Lex Chase's Blog, page 12

[Flash Fiction] Patricia Correll presents “Legit Heat”

Hello, Internet! Welcome to a special edition of Flash Fiction Friday on a…Wednesday? Joining me today is newcomer Patricia Correll with her piece “Legit Heat.” Where we bear witness to the special ceremony of the changing of the guard among…luchadores? Heaven, Hell, Blood, Sweat and Cheers!

Legit Heat
by Patricia Correll

Center of the ring, figure-four leg lock. Angel strained for the rope, his fingers clenching. Sweat glistened on his chest, and his luchador mask wrinkled as the face beneath contorted. King Jaguar leaned as far forward as he could, fingers inches from Angel’s. El Demonico roared and tightened his grip on Angel. Across the ring, El Demonico’s tag team partner, Jonny Muerte, shouted taunts. King Jaguar waited for the slap of calloused fingers on his palm.

If it was going to come. No one had told him how tonight’s match was supposed to end. It was strange, but when he asked Angel about it the other wrestler only laughed. “It looks more authentic if you and Muerte don’t know.”  His eyes, peering out of his white-and-gold mask, were bright with amusement.

King Jaguar’s own mask felt fused to his skin. His ear was ringing from the blow Muerte had given him earlier. He didn’t care, not about the various pains and aches of his body, and not about who triumphed tonight. In the endless rivalry between Angel and El Demonico, each had won and lost hundreds of times in equal numbers. All that mattered was that, by the end of this match, he would no longer be King Jaguar, and his training partner would no longer be Jonny Muerte. They would be Angel and El Demonico.

El Demonico’s muscles rippled. The pentagram on his black mask shone bloody red. Somehow, with a movement so subtle even King Jaguar’s trained gaze didn’t catch it, Angel writhed out of the other luchador’s grip and flung his body toward the ropes. His fingers smacked King Jaguar’s palm. Immediately King Jaguar leaped into the ring. El Demonico threw up his arms to catch him, but King Jaguar twisted in midair, driving his knee into the other man’s broad neck. They crashed to the mat. King Jaguar breathed in the smells of sweat and blood. A tack, left over from a previous match, embedded itself into his forearm. The pinprick of pain was strangely sharp and clear, alone in a sea of tension and dull pain.

Beneath the ring, machinery began to grind. King Jaguar felt the mat shudder, and anticipation shivered up his spine. It was time. Jonny and Angel felt it too; as King Jaguar rolled into a crouch,  he caught a flash of white launching itself from the top rope. Jonny Muerte, apparently insane with fury, ignored the screaming ref and jumped into the ring.

Smoke billowed up from beneath the ring, obscuring white clouds that made King Jaguar’s eyes water. This was it, just like Angel had told him. The switching of the masks, the handing over of roles. By the time the smoke cleared, Angel and El Demonico would have new faces beneath their unchanging masks. The crowd howled jaggedly, some for Angel, some for El Demonico, a few voices cheering King Jaguar or Jonny. Anticipation shivered up King Jaguar’s spine. The matches between El Demonico and Angel were famously violent, their schedule grueling. Rumors said no wrestlers wore those masks for more than three or four years. But how could anyone give up that adoration? King Jaguar rolled off El Demonico and peeled off his black-and-yellow mask. Jonny Muerte appeared out of the smoke and yanked off his own skull mask. El Demonico got slowly to his feet. Angel materialized at his shoulder, hissing, “Hurry!”

King Jaguar watched in fascination as Angel and El Demonico removed their masks. No one saw their faces, not even the other wrestlers. Their contracts stated they must always wear their masks, even in the locker room.

They were both younger than he’d expected. He’d thought they would be old men with lined faces, but they were only a handful of years older than Jonny and himself. Angel had a shaved head; El Demonico wore a thin mustache like an old-school matador. Angel stared at the mask in his hand for a moment, then held it out to King Jaguar. His eyes, cast down to his tightly-laced boots, were sad.

King Jaguar tossed the other man his own yellow mask- Angel caught it in one hand. Beside them, Jonny and El Demonico were also exchanging masks. King Jaguar and his friend glanced at each other, grinning broadly. The hairs on King Jaguar’s arms tingled as he lifted the white-and-gold mask and slipped it over his head.

