were his mate!

He wishes again, three times in one day! I have permission. I shape-shift!

I stretch and loose my fur, my arms and legs grow. My paws become fingers, but I keep my claws. He's been drinking. He thinks he's dreaming. His hard sex smells good. He enters me finishing quickly, not like a cat who can go again and again.

I mark him with scent, give him little love bites. I stroke and lick his sex and I feel him come back. We will mate again!

When we wake, he is frightened. I tell him I am his wish. I can see his sex harden. I go to him. He is learning to moan. I turn over and invite him to come in from the back like an animal. He does, but doesn't bite the back of my neck. I will have to teach him that.

I am hungry. I like human food. He says I must use tools or eat with my hands not lick the plate. This is stupid.

I begin to groom and caress myself, he helps. He has learned to bite and snarl. I have taught him well. He now licks the plate.

We have romped for several days, now it's difficult to rouse him. His sex looks like a dead and furless baby rat. He is used prey, almost breathing.

I do what I must. I bite his neck and drink his blood. As I finish, I change back into my cat shape.

The cleaning woman screams. She speaks into that black thing. People arrive and are truly shocked by what they find. They have no clue.

I am taken to one of those terrible places with cages and the smell of scared animals screaming their fear. I groom and wait. A human male looks into my cage. I begin to dance and strut. I look at him with trusting eyes and purr. He cannot resist. He takes me home.

First published: November 2005
comments to the writer: Knob'sWriter@iceflow.com

A Piece of Faerie Tail
Sandy Vrooman
Dorsal Winner

From The Misbegotten Wizards Almanac, by Ambrosius Braun, 1832 Fall Edition: Faerie, n. (also Fairy) A vain but beautiful creature known to have a profound lack of respect for all boundaries.

This story is unusual in that it happened only yesterday although it evokes memories of long ago and far away. One would think that a senior citizen would have immunity to the effects of a flirtatious faerie, but this is California after all.

My old sweetie heard her callings in his dreams, but didn't tell me. I didn't worry enough about keeping this, the ultimate love of my life. I had finally found my soul mate. He would stay with me forever. The abundance of exchanged love was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I had lived all my life waiting for this feast made of the communion of body, spirit, and soul, but I hadn't counted on magic to take him away.

When she finally showed up, she was half his age. She was a thin figure, almost transparent, but with an inner luminescence. I didn't take her for a faerie at first meeting. What I know about fairies doesn't prepare me to see them in jeans. I expected silver bells and moonbeams.

His first thought was to take this creature as a fosterling. She played the dutiful daughter, wove her web very carefully claiming to want my friendship as well as his, but I could see that when we were together she began to separate and encapsulate him, not unlike a spider. Too late I realized that her spell upon him was greater than my love.

She made one mistake. She thought we were both completely mortal. So when he met her on the astral plane in her dreams, she was very frightened, and battled to sever the cord they had both fashioned to bind themselves to each other. He held fast, but finally she cut the cord with a silver axe.

He was devastated by her act. Wounded almost past caring and living. Took off to the woods to nurse his wounds with a bottle of spirits. He went through the usual beastly changes fey folk do when beset by problems, bear, snake, charging tiger, and finally a demon combining all the aspects of the horridly injured soul.

They are gone. I am alone. She has gone on to new prey, he to wander the earth looking for what he has lost. The shield she put around him makes him blind to my love. I feel at this late date I best be satisfied with memory and dream. Lean fare to be sure.

First published: November, 2003
comments: knobs@iceflow.com