Penny For Your Thoughts

Her name doesn’t matter, his name doesn’t matter but as for  his Wife…

Oh her name matters very much and I’ll tell you why.

Her name was Penny-  and she was indeed the lucky Penny, the bad Penny, the one cent people give along with their opinions so you won’t punch them in the throat when they give it.

He met the former Penny Dyen in a bookstore.

She was flipping through a book and chuckling to herself and that’s what he was taken with.

That deep rich laugh.

She looked up from her  and he looked down into her dark brown eyes.

He introduced himself and she closed the book and gave him her name and two months later he gave her his last name.

It was on their first wedding anniversary he asked if she remembered the title  of the book was that she had been enjoying so much.

The one that made made her laugh and drew him towards her.

” Oh. Yeah. Sure I remember, it was a hoot.”

He waited for her to answer because she had started to laugh again.

He couldn’t help but to smile.

” It was The Exorcist. The Devil in that book reminded me of someone I knew once.”

His mouth dropped open. ” You knew someone like…”

” Oh don’t worry Sweetheart. He wasn’t as cute as you and is totally out of my life now.”

He was never scared of Penny.

He felt like the person after they skydive for the first time, or fight off a  shark or find themselves in the eye of a tornado.  That’s what he felt like  with Penny in his life

Penny  never slept, he never saw her actually eat food and the neighborhood cats, dogs and small children all sounded someone was cutting their heads off when they saw her walk by.

But he would be the first to tell you after awhile he felt like a visitor in the world Penny came from- he never quite got a handle on the way she seemed to always know things before they happened or how she seemed to just appear for a second and was gone like a puff of smoke.

So every once and awhile He went back to his  old world where people didn’t stare into mirrors for hours at a time talking backwards at their reflections because as Penny explained that was the only way the words would come out right on the other side.

His problem started when he brought someone into the world he shared with Penny.

She was an old flame- very old and when  Penny found out how old she was Penny laughed and said, ” Sweet Baby Jesus, if you wanted a bag of moldy bones to love, we got plenty of those in the back yard. I could have dug some up for you. I’d be glad to, it’s getting crowded back there.”

Beyond that Penny didn’t seem to concern herself with His ‘Moldering Cadaver’ ( as Penny called her )

But the Moldering Cadaver cared very much about Penny.

She called Penny and Penny agreed to meet her at the Park down the street from Penny’s house.

Their conversation was actually very brief.

She wore rings on all of her fingers, her hair was cut like Penny’s and she was wearing nose bleedingly high platform shoes.

Penny looked down into Her eyes and was not surprised to see the Sanity draining from them as they spoke.

Penny was not surprised because she had that effect on people.

The part where She pulled out the gun and fired it right between Penny’s eyes.

That was new.

Poor Penny, the neighbors said with some relief.

To be shot in cold blood like that and how morbid- that old Park was actually part of an old cemetery and whoever had shot her in the head had also bashed her face in with a piece of broken tombstone.

That was a shame, people said with honesty. Penny had actually been a beautiful woman in life.

He married Her after a year.

Of course the sanity did not magically find it’s way back into Her head sadly enough.

She now  drank too much, smoked too much and wrote far too much poetry about passion and regaining one’s youth again and made Him listen to it.

He would sometimes wish during those readings that Penny was there laughing into her books about Demonic Possession or history books about the Black Death ( good times baby she would say as she wiped the tears from her eyes ) and torture.

He missed Penny, but it was probably a stretch that she would take him back- being that he married the woman who killed her.

One night, he was sitting on his front porch smoking one of the Cuban Cigars that Penny had stashed in the library upstairs.

She loved to smoke cigars and the habit had rubbed off on him.

So on that biting cold November evening He was wishing Penny was there to smoke with him when Penny walked up the steps.

Her face was beautiful again, the bullet hole was gone.

He stood up, took her into his arms and he said

” Penny, I’m so sorry. I … “

Penny took the cigar from his fingers and kissed him. Her eyes burned bright and she ran her fingers through his hair. ” You always have been a little Devil my love-“

Penny  turned him loose  turned  and opened the door to their house.

Then Penny squared her shoulders, popped the cigar into the corner of  her mouth and called Her name- actually Penny  howled Her name  like a demon escaping from Hell is probably a better way to describe it.

And  Penny said as she walked into the house-

” But as we both know, I’ve always been a bigger one.”

Tately Grund: A Cautionary Tale

Tately Grund  was always meant to do big things, great things, he was meant to make his mark on the world.

That’s what drove Tately Grund to do the things he did.

The very distasteful, odious things that would make the Devil blush. From what I understand he did exactly that on more then one occasion.

But I digress.

I’m here to tell you a story about  Tately Grund and how he came to make the acquaintance of one Livia Frost- Frosty to her friends- not that she had many of those.

Livia owned the one and only Funeral home in Burnside, Washington. She owned the cemetery too and most of Cross County was buried there.

What that adds up to numbers wise  is  a lot of dead bodies and they’ve been taking up residence at Leaning Birches Cemetery since 1904.

Livia lived just across the street from Leaning Birches and her old bone white house with the stain glass windows and and her front door with the dog’s head knocker didn’t exactly say ‘welcome’- .

But you’d be surprised how many people did visit Livia’s Bone White House with the stained glass windows- they didn’t go to the front door though. They walked around to the back door- down that little path lined with those white flowers that only bloomed at night and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

It wasn’t a long walk to her back door, it just felt like it if anyone were to admit to taking that walk which nobody ever  admitted to doing.

So no, I don’t know how they figured out Livia Frost had a way of getting things done and knowing things that nobody should know- to be exact she knew the kinds of things that most people took their graves.

Tately Grund took that long walk to the back of Livia’s house and pulled open the screen door and knocked.

He heard footsteps, he heard a lock turning and the door swung open and Tately Grund looked up into the eyes of Livia Frost.

Part of Tately wanted to run, part of him knew that nothing good was going to come from stepping over that threshold into Livia Frost’s kitchen.

But he did it anyway.

He followed her through her kitchen, down a hallway lit, if Tately Grund new as much as he claimed, by  gaslight fixtures. The hardwood floor under his feet were polished to a high gloss and there were pictures of the same man and the same cat and the same two dogs in different poses in frame after frame after frame.

He stopped and looked at one of the paintings of a cat and said, ” I had a cat like that once.”

” I doubt that very much Mr Grund.”

They stopped in front of a door and Livia took a key from her pocket and put it into the lock.

She led him into a sparsely furnished room.

One table, two chairs a fireplace that needed to be cleaned. The curtains were closed. It was cold in that room.

Very cold.

She motioned for him to sit.

” So how does this work?” he asked as he sat.

” You tell me what you want. And then we figure out how to make it happen.”

” And it costs…”

” Does it matter?” she asked as the light fixtures around the room blazed on and the shadows grew long around them.

It took him less then a second to answer.” No.”

” Fine Mr Grund. Talk to me.”

” Do you know Astor Brock?”

Livia rolled her eyes up and shook her head. ” Politics. ”

” Exactly. Politics Mrs Frost. Astor Brock’s wife was a suicide, and more then a couple,pf people,believe she was driven to it with a little help.”

” She wasn’t.”

“Well. What they don’t know is why. I do. That good woman-”

“For the most part she was. Actually.”

” She k

The Clown Car

DAILY PROMPT

First Light

Remember when you wrote down the first thought you had this morning? Great. Now write a post about it.

 

 Every morning I take the same bus with the same people to the Transit Center ( they don’t call it a Park and Ride anymore ).

I like my bus driver, I like most of the people I ride with.

” Most ” being the keyword here.

One of the passengers is, as a very young commuter once pointed out,  a ‘motor mouth’.

She will ask me a question and then answer it herself.

So I let her do all the talking.

Does she do that to the other passengers?

Nope.

And in the event I can get a word edgewise I’m always wrong.

Brother.

And then there are the three jackasses on the second bus I catch.

These three guys all get on the commuter bus together- they each take a seat, put there backpacks or jackets or whatever next to them and then they lower the backs of their seats so far that it’s impossible to sit behind them.

And then they pretend to sleep- so nobody sits next to them and you can’t get to the seat behind them without climbing over  one seat to take the one they’re not using as a futon.

So this morning when my alarm went off and before I opened my eyes I saw those four doughy faces and I wondered if it was possible that today is the we get hit by a planet killer asteroid and the earth turns to dust or we get zapped by a gamma ray  and if today is not the day, what can I do to make it happen?

But I got myself up, did my morning routine went to my bus stop and did I play with my phone, stand on the corner away from the Motor Mouth like a couple of other people have taken to do after hearing her ‘talk’ to me?

