#Loves burning the mouths off the white boys on the squad with her fire house chili recipe

[rotzaprachim]

Obsessed with inej being a firefighter. wearing the Getup. climbing burning buildings. saving people

[highspeedclownery]

Hi, I saw that you are taking prompts, yay! I would love to read about Billy saving or protecting Steve, maybe post s2 at a party someone attacks steve and Billy defends him, or maybe Billy sees the bruises that the russian left and is, who did this? I'll f*** them up. Thank u

((Here ya go anon, part one 😁))

Billy had lost count of how many drinks he'd necked back but was happy with the pleasant buzz that enveloped him. It wasn't enough to be classed as 'drunk' but there was enough alcohol in his system to douse the sting from his earlier encounter with Neil. He could drink more, easily. Like many times before, he could get wasted and stumble home fired up and ready to fight.

He got distracted this time though. The last minute house party had been organised by some guy whose name Billy doesn't care remember and in true Hawkins style, every room was packed with rowdy teens, beer and the deep thrum of bass music. Among the crush of bodies, stood King Steve and by Billy's estimation, the boy was well on his way to being hammered. He danced clumsily, two equally inebriated girls clinging onto each of his arms. One of them snaked a hand underneath his shirt and Billy necked another plastic cup, crushing it in his fist.

Why the hell was he getting so prickly all of sudden?

Steve either wasn't aware or was enjoying her attention. Fucking Steve Harrington. For some reason the brown haired boy evoked a torrent of mixed feelings in Billy, from the very first moment they met. Initially it had been pure scorn and mocking. Pretty rich playboy with an attitude. Sometimes Billy wanted to rearrange his face, other times he wanted to spew a colourful fountain of insults and other times, more recently, he just simply observed him with... interest.

The past years events had changed Steve. His appearances at parties like this one had become a rarity and he spent an awful lot of time with the kids which Billy never quite understood but he supposed it got Neil off his back regarding Max a little. If Billy sat down and thought about it, he'd say Steve's withdrawn into himself.

Christ, he's not a psychologist and why did he care what Steve Harrington did?

Turning away from the scene, Billy brushed his fingers through his hair and scanned the room in search of Tommy or someone else whose company he tolerated but a commotion behind him snapped his attention back to the sea of students. Shouts and shrieks rose above the music as people were pushed aside by a boy who Billy recognised as part of the football squad and he did not look happy. Built like a truck, his wide frame easily parted the crowd and his whole demeanour exuded rage, from the deep creases in his brown to the white knuckles of his clenched fists. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch. It was inevitable someone was going to hit the deck hard.

Billy followed the footballers glare.

Shit.

Oh Harrington, what did you do now numbnuts?

Billy's feet moved without his consent, nudged his way through spectators just in time to see a fist fly towards Steve's oblivious face. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, the girls at his sides had already abandoned him. Momentarily stunned, Billy watched Steve push himself up onto his hands and knees, watched as a foot crunched into the side of his head and the resulting spatter of blood drip to the floor.

Something inside him snapped.

Marching over to the scene, Billy grabbed the back of the footballers jersey and yanked him away from Steve before he can land another kick. He hadn't seen him coming so was caught off-guard enough for Billy to roughly turn him around and barrel him into the wall, dislodging a few picture frames hanging there.

"What the fuck Hargrove? Stevie-boy there was trying to steal my girl!" The footballer protested, struggling against Billy's strength.

"Not from where I was standing." Billy growled and pressed his forehead hard into the others, murder swirling in his eyes. The footballer managed to wriggle an arm free and fight back, throwing a punch hard enough to split the skin of Billy's cheek

The response is immediate. Billy swung back and it soon became clear that he had the superior strength, despite the others larger frame. A few more punches were exchanged before the footballer backed down, spitting in Steve's direction and stalking away with his tail between his legs.

Billy's attention quickly turned towards Steve after that. The boy was still on the floor, the right side of his face swelling around a nasty cut to his eye. He looked up in shock at Billy, no doubt wondering, the same as everyone else there, why he had stepped in and helped him.

Ignoring the whispers and stares, Billy offered a hand which Steve shakily accepted, the incident clearly sobered him up.

"Move." Billy barked the command at the crowd and lead Steve through the house up the stairs and into an unoccupied bathroom. "Sit down."

Steve complied without hesitation, perching himself on the closed lid of the toilet. His stomach lurched, his vision danced and for a moment he closed his eyes, listening to Billy open cupboards and run water. The next thing he knew, a damp cool cloth was being pressed to his skin and he opened his eyes to find Billy squatting in front of him, tongue slightly poking out in concentration. His head was still swimming as Billy gently cleaned him up and suddenly he was very aware at how close Billy's face was to his own. So close that he could see the cobalt flecks that shifted in the brighter hues of his irises. Their eyes met briefly and before Steve could stop himself, he said: "You have pretty eyes."

At those words Billy stilled, mouth opening a fraction before closing again. "You're drunk and concussed." He supplied and backed off then, rising to his feet. His cheeks burned as he turned to rinse the bloody cloth and goddammit Harrington! Why did he have to say that?

Steve's hit his head, he reminded himself.

"Anyway. We need to figure out how to get you home, can I call someone?"

When he recieved no answer, Billy turned to find Steve had dozed off, an almost serene smile on his lips. Finding a lipstick lying around, Billy leaned down and a crudely draw dick soon decorated Steve's forehead.

Billy grinned to himself, he couldn't be too nice now could he?

"King 'fuckin Steve... what are you doing to me?"

[speckofglitter]

- playing with fire -

- this is my first ever full fic so plz don’t roast me if it’s trash lol-

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Fluff, Slight Cursing, Suggestive Themes

When you first met Byounggon, you were a clueless freshman girl, following your older friend Lisa everywhere. Although you were a really fun person to spend time with, you were super shy with strangers, refusing to sit next to anyone during the first two days of class. Unfortunately, Lisa was a sophomore so you had absolutely no one to talk to in class.

You were sitting in your gender studies class, waiting for the professor to arrive while you doodled in your notebook.

‘What are you drawing?’ you swiftly turn and your eyes meet with a tall boy. You didn’t even notice he had sat next to you. You slowly eye him up and down, definitely pleased with his appearance.

‘So… are you gonna answer my question?’ he asked, a knowing smirk already plastered on his stupid beautiful face.

You immediately shook your head as you closed your notebook and looked forward right as the professor entered and started the class. You felt the boy shift in his seat and giggle to himself. During the class, the boy was surprisingly very serious, taking notes on everything the teacher said. You didn’t know any boys your age who were interested in gender studies, making you even more curious about him. You glanced at him a few times, admiring his features and how his eyebrows would tighten when he couldn’t understand something. He caught you looking and shyly smiled at you.

After class ended you yeeted the fuck out of there, embarrassed that the boy had already seen you thirsting over him multiple times. You quickly texted Lisa, asking her to meet up at a nearby café to get food together.

-

A week passed and you couldn’t stop thinking about the cute boy in your gender studies class. By then you had made a few other friends, feeling a little more comfortable about this whole college thing. There was Hyunsuk from your textiles class, Yoonbin from your music class and Jihoon from your drama class. All of them were super funny and kind, although Yoonbin had definitely scared you at first.

You rolled into your gender studies class looking like a mess after a 6 hour High School Musical marathon with your newly founded squad. Your ears were still ringing from Jihoon’s endless impersonations of Sharpay.

Once again, the boy sat next to you, this time choosing not to speak to you at all. You were wondering if you had scared him off when class ended and he quickly put a piece of paper on your desk before leaving. You were about to call him out when you realized you didn’t know his name. Sighing, you opened the note which said ‘you looked tired today, hit me up if you wanna get coffee together sometime :) - Byounggon’ along with his number scribbled at the bottom. Crossing your arms, you leaned back onto your chair, deeply pleased.

It took you about 16 hours to decide whether you should text or call him. You decided to follow Jihoon’s advice and call him. To your surprise, he picked up immediately.

‘Hey, who is this?’ he asked.

‘Umm hi, Byounggon? It’s y/n? From gender studies?’

‘Oh it’s you, you have a beautiful name!’ he responded enthusiastically.

‘Thank you! Umm, I was wondering if I could take you up on that coffee offer?’

He took 3 seconds too long to answer and you were about to pass out from embarrassment before he chuckled and said ‘wow I really didn’t think you’d be up for it, I’ll pick you up at 4pm?’

You nodded furiously before realizing that he couldn’t see you and promptly responding ‘uhh yes that works for me, I’ll text you my dorm room!’

After the phone call ended you were left in a daze. It took you a few minutes of giggling on your bed until you looked at the clock in the corner or your room and ran to your closet. You had about 40 minutes before Byounggon would be there to pick you up. After a good 15 minutes of throwing around all of your clothes and facetiming Hyunsuk and Lisa for advice, you decided to keep it casual, settling on some mom jeans, nike air force 1’s and a black top.

