today ... and a taste of FoL

Got a bit rattled off of my writing game today when a local arts center where I'd signed up for a class called to let me know that the class was unavailable due to lack of enrollment. Cue nervous breakdown. It had only taken me two and a half months of dickering back and forth with my husband and cognitive therapist, talking about class length, levels of difficulty, intensiveness, and, of course, cost. Finally I narrowed the course down from a handful to just one and the one I wanted was cancelled. The other alternative was more than my budget. The next class that interested me, I didn't think I'd be able to handle in terms of ability.

Meaning I spent today walking around like a Turret's victim, pacing and tugging at my hair as I studied the catalog, but I couldn't seem to concentrate on it, I was also so easily distracted by every last thing. For some stupid reason I get like this when I'm really upset. Any outside stimuli suddenly - bang - has my attention and I'm hyper aware and can't focus on anything else until something else intrudes. Meaning while I clutched the catalog, music was playing - music I didn't really hear - as Facebook pinged - and the dogs barked - and I went to see what had them in a tizzy - and the neighbor drove by - then my stopped with a guy named Mike - and the computer pinged again, Facebook - and my cellphone rang, unknown number, ignore it - and my husband came home - to which he saw what I was like and promptly...the music was turned off, the cellphone was turned off, for an hour the internet was turned off, and he made me put the catalog down. After all, I looked like a mad woman wondering about with it.

In the end I picked a class on how to do mosaics. Really kind of happy about it. Hope it doesn't get cancelled too. I know how to do tile and stone and mortar and brick, so...Seriously, don't let this get cancelled. I can't deal with it.

* * *

Given the recent popularity of the mini-series of the Bible on television, I decided to promote my faith-based erotic, Festival of Lights a wee bit. (Hey, the Bible has sex and violence. Think I'm wrong, just read it.)

To that end, here's a new blurb:

Torn by the tides of religious war yet again, ancient Jerusalem proved a dangerous place for rabbinical students. To save his son a merchant made a most unusual purchase, a female Scythian slave - horse and all. Return in time to the first Hanukkah to witness miracles of faith and love.

And a work safe excerpt:

 

With the fluid grace of a predator, she closed the distance between them. The animal part of his brain was bleating in fear, but the male part was fully appreciative. The play of muscles under skin, coupled with the way she moved, walking on the balls of her feet with just the hint of a feminine sway. Hypnotized by the display, he didn’t notice how close she came until the twisted belt at her waist bumped a part of his body that enjoyed her prowl too much. So much so, if she moved any closer there would be no way she could miss the thickness of his arousal against her belly.

A calm, analytical part of his mind registered her attributes in painful detail. Saka was tall compared to other women he’d encountered. With a flash he imagined them naked, her hands circling his swollen manhood as he pushed her against the wall, lifting a lithe, muscular thigh. Then she gripped his chin with her dirt-stained fingers and the daydream shattered.

“Do you see me?” Saka lifted her arms. All Jacob saw was the ornate vest molding a taut waist and comely breasts flaring beautifully above lush hips and toned thighs, but somehow he doubted that was the answer she was seeking.

“Better I think, than you know,” his voice came out huskier than intended and deep inside her blue eyes something contracted, then flared candle-bright.

“Then know this, Conqueror of the line of Kings. I fell in battle. I failed my people. It was they, not the enemy, who decided my worth lay in the slave market and not as a warrior. I cannot go home. There is no home for me with the Kimmeroi.”

For a moment Jacob stood astonished at the heartlessness of her betrayal. Women were the core of his people. There was not a one without value beyond compare. Then he remembered his dream, white deserts tamed as he walked the land and a curious feeling of power grew in his chest.

“Wear your hair as our women do. Wear clothes as they do – but do not forsake your own. No one but Elokim, our God, knows what lies in the future.

writing day

Today was a writing day. Had this scene in my head that I was working towards getting committed to the page, never got it actually typed up because of a few speed bumps, but for the first time in a good long while it is really blazing in my mind fiercely. I'm not worried about losing an impression or a word. So, I don't mind going off to bed tonight without having gotten all of it recorded.

I do mind, however, my idiotic lack of feminine finesse when it comes to clothes and shoes. Jeans, t-shirts and stripper shoes. *scratches head* Yeah, not the magic mix most would find knock-your-knickers-off-sexy but that happens to be my forte, oh and toss in my fetish for killer hats. Really, I dig hats. Anyone who knows me has seen my insane addiction to headwear, and I am not talking about baseball hats, either. But if I'm pressed to describe a lady's dress, you'll get the color and if it had puffy sleeves or strappy things or not. See, totally lacking. I had to drag out the Taschen costume Bible as well as a few catalogs to dig through.

The sexy stuff, no problem. I can rattle off sexual peccadillos blindfolded and ball gagged. How? Easy-peasy, sign language should push come to shove, or well, there are other ways of getting words across, you pick those up quick depending on the kink. Then there is my unfortunate urge to constantly self-edit from the beginning every time I sit down with a work-in-progress. The longer the story grows, the more irritating this becomes - I just wish I could write! Instead I obsess, "Did I really say that back there? I really meant to say this in that spot. Oh, no! I shouldn't have used this word four times in three paragraphs." And so on. All of this could wait for the end, but no, I do it writus interruptus in the middle.

But today none of that derailed me, I got a good 4,000 words in on Trickster's Folly and added another 2,000 to The Relation Chip, so it was all good. Maybe if things go right I can share that scene tomorrow or even share the opening to Leash Laws. Now to get rid of the low-grade headache and get some sleep.

inspiration

The other day I was swamped by the sheer volume and complexity of news stories available in today's media. Then it hit me, it really shouldn't bother me as most of what I draw from when writing doesn't necessarily come from news snippets, but from experiences that this new 'plugged-in' generation will totally miss.

For example, the other day I was cleaning my kitchen when I was utterly floored as I listened to the story of a local kid who successful had his parents dragged in by a child protective service branch (since I live in a border area not sure if it was WV/PA/OH/MD) because when the youth was being punished his parents dared take away his cellphone, video game system, computer and related paraphernalia. Um, hello, that is the definition of being grounded. To have things of enjoyment being withheld for a set period of time until positive changes in behavior are achieved. Instead this was considered 'cruel' and the preteen was being deprived of things his peers had making him the 'object of derision' also 'denying him enjoyment of his formative years.'

Oh for pity's sake. A preteen. As in not a teenager. I must have been the worst mom ever. My kid didn't get a cellphone until he was sixteen. Let's not talk about the video game system or the internet because if I do the federales will be tracking the origin of my signal to haul me away to Gitmo for waterboarding. Sheesh.

