Scene From A Pic–Long and Freaking Worth It!

BTW, I will be leaving this up until the end of the week so everyone can come and go and read at their leisure.  🙂

March’s Scene From a Pic was submitted by Sharon Dodd.  She took some wonderful photos during a trip to Amelia Island and thought maybe one would inspire the writers here.  There was something about this lone, shadowy, black figure on the bridge that appealed to my sense of story telling.  Hope it does the same for you.    

March 8th is the next deadline and if you’re new to the snark, click on the page at the top of my blog labeled Current Scene FA Pic to get all the details. (Oh, I believe you can pull this picture up larger by clicking on it.) https://relliott4.files.wordpress.com/2007/02/1005.jpg

As for the last one, let me just say “Wow!!!”  You all really stepped up to the plate.   8 Entries! There is some fantastic work in here!  

Oh, and I played this time– my piece, Last Pack of Lolitas, is at the end. <g> Here is the February picture!boots.jpg

http://www.freecodesource.com/

From Christy (emailed-no website…yet):

Paul stepped into the studio to drop off the latest spec sheets for First Take’s premiere photographer and dropped his jaw instead.  Cara Bernardini leaned back against an antique automobile mock-up, hips pushed forward, back arched as she drew in a lungful of smoke.  Completely unaffected by the buzzing activity around her, the world’s most famous model stood in an oasis of calm.  Leather hip-huggers caressed her legs and flat belly.  A leather bra cupped breasts which had graced more magazine covers than any other woman of her generation.  Smoke curled lazily from her cigarette.  Paul frowned.  Smoking was prohibited in the building; the entire company had a strict non-smoking policy.

 

Giacomo Pontella caught sight of the legal assistant and motioned him over behind the camera.  Paul crossed the bare floor and handed him the paperwork.  Giacomo smiled at the other man’s disapproving look.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” the photographer said.

 

“How can you let her smoke in here?  If HR finds out—“

 

“They will pretend they never saw anything.”  He chuckled at the American’s surprise.  “Cara’s a law unto herself.”

 

Paul shrugged.  After all, it made no difference to him personally.

 

“If you’ll wait a minute I’ll initial these and you can take the copies back.”

 

“I can wait,” Paul replied.

 

Giacomo chuckled again as he looked back at the raven-haired model sucking in another drag.  “If your’re sure…I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

 

“No problem.”

 

He stood there as Giacomo took the papers back to his worktable and flipped through the latest shoot information.  Paul knew he was staring, knew he shouldn’t be but couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.  He studied the model’s face.  Classic cheekbones, milky skin, eyes closed as blue smoke swirled around her.  He noted the belly button ring, having seen it dozens of times in pictures.  The tattoo on her right bicep surprised him.  He didn’t remember previous pictures showing a tattoo.  He looked down at her shoes.  Impossibly high platform books reached up to her knees.  The damned things must have had six inch heels.  “How the hell does she walk in those?”

 

Giacomo’s voice startled him.  “You’d be surprised what Cara bella can do in those shoes.”

 

A flush spread across his skin as his imagination provided erotic fodder for his neglected libido.  Paul shook his head, trying to dispel the image.  He needed to get back to work.

 

At that moment, Cara’s lashes shifted as she slitted her eyes open.  Her cobalt blue gaze speared Paul, held him immobile as she blew a smoke ring before dropping the butt on the cement floor.  She straightened and ground the cigarette under her boot.  Raising her arms above her head she stretched.

 

Mesmerized, Paul almost forgot to breathe.

