Tuesday, April 20, 2010


By ~ Richard M. Johnson

It started with a dame, it always starts with a dame. The big question has always been, will it actually end with her and you, or was she simply using you as a means to an end, with you ending up discarded like the trash you would normally put in a dumpster? The offer she made was a generous one that included her and a truckload of cash. But as you sit there contemplating the bullet hole that created another innie, right next to your original bellybutton, you wonder if it was really worth it ... You smile knowing that after that first martini flavored kiss of hers, and the way she brushed your chin with the finely manicured fingernail, you'd always have to say, "Yeah"... Even though that one word ends up being coughed up with your very last breath, and a sizable amount of your own blood ...
(Felt I owed ya one, Kate)
(c) 2010 ~ Author Richard M. Johnson
RICHARD M. JOHNSON ~  is a screenwriter/playwright/poet and has had moderate success in his creative undertakings. In "2009" he got a few things published but "2010" is going to be the year of the Munchkin! California boy, born and raised. Never felt the need to leave longer than a few weeks at a time.

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Feel the need for more of a RICHARD read?  RIGHT HERE, AT THE BIJOU . . . Mr Hollywood showcases a HOT one!

Introducing ~ Brad Rose

Your touch is as gentle as a willow combed by a June breeze, but I feel nothing as you unbutton me. I’m vacant as a mall parking lot on Christmas day. The Musak is deafening. I have no idea what sex is. You lean close and kiss me, as if I am a statue. One day, I hope to bear you children, although I have no idea what children are.
(c) 2010 ~ Author Brad Rose  

BRAD ROSE ~Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.” - Groucho Marx ...Hemingway of his generation. Only shorter ... “It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.”Wallace Stevens ... Brad writes ~ Lola Loves Richard ---  a tragicomic novel of Hollywood, which appears here. This blog is meant for educational purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. Contents may settle during shipment. Use only as directed. No other warranty expressed or implied. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. May be too intense for some viewers. Even shorter stories, if such a thing can be imagined, may be read here.

Introducing ~ Kim Soles

It’s okay to be celibate, really, just get into it, I try to convince myself, flipping the Rigatoni Alla Buttera from side to side on the oversized plate. I spear the ridged pasta with my fork and lick the savory cream sauce off the slippery noodle sucking it in gradually, biting and swallowing slowly. The pasta is not turning me on I tell myself as the mousy-brunette waitress wanders over and asks if I am enjoying my meal. What I’m enjoying is staring at your nipples through your starched white shirt as I sip my Italian red and nod my head a definite yes, my tongue cleans the drops of wine from my lips easy as an alley cat. Jesus Christ, I’m not into women, I gaze at the glazed whole carrots on the gentleman’s plate seated at the next table, and I quickly imagine a threesome - him, his carrots and the waitress. It's cool, I can handle it, I don’t need sex, and after all, my masturbation techniques are superb, my mind chatters as the dessert cart rolls by; the special - Banana’s Foster, “I’ll take three!”
(c) 2010 ~ Author Kim Soles 
 KIM SOLES Artist on call. Photographer at large. Mother to one. Writer of moments.

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Kim has also been known to answer to the nom de plum of Robin . . . but I'm certain that's because she has so many wings to try out in the verse-a-tale-ity which soars her all the more, all the more.

By ~ Robert Crisman

I remember you, Kim. You were ivory burnished by rage and your eyes were so calm they stopped breezes.
You whispered soft slurs in my ear as our bodies entwined in the darkness and sang the old song, sometimes off-key and sometimes attended by others to help whet desire in accord with the dictates of voices implanted a long time ago; yet almost always the echoes lapped gently as you closed your eyes and then pressed against me to sleep.
Wide awake still I'd raft through the wilds, your storms bathing mine in a light in a forest rainswept at the end of the world, a place I'd never called home until I met you.
Then morning the yellow sun bled through the east bedroom window on Redwing, me blinking sleep and you in the mirror re-arming, vain as a cat and so what; your long stride into the wind gave courage a name for the day.
Our love you said later was theft winging south, but for me what we had were remembered echoes of home, the heart's own deep need.
(c) 2010 ~ Author Robert Crisman

ROBERT CRISMAN ~  I write stories about lost dogs on mean streets. I've written three novels so far, two novellas, a slew of short stories, screenplays, and plays. I've recently had a number of stories posted on the blogsite A Twist Of Noir.

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Feel the need for more of a ROBERT read?  RIGHT HERE, AT THE BIJOU . . . his gritty Godot screenplay on a streetcorner not named Desire . . .

Introducing ~ Teresa Cortez

Clarence, middle-aged but having the libido of a boy band, pined for a dark-haired beauty named Pricilla, a young secretary who shared his small office at Parks Insurance; he could see right under her desk, her shapely legs providing an exquisite view of the dense shadowy heart between them, clearly visible in the frequent absence of panties.

He envied her lipstick, longed to be the waxy probe gliding over rose petal pillows, then burrowing inside for an erotic swim in warm wet plush. He almost couldn't cope anymore, finding it difficult to stand when called to his manager's office across the hall or when memos needed Xeroxing.

