RAVEN MORRIS--TIED WITH A BOW

For those who like short stories that are sexy and hot, I thought I’d introduce a friend of mine, Raven Morris, who writes some very hot stories indeed. In fact the stories are hot enough to keep my entire coffee bar area steaming. J 

What I like is the fact that Raven shows how a story doesn't have to be long and complicated to be enjoyed. She opens a small window in a character's life and shows it to the reader. In these stories, she written a fantasy around a special occasion. Simple. Fun. Sexy.

Hi Sia and thanks for having me here to talk about my erotic romance series, Tied with a Bow.

These are short stories about that special day in someone’s life, a day that really should be all about you. I mean, come on, if the day you came into this world isn't all about you, then you need to boot that so-called special someone out of your life and find someone who will celebrate the wonderfulness of you.

I love celebrating my birthday. And it’s not the presents or the cake (but, okay, sure, why not?), and it’s not the fact that everyone calls me all day or messages me wishing me a happy one. It’s actually a day to be thankful to my parents for deciding to have me, and then for making that happen ;}. It’s the starting day of who I am and a good time to reflect on who I've become over the previous year. It’s my special day, even if I share it with thousands of other people. It’s my day.

The presents are just a bonus.

And what a bonus these ladies get…

And as a bonus for you, JACKED is free now on all the e-retailer sites. Here’s what you can expect:

Debra, Nicole, Heather, Maddie, and Melody have all found their special someones. Kiley has too, but we’re still working on how that’s all going to pan out, but for now, here are the stories that are available:

JACKED: Debra’s husband, Jack, is a three-piece-suit, straight-laced attorney during working hours, but before and after? Jack’s a very fun boy. He’s into some light bondage and, oh yeah, a threesome. Debra’s never done anything like that before, but when Jack brings an old buddy of his, all wrapped up in a bow tie and nothing else, to their bed, she’s more than willing to accept this gift.
 He’s definitely not about all work and no play during office hour because that would make Jack a dull boy… 

MAXED: Max is a successful L.A. agent who knows how to handle his clients’ needs. Especially birthday girl, author Nicole Gennessey. Tonight is the premier of the movie made from her book and he wants to make it a night she’ll never forget—starting backstage where no one can see them.
 Or can someone? Does someone know what they’re doing in the wings? Is someone watching?
 Nicole doesn’t care; tonight’s all about getting MAXED out.

ROCKED: Rock is the temporary housemate/boy-next-door younger brother of Heather’s best friend. They’ve known each other their whole lives—and Rock’s had a thing for her the entire time.

Imagine Heather’s surprise when she comes downstairs on her milestone birthday to find Rock enjoying himself on her sofa—all because he’d been sorely tempted to join her in her shower. She’s sorely tempted to let him. Which she does. Later. First though, Rock’s got a tour planned for her birthday. From the restaurant, to the park bench, to the zip line (that harness has all sorts of possibilities), to the erotic rides on his motorcycle, neither of them will ever forget the day they let their world get ROCKED. 

MARKED: Small-town Maddie has moved on up to the big time and big is what she gets at the welcome-to-the-neighborhood party that just so happens on her twenty-ninth birthday, and Maddie is more than willing to meet Mark. In any aspect he wants.
 And Mark wants a lot. Actually, everyone at the party does. Especially each other. Numerous each others. There’s more sex happening around her than Maddie has ever imagined. Is she willing to participate? Can she shed her small-town girl shyness to play with the big boys? With Mark willing to show her the way, she’s most definitely willing to be MARKED for life by him. 

DICKED: Then there’s Rich—and all his bachelor-party buddies out for a good time in New Orleans. Melody sure could use one of those. Life and her ex haven’t been the best lately lately, so when she sees one of Rich’s friends naked in the room across the courtyard, she’s hoping things are starting to look up.
 Rich and his friends are definitely up for that. It’s one hell of a hot time in New Orleans, and the weather’s only part of it as Melody gets DICKED. 

TYED: Ty made Kiley’s 22nd birthday memorable in the most erotic way and she’s never lost the torch she’s been carrying for him ever since. So when she has the chance to interview him for her job, Kiley’s not about to let him slip through her fingers.
 And when Ty gives her a glimpse of his world—in the most erotic way possible once again—she menas that in every sense of the word, because Kylie is all tied up in Ty. 