 

Cara raised one dark brown.  “See something you like, bambino?”

http://www.freecodesource.com/
From Dana at Diary of An Aspiring Romance Writer

After lacing up these damn pants I need a fricken cigarette. Whew… much better. Now I’m off to find a man to take these pants off…

http://www.freecodesource.com/

From Carol (no website yet):

“Lillith had no problem vamping the vamps, seducing them into her little love pad. But, after she slaughtered them, the cleaning bills ate her alive. She’d have to find some wash and dry animal skins.”

http://www.freecodesource.com/

From The Word Doctor:

Once Upon a Daddy’s Girl
By Michael Nye

“That stupid son of a bitch! I really don’t need this right now!”
Mary Jane leaned against the old car, finishing a cigarette she had bummed from one of the lighting techs. Even though it had been ten years since her dad the “rock star” left, she still felt like a little girl every time she lit up.
Damn it! I’m twenty-two years old! This is bullshit!
“Hey, baby…you alright?” one of the grips asked. “You look to good to be so sad.”
“Fuck you, asshole!” Mary Jane really didn’t care how good she looked–it was all make believe anyway. But the moment she could escape from these goddamn boots…
A week ago, Mary Jane wouldn’t have been caught dead in leather pants and a matching halter top. If only her younger brother hadn’t shown her the myspace.com announcement, she’d be home in Vermont, snowboarding with her friends.
“Taylor, I don’t care if Dad’s band is hot right now. He hasn’t even called in god knows how long. Forget it. I’m not going!”
“Yeah, Mary Jane, but who paid your deposit so you could live downtown with all of your stuck-up friends?”
“Like he doesn’t owe us that.”
“And who sent the truck from Pottery Barn with all the stuff for your apartment?”
“Like I said–big fucking deal!”
“You’re such a brat! You know it feels good when Mom comes over here and complains about how nice all your stuff is. What was she yelling about the other day? Oh, yeah. ‘That asshole never bought me a leather couch!’”
“Well…it was pretty cool of Dad to send me the furniture. But if he thinks he can just buy my forgiveness, he’s dead wrong!”
“Whatever, Mary Jane. I still say it would totally rock to do it. Didn’t you read the ad? ‘Looking for Fresh Faces.’ Dad knows everybody in L.A. You know you’d get a spot.”
The leather recliner squealed as Mary Jane sank in to watch Taylor play the guitar her father had sent as a birthday gift.
God, just like him. Always about the music.
“Sweetie, you gonna be in this video, or what?”
Mary Jane startled awake to the Troll poking her in the ass.
“Hey, what the–”
“Listen, I haven’t told your dad that you’re here, but if I have to keep chasing you around the studio–don’t think I won’t, Mary Jane.”
“I’m sorry, Troll. Really. I just needed a second, that’s all.”
“You planning on telling him you’re here? Maybe he’ll stop yelling at you!”
“No! Please, Troll–I’m begging you–just let him think I’m another dancer. I don’t care if he yells at me all day long. I’m just not ready to let him know.”
“Whatever you say, Mary Jane. Man, I still remember your dad bringing you and your brother around here when you were little. The whole fucking crew fell in love with you kids. You should tell him, sweetie. You and Taylor were like family before he–”
“I know, I know.” A tear slipped down her cheek.
“Ah, c’mon, sweetie. I don’t have time for this shit.” Troll patted Mary Jane on the arm. “Need a smoke?”
“I’m good, Troll. Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
Mary Jane tightened the laces on her pants and made her way to the set. What was she doing here? Looking like a Sunset Strip prostitute, that’s what. It wasn’t so bad being yelled at by her father. She had seen him do it a thousand times. He had always been a perfectionist when it came to his music, and she had always known that production costs for a video shoot didn’t allow mistakes by anyone. It was just the way he looked at her when he yelled. It was personal. She had seen that look on his face before, during the last fight her parents ever had. “So long, bitch!” were the last words he spoke to her mother.
“Alright, people! Let’s try this shit one last time! Roll it!” Troll was like the captain of a pirate ship when he was behind a camera. For such a little man, his voice was like a god’s.
Four beeps, and her father’s guitar filled the studio like a cannon shot. Two steps left, down on the knees, remember to rub my thighs slowly, and–
“Cut! Jimmy, what the hell’s wrong this time?”
“Troll, it’s this one again,” he said and pointed right at her. “I don’t know what it is, but something about her is throwing me off.”
Shit. Shit! Troll, don’t you dare!
“Jimmy, just focus on the cameras, man! You remember how this stuff works. Don’t worry about the dancers…that shit gets tightened up in editing anyway! Sweetie, try to come up a little slower, and don’t bring your hands up to your boobs until the first drum roll, alright? Let’s try one more, everybody!”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Two steps left, and–
“Cut!”
“Troll, she’s gotta go. She looks totally hot, but something’s not happening.”
“Everybody take five. And if I find anyone else screwing in the bathrooms, you’re gone! Five minutes, people!”
Mary Jane fought back the tears. What is his problem? The glance Troll gave her as he walked by said it all: “I’m gonna tell him, sweetie.” She’d be long gone before he would find out.
She was nearly through the dressing-room door when she heard Troll yelling at her father.
“Jimmy, you fucking asshole! Do you know who that is?”
No time to change. She grabbed her duffle bag and ran through the studio lobby. “Taxi!” L.A. cab drivers were the best–always there when you needed them. Ten minutes later she was on an elevator taking her to the penthouse suite. One of Troll’s “late Christmas presents.”
The terrycloth bathrobe had just engulfed her when she heard the knocking.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Guest relations, miss Devoss. I have a delivery for you.”
Mary Jane’s mouth fell open when she saw the fish-eyed bouquet of roses.
Troll, you little sweetheart!
She cranked the deadbolt and opened the door. “Thank you. I don’t have my wallet handy or I’d–”
“No problem, miss. It’s already been taken care of.”
The scent of flowers filled the room. After smelling sweat and pot smoke all day long, the aroma was intoxicating. The thirty-six flowers and their vase overtook the bar, and the brilliant red was a strong contrast against the black and stainless-steel bar fixtures. Mary Jane fell on the bed and opened the card. Inside was a short note written in the most beautiful handwriting she had ever seen:

