Trystal Brewer Chronicles Ch 5-7

Trystal Brewer Chronicles ch.5

Reiden looked out at the black garden from the balcony of his palace in Zicir, the hell realm he was banished to four hundred and eighty years ago. For the first time in centuries the sky was a clear blue depicting Reiden’s mood. Here the sky was always a dark ominous color covered with storm clouds. Many of the trees here had black leaves except for those that bore fruit. Instead the fruit was black. The twisted tree limbs were able to capture anyone who walked pass them. The grass was a normal green and more further away was a small pool of crystal blue water that he used like a mirror to show images of his beloved wife. Anyone who disturbed him when he was looking through the small pond usually met his rage first hand without any mercy.

Today, Reiden was happy. For the first time in four hundred and eighty years he knew his wife’s soul was close to him.

“Have we found her my lord?” Questioned Reiden’s first in command demon general, Dimuren. He hesitated at first hoping he wasn’t in a bad mood.

“Yes. We have. I have already tasted her blood and when she sleeps tonight, I shall visit her dreams.”

He said smiling at the thought of what he had planned. By just tasting her blood, he was allowed to locate her anywhere on earth and even visit her anytime he wanted to.

Reiden left the balcony and reentered his palace. Outside it looked like any other sixteenth century castle but inside was a sight to behold. Black and grey marble covered the floor, the walls covered in gold with gem stones of every color embedded in them and the ceiling was obsidian with diamonds scattered throughout to mimic the night sky on earth.

He walked through the halls of his home until he came upon a door that held the symbol of what use to be his kingdom. A black dagger with a golden handle that had emeralds and sapphires embedded in it. Every time Reiden entered his bedroom, he always walked toward the painting of his wife he had commissioned the year before her death. She wore a red dress and had her hair tied up in a bun. Some of her hair escaped and fell against the pale flesh of her shoulders. She was absolutely magnificent to him. As he looked at the painting he felt a slight chill up his spine. Trystal was going to sleep, he could feel it. “Now I can help her remember.” He said to himself, smiling with thoughts of what to show her. Reiden climbed in his king size bed and let his spirit wonder through the dream world to find Trystal.

Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Between Demons and Angels”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He write erotica (mostly smoking fetish-related) at his blog “Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) but also writes stories for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, Pillow Talk and elsewhere with erotic and non-erotic themes, in smoking and non-smoking forms. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

He began his “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

This fictional near-future world also made an appearance in the a “Scenic Saturday” themed story on my blog at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/2010/05/29/scenic-saturday-sweets-for-the-sweet/

Other stories in this setting (without smoking fetish overtones) have appeared here at the Celis T. Rono Writers Collaborative as “Tales of the Poisoned World” and you can find those others by clicking on the link to my stories here: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/category/smokedawg/

This is the third “Tales of the Poisoned World” story.

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Between Demons and Angels

Night in the city was never safe, not even behind the walls of a church—in fact, maybe less so some nights.

Having been born and raised in New Philadelphia, Reverend Jason Nguyen-Williams had seen a lot in his 27 years of life—hell, he had experienced his first encounter with a thrill-killer at the age of 6 when he and his mother were caught out on the street later than was wise. His mother had gotten him away from that intact, and the man had been captured soon thereafter, though Jason still had a little silver scar on his left thigh to remind him of the incident.

It still squidged him inside out that when he had gone to see that thrill-killer in prison several years ago as part of his forgiveness colloquium in seminary, the man looked into Jason’s eyes for all of three seconds, smiled, and asked, “So, can you still see your scar? Does it bring you back to your childhood, boy?” Just from looking into his eyes, the thrill-killer had remembered. Chilling, but good preparation for his current duties, which were dangerous simply due to his proximity to the Sprawls, and the hours that he was called upon to work.

Still, when straightening up the sanctuary after dark—alone—right on the border between the Gray Zion sprawlhood and the mid-strata neighborhood of Goldborough, there were some things a man of God just didn’t have preparation for. Things one just didn’t know how to react to.

