Category Archives: writing

I was robbed.

This is not the post I wanted to write. This is not how I wanted to get back into blogging. I wanted to talk about my summer; the things I had done and not yet done, the art I have begun to create again, the flight to see my parents after five years, the dates I’ve had and the men I’ve met. The things I’ve been thinking about, politcally and personally, esp. in regards to my professional future.  But today I cannot write about any of those things. Today I come to do what I never thought I would do on the internet. Today I come to ask for help.

Yesterday, I arrived home after a long Monday at work to find the window in my door busted, the frame broken and littering my kitchen floor. Soon enough I found that my computer, my hard-won Macbook Pro, was missing. 


Stolen, along with a cheap camera, my old blackberry, a game dvd, and my blender (the blender, but not the attchable food processor! QUE? ) The burgler also left signs of rummaging in my various drawers, tearing up my HTC Evo box, undoubtedly hoping it would be in there. That much, at least, I still have.

The loss of my computer is what gets to me most, more than any of the other stuff, more even than the violation of my personal space.  This is just the space I live in, but my computer contains everything that is me. It is–was–the only thing of value that I ever owned, and I paid for it with my own hard earned money.

You know how it is these days; everything is digital now. All my photos, from when I was a child to a few weeks ago, are in that computer.  Everything I have ever written in the last fifteen years, is on that computer.  All my notes, my drafts, my half-conceived blog posts, now gone into the ether.  My laboriously collected internet library, years in the making, gone. 

But it is not just that. That computer is my main hub for all my communication needs.  As a deaf woman, I need it to connect with and access busineses and people who have no other way besides telephones to communicate. My computer WAS my telephone. I used the relay service and even occaisonally the built in webcam to connect with people.  This touch screen HTC phone is limited. It can only do so much, yanno? Not to mention how many damn typos I make on this damn thing.

That brings me to the point of this post. If you have any money to spare, please consider helping me buy a new computer. I have created a page here. Whatever you wish to give me will be tremendously appreciated.

Its been up a day now, and at the time of this writing, so many people have donated an unbeleiveable amount. I will forever be indebted to them for their generousity.  Everytime somebody donates something, no matter how little or how much, I cry a little.  I cry because it reminds me of how helpless I feel, of how dependant I am on the goodwill of others.  I cry because it reminds me that most people are good people, and that goodwill is abundant.  I cry because people I have never met except in these electronic spaces of the web, somehow feel enough for me to want to share whatever they can spare.  I cry that they do it for me, when I feel unworthy of such generousity. What have I done for any of you to be so blessed? 

But I am blessed, and I’m very greatful to all of you, those have been reading this page all these years, and those who only know me through Facebook.  Without you, my life would be a whole lot dimmer.

Thank you! And again, if you’d like to help out, even if only a few bucks, I will be very greatful.

“Victor” part two.

Part One is here.

The buzzing bees in his head, how could he think?

He could just burn the place down. That would be easier.  This house was filled with her taint. Lingering memories.  How long had she been lying to him, pretending she was one thing while being another, destroying every stone in the foundation of their marriage? Twisting the evidence to show what she wanted him to see. Misdirection, lies, destruction…The bees dropped away into the hives of his imagination as inspiration struck him. “Ah, Carolyn…you always were my muse.”  He lifted her body and placed her on the bed. “I will make them see what I want them to see, what they want to see.”  He kissed her one last time. “Goodbye, Linnie.”

He tore down the lace curtains and ripped them into shreds.  Wrapped them around her arms and tied her hands to the bed.  Misdirection.

He went downstairs and found whiskey and scotch in the great room.  He considered a tumbler or a shot glass, but really, what’s the point of that?  He took a drink, straight from the bottle, then another, and another, and another, stopping only after the eighth chug. His sinuses burned and his eyes fogged up inside his retinas. One stiff swallow for every year they were married.   It would make hurting himself easier.

He climbed back up the stairs and turned around, staring down the steps to the tiled foyer below. 
Fuck, he had to be insane to do this.  He walked backwards until his back hit the wall. He didn’t feel as drunk as he had hoped.  He wished he could remember how to pray. Fuck it, after all this, he had to belong to the Devil now.  He dashed to the top of the stairs and dived.

