“Diary of a Changling”

 

Warning: Erotica and this series (of 11 pieces) probably won’t make me any friends.  In fact, I probably will lose some. Posting 6 entries today.  As a writer, the issue of self-censorship is still looming.

Ten years ago I was in a writer’s group called ERWA. (Erotica Readers and Writers Ass.)  I was a new writer and how in hell I landed there I can’t remember.  What I do remember was this group (huge) was complicated: some very good writers and some who gloried in smut.  Constantly there was the argument that ‘erotica was porn and porn was erotica’.  I didn’t buy that.  In fact, after a while, I realized that writing about lust was just a seasoning, not the whole damn meal.  I titled my first book: “A Seasoning of Lust” because of this. I left after a few years, having learned some good and some bad.  The group seemed to be more about bdsm and male dominance, and that went just so far.  I remember reading Anais Nin, who wrote erotica for a while for a client, and it was as if he was behind a curtain yelling “more smut! more smut!”.  You can do that until it you realize the limitations of such and step out to become a real writer with more notches on your belt than erotica. Some don’t though.

This is about WWII and the German occupation of Paris in the early days, and then about the French Resistance.  Not too sexy a topic, but sex is ultimately boring. As Anais Nin said.

Lady Nyo

 

DIARY OF A CHANGLING

I have started a series of stories in an epistolary form. This follows the development of a woman who begins to understand the issues of pain and its application to arousal and sex.

 

Diary Entry 1

It finally happened last night. This morning I feel a stranger in my skin. The welts from his whip will disappear soon.

I never thought it could be so! How could I crave this—torture? How could pain do this to me? Am I normal?

S___ was the one who set it up. She didn’t tell me much, just that it was ‘time’. All those conversations over tea, those events I thought she was making up. They were just lascivious stories, something a friend would tell another to wile the afternoon away. Besides, S___ was a writer, a novelist. She cultivated her imagination.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s time’?” I asked.

I remember her laughing, placing her cup on the tea table.

I quote her:

“I can smell your excitement. It gets stronger with each visit. You must not deny anything, ma cherie. You are aroused now, yes?”

S__ had smiled and said: “Your responses are obvious. You crave it.”

Ah! I can’t write anymore. My hands shake. Even now my face burns with blushes

Diary Entry 2.

I saw S. today. She smoking a stinky Gauloises and looking so chic. French women are born this way, with no efforts to be so.

She asked me how it went with MN. I struggled to answer, my hands shaking, my teacup rattling in the saucer.

I told her ‘it went well.’ How could I explain??

We made small talk for she was expecting a guest and I was leaving anyway.

But my mind recalled when MN. traced the whip handle down my back, making me shiver. I remembered his breath in my ear, the scent of him close to my skin, the cuffs on my wrists, how he stroked my flesh, warming it with his hand, cupping my breast and my ass. Dipping his hand in my wetness.

Nothing could have prepared me for that first strike. The sting was like a hornet, the pain radiating outward, making me gasp. His whip owned me with the first blow. What had I done? I wanted to scream.

Rising to leave, MN. walked in. I froze. I saw S. smile. MN. kissed her hand, and turned. I must have looked the fool.

–

Diary: June 14th, 1940 (#3)

I was looking out the window with S. and watching the Germans march past. They passed forever, seemingly endless supply of men in black boots.

S. was very nervous and puffed on her terrible Gauloises. I could have screamed but we are all bundles of nerves. She said things would radically change and we will have to ‘make do.’

I don’t know about S. though. She is well placed and has lovers in the government. She has the best brie and wine.

I can’t get back to England now, am dependent upon S. MN.disappeared this last week, but S. tells me he will be back, he is on ‘business’. What kind she doesn’t say.

He was a bit too lavish with the whip this last time, and my back and buttocks are still bruised. It is strange how these bruises have become something different to me than just examples of pain. His whip stings me, but he knows to wait and in the waiting something happens. I am resolved to find out more. Of course, this is rather outré considering what is happening outside the windows now.

I have become obsessed. Pain is the portal.

–

Diary: June 21, 1940 (#4)

MN is back. I was at S.’s and he just appeared! It’s been a week and of course I had questions, but S. warned me. Don’t ask him anything.

MN seemed tired, his face thinner, paler. But looking at him, my own gut clenching, there is little difference. Still that same full mouth, that smile which touched on a cynicism with all life, those eyes so expressive, or maybe I am so much in thrall with his power I can’t see the truth: he is just a man.

No, he is more. He is much more, now. And he knows it. There was almost an invisible thread that connected us across the room. All propriety with S. there, but when she answered the phone across the room, MN turned to me, his hand across his mouth, hiding his smile. Only his eyes danced over his hand, and it was enough for me to feel this flush of lust.