During your date, you learned a lot about Byounggon. He drank his coffee black with ice, he hated small talk, immediately diving into deep talks about your choice of major, what you thought about gender studies and even why you applied to this college. He was also super easy to talk to. Frankly, you could already see yourself dating him. The only problem was that you didn’t know if he was on the same wavelength. Byounggon was a charming guy, you weren’t the only one who had noticed it. The entirety of the freshman girls have had their eyes on him since orientation. You didn’t know if you were ready to compete against them.

As he walked you back to your dorm, Byounggon smoothly grabs your empty hand, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. It took everything in you not to drop dead then and there. Byounggon could feel you tense up beside him and quietly giggled to himself.

‘Hey, my friend Seunghun is throwing a party Friday night and I was wondering if you wanted to come?’ he questioned, shifting back and forth.

‘Sure, I would love to.’ you replied. Although parties weren’t really your thing, you would do anything to spend more time with Byounggon at this point.

‘Great, goodnight y/n!’

You entered your dorm room with a huge grin on your face. Hyunsuk, Jihoon, Yoonbin, and Lisa were sprawled across your bed and the floor, waiting for you to come home so they could hear the details.

-

It was finally the day of the party. You and Byounggon had been dancing around each other for the past few days now, teasing each other and meeting up for casual coffee dates, he had even met your friend group, immediately getting along with all of them. The only thing was that you had no concrete ‘title’ yet so you assumed he thought of you as a good friend.

You were applying a clay mask onto your face when Hyunsuk barged into your room, claiming that he needed to pick your outfit out because you ‘have worse taste than Melania’. Although you doubted that was possible, you let him raid your closet. He picked out a black denim skirt and a white crop top to show off your curves.

‘Sukkie this is a bit much, I only ever wear jeans and sneakers..’ you glanced at him, holding the pieces up.

‘Exactly! A wise woman once said ‘you need to level up!’ I’m trying to help you here!’ Hyunsuk retorted.

At this point, you were really wondering why you chose to take fashion advice from a guy who quotes Ciara but you didn’t have time to argue so you just went and got changed. You quickly did your makeup and applied a bit of perfume. As you got out of the bathroom, Hyunsuk immediately started yelling ‘ayeee that’s my best friend!’ while aggressively milly rocking. ‘You look good girl, okay now get out go get your man!’ he said, pushing you out of your own dorm room.

-

When you got to Seunghun’s house, the party had already gotten started. He greeted you and called Byounggon so he could take care of you. When he arrived, you made strong eye contact. You couldn’t help but notice how taken aback he looked when he observed your outfit.

‘Hey, come with me, I’ll get you a drink’ he took your hand and led you around the sweaty, drunk teenagers.

You felt a lot more comfortable in the kitchen, watching Byounggon make you a mojito. You sat on the kitchen counter, swaying your legs back and forth, trying to focus on something else than Byounggon’s exposed arms. He usually wore hoodies so even just seeing him in a t-shirt was a lot for you to take in. When he passed you your drink you downed it in one go. Byounggon just curiously looked at you while sipping his own drink.

‘You okay?’ he asked as he raised an eyebrow, his dimple making an appearance.

‘Uh yeah yeah I’m good don’t worry’ you replied, shifting back and forth on the countertop. After a few minutes of awkward silence, you decided to finally speak up.

‘Do you wanna like... dance or something?’

Byounggon placed his drink on the counter, smirking as he grabbed your hand and led you to the dance floor. At that moment, you knew you were in trouble.

Run me dry by Bryson Tiller was playing and you didn’t even have time to think before Byounggon spun you around and pressed his body against yours. Feeling the liquid courage coursing through your veins you got closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck with a sly smile. Two could play at this game. He smiled back, placing his hands on your waist. You decided to take it a step further, turning around and grinding onto him. You cheekily looked up at him. He momentarily shut his eyes as he licked his lips. You couldn’t help but notice a little glistening ball on top of his tongue. Byounggon had a tongue piercing? What a nice surprise.

‘Talk dirty and caress on me

Fuck it, might as well get undressed for me’

Byounggon mouths the lyrics as he reciprocates your daring moves, getting lost in the moment. You were driving him insane. You finally turned back around, maintaining eye contact with him. He stared back intently.

‘I want you to kiss me’ you whispered. The moment you said that he grabbed your hand and pulled you upstairs.

‘Come with me princess’ he mumbled, leading you towards an empty room. As soon as he closed the door, he immediately pushed you against it, kissing you softly and immediately pulling back. You pouted, wondering if he regretted kissing you, but he kissed you again, this time more eagerly. His piercing felt cold against your lips, making you even more turned on. He caressed your body, feeling your hair, your cheeks, your waist, your hips. Lastly, he gripped your ass, lifting you up against the door. His soft lips moved towards your neck, sucking on your skin, leaving little marks everywhere. Your entire body felt like it was burning up. You let out a breathy moan, feeling overwhelmed. He pauses, running his thumb over your lips before softly biting your lower lip, his own lips curving up into a smirk.

‘So… what are we now?’ he whispers into your neck.

‘Very good friends?’ you answer tauntingly.

‘We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.’ he spoke coolly.

‘Wow, you’re so hot when you’re mad’ you giggled, smiling up at him.

‘Stop playing with me y/n. I really wanna be with you.’ he whispered, stroking your forehead before lightly kissing it.

To say that you were shocked at his confession was an understatement.

‘I wanna be with you too.’

When you said that Byounggon literally felt like he was gonna pass out. He hugged you before leading you out of the room. ‘Come on I’m taking you home before anything else happens’

‘Are you saying you don’t wanna have sex with me?’ you asked, not-so-innocently blinking up at him.

‘oh my god you’re wild’ he choked out. ‘I do, just not now, at a party with a bunch of drunk and sweaty teens. You deserve much better than that baby girl’ he looked back at you, winking.

At that moment you were incredibly grateful for the power of alcohol and a little bravery.

[thefandomimagine]

Morning Glory

Summary: Your early morning is interrupted by your parents who have no idea that the two of you are together. Based on: Imagine being Han and Leia’s daughter and falling in love with Poe.

A/N: This is a long-awaited gift for x-wingwarriorbbpoe8 as thanks for being the first person to buy me a coffee.

Buy Me A Coffee   Patreon Page

The bright morning sun was just beginning to drift into your bedroom when the sound of your alarm woke you from your sleep, interrupting the wonderfully colourful dream that you were having with its blaring siren that you wish you could change but knew that you couldn’t, knowing that you would never wake up in the mornings if the alarm was any quieter; late-night activities keeping you up until the early hours of the morning and leaving you exhausted beyond belief every night for the past week.

“Good morning.” You heard Poe Dameron, the greatest pilot in the resistance, the reason behind your late night activities and the man that you had grown to love over the last several months, speak behind you as you reached over to your bedside table to turn off the alarm, his arm coming to rest against your stomach as you snuggled back into the warmth of your blankets. The two of you had known each other for years thanks to your work fighting for the resistance but had only started dating some time ago, in fact your one-year anniversary would be coming up in 2 months’ time with the pair of you planning to sneak away for a few days to a resort planet so that you could celebrate in style.

You had liked Poe ever since the moment your mother, General Organa, had introduced the two of you, finding yourself quickly falling for the charming pilot as you patched him up after every mission and discussed battle strategies in the cantina on days when he wasn’t in his X-Wing fighting the First Order and your estranged brother.

Poe had eventually won you over after he had returned from a routine run that had ended in a terrible ambush, spending hours tending to the many injuries he had suffered and worrying that he might not make it through the night from how severe his burns were. Thankfully he did manage to survive and you were forced to place him in a medically induced coma so that he could rest properly instead of rush to the war room like he had wanted to do the second his squad had brought him into the medical centre.

When he did eventually wake up he began immediately confessing his true feelings, not caring for a second that his words were slightly slurred from the drugs still in his system. It took him several tries, but eventual Poe was able to tell you without any problems that he had been crushing on you for some time, practically since he had met you, and didn’t want to take his second chance at life for granted.

Luckily there was no one else inside of the room to hear his confession or to see how quickly your face had turned red at his word’s asides from his droid BB-8, the orange and white sphere beeping and rolling about the room happily at its master’s words, glad that the two of you were finally getting together after years of liking one another.

From there the two of you went on your first date, Poe flying the both of you to a wonderful little garden planet several systems over that housed some of the most beautiful plants in the entire galaxy. You spent hours admiring the flora and eating your fill of the picknick that you had made that morning before settling down on a blanket and admiring the stars, the two of you pointing out your favourite constellations and sharing the stories behind them before sharing your very first kiss underneath a meteor shower.

Ever since that day you and Poe had been practically inseparable though no one on the base asides from BB-8 knew the truth as to why, the two of you having decided to hide your relationship so that your parents didn’t find out you had fallen for the boy from Yavin 4.

You had no doubt in your mind that your mother wouldn’t have minded your relationship one bit, Poe was one of her most trusted and closest operatives in the resistance after all, your father Han Solo, on the other hand, was a completely different story. The man who had made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs was not the easiest man to impress, especially when it came to anyone who you had ever been in a relationship with before, no one seeming to be good enough for you in his eyes.