I remember the trips to Florida, when we had the money - not two or three times a year, let alone seasonally - and certainly not to the expensive realm of Disney. And on these long trips in a vehicle sans DVD player, we were to sit, feet on the floor, hands in our lap, and eyes steadfastly out the side-windows to report on anything of interest to either parent. By the way, we were fortunate to have an FM radio, which my father never played unless it was to drown out my mom's attempts to give him bad directions to wherever we were headed.

You'd be amazed at the things you see while looking out windows - like the man with the long greasy black hair, sunken eyes and pallid skin wearing a tuxedo and tall top hat, driving a blue Schwinn bicycle with a shiny chrome basket down the side of I-95. Trust me, that image stayed in my head from the time I was fourteen, he had the image of today's age-worn Alice Cooper without the cool stage make up. Even more interesting were all the signs for "No bicycles..." and the like on the road, yet there he was, and in such odd get-up. Like a mortician for roadkill minus the shovel.

There were other things, too. Like the carload of naked people driving down the road, carefree as you please. So many folks treat vehicles like no one can looks in, as if it's a brick and mortar world instead of a fishbowl on wheels, but there you have it. Even better were the billboards and animals. We stopped counting and memorizing all the goofy slogans and misspellings that made us laugh. Or how many "Pedro's South of the Border" signs there had to be - just too many to count. And I got to see a real black panther in along the side of the road when we cut across the state. Dad liked to go to wild places to take pictures.

I never noticed a lack of having "stuff" growing up, because there was so much fun. Miss Tactile Sensitivity, that's me I suppose. So when it came time to be a parent and I was presented with the problem of hardship, of need-versus-want I didn't want to just present things in terms of economics, but to show my child how life could still be fun, to inspire him to live and enjoy life to the fullest without lusting after all the crap his friends had.

You can eat a meal and talk to the people you are seated with.
You can watch a movie, focusing on it alone.
You can spend a holiday with your family without responding to the dulcet tones of a text.
The world will not end if the internet is disconnected for two whole weeks.

Just imagine the things you can learn about the world around you...or even about yourself, if left to your own imagination for that amount of time. The world spun for millennia without it in far, far better shape. Think on that, and ponder the possibilities and ramifications.

Happy Easter

I thought I'd be better able to tackle the weekend than I was, silly me. Instead I'm going to share a project I've been working on as the mood allowed the past couple of years. It's an odd sort of story, so I'd really like feedback. It's heavy supernatural, urban-fantasy, interracial and female-centric. Make what you will of the last bit. As for the title... I'll keep that to myself for the time being.

Hey, maybe one day someone here will tell me how to do one of those cut things so I don't clutter up my front page with walls of text (looks hopeful). Yes, I am that clueless.

* * *

For hours Neuri Ralston watched the crowds of humanity flow past the front of Absinthe of Malice, an innocuous bar in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. She had stood watch over the establishment on and off over the last month. Each time, a siren’s song wrapped in scent pulled her closer to the door. Who or what was inside? Why was she drawn? Most importantly, was this a trap or could she finally have found where she belonged?

The door opened and another tantalizing drift of pearlescent smoke wafted her way and she was sorely tempted to give in, to explore the bar’s mysterious interior. Maybe at long last her yearning heart could find a place where she belonged. With a disgusted shake of her head, Neuri subsided deeper into the shadowed cove of an alley to watch and hope.

“I’ve dreamed,” the terse words fit the angry jerk of movement as the petite woman behind the counter slapped decorated cardboard coasters on the sleek surface of the bar.

“Misa, you are the Strix, when don’t you dream?” Lyndi Chiao laughed and shook her walking staff so the incense in the complex metal head plumed smoke to disguise her own. Being a dragon was getting harder and harder with all of the anti-smoking laws being passed. For the last hundred years, the po-shun flying staff remained safely hidden while a ceramic cigarette holder lent her the illusion of smoking. Now, she pretended to sniff the scent of burning orchid seeds as a customer sent her a scathing look, now she faced having to go back into hiding in the hinterlands.

Not so for her voluptuous little lover, the Strix. The modern world had lost true appreciation for the witch-born demonesses. Today, thanks to the neo-pagan movement, strix was just another name for a type of witch, not the beautiful shape-shifting, dream haunting, blood drinkers they truly were. Lyndi loved the feel of Misa’s small talons gripping her wrist as she ruffled her silky feathers before a nocturnal hunt.

Misa’s gusty sigh accompanied a pained roll of green eyes, redirecting Lyndi’s fanciful thoughts. Artemisia had been a youth with the first blush of womanhood gracing her limbs when she walked naked in the creek, harvesting herbs and the attention of a dragoness. No matter her innate tranquil grace, a simmering cauldron of emotion always bubbled beneath the surface.

“At least I find my way through dreams by more than mere moonlight,” an impish dimple dented a soft cheek a split second before Misa’s classic Greco-Roman features turned serious. “Oscar Wilde aside, I’ve been dreaming awake. Again and again the same thing – a cry of loneliness that kills, an arctic wind that burns with heat, and a fury unlike anything I’ve ever felt.”

Lyndi nodded, she too had felt a change in the energies of mountain, air and water. However, she wasn’t as attuned to the earth and its creatures as Misa. A celestial being at heart, she needed to breathe the air and see the stars. Contemplating the possibilities, her claw, tipped fingers twisted the po-shun surrounding her with comforting smoke.

“Ugh, that is so disgusting.” A nasal voice full of haughty derision buzzed in Lyndi’s ear like an annoying gnat. “There are laws about smoking in public places, ya know.”

“Yes, I do know,” instead of getting angry, Lyndi felt amusement coil in her belly. This pale round eye held nothing but contempt in her insubstantial little frame. Humans walked such a small time on the earth, yet roared as though their voices carried the impact of a Shishi, Foo Dog, protecting their temple.

“You are very thin,” she commented, looking at the annoying one’s underfed body with a spark of lazy, masochistic interest. A spark that must have registered in her eyes the way the waifish virago flinched. She felt the bristling energy of Misa at her back and pulled the full-bodied beauty to nestle under her shoulder. If she let her little demon-witch have her way, the woman would be sipping hemlock tea and smiling prettily. Sometimes having dominion over water had its perks.

“I’m a model,” the annoying one said with a toss of badly permed hair. The whining voice was starting to erode Lyndi’s good humor. White women would never make sense. Twenty, or maybe thirty, years earlier, a designer looking for something unique had stumbled into Absinth of Malice and persuaded the dragoness to pose for a few photos to sell his foul smelling perfume. Black women weren’t supposed to have Asian cat-tilted eyes and long layers of waving green-blue hair – she was a hit and business increased. Thankfully, her fifteen minutes of fame lasted only that long. In no time she was back to being reviled as a mongrel freak.