S. announced a Lieutenant Wolauf was to visit.

MN left too soon. Only a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “a demain, a demain” and he was gone.

Two cold words to warm me.

–

Diary: June 24th, 1940 (#5)

The division of France is done, and no one is happy except the Germans and Marshal Petain. S. is puffing her stinky Gauloises, nervous. I can’t stand to be around her.

Petrol is scarce, but MN took me in S’s car out to the countryside. He has use of a farmhouse and this was new for us.

The house is old, with beamed ceilings and a stone sink in the kitchen. We ate bread,. stinky cheese, drank a bottle of wine.

Upstairs in the bedroom, MN said we shouldn’t ‘waste’ the beams and tied me with ropes he brought.

Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps I am ‘getting tougher’ but he gave me more lashes than usual. I didn’t want to stop, but he was still careful.

This pain gets my attention fast, radiating outward and inward at the same time. MN stuck his hand in my crack and rubbed, cooing in my ear, whispering French nothings, soothing my tears with his breath.

We made love for the first time, MN slowly touching my body from my feet to my neck with his tongue and hands.

Why am I doing this? I have no choice.

–

Diary, June 28, 1940 (#6)

 

I was at S.’s today, telling her about our night over in the countryside.

How MN filled the woodstove with splits stacked in the kitchen, how the stove puffed and groaned and how good the three eggs I found in the old hen house tasted. I heard a rooster crow so there must be hens around. I took a chance but the eggs were fresh.

S. laughed, she seemed at ease. She said I am good for MN. He needs a diversion in his life. He needs a woman to fry him eggs in the morning. He needs a woman to warm his bed at night.

MN has never told me about his past. I thought it would come in time. There is such little chance now, with him scarce and not even S. knowing where he is from day to day.

But I do miss him, and wonder what he is up to. When I see him, I fall under his spell, and my body responds to his presence faster than my mind. My skin seems softer, my movements more languid. S. laughs when she questions me, saying all this is natural.

He is a man and I, a woman. What could be more normal?

S. and I were having our usual talk when the maid informed her the German, Lieutenant Wolflauf was downstairs.

This German is very cordial, quiet, but commanding. He kissed my hand, which I thought outrageous considering his army has just invaded Paris.

I sat and said little. S. was her usual self, elegant and unflappable, but I could tell a bit nervous.

I kept staring at his shiny black boots. They seemed more than boots, and they made me nervous for some reason. They were like mirrors into the future.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

 

 

 

–

 

 

 

 

“The River”

Spiral right back into Life

For friends and readers who don’t mind a little erotica.

–

The sun streams in the window

like a jarring benediction

from a loud- mouthed priest.

It falls upon us

as we spoon asleep,

your back  to me,

my nose on your skin

breathing  in the miracle of you.

 

Last night, our first in spent passion,

that particular coin flowing like a river

between us,

you brought hot, wet towels

to clean up the waters left by the flood.

 

Bending over me,

parting my thighs with your hands,

I wanted you to leave the damp alone,

and slide your hand

into the still wet, faintly pulsing dark chasm,

my hollow jerking and twisting at the end of you.

 

Instead,

I curled up like a fiddle-head fern,

embraced your dark head with my hands,

pulling your mouth to mine,

 

and we flowed down that river again.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

This poem was “Poem of the Year” at ERWA back in 2010.  It is included in “A Seasoning of Lust” which is being reissued on Createspace  in a few weeks.  My deepest gratitude to Nick Nicholson, in Canberra, Australia for doing the rework. With a friend like this for over 10 years, you are never alone.

 

 

An email from Jingle Nozelar Yan (JP at Olive Grove ):

“when you post on word press or blogger, you do not have to pay or ask permission in person. which is what we count for.”

Every poet and poet group I frequent would find that surprising.  There are Copyright Laws in the US,  Jingle. Even in China. But bless your little  heart.

Please  don’t read my work on her site. If you care about literature, you will go to the original source and bypass Jingle Bells.

 

 

“A Kapitany”, (The Master) Chapters 16 and 17…..

In 2006 I joined a website, ERWA, and this website (Erotica Readers and Writers Ass.) had a lot of writers who delved into bdsm in their writing. Hell, many in their lives. It took me a couple of months before I realized what this stuff contained, and it was pretty interesting. Also scary. It was something totally alien, different from my experience. I started writing a novel, “A Kapitany”, (Hungarian for “The Master”) which had a strong bdsm quality about it, with lots of sex, but then dropped it. I was pretty queered by what I found in this bdsm world, and of course, you can’t write something like this without doing some research. The people in this world were a very mixed bag, and I never thought I would revisit this unfinished novel. Over the fall, I did, and decided to give it to the only sane man (and a friend) I knew from that former world (called a Dominant there) to read. He gave it a thumbs up and suggested I finish it. He had reluctantly read “Fifty Shades of Gray” and thought this “A Kapitany” had some merit. I haven’t read that book and probably won’t, but then again, it seems to be making the rounds in society.