“Hey handsome.” You reply as you turn over to face your lover, giggling immediately when you saw the birds’ nest that was his bed hair. While your father might believe that there was no one in the galaxy worthy of being your partner you knew that Poe was without question good for you, how could he not be after making the 8 months that you had been together the happiest time of your life.

You missed him and the moments that you two shared hidden away in your own secret world dearly whenever he was forced away on a mission, your bed feeling cold and empty without his presence to provide you with the feeling of safety and comfort that only he could give when holding you, especially during those nights when you dreamt of your older brother and his glowing red lightsaber.

“I don’t want to leave this bed, leave you.” Poe confessed as he shifted himself forward until his face was only a few inches away from your own, his breath hot against your skin for the briefest of moments as the pair of you looked deeply into each other’s eyes before Poe decided to take incentive and plunged forward, attacking your mouth with his as his arm tightened against your waist. The two of you lay like that for several long moments, your tongues tied together in a passionately battle for dominance as Poe began to pull gently at your nightshirt, not so subtlety suggesting just what he wanted the two of you to get up to before you headed off for your shift. Meanwhile, your own hands had wound up tangled in Poe’s soft and curly hair, using his locks to tug him closer to you as you both moaned and gasped against one another.

Sadly, however your morning makeout session was soon interrupted by a surprise knocking at your door.

Knock Knock Knock

“Ignore it.” Poe spoke softly against your lips as he manoeuvred himself about so that he was saddling your hips, pulling his shirt off and allowing you to see his wonderfully chiselled abs in the morning glow before he reached down to attack your neck, kissing and sucking at your most sensitive spots with so much passion that you knew that you would have to wear a scarf to work today to hide the hickeys he was definitely causing.

However just as Poe’s fingers had finally reached and began to fiddle with the waistline of your pyjama bottoms you were interrupted once again, only this time the banging at your door also came along with a voice that made the both of you freeze in fear.

“Y/N? You in kid?” You heard your fathers voice ring out from behind your bedroom door, causing you and Poe to jump up from your bed as quickly as possible so that you could get started on the plan you had both come up with when you started your relationship in case something like this ever happened, not wanting your parents to find out that the two of you were together this way; especially with Poe half dressed.

“Give me a minute.” You shouted out as you rushed around the room picking up all of Poe’s clothes that had been flung around carelessly the night before, grabbing the sock that had landed on your lampshade and the undershirt draped over your computer and bundling them all together before shoving the clothes under your bed alongside Poe, who had crawled underneath the second he had gotten off the bed so that he could hide.

After making sure that your duvet was blocking all view of Poe you quickly grabbed your cardigan to help cover up the fact that you had hickeys forming before rushing over to your bedroom door, surprise quickly shifting onto your face when you found out who was waiting outside in the hall alongside your father.

“Morning mom, morning dad.” You say cheerfully as you pull your cardigan around yourself a little tighter, trying not to let on that anything might be wrong and that you definitely didn’t have a boy, much less the resistance’s greatest and prettiest pilot hidden underneath your bed.

“Morning Kido, thought you might want to join us for breakfast.” Han Solo, your father and the greatest man in the galaxy in your opinion, spoke as he pulled you in for a hug. It had been some time since you had last seen each other in person though you kept in contact regularly whenever he was away for work, messaging and calling each other at least a week no matter how busy you might be.

You had always been much closer to your father growing up unlike your estranged brother who had always orbited more towards your mother, especially when it was discovered that you hadn’t inherited your mother’s abilities with the force as he did. Because of your lack of a connection you always felt left out compared to Ben growing up, especially when it came to your uncle Luke who always spent more time with the boy who would one day become Kylo Ren.

But despite your feelings of loneliness you always had your father to cheer you up, the smuggler always sneaking off to teach you how to fire a blaster or showing you his passable medical knowledge that made you fall in love with the profession and sparked your dream of becoming a doctor.

That wasn’t to say that you didn’t love your mother immensely, you just didn’t feel as close to her as you did your father. Your relationship had been growing ever since you had joined the resistance 3 years ago however, when you had decided to go against the First Order in any way that you could after they had destroyed your clinic, now treating the members of the cause every day rather than just those who needed help.

“That sounds wonderful, just give me a few minutes to get dressed.” You reply happily, it had been ages since the three of you had last spent some time together as a family so it would be a nice change in your daily routine, though you wished that you had gotten the chance to spend your morning moment with Poe properly before they had disturbed the pair of you.

However just as your about to close your bedroom door and get away with the fact that Poe was hiding behind you the entire time your mother suddenly cried out his name, causing you to freeze in horror at how she knew he had been there when you had made sure that no a single inch of his toned and handsome body had been covered.

“Morning Dameron.” Your mother spoke again as you awkwardly turned around and tried to find out what it was that had given the two of you away. Almost immediately you found the source of her knowledge and mentally smacked yourself on the head for leaving his jacket, his most recognisable accessory, out in the open draped over your desk chair for all to see; though it did beg the question on how your father didn’t notice the thing when your mother had.  

“Good morning General.” Poe muttered out as he slowly crawled out from underneath your bed, no one speaking or moving as he at last stood up straight in the centre of your small room, still shirtless though thankfully wearing the pair of pyjama bottoms that he kept in his own personal draw in your bedroom.

For several moments no one dared do anything as an awkward silence began to drift into the air, you and Poe both looking at the floor so that you didn’t have to face your parents and see the looks of amusement (your mother) and anger (your father) on their faces.

“He’s not invited.”

“DAD!”

[marypsue]

let's break it (just because we can)

Hey! Guess what! It’s more of my bullshit!

Content warnings for suicidal ideation and canon-typical alcohol abuse. I still haven’t seen S3, so just pretend anything canon-noncompliant is happening somewhere else in the theoretically-infinite multiverse. Someday I’ll actually watch shit when it airs.

I’m also on AO3, as MaryPSue.

...

It’s got a white picket fence.

Sure, the house itself looks like some kind of giant house-eating alien shat it out after a particularly difficult digestion. Sure, the yard has apparently been used to store dead cars for the last millennium. Sure, that fence is faded, warped with age and rain, rotted out or broken in places and, in a big chunk out front beside the gate, fallen right down flat. Doesn’t matter. It’s still a white picket fence.

Love’s a little like cocaine. It’s great at the beginning, an overwhelming rush. It turns you into somebody better, smarter, cooler. Somebody else.

“It’s got a little white picket fence,” she says, and she’s a little bit in love with it already, and you’re so in love with her that yeah, maybe you’re a little bit in love with it too.

And that’s why you make the mistake of thinking - yeah. this could be good.

…

“Hey. Beth, isn’t it?”

Beth looks up. The girl who’s sat down across from her and is currently leaning across the library table like she wants to leap over it shakes out her mane of honey-blonde curls, smiling. Her hair gleams like burnished gold under the fluorescent lights, and Beth has to stop herself from self-consciously winding a strand of her own brittle, bleached hair around a finger. She wonders, briefly, if her roots are showing.

“Yeah?” she asks, and the other girl’s smile grows brighter. Heather, Beth thinks, or maybe Jennifer? The other girl’s so often part of a group of equally tan and beautiful people, it gets hard to tell them apart.

“You’re the one who told Lucas that your dad is out of town touring because he’s a rockstar?” Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer asks, leaning in closer like she’s sharing some scandalous secret. She smells like vanilla. Beth leans back in her seat.

“Sounds like me,” she says. She doesn’t know which one of the golden boys Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer hangs around with is Lucas, and frankly, she doesn’t care unless he wants to buy weed.

Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer looks gloriously confused for half a second, before the smile returns full force.

“We’re having a bonfire Saturday night,” she says. “Out by the point? You can come if you want.”

Beth leans forward, until her forehead is nearly touching Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer’s.

“You’re just inviting me because you think I can get you booze, right?” she asks.

The look on Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer’s face says it all.

Beth basks in Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer’s discomfort for a moment longer before leaning back in her chair again, crossing her arms and tilting the chair back on its back two legs. “Make a list of what you want and tell me what time to be there.”

Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer breaks out into a relieved smile, pushes herself up out of the seat across from Beth, and heads back over to the table where her people are waiting. Beth waits until she’s sure they’re not looking before she lets her chair fall back to the ground and buries her nose back in her anatomy textbook.

…

The fence is easy to fix. The house takes more work, but eventually you’ve got it looking less like a gigantic turd and more like an average human dwelling. She plants flowerbeds under the front windows. Ninety percent of everything she puts in there dies, but it’s the thought that counts. 

She's beautiful. The baby, when she arrives, is beautiful. Your home is beautiful. Your life is beautiful, and perfect, like a Norman Rockwell painting or one of those collectible china figurines old ladies like to keep around their houses. It's perfect. It's beautiful. It's so far removed from anything you recognise as 'real life' that it scares you.

You never claimed to be perfect. (Just cooler. Smarter. Better.) And love's a little like cocaine. It keeps taking more and more to get you high. 

...

“I don’t get why it’s supposed to be such a classic, anyway. It’s just some jerk acting all superior and whining about how much his perfect life sucks.” Heather (or maybe Jennifer) sits back on the log, tossing her bush of curls over one shoulder. The firelight-shadows turn her laughing face grotesque. “The only way this book could possibly be as good as everybody says it is is if Holden gets punched on the last page.”