A tall, nearly naked woman with ruddy reptilian wings and bright red eyes was one of those things.

Once Jason knew that someone had entered the room, his hand had immediately shot to the pocket of his long black preacher’s coat, where he kept a very expensive flechette pistol. A religious man who relied only on God to protect him in this city was a religious man who would be visiting Heaven long before he had earned any gray hairs. Or, in the case of most of the religious men in this particular church, they’d probably end up in Hell, but that was a whole other matter.

When he had turned around, he had guessed the unexpected visitor would be either a SilverScream addict on a rage-frenzy, a rape or robbery victim seeking sanctuary, a pimp looking for a wayward pedwhore, or a police officer asking questions. Those were the top four night-time patrons around here.

Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Balance of Power”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

He began his “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

His first stand-alone “Tales of the Poisoned World” story, which precedes this one chronologically, is here on Celis T. Rono’s blog, at: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/2010/01/20/smokedawg-tales-of-the-poisoned-world-expressions-of-power/

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Balance of Power

It was an long-held axiom that the City Administrator always worked hours later than the Executive Mayor did. That axiom was taken to an extreme in Danica’s case; she was forever at the mayoral offices cleaning up some political mess that Oswald K. Drummond IV had left, or dealing with some inane duty that he had foisted on her.

Almost all of it was petty vengeance in the end—for Danica being a woman and thus inferior by the standards of Oswald’s circle of wealthy and highly religious peers; for having been indirectly involved in his failure to bring the Sprawls to heel two years earlier; and for the fact she was gearing up to unseat him in the next set of mayoral elections in another couple years.

She was patient, though. It was a trait that had gotten her on the fast track to her current position; it was one that would carry her into the Executive Mayor position either this election cycle or next—depending on how quickly voters realized what a huge mistake it was to elect someone from the upper stratas instead of the mid-level ones—especially an upper-strata religious zealot. Her skill at patience and handling challenges would likely be enough to keep her in the office for two or three terms at least once she secured it.

That was the theory, at least.

Huang dusk-Chi’s theory. And her own assessment of the city and her capabilities. Also the theory of several artificial intelligence computer models paid for at great expense to Huang’s family.

But theories are just theories until proved to be fact, even ones from cutting-edge AI computers, she reminded herself.

Tired but satisfied that tomorrow would at least begin on the right notes thanks to her efforts tonight, Danica Peters headed for the foyer of the GovSec building on her way to a dinner meeting with Huang about upcoming campaign-related machinations.

She nodded to the security team at the front desk, then paused, looked around briefly, and held out her hands in a gesture of expectation and befuddlement.

“There’s a series of bugs in the Guardian system again, Admin Peters,” the lead guard told her, an expression of apology in his eyes. “Worse than the other week. You’ll have to head out to your car without a gearhead, I’m afraid. Do you need one of us to head out with you instead?”

Leaving this late, a city officer of her stature—or even slightly below it—was pretty much expected to walk out with an automaton companion to guard her at least until she was off premises entirely, so there was no weakness in that. But taking away a human guard from his duties to do the same would look soft, so she shook her head as she extracted one of her Femmeboro Citrons and ignited it with her hotpen, enjoying the flood of citrusy smoke into her lungs. As she pulled the long cigarette from her lips and exhaled, she said, lightly, “It’ll be a nice change of pace not to hear the soft whir of servos next to me for once.”

It was true enough. Going out onto the street alone at night to leave the complex was something she hadn’t done in several years now, so it would be a novel experience.

The air was chill, but fresher than normal. A hard rain had fallen earlier in the day, followed by some firm winds, and so for one of those rare nights, a few stars were hazily visible in the night sky, and the moon was more than just an amorphous, blurry light behind muddy clouds. You could actually make out its craters and basins tonight, even if they seemed slightly out of focus.