I realized I had lost interest in this book, but not only because I was queered by the behavior I found in this bdsm world. Every chapter had sex in it, and after a while, this became boring, at least to this writer. When I expanded the theme to include international art
thievery….it became more interesting. Expanding the theme brought new challenges and research, and a deepening of plot. If it doesn’t interest the
writer, or they feel they are just going through the motions to finish a book…it won’t hold together.

A quick summary of characters:
Vadas Dohendy is a Dominant man, deeply
involved in the bdsm world, but also an art thief. He is growing older, and he is jaded with his life. He sees his circle of friends for what they are, and they are all corrupted by life. They are opportunists and the women around him now leave him cold. He has inherited a vineyard in Eger, Hungary and wants to leave this other world for a world of fungus, blight and vines. He produces a good “Bulls Blood”, a particular Hungarian wine with a lot of ancient history.

Elizabeth is Vadas’ new squeeze but she hasn’t a clue to his real life. He has proposed, sort of, but she isn’t biting. He is older than she, but not by much. She hasn’t been corrupted by his activities and her freshness is part of Vadas’ interest.

Miklos: basically, the ‘boss’ of Vadas and a thoroughly bad character. He is a sexual sadist and not a nice guy at all. People should move far down the bench from him. Vadas is trying to find a way to get rid and around him without the usual violence. It probably won’t happen.

Lady Nyo

A Kapitany, chapter 16

It was time for dinner and Vadas always listened to his stomach. I didn’t know if I was hungry or my stomach was responding to the latest news of Vadas’ life, but nothing seemed normal to me. I felt suspended in time. I was falling in love with this complicated man, and at the same time knocked off my feet with what he said. Then, there was also the issue of my staying with him. Could I possibly live in that remote area of Hungary? Could I be serious about marrying him? And was his proposal driven because he had revealed something very dangerous about himself, something anyone could use, could go to the authorities and reveal?

“Elizabeth, I am hungry and I would suppose you are, too? Let’s go to a nice restaurant around the hotel, I know of a few. I am tired of room service.”

This was new. Vadas loved room service. At least in the States. But we were in Budapest, and it was, from what I had seen, a glorious city, full of museums, churches and art galleries. Of course I hadn’t seen any of these places. I still was a tourist and wanted this before I left. When and where I was leaving I hadn’t the time to yet consider. There was just too much to decide and right now, my stomach was deciding for me.

———-
We walked down Vaci utca, a historic street full of Nouveau Art buildings, former mansions and now hotels and restaurants. A full moon was just rising, and the street was lit with those street lights that were soft globes far above the cobblestones. The facades of the buildings were marvelous, something rare and wonderful. Vaci utca was a pedestrian only street and people were sitting at tables outside restaurants and cafes. Vadas turned into a restaurant and we were immediately placed at a table in an alcove. I had the idea he had come here before, perhaps many times, because the maître de bowed, his face lit up with a smile, and he whispered a greeting. Vadas replied, of course in Hungarian, and a few words were exchanged, beyond my comprehension.

It seemed a rather formal restaurant for a quick dinner, but I had come to see that Vadas did things in a grand fashion. Immediately a waiter appeared and Vadas ordered a couple of bottles of wine. I could make out the word ‘wine’ but I was surprised how fast they appeared. Generally Hungarian food was based around meat and heavy starches, and I was afraid this constant fare would get me fat so I decided to order just a salad and perhaps grilled shrimp. Vadas had a bottle of rosé brought to the table for me. He didn’t even look at the menu but was brought a steak and two bottles of some red wine.

The rosé was rather sweet and delicious, perfect for my fare. Vadas said little, but he tore into his meal like a starving man. Perhaps he was, as I wasn’t around to see what he was eating for the past few days.

“Vadas. Except for the shopping trips with your Soffia, I haven’t seen anything really of Budapest.”

“That can be easily remedied, Elizabeth. Where would you like to go?”

“I would like to see some museums, some galleries and of course a church or two.”

“Ah, do you feel so sinful you need to empty your heart in confession?” Vadas chuckled and picked up his glass.

“No, I don’t. I just want to see what other tourists see of Budapest.”

“But Elizabeth, you aren’t exactly a tourist. I am hoping you will stay with me and make this country your home.”

I sat back, surprised at this quick turn of conversation and looked at him.

“Vadas, I haven’t decided anything yet. I have a lot of confusion about how I feel, and especially about you.”

“Elizabeth, try this wine, and tell me what you think.” Vadas was clearly avoiding this topic.
He pushed a large wine glass across the white linen cloth and I tasted the wine. It was deep red, and stout. It wasn’t to my taste at all. I made a small grimace.