For a moment he thought he’d put the mask on backward – his vision went dark. Then he blinked, and could see again- swirling white smoke, and three masks. The eyes gazing at him from his old King Jaguar mask glistened wetly. He opened his mouth to ask Angel- the former Angel- why he was weeping.

But before he could ask, he knew.

The knowledge appeared in his mind in a flash, as if it had been a memory there all along. His stomach lurched as dizziness swept over him; vaguely he noticed Jonny- El Demonico- shaking his head as if to clear it.

A creature of darkness. A being of light. A bargain struck fifty years before. King Jaguar- no, he was Angel now- felt it inside his head, a pair of eyes not his own, watching. His own body, his own voice, his own thoughts- but now this other too, crouching inside his mind, urging him forward. Spurring him to fight. He shook his head to dislodge it, but it held fast. As it had to the former Angel, until he found a new vessel for it. As had the one before him, and the one before him-

Because the matches between El Demonico and Angel weren’t planned. The demon and the angel inside their human bodies were fighting in earnet, for a prize. Not a belt. The souls of that night’s audience.

A scream clawed its way into Angel’s throat. Suddenly a hand clapped over his mouth, tasting of sweat and dust. The former Angel hissed in his ear, “Look out there. Heaven or Hell, you fight for them.”

Angel looked. Through the thinning haze he saw them, some cheering him. Others screaming for El Demonico. None of them knew. He stared at El Demonico, his friend since their training days. His eyes were bleak inside the bloody pentagram.

Jonny Muerte and King Jaguar swung over the ropes. A moment later something flew up and into the ring with a clatter. They both started and gaped. The crowd, confused, began to boo at their inaction, but the boos turned to cheers when another steel chair arced over the ropes and into the ring.

Angel breathed in damp air that smelled of sweat and beer. There were children in the crowd, families, good men and women. He nodded slowly to El Demonico. Together they dove for the chairs.

Hanging with C.S. Poe for Desk Talk!

Hello, Internet! I’m over at C.S. Poe’s blog today for Desk Talk. I’m dishing about my writing space, what I’m working on, and my cats. Always my cats. JUST LOOK AT THIS CREATURE. Mommy’s little Tubbo.

Come check it out!

[Flash Fiction] Amberly Smith presents “The Doll Maker’s Son”

Hello, Internet! I’m doing something a little different this week with running flash fic today, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday! In all of my rush to finish Urban Fairy Tale on time, things had to go by the wayside. Well, Amberly Smith is here to kick things off with “The Doll Maker’s Son.”

We meet Vitroli, a young man desperate to win the approval of his father. Is there something that can be said that means more than words?

The Doll Maker’s Son
by A. Smith

All good Paquette men play with dolls. In fact people travel from around the world to Sedona, Italy, to watch them play.

Vitroli Paquette led the latest batch of tourists through the Doll Warehouse, his family’s restoration workshop. Those who didn’t know what went into making porcelain were disgusted by the sheen of clay dust covering the room, thicker in the out-of-reach cracks and crevices.

“This next workroom is our operating room. This is where major repairs are done, including porcelain damage.” Vitroli spoke English, colored by Eminem and Orange is the New Black, but he laid on the accent for the tour.

The smell of earth and heat had long since become a background sheen to the meticulous organization of the old workroom. Today the place felt hazardous. Vitroli’s eyes landed upon the sharp tools, the smothering thickness of the safety gloves, and the hunched shoulders of his father. His throat was dry but sweat gathered on his top lip. He had taken a cautious step into this men-only world and then contempt for such hesitation propelled his next foot down with confidence. With a lift of his chin, he defied anyone to challenge his right to be here.

“Yesterday we received a shipment from London, England, with a pair of Jules Verlingue dolls for repair. They are both over 100 years old and will become museum pieces.” He gave the tourists, a female heavy population, the chance to look around, eyes as big as Blythe Dolls. Several pulled out smartphones to snap pictures.

He slid forward to stand right next to his father’s workbench. Vitroli’s speech included the difference between porcelain and bisque and trivia of famous doll collectors. “We duplicate the same process used to make the doll hundreds of years ago and have for several generations. My great-grandfather taught my grandfather as he taught my father.”

A blond and gray Australian — those frank and often oblivious Aussies — waved her hand for his attention. She was wearing shorts to mid-thigh and a t-shirt with some beer logo on the front.  Her hair seemed to be braided in a flat Mohawk, whatever that was called. He’d sure as shit had never let his hair get long enough to do that. “And your father will teach you. Family traditions are important.”

