2014 “Erotic Advent Challenge” run by SJ Warners Blog


This is a collection of Short Stories or Poems written in 2014 for the “Erotic Advent Challenge” which was hosted by my friend SJ Warners Blog… during this Challenge we sadly lost a lovely friend and writer Marcus… xox

Hope you all enjoy reading as much as I did – just click on each persons name to read their piece!


Tammy-Louise Wilkins

Ethan Radcliff

Raven Anxo

Pen name K


SJ Warner

Khul Waters

Zoey Hart

Cameron Lincoln

KA Hobbs

CJ Heath

KB Mallion

Olivia Purley

Chris Kuhn

Mark Davis

C.R Lemons

Steve Richards

Caroline Juliette

Jamie B

Magenta Nero

Callen Wright

Carrie Anne Ward

Angel Poet

Laurie Schmidt Lee

Der Erzahler



2014 “Treat Week Challenge” via SJ Warners Blog


My friend SJ Warner ran this “Challenge in 2014” via her Blog, showcasing some Short Stories & Poetry by the following Writers – Enjoy:

Caroline Juliette

Benjamin Prewitt

Cameron Lincoln

Ava Bellamy

SJ Warner

Stephen Richards

Jamie B.

Tammy Louise Wilkins

Chris Kuhn

Mark Davis

BL Ronan


#PicturePromptChallenge by Nina D’Arcangela


The Path

Allowing the gilded invitation to flutter to the patio, I wonder why your father is willing to tolerate my presence here after all these years. He swore I would never be welcome again, yet five years after your passing, four since my banishment from the estate, I find myself standing on this fertile precipice.

The moonlight, it beckons – how can I refuse? Slipping off my shoes, I place one bare foot upon the mossy grass, then the other. The scent of the cooling autumn air draws me forward. To the right, a path – our path – calls my name, offers a pang of joy as I recall delight and pleasure. I veer toward it; the smile on my face as bright as the orb hanging in the sky. Trees, old friends dearly missed, guide me along a sloping trail of memories. I hear your laughter, its resonating giggle, as we play hide and seek, only to catch one another, and play more amorous games amid these woods. A chorus of glee escapes my lips as I wrap my arms around a tree. Do you recall how we would clasp hands around a sapling, willing it to share in our passion? The tree I now rest my forehead against is a maturing recipient of that youthful, foolish notion. I press my lips to it in both greeting and farewell.

Further down the path, I come across the spot where we sat together as the night’s chill would shiver our bones. This night, I sit alone with my thoughts, reminiscing of things gone by. I think of you. I curl on my side, tell myself I’ll only linger a moment, but I stay much longer. Loath to rise, my lids slowly shut as a dream weaver carries me away to a more carefree time.

My fancy having come to an end, I draw in deeply the scent of the soil. I force myself to linger no more; one final caress of my hand, one final flutter of my heart. I continue to the end of the path and emerge into the clearing under the brilliant glow from above. I tilt my head to stare at our moon knowing it will never hang in my sky again. Turning away, I focus on the ground beneath my feet as I meander further afield. The path calls to me as I leave it behind; I refuse to indulge in its hypnotic plea. Lost to my own thoughts, I hear a slight sound but give it no heed until an overwhelming stench assaults me. By then it’s too late – he is already upon me.

Waking strewn on cold concrete, I feel the jagged broken steps beneath my torn aching body. My head is a fog of pain and confusion; I try to open my eyes only to find one running with blood, the other unwilling to respond. I reach with a trembling hand to touch my tender brow, explore my shattered cheekbone, and discover worst of all, a crushed eye socket. Ever so gingerly, I wipe the congealing blood from my remaining eye; it offers a bare glimpse of my surroundings. As I slowly pivot my head, I realize where I am. It’s the stone edifice I worshiped in unrelenting despair years ago. A place your father took great delight in exiling me from; your tomb.