“So was I child. Being pretty doesn’t give you a right to be surly and demanding.” Lyndi’s eyes slid slowly closed, unconsciously pulling the bony creature forward. “Aren’t you,” she extended a pearly claw forward and caressed a hollow cheek, sensing the implants behind it, “thirsty?” The fake blonde licked equally false raspberry lips with a suddenly raspy tongue.

“Yes,” her voice, now quieter, rough with thirst was far less troublesome to Lyndi’s ears.

“Then perhaps you should have more to drink?” The suggestion had the desired effect and the young human stumbled back to her table to order a new round.

“Misa,” she purred, a throaty sound not unlike the rumbling timbre of a tiger defending her dinner. “Be a dear and call your friend, the Peace Officer and allow him to know that a very inebriated female will be leaving within the hour.” Giving in to temptation, Lyndi rubbed her nose against the pale fragrant skin of Misa’s neck, allowing the thick fall of chestnut curls to tickle her nose giving rise to images of another spot of her luscious lover’s body where crisp curls delighted.

With the spark of arousal came an image…snow swirled and flew coloring the air and ground in a tornado of white, above the sound of the howling wind was the wail of an animal that wasn’t quite an animal. The feeling of arousal intensified, Lyndi lifted her head and her lips bowed into a true smile. “Our third nears; soon our trinity will be complete.”

self challenge

Still not feeling "the thing" so I opted for an old fashioned writing challenge instead of attempting to add to anything 'in progress' to share. This type of challenge involves getting out the dictionary, picking a number of words at random and using them in the first sentence. The idea is to write a bit of flash-fiction based around that sentence. Remember, this isn't perfect, it's written fast and just based on these randomly picked words to stimulate the muse or writing process.

Todays words: negative, course, sputter, fill, descend, carcass

Negative thoughts filled the young man’s mind as he watched the thin stream of cold water course descend over the cooling bovine carcass to fill the chipped concrete gutter in the center of the floor with a thick runnel of blood.

“’You’re good with animals, help your uncle out for the summer, they said,’” he mocked, twisting his alto voice to a screechy pitch. “This doesn’t require being good with animals.” He looked disdainfully at the rough planked walls and the unsealed concrete floors while the ceiling was enough to not bear closer scrutiny. The lid of the make-shift abattoir consisted largely of exposed rough sawn beams pierced by pieces of rebar that seemed to have been wrestled into shape by the world’s biggest, burliest fisherman. Most of pieces looked as if they had been scavenged from construction sites, splattered with paint, concrete, rust or just run over by heavy equipment.

At the least he was spared doing the outright killing, that or dealing with the farmers when they brought their animals in to negotiate prices. He was quick and efficient at processing a carcass that was the only reason his lazy uncle wanted him around, and he knew it. But at the rate the old man was having people bring in cows, he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep – or the meat would go rank, because the son of a bitch was too damned cheap to buy a proper refrigeration room. There was this creepy cellar that smelled like death, but there was no freaking way he was going to stack any of the hung beef in there. No way, no how.

When he complained, asking for another flash-freezer – because, face it, one wrapping station and flash freezer isn’t enough with the amount of cows his uncle had agreed to take in of a sudden – he got dragged around to a bunch of other places just like this 1930s horror show. All had the same motif, broken down barn meets light-industrial with a side of depressed splatter house horror in blue vinyl boots and a clear plastic slicker. Just…what the hell?

In school they’d read Upton Sinclair and those stories out of the slaughter houses, things were supposed to have gotten better, not worse, right? But that was all USDA, not mom-and-pop do-it-yourself and ‘as long as you don’t sell the meat no one cares’ fly-by-night outfits. It made him want to weep. The irony being he was saving up to pay for college, hoping for veterinary medicine. And here he was, using his knowledge of anatomy to make better, faster cutlets. Watching the blood change from dark red to a foamy pinkish froth, he wondered not for the first time, if the guys at the big, clean slaughter houses ever shared these maudlin thoughts, or if it was something he was stuck with based on the ambiance of drafty former pig-pen? Fervently he hoped to never find out.

With a shake, he returned to the task at hand. This beef need to hang. Time to focus on another. In this fashion he hoped to numb his emotions, preserve his sanity, dull his senses and keep a running tally on days, hours, minutes, and cows via steaks, chops, burger, and entrails. There was another guy, one with a missing eye who pulled his leg along like a puppy on a chain that dealt with head, hides and hooves. Let him face the faces and those horrors. The other man never really talked, he liked that as he was at his limit.

world of hurt

No bones about it, today was an awful day. On Monday I picked up a prescription and noticed the generic for the Topamax that I usually take was totally different. It really made me uncomfortable. I wasn't onboard with going generic in the first place, but didn't have a choice, but going to yet another generic...well, I decided there really wasn't anything I could do about it. Hindsight, is a bitch. Tuesday was sort of okay, Wednesday I had a headache all day that just kept getting worse no matter what I did. Just put it down to two doctors' appointments in one day plus trying to squeeze in grocery shopping. Overload. Today. Yeah, it blew. My eyes still ache. My face still feels swollen. My skin still feels foreign, and I just managed to hold down my first meal of the day. Go me.

In case you don't know why it is important to tell your doctor that you want 'brand necessary' checked on your prescriptions for chronic conditions, unless you're being ground under by the system like me: Crazy Meds

On the upside, my husband didn't know how bad my day was going and he brought me home an Easter gift early, six white Peking ducklings. They are sitting under a heat lamp in a special tub with a feeder system - cat proof, of course. It's indoors until they are ten weeks old, they're only a week old.

casual conversation

I love people watching. Really. As much as I dislike being around people in general (crowds are not my thing), I'm actually one of the rare types that goes shopping on Black Friday every year not for the deals, but to people watch. Just ask my mom and sister-in-law. They've spent enough years with me during our annual event to testify to my lack of actual spending to own up to the truth of what I'm really doing - gawping at the sheer humanity. Or in the case of that pulsing mass if gibbering mayhem, lack forthwith.

Used to be I'd take a notebook and jot down what I thought people were saying, or doing as I watched them. My own brand of alternate history. It was pretty popular for a while, I've lost track of some of the older creations on the internet bulletin board system. Would have kept them on my computer but the grey box did a pop and fizzle with a wicked virus a number of years back that killed a score of files. Every so often I challenge myself to do a story in conversation alone, like this:

“Mmmm…I don’t know about you, but I love coming here every Friday. Look at all that prime man flesh.”