“Maybe.” Vitroli bit his lip and reached to push his hair behind his ear before he remembered it didn’t do that anymore. He rubbed the back of his neck instead. His father, Antonio Paquette, introduced himself and explained the work he was doing. Antonio worked silently for a while, letting them watch. He spoke to the doll, his accent heavy. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I amputated the wrong leg.” Then he spoke to the crowd, “Hopefully, she won’t sue.”

Vitroli smiled, remembering similar silly games as a child as he crawled around the shop playing with his own porcelain and wood soldiers. Now was the moment he was dreading. His father would turn the tour back over to his daughter. Back to Vitrosa. He wasn’t that little girl, had never been. And today, for the first time, he was showing his true self. His father finished explaining what he was doing.

The crowd politely clapped and his father turned to look at Vitroli. His father had intense eyes. Sometimes they got lost beneath his bushy eyebrows, all that dark blending together. Vitroli braced his shoulders, trying to extend his shoulders even higher. If his father did it, called him Vitrosa? He’d just laugh it off, tell the strangers that his dad was joking. They’d buy that. They heard him aim for funny when he joked about amputating the wrong leg. Vitroli’s stomach hadn’t hurt this much since he got into Grandpa Marco’s candy stash. Not even when he’d come out to his parents.

It was going to be okay. It didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter.

“My son, he will lead you back to the salon, we do paint and hair for the dolls. My son, he knows this place well. Ask him any question.”

Vitroli nodded to his father, doing his best to keep his shit together. He had thought he would feel relief. Instead, joy flushed his body. No not joy, freedom. Best natural high Vitroli had ever had. He grasped his father’s shoulder as he walked by. Briefly acknowledging what must have been hard for both of them. His father simply nodded and then curved back over his art.

“Let’s get these legs back on. Shall we?”

[Flash Fiction] A. Smith presents “The Doll Maker’s Son”

Hello, Internet! I’m doing something a little different this week with running flash fic today, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday! In all of my rush to finish Urban Fairy Tale on time, things had to go by the wayside. Well, A. Smith is here to kick things off with “The Doll Maker’s Son.”

We meet Vitroli, a young man desperate to win the approval of his father. Is there something that can be said that means more than words?

The Doll Maker’s Son
by A. Smith

All good Paquette men play with dolls. In fact people travel from around the world to Sedona, Italy, to watch them play.

Vitroli Paquette led the latest batch of tourists through the Doll Warehouse, his family’s restoration workshop. Those who didn’t know what went into making porcelain were disgusted by the sheen of clay dust covering the room, thicker in the out-of-reach cracks and crevices.

“This next workroom is our operating room. This is where major repairs are done, including porcelain damage.” Vitroli spoke English, colored by Eminem and Orange is the New Black, but he laid on the accent for the tour.

The smell of earth and heat had long since become a background sheen to the meticulous organization of the old workroom. Today the place felt hazardous. Vitroli’s eyes landed upon the sharp tools, the smothering thickness of the safety gloves, and the hunched shoulders of his father. His throat was dry but sweat gathered on his top lip. He had taken a cautious step into this men-only world and then contempt for such hesitation propelled his next foot down with confidence. With a lift of his chin, he defied anyone to challenge his right to be here.

“Yesterday we received a shipment from London, England, with a pair of Jules Verlingue dolls for repair. They are both over 100 years old and will become museum pieces.” He gave the tourists, a female heavy population, the chance to look around, eyes as big as Blythe Dolls. Several pulled out smartphones to snap pictures.

He slid forward to stand right next to his father’s workbench. Vitroli’s speech included the difference between porcelain and bisque and trivia of famous doll collectors. “We duplicate the same process used to make the doll hundreds of years ago and have for several generations. My great-grandfather taught my grandfather as he taught my father.”

A blond and gray Australian — those frank and often oblivious Aussies — waved her hand for his attention. She was wearing shorts to mid-thigh and a t-shirt with some beer logo on the front.  Her hair seemed to be braided in a flat Mohawk, whatever that was called. He’d sure as shit had never let his hair get long enough to do that. “And your father will teach you. Family traditions are important.”