The moonlight reflects off the leaden windows, my already blurred vision halos further. Then I hear it; a low guttural breathing from behind. Pain forgotten, I quickly scurry onto the platform before the doors. With my back pressed against the guardians of your crypt, I try to make out the figure standing before the stairs. He remains motionless. As my sight begins to clear, I see it is not a man, but a beast, the same beast that tore your exquisite body to shreds; ending both your life and mine on the night you went wandering alone. It growls something I cannot understand. I sit frozen in fear. It grunts the same utterance again, pointing this time in concert with its demand. I turn toward the direction in which it points. My eyes lock onto the object discarded on the stone; my hand immediately flies to my throat. It’s gone – the chain bearing the key to your mausoleum! I rush to it, bleating like a wounded animal. I grasp it, hold it close, cling to it for my own salvation. Not salvation from the beast, but salvation from ever having to part with it. It is the last of you outside these walls; it is my damnation, it is my sanity.

The creature motions a third time as it begins to climb the steps. Eyes glistening in the moonlight; its face reflecting a pain I know all too well. Frightened but curious, I listen more carefully as it utters the word again; it is saying ‘key.’ Shock and fear propel me to my feet; my right knee gives way and I crumble. It reaches the pedestal and extends a clawed talon toward me, cups my elbow, lifts me to my feet; supports me. It silently demands that I unlock the doors.

For a moment, I consider fending it off, holding some delusion of gaining revenge on your behalf, but the look in its eyes stalls me. It mourns genuinely. I raise my hand to the decorative window set in the door, glance through, then turn back toward the beast. It seems to share my remorse. I unlock the doors as though in a trance. As a stale musty breath issues from the vault, moonlight floods its pristine interior. Realizing I am unable to walk, it gently eases me within, resting my broken body against the cool wall. Running a loving hand across your marble encasement, it circles your sarcophagus once before letting out a sorrowful moan of agony. Then, it lays its head on the raised casket that shrouds you. Plaintive eyes plead with me, a soft mewl begs that I understand it would never harm you. Much like me, it survives only to be with you again one day. Could this creature belong to you as much as I? Looking deep into the sad eyes before me, I see intelligence, I see anguish; I see truth. This is not the monster that took you, but a creature who cherishes you.

Calmness steals over me; the beast seems to sense my resolve. I limp to the verdant marble, rest a hand upon the stone; yet another final goodbye – how many must I say? I lift my shaking hand and dare to touch its coarse hair; it doesn’t seem to mind and lets out what I assume to be a strangled sob. My fingers stroke through its mane; somehow I feel closer to you. Removing my hand and reaching to the wall for support, I hobble my way across the threshold and back out into the night. It glances upward as though thanking me. The starlight shines across its mangled features as I close and seal the doors forever, breaking the key within the lock. Turning, I make my way down the steps with no little amount of difficulty. The excursion having exhausted me, I draw a bloody smear along the wall as I slide down its surface to rest. The breeze whispers thank you along with my name. I sigh as I sit staring across the way. I cannot help but wonder at the cruel irony of your father placing this shrine in clear view of the path – our path; the one he found us on the last night I saw you alive. A braggart at best, a cruel drunkard at least, I still cannot fathom why he would allow me to attend the five year memorial of your passing. As my mind wanders, I hear yet another sound; this one a menacing growl. As a clawed hand rips my throat open, I catch the glint of your family seal on his gold ring.

A pained cry echoes from within your tomb.


Nina DÀrcangela (2015)


Writer/ Contributor at:

Sirens Call Publications & Pen of the Damned

Her “Social Media” sites are:

Blog   Twitter   Facebook   Google+


#PicturePromptChallenge by Aurora



The abandoned theater beckoned her. Marquee lights, half broken, seemed to spell her name, a beacon in the gloomy shadows of the side street. Noticing the door ajar, she slipped inside, unnoticed, to explore.

At first glance it appeared as any other theater, shadows moving with the ghosts of past performances. Climbing the steps to the front of the stage, she parted the curtain and gasped at the beauty of the set before her. A forest, lit by a moon so bright it appeared pulled from the sky itself and a distant cottage, its windows glowing in welcome.

She stepped forward, hand outstretched, to touch the painted beauty before her, but found only air. As the curtain fell closed behind, the forest mirage enveloped her. The smell of crisp outdoor air, the sound of fallen leaves rustling in a cool breeze, warred with reason as she continued forward in search of the painted wall she knew to be there.

