Monday, August 31, 2009

An Excerpt of "Broken"

"Broken" is about a young widow who struggles to accept her husband's death and basically self-destructs. She wavers between lucidity and insanity, driven by pain. This is her moment of clarity...the moment she decides to live.

I look at the razor blade in my hands. I don’t even remember grabbing it. It catches the light and gleams silver, a welcoming friend. It is a lie. I throw it on the floor and grasp my wedding ring instead. It was a promise given out of love. If you want me to live then I will live. I slip the ring back onto my finger, smiling through my tears as it winks at me. The soft light holds the gold band and it seems to glow.

I rise from my bath and cover myself. I feel raw, but oddly reborn. I scoop up the pile of clothes and toss them in the bin. I love you. My heart repeats the words slowly, rhythmically in my chest. I love you. I place one foot in front of the other unsure of what morning will bring. I crawl beneath our comforter. As I drift to sleep, I swear that I feel you wrap your arms around me, but when I look, no one is there. I close my eyes and hear you whisper softly, “Sleep tight.” I smile and nestle deeper into my pillow. Maybe I’m not that crazy after all.

Sunday, August 30, 2009


So I never visit Facebook anymore, but I was bored and checked in... A friend had sent a quiz to me that said, "What dead rock star are you?" I always wanted to be a dead rock star, so I took it. Lol.

Answer: Jim Morrison
You are brilliant and extroverted, but dark and disturbed. You enjoy fire, snakes and the occult. Stay away from Paris unless you want to end up next to Edgar Allan Poe. And try to keep it in your pants, ok?

Think they got it right? Lol. Yeah, works for me.


Lmao. Relationships are fun.

Saturday, August 29, 2009


I washed your clothes
And folded them neatly
I fixed the disposal
And mowed the lawn

I lotioned my legs
And painted my lips

I picked up the babies
And helped them with homework
I stocked the fridge with your favorite things
I left your dinner in the oven

And curled my hair

Then I smashed your PS3 into a million pieces
I doused it with gasoline
And set the thing on fire

I smiled to myself
And lined my eyes with kohl

I threw your pc on the pile
And beat it with a baseball bat
It wasn’t satisfactory enough
So I ground my high heel in it, just for laughs

I packed three bags
And left a note:

Now you can play uninterrupted, Sweetie
Oh wait. You can’t
Your ex-wife

Music Theory 101

A certain loud-mouthed Irishman thinks that rock is dead. So I'm wasting an entire blog to illustrate how wrong he is.

In Ireland there is a couple who have taken metal songs and turned them into something that is unique, beautiful, very intelligent, and interesting. They hail from Mexico originally and then inexplicably moved to Dublin. They have a long history in metal.

How can you listen to that and say rock is dead? It's an evolution, a re-birth of rock.

Now Metallica has pissed me off ever since they came out with Load, their aptly named piece of crap CD. But Death Magnetic, their new CD has some strains that hearken back to their glory days. Referring to: And Justice For All, Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning, and Kill 'em All. No, it isn't as amazing as those albums, but it's note worthy.

All Nightmare Long

Guns 'N' Roses. 'Nuff said. Okay, Chinese Democracy is amazing, but controversial. Probably the most adult album that Axel has ever made, but it's experimental and not every song is a hit. That's what happens with true art. Some people take issue with it because Slash isn't on there. Who gives a rat's ass about Slash? Sure he's a great guitarist, but what has Velvet Revolver done? It's nothing without Axel. I top picks off of Chinese Democracy are as follows:

This I love, for the artistic quality, the contrast of Axel's weathered voice and the intensity of the music. It's beautiful in it's simplicity and the lyrics are soulful.

Shackler's Revenge, for it's demented qualities and rockin' sound (not the clip I wanted, but close enough).

There's more, Sorry, Madagascar, but Youtube's copyright b.s. is really getting on my nerves. GNR's website is linked on my blog you can hear more there. The point is, that Axel's lyrics are amazing and the music compensates for what may or may not be lacking in his vocals.

To list kick ass bands who exhibit intelligence in their music: Seether, any band with Jack White, Three Days Grace, Papa Roach, Jet, The Killers, The Bravery, etc.