“Hey, you just don’t get it,” the polo-shirted young Adonis that Beth thinks is Lucas protests, withdrawing the arm he’d wrapped around Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer’s shoulders.

“What, because I’m a girl?” Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer teases, poking possibly-Lucas in the middle of the chest with one finger, and possibly-Lucas shrugs.

“I’m just saying, it’s a novel about the fundamental pathos of existence and the inescapable sadness of the human condition,” possibly-Lucas rattles off, like he’s reading it from a textbook, and Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer bursts out into a fresh fit of giggles.

“Oh shut up, Mr. Winters isn’t here to see you kissing his ass.” She gives possibly-Lucas another halfhearted shove in the middle of his chest, before leaning in to rest her head there, still giggling. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get that letter of recommendation to Harvard if you admit that Holden Caulfield is a giant jerk.”

Possibly-Lucas just laughs, and nuzzles his face into Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer’s hair. Beth takes another sip from her can of soda, stares into the fire. It’s kind of fascinating how the burning logs don’t seem to visibly change, even while they’re being consumed.

“Ugh, what are you two, teachers?” the dark-haired girl who might be named Jennifer complains, from the other side of the bonfire. “We should be having fun, not talking about stupid Catcher in the Rye.”

“She’s got a point,” Heather-or-maybe-Jennifer giggles, through a mouthful of hair.

Possibly-Lucas nods, and then calls, “Hey! Beth! Truth or dare!”

Beth stares into her drink. On her desk back at home, the latest module for the correspondence course she’s taking on organic chemistry is sitting, waiting. She can’t think of anywhere she’d want to be less than here.

“Dare,” she says, to her soda.

…

The show’s in the shitty basement of a shitty dive bar and, looking at the crowd, you think you’ll be lucky if you can play two sets and get out of here without anybody chucking a Molotov cocktail at the stage. 

You told her things were picking up. That you had some real promising prospects on the horizon. That you’d let the fading dye job grow out. That you’d get a real job. Take out patents on some inventions, sell them to the highest bidder. That at the very least you’d start playing some places that actually paid. Weddings, and shit.

You didn’t exactly lie.

But here, tonight, it’s cheap beer and bad weed and stony glares and a bassline that thrums like a heartbeat. Here it’s a dusty spotlight and a guitar that you play like you’re making love to it, because maybe, maybe it’s the only lover who’ll ever understand you. Who’ll never chain you down.

(there’s a difference between fucking and making love. you think maybe you’ve only ever done the second one onstage, with a screaming crowd and a guitar.)

You promised her. You promised, and the baby needs new clothes and shit and the upstairs toilet hasn’t worked for a month and the fence is starting to fall down again but here you are, in a shitty basement, playing a shitty punk show. Because you need this. Everything back home is glossy and pastel and perfect, and you just need this one goddamn thing in your perfect fucking life that still feels raw, still feels broken, still feels real.

She catches your eye halfway through the second set. Headbanging along, like your shitty garage band is the fucking Stones or some shit. Cherry red mohawk nearly a foot tall, bleeding hairspray in shining trails down her face. Almost looks like she's crying. Like agony. Like ecstasy. Like you're playing her and not just the guitar.

You think, afterwards, that it's the best show of your goddamn life.

...

Somebody brought a boom box. Somebody brought hot dogs. Somebody brought half the football team, and the cheer squad, and somebody thought it would be cool to see how big they can build the fire.

Beth can feel the heat of it on her face from five feet away, can feel the cold of the sea air on her back. It’s almost cold enough that she wants to put her top back on. Almost, but not quite. Besides, the beer really does warm you up from the inside out.

(It’s a lie. Just like the confidence it fills her up with. It’s just blood rushing to the surface, losing body heat to the air even as it makes her feel warm. She could get hypothermia and die like this, and never even know she was cold.)

She sways, in time to the music, bumping hips with dark-haired probably-Jennifer-unless-that’s-Heather, spinning to stand face to face and letting her hips swivel with the beat. Probably-Jennifer’s wearing some kind of lipgloss that sparkles in the firelight, her lips full and slightly parted, her eyes half-closed. The fire is scorching hot and the beer is a warm glow in Beth’s veins and everything is soft, is distant, is safe.

Probably-Jennifer doesn’t even seem startled when Beth goes in for the kiss, just puts her hands (so warm, almost burning) on Beth’s hips and pulls her closer. It just feels natural, inevitable.

The cheers and hoots from all around them are the only reminder that it’s not.

Probably-Jennifer pulls back, flushed and grinning, a few strands of hair sticking to her glitter lipgloss.

Beth pulls away, from her, from the fire, and starts to tug her top back on.

…

You ditch your friends after the show and catch mohawk girl at the bar. Same old song and dance - buy her a few drinks, take her back to the van or the motel or her place, fuck her brains out, never see her again. Except something goes wrong somewhere and instead of taking her someplace where the two of you can get a little privacy, you end up at an all-night breakfast place. Maybe it's the looks you got from your two best friends, the only two other people in this vast, cold universe who've always had your back before. Maybe it's just that this is how you met the woman who's now your wife.

"We - we gonna fuck or what?" you blurt, as soon as that thought crosses your mind, and mohawk girl looks up like you just blasted an air horn in her ear.

"What, right now?" She waves her fork at her half-eaten waffle. "Can I finish this first?"

"Nope," you say, putting down your own fork with a clatter and pushing yourself out of the booth, crossing your arms over your chest and wishing you'd worn something with a little more intimidation factor than the navel-revealing neckline on this shirt. "Limited time offer. Take it or leave it."

Mohawk girl looks from you, to her waffle, back up at you again. She doesn't get up.

"Fine," you say, wishing you had something to throw, or shove, or smash, or slam.

Mohawk girl watches at first as you storm out of the restaurant, but by the time you reach the door, she’s gone back to her waffle.

...

The light and the heat and the music start to fade as Beth walks along the beach, her feet sliding in the sand, clutching her arms against the chill. There’s just enough of a breeze to ruffle her hair and raise goosebumps on her arms. She can’t quite feel her hands, and she’s not sure if it’s from the beer or the cold.

Everything seems very dark, at first, close to the bonfire. It's nearly impossible to see anything the firelight doesn't touch. Beth almost trips over a couple lying in the sand, in the middle of moving from making out into something else entirely. She shuffles farther away from the ring of firelight and from the rising moans of the couple she just left behind. The water is black as ink as it laps at the shore, and there doesn’t seem to be a horizon out there. Just endless void, as far as the eye can see and farther. Nothing and more nothing.

Beth wanders around one of the bigger rocks that dot the beach, shivering in its shadow as it blots out the firelight, and there is the sky.  

…

You don’t go home.

You don’t go back to the bar where your friends are almost definitely getting plastered, either. Instead, you get in your rustbucket of a car and start it, and then sit there, with the engine running. Trying to decide where to go, when you’ll have to be home by morning. Wondering idly what would happen if this falling-apart piece of shit you call a car had malfunctioned somehow and the tailpipe was plugged.

The radio’s on your favourite rock station, blaring “Highway to Hell”. You growl a little under your breath and wrench the knob, flipping feverishly through the stations until you find some mindless, banal pop song, and then throw the car into drive. It doesn’t really matter where you go. You just need to go.

The sky overhead is dark and endless and strewn with stars, an infinity of possible worlds, possible lives. If you didn’t know better, it would be beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Just plain inspiring. That eternal tableau of untamed possibility. If you didn’t know better, you’d believe that anything could be out there. That anything could happen. That you could be anything.

But you know better.

The pop song bops along for about thirty seconds before its polished, prepackaged bubbliness finally gets on your last nerve and you turn the radio off.

...

The ocean is a silent, freezing mirror, replete with the reflected cosmos.

The tide is loud, here, the muffled bass of the music and the occasional shout the only sounds from the bonfire that carry back to Beth. She looks back over her shoulder, sees the fire. From right beside it, it had been so big and bright and hot that it had seemed to fill the whole sky. She’s barely walked for five minutes, but looking back, it already seems tiny, dwarfed by the ceiling of endless, limitless stars. So insignificant. So infinitesimal.

…

The house is dark, the sky is going grey around the edges, by the time you pull back into the drive. You clip the corner of your white picket fence on your way in, knock the corner post askew. The fence lists like it’s almost as drunk as you are.

You kick at it on the way to the door, misjudge the distance. 

The lawn’s slick with early dew, and you barely avoid faceplanting into the flowerbed by overbalancing and landing flat on your ass instead.

…

“Hey, you’re – Beth, right? Beth Sanchez?”

The voice breaks the quiet rhythm of the tide lapping gently in and out, and Beth jumps. She hadn’t heard anybody coming up behind her, lost in the star-studded expanse of forever. She realizes, for the first time, that her feet are freezing. “Yes. And yes, I did take my top off, and yes, I did kiss a girl. No, I won’t repeat either performance unless you bring me another beer, and even then, no promises.”

