Monthly Archives: July 2013

Somewhere the Cosmos is having a chuckle

Mostly at my expense. That seems a rather grandiose notion, actually, so it’s probably just a squirty little offspring of the Cosmos who’s not got much to do yet. My brain hasn’t felt very creative, I’ve been more interested in reading and watching movies and catching up with tv shows than writing. Not writers block, just meh, let’s let others entertain me for a bit. That and the fact that my genius self dumped coffee all over my laptop and at this moment I’m still waiting on my whiz kid friend to tell me if he’ll be able to do anything besides retrieve the hard drive has left me slightly adrift, media wise. I did, however, make it out of the house twice in one weekend so I now consider myself a rock star of the party variety. Today so far has literally been spent chasing my cat around, throwing pillows at him and yelling ‘NO JOKER!’
Thus follows the cat chronicles of shit he’s not supposed to do, which is interesting to no one but me and my immediate family…(which is completely understandable- sometimes truth is NOT stranger/more interesting than fiction)
NO JOKER, please don’t attack Great Grandma Cora’s lamp

NO JOKER, get off the kitchen counters


NO JOKER, you can’t go outside and eat the birds in the bushes


NO JOKER, you’re not supposed to knock all my Silver Surfer figures off the entertainment center


NO JOKER, you’re not…oh, wait…


Categories: Non-Fiction Nonsense | Tags: , , , | 4 Comments

Up From the Muck


I walk your streets when darkness kisses the ground. I don’t skulk – I belong wherever I decide I wish to be. I do keep to the shadows, but only because I’m not pretty and don’t like being reminded that it matters.

Besides, trust me…I don’t want to talk to you any more than you want to look at me.

I stare into your lighted windows, portals to what I am now a stranger to, and try to discern what magic gravitational field exists in there that keeps your feet on this side of terra firma when so many of us slipped right through the crack. Whether it appears to you as a fissure or a chasm makes no nevermind; one misstep and *pfft* you’re the squalling baby surfing the tide of the bathwater.

With determination you can clamber back out for a nighttime sojourn, but never to stay. The pull that the underside exerts is physical. As dawn’s light starts to creep across the horizon like a cat burglar doing the walk of shame, your feet will turn themselves towards the closest pool of blackness to slip you back home. By that time you’re most likely ready to go anyway. The world up here now is a reflection in a fun house mirror and the people that loved you don’t even bother to see right through you since they don’t see you at all.

I need to figure out how it is that we can stand outside and look in on them and their comforts, and yet they cannot look out and see us in the miasma. If I can’t answer that question…well, then none of us will ever get to go home again.

….because I know more people falling through the cracks than dancing around them…


Trifecta Week 86 challenges us to write between 33-333 words using the word….wait for it….
1a : a loud roll or peal
b : a sudden sharp noise
2: a sharp witty remark : quip
3a : a narrow break : fissure

b : a narrow opening —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , , | 18 Comments

What’s a Process…?

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Trifextra: Week 76
( the picture has nothing to do with anything, I just took it and wanted it there cos I like it… )

So, apparently one of the fancy Trifecta editors was able to see Neil Gaiman and hear him read from his new book and do a little Q&A (please take this time to wipe any excess bitterness and/or jealousy off your screen). When asked if he could describe his writing process in three words, his answer was “Glare. Drink tea.”

Which is ridiculous. And awesome. And since he and Terry Pratchett are maybe the only people in the world that I would fan-girl-flail for, of course I think it’s adorable.

So the Trifextra challenge this week asks us to do the same. Three words for this idiot thing that consumes us and drives us and sometimes ruins us, and yet is still one of the best things about us. A few words went through my head that were true and accurate, a couple that were funny. But when it comes down to it my ‘process’ doesn’t have much to do with me and everything to do with what plays out in my head, mostly without my say so.

And so, in honor of the characters that live within and rarely ever shut the hell up, I’m going to go with:

Let them speak.


Link up, check out everyone else, you can read a shit ton of 3 word posts before your work day is done 😉


Categories: Non-Fiction Nonsense | Tags: , , , | 33 Comments

Broken and Rebuilt

shadow sky

i am shadows
i am crumbled bricks
and base elements,
i am broken down to my beginnings.
i am gritty sandy mortar dust;
trod upon, i fly to far flung places
on the bottoms of bare feet.
i make my nest within shards and splinters,
snuggling my demons close
like an over-washed rag doll,
much loved.
i turn a pale and wrinkled face towards the light.
don’t judge –
even the Phoenix looks ugly,
when first it rises from the ashes.
i am broken.

i will protect my ruins,
as fiercely as my temples,
my stained glass beauty and palatial strength.
my dirty garden of shattered things,
liquid pools of sad eyes,
betrothed to wallowing, and to me.
i am rebuilt.

This is my entry for Trifecta, Week 85 – go here, read these things, there will be something that you will love

The word this week is fly:
3a : to move, pass, or spread quickly
b : to be moved with sudden extreme emotion
c : to seem to pass quickly


Categories: Poetry | Tags: , , , | 25 Comments

As the Crone Flies

Mmmm.” The Chamberlain stared down his crag of a nose. “A rather crude representation.”

The chill current of air that danced around the apprentices feet seemed to whisper into his bones in a strangers voice. He shivered in his robes and looked down at the squat clay figure on the scarred tabletop. It was short, with pendulous breasts sagging over a rounded belly. Rough gashes represented eyes and mouth on the boulder of a head. “You had said that you believed that the Crone would strike tonight, sir, and that it only need be ‘indicative of her visage’. I had thought that you were in a hurry, sir, so I didn’t worry overmuch about the art of the thing.”