And, it turns out that Debra and Jack are going to get yet another story. This time, they’re celebrating Christmas. Look for A Very Naughty XXXmas soon, featuring me and authors Olivia Cunning, Cari Quinn, Stephanie Julian, and Cherrie Lynn. If you think Debra’s birthday gift was hot, wait ’til you see what they get each other…

You can read Raven's stories individually, or get the Tied with a Bow anthology Volume 1 and 2:

 

• So… your best birthday present ever?

Raven Morris loves celebrating birthdays. Has she ever received a present like these? Ah, that's for this fiction writer to know and you to wonder... But instead of wondering about her love life, set your imagination to work on your own. And if her books can help those fantasies along, well, everyone has a birthday. 

You can put all her books on your wish list. Find them at:

 http://www.RavenMorris.wordpress.com 

White Christmas (Short Story)

Christmas means many things to many people. For some it's a profound holy day. For others it's a day of gift giving, or just another day. Still others have learned to revere the holiday and what it stands for through other ways and means.

Such is the story showcased here today. White Christmas, by Simon Garte, tells the story of a soldier at war, raised an atheist and what changed it all for him.

It was not a white Christmas that year. At least not for him. He was in a land that had never seen snow. Rain, yes - lots of rain. But no snow. In fact it was raining that Christmas morning. He was sitting by himself in the rain. Alone. The camp was almost empty. He had volunteered to stay since he wasn’t a Christian.

Not then.

And also Snake eyes had asked him to stay. That weird thing had happened two days earlier, when he had been sitting alone in the rain, just like now. Snake eyes had come up to him and started talking. Snake eyes hated him, so that was already weird.

“Hey man” Snake eyes said.

“Hey.”

“I need a stabber for Christmas.”

He looked up at Snake eyes dark, inscrutable face.

“Me?” He asked.

“Yeah you. Abdul can’t make it and all the other brothers and crackers are going to that thing down river. But I figgered, you bein a atheist or a Jew, or whatever the f-ck you are, maybe you want to do it.”

He thought about it. He had never done this before, never been asked to.

“OK” he said.

Now he was waiting in the rain for Snake eyes. “It’s Christmas” he thought to himself. His father, a committed atheist, refused to have a tree or any decorations in the house. The family had always exchanged presents on New Year’s day. Christmas meant nothing to him.

Nothing good.

An hour later, he and Snake eyes were walking north on the trail. They were soldiers, and there was a war, but they were not fighting. They hadn’t been fighting for months. There was no point to it.

When they got to a place that Snake eyes recognized, he pointed into the jungle, and the white boy left the trail. He found himself a position with a good sight of the trail and Snake eyes. He rested the M1 on a branch, and settled down to wait. The rain stopped and then started again. Snake eyes was sitting in the mud of the trail.

The two kids in black pajamas came down the trail smiling and laughing. They were the “enemy”, but had been doing business with the platoon for a long time. One of them carried a large sack, the other an old rifle of some kind. The kid with the rifle went into the jungle on the opposite side of the trail from where the white soldier was crouched, and that left Snake eyes and the kid with the sack standing on the trail. Snake eyes started talking to the kid. They were smiling and laughing. At first. But then the kid started saying something that Snake eyes didn’t seem to like. Snake eyes began raising his voice, and the words came through the thick jungle to him sitting with his M1.

“That’s bulls-it, man. That is bulls-it. What the fu-k are you saying?”

The kid answered, but too quietly to be heard. Finally he shook his head, and put down the sack. Snake eyes reached behind him and took out a small stack of bills from his rucksack. The kid took the money and then grabbed the bag and began running.

“Fu-k”, shouted Snake eyes, “shoot the mother.”

He raised the M1 and fired a round which went wild, and then he saw that Snake eyes was down.

“Snake eyes”. He yelled. No response. Except for the rain it was quiet. He scanned the jungle on the opposite side of the trail, and saw nothing, but lay down a lot of fire. Then he ran to the trail. Snake eyes was alive, but there was a hole in his chest and blood was mixing with mud all over.