He felt every single step on the way down.  His breath broke in pieces when he crashed onto his elbow somewhere around the sixth stair.  He tumbled to a stop, legs splayed above him, and every ragged breath he drew burned like fire. Excellent, a couple broken ribs…that should add verisimilitude. He wheezed a short laugh.  He gathered up his legs beneath him and carefully stood.  A slight sprain in one ankle, hopefully many bruises.  No blood. He thought there would be blood, splatters and splatters. Like Alfred Hitchhock had tossed him down the stairs. Or something.

He staggered to the kitchen and found a kitchen lighter, one of those stupid-looking gun-like things made for grilling.  He tucked it into the waist of his pants. He also dug out one of Carolyn’s prized damascene carving knives. Prized for extra sharpness. He grimaced.  “Its like shaving, Just think it as shaving.”  He sliced his eyebrow in half.  It was a bare pinprick of pain compared to the rest of him.  Hot blood rushed down his face. Verisimilitude. That should do it.  Blood in the eyes stings like a bitch.  He groped around for a rag and held it to his face. He didn’t know what else he could do to himself.   Binding would require markings and evidence he had neither the time nor energy to make.  He had to go with what he was able to do, and hope it would be enough to make it believable.

Fabrication.  Misdirection.  Now it was time for destruction.

He limped back up the stairs, every hop eliciting a sharp breath, every breath a gasp of pain.  He held the rag to his eye. It wouldn’t do to get blood on the carpet up here.  He stood next to the bed, looking down.  He poured the remains of the whiskey and scotch on her face, her body, her clothes, her hair.  The bedding turned brown.

He pulled on Carolyn’s ancient tweed coat. It was warmer than any coat he had ever owned.  And it was her’s; he would like to keep something that was her’s with him.

“Well, Linnie. This is it; the descent into hell.” He struck the lighter and flame flared up, dancing in anticipation of the immolation yet to come.  He set it to Carolyn’s alcohol-drenched brown hair. Flames rose up in an instant, consuming her face.

He watched the flames grow to engulf the bed that was once theirs.  He breathed in the smoke deeply, welcoming the black cough.  Soon enough he would “escape” to his neighbor’s house. What was his name—Joe? John? Jack—yes, Jack.

Jack, robbers are burning down my house. My wife—my wife!

Lies, lies, all of it lies, and every bit of it seeded with truth.  Thieves broke in, cut him and tossed him down the stairs, and while he was unconscious, raped and killed his wife. And finding nothing to steal, burned the house down.

Lies and misdirection, lies and destruction.  He closed the tweed coat around him and staggered back down the stairs, leaving the inferno behind.

He hoped it would work.  And if it didn’t, well at least he had taken the chance.  He would never have won and married Carolyn, if he hadn’t taken that chance.

For Claire: Tweed Chapter 2–“Victor”, Part 1.

Because she asked.

The genesis of this concept can be found here at this post,  which is chapter 1.  Further explanation of my concept can be found here.

Because of length (1915 words or 7 pages) I have split this story into 2 parts.

Be warned, this chapter is dark and graphic. It is also in early first draft form; there are some revisions I have yet to make, so please excuse any clunky passages.



Chapter 2:



         The woman’s pulse fluttered like a doomed butterfly under his fingers; every struggling beat an electric wind in his blood.  Her throat swelled, searching for release, but instead he squeezed tighter. Her nails, manicured, pink with white tips, dug into his hands, and her bare feet kicked at his ankles.

He ignored the little beetle-like points of pain.  All he cared about were her eyes.  Her soft brown, doe-like eyes.  Warm, like caramel.  Deep, like mud.  He stared into them now, her pupils wide and dark black against the brown, expanding ever wider and wider with every vain gasp for air.  Defiance gave way to desperation in her eyes.

He focused on those eyes, so warm and dark, like a womb for his mind.  If he did not, the voice inside his head would begin to scream.  He could feel it there, sitting behind his eyes, a buzzing pressure, a buzzing presence, a buzzing buzzing buzzing bee inside his head.  Always judging, always goading, always screaming.

