Friday Feature: Author and Artist Lee Todd Lacks (aka Troll Under the Bridge)

Friday Feature: Author and Artist Lee Todd Lacks (aka Troll Under the Bridge)

LacksIf you’ve read our guidelines here at QFT, you know we try to keep things pretty tame, since we have kids publish here, too. So when we received poems from Lee Todd Lacks, we weren’t sure they were a good fit because they were all of a naughty nature.

But despite the rejections, Mr. Lacks kept sending them anyway. The problem was, he is pretty talented and funny. We also found out that he manages to be clever and witty while struggling with sight and hearing impairments. Because he’s a great sport and because the Gnomies had a lot of laughs while reading his submissions, we’ve decided to award him the first ever:

Troll Under the Bridge Award

The grand prize is: an interview and the chance to share some of his work. But really, we’re the winners here, are we not?

Without further ado, I present to you the wit and wisdom of Lee Todd Lacks, or as we like to call him, Mr. Troll.

Be warned, everything from this point on is PG-13+

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Still reading? Okay, then…

First off, I have to ask. Most (all?) of the poems that you’ve submitted to us have to do with derrieres and spanking. What gives?

Spanking has always been my gateway to sensuality, and the lens through which I view femininity. I’m committed to infiltrating the prim and proper writer’s market with immodest tales of wayward bottoms.

Tell us a little bit about yourself and how you started down this road of creativity and depravity?

My family and I currently reside in South Portland, Maine. Winter lasts for five months up here, so folks do whatever they can to stay warm! As a mixed-media artist and music therapist, I seek to blur the distinctions between rants, chants, anecdotes, and anthems. My experience of living with significant vision and hearing deficits often informs my writing and art.

Ironically, up until about a year ago, I hadn’t written or drawn about spanking since I was 12. Then, in March of 2015, I decided to reclaim my deviant nature by exploring sexually provocative themes in poetry, fiction, and art, some of which related to spanking. Needless to say, this decision liberated me to produce a lot of new material. I initially felt anxious about submitting my pieces to mainstream literary journals, and posting them on social media. I was quite concerned that many of my female friends might take offense, but I’ve been gratified to discover that most of them seem to appreciate my peculiar brand of naughty. While I sometimes wonder whether or not I ought to be writing about gun control, refugees, and global warming, I prefer to extol the virtues and vices of bare-bottomed belles

You’re into art, poetry, and writing, correct? How do they influence each other?

Inevitably, you need to create what the muse inspires you to create, whether it’s a metered poem, a short story, a digital artwork, or a spoof advertisement. If the subject matter seems sufficiently compelling, then the form and style will reveal themselves to you. I once set out to write a prose poem, and I ended up writing an 1.800 word short story. On the other hand, I recently revised a spanking illustration by substituting one implement for another i.e. drawing a ruler into a paddle, so that it paired more effectively with a particular poem.

Tell us about your creative process (be honest, does it include bottom fetish magazines?)

While I’ve always enjoyed stories and artwork related to spanking, I draw more inspiration from real-life experience. If you want to write about the experience of spanking women, then you really need to get out there and spank some!

I spend inordinate amounts of time obsessing over a single line or paragraph. This past February, an editor requested that I rewrite a poem that I had submitted to her journal, entitled “Chastened Spring.” I spent the next three months rewriting and resubmitting this poem, until it was finally accepted for publication. Sometimes, it’s a meta issue, such as deciding whether or not to depict a filial or a marital relationship. Other times, it’s a maddening search for a one-syllable word that conveys just the right shade of meaning.

With respect to spanking in particular, I believe that if you’re going to go there, then go there. Nothing’s less satisfying than an overly apologetic spanking poem!  Erotica succeeds when it portrays authentic relationships, in all their painfully awkward glory. While I strive to honor the female subjects of my poems, stories, and drawings, I tend to depict them as flawed protagonists, who spend a lot of time with their skirts up.

Anything else I should have asked before we jump into your awesome work?

