Feb 28, 2011
Knocking on Wood
Feb 20, 2011
Second Breakfast
A head broke the surface and large brown eyes studied them. The seal wiggled his whiskers at Agnes.
“Hello, luv. How are you this fine morning? Who’re your friends?” The seal asked in a rough, gravelly voice.
“This is Jack and Eleanor Driscoll. They moved into Black Ledge a few weeks ago. They are aware,” Agnes told him.
“Gathered that. Not very often I see you sailing.” He nodded. “Hullo. Pleased to meet ya,” he gruffed.
“Hi,” Eleanor and Jack said at the same time.
“Hold that thought...,” he disappeared with a splash.
Jack and Eleanor looked at Agnes, questioning, but before she could answer, Seaton’s head popped back up. He gulped, smacking his lips around a mackerel tail.
“Mackerel are in,” he told them.
“Yeah, I saw fireflies last night,” Jack agreed.
“Well, there ya go. When you see fireflies you know the mackerel are in.” Seaton nodded his head with approval. Jack had just passed some sort of test.
“What are you doing this morning, Seaton?” Agnes asked.
“Well, seeing you this morning is what you might call a fort-tu-it-tuss circumstance. I need to speak with Camedon,” the seal told her.
“I’m not a messenger,” Agnes said.
“Aw, come on, Aggie. You know I can’t very well go find him.” He waggled his whiskers at her again, trying to gain her good favor.
Eleanor turned her head to hide her smile.
“If I see him, I will let him know,” the crow informed him, promising nothing. “And don’t call me Aggie.”
“Righto, luv. Well, best be off. Haven’t had second breakfast, yet. Nice to meet you.” He bobbed his head at the kids, and submerged.
“Luv doesn’t really work for me, either,” Agnes muttered.
“This is a drag, Jack. Why don’t we bag it until there’s some wind?” Eleanor asked.
“Might as well. Of course, it will still take us an hour to get back to the mooring,” he sighed. Then he brightened. “You know, I think that Seaton is right on with this second breakfast stuff.”
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Kindle)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (iTunes)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (iTunes)
Book II of The Black Ledge Series
Jan 26, 2011
Chairman of the Abhorred III
A Forbes profile. It didn't get much better than that. Of course his wife, between olives, pointed out Bernie Madoff had a Forbes profile, too.
Which was why Mick was back at the motel (he hoped the old hammer choked on a pimiento).
He'd paged the hooker with the room number earlier but he still had time to kill. Mick removed the sani-cover from a cup by the bathroom sink and poured a Scotch. He took a sip, grimaced at the cup, but a plastic cup in a hotel with a hooker was still better than a crystal decanter at home with his wife. He carried his scotch to the bed, slipped off his shoes, and was reaching for his belt buckle when the door blew open.
Back-lit in the doorway the intruder appeared to be the proverbial sulfuric demon. Wild, unkempt hair, a scraggly beard, and old, baggy clothes hung on the intruder's gaunt frame. A faded army green messenger bag hung over one shoulder, partially obscuring a psychedelically colored t-shirt. Phish - It's What's For Dinner.
Mick recoiled but the cheap bedspread slipped and he flailed on his back. He stopped struggling and the two stared at each other, saying nothing. The specter looked around the room. When he spied the Scotch on the vanity his face broke into a smile.
"Only a pint? Pity," he said as he unscrewed the cap and took a long haul. He set it back on the vanity and strode over to Mick. "Well, old boy. Looks like our time has finally come."
Every drop of saliva disappeared from Mick's mouth. He swallowed several times, finally managing to rasp, "Who are you? What do you want?"
"You know what your problem is, Mick - well, one of your problems? No patience! Always in a hurry to get what you want. Steal what you want. Well, tonight we're going to play a little game. It's called time is not on Mick's side."
Mick started to scramble again but the intruder raised an eyebrow and Mick froze. The man set his satchel on the other bed and opened it. He removed an electric hotplate, an alarm clock, an Epi-Lady, some rocks, a nerf ball, a pair of pliers, and a small toilet plunger. He rifled through the other pocket of the satchel but he did not remove its contents.
"See, , the funny thing is, Mick, much as I abhor everything you do--everything you are--there's a teeny part of me that respects your resolve. I don't know ..." he took another swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and continued, "maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my old age. No fool like an old fool, eh? So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you a chance to find redemption."
Jan 25, 2011
That Squiggly Red Line Should Be Telling You Something
Author forward: A little venting, but bear with me - there's humor here.
Five years ago we built a house. A beautiful house. We planned and considered for a long time, and thorough research went into every decision - especially the windows and doors.
We finally picked the ones we thought were the right ones, finished the house, and moved in. Those were happy days.
Yes, days.
We soon discovered most of the windows and doors leaked, and spent the next five years trying to get the company who made them and the business from whom we purchased the units to do the right thing. Five miserable years. Finally they did ... kindasortamaybe. They replaced some units, and eventually we settled on a half fix to be done with the whole miserable mess.
Or so we thought ... until a cold January night a year later. The children were in bed, the Jets had just lost the AFC championship to the Steelers; all seemed right with the world.
A loud SNAPPPPPP reverberated throughout the house, destroying the peace of the evening. Our investigation revealed a pane of glass in one of the French door units had shattered from the cold. Fortunately, it was the outside pane, and the inside was still intact. Still. .. . not a great feeling. It was zero out.
You know the look that passed between us after we realized what we were staring at.
It was unbearable to contemplate dealing with those .. those . .. awful people again, but the next morning I e-mailed the Larceny, ah, Lumber Company from whom we'd purchased the units. A day later I received this reply:
We have contacted Acme Window and Door and the door is out of warrantee.
