About A.C.Rae

I'm just a country girl who loves to read and write. My newfound love of writing started December 2010 when I thought it was time to write the book I had in my head for the past two years. That lead to book number two, and then onto many short stories and outlines for more to write. I love writing erotic romance and have dove into other genre challenges I never thought I would try. I wrote poetry as a teenager, but in the back of my mind, I always had a story to write. My dream is to someday publish them. But first, I better break it gently to my friends and family!

The King, The Artist, and the girl

To write is one thing, to love him is another. ~A.C Rae

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
So she ran away in her sleep.
And dreamed of paradise.

“Will anyone ever understand me for who I am? I am tired of my emotions being played with, you know, like a heated game in a pingpong ball competition. A battle of wits or a guessing game of sorts. ” She gazed around the studio and sighed heavily. The Artist laughed nervously.

She looked up at him. “You are an asshole, Mr. Arteest.” She quipped.

He peaked up from his easel with a dangerous gleam in his eyes; his paint brush poised in the air as if he wanted to stab her, not paint her.

“He lies. You lie. Everyone lies to me. I know I am a good person, but I have that USE ME look on my face or something? Do people think I am not good enough for them and move on to find someone better? What is it Artist? Tell me, why do people just gravitate out of my life like I ceased to exist.” Her voice of resentment had an eerie calmness. The kind you would find in a woman scorned or on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

The Artist chose to ignore the comment, he did not want to deal with her emotions. He looked back down at his work. She noted the flick in his wrist as he contined delicate brush strokes across a small sectoin on the canvas. It was just like him to ignor her, of course, unless he had something to say, then she was good enough.

“Stop wiggling, girl, I need to finish a few more strokes on your delicate derriere.”

She was slightly appalled by his remark, but at the same time amused as she watched a wicked little grin creep in from the corners of his mouth. She gave him a “humph.” and wiggled her derriere once more. He had come to brush off her little teasing ways and contined his brush strokes.

His eyes remained glued to his work. “Stop your teasing and let me finish this painting. The King wants it by the end of this evening.”

She rolled her big brown eyes to the heavens and then back down at The Artist.

“Does he really love me?”
“Why does he do this to me?”
“What does he do?”
“He confuses me.”

He lifted one shoulder slightly in a lazy shrug and laid the brush down. He thought for a moment before choosing a smaller brush and dabbing it into a small mound of blue paint from his paint palate. As he worked she continued on.

“Do you still love me, Artist?”

Silence. Both of them, always silent when she was serious. And to get a straight answer from either of them was like pulling the teeth from an angry werewolf.

He gazed her way, still avoiding an answer. “Please, lie still, Mi Amor.”

She was beginning to grow increasingly aggitated, not by having to lie her naked form as still as possible on the velvet chaise, but by The Artist’s reluctance to speak to her about his real feelings. They were quite alike, she thought, and if she were to say anything, The King would have called her sassy for having such thoughts.

“Well, he can just kiss my ass.” She blurted out loud in an irritated manner; just loud enough to startle The Artist.

“Dammit!” His exasperation becoming quite clear now as he slammed the paint brush down.

“What.” She answered curtly, knowing full well what was what.

“I came so close. So very close! If I had been just one brush stroke closer to your derriere, I would have runined the whole painting! Your childish outburst could have cost me my time with The King!” He yelled at her as he began turning red in the face. She usually delighted in seeing him angry as he continued to sputter off in Spanish. She could pick out certain words from time to time and he clearly was swearing at her. The viens in his neck popped from under his dark skin as he shook in anger. She gave out a small laugh. The way he eyed her from behind the easel was enough to tell her that she should keep her mouth shut, but she always took his “threats” lightly. It wasn’t as if he was going to grab an unloaded shot gun and chase after her down the street screaming to the top of his lungs like a madman. When The Artist settled down and turned his attention back once more to his portrait, the girl reached down and grabbed her glass of Cabernet. She took in a luscious sip, and then another. She continued to sip on the glass of wine until it was gone. By the time she was done, The Artist looked up at her once again.