I think that's enough for today. ;)

Friday, August 28, 2009

Music Break II

Green Jello (Jelly): Three Little Pigs

Chasm (Continued)

Not an hour later the door to my humble dwelling bursts open, but I don’t flinch. I've been anticipating the magistrate's arrival. My only concern is for you. Did they catch you on the cliff? Have you been imprisoned? I turn sullen eyes toward my damaged front door.

I expect to see the gaunt frame of the magistrate, but instead my old friend Aesop greets me. My features twist, perplexed. “Aesop? Why have you broken my door? You are welcome here.”

Aesop angrily crosses the room and painfully grips my shoulders. I can see that he is not himself. Fear begins to uncurl like a venomous snake in my stomach. He snarls in my face, leaning close enough that I can smell the drink on his breath. “When did you become a whore to the Ishlar, Elspeth?” He moves a hand to crudely cup my sex. “You locked your legs to me years ago just to spread them for a devil! You’re worse than a whore, Elspeth Salazar, you’re a traitor to your race.”

I watch him nervously, unable to reconcile this man with my boyhood sweetheart. “Aesop—“ He strikes me hard across the face. I fall into the turntable. The record skips. Tears collect in his eyes and he blinks them away.

Years ago he would have been a warrior for our clan, but our clan has no use for warriors anymore. We’ve become oddities for the humans, creatures to take a picture with and whisper silly stories about. Men like Aesop become beautiful beings with no purpose. I hadn’t realized that he had taken to drink.

His weakness becomes my opportunity. I shake myself free from his grasp and place my hands on either side of his face. I see a broken man and my heart swells with fondness for the boy he had been. He was my first lover and once, long ago, my betrothed. “Aesop,” I whisper to him softly, “Let me call Rebecca. Your wife must be worried.” I stroke his hair as I did when we were young and innocent. I brush the long strands away from his face and kiss the smooth skin between his eyebrows, a blessing in our culture. His hair falls softly over my hands past his neck. I stroke the sides of his neck and shoulders soothingly. His shoulders are strongly built and warm to the touch. My heart aches for him. His pain is palpable.

He misreads my intentions and brushes a kiss on my lips. His tongue moves drunkenly inside my mouth and I push him away from me. The back of my hand wipes his kiss away and I grimace at the taste of liquor on my tongue. “I’m calling Rebecca. She can come collect you.”

“No!” He barks the word and growls deep in his throat. Our people have evolved into rational, thinking, beings. Seeing this primal, uncontrolled side of Aesop pains me. I fear he is lost, locked into madness. He struggles for composure. His massive wings lack the luster they once enjoyed and hang like cloudy growths from his back. “I…I can’t shame her like this. She can’t see me this way. I’ll go.” He stumbles out into the night. But he’ll be back. I can feel it churning inside of me. Next time he’ll bring the magistrate...

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Chasm (Revisited)

This was a Critters submission that I've rewritten. Hopefully it's better than it was... Photograph by Doris Mitsch.

You come unbidden, pounding cracks along my walls. You break defenses laid long before I knew your name. Sometimes I hate you. I would choke the power from you if I could.

Your hands explore things that are not yours to touch. Your smile gleams in contrast to the shadows. The brightest light in my darkened mind—you terrify me. I don't remember letting you in...

I taste your mouth. Hot and honeyed lips probe painfully as I arch and beg for more. Bring on the pain—I can take it. I hope. Somewhere inside my head a memory reveals its ugly face. A feeling of uncertainty, a question of morality stays my hands. I tense. I flinch, locked within my mind. But you stroke my wings, trailing rainbows in your fingers’ wake. You spread them wide and press deeper inside.

A drug couldn't hold me more completely. Nor could a book elicit more fascination. You’re a puzzle to be solved. What world do you come from—you foreign thing? Our bodies shift in a rhythm all their own. I lick your thighs. I am your whore. Breaths entwine; pulses mingle. I feel myself fading into you—my identity lost. I need a separation. Where am I in this tangled mess? Am I the oozing creature clinging desperately? Please—anything but that.

The world was clear and comprehensible before you arrived. I was focused and fresh. But you stole my clarity and cluttered my world with useless trivia and annoying philosophies. You teased me into submission and espoused ideas that led me to impossible conclusions. You twisted my mind into something I barely recognize. Now your face manifests at random moments and I'm spread beneath you to the breaking point. I'm your wanton slut, your personal plaything pleading for release.

