Recently presented  with the opportunity to review a collection of erotic poetry and short stories, I was naturally excited, for a variety of reasons. Chiefly, I was flattered the author sought me out to review her work! Secondly, I adore poetry-being a fan of Billy Collins, Bukowksi and Pablo Neruda-and finally, erotica in verse and prose; a powerful combination.

To be upfront, I'm not a fan of rhyming verse, however, this does not diminish the  sexual  intensity of the poems.


The collection is entitled: Mutual Submission

Author: Nelia Thompson


The poems- Better than Dreaming, Being with You, and Sexy Game convey a visceral sexuality with a hint of the sensual.  Certainly the type of verse you wish to read on a cold winter night, preferably in the company of a eager lover!



Familiar  Strangers and My possession, two of the short stories, weave a libidinous tapestry, an  examination on relationships, suggesting possible marital or relationship angst and discord, with the end results defying the assumed melodramatic outcome.



Caught in the clutch of Old Man Winter's grip?  Pour a glass of red, and read Mutual Submission and watch the icicles melt from the window, while stoking the fires of passion!

Available now at Smashwords:  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/125438

I originally wrote this short story for a contest sponsored by (of things) Family Circle magazine.  I failed to qualify for selection. Shocking, I know.  Therefore, I figured I'd post it here, for those who wish to read something a little different from what I normally write.  Please enjoy . . .



                                                                 -Waiting for Dragons-                                       

                                

"Are you a witch?"

I rested the paperback on my lap, my mouth a tight line, irked at the shrill inquiry.  

"What makes you say that?" I said, arching an eyebrow.

Little Ms. Interlocutor shrugged. She appeared to shrink under my withering gaze.

"I dunno . . . 'cause you are wearing all black?"

I wanted to question her powers of observation; I was not wearing all black. Had she failed to notice the patch of red plaid on my skirt? The silver pendant necklace that dangled in front of my pullover sweater, which I thought nicely complemented the streak of pewter in my hair. 

What piqued the little girl's interest? The touch of gray, dark tousled locks framing the severity of my expression, and the glasses perched on the end of my nose. Uncrossing my legs, I glanced down at my fashionably booted feet. They may have added to the mysterious allure.

I thought my ensemble might suggest mature, but sexy schoolteacher, not Witchiepoo from HR Puffnstuff.

"Whatcha reading?"

Frowning, I could not recall the title of the generic self-help book that I held in my hands.  I suppose I could have glanced at the cover, however, I didn't think the title of the book would matter much to a child. Leaning over and looking to my left and right, I whispered conspiratorially.

"It's a spell book."

The little girl's eyes widened with surprise.

"Really?"

"Yes, well  . . . not the traditional kind you are thinking about.  No eye of newt or frogs legs, mind you. This spell book tells you how to live your life, to   ask for certain things from the universe and then they come true."

"Wow that is so cool. Can you read me one?"

Biting my lower lip, an uneasy feeling roiled my stomach, lying to this child.

"Id like to, sweetie, but I don't think you are old enough to grasp the concept of these kind of spells, unless you are a connoisseur of a new age, vapid reworking of Norman Vincent Peale-isms."

The girl regarded me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as if she had tasted something unpleasant.

"Uh . . . you're kinda weird."

I laughed, trying hard to avoid a cackle.

"Oh, it wouldn't be the first time somebody said that to me. For the record, you know you shouldn't be talking to strangers?"

The girl gave another shrug of her shoulders.

"I know. My mom tells me that all the time."

"So, you still do it anyway?"

"Yup, I guess. I have no brothers or sisters, my best friend Sara moved away.  I get in trouble in school. My teacher says I talk too much in class. My mom is always busy, she tells me to go play or invent a pretend friend to chatter with. My name's Amanda and I am ten years old. What's your name?"

She plopped next to me on the bench, not at all winded from her rapid-fire delivery.

There was something not only disconcerting about Amanda's forwardness but sad as well. I remembered my mother, inch and an half of ash miraculously connected to the end of her Virginia Slim as she waved me away with one hand, ice rattling in a glass filled with gin and tonic in the other.

"What about your dad?" I asked softly.

Amanda fidgeted, her hands in her lap, swinging her sneakered feet against the rusting metal underside of the bench.

"My mom and dad are divorced. He is supposed to see me every Wednesday and every other weekend. I haven't seen him in a while. I think his new girlfriend doesn't like kids. My mom called the police, but they said there is nothing they can do; she has to go to court. She can't afford another lawyer . . ."  

Amanda's voice trailed off.  I saw her gaze fixed on some distant point on the horizon.  She did not appear to be upset, nor did her eyes mist. She spoke in a matter of fact tone. I suppose for her, it was.  The domestic conflict between her mother and father appeared to be old news, she a veteran child of divorce.