Um, okay, but what does the warranty say?
oi
Jan 18, 2011
Wilder and Wilder
Around that corner
Over the moon
A cloud in flight
Take my hand, Boon
Twisting leaning
Every which way
A visual frolic of
Fey disarray
A wolf, A cat
A twinkling eye
A watcher, A keeper
A soul lets fly
The Magic Man stands
And sweeps his baton
His brush our chariot
Hang on, Hang on
"Wizardess Corner"
Charles Wilder Oakes
I have a special friend. Magic surrounds him - it touches all he meets. Love to you, SP. xox
Over the moon
A cloud in flight
Take my hand, Boon
Twisting leaning
Every which way
A visual frolic of
Fey disarray
A wolf, A cat
A twinkling eye
A watcher, A keeper
A soul lets fly
The Magic Man stands
And sweeps his baton
His brush our chariot
Hang on, Hang on
"Wizardess Corner"
Charles Wilder Oakes
I have a special friend. Magic surrounds him - it touches all he meets. Love to you, SP. xox
Nov 4, 2010
Hobnobbing
The Hob was three and a half feet tall, sturdy, and suitably attired in a red plaid shirt and overalls. Sporting a straw hat and whistling, he stopped what he was doing when he saw the children approaching.
“Howdy! I fig-urred
I’d start in the barn,” he greeted them in an overly affected drawl.
“Hi. Who’re you?”
Eleanor asked.
“I’m Floyd,” he
announced. Proudly, as if she should have heard of him.
“And what brings you
here?” Rob asked.
“Wa-l-l-l,” Floyd
began, “there’s life here again. Y’all need a Hob to keep the place tiptop.” He
waggled his eyebrows, smiled a salesman’s smile, and jerked his thumb at his
own chest. “I’m your Hob. I’ll have this place sparkling faster than you kin
shake a stick. Then I’ll hit the house. Hobs, see, are better ‘n Goblins, Tomtes,
or Brownies. Tomte’s are prickly, peevish types. They’re all hairy, too. And
Brownies are housebound. I can work inside or out. House, barn, makes no nevermind
to me.”
“We have a Goblin,”
Patters informed him. “And Brownies.”
“We do?” The kids all
asked at the same time, surprised.
“Yes. In the house
where they belong. This barn is already being looked after. By me. Your
services are not needed,” she dismissed the Hob.
“Now, now. Let’s not
be too hasty. I think you’ll find my comp’ny to yer likin’,” he said.
“And knock off that
ridiculous accent,” Patters snapped. “I know you speak properly. No, we’re fine
here. You may move along.”
“Too late, honey. I
did the ritual.”
Patter’s eyes
narrowed and she hissed. “You stay out of my way. And be discreet—we have Humans
who aren’t aware,” she said.
“Wait. What ritual?”
Rob asked.
“The Hob ritual. When
we take a new residence, we perform a ritual pledging our service and fealty. We
choose a stone from the property and swear allegiance, and we must carry the
stone at all times. I have mine here on my watch fob.” He lifted a pocket watch
from the front of his overalls and showed it to the kids. “It also renews our
magic. A Hob with no home has faulty magic. But the rule is clear. One Hob
family per residence. If a ritual has already been performed by a residing Hob,
the squatter Hob gets their fingers singed when he or she tries to perform the
ritual. Smarts, too,” he added, rubbing his fingers with a frown. He gave
Patters a triumphant look. “So it’s a done deal. I’m here to stay.”
Patters turned to
the kids and said, “You’ll regret this. You’ll see. Before you know it, he’ll
be Lord of The Manor.” She stomped off, tail stiff in the air.
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Kindle)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (iTunes)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice (iTunes)
Sep 3, 2010
The Promise
Her old hand stroked the sleeping child's smooth cheek. So much time, so many years gone. It made the heart heavy.
All full circle. An ending connecting with a beginning. This child had everything ahead of her. It should have alleviated the woman's sorrow, but it did not. Would she find true happiness, or would she, too, someday stand beside a future of hopes and dreams with regrets and worries.
Two generations separated them. Two generations of wrong choices and sadness, and it came back on her shoulders. That this child did not have her mother was the old woman's burden to bear. Oh, yes, society played a role. There was some consolation in that, on a cheap day, but cheap days were the reason she stood alone beside the sleeping child.
This child, this beautiful child, was her chance to right those wrongs. Her chance to do the things she should have done fifty years ago. She sensed it was her last chance. She would not fail. She owed the child that.
In homes where domestic violence occurs, children are at risk. Regardless of whether children are physically abused or not, the emotional effects of witnessing domestic violence are very similar to the psychological trauma associated with being a victim of child abuse. Each year, an estimated minimum of 3.3 million children witness domestic violence.
All full circle. An ending connecting with a beginning. This child had everything ahead of her. It should have alleviated the woman's sorrow, but it did not. Would she find true happiness, or would she, too, someday stand beside a future of hopes and dreams with regrets and worries.
Two generations separated them. Two generations of wrong choices and sadness, and it came back on her shoulders. That this child did not have her mother was the old woman's burden to bear. Oh, yes, society played a role. There was some consolation in that, on a cheap day, but cheap days were the reason she stood alone beside the sleeping child.
This child, this beautiful child, was her chance to right those wrongs. Her chance to do the things she should have done fifty years ago. She sensed it was her last chance. She would not fail. She owed the child that.
In homes where domestic violence occurs, children are at risk. Regardless of whether children are physically abused or not, the emotional effects of witnessing domestic violence are very similar to the psychological trauma associated with being a victim of child abuse. Each year, an estimated minimum of 3.3 million children witness domestic violence.
Aug 18, 2010
Maybe, Maybe Not
Constable Hebert Maybe left his home each morning with the silent, desperate prayer he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.
Hebert's true calling in life was not from the constabulary. Constables are jovial men who lean on diner counters, stirring coffee and shooting the breeze. Constables help Mrs. Billing’s get her cat out of the tree. Hebert was petrified of Mrs. Billings (although, in all fairness to Hebert, most people were).
Hebert had mastered one thing in life: not being noticed. His hair wasn't even a definable color. It wasn't brown, and it wasn't blond. Most of it wasn't there. What was there his wife Mildred's whistle sharp scissors kept just long enough to comb over his dull scalp.