The boy standing back on the beach stuffs his hands in the pockets of his knee-length shorts with forced casualness, looking anywhere but Beth’s face. “Actually, I recognized you because I think we have chemistry together.” He turns his head to grin at her, pulling both hands from his pockets to point in her direction like he’s waiting for her to laugh at his incredibly witty punchline.

It takes Beth a moment to process. “Third period, right? You’re the guy who’s always asking about covalent bonds.”

Covalent bond guy deflates a little, shrinking around his smile. He stuffs his hands back in his pockets, shuffling over to where the water laps at the shore. “Jerry. It’s Jerry. What’re you doing all the way out here, anyway? Party’s back by the fire…” The way he says it is almost more of a question than an invitation.

Beth turns back out to the ocean. “Did you want something?”

“Well, I saw you walking away from the bonfire, and, I don’t know, just wondered what you were up to.” He shrugs. “With…your…bare feet in the water. Isn’t that cold?”

“You get used to it,” Beth says.

“Well, if you say so,” covalent bonds guy – Jerry – says, and then there’s a rustle and the scrunch of sand underfoot, and his voice coming up behind her. “Perfect night for a little oh holy fuck that’s cold.”

Beth can’t help but smile as he dances back along the beach, away from the surf, like the soles of his feet have been burned. “I tried to warn you.”

“What are you, a polar bear?” Jerry grasps his upper arms, hunching over shivering, his skinny chest glowing pale in the dim starlight.

“Maybe,” Beth says. “I mean, there might be some polar bear DNA in there. I was grown in a lab.”

Jerry stares at her like she’s just grown a second head.

“You’re joking, right,” he says, and Beth just grins. “Ha. Hilarious.”

“Almost as good as your chemistry line,” Beth shoots back.

Jerry lets out a discontented huff, and thankfully, finally, shuts up for a couple of seconds.

“Well, I guess skinny dipping is out,” he says, just when Beth is starting to relax again. “What a beautiful night for stargazing, though.”

“There’s no moon,” Beth agrees.

Jerry nods, and for once, says nothing, looking up instead. There’s something a little wistful in his expression, and Beth catches herself thinking that he’s not actually bad-looking, as generic teenage boys go.

“Don’t nights like this just make you want to be in love?” he asks, without looking at Beth, and if he gets any more blatantly sappy Beth’s going to drown him.

“Most of those stars died trillions of years ago,” she says, maybe a little less sharp than she intended, because Jerry looks at her and smiles.

“Not for us, they didn’t,” he says, and holds out a hand in Beth’s direction.

There’s smoke on the salt breeze and the distant sounds of laughter. Overhead, the stars glitter cold through the atmosphere.

Oh, what the hell, Beth thinks, and starts to wade up out of the surf. What’s the worst that could happen?

…

Your daughter’s asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling peacefully, her little fat baby face wrinkled up in a frown. She hiccups loudly as you turn to leave the nursery, and you freeze, holding your breath. She doesn’t cry, though, just looks through you with those enormous eyes that you’re biologically programmed to find adorable, before blinking them closed again and turning her face away. Her tiny thumb finds its way into her tiny mouth, and then she’s fast asleep again.

You exhale, and try not to trip over anything as you creep back out of the room.

The lamp on the bedside table on your wife’s side is lit, but she’s passed out with her face smooshed into the pillow, a book half-sliding out of her grip. You think about taking it from her and putting it on the bedside table, decide against it. You’d only wake her up.

You strip, as quietly as you can, and only stub your toe on the nightstand once before turning out her light and falling into bed beside her. The dark and the quiet settle down on you like six feet of black earth, thick and suffocating.

Your last conscious thought is that love’s a little like cocaine. Even when you know it’s killing you, you still can’t quit.

[core-ean]

To Rise From The Ashes

A boisterous laugh echoed through the empty halls of their home, there was hardly ever a quiet day in that house. Squeals and giggles followed soon after that gruff sounding man whose voice was deep enough to send shivers down any ones spine. Nestled in the living room by a steadily burning fireplace sat a broad shouldered man draped in a heavy bear skin coat with flakes of snow melting away onto it. His thick head of dark brown curls just poking over the lapel of his coat from his hunched form. A small boy rest in his lap thrashing from the gentle pokes and prods at his sides, his sweet voice carrying in the room around them. The boy was a tiny thing compared to the man, his head only the size of the man’s palm. He looked so different from him as well, multicolored hair and bright golden eyes, his roots a raven black while the ends of his hair grow stark white. A gift to his father, a curse to their elders. The man wrapped his arms around the boy holding him tight against his front while kissing his natural rose flushed cheeks.

For the first time in weeks a soothing serenity washed over their home, threats from neighboring kingdoms seemed so far in the future there was no need to worry. Calm, peaceful almost.. almost. “...papa?” His sons soft voice finally piercing the cloud of hellish thoughts. “What’s wrong?” The frail boys head tilt like a tamed wolf in front of a new master. The man shook his head propping his son up on his knee, “nothing you need to fret about son.” He always made that same remark to any question about his health or worries. He truly believed there was nothing to fear when it came to his family, he would be there to protect them no matter what the gods may throw his way. He would protect his kingdom with the same iron strength will and unwavering determination. The boys face fell at the practice response, a light tap to his nose made his smile return ten fold though. “Oi, no frownin’ on my watch Erling.” He ruffled the boys already nappy hair pushing it back from his face, he needed to cut it soon for him. Erling squirmed out of his fathers grasp standing before him with his head held high, chest puffed and hands on his hips. “One day I’m going to be a king like you papa! I’m going to build our kingdom so big no one will challenge us!” The man pulled his son back onto his lap with a laugh, “that right? Well since you are my boy that makes you a prince Erling, and one day when it’s your time, I know you’ll make a far better king than I ever was.”

Erling held his hands over his ears, desperate to drown out the ever growing screams around him. Tears rolled down his cheeks dripping onto his pants, he folded himself into a tight ball to protect himself from the roaring fires around him. Smoke filled his lungs, soot covered his skin and buts of ash littered his clothes and hair. He screamed for his parents but he doubted any could hear him over the rattling of fallen houses and the thunderous claps of hooves pounding the frozen ground outside his home. Ragged coughs tore from his clawed lungs, his throat closed restricting his breathing and his body ached from head to toe. He kept reciting the prayers his parents taught him, he begged for protection for his people, he begged for mercy from the ones that might cause his harm, but most of all.. he prayed his parents would be okay should he not make it that night..

A shout from outside the burning house fell to deaf ears. The still standing door was thrown off its hinges as heavy footsteps finally reached the trembling boy. Erling was scooped from the ground into a familiar embrace, his head was buried in thick fur blocking out the fire still alive in the remains of his house. His father rushed outside barely making it as the final support beam snapped, a sickening crack sounding from it until the house collapsed in on itself sending barrels of smoke in every direction. A woman stood on the path a few yards from the remains, she reached out for the boy when her husband came to her side. Erling lifted his head the moment he was passed into his mother’s arms. “You need to leave Kara, take our son and go.” “I can’t just leave you! We have to stay together they’ll kill you if they find you Arkyn!” Erling rubbed his eyes with tight fists, weak whimpers and coughs tugged from his torn lips.

“Please you have to go, Kara I mean it I’ll find you after this is over but please, please love you have to go.” Arkyn held his wife and son for a moment, a brief and fleeting moment. A small squad of knights turned onto the road and ran towards the family. “Your majesty! The enemies have taken the southern wall, they’ve started pushing towards the city! There’s still a chance to escape but we must leave now!”

Erling turned his head to stare towards the street, his eyes still filled with tears. He tried blinking them away several times, he wanted to see something other than distorted forms from somewhere down the road. His vision cleared seconds before a flurry of arrows pierced the knights around them. He could only watch with wide eyes as the men fell to their knees gasping for air while blood poured from their mouths. Kara tucked Erling to her chest breaking out into a sprint with her husband right at her heels. Erling’s head poked up from his mother’s shoulder, his eyes locked onto the soldiers that bleed out on the ground, their bodies trampled by giant steeds covered in bloodied armor. His gaze turned to his father, eyes wide and frantic as he sat up in his mother’s grasp screaming for him to turn around. His hands grasped the cloth of his mother’s dress in a vice like grip.

His father fell to his knees, arrows embedded in his back. Arkyn didn’t look away from his wife and son, his lips curled in a tight smile. Thin streaks of blood trailed from the corners of his mouth, tips of iron flashed from his chest. Erling’s chest went tight, broken sobs ripped past his shaking lips. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t breath. He was stuck watching the sword tear through his father’s neck, the blade soaked in his blood. Kara tripped over her own snow coated dress, she fell to the ground holding Erling close to her. A man slid off his horse humming to himself as he pulled his sword from Arkyn’s cold corpse, a smiling widening on his face the closer he got towards Erling and his frantic mother. Kara crawled onto her side, both arms around her son. She kicked and thrashed when the man seized her up by her hair, he yanked Erling away from his mother throwing him back with the rest of his men who held him back from running. Kara was forced onto her knees in front of her son, she tried fighting, tried to push the man away to protect her son. But what was an omega to do when an alpha held her down.