“Fu-k it man. Its Christmas, I don wanna die on Christmas.”

And then he did.

The white soldier tried carrying the body back, but only got a few yards. He dragged the body into the jungle a couple of feet, and then headed down the trail. His mind was blank. At the camp, he went into his tent and lay down. The chopper had not returned from the party yet, and he still had a couple of hours of solitude left.

The angel appeared as a dark haired, blue eyed young girl of about fifteen. She was dressed in pure white, and she stood in the center of the tent. He knew it was a dream. The angel spoke in a foreign language, but he understood it, as if he were reading the subtitles at a foreign movie. She said this to him,

“Your sufferings will be intense, but the Lord loves you. Never forget this.”

Many decades later, he had forgotten those intense sufferings, but he never forgot the dream of the angel standing in white in his tent on that Christmas day.

His white Christmas.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Simon Garte has published non-fiction and also writes fiction. He's a marvelous storyteller. Simon is a New Yorker currently living on the East Coast.

The Gift

In keeping with the spirit of the season, I've collected some short stories from several writing friends. I will be posting them through out the next two weeks. They range from funny to touching. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have.

My guest today is Rand Phares. I've read many of his stories and love them. I want to share one he wrote last year entitled:

The Gift.

Abbot Timothy and Brother Samuel stood just inside the main doors of the monastery, swirling snow filling the dark night around them.

Samuel adjusted his hood and leaned closer to the abbot. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?"

The abbot shook his head. "No, Samuel. I have one last chore before I can leave. I'll be along shortly, before the town road becomes impassable. You go on ahead before they've run out of room at the inn."

Samuel frowned and peered across the courtyard at the monastery's church, its windows lit with a wavering glow. "A pity it's come to this, after all our years of service."

The abbot laid a hand on Samuel's chest. "Though the abbeys are being dissolved and we're being evicted, you can always hold to your faith and continue that service here, in your heart." He turned to the doors, slid aside a wooden bar, and—with Samuel's help—tugged the doors open.

Samuel adjusted his robe. "You're sure you won't come with me?”

The abbot nodded. "Go."

Samuel went through the doorway, hesitated for a moment, then continued on, his dark form melting into the storm. A moment later, drifting snow covered his footprints and it was as if he'd never been there.

The abbot shook his head. The king's decree had arrived a week ago: The Order was dissolved, its members to renounce their ways and leave the monastery no later than Christmas Eve. Tonight. The monastery, its grounds, and its treasures would revert to the people. Even now, two of the king's men were in the counting room, reviewing the monastery's records.

One by one, the monasteries of the land were being dissolved, taken over by local governments, monies and lands distributed to those in power. Monks had been expelled, left to fend for themselves, which meant hardship and death more often than not. Friendship toward fellow man seemed to have dissolved in the face of hard times and the king's decree.

As abbot, he would be the last to leave. How had the others fared? Emanuel, the infirmarian? Ethan, the sacrist? What of the troubled brothers, especially James, gifted with a lyre, but unable to form a single sentence?

Where would he himself go? He had no family, no friends outside the monastery. Would he simply starve, sharing the same fate as the others? After all this time surrounded by these walls, he did not look forward to leaving. The king's decree guaranteed a lonely, destitute, and painful end beyond the monastery.

He shut and barred the doors, then turned and looked at the church, at the rise of its steeple. Was its symbolic gesture toward heaven still meaningful in these times? Across the length of the roof sat the silent bell tower, oddly enough even taller than the steeple. He knew it spoke of a long-ago time when the monastery—sitting atop a two-hundred foot cliff overlooking a great road—had served as a lookout against enemy hordes sweeping in from the north.

He stared at the bell tower until his eyes stung.

So lonely . . .

So high . . .

So . . .

Painful? Perhaps not.

The tower stared down at him.

Will you follow the path the king has set down for you? Or is there another?

He blinked, rubbed his eyes with icy fingers, and looked back at the barred doors.

The king's path lay beyond.

He stared at the doors for a long moment. Then, his mind made up, he crossed himself, turned away, and trudged off through the snow toward the church.

Snow had piled against the great door leading into the church, and the door complained as the abbot struggled to open it. He stepped into the front nave, escaping the storm, but not the bone-wearying cold.