So off he went each day in his beige polyester uniform, praying he wouldn’t be drawn into conversation, needed, or kids wouldn't stuff a potato in the exhaust pipe of the town cruiser. But for the efforts of Mildred he might have known real success. Of course it would have been easier for Mildred to be the Constable; she would’ve preferred it (as would’ve Hebert), but it simply wasn’t done in a small New England town, so Mildred managed best she could. She was Constable De Facto. She sent Hebert out each morning while she answered the phone, made the decisions, and called Hebert on his car radio and told him what to do.
This system worked well, and the town of Flatsford (pronounced Flatsfud) enjoyed a peaceful run for most of Hebert’s career. The only tangible threat to his comfort zone was the annual town meeting. As Constable, his presence was required at the door of the school gymnasium, and the one day a year gave him anxiety-induced acid reflux. The year the budget included a controversial expenditure for dog waste receptacles at the park still tightened his chest and made his palms sweat. Most years, though, attendance was low, and he managed to avoid conversation, except for Mrs. Billings who snapped at him to stand up straight as she passed.
But all good things come to an end, and his life was about to change.
Hebert's true calling in life was not from the constabulary. Constables are jovial men who lean on diner counters, stirring coffee and shooting the breeze. Constables help Mrs. Billing’s get her cat out of the tree. Hebert was petrified of Mrs. Billings (although, in all fairness to Hebert, most people were).
Hebert had mastered one thing in life: not being noticed. His hair wasn't even a definable color. It wasn't brown, and it wasn't blond. Most of it wasn't there. What was there his wife Mildred's whistle sharp scissors kept just long enough to comb over his dull scalp.
So off he went each day in his beige polyester uniform, praying he wouldn’t be drawn into conversation, needed, or kids wouldn't stuff a potato in the exhaust pipe of the town cruiser. But for the efforts of Mildred he might have known real success. Of course it would have been easier for Mildred to be the Constable; she would’ve preferred it (as would’ve Hebert), but it simply wasn’t done in a small New England town, so Mildred managed best she could. She was Constable De Facto. She sent Hebert out each morning while she answered the phone, made the decisions, and called Hebert on his car radio and told him what to do.
This system worked well, and the town of Flatsford (pronounced Flatsfud) enjoyed a peaceful run for most of Hebert’s career. The only tangible threat to his comfort zone was the annual town meeting. As Constable, his presence was required at the door of the school gymnasium, and the one day a year gave him anxiety-induced acid reflux. The year the budget included a controversial expenditure for dog waste receptacles at the park still tightened his chest and made his palms sweat. Most years, though, attendance was low, and he managed to avoid conversation, except for Mrs. Billings who snapped at him to stand up straight as she passed.
But all good things come to an end, and his life was about to change.
Jul 1, 2010
Chairman of the Abhorred II
Mick had a paunch and an attitude. It's hard to say which people noticed first.
He strutted into the ballroom with a three martini skip in his step. God, he loved this. Who said money couldn't buy happiness?
He back-slapped his way toward the front of the room, to the table of honor. His guests awaited him, having arrived ahead as ordered - his bitchy wife, his useless son and his bitchy wife, and his lawyer and his bitchy wife.
As he drew nearer he saw the empty table and cursed. Where the hell were they? He gritted his teeth behind his insincere smile, and made a show of looking for his dinner guests.
"Do we have enough chairs for all your friends, Mick?" some blowhard called.
He HaHa-ed loudly. Stupid cow, where were they? Didn't she realize ....
"Excuse me, Mick, I think you have my seat," someone said.
That voice. That crusty, faggoty voice. No. Couldn't be.
But it was. Marshall Anderson, III. Navy blazer useless, disdaining (and keeping from membership at the Country Club) of anyone in trade.
Mick looked down at the place card on the table. Anderson Party. Chicken 5, Sole 3.
"I think your table is over there," Marshall pointed to the far wall, giving Mick a smug smirk.
Mick's eyes followed, and his wife was waving to him as if she were bringing in a plane. He forced himself to smile, but the congratulatory slap he gave Marshall's bony shoulder was harder than it appeared.
Bile filled his mouth as it hit him. They'd picked someone else as Citizen of the Year.
Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV
He strutted into the ballroom with a three martini skip in his step. God, he loved this. Who said money couldn't buy happiness?
He back-slapped his way toward the front of the room, to the table of honor. His guests awaited him, having arrived ahead as ordered - his bitchy wife, his useless son and his bitchy wife, and his lawyer and his bitchy wife.
As he drew nearer he saw the empty table and cursed. Where the hell were they? He gritted his teeth behind his insincere smile, and made a show of looking for his dinner guests.
"Do we have enough chairs for all your friends, Mick?" some blowhard called.
He HaHa-ed loudly. Stupid cow, where were they? Didn't she realize ....
"Excuse me, Mick, I think you have my seat," someone said.
That voice. That crusty, faggoty voice. No. Couldn't be.
But it was. Marshall Anderson, III. Navy blazer useless, disdaining (and keeping from membership at the Country Club) of anyone in trade.
Mick looked down at the place card on the table. Anderson Party. Chicken 5, Sole 3.
"I think your table is over there," Marshall pointed to the far wall, giving Mick a smug smirk.
Mick's eyes followed, and his wife was waving to him as if she were bringing in a plane. He forced himself to smile, but the congratulatory slap he gave Marshall's bony shoulder was harder than it appeared.
Bile filled his mouth as it hit him. They'd picked someone else as Citizen of the Year.
Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV
May 11, 2010
Tragic Magic II
The bunny twitched his nose again and cocked an ear. To the left. Her eyes followed, but she knew to what even before her eyes rested on the object.
Nope, not that. Things would have to get much worse before Harriet resorted to that.
The bunny's ears sagged.