“What? You don’t like it? It came from my vineyard.”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Oh, Vadas, I am so sorry. It’s just that I haven’t developed a taste for strong red wines, yet, but I am sure it is a very good wine.”

“Well, I brought you to this restaurant because I supply some of the wine, and I wanted to surprise you. Perhaps next year, when I play with the vines and combine different grapes, you will grow to like the results.”

“I am surprised, Vadas. I didn’t think where your wines went. And perhaps it is just my inexperience with Hungarian wines, my ignorance, that makes them not to my taste. Please forgive me. I can learn.”

Here was an honest venture of his, and I had not seen it coming.

“If you become my wife, Elizabeth, you will see my wines are far flung. You will visit many restaurants and will be treated like a queen.”
“There are many problems first, Vadas. But I like the idea of being treated like a queen.” I laughed, and hoped that he had not taken offense.

“Vadas, I can not live in that house of yours with the pig head in the dining room and the wolf head in the hall. They have to go.”

Vadas sat back and I saw him tapping the table, planning his answer. He even scowled.

“Elizabeth, you don’t know the history of those two. The boar as you call pig, killed a man and gored another. He lost his leg. This was in my father’s time. And the wolf? Well, he was a man killer, coming down from Transylvania, for we don’t have black wolves, ours are grey. He killed a number of people before my grandfather led a pack of men to hunt him down. Both of them have history, important history and lots of memories for the people who live here.”

It was clear these two mounted heads meant more than just to Vadas. What right did I have to demand they be removed? Ah, this was more of the Hungarian cultural issues that I did not understand. And to live in this region, well, could I?

I sat back, and sipped my sweet wine. It was good but was going straight to my head. I felt my emotions rising as I looked at the man across the table. Ah, Vadas, what am I to do or say to you? Do I even tell you I am falling in love or do I play it safe?

Somewhere the strains of a violin started up, the music soft and alluring. Usually I found violinists traveling between tables annoying, but this was music of Bartok, not what was played for tourists as ‘gypsy’ music. The combination of wine and music was beginning to relax me, perhaps too much. I was with Vadas, after all, and needed my wits about me.

“Vadas, I don’t want to pry, but have you decided what to do with Miklos?”

“That is not of your worry, Elizabeth. And no, I haven’t decided about Miklos, if you must know. I am more interested in you right now.”
I picked at my salad and avoided his eyes.

“Tell me what you want, Elizabeth. Look me in the eye and tell me what you want.”

Oh, this was the classic appeal of a Hungarian man to get to the truth. I sat back and thought what I should tell him.

“Vadas, what reason do I have in asking you anything? We have known each other only six weeks. How much do we really know of each other? I know you were married once before, you have a vineyard and live in a former hunting lodge. I know you have two dubious side lines. Or careers if you prefer. You know nothing of me, except what I have told you and that is little enough. We haven’t a basis for marriage, certainly not now. Do we even understand each other? Plus, there are cultural differences between us. Surely they can’t be ignored.”

“Elizabeth, I know more than you suspect. It is very easy, if you know how, to obtain information on just about anyone. I know, for instance, that your first husband was a spoiled brat and your second one a drunk. That you disliked your mother and adored your father, but of course he was Hungarian, so that is understandable. I know you worked as a graphic artist, and hated it, and wanted to paint landscapes. I know you had some successes in a few galleries, but not enough to support yourself by sales. I know you are a talented and intelligent woman and I know that you are older than you have said. Just a few years, but still I am older.”

My face showed my surprise. So, he has snooped on me? And who was he talking to? Did he hire a private investigator? Did he know how much I had in the bank and did he know how many men I had screwed?

“Elizabeth, don’t be angry with me, darling. I became very interested in you from the second day we met. From the first. I needed to know who and what you were, and I was not disappointed. In fact, I was intrigued. You are a very independent and strong woman, and if you weren’t such a challenge, I would not have been interested. Do you understand? Perhaps Hungarian men do things differently than what you are used to, but there was some risk for me. If you had known, or had been a plant as they say in America, to inform on me, I would have been at your mercy. But you were innocent of all suspicions. And plus, the sex was very, very good.”

Vadas sat back and smiled, as if that last comment made all else disappear.

I had no answer for him, but I checked my anger. I could play my own cards.

“Vadas, what do you really want from me? And are you willing to give me what I want?”

He looked across the table, his eyes locking mine. “Tell me, then, Elizabeth, what you want. If I can give it to you, you will have it.”

“I want to paint. I want very much to go back to painting. I want my own studio, with good light and space enough. I want to be able to contact galleries, not just local ones in Eger, but here, in Budapest. I want someday to own my own gallery. I also want some sheep.”

Vadas’ eyes widened and I heard him chuckle. “Good! I love lamb and we could market it with the wines. That is a very good idea, Elizabeth. I congratulate you on your invention.”

