Categories
book reviews fiction film writing

Laughing Boy on the Horrorcast Podcast

A great, funny podcast about horror movies, tv and fiction. Steve has reviewed Laughing Boy and i will be a future guest, for an episode discussing Stephen Kings work as well as a more in depth conversation about Laughing Boy itself.

Please listen and share.

Categories
fiction wildness writing

A short walk

Picture this.

The woods at dusk. Tired birds sing overhead. Grey squirrels cross your path, as you bow to the magpies.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret which has never been told.

Your heart still skips at the sight of a pair. It seldom comes, but still, in your heart, magic blooms. Sense and experience refute it, but you continue to believe.

The dog gets a scent, pulls at the chain lead. The extendable leash is as much use as a wet fart in a space suit, broken by the force of canine instinct.

You can relate to it.

Through the trees, the glimpses of gleaming horn. Sybaritic lips, curled into a smile.

If you do not meet his eyes, hold a breath until you can find a turning back to the street, you get another day.

These ironies shouldn’t escape you. They do, but they shouldn’t.

He would love to talk to you. You would learn a valuable lesson but the cost, well, you know what it would cost you.

Keep walking. His breath caresses the nape of your neck, but you tell yourself it is the breeze. Twilight is crueller than night, and here he is strongest.

Not as strong as you, though.

There is time to compose yourself, dry your eyes and take deep, steadying breaths.

She says you were gone a long time. You aspire to nonchalance and go through to the living room, the dog looks at you, wishes you’d let him loose. You ruffle his favourite spot between his ears and use the bathroom.

Where no one can see your tears.

Categories
books erotica women writing

My Books

My hope is you’ve enjoyed the stories and poems here and you’re interested in more of my work.

If you’re looking for where you can read my books, here are the links. I value your support and in return you’ll get stories which will entertain and engage you as a reader. If you’re a reviewer, get in touch and I will be happy to offer a copy of these in exchange for a review across the internet.

My first book

As Dahlia Bliss

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B089TWR21J/ref=cm_sw_r_other_apa_i_LAa4EbKXFYG00 In paperback now.

Categories
books erotica romance women writing

Nothing Keeps Me Anywhere

A gripping tale of passion, redemption and secrets from the author of 51R and Lessons and Tests.
John is a self-improvement coach giving a speech at a conference when he meets Andrea, an ambitious MMA fighter. When their passionate physical relationship leads to professional disaster for John, he finds a path to redemption through his involvement with Andrea and the training team she has built around her. When John’s past returns to wreak more havoc on the new life he’s built for himself, he must decide whether his love is enough to make him stand firm or run.

Categories
books erotica fiction love women

Nothing Keeps Me Anywhere eBook: Bliss, Dahlia: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Out now for Kindle in ebook.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08C7VRPF6

A gripping tale of passion, redemption and secrets from the author of 51R and Lessons and Tests.
John is a self-improvement coach giving a speech at a conference when he meets Andrea, an ambitious MMA fighter. When their passionate physical relationship leads to professional disaster for John, he finds a path to redemption through his involvement with Andrea and the training team she has built around her. When John’s past returns to wreak more havoc on the new life he’s built for himself, he must decide whether his love is enough to make him stand firm or run.

Categories
books creative writing

The Lightning Rides

An excerpt from something new. Also new Dahlia Bliss is coming as well.

Zephyros ran through the night, calling The Lightning until his head pounded with the effort of speaking it. 

The thumping hooves of their horses and the joyous, terrified cries of men going to war. 

As a sixty feet column of brilliant white and blue light sliced through the trees in a serpentine arc, Zephyros Barak prayed for Ansel Mercer’s men to give up their pursuit.

He had shared his circumstances of birth with Mercer over dinner that same evening. Hatched from The Divine Egg, stolen from a dragon goddess who was tricked into surrender by his father. Mercer had sputtered on his wine and sat back aghast. 

Zephyros remembered the statutes in the hallway. The shard of diamond around his neck, hung on a length of cord. He believed they were affectations,  not beliefs held without shame. 

Zephyros put his hands up, spluttered something about being house trained.

Humour, he discovered, was another skill he lacked experience in. 

When Mercer reached to slash at him, screaming the word, abomination,  Zephyros realised he had been too honest about his circumstances.  Taking a wound to his forearm had distracted him from the concentration used to Speak, so instead he had ran, relying on surprise to make it out of the chamber, and then the courtyard before Mercer could act on his outrage. 

Zephyros remembered the papers he had left behind. A modest proposal to fund an expedition, researches and cataloguing the unknown lands to the south. He had planned to appeal to Mercers noblesse oblige but then he had plans for all sorts of things. 