She looked around the old kitchen again, searching for inspiration. Resources might be low, but she still had her talent, and there had to be something here. Then she saw it. The mouse hole in the mop board! A summoning charm for a tomte, or maybe a hob. It would ruin her last copper pot, but if it went well she could certainly afford a new one. Charms to summon the little folk fetched a pretty penny these days.
Tomte ~hob~tomte~hob. A hob, she supposed, if she had what she needed. Tomtes had easier dispositions, being eager to please, but hobs were more powerful and weren't bound within the house they were summoned to serve. They were worth more.
She went to the store cupboard with the book. Milk thistle, a bit of cat's claw, penny royal, salt from the dead sea, a blue candle (it was a birthday candle but it would work) and stones from the crop of a dentulous fowl. By Hecate's good graces she found all the necessary materials - she could still pull this off.
The bunny wrinkled his nose.
Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic III
Nope, not that. Things would have to get much worse before Harriet resorted to that.The bunny's ears sagged.
She looked around the old kitchen again, searching for inspiration. Resources might be low, but she still had her talent, and there had to be something here. Then she saw it. The mouse hole in the mop board! A summoning charm for a tomte, or maybe a hob. It would ruin her last copper pot, but if it went well she could certainly afford a new one. Charms to summon the little folk fetched a pretty penny these days.
Tomte ~hob~tomte~hob. A hob, she supposed, if she had what she needed. Tomtes had easier dispositions, being eager to please, but hobs were more powerful and weren't bound within the house they were summoned to serve. They were worth more.
She went to the store cupboard with the book. Milk thistle, a bit of cat's claw, penny royal, salt from the dead sea, a blue candle (it was a birthday candle but it would work) and stones from the crop of a dentulous fowl. By Hecate's good graces she found all the necessary materials - she could still pull this off.
The bunny wrinkled his nose.
Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic III
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 4, 2010
Mar 7, 2010
I'd Turn Back If I Were You
Know All Ye
Who Enter Here
To Tread This Stone
Without Fear
Ye Must Accomplish
A Humble Quest
Revealing Thy Honor
And Truth Possessed
If Ye Prevail
Ye May Pass
If Ye Fail
Take Heed
And Alas
The Heavens Will Darken
Thunder Will Roll
The Bowels Of Earth
Will Claim Your Soul
Who Enter Here
To Tread This Stone
Without Fear
Ye Must Accomplish
A Humble Quest
Revealing Thy Honor
And Truth Possessed
If Ye Prevail
Ye May Pass
If Ye Fail
Take Heed
And Alas
The Heavens Will Darken
Thunder Will Roll
The Bowels Of Earth
Will Claim Your Soul
Feb 8, 2010
Packing My Bags
The world is just an amazing and wondrous place. Different regions host a spectrum of unique species among plants, animals. Mineral combinations from natural resources flavor water. Every region is a miraculous mix of chemistry that gives birth to things which are entirely unique. It is brimming with diversity on every level, all breathtakingly beautiful, and shaping exciting cultures.
Where am I headed with this? The dinner table. Silly.
I consider myself very well traveled - in a palatal sort of way.
Stepping offshore into cold, fast waters of the Northern Atlantic we find succulent fish and shellfish. Pass the lemon, please.
I consider myself very well traveled - in a palatal sort of way.
Stepping offshore into cold, fast waters of the Northern Atlantic we find succulent fish and shellfish. Pass the lemon, please.
And look, there's Switzerland, hard ahead. Must be fate, so maybe some chocolate. While we're right here. Yep, good. A little pick me up to scamper around Northern Europe on a merry chase, picking up meats and cheeses. France, Germany, Austria, Hungary - one can go round and round in gastronomic circles in Europe, but make no mistake - I am making my way to the Mediterranean. Italy, Spain, Greece. Some fresh pasta, more lemons, maybe some tomatoes and artichokes for a sauce for the fish. And more wine to compare to what I got in France.
Huh. I missed England. Oh, well. Probably should've plotted a course .... eating some chocolate .... perhaps Turkey, and then north to Russia to work my way towards the Pacific. Many undiscovered regional delights between here and there.....swallow.....this may take a while......
Huh. I missed England. Oh, well. Probably should've plotted a course .... eating some chocolate .... perhaps Turkey, and then north to Russia to work my way towards the Pacific. Many undiscovered regional delights between here and there.....swallow.....this may take a while......
Jan 23, 2010
Authonomy
A source for terrific reads :
I placed The Keeper and the Rune Stone on the site two days ago. It is doing very well, but I am also enjoying the other work on there. So much talent ~
I placed The Keeper and the Rune Stone on the site two days ago. It is doing very well, but I am also enjoying the other work on there. So much talent ~
Jan 20, 2010
Is this the coolest thing you've ever seen?
Cheryl Fallon created this piece. It captivated me the second I saw it.
Her art may be viewed at:
http://www.CherylFallon.com
http://www.MoxieMamaStudios.etsy.co
Thank you, Cheryl, for allowing me to use Murderous Silhouette for The Keeper and the Rune Stone.
The Keeper and the Rune Stone (Kindle)
The Keeper and the Rune Stone (iTunes)
Jan 2, 2010
Noctivagus II
The wind whipped up again making it impossible to hear the noises of the night. Or maybe it wasn't the wind. The old ones in the area discussed it in low tones. Children whispered about it at night, trying to frighten each other. Some said it devoured flesh. Some said it consumed souls. All were wrong.
She sidled out of the light, pressing her back to the wall of the house so hard the edges of the shingles dug into her skin.
She sidled out of the light, pressing her back to the wall of the house so hard the edges of the shingles dug into her skin.
Edging along, slowly, listening, her eyes strained through the darkness for any indication she should reverse direction and flee back.
She eyed the truck. A chasm of vulnerability stretched between her and it.
Crouching low into the shadow of a bush, she took a deep breath, ready to bolt, when a hand gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in painfully to stop her, to warn her. Her heart almost exploded. She struggled to fight, but the hand restrained her with an unbelievable strength. Forcing herself to look up, her eyes met an old face.