The woman’s throat deflated.  Her eyes turned black and slack. The pulse under his fingers fluttered raggedly, weakly, one last time.  Then the buzzing bee went quiet.

Victor’s knees gave out from under him, and he fell, collapsing over the crumpled body of the woman.

Carolyn.  Her name was Carolyn.  She was so beautiful, even in death. Her warm caramel eyes were still as bright as the day he had married her. Just as bright, just as empty.

She had butterflies in her hair that day, bright blue wings dancing in the roses twined into her dark brown hair.  The sweet scent of roses cocooned them when they made their vows—vows to hold faith and honor.  Vows that apparently meant as little as the life of butterflies.

A storm of electric winds coursed in his veins.  Fire and light.  Light and life.  Life and Chaos.  Chaos and destruction.

He pushed himself back onto his knees. Carolyn’s body sprawled, a bloodless heap. Her silk robe splayed open, baring a large white breast and a soft belly.  Her cunt was naked, shaved as bare as a girl’s.   His hate was spent, but desire and anger still rode the wind in his blood.

She had never shaved for him.

“You beautiful, heartless, faithless fucking whore…”

He crouched over her and inhaled the scent of her perfumed hair.  Her lips tasted of tears.  He groped her breast, pinching a tepid nipple with one hand and stroked her bare cunt with the other. He had always wondered what it would feel like, hairless. Now he knew. It felt soft and smooth, like wet silk, or like crumpled rose petals.  Her bright eyes stared at the ceiling.

His balls ached with the need for relief.  He rubbed his thumb over his head and groaned.  Heat consumed him, and he held his cock, squeezing it like he had squeezed Carolyn’s pretty white throat.  He stroked his cock against her shaved pussy.  Definitely like roses.

He remembered that scent of crushed roses the first time he had fucked her.  She had dominated him from the beginning.  Her sweet brown eyes had bored into his, as if daring him to impale her deeper, harder, faster.  He remembered that he had come too soon.

“Ah, Carolyn…” He breathed into her dead ear.  “I will always love you.”  He slammed his cock into her cunt. Her head flopped over, limp as a rag doll. The slap of flesh against flesh echoed in the room.  Blood roared in his head. “I loved you.” Slap.  “As a boy…” Slap.  “I loved…” Slap. “You from…” Slap. He grunted. “ Afar.”  He paused and kissed her slack lips once more. “I fought for you Carolyn, and I married you.” He thrust hard into her again, grunting, sweat dripping down his back. “I still…” Slap.  “Love…”  Slap.  “You…you…fucking…bitch…whore!”

He groaned and shot himself inside her.  He panted, all fire and light and strength spent with his cum.  His eyes hurt and the buzzing started again.  The blasted buzzing, why wouldn’t it stop?  “You never loved me at all, did you, Linnie?”

He stood, the buzzing loud behind his eyes.  She was dead, and it felt…right.  Her white body sprawled on the pink carpet, his cum glistening on her unmoving flesh.


     She was supposed to be nothing like his mother. His mother had been a drunk whore, a gold digging adulteress, worthless, vapid, and vain.  Carolyn was better than that.  Had been better.  Warm to his mother’s coldness, dark chocolate brunette to his mother’s insipid platinum façade.  How could she have done this?

“Who is he?”  He had raged at her.  She just smirked and smeared bright red clown makeup on her lips.

“What business is it of yours, Victor?  You’ve got your own boytoys; let me have mine.  What—don’t act so outraged and innocent, Victor-dear.”  And she had walked past him, rosebud lip curled up in a sneer.

How dare she? He had never been a faggot, ever, and he had never been unfaithful.  She knew that—she had to have known that.  It was just some cruel bitchy jab at his impotency.   He wasn’t good in bed—he tried, he really tried—but he never could make her come.  And every time he tried, the weaker he became, and after a while, he just stopped trying.

“Oh Carolyn, Linnie, love.”  He started crying.

