Still a better love story than… wait, no it’s not

Fifty Shades of Socialist Feminism:-

“Look,” I say, “I don’t think you’re really a ‘dominant’ at all. I don’t think you know what that means. I don’t want to police your fantasies, but the way this is playing out is deeply problematic. You’re just an entitled sociopath and misogynist in a nice tie, and there are plenty of people who might find that sexy, but I don’t.”


Some thoughts on TV versus reality, Downton Abbey style

Just something to think about for all the Downton Abbey fans.

From Facebook:-

Lee Wood:I had a friend who’d bought a very old Georgian farmhouse out in “Yahksheer” to renovate. She was showing me around, and took me up into the attic, where the roof was still original, cold wind blowing in under the eaves, and the top floor a warren of tiny, TINY rooms. I said, oh, they stored food up here? No – this was the servants quarters. The average room had just enough space for a very short and very narrow bed and a couple hooks on a door for clothes. That was it. The life of the average Victorian housemaid was appalling – and yet they considered themselves LUCKY to have a life in service, so bad by comparison to the farm life. No Downton Abbey gloss at all. Racial slavery slowly died out, but the brutal exploitation of the poor went on long after Victoria.”


This is a spec fic piece, although the snippet doesn’t show it.

Called  A Stitch In Time.


Or maybe this is where it starts, maybe this is ground zero.

It’s been a little while since your girlfriend’s funeral.

You’re awakened by a phone call. You drag yourself out of bed to get to your cell phone, in a pocket of your clothes on a chair but when you get close, your hand advances a few inches then retreats and falls limp at your side. You force it to reach out again, but again it stops short, as if it’s collided with a pane of glass.

You’re going to cry. You knew that the tears would fly out of your eyes, and the sobs would fly out of your throat and you’d cry for a week. You could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in you like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full, and then the salt tears and miserable noises that had been prowling around in you all morning burst out.

You feel like you have nothing to look forward to so you crawl back into bed and pull the sheets over your head, but even that didn’t shut out the light so you bury your head under the darkness of the pillow and pretend it’s night. You can’t see the point of getting up.

You’d tracked the blinking second indicator on your alarm clock, you’d tracked every minute, every hour, without missing a second or minute or hour. Right now you could see day after day glaring ahead of you like a broad, infinitely desolate avenue. Without her.

But you can only track the time on your bed for so long, and your body feels restless and the sun is going down and you finally get up, you don’t know why, you’re not even sure about doing it at all. The thought of washing makes you tired just thinking about it and so you pull on your pants, you shrug on your coat, you grab your keys and out you go through the door. You don’t know where you’re going, but maybe if you walked the streets of downtown Toronto by yourself all night or something maybe the city’s vibrancy and magic might rub off onto you and rub away the way you feel inside and you wouldn’t feel like giving up on everything.


So… snippet.

My protag has to go after someone she’s looking out for, Natasha, and that leads her to a curious establishment…


I was conscious of any number of unusual persons–supernatural, the very few who were not, and those on the liminal line in between–going about their business. The murmuring of voices, the clink of glasses. A goateed man walked past me with a suit vest, tattoos on his bare arms and on one hand, a do-rag with white trim, and eyes like pale glass. I wondered how he managed to get those eyes. I didn’t ask.

The establishment’s overhead lights dimmed; and a reverential hush fell over the crowd. I looked to the stage. Amethyst beams illuminated it, revealing at first three silhouettes. The lead singer, all twirled dreads piled up on her head, a mishmash of chunky necklaces and dangling bright bands, flared forearm bands, and white angel wings. One of the backing guitarists started off the set, all jacked – him all head and shoulders and shrieking vocals with a growly low end.

I was arrested. Who were they?

And then came the lead singer’s voice – wails descended into whispers and her voice, at once fiery and jarring. Her voice soared to incredible heights, plunging into deep, sensual growls,

Their bassist started in – Grace Jones legs—long, bare, lean–Grace Jones dark, Grace Jones bone structure, bleached white haircut, shades, faux fur jacket mostly for those long arms strumming away, and a white bodysuit whose v-neck slashed to her bellybutton.

A voice came to interrupt my thrall, the breath right at my ear. “It would seem I didn’t make my point quite clear.”

BallBraids. So they had seen me.

A strong hand eased itself up the back of my neck, tightened to a vice-like grip, and pulled my head back. “Perhaps another demonstration would be necessary…?”

Turning my head, I snarled, “Bring it.”

Laughter, throaty and laced with knives, this in my other ear—imposing upon my enjoying the performance, yet again—“Not here, sweetie pie.”

SkullScarf. The first time I’ve heard her speak.

Something sharp pricked the small of my back. A fingernail… a knife… I couldn’t be sure. A quick twist could probably end my mobility and sever my spine, however.

“She wants to see you.” This from SkullScarf. The prick prodded me forward.

BallBraids’ grip loosened. I started moving.