I will be doing regular readings of all my books from the last Ten years, in lieu of my new book "Coeval of the Hedonic" (A.Glass 2025) which needs to be settled for at least a month, before the readings will begin. Reading: "Born Fatale is the Femme" from novel 'The Praxis Continuum' (A.Glass 2018)

 

walks onto the famous Venice beach sand. The last parts of golden light reflect off the now darkened ocean.
"How many did you do?" Fieke asks, now standing next to the man, she is slightly taller than him. He looks at Fieke smiling, noting that she’s dressed in formal attire, her blond hair tired back into a pony tail. He then looks at the metal bar again.
"Thirty..."
"Ok...My turn..." Fieke replies, she walks in front of the leveled out exercise bar, positioned seven feet high. Quickly looking at the man standing beside her, eyeing his tank top, damp with perspiration, his sports shorts and compression tights, muscularly defined armed and legs, hair cut short in a militarily style haircut. She notes that he is younger than her, probably in his late twenties. "...Mind you, I’ve had two Martini's."
The man nods with smile.
She then jumps up to the high bar and lifts her self up, folding her back legs she then attempts the pulls ups, after the first second and third. Fieke works herself to the forth and fifth, barely making into to the sixth. She the drops down onto the sand. Puffing.
"Used to be able to do fifteen straight up."
"That's pretty good for a..."
"...Woman?"
"Well...It's body weight and upper arm strength. So, you know...Men have an advantage here," the man says.
She looks at the bar again and the young man. "I've seen women, do twenty, when a muscle guy kinda like you. Could barely do three..." She looks at the bar again, it's just practice. Fieke shrugs her shoulders. "...You're only lifting your own body weight. A unfit overweight person wouldn't be able to do it, both a man or woman. You are naturally fit..." Fieke replies pointing at the young man standing in front of her.
"I gotta train up...From Marines to Special Forces."
Fieke looks over the fading sunset again, she doesn't return her gaze to the young soldier.
"Have you been to Afghanistan?" Fieke asks, staring at the ocean ahead and the fading sun. She leans down and lifts up her high heels walking towards the concrete ledge between the boardwalk and the beach, brushing some sand away with her right hand, she sits down. He follows her over and sitting next to Fieke, reaching across to where his runners are.
"Yeah, I have. Did two tour of duties three years ago."
"The graveyard of Empires." She turns and holds out her hand my name is Jane Taylor, I’m a journalist."
"Your accent...Is it European?"
"German."
The man nods, as he holds his hand out and shakes Fieke's open hand.
"Have you been there?"
Fieke nods. "Yes, I once worked for a German magazine, we covered some stories in that country." She looks at the sunset again."
The man, seemingly unaware of the historic quote Fieke mentioned at the start of the conversation. He focuses on the horizon, she then stares at him. Admiring his handsome features, looking at his hands to see if he is married or engaged. There are no rings.
"...what Unit are you training for?"
"Delta Force..." The man replies.
Fieke doesn't respond but just nods, intently looking into the man's eyes.
"...Not really supposed tell people that...But, there you go..." He lifts up a single right footed sneaker, brushes the sand away, placing his foot into the shoe. "...It not everyday a woman, beautiful, dressed to go out for the night, does some pull ups with you." He lifts up the left sneaker, also placing his foot into it, bending down he begins to tie his shoe laces.
Fieke smiles. "Your secret is safe with me...I was posted with various special forces teams whilst I was in Afghanistan and other places."
The man leans back, Fieke notices that he had not introduced himself to her. At least he is following degrees of protocol, especially if he wants to enlist into more elite squads such as the specialized Delta Force units.
He looks over Fieke's hands and her face, noting the scaring, not only across her knuckles, but the prominent scar along where her thumb and left index finger join. He also notices the scar under Fieke's right jawline. Although not overly obvious in the fading twilight, he sees a charismatic beauty emanating from the Femme Fatale beside him.
"You've seen action..." The man says.
Fieke chuckles. "A little here and there..." She turns looking at the man, his tanned face, slightly aging – his youthfulness diminishing, with hazel eyes and light brown hair neatly cropped, with no gray strands. "...Pick a country."
The man smiles. "A soldier can always spot another solider from afar." He says.
"How astute of you..." She replies, as the man feels his heart rate elevate slightly. "...Ja, I am."
The man swallows, despite being a seasoned soldier, his instants have made him aware that the woman sitting next to him. Who has given him a fake name, as her insouciant cover that she is a journalist. He knows, that she was no ordinary solider.
Fieke peers at the golden horizon as the sun now has completely vanished beneath the mountains of Santa Monica and the ocean ahead.
"The day is finished," she says, staring into the dark waters. In this silence as he looks over her outfit, to her visible feet, noticing that her toe nails have been colored as shade of deep red. She turns and looks at him again.
"From one soldier to another...I'll show you something, she lifts the hem of her pants, revealing the tactical sheath and the dagger attached. She then pulls out the knife, the man quickly looks around with most people walking past with very little care and no visible police foot patrols. And where they are both sitting is scarcely illuminated.
"Nice, real nice...Smaller version of what we carried up here..." He points to his upper right chest, where soldiers from certain specials forces teams would carry the sheathed tactical knifes. "...May I?" He says holding out his left hand, Fieke in an obliging manner hands him the blade, he wraps his hand around the contoured grip, shifting his wrist from left to right, as he looks over the impressive blade. He then hands it back to Fieke. Smiling, she quickly sheaths the knife back into its tactical holster.
"For protection," she says with a grin.
He looks into her blue eyes, a characterized detachment. Something he has never seen before with anybody else. Combat situations, from some of the toughest colleagues through to the faces of captured enemy. The eyes, always showed a fear. A normality of the human condition under stress. Looking into this woman's eyes he sees a stranger, beautiful, she has seen and experienced pain, noting her scars. Damaged. But, not effected. Disconnected. He quickly turns and reaches into his small rucksack.
"Look...I'm in Venice for a little while, visiting my mother for another few days..." He pulls out a small notepad and pen. "...If you would like a drink, there is a very cool bar just a few minutes walk from here..." He says as he quickly writes down his name and phone number.
Fieke places on her heeled shoes and stands, as does the man. He rips off the sheet from the notebook, placing the pen and small pad back into his bag. He hands the written note to Fieke, with her left hand she takes it from him. Her expression, briefly, holds a coy demeanor. Without saying anything she turns and leaves the beach area, walking back towards the Venice beach pier. The young man, stares at the figure of this mysterious woman as she blends into the crowds of people.

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Reading: "Born Fatale is the Femme" from novel 'The Praxis Continuum' (A.Glass 2018)