She smiled sweetly. “How is my portrait looking? She asked.

“I am almost finished. I am sure The King will be quite pleased” He quipped.

Knowing what she knew of The King she asked The Artist, “What makes you so sure?”

The Artist gave her a quizzical look before answering. “Because, Mi Amor. He is in love with you.”

She looked at him in disbelief and as the girl reached for her bottle of Cabernet she answered. ” Yeah. Right Artist. Again, what makes you so sure? Someone like The King is in love with me, yet he ignores me to the point of rejection. He never answers my calls, or any correspondence I may send. Nothing. Like I cease to exist in his world, yet, you say he loves me?”

“Si. Mi Amor. He loves you, he has told me so.” The Artist continued more quick brush strokes in hopes that she would drop the subject, but by this time she had had enough wine to keep her sassy and bold.

“Fuck you, Artist. What makes you so sure. If he loved me like he claims, I would be in his arms this very moment. Instead I lie here naked and nearly freezing just to satisfy his want for a portrait of me? I don’t get it. When a lover wants his woman, he would be sure to be quite clear of his wishes, and all I get is silence.” The girl gulped another glass of wine and sat up. “Are you fucking done yet, Artist. I need to go. It is here I will tell you goodbye.”

The Artist had been done with her portrait for at least 10 minutes, but the way she carried on about The King, he let her continue on with her rant. He wanted to know what was on her mind. He watched as she suddenly hung her head and heave a sigh so heavy, it looked as if a world of weight lay upon them.

“He doesn’t love me, Artist. He wants another. He does not want me.” The Artist watch as tears began to flow down her cheeks and drop to rest upon her thighs in pools of sadness. He quickly jumped up, grabbed a blanket on the settee and folded her up in its softness, but for the girl, it felt like more weight had been added to her sadness. She glanced up at The Artist.

“Are you done with the portrait? She sighed with sad tears still pooling in her eyes.

The Artist felt a guilty pull in his gut and his heart sank, for he knew of her pain. “What do you mean, goodbye, Mi Amor?” He shook not wanting to accept her answer before she could give it.

She looked up at him with big, sad, brown eyes. “He doesn’t love me, Artist. Why should I stay? Why should I be here on this earth to wander lonely and hurt, desperate for his love and affection knowing he does not want me. I am better off dead, Artist.”

The shock on his face made her smile. If anyone really, truly cared about her, it was The Artist.

Please, do not say such things.” His concern melted her heart, but her heart belonged to The King, and it was The King who did not want her for he had other plans, maybe for another, she was not sure, but his silence towards her was enough to make her feel sure that she could not handle rejection yet another time around. She was sick and tired of being rejected. When it came to men, there was always another woman, another interest that took them away from her. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to be accepted, and to persuit her passions freely; just as she had supported others for what they loved. But somehow, when it came to what she wanted and what she loved, she was shunned, tuned out, and replaced. Was such a life as hers meant to be lived alone? It came to the point where the girl felt such a life was not meant to live any longer. Everyone else around her went on with their lives as if she did not exist. They were happy with the way life was and no one cared what she thought. The King rejected her, the ones she loved most did not support her so what was the point? The King left her when he promised he never would. Without him, life was meaningless. Even the Artist gave her very little of himself. His interests lie elsewhere as well, just like the others.

Before she could think of anything rational, she jumped up and hollered louder than she intended. ” I need to get out of here. Have a good life with The King. I am sure you are all he would ever want and more.” The blanket slid off her body and bunched up around her ankles. The girl grabbed her silk rose print coverlet, wrapped her chilled body, and bolted from The Artist’s studio before The Artist could stop her. His protests faded in the breeze the further away she ran from the studio and through the back yard and into the vast darkness. The Artist’s studio sat on the grounds of The King’s expansieve property. The grounds ran together from the house, to the stables, and through gardens upon gardens of flowers, trees, and shrubs of all kinds. She slowed down and with the guide of the moonlight, she picked her way upon old brick walks, walls of bushes, and a large stone fountain. A marble angel poised in the middle; her wings folded behind her back as she sat upon a stone, deep in thought. The girl stopped abruptly and stared at the angel’s face.

