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Past. Present. Future.

Rebecca Moore writes creative short stories, poetry, and flash fiction under her pen name, Becca.  Her "day job" as a private investigator, focused on criminal defense, has inspired her art of storytelling.  In her writing, as in life with 12 grandchildren, Becca is a lover of all shenanigans.



Finally, The Rain Comes


    The top of the crabapple tree dancing in the warm wind—that’s all she can see through the window. 

    The patio, where she sits, is a partially enclosed Art Deco space made of stucco: open on one side to the courtyard. The three walls are stark white and empty, save for the small window that frames a view of the city below, and beyond.

    But from the large chair where she sits with her feet tucked under her, taking in the cooling wind, all she can see are the small bunches of jewel-tone leaves, with their gentle red boarders. They have survived the heat of summer. The beautiful brandywine flowers and small hard fruits are long gone.


    The cloudless sky is an ombré blue. The deepest blue contrasts with the sun beginning its descent to the horizon. Earlier, she laid in the hot sun when it was at its highest point, so bright she could see it through her closed eyelids. Now she sits in this space of cool stucco sipping cinnamon-sweet bourbon and listens to the sound of the fountain trickling in from the courtyard. Music plays low, complimenting the fountain’s pour. She closes her heavy eyes and drifts off in the wind that swirls between the small window before her, and the courtyard behind. The wind is increasing, and she can feel a change coming. She licks her sweet cinnamon flavored lips. 

    He is walking through the courtyard headed to her front door when he notices her on the patio. He can see her tanned legs curled in the chair. One delicate hand drapes over the arm, and her long golden hair is swung over the back. He steps into the shaded space protected from the forming storm. Asleep, she doesn’t move. She doesn’t move, even as he comes closer. This entices him. The perfect role-play. She is so vulnerable, so available. A delicate doll he wants to grasp to him.


    She is held captive by her dreams, even as her body tingles with an awareness. Sensing his presence with a small shock, an electric arc connecting her body to his. She journeys on warming winds into dark clouds. At the edge of her dreams there is a memory she reaches for just as it vanishes. Humidity creeps in and blankets her. It is slow suffocation.

    From behind her chair, he gently lifts her hair and slips his hands around her neck. Slowly he increases his hold. Her life rests in his embrace. Not too tight. Not too loose. Arousal comes from keeping her hanging, keeping her uncertain, until the finish. He pushes his pelvis against the back of her chair.

    The clouds visible through the window, grow large and angry. His hands tighten. She struggles against his grip, not yet awake, not truly asleep. Suspended in rapturous consciousness, her senses heightened, she feels the familiar cool of the white stucco; a picture remains of jewel-tone leaves vibrant in a clear sky. She’s aware the sun must have set, making the ombré blue an inky black. In the distance is the fountain’s falling water with the soft music still playing accompaniment.

    The day has become an evening of heavy winds and smothering heat. Her dreams play a loop of before. Before, when bright sun shown through her eyelids. Before, when sweet cinnamon tickled her lips. Her mouth now dry, she can’t swallow. Uncertainty hangs heavy in the air.

    He watches her try to pull away from his interlaced fingers around her neck. She wants to wake. Her dreams, on replay, taunt her with the memory that is still out of reach. He watches her with pleasure, this is more arousing than her normally open eyes that beg for breath. Climax coming, he loosens his grip just enough, and waits.

    With the rolling thunder and quick lightning strikes, her gossamer memory lingers: a nagging familiarity. As he tightens his hold, she twists and turns against him. Her fight to be loose of her dream, but hold onto the memory she’s desperate to recall. His breathing quickens.

    Struggling for breath, her hands find his hands, and hold on. Her dreams recede as her memory unfolds. A familiar flush sweeps over her body. With crescive anticipation, she hears his soft murmurs, feels his breath warm in her hair. Deafening thunder drums in her head. Her eyes open. She squeezes his hands. Sharp-edged lightning rips the sky. She shivers.

    Finally, the rain comes. 

All Writings and Photography by Becca© 2007-2021. All Rights Reserved

"He who wrestles with us, strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skills. Our antagonist is our helper."

                                                     --Edmond Burke


Thank you for reviewing my official Writing Portfolio. Please get in touch to find out more about me and my work.

1999 McKinney Avenue, Loft 402
Dallas, Texas 75201


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