Fearless – Chapter 1 – The Low Down

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Fearless – a serial web novel

By Jenny K Brennan

Check the Fictionpage for more about this story.

Chapter 1 The Low down

I’m not much for friends. The number of real friends I’ve had over the years can be ticked off using one hand. Oh, ok, I only need a couple of fingers to count them. I’m not easy to deal with I suppose. One of the few who has managed to disregard my oddities was with me that night though; drunk and down so deep in her bottomless pit of self recrimination and alcohol induced immobility that all I could do was wait for her to get it all out. Every stupid choice, every disappointment, every ‘if I had only…’ scenario she could think of, poured out of her. This time his name was Tony. Tony the whack job. Tony the cheating bastard. Tony the lying, stealing, stupid, lazy son of a bitch. Well, that was her story and I didn’t believe it. Last week it had been Tony the love of my life; Tony the sweetheart; Tony the gentle, sexy, generous, better looking than Robbie greatest guy ever.

I didn’t mind really; I was a good listener.

“I don’t get it.” Amy whined for the seventh time and tried to untangle the sodden tissue she kept twisting and squeezing after each mopping of tears and snot from her puffy face. “Marcy, what am I doing wrong, Marshee?”

Amy Norris looked at me with her huge blue eyes from the other side of the table, lips trembling, thin pale fingers dabbing at her eyes with the disgusting looking napkin. I reached out and plucked it from her hand and gave her a fresh snot towel from the dispenser on the table. “Well, if you would stop being so fucking needy, maybe the guys wouldn’t run.” I stated matter a factly as I drained the dregs from my coffee. I looked around the nearly empty restaurant in search for someone that might be up for getting me a fresh java. When no one could be seen, I raised my cup high and yelled. “Raid! Mother-fuckers, cops outside!”

There was a rustling and a clank, a shout in a language I don’t think I’ve ever heard, and steps rushing about somewhere in the back. Finally some action. I smiled.

“Marschee? Are you lishening to me?” Amy complained and sank down even farther over her glass of Gin and tonic. It was actually just tonic this time, but Amy didn’t know that, and I doubted she could tell the difference at this point. She had started slurring and wavering unsteadily on the chair some time ago.

And no, I hadn’t been listening. I knew by heart what she would say, what she had done, what he had done, what she would do again and again. She would never learn. I knew that after hearing the same thing over and over. “You are a tiresome bitch Amy. And that’s that.”

I kept half an eye on Amy, in case she decided to throw her glass at me, as I waved and smiled at the little man who suddenly appeared between a beer fridge and a rack of dirty dishes. “Hey, you don’t look like Charlene.” Charlene had just been there, hadn’t she? She was always there, with her smoldering cigarette, plucked upper lip, and grimy pad that she supported against one huge tit while she took your order. The Low down wasn’t The Low down without Charlene.

The person that wasn’t remotely like Charlene didn’t answer. He threw his head around, stared at the door and the dark street outside for a long moment, then toward the backdoor, and then he finally fixed me with a glare that wasn’t too pretty. I tilted my head and smiled. Then I held the empty cup out for him to see, and for emphasis I pointed at it with my other hand. I raised my brows and tried for polite and sweet this time. “Am I getting a damn re-fill or what?”

The little man stared at me and stood very still. He was cute, I noticed. A bit short but Dark and obviously fit under that wife beater shirt, with chocolate brown eyes and slightly wing nutty ears. He didn’t look like a waiter at all, come to think of it. Charlene would swing a boob and that little fellow would drop like a sack of potatoes, I thought. Yeah, big girl Charlene was. This was someone new. I wondered about that for almost half a second and then I dismissed it. He looked like a guy that could get me a coffee; he had arms and fingers after all. And I wanted a coffee. I stabbed at the cup with the first finger on my left hand again and thought I’d make it easy on the poor thing. “Cup. Empty. Not good. Get it?”

“Got to… got don’t feel scho good…” Amy gurgled and I turned to her. The baby blues directed their wild stare at the table top, her nose lay pressed into the Formica, and both her hands tried to grasp the table edge to pull herself up. I sighed and put the cup down. Just as well; the ‘waiter’ had vanished. “Ok, come on you moron.” I said and hauled Amy to her feet. “Out we go. Next time I’m bringing barf bags. It’s fucking raining out there.”