Nope.

 I said my good morning and looked straight and stood a few feet away from her.

When she started with our one way conversation I stopped her mid sentence and said, ” I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”

When the bus showed up I got on and prepared for round two on the Commuter Bus.

My little sleeping beauties were settled into their seats and I chose one, sat right behind him, pulled out my notebook ( and not the electronic ones, it’s an old school binder and weighs about five pounds ) and used his head rest as a table.

When he turned around to glare at me I said ” Oh gee, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

” Can you move that?” he asked.

” No. It’s pretty heavy and I’m stuck.”

He got up, moved to the seat occupied by his jacket and as he did a woman with the big, I mean a HUGE purse sat next to him.

She proceeded to pull her phone out of her bag and and as she did I saw her elbow her seatmate a few times.

With my compliments, I thought merrily to myself.

At this point I may have said it out loud though.

At least, I hope I did.

So this morning before I opened my eyes I guess I had revenge in my heart.

And when my eyes were completely opened it sort of poured out of me like chocolate from one of those giant chocolate fountains they have had weddings and fancy parties.

It’s funny how that happens sometimes.

 

 

When This You Read Think Of Me…

DAILY PROMPT

Reader’s Block

What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without reading a book (since learning how to read, of course)? Which book was it that helped break the dry spell?

I have to have a book on me.

There’s one in my purse, one in my tote bag and another in the backpack I carry my laptop in.

I change them out, but for the most part  I travel with Dickens, King and M.R James.

I won’t say I prefer books to conversations, because I really do like to talk to people. But books, I love to read them. Every chance I get.

When I get my hands on a new book I’ll read it staright through. And whoa be to the rotten books because I won’t stop reading until I’m done.

If I invest that much time in a book, I feel like I have every right to tell anyone who will listen exactly how I wasted “X” amount of time on a piece of junk and how I will go to my grave and through all of eternity regretting the decision to pick up that book ever.

Or I will say, ” I can’t believe an innocent tree died for this piece of junk”.

There are times though when I will read one book for the pleasure of it, because the words are music to my eyes and I will read it slow. One chapter a night ONLY.

That book is Great Expectations by Dickens.

I love the way he uses the language, I love every single character, I love the darkness- both in the characters and the scenes- every turning point takes place in the shadows even when the characters are in full sunlight.

Lucky for me, I’ve never suffered from Reader’s Block…but then again I have had Charles Dickens in my life for a very long time.

That’s probably why.

It’s A Living Thing

Dictionary, Shmictionary

Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).

There’s something to be said growing up in a family where English was not the first language  on one side  and not exactly mastered ( there are no Grammar Nazis hanging in this girl’s family tree ) on the other side- what can be said is this:

If you didn’t know the meaning of a word or needed one you just asked.

No problem.

But you will always have that one person in the family who will get it wrong on purpose. Because she has mastered the perfect poker face, because she is so focused on you that she will watch you cringe, or try not to laugh or feel embarrassed for her because…

she thinks it’s funny.

And no I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about my Mom- the slayer of syntax, the butcher of innocent words, the serial killer of complete sentences.

My Mom would have you believe she doesn’t know better, but the fact is in order for you to twist things around like that you really do have to know what you’re saying.

Of course there’s no fun in that so…

My Dad and his cousin built my dog this great dog house and he hardly used it because he was an Alaskan Malamute and we lived outside of Seattle, so the weather never got so bad he had to take shelter in it.

My cats on the other hand loved that house because it was carpeted and warm.

So it was at Thanksgiving and the family is enjoying this great meal and we’re all dressed up when my Mom looks out the kitchen window and says to my Dad and his cousin John:

” Look at those cats, they’ve taken over Sham’s dog house. I’ll bet that’s why he won’t go in it. You know what you should do Bert? You and John should build a cat house. They’d really enjoy it.”

” So would the rest of the neighborhood. ” my Grandma said.

I bit down on my fork and the evidence is my still slightly chipped front tooth. My brother slapped his forehead- hard- and my Dad and his cousin both enthusiastically   agreed a Cat House was a good idea.

” The girls could make curtains for it- ” my Mom said referring to me and my sister- she led us to believe ” and put little beds in there…”

I couldn’t stand it anymore.

” Mom! Do you know what a Cat House is?” You do right?”

My Mom shrugged. ” Of course I do. It’s where Cats live.”

” Ma! It’s where Prostitutes live…”

One of my other cousins enlightened us all ” Oh, I think they just work there,  they don’t live there.”

” Well,” my Mom went on as if she hadn’t heard us say a word. ”  I always said the best cat to have around is one that works hard- you know catching mice- so why shouldn’t they have a nice bed to sleep on and pretty curtains? “

” Mom! A Cat House is a Whore House. You know what they are right?”

” Of course I know. And I also know you weren’t listening to a word I said.”

It took me awhile to figure out what she meant. She was right. I wasn’t listening to her, I was listening at her. I knew exactly what she intended to say. So why didn’t I let it go?

So now when someone twists a word around I sort of go with it. And when I use the wrong word- it’s no sweat.

But when my Mom does it I just stand there and drop what I’m doing and watch the carnage unfold right  before my eyes.

It’s like looking at nine or ten cars right after they’ve rear ended each other on the freeway- there’s broken glass and bits of cars and Fire Engines and First Aid Cars and Police  cars all over the place- and I know I shouldn’t- but I’ll look. And then I’ll stare. I’ can’t help myself.

My Mom and her impact on language have the same effect on me.

Fish Sticks, Pirates and Me

DAILY PROMPT

Ready, Set, Done

10 minutes. You and your keyboard (or smartphone. Or tablet. Or pen and paper). No pauses, no edits, no looking back: it’s free-write time!

When I was little I had two goals- I wanted to write, and become a Pirate.

On most days I saw no reason I couldn’t do both.

 I was eight at the time.

Out of my two life goals the Pirate gig seemed to be doable and practical.

I could see myself sailing a ship, bossing around a crew of scurvy sea dogs and kicking heinie  in all of the Seven Seas and a few lakes and rivers to boot.

I didn’t care so much about finding treasure, but the idea of sneaking up on another Pirate ship in the middle of the night and stealing their flag and crew?

My little old heart would race with happiness thinking about what kind of things I could do as a Pirate.

I would go to church just so I could pray like crazy for God to please make me a Pirate.

Please God, I’d pray, I don’t want to be a stewardess or a waitress or a Mom. I want to be a pirate and sail a big black ship and have other Pirates be so scared of me and my crew that they’d all stay home and I would have the Ocean to myself.

And for some reason I had it in my head that I’d leave the Ferry Boats alone and probably fishing boats too.

Fishing boats because I used to love fish sticks and unless someone went out there and fished  I figured  I’d probably starve to death and as for the Ferry Boats? Well. Back in the day my family went to Victoria BC so I didn’t see any reason to give up on  my great family vacations  – so for sure the Ferry Boats wouldn’t have to worry about me or my wicked crew.

Nowadays there are times when I’m riding the bus home for work, or when I’m in line at the grocery store and I remember those days when anything seemed possible and I thought one day I’d be a Pirate.

And after a moment or two, I think…you know…anything is possible.

After all, I did manage to become a writer ( of sorts )

So anything is possible.

Anything at all.

Time Out

One-Way Street

Congrats! You’re the owner of a new time machine. The catch? It comes in two models, each traveling one way only: the past OR the future. Which do you choose, and why?

If I could visit anytime, anywhere if I could leave right now I’d go into the future.

When I was a teenager I had a terrible nightmare that I woke up, covered with dust and the ground under me was solid rock and under the thin layer of gray dust it sparkled like it was covered with frost. I looked up and the sky was orange, and the sun was gigantic red and bloated. The moon was huge- it filled the sky.

The Moon hung in the East and the Sun was in the North.

I tried to scream myself awake when I realized I was in my own yard and the world was dead.

Dead and barren and airless.

And freezing cold.

Nothing was alive, not even me.

That was the future I dreamed about and to this day that image of a dead world and a dead Sun and the Moon, which was never alive was turning the wrong way.

I couldn’t tell you if  it was a million years in the future or a hundred years but to this day I wonder if that’s what the world will look like after everything is dead and gone.

So if I could time travel I’d want to go into the future. All the way to the end of time. And then I’d want to see what happens next.

Does everything start over? Or does it die and just stay dead forever?

I can’t see myself going into the past.

I know how that story goes.

But the Science Geek in me has would probably want to go to one minute before the Big Bang.

I’ve heard that it was truly a hellacious event.

Think about it.