Yes, you should have asked me whether or not I’d be willing to spank the Gnomes when they’re naughty. 🙂

Lee Todd Lacks is a mixed-media artist, music therapist, and clinical counselor, whose work tends to be informed by his experience of living with significant vision and hearing deficits.  Lee Todd’s poetry, prose, and art has appeared in Bop Dead City, Tincture Journal, Liquid Imagination, Crack The Spine, Thirteen Myna Birds, and elsewhere.  His poem, “Durgin-Park,” won the Bop Dead City Beginnings Contest in July of 2015.

Find Lee Todd Lacks here: Website | Facebook


Short Stories:

Regarding ABSOLVING LYNN:

“Absolving Lynn” is a grim short story about a haunted hairbrush.  It first appeared in EXPOUND, Issue 4, December 2015

ABSOLVING LYNN

By Lee Todd Lacks

“I’ve been waiting for you to come by for the past fifteen minutes! My halibut is overcooked. Given the cost of dining at this establishment, I shouldn’t have to pay for your inattentiveness.” Lynn regretted the flippant remark as soon as she had uttered it. Her shame swelled like a tide as she watched the server’s countenance wilt.

“I’ll have them redo your order right away, ma’am.”

Although her job at the insurance firm could be trying at times, Lynn Thompson knew that she had never worked harder than this beleaguered, young waitress, not even on her best day. She shuddered at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“How could you be so rude to that poor girl! Get up this instant, and head straight to the ladies room, before I take care of you right here, in front of God and everybody.”  

Lynn didn’t bother to debate with the voice. She knew her fate was well-deserved. Rising from the table, she ruefully proceeded towards an alcove at the rear of the dining room. Upon approaching, she could see that the door to one of the single-occupancy restrooms was ajar. Sighing, Lynn stepped inside and switched on the light. In front of her stretched a pink granite vanity, with a large, rectangular mirror mounted just above the backsplash.

“Bend over!” commanded the voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lynn did as she was told.

Moments later, Lynn noticed her modest linen skirt being raised and tucked above her hips. Unseen fingers reached inside her apricot tights, tugging them down just below her knees. The phantom extremities then lowered her panties till they bunched up against her hose.

“Oh, Mom! Please! Not on the bare!!” Lynn pleaded.

“Hush, or we’ll be here twice as long,” the voice rebuked her.

“No, no, no! Please!” Lynn cried, knowing full well that Claire Thompson had never issued an empty threat. “Not another word, then,” her mother warned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Soon, Lynn could hear the unzipping of her handbag, followed by the rustle of a fairly sizeable object, extricating itself from an assortment of keys, coins, and lipstick. The next few seconds seemed interminable, as Claire Thompson’s daughter braced for what had become a routine ordeal.

From an early age, Lynn learned that being naughty meant sitting on pillows for several days. Whenever she chose to misbehave, Lynn’s mother spanked her with a hefty wooden paddle brush. For as much as she claimed to dread her mother’s hairbrush, Lynn often found herself in need of its sore and searing grace.

A loud crack reverberated within the tiled walls of the lavatory, stinging her backside like a dozen angry hornets. Lynn gasped, barely able to process the discomfort before having to endure a second, similarly painful sting, and another, and still another. It took all of her will to suppress the cries that desperately sought to escape her. However, being in a public place, she dared not let her voice betray the intensity of her pain, for fear that anyone who stood within hearing distance might become alarmed, and subsequently notify the authorities.

Growing up, many of Lynn’s schoolmates discovered that her mother had no qualms about paddling her, in front, if not alongside, of them. However, not even her closest friends knew that she was still subject to maternal discipline as an adult. Despite her thirty-six years, Lynn knew to expect the brush for arriving home late without prior consent, neglecting her household chores, and for any number of other seemingly juvenile offenses.

When Claire Thompson passed away unexpectedly in 2008, Lynn inherited the small farmhouse, which had always been her home. As she struggled to function without her mother’s approval, Lynn gradually learned how to answer to herself. Within a matter of months, she bought several stylish dresses, which her mother would have surely forbid her from wearing, and she got into the habit of staying out after work.

“Unnnnnhhhhh!!!”

A thick wad of paper towels muffled what would have been a tile-rattling shriek. In these moments, Lynn often imagined herself attempting to explain her predicament to the investigating officer, who had been called to the scene, sounding rather dubious as he inquired about the brush.