I supported my wreck of a friend best I could as I dragged her to the back door. It was closer than the front door and I knew there was a tiny area protected from rain just outside it. I gave the washroom door a quick glance on the way by; that was as close to the ladies I would ever go. I would dare the rain any day. Even though it was, well, wet and cold, I was sure it didn’t transmit anything nasty just by walking through it.

When Amy tried to veer in the direction of decease central, I straightened her rout with a jerk. “Oh, no you don’t. Actually, next time I’ll…” I never knew what I had meant to say because at that moment Amy’s hand flew to her mouth and I hustled her through the back door and directed her away from my shoes. She staggered a step, nearly bumped her head against the brick wall, and finally she got it out. All of it.

I stopped listening and looked around, curious. I did long for that coffee but I had a feeling I wouldn’t get any; not until I had driven Amy home. I’d stop at the first Timmy’s I’d get to on the way home. I sighed again. “If you choke I won’t save you. I don’t know how to do the Heimlich.” I muttered absentmindedly without looking at my friend who was in the midst of evacuating the contents of her stomach. “Fucking dark out here.” I shivered slightly in the raw chilly air.

Where I stood, between two short privacy walls roofed by a noisy piece of steel, it was fairly dry. The makeshift roof plinked and plopped for every drop of water falling from the sky. There didn’t seem to be any functioning light anywhere and the only reason I still saw anything at all was a dim light leaking through a filthy piece of glass set in the door. There was a naked bulb sitting in a cracked ceramic socket high on one of the walls, but either it was broken, or it had to be turned on from somewhere inside. I glanced up at the wall across from the restaurants back wall. “You know, this is by far the worst dump ever.” I said to Amy. I started to turn to her but stopped when I simultaneously heard sounds indicating that she was not ready quite yet, and another sound from the other side of the wall on my left. It came from somewhere farther down the alley. A door opening, low murmurings, a definite curse, and a low rumble that I first thought was part of the restaurants ventilation. It wasn’t.

As I identified the stink of exhaust drifting low through the drizzle, I also recognized an idling car engine.

Curiosity has always been my curse so I stepped forward and rubbernecked around the privacy wall. There was another door there; a second back door to the same building. It was some kind of loading dock with steel railings on the two ends of a concrete slab; a double door and a small glowing sign saying ’employees only” above. “Employees, my ass.” I said under my breath.

Several dark shapes moved between the open doors and a van stood idling a few steps away from the edge. In the light coming from inside the door I made out three different men, one of whom was the short brown-eyed cutie. The waiter that wasn’t a waiter at all. I recalled the look in his eyes when looking at the front door. So, my joke hadn’t been appreciated; fancy that. The little man stood just inside the door, gesturing, and talking animatedly to another man that had just returned from a trip to the open back of the van. I strained my ears but he kept his voice low and the grumbling van motor drowned out most of the words

I recalled the look in those brown eyes. Definitely alarmed, if not shitting razor blades. “Up to no good are we?” I mumbled.

Clank, bang, scrape, thud, thud, and more scraping. What the hell was that? Barrels? That’s what it seemed to be. Metal containers, not quite barrel sized, but I had seen something like it somewhere. I just couldn’t think where, or what they had been used for. I gave it a mental shrug. It didn’t matter did it now. They sure seemed to be in a hurry. Now, that was interesting. I thought for a moment. If they were legit, then what I had in mind wouldn’t bother the gentlemen loading an unmarked van late at night with unidentifiable stuff. Now would it? I ducked back and out of sight. I glanced at Amy, but she had dropped down on her ass and sat slumped against the wall. I tried not to think about where, and in what, she was sitting. I cringed but then I shrugged. I had blankets in the car anyways, for just such situations. I had better things to think about. Amy was hardly visible in the darkness against the wall. I stepped over her legs and followed the wall to the corner and turned around it. I smiled happily and dug up my cell-phone. I had just the thing.