“Please.” She whispered. “Please let him love me.”

She turned away from the angel fountain and continued to walk. She knew this place like the back of her hand and easily navigated in near darkness to a familiar area. By the time the girl got to the Rose garden, she was exhausted and sank down onto the cold grass next to the old stone walk. Ironically, it was her favorite garden where she and The King had spent many hours talking, holding hands, and kissing. There were many times they made love upon the various colored rose petals that fell to the ground, melding the scent of roses and him on her skin. When she realized where she was she began to cry.

“Why?” She pleaded in a whisper to her broken heart, “Why did he do this to me? Why does he say he loves me and wants to be with me, only to turn around and reject me? What did I do that was so wrong to deserve his rejection? Maybe I am just nobody to everybody.” She cried more sorrowful now remembering the times he was a gentler, kinder man. The multiple rendezvous in the gardens or love making behind the bushes during his most playful times; the times when she felt she was special to him.

Unable to sit up any longer, she laid down on the cool green grass while the torment and pain continue to wrack her body. Her emotions exhaused her and her crying turned into silent streams of tears. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep from the exhaustion. Her mind drifted into a world of fitfull wisps of dreams. She woke up only long enough to cry herself back to sleep again.

While she flitted into another fitful dream, she heard his voice, clear and concise. “Stop this foolish nonense girl. Only an embicille would act this way.” The girl jolted awake; her deep brown eyes wide with fright. She saw him bend down next to her and lay his hand along side her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing away spent tears.

“I…I, thought you went away.” She whispered.

“No.” The King gave a stern look, at the same time, surprised by her concern.

She looked away, feeling ashamed for assuming he would be anywhere else but here with her.

He reached over and nudged her up onto her feet. She looked up at him. Her tense body seemed to soften as he gazed back down at her. To the girl, he meant everything. She did not understand why she yearned for constant reassurance of his love, but it was all she had. Without him, she felt nothing. It was then he leaned down to kiss her. He was gentle, and sweet, and what he offered her was all she had ever wanted; to be in love, to be loved. Her pain and hurt from the past began to fade once again as he took her hand and silently lead her away from the Rose garden and back to the house. He knew exactly what she needed, what she yearned for, and he was just the one to give her her hearts’ desire.

~A.C. Rae

Paradise by Cold Play http://youtu.be/cyoXP3w7dp4

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
So she ran away in her sleep.

And dreamed of para-para-paradise,
Every time she closed her eyes.

When she was just a girl,
She expected the world,
But it flew away from her reach,
And bullets catching her teeth.

Life goes on,
It gets so heavy,
The wheel breaks the butterfly.
Every tear, a waterfall.
In the night, the stormy night,
She closed her eyes.
In the night, the stormy night,
Away she flied.

And dream of para-para-paradise,

So lying underneath the stormy skies.
She said oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.
I know the sun’s set to rise.

This could be para-para-paradise,


Ode To Tree

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Unknown

Ode To Tree

In the wee hours of dawn, the night still hung on in opaque darkness, her ghostly image lay on the ground, worn out by years of torment from wind, rain, hail and snow, sunshine and light summer breezes.

As you fell so silently in the night, you took great care not to crush my flowers beneath you. No damage was done to my flowers, but your branches lie crushed to the ground, thank you tree for saving my flowers.

I looked at her with sorrow in my heart. I held a branch and spoke to her softly. “Thank you my old friend for the comfort and protection that you gave in all the years you stood bravely before us. You protected birds and cats, people and dogs. You cooled us in the summertime, as well as a protector during the harsh winter months”. I was pained to see her large limbs cracked and broken, a sorrowful site. I will miss her whispers and the solace I felt beneath her branches.

I looked up and down at her trunk, the cancerous knobs of years of growth stuck out like pimples on a teenage boy’s face. At the ground where she broke free of her confines, barely a root exposed. She lives infinitely underground. This will always be her home. Rest In Peace, my dear friend.