It was quiet and dark and then all of a sudden the Universe is ripped apart and it’s guts fell out and  ta da!

Here we are.

But that minute before. Sure. I’d like to see that.

Not a minute after.

One minute before.

I’ve worked with the dead, with loss and grief.

To me the past is a freshly dug and filled grave. I’d no more visit the past then I would take a shovel and dig up a coffin and pop it open.

But the future, all that uncharted territory, the not knowing what’s going to happen next. The surprises. The dreams that were realized ( good and bad ).  I figure sneaking a peek at the future is a lot like sneaking a peek at your Christmas presents- sure you know what you’re going to get on the BIG DAY.

But you still have to wait for the BIG DAY to get your hands on the presents.

The upshot is, I’d rather hope then go to a place where there is hope. To me the past doesn’t offer that.

The future is bursting with it.

And that’s where I’d like to go.

Once Upon A Time

Daily Prompt

Fictional Intruder

Go down the rabbit hole with Alice; play quidditch with Harry Potter; float down the river with Huck Finn… If you could choose three fictional events or adventures to experience yourself, what would they be?

Oh where to start.

Where to Start.

If I could choose three fictional events to participate in I would:

Want to be  with Father Merrin in the Exorcist when he is standing in the desert in Iraq and he’s looking at the statue of Pazuzu and he knows that dark days are ahead.

I’d have loved to have been there with Scrooge in the graveyard when he sees his name on the tombstone  and

I’d really have liked to have taken that carriage ride with Johnathan Harker to Dracula’s Castle in the Carpathian Mountains.

I’m going to be honest here.

I would want to be that Statue of Pazuzu and have been able to have looked into Father Merrin’s eyes…I would have invited him to run, but of course I would have hoped he wouldn’t

and I’d like to have been the Ghost who took Scrooge to the cemetery to see his lonely grave and I would have told him to relax. All graves are lonely and eventually they are all forgotten

and I’d have liked to have taken those reigns and taken Harker on the ride of his life through the Carpathian Mountains. By the time I was done he would have  walked all the way back to England and Dracula would have been a different book all together.

Those are just moments in a story but I’ve been there over and over again and those moments feel like a lifetime.

There’s No Place Like ( A Funeral ) Home

DAILY PROMPT

Ready, Set, Done

Our weekly free-write is back: take ten minutes — no pauses! — to write about anything, unfiltered and unedited. You can then publish the post as-is, or edit a bit first — your call.

 

When I worked at a funeral home, my view on the death penalty changed

It changed the day I walked in and we were back logged and every cot and table were full. I saw all those dead people and thought:

” Why would anyone create one of those on purpose? Nature seems to do well enough on its own.”

People commit suicide in cemeteries. I’m not sure what their reasons are but this is how I felt about the Funeral Home in general.

The living  just visit there- to me it felt like a reception area to the next world, but in the end we didn’t belong there. No way would I want that to be the last place I saw before I go one to  meet my maker.

I always felt sad when I heard those stories, because cemeteries are lonesome places. Terribly beautiful but sad.

I used to eat a lot of Pez after I embalmed a body.

I still haven’t figured that one out.

Strange as it may sound, I did have a fun day at work now and then. Like the time I had to go do a removal at a retirement center.

It was a huge industrial looking place- and as we do in most places we go through the back door.

This time there were two old guys sitting there in lawn chairs when I came out with the deceased.

They reminded me of crows- at first.

” Hey.” said one old guy, ” he was my friend.”

“Was he?” I asked, sensing that these two guys would not appreciate polite banter. So I stopped for a little chat.  ” How long did you know each other?”

” Long enough to know ” his friend sitting next to him said slapping his knee ” that this is the only time in his life he was taken out by a beautiful woman”

” Oh come on now. “

” Look, promise me this when I go come and get me. Or if you got a good looking friend at work send her. But no matter who it is, wear that dress.”

I didn’t laugh…I roared with laughter. ” Hey. There’s laws about harassing women like this you Wolves you.”

” Yea. Sure. Whatever sweetheart. I was an attorney and he was a cop and our friend there did time for robbery in his young day. You’re surrounded by them.
“

I considered this. ” Ok. But you should know that nobody can hit an artery faster then me.”

” Marry me . ” said my talkative friend. ” Marry me now.”

I used to visit a grave in the children’s cemetery that we called Babyland. My baby cousin is buried there. He died from SIDS back in the late 60’s.

A row down from him is the grave of a baby who died on the year and the same day I was born. For each holiday that rolled around someone came out and put out seasonal directions.

I wonder if I would have ever met him had he lived.

Remember the Tall Man from the Phantasm movies? Angus Srimm? I had a picture of him and Anubis on my desk. And wind up lady bug toy that was the size of a quarter.

I used to find my pictures on different places on my desk because people would pick them up to look at them.

But they never touched that lady bug.

GPS THIS!

DAILY PROMPT

Back to Life

After an especially long and exhausting drive or flight, a grueling week at work, or a mind-numbing exam period — what’s the one thing you do to feel human again?

 

 

 Just before I turned 49 one of my cousins died, my Dad died, both of my dogs died and  for the first time since I began writing at age 9 I honestly could not write a word because the inspiration, the joy of it all was just gone.

Losing my ability to write was the hardest thing that happened that year, it was hard because I had always seen myself as being the person who wrote.

So with my identity in the crapper and on it’s way to wherever raw sewage gets sent ( oh sure…it ALL gets sent to a treatment plant I am SURE) my entire life came to a screeching halt.

I felt less then human on so many levels.

The first thing I tried to get back was my Writing Mojo.

Do you know the world is full of advice on how to do that? They write books about it, you can go to lectures about it, ” All you have to do, ” I was told over and over again ” is just sit down and write.”

” Oh really? ” I remember thinking. ” Wow. That’s SO obvious. Why the heck didn’t I think of that?”

Well of course it wasn’t that easy.

Most of the time I wrote snarky obituaries for people who thought it was so simple, all I had to do was just ‘sit down and write’. You know what I wanted to do? Tell them I took their advice and show them what I was writing. I remember thinking I’d lose some friends but there would be a few less red wagons in need of fixing out there in the big bad world.

So in the end, as it often is often the case, I found my own way,  sat down and started to write again.

I didn’t read advice books, I didn’t go to a meetup and talk to other writers about not being able to write.

One day I sat down here at my blog and started to read my stories.

The older stories were the first stories I wrote- and I left them as is because over the years I thought it would be cool to see how I grew as writer. I’d do a lot of them different, but why mess with the work of a writer who worked that hard? As it was, I loved those. I’m proud of them. Even if they are far from perfect.

 And then I got to the more recent ones and I couldn’t believe they were mine.

It made me want to write again so I picked up on these daily posts at WordPress. I looks forward to doing one ( or two ) a day.

Of course I don’t think I’m doing them exactly right, but what’s the worst that can happen? I can’t get fired for not following the rules and nobody is going to die over it.

 My responses are what they are.

In  the end I felt human again, like Anita Marie the writer again because I went back and found myself lost there in the weeds and ruins- and there in that mess was my writer’s voice just waiting for me.

I think I was lucky this time.

May we never part ways again.

You Have Some Explaining To Do

DAILY PROMPT

Verbal Confirmation

To be, to have, to think, to move — which of these verbs is the one you feel most connected to? Or is there another verb that characterizes you better?

 

 

Oh boy!

A prompt where I get to explain myself.

Oh boy!

I don’t think so.

Oh well. Stephen King says you shouldn’t shy away from writing because the topic is to hard so I’ll give it a whack.

I think I’ll try to explain why I write.

It’s what I do, so how hard can it be?

I write fiction because it makes sense. Life not so much.

You know what Mark Twain said right?  He said,

“Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”

Boy was he right.

I’ve written whoppers about Killer Grandmothers and what happens when the Devil has a bad hair day and I did one about a woman who gets inspired to bake a new kind of pie for Halloween.

Weird as those stories are, I can’t cheat the reader – they have to make sense, they have to follow rules, they must have a sense of order.

Life.

Ha.

In real life my nephew died from a disease called Friedreich’s ataxia and that made no sense. None. I couldn’t write a story where that happens because in a million years I couldn’t come up with a reason for that to happen to anyone.

If I tried people wouldn’t buy it, they’d say ” Oh come on, stuff like that doesn’t drop out of the sky and hit someone on the head.”

But that’s what happened.

My dog was diagnosed with a serious heart condition when she was about 11. The vet thought she had a few months to live, he gave her some meds to control her cough and we decided to let her run her clock down on her own because she was eating, sleeping and active and alert.