Wrinkle – Snapshot from a dog owners life

Reading Time: < 1 minute


A dog owner snapshot.
By jenny K Brennan (with apologies to Spooky.

It dissipates; the stench is now only a hint. The memory is strong though, intrusive, giggle inducing at its best.

After the bomb, but before the air clears, I can not breathe.

He looks at me, innocent and lighted in curiosity.

He wrinkles his nose not because I do.
No, not at all. He objects to being ridiculed, attached to a chain, and told between choking gasping laughter.

“Stay outside until you’re done. And dog… no more cheese for you.”

What’s in the box – A micro adventure poem of sorts.

Reading Time: < 1 minute

What’s in the box?

By Jenny K Brennan
This was inspired by a writing prompt in a forum contest on Scribophile.

What’s in the box?

I was out of my mind. I knew it could never work. But I couldn’t stop myself. It was that urge, the itching, and the constant need. I had to have it.

And I snuck out late at night, tiptoed along dark streets, peeked through windows at people that sometimes would sleep. Sometimes not so deep.

And I saw it, through a stained pane, which I broke.

So I snuck in, I tiptoed around the darkened home, and frightened as I was, I could not stop.

It was there. I grabbed, I ran, and bells started screaming. Sirens blaring, spotlights glaring. I ran.

Out through teeth of glass that bit, down the alley, across a lawn. I took it, had it, looked at it.

And it opened easily enough as I paced a giggling circle in a shade away from moonlight. Shuffled my feet, froze, and stared.

At the bottom, under the lovely lid, below the frazzle of thin paper, and this I swear I didn’t do.

Through the bottom I saw grass, and edge of asphalt, a darkness, a leaf. I saw it all, through a neatly cut out hole I saw my legs, my feet, the grass, and darkness of night…

anna-open-letter-from-a-sex-addict – A bit of awful writing based on an awful premise

Reading Time: 8 minutes


A bit of awful writing based on an awful premise. But it has it’s fun moments so it can stay. 🙂

By jenny K Brennan

To: Unnamed girl, thirteen and under.

My name is Anna. I sell my body.
It’s a bargain, let me tell you. But that’s nor here nor there.

I’ve also destroyed my body with drugs. Hash, heroin, shit like that. The drug thing began long after the selling started though. I know it usually is the other way around. An addiction turns expensive and the prostitution comes as a symptom of drug abuse, not the other way. But that is how it was. Because, and here is the real problem.

I’m a nymphomaniac.

It started when my boobs suddenly grew. I had waited for so long to get boobs just like my friends had, and when they budded into pathetic little mini titties, I was so happy. I bought my first bra. With matching panties of course. I padded the bra with toilet paper to start with, and then when my little babies grew, I bought another bra that was just a little bit padded, and pushed them together and up. I looked like a real babe.

I started buying clothes for my weekly allowance, which was quite generous since I was a spoiled brat, and everything I bought was tight and sexy. My first set of stockings, you know the one that go to the thigh and is held up by a sexy garter? It cost me an entire month’s allowance. But I had to have it. Just like I had to have that first piece of lingerie. Silky, red and black, with buttons and ribbons and strategic transparent spots, and did I mention slutty? Very slutty.

It had buttons at the crotch and I played with them so much I wore them out. That was when I realized my boobs had grown so much that I could actually stick out my tongue and touch my nipples with it. I learned quickly to please myself with my fingers, and then by using different things I found in the home. Silly things really, but as long as it didn’t cause injury, it always turned me on and got me off.

Then, as I came closer to fifteen and my boobs were as big as they ever would be, I started inviting friends home for “movie and popcorn nights” as my mother thought they were. She was never home anyways. She was a lawyer see, and she was stabbed, but that is another story.

But really, I had my first orgasm given to me by someone other than myself, or by any of the many dildos I had bought online, on one of those nights. I can’t remember ever eating popcorn.

And then I realized I wasn’t quite normal. I wanted sex all the time. Girl or boy didn’t matter. Two or more didn’t matter either. Threesomes were awesome, in any combination of male female. It was all the same to me.