She was 100 meters out from the foyer, and almost half again that distance away from the drop-gate for her vehicle, when the elaborate clasp-and-brooch assembly for her cloak suddenly came apart, reconfigured as a tiny hawk on her shoulder, and let out a warble-and-whistle cry.

Danica had trained with the cloak often enough and with its PI system—the pseudo-intelligence computer built into it—to understand the notes. Danger behind. Duck to right and run.

Only twice before had her defcloak warned her of impending attack from behind. Once she had ignored it, and turned to face her potential assailant, because the danger whistle was minor—and that woman had earned a nasty faceful of stunspray, while Danica strode away calmly. The second time, the danger message had only been slightly more intense, and Danica had simply fled to safety.

This time, the danger whistle was very nearly a shriek, and she didn’t hesitate. Because aside from the intensity of the warning—and thus the PI’s appraisal of the threat—she realized that an attack like this, right when the Guardian system was down and she was unescorted, seemed way too coincidental.

Lexi Sylver “Femme Fatale”

Residing in Montréal, Canada, Lexi Sylver divides her time between writing short erotica, and helping run a retail lingerie business.  Her passions for psychology, reading, writing and sexuality, all come together uniquely in her erotic works, which are centered around original characters and detailed scenarios.  Lexi is in the midst of preparing Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories, which will be released this year.  For short erotica, sex positions, sex toy reviews, top 10 lists and more, take a peek at http://www.lexisylver.com/.

Femme Fatale

by Lexi Sylver

I knew it wouldn’t be easy turning thirty.

But I never once thought I’d celebrate entering the third decade of life crouched in a muddy ditch, armed with two revolvers, plenty of ammo, two hunting knives, stun gun, hand grenades, and a bunch of high-tech gizmos (small microphones and cameras undetectable even with the most advanced machines and cool stuff you’ve only ever dreamed of possessing).  Waiting, watching through my special x-ray/night vision goggles with bated breath and a stiff neck for the last two hours.  The guard pacing the north side of the building is called on his walkie-talkie, replies, then leaves his post.  I’d have saved tons of time if I’d just sniped him off from his tower at the get-go, but I need to be completely incognito.  This assignment is supposed to be a quick in-and-out recon mission, and being that I’m flying solo, I want to avoid alerting the two dozen men in and out of the biochemical compound of my presence.

I take a quick look around, grab my ammo and dart towards the north side entrance.  My quick movements remind me that I should also be armed with a full-support bra, always ready for these spur-of-the-moment situations, both for comfort and aerodynamics.  Who knew when an invisible sensor could go off with the slightest flinch to make you blow an entire mission.  Any professional female spy knows you should always be ready for action, no matter where or when, or why or who.  Because criminals have a knack of always planning their schemes at the most inconvenient times…

Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Expressions of Power”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

I began my “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Expressions of Power

Noon came dimly in New Philadelphia, as was usually the case—the sun a sepia globe, it’s golden light filtered through the constant dun haze in the sky. Except when it rained hard with droplets that stung the skin, and cleared the air enough for people to remember the sky was supposed to be blue.

Or at least bluish.

Noon on this day was darker than usual, at least in the office of the city’s Executive Mayor, thanks to the mood of the man who had three months earlier won 60% of the vote to claim this office. Oswald K. Drummond IV. The third-richest man in the city and someone who was accustomed to being farther in-city, surrounded by only the rich. Cocooned from the dregs.

The central government building were in a clean part of the city. A safe place. A moneyed city-sector. But still, not the gem that City Center was. Where the upper stratas lived.

But this is where I need to be, to serve God and my fellow leaders of society, Oswald groaned inwardly. I’ll give up a few comforts to do what needs doing.

“Abominations and dangerous criminals,” he muttered.