Propelled by feet with an inquisitive mind of their own, she walked through a space in a tree trunk of unimaginable proportion, until she paused outside of what had been a distant cottage and found herself bathed in the light from its windows.

With wide amber eyes she took in the world around her, beginning to accept the impossible. From the crest of a small hill, she viewed more towering oak trees with tunnels, each leading to a land more wondrous than what lie before it. Possibility stretched before her as far as the eye could see.

She turned back the way she had come, walking until her feet echoed on the wooden stage and her hands grasped red velvet curtains once more. Mind whirling with adventures yet to come, she exited the theater. They say “all the world’s a stage,” but a stage holds infinite worlds, and she planned to explore them all.


 © Aurora (2015)


Her Social Media Sites are:

Blog    Twitter


#PicturePromptChallenge by CJ Heath



It had been my first visit to Marlborough’s club. I have a great need to confess, as an acquaintance, the man left much to be desired. Had I not been appraised as to the vital need of the Yard requiring an officer within the confines of the little society, I should have willingly struck the frightful man numerous times.

Things progressed as is the want of Marlborough and his cronies. We would dine on exotic meats such as one would not encounter in nature north of Persia. I was told, by an obsequious, servile little man to my left that these delicacies were in actuality, bred in the Home Counties for the sole consumption of club members.

Again Marlborough pestered me to commit my name upon their charter and submit my banking details that I may progress from an honorary member to a member of standing. Marlborough knew my lineage and therefore he was aware that my reticence was not the fifty sovereigns required for the year. In honesty, though the fee may be deemed alarming by those from the Yard, the service did include a room whensoever required and a manservant was always to be at hand when one stayed at the club in excess of a single night. The butler of my Father was in receipt of a greater sum than this each annum and so, it was in truth a goodly sum but for all that came with membership, it was good value.

I digress, my apologies. We had been sat at the dining table for little more than a quarter of the hour making small talk with regard to The Times’ publication of Chelmsford launching a campaign against Zululand. For the most part, there seemed no great love for the Commander but it was generally considered the wisest action to take to further curtail the savages resistance to Empire. The discourse was gentle and not far removed from observances made by my own associates that very morning.

The table fell silent at this point as the servants entered the room with vast platters and began to silently make preparation for the serving of the dinner that had been eagerly awaited. Marlborough was served first and then, moving to his left, we were all attended to with a degree of professionalism that my Father would well have approved of.

I must make the admission that I had at this stage all but neglected the purpose to which my services had been requested. The jollity of the members and the intelligent dialogue had succeeded in supplanting the task I had been seconded to. This omission on my part grows more understandable when one gives consideration to the company of gentlemen I was engaged with. Marlborough’s title was apparent as being the meanest of honours born by my companions and I partook gladly in the comfort of being seated with peers of one’s own standing.

The meal was a delight. The vegetables were cooked to my preference, neither being so boiled as to lose colour and taste but also, being not so lightly treated that one must pull the most gruesome of face as teeth attempt to slice or grind against uncooked fare. The meat was a quality part of the dish. It was all but certainly bird of some description but the white meat told me at a glance it was not game of any fashion.

It was a delight of Marlborough’s that the nature of our dining was not spoken of; it was almost as if, should one require to ask the nature of our provision, one singled oneself out as being too ignorant to be a party to these gatherings. Initially I considered the dish to likely be one of the giant, two-legged, flightless birds of the Southern continents but the more I ate of the creature, the more I wondered. It is oft the case that such unknown foods identify as chicken but I suspect that is a deceit on the part of the front brain that merely attempts to place the unknown into a known compartment. It may warrant a medical opinion to qualify that remark however, my own knowledge of the workings of the brain are in admission, somewhat lacking.

Returning to the dining I should add that discourse ceased while the members all partook of the meal and made welcome the wine that was served in crystal flutes to each man present. It was another of Marlborough’s propensities that choice was not given as to libation; the most suited wine was served with the corresponding dish. My time touring the vineyards of both Southern France and of Italy aided me beyond that of most present and though I did not voice my opinion, it was plain to me our glasses contained Chablis. Given the current epidemic sweeping the region and the fearful destruction of almost all vines there, we were likely drinking a vintage of eleven years prior.