I watch you when you sleep. I watch the breath pass through your body. I know your secret. I've seen the proof myself. I'll keep your secret if you'll just get out of my head. Sadness racks me no sooner then I tack the thought. A loss more real than I could imagine cuts deeply.

This hedonist transcendence is consuming. To exist with you is to lose myself. To exist without you is to lose everything. I can’t face this life without your love, your touch, your scent.

The sheen of exertion glitters on my skin. I wring the dampness from my wings. Blue-green hues catch in the lamplight. I trace the delicate veins within their gossamer casing. Then your voice shatters the silence, "I love the way your wings wrap around you. The contrasting colors against your pale skin…lovely."

I look at your face. I absorb the image of your chest, your muscles holding the light, yet revealing only darkness. My hunger builds. In a moment, I'm pressed flat against the wall. You take me woman to man, beast to alien. I know your secret. I've seen the gills. My eyes roll backward and close. My wings twist painfully behind me. I tighten my legs around your waist. A tear slides down my cheek as realization dawns. You'll never vacate my head. I'll never escape you. But then, I didn't really want to. You spread me wider still. A broken butterfly, you pin me to my own wall.

You whisper softly, words of comfort, words of love. You whisper lies. I've seen your gills. I reach around your back and catch one with my nails. You freeze with eyes wide. God, I love your eyes. "Careful," you say. "I can explain.” Storm clouds form around us where sex and lust had just been.

"You know the law," I say, "You know what I have to do." You pulsate inside my body and we both know that you are the stronger of us. You look so sad, my forlorn pet. I watch your lips twist and form your words. "You don't have to do this. I love you. We could be together." My grip loosens for a second and you seize my weakness. With my hands pinned above my head you pound me harder than before. I feel as if you have bruised every inch of me. We ride the frenzy and come stronger than ever, now that the truth is out.

I could have killed you. You could still kill me, but you lay me gently on the bed instead. To invite you into my home is illegal. To invite you inside my body is punishable by death. If the magistrate finds out, he'll hang us before morning. By law, they are supposed to give us a trial, but we have broken the treaty between our races. There would be hell to pay if anyone found out. It has to end; this addiction can be no more. The truth of it looms over us and the darkness grows.

"We can flee." Your voice sounds like cold gravel in the stillness. I smile without mirth, "Where?" I feel you flush with frustration, "We have to do something!" I touch your shoulders and inhale your scent.

You spring from my bed and pace naked before me. Your scales trail softly down your spine, so faint in the dimly lit room. You must be a mixed breed. Others of your kind have scintillating scales and gills in bold patterns. The damned gills were tiny slits around your sides. I rise slowly and put my hands on your chest trying to ignore the desire drumming beneath my skin. "You have to go," I state calmly, "and forget me."

I watch your face fall and know you understand. Very slowly, you begin to extract yourself. I feel the disconnect clearly. Tears stream down my face and I tremble helplessly as you back away. "It's only temporary," you say, "I'll find a way Elspeth..."

My name falls like lead in the hollow room. All light follows you and leaves me in silence. The peace you disturbed turns to chaos in my mind. I put a record on the turntable, needing to fill the space between us. I know, now, where you end and I begin. I swallow hard against the knot in my throat. The human singer beckons richly from the speaker. Her music drowns your voice, but it can't touch your memory. I'll wait with the patience of my breed. I flick my wings in the deepening shadows, yes, I'll wait. Maybe you can find a way for us. I cry quiet tears, but I wait.

To be continued...

Grandpa Was Right About the Bricks

Well, it's eerily quiet around here. My little monkeys went back to school this morning. It's absolutely ridiculous that they are in first and second grade. Just yesterday Noah was learning how to talk and Gabriel was crawling on the counter. How can they possibly be six and seven years old? My Grandpa used to threaten to stack bricks on my head to keep me small. I see what he meant now.

I guess this leaves me with more time to harass Anton. I'll dust off my Cat O' Nine Tails and see if he's up for a game. What? I feel inspired and Anton's always so entertaining. ;D

Or maybe not. One last look at my little, little ones before they're ditching me at the mall...sorry for the melancholy, lol.

I held your hand when you were brand new
Touched your face and counted your toes
I kissed your eyes
Stroked your hair

I rocked you and time stood still
I named you after an angel
and a man of great faith
Hoping you'd be better Christians than me

I taught you the alphabet
And songs that you'll one day forget
I pulled you down from
the tree when you got stuck...