May the heavens sing with joy for what you are about to offer for in just a few short hours your limbs, branches, and trunk will be cut up into small pieces and fortify us in gallant warmth throughout the cold days of the North in our fireplace; continuing to comfort us as we nestle your parts in a neat, pretty pile, strike a match and watch you burn. You will come to life again in hues of blue, orange and black. And after you have been cremated, your ashes will be scooped up carefully and spread out lovingly in the woods as you rejoin your family of trees.

It is noontime now and I look out once again. I stare at you lying on the ground and watch birds flit and flutter in and around your now dying branches, paying homage to what was once their home; your new spring leaves start to wilt in sadness.

We shall replace you with a pine or a maple, but I will never forget you tree, as this summer I sit where you once stood, sipping on a gin and tonic. Cheers! Celebrate life! And grow more trees!

Fallen tree

Through Glass

Music. For all intents and purpose, sustain me through the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I make it mine own. Through Glass continues to help me make it through GBU.
~A.C. Rae

Through Glass

I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
Oh God it feels like forever and no one ever
tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

How do you feel
that is the question
but I forget you don’t expect an easy answer

When something like a soul becomes initialized
and folded up like paper dolls and little notes
You can’t expect a bit of folks

So while you are outside looking in
describing what you see
Remember what you’re staring at is me

Cause I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
All I know is that it feels like forever
but no one ever tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

How much is real
So much to question
An epidemic of the mannequins
contaminating everything

We thought came from the heart
but never did right from the start
Just listen to the noises
(Null and void instead of voices)

Before you tell yourself
its just a different scene
Remember its just different from what you’ve seen

I’m looking at you through the glass
Don’t know how much time has passed.
And all I know is that it feels like forever and no one ever
tells you that forever feels like home
sitting all alone inside your head

And it’s the stars
the stars that shine for you
And it’s the stars
The stars that lie to you

Who are the stars?
Who are the stars that lie??

The stars. They lie.
They. Lie.

Now listen to the song and sing to Stone Sour–Through Glass

By The Sea

Your salty kiss on my lips like the taste of the sea, the gentle wave of your hand caressing my cheek, my heart is the pound of the surf strking hard against my chest. The Tavern, where two lovers meet. ~A.C. Rae

Disconcerting is my mind in want of her as we sit inside the stone tavern nestled beside the unsettled sea, the skies dark grey with an impending storm on the horizon, a flash of lightneing blinds my eyes.

I sip of the brandy before me, the content of my speech wanders into poetic sultry as I seduce her with words only she comprehends.

She sits quietly and listens, a page of three, and I, distracted, a single drop of amber liquid rests on her full bottom lip. I quiver with anticipation imagining the taste of brandy from them; I am mesmerized, sensous feelings arouse my mind, as the thought of my lips on hers overtakes my will to refrain.

I lean to her, a moments hesitation only to drink her in once more before I press my lips to hers. Her kiss, so soft and sensual. Something stirs inside me and awakens my soul. I feel alive again as never before.

“My Love,” I whisper. “Let me take you now.”

A soft sigh escapes her sensual lips, hesitant to part hers from mind, but smiles against them instead. She runs her fingers through my unkempt hair, my blue eyes pierce her soul. Her hands rest upon my face like velvet against the stubble of my ruddy cheeks.

“For you, My Love, I shall go to the ends of the earth.”

No longer able to hold back I take her hand and together we meander up the stairs. Patrons drink, engaging in their own person, time and place, do not give notice to our departure.

~A.C. Rae

Last Dream

It hurts to find out that what you wanted doesn’t match what you dreamed it would be.
–Randy K. Milholland

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
–Edgar Allan Poe

The world I see is scenes within scenes unwound to breathe in poetic dreams.
–Zedek Mekkhala

Some say dreams come true, that dreams are the window to the soul. But what are dreams of heartache, deceit and lies? A nightmarish reality awaiting to steal the soul?
~A.C. Rae


It is that dream, again, always the same, never changing.