The minutes ticked by and as the clock in the hall sonorously chimed out the hour as being eight, we had all but completed our dining. Of the thirteen of us present, the only gentleman for whom food still remained was the brown suited German on the opposing side to myself. The man reached across in front of a man I had perceived to be the cousin of our Queen and his fingers drew a roll from the much depleted bowl. The frowns of disapproval that he should so rudely reach rather than requesting a roll chilled the air but when the man showed such base action as to tear the roll asunder and proceed to mop the juices and gravy from his platter with the baked item, Marlborough was prepared to suffer no more.

It was with the smallest of gestures that John Marlborough indicated to his butler that the German was an issue and with whispered words, the starched servant leant forward and spoke in the ear of the offending gentleman. Full credit to the man, the German at first glanced at his gravy stained fingers, then one by one, he quickly glanced across the faces and met the eyes of each man present. He nodded once to our host, then rose to his feet. Stepping behind his chair, he tucked the carved seat back into the table, inclined his head in a brief bow and with a click of his heels, he permitted the butler to escort him from the room.

Marlborough broke the uneasy silence with apologies for having permitted the evening to be marred by the inclusion of one whose manners were not of the required standard. Assurances were given and understandings passed that none present felt the actions of the individual in any way reflected upon Marlborough and he was to put the matter from his mind. As one would expect from a man of such breeding, he took comfort in our words but refused to accept our forgiving words.

This was the point where the evening took an unexpected detour and also, removed the expected opportunity for my investigation to begin in earnest. Custom and tradition of the club was such that we would remove ourselves to the withdrawing room for an hour or so where we could recommence our conversations of Empire and enemy before retiring to our own chambers for the night. That was to have been my opportunity, that was the very reason my services had been requested by the paymaster and why I had been seconded to Scotland Yard at all. As events transpired, the evening was very different indeed.

Marlborough indicated for three of us to join him and the remainder made their way down the corridor to the drawing room. We three followed him in the opposite direction where we came upon a door set at the end of the passage. The door was unlocked with an ornate iron key that Marlborough drew from his trouser pocket and one by one, in utter silence, we permitted the man to lead us down a dimly lit stairway to a cellar. The chamber we entered was as sumptuously decorated as the rooms above and as Marlborough lit a few additional lamps, we were able to make out four high-backed chairs sat in a row before a high, red velvet curtain. The curtain was dressed with an elegant pelmet that resembled a bow of velvet and as Marlborough passed us each a glass of Scottish malt, he indicated we should take a seat each before what I perceived must surely be a stage.

I had no thought at this moment that anything other than a performance were to be presented to us and though I felt the inferred honour one would associate with having been one of a select few to view whatsoever Marlborough was to present to us, I did fear the possibility of some appalling music hall act being presented to us. My fear was unwarranted, at least in the respect of that which I had considered the show to be.

Once we were all seated, Marlborough himself rose from his seat beside me and pulling upon the draw cord, he parted the curtain with a practised ease. I shall admit my brow furrowed and after one brief glance at Marlborough, I exchanged looks upon those other two men sat with me. Their confusion echoed mine and it was clear to me then that they were as ignorant of this development as I was myself. Before us all was nothing but a vast mirror; the curtain being little more now than a frame for us to stare in puzzlement at ourselves staring back.

Though he had his back to us, I perceived Marlborough’s grin from his reflection. He crossed to the centre of the oversized mirror and placed his hand upon the middle of the glass and with his palm flat to the surface, he spoke a few barely audible words. I am quietly convinced his utterance was Latin but the specific words eluded me.

The mirror shimmered as water should when a man causes himself to lightly knock against the table upon which his wash bowl rests, then it seemed to vibrate. A moment passed, then the mirror seemed in effect to turn to a glass of great transparency. Marlborough took his hand from the glass and retreated back to join me, sitting himself beside me once more. My two companions clapped and congratulated our host on this feat he had engineered and for my part, I turned to him and inclined my head to indicate how he had impressed me.

A returned my attention to the curtained area and gazed hard at the image before me. I considered the woodland vista before me; the moon high in the sky and the sepulchre visible to the side struck me as to be among one of the greatest paintings I had seen. Then I peered again.