Ashley Davidson “Untitled”

“Untitled”

Ashley Davidson

It was a dark a dreary night when she walked into town. She looked alone so we thought nothing just said hi an went along our way. Little time went by we started noticing people were missing? Children were scared to go out and play an not an night but in day? The air turned cold and chill in mid summer? Then the sun started not to rise an the moon stayed long hours of the night? Nobody could have seen it coming we were a happy town we all knew each other…are so we thought? It all went down a none so quiet evening at the pub “The Drunken Angel.”

I always hated that damn name it was bad medicine I always said. But like always nobody listen I was to young to know anything they said. I would ask “whats to know?” I’d get a sly remark its not a woman’s place to question her elders are the men. I would tell the to get the fuck out of my bar. An they would by victor my big strapping bodyguard. They would kick an scream some even bite, men they say more like boys with big toys. Just cause your born with a dick between your legs don’t make you a man only gender wise an I still just say their males as we are females.

Smokedawg “Waiting for Her”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

This particular story is NOT erotica (although there is some inappropriate touching…LOL), which is a rarity for me these days (aside from my in-progress sci-fi novel). I think it’s horror but in the end, maybe it’s a romance. Only you can know for sure.

Waiting for Her

Father and son stood atop the hill. It was a commanding position, had they been in any position to defend their position against an attack.

But as it was—armed with a half-loaded 9mm pistol, a nicked machete, a surgically sharp meat cleaver, a club wrapped in barbed wire and a sawed-off shotgun with just one shell remaining—they weren’t in a position to defend much more than their honor.

No, their position now was just to have a commanding view. The valley before them, stretching for miles. The sea at their back, and Renaldo’s freighter waiting just off the coast for them.

“She’ll come,” the father said.

“What if…” the son began.

Lexi Sylver “A Thirst For Truth”

About Lexi Sylver…

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

A Thirst for Truth

By Lexi Sylver

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

The evening is brisk, a chill sweeping up her bare legs, signaling a change of season.  She feels his arm slide over her shoulders, hugging her body to his, trying to warm her.  She eases into him, making the walk back to her apartment more bearable.  They reach the front steps to her building, and she turns to him with a smile.  Without speaking, he grabs her in his arms.  She looks up at his shadowed face, her body faltering against the hardness of his body.  Then his mouth is on hers, soft yet urgent, the scent of him making her dizzy.

“Come up for a while,” she murmurs against his lips.  He follows her up the winding staircase to her apartment.  She fumbles with her keys, drops them, nervous.  He picks them up and smiles, reassuring her.  The key slides in the lock, and she opens the door, bringing this man into her personal space, her little world away from reality.

He comes up behind her and grips her tightly, sliding his hands down her back, finding the hem of her dress and slipping beneath it.  She moans as he touches the soft, sensitive flesh of her bare thighs and bottom.  His lips lower to her neck as his fingers wander closer to her most aching spot, touching her gently over her moistened panties.  She moans, leaning her head back onto his chest as his fingers slip the straps of her dress down her arms, the fabric falling into a silken pile onto the floor, leaving her almost naked.  He pulls off her panties, propelling her to the bed, where she lies down on her back.  Her eyes flutter shut as his mouth hungrily presses into her inner thighs, until she feels him bite into her flesh, the most exquisite pleasure washing over her…

Smokedawg “Bound Flesh”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

Bound Flesh

Life in Chicago post-invasion certainly wasn’t a bore—and exhaustion was par for the course, Audrey considered. Of course, she’d put herself, as had her brother Oliver, into that position when they elected to be part of the resistance three years before. Among the few who hadn’t embraced their new reptilian overlords.

OK, to be fair, only some of them are reptilian, Audrey acknowledged in her mind. Along with amphibians, inverterbrates, avians, mammalians, herbacians, botanoids, arachnoids, insectoids, silicoids, hydrocarbon-based colloidal intelligences, sentient mathematical equations, luminous cohesive thought matrices, and a slew of others.