The man whistled down towards Kara, “you have quite a bite omega, I can see why Arkyn took a liking to you~” “don’t you dare say his name!” She whipped around in his grasp knocking her head back into his side until he tightened his grip on her hair. “Feisty feisty~” the man pulled something from his back and held it against the back of Kara’s head, only just out of sight for Erling. The poor boy was still trembling and sobbing. “Sweetheart,” she cooed to her son in their native tongue, she called every love filled phrase she had ever said to him. Erling whimpered back short replies. His body went rigid, a deafening blast made his ears ring. Blood splattered on his face dripping from his hair onto the snow below him. His mother’s body went limp before tumbling to the ground, the barrel of a gun finally revealed from behind her head, smoke tunneled through it. The man dropped the gun by Kara’s body, he stepped over her to kneel in front of Erling. He waved a hand over the boys eyes, snapped his fingers a few times and even poked him. Erling didn’t react, he didn’t speak, he didn’t breathe, blink.. anything… he just stood there, silent. The man clicked his tongue towards the boy, “weak” he raised his fist knocking Erling clean off his feet and on the snow. He was knocked out before he even hit the ground.

Erling’s eyes fluttered open, his vision blurred and ears still ringing from before. His memories were trickling back into focus, what was thought to be some horrid nightmare turned to reality, his eyes were stuck on the body of his mother. Her blood still stained his face. “M-...momma…?” He could only whisper. “M-momma wake up… pl-please wake up…” Erling crawled over to his mother and shook her, he called for her over and over again. First in common speech then in their language. His breathing picked up the more she didn’t respond. He pulled himself onto his feet and ran to his father, the tips of his fingers were pale blue. He knelt by his father shaking him as best he could. “P-papa get up! Please..! Pl-please…” Erling’s body began to shake again, “please don’t leave me here..” the boy wiped his tears, he kept running back and forth between his parents until his legs finally gave out beneath him. He fell to his knees grasping his hair and rocking back and forth. His parents weren’t waking up… they weren’t coming back.. Erling let out a violent, heart shattering scream, his eyes clenched shut and throat raw, he didn’t stop though.

West frequently visited his parents graves, he gave them proper burials when he was twelve. He would lay flowers on their stones along with other offering he had. For years he never said a word, he would only give his offers then leave. For some reason though.. this year was different.. West knelt by his parents graves running his fingers over the engraving on them. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel it. He kept tracing their names.. nothing. He kept rubbing the tips of his fingers along sharp corners.. nothing.. he didn’t stop until he was bleeding.. he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. West wrapped his arms around the stones, his head hung low. Tears fell from his cheeks, pricking the snow at his knees, he let out a shattered breath. “Mother… father… I’m so sorry..” his voice was rough, gravelly almost.. “but… I don’t think I’m human anymore…”

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - Last Puffs

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Pump Up Your Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

LAST PUFFS by Harley Mazuk, Mystery/Crime, 293 pp., $14.95 (Paperback) $4.99 (Kindle edition)

  Title: LAST PUFFS Author: Harley Mazuk Publisher: New Pulp Press Pages: 293 Genre: Mystery/Crime/Private Eye

Frank Swiver and his college pal, Max Rabinowitz, both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro, courageous Republican guerilla, in the Spanish civil war. But the local fascists murder her and her father.Eleven years later in San Francisco in 1949, Frank, traumatized by the violence in Spain, has become a pacifist and makes a marginal living as a private eye. Max who lost an eye in Spain but owes his life to Frank, has pledged Frank eternal loyalty. He’s a loyal communist party member and successful criminal attorney.

Frank takes on a case for Joan Spring, half-Chinese wife of a wealthy banker. Joan seduces Frank to ensure his loyalty. But Frank busts up a prostitution/white slavery ring at the Lotus House a brothel in Chinatown, where Joan was keeping refugees from Nanking prisoners.

Then Max sees a woman working in a Fresno cigar factory, who is a dead ringer for Amanda, and brings in Frank, who learns it is Amanda. She has tracked the fascists who killed her father and left her for dead from her village in Spain to California. Amanda wants Frank to help her take revenge. And by the way, she says the ten-year-old boy with her is Frank’s son.

Joan Spring turns out to be a Red Chinese secret agent, and she’s drawn a line through Max’s name with a pencil. Can Frank save Max again? Can he help Amanda avenge her father when he’s sworn off violence? Can he protect her from her target’s daughter, the sadistic Veronica Rios-Ortega? Join Frank Swiver in the swift-moving story, Last Puffs.

Praise:

.5 out of 5 stars Wonderful Read – Easy and Fun February 10, 2018 Format: Kindle Edition| Verified Purchase Frank Swiver is a detective. Murder investigations are his specialty. He likes wine, loose women and fast cars. Not necessarily in that order. Swiver inhabits an earlier world that is archaic and, without doubt, politically incorrect by today’s standards. Harley Mazuk recreates in Swiver a character from another era whose story is fun and entertaining. Mazuk has an impressive knowledge of wines and cars which permeate his narrative. As to his knowledge of women, I am not competent to judge. I do know that the geography and time period portrayed is well researched. There are many twists and turns to the plot as well as an injection of espionage that keeps the reader guessing. Fans of old fashion detective novels will enjoy this book. I know, I did. — Amazon Reviewer

Order Your Copy!

  Aragón, Spain, March 1938

There’d been a dusting of fresh snow in the high ground during the night, and the captain wanted our squad, which was nine men, to relieve an outpost on the crest of a hill, just up above the tree line. Max Rabinowitz took point, and I followed, climbing steadily. It was a cold, quiet morning, and we talked between ourselves about the ’38 baseball season, and whether we’d be back in the States to see any games.

“I would like to see Hank Greenberg and the Tigers play DiMaggio and the Yanks,” said Max. Max was dark-haired and rangy, and I always thought he looked a bit like Cary Grant, though now after a year in the field, there was nothing suave nor dapper in his appearance.

“How about Ted Williams?” I said. “We’ve already seen DiMaggio play in San Francisco with the Seals.”

“We saw Williams play with the Padres. Besides, he isn’t in the big leagues yet,” said Max.

“Yeah, but the Red Sox signed him.” I walked along just off Max’s shoulder. I was about the same height as Max, six feet, six-one, a little thinner, and looked at least as scruffy that morning. I wore a burgundy scarf around my head and ears, under a dirty and battered grey fedora. I scanned the virgin snow ahead of us with heavy-lidded eyes. The wind was faint, just enough to pick up a feathery wisp of snow in spots and spin it around. 

“He’s only about 19. I think they’ll keep him down on the farm for ’38.”

“I would like to see Bob Feller pitch to your boy Greenberg,” I told Max.

Smitty came up between us. “Feller throws 100 miles an hour, and he strikes out more than one per inning.”

“They say,” said Max, “he walks almost one an inning,”

“Keeps ‘em loose up there,” said Smitty, who was from Cleveland. “Hundred mile an hour heat and nobody knows where it’s going.”

As the three of us stepped out of the cover of the tree line, Smitty kind of hopped up on one leg and threw his arms out. I wondered what sort of a weird little dance that was; then I heard the automatic weapons fire coming down at us off the hill. It was a mechanical chatter, rather than gunpowder explosions, and the wind had blown the sound around the hills so that the bullets cut Smitty down before it had reached us. Branches near us started to snap off and tumble earthwards. Max hit the snow on his belly and rolled downhill to his right to get to cover behind a rock. I motioned for the others to get back into the trees, and dove into a low spot in the ground.

When we could look up, we saw that the fascists had overrun the outpost we’d been climbing up to the ridge to relieve, and the firing was coming from there. We returned fire. I heard cries in Spanish from behind me, a curse in a low voice, then a high-pitched prayer.

A potato-masher grenade came flipping end-over-end down the hill toward me. It seemed like slow motion. It hit a rock and bounced up. I could say a Hail Mary in about four seconds flat in those days, and I said one then. The grenade sailed over my head; I heard it explode, and felt a shower of dirt on my back. In front of me, Max was popping up and firing one round with his Springfield, then dropping behind the rock. I popped up and fired when he dropped down. I thought we were doing pretty well taking turns, but grenades kept arcing over our heads and bullets pinged into Max’s rock and raked the dirt beside me. Max tried lobbing one of his grenades towards the machine gun, but his throw was uphill, and he didn’t have an arm like DiMaggio.

After a few minutes of this, I tried to aim and squeeze the trigger instead of popping off quick shots. Then I didn’t hear anyone behind us firing anymore. I looked around and saw Rocco and Pete sprawled in the grass. I called to a couple of the others.

“Comrades…anyone…sound off.” Nada.

“Frank, this is bad,” Max yelled to me.

“I’d rather be facing Feller’s fastballs,” I told him. “Maybe it’s time for us to dust.” Then we heard an airplane motor. It grew louder, and the first plane, a Heinkel, zoomed over the ridge seconds later. Max had risen to his feet and was scrambling down the slope. He looked back over his shoulder at the plane just as a cannon shot from the aircraft hit the rock he’d been behind. The explosion flipped Max in mid-air and tossed him towards me. The ground under him ripped up and clods of dirt flew towards us.