“No, Vadas. I don’t want to raise sheep for food, or for slaughter, I want to raise sheep for wool. To market fine wool to different artisans. And since I am probably becoming a vegetarian, I wouldn’t be eating meat.”

Vadas looked worried when I mentioned not eating meat. “You don’t expect me to eat grass, do you?”

“No, Vadas, but I do expect you to quit smoking. You are going to die from it, and I will not be married to a man who is going to die soon from such a habit.”

“So, you are going to marry me?”

I had to backup quickly, but the wine was clouding my head.

Before I could open my mouth to answer, Vadas pushed a black velvet box across the table.

“Open it, Elizabeth. Then you will know my intentions.”

I sat and looked at it for a few moments. I was curious but the wine hadn’t completely screwed with my senses. I sensed something different, something a bit dangerous to my present convictions.

“Open it, Elizabeth.” I looked up at Vadas, and he seemed to be so earnest, so serious.

There in white satin lining was a bracelet. A diamond bracelet with rubies and emeralds. They were large stones and were set in what looked like platinum or white gold. The diamonds were strung in two strains, linking the rubies and emeralds. I had never seen such a piece of jewelry. It was very fine and obviously very expensive.

“I can’t accept this, Vadas. This is too valuable, and it would be wrong to do so. It is too valuable a gift for me to accept.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off of this bracelet and in the dim light of our table, it sparkled like a million stars come down to earth. The fire of the diamonds and the depth of the other stones made this jewelry captivating.

Vadas reached across the table and took my left hand. “I give this to you, Elizabeth, because I have love for you and hope you have some for me. You are right, we have been together a short time, but in this time I have seen a woman I would want to spend my life with. Not since Marta have I had these feelings, and they make me feel younger. Just try it on for me.”

I picked up the bracelet and placed it on my right wrist. The clasp was strange, not what I was used to in a bracelet. It was like a small box with a large ruby in the middle. I didn’t see any way to secure it on my wrist. I looked up at him, puzzled, and he was smiling.

“Here, extend your arm to me, Elizabeth. I will show you how it works.”

Vadas took a tiny, delicate key from his pocket and pressing the ruby, the clasp opened. Then the other end of the bracelet could be joined to secure it. He turned the key, and with a sly smile, pocketed the key.

“There, it is on your arm, only to be removed by this key and by me. So, how do you like your gift?”

Vadas had tricked me! But it was not something I could have anticipated. I just shook my head and laughed. This man was one tricky devil, but I couldn’t for the life of me take my eyes off his gift. In a way, it was a very expensive slave bracelet and the meaning of it was not lost.

A Kapitany, Chapter 17
Vadas sat in the darkened hotel room illuminated by the full moon. Elizabeth was asleep on the bed, gently snoring. The rosé proved to be too much for her, even two glasses. All the way home Vadas listened to her tipsy chatter. He also watched her raise her arm to admire the bracelet every time they walked under a street lamp. It fitted her arm well, and she seemed happy, perhaps because she was drunk. It was the first time he had seen her in such a state and it amused him.

She was dead on her feet when they got to their suite and he undressed her. He placed her naked on the bed and sat in an armchair watching her sleep. The moon fell across her pale body and she looked like a little Venus on the half-shell. Her long hair fell over her face and breast and her stomach rose and fell with her breaths. She was a small woman, but the roundness of her belly gave her a charming appearance, a ripeness that only could come with maturity.

She looked so innocent, lying there exposed to the moon, his eyes. There was nothing he could not do to her in this state, but he felt no lust. Perhaps he was tired himself or perhaps he was just old. There was more on his mind than Elizabeth. He couldn’t help wonder, though, if demanding that she live in Eger was the right thing to do. Here was a modern woman, not of his usual society, and certainly not a submissive woman. He was asking her to make a radical rupture with most of what she knew in life. He wondered if she would marry him, but then again, what was his rush to marriage? Probably because he was old fashioned and needed to claim her. Perhaps he thought she would leave him if he didn’t. There were no guarantees in life, he knew that.

Vadas threw back his head and stared at the dark ceiling, wanting a cigarette to accompany his thoughts. He would have smoked but it probably would have awakened her. She was bound to make trouble, to rock the boat with the Kovacs. Maria and Janos had been in the family for forty years and two women in the same kitchen was a recipe for disaster. Elizabeth seemed to be a little domestic, and would probably want her own space. She would want to cook for him, or do something to mark her territory, and that was most probably him. Ah, there was trouble ahead and he had to figure out how to make his world…undisturbed. Probably not possible. He would have to make some changes, too.

Perhaps they should live in the old house? He hadn’t been there for twenty years. It was falling apart. The last time he was there was when Marta had died after childbirth, and he had abandoned it like so much of life. Probably bats and wolves inhabited the rooms, now.