One afternoon he took his lunch outside under an Elm tree when soon he was joined by the bare-bottomed Pricilla who motioned to the ground to which he could only nod with a mouth full of turkey on rye; she stretched luxuriously on the bed of grass, silk skirt rising with the slow arching of her back, a tan expanse of skin revealed for Clarence to devour in savory increments.

His eyes moved hungrily to the pair of plump round spheres he imagined bursting through the taut pink of cashmere, each delicious orb cupped in greedy hands, a palpable image that now caused a raging pulse in his Dockers, the distraction muffling Pricilla's life-changing question, "Hey, wanna go to the movies tonight?"

Six months later Clarence moved about the office with the calm assurance of a well-fed lion, king of Park's pride, and no longer envious of Pricilla's waxy probe.
(c) 2010 ~ Teresa Cortez
TERESA CORTEZ ~ I write a lot, publish a little, and have kept a journal for 35 years. Before I decided to write full time, I flipped burgers, twirled pizzas, and pretended to be a secretary for a CPA and attorney. I subsequently took x-rays for 22 years and massaged weary naked people for the latter 10 of those. In my spare time I wrote stories about love and photographed a few Renaissance weddings for friends, all just a tiny taste of what I wanted the rest of my life to be like. I put a bomb in my old life, blew down a wall between me and my favorite pen, and now write in a fairy tale house full of kids and yes, it's shaped like a shoe.

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Watch for more TERESA AT THE BIJOU. Though she and I sometimes share psychic vibes, word on the street really confirms it ~ there's some story brewin' about a neuroanatomist who falls in love with a brain before the amnesiac dies ... Come on - I can't make stuff like this up ... but Ms Cortez can. Watch for it!


Introducing ~Michael R. O'Connor

Rising from yet another questionable night of passion, you sit and adorn the edge of the bed.
Atop the nightstand in a crumpled ball rests the end result of quickly removed silk that draped your flawless legs.
A hundred dead cigarettes and two overturned wine bottles just more reminders of awkward youthful haste.
Searching the musty smelling room for signs of familiarity you rise and gather the crumpled silk and wad of twenties.
Stepping over my coma state she omits a chuckle at the sight of a hairless chest and spiderman boxers.
Softly closing the door behind her, one more notch on the garter belt.
(c) 2010 ~ Author Michael R. O'Connor
MICHAEL R. O'CONNOR ~ I have been writing for most of my life, but only recently had my first e-book published. Like most writers I have boxes and boxes of hand written thoughts gathering dust. I have recently submitted some of my work at authors.com and am glad to get the feedback I have been receiving. My goal is to be able to publish more, share and learn. My first published book is available at http://www.mobipocket.com The title is "The last hoorah".

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Oh those Spiderman boxers - Oooh Baby!

Gives new verse to "Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you glad to see me?", doesn't it girls?

Introducing ~ Bob Clay
( to so many who are quite aware of this bloke's classic wit )

She was the most sensational woman I have ever seen. High Slavic cheekbones led down to a slender neck that expanded into full breasts leading onward to a tiny waist, and legs that disappeared into infinity, like one of those desert roads that splits the horizon. Naked except for a pair of tiny shorts, she pushed me gently into the bedroom, her body dovetailing into mine, a perfect fit.

My hands started on her back, warm skin, smoother than polished chrome and they drifted down into the curve of her waist and over rounded hips to those wonderful satin legs generating lust and desire in some magma chamber deep within me.
“Men like you taste so good,” she murmured, but I wasn’t listening, my fingers were fumbling with the side zipper on the shorts, seeking a way into heaven. She pressed me back and I felt something cold and sticky stretch over my back, I looked down and those wonderful legs had now become eight arched black quivering things, choking me with terror, and the slavic cheekbones were two huge hairy mandibles encircling my face, her body a huge dark bloated balloon covered in nodules oozing obscene glistening secretions … I tried to pull back but I was caught fast in that sticky web, a web woven to catch something much larger than a fly.
 (c) 2010 ~ Author Bob Clay
Bob Clay ~  errr...(where's that script ?) ..... ahhh ... found it. I've scrubbed the Robert. When someone calls me that, they're inevitably trying to sell me something. I like motorcycles, mountains, computers (even the one that persistently beats me at chess, I mean, I can always tell it 'My hands on the on/off button smartarse...). Some favourite authors/books (like any list, this is incomplete): Early Len Deighton (Ipcress File, Funeral in Berlin). In those days Deighton was the Chandler of the spy genre. Alfred Bester (The Stars my Destination), possibly the greatest SciFi book ever written. Frank Herbert (Dune) vies with the above for the title. William Horwood (Duncton Wood) on a par with Tolkien. Cormac McCarthy. Dark and brooding. Ahhh there's too many to list..... I also like motorcycles (cough). Then there's reading, films, books, samurai swords, pub chat and of course ... the beer that goes with it and walking, mile after mile where necessary. Did I mention motorcycles ? ..... :-/
ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ So Bob? You vroooom as fast as you write?