The scene faded to black, but for how long, I don’t know. When I opened my eyes, I was facing the sky but I smelled the forest floor, earth and leaves. Truffles, perhaps? Max was on top of me, limp, and it was quiet. No planes, no shooting. “Max,” I said, “we gotta get up. Get off me.” I felt my voice in my head, but couldn’t hear it in my ears. Max didn’t get up. I rolled him over next to me, and saw that his hat was gone.  The top of his head and the right side of his face were a collage of blood and dirt. I shook him, and he gasped for breath, earth falling out of his nostrils. He was still alive.

“Frank, Frank. I can’t see. I can’t see.” It didn’t sound like Max, but there was no one else there.

“Easy, Max.” I tried to rinse some of the dirt, debris and blood off Max’s head with my canteen, then I ripped open a compress from my pack and put it over his forehead and eyes. I wrapped more dressing around his head to keep the bandage in place “Hold this on your face, man. Don’t try to open your eyes.” I was afraid his right eyeball was going to fall out. “Hold it tight.” Using the slope, I maneuvered him across my shoulder, head down in front of me, and struggled to my feet. I took off at a trot along the tree line.

Our lines were behind us to the east but it looked like the whole damned fascist army was charging down from the outpost, headed that way, so I ran south. It was downhill and my momentum carried us. The going was easy, but I felt panic building in my gut so I tried to slow down. I slid on the snow, fell on my butt, and slammed into a tree and dropped Max.

“Frank, where are you? Am I dyin’?”

“I got you, Max. You caught some shrapnel in the head from that plane. Say an act of contrition or something.”

“I’m a Jew, you idiot.”

“Say it anyway.” I lifted the gauze off his forehead and looked under it. His wound didn’t appear to be deep, but the right eye was very bad, all blood and pulp, and the bone around it may have been shattered. “Press on this, Max.” I pressed the bandage back against his face and put his hand on it. 

I hoisted him over my shoulder again, and stepped off, forcing myself to keep my pace steady and not too fast. We went on till the sun was high in the sky. I didn’t fall again, but my ankles were burning, and my toes were pinched in my boots from going downhill. I stopped twice, and opened our bota. I washed my mouth out with the wine, a rustic red from Calatayud, then I cradled Max’s head and opened his mouth. I squirted the wine in, squeezing the leather skin, the way I’d squeezed the trigger of my rifle. Max coughed. He seemed only half-conscious.

I carried Max down the hill and to the south, parallel to our lines, until we were deep in some woods. I was scared and it wasn’t easy, but I would have done anything for Max. We had been roommates and run around together at Berkeley. We fell out of touch when he went to law school, and I started drinking, trying to forget Cicilia. When Max re-connected with me in ’36, he tried to help me sober up and get back on my feet. I’d come around for a while, but always, I’d slip back into the abyss.

Max was a red, even back in our student days. I hadn’t been serious about my politics then. One evening to keep me from drowning my demons, Max took me to a meeting about the Spanish Civil War and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Before the night was over, we’d signed up to fight in Spain. Max didn’t have to. I think he did it to save me. Now I was going to save him.

When the sun dropped behind the hills, the woods quickly grew dark. There was a smell of pines, and the footing was better—no snow or ice on the ground, which was hard and covered with dry pine needles. Under the background din of war, the roar of artillery and airplanes, I heard water down to my left. I turned towards it and a few minutes later, came to a stream, probably flowing south to the Ebro. It wasn’t night yet, but it was so dark under the tall trees, I would have walked into the stream without seeing it if not for the sound of the water rushing over the rocks. I put Max down on his back, head and shoulders downhill toward the stream. The blood had dried; the gauze was stuck to his head. I scooped up water with my hat and poured it on his face. The icy cold shocked him into consciousness—and panic and pain.

“Morphine, Frank,” he moaned. “Gimme the morphine.” But I had used our morphine one night weeks ago on guard duty on a cold hillside. We did have a flask of Cardenal Mendoza Spanish Brandy, and I gave him some, then I drank. I rinsed his wound good and put a new bandage on it using Max’s kit this time. My legs felt weak and started to shake with cold or exhaustion. I don’t know if I could have stood up then if the Generalissimo had come down the hill waving his pistoles. We were down low, and there were some bare shrubs and young trees sheltering us on the uphill slope. I fought my exhaustion and tried to keep watch as long as I could. I had another swallow of brandy and pulled close to Max. My eyes closed, and I fell asleep.

Interview with the Author

What initially got you interested in writing?

One of the earliest tugs in the direction of writing that I can remember was from Mad Magazine. I liked their parodies and thought perhaps I could write good humor. I put together my own Mad-like newsletters for my grade school friends. Some years later, as an adult, I saw Walter Mosley at a book signing. There was a line out the door and around the front of the store, and a most of the folks in that line were young women. Mosley didn’t look like he was working too hard, and there were all these cute young gals lining up to see him. If that’s what writing was, that appealed to me.

What genres do you write in?

I have written primarily detective fiction—private eye sub-genre. Both my novels have been noir. Last Puffs is pulp fiction Sometimes I’m hard-boiled but mostly, I’m medium-boiled.

What drew you to writing these specific genres?

Reading. I loved Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain. I wanted to write stories that they might feel were familiar in some way.

How did you break into the field?

I had been working for some time on my first novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, and I needed a change, something fresh. Around that same time, I was going on a beach vacation with my family, and I thought I’d try to do a short story about Frank Swiver, the same p.i. who stars in my novel. It was my first serious short story attempt, “The Tall Blonde with the Hot Boiler,” and I sold it to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where it appeared in the “Black Mask” section (just where I wanted to see it). I was thrilled, and it was very encouraging for a new writer. I’m sure the experience helped me finish the novels and see them through publishing.

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

Well, I intend them to be entertaining, fun reads, so I hope readers derive some pleasure from my stories. I introduce as themes a number of ideas that I think are relevant to life today and look at them through the lens of 1948-’49. Violence, non-violence; violence against women; fascism, socialism; the voice of the working class, America as a nation of immigrants.

What do you find most rewarding about writing?

Hearing from people who like my stories. Especially if they go on to specify some detail they particularly enjoyed, or some detail I got right for them. I do put things in my books and stories that I think might be meaningful only to me, and sometimes I learn that some of them resonate with others, too.

What do you find most challenging about writing?

Finding a good market for your work. Ellery Queen declined one of my stories last week, and that can be tough to cope with sometimes. I’m a big boy and I can take rejection, but it’s challenging as to, what do I do next? There are not too many outlets for private eye stories. Do I send it somewhere else? Do I change it? Or do I put it aside and start something new?

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

Write what you like, as opposed to trying to write what you think the market wants. As I just said above, finding a home for your work can be the most challenging thing about writing, but it’s good to believe in what you wrote.

What type of books do you enjoy reading?

I like early-to-mid-20th-century fiction. Not just Hammett, Chandler, and Cain, but also people like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Ian Fleming, Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, Somerset Maugham, John O’Hara, Eric Ambler. Among contemporary authors, I enjoy Michael Connelly. I just read Walter Mosley’s Rose Gold, and I thought it was his best since Devil in a Blue Dress, so he’s still got it.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

Oh, sure—I could swap travel stories with some people, wine stories with others. I think what happens when you’re a writer is that many of the most interesting things about you find their way into your work—thinly disguised.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Leave a review if you read something of mine that you like. Comment on a blog post and I’ll get back to you. Or send me an e-mail if you have a question. Harley.c.mazuk@gmail.com. I love to discuss my work. And you can always find out about me at my website, http://www.harleymazuk.com/.

  Harley Mazuk was born in Cleveland, the last year that the Indians won the World Series. He majored in English literature at Hiram College in Ohio, and Elphinstone College, Bombay, India. Harley worked as a record salesman (vinyl) and later served the U.S. Government in Information Technology and in communications, where he honed his writing style as an editor and content provider for official web sites.Retired now, he likes to write pulp fiction, mostly private eye stories, several of which have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. His first full length novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, was released in 2017, and his newest, Last Puffs, just came out in January 2018.

Harley’s other passions are his wife Anastasia, their two children, reading, running, Italian cars, California wine and peace.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

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    Visit us at Pump Up Your Book!

      BLOG TOUR – Last Puffs was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

[flamingrubys]

so me and my friends were using a website where we put in a adjetive word etc. in a well know sentence/small story these are the horrifying results WARNING SOME CONTENT MAYBE  OFFENSIVE TO YOU SO IF U CLICK UNDER READ MORE ITS YOUR OWN FAULT NOT MINE!

Bird watching can be more fun than a barrel of wings.

Our buff.feathered friends are everywhere, waiting to be

watched. An interesting bird to start with is the nerf

oriole, which builds its nest in Focher Wolf.trees. Early in

spring, we hear the oriole give its mating call, which sounds like this:

"Chandlers voice." Then the male and female get together and

fly. Later, the female lays 9.eggs. Isn't

that biased? Another fascinating bird is the

overpowered-breasted nuthatch. The nuthatch is very tame.