Crouching low into the shadow of a bush, she took a deep breath, ready to bolt, when a hand gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in painfully to stop her, to warn her. Her heart almost exploded. She struggled to fight, but the hand restrained her with an unbelievable strength. Forcing herself to look up, her eyes met an old face.
"Watch!" He hissed.
Dec 20, 2009
Winter Faeries
Whirl, twirl
Spin and dance
Sprinkled frost drops
Land by chance
On petal, on twig
On blade, on leaf
Kissing each surface
With crackled motif
Moonlight glints
On lithe little shapes
Flitting about
The cold nightscape
Dawn creeps in
A glow in the East
Wings tire
Festivities cease
Weak light reveals
Lines icy pale
From frolic under
The inky veil
Spin and dance
Sprinkled frost drops
Land by chance
On petal, on twig
On blade, on leaf
Kissing each surface
With crackled motif
Moonlight glints
On lithe little shapes
Flitting about
The cold nightscape
Dawn creeps in
A glow in the East
Wings tire
Festivities cease
Weak light reveals
Lines icy pale
From frolic under
The inky veil
Dec 14, 2009
Chairman of the Abhorred
Mick was pleased with himself. Citizen of the year. Exploiting sick children opened most doors.
He'd sit at the head table and the local social climbers would flirt and fawn. He'd mention his Mother, God rest her gin-sodden soul.
He chuckled. It was all falling neatly into place.
He looked around the room, making certain he had everything. He paused to appraise himself in the mirror and sucked in his gut. The lighting in the motel room was bad - surely he wasn't that florid. No, he was ruddy. Hearty. The years of wind and sun still concealed the years of Scotch. Of course they did.
He glanced at the hooker sleeping on the bed. She might have been ugly but she was smart enough to get the most out of the room he'd paid for. Had to respect that.
His phone beeped as he hurried out he door and he glanced at the display. His lawyer. Damn. Another billable hour. The SOB had quite the scam going on, but it was a necessary evil when one made one's money fleecing people.
Which is what Mick did. Every day. And he'd gotten rich doing it. Every so often a naive but outraged victim thought they'd expose him. Not gonna happen. Mick owned this goddamned town. He'd simply donate some coin to another local non-profit and while his lawyer fended them off he'd be asked to sit on another board. He'd humbly accept. If the lawyer got his jollies antagonizing the schmucks and ran up larger bills, so be it. Everyone was a winner. Well, almost everyone.
He started humming the Stones tune "Tiiiiiimmmme is my side" and climbed into his pick-up. He threw a cup of cold coffee out the window and started the truck, revving the engine because it was fun and made him feel like a big shot.
If he'd spared a glance at the homeless man leaning against the motel wall as he wheeled out of the parking lot, he might have noticed the camera.
Chairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV
He'd sit at the head table and the local social climbers would flirt and fawn. He'd mention his Mother, God rest her gin-sodden soul.
He chuckled. It was all falling neatly into place.
He looked around the room, making certain he had everything. He paused to appraise himself in the mirror and sucked in his gut. The lighting in the motel room was bad - surely he wasn't that florid. No, he was ruddy. Hearty. The years of wind and sun still concealed the years of Scotch. Of course they did.
He glanced at the hooker sleeping on the bed. She might have been ugly but she was smart enough to get the most out of the room he'd paid for. Had to respect that.
His phone beeped as he hurried out he door and he glanced at the display. His lawyer. Damn. Another billable hour. The SOB had quite the scam going on, but it was a necessary evil when one made one's money fleecing people.
Which is what Mick did. Every day. And he'd gotten rich doing it. Every so often a naive but outraged victim thought they'd expose him. Not gonna happen. Mick owned this goddamned town. He'd simply donate some coin to another local non-profit and while his lawyer fended them off he'd be asked to sit on another board. He'd humbly accept. If the lawyer got his jollies antagonizing the schmucks and ran up larger bills, so be it. Everyone was a winner. Well, almost everyone.
He started humming the Stones tune "Tiiiiiimmmme is my side" and climbed into his pick-up. He threw a cup of cold coffee out the window and started the truck, revving the engine because it was fun and made him feel like a big shot.
If he'd spared a glance at the homeless man leaning against the motel wall as he wheeled out of the parking lot, he might have noticed the camera.
Chairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV
Dec 2, 2009
A Sign of Things to Come...
...or perhaps my writing hasn't evolved as much as I would like to think it has. This was my submission in a writing contest for the Providence Journal when I was 10 (?) - my submission was chosen as a winner. 30 years have come and gone, but I am seeing similarities, and it's funny.
While bobbing their furry little heads in the grass they give you a look of total amusement and placidity. While squawking and waddling around they tell you they are Darby and Joan and we are their people. They rule our yard with firm webbed feet and give us enough amusement to hope they will be here for a long time. They are geese.
While bobbing their furry little heads in the grass they give you a look of total amusement and placidity. While squawking and waddling around they tell you they are Darby and Joan and we are their people. They rule our yard with firm webbed feet and give us enough amusement to hope they will be here for a long time. They are geese.
Nov 17, 2009
Noctivagus
She stood frozen in the ring of lamp light, heart pounding, looking into the darkness.
Something malevolent watched. Hatred swamped her, surrounding her so completely it masked the direction of its origin. Somewhere out there in the darkness, veiled by the shadows, it stalked her. Assessing her coldly, contemptuous of its prey.
The thought lingered that it wasn't too late to return to the safety of the house, but the house was only a temporary refuge. Sooner or later she would have to venture into the night. It knew this and waited. It had time on its side, and she did not. Still, her hand clutched the knob, locked rigidly in place by her terror.
The night aligned itself with the the monster. The wind picked up, masking the noise of the unnatural with the sounds of nature. The moonlight and clouds played tricks on her, moving shadows before she could tell if they held any substance.