Could he afford to renovate the house of his ancestors? It was too large and drafty, the window glass gone in some of the rooms, just boarded up against the weather. Zoltan had been up there on the hill, had gone through the house, made an accounting of the continued decline. He told him on the way to Eger. It didn’t sound good. The plaster had fallen from the walls of some of the rooms, the floor boards had rotted in sections from a bad roof and the smell was one of a general decay. The only rooms that had survived were those where the old furniture was stored, covered up from the elements. These were in a side wing of the main house. Perhaps they could live in this part and slowly, given the finances, restore the rest of the house? Ah, Elizabeth had a ‘nose’ for old things, antiques, perhaps she would rally to this. There was no modern heat, barely plumbing but it would be more of an adventure to a new bride, if he read Elizabeth right.

Elizabeth liked historic buildings and this certainly fit the bill. Perhaps there was a sunny room where she could set up her studio? Perhaps in years to come they could open this as a hotel? There were rooms enough for that, but of course they would have to put in the modern conveniences. People couldn’t be expected to use chamber pots and fireplaces nowadays, not like when he was growing up.
There were servants then, and now nothing like that. Of course the Kovacs were there, but after forty years, they were more family than the other. But two women in one kitchen was a recipe for trouble.

Vadas looked at Elizabeth lying in the moonlight. If he would admit it, if he would ‘look himself in the eye and tell the truth’; he was lonely. Elizabeth looked sturdy enough to work the vines by his side, to hunt with him, to walk the caves and inspect the barrels, to grow old with him and warm his bed. He was lonely, and the past twenty years had done nothing to change this. Funny he had to travel half way around the world to meet someone who was only just a little Hungarian, but had interested him enough to grow love. Since Marta died he had not had love, only lust and lust had made him run from any consideration of love. Lust had been enough then, but now?

He was thankful Elizabeth was at an age where the possibility of a child was over. He didn’t want to chance another birth like the last. If his blood had brought forth a monster, it was better he remain childless. There was no heir, but then again, the loss of Marta had ruined him.

He was empty, his heart was empty, barren, and only with this little chit of a woman had he begun to realize what he was missing. When she had gotten so angry at him, when she challenged him, he had known fear. He was afraid of being alone again, afraid of losing her. She had spirit and was no fool. She had allowed him liberties but she knew her own head. He could push her around just so much. She had substance and could survive on her own. She didn’t need him, and he knew it. That was why he told her about Miklos and his history with him. It was time to be honest with her if he wanted her to stay. As honest as it suited him. There were always other considerations. He was still the man and had secrets she didn’t need to know.

Miklos. Vadas sighed. Miklos once again stood in the way of his happiness. How many times over the years had this been true and how many times had he bowed to the power of Miklos? What would Miklos want to end this, to break these ties that bound them together? He knew there was no future with Elizabeth if he didn’t get away from Miklos.

Vadas yawned. He was more tired than he knew. It had been a long three days and tomorrow night he would confront Miklos in his own lair. That bracelet on Elizabeth’s arm would signify much to anyone in the room who knew him. It was time for old Vadas to start a new life. And the farther away he was from Miklos and his circle? The better for his future. And the safety of Elizabeth’s life.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008-2012

“Devil’s Revenge” Chapter 42, and some comments on writing a novel.

Where are the directions for writing a novel?  As much as it’s discussed, apparently, there aren’t any. Well, there are suggestions and some guidelines, but  nothing in concrete.  It’s as individual as the author and has different approaches.  The key thing I am told is to keep going.

And that’s the rub.  I’ve been working on this quirky novel for over 3 years now, and it never seems to finish.  That is ‘normal’ from what I am told by those who HAVE finished novels.

And it keeps changing before my eyes.  Some days the characters gang up on me and take over the action, and other days they are as glum and silent as stones.  They take me down dead ends  and plot twists where I am blind as a bat, but for some reason,  they usually throw me a bone and with the breadcrumbs of design, I can work my way back into the light. (All this begs who is in control of the novel? Not exactly an easy question….it’s a weird partnership)

Bill Penrose has been a great influence and encourager on my writing this novel and other pieces.  He has always stood at my side when I was really lost in space on this novel (and other things) and given me the wisdom and experience of his own efforts.  Bill Penrose is a writer and a terrifically polished one at that.  Many decades writing does that to one who is open to learning and change.  Three years ago, Bill and Nick Nicholson, a fine Aussie writer, grabbed me from the lists of ERWA and put me in a private group and gave me lots of advice and guidance.  They continued to do so in another group for serious writers:  Not Dead Yet.  They worked over my beginning attempts and I learned.  Not enough, but I did learn some important and elemental things about writing.  I still have a lot to learn.  But they both stuck with me and believed in the characters.  Bill taught me how to critically ‘love’ my characters, and my imagination was fired by his own.

