Once again, chock full o' adult content.  Continue not, O Prudish Reader!

Belle's story:

Belle nervously stared at herself in the mirror. She wasn't sure why she was nervous; it's not like it was their first date. She'd been seeing Allen for months now. They were practically an old, married couple. Still ... she couldn't shake the strange feeling. As she thought about it, she realized that she'd been feeling odd for a few days.

"Couldn't have anything to do with the Moon," she mused to herself. "It's the Dark Moon. Everyone knows it's the Full Moon that makes you crazy." She put it out of her mind and continued primping for her date.

Belle was actually very excited about the evening. She had finally convinced Allen to check out the local color at a gothic nightclub. He had reservations but she was filled with anticipation. You see, Belle was used to being the ‘good girl'. She always did what people expected of her but she harbored a secret: Belle wasn't a good girl at all. Nor did she particularly want to be one. But she doesn't know this just yet.

It had taken her some time to talk Allen into giving up their Friday night bowling league to visit the club but he finally gave in. She spent the weeks before their outing searching for what she considered proper ‘goth attire'. She finally settled on a long garnet-colored duster over a revealing black dress - both made of velvet, of course - torn fishnet stockings, and chunky heeled boots. Dressed like that, she felt decadent and a little bit dirty, but so alive. The irony of becoming goth to feel alive was not lost on her.

They arrived at Club Dead around 10:00 and the parking lot was just beginning to fill. "Good," said Allen. "We can still get a spot close to the door." And then sarcastically, "Club Dead ... how original." Belle just rolled her eyes. Why did Allen always have to be so critical?

From the outside, the club appeared to be one of many warehouses in a mostly forgotten part of town but inside ... for Belle and Allen, it was like stepping into a different world. The interior was a combination of haunted house rejects, junkyard, and neglected barn. From the foil stapled to the ceiling to catch water from the leaking roof to the sagging floorboards, Belle was enchanted! Music blasted from speakers in every corner of the room and was like nothing she had ever heard before. It was loud, so loud she could scarcely think, but the beat ... the beat stirred something that was primal and, until now, asleep deep inside her.

The bartender looked like something from a B-grade horror flick had mated with a porn star and she was the result. Long raven hair with bright red streaks, a frilly dress that a little girl would wear, except that it was made of vinyl, and boots with such impossibly high heels that Belle wondered how she could walk. "What can I get you?" she asked, rubbing at a spotty glass.

"Two sodas, please." said Allen.

"Two tequilas coming up!" the bartender replied, eyeing him up and down.

"No, we wanted two so...."

The bartender cut him off, "I said, ‘Two tequilas coming up!'"

"Erm ... two tequilas, it is." Allen gave in weakly.

Belle had a flash of inspiration. "Can I have a beer chaser, too?" she asked.

"Sure thing, honey! You can have anything you want tonight; it's the Dark Moon!" The bartender winked at her knowingly and pushed the drinks down the bar.

The crowd at the bar rivaled the bar itself in creativity. There was every sort of outlandish clothing, accessory, and hairstyle imaginable. Belle saw a woman wearing, what appeared to be, nothing but underwear and go-go boots. She saw a shirtless man in a kilt sporting obvious lash-marks on his back. There was also a man who looked like Adam Ant did in the 80s, complete with black stripes across his nose and cheekbones. In the far corner was what looked like scaffolding with a dwarf chained to it. A woman in a long shiny black dress was diligently applying a Tazer to his hump. Belle was repelled but also intrigued.

Feeling warm inside and loose from the liquor, she tried to get Allen to dance with her. He refused, so Belle ended up dancing by herself. Her face flushed and her eyes glassed over as the music took over. A woman wearing a German officer's uniform grabbed Belle and kissed her. She gasped in surprise but didn't pull away. Instead, she snaked her arms around the woman's neck and began dancing with her without breaking the kiss. The woman jammed her knee between Belle's legs and Belle gyrated her crotch into the woman's thigh.