Anger replaced fear. It was time to even the odds. The surge of rebellious anger propelled her hand from the doorknob to the knife handle on her hip, and she stepped from the porch.
Something malevolent watched. Hatred swamped her, surrounding her so completely it masked the direction of its origin. Somewhere out there in the darkness, veiled by the shadows, it stalked her. Assessing her coldly, contemptuous of its prey.
The thought lingered that it wasn't too late to return to the safety of the house, but the house was only a temporary refuge. Sooner or later she would have to venture into the night. It knew this and waited. It had time on its side, and she did not. Still, her hand clutched the knob, locked rigidly in place by her terror.
The night aligned itself with the the monster. The wind picked up, masking the noise of the unnatural with the sounds of nature. The moonlight and clouds played tricks on her, moving shadows before she could tell if they held any substance.
Anger replaced fear. It was time to even the odds. The surge of rebellious anger propelled her hand from the doorknob to the knife handle on her hip, and she stepped from the porch.
to be continued......
Nov 14, 2009
Cool Little Gadget
I have an(other) unhealthy relationship in my life: my label maker. It's a new relationship - we only just met - but it's already obvious we were meant to be together forever. This is the real thing - the one.
We went to my office to tackle the neglected business on my desk. It might be important to explain here why there is neglected business on my desk. I don't want to deal with it.
So here's what we did: We made labels for folders so I can dispose of these papers forever. We assured a guilt-free future of non-productivity, and we felt very productive doing it (I might've been humming). Furthermore, it was aesthetically pleasing - all official and tidy on its way to the purgatory of my file cabinet.
Deception is a vital component in achieving satisfaction in an endeavor such as this. If I acknowledged what I was really doing (nothing) I would have cheated myself of the satisfaction one enjoys when an unpleasant task is completed. You must be equal parts dishonest and gullible if you are going to be lazy without guilt. I am a master, and flexible. My methodology can handily be applied to most situations, and in a moment's notice. Carpe Lazem.
Some other variations/applications of this methodology (dishonesty) which have served me well.
* If it is 50% off you can by two. If it is 10% off it is on sale (and you can buy two)
* Lists are enormously helpful to stay on task - don't make them.
* If it has half the calories you can eat twice as much.
* Lack of preparation is the key to flexibility.
Fear not. Indulgence is easily justifiable.
I am pleased to be hosting the first meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous - date to be announced.
We went to my office to tackle the neglected business on my desk. It might be important to explain here why there is neglected business on my desk. I don't want to deal with it.
So here's what we did: We made labels for folders so I can dispose of these papers forever. We assured a guilt-free future of non-productivity, and we felt very productive doing it (I might've been humming). Furthermore, it was aesthetically pleasing - all official and tidy on its way to the purgatory of my file cabinet.
Deception is a vital component in achieving satisfaction in an endeavor such as this. If I acknowledged what I was really doing (nothing) I would have cheated myself of the satisfaction one enjoys when an unpleasant task is completed. You must be equal parts dishonest and gullible if you are going to be lazy without guilt. I am a master, and flexible. My methodology can handily be applied to most situations, and in a moment's notice. Carpe Lazem.
Some other variations/applications of this methodology (dishonesty) which have served me well.
* If it is 50% off you can by two. If it is 10% off it is on sale (and you can buy two)
* Lists are enormously helpful to stay on task - don't make them.
* If it has half the calories you can eat twice as much.
* Lack of preparation is the key to flexibility.
Fear not. Indulgence is easily justifiable.
I am pleased to be hosting the first meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous - date to be announced.
Nov 11, 2009
It's 10:00 p.m. - Do You Know Where Your Author Is?
I am happy to support and promote the first-ever She Writes Day of Action this Friday, November 13th.
This day of action was inspired by the exclusion of women (yep - read zero) from Publishers Weekly's Best Books of 2009 list. I am urging every member of our community to buy a book published by a woman in 2009. Buy it. Read it. Celebrate it.
More information on this campaign is available at http://www.shewrites.com/
She Writes * She Tours * She Reads * She Markets * She Promotes * She Posts * She Coaches * She Networks * She Invents * She Creates * She Obsesses * She Sells * She Signs * She Strives * She Needs Help * (sw)
addendum - more of the same foolishness:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/business/media/12women.html?_r=1&ref=today
I am buying 10 books today to support this day of action.
This day of action was inspired by the exclusion of women (yep - read zero) from Publishers Weekly's Best Books of 2009 list. I am urging every member of our community to buy a book published by a woman in 2009. Buy it. Read it. Celebrate it.
More information on this campaign is available at http://www.shewrites.com/
She Writes * She Tours * She Reads * She Markets * She Promotes * She Posts * She Coaches * She Networks * She Invents * She Creates * She Obsesses * She Sells * She Signs * She Strives * She Needs Help * (sw)
addendum - more of the same foolishness:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/business/media/12women.html?_r=1&ref=today
I am buying 10 books today to support this day of action.
Nov 5, 2009
The Maine Literary Festival
And the anticipation builds....
Last year I spent an evening out in the cold with my nose pressed to the glass. This year I will be attending, and I am so excited I can’t even write. The irony is not lost on me.
I recently completed my first young adult manuscript. Writing it was much more fun than thinking about what to do with once it was completed. I had to screw up the courage to tell someone. Fortunately, that someone was a past MLF attendee, and knew just what to do.
She recognized the symptoms immediately: lack of sunlight, too much coffee, interrupted sleep patterns, and periods of elation and panic: Post Traumatic Manuscript Disorder. Confident in her diagnosis, she drafted and implemented a treatment plan. As I was in a weakened condition, she immediately organized a rejuvenating elixir. She invited me to a Writer’s Block Party at her home. We gathered around her rugged iron garden table which was substantial enough to support all of the baggage a writer drags around – swirling thoughts, concerns, doubts, stumbling blocks – and talked. It was a delightful evening sharing ideas, and support and encouragement, and I left with a fresh eye and new purpose.