With the door shut behind him, he made his way toward the choir at the back of the church, eyes adjusting to the thin light of candles burning in side chapels. A statue of the Saviour seemed to shift slightly in the flickering light as he neared. He crossed himself and started off toward the dark door near the east transept; the door that led to the bell tower.

He reached for the door's latch, but a coughing sound stopped him. He turned and found a robed figure sitting in the choir pews. Why had he not noticed? Wasn't everyone supposed to be gone by now? This was certainly not one of the king's tallymen, with their fine purple tunics.

"Can I help you?" the abbot asked.

The figure stood and tossed back his hood. A thin young man, dark hair, bearded, but not someone the abbot recognized.

"Are you Abbot Timothy?" the man asked.

"Yes. And you are . . . ?"

"Forgive me, abbot. I'm Sebastian. Innkeeper Thomas sent me with a sack of food for your journey." He held up a dark bag. "Some mutton, cheese, a small flask of wine."

The abbot looked at the bag. "That's quite kind of Thomas. And kind of you, of course, for bringing it here in this storm. Tell me, how did you get in? We keep the main gate locked."

"I slipped in when one of the brothers was leaving."

"I see." The abbot gestured toward the bag. "Well, thank Thomas for me."

He put a hand on the latch beside him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to extinguish the chapel candles before I leave. You'd better let yourself out and return to the inn before you become stranded."

"The snow is blowing very hard. You've no fear of being stranded yourself?"

The abbot glanced at the latch in his hand, then back at Sebastion. "I won't be long. You'd best not wait."

"That door leads to the bell tower?"

"Yes.”

"Are there many candles in the tower?"

The abbot frowned. He opened his mouth to reply, but Sebastian waved a hand. "Forgive my impertinence, abbot."

He looked around at the statuary and tapestries. "It's a pity the church is being stripped of its treasures. But isn't it a greater travesty that the countryside is being stripped of its faith?"

The abbot sighed. Would this young man not leave? "Yes, it's true, what you say about the country. But when I step outside these walls, the king says I'm no longer a man of God. So my days of worrying about the country's faith are over."

"That may be, but what about your vow of service to Our Lord? True faith is difficult to drive from a man's heart, even in the face of kingly decrees."

Sebastian nodded at the tower door. "Are you like the countryside, abbot? Have you been stripped of your faith?"

• The abbot blinked. Had he?

Sebastian laid a hand above his heart. "In spite of what the king says, you can always hold to your faith and continue that service in your heart."

The abbot stared at Sebastian. How did he . . . ?

Sebastian set the bag on a pew and looked up at the window. "It seems the snow has finally stopped. That should make your journey easier."

He looked back at the abbot. "One last word of advice, though." He smiled and nodded at the tower door. "Be careful putting the candles out up in the belfry. It's sure to be slippery up there, and I hear it's a long drop to the road below."

With that, Sebastian turned and walked up the nave, pausing only to cross himself at the statue of the Saviour. A moment later the shadows of the front nave swallowed him. In the snow-encased quiet of the church, the great door was particularly loud when it closed.

The abbot's gaze returned to the statue.

A thin bearded face, arms outstretched, a crown of thorns. From this angle, the candlelight made it look as if the statue stared back at him.

###

Abbot Timothy pushed open the great church door and took in the courtyard and the far shadow of the main gate. The young man had left the church after the storm died, but a silent mantle of white lay unbroken in all directions. And the air was still, wind no longer blowing snow across any newly laid footprints.

What was the hour? Was it Christmas yet?

He lifted the bag. Mutton, cheese, wine. A Christmas gift, perhaps?

He stared out at the night, and thought of the young man's words.

All of them.

And decided those had been the real gift this night.

Then, with a last glance back across the nave at the distant bell tower door, he shouldered the bag and walked out of the church. Heading toward the gate, the abbot was secure in the feeling that wherever the young man had gone, he was following.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHRISTMAS SHORT STORIES, YOU LIKE?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rand Phares's first foray into writing was at an early age, on a neighborhood "newspaper" he published with his brother. After a successful career in software engineering, he now focuses on psychological thrillers, and is within nanoseconds of completing his first novel, The Feast. Rand lives in NC with his family.