All this is to say that Bill gave me a good kick in the fanny very recently and told me that I owed it to him and my other readers to finish ‘some’ novel.  (I have about 3 others more than 1/2 way through)  He’s right, and I was distancing myself from the hard work of finishing it.  I’ve been warned.

This is a quirky novel.  This is also a rough draft.  It’s been serialized a bit on this blog, and elsewhere….and the readership has been consistent.  I have a good ‘dedicated reader’ for this one, and I am listening hard to her opinions.  Every author needs this, and it helps a lot.  Thank you, M.

This is a bit unfair to new readers, to bring you into the action towards the end of a novel, but if interested, you can go back through the year’s blog and pick up the threads.

Bess: the narrator, is a 21st century  writer who is zapped through dimensions to the 19th century, and further to 8th century Wales, and  ‘home’ again to the 19th.

Madame Gormosy:  A Devil, a shapeshifter.  She can appear male or female at will.  She is a crucial character in most of the novel and one of my favorites.

M. Abigor:  A very powerful and nasty Demon, an Arch Duke of Hell, and also a Healer.  Go figure.  He’s the main ally of the next character, and pulling the strings and planning the final action.

M. le Devil, or aka:  Garrett Cortelyou.  Tall, handsome, dangerous and funny, Garrett is half human, but also half Demon.  He is locked (for centuries) in battle with Obadiah, a particularly demented demon.  Bess seems like a prize between them, but she is just a pawn  between these two.

Lady Nyo

Chapter 42.

DEVIL’S REVENGE

We came home.  How this happened isn’t clear.  Perhaps we flew out of that castle, off that island, out of that century like cannon shot and soared through the universe into the present.  Perhaps we tumbled like meteors over and over until we crashed into the earth.  I have no idea, but I would suppose it had to do with the mythical ley lines .

Garrett explained before what he knew about them. Some mystical,  magical spirit markers where the astral body could easily move.  He called it a ‘rip in the fabric of time’.  A portal to other dimensions.  I think Devils use this frequently to hop and jump from century to century, to show up when they are least wanted.

I read a while ago about this new mathematical “String Theory”, where scientists were theorizing extra dimensions more strange than anything we could conceive (ha! I could tell them some things…)  where we could pass from one dimension to another.  Certain  places the Earth’s energy increased and perhaps these were the portals.

But I just don’t remember how it happened to us, to return to the early 19th century. I must have had my eyes closed.

No, that’s not quite true. I do remember something.

I was lost in the darkness, with pinpoints of light travelling above, and small hills far under my feet. Those lights must be whirls of distant galaxies, stars and all that occupy the heavens, and those hills?  I remember Garrett talking about mole hills, the nurseries of different creatures, things beyond our imagination, things only a mother could love.

I seemed enormous, crossing great distances with only the breath of the cosmic wind to blow me afar, yet at the same time the universe was too vast, there were no breadcrumbs to follow.  I couldn’t see Garrett at all, I seemed to be alone.  Perhaps this was Death.  But I knew it wasn’t because I still worried, there was no peace.  Death would bring peace unless I was a ghost.

“Ah! She is coming back to life, she is awakening.”

I heard the voice of Madame Gormosy and I came conscious like a drowning woman, gasping and gulping air.

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus and there was Garrett and sweet Madame looking worried.  I still felt the effects of whatever drug was used for the time travel, but moaned with joy to see that troublesome Madame. I passed my tongue over my dried lips and tried to speak.

“Don’t labor yourself, ma cherie.   Here, drink this water, don’t gulp.”

She held a glass to my lips as Garrett slipped behind and pulled me up to a sitting position.  Of course I gulped and spilled more down the front of my nightdress.

“She will make it.”  I heard Garrett’s voice and turned my head to look at him over my shoulder.

I could have spit at him.  I was angry, and didn’t know why.   I felt disconnected and wondered if my atoms had been so disarranged as to warp my body, perhaps my mind? I pinched myself, as I would do over and over in the days to come, just to feel that small pain, to know I was alive.

I recovered after two days, felt more ‘normal’.  Something had changed though and it wasn’t just me.

Madame was always present. She hardly left me alone.  I didn’t say much, too distanced somehow to talk, or even play faro.  Madame was patient.  She didn’t push me in her usual fashion.  At times I glanced at her and she seemed worried, preoccupied in some way.  But then her expression would clear and though her eyes did not sparkle as before, she gave me encouraging little smiles as if to reassure everything would be fine.

It became clear things really had changed, would not return to whatever appeared before as normal. If I thought our coming ‘home’ would have allowed us more time together, I was very mistaken.  Garrett was mostly absent from the house.  When he arrived, I was asleep.

One evening after Madame had lit candles and found me sitting in the window seat, she came and sat down.  Smoothing her skirts across her thighs with her wrinkled and spotted hands, she sighed and looked out at the gathering darkness.