You're still little
But not for long
One day you'll be grown
With babies of your own

And I'll probably cry
Kiss your grown faces
My heart will burst with pride
And I'll remember when you were all mine

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Sadomasochist Love Song (About a Corset)

I’m gonna strip it off
No amount of pleading can stop me now
I’m gonna burn it off
You’ll see; I’ll show you how

Twisted boy
Stitch my mouth closed
Twisted boy
With the needle that I chose

I’m rocking your world
Now you’re beggin’ down on your knees
Bet you wish I was your girl
Scream, “baby, please!”

Frozen like a mannequin
You know that I can’t breathe
You’ll never be sane again
Poking holes, I’m just your sieve

You silly, silly little boy
You strapped me in this thing
You think I serve to bring you joy
But you can’t stop my sting

So now I’m breaking out
Gonna leave you here all alone
You’re gonna bitch and pout
Too bad, you’re on your own

* I Gotta stop listening to the White Stripes. I wrote this while listening to "Seven Nation Army" and it flows about the same. Alternative lyrics? Lol. It took me ten minutes to jot it down and I kinda like it, lol.

Completely Absurd Things That Make Me Chuckle

Warning: Severe butchering of the English language follows, lol.

An upcoming romance novel (response to previous video):


Monday, August 24, 2009

Music Break

Not Metal, but all good. Nice hot beat.

Love, love, love this band:

A Sexual Odyssey

Okay. So the objective is to write a complete story: beginning, middle, and end using nothing but dialogue. No connective tissue what-so-ever. No descriptions, no tag-lines, just conversation. A Sexual Odyssey is my attempt.

“You’re seventeen? OMG you’re the oldest virgin I know.”

--“It’s not that bad, Bethany. It’s not like I’m a leper or something.”

“Not that bad? Sure it is. You have no idea what you’re missing out on; I mean everybody’s doing it.”

--“Not everybody, because I’m not doing it. I’m not ready.”

“Rachel, you are such a prude. Are you waiting until you find your one true love? Gag! What about Shaun, he has needs.”

--“Don’t laugh at me! It’s not like that honest. Besides, you’re supposed to support me. That’s what best friends do. And Shaun is fine.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry. OMG, I forgot to tell you…I went to Kelly’s party last night. Anyway, there were some college guys there…so hot! Anyway, I let this guy go down on me. He had a beard and it kinda hurt, but it was awesome.”

--“Did you know him?”

“No, I told you I just met him at the party.”

--“What was his name? Who was he?”

“I don’t know…I never asked him his name. He was some old guy, but cute, and he gave me a beer and asked if I wanted to fuck, so I said sure.”

--“Bethany Jenkins! You can’t do stuff like that. What if he had aids? He sounds like a perv. What’s an old guy doing at a high school party anyway?”

“Trying to score high school girls, I guess. Maybe he was looking for a virgin. Guess you shoulda come with us then, huh?”

--“Where were Kelly’s parents during all this?”

“How should I know? You think I’m bad? Stephanie Summers took seven—yeah, seven—guys in Kelly’s room and didn’t come out all night. In the morning her mouth looked like a split grapefruit and she could barely walk. Now that’s a slut.”

--“Holy crap. She didn’t!”

“She did. Damien said she couldn’t come unless there was guy in every hole. Wha—what? Why’d you stop walking? Come on we’re gonna be late for class. Oh for God’s sake pick your jaw up, Rachel. People are staring.”

--“Something is wrong with that girl. Something happened to her, Bethany. Normal teenage girls don’t do things like that. We should tell somebody.”

“Sweet Jesus. Here comes the bleeding heart routine. Stephanie is fine. The only thing that’s wrong with her is that she's a nymphomaniac. Seriously Rachel, get off your high horse and get on your boyfriend. Shaun isn’t gonna hang around forever. Not when any other girl would jump at him.”

--“Bethany. I’m. Not. Ready. So back off okay?”

“Fine, don’t get bitchy. If you wanna be an old maid that’s your business. I just know you’d be less uptight if you got laid. That’s all. Shit there’s the bell. Gotta run!”


“You’re hair is so pretty. I thought about you all day Rach. Did you think about me?

--“Yes… Did you go to Kelly’s party last night?”

“No. Kelly’s parties are code for orgy. Besides, what do I need those girls for when I have you?”