I shake my head and try to loosen the dream from my sleep.

The dream wants to linger as if it has yet to tell its story.

What is the time? I do not know, but it is still dark.

I whisper to the dark, “What is it you want?” There is no answer.

The pain strikes me as it has each and every time,

the heaviness in my chest presses further down like a ton of rock.

I jolt awake, wide eyed, hot with perspiration,

my breathing rushes out in uncontrolled spasms.

I force myself to calm as I rub at the pain in my chest.

I feel the pain travel down one limb, feeling weak and vulnerable, my will giving in.

Slowly my nerves recover, albeit with unwelcome consequences.

My breathing slows. I sense this may be it.

The dream gives way to reality like a fog lifting to reveal truth

“You will always be alone”, my mind plays tricks as I fight these words inside.

My heart shatters as it slows, the stinging in my chest pulsates with every erratic heartbeat.

He does not want to be with you. He does not need or love you.

He lives and breathes, another lover in mind, but it will never be you.

“joie de vivre, no more,” I sigh, as I settle on these facts,

For the next dream, may be my last.

~A.C. Rae

To The One Who Knows

He who capures my heart, unlocks my soul. ~A.C. Rae


To The One Who Knows

my deepest, darkest thoughts

and desires.

He still remains unknown

for clearly he has shown

no trust in me,

his lies and deceit hath told me so.

Hurt and pain consume,

heart strings tug and rip apart

as the unknown still plays at my heart.

How can he be real when

he cannot trust me with who he is?


To The One Who Knows,

but still

knows not.


But yet…..

To The One Who Knows.

Where does he hide the key that unlocks my soul?

He unlocked my heart, but did not throw away the key

Does he keep it safe in his mind

until next time?

My soul for thee.

~A.C. Rae

A Look Into The Past

There is nothing wrong with preserving the past. What is unacceptable is not telling your story. ~A.C. Rae

Have you ever wanted to live in a different time era rather than the one you grew up in and live in right now? I always have ever since I was a child. I have always felt misplaced like I was meant to be in a different time 100 or more years ago. I love colonial history, pioneer history all the way through the depression era and WWII.

What intrigues me? History, the stories that people told way back then, real life accounts about life, family, religious beliefs, and the facts of life that were passed down through story telling. My grandparents were magnificent storytellers. They captured my undivided attention when they would start to talk about the “good old days”, my imagination ran wild reliving in my head their experiences of growing up and being raised in very difficult times. To them, that was what life was all about. And of course, those who know me best know that I love to ask endless questions.

I also worked in nursing homes as a teenager and a young adult, the elderly fascinate me. Even those who were deemed “senile” were always telling me stories about their youth. I believed what they said because I thought they were reliving the “good old days” as their minds deteriorated presently from the unexplainable disease of Alzheimer. My friends included centurions (100 plus year olds) whose minds were sharper than a whip. These cute little old people were hard of hearing, but told amazing stories of horse-drawn carriages and living in sod homes, reading by oil lamps and candlelight. They never complained about their hardship but talked about how times were hard. A person had to work very hard to earn a dollar, you stretched that dollar to feed and clothe your family. It was a simple life, values and morals meant absolutely everything. A man’s word and a handshake was his honor; that is how he made his accord.

I also have inherited, over many years, family heirlooms that were once treasured and used by my family. The old sewing machine that great grandma used to stitch up great grandpa’s torn overalls from those hard laborious days farming. The Red Wing mixing bowl Grandma used to hand mix homemade cookie dough. I loved grandma’s vintage bread rising pan that she used for bread baking days. With her septuagenarian hands she would gently lay each spongy doughy loaf on a layer of lard in this pan and when the moment was just right, she would take out the risen dough, shape it into a loaf and bake it. You can just image the smell of fresh home baked, homemade bread wafting through out the kitchen. It was a real treat to lather each thickly sliced piece of bread with real home churned butter and homemade chokecherry jelly. I look at this pan now and wonder about what was on her mind as her little hands pumped up and down kneading the bread dough to perfection.