“Maybe.” Vitroli bit his lip and reached to push his hair behind his ear before he remembered it didn’t do that anymore. He rubbed the back of his neck instead. His father, Antonio Paquette, introduced himself and explained the work he was doing. Antonio worked silently for a while, letting them watch. He spoke to the doll, his accent heavy. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I amputated the wrong leg.” Then he spoke to the crowd, “Hopefully, she won’t sue.”

Vitroli smiled, remembering similar silly games as a child as he crawled around the shop playing with his own porcelain and wood soldiers. Now was the moment he was dreading. His father would turn the tour back over to his daughter. Back to Vitrosa. He wasn’t that little girl, had never been. And today, for the first time, he was showing his true self. His father finished explaining what he was doing.

The crowd politely clapped and his father turned to look at Vitroli. His father had intense eyes. Sometimes they got lost beneath his bushy eyebrows, all that dark blending together. Vitroli braced his shoulders, trying to extend his shoulders even higher. If his father did it, called him Vitrosa? He’d just laugh it off, tell the strangers that his dad was joking. They’d buy that. They heard him aim for funny when he joked about amputating the wrong leg. Vitroli’s stomach hadn’t hurt this much since he got into Grandpa Marco’s candy stash. Not even when he’d come out to his parents.

It was going to be okay. It didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter.

“My son, he will lead you back to the salon, we do paint and hair for the dolls. My son, he knows this place well. Ask him any question.”

Vitroli nodded to his father, doing his best to keep his shit together. He had thought he would feel relief. Instead, joy flushed his body. No not joy, freedom. Best natural high Vitroli had ever had. He grasped his father’s shoulder as he walked by. Briefly acknowledging what must have been hard for both of them. His father simply nodded and then curved back over his art.

“Let’s get these legs back on. Shall we?”

[Flash Fiction] Kim Fielding presents “The Visit”

Hello Internet! It’s been a while but welcome back to Flash Fiction Friday. I missed a handful of lovely submissions while I was deep in the trenches finishing Urban Fairy Tale. But you will see those this week coming Monday, Wednesday, and Friday!

Kim Fielding is back again with “The Visit.” A curious tale where we meet Brad and Tony. While on a camping trip, they encounter the classic lights in the sky. But that’s just an urban legend.

…Right?

The Visit
by Kim Fielding

 

“I still think we should tell someone,” Tony said as he hauled the duffel out of the trunk.

Brad slammed the trunk closed and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“But we saw—”

“I know what we saw. But if we tell anyone, all they’re gonna do is make jokes about ET and anal probes. Or call the men in white coats. We’re going to keep this one to ourselves, babe.”

Brad unlocked the door to the house, and they trudged inside. Tony dropped the duffel onto the floor and, at almost the same moment, Brad dropped the sleeping bags. They’d clean up in the morning. Right now Brad wanted a hot shower, their bed, and Tony snuggled into his arms.

But Tony poked stubbornly at his phone. “But we have proof! I know the video’s pretty blurry, but they have technology that can clear it up, right?”

Brad didn’t know who “they” were and didn’t bother to ask. He sighed wearily. “You can mess around with it digitally forever, but all anyone’s going to see are some shaky colored lights. Nobody’s going to be convinced.”

The reality had been sharp and clear as day, magical in a terrifying sort of way. He and Tony had just polished off the last of the s’mores and were contemplating a final trip to the latrine before zipping themselves into the tent. But then they heard a sudden musical humming—like a tune you couldn’t quite place—and something huge appeared to hover over the treetops. Brad had been too scared to move, but Tony was the kind of guy who’d take a selfie even while being chased by zombies. He whipped out his phone, pointed it upward, and began to record.

It had been too dark to see the shape of the floating thing until the lights appeared. Bright like Christmas decorations, they flashed in a way that didn’t seem random.

“What the fuck?” Brad managed to squeak.

Tony didn’t even glance at him. “Aliens. Oh my God, it’s aliens.”

And although Brad wanted to point out that it was ridiculous, he couldn’t. This wasn’t a meteor or space station or weird meteorological phenomenon. This was a fucking spaceship, and it was right over their heads.

What happened after that, though, was… fuzzy. The colored lights twinkled and danced. Brad felt woozy, felt Tony clutch his hand. Had the distinct impression of being watched.

And then it was dawn, and they were waking up on the hard ground. They wished for last night’s fire as they shivered with the morning chill. Brad’s mouth tasted like burned marshmallows.

They checked Tony’s phone, of course, but it didn’t show much. They packed up and drove home in stunned silence. And now Brad was exhausted and simply wanted to climb beneath the covers and shut out the world.