--“Bethany said you’ll get sick of waiting for me to…you know…”

“Bethany’s an idiot and should learn to shut up. I’m not going anywhere…but if you want to do more stuff, I’m cool with that.”

--“Not yet, Shaun. I’m just..I …”

“Ssh…I know you’re a good girl. I knew it before I asked you out. Can I kiss you?”

--“I’d like that.”

“God, you smell so good…are you comfortable?”

--Well, my neck hurts at this angle.”

“No wonder you’re wedged against the window. Let me drop my seat back. Here sit on top of me. How’s this?”

--“Ouch. Now the steering wheel is in my back.”

“I should have bought a truck.”

--“It’s okay Shaun. We don’t have to do anything.”

“Are you kidding? I really want to do something. I mean I’ll wait, but…here feel this.”

--“Oh my gosh. Does that hurt?”

“Only when you keep saying no.”

--“Oh. Well, maybe I should get off of you? I don’t mean to tease you.”

“Well, there’s something you could do for me without having actual sex that would help.”

--“There is? Oh you mean a blow job.”

“It’s just an idea…do you want to see it?”

--“Your…your thing?”

“Yeah, look, it won’t hurt you. We’ve been going out for a long time Rachel…no one’s gonna think you’re easy if we do more stuff. Nobody has to know. I won’t tell.”

--“Okay…I’ll look at it.”

“See? It’s not scary. You can touch it if you want.”

--“Nooo…I don’t wanna touch it.”

“Okay. Well can I see you?”

--“See what?”

“Your breasts, your …you know…whatever you wanna show me.”

--“I don’t know Shaun…”

“Please Rachel. You’re so pretty; I just want to be close to you. Look, I let you see everything.”

--“Yeah, because you want a blow job!”

“Damn you’re skittish! Other girls help their boyfriends out. I mean who do you think you are? Fuckin’ Mother Teresa?”

--“Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I’m frustrated, okay? We’ve been going out for almost a year and you won’t even suck my dick. I should have asked Bethany out. She’d fuck anybody.”

--“I’m not comfortable with this sort of talk, Shaun.”

“Of course not. You aren’t comfortable with anything. At first I thought your little innocent act was hot. It was a nice change from the other girls at school. But I’m sick of it.”

--“But you just said you were okay with waiting? I don’t understand.”

“I’m okay with waiting if we can do some stuff, but this making-out bullshit is pissing me off. I’m taking you home, Rachel. You better think about whether you want to be my girlfriend or not. And stop crying. It won’t work.”

--“No, tears don’t effect assholes!”

“Miss Prim-and-Proper cussing? Shocking.”

To be continued...

It's hard to write without descriptions...hard to show Rachel's embarrassment, Shaun's anger, or what the characters are doing... It's different from the way I usually write. I'm not submitting to the contest I linked. But I thought the premise was interesting, so I started experimenting with this story. I'll post the ending tomorrow.

Have a good day y'all.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Meet The Frying Pan

Transfixed by his humorous spat
He sucked me dry in nothing flat
Silly Anton Gully
Spins lies, and folly
He never saw it coming, just went splat!

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Peel Back The Skin

I was looking through some of my college papers and found a personal essay I'd written for a women's writing class. The following is an excerpt from the essay entitled Evolution. The paintings are by Jenny Saville.

Close my eyes against the pain.

The artist paints fat people. She smears the canvas with hues of yellow, orange, and blue. She wields her knife with cruelty, caking on the paint in thick globs. No comfortable robe to cover the woman’s exposed breast. No easy pose—allowing the victim the dignity of anonymity. The artist paints broken and bloody women. She shines a bright spotlight on their bruises and their shame. The painting rules the wall—a large and menacing thing—demanding attention. The victim’s eyes plead for pity amid a swirl of cadmium red and yellow ochre. Jenny Saville paints fat, battered women, only to leave them staring hauntingly from the canvas. Frozen in the weakest moments of their lives--they remain forever victims.

Take a deep breath.

Sour whiskey on his breath, stale cigarettes on the table, and my Mother floats away like a butterfly. Her gossamer wings glitter gold in the lamplight…I can still see the evil in his eyes. Feel his hands ripping out my hair, the familiar sting of tears, and the rage of helplessness. I hated being a victim. Why does Jenny Saville paint them as victims? Doesn’t she know that women are survivors—Goddesses sent from other worlds to show this world how to be strong? Why paint them as victims? The questions swirl, the memory fades.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

One Last Nod To Vin

I know that I've been on a Vin Diesel kick, but I wanted to share one more thing about him with you all. I think he is seriously underestimated as an actor. And I found a clip that proves it. This is Multi-Facial, a piece that Vin wrote and stars in. The opening scene is really rough, but if you make it past that monologue it's worth it.