I have glassware, bottles, knickknacks, crockery, postcards, greeting cards, pictures, jewelry, clothes, christening gowns, personal affects, books, toys, furniture, oil lamps and quilts with the old “turkey tracks” stitching and assorted bedding and blankets and doilies. Back then, nobody threw anything away! It was all passed down. Of course, my favorites are the old photographs.

I love the worn out cookbooks and handwritten recipes the women referred to daily in the kitchen, almost like their bible. Grandma would have “pish-poshed” at the fact that “nowadays” we cook with convenience foods in a microwave oven. “That’s not cooking!” She would say with a laugh. “It’s got to be homemade. You need to put love and labor into it so when you eat, it is more enjoyable and you appreciate what is put into it.” One time after supper I was complaining about doing the dishes. Grandma said. “Dirty dishes are a sign that we have had something to eat.” Profound? Yes. She lived her young adult life raising children in the day when food was scarce and what was available was rationed. Have you ever heard of Victory gardens or canning and preserving your own food?

I dream of having a big ol’ country house to fill up with all this and more. Yes, I live in the country in a modest farmhouse. My dream home is much like you would see in the movie “The Notebook” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”. I love old houses like this; there is so much character, so much history. Houses talk and all one has to do is stop and listen. I want a big country kitchen with a big butler’s pantry and to cook from an old-fashioned cook stove while sipping wine brought up from the old wine cellar. I already enjoy cooking with home canned foods and homemade ingredients. My mother and grandmothers taught me how to preserve food, one of the most valuable and treasured gifts along with their storytelling they have ever given me. They taught me to be self-sufficient and to let nothing go to waste.

This love for “old” things brings me to my love of adventure into the past. I explore abandoned farmhouses, barns, buildings. One time I found an old car in a barn that had been shot full of bullet holes. I wanted to know what happened. Who “hid” the car away in this rural area? Was it an “old-fashioned” bank robbery? A lover’s quarrel and her “old man” found them in a fit of passionate ill-repute? I long to know the stories behind abandoned farms, homes, and buildings. Why did they come here, why did they leave? What were their dreams?

I love museums and can spend hours in one if I am allowed. I ponder over how people lived back at the turn of the century as I would wander from one antique of interest to the next or perusing old photographs, ledgers and journals. I was even privy, once, to have come across an old photo album. As I scanned each picture, I felt an odd sensation. Each person was dressed impeccably in their Sunday best and seated as if ready for Church or the yearly town hall Saturday night dance. Only then did I discover that I was looking at a post-mortem photo album, or, pictures of the dead. This was a practice during the Victorian Era where child mortality rates were high. Think I didn’t have questions at that time?

I am sure my ancestors would have given anything for our modern conveniences, but then would they really if they knew just how technically savvy we have become? Maybe medicine, no doubt about it as mortality rate was very high back then. In our families, we have had many young children die of influenza back in 1918, scarlet fever in 1922 as well as a 3-year-old toddler drowning in the well and many family members fighting against each other in Europe back in World War II.

Childhood disease took many lives early, as well as heart disease, cancers and communicable disease. With modern medical technology and its advances of today, we are no longer concerned about these. Our life spans have been greatly lengthened through medicine. My paternal great, great grandfather was a country doctor and was noted to have successful home remedies. One of his remedies people caught onto in this century, manufactured it and call it a Neti Pot. Hmmm. He also published a book on home remedies and country “doctoring”.

There is so much more I could talk about when it comes to the past, but that would turn into a novel. It is a fun subject to converse about, to be inspired through others stories and I feel everyone has a story to tell and to write. Storytelling has changed throughout our recent past. People almost never tell the old, old stories and we lose face of who we really are, were we came from and our roots. If you don’t know much about your story, learn as much as you can now and write it down for others to read. Pass them along to other family members and in turn they can tell their children and children love stories.

HOME is where your story begins.

~A.C. Rae