“Possessed, ma’am?”

“Yes, officer! My deceased mother haunts my hairbrush, and she punishes me whenever I misbehave. She’s been tormenting me for over two years now!”

Having said that, Lynn could see herself being transported to the nearest Acute Psychiatric Unit, where she would undergo a full evaluation.

No.

For as unpleasant as her present circumstances might seem, the prospect of having to explain who or what was causing her such audible distress in a public restroom seemed even more objectionable.   Lynn had been living n her own for nearly six months when she first heard her mother speak through the brush. Initially, the voice came as a great relief. The brush seemed like a comforting reminder of her mother’s firm guidance. Over time, however, the admonishments became progressively harsher. The condition of never knowing when she might hear the voice caused Lynn to seem perpetually irritable, and the severity of the brush’s reprimands eroded her burgeoning self-belief. That’s when it started.

She had arrived home very late one evening, dazed and queasy from quite a few too many. Upon entering, Lynn wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed as quickly as her impaired judgment would allow. Various articles of clothing lay strewn about the hallway as Claire Thompson’s daughter stumbled into her bedroom. As she attempted to remove her earrings, one of them fell to the floor. Cursing, she bent over to pick it up, at which point, a startlingly painful impact struck her from behind.

“Unnnnnhhhhh!!!”

Just then, she heard her mother’s voice.

“Lynn Marie Thompson! Did I raise you to go falling around drunk in your underwear at two o’clock in the morning?!”

“N…n…no, ma’am,” Lynn stammered.

“You seem to have forgotten yourself, young lady! Do you still need me to remind you?” the voice asked rhetorically.

Lynn was slow to reveal her truth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nearly two years since that fateful night, Lynn still carried her mother’s reminder. As she struggled to bear it yet again, a sharp knock at the lavatory door rattled her composure. Panicking, Lynn let the damp paper towels fall from her mouth, so that she could respond.

“I’m almost finished!” she gasped.

“Are you alright in there?!” asked an alarmed male voice.

“Yes. Yes. I’m…I’m fine,” came her wavering reply. Lynn hoped that she could assuage the well-meaning stranger’s concern, at least temporarily, for she knew that her mother wasn’t finished yet. The brush pronounced its final sentence.

“Ten more!”

Lynn grabbed another handful of paper towels, and bit down hard. A resounding smack echoed from within the restroom.

“Unnnnhhhhhh!!!”

She was shocked by the sheer magnitude of the pain. The thought of having to endure another nine seemed inconceivable. Then, for reasons beyond her understanding, the brush did not strike again.

“I can’t do this anymore, Lynn. You’re a grown woman. I can’t absolve you anymore.” It was her mother’s voice.

“No, no…no, Mom! I need you! Please! Don’t stop!! I’ll try harder!” Lynn insisted, in spite of herself.

“No, Lynn. I’ve let you rely upon the brush for far too long. You need to form your own conscience.”

The shaming voice only served to heighten her anxiety.   “Mom, please! I can’t! I don’t know how!”

“I know, sweetheart, and that’s my fault. I never taught you how to forgive yourself.” Her mother sounded regretful now

“Mom, please, don’t go. I still need it!!”

“I’m not in the brush, sweetheart. I’m in you…always. Goodbye, Lynn.”

The voice spoke to her reassuringly, as if for the last time.

“Mom!!!” Lynn cried out, unable to contain her despair any longer.

A moment later, she heard the sound of the restroom door being unlocked.

“No…no…Oh, God! No! Please! Wait!!” Lynn implored sobbingly. Just then, the door flew open, followed by the collective gasp of half a dozen stunned onlookers.

“Oh, my God.” they murmured.

“Someone call 911!” exclaimed the restaurant manager, unable to avert his eyes from Lynn’s frightfully inflamed bottom. Too mortified to speak, Claire Thompson’s daughter looked up at the mirror. Her face was flushed and wet with tears, as she stood fully exposed from the waist down, clutching the hairbrush in her trembling hand.