“Want me to make dinner?” Tony asked. “There’s nothing in the fridge, but I think we still have those salmon steaks in the freezer.”

Brad’s stomach did a somersault. “No! I, uh, I just want to go to sleep.”

“It’s not even eight.”

“I don’t think…. I don’t know what happened last night, but I don’t think I got much rest.”

Tony nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Me either. Okay, early to bed.”

They showered, quickly and without the usual naughty touching. Brad’s joints ached and his back hurt, no doubt from sleeping on hard-packed soil; and even with the grime washed away, his skin felt too tight. He was a little queasy too. Maybe he’d picked up a bug. Good thing he didn’t have to return to work for two days.

Naked, they fell into bed. But as soon as Brad pulled the blankets over them, he was hit with a strange revelation. “Babe?”

“Hmm?” Tony sounded half-asleep already. On nights when they didn’t have sex, he generally started snoring moments after his head hit the pillow.

“I’m kinda hungry.”

Tony sat up, clicked on the light, and glared at him. “You told me—”

“I know. But now I have a taste for something. We still have those Doritos, right? And the chocolate pudding cups?” They kept a stash of food for visits from Brad’s six-year-old nephew.

“Um… I guess so,” Tony said.

Relieved, Brad padded into the kitchen. He filled a big bowl with the orange chips, grabbed a pudding from the fridge, and carried them back to bed. Tony watched in apparent horror while Brad dipped the Doritos into pudding and munched away. “’S goo’,” Brad said with his mouth full.

“You don’t even like that shit.”

That was true. Usually Brad stuck to healthy stuff and teased Tony about his junk food habits. But not tonight. “I had a craving,” Brad explained.

And as he was setting the empty containers on his nightstand, he felt a faint but definite movement in his lower belly. He told himself it was a cramp. Probably gas. But then it moved again, and Brad saw Tony staring at his midsection.

“Um… Brad?” Tony whispered. Because a distinct swelling had developed, rounded and taut.

Brad opened his mouth to say… something. But that movement came again, this time unmistakably a kick. And as they watched, something pressed against Brad’s skin from inside. It looked like a very small foot.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Pat Henshaw with “Love Comes in the Dead of the Night”

Hello Internet! It’s been waaaay too long but welcome back to this edition of Flash Fiction Friday! Kicking things off is a spooky tale from Pat Henshaw. While investigating a car crash, Officer Davis learns on Halloween, nothing can be taken for granted. Not even his heart.

Love Comes in the Dead of the Night
by Pat Henshaw

“Tell me what happened right before the crash, sir.”

The guy sitting with his head bent on the side of the road looked vampire pale. I took a blood pack from my back pocket and pumped it few times for it to liquefy before I handed it to him. Since the night was chilly, the blood wouldn’t be at room temperature whatever that was, but it would be nourishing.

“A ghost. I saw a ghost,” he muttered as he grabbed the pack and starting swilling it.

I would have told him to slow down, but I knew these guys got testy when they were peaked. I may live in Podunk Nowhere, but I can read.

“So this ghost…” I left it open-ended for him.

“The ghost got in the car and threatened me.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Drops of blood flew in an arch into the night.

The vampire turned to me and I realized I knew him. It was Jim Johnson from down at the hardware store.

“So, Jim, what did this ghost say?”

Jim blinked a couple of times. Now that his color was back it hit me again, like it always did when I went in to get a screw or molly bolts, how handsome he was. If I was into vamps, he’d be my type. But I’d never been with one, so I wasn’t positive about that.

“The ghost said writing off this boondocks was a mistake. He said the love of my life was here, and all I had to do was look around.” He looked up at me and blinked a couple more times. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, uh, hi, Officer Davis. Uh, you got another of those packs? Wouldn’t want to accidentally bite you.”

“Will. My name’s Will,” I muttered as I retrieved another pack and pumped it. I wondered what it would be like for him to take some of my blood. Would it hurt? Or feel really, really good?

After he’d gotten that one down, I sat next to him.

“Better?”

He nodded.

“So how’d the ghost get you to crash into the town sign?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. He looked so young and vulnerable like he did sometimes down at the store. Like then, I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and hug him. Tell him everything was gonna be all right.