Now what?  Oh god, he thought, I’ve killed her, and I’ve got no way to cover it up.  No, no, no there’s got to be a way, there’s always a way.  I can call the police and say thieves came in the house, tied me, killed and raped her.  No, there’s no mark on me, who would believe that?  Better she had killed herself, found her hanging in the shower.

He looked at the hand-shaped bruises on her neck and knew that wouldn’t work.  Too many episodes of “Law and Order.”   He had to make her disappear.  Erase all evidence that she had died.  That he had killed her. Stuff her in a freezer. Cut up her body.  Take a fishing trip and dump her into the sea.  Claim that she had left him.  But wouldn’t they know—nobody just disappears for no reason.

Part two will be continued over the weekend.

Monday haikus

Damp Angst

Rain, rain, fog, and rain.
If this is Oregon, then
Where’s all the hipsters?

Ode to Bananas

Yellow and phallic
Thou art so perfectly formed
To fit in ape hands.

Breakfast in the Jungle

Vending machine down.
Jesus rollerblading Christ
I needs my chocolate.

A Villain

I claimed a new badge from the Merit Badger today, the Villain Badge (click image for badge specifics)!

What villain have I created to be worthy of such a honorable mention?

BEHOLD, my friends, let me introduce to you the dastardly, megolomaniac, power-grabbing GRAND VIZIER!

(Of COURSE he’s a grand vizier, aren’t ALL dastardly wizards?)


Below is an abbreviated excerpt from one of my older WIPs, currently shelved because of its super-long Epic Fantasy setup, which I do not yet have the skills to handle.  It is the very first thing I wrote for this character, and he has gone through some evolutions since, but I love this character, even though he’s a total sociopath and complete dickhead.  (Also, upon re-reading this, written at the tender age of 19, I see that my prose leaves much to be desired.)

The Grand Vizier followed behind the silent Council of Lords as they exited the judgment hall in a despairing line of rich brocades and flowing silks.  His conscience did not bother him; he prided himself as a man who had no conscience.  A conscience is burden, a self-destructive construct of the mind that poisons the spirit.  It serves well the weak-minded, who must serve, and females, who must nurture the young, but it is a serious liability for men in positions of power.  A conscience is the powerful man’s death–his utter futility to justify his own existence, negating his destiny has a ruler of men.

The evidence could be seen all around him, in the self-delusioned fools who would not sleep well this night.  But he was glad, nonetheless, that the councilors were “honorable” men of conscience, for it made them malleable and easy to manipulate.  Their obsessions with morality, with Right and Wrong,  provided him a potent leverage with which he prodded them down paths they would normally not take.  Some he blackmailed with their own guilt, and to others, he gave sops to feed their pride.  All were convinced to make choices that they believed would be for the better–choices that inevitably led them to the next, then to the next, leading ultimately to the final decision they made this day.

It had not been hard to convince them to betray their consciences, but many had resisted longer than he thought they would.  One in particular had required constant stimulus, but he too, had capitulated in the end.  But time had flowed on while he had prodded the Council toward the path of his own choosing, and now the month of the Summoning was upon them, and the game had not yet begun.  He had very little time left, and now he must hurry, lest the window of opportunity pass.

His name was Omar Kasem Abul, but no one called him that. Indeed, the last fool who had dared to do so wound up chained to the wall of the deepest dungeon, and most likely died there. He had never bothered to check. That fool may have been his father, but even he should have known never to demean his rank by calling him his name.  His name may be Omar Kasem Abul, but to those outside his household he was the Vizier, and to those within, simply the Master.  And to himself? Well, his is the only existence that matters, and he referred to himself simply as “I.”  He was an uncomplicated man, and his desires equally uncomplicated.  And besides, is it not said in the Holy Book that the name of the One True God is “I?”

Abul smiled thinly in amusement at his vanity.  He was nowhere near godhood, yet.  But he was the closest thing to godliness among mortal men.  It may be vanity to acknowledge his superiority over others, but foolish to deny it.

It is equally foolish to believe that vanity is a sin.  His mother had believed that, devoutly; that humility would bring her great rewards and the blessings of Heaven.  The silly, meddling clerics had taught her that, and what did that belief get her but tossed out into the street and left in the dirt to die.