Life was good. But then I was supposed to go to college. I didn’t have a problem with that. I had a brain that only needed to hear something once or twice, and I learned. It wasn’t fair I know. My fellow students struggled to rise above average. I skimmed through and was top in my classes. It did give me lots of time over for my extracurricular activities though… it was great.

Well, I got my degree, but decided I didn’t want to study anymore. What was the point? All I had to do was borrow a book from the library, read it from cover to cover, and I was done. So what if I didn’t have papers to prove it. I knew what I knew. And if anyone wanted proof, they could just give me a test, I’d ace it, and viola.

But then everything started to fall apart.

I’m not sure what happened first, but my friends, my fuck-buddies as I called them at the time, all started to drift away. They fell in love, found jobs away from me, got married, children and minivans.

I didn’t want that. I just wanted to party. No, actually, it wasn’t that kind of fun I wanted because I never drank, never smoked, and never watched movies or read books for entertainment. I craved sex. Orgasms, the heat, the mind numbing ecstasy. I needed new and exciting things all the time. Tie me up and abuse me, I’m happy. Give me a whip and a basket of rubber accessories along with someone to abuse, and I’m happy. Put me in front of a video camera while being filled and probed and used, broadcast it live on the web, I’m just as happy. Excite me, exploit me, degrade me, adore me, and make a slave of me. Ooh, yeah, that’s the spot Baby.

But all of a sudden I was alone. The HIV scare had started and people became afraid of casual sex. Well, to be honest, it scared me too a bit even if I wasn’t a gay man, which was what the HIV targeted according to those days ignorant prissies and priests. But sure, I got tests for stuff and came back negative. I learned early that condoms would keep me from making babies I never ever wanted to have, so it wasn’t such a big deal, even if the guys grumbled a bit…

So I watched porn and masturbated til my eyes and fingers were sore. But it was so boring. So dull. After a week I was climbing walls in my little studio apartment. I tried to go to a bar, but there is something about drunken people that drunken people never understand. They never perform. Besides that, they smell bad, and they have an annoying habit of wanting to stay the night to sleep it off, or simply pass out, giving me no choice in the matter but to let them stay. Preferably in the tub so I can start their morning with a nice refreshing icy cold shower.

Needless to say, I wasn’t popular. I didn’t want to move away from my home town either. It was a safe place after all. My mother paid my bills. There was also that detail about her not paying for me anymore if I moved far away. So it was easier to stay even if everyone knew me. They all thought I had all kinds of sexually transmitted icky to spread, but I didn’t. But I suppose; once a slut, always a slut. It doesn’t really help if it happens to be true. But I was a slut without aids, or Hep C, or any of those itchy, leaking, smelly, eventually harmful deceases. Why would anyone believe me though? Once a nympho, always a nympho.

I don’t think there is such a thing as nympho anonymous.

There is? Hmm. I suppose that for me, it would be a great place to find likeminded people and setup “play” dates or special group therapy sessions hehe.
Sigh. I really didn’t mean to tell you all of that. But hell, it was my life. From the time I was thirteen until the moment, around twenty-four when my mother died from a sudden loss of blood, and consequent complications; yeah, she was stabbed by some unhappy customer, she was a lawyer see, and she was a good one, thus her well deserved death.

I suddenly had no money, my life had been eat, sleep, and fuck. It wasn’t such a bad life at all. Instant gratification and no strings. Perhaps I simply lacked empathy, or simple human emotions beyond a twisted instinct to reproduce. Flawed mainly because I never did reproduce anything, except my dear mum’s signature on a couple of pieces of paper she forgot to sign.

What papers? Well… just normal papers with numbers on them.


I suppose some of them were. But come on now. What kind of responsible person would leave the checkbook in a drawer without a proper lock? What the hell, she didn’t even hide the key.


Well, in her nightstand, under the drawer. Yeah, with tape. But that’s not the point here. You digress.

Ahem, where was I?

Oh right, my mother died right? So there was no more money coming. Sure I could have found a job I suppose. But why should I? There are millions of other people that can do that kind of stuff.