There was movement in the branches and the light from the tomb wavered in its intensity as though the candle or lamp suffered under a breeze. A noise became audible of feet moving fast through dead leaf and twig. I could not grasp how but it was clear to me then that what was visible before me was no image but something living and existing elsewhere. How it had been accomplished, I knew not but Marlborough had brought to the cellar something that could show elsewhere.

I was entranced. The science eluded me and the potential implications were of insignificance as I leant forward upon my seat so as to gain a better view of the scene before me. That was when she appeared.

From slightly to the right of the scene, a young lady in her late teen years passed into the picture. She was fearfully tumbling forward, casting looks behind her that suggested she was pursued. I had at first believed her attire to be nightwear but as she approached the lit tomb, she hesitated and turned to face that which came behind her. I noted then that what I had though the be a night dress was in fact her undergarments. She was well blessed in her looks and fair spilled from the torn corset that had once encompassed her. Her flushed cheeks, tousled hair and her heaving breast indicated she had been running for some time. Wide eyed, she stared beyond us at whoever chased her. Part of me wished her to continue to the tomb and safety while another part of me, (a part I have shame in acknowledging) wished to see what should happen upon her capture.

A shadowed figure stepped into the frame and the lady screamed. I saw nothing of the detail of the man that had made up ground so as to stand so close to her as he stood with his back to us but he was a tall man. I am almost six feet in height but I suspect where I side by side with this man, he would be a foot above me. His shoulders were wide and his hair was uncommonly long. He stepped closer toward her and it became apparent the man, if man it were, was utterly naked. I did not let my eye linger long upon his frame but he was muscled beyond any man I have seen before or since. It was not the muscle of a strongman one may see in a circus but more akin to the great art of Da Vinci or Michaelangelo. The reason I question if this were man is that upon the shoulders, around the neck and trailing down his spine, almost to his behind was a mass of hair. It bore resemblance to a wolf and that is an image I can find no better analogy for.

I was aroused; I should not have been. Would I could make claim, my arousal was merely from the partially undressed nature of the lady I would be relieved but I am almost of a certainty that my condition was due to what I suspected was to come. As things transpired, I was mistaken in this as I have been mistaken in many things since.

The lady turned from the beast and made another dash for the sepulchre that stood alone in the wood. It is clear she never questioned why such a thing should be placed in such an isolated spot and to be fair to her, the thought had not occurred to me until later.

I was both grateful and disappointed when she reached the open portal of the tomb but I was puzzled when she halted there. She stepped back, one step, then two. As though she had forgotten the beast behind her, she stared into the light and slowly retreated. A man walked through the heavy stone doorway and into our sight. He was impeccably dressed and clearly a gentleman in every respect. He held a pistol in his hand and turned to face the creature that had pursued and now hesitated beside the woman. Pointing the gun skyward, the gentleman fired a single shot that caused the creature to dash from the scene. Left alone with the distressed and dishevelled lady, he pocketed the gun and raised his arms out toward her.

The unidentified woman all but collapsed into his arms and though she sobbed, it was clear she was now relaxed and grateful to the man. Though he initially held the woman close, after a few minutes, he withdrew a few inches and released, placing his hands first upon her shoulders, then as she gazed into his eyes, he placed a hand each side of her head.

The snap as he twisted her head violently, snapping her neck was heard as loud as the gunshot had seemed to us. As the woman crumpled to the floor, the wolf like man returned to the scene. The gentleman knelt beside the dead body and the creature drew closer, he changed in form with each step of his approach to the man and by the time he reached the woman’s body, he was as naked as he had been but any resemblance to a wolf had gone. In place of the creature was a nude man no more remarkable than myself.

The dressed man put his arms under the woman’s torso and the naked youth took her legs in his hands. They carried her body in our direction and as they neared the curtain, Marlborough stood up and stepped in their direction. I suspected he was going to close the curtain but I was astounded when the two men in the wood laid the corpse on the ground and Marlborough reached out, grasped an arm of the body and dragged the woman to our side of the curtain.