He wondered with offhand curiosity if she still lived, and if she was enjoying her life among the humble and the meek.  Indeed! He snorted.  And how do you like your patch of inherited earth?  Is it just as you’ve imagined Heaven to be? Dust and rotting bones?

Chuckling to himself, Omar Kasem Abul, Grand Vizier of the Great Empire of the Ari’eli’ma, Master of his House and the next “I AM,” put the past behind him and planned for the future.  It would be a very perfect future indeed.


Ooh, now isn’t that a spine-chiller?!


NaNoWriMo: Day 5 Updates, or All Work and No Sweets Makes Rachel a Very Sad Monkey

So, it is day 5 of Nanowrimo.  I am making slow progress. I am enjoying my book very much so far, but writing in deep point of view (DPOV) is mentally draining and it is very hard to make my daily quota of 1667 words.  My best output so far was for yesterday, at 1449 words.  I am beginning to think that my concept of a novel that is mostly in DPOV may be a bit too complicated and intensive for the high-speed marathon dash of Nano.

But I have realized something very important about my writing muse, which goes a long way to explaining why I have not had any luck in progressing on my previous WIPs.  It seems that I actually prefer to write in DPOV, and my older WIPs have all been plot-centered, focused on my characters doing, doing, doing, and going, going, going, but hardly anything at all  of what they think, feel, or sense.  It seems I need DPOV in order to maintain my motivation and interest.

The other issue I have with this WIP is the fact that every new chapter brings a new character and a new POV.  Which means I have to start from the beginning again, conceptualizing, plotting, and developing the character’s voice, motivations, and actions.  It takes time to get grounded in a new character, but once I manage to get in his or her head, it takes off.   And once I take off, I can write some pretty damn inspired stuff.   Let me share with you one passage I am particulary proud of:

Carolyn wiped her eyes of the tears that welled up at the memory of his words inside her.  She let her hair fall forward, a screen against the sight of him.  She kept her head down and scribbled into her notepad.
His voice stopped and someone else’s voice asked him some question she did not hear. She looked up, her silver pen heavy and thick in her fingers. Would he drink now? Oh please, let it be now. She wiped her sleeve on her forehead. Sweat soaked her hair. Hope and fear sank like the Titanic into her stomach, crashing and burning inside a sea of bile.

I am cooking pumpkin bread in the oven, and after I write a new batch of 1000 words, I will make chocolate chip cookies.  In the meantime, I am avoiding my word processor.  LET ME SHOW YOU A NEW WEBSITE I FOUND THE OTHER DAY!

It’s called “Merit Badger” where you can collect merit badges for all your accomplishments. Well-designed merit badges!  Here are some merit badges I collected today:

(You may click on the badges to be directed to the source page for descriptions.)

For doing Nano!





For getting 5,000 words squeezed out of my pulpy head!





For getting into the FLOW yesterday!

(Click the badge for a description of what FLOW means)




Because I’m so damn distractable–OOH LOOK SHINY NEW BADGES!!


What was I saying?



Go get your badges from the Merit Badger NOW.

NaNoWriMo! About “Tweed”

I’d doing NaNoWriMo this year! I did it in 2008 and I’m trying again.

Last time I wrote a sword and sorcery fantasy which I have been in the process of revising and rewriting. This year, I am exploring the darker side of humanity; What is Evil? What makes otherwise civilized people into monsters? What happens when anger, hate, fear take control over our thoughts? And how do all our relationships play a part in the battle for good and evil within ourselves?

This book was inspired by the results of a writing exercize I did in 2008, called “Jack Ripkin”, which I posted here.

I am going far outside my typical genre with this one. It is not a fantasy, but more like an experimental crime noir type literary fiction. I am calling it TWEED, after the central prop or “mcguffin” that ties the lives of my many characters together; a old brown tweed coat, which the above character, Jack, stole. Every chapter will be in deep point of view as it moves back through time through the minds of each doomed character coming into possession of the coat. How did it come to be, and why is it cursed?