Amanda turned, looking at me expectantly. I had failed to give her my name.   I briefly toyed with telling her something matronly and witchlike. Esmeralda was on the tip of my tongue, but opted to hold my acerbic wit in check.

"Ah, yeah, my name is Annie, as in Little Orphan."

 My answer wasn't too far from the truth. My mother drowned in gin and died from liver cancer. My dad abandoned me shortly after her death.

"Hmm, weird."

I looked at Amanda, taking the reading glasses off my nose, holding them in my hand, for effect, eyeing her as if I were a defense attorney.

"What's so weird about Annie?"

If this kid knew one thing about me, it would indeed be a leading, direct exam question.

"Nothing, 'cept . . . I dunno . . . it doesn't . . . well, it doesn't seem to fit, I guess."

I nodded, smiling.

"Good point. I agree. With these dark, good looks, it should be something exotic, like Simone Boudoir." I said as I threw my head back theatrically, running a hand through my hair.

Amanda wrinkled her nose.

"No?"

She shook her head.

"Stick with plain old Annie?

Amanda nodded vigorously.

We both sat in silence, watching a dragonfly zip erratically through the weeds in the small pond. Shards of late afternoon sunlight filtered though the maple trees. It reminded of what my mother once said. The golden shafts of light were nature's spears, to keep the Dragons of the night at bay.  I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had heard, at the time. I was nine, not fully aware that my mother was an alcoholic and her brain was probably addled with gin when she spoke those words. It wasn't until I was older, alone and afraid, that the dragons of the night always came, no matter how bright the shafts of nature's light.

I glanced at my watch and sighed.

"Are you waiting for someone, a friend, whose not coming?"

Her question made my eyes water.  At age fifty-five, I was starting my life over. I was new to this town, this state. I was almost penniless and most certainly friendless.

"No, not exactly, Amanda."

"Then what?"

I suppressed an urge to muss up her hair. This kid was cute, if a tad too inquisitive.

"Dragons."

"Like, the fire breathing kind?"

No, the kind that uncoils in your stomach, icy serpents of fear constricting your heart, squeezing, making you afraid of the unknown.

I could tell her that, to brace her for the harsh realties to come.  I spoke, but it was the voice of my mother.

"No, sweetie. You see the red and orange of the fading sunlight. That's the dragons' fire, we just have to wait and see if they appear in the clouds. If we spot them, we can take their power, and then we have nothing to be afraid of, nothing to fear."

"Ever?" Her voice small and hopeful.

It was my turn to nod vigorously.

"Yup, so what do you see?"

Amanda looked skyward.

"A bunny."

I made a face. "Yeah, I see a pony. Oh well, maybe next time."

"How about tomorrow?"

I still looked at the sky, watching the bunny and pony float across the heavens.

"Yeah, why not. You and me, waiting for dragons."

Book Blurb:

In the sex, drugs, and peace era of 1969, a recently departed and undead young woman nicknamed Isis can't deny her desires for a mysterious and beautiful zombie with flowers in her hair.

While Isis tries to learn the identity of the woman of her dreams, the flowered zombie begins to teach Isis that sometimes we must die in order to understand our reason for living.


I'm gonna be upfront: I'm a fan of KevaD. Not only is he a fellow Noble romance author, but one helluva talented guy. I don't think there is a genre he cannot write. I bet he could make his grocery list sexy and fun to read.

I am privileged to be a part of Noble's Lesbian Vs. Zombie Anthology. My bit, Undead Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye debuts on or about 30 Jan 2012.  Kudos to Ruby Green, for dreaming dreaming up the concept and Jill Noble for taking a chance to publish stories not ordinarily found in a romance anthology.

Purchasing a KevaD book is easy. As a reader, you know you getting a solid story filled with engaging, fully textured characters, plus a dose of wry humor sprinkled throughout.

KevaD deftly mixes three distinct mythologies, two cultural and one historical.  Not an easy task. The Zombie with Flowers in her Hair is the realization of his talent to make the reader laugh, shudder, shiver with  desire and contemplate the philosophical all in one short story!

I suggest you check out his varied back list of books. NOW!


The Zombie with Flowers in her Hair available here:    https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/385/The-Zombie-with-Flowers-in-Her-Hair


Visit KevaD here:  http://kevad-author.blogspot.com/?zx=c628137a2476f029

Making the big move. Thankfully, no cardboard boxes or couches to lug around. I'm incorporating my blog into my author website. I feel its redundant to have a separate presence on the world wide web. Here folks can take a gander at my work and fevered ramblings. Hmm . . . dunno if that is a good or bad thing.

C'est La Vie.  It's here to stay.

Enjoy!