            “Tabitha! You're married!”
            “Sweetheart, I may not be allowed to sample the treats, but I can certainly appreciate the beauty that is the male animal.”
            “That is so not right.”
            “Aw, come on! I sit and listen to you complain about that woman at work who makes eyes at everything with a penis but you can’t indulge me?”
            “It’s not that Tabby, it just seems wrong sitting here drooling over those guys.”
            “Because I'm married?”
            “Partly, but also because it’s all based on looks.”
            “Hold that thought! It’s okay for you to tear down your co-worker based on her looks, but I can’t appreciate beautiful men? What kind of half-assed logic is that?”
            “Fine! I'll be nicer to Betsy, but I just can’t stand to be around her. She makes a good target screwing up as much as she does.”
            “Tracy you have got to be the biggest hypocrite. That woman doesn’t screw up, you set her up simply because she is fat and, as you said, makes an easy target. In order to judge her worth properly you have to use unbiased standards.”
            “Why're you looking at me? Look at the guy over there. Yeah, that one with the dark curls. She just makes me want to gag. All she does is sit in that office and eat all day. Fritos, Crunch ‘n Munch, Twizzlers – you name it. She sticky fingers her way through the day with a saccharine smile – literally and physically. Being that big isn’t just disgusting, it’s positively unhealthy.”
            “I forgot about your mom. Didn’t she die of heart disease complicated by obesity.”
            “This has nothing to do with my mother!”
            “If you say so.”
            “I say so.”
            “What do you think about that one…the one over there on the left with the long brown shaggy hair?”
            “Tabby, I just don’t get it. None of these guys you are panting over looks anything like Carl. I mean, if this is what you look for in a guy, what gives?”
            “Carl loves me and I don’t even love me. This is what I look for in fantasy land. You do know the place. You would have to since it been how long since you've gone out on a date...? Tracy? Hello over there.”
            “No, you are right, I don't date. I do have fantasies. Just not over these guys.”
            “As in really never? What the hell!”
            “Not a big deal. Oh, sure I'm good enough to drink beer or watch the game with, but dating requires...Well, something a bit different.”
            “Damn! You work in construction, you get to look at all those luscious men all day and you want me to believe that not a one has asked you out for a drink or maybe a “working” lunch?”
            “Yeah, I’ve had those sorts of offers. Be still my beating heart! What romance, ‘yo, Trace, you wanna suck my dick and get some pizza?’ Thank you but no, Tabby.”
            “I didn’t realize it was like that.”
            “Tabs, I'm a mason. I lay brick for a construction company. The only other woman employed by the firm tosses back jelly doughnuts like a wino at nickel beer night. What do you think I get all day? I get, ‘hey there Trace, you can bed my bricks any old day,” or “lay me sweet mama.’”
            “You’re kidding me!”
            “Hello? Remember me? I don’t have a sense of humor.”
            “There is a lot to love about you, the least of which is that delightfully sarcastic sense of humor. Look at you! You are in great shape!”
            “Yeah, I guess fireplug is a shape. Short and squat. My arms are more muscular than most guys, and I got a working man’s tan. I look like a car door reflection, not a runway model.”
            “You are so wrong, that assessment is so wrong. Oh, oh, oh! Love the buns on the blond! Okay, so these guys do nothing for you. Tell me then what is your fantasy man, Ms. International Fireplug.”
            “Seriously?”
            “Seriously.”
            “You won’t laugh at me?”
            “Out with it woman before I stab you with my fork.”
            “Okay, okay, no need to get psychotic. I want a guy with perfect hands. They have to be strong but not clumsy or too big, long lean fingers that can hold me gently, but strong enough to hold me close. Not body builder stuff, but honest strength. He has to have a deep voice, not crackling or spooky movie deep, but a nice bass tone that makes you see dark nights and silk sheets just by whispering into your ear. He has to be taller than me. Damn it, I want a man that makes me finally feel like a delicate female that needs protected. I want to feel like a lady when I am with him, not a bowling partner. I want a partner and a protector, it gets old being alone. This female power shit is for the birds, coo-coo birds to be precise.”
            “Damn Trace, you’re a romantic.”
            “Yeah, I guess so. Tell anyone and I’ll break your nose, sissy-girl.”
            “You wish, She-Ra. Hell, look at the time, I have got to run and get the kids. Stay single you really aren’t missing all that much, only the screaming and the crying and that’s while the kids are asleep.”
            “Funny lady. Guess me and my make-believe man will just keep on going for now. Same time next week?”

            “Of course! But next time, if it looks like rain, we’ll sit at the indoor café across the street. The rain makes you utterly maudlin.”

curry chicken

Before you look at the dish and run away - stop! This is actually a sweet dish, not spicy, nothing to fear here. Plus, there are a couple variations to keep things simple and easy when you are in a hurry or short on the more hard-to-come-by items.

white rice
1 lb. chicken breast cubed
2 tsp. curry powder
3/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 - 13 0z. can coconut milk*
2 tbsp. tomato paste
3 cups baby spinach**
1 cup diced tomato

Make enough white rice for your family. Your distance may vary. That's why I didn't give amounts, sorry.

In a separate bowl, sprinkle the chicken with the curry, salt and pepper - turn until well coated. In a wok or generous skillet, heat oil on med to med-high add onion and chicken, turning often until well cooked. Stir in milk and tomato paste, bring to a boil then reduce heat to a simmer for five minutes or until thickens. Add spinach and tomatoes cook until greens soften, 2 or three minutes. Serve with rice.

*substitute canned milk (sweetened condensed)
**substitute canned spinach or turnip greens, we're really fond of turnip greens

may you live in interesting times

Back in college, when I was taking creative write classes to alleviate the rigors of engineering, I entertained classmates with slightly altered accounts of my own life, or tales thereof. I've always kept a journal, a diary or something to that effect, even after my car accident, even if it was just a few scrawled words here and there. Looking back through chunky books of mess from those weeks and months there was a lot of lost time but also a lot of pain I'd rather not revisit, so I turned to the internet to see what I missed.

Words fail me.

There is a curse, "May you live in interesting times." Even if I don't live in interesting times, the way the world has shrunk so the internet touches every spot on the world in an instant...well, we're ensured we don't miss much of anything anytime soon. Which begs the question of how to create anything new or interesting to what must be jaded readers. Face it, if you can pop on the world of twitter, blogger, facebook and the like and inside a few keystrokes and be inundated with real stories of heroism or romance, debauchery or wickedness, how is a mere storyteller ever supposed to attempt to compete? Bad enough knowing the classics are out there, you know, myths and fables and tales handed down over generations - but to have every last impression and event shared over a day? Talk about overload.