 On  her last day at age 14, and at that time she was still active, alert though she was frail looking,  I came home from work, we went for a walk and then we ate our dinner together. When we were done she went to her bed  and she  died.

I could never explain that one either. Saying ‘just because’ wouldn’t cut it. She had a will to live and die on her own terms. And I don’t know where that came from.

It made no sense.

Me being able to write makes no sense either, my love for it, the ease that it came to me made no sense.

 I remember I was little- I was like six and I remember being desperate to learn to read because I wanted to write so much.

By the end of my first year in school I was reading at a first grade level,  in fact I read ‘up’ a year or two until I was 12 and by then I was reading at college level.

I was driven to read so I could write. Makes no sense at all. It just happened that way.

Life is weird and full of twists and it offers no explanation for itself.

I hate that.

So I write fiction to bring some kind of order into my head and my life.

And that my friends is as close as I will ever come to explaining myself  again.

amm

And Nothing But The Truth

Truth Serum

You’ve come into possession of one vial of truth serum. Who would you give it to (with the person’s consent, of course) — and what questions would you ask?

You know that saying, ” It’s funny because it’s true?” I like the truth when it comes at me like that.

I hate it when people use the truth like a mallet and bash your brains out with it and then say…”I’m only telling you the truth because I care.”

Oh really.

Anyway.

I’d use my little vial of truth serum on one of those people ( and we all know a few of them, don’t we?) and I’m sorry but I’d skip the asking part. I’d dose them and turn them loose in let’s say, I don’t know where is the last place anyone wants to hear the truth?

Oh got it.

At a funeral.

Second to that, weddings.

Funerals and Wedding are planned, they are arranged and we know how to behave and what the steps in the process of each are. We even know what we’re suppose to wear and what to say when we talk to each other.

Do you know what happens when you don’t observe the ritual as agreed upon?

You not only get voted off the island, you get sent to another island where you are buried up to your neck in the sand, your face is smeared with honey and then you are covered with ants and bees.

Nobody wants to know ‘the truth’ at these events and much in the way of reality tv I don’t expect to hear it there either.

So using this truth serum would be like lighting the fuse on a bottle rocket.

You know, you stick the bottle rocket in a bottle ( or a beer can ) then you light the fuse and wonder- is it going to go up or just blow up there on the ground and in your face?

It would be fun just like that.

Yes.

Without a doubt.

That’s what I would do- and that’s the truth.

 

 

Open Up And Say ” Ouch “

Daily Prompt

Handle With Care

How are you at receiving criticism? Do you prefer that others treat you with kid gloves, or go for brutal honesty?

Really? There’s a choice?

Because in the past when people have tried to help me be an all around better writer they used brutal bare knuckle honesty because hey- they care.

I would prefer the kid glove treatment but does anybody really do that?

In my experience: No.

I was in a class once where my grade on an assignment went from average to A PLUS!

How?

Well, I listened to my critics and wrote the story exactly the way they said it SHOULD be written in order for it to be CORRECT.

I gutted – and I will admit was a less then perfect but fun read-  and made it like any other piece of crud, done to death, predictable horror story. But hey that was the RIGHT way to tell that sort of story.

I moved from the back of the class to the front ( metaphorically speaking ) when I crafted little ditties that could have been written by anybody EXCEPT for me.

That’s right, my work was recognized for being great as long as I removed any trace of Anita Marie from it.

I finished the class and this is what I learned.

If you ask for help, consider it when it is given.

If you want to ‘help’ someone take the ” I would have”  You should have ” and the infamous ” This would be better if…” out of the conversation. When it comes to writing there is a lot of technical things involving structure that we should know, so that kind of advice  is gold. And in my quest to be a better writer ( which I work at everyday) I pay attention when that advice pops up on my radar.

But I do filter it out because in my mind telling somebody how to be a better writer or  how to tell their story in a ‘better way’ (which for some reason always turns out to be their way- I know weird right? ) , verges,  in my opinion on telling them how to be a better person.

I don’t view writing as something I do, it’s who I am. So with that in mind I’m always open to finding unique ways to tell a story, different styles of writing . And I’m careful that when that criticism wanders off into the weeds to treat it for what it is- grandstanding.

So I will smile and nod hold my tongue and remember I’ve been doing this for about 40 years and remember what my Grandfather used to say when  the Kid Gloves come off and the Everlast Gloves come out.

” There are always going to be some people who are harder to love then others. “

Life And The World Of Secret Handshakes

Daily Prompt

Litmus, Litmus on the Wall

If you had to come up with one question, the answer to which would determine whether or not you could be friends with a person you’ve just met, what would it be? What would the right answer be?

This question might be harsh, but if you’re going to write you can’t be afraid to be harsh, to kill off your favorite character if the story calls for it or to face some painful truths about yourself.

So I’m going to give this prompt a go:

No matter how I phrase it, the question is

Would you want to be Captain of the USS Enterprise

or

Battlestar ( Galactica )

I’m old school, and adventurous and I really do love the strange, the campy and the unique.

The Galactica  and it’s crew are streamlined, sexy, edgy, and dare I say desperate?

Well.

Yes I do say that.

I could see myself in the world of the Enterprise, but in the Galactica  world?

I’m not sleek, sexy or dangerous. I don’t have a great set of boobs and a High IQ. I do think I look good in a mini-skirt and I’m no genius but the smarts that I have I use well.

So I’m not saying I wouldn’t make friends with someone who sees themselves as Captain of The Galactica. But I can see myself hanging out with someone who can be great in a fight and has a bunch of weird and wonderful friends.

So Beam me up Scotty and let’s go for it.

It’s Alive!

• DAILY PROMPT

  Brevity Pulls

  “I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time.” — Blaise Pascal
  Where do you fall on the brevity/verbosity spectrum?

  When Stephen King was a little kid his grandfather said to his mother, “Why don’t you shut that kid up, Ruth. When Steven opens his mouth, all his guts fall out.“

  On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

  Stephen King

  

  When I was a kid my family used to stand there and watch me talk with the same look on their faces that they would have had, had our family dog walked up to them and asked what the time was.

  One of my cousins was more blunt. When I was about seven he was listening to go on about the possibility of the lady next door being a  a Mad Scientist like Dr Phibes  (mostly because she sort of looked like Vincent Price ) and he said,

  ” There should be some kind of law about what you use words for.”

  At the time I didn’t get it, but I was smart enough to know that doing anything against the law was bad so for what felt like days but what was more like seconds I watched what I said.

  Personally I love to hear people talk. Use as many words as you want.I think it’s great. I mean, if you want to open your mouth and your guts fall out I will listen and watch and hang on to every word.

  Verbal Vomit holds  no fear for me.

  To tell the truth,  I have been known to not just paint a picture with words,I have been known to take a spray can and tag an entire city block, just because it was the best way to get my story or point across.

  Most of the time, it was just to see how people reacted.

  I used to work in a funeral home and to do embalming.

  To this day at Thanksgiving I can’t reach into the turkey and put stuffing into it. My heart races, I break out in a sweat and I feel like I’m going to faint.

  And it goes without saying that I will not be eating turkey that day.

  I can stretch that story out to last so long I should have commercial breaks.

  So, I will tell that story and use as many words ( and big ones ) as possible if it’s right for the moment, other times I don’t go into great detail but I”ll tell the story differently.

  All you’ll get then  is, ” I don’t stuff  Turkeys. I used to. But I got traumatized at work and now I can’t stand to stick my hand into cold dead things.

  Conversations, storytelling, letter writing, they take on a life of their own. I say let them go where they want. It makes for better listening and reading.

  Make it an Epic conversation, make it a little one.

  Because.

  It’s…alive

Sincerely Yours

Writing 101: Be Brief

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. 

 

The envelope light blue and the stamp was from Christmas- it had a smiling Santa with the standard red nose and chubby cheeks.

It was August and 85 degrees out, the sun was hot and Christmas seemed years away. So I picked the envelope with the Santa stamp up and turned it over.

It was addressed to MLT  at a post office box in Seattle.

The return address caught my eye

S. Stanwood

C/O Fenton Estates

Bridgewater,WA.

I know Fenton Estates. Most people around here do. It was the States First Mental Hospital and it closed about 20 years ago.

I pulled the letter out.

It was written in purple ink in small neat block letters.

Come Visit . I am so lonely.

Sincerely Yours,

Sienna

I turned the envelope back over and looked at the post mark.

It had been stamped a week ago Bridgewater, Washington.

I folded it, put it into the envelope and wondered-  who would reply if I wrote and said I’d be there soon.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

It’s Like We’ve Always Known Each Other

Delayed Contact

How would you get along with your sibling(s), parent(s), or any other person you’ve known for a long time — if you only met them for the first time today?