“We started arguing. I mean, everything’s been so awful since I moved here to take care of my aunt.” He sighed, giving me a whiff of blood breath. Wasn’t too bad. I could get used to it. “Then he started yelling at me. He said I was miserable now and I was always going to be more miserable if I didn’t change. I tried to tell him it wasn’t me who was supposed to change. This town needed to change. Then he tried to hit me and I swerved.”

He slumped next to me. Well, shoot. What was I supposed to do? I put my arm around him and gave him a sideways hug.

“What’s so wrong with this town?” I asked. “Sure, it’s small, but it’s got some nice people in it.”

He snorted. “There’s nothing to do and nobody to do it with. Far as I can tell, I’m the only gay man within two hundred miles.”

I gave him a squeeze. “No, you aren’t. There’s a bunch of us.”

His head perked up.

“What?”

“A bunch. Promise you.”

Now he was staring at me. “You too?”

“Sure. Now let me get your statement, and when I’m off duty, I’ll show you some of the places where we hang out. There’s a special party going on right now.”

Brick’d just hauled off Jim’s car to the shop, and the night noises settled in the wind. It was Halloween and a big gathering was at Crawford’s farm.

If I could get this report filed before midnight, I’d be free. Then if Jim wasn’t too shook up, we could go to the party.

Somewhere off in the distance I heard a ghostly laugh. “Take care of him,” a voice whispered through the trees.

Jim had put his arm around my waist and his head rested on my shoulder.

I would.

Find more of Pat’s Foothills Pride stories here at Dreamspinner Press!

My Extreme Makeover Anniversary!

Happy Devil’s Night, Internet! Today is a special day for me. As you can see by this lovely dollar that I shamelessly posted in McGuire’s Irish Pub for all eternity, I bid a fond farewell to what used to be my chest.

No, I didn’t have breast cancer, and bless those strong ladies! And no, I didn’t have top surgery, and bless those badass guys!

I had just an ordinary reduction. Well. It wasn’t that ordinary. It was the most extraordinary, yet terrifying experience. Not terrifying as in it was horrible. Hell no! Terrifying as in I hadn’t had major surgery since I was old enough to remember.

And it is the best, best decision I ever made.

Let’s take it back a bit. A breast reduction was something I had considered for ten years. Ten. But it was never the right time. When I hit puberty, I was instantly in the DD. Theories now point to possible medication mixing with genetics and boom. No bra off the rack ever fit me. And if I forced myself into one, there was no support, and usually they always fell out. I could write a full set of encyclopedias on back pain and still it wouldn’t be enough.

Yes. Really.

I was made fun of for my chest soon as puberty hit on into adulthood. Boys in middle school thought I was hella attractive because I had a giant rack. Never mind my tiny 13 year-old self’s confidence being in the toilet.

In my first long-term relationship which had it’s whole host of issues, one of them was my own girlfriend laughing about my ample chest floating when we went swimming. It seems funny doesn’t it? You’re probably giggling. At that moment? Let me tell you how humiliating it was.

I had a coworker call me out in a store full of customers saying “If you got your boobs off your belly you’d be prettier!”

Yes. Really. That really happened. I have also too many times to count ask people if they knew what my fucking eye color was.

As I had grown, and gained weight, I had topped out at JJ. Yes. No bras, even online from well-known retailers made them in my size. Imagine my delight when I took my measurements, and chatted with the customer help line at Soma and she comes back and says “According to our chart, you’re an II. We don’t even make them that large.” No that is not the Roman numeral II.

I had gone on a crusade for finding a bra that fit me, and many other girls I knew that couldn’t find a bra that fit them. Imagine my joy the day I had to enter the Google search query: “Bras for the women of the Biggest Loser.”

And that’s when I found Enell Bras. Instead of embarrassment, Enell was a godsend! Finally! A bra that fit and did its damned job.

For all of you ladies out there still dealing with a giant chest? I still recommend Enell 100%!

I started my consult with Gulf Coast Plastic Surgery in June of 2014. And once the insurance approval came through, my date was set for November. By a stroke of amazing luck, there was a cancellation and I got in October 30. I got the news while I was in the limo on the way to GRL 2014 in Chicago. And during GRL I was declared the Germ Free Zone. No hugs. Not even a handshake. And all the OJ I could stomach.

The weird part was while I was super excited I got a very surprising reaction from a few.

“Why?” they’d ask. “Is someone making you? I think you look fine.”

Excuse you. Take a seat. Take all the seats. In fact. Sit on the fucking floor.