Allen felt increasingly uncomfortable as the evening wore on and, when he saw what Belle was doing, he'd had enough. "Oh, my god, Belle! What are you doing?" he cried in alarm.

Allen took her arm and dragged her off the dance floor. She wasn't used to him handling her so roughly and she didn't like it. She yanked her arm from his grasp and looked at him with feverish eyes. Clearly this wasn't the Belle he knew and loved. Indeed, she would never be that Belle again for the dark of the Moon was now in her. "Don't touch me!" she shrieked in his face. "Don't ever touch me!"

Before he could stop her, she darted out the door. The freedom Belle felt as she fled into the darkness was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Euphoria. She didn't care where she went, just so she was free and away from Allen.

Belle was suddenly aware of a change in her environment. She had been stumbling through a paved parking lot, but now found she was moving along a path through soft, dew-laden grass. With no moon to light the night, she had to rely on the stars to see. She looked up and couldn't remember ever seeing so many stars in the sky. Such brilliance! Even so, Belle found it hard to keep on the path.

Presently, she realized she was in a park. Benches and playground equipment loomed in the darkness and the trees seemed almost alive in the light fog that was forming. Belle heard soft laughter in her ear and realized she was not alone.

A man appeared beside her, seemingly from nowhere. He said, "It's about time. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming tonight. I thought perhaps I had the wrong Dark Moon."

His voice was warm and soft, like the faint breeze that cooled Belle's feverish cheeks. He was half a head taller than Belle and well built. He wore a hooded cloak which appeared to be made of nothing but leaves. It partially obscured his face but she detected the hint of a beard, soft and mossy. At first she thought she also saw antlers on his head but saw nothing when she looked again, so decided it was just her imagination. Rather than being afraid, Belle felt a stirring, that quickening between her legs that made her want to do unspeakable things.

As she turned to face him, he turned to her and their lips met. Tentatively at first but then with growing passion, they kissed. Pulling away, she looked up at him with glassy, feral eyes. She had never known such passion, such desire. She wanted nothing more than to know this stranger. He tore at her clothing, baring her breasts. His hands looked so brown against her white skin and she thought she would cum right there as he pinched first one nipple and then the other.

She knelt in front of him and took his cock in her hands. Slowly she ran her tongue along the length of him. She heard his sharp intake of breath as she took all of him into her mouth and the sound was akin to leaves rustling in the trees. His body smelled of dry leaves and oakmoss, which further inflamed her desire. She sucked and teased him until she felt him begin to tremble.

She fell back in the grass and spread her legs as he dropped to the ground between them. Belle was ready for him as he slammed his cock into her wetness. She cried out, unsure if it was pain or pleasure she felt. Maybe it was both. Maybe they are the same. Never before had she behaved in such a way but she was beyond caring. She clawed him as she arched her back. He bit her neck and she pushed his face into her breasts. He pulled her hair and she begged for more. They climaxed at almost the same moment.

Spent and panting, he rolled to the side and cradled her in his arms. She looked at him and found, somewhat to her surprise, that he was quite handsome. Not in the conventional sense, but he had a certain rugged appeal. She always did like a man who was a little on the rough-hewn side. He gazed into her eyes for a moment and it seemed that he could see right into her soul. He nodded imperceptibly and his eyes slid closed. Seeing him dozing made her feel sleepy as well. As they nodded off, she murmured, "I don't even know your name."

He murmured this into her ear:

"I am the Oak tree, strong to the storm
And I am the grass growing in the cracks
Bending to every breeze.
I am the lovers' whisper in the deeps of love
And I am the shout of the captains on the battlefield
I am the Song of the Birds
And the endless murmur of the mountain stream."*

His voice faded out and it sounded just like the wind through a cornfield. Belle noted that his body seemed to be fading too, sort of disintegrating, right before she slipped into sleep.