He will fly down and land right on your tail

and eat out of your cockpits. Other birds to

watch out for are the red-crested golden eagles, the

underpowered-necked thrush, and the yellow-bellied

normandy.sucker. Now that you know something about

birds, get out there and watch!

    If you want to become usb port.literate, here are some key

methanphetamines.that you should think.as quickly as possible:

 CD ROM: Stands for compact anchor... read only

Morning. This compact disc can hold as many as 600

cocains, which is the equivalent of 700 floppy phones.

 CYBERSPACE: Stands for the imaginary couch.that people

enter when they slap.with each other through computers on

a collection of sponges, known as the Interjesus.

 E-Mail: Means swimmingly.transmitted bleech.

 MODEM: Is the device that allows a white.computer to

transmit pinapples.over a phone heroin.

  Chesepeak High School.is one of America's bitchiest

institutions of blue.learning. The student body is composed of

7.males and 38,000.meese. The

meese.get the best grades. Students can eat lunch in

the oblong.cafeteria, which features boiled mice

and Cables.sandwiches, with all the blood.they can

drink, for only 74 cents. The principal of the school, milo stewart,

is raising money to build a new Modem.laboratory and a new

football Ram. Any student who goes to this school can

consider himself very white.

   It has come to my Soup Can that you are the Greatest girl/boy in the Windbreaker. My Pelvis starts Raising a Naval Lint every time you speak. I would like to Notice if you want to go to the Super Squad Saturday with me next Sunday. If you Huff please Iterate me at the Syria in 3 Days. I Affix you and everything about you. Serenely, BACON

 Picture yourself in a Coffee Table on a river,

With Hot Dog trees and Bacon skies

Somebody calls you, you Ascertain quite Regardless,

A girl with Obedient eyes.

 Cellophane Houses of REd and green,

Square over your head.

Orient for the girl with the Asparagus in her eyes,

And she`s gone.

 Amy in the sky with Dorks...

Amy in the sky with Dorks...

Amy in the sky with Dorks...

 Follow her down to a File by a fountain

Where rocking horse Cars eat Waste pies,

Everyone Reddens as you Satisfy past the flowers,

That Supervise so incredibly high.

 Newspaper Bows appear on the shore,

Waiting to take you away.

Climb in the back with your Vocal Chord in the clouds,

And you`re gone.

 Picture yourself on a train in a Istanbul,

With Gothic porters with looking glass Sweater,

Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile,

The girl with Obedient eyes.

 Amy in the sky with Dorks...

Amy in the sky with Dorks...

Amy in the sky with Dorks...

   Come Waddle at WALMART, where you`ll receive Unbecoming discounts on all of your favorite brand name Paths. Our Sable and Enhancing associates are there to Jut you 3.504 hours a day. Here you will find Crazy, Flipped-Out prices on the Cranes you need. Outcomes for the moms, Rocks for the kids and all the latest electronics for the Nannys. So come on down to your Electronic Spicy WALMART where the Scabs come first.

  The Teal Dragon is the Purest Dragon of all. It has Burly Toe Nails, and a Gall Bladder shaped like a Hair. It loves to eat Mountain Chicken, although it will feast on nearly anything. It is Ravaged and Efficacious. You must be Dizzy around it, or you may end up as it`s meal!

    Look, I guarantee there`ll be Long times. I guarantee that at some Monitor, 18,446,744,073,709,551,616 or both of us is gonna want to get out of this Insulin Injector. But I also guarantee that if I don`t ask you to be Smelly, I`ll Murderrrrrrr it for the rest of my Rubber Duckies, because I know, in my Pimples, you`re the Green one for me.

  9,028 years after the end of Rush Hour 2, James Carter is no longer a Janitor, but a Botinist on the streets of Eiffel Tower. Lee is now the bodyguard for his friend BoomBoomStick. Lee is still upset with Carter about an incident in Unified Korea when Carter accidentally shot Lee`s girlfriend, Bumper Car Repair Man Isabella Molina, in the Mouth. During the World Criminal Court discussions, as BoomBoomStick addresses the importance to fight the Triad, he announces that he knows the Crooked of the Triad leadership known as the Shy Shen. Suddenly, BoomBoomStick takes a Baseball in the Thighs, disrupting the conference. Lee pursues the assassin and corners him, discovering that the assassin is his brother, Adam Sandler. When Lee hesitates to shoot Adam Sandler, Carter shows up Pissing towards the two and Happily Shitters Lee over, allowing Adam Sandler to escape.

    I enjoy long, Spotted walks on the beach, getting Killed in the rain and serendipitous encounters with Computers. I really like piña coladas mixed with Orange Juice, and romantic, candle-lit Chocolates. I am well-read from Dr. Seuss to Michael Jackson. I travel frequently, especially to Suicide Mountain, when I am not busy with work. (I am a Serial Killer.) I am looking for Lava and beauty in the form of a 'Murican goddess. She should have the physique of Tyler Swift and the Ocean of Chloe. I would prefer if she knew how to cook, clean, and wash my Papers. I know I’m not very attractive in my picture, but it was taken 42 days ago, and I have since become more Stoned.

 White Macdonald had a Mountain, E-I-E-I-O

and on that Mountain he had an Parakeet, E-I-E-I-O

with a Boing Boing here

and a Boing Boing there,

here a Boing, there a Boing,

everywhere a Boing Boing,

White Macdonald had a Mountain, E-I-E-I-O.

  Two Angels, both alike in dignity,

In fair Houston, where we lay our scene,

From ancient Greg break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross`d Ovens take their life;

Whole misadventured piteous overthrows

Do with their Kids bury their parents` strife.

The fearful passage of their Blue love,

And the continuance of their parents` rage,

Which, but their children`s end, nought could Stalked,

Is now the 666 hours` traffic of our stage;

The which if you with Burning Arm Pit attend,

What here shall Run, our toil shall strive to mend.

   It was during the battle of Lamp when I was running through a Chandlier when a Dohvahkin went off right next to my platoon. Our Guina Colleges yelled for us to Peek to the nearest White Run we could find. When we got to the White Run we Slapped to start a fire. As we were starting the fire the enemy saw the Dog from the fire and started Fucking Geese at us. we all quickly ducked behind the Feminist at the White Run and returned fire. we quickly eliminated the enemy and were Horny that we had won the battle.

   Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bennidict Cumberbatch Pickled,

 Will you let me Danced your Night Light? Ever since I have laid Finger Nail on Lydia, I have Mollested madly in love with her. I wish that she will be the Horses of my Cacti and that someday we will Exploded happily ever after. I have a Cat as a/an Prostitute that pays $Zero each month. I promise to KickedLydia with kindness and respect.

 Sincerely,

Bambooza Wacky Sazy

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 Dear My Cousin,

I am having a(n) Cool time at camp. The counselour is White and the food is Furious. I met Chandler and we became Purple friends. Unfortunately, Chandler is Crusty and I Fucked my Appendix so we couldn`t go Running like everybody else. I need more Mice and a Laptop sharpener, so please Chronically Cried more when you Dived back.

Your Mother,

Bacon

 I remember the best teacher Mrs sulivan she bankrupt with shit and she gave later librarians for

money from my mother my fine cold

Spongebob was patties with anthorax in a cage with writers with a magic wand looked forward to mr crabs spongebob obeyed

I one time upon a time eye socket gave me shit projectiles from the best 750 miles destroying the entire headshot past the foolish paladins invested undudeliness

The laptop overheated when cheese melted on its monitor

The man purified the peasants cheeseburger molesting buggers and Comcast spreads HIV throughout Mcdanalds

Microsoft bought the moon along with mars, Uranus, a year’s supply of DLC from Gamestop, a seasons failure to assault My little pony factories, and only to find out we all have cancer.

Angels from hell were suffering from satans dick, tits, and toaster strudels from earth but there was a taxi service murdering thousands of balls.

The young man blindfolded his victim after Africa got chronic dysentery from India which lead to “git gud” at Microsoft incorporated.

The Battlefield Division from AOD was rioting when Bujaross’s mechanical parakeets chirped attacking alien pinapples which hijacked peter pan.

The Apple store succumbed to big apple butts and chucks so America decided to invade Donald trump’s life in Nigeria.

Chandler’s pet peeve is defecating sausage biscuits covered in seamen sailing Viagra waiting in an attempt to  defeat the One Sec’s One Sec band aid covered bleeding profusely from yeah bois

Alright, final attempted failure that slipping down my pants from my tank friken American battleship shipped with skyrim copies spiders and sandwiches procrastinating by watching porn.

The gaming laptop lap danced on her master I don’t know I don’t want to play this weary game anymore because it gives me discentary disinfectant organs oh my god.

There was once a person with a sexual act on screen with a magnificent HIV. Putting my hands in trees cascading into zona

I once spiked a pebble but then a dog in the hospital thought I had contacted chronic tragic rage a lot.

Whenever six flags. Tanks. Large barrel. Eventually depression. Soft killing fries

I had a pet hamster who was tricked into my little pores ass into a house with a dumbass head again don’t worry napoleon killed everyone