Mary Jane,
I am so sorry. I truly had no idea you were here. Troll kept your secret until the very end, you know. He loves you almost as much as I do. I owe you so much, and I know I just added to my debt. You were great today…everyone on the set said you looked beautiful. I will be in the bar of your hotel tonight at 9. I would love nothing more than to make it up to you. I miss you. Please give me one more chance.

All my love,
Dad

Both halves of the note floated in the air, seeming to somehow suspend their fall to the thick-carpeted floor. “Fucking asshole! Mom was right about him…what a loser!”
Jimmy Devoss sat at the bar not noticing the group of middle-aged women pointing at him from their booth. He took another look at his watch. Nine thirty.
“One more, sir?”
“Yeah, and make it a double, please.”
“Excuse me,” a striking woman of about forty said as she appeared next to his barstool. “Aren’t you Jimmy Devoss? From Leather and Lust?”
Ah, shit.
“That’s me. How are you this evening?”
“Oh, my god! My friends and I used to listen to your records all the time! I saw you with Van Halen at the Whiskey when I was a senior in high school!”
“Yeah, that’s great. Hey, listen, I–”
“Jimmy, would you mind taking a picture with me and my girlfriends? My husband is a big fan too, and he’s not going to believe that I met you!”
“Well, really I’m–”
“Please? It’ll just take a minute.”
“Alright. Gotta take care of the fans, right?”
“Thank you, Jimmy. What are you doing these days? I see Leather and Lust on television sometimes, when they play music from the eighties. I bet you’re in movies now, aren’t you?”
“Well, almost. You know Leather and Lust has a new album out…that’s right. We’re shooting a video for the first single here in L.A…yeah, I’m not kidding…it should be on VH-1 next…”
Mary Jane was all too familiar with this scene: Her father, with that fake smile he was so good at, surrounded by a group of women pulling at his clothes, asking him to autograph this, that, or the other, and shoving their chests in his face. “It’s all part of the show,” he used to tell her. She knew better.
She stood in the lobby and watched him sit down at the bar. He was drinking his usual–Jack on the rocks. God, he looked old without all the makeup and lighting. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. He probably won’t even remember sending me the note tomorrow. Mary Jane turned and started for the elevators.
Jimmy was watching the way his reflection danced along the top of the ice cubes in his glass. He was tired. It had been a long time since he was on his feet all day, and Troll had ripped him a new one after what happened with Mary Jane. He looked up to find the bartender leaning against the counter looking intently at something with a little smirk on his face, wiping a wine glass that looked perfectly clean. “One more, if you don’t mind. Hey. Excuse me!”
“What? Oh–sorry, sir. Another double? Same ice?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The hand on his shoulder felt like a dream. He reached across his chest and covered it with his own. It felt warm and soft, like holding a newborn baby. His eyes were already wet when he turned around to see what the bartender had been staring at.
“Hey, Daddy.”