She jolted awake early the next morning to the sound of traffic: a blaring horn, a car backfiring, a radio playing Bobby Darin's "Dream Lover", faint at first, growing louder, then faint again. She was stiff from the night spent on the ground. As she gingerly loosened her limbs, she looked around. She found she was in a forgotten part of the town park, surrounded by a pile of dried leaves. She wondered idly where the stranger from the night before had gone. She wasn't sure why but she was fairly certain that he was nearby, in the trees perhaps.

Upon standing, she found that her coat had been neatly buttoned down the front, covering the torn dress underneath. As she stumbled out of the park entrance, Belle bumped into the bartender from the club. "Excuse me, miss. You dropped this," she said flashing a knowing smile. Belle looked at the woman's outstretched hand and saw a single oak leaf. "Have a good evening, did you?"

"You have no idea." Belle replied. "When is the next Dark Moon?"

The bartender laughed and patted Belle's shoulder. Though she appeared to be younger than Belle, her manner was motherly. "Fairy godmotherly," Belle thought to herself.

"Don't worry, child. He'll be back again and he'll be looking for you."

* From "Song of the Bard", author unknown (not me, sadly)

Last fall I attended a lecture on Gypsy magic given by Dr. Ray Buckland.  This story was inspired by an anecdote he told about a kinsman of his, Plato Buckland.

Plato's story:

Plato Buckland wore a red kerchief on his head and a gold hoop in his ear. He had a bushy moustache, which he said were really caterpillars dueling for his lip, and he usually smelled of garlic. He liked to play cards and share stories around the campfire and dance when he'd had too much to drink. His wife, Delphine, told fortunes to the gadjes who were willing to part with a few coins. They traveled the countryside in their brightly colored caravan, making money where they could.

The day Plato died was much like any other day. Their caravan was parked with the others at the outskirts of a small village and Delphine busily read the cards and stones and made charms for the locals. Nothing fancy, Delphine used materials that were readily at hand. If someone wanted a money charm, she would fashion one from a shiny stone and a leaf, tied up in a strip of colorful cloth. A fertility charm could be made from flower buds, apple seeds, or anything else that she deemed suitable. Though she never spoke of it, the locals' superstitions and the ease with which they believed her fortunes amused her. For them, it was a matter of great importance; for her, it was simply a way to make a living.

Being of the Travelers - gypsies to the outside world - although they despised that word, Plato and Delphine had a difficult life, but they couldn't imagine living any other way. They loved the life of a Traveler, moving from place to place as their mood or opportunity took them. At the same time, they found it hard to earn a living. Delphine was a well respected card reader and never lacked for customers. Plato was a skilled carpenter - he had built his own caravan, called a vardo - but no one wanted to hire a gypsy. He satisfied himself with picking up day work as he could and carving small statues of whimsical animals in his spare time.

Plato was proud of his caravan. Gaily painted in a sunny yellow, it had a red door with carvings of birds and flowers and green shutters at the windows. Delphine had fashioned bright checkered curtains from a skirt she no longer wore. It was small but the space inside was used so well, it was roomy enough for more than the two of them. A squat wood burning stove stood inside to the left of the door, its smokestack jutting jauntily from the roof. Benches ran along both sides and served as both seating and storage. At night, planks and a pallet laid across the benches made their bed and they slept cozily under a quilt Delphine had made from Plato's old shirts.

The sun was high in the sky when Delphine felt the first twinges of unease. She tried not to worry too much but when the sun reached the horizon and Plato hadn't returned, her unease turned to fear. Plato always came back before dark. It just wasn't safe for the gypsies to travel after dark. Her fears were realized when the small group of fellow Travelers emerged from the dark, into the firelight, bearing Plato's body on a stretcher. He was dead.

They told Delphine how they all worked together that day building a house and how the foreman was so impressed with their work, he asked them to return the next day. They decided to celebrate their good fortune with a drink at the tavern. Delphine knew the rest of the story without being told; she'd heard variations of it a hundred times before. A drunkard took exception to gypsies being in the tavern. He called them "dirty tinkers", accused them of taking work away from him and his friends, and every other evil he could think of.