I think that what makes me and my sister so different from each other would make it possible for us to be friends if we just met.

Two things: My Uncle gave me the nickname ” Pebbles ” and my sister really is the efficient one who needs to laugh louder.

So this story is sort of based on us.

The bus wasn’t late, it was on time. It’s always on time it’s the passengers who are late.

Today  a woman with long dark hair, a limp and a red backpack was the last person to board the bus and it took her a minute to find her bus pass and scan it.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and made her way to the back of the bus and took a seat next to Adele.

Adele was always on time. She was never late. For anything.

The woman with the backpack was a few years older than Adele and when she slid into the seat next to Adele she looked over and smiled at her.

” Guess I held the bus up. ” she said.

” Well. Maybe a little. “

Adele looked at the backpack on the woman’s lap and saw a tag with the woman’s name on it. It was written in gold glitter pen and edged with hot pink marker.

” Pebbles Macleod”

Adele wondered if the backpack belonged to the woman’s daughter .

She must have been staring at the tag for a little too long because the woman volunteered” Oh yeah. That’s my name. My Mom was a big fan of the Flintstones cartoons. To bad she couldn’t have been a fan of a show that involved real humans. Then I could have had a normal name like Emma Peel or Barbarella. “

Again Pebbles laughed and Adele found herself laughing with her. She wasn’t sure why. The woman’s laugh was deep, heartfelt and a little too loud. Usually Adele didn’t bust a gut, but she thought she easily could with Pebbles.

” Have you taken this bus before? ” Adele- the same Adele who never spoke to anyone she rode the bus with.

” Oh. You know how it goes. I just grab whatever shows up.”

” Nah. I like to be home at the same time. Stuff to do for the family.”

That laugh again. ” Wow. If my boys waited for me to do stuff they’d be walking around naked and hungry. They’re teenagers. They can manage.”

Adele and Pebbles made small talk all the way to the Transit Center and when they got off the bus Adele was sorry to see Pebbles head towards another bus.

” Hey. So maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.” Adele said.

Pebbles swung around and smiled. She laughed. “I think so.”

Mr. Gill From Down The Street

Are you a good judge of other people’s happiness? Tell us about a time you were spot on despite external hints to the contrary (or, alternatively, about a time you were dead wrong).

When I was growing up on 52nd Ave just outside of Seattle, Felix Gill was a neighbor of mine.

Felix was, I thought then, a very old man, in reality he was probably in his mid-thirties. It was the gray hair that made him look old when I think about it, but you know how it is when you’re ten years old.

Anyone over the age of 18 is ancient.

The not really old Felix Gill  had short hair and wore short sleeved shirts and when he came home from work his billions of kids (I’d never seen such a big family before) would rush out to the driveway to meet him.

They always looked glad to see him, so were the neighbors. They’d wave when he drove by their houses and he always said “Ma’am and Sir “ when he talked to them.

Felix Gill was a solid guy, he didn’t drink or smoke or swear like the rest of the Dads on 52nd. He mowed his lawn and dutifully carried the groceries from his wife’s car into their home and not only did he take his garbage cans to the curb he brought them in right away and he hosed them down when they were empty.

I thought Felix was okay.

He coached his kids various sports teams and when he wasn’t doing that he was teaching one of his kids how to ride their bikes.

Felix was just Felix. He talked kind of slow and he was predictable. One of his kids told me his favorite tv show was the Six Million Dollar Man.

One day I was home from school early- I think I’d been to the dentist.

I decided to take my puppy out for a walk until my friends got home from school.

And then I saw Felix driving up the street.

I waved and he pulled over, stopped his car and rolled his window down.

“Hello Mr. Gill.”

“Hello.” he said pleasantly enough. “Say. I was going to ask. Is that  puppy yours?”

I nodded. “Yeah we just got him, his name is-”

“I don’t care what his name is Felix Gill said.  “Because if I see it outside- I don’t care if it’s in your yard or on the end of a leash,  I’ll blow it’s head off and I’ll do the same to you. Do you understand? Keep that dog out of my sight.”

And then Felix Gill drove the rest of the way home and got out of his car. He turned and waved to me and then walked into his house.

Just like always.

Two years later The Gill Family moved out of their house.

When they drove away I was standing on the corner with a few other kids and I saw Felix. He saw me and my now full grown dog.

The he rolled his window down,  he pointed his finger right at me like it was a gun and mimed pulling the trigger.

I don’t know what happened to Felix Gill, but about 20 years ago I saw one of his daughters on TV.

She was being charged with the murder of her stepdaughter.

Later we heard she had even killed the Stepdaughter’s dog at least a week before she murdered the girl.

Everyone in the neighborhood was shocked. A few people even cried. How could someone like that have been related to good old Felix Gill?

I wasn’t shocked. I just wondered though…

if it was his daughter who killed the dog.

I still wonder about that dog.

The Eighth Deadly Sin or Who Makes The Rules Around Here Anyway?

 

Post A Day Prompt: Eighth Deadly Sin

It was something to think about: If you could create the Eighth Deadly Sin what would it be?

I felt like a kid in a candy store.

People do so many idiotic things that you could nail them for. I mean where to start?

Okay. Deadly Sin should do what it says. If you commit this sin the consequences are going to be deadly. Plus you’re for sure going to Hell.

So if I could pick a new one I’d stay with the theme. It’d have to be something people do at least one of every single day : wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony.

Ok. Here it is.

Laughter.

If you laugh you go to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200.00

 No more laughing when your trying to belittle someone and that laugh, that smile is just one more knife for you to stick in their eye and twist. No more laughing at jokes or movies or happy memories.

And if you do. Boom. You’re in a cuddle puddle with demons. And not the cute ones like they have on the TV show Supernatural.

And if you think so- I’d agree: Yes indeed that is twisted and mean.

But isn’t that what the Deadlies are? Don’t we all get angry?  Love to eat too much ( Hello Christmas and Thanksgiving ) Aren’t there days when you just don’t want to wear anything but yesterday’s t-shirt and your favorite ripped up jeans or sweatpants? And on those days when you’re not fitting into your favorite outfit  don’t tell me you wouldn’t  sell a kidney to look like someone on tv.

It’s okay. We’ve all been there.

Seriously. Who decided to make being human not just a sin, but a deadly one?

But this is my blog and my post and my response to the prompt and I have made Laughter The Eighth Deadly Sin.

You just laughed at that didn’t you?

Uh Oh. Uh Oh For You To The Max.

Absolute Beauty

We’ve all heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Do you agree? is all beauty contingent on a subjective point of view?

One of my friends told me about a conversation he had recently had with a woman about beauty.

She said men age with grace and that women turn into hags.

Hags.

Hag is such a bitter angry little word.

When I was young I was told I didn’t have much going for me in the face department so I should probably think about developing a talent.

I chose writing. And resigned myself to wearing a bag over my head- actually I spent a lot of time looking down. Same thing.

But on my worst day I don’t think I’d compare myself to a Hag.

Besides, I did spent a lot of time doing things where I didn’t have to worry about my lack of good looks.

I write, which is something that I do love to do. I rode motorcycles, I worked in a funeral home, I traveled. So I guess that was good. But I did most of those things alone.

But there has been a down side to my way of thinking and it’s a strange one.

I hate mirrors. I loath them. It doesn’t suprise me that there are so many superstitions about them:

… Mirror Superstitions:

• To see your reflection in a mirror is to see your own soul, which is why a vampire, who are without a soul, have no reflection.
• If a couple first catch sight of each other in a mirror, they will have a happy marriage.
• If a mirror falls and breaks by itself, someone in the house will soon die.
• Any mirrors in a room where someone has recently died, must be covered so that the dead person’s soul does not get trapped behind the glass. Superstition has it that the Devil invented mirrors for this very purpose.
• It is bad luck to see your face in a mirror when sitting by candlelight.
• Before mirrors, in ancient societies, if you caught sight of your reflection or dreamt of it, you would soon die.
• Someone seeing their reflection in a room where someone has recently died, will soon die themselves.
• Babies should not look into a mirror for the first year of their lives.
• Actors believe that it is bad luck to see their reflection while looking over the shoulder of another person.
• To see an image of her future husband, a woman is told to eat an apple while sitting in front of a mirror and then brush her hair. An image of the man will appear behind her shoulder

I bought my first full length mirror a month ago- and I’m almost 50 years old.

Mirrors  creep me out. I hate them. I hate that I get judged by a reflection they capture – be it the one I see myself or the one other people see.