My surgery was my choice. And if you are contemplating it because someone else is making you? Run the fuck away. Cosmetic surgery is always the patient’s choice. It’s always the patient’s decision. If the patient says no? Then the buck stops there.

People saw me wearing an 90 dollar bra and thought I looked great. Well. I did. I was proud of my curves when dressed. When that bra came off and it was PJs time. Oh. No. My breasts sat on my thighs. They hung past my hips.

So you think again when you ask someone why they’d permanently alter their body. Think hard. Think real hard. That is actually the only part of the whole ordeal that made me furious. Friends with very well-meaning intentions, and trying to talk me out of it. No. How about no. How about stop.

On the October 29, it was a bad day for me. Because on October 30, I was going to have four pounds of flesh removed from my chest. I got all in my head about surgery. I was terrified. I broke down sobbing half the night. Mom told me I could change my mind, but I said I couldn’t. I had come so far, this is what I always wanted, and now that it was here, I didn’t know if I’d really look any different.

Mom told me a strange piece of advice for a Mom but it was worth it in the end. She told me to take a topless selfie. And I did, and I’m not posting it as dude no that’s private. And looking back on it…it’s crazy.

Surgery came and I gave it one last hurrah for my loving fans in case this was the last they’d see of me…

#Lexisadork

Luckily, it was not my last hurrah, though apparently I couldn’t stop throwing up once I came out of the anesthesia. By the way, I had the hottest anesthesiologist in existence. I also remember selling people Americana Fairy Tale. Because Lex Is Lex Wherever She Goes.

I had Mom document the experience, so I could give my readers Proof of Life updates. This was from Halloween in my epically authentic surgical patient costume.

#Lexbeveryverydrugged

The end result? My back pain was gone instantly. I cannot describe how alien it is to realize I can sit in coffee shop chairs and hunker over tables for hours on end and before I could only manage 20 minutes before I called it quits.

For Christmas, Mom bought me bras. Real bras. Like from a store and off the rack. And I’ve bought bras since then and have gotten many strange looks from poor sales associates when I explain to them no really sweetie I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.

My brother took me on my first post-surgery outing to go see Big Hero 6. It was quite possibly the worst decision we ever made because the movie completely wrecked me. In between the painkillers and hormones rewiring, I was inconsolable.

I love the shit out of that movie.

A few usual effects from the surgery was I’m taller now. I actually gained an inch in height. I went from being 5’4″ to 5’5″

The other funny one is I do lift my shirt to adjust my bra in public. I do not give a flying fuck who stares. Or if anyone notices. If you only knew what used to be my chest, I’d gladly join the FB revolution to go topless. Chicks dig scars, and glory is forever.

My girlfriend, C.S. Poe, didn’t know me before surgery and when I relayed the story, she couldn’t even fathom it. She couldn’t even comprehend such a size existed. In fact, I wouldn’t have even gotten in a relationship with her if I was still a JJ I was so self-conscious.

If anything I could tell tiny me that didn’t think this was an option? Your confidence may be nonexistent, but you keep on trucking. You keep doing you. You screw the haters. Say fuck it to the boys that don’t care about your name. Tell the girls that laugh at you for your unavoidable bounce they can screw off. Because it’ll be worth it.

You’re worth it.

Darkmore Saga Flash Fic at the DSP Blog!

Hello Internet! As we’re all gearing up for Halloween, I have a little spooky story to share with you over on the Dreamspinner Press blog! As a part of the Bugs and Hisses flash fic event, Dreamspinner authors have written tingling tales of ghost and goblins, the mischief of those that go bump in the night, and for me…A tale about the people who do.

Join me this Halloween week as Sevon and Jack of Chasing Sunrise find love on the carnival midway but something else my find them.

Do you dare to click and find out over here on the Dreamspinner Press Blog!

There’s the trick, how about a treat? You can get Chasing Sunrise now through October 31st for a whole 3 bucks!

Still not convinced? Check out the blurb!

The broken kingdom Darkmore exists behind the Veil and beyond human perception, home to the cannibalistic aisa and ruled by the beautiful and effeminate King Sevon Maraté. Years of tyranny and abuse have left Darkmore’s king a shattered man, and Sevon’s fragile hope lies his ungati lover, Jack. Together they fight not only to preserve the worlds beyond the Veil, but to protect their minds and hearts from pain of the past. Sevon has been called many things. Puppet. Trash. Dog. But he must face the most terrifying of all epithets: savior.