Once Marlborough had managed to drag the body into the cellar he stood, drew the curtains once more and then addressed us. I am comforted to say that though the two other men were as silent as myself, they showed as much sign of shock as I did.

Marlborough smiled and said “We find the meat is that much more tender if the kill is saved until the prey is in a relaxed state. I’m sure you’ll each testify from the dinner tonight, the meal was a success?”

It was the next day after a long absence of sleep the details of what had been witnessed were explained to me by Marlborough himself. He confessed I was not present from accident. The report the Yard had received of young ladies of wealth who had vanished being connected to the club was a report that the club had instigated itself. It seems I had been a chess piece the king of the board had been eager to acquire. As none from the Yard had the status to enter the club, my Ministry would be approached to provide one of fitting class to enter the establishment to ascertain the veracity of the report. My paymaster was himself a founding member of the club; his own son was in fact the poor afflicted wretch that had the misfortune to be born as a werewolf.

The engineered scheme served two purposes; being of high birth, my word that there was nothing amiss at the club would allay suspicion from all members and also, my membership would allow the club funds to continue its current operations.

The ladies who vanished were all from families of quality as it was learned a few centuries before that those of lesser classes tend to have either excesses of fatty tissue or at the other end of the spectrum, muscle that does not easily cook with the same tender taste. The hunt I witnessed was of the daughter of Lord Abingdon. It seems he had once been a member but had lapsed in his subscriptions; the payment acquired through his daughter was both a lesson and a warning as he retains a further two daughters.

More was said, it was a convoluted plot and Marlborough again spoke to me of the advantages of membership. The primary reservation I had was that the werewolf need be included in any fashion I felt it would be politic and of moral intent were the boy to be simply put from his misery with a bullet but as I learned, the truth is more neutral than I had thought. The boy only becomes a wolf with the coming of the full moon and his blood lust is actually sated with the chase. He has no requirement to partake in the kill and so, he plays his role in the charade with the sole purpose of isolating the prey from the herd and directing it toward the kill zone. All in all, it is a remarkable operation.

Of the mirror itself, Marlborough would not be drawn except to refer to it as an occult instrument. I have yet to ascertain if he means it is demonic in function or merely refers to ‘occult’ in the correct fashion as to merely mean ‘something hidden’.

But subsequently, I have begun my own actions. I advised the Inspector at the Yard of the club being of no concern and shortly after poisoning my Father and acquiring both title and monies through my inheritance, I tendered my resignation at the Ministry. I have paid the next ten years of dues at Marlborough’s club and keep a room there that I may dine at will. In truth, I suspect I shall only have the need to dine for three days of twenty eight when the moon is full.

I spend much of my time now expanding my social circle. I am frequently being introduced to young ladies with parents who seek to see them wed. It is curious that so many of these daughters I charm tend to be so utterly heartbroken when circumstances do not result in a betrothal that they feel the need to abscond from the family home are without exception, not heard from again.

And so, I sit here, still the confirmed bachelor, still the man of leisure. For now though, I must away once more. I believe I hear the tread of other diners approaching the door of the club. It seems it almost time for dinner.


© CJ Heath (2015)


Books by Author CJ Heath are:

23278148   23295469

His Social Media Links are:

Website   Blog   Amazon   Goodreads   Twitter   Facebook   Google+


#PicturePromptChallenge by BL Ronan


the moon held her lofty dominion in a blanket of stars strewn across an immeasurable abyss. only in the softened hues of twilight and dusk, was she fared away from her gilded throne allowing her charges but pockets of moments where full breaths could nourish in the absence of her unwavering gaze. days have long since been forgotten, as the haze of permanent darkness now forever paints the sky.

freya stood beneath the heavens unable to deny the enormity of all that lay above. the beauty of the night seeping like frozen fire into her bones, harkening to the cold inevitability of all that would never come.

most revealed in the misty shadows, able now to hide under masks with hidden keys. the penchant for thriving in all that once held the bitter taint of contempt and shame, running as a vile plague deviantly waiting for its next host.

freya used to find solace in the blackened edges of her existence; much like a broken doll left on a forgotten shelf. the memories of a time before are but a phantom ache reminding her that once all was not as it is. yet, she can neither recall the sun nor the feel of its radiance upon her brow. but she yearns for them.