I started it on Monday after work and wrote 700 words about Victor, who had just killed his wife. I finished a rough draft of the chapter yesterday, sweating out 1243 words. It is a dark and disturbing chapter, deep in the mind of a dark and disturbed mind, but I found it strangely compelling–if difficult–to write.

I am a day behind in daily quota, but after I publish this post, I start on Carolyn’s–Victor’s wife–story. What madness is in her heart, I wonder? Who will she inherit the coat from?

I’ll be keeping this site updated as I progress! Watch for the monkey!

This is Where it All Happens

I’m on vacation! And no, I’m not doing anything special. Honestly, if you only knew just HOW MANY people have asked me “Whatcha doing?” or “Where ya going?” or “Got plans?”–I’m sure you would not have restrained me if I had decided to get bitchy. But I didn’t get bitchy. I stayed polite. I swear.

No, my only plans this vacation (July 1– July 11, squee!) are to sleep in, read books, swim at the pool and/or the beach, spend some time with friends and family, and write. I had a bit of an epiphany regarding the old novel I keep coming back to. I’ve come up with that BIG IDEA that will give this book or series its distinctive character. At last! That’s the good news. The bad news is I have to go back to the beginning and rewrite 75% of my text, and delete 15% of the remainder. I did much of the deleting and restructuring today–er, its 1:30am, so I mean YESTERDAY–and I have cut approximately 15,000 words from my original manuscript. It now stands at 17,210 words, and most of it needs to be rewritten. My heart quails at the task ahead, but I can see the light.

On a lighter note, I have recently discovered this excellent blog, the Rejectionist, a blog written by an literary agent’s assistant. Every post is a treasure trove of insights, tips, and humor. Check it out. Anyway, today, the Rejectionist is hosting a Writers Corner Day in which writers post pics! Of their writing corners! Where writing gets done! (Update! heres the link to the actual Writer’s Corner thread!) Here’s mine:

Yes, I really DO keep it that tidy. I find that I cannot focus on my work when there’s shit everywhere. I keep the clutter in the kitchen where it belongs.

So what are the things in the picture, you might ask? From left to right, ground up:

  • A filing cabinet, wherein all my genius is contained. And also old school essays, tax forms, utility statements, and bills.
  • Desktop organizers, to organize notes and notebooks and post-it notes.
  • My current notebook, where I write my random wordy scribbles for future transcribing into the computer. There are several different colored highlighters on top.
  • My Blackberry. It has nothing to do with writing, but its there nonetheless.
  • A stack of freshly-printed rough draft manuscript. 70 pages. I will be going through it later today with my pens and highlighters making more notes. Always more notes.
  • A 3-ring binder containing EVERYTHING I’ve typed up and freehanded. More notes.
  • A handy-dandy HP inkjet printer. It faxes, scans, copies, and prints, but will have absolutely nothing to do with Adobe Reader. It hates Adobe with the burning passion of 10,000 habenero peppers.
  • Computer! Power Mac G3. Yes I know. I’m buying a MacBook in 5 or 6 weeks, Light willing.
  • Chair. It swivels, it leans back, it goes up and down! Wait, didn’t I blog about the chair before?
  • Keyboard. Yanno, it types. Not by itself, silly. I type words into it.
  • Computer monitor. the thing by which all things are seen.
  • Stuff. Stuff includes: water bottle, green tea, a pen, a desktop calendar, and mini-organizer full of pens, pencils, erasers, and markers, and USB cords. Above is a shelf holding yet another organizer holding a calculator, blank papers and envelopes. Oh, and stuff also includes my inhaler and wire-ties. Don’t ask, I don’t know, either.
  • Post-its everywhere! One has a website address on it, another is a reminder not to berate myself for being distracted, but to welcome it with zen-like calm. There’s also a cartoon clip-out from Non Sequitor.
  • Above the monitor, I have a hole-punch, a stapler, another organizer, and a stack of blogging and art notes.
  • Above that, on the top shelf, are all my writing notebooks and sketchbooks from 1995 to the present day.
  • The very top of the hutch holds 3-ring binders and magazine holders filled with more stuff from my OTHER works-in-progress.
  • Trash can. To put trash in.
  • And Finally! The anchor of it all, my cat. The shoes don’t belong here, ignore the shoes. My cat hates being apart from me, so she sleeps at my feet like a dog. Don’t tell her that, though, for she’s old and senile and it will just confuse her. That’s right, puss-puss, no dogs here.