“Can you talk a little about your troubles, ma cherie?  You are so silent now, no laughter, no lightness.  I worry about you, dear child, but you seem none the worse for wear.”

I looked at Madame, the powdered gray hair, skin a lead white and those familiar moue on her face.  Suddenly I felt a sob rise in my throat and great tears began to fall.  I looked at her dear face and realized I had missed Madame Gormosy more than I could bear and here she was, before me, her own pain creasing her aged face.

“Oh, Madame!  I have missed you so much.”

I sobbed out my fear and loneliness and blindly pushed forth my hands towards her, feeling her catch me and draw me to her bosom.  Her hands went around my back, patting me firmly as I heaved great gulping sobs into her breasts, washing the lead powder from her skin and soaking her bodice.

“Ah, ma cherie, I have missed you, too! Who can I play my beloved faro with?  Once I told you how stupid other devils were.  Who can cheat like you? They are bumblers and no fun. They never tip their cards towards me, the solemn devils, they never kick their shoes off under the table, never let me read their deepest thoughts.  Ah! They are no amusement at all!”

I had to laugh.  Madame was very vain about her winnings, and kept them in a lacquered box.  But when I had no more coin to play with her, she would dump the box out and divide the coin equally. Well, perhaps I give her too much credit and have to remember she is a tricky devil, so I would suppose she would rake a bit of coin into her lap.  But all in all, she entertained me, and took great pains to do so.

She snapped her fingers and produced two rather large bowls of tea for us.  So much better than the stout Garrett would snap for.  Madame understood women, even though she was half male, and knew a crying jag would not be comforted by a tankard of ale.

I sipped the hot tea and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and heard her ‘tut, tut’, as she leaned over and attempted to dry my tears with a large linen handkerchief. I started to laugh, a rather forlorn and empty attempt at laughter, but Madame was predictable.  So was I, apparently.

“What is now to happen, Madame?”  I looked at where my tears had made her white powder run and her wrinkled, old bosom exposed over the top of her plum, velvet gown.

“Ah, M. le Devil should have many plans by now.  Since you both have returned, he has met everyday with some creature or other.”

Her eyes glittered as she dipped her face into her bowl. The old devil knew something!

“Have you seen who he meets?  Is M. Abigor a visitor?”

“Ah, my curious girl, I only get a glimpse of a tail or a hoof, not much to go on.  Perhaps a slight smell of brimstone, nothing much to identify. These queer devils are all the same, n’est ce pas?”

Madame Gormosy was lying. We both knew they didn’t have tails or hooves, they would look like respectable gentlemen, even though their danger did not come from the swords that dangled at their sides.

Madame cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “Perhaps we apply some powder and rouge, get you into a tight corset, do your hair and you will feel like facing life again?  No one can face the future in their nightgown.  We women have our own power, neh?”

I sighed. I was back amongst devils, and at least they were familiar. Their magic I knew, at least some of it.  No tattooed snakes travelling the length of arms, nor Warrior Queens speaking in tongues.   Just Madame Gormosy with her transvestite ability and snapping her fingers for bowls of tea.  There was still this issue of Garrett disappearing and it seemed that coming ‘home’ had done little to change that.  I needed some answers and the only way was to do as Madame demanded.  I shook off my suspicions and gathered myself.  I was still very much a part of this puzzle.  Dark forces were gathering and I still was just a pawn on a demented chessboard.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009

“The Cosmos”……these are cinquains.

Cinquains are a form of poetry, with a couple of methods. Last year I wrote tons of them apparently, and they will come again in fashion on ERWA.

They always do….

COSMOS CINQUAINS Alternating Methods…I and II (Part I)

Universe
Infinite space!
Distance to distance
Overwhelming all the senses
Forever.

Virgo
Chained sweet maiden
Like Andromeda there
Infinite patience is her fate
Virgin.

Orion
Hunter’s stealth
Steals earth’s orbit
Canis Major barking loudly
Sirius.

Aries
Orion’s ram
Joins the hunter gladly
Orbits across the nighttime sky
Pursues!

Emptiness!
Vast galaxies!
Filled with stars
Still distance looms unending
Void.

Hunter
Orion’s quest
Emotion burning fire!
Chases Virgo through the Heavens
Captures!

Gravity
Heaviness bounded
Pulls both downwards
Sagittarius the Archer wounds
Falling.

Embrace
Luminous skin
Orion unsheathes cock
Virgo bleeds upon Hunter’s sword
Conquered.

Exploding
Supernova upward
Orion’s pleasure expanded
Virgo wilts, hymen pierced
Violated.

Black Hole
Emotion’s fire
Pleasure burned out quickly
Hurling Virgo into vastness
Disdained!

Janekohutbartels

copyrighted, 2008