What angers me is that the image I cast determines who will love me, if they’ll be kind to me or not, if I’ll be treated with courtesy or disdain.

Because of a reflection.

Years ago I had one of those scream myself awake nightmares.

I was walking through my house and it was full of mirrors. There were heavy ornate mirrors, cheap ones, mirrors with no frames broken dusty mirrors and hand mirrors.

I went from mirror to mirror and I saw…nothing…I didn’t cast a reflection. I couldn’t see myself in any of those thousand of mirrors.

I started ran from mirror to mirror in a panic and I was shouting, ” I’m here. Why can’t any of you see me…I’m here!”

I was trapped in this house with mirrors and because I didn’t have a reflection I felt like I wasn’t real.

Like I didn’t exist.

Is it possible to be less of a person when nobody ‘beholds’ your beauty? Do you get to be real?

More real then a reflection?

I wonder.

Me And The Toxic Baby

 

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

A few years ago my husband sent me a series of pictures he took  around New Orleans.

Most of them were tourist shots- the St. Louis cathedral, his lunch, a  Voodoo shop where you’re not supposed to take pictures ( he sent me a picture of the sign ).

And one was a picture of a bottle.

And the bottle was full of something called a Toxic Baby.

I was fascinated with that picture. I kept looking at it. Wondering about it.

I had no interest in what was inside of the bottle- I just liked the name

Toxic Baby.

So a few months later I booked a flight to New Orleans ( just in time For Halloween ) and went in search of the Toxic Baby.

When I got to New Orleans I didn’t google Toxic Baby. I didn’t ask my husband where I could find it. I just spent the week haunting the French Quarter.

I hung out at the  Saint Louis Cemetery on Basin Street, where among a lot of other history I learned you might not want to wear flip flops because what was once inside of those crypts in some cases ended up outside of the crypts and bone looks like sand when it gets smooshed and you might not want that stuff stuck between your toes.

And I also learned that when a cab, a horse-drawn cab and bicycle cab meet in an intersection and none of them can decide who has the right of way you can learn about a hundred new ways to use over used swear words.

Just in case you’re curious- the end the horse-drawn cab will win because they have whips.

If you want your Tarot cards read you can get it done right to the left or right of the cathedral doors almost on the steps themselves.

But not in front of the Cathedral itself.

You can also go to confession and end up in a bar in less then twenty steps.

I thought that was hilarious.

So I got distracted. I was there to look for the Toxic Baby and I had made no effort to even ask about it.

On my last day in New Orleans I decided to visit the Cathedral one more time ( it seemed like the right thing to do after all the time I spent in the cemetery)  and as I walked out I turned the corner of St Louis Cathedral and I found myself a few doors down from the  Pirates Alley Cafe.

Really? Pirates went to Cafe’s? Oh why not. I thought. Pirates have to eat to right?

I decided to go on in.

 None of the customers  were dressed up like Pirates that day but something about those dark walls, that long worn wooden bar and brick walls made you feel like you were a pirate.

So I head up to the bar-and there it was.

Waiting for me.

The Toxic Baby.

I took a picture of the bottle. I walked from side to side and took it in- the simple label and the promise that the drink tasted worse than it looked.

I found it, I thought.

I found the thing that brought me from Washington state all alone during Halloween.

It called to me and I went. Just because I like the way something sounded.

I remember standing there looking up at the ceiling and wondering how many other people ended up so far away from home because they liked the way something sounded.

Toxic Baby.

It’s a wicked tasting drink I’ve been told. I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink.

It was two years ago that I ended up in search of and finding The Toxic Baby.

I hung out in a graveyard. I explored VooDoo shops and toured a VooDoo museum that was housed in an actual house. I wandered around the French Quarter and ate pizza by the slice and wrote stories and took pictures and did I mention I hung out in the cemetery a lot?

I’m a suburban housewife  from a small suburban town and that  year some of my friends  to Disney World, some went on cruises others ended up in Hawaii.

I ended up in New Orleans staring at a bottle of The Toxic Baby.

And if I could get on a plane now and go back tonight-

I would.

It’s A Girl Thing

If you want to write about Monsters you have to understand people.

So if you’re into death and darkness and strolling through cemeteries deep in thought ALL BY YOURSELF then in my opinion, the scariest thing you’ll pull out of  head is a booger from your nose.

If you’re lucky.

I get the entire I’m a writer and I need to be alone with my thoughts, all I know is that it doesn’t work for me.

When I write I know I’m going into solitary confinement- so I spend as much of my time when I’m not writing out there in the world- checking out art, the symphony, consuming huge quantities of Gelato ( bless you inventor of Gelato, bless your dear sweet soul ) and just hanging around with my friends and family.

I love the process of writing, I love putting words on a page and telling a story or sharing my thoughts and what I really enjoy is that this is the one thing in my life I do and have done because I love to- I never asked permission ( am I a writer, do you think I’m any good? etc etc etc ).

So if you want to write I’d say try to do what I do- jump on in, don’t worry about what other people think and enjoy your life.

Then set aside some time to write and send as many characters as you want to the Morgue or Hell or into a creepy abandoned house.

Oh.

And the Gelato thing.

Do that too.

amm

 

Talis est vita

Write about what you know the experts say.

In my case that would be:

Death.

Corruption ( both of the spirit and body )

Betrayal.

Scandals.

Insane Asylums.

Baking.

Embalming.

“Talis est vita”

I wish I knew more about Swords and Princess.

Oh wait. Ugh. No I don’t.

I never realized what that symbolized until I saw it there.

:::facepalm:::

 

 

Once I Read This Weird Story….

Over the year I wrote more than a few stories.

These were my favorites.

Body Talk

I wrote this for Halloween.  It’s one of those stories that got away from me- I didn’t intend for it to be funny but when you have two dead people talking to each other it should be no surprise that it isn’t going to be a traditional conversation.

Me, Betsy and The Church Zombie

Real life IS stranger than fiction and this story about me and my friend proves it.

Typical Trixie

This story was inspired by the relationship between me and my sister. She’s organized, acts older than me even though she’s younger than me and to this day when I say ” Hey Es, I read heard this weir thing… ” she puts her hand over her ears and starts screaming for 0ur Mom.  And no, I haven’t asked her to read this one. Something tells me she would not be amused.

Wink

When worlds collide…it’s a scenario that I never get tired of exploring.

See You Soon

from my writer’s journal 

When I as a kid we lived about a block west of Green Lake, in Seattle WA.

I grew up on a lot of stories about Green Lake- and given my family’s love of  Macabre Tales I never heard about the Picnic grounds at the lake which I believe were put in sometime before the 1900’s or the vision people had of creating a beautiful place where people could go and have beautiful thoughts about nature, life and themselves.

What I heard about were the dead people in the Lake.

I was left with the impression, as a child, that they drowned and that they never left Green Lake.

Here’s the story I heard:

Back during the 1920’s maybe the 1930’s,  people kept drowning in Green Lake-

they weren’t out there swimming alone, they would be out there swimming with a friend or in a group and all of the sudden one person would start thrashing around and screaming and then they went under and they stayed under….

sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours sometimes for days.

And then shortly after the bodies were recovered people would see the Floaters walking towards the lake.

Or back into the Lake.

Once the Lake got them, they couldn’t leave – they had to go back.

I am only mentioning this story because when I write my stories I usually mention a Lake or a body of water and the image I have in my mind’s eye is that of Green Lake.

The Green Lake that killed people and keeps their ghosts like trophies.

That story got to me over 40 years ago.

And like I said- once the Lake gets you, you have to go back.

a.m.

 

For Starters…

I thought I’d post these Halloween Story Starters, they’re fun and you can either use them to write a story or have a few to put into the old brain for something to talk about with your friends on Halloween Night.

Myself, when I tell stories on Halloween Night, I will swear up and down they’re true. To pull that off you need to have a story ready to go…just an FYI.

These are basic, but the best stories are.

Have Fun!

a.m.

 

 1.It was a cold Halloween night when I saw the…

 2.The mad scientist was creating a new monster that could…

 3.The large cauldron of  liquid started to boil when…

4.I got an eerie feeling when I heard…

 5.The mysterious object started floating in the air and…

 6.The Halloween pumpkin turned into a…

7.The black cat started to crouch and hiss when…

 8.Something in the closet was making a strange noise, so I opened the door and…

9.I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw…

10.As I carefully entered the haunted house, the door shut behind me and…

11. Something in the window…

12. It’s teeth were…

13. We have always called it the Witch’s House..

14. The Halloween Shop on the corner..

15. I never believed in monsters until…

16. The key to the basement…

17. Ogilby was a gravedigger and last Halloween…

18. We  found the Halloween Costumes in my Grandma’s attic…

19 .Make up your own Scary Starter.