reality forever spins, as her life becomes a struggle from one inhalation to another on the back of fragile prayers with malformed wings. freya’s hope is hopeless, but she fights to succumb to the menace ever encroaching on her path. it stalks her – a savage beast with an unquenched hunger.

the weighted anticipation of her demise is relentless and cracks the ill-structured wall built to keep all the world at bay. leaving the rubble of the crumbling facade of protection, she flees blindly, searching in vain for any means of escape. but just as there was no beginning there is no ending as her flight leads her to but a futile end.

here in the pervasive shadows framed in opulent drapes, she realizes she is but a pawn in a sick and twisted game. the echo of laughter rebounds in the attentive audience as she turns to face what was always to be her fate. the tears begin to fall and all that is left is the plush red curtains closing upon her screams.


© 2015 b.l. ronan


Poetry Book by Author B.L. Ronan:


Go checkout her Social Media Sites:

Blog   Amazon   Goodreads   Facebook   Google+


#Picture Prompt Challenge ~ Week Ones line up!

Well my friends and followers I am excited to start this Challenge that begins today “my time” in Futerland and this is the line up for Week 1… the support I have received has been incredible and I can’t wait to share these Writers talented interpretations to the Picture Prompt with you!


As in Life we are all unique Individuals that see and feel our experiences on the journey differently and in Poetry or Story-telling this type of Challenge helps to convey this message perfectly…

I love reading and being inspired by Writers different views to a Picture or Word Prompt Challenge… it truly lifts and enriches my Soul!

So I thank each one of these Writers for sharing their Gifts with me greatly!!!

Enjoy Debs xox


#Picture Prompt Challenge

(Graphic Font Designs are by my friend Angel Poet ~ http://Angelwingspoetry.com )


Hi All 👋 well to start off my New Year I’m hosting a “Picture Prompt Challenge” for three weeks… Participants in this Challenge are some Authors, Poet Friends & Writers that I follow and adore… They have submitted their interpretations to the picture below in the forms of Poetry or a Short Story!!!

Hoping you’ll all be inspired as I am :-)) And step into this New Year with fresh eyes and renewed Hope!

Cheers Debs xox


A short story… The Contract by Author Paige Thomas

A brilliant short story by a great Australian Author Paige Thomas… Enjoy! ~ Debs Xox

Paige Thomas

The Contract

Piper Maddison sat in her old run-down kitchen, her hands trembling as she allowed the contract to fall from her fingers to the table. When Mr. Corby had personally handed her the plain white envelope on her last day working for Corby Industries, and insisted it not be opened until after she arrived home, she didn’t expect to find what it contained.

She’d taken the three month temp position while his long-standing personal assistant was on maternity leave. Now, Piper found herself unemployed once more and within a matter of weeks the bills would quickly accumulate and remain unpaid unless she found another job—and fast.

For the second time, she scanned the handwritten note which accompanied the two-page document, the black ink scrawled across the thick, embossed paper causing her heart to pound wildly in her chest.

Was the man certifiably insane?

Mitchell Corby was a highly successful, extremely attractive…

View original post 5,118 more words

A Lacey Tale… Continued

A LACEY TALE ~ Continued…

As she enters the car sent to collect her
Her skin prickles
With excitement…

Following the instructions sent
She places the mask over her eyes
Which heightens her state of anticipation…

When the car comes to a stop
Her heart beats faster
As the moment has arrived…

The door opens briskly
And she inhales a fresh Ocean scent
Combined with a spicy cologne…

A strong hand lays on top of hers
As he speaks for the first time
His voice is like deep, velvet, chocolate…

“Welcome my lovely guest, I see you received my gifts… You are such a good girl”
She manages to say Thank-you, as her mouth is dry & she is so nervous!

Then he runs his hands slowly down her body
And removes her shoes
Explaining she won’t be needing them…

Guiding her then from the car
On a short walk along the sand
He stops and whispers his warm breathe in her ear…

“We’re here my lovely, are you ready for s’more”
All she can do is nod her head…

He then gently removes her mask
The sight she be holds is breathtaking
A candle lit dinner set out on a secluded beach…


© debradml (2014)