Buy now at Dreamspinner Press!

Bewitching the Bayou at Joyfully Jay!

Hello Internet! Today the Bayou Fairy Tale Blog Tour is coming to a big finish over at Joyfully Jay today! Today I’m sharing a very special post introducing a new Enchant we meet in Bayou Fairy Tale featuring cosplay from Mae Wynn Talley! Check it out won’t you?

Yesterday, I was over at CS Poe’s Blog as Taylor and Corentin had a sitdown for a brief chat. Talking about their love affair and their bedroom escapades. Oh lala!

And TOMORROW I’m over at the Dreamspinner Press Facebook Page chatting about Bayou Fairy Tale with a very special giveaway outside of the Blog Tour! Join me won’t you from 12-3 EST! BE THERE!

Bayou Fairy Tale drops on October 19th! Are you ready for the trip? Pre-order at these lovely links!

Dreamspinner Press
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
All Romance eBooks

And don’t forget! The giveaway is still on! Here’s what you’re playing for…

How about this pretty necklace?

And this totes adorbs Corentin mini journal? Lookit the widdle baby bungee cord!

A photo posted by Lex Chase (@lexachase) on Oct 5, 2015 at 11:42pm PDT

And lots of other cool goodies! Take a bite of the apple with some lovely Snow White perfume and awesome Lex Chase swag.

You wanna enter? Get started right here!

US residents only please, but for International residents, you’ll get a lovely 20 dollar Amazon Gift Card!

Don’t forget about the multiple ways to enter! Not only do you need to comment, you can tweet! Use the hashtag #BayouFairyTale! Or enter via Instagram!

As always! Keep track of the tour stops here!

Bayou Fairy Tale Tour Stops:

10/1 – Tali Spencer

10/3 – The Novel Approach

10/5 – Gay List Book Reviews

10/6 – Bru Baker

10/7 – Charlie Cochet’s Purple Rose Teahouse

10/8 – Sinfully Addicted to All Male Romance

10/10 – Aidee Ladnier

10/13 – Prism Book Alliance

10/15 – C.S. Poe

10/16 – Joyfully Jay

10/17 – Bayou Fairy Tale Facebook Chat

10/19 – Bayou Fairy Tale Release Day!

Fairy Tale Television with Prism Book Alliance

Hello Internet! For today’s installment of the Bayou Fairy Tale Blog Tour, I’m over at Prism Book Alliance where I’m joined by everyone’s favorite pixie godfather, Ringo! Join us as Ringo counts down his five favorite TV shows!

Last Saturday I was hanging out with Aidee Ladnier where I talked about the fairy tale inspiration behind our hapless heroes Taylor Hatfield and Corentin Devereaux. And I pleaded my case of why Sleeping Beauty is awesome. Or… not so awesome. Aw, bless.

Bayou Fairy Tale drops on October 19th! Are you ready for the trip? Pre-order at these lovely links!

Dreamspinner Press
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
All Romance eBooks

And don’t forget! The giveaway is still on! Here’s what you’re playing for…

How about this pretty necklace?

And this totes adorbs Corentin mini journal? Lookit the widdle baby bungee cord!

A photo posted by Lex Chase (@lexachase) on Oct 5, 2015 at 11:42pm PDT

And lots of other cool goodies! Take a bite of the apple with some lovely Snow White perfume and awesome Lex Chase swag.

You wanna enter? Get started right here!

US residents only please, but for International residents, you’ll get a lovely 20 dollar Amazon Gift Card!

Don’t forget about the multiple ways to enter! Not only do you need to comment, you can tweet! Use the hashtag #BayouFairyTale! Or enter via Instagram!

As always! Keep track of the tour stops here!

Bayou Fairy Tale Tour Stops:

10/1 – Tali Spencer

10/3 – The Novel Approach

10/5 – Gay List Book Reviews

10/6 – Bru Baker

10/7 – Charlie Cochet’s Purple Rose Teahouse

10/8 – Sinfully Addicted to All Male Romance

10/10 – Aidee Ladnier

10/13 – Prism Book Alliance

10/15 – C.S. Poe

10/16 – Joyfully Jay

10/17 – Bayou Fairy Tale Facebook Chat

10/19 – Bayou Fairy Tale Release Day!