 Adapted from A Cauldron of Halloween Ideas

Sand

Inspried By The SFC Prompt:

Footprints In The Sand

If I could walk

to the end of the world

I would find a hill to stand on

and I would

 watch the sunset.

 

I wonder.

Would the sky look the same

at the end of the world?

Would the air smell the same?

If I put my hands to my face and screamed would I sound the same?

 

If I could walk to

the end of the world

I would walk upon the dead ocean floors

and touch rocks full of bones

tombs

for creatures I knew

when they were covered with flesh

a long time ago

when the Sun was Yellow

and not red.

 

If I could walk to the end of the world

I’d walk in circles for miles and miles

and

I would leave my footprints there in the dusty remains

of my world

and

wonder if

someday, somebody

would know I once was.

Doors

Inspired by The Soul Food Cafe Prompt:

Personality of  A Front Door

Have you ever stood in a dark hallway in a strange building all alone with a flashlight that you found rolling around in the trunk of your car?

It worked fine when you first flicked the switch on and it worked fine when you were with your friends but it was not fine when you broke away from the group to check out those doors- those doors that were shut when you first pointed your flashlight in their direction.

But you were sure that with the last weak beam of light you saw one door ajar- and you were just as sure when you turned around and the last of the light died away you saw the rest of the doors standing wide open.

What kind of things, you thought to yourself, would chose to hide in the darkness- what kind of creature would wade through fetid water and live with the echoes of screaming rusted hinges that go on for ever and ever.

And what kind of monster, you thought to yourself, would stand next to those wide open doors, with the blackness streaming out-

And like it?

 

My Enduring Bones

I belong to an on-line writers group at The Soul Food Cafe

and one of our projects was to come up with stories and artwork based on

Poe’s

The Raven.  

I ended up with a little collection of  fun stories and  two interesting characters- Sunny Longyear and her friend Waldgrave Tillanghast. I liked them so much I think I’m going to re-write their adventures and start posting them here considering Halloween is just around the corner it seems like a fun idea.

So here is Part One

of

My

Enduring Bones

a series of adventures

 inspired by

the works of

Mr E.A. Poe

a.m.

There I was, standing alone in front of a door that was nailed shut from the inside.

What kind of nut job, I wondered as I poked my finger against one of the nails that had made its way to the outside of the door, would wall themselves up inside of a house?

Well.

I guess I was about to find out.

So I backed up and kicked at the door- hard- and no I didn’t expect it to do anything dramatic like fly open. I just wanted to give whatever was on the other side to – you know – run.

I must have kicked at it a half dozen times.

I’ll bet it wasn’t running though, I thought with each kick.

I’ll bet it was on the other side of the door laughing at me- and then I thought to myself:

What am I doing here-

I’m going to save Waldgrave-who just happens to be a ghost-  and right now I have to wonder why.  Because,  to be perfectly honest, I don’t really understand why I’m about to save a dead guy from something I that could be anything- anything with big teeth and knives.

Yeah. I’ll  whatever is on the other side of that door with Waldgrave is very handy with knives and meat hooks because that’s exactly the kind of luck I’ve had for my entire life.

And then it came to me:

 All I have to do is just turn around and walk back the way I came- right now one foot in front of the other and who would ever know?

 I could go back to my nice quiet life as a Funeral Director and wear my sensible dark suits with my black engineer boots ( hey, it’s not like anyone ever looks at my feet- trust me on that one) and in that life dead people are just that…

well

Most of the time.

It would be so easy I heard a voice say in my head  to just walk away.

I looked around and slammed my hand over my mouth, to keep from yelling because where the hell did that thought come from?

Give Waldgrave up to something called The Black House and walk away no- slink away like some slinky coward?

I’ll tell you where that thought came from-

it was either from the house or Waldgrave and I’m not sure which of those two things scared me more- that house getting into my head or Waldgrave trying to let go.

I point at the door and say, “It’s obvious you are not going to cooperate. “

Think, think, think I told myself.

I walked to one of the boarded up windows and pushed just a little.

It gave.

Good.

I took a deep breath and this time when I swung at the boards I followed through.

All the way through.

 

I’m standing all alone ( please let me be alone ) in this nasty dark house and all I can think to say is, ” Pizza Delivery. “

I roll my eyes up because from down the hall I can hear a familiar voice say,

” You know, people aren’t laughing with you Sunny, they’re mostly laughing at you. “

” Aren’t you supposed to be in a cemetery? ” I say to Waldgrave to keep him talking because I have no intentions of opening any of these doors unless I have too.

” There’s a Crypt in the basement- “

I follow his voice to a not so awful looking door- the only one that looks like it ever gets used and I  tap on it and say, before I open it, ” Are you decent? “

” Get it in here you stupid twit, we have a problem.”

Unlike the rest of the house this room is not nasty and dark, but it feel like it all the same. There are lit candles all over the room and I can sort of see that I’m in a library and that there’s a dead man sitting behind a giant desk with about a hundred pictures in little silver frames in front of him.

I don’t need to look to know they’re probably all of  the same person.

” You killed him, I think you scared him to death. He thought you were some woman…I think he murdered her. He wanted her to come for him but he was afraid she would come for him at the same time. He dreamed about her even when he was awake.”

I don’t have anything to say.

And then I think of something, ” Help me out here just a little  exactly where are you right now?  Picture, book or statue any idea? “

“Your lack of empathy leaves me speechless Sunny, it really does.”

” If only. ” I say to myself- but you know loud enough so that I can be sure Waldgrave can hear me.

” I’m not in a book.”

Waldgrave’s surprised sounding voice is coming from right behind me.

I look and there above desk on a shelf is a statue of some guy’s head. ” You know, I’m not sure how this thing with you works, but if you think I’m going to drag you around like that  you can forget it.”

” Look down. “

I do, right into the face of the dead man and he is looking back at me.

” Oh no.” I say

” Oh yes.” Says the dead man with Waldgrave’s voice.

” Hey. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do that.”

” Hey. I’m pretty sure you’re right. ” Waldgrave is starting to sound a little hysterical.

Just as an FYI- hysertics are contagious because I don’t sound like I’m in full control of myself when I scream back: ” I thought you said before you could only take possession of inanimate objects.”

Waldgrave points at the dead man’s-well his face and shrieks  ” you can’t get much more inanimate then a corpse Sunny!”

” Well, damn Waldgrave get the hell out of there.” I yell at him.

” Gladly. But I can’t. I’ve been trying and guess what? I am  STUCK!”

I run over to the fireplace and grab a poker and when I turn around I tell Waldgrave ” Okay, don’t move.  I have an idea. “

Waldgrave isn’t in the mood to follow directions. Instead he  jumps up, runs around the desk and grabs me buy shoulders and shakes me hard- which makes me really angry and he says, like I haven’t heard it a million times already,

 ” I am trapped inside of a corpse!”

” I’m going to fix that Waldgrave. ” I swing the poker at Waldgraves newly acquired head and then…

he reaches out and grabs my wrist and shakes it until I drop the poker.

I’m sure I look just as confused as he does.

 With one hand pressed against his shoulder to steady him I reach slowly out for his neck with my other hand. Waldgrave flinches just a little but he figures out what it is I’m going to do and lifts his chin up 

 I put my fingers against his neck.

Then I put my hand on his chest and snap it back.

” You are in so much trouble Waldgrave. “

” Yes.” he says ” We are.”

 

Is There Something There?

 

I have a notebook- a real with paper in it- where I keep stories that I find in the newspapers or magazines.I also like to write things in there like names of people and places that I find interesting .

This notebook is a to do list for my brain.

And

sometimes these odds and ends work their way into a story

and sometimes I just like to look and laugh.

I know it’s weird…but if you read my stuff can you honestly say you are surprised?

So, without further ado

Here’s a page from it- it includes a story I found today….

Need a hand? Man digging yard startled by specimen hand

By Associated Press

Story Published: Sep 18, 2009

NORTH EAST, Md. (AP) – A severed human hand has been unearthed from the yard of a Maryland home, but police say this is no whodunit.

Investigators believe it’s a decades-old medical school specimen left by a former resident.

Still, it was an odd discovery for the electrician who dug it up in the northeastern part of the state. It was muddy, but only the fingertips showed signs of decay.

Maryland State Police Trooper First Class Dave Feltman says the hand found Tuesday appeared to be surgically removed.