http://www.freecodesource.com/

From Blogless Troll (I believe he has a blog, but I can’t find it–I’ll update if you fill me in, Mr. Troll 🙂  ):

After their fifth go ’round in as many hours, Lillith decided a flying egg on wheels wasn’t worst place to get her boots knocked. But who was Mindy? And what the hell did “nanu nanu” mean?

http://www.freecodesource.com/

From Scott From Oregon:

—Night Teething—

Madam Lynn’s teeth hurt and her feet hurt and her breast felt grappled with and her leather pants bunched up in her crotch and nipped and bit at her sensitive folds of skin down there.

“This night life thing, really bites,” she thought, as she climbed from the dark enclave that they had given her for sleeping through the daylight hours. “I am sleeping in a bullshit trailer in a mechanic’s shop! I’m up at all hours. I look like a tramp. The guy I am in love with looks like he is four hundred years old and my parent’s are afraid of me. They keep bringing me a bloody Mary and I tell them ‘no thank you‘, but they don‘t listen. “You will“, they say, and I know I never will.”

Madam Lynn wiped another dab of Orajel tooth numbing agent on her canines. They grew as they sharpened, and she thought “how weird”.

http://www.freecodesource.com/

Betty from Dishin The Dirt:

All that time at Weight Watchers and the gym had created the perfect disguise. Well that plus the wig and the new look. No one from her former life would recognise her now. Sometimes looking in the mirror she doesn’t even recognize herself. But Ellen knew she was in there. Somewhere, hidden beneath the attitude and leather. Now for a new name.

Revenge is sweet, and Ellen knew that her target would never see it coming.

http://www.freecodesource.com/

This is mine:

Last Pack of Lolitas  

Men were so easy.  Yeah, they noticed the high, vinyl boots first, but all I had to do was slide my hand over the pale skin of my belly to lure their gazes higher.  Skimming my fingers under the waistband to the hidden switch in my leathers did nothing more than tantalize them with possibilities.   

How far would the bitch take this? 

Too bad.  If just one had looked away, he might have seen the tiny slots opening on the front of these boots. 

I lifted one foot and admired the thing of beauty on it.  Vincent was an expensive genius.  He’d installed the up-tilted microguns into my favorite pair of Belefontes without so much as a scratch.  And though I did normally subscribe to the “size matters” side of things, when it came to this, smaller was indeed better.  

I sucked on the end of my favorite brand of cigarette—Lolitas, couldn’t even get them here in the states—and watched Mr. D. Frunelli come into the garage.  His eyes lit up when he took in the leopard bedding in the car behind me.  And to think, my twenty-nine years put me about twenty years past his preferences. 

My lip curled, eyes narrowing in the sting of smoke.   

I needed more cigarettes and the guy who ordered them for me closed shop in fifteen minutes.  So, no Peeping Tom fantasies for Mr. Frunelli tonight.  Finesse be damned. I didn’t really care when it came to jobs like this one anyway.  Some monsters deserved their fates.  

Grinning, I flicked the switch in my pants.   

Pow.  Right between the eyes.  He stood in that comical, stunned and frozen fashion for nearly a full minute before crashing, his six-foot-three body thunking hard onto the cement.   

I never missed.   My heels clicked loudly on the hard floor as I walked over to nudge him with my boot.  Glazed, staring eyes, no breath. 