Artistically speaking, this is absolutely beautiful. It's gritty and uneven, a bit raw, but pure. It has something interesting and indescribable about it. It's 20 minutes long...but if you watch it, you'll understand exactly what I mean. It's from before Vin became rich and famous; it got him a part in Saving Private Ryan.

In. His. Dreams.

So I stumbled across this blog by Ellen Ashe called "Unquiet Mind." In a word? Genius. Seriously, check her out. Among her many postings she had submitted something that I had forgotten about. It was part of Sociology 101 at Ohio University, under the feminism category, I believe as a joke. I'm not a feminist, however, I don't need to be one to think the following is hysterical. It's also been in many emails...


Prepare yourself for your husband's homecoming. Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives. Retouch your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the right time.

Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

A good wife knows her place.

Can you imagine? Lol! Yeah right.

Ellen's Blog:

In other news...

My darling friend, Saint Anton, has yet again publicized my blog on his monstrous blog, lol. So I feel the urge to reciprocate, lol. Anton's blog:

Anyway, he has a link on there about personality types. Apparently he found it on Ranch Girl Ramblings I took a similar test for a business class and I was curious to see if it would come out the same way. So I retook the test from the following link: Anyway, It says I'm an INFJ (Introvert Intuitive Feeling Judging) personality type. Sure enough, same results.

I guess I fit their description, though I might bicker with the introvert suggestion, lol. Descriptions of the various personality types can be found here:

So if you're bored, avoiding writing (lol), or just plain curious--take the test and see if you agree with their assessment.

Have a great day everybody. :)

Monday, August 17, 2009

"Seduce The Darkness"

I just finished reading Seduce The Darkness by Gena Showalter. I hate to admit it, but I was a little disappointed. I mean, there were some interesting things that happened in the story and I feel like it was well written. But there were some things that really annoyed me.

Showalter had some great subplots going, but too many of them. And they felt unfinished, or somehow disconnected. The main characters stop an alien from spreading a parasite across the Earth that turns people into cannibals. But she basically drops that alien's character after he's cured to go off on a vampire excursion. So the book shifts to vampire culture and reclaiming the leading lady's heritage.

And the leading man, Devyn, King of the Targons, starts out on a mission to nail every species of female he comes across--until he falls in love with the leading lady, Bride McKells. I was okay with his arrogant, man-slut behavior until it became juvenile. I think that's what disappointed me. I wanted to like the book, and I do like elements of it, but I got sick of the constant references to sex.

Shocking isn't it? That I, of all people, would roll my eyes and say, "gag me." I love some erotica, but too much is just too much. I would have preferred a more cohesive tale, even if that meant sacrificing some sexual banter. And there was an interesting back story on Devyn that I felt Showalter could have done more with...

I like books that give the main characters some depth and I think that Showalter was on that track, but didn't quite reach it. I know, they can't all be like Laurell K. Hamilton, lol. But it's a quick read and if you want something that's heavy on sex talk (and action) then this is your book. Lol.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

A Limerick for Saint Anton

There once was a guy from Belfast
Who thought as God's Gift he were cast
He was called Anton Gully
Just a smirking little bully
Whose wit never grew past half mast


I'm having a weird Doors day, lol. Can't get "Five to One" out of my head.

"Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss"

Love that song.

Friday, August 14, 2009

It's Friday, Time For Some Inspiration

Flex Lower!!!

That was sick. I love it, lol.

Gotta add, my man, Vin. Oooh baby.

Couldn't find a tribute for Vin set to metal, dammit.

I should make one to Papa Roach's, "Forever." Oh yeah. An all shirtless montage. Who says men can't be objectified? Good God he makes me wish I was single, lol. I just wanna rub his head and make a wish...honest.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Hint Fiction

I've noticed some folks blogging about "Hint Fiction." This is a new concept for me and I'm not sure that I get the gist of it. Is it something like the following?

The sound echoes in the hallway. A shadow, a movement, a bullet screams. Images flicker in the child’s eye. Nothing left but silence.