Hey, don’t get me wrong here; I did try for a while. Online seemed to be a good place to make money. Everybody said so. But it was so distracting to shuffle serious business with web cam masturbation. Trust me, it can get confusing. Chat, invoice for three “this side up, push buttons to open”-T-shirts, video conference with employees and customers that always seemed to end with a virtual nekkid poker game. I’m telling you, those guys are such perverts.

Here I am, making a serious offer for twenty-three boxes of “Super slide lube” and they start asking me how my business is going and I say the money slides in just fine, and they think I’m coming on to them or something. Jeez, and hell, I didn’t know they were serious about not demonstrating products. I do believe in product research and transparency when it comes to things I want people to pay money for. I wouldn’t expect a customer to pay for something if it’s not thoroughly tested first.

There was a big stink about it, and it was suggested I’d shut down. It was expressed quite forcefully I might add. I kept telling them it was not a porn site, and I didn’t need to warn visitors, but hell. I was getting tired of it anyways, so I sold the business on eBay.

That kept me floating for a little while, the eBay money. But as all good things end, there’s a sudden stop sooner or later. I tried being normal. Normal as in working at a grocery store, as a town hall clerk, a pre-school teacher. But come on, face it.

Customers are idiots, public service just sucks, and little kids don’t learn too good.

I could have excelled. I have no doubts. It was just all those other people. Well, you know what I’m saying. A shrink told me once that I had no sense of responsibility and didn’t respect myself, that I should manage my passive aggressive behavior and cut back on my casual relationships and stop blaming other people for my failures.

She was just like all the others, saying shit about me, looking at me funny. I’m telling you, she was fucking sketchy. And fuck her saying I don’t respect myself. I have nothing BUT respect for me. It’s just everyone else I can’t stand.

Shithead skank trying to shrink my head when society just kept pushing me down. It got depressing, let me tell you. I had to tell her to go fuck herself in the end, because I sure wouldn’t touch her skinny ass.

Oh shit, I lost track of my story again. It’s that retarded brain doctor. She put things in my head, some kind of psychic subliminal bullshit. I can’t concentrate when I’m being fucked over every time I turn around.


Oh, yeah, Broke; then one day there was an eviction notice in the mail. I always knew that Nazi son of a bitch landlord had something against me. What the fuck, it’s not like he didn’t get good money from the other five hundred people or so in his fucking building. I gave him good head often enough, I didn’t see the problem.

Anyways, fast forward a little bit. Here I was. I found a pimp, a place to live, and I didn’t have to see a shrink anymore. That was good. It was a bit tricky to tell paying customers to use protection though, or to be a little bit gentle with the soft parts. Or bones and teeth for that matter.

I was fine for a while, then I got banged up a bit and lost quite a lot of my pretty, which depressed me. I started getting lazy, I finally said yes to drugs. So to cut the story short; in my third year of working steady as a sex worker, I tested HIV positive.

I think it was because I shared a needle with my buddy Suzy. She’s alright. I mean, she’s not really right in the head, but she’s cool if you know what I’m saying. And she doesn’t have any teeth left so she is quite good with her mouth…

Well, anyways. I was trying to get at something important. I don’t know if it means shit to you or not. It doesn’t mean much to me anymore, but you know; I have a bit of social conscience left in me.

Morality? Did you hear me use that word? I’m not that fucking wasted. So let’s not go there.

Hang on, I wrote it down. Here somewhere.

Ah, here we go.

Girl, when your boobs start growing, tell your parents that you want to be a nun and move to a convent. Trust me, boobs are evil. You don’t want anything to do with them.

Yours truly

By J K Brennan

Down the rabbit hole- Unreleased. Want to be on the JennyK list of awesome people? Help me raise some cash to keep writing, and complete my album!

Green apples – Hopefully a somewhat unsettling short story

A green apple
Reading Time: 4 minutes

Green apples

By J K Brennan

Here, an empty plastic bag neatly folded. There, a wooden bowl on a cardboard box.

Green apples. That’s what was in the bowl. She had wanted them once, had craved food, vitamins, minerals, the feeling of chewing; Crunching crisp apple into pulp, swallowing. All she swallowed now was her own saliva, when she had any, and the spark of hope that refused to go away. Mocking her with their moisture, their sweet meat within doomed skin, the apples made time pass. Like her, their time was short.