“Mmmm. Just so, just so.” Echoes travelled slowly through the air of the stone chamber, bouncing a gentle oh-oh-oh back and forth. “I have many preparations still to make before the light is swallowed. Prepare the altar for me, I will be back before that candle burns to black.” His finger, all bone and knuckle with just the palest hint of flesh, extended towards a fat and guttering candle shoved into the top of a bottle. The flame was yellow gold, with a blush of red creeping into the bottom. After the red would come the green, and after the green the black.

“Yes, sir, I’ll have it waiting for you, exactly the way that we planned, I swear to it.” The apprentice bowed, his hands grasping each other inside voluminous sleeves. As soon as the Chamberlain was gone from the room, however, the candle burned to blue. Dropping to his knees so fast that the stone nearly drove him to cry out, he prostrated himself before it. “Mistress.”

The blue flame flared bright as morning and thickened, wending its twisty way upon whatever eddies of air it could find. It’s tip elongated, touching the boy on the back of his neck, bidding him rise. “Smaaassshhh iiit…”, a bodiless voice hissed in his ear.


this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge was to use the 3rd definition of the word crude:
3: marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity


Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , , | 18 Comments

That Kind of An Afternoon

This story directly continues the tale of Gladiator & Scrapper in That Kind of A Day (you can read it here if you wanna: 🙂

My head dipped down again, heavy and weighted with a concrete mass of confusion. “That’s the big reveal,” I muttered into my chest. “Scrapper.” I noticed that the droplets of blood had formed a Rorschach pattern on my t-shirt. “What do you see here?” I asked, still looking down.

“What do I see where?” Scrapper stopped scrutinizing the tics of my battered face and followed my line of vision. “It’s blood, dummy,” he said. “From your face. Where I punched your teeth out,” he added helpfully.

I coughed and hawked out a glob of blood and spit it onto the ground. For all I knew, I just spat out one of those teeth.

“I’ve heard of Scrapper. Not much, you big enigma, you. Enough to not take too much of a shot to my self esteem because you knocked me out.” I considered a moment. “I had just woken up, of course, and I had a helluva hangover. So, there is that.”

A reluctant laugh rumbled up from the big man’s belly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “There is that.”

It rankled my already bruised pride to crane my neck up to meet his eyes. “You know,” I said conspiratorially, “I know a secret about you.”

He clapped his hands together. “Oh goody. What secret do you know about me, Gladiator?”

“I know that you either stole someone else’s name, or you’re about 70 years older than you look.”

He went so still he could have been a waxwork gangster giant. His whisper was a mountain-sized hive of bees, buzzing all at once, and just as dangerous. “What makes you say that, little man?”

It was my turn to shrug, oozing insouciance like a pheromone. “My Nan used to tell me stories, stories about the Badlands where she grew up. Some of them were about a guy named Scrapper. He ruled in the Underbelly of the underbelly, flitting in when he needed to handle some business and flitting out again. No one knew where he came from, but they were sure scared shitless to find out where he was.”

I raised my arms up behind me until my shoulders protested. “Get me the fuck out of this, will you? I’ve got no problem with you so I don’t see why we can’t have this conversation like civilized human beings.”

Time slowed for a minute, thickened to a trickle. Our eyes met and held; feral cats assessed prey, cold blooded sharks smelled blood, Neanderthals squared off over the first lick of flame in the time it took for him to blink. He broke the connection with an expansive gesture and the world crashed back over me like a cresting wave. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

As he bent to the task himself, an amalgamation of shadows peeled itself from the wall and morphed into a man under the salty glow of a fitful bulb. “Scrap, I don’t think you should untie him until we get some answers about what happened t’ Leo. Manacles can be like, I dunno, like truth serum to people who don’t wanna spill their guts.” I didn’t need his wink to hear the double meaning behind that line.

“Yeah, and sometimes they make people turn into even more of a stubborn asshole than they already are.” With one knee on the floor, Scrapper snicked out a switchblade. As he sawed at the knots binding my wrists he grunted at the shadow-man. “It’s a rope, anyway, not manacles. And you don’t give a nickname to a nickname. If you shorten mine again, I’ll shorten your tongue.” He flicked a glance sideways like he was shooting poison darts alongside it. “Okeydokey?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. You don’t have to threaten me, you can just tell me shit. I ain’t your enemy and I ain’t your minion.” In an impressive maneuver, as the man’s voice faded, so did he. Now that would be a trick to have in your back pocket.

I was taking as many mental notes as I could. A leader, but not a boss. Could be reasonable, could be touchy. Did he have a cadre of Tricksters at his back or just this shadow guy? I stared as hard as I could into the gloom, trying to discern even just an outline of a man, stared so hard I gave my eyeballs a toothache, and still I got nothing.

The tension on my arms disappeared so suddenly that they flailed up and out. One of them knocked into Scrapper’s brick sized fist, sending his blade skittering across the floor. I laughed outright. “Sorry, sorry, I guess I’m just excited.” I swung my legs up and down, a halfwit kid in need of a potty break. “Feet?” I asked sweetly.

A shadow foot kicked the knife back across the floor, but the surface was too rough and it stopped well short of Scrapper’s outstretched palm. “Jesus,” he muttered as he crabwalked the last two feet over to grab it. “Could this be more undignified? I’m crawling around on the god damn floor. Christ.”

Finally I was freed from my fetters. I stood up, stretching until all the bells and whistles and groans and cracks were finished. I shook out my hands and feet, bounced on my toes to get some feeling dancing back in. “Fuckin A!” I grinned my newly gap toothed grin and clapped the now standing Scrapper on the shoulder. “Now we talk like men.”


I had originally intended for this to be a 2 parter, but I’m thinking it will prolly be around a 5 parter…once I start daydreaming about backstories, quick and easy goes out the window 🙂

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , | 4 Comments

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