***

Regarding INERT PASSES:

“Inert Passes” is a humorous flash fiction about a painfully-awkward research scientist who finds himself out on a dinner date.  It first appeared in Crack The Spine, Issue 161, August 2015

INERT PASSES

By Lee Todd Lacks

Subsequent to attending a faculty research lecture, Dr. Eliot Beek and his esteemed colleague, Dr. Ursula Webber, arrive at an elegant, if somewhat unfashionable supper club, just a few miles from campus. Their table by the plate-glass window seems small in relation to the nearly vacant dining room. After several minutes of polite conversation, Dr. Beek becomes preoccupied with the gas-discharge lamps lighting countless storefronts all along the boulevard.  Staring out the window, the chemist ponders a group of elements known as the noble gases, each of which emits a uniquely colored glow when excited by electricity. Dr. Beek extols the virtues of these curious elements, much to the chagrin of his esteemed colleague. “Are you light yellow helium, like the call drinks they mix at this dubious lounge? A medicated fit of spontaneity, confessing the sins you have yet to commit?” Unable to conceal her incredulous smile, Ursula notes, “He’s reciting an ode,” Dr. Webber notes, unable to conceal her incredulous smile. In the seven years during which she and Eliot have worked together, Ursula has never known him to seem inspired. Chuckling to herself, she considers whether or not they ought to order another round.

“Does Dr. Webber seem engaged?” Eliot wonders, having just informed his dinner companion that her eye color resembles that of xenon when it’s charged at high peak currents. Sipping past the point of inhibition, he proceeds to count the ½ inch squares that form the checkered- print pattern of her dress. “Perfect for graphing.” he muses. Eliot imagines himself plotting graphs on Dr. Webber’s dress. “Would she let me do that?” he wonders. “Is she wearing tights? Wait. Why am I thinking about Dr. Webber’s tights?” Unable to suppress these and other inappropriate thoughts, Dr. Beek suddenly notices himself reaching under the table. The chemist’s mind screeches to a halt, but his right arm refuses to yield, extending its reach even further towards what?! He panics. “Oh, my God, no. No, no, no!”

Floor-length table linens mercifully conceal the fits and starts of the ensuing internal power struggle. Try as he might to regain control, Dr. Beek’s insubordinate hand continues its tortured advance, until the touch of Ursula’s lower thigh shocks them both. All the air in the room vanishes. Prattling stops, breathing stops, and yet, nothing changes. Fractions of a second pass. Eliot does not retract, Ursula does not repel.

“Is he touching me?!” she queries, oddly amused by Eliot’s bizarre impulse. While not wanting to discourage her esteemed colleague, Ursula worries that his heart might stop if she were to let his hand remain at rest.

“She is wearing tights!” Eliot observes, sensing the sheer nylon fabric upon his fingertips. Dr. Beek’s synapses begin to cross as he feels pale lavender blue, warm and fragrant, stretched taut over Ursula’s shapely leg. “Tights, when worn, seem very much like icebergs,” he asserts, “in that only a select few ever view their full extent. Is that a romantic notion? Perhaps I ought to share it with Dr. Webber.”

The servers buzz with recognition, having witnessed these awkward mating rituals many times before. “Don’t bother bringing their entrées,” says one, as she rolls her eyes. “He’s copping a feel.” “Ewwww!” groans another, “They’re old enough to be my parents!!”

Much to their amazement, neither Dr. Beek nor Dr. Webber seem willing to break contact. The esteemed colleagues study one another intently, each expecting the other to react first. Still, nothing happens. No words; no breath; nothing. The two remain inert, mouths slightly agape, excited, yet captured. He does not retract. She does not repel.

Several more seconds pass before Dr. Beek’s hand starts to tremble. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he braces for the inevitable shaming, the career-shattering fallout of his transgression. “She’ll report me to the Head of the Department for this!” he frets, scrambling to form an adequate apology. “What’s worse, she’ll surely never speak to me again.” Sensing Eliot’s distress, Dr. Webber prepares to reassure him without seeming too disappointed. Ultimately however, neither can manage more than a few incoherent syllables. “Here he goes,” she grumbles. Offended by Dr. Beek’s remorse, Ursula refuses to let him deny his trespass. With a conviction that startles them both, she grabs Eliot’s hand and yanks it beneath her dress, well past the point where thigh and hemline meet, far enough for them both to own what happens next.