His left forearm was sodden with blood, soaking through the sleeve of his robe and each step made it sing with pain. The wavering edges of his vision spoke to a blood loss which would overcome him faster than the men at his heels.

Ahead, the forest was growing thicker, and he continued his frenzied retreat as he heard arrows fly ahead.

Zephyros prayed the assertions of a greater destiny were not his moment of ironic demise. Which was when the arrow slammed into his left shoulder and he cries out with shock. He reached out, tested the shaft where it had gone in and his fingertips were sodden with blood.

Each breath was a furnace in his chest, and The Lightning slipped from his acuity.

Zephyros tried to keep up his pace but his wounds were bold with exhaustion and soon, he was staggering and stumbling over his feet as the shouts grew muted behind him.

Let me know what you think.

Categories
blogging books creative writing women

Platforms

So, I have a mailing list as a place where you can find out what I’m doing and thinking. It’s becoming increasingly attractive as a place to share.

If you’ve not been in a cave, then you’ve seen the way platforms change who they want to speak there.

I would like it if you signed up.

https://tinyletter.com/mbblissett

Categories
creative writing men wisdom writing

Father

If you had to invent your version of father,  or yours let you down. If you’ve let your children down, then I’m with you.
We project that it’s easy but it isn’t. A lot of it is you give up the time with them. A necessary separation from people you’d die for,  to support them. You don’t say anything about it because whining about it doesn’t matter. Yet you look at them and find comfort in having something worth dying for.

For me, my mistakes were in being afraid of them not liking me for making decisions which conflicted with their immediate desires.

I tell them I love them. They know what I mean by that. I’ve tested it but I know it exists and I thrive on it.

No man will tell you how it hurts to miss a moment of their children. How it hurts not to. You’re eternal and disposable in the same moment.

The moments of rage and terror come from your children.

Categories
erotica love women

Rain In The Afternoon

Photo by W R on Pexels.com

She had been squalling all day. A quiet irritation and restlessness had lent an edge to her demeanour. He had noticed it as he put the cup of tea down on the table that it would build and burn her out, then exhaust her. He could ignore it, but he saw how it hurt her and wanted to do something about it. She lived in the perpetual state of warring impulses, defended by rejection with the weapons made from her own fears, abandonment. Peace and resources, touch and thought. Meditation and prayer. He saw all this and loved her, anyway.  She was not his, but it was his turn. 

The responsibility stirred him. She picked up the pencil and continued to sketch. Another issue of their comic book, working from his script but her pencils and inks. Last month, they had gone to the movie premiere and laughed at how surreal it felt to see the late-night conversations come alive on the screen. He loved her work and had finished the script for the next issue, then sat at the kitchen table and watched her work as he rolled another cigarette. 

She caught him looking at her.

‘What?’ she said. 

Her voice was sharp.

He watched her face as he lit his cigarette and sat back in his chair.

‘You’ve been restless all morning.’ he said. 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

‘I’m not looking to define it but just acknowledging it is there.’ he said. 

She huffed and returned her attention to the page. He picked up his coffee and drank, then took a puff on his cigarette, which made his head swim with nicotine as he watched her. He could have gone home, which was a gordian knot approach to take, but he enjoyed her. She was a test as much as a celebration.  Most of the time, he watched her like the weather and dressed his soul according to what the sky of her predicted. 

It looked like rain this afternoon. 

He put the cigarette out and went to the sink, washed his hands and dried them as he turned and looked at her. 

‘I think you’re being a brat.’ he said. 

There was a playfulness to his voice which made her look up and pout. Her eyes narrowed and she set the pencil down.

‘No, I’m not. I just get like this sometimes. It’s not you.’ 

He walked over to her and shook his head. 

‘I know it’s not. But I know it needs addressing.’ he said. 

She fought the slight smile which burst on her lips like a sunrise. He tamped down his own pleasure in seeing the unspoken assertion of her playing along. Her depths were something he enjoyed, and no matter what else was going on between them, they played well together. 

‘Oh, does it now?’ she said. 

He nodded. 

‘Yes, it does. Now I have a responsibility to deal with it,’ he said.

She turned her head and pouted. He reached his right hand, palmed her jaw and splayed his fingers across her cheek. He felt her smile vibrate down into his hand as he turned her head towards him. There was no force in it, but there was power, easy and calm as she looked at him, pouting with a playful irritation. 

She grunted and tried to turn her head but he held her firm, grimacing as he put his other hand at the back of her head and gripped her hair hard enough to make her draw breath. 

‘Stand up.’ he said. 

She pushed the chair back and he pulled her hair again, made her gasp before she pouted and tried to pull away. 

‘I’ve been good, haven’t I?.’ she said. 

He shook his head and squeezed her jaw between his fingers as he stared at her. 