My leathers creaked as I hunched down to lift the envelope I’d seen that witch slide into his jacket pocket.  If it contained what I hoped, her little side-business would be shut down within the week.  I smashed my last cigarette out next to his head and wondered if this mark had carried an image of black leather and bare belly with him into the afterlife. 

Not that I really believed in that stuff–which, if you thought about it, was a damned good thing considering my current occupation.

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About Rinda Elliott

Writer.I love unusual stories and credit growing up in a family of curious life-lovers who moved all over the country. Books and movies full of fantasy, science fiction and romance kept us amused, especially in some of the stranger places. For years, I tried to separate my darker side with my humorous and romantic one. I published short fiction, but things really started happening when I gave in and mixed it up. When not lost in fiction, I love making wine, collecting music, gaming and spending time with my husband and two children. I’m represented by Miriam Kriss of the Irene Goodman Agency.
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4 Responses to Scene From A Pic–Long and Freaking Worth It!

  1. Don’t you love how they are all different? This is my favorite thing about SFAP. Really good replies this month.

    And this might seem silly, but I love reading about the brand names of designer shoes. I will never own any, never have. (My feet are narrow, I have problem arches, and weak ankles.) But I can pretend when reading. I think this is one reason I love MJD’s Betsy The Vampire Queen. She is a designer shoe whore.

  2. relliott4 says:

    I made that designer up. This was supposed to be a futuristic thing, but I didn’t spend time layering the world. Wrote it the day before posting.

    I haven’t read the last Betsy book–was it good?

    Oh, I wear an 11 triple A shoe, so I understand narrow. Shoes are a sore subject with me. heh heh

  3. Betty S says:

    The brochure read, “Awaken Your Spiritual Self.”

    $10,000 and a week later, John was already beginning to feel enlightened and second thoughts were circling like harbingers of doom about his head. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

    Fifteen minutes ago a white robed man, whose primary facial feature was a long somewhat yellowed beard, had brought him out to this desolate spot in the desert. His ancient psychedelically painted van had reeked of the combined incense of marijuana and tobacco.

    “You stand before the bridge to enlightenment,” the aging hippy had proclaimed with pontifical solemnity and pointed his bony finger towards the open desert across an anomalous bridge to nowhere that had been constructed out in the middle of this barren wasteland. “Your destiny and great wisdom await you.”

    John gazed into the distance trying to make sense of the whole bizarre experience. An elaborate bridge, extending only a few yards, had been constructed with no apparent purpose whatsoever, except possibly to provide shade to the snakes, scorpions and lizards that called the desert home. Behind him John heard the door to the van close.

    “I’ll pick you up in this spot after forty days and forty nights.”

    “What!” John spun and made a running dive for the van.

    “Good Luck, Pilgrim,” were the last words he heard before the van spun away across the sand.

    “Well, hell. There goes my ten thousand dollars AND my only ride back to civilization,” he said to no one in particular, except possibly the lizard basking on the bridge to take full advantage of the sun’s heat. He had no one to blame but himself. Signing on for this had been an impulsive decision made after one too many Budweisers and a late night ball game. It was a pretty good scam, if you think about it. Take people’s money then leave your only witness in the desert to die.

    Where to go from here? They’d driven in so many circles getting out here that he had absolutely no idea where he was. Until later, when the sun began to drop from the midday sky, he wouldn’t even have a clue as to which direction was north and south.

    John squinted his eyes against the sun and began to survey the area around him. What was he looking for? Bodies? Ha. A long while later, when nothing that even remotely resembled a plan had formed in his mind; he turned and did the illogical yet obvious thing. He began to cross the ridiculous bridge.

    Why not?

    He’d paid $10,000 for the experience after all.

  4. Jen says:

    Brandon stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked back where he had come from.

    Funny how a no-account kid from the wrong side of the tracks could make it to the right side. It hadn’t been easy, though. And it had damn near cost him everything to do it.

    He continued across the bridge. He would never go back. Even as he thought it, he new it for a lie. He would go back. But only if Katrina asked him.

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