So, what do you think. Do books and television shows and movies still provide a bit of alternative escapism, or has it come to the point where we as a society now expect so much more from authors that we hold them to an even higher degree? Or is it just me that seems to see authors in that light?

The oldest profession - redux

With snow spitting, the husband and I decided to stop at a local watering hole for a quick drink and we had the following chance discussion with a female friend - much to the amusement and consternation to the bar patrons.

Her: "Ehhh... Snow, again, snow. I wish it would stop. I'd much rather see buds on the trees than that crap on the ground. But at least it keeps the hubby busy shoving wood in the wood burner. What the hell is it with men and fire?"

Hubby: "Hey now, that was man's first job, taking care of the fire!"

Me: "Just like women's oldest profession was prostitution, and likely just as noble."

Her: "Gee, I can see it now. Did the first fire for man to tend start from the first profession being worked in the high prairie grass, you think? All that friction?"

Hubby: "Hell no woman, we figured that shit out to keep your cold feet off us and to get you gone after so we could get some sleep."

Her: "Charming."

Me: "Yup, him and his chainsaw wielding skills are all mine."

We, the sniggering ladies of the room toasted and the guys just looked ill at ease, unable to fathom why we weren't out to directly kill my Neanderthal male. Why? He amuses me. That and he really does stock the wood burner, entendre included.

presents from the past

Late last night, I was pulling my hair out looking for a file I'd misplaced by frantically scanning through backup CDs burned over the course of a number of different years. We've all done this, I guess. It's the cyber version of tearing the house apart looking for our car keys. In the end I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did find something so much better.

I found my son. To be more specific, I found a slew of three minute movies my then, seven or eight year old son had made while his mom was doing the dishes or cooking dinner. In those days the young man would have been so busted. Now that he's in his twenties - the potential embarrassment factor is delicious! And seeing his sweet little face pop-up in the dark grainy screen with such cheesy dialogue...just cracked me up. No mom could possibly erase these 'precious moments.' Nope. I plan to save them. Maybe even send them to family members cell phones, once I figure out the cell phone thing well enough...

He didn't let me carry pictures of him in my wallet when he was growing up, because and I quote, "Mom, that is sooo embarrassing. Someone will see!" For as outgoing a child as my son was, things were strictly regimented to eliminate any possible extra attention. He was a bit phobic about being in the spotlight. As a result, anytime I tried to take a picture of him, he disappeared into the background faster than a ghost on fade. The only one permitted to snap a pic was a designated grandparent, because, "you know, that's their job." Make that make sense.

So for Passover this year, I'm going to be passing out copies of his epic, nine-part mini series filmed in my old bedroom, featuring the whisper voiced detective clad in his dad's Laser-Tag gear, as he assaults my old wicker rocking chair for posterity's sake.

Ah motherhood, the gift the keeps on giving!

soutzoukakia recipe

Growing up Greek, we had a lot of great foods that a small child pretty much couldn't pronounce let alone spell. One of my all time favorites (aside from dolmades aka grape leaves) was what I called Greek meatballs. Face it, when you're five years old and an American mutt with a percentage (about 25) of Greek blood, you're not belting out words like 'soutzoukakia' like a champ on a regular basis.

But boy, oh boy, do I adore this recipe. So, I am sharing it today.

Ingredients:
1 kg/2 lb ground beef
2 eggs
1 sliced onion
1 liter/1 quart of tomato paste
Some olive oil
Salt
pepper
oregano
cumin
some flour
2 spoons of sugar

You'll notice there isn't a lot of exact measurements. Yeah, about that, a lot of folks don't do salt or pepper and some aren't too keen on cumin - so it's to taste, same with oregano. I never realized a person could have a dislike of oregano until I got married. The male isn't too fond of the nicely scented green herb, it gives him heartburn if I don't pay attention. The flour is 'use until stiff' so if you buy/use fatty meat you'll use more flour than folks who cook with lean meat or venison. So, no amounts given.

Mix the meat with the eggs (raw folks, seriously this should go without saying but I didn't and a friend hardboiled them, it was the weirdest fiasco - ever), and add the chopped onion, the cumin, salt and pepper. Form into elongated balls and turn inside a bowl with the flour until firm. Fry the floured meatballs in the oil at high heat.
           
When cooked add the tomato paste and sugar, and let cook for another 10-15 minutes at medium heat. Serve with either rice or fries.

Now, you'll notice the 'some' on the oil, this is not an invitation to a deep fry either. This is a lightly coat the pan and fry the meatballs, just a bit more than sauté but not heart-attack worthy grease immersion.

Good luck and enjoy!

daily posts

I want to start doing daily posts again, but am not quite sure if people would like to read teasers from things published, to be published, in the works, or original stand alone its - full and complete that could be about one to three pages in length.

Sound off and let me know. For those of you who are aware of where my live journal is hidden, I'm attempting to post there daily as well - those aren't for public perusal given the adult nature of topics. So Try to keep things here pg-13 suggestion-wise.

As for facebook, I seriously don't know what to do with that place. My internet service is via a satellite uplink, and we only have so many megabytes each day. Not nearly enough to deal with the bloated mess of that place. Not only that, but every time I go there it's rife with viruses and other problems. I know a lot of people love it, but really, I'm not one of them. And for the life of me I can't figure out twitter. Call me dense, call me stupid, I just can't tweet.

Hope to hear what you'd like to see :)

Taps on the mic...1-2-3

Well, there were things about this blog I could change, and things I couldn't. I spent hours clearing out old posts and updating dead links and book covers, but for some reason blogger seems to adore the YouTube links.

Go figure.

Clunky crap like that just seems beyond me. I'm quasi-amused at the most inordinate of things lately. So, we're taking a militaristic view of my quirks. Meaning if you don't ask the blue haired mad-woman, she probably won't tell you. Yes, my hair is blue. No, you probably don't want to know.

But if you do find yourself really wanting to know. That's what the reply button is for. Machine gun style, here's life:

My son has moved out, he's on his own, doing well with his (now) fiancé.

Seizures are under control and I've not only got my driving privileges back, but a really awesome radiant red, Toyota FJ-Cruiser.

My hair is blue, my family still gives me hinky looks at the dinner table at holidays. Totally sweet.

I'm writing again; about 5,000 words per day when the muse moves me. Took apart Dog Wild 3, Trickster's Folly and started over from the ground up. It's cooking along nicely now at the 20,000 word mark so I hope to be done in about two or three weeks. Seriously. This one will be polyamorous and have lots of violence. I'm giddy thinking of my plotlines.

