Psst, the hero isn’t always that guy

So I’ve been looking the recent lists of the upcoming movies and I would like to remind all you novelist, movie makers, and TV executives, the hero isn’t always a white guy.  I couldn’t imagine the African’s, Native American’s, or Ancient Inca’s telling stories that solely relied on them waiting until the white guys came along and saved them from whatever mischief that managed to get themselves into.

I understand your story is about the ‘HERO’. A story about the person in distress isn’t nearly exciting as the person who saves them, however, please remember the people in distress aren’t always women, POC’s, or weak (hell we all need help at some time right, am I right?) and the one who saves them isn’t always the white guy.


Highway Gothic

This was my latest entry in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest. Hope you like it as much as I did. BTW very away about the poor formatting couldn’t do anything about it sorry.

“Should we even be here?” Moran looked around the old farmhouse kitchen, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark.

Although clearly abandoned the house still held a good amount of furniture. There was no electricity and it was far enough from the road to give them plenty of privacy for what each had in mind.

“Yeah,” Lyla said, adjusting the penlight and training it on the floor. “It’s a foreclosure. Family lost the farm, the house, everything. There’s a sad and tragic story about it but that’s not why I brought you here. Come on,” she commanded.

She shifted the bag on her shoulder, focused the light on the floor in front of her and left the room with Moran close at her heels.

They went up a flight of stairs, clean bare spots on the wall marked where family pictures use to hang. Dim moonlight filtered in through the grimy windows. A strange electricity hung in the air.

With each step, the basket he carried threatened to slip from his sweaty palms. His heart thudded in his ears. He focused on her backside and watched her ass as it swished up the stairs. Such a shame.

Lyla stopped at one of the bedroom doors and pushed it open. Moran expected the hinges to scream in protest. When they didn’t he knew he wasn’t the first Lyla brought here. He was sure he would be the last.

She dropped the bag and pulled out a blanket that she spread over an old mattress that lay on the floor.

“Get the wine,” she ordered, slipping out of her shoes.

Moran dropped the basket, cringing at the sound of clanking glass. He made a silent prayer that nothing broke. He was going to need some liquid courage.

The picnic basket was meant for two, typically accommodating enough for a simple spread. Tonight only two glasses, two bottles of wine and a corkscrew had been packed inside.

Moran poured the wine maybe adding a little more in his glass than hers.

They sipped in silence but soon the mood overtook them and clothes were shed. Heavy breathing ensued.

Moran lay on his back, staring up at the peeling paint. The mattress had been more comfortable than he would have guessed and the sex was good – no, it was actually better than he had had in a long time. Both had worked up a good hot sweat.

Lyla’s naked body lay across his, making it impossible to cool down. He ached for her to get off but didn’t think it would bode well if he told her to move. He needed her nice and calm, unsuspecting.

The air started to cool and he could hear the wind wrestle the trees outside. From far away there was a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder.

“It’s gonna rain,” she said, tracing a lazy finger over his chest.

“Did you want to go?”

“Not yet,” she said, leaning in close and kissing him. “Plus, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away,” he said. His eyelids drooped and he could feel a post-coital nap coming on.

“I mean, it was good tonight, right?”

“Um hmmm,”

“Well then maybe to make sure we can do it again…”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“With Atlas out of the way that can happen. We could kill my husband.”

“Funny,” he said, waking up. This was his business. “He asked me the same thing.”

Her fingers stopped mid-stroke and her body stiffened. He could sense the panic in her face.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him sure.”

She was up in a flash, crab-walking away from him as fast as her legs and arms could take her.

“If he’s paying you I can give you more,” she said

Was she begging for her life?

“Of course he’s paying me. What kinda guy does this for free?”

She had knocked over the wine glasses. The air was now thick with electricity and sour grapes.

“It’ll be over real quick, I’ll make sure of it. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

Moran stepped slowly towards her while her hands scoured the floor, feeling for something to defend herself with.

There was a large bang from downstairs that stopped Moran in his tracks.

“What was that?” He strained and listened for noise to repeat.

Lyla took advantage of his pause and ran for the door. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair pulling her back into the room.

“Ow, leggo.”

He laughed a deep bellowing sound that echoed in the small room. He wrapped his long fingers around her neck.

“Too bad. You were pretty good in the sack.” He smiled as he squeezed.

Lyla’s eyes rolled back in her head as he choked the life from her.

In a too fast movement, she brought her hand up and drove the corkscrew she had grabbed into the side of Moran’s neck. A spray of blood splashed the wall.

“Bitch,” he gurgled, releasing his grip and falling to his knees.

His hand instinctively went to the wound. Dark, blue black blood spilled through his fingers.

“Bitch,” he said again, this time barely above a whisper.

A flash of lightning lit the room. Lyla gasped. Moran’s bloodless face turned to hers. Then he fell on his face, a sickening crunch as his nose broke.

There was another bang and Atlas entered the room.

“You said you was gonna wait for me,” Atlas whined. “It was my turn to kill ’em.”

“You took too long and he was too fast. You’ll get the next one.” She walked over to where the basket lay.

“That’s what you said the last time.” Atlas poked the dead man with his boot “Corkscrew to the neck, wasn’t that in a book?”

She shrugged.

“Either way, you got ’em good baby.”

“We got him,” she said taking a swig of wine straight from the bottle. “We’ll get them all.”


Who do I think I am

Yes it’s been awhile and I’m eager to bore you with the details of my vacation, (I have slides!) But first I wanted to tell you about my recent movie visit.

I just recently went to see The Dark Tower. I wanted to love this movie, several reasons most notably Idris Alba. 2014-09-26 06.19.19

I really wanted all those haters to shut the F*&# up, oh yeah spoiler alert I swear. Those who felt a black guy couldn’t be the Gunslinger that some how it ruined the integrity of the movie (losers). I also wanted more and more of these movies. I love the Dark Tower Series.

Anyway, I saw the movie and I wasn’t happy. Why wasn’t I happy, well one I didn’t like the fact that they didn’t have enough Idris, I need 2 hours of just looking into his dreamy eyes. Two I hated HATED the dialogue. I totally thought I could do better. Please go see the movie and listen to the lines they gave these people it was awful. Why do I think was awful most likely because I pay attention now and I also think I can do better.

Wait wait wait, Kristie, why do you think you can do a better job than those who work in Hollywood and get paid big bucks to write movies? Well, I think we know me enough by now to know I know everything and I think I’m better than everyone. Plus trust me anyone could have written this better.

Go ahead watch the movie and let me know what you think.