He asks me for a taste, a little nibble. My body tenses. I flush. I’m burning inside, even as my thighs part…

So am I way off?

Monday, August 10, 2009


Somewhere an old lady prays
Somewhere kids are laughing

Somewhere the sky is fresh and clear
A guy pops a ring and asks a question
and a silly girl cries whispering, "yes"

Somewhere the world is turning on its axis
Somewhere life is marching by

But it isn't here
It's never here
Not while you're gone

Not with this hole inside of me
Not while the rose from your grave turns
black on my window sill

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Calling All Mystery Writers

If any of you have a screenplay, play, teleplay, or short story collecting dust this one's for you. Both young adult and adult are acceptable.

Submissions now accepted for 2010 Festival competition!

NO Entry Fee
Prize Money: Nearly $20,000
Deadline: August 30, 2009

More Info:

Happy writing!

Friday, August 7, 2009


She paints her nails
Black as night
Puts on stilettos
With polished toes peeking through

Long legs and a whiskey smile
She walks out the door
Looking for trouble
She finds a club

Red dress
Hips like honey
The music flows
Her body sways

Lick her lips
Fan the flames
It’s sex on the dance floor
Hot and wrong

She leads you by your tongue
Breathes excitement into your mouth
She’s a slave to the rhythm

A slave to the beat
The music’s low and heavy
She’s dirty girl

You think you’ve hit the jackpot
As she drags you to the alley
Boiling in your veins

She reaches for your belt
You grin in anticipation
Then something catches in the moonlight
Pleasure becomes pain becomes pleasure

Vision blurs—something trickles—wet
She licks your throat
Through the haze of lust you realize
She’s a stone cold bitch

She’s death in stilettos

Top Ten Things I'd like to do to SpongeBob Lamepants

Assuming that SpongeBob was real...

10. Leave him in the sun until he becomes rock hard and then hammer an ice pick into him.

9. Drop him in the bottom of Buckeye Lake so he could swim with our three-eyed-eight-finned-mutant fish.

8. Tie him to the back of my Escape and back into a tree repeatedly.

7. Shove pineapple grenades in holes he didn't know he had and pull the pins. Let's see how "porous" he is.

6. Shove him down the garbage disposal with a jackhammer.

5. Pull out his tongue wrap it around his throat three times and strangle him with it.

4. Make "One Night in SpongeBob; The Uncut Video of the Squidward and SpongeBob" a viral sensation on the internet.

3. Stretch him until he was ripped into multiple bloodied pieces and then light on fire.

2. Let Lance, our crazy Border Collie puppy use him for a new chew toy. He likes it when things squeal in pain.

1. Kidnap, bound, and gag the creators of SpongeBob Lamepants, strap them to a chair in a darkened room and force them to watch and listen to SpongeBob 24-7 until their eyes bleed, their minds snap, and the little creep drops dead from continuous tasering and starvation.

Disclaimer: No SpongeBobs were harmed in the making of this blog...yet.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Steven Tyler

Steven Tyler took a tumble off a stage and hurt himself. He's in the hospital recovering. This has nothing to do with writing, I'm just a fan-girl wishing him well.

One of my favorites:

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

I'm Up!

Okay, so I submitted to Critters again. I must be glutton for punishment, lol.

What is the trick with the line spacing? I made sure that there was a line between paragraphs in my submission, but it's all scrunched on the site...Other author's stories look okay...


An Interesting Article

So I stumbled across an interview with Stephen King and Jerry Jenkins. In it they gave some good advice to writers. But they also raised an interesting question, in my mind...Is it wise to write with a message in mind? King says not to make your plot about the message, Jenkins says to consider your audience.

No one wants (or shouldn't want) to sound "preachy," but walking away from a tale with a feeling of depth or new insight can be satisfying. So I think it can be tempting to want to do a tale that ends with "and the moral of the story is..." But that can also be a turn off to the reader. It runs the risk of being condescending to the audience.

It is possible to weave a message into the texture of the tale so that the reader doesn't see it under the layers. Chuck Palahniuck did that with "Survivor." He wrote an obvious social commentary on celebrities, fame, religion, and money. But he also slipped in the idea that schools were pumping out little robots by likening them to a cult. I never would have picked up on that, had he not explained it on his website.