But reptilian beings did form the largest single bloc of extraterrestrial entities in the Grand Hegemony. And Earth was the newest member, whether it wanted to be or not. It wasn’t as if there had really been much resistance. Hegemon starcruisers had surrounded the Earth, some of them had entered orbit, and others had landed on large areas of open ground or now floated near coastal areas. But there had never been any assault. No bloodshed—at least not by member of the Hegemony.

“Fuck all those sci-fi movies,” Ollie had said to her in the early days they were putting together their Humanity’s Heart organization. “No lasers, no exotic viruses or chemicals to wipe us out. No trying to serve us up for dinner. No mind control devices. No troops. No concentration camps. Just plain old simple strategy of give us what we want, and we’ll roll over.”

Michael L. Lewis “Trick ‘or’ Treat”

About the Author:

Michael L Lewis born Feb, 26 1974 raised in the beautiful Blueridge mountains of Southern West Virginia. Having grown up on cattle farms in the wide open country of Tazewell Va, he is no stranger to hard work and perseverance. Loves horseback riding, hunting and fishing. A father of five wonderful children and is currently enrolled in the Childrens Institute having the childrens Author ‘Shirley Raye Redmond’ as his tutor. Recently has a poetry book ‘Death Awaits The Ressurection’ published on Lulu.com and is also working on a Western Horror Novel as well as short stories for magazine articles.

“Trick ‘or’ Treat”

Michael Lewis

The rain had just stopped for the night as fog began to rise from the dark asphalt. I have just begun the last round of trick or treating before returning home to calculate my bounty.My Mom, and Aunt wait for me a block or so away until I finish up. I always cut down by the maple view cemetary- where a dozen or so homes reside, this is where I usually pocket some of the best candy, and a few bucks to boot. Although the cemetary freaks me out as I walk alone in the dark. I didn’t let that stop me from getting what I wanted. But this night would turn out to be quite different. As I made my way down pass the old willow trees, and directly across from a small playground built for the neighborhood. I notice a little boy about my age sitting upon the merry go round in a shadow of complete darkness. I would not have seen him had it not been for his reflective costume he was wearing. I proceed to ring the doorbell of the last house not taking my eye off of the boy who had an eerie look about him. He was just sitting there looking down to his empty halloween bag with an expression of dismay. At first I thought he must’ve been a victim of a candy robber, namely the high school bullies who think it fun to rob small children of their lute. I decide to walk over to him as it seemed that no one was answering the door here anyway. He doesn’t pay me any attention as if I’m not even visible to him. He continues looking down into the empty bag mumbling over,and over. “Trick or Treat, trick or treat.” Maybe he is lost?” I thought to myself looking around for someone to help me out. I didn’t want to just leave him here all alone. The storm returned sending bolts of lightning streaking overhead. That’s when I noticed that the boy was also bare footed, and cacked with mud. “You been walking about in the cemetary?” I ask him, but to no avail; He just kept repeating the words Trick or Treat, trick or treat. I was starting to get a little frustrated when I heard my Mom, and Aunt yelling for me. “I’ll be right back.” I tell him and go for them. Upon our return, and after I told my Mom what all was going on-the little boy was gone. In the exact spot to where he was sitting a floral reef had been placed like the ones you would find on someones grave. “How could this be?” I say to a whisper. That’s when my aunt began to tell me about a little boy who had been struck by a drunk driver and killed last halloween right in front of his home. Which upon looking at it now, I could see the (For Sale sighn)posted out front in the yard. His parents divorced, and moved out a couple months later, my aunt tells me. I began to feel lost, then scarred, and then a great sadness for the boy. I never walked by that way again as a child. Now that I am grown, and still feel sadness for the child. I go to where he sat that night and place a bag of candy for him. The park is now a row of pic-nic tables, and a few shrubs for looks. No one places a reef there anymore, and a new family has moved into the two story home. I would have never believed in ghost if I hadn’t seen it first hand, but I never would see my little friend again to this day.