I'm also doing a lot of gay and lesbian stuff. I know most of my readers are going meh. Sorry. I have some other things in the works as well, don't feel bad. Getting out of the doldrums and being able to do things has really helped a great deal.

Well gots to go cook dinner. TTFN and will post more as soon as this piddly sat service chokes up more 'net service for me.

Goin' to the dogs

Between shopping on Black Friday and post-turkey day clean up, I missed posting on Frightening Journeys this week, so I decided to take advantage of the crickets and cobwebs over here and ramble on the subject: what is my favorite shifter. Believe it or not - it isn't the werewolf.

Yes, I know, shocking considering how many of my books have featured werewolves or man-wolf shifters, but I'm finding a new fascination taking me over. Cynanthropy for one, before you go looking it up at Wikipedia and getting all disappointed - trust me, there is next to nothing there, if you want information on occult studies you've got to hit the stacks - it's dog shape-shifting. I know a lot of people won't see much of a difference between a dog and a wolf, but they are there trust me. If you ever want to see, or learn some really nifty (read nerdy) differences between wolves and dogs look up two different articles, one on the hunting patterns of wolves and the other on the instinctive knowledge dogs have of calculus. Yes, ladies and gents, calculus. It took me a good long time to wade through that article, but it was well worth it, notably since I learned something interesting. The only other animal that has been known, or observed, to apply the same analytical skills while hunting prey individually has been the Kodiak bear.

Leading me to my next type of favorite shape-shifter, the berserker. No, I won't call them were-bears or therianthropes. I subscribe to the old school philosophy that everything has a name, and deserves to be called accordingly. There aren't many stories out there featuring berserkers, the bear shape-shifter, and the ones that do exist always seem to want to make the bears misunderstood and cuddly - not at all the way I picture them.

I am thinking it's time to kick my writing into high gear and rectify some of this shit ;)

Right now I'm working on addressing the lack of cynthropes with my female/female stories Leash Laws and The Relation Chip. So people, keep on me, keep nagging, push me little and I promise they'll get to you. Why do dogs have to be man's best friend? Sheesh...lol.

First Love

RRP First Love Contest

Dear Diary,
I am tired of feeling so alone. All I want is someone to love, who loves me in return. I will never understand those romance books my mom reads by the bag-load. All of those exotic, pretty, intelligent, perfect women being so damned stupid about welcoming love. If I am ever given the chance, I am going to grab it with both hands and heart and never, ever let him go.

Casting furtive glances left then right, she snapped her journal closed then hugged it tight to her chest. For a moment Bart felt jealous of the red, cloth-bound book. He loved watching the way she seemed to hide behind her dark brown bangs, withdrawing into her own world as she wrote.

Grinning, he watched as she slid the journal into her book bag then retrieved a book. That was something else he liked about Lauren, she didn’t read those stupid cock books like all the other girls she read real books, horror novels. His cousin told him the easiest way to spot a dyed-in-the-wool virgin was to watch what they read. If they got all flushed and starry-eyed over romances, don’t even bother, they were waiting for a happily-ever-after, i.e. engagement ring, before getting down and dirty.

Sliding a look at the study hall teacher, Bart had to stifle a laugh. This guy did not fool anyone. Every day Mr. Dan loaded his thermos with double malt whiskey and snoozed through the post-lunch study period. Mr. Dan was the nickname slapped on the droopy faced geometry teacher from time immemorial. His real name was, fantastically enough, Charles Daniels. No one dared to call him Charlie Daniels after the renowned country and western singer, it was the only time the old fart came alive. The last time a smart-ass freshman got cute and lipped off, the boy ended up with a week of detention, extra homework and when no one was looking (meaning everyone was stunned into silence) a smack upside the head. The title Mr. Dan, however disrespectful, fit, in fact the guy took to it so well that other teachers and school administrators even used it.

Today seemed to be an especially long day on old Mr. Dan, no more than ten minutes into the period and he was sleeping, no, snoring face-down on his paper strewn desk. Bart shook his head in amazement the guy not only still had a job but that he was half-way proficient at teaching the few classes he had. Everyone in the school eventually had Mr. Dan, even if it was only for study periods. A few years back Bart’s older sister Naomi had Mr. Dan for math, the dude got so trashed over lunch she ended up teaching the class. The whole school knew about it, up to the principal, but everyone looked the other way. It was a mystery to Bart, and to the hundreds of other students in the school, as to just why the old man was allowed to get away with so much.

Instead of wasting time on the snoring mass of frizzy brown hair and ugly brown tweed (the dude seriously looked like a half-shaved bear), Bart slung his book bag across the floor and slowly made his way behind it, heading towards Lauren. The first time he had done this, she almost fell out of her chair. He liked watching her face turn all pink and red. He liked watching her get nervous and shake. He enjoyed listening to her soft voice as it got all tongue-tied. She still jumped and turned pink when he did it, but now she peeked up at him through those thick bangs and smiled, that he liked even better.

No one understood why he spent his entire free period chatting up the class geek-girl, Bart least of all. In the ninth grade it had been easy to dump on her, with all that hair and braces and those clothes. Her hair had been waist long and done in two braids like a little kid. After tugging unmercifully on a fat braid, Bart wondered what her hair would look like freed, sliding over his arm. About a month into school, the braids were gone, replaced with bangs and a softer layered cut that was still nearly waist long. Any thoughts regarding her hair was short lived, all he had to do was look at her clothes.

The insult, “your mom wears combat boots” really applied to this girl. Literally. It did then and still did now. But, her mom did wear combat boots. A Marine Corps Drill Sergeant of all things. Obviously, her mom saw no problem with her one and only daughter dressing like a recruitment poster gone wrong. G.I. Joan was one nickname that stuck. “No one wants to call her G.I. Jane because that Demi Moore movie is way too cool for this chick,” at least that was what his best friend Mark sneered.

As he made his way over he considered her glowing face. What made things progressively worse for Lauren wasn’t that she stayed quiet or never fought back, but each year she got prettier and smarter. That first year, wow, what a wreck. Sophomore year the braces came off and mom must have relented on the year round diet of camouflage because she started wearing solid color shirts. This year mom must have really given in; she had pierced ears, jeans and even casual running shoes. Nothing designer label, but a huge improvement over the old men’s wear, Bart, as well as a number of other guys, had noticed those changes with the unerring nose of a hunting hound. Not that he gave up his steady string of girls, not at all; this was a bit of a challenge, a game, a toy.