But she was not done. The block party was where she handed me the prescription with the best prognosis for my ailment. The Festival and Workshop. After meeting and speaking with past attendees, all of whom were eagerly anticipating this year’s exciting programs, I concurred and scheduled my appointment.
We are fortunate to have this opportunity in Camden, and I am so pleased to be attending this year. I look forward to seeing those I met at the Block Party, and meeting new friends and professionals as well. I am happy to report that my condition continues to improve.
Last year I spent an evening out in the cold with my nose pressed to the glass. This year I will be attending, and I am so excited I can’t even write. The irony is not lost on me.
I recently completed my first young adult manuscript. Writing it was much more fun than thinking about what to do with once it was completed. I had to screw up the courage to tell someone. Fortunately, that someone was a past MLF attendee, and knew just what to do.
She recognized the symptoms immediately: lack of sunlight, too much coffee, interrupted sleep patterns, and periods of elation and panic: Post Traumatic Manuscript Disorder. Confident in her diagnosis, she drafted and implemented a treatment plan. As I was in a weakened condition, she immediately organized a rejuvenating elixir. She invited me to a Writer’s Block Party at her home. We gathered around her rugged iron garden table which was substantial enough to support all of the baggage a writer drags around – swirling thoughts, concerns, doubts, stumbling blocks – and talked. It was a delightful evening sharing ideas, and support and encouragement, and I left with a fresh eye and new purpose.
But she was not done. The block party was where she handed me the prescription with the best prognosis for my ailment. The Festival and Workshop. After meeting and speaking with past attendees, all of whom were eagerly anticipating this year’s exciting programs, I concurred and scheduled my appointment.
We are fortunate to have this opportunity in Camden, and I am so pleased to be attending this year. I look forward to seeing those I met at the Block Party, and meeting new friends and professionals as well. I am happy to report that my condition continues to improve.
Oct 29, 2009
Poor Mr. Webster
The computer age is an amazing time to live, especially if you are a writer. You have everything you could possibly need at your finger tips. You can research. You can thesaur. You can define. You can even have some human contact on social networking sites.
But, one can become too dependent on one's computer, and someone obviously has.
Which leads to the purpose of this post.
I was working - I really was - but I had another window open. And in the loafing window I used the word Viagra (the details are not pertinent to this discussion) and my browser (which has a spell check feature) highlightedViagra in red.
I right-clicked. I don't know why - I did automatically, but while I was clicking it was registering that it would be highlighted because it's not a word.
I am so naive.
Not only was it there, my spell check was chastising me for not capitalizing it.
There is a joke here. It escapes me, but there is definitely a joke here.
In any case, I cannot help but wonder what poor old Mr. Webster would have to say.
addendum - I am aware thesaur is not a word - if you want to get technical about it. Any writer, however, will tell you it is an action (and it is unfortunate that there are no cardiovascular benefits). So if Pfizer can make up a word and it ends up on my browser's spell check, I feel comfortable taking some artistic license.
But, one can become too dependent on one's computer, and someone obviously has.
Which leads to the purpose of this post.
I was working - I really was - but I had another window open. And in the loafing window I used the word Viagra (the details are not pertinent to this discussion) and my browser (which has a spell check feature) highlightedViagra in red.
I right-clicked. I don't know why - I did automatically, but while I was clicking it was registering that it would be highlighted because it's not a word.
I am so naive.
Not only was it there, my spell check was chastising me for not capitalizing it.
There is a joke here. It escapes me, but there is definitely a joke here.
In any case, I cannot help but wonder what poor old Mr. Webster would have to say.
addendum - I am aware thesaur is not a word - if you want to get technical about it. Any writer, however, will tell you it is an action (and it is unfortunate that there are no cardiovascular benefits). So if Pfizer can make up a word and it ends up on my browser's spell check, I feel comfortable taking some artistic license.
Oct 26, 2009
Nothing To Eat or Drink After Midnight
Two things going on here:
1. The hospitals have been hiring military personnel (who specialize in the mental preparation policies employed at boot camp) to consult on hospital atmosphere and its influence on patient cooperation.
2. "Going Green" - If Al Gore were in front of me right now I'd slap him so hard Tipper would fall down.
Then it was lunchtime. Preface. I cannot abide dairy, anything white, or covered in a sauce in a hospital. It's just wrong, and I think --maybe I'm just paranoid--but I think this has been included on my health records to empower health care providers in their psychological warfare.
So, enter the tray-bearing orderly. Smiling. Not at me, I discover, but in the anticipatory excitement which thrills deviants. He sets the domed tray down, adjusts my bed, he even plumps my pillows (I realize now this is part of his ritual and each step in said ritual brings climactic delight and must be adhered to precisely).
Finally ready, and watching my face carefully, he whips the dome off with a dramatic flourish.
He is rewarded. My plate bears an unidentified meat (undoubtedly from OR) congealing in a white sauce (similar in appearance to a sebaceous body fluid).
I slam the dome back down, my mouth filling with sweet saliva that's unswallowable. Not if I were 8 days into a hunger strike.
Did I mention the tapioca? Again, looks like drainage. And, all heart healthy, of course. Little hearts dance perversely all over the menu.
The orderly, sated and smiling, backs out the door.
Oct 24, 2009
Here Kitty Kitty Kitty
I feed the birds and Thomas kills them. I have some guilt about this.
A therapist would diagnose our relationship as unhealthy. Pathological, even. There are control issues and periods of violence.
We have a game he plays. When he's bored, he twangs the screen with a blood-stained claw. I drop everything and rush open it in a pathetic attempt to spare the screen. He waits for me to open the door, and then gives me a disdainful look indicating I took too long and now he doesn't want to come in after all. He turns his back and saunters away. We both know he'll wait until my hands are wet or otherwise engaged to do it again. We both know that's a dead screen standing.
He's a bastard and he has been since the day I brought him home. I said I "found" him. And I did - in a litter of kittens that was advertised in Uncle Henry's weekly periodical classified section of Free for the Taking. Thomas delights in lording this dark secret over my head.