Introducing ~ B.R. Stateham

She stood in front of me with breasts bare and nipples as firm as fresh cherries. Long black hair fell past her shoulders as blue eyes, as blue as Norwegian glaciers, stared at me unblinking. We were alone in her apartment, the bed behind her disheveled and ravaged from our lovemaking. "You're leaving me," she said, her voice a lifeless echo of what once was a human voice. "Yes," I hissed, collapsing to my knees and gripping my throat with both hands as blood--my blood--seeped between my fingers. "Good," she answered, smiling, her long fangs suddenly revealed in their porcelain whiteness coated in blood.

(There you are, Kate. I should have entitled it, 'Tough Love.')
(c) 2010 ~ Author B.R. Stateham
B.R. Stateham ~ I like to write. Mostly novels, true. Hard-boiled, noir crime fiction. Heroic sci/fi and fantasy. Sometimes a few short stories--and even some poetry. I've been both published and self-published. Yet so far I haven't made enough dough to rub two nickles together. Still, like all writers, the dream lives on. I'll be 'discovered' as a fresh new voice and a huge contract will be offered.  Dreams. The stuff that we all live for.
ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Dream the way you write dear Mr Stateham ~ prolifically ... It's gonna all come true-blue for you. Just sleep on it. And in the meantime, bring some of that notorious noir back 'round AT THE BIJOU, will'ya?


By ~ D.D. Peattie

Sheila enjoyed the candlelight dinner Preston prepared for their anniversary, and was sipping wine looking into the eyes of a man whom she'd loved since first sight at 17.

Shock, from his termination at the mechanical engineering firm where Preston had labored 7 years, had turned his mind into a nerf ball of numbed stress about finances, despite their savvy budget-planning and investments that were enough to keep him and Sharon afloat for a shortening while.

She began to unbutton her blouse with one hand as she took his hand, motioning toward the bedroom with a nodding whisper, "Your anniversary present is in there," the bedroom where no dam had ever ebbed the flood of passions yielding mutual satisfactions leaving wont for no other.

"There's one more present for you, Preston, and it's a photograph you'll find inside your pillowcase," as his reaction nearly ripped the case from the down pillow.

He found the photo and, as he looked at her quizzically, heard her say, "Yes, those are my legs, and the same one's around you now..." as she scissored him and grinned, "are gonna support us both because I just received a hundred thousand dollar advance for that photo's selection to be on every print ad and billboard for a new line of stockings, worldwide."

He'd have fainted if she hadn't struck the first blow to the ensuing grandaddy of all pillowfights that turned into tickling, giggling, and finally wrestling on what would become their most celebrated anniversary to date.
(c) 2010 ~ Author D.D. Peattie
D.D. PEATTIE ~ I'm big enough to have GPS coordinates, 56, half-hobbled, employed, and often lie about my residential zip code to acknowledge birth in the bluegrass of Kentucky's commonwealth. Divorced, childless, left-handed, Republican, Roman Catholic and am unapologetic for same. I'm 90% German, 10% Scot and my last name rhymes with orange, sweetie, and Tweety. I love international travel and my pooch, am a vet who sometimes rides my motorcycle. I don't scrimp on coffee or lively discourse, or on good bourbon or tequila and good via my own definition. I compose music because I can and only for private enjoyment (classical, bossa nova, movie-overture, et al). April will find me exploring Oaxaca's coast. And maybe I'll craft the foregoing into 6 sentences. Maybe. Cowabunga! Long Live Joe Cool!

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Feel the need for more of a DDPeattie-JoeCool read?  RIGHT HERE, AT THE BIJOU . . . that old Kentucky home boy sure can travel . . .


M o r e    F A N T A S I E S   f l y i n g   f r e e
o n   D o u b l e - F e a t u r e   T H U R S D A Y

~ Absolutely*Kate
and the fine staff of renown


Looks like we've run outta room
on this show folks.

Hit *OLDER POSTS* right corner below ... MUCH MORE SHOWING ... AT THE BIJOU
( of course ) 


Anonymous said...

This is a fantastic showcase of excellent writers. Most enjoyable.

Kate Pilarcik ~ absolutely said...

Ahhh Lady Jeanette ~ I spy you there in your usual row, reviewing all the fine showcases AT THE BIJOU. I agree ~ when excellent writers take their own take on the pitch of a perspective, there's no telling how the tale-ing is going to come to present itself. This crew of authors gave a range of chapter and verse to the sensual cross of a leg that just wanted to express itself . . .

~ Absolutely*Kate and the fine staff of renown

Harry said...

That's quite an outpouring of pretty fine prosing
incited by the sight of pretty legs posing.

Nice job everyone!

Kate Pilarcik ~ absolutely said...

That's quite a rhythm to your rhyme of the posing time that caused the prosing to incite so much on the insight scale Har. You oughta be a writer or like a G-man or somethin'. You're that good. ~ Absolutely*Kate