When they finally left the tavern a few drinks later, with Plato in the lead, the drunkard was waiting for them. He lunged at the group with a hunting knife and caught Plato in the neck. His arteries severed, Plato died within minutes. Realizing what he'd done, the drunk ran off into the night screaming jibberish about gypsy curses and the evil eye. A single tear rolled down Delphine's cheek as she listened to the tale. Such was the life of a Traveler. She turned to her husband and began preparing his body.

She worked through the night and by morning all was ready. Plato's body had been washed and clothed in his finest suit, a natty affair resplendent with gaily colored ribbons, bells, and wooden buttons he'd made. As the sun rose, Delphine gathered her meager possessions - a small bundle of clothing, her Tarot deck, a bag of colored stones, and the suede cloth which Plato had given her for reading her stones - and took them to her new home. Plato was gone and now Delphine would live with his brother, Pascal, and his family.

Plato was laid out beside his caravan and the other gypsies came to pay their last respects. All day they came. They told funny stories about Plato and remembered all the good things about their friend, including his generosity with his kinsmen. "Today we will feast, tomorrow we'll starve, the next day we'll feast again," Pascal quoted him. They drank toasts in his name and, as evening approached, they had a huge feast in his honor.

As the sun set, Plato's body was placed inside his caravan, along with his worldly possessions - including the pearl handled knife his father had given him and the gold watch Delphine gave him on their wedding day - and the whole thing was set ablaze. She wished for the night to never end for Delphine knew that, after this night, Plato would never be spoken of again. The last thing she saw before the caravan was swallowed by the flames was the plaque Plato had hung over the caravan door. She shook her head at the irony. The plaque read:

"It's kushti bak to wellán a Rom,
When tute's a pirryin pré the drom."

"When you are going along the street
It's lucky a gypsy man to meet."

As Plato's caravan burned, the other Travelers gathered around the campfire, dancing wildly and playing their instruments in a frenzy, as if their lives depended on it, until they were a whirling blur, all colorful skirt, stamping feet, and glistening skin. It was the finest tribute they could give to one of their own. As the fire of the caravan dimmed and cooled, the dancers slowed and left the circle one by one.

By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, heralding the dawn of another day, the caravan was reduced to ash and the fire was out. Plato Buckland was no more.

Modern gypsy funeral: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/mid/3031922.stm
Travelers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Travellers
Ray Buckland: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Buckland
The Road That Has No End: http://www.endicott-studio.com/rdrm/forgypsy.html

This is a complete work of fiction.  The people and events live only in my brain and, now, on this page. The following story is quite graphic and not for the faint of heart.  If you're easily offended by violence, grossed out over blood, prudish about sex, or lacking in imagination, do yourself a favor and read no further.  You have been warned!

Penny's Story: 

Penny is invisible. Not in the literal sense but no one notices her. Penny is ordinary. She is a librarian and looks it. Short and dumpy, with hair that usually needs a good brushing, there is nothing remarkable about her appearance. Her face could be pretty if she did something with it but she never bothers.

The other librarians take advantage of the fact that Penny doesn't have a social life. When they need time off for a special date or a weekend away with their boyfriends, they always ask Penny. She always covers for them. She is under the mistaken impression that, if she does nice things for them, they will like her. This isn't the case; they just like to take advantage of her. They laugh behind Penny's back and, secretly, each one is relieved that she is not Penny.

She lives with her mother in a modest house in a respectable, if somewhat run-down, neighborhood. She mows the grass when it needs it and takes out the garbage. She cleans the bathroom every Saturday morning and fixes her mother's dinner every night. Penny's mother relies on her for everything. With hands disfigured from arthritis, she finds even the simplest tasks agonizing and impossible.

Penny has a good, if uninteresting life and most of the time she is content but, every so often, she feels a yearning. If anyone ever bothered to ask Penny what she wanted, she would be at a loss. What she actually yearns for, though, is what everyone wants: love.