I'd envisioned taking home a sweet little kitten to cuddle but that was not meant to be. His own mother was frightened of him. He's that mean. Even as a baby he had little use for those that serve him.
I'm looking at him even as I write this. He's asleep on the back of a chair. I long to go over and squeeeeeze him but know better. I take a photograph instead, and the flash disturbs his postprandial slumber (some poor creature, identifiable only by its gallbladder, has recently suffered a torturous death). He opens one eye, sees me, and then closes it, dismissing me.
No one likes to be dismissed. I get his cat carrier from the garage and set it on the kitchen floor with purposeful clamor. I open the wire door slowly, working the creaky hinges much like a musician caresses her instrument. It achieves the desired effect. He opens both eyes, gets to his feet in spritely fashion and makes a hasty retreat upstairs -all the while maintaining eye contact in manufactured bravado.
Victory is mine. Paige 1 Thomas 0
Two can play at this game, old man.
Oct 4, 2009
The Clarity of Childhood
Jimmies, dropped in wanton abandon, stick to the knob of my car stereo. Evidence of debauchery, discovered by one of my discerning and disapproving children. From the backseat.
I am amused (and envious) of the ability of children to quickly assess their surroundings, process small details, and reach concrete, confident conclusions.
You, the reader, will wonder at my grudging admiration. You, the reader, are unable to appreciate the distracting and complex environment this child mentally waded through before discerning the minute difference of her surroundings.
Said evidence was present in a very large vehicle that has been neglected for at least a month.
Said evidence, in the front seats alone, shared space with a colorful array of mail on the dashboard, a console full of grubby change, lipstick, pens, ferry tickets, keys, iPod buds with tangled cords, sunglasses, a pair of earrings, an emery board, USB storage, a mouth guard, phone and charging cord, and garden clippers.
Said evidence had been present for less than 24 hours.
Simply amazing.
In the process of reaching our maturity, adults develop a significant survival skill. We shut things out. We become adept at dismissing unnecessary details in our immediate environment. Much like a computer, our brains have many programs running, and some must run in the background in a limited capacity. Subconsciously, the user relies upon a system admin. This admin arbitrarily culls out unnecessary information that would slow down necessary processes.
Children enjoy a freedom from the restraints of the system admin. The clarity, the razor-sharp senses aiding their abilities to assess their environment - it's a wondrous ability. On occasion I mourn its passing.
Yet, life is a trade-off, and one certainty assuages my envy of their mental clarity and capacity. Children cannot stop for an ice cream *just because they feel like it*.
For my darling daughters. Mummy loves you.
I am amused (and envious) of the ability of children to quickly assess their surroundings, process small details, and reach concrete, confident conclusions.
You, the reader, will wonder at my grudging admiration. You, the reader, are unable to appreciate the distracting and complex environment this child mentally waded through before discerning the minute difference of her surroundings.
Said evidence was present in a very large vehicle that has been neglected for at least a month.
Said evidence, in the front seats alone, shared space with a colorful array of mail on the dashboard, a console full of grubby change, lipstick, pens, ferry tickets, keys, iPod buds with tangled cords, sunglasses, a pair of earrings, an emery board, USB storage, a mouth guard, phone and charging cord, and garden clippers.
Said evidence had been present for less than 24 hours.
Simply amazing.
In the process of reaching our maturity, adults develop a significant survival skill. We shut things out. We become adept at dismissing unnecessary details in our immediate environment. Much like a computer, our brains have many programs running, and some must run in the background in a limited capacity. Subconsciously, the user relies upon a system admin. This admin arbitrarily culls out unnecessary information that would slow down necessary processes.
Children enjoy a freedom from the restraints of the system admin. The clarity, the razor-sharp senses aiding their abilities to assess their environment - it's a wondrous ability. On occasion I mourn its passing.
Yet, life is a trade-off, and one certainty assuages my envy of their mental clarity and capacity. Children cannot stop for an ice cream *just because they feel like it*.
For my darling daughters. Mummy loves you.
Oct 1, 2009
Happy October 1rst
Fall isn't really my favorite season. I think it would be if I lived somewhere warmer, but in Maine the overwhelming feeling is one of dread. Winter is coming, days are shorter, colder, and muddy.
That being said, there are things I love about Autumn in New England. The crisp cleanliness in the air, apples, storms, fires, and Halloween.
I adore Halloween, and I got my first feel of it last night. I happened to be out at dusk, and it was magical. The sky was gray and ominous, a few of the first leaves to fall were swirling through the air, and a lone crow watched me balefully from the top of a dead tree - it was good.
I almost thought I caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure disappearing into the darkness.
Cracked headstones, flitting shadows, creaking stairs, dead flowers, sputtering candles.......do enjoy the magic of this season. Play some creepy organ music (I like Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor), go for a walk at night, use candles, and tell ghost stories. Happy Halloween.
Sep 29, 2009
Picking agents to query...........
Hmmm. Here's one. Seeking dystopian fiction? Really?
Nope. No dystopia here. Decidedly all about the utopian fictional environment. Dystopian fiction is like tossing out the travel brochures and picking a refugee camp for February break. Dystopian fiction is like having omega-3 fish oil for dessert. Dystopian fiction is exactly like scheduling your gingival graft the day before Thanksgiving.
Nope, I am all about Utopian fiction. I'll admit it. I hated Lord of the Flies. Hated it. It disturbed me on many levels for a long time, and I am still annoyed at the teacher - who passed it out after Christmas hols (January!) with a malicious smile. I have always suspected she secretly strove to single-handedly impact teen suicide rates. (she sells seashells)
Non-fiction dystopia? Rolling up the sleeves. That is history, and fascinating. I'll study anything - it just isn't where I want to go when I crack the spine of a novel.
Like the fish oil. I'll take it - with fiber, even - just don't call it dessert.
However, de gustibus non est disputandum.
Next..........
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