Art:

Regarding SORELY IN NEED:

“Sorely In Need” was drawn using Microsoft Paint 6.0 and a Logitech cordless mouse.  It can be paired with my spoof ad, “Christian Domestic Discipline Barbie.”

Lacks - SORELY IN NEED

Regarding BLUSHING AT BOTH ENDS:

“Blushing At Both Ends” was also drawn using Microsoft Paint 6.0 and a Logitech cordless mouse.  It can be paired with my poem, “Chastened Spring.”  

Lacks - BRUSHED AT BOTH ENDS


Poetry:

 

CHAESTENED SPRING    

Edited by LJ McDowall

 

Lady Spring arrived home late,

she’d dallied into March.

Herla met her at the gate,

beneath the vernal arch.

 

Where have you been?” her husband fumed,

“For I’ve been sick with worry!

Savage boars lurk all about!

Pray, why did you not hurry?”

 

“Just look at you, you naughty imp —

Your hair’s a tangled mess!

Did you permit that Winter cur

to blow beneath your dress?”

 

“Husband, please don’t be upset!

I know I’m very late,

but March, he made me shiver,

I forgot about the date.”

 

“Dear lady,” Herla King reproached,

“I think I’ve heard enough!

Now, go fetch me a proper switch!”

Spring stormed off in a huff.

 

(A huff, or saucy little grin

pf sweet anticipation?

She hurried to the grove of birch

despite her remonstration.)

 

“Oh, gentle tree,” implored the queen,

(so fraught with mock despair,)

“My husband seeks a supple branch,

for he has none to spare.”

 

“Have mine, dear niece,” replied the tree,

“though it be rather odd —

Your Highness always seems to need

a proper birching rod!”

 

“How many times must you have your

wayward rear upended

Your lilies blush like roses long

before their fully tended!”

 

“Oh, dearest aunt, I dare not say,”

replied the impish lass

“but when my Herla’s vexed with me,

he flogs my sorry ass!”

 

Brazen Spring, she left that grove

she kept with her Aunt Autumn,

for she had found the sprig with which

the king would tend her bottom.

 

The rueful queen returned to where

King Herla stood a-waiting.

(His roaring wrath could be severe,

that point needs no debating).

 

At his command, Spring lifted up

her gown, high in the air.

She let her snowy blossoms fall,

and laid her bottom bare.

 

Across a mossy stump, she bent.

Her knees began to shake,

and soon, she felt the wicked sting,

that unrelenting ache.

 

Like a flight of mourning doves,

so fervent were her cries,

her tears fell down in sheets of rain

cascading from the skies.

 

Spring wept all through April till the

Earth was soaking wet, while

she begged the king to end his reign,

he wasn’t finished yet.

 

Herla birched her bottom till

It blazed, bright from the heat.

At last, he cast the branch aside

and drew Spring to her feet.

 

Herla knelt behind his wife,

and kissed her chastened cheeks,

Dawn broke before their Majesties

could find the will to speak.

 

“Fair Spring,” her husband said at last,

“I grieve to cause you pain,

but I shall birch you twice as long,

should you cross me again.

 

“Yes, my love,” Spring whispered low,

not knowing what to say.

Blushing at either end, she sighed,

“‘Twill be the warmest May!

 

BRUSH

All grown up and off to college soon,
your stomach still flutters when your
Mum hands me down.  Barely a month
since the night we last met.  You were
late getting home, and just a bit surly,
from one or three or four too many.
Your Mum took me to you in spite
of your pleas, and she went to great
pains to renew our acquaintance.

Rosewood ingrained in a hard-borne
legacy, weighty and wide and…well,
you’ve heard the stories.  How your
Great-Grandma Bridget brought me over
from Scotland.  How she reared seven
girls before I got to your Nana.  How I
tended to your Mum, and to all of her
sisters, years after they thought they
were too old to mind me.  So I shall be
the bane of their wincing bottoms for
as long as they remain my naughty
daughters.