At first he wanted to see if she’d give it up fast out of never getting any real attention. Instead of being slavishly easy, she had nearly stuttered herself off her chair and ran for the bathroom in a panic. It had taken nearly a week of saying ‘hi’ in the halls to get her to relax to the point where he could actually talk to her. Normally, that sort of non-rewarded effort pissed him off, this time it didn’t. Naomi, now a know-it-all college girl, just snickered and quoted annoying crap from literature books about him “only being attracted to the hunt and not the cunt.”

Naomi never put it so simply or so crudely, Mark did, for which his sister promptly slammed the book she had been reading down on his head. For a straight-A smart guy, Mark was a real moron whenever Naomi came around. Gave some credibility to the comments of her clique that the male IQ dropped by 20 points for each inch of an erection. He knew Mark. Too well. If he dropped that many points each time Naomi got him going he wouldn’t be fit to tie his shoes, but then given his mouth around her lately it was making more and more sense. And well worth making popcorn and charging for admission.

Bart slid into the chair next to Lauren and leaned over to ask her something stupid when he noticed that she smelled pretty damned good. Not that she normally stank, totally not the case. Normally she smelled clean, like soap and stuff with a hint of girl underneath. This was totally different. He put his arm behind her on the chair and leaned in, “Nice! Mom letting you go for perfume now too angel eyes?”

He loved teasing her that way. Her eyes were this dark brown, like melted chocolate with a little warm gold. Pretty, but also pretty common. Or so he thought before. He frowned, when did her eyes actually start making him think of stupid stuff like that? Oh well.

“One day Bart, I am going to think you are serious,” she smiled up at him through those thick bangs. He gave in and touched her hair, sliding a finger in the tresses that had fallen along her ear. Another drift of sultry scent reached his nose making him think harder about the soft curves on display in her tighter than usual shirt. Without thinking he slid closer. “I was going to ask you over to my house tonight, so you could see for yourself the fun of Mark and Naomi in action.” He frowned lightly as the fingers of his other hand lightly caressed the skin of her arm. Silky hair and satiny skin, his mind tumbled to other fields than watching his sister and best friend denying they were hotter than the sun for one another.

He was stunned out of his reverie when Lauren leaned back into his arm and pushed into his shoulder, almost cuddling. Bart felt his jeans grow tight and realized uncomfortably he didn’t want to share her tonight, not with anyone. “I don’t know Bart, your sister and Mark in the same room? I think I’d be the bigger target.” Her soft laughter vibrated against the side of his chest and all he could think about was how close her mouth was, how soft her lips looked. Instead of acting on impulse, he cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t let them.” The words came out thicker than he’d liked but he was more surprised that he meant them. Lauren’s eyes widened then narrowed. “Bart. Are you okay?”

All the months he had put into getting this close were so he could dupe her into doing his homework, which she did in this sickeningly happy way. She was content to talk about her horror books and scary movies as some sort of weird payment.

“How about instead of going to my place tonight, you see if you can go with me to the movies. Death Watch is set to open tonight.” The idea of sitting alone in the dark with her had him shifting in his seat. She blinked at him. Then she started stuttering again. He more than liked that, he craved it, wanted to taste it as she managed to say, “A-a-a-are y-y-y-you a-a-a-asking m-m-me out on-a on-a date?” He figured ‘what the fuck?’ and whispered “yes” against her lips as he planted a soft kiss on her open mouth.

Follow the Trail

Festival of Lights

It's the year 167 BCE and the practice of Jewish faith has been outlawed in Jerusalem by the Hellenic overlords, the Seleucids. Hoping to protect his aspiring Rabbi son, Jacob, Moshe makes a most unusual purchase at the Syrian slave markets - a female Scythian warrior.

Saka Ishkuzi has known nothing but deprivation, battle and the harsh extremes of icy mountains and sand dunes. Her background forged the perfect weapon. Her biggest battle won't be protecting the aspiring Rabbi Jacob's life, but her heart from his gentle touch.

Travel back in time through Festival of Lights to the first Hanukkah to witness miracles of faith and love.

***

“Your father hoped to sell my horse and part out my things.” She had tried valiantly not to let her upset show in her voice, but Jacob heard the quaver under the strength.

“Greed was in his heart, but I hope to balance his misdeeds by teaching you our ways and by treating you with as much honor as possible.” A fine sheen of sweat covered his body under his clothes and gathered in his hair.

“Is that why you do not touch me or look at me?” The question was completely without guile. Looking at the small pout, Jacob made a spur of the moment guess.

“No other man has seen you without clothes, has he?” The sweat beaded and rolled down the side of his face. Hoping for a reprieve, he redirected his vision to the nasty wound on her left upper arm. That did it, instant erection kill, he was back to worrying about washing, dressing and treating his new…what exactly was Saka? Then it hit him, he had a single pallet. All of his good intentions died as visions of her eager body, slicked with sweat, writhing under and over him in the dark, clouded his mind.

“It is my shame.” Saka hung her head, “no male has wanted to see me without my clothes.”

Hoping he didn’t shake or look lower than her bent head, Jacob lifted her face, cupping her chin.
“I desire to see you without clothes and I hope by all I hold holy God knows I honor you by not taking advantage.” Her eyes turned an incandescent color that stole his breath. In a strangled tone he eked out, “I must hurry or I’ll not see to your needs before the shops close for dinner and the night’s prayer.”

***

Now...follow this link to Jeanne Barrack's Blog for her story, The Game.

Contest hint guys, you've gotta go blog to blog in order. I missed my day because my health sucks, don't let these good folks down - follow the blogs and have a great time reading and collecting stories and characters that will make your heart (and other parts ;) ) sing.

Hanukkah celebration underway!

The Glowing Lights of Chanukah will soon be here and there are Gifts waiting for you!

Beginning Wednesday, December 17th join Ten authors who have gathered romance stories with Jewish heroes and heroines from all walks of life:

From the days of the Maccabees to Regency England to modern day America to parallel worlds; from sweet to spicy hot.

Tell us the names of their heroes and heroines and send them to borntowrite @ writeme.com (minus the spaces of course) to be entered in a drawing of Gifts for the Season. The winner will be drawn December 22nd, the first day of Chanukah!

Start the celebration with authors: Keira Andrews, Astrid Amara and Cheryl Dragon on Wednesday, the 17th.

The Celebration begins with Keira Andrews at: http://slash-and-burn.blogspot.com/2008/12/new-novel-daybreak.html

Thursday, the 18th: Melissa Glisan, Jeanne Barrack and EM Ben Shaul

Friday, the 19th: Samantha Kane and Eva Gordon

Sunday, the 21st KZ Snow and James Buchanan

Hope you'll join us!