Every Tuesday morning, the UPS man makes deliveries to the library. His name is Pete and he's a handsome fellow. All of the other librarians, the pretty ones, fawn all over Pete when he stops by. Penny always hangs on the edge of the group. She wants to join in, she wants Pete to notice her and flirt with her, but he never does so Penny just stands at the back of the group and memorizes everything Pete says about himself.

One Tuesday morning, not long ago, Pete came to the library when Penny was alone. He stacked the boxes neatly by the check-out counter and, after Penny signed for them, he winked and said, "Have a great day, miss!" A wink? Great? Miss? Penny was thrilled. Right at that moment, she knew what it was that she wanted. She wanted Pete. Her mind filled with fantasies about the two of them. As he drove off in his brown truck, she noticed its right tail light was smashed but she continued intently writing out variations of "Mrs. Pete Buckner" on a notepad.

That afternoon, Pete sat at the bar at the Rack'em Up, nursing a whiskey neat. He was pissed. His wife kept calling, nagging him about when he'd be home. "The baby needs diapers," she whined. "We're out of milk for the boys." The nagging was relentless. How Pete longed for the days when his wife was fun, back before they had three screaming brats. Also, the boss was riding his ass again about lost packages off his truck. So he swipes a box here and there. He always makes sure they're insured, for chrissakes, so what's the big deal?

Between work and family, Pete just couldn't get a break. "Is it any wonder I drink? What am I supposed to do when she won't shut her trap? My hands just itch to hit her again. If she'd just shut up and keep the damned kids out of my way, maybe I'd go home earlier" he muttered to himself. His mood darkened further as he remembered the ugly scene the month before which resulted in a night spent in jail. He ignored the ringing of his cell phone for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Damn her! He swore to himself.

Pete was suddenly aware of someone sitting beside him. It was Penny. "Hi," she said shyly. "I hope you don't mind me sitting here. I was on my way home and saw your truck parked out front, so I thought I'd stop in." She looked around her, taking in the whole of the bar, and stifled a shudder. "Nice place."

Pete snorted. The Rack'em Up was anything but a nice place. The seats in the booths were stained and torn, the pool table wasn't level, the glasses were never clean, and the toilets seemed always on the verge of being clogged. "Yeah, nice place. Just like home," he said. Looking her over and seeing a few possibilities, he said, "Can I get you a drink?"

Penny never drank. In fact, the only alcohol she'd ever had was Communion wine and she doubted that it counted. She wanted Pete to think she was a worldy woman, so she said, "I'll have what you're having."

Sensing her innocence and wanting to take full advantage of it, Pete had an idea. He said to the barkeep, "Set me and my friend, Patty, up with a shot of tequila and some beers."

"Erm … it's Penny," she said. He showed her how to lick her wrist and shake salt on it. Then he showed her how to hold the lemon, so it would be ready to bite after licking the salt and downing the shot. He chuckled to himself as her face turned bright red from the tequila.

"Your name is Penny? Well, I'll bet you don't know my name," he challenged.

"Oh, but I do!" Penny searched her memory for what she knew. "Your name is Pete. You're 43 years old, you have a black lab named Smokey, you're allergic to shellfish, and I think you're just about the handsomest man on the planet!" Pete had tensed when Penny started spewing out facts about him but relaxed when he realized she didn't know about his family. Fucking wife and kids! He fumed.

He thought to himself, "Holy shit on a Ritz! This is gonna be so much easier than I thought! It's almost not fair, the stupid bitch. Not like the last one …" His cock twitched at the memory.

The two spent several more hours drinking, flirting, and shooting pool together. If nothing else, Pete was a pretty good pool player and liked educating less skilled players. It made him feel superior. By 11:00, both of them were drunk and Penny was totally in love with Pete. With her disheveled hair and the flush of love on her cheeks (it could also have been lust but, more likely, it was the alcohol), Penny almost looked pretty and Pete told her so.

"Penny, you're the prettiest girl in here!" He failed to mention she was the only girl there and Penny didn't seem to notice. "Come outside with me."