For those who wonder what the words on my dry erase board mean: “Ars requiret totum hominem” is Latin, translated “Art requires the whole being.”

And yes, the desk and hutch are from Ikea.

And it is now 2 freaking am. Good night!

More Writing Updates

I’m currently in the middle of end-stage revisions to my short story “Ouroboros”, a dark fantasy/horror of a man trapped in a cycle of confusion and revenege.

In addition, I have also just started a new short story. It is as yet still untitled and none of the characters have names, but it will be a light, humorous/satirical fantasy about two familiars on a quest to find True Love for their Wizard.

A short exerpt:

“I have decided,” announced X between sweeps of her paw over her ear, “that Master Z must have a mate.”

Y opened one yellow eye and twisted his body to catch a fleeting ray of sun coming through the window. “I don’t think Master Z wants a mate.” He said.

“Nonsense! He’s HUMAN. All humans need mates. And I assure you, the Master wants a woman whether he knows it or not.”

“A woman?” Y sat up and swished his tail. “But they’re so…loud.”

“Well, of COURSE a woman. What do you think a mate IS?”

Y bent himself in half and cleaned his bottom. He did not approve. “You’ve been reading those books, again, haven’t you?”

X flicked her ears back and made herself retract her claws. “What of it? They’re very useful for understanding human ways.”

“They’re trash. Everyone knows that. Besides, you’re a familiar. The only books you have any business reading are grimoires and spellbooks. Not smut full of warriors ‘ravishing fair maidens’ soft, pink, quivering flowers.”

X narrowed her eyes and curled up into a ball in the sun. She tucked her paws under her. “Humph. And yet you say you’ve never read a single one of those books.”

He didn’t reply. The silence stretched out as the two cats eyed each other while the sun climbed higher into the sky. Tails swished on the braided carpet.

“So,” said Y, just as X almost dozed off. “Just how is it you propose to get Master Z a mate?”

X purred.


I’ve also been keeping up on the Deepwater Gulf oil spill; a situation that infuriates me with impotence. I am working on a rant regarding that and perhaps I shall post that next week.

Today is the Friday before a three-day weekend (Monday is Memorial Day here in the States) I have no real plans, except to relax and write and enjoy the weather. I am buying a Y membership tonight so I will likely be swimming laps at some point over the next few days.

Happy friday and good weekend all!

Good Old Days

On sunday, I joined my friends Kris and Ange at the CT Spring Rennaisance Festival. I didn’t wear my costume this time as the stuff is deep in storage and needs de-musting and de-bugging. I’ll wear them In the fall, probably. Anyway, I got a sunburn while there. It wasn’t ENTIRELY by stupidity. I was expecting cloudy, overcast, and cool skies for the whole day and so decided the sunscreen would be unecessary. However, once I drove east of New Haven, the skies cleared up, and the fairgrounds shimmered under bright sunlight. I spent the entire afternoon baking. Now my shoulders are punishing me with a million tiny whiplashes. The shirt I’m wearing is soft cotton and feels like a cat’s sandpaper tongue. Stupid New England’s inconstant weather.

The renfaire was interesting. It was a little lowkey this year, and the highlight of the trip was watching Kris and Ange buy Kris a black leather corset. Oh, and the blond dude in the kilt in the sparring ring. Now he was a fine young man. Hm.

And now, another 15 minute writing exercize from Saturday’s writing workshop. The instructions for this one is to write a free verse poem based on Gustav Klimpt’s “The Lovers”. I pulled in some memories of the breaking-up process and came up with this:

“Come on,” He said
“For old time’s sake
“Let us pretend what we had
“Was real and remember the beginning–
“For old time’s sake?”

He pulled her into
His embrace.

She turned her head away
But did not resist.
His fire burned her skin
And she sighed, then
Pushed him away–

For old time’s sake.