Friday Flash

(a return to the Dear Diary tale)

10 Years Later…

Lauren dragged her fingers across the musty pages of her high school journal. With a sad smile she remembered putting the slim, red book in the banker box before sealing it with duct tape and leaving for boot camp. It hurt, she reflected, and her words were poignant, even for a naïve teenager. It feels like my world is crashing around my feet and my ears are full of the sound of a siren pounding in time to my heartbeat…

Time to grow up. Those were the words starting her new journal, a brown leather-bound day keeper where the pages lifted out and were replaced. A somber, grown up color. Ever since she had to learn the mnemonic Roy G. Biv for the colors of the rainbow (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet), Lauren had picked a new diary according to the catchy color scheme. For her, growing up went hand in hand with all the color leeching out of the world.

It was all Bart’s fault. The nasty accusatory comment welled up before she could squelch it. “Face facts Lauren,” she murmured aloud. “It wasn’t all Bart’s fault.” No, it wasn’t. What had she done to show she was different from her wild, war-like siblings? Grew her hair hippie-long and dressed like a normal teenager. She hadn’t joined any groups, made any friends or even volunteered to do anything that might call attention to herself. Everyone thought I was the same as my brothers because I didn’t give them reason not to. It only made sense for Bart’s friend and sister to try to protect him from the ‘Military Mama.’

The words she’d penned recounting that night swam in her vision as her eyes filled with tears. So much lost and so much gained. An image of scales flashed behind her eyes as the lids closed, squeezing the tears to slide down her cheeks. Which way would the balance go, to the good or the bad? The invitation to her five year reunion had gotten lost in the shuffle as she moved from an air base in Texas to an aircraft carrier off the coast of North Africa. By the time it had caught up, the event was over and relief was the only thing Lauren had felt. Ironic, at the tine she had been flying Blackhawk helicopters into combat zones. If the guys she lifted knew she was more scared of her high school classmates then going wheels up into a war zone, she would have never lived it down.

Today…she was afraid that her cowardice in running away from the fight brought to her door by Naomi and Mark might have cost Bart his life. Opening her eyes, Lauren read the simple invitation to her tenth high school reunion. “Please join us as we reminisce and raise money for a heart transplant for Bartholomew Michaels.”

“I wanted his heart broken, but not like this,” she tucked the invitation into the breast pocket on her uniform and filled out the forms requesting leave.

* * *

It had seemed like such a great idea at the time. Bart would have laughed but he couldn’t, a tube wound down his throat, keeping his lungs working until the multiple holes repaired enough for them to stay inflated. Too many things had seemed like a good idea until he jumped in, feet first, only to have things blow up in his face. This time the explosion had been literal.

Mark, his best friend and now his brother-in-law, had needed specialized help blasting away a section of rock in his backyard. He’d arranged to have an in-ground pool installed to celebrate his and Naomi’s sixth anniversary. Everything went swimmingly; Naomi was called out of town to do a lecture series on the culture gaps between the East and the West and the twins were having a campout with their grandparents. The pool company dug where the county stipulated the in ground behemoth had to go when they hit a snag, more like a boulder of black granite. To go the last few feet would run tens of thousands of dollars – money his sister and brother-in-law didn’t have.

Owning a construction company, Bart made a few calls and got the blast crew for a long wall mining firm to agree to do the removal as a side job the weekend before Naomi was due home. The only problem, the whole regular crew couldn’t come. At the last minute they replaced an experienced tech with a new recruit, one who forgot to check that the wires weren’t live when he connected them to the switch. As a result, the auger holes where the dynamite was inserted weren’t quite ready. Bart had been lowering the last of the charges into the final hole when everything went dark. He’d woken up in the hospital, lungs collapsed, perforated with pieces of stone and his heart on a ventricular assist machine.

He couldn’t image what was more surreal, dreaming of Lauren Walker ripping his heart out, or waking up to the sight of a machine keeping his heart running as a pencil thin geologist with pop bottle thick glasses waxed poetic on the basalt quality in the granite. As a result, he’d had nightmares about Martians on the moon picking through his innards looking for gold-tipped stone chips wearing masks of Lauren’s face. The real nightmares though, happened when his eyes were open. His health insurance was tied to his contractor’s license and didn’t cover acts of incompetence by unlicensed techs on a non-contracted job. The doctors were convinced his heart couldn’t be pieced back together and the artificial device was only good for a few months. His sister was threatening to divorce Mark for being an idiot and Mark was moping and moaning like he was the one facing death.

Why the hell had his brain picked Lauren of all people to obsess over? I need to make my peace with her before I die, he thought as his eyes fluttered closed. Darkness swallowed him, lights flashed past coalescing into the opening credits on the screen of the old Manos Theater. It was too warm, but he still held the delicate boned hand of the girl next to him. The arterial color of the screen painted the fine bones of her pale face in hues of bloody red. Still, Lauren had never looked prettier. Her brothers, bookends named Carl and Anthony sat stone-faced and silent three rows back and to her right. His sister Naomi and best friend Mark were in the same row but to his left. Unfortunately, they weren’t as quiet.

Every word, giggle and cat-call made Lauren flinch, wince and slowly withdraw behind the curtain of her hair. He tried to ignore them, to get her to watch the movie and ignore the pair, but it blew up on him. As the end credits rolled and Lauren stood up and left without a goodbye let alone a backwards glance, he realized how bad he screwed up by not telling his chaperones to shut up. It cost him more than a bad date, it cost him a shot a being happy with the only woman who held his attention for longer than a round of beers and a night of empty sex. His eyes opened the dark of dreams dispelled by the sanitary white world of the ward.

“Don’t worry bro,” Mark patted his hand clumsily, “Lauren called, she’s coming to the reunion next week. Maybe we can get her in to see you.” Bart had a moment to wonder how Mark could have known what was bothering him before relief pulled him back into the arms of sleep

Post Secret

I added a link on the right to a blog called Post Secret. Why? Because a memory from my teenaged years surfaced after reading and led to a spate of late night jotting. Things that happened spun into story lines, weaving what could have manifested into regrets into different unrealized potential futures...but not for me, for characters who would be smart enough, brave enough and possible flexible enough to see those dreams to fruition.

One such story is the "Dear Diary" flash I began on Friday. My goal in high school was to go to the Air Force, only they didn't want me. I was too short, my blood pressure was too low, my feet were flat and they really didn't need recruits at the time, not even ones who nearly scored perfect on the ASVABs (military fitness tests). I wanted to fly, be a pilot and if denied, I wanted to go to Texas A&M in the ROTC for aerospace engineering. Didn't happen, not by a long shot.

Keep an eye open Fridays to see new additions to an idea that grew out of being picked on and wanting to fly away to soar above it all.