Here, a glittering drop of water. There, a speck of dust in unconcerned flight on invisible drafts, made evident by light from a spotlight attached to the wall above the bowl.

They hadn’t been there for very long those apples. They would start to dull and their perfect surface soften. Just like the other ones. Just like her. They would shrivel and dry. Would he bring a new her when she shriveled and dried, she wondered. She didn’t have to think about it; the question was supposedly moot, but confirmed each time she saw the fruit lose its luster and the waiting began, again. She could hardly remember anything else.


When the apples became too old, he brought fresh ones, always green, always perfect, beautiful apples. Soon he would come, would rinse five or six fresh apples in the sink in the corner. He would throw the retired fruit in a plastic bag and tie it up. He would arrange the new ones in the bowl and leave the room. He would take the garbage with him, close the door and lock it.

Each time, He left her alone to watch the apples. “Time for contemplation and reflection,” he said once. “We want always what we cannot have.” He had said in a low voice in that peculiar accent; He didn’t come from around here, or, maybe she wasn’t where she had been before, hard to tell. After arranging the fruit and inspecting her bonds, he left her alone for an hour, sometimes two, whistling as he walked off to someplace other. Some place she would never see.

The needles with their attached hoses feeding her from bags of fluids kept her alive. The weekly cleaning kept her from smelling too bad, and the daily shifting of position kept her more or less free from sores. The hard plastic around wrists and ankles kept her in place on the narrow bed with its thin mattress, flat pillow, and sheets smelling of lavender. She couldn’t smell that anymore though.

How long had it been? In the beginning she had kept track of the time; that was after she had stopped fighting. How long did it take for apples to go wrinkly? Two days? A week? At one time she had calculated that if it took three days for apples to wrinkle enough for him to feel the need to replace them, and the apples had been replaced… Ten times? Twenty? Numbers meant nothing. Once she thought keeping track of when feeding bags changed would work better, but they were always replaced when she slept. Sometimes she didn’t even notice so she stopped counting.


Her shrinking body ached, skin burned, her eyes felt hollow and misty. She had long since given up on pulling at the things holding her naked form down, but still she raised one hand. She gained a few lousy centimeters; enough to scrape the side of diminishing thighs, no more. She tried to pull her legs up to bend her knees, knowing it was useless. The give in the restraints was the same as always: None. She was too weak to struggle and after a few moments, she let herself fall limp. A plastic bag hanging on the side of the bed needed changing. How was that possible? She wasn’t allowed to drink; everything was given to her through the hoses from the bags. What little generated by fluids dripping into her body couldn’t have filled the catheter bag that fast. How long had it been? When would he come?


Sharp burning pain between her legs raised her from numb rest, but the smell woke her all the way. Cringing and squirming slightly from the burning,it still felt better. A constantly irritating pressure had fallen away. Slowly turning her head, she struggled to focus, saw a dark yellow splatter on the floor next to the bed, a thin hose trailing through the urine to a bag broken open. Piss bags don’t break. Someone had said that once. She couldn’t remember who. She looked up to the coma bags; there were two of them. Both bags were nearly empty; Maybe a cupful in one, half a cup in the other. He had never left them that long. Would he come soon?


Here, a buzzing fly circling without aim. There, a realization of something different. Here, a lightheaded hoarse laughter. There, a wooden bowl filled with wrinkled apples.

She looked at them, mildly fascinated by the deepening wrinkles. She never knew how small apples could become when they dried. They were probably still edible; Ugly spots had appeared on a few of them, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t eat apples. She stretched her clouded vision toward the transparent bags; both of them flat and empty. She smiled a little. He would come soon, with fresh apples, and this time he would surely bring a new her. That would be nice.

“Kidnapper’s death dooms abducted woman.

Allen Kincaid, the man in custody for abducting twenty-year old Nina Henderson from her home in Smith’s Falls Ontario more than three months ago, was found dead in his cell this morning. According to his lawyer, Kincaid had finally been ready to reveal the location of Ms. Henderson to police in exchange for…”