I’ve marked decades of sorry and
tearful confessions.  The rising of
hemlines, the raising of dresses.
Bristled at the sight of tight-fitting
jeans.  Stung through your skirts
and your slips in between holes
in your stockings and runs in your
hose.  Been your least favorite
reason to let down your drawers.
Turned your bare alabaster to
burgundy rose.  Made you forget
whoever happened to watch.  Made
you remember whenever you sat.
Seasoned myself on your tenderest
parts.  Straightened your hair,
and tempered your hearts.

 

ODE TO NOBLE GASES

Are you light yellow helium,

like the call drinks they mix

at this dubious lounge?

A medicated fit of spontaneity,

confessing the sins

you have yet to commit.

 

Or, are you xenon?

Aquamarine beam,

bright eyes of the police

shaming dissolute streets.

 

Are you krypton?

Ghostly green in the jeweler’s window,

like the aged merchant

dealing jade and courtship,

 

Or, radon

lurking in a thousand dark basements?!

For those wretched souls

who knew you first,

who saw your awful glow,

could not have heeded

your deep red warning.

could not have broken

your deadly tryst.

 

Are you argon?

Pale lavender blue,

the only diner open

this late, rainy night.

Softly mystifying

thrift store hue,

suppressing all thought

with hips and scent.

 

Then, you must be neon,

reddish-orange kiss

groping in the doorway of

some seamy motel.

Wet locks give way to

fingers and keys

and hours and hours

of singular bliss.

 

DURGIN–PARK

I can’t help but notice how
impish you seem when
you offer to meet at
the end of your shift.
Forty-two minutes later,
we wait by the bathroom.
When we know no one’s
looking, you let us both in.

This closet’s so close,
we can’t move without
touching.  There’s an
oval-shaped mirror,
and a small basin sink,
a single white bulb, and
a vase of pink flowers.

Your pleated skirt rises
like a felt showroom curtain,
just far enough to
reveal fabulous prizes.
I reach without asking to
feel up your nylons
till fingers trace fringes
of cotton and lace.

I peel your underwear past
shimmying hips, kissing your
shimmering thighs.  Slipping
my fingers up and in, simmering
wet, so far within, we never
hear them knocking.

 

BLUSH

Ten past eight, and on probation,

April races down the corridor.

Betrayed by chattering heels,

she forms another rationale,

while smells of well-worn tile

and wood tell her this staid

building stood when leaded

rules read like bricks.

 

Spirits of austere factory girls

shame her for being late again,

brushing past their legacy

in lengthy, woolen skirts,

leaving April longing to be

bending at the waist, till her

rationales dissolve into a

sore and searing grace.

 

Hey, kids…IT’S CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE!!

Paddle, strap, or switch CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE, and watch her bare behind turn redder than a harlot’s lipstick! Impact Sensing Technology® gauges her visible and audible distress, so you can decide whether she has atoned for her sins!

The harder you whup CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE, the harder she repents!

Garbed in a modest gingham prairie dress with a full slip, flesh-tone nylons, and white cotton panties, CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE comes ready to bare, whenever the Bible tells her so!

Can’t think of a good reason to correct CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE?

Well, the preacher man on the cable access channel says you don’t need one! Routine ”maintenance spankings” ensure that CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE honors the head of the household!

Get your CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE today, and

MAKE HER REPENT!!

Bible sold separately.

2 thoughts on “Friday Feature: Author and Artist Lee Todd Lacks (aka Troll Under the Bridge)

  1. As that female editor who insisted that Chastened Spring be reworked until the full naughty potential of it was fully exploited, I can now report that my classical poetry magazine is firmly in the smut gutter where it belongs thanks to Mr Lack’s efforts.

    My consulting editor looked at it over his horn-rimmed specs. “Ah, a fine tribute to la vice anglais,” he said.

    “Really?” I responded, eying the bookshelf of largely continental eros. “I always thought it was the French…”

    I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard as I did with the Barbie doll add. Where can I get one?

    Shut up, and take my money.

    1. Thank you, Ms. McDowall. Rest assured, this author has committed the term, “la vice anglais,” to memory!

      CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE can be found at your local Cracker Barrel, right between the marriage guides and the hairbrushes.

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