Which brings up the subcategory of -- if you do preach should it be overt or covert? And if it's covert how do you make sure that your message is successfully received?

So, what are your thoughts on this? To preach or not to preach? And if so, overt or covert?

Link to the interview:

Link to Palahniuk's statement:

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Broken Doll

She's a tragic figure
Misunderstood child
In a woman's body

A darling with a weakness for the flesh
Fallen angel
Broken whore

Licking wounds on the kitchen floor
She crawls
And begs him for more

Little girls giggle
In white dresses and veils
He looked like heaven

Battered doll
Bleeding red at his feet
Choking on the words

I love you
Syllables are weapons, too
Murderous cuts in her throat

Taste the sweet
Spill the wine

Broken doll
Love your man
As your grave grows cold

Stupid girl
Throw the bouquet
Take the plunge

Lipstick red
Smeared across the bed
Broken doll

Flowers weep
Go to sleep
Broken doll

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Saying Goodbye

The rest of Squalor is still being I thought I'd entertain you with another tale. A ghost story this time.

In the rural hills of West Virginia a truck pulled up to our house. Momma looked out the window with confusion. She grabbed her gun and checked the door. It was impossible for a truck to drive up to our house. There wasn't a drivable road for at least a mile.

We all looked at each other; us kids piled around the kitchen table. Momma came in and sat the shotgun on the table with shaking hands. I'd never seen this look on Momma's face before. It was a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

"Who was it Momma?"
" one's there."
"But we all heard a truck!"
"I know, but I'm tellin' ya there's no one on our property."
"What about the woods? Could they be in the woods, Momma?"

She locked eyes with me and I knew to shut up. "I want you to take your sisters and pile on the couch. We'll huddle under the blankets and drink some honey tea. Whatever it is will work itself out."

I did as I was told and Momma brought us the tea. Elsie didn't like tea, but she was only five, the baby of seven children. Momma sat next to the door trying to pretend everything was okay. But we all saw the shotgun resting against her hip, silent, but present. Papa was due home any time, so we weren't too worried.

Nothing happened for almost an hour. It was quiet and still outside. A hush seeping through the air. Even the owls knew something was amiss. We watched the clock and sipped our tea. Bethy, the third eldest, stoked the embers in the hearth. The fire blazed and we felt safe in its hallowed glow.

But as the clock struck the hour, the truck roared to life right at our porch. Momma lurched from her seat and flung open the door. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, but night existed beyond our front porch. Momma's whole body trembled and the shotgun slid down her side. She made a cross over her torso and locked the door.

Whatever was stalking us wasn't a truck.

Momma sat next to me and I wrapped the blanket around her. The eight of us sat crammed on the old couch, too scared to say a word. We listened to the deepening night and watched the fire die.

Another hour ticked by and sure enough the phantom truck was back. But this time the locked door flung open and a whoosh of cold air blew past us. Elsie screamed and buried her face into the couch. But the blast of air dissipated as suddenly as it had ambushed us.

Momma started to pray.

We waited, counting the minutes until Papa came home. I looked into the shadows wondering what else the night had in store for us. The clock ticked. It struck three and the truck exploded onto the front porch. It revved so hard that it shook our humble shack. The door banged against the wall. The cold air assaulted us as it filled the room.

But this time the wind calmed. It took shape in front of the fireplace.

It was a man dressed in faded blue jeans and a logger's jacket. Tears stung my eyes. I couldn't breathe. The man turned around with dark empty eyes and a hollow mouth. This time Momma screamed.

It was Papa.

We watched him fade before our eyes in suspended horror. Momma cried--we all did. We sobbed so intensely that we didn't notice when the next hour ticked by. It was Papa's truck on our porch. Papa's blast of death that froze us. And this time he was strong enough to step toward us. His blue eyes were damp with tears. And his mouth formed words we couldn't hear.

Momma leaped at him and shrieked, "You can't leave me! Do you hear me, Don! Don't leave me all alone." She sobbed at his already fading boots.

It went on all night. The little ones passed out on the couch, but Momma and I kept watch. We didn't want to miss Papa. Not even for a second. Just before dawn Momma gripped my hand and squeezed. "He's trying to come home baby."

The police came in the morning to tell us that Papa had come home sick, but the truck had stalled on the tracks down the hill. The train couldn't stop in time. I knew in my heart that Papa wasn't trying to come home. He'd never be home again. He had been saying goodbye.