The son of a previous owner of the house tells police it was a souvenir he took home as a student at the University of Maryland’s medical school more than 50 years ago.

Police said they believe his account, but sent it to the state medical examiner as part of routine procedure.

 

This guy stole a hand from a lab? I would have gone for a brain or a heart…but a hand? Weird choice…

 

 

Suicidal Planet

By SETH BORENSTEIN AP Science Writer

Story Published: Aug 27, 2009 at 8:44 PM PDT

WASHINGTON (AP) – Astronomers have found what appears to be a gigantic suicidal planet.

The odd, fiery planet is so close to its star and so large that it is triggering tremendous plasma tides on the star. Those powerful tides are in turn warping the planet’s zippy less-than-a-day orbit around its star.

The result: an ever-closer tango of death, with the planet eventually spiraling into the star.

It’s a slow death. The planet WASP-18b has maybe a million years to live, said planet discoverer Coel Hellier, a professor of astrophysics at the Keele University in England. Hellier’s report on the suicidal planet is in Thursday’s issue of the journal Nature.

“It’s causing its own destruction by creating these tides,” Hellier said.

The star is called WASP-18 and the planet is WASP-18b because of the Wide Angle Search for Planets team that found them.

The planet circles a star that is in the constellation Phoenix and is about 325 light-years away from Earth, which means it is in our galactic neighborhood. A light-year is about 5.8 trillion miles.

The planet is 1.9 million miles from its star, 1/50th of the distance between Earth and the sun, our star. And because of that the temperature is about 3,800 degrees.

Its size – 10 times bigger than Jupiter – and its proximity to its star make it likely to die, Hellier said.

Think of how the distant moon pulls Earth’s oceans to form twice-daily tides. The effect the odd planet has on its star is thousands of times stronger, Hellier said. The star’s tidal bulge of plasma may extend hundreds of miles, he said.

Like most planets outside our solar system, this planet was not seen directly by a telescope. Astronomers found it by seeing dips in light from the star every time the planet came between the star and Earth.

So far astronomers have found more than 370 planets outside the solar system. This one is “yet another weird one in the exoplanet menagerie,” said planet specialist Alan Boss of the Carnegie Institution of Washington.

It’s so unusual to find a suicidal planet that University of Maryland astronomer Douglas Hamilton questioned whether there was another explanation. While it is likely that this is a suicidal planet, Hamilton said it is also possible that some basic physics calculations that all astronomers rely on could be dead wrong.

The answer will become apparent in less than a decade if the planet seems to be further in a death spiral, he said.

 

 Suicidal planets? Awesome idea. Why not killer planets? Insane Planets? Cannibal planets?

  

Story Updated: Aug 17, 2009 at 2:32 PM PDT

Mukilteo councilwoman earns dubious Internet award

By Associated Press

EVERETT, Wash. (AP) – Mukilteo Councilwoman Jennifer Gregerson earned a mention on the Cracked.com political satire site on a list of Six Places You Should Never Twitter From.

Showing up at No. 2 is Gregerson under the headline, “From an illegal city council meeting (in a bar).”

She made a post from Ivar’s Restaurant following the June 16 Mukilteo City Council meeting. She called it a “debriefing” after a majority of city council members showed up, creating a quorum.

Gregerson told The Everett Herald the experience taught her to create separate personal and council Twitter accounts and to be more careful about what she posts.

 

Yeah. Good FYI. If you’re going to Twitter about illegal council meetings in bars- do it on a PRIVATE Twitter account. It’s these sublte little twists that are good in story structures. They are FUNNY.

  

  

So, how will I use these little gems in stories?

Should  I use these little gems in stories?

I think I might…

 

 

a.m.

  

Something Wicked This Way….

 

Visit my friend Tony’s Blog- he’s going to be posting Halloween related material, plus he’s a great writer so you’re going to enjoy yourself.

I’m loving his Kickoff post because it deals with Halloween Music.

visit Tales At Twilight….and enjoy…

a.m.

Lurking in the Deep, Dark Forest

Attention writers, bloggers, and artists of all media: if you’re looking for a prompt or a bit of inspiration this month, consider looking for what’s hidden (or lurking) among the trees.

This September Arboreality will host The Festival of the Trees issue 39 on the theme of Secrets, and you’re all invited to join me, Jade Blackwater, and bring your friends too!

The Festival of the Trees is a monthly blog carnival featuring trees and forests.  For the September Festival, our theme is Secrets:

“Forests, farms, gardens, urban trees, and ancient-rock-clinging-wind-whipped Bristlecone pine stands can be an escape, a place to hide, a space to rest, a home for buried treasure. This month, I invite you to reveal a small glimpse of a secret among the trees. Consider the quiet spots you go to sit, the trees which have stood in silent observation of the events of your life, the aromatic memory of the garden from a place you have visited. With word, image, sound, or otherwise inspired creation, give us a peek at what you see, or what you can imagine.”

Grab your free-wheeling creative license (and maybe a big, heavy club) and reveal what’s hidden in the dark, mutable forest.

Then post your creations online at your blog, photo album, or other web-based resource, and send me the link:

trees[at]brainripples[dot]com

Deadline for submissions is August 28, 2009.

Questions, comments, suggestions? Drop me an email.

(Don’t forget to drop breadcrumbs along the trail as you go!

…..wouldn’t want to get lost out there.)

[Photos taken October 2008 at the Prehistoric Gardens]

PS – We’re still seeking volunteers to host The Festival of the Trees #40 and beyond! This is a fun way to broaden your audience, and of course – have fun in the trees.

To learn more, contact Dave (bontasaurus[at]yahoo[dot]com) and Pablo (editor[at]roundrockjournal[dot]com), and visit the Volunteer to Host page for details.

PS – We’re still seeking volunteers to host The Festival of the Trees #40 and beyond! This is a great way to broaden your audience, and of course – have fun in the trees.

To learn more, contact Dave (bontasaurus[at]yahoo[dot]com) and Pablo (editor[at]roundrockjournal[dot]com), and visit the Volunteer to Host page for details.

Road Closed

I’ve been asked,

where do I get the ideas  for my stories

where do I dig up the weird things that inspire me to write

and today I thought I would show you…

that I am inspired by the things

I see every single day

 

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Dehiscent

 

In the woods of old poetry
I find lost moments of clarity,
fragments of unabashed emotion.

New lightfall on the thicket
obscures the darkness of self-destruction;
mitigates what only I remember.

Clean verse and clean hands:
meticulously sculpted stories
contain the broken nut of my shell.

Bristlecone-memory is a curse
and a companion.  Its branches
scrape the shadows without compassion.

With compass and cutlass
I inch through the forest:
leaves whisper ugliness and truth in one breath.

Now I gust past rage to finger twigs of wit,
lilt through old poems like prayer:
barely spoken, barely there.

Prostrate in duff, I crack apart the pages,
cast each to the fire as a voice to the wind —
watch the flames finally have their way.

© 2009 Jade Leone Blackwater

*     *     *     *     *

Thanks to Anita Marie Moscoso for once again generously sharing her audience here at Anita’s Owl Creek Bridge.  I always welcome constructive feedback on my writing.  To learn more about my work, or to contact me via email, please visit me at Brainripples.

A Lesson Learned In The Twilight Zone

For me- as a writer- this closing scene from an Twilight Zone Episode titled

” Will The Real  Martian Please Stand Up”

taught me to not only look under the bed or into the closet to find the monster so that I could write about it

it taught me to get under the bed or into the closet and THINK like one.

Enjoy.

During a snowstorm, two state troopers are investigating a crash and are led to believe that it was a UFO. They follow footprints leading from the crash site to a diner, where a group of passengers from a bus to Boston are waiting for word that a bridge up ahead is safe to cross. Though the only patrons of the roadside eatery are bus passengers, there is one more diner than there were people on the bus. There is mutual suspicion among the stranded travelers, as the passengers each try to guess which among them is the alien. When they get permission to go across the bridge, however, they all leave.

Shortly, the businessman played by John Hoyt returns to the diner and tells the cook that the bridge collapsed and the bus and police car fell in killing all aboard the bus and the policemen. As the cook wonders how the businessman survived, he also notes that his clothes are not even wet. Soon the businessman unveils his third arm and stirs his coffee with his third hand, telling the cook that he is a Martian, and revealing that Mars plans to start a colony on Earth. Laughing, the cook tells him that he’s too late, and by taking off his paper hat and revealing his third eye, reveals that he is from Venus, which has already started a colony, and that the Martian invasion force has been intercepted.

Episode no.	Season 2 Episode 64
Written by	Rod Serling
Directed by	Montgomery Pittman