‘I decide that.’ he said. 

She smiled, breaking character for a moment, and he grinned before returning to an expression of brooding imperiousness. The delicacy of the pleasure he took was in its control. His heart thumped in his chest as he let go of her and took her left arm by the wrist. 

He walked her to the living room and let go. 

‘I want you to stand in the corner and think about how you’ve behaved.’ he said. 

She rewarded his attention with watching the delicious micro-conflict. The missed notes played often enough to become phrases in the symphony of her. She shuddered with delight as she lowered her head. 

‘That’s not fair.’ she said. 

He sighed and pointed towards the corner. 

‘Do as you’re told.’ he said. 

She snarled and turned away. He reached out and took her by the wrist and walked her to the corner, then put his hand on the small of her back, underneath her sweater and guided her into the corner. 

‘How long for?’ she said. 

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. 

‘Every time you ask, it gets longer.’ he said. 

She giggled and straightened up, put her hands by her side and pouted.

‘OK.’ she said. 

He got his coffee and brought through an ashtray and his pouch of tobacco, sat on the couch and rolled a cigarette. The air sung with tension but he absorbed it, letting the incipient vibration gather strength in the pit of his stomach. Looking at her was a pleasure and she moved her hips from side to side, knowing the thrill it gave them both.

‘Don’t fidget.’ he said. 

He lit the cigarette and made her wait for the time it took him to smoke it. 

‘I’m not.’ she said. 

He chuckled and watched her. The burn in his lungs from the cigarette mingled with the slow build of his arousal. She stood in the corner, trembling in silence, and when he crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray, he stood up and walked over to her. 

She turned around, but he told her to stay still. His voice was thick, a growl from his belly. They spoke a language of playful restraint and tension, and for all its art, it was a primal state of grace between them. 

He walked over to her and brought his arms around her from behind. His right hand rested on her stomach whilst his left hand came up and cupped her chin in his hand. She pressed back against him, found him hard and ready as she pushed her backside into his crotch, revelling in the hot squeeze of his arms around her. His breath was warm against her cheek. 

‘Have I been good?’ she said. 

He grunted and slipped his right hand under the waistband of her cotton pants and stroked the crotch of her panties. There was a warmth seeping through the cloth and he petted it with his fingertips. She sighed and pushed back again. He grunted and turned her head, brushed his lips against hers which made her give a small moan from the back of her throat. 

He plucked her underwear to one side and opened her with his fingers. She sighed as he pressed his index finger into the liquid heat of her, testing the unspoken assertion of her mood with a small circle which made her groan. 

Their lips danced and played with one another as he stroked her in small circles. She brought her arm around behind her, urged him closer as though she could push him into her. He bucked back and she softened. He came forward, keeping the rhythm of his fingers constant and focused as her arousal soaked his fingertips. Each stroke expressed delicious, deliberate friction, and they built upon one another. She pulled her mouth away from his, and her eyes were heavy-lidded with pleasure. 

‘Can I come?’ she said. 

He smiled and shook his head. His fingers found a spot which made her gasp and lean forward, palms to the wall as she squeezed out a plea for permission. 

‘No.’ he said. 

She shuddered and whimpered as she pulsed over his fingers. She pleaded with him and he denied her, knowing the anticipation was becoming unbearable and revelling in the power of being able to test her through his actions and their consequences. 

After her third request, he put his mouth to her ear and made her ask him again. She babbled through it, shaking with the war she was fighting, on the tightrope of an ecstasy which he took as his due. His fingers were a silken magic trick between her thighs and it was all she could do to hold on. 

He told her yes, and she cried out as she clutched for him. She pressed herself against him as she hollered through the pulsing spasms of propulsive delight, her skin alive with the crackling wonder of her orgasm. She felt, rather than thought, went into the place within where his hands and body, his words spun her into playful paroxysms of feeling. When the spasms subsided, they held one another in the corner. She kissed him all over his face, gasping and sighing as he enjoyed the febrile waves of heat coming off her. He petted her between her thighs, painting up her navel with her own juices as they kissed and murmured to one another. 

‘I feel so much better now.’ she said. 

He kissed her on the forehead. 

‘Good.’ he said. 

She glanced up at him and smiled as she stroked his face. 

‘Thank you. I will get those pages finished. You can get the washing in.’ she said. 

He grimaced and asked her why. She smiled and kissed him again. 

‘It looks like rain.’ she said. 

Categories
books fiction women

New Tiny Letter

I’ve posted a recent entry to the mailing list. If you’re interested, then clock on the link below and subscribe. The mailing list is important to me, as it allows for a line of communication which will survive the fluid nature of social media. You’d be getting somewhere which isn’t dependent on vagaries and opinions.

https://tinyletter.com/mbblissett