Right at that moment, Penny had never been happier and she would have done anything Pete asked. She followed him out the back door and into the alley. Several overflowing garbage cans lined the wall and trash littered the ground. Penny heard small furry things scurrying in the shadows but all she saw was Pete.

He touched her cheek gently and pulled her to him. She resisted and said, "I had fun tonight, Pete. Maybe we could do this again sometime."

He chuckled and held her tighter. "The night's not over yet, darlin'. We're just starting to have fun." He became serious and really laid on the charm. "Do you feel the same way I feel, darlin'? Because I feel like I just found my purpose in life." He kissed her, gently at first but with growing intensity.

Penny had never been kissed before but followed Pete's lead. She thought she must be doing ok because he didn't stop. In fact, his kisses were becoming more passionate and more forceful. Penny tried to push him away but he refused to let her go. "Just do what you feel, darlin'," he said. "Don't you want me?" Then more tenderly, "Don't you love me? Because, darlin', I sure love you." Penny didn't know what to do. Things were moving so fast. But he loves me! She decided to put her trust in him.

She relaxed into his arms and he knew she was his for the taking. He yanked her head back by her hair and kissed her ferociously. He bit her neck and tore at her blouse. Penny was scared but didn't resist. He pushed her back against a trash can and hiked up her skirt. Penny found her voice as he was fumbling with his pants. "Pete, I think I should go home now," she said timidly.

Fueled by alcohol and desire, Pete growled, "Shut up, bitch. You're not leaving until I'm done with you."

Penny felt like she'd been doused with cold water. She was instantly sober and more scared than she'd ever been. She tried to fight him off but he was so much stronger than she was. He forced her knees apart with his. His cock wasn't quite hard enough to put inside her, so he smacked her face and kissed her hard. When he was ready, he slammed into her. Penny, who had never been with a man before, screamed in pain and terror, which further inflamed his desire.

"Shut your mouth," he commanded. "You want people to see you like this, you little slut?"

Penny's mind filled with rage as he ravaged her. Soon enough, he was finished and he pulled out, his flabby cock already going limp. Panting and leaning on her, he said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Hurt and humiliated, Penny clawed at his face with her nails. He didn't expect her attack but easily knocked her away. She fell to the ground, sobbing.

"You broads are all alike. It's all, 'buy me a drink, notice me, love me' but when it's time to pay up, none of you want to. You're no better than the others. In fact, the others were better than you. Prettier, too." Pete's lip curled in disgust.

Something snapped in Penny and, as she was scrabbling on the ground, trying to get up, her hand closed on something hard and sharp. Penny rose and, with an inhuman howl, slashed at Pete. He yelped in pain as the blade of her makeshift knife cut into his forearm. Blood sprayed everywhere. "You fucking cunt!" he roared.

Holding his arm with his good hand, he kicked her in the leg, hard. She fell into him and swung the blade across his stomach, leaving a gash about a foot long. He was really bleeding now and fell to his knees. "Christ, woman! Call an ambulance, will ya?" he begged weakly. "Can't you see I'm bleeding to death?"

Penny watched him as the blood flowed from his cuts and his eyes glazed over. She watched as Pete's breathing grew more and more shallow. She watched him until he finally stopped begging for help. As he drew one last shuddering breath, Penny licked at the blood on her hand. She closed her eyes and licked her hands clean. As a powerful orgasm rocked her body, she moaned and bit her own arm. She realized what it was she'd been yearning for.

She pieced her clothing back together as best she could and left the alley. As she walked back to her car, she was already thinking about where she'd go the next night and who she might meet …

I found this band a few years ago on Witch Vox.  I was actually looking for another band, which I never found, but I stumbled across Gaia Consort and have been an avid fan ever since.

In addition to making great music, Chris Bingham and his wife, Sue Tinney, are just genuinely nice people.  Sue is also an artist and sells t-shirts and whatnot.

So, if you like good, acoustic pagan tunage, check 'em out!  :)

www.gaiaconsort.com